MEMORIAL DAY

Watching all the ads for ways to celebrate Memorial Day makes me sad. Some Americans can't seem to take anything at face value anymore. Any day can fall victim to fun and frivolity. 

I'll spend some time Monday in quiet reflection at a spot on our farm where a tree line sits atop a distant rise. I'll think about the man who used to sit there with me. This time of year, the sunlight begins to appear through patches of leaves. We were sitting there once and he said, quite softly, "That always reminds me of seeing those parachutes hanging from trees, sometimes with one of those boys still attached to it."

He is the same man who said of artillery attacks, "You just pray let me live one more second … just one more second."

As I'm writing this, there is distant thunder and I'm reminded of my own experience "in harm's way." I didn't thunder where I was. The rain would just come and stay for days. If you heard rumbling, it was the sound of war, and you could only wonder who was the perpetrator and who was the victim.

On this Memorial Day, let us honor the victims who left home and family to go into situations where they might have to pray, "Just let me live one more second." Many didn't.

DEFEAT FASCISM

 Read Rebuke Resist

I promised myself I would remain calm and disconnected. But as I waited for the microwave to heat a cup of coffee this morning, I thought about something.

If they get through with the librarians and come for me, what will I, like Fyodor Dostoevsky once narrated, think about the moments before execution? What time-wasting actions will I regret?

Sadly, today it would be the four years I served in the uniform of my country. The ruling political party said yesterday that it was at best a joke. 

It would have been better had I joined a mob, stormed the U.S. Capitol, killed a police officer, crapped on its floors, and threatened the lawmakers. Those are the present-day heroes of America. Isn't this true? (Ist es nicht wahr? for my MAGA acquaintances.)

Of course, had I done that at the time, I would probably still be in prison and wouldn’t have been included in the travesty of yesterday.

The New Normal is making me nauseated.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 POLITICAL CHOICES

Yesterday Donald J. Trump, on video, desecrated the flag of the United States of America. He took a large pen and appeared to have signed his name to our flag.

According to section 8 of the U.S Flag Code, "The flag should never have placed upon it, nor on any part of it, nor attached to it any mark, insignia, letter, word, figure, design, picture, or drawing of any nature." While there are no penalties or violations for breaking the U.S. Flag Code, its terms detail that "it is important to respect the guidelines as a sign of patriotism and respect for the country."

His act bothers me, especially in light of the fact that a professional athlete’s career perished in flames when he knelt while someone was singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” an act presumably protected by the First Amendment to the United States Constitution.

This is the latest in a long series of acts dishonoring our country and its vets performed by Donald J. Trump. The intent seems to be simply proving that he can do it and maintain the support of his base.

Which brings me to the question of his base and its composition. This base of supporters goes far beyond the normal image one has of rednecks in pickups whose only dream is to own a 50-Caliber machine gun for “deer hunting.” The base goes far beyond people who disapprove of abortions but don’t accept the fact that sex education, freedom from poverty, male responsibility, and contraception might be more humane and effective methodologies than imposing the death penalty on women and physicians who seek legitimate treatment for a woman’s health.

No, a heartbreaking fact is that his supporters include many people whom I once considered friends, some close, some very close. These are friends with whom I shared dreams, discussed the greatness and challenges of America, and whom I would have trusted with my most cherished possessions.

These are people who taught our children. People who cared for our infirm. People who provided succor for the “least of those among us.” One even preached, from a pulpit, the gospel of Jesus of Nazareth.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who publicly ridiculed the disabled among us.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who dishonored John McCain, who spent six years in a tortuous prisoner of war camp for our country.

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who teaches them to despise veterans who have served our country, calling those who died doing so, “losers and suckers.”

Now they proudly claim they will vote for a man who incited a rabid crowd to attack our nation’s Capitol wherein they harmed police officers and defecated on the hallowed floors and walls of our country's most cherished building.

In short, they proudly claim they will vote for him no matter what.

