Real Prisoners Are Real People: Meet David

When we first spoke, David told me that he had just gotten a transfer from another institution on the sole basis he wanted to be part of our Veterans Project in order to not only surround himself with a community of other veterans but also help him with his VA benefits.

Because of his age I assumed he had served sometime in the 60’s or 70’s. My hypothesis turned out to be correct when he stumbled upon me showing Bruno pictures from when I was deployed.

“You’re just like me,” he said after he got a closer look of myself and three other Rangers standing on top of a mountain in Afghanistan. “I had my own group of brothers when I was over there,” he said.

“Over there?” I asked.

“Yeah. Vietnam.”

Immediately I had an entire host of questions for him. I asked him a few questions but, despite my interest, he was very reluctant to talk about his experience. At a later time, however, I did manage to get him to open up over some coffee. It was during this time that I informed him about my blog and whether it’s be alright if I wrote a post about him. He stated and told me, “that’s alright.”

As he went on his expression began contorting in a grimace and then in sorrow. His eyes drifted low as he spoke, and he began looking away from me. I could see his hands start to tremble. At that point I stopped him, not wanting to trigger anymore unpleasant flashbacks. Because of his reaction to my questions I changed the subject to something far less traumatic: drug usage.

David went on to tell me that he did in fact smoke marijuana. Despite his usage, he also strongly asserted that he never did any of the other harsher stuff such as heroine.

“Weed was a way to relax after a mission,” he told me. “It took the edge off. We never — and I mean never — smoked it before going outside the wire.”

The aged Marine revealed to me that nearly his entire platoon would smoke after patrols. He did also assert that none of the officers partook — at least none that he saw.

“You had to be sharp when going on patrol, not high. Getting high before mission was just something no one did,” he went on to say.

I asked David if there was any time over there that he really enjoyed himself. As soon as I asked David smiled and revealed to me that his “favorite week” of his “entire life” was spent in Vietnam.

“It all started when my Commander told me to report to an APC,” he started, grinning. “He told me that the mechanics needed help performing maintenance on it. I thought that was weird, but I went anyway.”

“What happened when you showed up?”

He laughed, “When I showed up my dad was there with a case of beer in one hand and a carton of cigarettes in the other. I can still see him wearing his khakis and a Hawaiian t-shirt.”

“What did you guys do?” I asked curiously.

“We got high and drunk for the whole week! I sh** you not, that was the best week of my life.”

He later told me that his dad, at the time, was an Army First Sergeant that had travelled to his son’s base just to see him.

When I think about the War in Vietnam and compare it to the War in Afghanistan, I feel almost spoiled. In certain bases in Afghanistan I had internet access, a gym, and phone calls whenever I wanted them. I had night-vision, a free-floating barrel on my M4, and a decent amount of technologically advanced air support covering my ass. In Vietnam, military men like David had none of that; it was just him and his fellow Marines in the jungle, far removed from the many advanced commodities and equipment we now have today. At the very least, I didn’t get harasses when I got off the plane.

I confessed to David how I felt, and he immediately told me not to think about it in “that way.”

“You served and risked your life for your country. That’s what counts,” he said emphatically.

A silence followed. Out of respect I didn’t ask further, though I did ask his name.

“His name was Columbus,” he started. “I wrote a letter to him as a part of this program with the VA.”

“Would you mind if I saw it?” I asked him.

He looked at me for a moment, then nodded. After retrieving it from his cell he gave me the paper. When I took it in my hands, he asserted to me that he had not shown it to anyone outside of the VA.

When I read his letter I was touched, to say the least. When I asked if I could publish this along with his experiences overseas, he thought about it for a moment. Eventually he decided it would be a good way for him to “let go” of his “pain.”

This is what it said…

Semper Fi

Columbus,

Well bro, I guess it’s been a long time since I talked to you so it’s time now. Remember all the talks we had concerning that damn screwed up war we served in and about how senseless it was? Also, the talks we shared about ourselves, your wife and kid and the new one on the way. How you felt guilty about requesting a second tour. Yeah, it freaked out your wife and family as you always told me.

I remember the times we’d come back out from the bush. First thing you did was sit down and write your wife and kid, never failed. Next was to clean yourself up, eat, and then clean your weapon. I guess that was the cleanest damn weapon on the compound. Remember the song you and I used to sing after we got stoned? “There must be some way out of here!” by Jimi Hendrix. Remember that can of lima beans you put into the boots of the screwed-up L-tee? Boy was he pissed.

Columbus, I’ve gotta be honest with you bro. In 1970 when you were killed it took a lot out of a lot of us. You were like a big brother to me and a few others. We learned and listened to your advice, which kept some of the guys alive. Please don’t blame yourself for the ones who didn’t make it. Everything happens on God’s time, not on yours, mine or theirs. I myself have carried not just your death but the others we knew on my shoulders. It’s been 30 years now. I’m sorry you had to die that way back in ’70. You know as well as I do a number of us tried to convince that new boot L-tee not to put you on point. (But I do give you credit. You were one hell of a damn good point man.) But I’ve carried this guilt in my heart many, many years and I haven’t cried about it since your death and until I got here at the PTSD program in Waco. Man, I miss you a lot.

Vietnam screwed my head up pretty bad. It caused me a lot of depression, anger, and isolation from family and friends. I was tired of my life. You name it, I’ve gone through it. It’s not just me. There are thousands of us Vietnam Vets that are going through this.

Man, if I could just turn back the hands of time, I would have taken point for you. Bro, you had a family to go back home to. You knew how I felt about living or dying. It didn’t really matter.

On the day you died, I wanted to kill the L-tee. Lucky for him he got transferred. I’ve tried many years to bring you back from the dead, only to know I was living off my guilt. Who the hell was I trying to kid? I couldn’t bring you back form the dead. But yet, my guilt and sense of abandoning my comrades, you and the others we lost, I need to give up.

Now it’s time. I’ve got to lay you to rest. I’ve got to discard this old Vet rucksack that’s filled with so much turmoil.

So, I say to you, my brother, I will never forget you. I won’t say goodbye, I’ll just tell you I’ll see you later on down the trail.

You’ve been in a better place for many years. Take care bro.

Your friend,
David