CHAPTER 9 - FORTUNES OF WAR

            Joey was deployed to Vietnam in January of 1971 with a small contingent of replacement troops for Marine Air Group (MAG) 16 where he was attached to Helicopter, Marine Medium Squadron 169. HMM-169 was known as the Hellhound Squadron. This was appropriate inasmuch as the Sikorsky UH‑34 helicopter they flew was nicknamed The Dog because of the way it tended to vibrate at low altitudes like a big dog shaking its coat free of water after a bath. It was also sometimes called The Shuddering Shithouse for much the same reason. Their squadron emblem was Cerberus, a three-headed mastiff and guardian of the gate of Hades according to Greek mythology. Apparently their commanding officer had a literary bent because their squadron call signs were Atlas, Vulcan, Medusa, Helios, Titan and Prometheus. They were based at an airfield, south of the DMZ just out of Da Nang, known as Marble Mountain.

            The use of helicopters in the Vietnam War was an innovation. These ungainly bumblebees had seen some action in the Korean conflict, mostly as air ambulances, transporting the wounded two at a time. It was in Vietnam, however, that larger and more powerful versions of these aircraft truly proved their worth. First and foremost were the assault helicopters, the Cobra gunships armed to the teeth with M-60 machine guns, rockets, Vulcan cannons and other implements of destruction. These craft often provided escort and protection to the real workhorses, the larger ships, UH‑34's, CH‑46's, CH‑53's, CH‑47's - those big dual-rotor Chinooks - and the others that ferried troops in and out of combat zones, evacuated casualties, and kept the infantry supplied with food, water, ammunition and those all-important letters from home.

            As significant as the helicopter was to America's air superiority in Vietnam and the men waging that war, were the men like Joey to the helicopter crew itself. He was a crew chief, one of the door gunners, and along with keeping the machinery in working order, it was his job to protect the craft during low altitude flight, landings and take-offs when the ship and crew were most vulnerable to enemy fire. Success in the Vietnam conflict was most often measured by the body count, and the door gunners were responsible for most of their unit's confirmed kills. Joey didn't dwell on this aspect in his letters to me, of course. He was just doing a job, protecting his buddies and defending his country.

            Even after he shipped out, Joey's letters continued to arrive regularly each week. It was better than any holiday whenever I could reach into the mailbox and pull out a letter addressed to me with the word Free scrawled in the upper right-hand corner of the envelope in place of the stamp. About the only perk that came from being a soldier in combat was the franking privilege. I've heard more than one veteran complain that the hardest thing about adjusting to civilian life was paying for their own postage stamps again. For the most part, Joey's letters were cheerful and upbeat, minimizing the dangers he faced every day.

            One of the letters I received shortly after Joey arrived in Vietnam, however, had a more somber tone. During the past year, the war had escalated, and emotions were running high. The memory of the four students who'd been killed by National Guardsmen during a rally protesting the Vietnam War at Kent State University was still fresh and painful. News reports these days were filled with images of dissenters speaking out against the war. I worried about what sort of effect this was having on the morale of our fighting forces. In all honesty, though, I really only cared about the effect it might be having on the morale of one solider in particular.

            . . . Yeah, Mag-pie, I've been hearing the news reports on Armed Forces Radio, reading the stories in Stars and Stripes and seeing the protesters on Armed Forces Television. A lot of people back home are asking what we're doing over here. I'll have to be honest with you, there are a lot of guys here asking the same question.
            I won't lie to you, sometimes, during the heat of battle; I'm wondering the very same thing. I mean, here I am halfway ‘round the world, hanging out the door of a helicopter at 1,500 feet in the air, firing a very big gun at people who are shooting back at me. And that kind of thinking can really mess with your head at the wrong time. After the smoke clears and the dust settles, though, once I have a chance to think, I remember why.
            I made the choice to be here. Just like Brother Dick was always sermonizing, I do want to do something with my life. I want to serve something greater than myself. I want to make a difference. Even though I'd much rather be there at home, watching you grow up, I can't just sit on the sidelines all happy and safe while other guys my age, guys I grew up with, are fighting and dying half a world away.
            I'm here because my country made a promise to another country that we'd defend them against a communist aggressor. I've always thought that it's important to stand by your friends and honor your promises, and I wouldn't want my country to do anything different. So, I'm here trying to protect a way of life that I believe everybody deserves. It's the way I want to live, and the way I want you to be able to live.
            You know, Maggie, it means more to me than you can ever imagine just to know that I have your support. You stuck up for my decision to do this, even though I know it broke your heart. Just knowing that you're in my corner makes it possible for me to get up every morning, and sometimes in the middle of the night, to do what I have to do. Because I hope that if I do my job good enough, the next generation won't have to travel 10,000 miles from home to fight for freedom . . .