Where I come from, they call that, “Selling your soul to the Devil.”

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

SACREDNESS

Well do I remember my visit to Arlington National Cemetery and associated spots. I always found it a bit historically delicious that we took the grounds from a slave owner and the bride of America's most beloved insurrectionist.

The tour even allowed me to look into the room where Robert E. Lee made the historic decision to turn his back on the country that bred him, nourished him, employed him, and rewarded him. In a few weeks, I'll once again stand on the spot where he once ordered over 13,000 men to make an uphill assault against the United States Army in an effort to preserve slavery.

Back to Arlington and the cemetery. To stand before the burial site of John F. Kenned was moving. My most vivid memory, however, was when, while waiting for the tour to continue, I turned and saw the tombstone of Audie Murphy.

If you are under the age of 40, you may not recognize the name. He was just an ordinary man from an ordinary place in the state of Texas. When World War Two broke out, he sought to join the military and was denied admittance by some branches due to his size and age. The United States Army took him. The sent him to Europe where he became America's most decorated soldier of the war.

The medals he earned included the Congressional Medal of Honor. Yes, that's the one Donald Trump said wasn't as worthy as the civilian one he gave to a big political donor.

Yesterday, Donald J. Trump desecrated this consecrated spot for political purposes. His backers now defend the desecration.

On the day of my visit, the tour ended with a visit to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, perhaps the most sacred spot in America. The slightest indication of disrespect at this spot draws unimaginable castigation.

Does it bother me to think that Donald J. Trump is not above invading this holy place for a political op?

Yes, it bothers me a great deal, but it would not surprise me at all. I can seem him in my mind stopping the marching guard and turning him toward the cameras, a fake smile covering his orange face.

What bothers me more is that I know a score of people whom I once considered caring, respectful, and patriotic who would still vote for him if he did.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 SACRIFICE

 Folks, I am a veteran of the United States Navy. I served one year in Vietnam and the rest on a Navy vessel. I didn’t join the Navy because I sought adventure. I joined because the Draft Board told me that one more address change and they would send a squad for me. I picked the Navy because I loved it more than the others.

I entered a bitter enlistee and emerged one who loved both America and the Navy, despite the fact that many Americans didn’t love me. I know how it feels to be despised for your service.

I entered a profession and immediately became aware of the sacrifices I had made. Peers who never served had good jobs and let me know about it. My own brother-in-law told me that secretaries at the paper mill where he worked made more money than I.

But I progressed. So did my country. So did the attitude toward me and my brother and sister veterans.

Then.

I was disappointed when a major political party dishonored the service of Max Cleland who went to Vietnam with four limbs and returned with one.

I was dismayed when a major political party dishonored the service of John Kerry who drove river boats in the treacherous waters of Vietnam.

I was disgusted when a major political party dishonored the service of John McCain who spent six years in a brutal prison as a result of serving his country.

I was despondent when a major political party deemed me a “sucker-loser” and dishonored veterans who wore their country’s highest honor for bravery and sacrifice.

Now, I live in a state where not a single constitutional office holder deems my service honorable. This includes the service of those who served before, after, and with me, including those more than 50,000 whose names fill the most famous wall in Washington.

Does it make me want to give up?

Nah, it’s just, as someone once quipped, “Déjà vu all over again.”

It makes me want to serve. The old uniform wouldn’t fit, but this old Bosun’s Mate can still tie a clove hitch. It was once called the king of knots for its ability to hold when needed in a tight spot and released when needed elsewhere. In fact, a high accolade for a sailor ran, “He’s all in a clove hitch.”

I’m going to whip a hitch and join the ride. Come on along. I’ll tie one for you too. They deserve it.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 CRITICISM

Truth is, for any veteran who served honorably, a misanthrope can find a moment in the veteran’s career to criticize. It doesn’t even require a venom-dripping cult member as the purveyor of negativity. It could be a decent person.

