Ghostly Relics

They appear every once in awhile, though less frequently than they used to.  I think maybe time and life’s little distractions keep them at bay most of the time.  Anniversaries tend to pull them out, remembrances sparked by the television, maybe a word spoken by another and, of course, sounds and smells.  Not too long ago, we went to see “Ironman” in a theatre close by.  There’s a scene in the movie where some insurgents ambush a convoy; that was a bad moment for some reason and I had to bail.  Silly shit, I know  but I guess it just hit a nerve.  Sometimes people will ask about time served, asking those questions that people often ask veterans.  I’m extremely proud of my service and those that I served with but I don’t think it appropriate to talk of such things amongst people that just can’t and don’t understand.

I drove by the Los Angeles National Cemetery a number of months ago on the way home from Northern California; I’m thinking maybe that was the catalyst for the most recent “troubles”.  I didn’t stop or anything, I just drove by the exit sign on the 405.  I guess that was enough and it got me to thinking.

I remember as a 12 year old in 1971, Steve from down the street had just returned home from his 3rd tour in Vietnam.  He loved radio-controlled airplanes and I remember countless hours on the hill with Steve and his little brother.  We’d spend all day messing around with gliders, servos and batteries, radio controlled boxes…all of us giggling like little school girls as we flew the gliders amongst the red-tailed hawks and turkey vultures of southern California.

It wasn’t long after his return from Vietnam that I started to bug Steve, trying to get him to take us up and fly the gliders through the thermals again.  Vietnam had changed Steve though, his demeanor, the way he moved and the way he talked was different.  Steve was a Special Forces troop, a Medic and interpreter who could speak French.  I guess Steve had seen and been involved in a lot.  I know my father spoke of medals Steve had accumulated during his tours; Silver Stars, Bronze Stars, Purple Hearts,  even the Distinguished Service Cross; Steve was a soldier’s soldier.  Anything else I might have gleamed from the adults back then has been lost with time but I remember he was quite the shit back then.  We lived in a very patriotic area and people knew of the military.  El Toro MCAS and Tustin was nearby, Camp Pendleton wasn’t that far away and, of course, San Diego was just a couple of hours away.

One early Saturday morning while on one of my little critter quests on the hill, I smelled smoke.  Scanning the countryside like the good Boy Scout I was, I spotted Steve down by some old and decommissioned oil derricks.  He was standing in front of a box, flames reaching skyward.  Fire up there wasn’t a good thing so I immediately started down into the depression to find out what was going on.  I asked Steve what he was doing and he responded with, “Killing ghosts”.  Inside the burning box sat Steve’s army dress uniform, adorned with medals and patches.  We stood there with hands in pockets as fabric and steel burned bright in the early morning sun.  I remember thinking, “He should have given me that stuff, it’s cool,” but no more words were spoken that morning as I just left Steve there with his box of ghosts and continued my quest for snakes and tarantulas.

Steve eventually graduated college and I remember a party held in the neighborhood on the occasion; a lot of back slapping and laughing took place on that day.  I hadn’t seen Steve laugh in a long time.  Steve became an FBI, BATF or DEA Agent, I can’t remember, he just traded one uniform for that of another.  During one of our visits to “Glider Hill”, I asked Steve if he missed the Army.  He reached into his shirt, pulling out 4 dog tags from around his neck.  Handing them to me he said, “Sorta, every now and then.”  I didn’t understand the meaning of those 4 little talismans, so I asked him what they were.

“Some more ghosts.”

Years have passed now and I’ve earned my own medals, but somehow they mean less and less as the months come and go.  What isn’t less, though, are the friendships and bonding that took place in that hellish environment.  Those kind of friendships only materialize when you rely on others;  not just your typical friendship crap, but friendships where you rely on others to keep your ass alive at times.  I finally understand what Steve meant back then on that hill in 1975, how PTSD emerges and eats away at your psyche.

I now have my own ghosts.  Some are faceless, and some are faded faces of friend and foe alike.  I reflect on incidents that have left an indelible mark;  what could have been done, could anything have been done and why not me?  In a matter of inches at times, why them and not me?  Sometimes, I’ll even think it should have been me; I’m older, I’ve lived a life, why steal such young lives?  It’s all very complicated and I know I don’t understand it; why should anyone else?

The mementos of my past are gone now;  the uniforms farmed out to children of friends, or sold during soul-cleansing garage sales.

It’s hard to talk to others about such things; people who’ve never experienced battle can’t fathom war and its casualties.  Even the wife wouldn’t understand; how can she?  I was always taught not to talk about feelings, be a man and suck it up.  Even seeking help would signal a weakness that men shouldn’t have.  Those teachings of youth stick around like a bad testicular rash, not that I’ve ever had one mind you.  So what do you do?  I’ve found some comfort reading the writings of others, those that have experienced the same thing.  Sometimes it helps seeing what others are going through, detaching yourself from your own problems with PTSD, then weighing options and coming up with answers to their problems.  When I’m really on the stick and my head isn’t firmly shoved up my own ass, I’ll take my own advice.

But when all is said and done, I still have these ghosts; ghosts that lurk the dark recesses of my rather warped mind.  They haunt me on nights like this; reaching, and then fading back into the darkness, leaving only a trace of what was and what might have been.

Sometimes I feel like such a wuss….