            Freedom and democracy weren't just empty words to Joey. They were a solemn pledge. Even though he was far from home and engaged in a war, deep in his heart Joey was still a man of peace. He believed in the possibility of a world where nations could beat their swords into plowshares and not learn war anymore. Unfortunately, that brave new world did not come in his lifetime, and I have grown too cynical to expect it in mine. In the six thousand years since Cain rose up and slew Abel, mankind has developed new and better ways to kill his brother. There will never be a true and lasting peace in this world. Peace on Earth must wait for the world to come.

            The Marine Rifleman's Creed ends with the phrase, "until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but peace." As the United States learned in 2001, though, there will never be a shortage of enemies. Peace is the great paradox because it is only preserved and ensured by soldiers who are willing to shed their blood during wartime. The freedoms we enjoy, the liberties we take for granted are ours only because men like Joey were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice.

***

            I recall one evening in particular; I was sitting with my parents in the den. They were engrossed in some mindless television show while I was busy answering Joey's latest letter. My father apparently noticed my total absorption in something besides Raymond Burr's wheelchair-bound performance in Ironside and questioned me. "Are you writing another letter to Joey?"

            "Yessir."

            "What are you writing about?"

            As though it's any of your business, and as though you really care, I thought, but what I said was, "Well, uh, I just finished telling him about what's been goin' on at school, and now I'm gonna tell him about the songs we're learning at choir practice."

            "He's in the middle of a war," my father explained somewhat disdainfully. "Do you really think he's interested in silly little things like that?"

            My father definitely did not subscribe to the if-you-can't-say-anything-nice-don't-say-anything-at-all philosophy. He was a thundercloud perpetually looking for a parade. Looking back on the incident after all these decades, the event still puzzles me. Just sitting there quietly, I wasn't bothering anyone, least of all my father. I don't know why he suddenly felt the need to criticize me, but that was the way it often happened, and I had grown used to it after a fashion. I can only suppose that my father was jealous of my relationship with Joey. Way down deep in his soul, he was an unhappy and discontented man, and I sometimes think he wanted to make everyone else just as miserable as he was.

            So, I decided to ask Joey if my letters were boring. His response was quick and to the contrary:

            . . . Oh, Maggie, darlin', I probably shouldn't be telling you to ignore your dad, but in this case my dear old brother is full of beans! Don't ever think for a minute that your letters are unimportant to me. I live for your letters. I want to hear all about the how you did on your Math test and the new dress you got for Easter. I want to know what's going on at home and at school. I want to know everything you're doing and everything you're thinking about. You're the most important person in the world to me! I care about everything you have to say!
            You've got to remember that this place is so different from the good old USA that we might as well be on a different planet! When you write to me about home, I almost feel like I'm listening to one of Pastor Barlow's sermons about Heaven. This place can look a lot like hell, and it gets hard to remember that there's a place like Heaven, too. There are times when home feels a lot further than 10,000 miles away. That's when I love to read your letters. They remind me of that beautiful place called Home and help me hang on to the hope that I'll see it again someday. In my mind, home and heaven have become the same place.
            Sometimes your letters are all that keeps me from losing my mind. Seriously. I've seen it happen over here more than once. When I read your letters, for a few minutes I can be back there with you instead of here on the other side of the world, and I don't have to think about awful things like killing. Or dying.
            Instead, I can think about going skating with you again on Friday nights. Except that by the time I get back, you'll probably be too busy with all your boyfriends to have time for your old uncle! Or, I can imagine what it will be like to listen to you sing a solo with the church choir again on Sunday morning.
            That's what's really important to me. Thinking of you and remembering the home that I want more than anything to come back to . . .

            Not all of Joey's letters were so serious, though. Sometimes, there were presents! Two weeks after my 13th birthday, I received a small package from Joey. I carried my treasure from the mailbox to the front porch where I sat down on the swing. Turning the package over in my hands, I savored the anticipation of what might be inside. It weighed very little, but getting letters on a regular basis was a novel enough experience. To receive a package was an extraordinary event. I held the box up to my ear and gave it a shake. It didn't rattle. Finally, I yielded to temptation and tore into the brown paper wrapping.