For example, take my distinguished career in the United States Navy. A much as I was beloved and honored, enough that they allowed me to transport an Admiral around in his boat, called “The Barge,” one might find a glitch.

My Admiral mostly had good things to say, even awarded me a letter of commendation for my service.

But, however, were he to be whisked from his heavenly “whiskey and poker” game with Jones, Halsey, and Nimitz, I’m sure he might offer, with his sternest admiral’s face, a mild censure for one incident.

That was the time I transported him and an Assistant Secretary of the Navy to some function. While executing a port moor, while followed by a raging ebb tide, on Charleston’s Cooper River, I almost tumped said Secretary into said river.

My Admiral was not amused. He continued his trust, though, even to the point of allowing my crew and me to transport his wife and her friends, on occasion, for a “wine and chilled chicken excursion” to Fort Sumter. (I loved those trips, and her, for she would always say, "Boats, you know how to properly dispose of this leftover wine and food, don't you?")

"Aye, aye, Ma'am."

So there, next time you see a criticism of a veteran, especially if you are in the 99+ percent of Americans who will never don one of her military uniforms, please do us all a favor.

Mind your own damned business.

EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 SERVICE

Best I can remember, it was in late summer of 1973. The crime? We both skipped work to stay home and watch a full day of the Senate Watergate hearings on television. Former Richard Nixon aide John Ehrlichman was testifying. The terms riveting and spell binding don’t even begin to describe the effect. The future of our country stood on one of those dangerous precipices of history. You know the feeling—where we are now.

The high point of the day was when the late Senator Daniel Ken "Dan" Inouye, one of the committee members forgot that his microphone was live after Ehrlichman finished his testimony. As people began stirring, Senator Inouye, a decorated World War Two veteran of the famed Japanese American 442nd Regimental Combat Team, leaned back and said, “What a liar.”

As an aside, having lost an arm in combat, Senator Inouye was a perfect example of the kind of hero that modern conservatives and evangelicals would demean and denigrate for his service, a clear sign of our sailing into the abyss.

Just ask Max Cleland, John Kerry, or John McCain. Or, we can check yesterday's headlines.

Now, as they say, “It’s déjà vu all over again.” We can almost see the venom dripping from the fangs of those who would disparage a man’s 24 years of service in uniform for political gain.

As one who grew up not long after World War Two ended, it is difficult, very difficult, for me to accept a veteran’s service to America as a negative wedge issue.

In the springtime of my adulthood, after the winter of my own military service, I often wondered how some people could hate a veteran. I suppose it is easier if your cult tells you to.

The lure of the Kool-Aide is strong with these people.

Justice

Sundown in zion

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

            As Nelson settled into his truck and inserted the key, his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the number. He pressed the “talk” button, placed it into position, listened, and said, “Agent Benson, so nice to hear your voice. Calling before you leave for services?” He waited, smiled, and said, “A simple ‘no’ would have sufficed,” He listened again. “Tomorrow at 10:00. Got it. Is this with the Chief himself? Good. I’ll tell him we were fraternity brothers.” He listened again and then laughed. “I’ll just tell him you owed me a favor.”  He punched the phone and placed it in his pocket.

            Before leaving, he pulled a folded sheet from his pocket and examined it. Then he reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a city map of Little Rock. He studied it for a moment and then jabbed a spot with his finger. He traced route and placed the map on the seat beside him. Pulling away from the Stubblefield home, he headed north, and then west.

            At first, he retraced the route he had taken to the University earlier. This time, he continued west and crossed University Avenue. Then he turned south and wound his way into a subdivision of middle-class homes. He stopped alongside a curb and reviewed his map and notes again. He then continued south before turning onto a quiet, tree-lined street. He drove slowly, observing the house numbers. He stopped, checked his notes again and eased his truck to a spot in front of a brick veneer home with an open garage that housed a four-year old Honda Civic. An older Ford sedan was parked in front of the house on a lawn that showed little sign of maintenance.

