You are not alone.

When the shit hits the fan, the world becomes a very small place. Imagine if you will, standing on the beach. The incredibly blue Pacific stretched out before you as the sun peeks over the horizon behind you. The sky slowly edges from black to purple to pink. You can smell the coffee brewing as the soft, sweet music from the radio lulls you, caresses you, takes you back home to her, to Mom's bread baking, to Dad's pipe smoke, to Grandpa's farm where the fresh cut alfalfa makes the air even better than this salt-fresh air. Back home, they would all be getting ready for church, this being Sunday morning. As you stare out over the crisp blue ocean at the sea birds flying almost as if in formation, it slowly dawns on you that they really are flying in formation. What kind of birds fly like that? Well, they are flying in to shore, so pretty soon you will be able to identify them. Maybe write back home to let everyone know about them. But they are not birds. They are planes. Japanese Zeros.

I have a confession to make to my wife. I have a mistress.

35 years is a long time to spend with a mistress, but that is how long we've been together. And, as long as I'm telling the truth, she hasn't treated me very well. In fact, she is the cause of a lot of sleepless nights. She makes me depressed and angry. She makes me feel isolated and numb and guilty. She is the one who makes me feel like I don't fit in, that I'm not normal, that I'm unlovable and unworthy. She is the reason that I drink too much and hide in my bunker.

But let's be fair. She also gave me the best times of my life. She showed me what it means to be so close to someone that I would defend their safety at any cost. She was with me when I became a man. She taught me to share my last cigarette, my last can of beans, my thoughts, and my dreams; all of those things that are so hard for me to share with you, my wife. She taught me to recognize the flavor of what it is like to be alive, and the sound of that roaring silence after a fight. She gave me a thousand things that only she could give me; things that I can never give to you, my wife. And I am happy that I can't give them to you.

Talking to some people is like talking to a wall: a shiny black wall with names carved into it.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington is a black granite wall engraved with the names of each of the 58,245 U.S. servicemen who were killed in Vietnam from October, 1957 to May, 1975. Each of the 140 granite slabs is polished to a mirror finish so that, as visitors look into the engraved names, they will see the reflection of themselves. The names of the dead are not organized by rank or alphabet. They are listed in chronological order of their deaths.

Lucy demonstrated her memory of the wolf the other day.

Lucy came to us from the pound - unwanted, betrayed, beaten-down, disrespected, unloved. She was a tightly wound ball of nervous. She looks like a black fox, except that her tail curls over her back. Wiry and muscular, timid, and very bright, she had a look in her eyes that spoke volumes to me. If Lucy didn't represent PTSD, nothing ever would.

When she was on the leash she walked like a lady. When we got her home, though, it took mere seconds for her to escape the fence. For the first weeks we had to tie a long string to her collar in order to catch her to come back in the house. She eventually figured out that I had no intention of eating her, and would cower in the corner of the yard until I could slip a collar and leash over her head. Once the collar was on, she was under my control, and acted appropriately.

So, what happened in Vietnam? Why all the acrimony after all this time? Why won't the wounds heal? Can't we all just get along?

The war in Vietnam was part of the Cold War. The communists, China and the USSR, wanted control of Southeast Asia. The easiest way to take that control was through Ho Chi Minh, a North Vietnamese Communist. The West, the United States and its allies, did not want the Communists to seize control of Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, and other countries of the area. The place to stop the Communists was Vietnam.

War is a psychological endeavor. If you can demoralize your enemy, you can beat him. What Jane Fonda did in Hanoi was an attempt to demoralize her enemy. She claims that her trip to Hanoi was to protest U.S. policy in Vietnam. That rings a little hollow, however, when you consider that U.S. policy did not have to fly over that anti-aircraft gun; U.S. servicemen did. U.S. policy did not get blown out of the sky by that gun; U.S. servicemen did. U.S. policy did not spend year after miserable year in a filthy prison camp being tortured and starved; U.S. servicemen did. U.S. policy did not have it's name listed on The Wall; U.S. servicemen did.

Yes, I know he wasn't in the military. He wasn't actually Sgt Stryker on Iwo Jima. But he was John By-God Wayne.

 

I also like Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. While we're at it, include Gene Autry, Hoppy, The Lone Ranger, Tom Mix, Red Ryder, Superman, and all the others of their breed. They taught us to shoot straight. Roy and Dale taught us The Cowboy's Prayer. They taught us the difference between right and wrong. They taught us that " Truth, Justice, and the American way " are ideals to emulate.

The mission is to strike deep into the enemy camp. The enemy is a treacherous, traitorous terrorist who is responsible for the death of many comrades-in-arms, and for the torture of those buddies who were captured.

 

The first step is to develop a plan of action. Decide on a goal and work out the necessary tactics to get it done. Do the necessary recon. Do the necessary preparation. Refine the plan. Prepare again. Recon again.

A Combined Action Platoon was a squad of Marines who were assigned to defend a group of small South Vietnamese villages. Under ideal circumstances, a squad consisted of 14 Marines and a Navy corpsman. Often, though, CAPs operated short-handed.

Our job was Vietnamization, the winning of hearts and minds of South Vietnamese civilians, and the training of South Vietnamese military forces. We lived in the villages and hamlets 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. We interacted with the South Vietnamese on a daily basis. In fact, our lives depended on our interaction with the people of South Vietnam...

About 25 years ago, I saw a painting that touched a place in me that I thought I had sufficiently protected. It was at the Cowboy Hall of Fame in Oklahoma City. I don't remember the name of the artist, but I will always remember his work...