            Inside the cardboard box was something else wrapped in a page from a Vietnamese newspaper, and I examined the text with a small degree of surprised interest. I suppose I had been expecting something like Chinese ideographs instead of all the strangely accented words. However, my attention was quickly diverted by what I found inside the newspaper. It was a small red velvet-covered box, the kind of box that every woman knows can contain only one thing - jewelry! Sure enough, inside this box was a gold ring. The design was one I'd never seen before, two hands clasping a heart beneath a crown. Included with the gift was this note:

17 February 1971
Dear Maggie,
            Happy 13th Birthday, Sweetheart! I know this package probably won't reach you until after your birthday, so I hope it was a happy one. Since you're a teenager now, becoming a grown-up young lady, I wanted to get you a grown-up gift.
            This ring is called a Claddagh, and I think it was named after the village in Galway where they were first made. You see, even though I got it in Sydney, Australia on my last leave, the ring originally came from Ireland, just like the Shannons. It's an old design, about 400 years I'm told. The crown is for loyalty. The hands are for friendship. And, the heart, naturally, stands for love.
            In Ireland it's given as a friendship ring, an engagement ring, or even a wedding ring, depending on how you wear it. On your right hand with the heart facing out, it's for friendship. With the heart facing in, it's an engagement ring. Of course, when it goes on the left hand, it's a wedding ring.
            Every time you wear this, you can look at it and remember that I'm thinking about you and that I'm counting the days until I can come home and be with you again
                                                Love,
                                                Joey

            I slipped it on my right hand with the heart facing out as Joey had indicated. The fit was just a little loose, but a bit of adhesive tape wound around the back would compensate until my next growth spurt. I held out my hand to admire how the gold sparkled and shone in the early spring sunlight. Joey always managed to do just the right thing at just the right time. It was the perfect gift for a little girl on the threshold of womanhood. How had he known? I sat right down and wrote him an effusively thankful letter.

            Such thoughtful gestures were typical of Joey. He was one of the most loving, giving, caring people I have ever known, and I often regret that I haven't turned out to be more like him. It was Joey's nature to reach out to everyone around him, so it was hardly a surprise when I received his letter telling me about the orphanage that his unit had adopted.

17 April 1971
Wow, Maggie!
            I've just had the neatest day! My platoon leader, Lt. Wesley - the Skipper - asked me to go into town with him to run some errands. Well, it turned out that his errand was at the orphanage not far from the base. It's a school run by some nuns, The Sisters of the Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul. (What a mouthful!) And Wesley's been visiting them for a while now, taking the kids food, clothes, and stuff.
            All the kids went crazy when we got there. You've thought that it was Christmas and Wesley was Santa Claus. I think the Skipper's as crazy about the kids as they are about him. It's really something to watch. He gets right down there with them, playing their games and telling them stories. It's easy to tell that he's going to be a great father if he ever decides to stop flying helicopters and settle down. I really hope you get to meet him some day.
            As soon as we got there, the kids surrounded us. They absolutely love anything and everything American. Even tired soldiers, I suppose. They followed us every step we took, laughing and chattering to each other in their strange language. Fortunately for me and thanks to the sisters, their English is much better than my Vietnamese. I only know a few phrases, and they're really not the kinds of things you say to children and nuns! Well, at least we all smile in the same language.
            A pretty, young teacher - they're not all nuns, by the way - handed me a guitar, and then I knew why the Skipper was so gung-ho for me to come along. I played and sang for the kids. I even taught them a couple of songs and got them to sing along. I gotta tell ya, Maggie, you just ain't lived 'til you've heard Puff, the Magic Dragon sung with a Vietnamese accent!
            After meeting those children, I realized how fortunate I am. For the first time, I think I think I really appreciate all the privileges and opportunities we have as Americans. It sure made me realize how much we take for granted. These boys and girls don't have much at all, but they're grateful for the chance to learn and make a better life for themselves some day.
            I've got a project for the good folks of Broadview Baptist Church. The orphanage needs everything! See if you can get Brother Dick to put on his Deacon Hat and get the church to collect clothing and stuff for the kids. Tell him he can practice what he preaches about feeding the hungry and clothing the naked. Let him know that everything is needed, and anything will be appreciated. Have him send whatever they collect in care of me, and I'll be sure it's delivered.
                                                Love,
                                                Joey

            Rather than entrust Joey's request to so undependable a source as my father, I went straight to the top. My Sunday school teacher just happened to be the head of the Women's Missionary Union at Broadview. It didn't hurt that she was also the Pastor's wife and a real take-charge gal in her own right. We collected box after box of clothing and school supplies for the orphanage. In return, we received a bushel of grateful letters from the children and the sisters.