            Nelson drew a breath and opened his door. Before stepping out, he looked both ways. He eased himself away from the truck and walked the short distance to the front door. The doorbell pad was missing so he knocked three times against the front door. From inside, there was the sound of movement. A chair scrapped, there was a sharp exchange of voices and the footsteps could be heard approaching. The door opened and a large man stood facing Nelson. He had “life-guard” looks with long blond hair partially covering a tanned face. “What?” he said.

            “Is Mrs. Charles Winters in?”

            The man glared at him and said, “What do you want?”

            Nelson spoke in a low, even voice. “I want to talk to Mrs. Winters.”

            “What about?”

            “Is she in?” Nelson fixed his eyes on the face of the man, a face that now showed a slight hint of confusion.

            The man’s face gave a jerk to the rear. He yelled, “Connie.”

            A woman’s voice came from within, “I’m busy.”

            “Come here,” the man said.

            “I said I was busy.”

            “And I said ‘come here’ and I mean right now, godammit.” The man returned his glare to Nelson.

            Nelson said, “Thank you.” This seemed to confuse even more the man, who stepped aside as footsteps approached.

            His figure was replaced by that of an attractive woman in her late thirties. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail and secured with brightly colored bands. She wore a sleeveless pullover with no bra beneath it. She had on faded jeans showing her knees beneath worn spots. She was on the verge of being overweight, but moved with a practiced sensuality. She took one look at Nelson and said, “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,”

            “Mrs. Winters?” Nelson said.

            “Who are you?” she said.

            “Gideon Nelson of the United States Navy. May I speak with you about your husband Charles?”

            She brightened. “Charlie? Did something happen to him?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said.

            “Come in,” she said, looking pleased and holding the door for Nelson. She led him through a well-kept room that was furnished with a large-screen TV, stereo equipment, and an exercise machine. The kitchen contained a new refrigerator and other upscale appliances. She motioned Nelson toward a seat at the kitchen table. She said, “Coffee?”

            “No thanks,” Nelson said. He took a seat and placed his hands on the table in front of him. She sat across from him. Her companion stood by the kitchen sink, watching.

            “Now tell me what happened to Charlie,” she said. “Something bad, I expect.”

            “No, Nelson said, “actually something good.”

            Her face darkened perceptibly. “Good?”

            “Yes,” Nelson said. “Something quite good.”

            She looked at her hands. There was no wedding ring on her finger. Looking up, she said, “And the Navy sent you to tell me about it?”

            “No, I’m just reporting as a friend.”

            “I thought you said you were with the Navy.”

            “Oh, I am,” Nelson said. “But they didn’t send me.”

            She appeared confused for a moment but then took a breath. “So what good thing has happened to old Charlie, my, … uh, estranged?” The other man laughed.

            “He met me.” Nelson said.

            Her face tightened. “He what?”

            “He met me and found a friend,” Nelson said.

            The other man stirred and said, “Just who the hell are you mister?”

            “You might say that I am a modern Jesus,” Nelson said, continuing to look at Charlie’s wife, “come to earth to protect the righteous and poor in spirit.”

            “Bullshit,” the man said as he started toward Nelson. “I threw that cripple bastard out of this house and that’s all we want to know about him.”

            “You need to go outside and stay out of this,” Nelson said, his eyes still fixed on Connie Winters.

            “Mr.,” the man said, “I’m giving you about one minute to leave before I throw you  ...”

            He didn’t finish. He had walked over to Nelson’s left and was leaning in to yell in his ear when Nelson grabbed the man’s arm and, taking advantage of the downward momentum, slammed his face into the kitchen table. As he fell on the floor, Nelson spun from his chair, grabbed the man by his shirt and delivered a sharp blow to the side of his head, his fist traveling no more than a foot. There was a sharp crack and the man’s eyes rolled upwards, then closed as he thudded to the floor. Nelson released him, sat, and turned in his chair back toward Connie Winters.

            “Is it true that you have taken Charlie’s bank records and checks from him and used Sluggo here,” he nodded at the form of the other man, “to keep him from coming back to claim them?”

            She said nothing.

            “And is it true,” Nelson said, “That you threatened bodily harm to my friend if he filed for divorce?”

            Connie Winters stared at her hands for a moment and then looked at Nelson defiantly. “So what if I did?” she said. “The wimp ain’t no use to me and I’m still young. The VA will take care of him. But I’ve got to take care of myself, and that’s all I’ve been doing.”

            “Thing is,” Nelson said. “It’s over. Watch and learn why.” He stood, turned and walked into the living room. There was a loud crash accompanied by the sound of electrical sparking and glass shattering. He walked back into the kitchen. “That was your TV,” he said. “Would you like to get his checks and bank records for me now?”

            “Fuck you mister,” she said.

            Nelson walked back to the living room and there were more sounds of destruction. When he walked into the kitchen, he moved to the counter and lifted a large microwave and threw it onto the floor beside her. She screamed and jumped aside and glass flew. “His bank records please. I have all day and you have lots of goodies.”

            Connie Winters eyes were wide now and fear had frozen her face. “How will I live?” she said. “I haven’t paid the rent this month.”

            “Put Sluggo to work,” he said. “Shall I take on the refrigerator next?” He moved toward it.

            “No,” she said. “Wait a moment. I’ll get them.” She hurried through the kitchen door and down a hallway. As she entered a room off the hall, Nelson stepped over the broken glass and stood out of sight against the wall. When footsteps sounded her return, he flattened himself against it.

            He watched as a hand holding a revolver broke the plane of the door opening, followed by an arm, and then the body of Connie Winters, her face wild and looking for Nelson. Too late, she sensed him and spun. He grabbed her wrist and with one jerk sent the pistol flying toward the still form of her companion. “Stupid,” he said. “Really stupid. Now don’t make me mad … the bank records please, and his other military documents.” He released her.

            She was breathing heavily. Nelson walked over to the gun, reached down, and grabbed it. He removed the bullets and the cylinder, placing them in his pocket. He threw the remainder of the gun into the kitchen sink. When the man on the floor moved and groaned slightly, Nelson bent over, raised the man’s head by his long hair and clipped his chin deftly, putting him to sleep once more. He turned and said, “Now.”

            Sometime later, Nelson was checking a cardboard box full of paperwork. Connie Winters stood in a corner crying softly, her hand across her mouth. Her companion still lay senseless beside the table. When he seemed satisfied, Nelson turned to the woman and said, “Now here are the rules of engagement. One, if, when I take Charlie to the bank, there have been any withdrawals from this moment until then, I will return. Is this understood?”

            She nodded. Nelson closed the flaps of the box. “And if I have to return, I will be pissed. Look at me,” he said to her. When she did, he said, “Really pissed. Do we understand one another?”

            She nodded. “And let me assure you, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “you don’t want to see me really pissed.” As if to emphasize the point, he walked over and opened a cabinet door. With one hand, he sent its contents, a collection of cups and glasses onto the floor. “Now,” he said, “for the second rule of engagement. In a few days, you will receive paperwork for a ‘no-fault’ divorce. I’ll wait one week for you to return them. Do and you won’t see me again. Don’t and I will be pissed. Okay?”

            She nodded and began to cry again. Nelson said, “Final rule of engagement. I think, after the divorce is final, it would be nice if you and Sluggo here moved to a climate more suited to your health. Don’t you?” She looked at him and nodded.

            “Good. “I love it when great minds agree.” He smiled at her and said, “After the body parts pass through the grinder, as the butcher said while disposing of his wife, everything falls into place.” He lifted the box and started toward the door. Reaching it, he turned and said, “It has been a pleasure dealing with you. I’m sure Charlie would want me to extend his thanks as well. He’s busy, though, regaining the health that you and this thing,” pointing at the body on the floor, “along with our foreign enemies, attempted to take from him.”

            He stopped. “Oh,” he said, “one more thing I almost forgot … the car keys please.” When she hesitated, he said, “As my mother would say, Don’t make me have to come back in there.”

            She took her purse from a kitchen counter and rummaged through it. She pulled out set of keys and pitched them to Nelson. He caught them and said, “After I leave, put the title into the glove compartment. Sometime, probably late at night, I’ll come and get it. If I see either of you, I’ll wreak major damage. Understood?”

            The form of Connie Winters seemed small and frail as she stood among the ruins of her kitchen. She nodded and then summoned enough energy to say, “Who the hell are you, mister?”

            Nelson turned. “Why, Mrs. Winters,” he said, “like I told your friend there, I’m Jesus. Haven’t you ever read about the cleansing of the temple?”

            With that, he turned and was gone.

Fiction Friday

SUNDOWN IN ZION

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Previously, our hero, during his morning exercises, had met a damaged veteran living on the banks of the Arkansas River. Today, both lives will change.

            Nelson stepped on his porch early next morning and then dashed back inside to cover his upper body with a hooded sweatshirt. The never-ending winter had returned with lower temperatures and a frigid wind blowing in from the southwest. With an old pair of white socks serving as gloves, he headed into the chill for his morning run. Few cars were on the street and no other pedestrians. It was as if the world had ended during the night and he was one of the few survivors.

            Reaching the Clinton Library Park, he stopped to do his morning exercises. Today, there was no sign of his new acquaintance Charlie. When he finished, he walked to the area where Charlie camped but there was no trace of him their as well. Nelson then proceeded west and climbed the steps leading to the level at which he could enter the pedestrian bridge connecting the two cities. That’s when he saw Charlie.

            The man was leaning against the railing at the entrance to the bridge. He was wearing a tattered undershirt and his arms were clasped around his chest to imprison any last bit of warmth. When he looked up to see Nelson, there was a trickle of blood flowing from his nose. One eye was swollen.

            “Charlie,” Nelson said as he ran toward him, “what’s happened?”

            The other said nothing. He only shook his head in bewilderment.

            “Where is your jacket?”

            Charlie took a breath and nodded behind him. “They took it,” he said, referring to two men some 20 yards or so beyond them. They were the only others in sight, so Nelson rain toward them, removing his ‘sock-gloves’ and casting them aside.

            “They have a pistol,” Charlie said, his voice so weak that it barely reached Nelson, who continued running.

            Nearing the pair, Nelson shouted, “Hey you. Stop.”

            The two spun around in unison and glared at Nelson. Both were large men but one was shorter than the other and had a dark, weasel-like face with black eyes that darted like gnats in the morning light. The other bore a blank expression as if he couldn’t imagine that there was another person on the planet. He carried Charlie’s jacket. Both stood still.

            “What you want, motherfucker?” the smaller one said. The larger man moved a few inches toward Nelson.

            “I want my friend’s jacket back.”

            The two stared at Nelson as though they didn’t understand the language he was speaking. The smaller man took a step toward him and his partner followed. They now stood less than three feet from him. “Fuck you,” the smaller man said. "You can buy it back for him at the pawn shop." He nodded over his shoulder toward North Little Rock, and his right hand began moving toward the inside of his coat.

            Nelson’s left foot shifted and his right hand moved simultaneously. They made no preliminary motion. He neither cocked his hand nor shifted his weight. Two blurs simply moved as he closed the distance and his hand knife-edged into the elbow of the arm that was reaching inside the coat. A loud shriek pierced the air as the arm shattered. Nelson continued his turn and faced the second man who now stared with widening eyes.

            “Motherfucker,” the injured man shouted. “You broke my goddam arm.” It hung beside him as he grasped the elbow with his other hand.

            Nelson had started the process of delivering a blow to the second man but stopped his fist in mid-air. He looked the man in the eyes and said in an even voice, “Whatever you are thinking about doing, I would strongly suggest that you don’t.”

            “Kill the motherfucker,” the injured man shouted.

            “Your choice,” Nelson said.

            The man’s eyes darted from Nelson’s hand to this wounded partner who was moaning in pain. He relaxed his tense pose and calmly extended Charlie’s jacket toward Nelson.

            “Just drop it,” Nelson said. The other did. “Now,” Nelson said. “I want you to do something for me and if you don’t do it, or if you make any wrong move, I will throw stupid ass over that railing.” He stood still. “Do you understand me?”

            The man looked over the railing. They were well out over the Arkansas River and high above it. He nodded.

            “Einstein here has something under his jacket that he was reaching for. You know what it is, don’t you?”

            The man nodded. His partner was now stomping his feet in pain.

            “Reach over with your left hand and ease it out. Hold it with two fingers … and gently.” he motioned toward the river, “Let me have it. Understand?”

            The man nodded. “You,” Nelson said to the other man. “Stand still or I’ll break your other arm and then both legs. Got it?”

            The man didn’t answer but stood still while his partner reached over and removed an ancient snub-nosed pistol from his belt. With two fingers, he held it out toward Nelson.

            “Lay it down in front of you,” Nelson said as he raised his hand in position for another blow. The man looked toward his partner who seemed to be on the verge of fainting and who nodded.

            When the gun was on the concrete bed of the bridge, Nelson motioned for the two to step back. They did and he picked up the pistol, still poised for immediate response should either make a move. “Now here is what is going to happen,” he said to the two. “You are going to remove, very slowly remove, your coats and lay them in front of you. When they didn’t move quickly, he said in a firm voice, “Now.”

            They complied and Nelson then had them remove their shirts. The larger man had to help his friend who was still moaning. Exposed, the elbow now was a sickening color and swelling visibly. Finished, the two stood shivering in the morning cold. Nelson motioned for them to mover farther back.

            “Know why this is your lucky day?” he said. When they didn’t answer, he said, “It’s your lucky day because I was going to make you sorry bastards strip to your skivvies but I had this attack of pity. Understand?”

            “You mother …,” the smaller man began but in an almost imperceptible move, Nelson moved in and backhanded him hard across the face. The man’s hand moved from his broken arm to hold a nose now broken as well.

            “And,” Nelson said, “if I see ever see your rotten asses on this side of the river again …” He stopped and thought. Then he said, “Or on the other side either, “I may get mad. Understand?”

            They nodded in dumb defeat. “Now get,” Nelson said, motioning them toward the other side of the river. The two walked away quickly, the larger man helping the other. Nelson gathered their jackets and rifled the pockets. He found a few coins, two joints of pot, the remains of a pack of Marlboros, and a handful of bullets that fit the pistol. Keeping an eye on the receding figures, he moved to the side of the bridge and threw everything save Charlie’s jacket, the cigarettes, and the coins into the river. Then he walked back to his fellow veteran.

            Charlie had watched the proceedings from where he stood. Shivering, he took his jacket and put in on quickly. “Thanks,” he said. “But you could have been killed.” He looked down. “I’m not sure that I am worth that.”

            “I have a feeling you are,” Nelson said. “How did that all come about, anyway? Didn’t you learn anything in Iraq?”

            “I was thinking about that bitch wife of mine when they jumped from behind a bush and he pointed that pistol in my face. They demanded my jacket and when I didn’t move fast enough, the dumb one slugged me.” He stopped talking and, after a pause, resumed in a soft voice. “Then I went into a seizure and they hit me some more. Then …”

            “That’s enough,” Nelson said. “I get the picture.” He handed Charlie the cigarettes.

            “Thanks, but no thanks,” Charlie said. “I just now quit.”

            Nelson smiled. “Good for you,” he said. “Now,” he took a breath, “what are we going to do with you?”

            “I’ll go back to my camp and rest,” Charlie said. “Then I’ll walk to the VA. I’ll be okay in a day or so. I don’t think those two will be coming back.” He turned to leave.

            “Bullshit,” Nelson said, grabbing his arm. “You’re coming home with me.”

            Charlie knitted his brow as if Nelson had just admitted being an alien. “What?”

            “You are coming to my house until we can get you back on your feet. I have more room than one person needs and you are welcome.”

            “But you don’t know anything about me,” Charlie said.

            Nelson shook his head. “I know that you are a brother vet and that is enough.” He looked at Charlie. “Besides, I have a project I’m working on that you could help me with.”

            “A project?”

            “Yes,” he said, “in Connorville. Didn’t you tell me that you have a friend there?

            Charlie thought. “Oh yeah. He has one of those schools where you can get a ‘concealed carry’ permit.” He thought for second. “I don’t think our two friends back there had one.”

            “I doubt it,” Nelson said. “That settles it then. Come on.”

            “But what if I’m a thief and I steal your stuff?”

            Nelson said, “I learned years ago to own nothing that you wouldn’t mind losing.”

            “What if I’m a child molester?”

            “Then I’ll whip your ass and kick you out.”

            Charlie thought for a moment, nodded, attempted a smile, and said, “That sounds fair enough.”

            Nelson said, “Do you need anything from your camp?”

            “Are you kidding?” He reached into a pocket of his pants and drew out two items. “Got my driver’s license and VA card. They’ve got copies of my DD-214. What else could I need?” He rubbed his face where he had been hit, then stopped as if remembering something. “You got anything to eat at your house?”

            “Come on,” Nelson said, and the two walked home together.

Decency

I’m not sure what it is about conservatives and veterans. In recent memory, one political party has demeaned the service of a pair of Navy veterans who did two of the most dangerous jobs during the Vietnam war. One commanded a river boat and one flew missions from an aircraft carrier. The latter spent six years in a prison after the North Vietnamese shot down his plane. The first saw his Purple Hearts ridiculed at the Republican national convention.

 

Then the party insulted the family of an American soldier killed while serving his country in the Middle East wars. Don’t know why, just to get votes I suppose.

 

A highly decorated officer received his crass treatment recently while in the full, ribbon-bedecked uniform of his country. The insignias include the Combat Infantry Badge and the Purple Heart. The vast majority of American have no idea, nor do they seem to care, what a CIB is. It’s the blue image with the wreath and rifle on top. It means that foreign enemies of our country have tried to kill you physically. You don’t get one for having internal enemies of our country hurl insults and stereotyped accusations at you. If you did, I guess most of us would warrant one. Maybe if it were the president of the United States making the insults, the badge would come with a star attached.

 

You’d think it couldn’t get any worse. It did. The party then made sure that a World War Two veteran, now deceased as almost all of them are, received his treatment. Many of them have called his kind “The Greatest Generation.” This party suggested the veteran was burning in Hell. (That’s a fiery pit of eternal fire where evangelical “Christians,” (and those who would exploit them) mentally send people who don’t believe exactly as they do—the ultimate act of judgement by their loving god.)

I don’t understand it. Is it their religion that makes them so mean-spirited? It’s not Christianity itself. I watch a Methodist service each week and it is founded on love and grace. I always feel better toward the human race after I watch it. What is it on the outer fringes of that same faith that makes faces turn red and veins bulge with hate and anger?

Like I say. I don’t know, but it sure would make me happy if they would leave the veterans out of it all. Haven’t they suffered enough?

My father-in-law wore a Combat Infantry Badge and a Purple Heart home from World War Two. He told me once, “You’d think: just let me live one more second … just one more second.”

When I think that some draft-dodging asshole would have the gall to dishonor men like that, it makes me very sad for America. It may not bother some of you, but it does me.

Sorry for the tirade. Sometimes it pours out and I fail to stop it.