I lost my wallet.

     And found a new freedom that only the loss of identity could possibly grant me.

The Vietnam War changed Joe.

       It stripped him of all interest in leading people in any official capacity. Forever.

     He has never been the same since coming Home, but he didn’t know that until years later when he was shaken awake to this harsh reality through a PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) session in Vietnam.

     They called him “Philly Joe” in the US Army squad he commanded. The City of Brotherly Love was his home, and many like him took on the name of their state or city while in the service. He was a sergeant, in charge of a squad of “grunts,” infantry soldiers who canvassed the “bush,” the jungle of Vietnam, helicopter flight after helicopter flight.

       Joe was the type of leader that men loved to serve with — honest and compassionate, yet firm with a no-nonsense approach when a crisis called for it. More importantly, Joe’s men followed him because each knew from experience that Joe would not ask you to do anything that he would not have done himself.

Joe Trains a Recruit to be a Machine-Gunner

     That’s why Harris, a young recruit who heard of Joe’s military savvy, had asked to become a member of his squad, his “fire team.” “I made him my machine-gunner,” Joe recalled. In addition to carrying the heavy weapon, Harris packed a .45 pistol, a weapon generally handled by those not carrying an M-16.

     And it happened one day that Harris had quietly approached Joe and told the sergeant he had lost the handgun. The squad was flown in by helicopter to a section where they all dismounted and slowly spread out, marching nearly half a “Klick,”(half a kilometer or 500 meters) before Harris discovered the loss and approached the sarge, confiding in him.

     Joe did not want Harris to get into trouble for losing the military-issued weapon. More importantly, Joe said, he did not want the enemy to get their hands on it and use it against some GI.

Return to Enemy Territory to Retrieve Gun

         And so, Joe ordered his squad to stand down and wait, as he and Harris made their way back through an untrodden path, making their way back to the landing zone (LZ).

• They found the gun!
• And the VC (Viet Cong) found them!

        Joe and Harris came under fire, being shot from some small arms from some unknown direction. They moved quickly, trying to retrace their steps away from the now marked area and get to the safety of the other men.

        An unseen enemy sharpshooter, who had apparently lay in wait for the Americans, hit Harris. Joe saw Harris take the shot and the sergeant propped up the “younger man.” (Joe was all of 18 years old when he directed the lives of the “kids,” those “new in-country.”) Harris struggled, but with Joe’s help, both made it back to safety.

Million-Dollar Wound Way Off Base

      “You got a million-dollar wound,” Joe remembered telling Harris, as he helped to attend his wound. “You’re going home,” he added, trying his best to keep the injured soldier calm and relaxed, focused on something other than the pain that could too easily force him to go into shock. It worked.          The young man’s injuries appeared to stabilize when a helicopter crew flew in to medevac him out of the field and to an Army Hospital.

 .   .   .   Where Harris died from his wound.

.   .   .    Thus, injuring a major part of Joe’s psyche, Joe’s soul, and his outlook in early adulthood. 

————–

      Oh, Joe finished his tour just fine, getting out of the war zone one month short of a 12-month rotation. But he never felt the same way as he did in giving orders before the loss of Harris.

Never Give Anybody Any Orders Again

          It haunted him in a way he only recently realized. You see, Joe has never sought advancement in any of the jobs or career paths he chose to follow after the war. “They wanted me to be a supervisor,” Joe said of assembly line work he once performed in a factory. Joe turned the position down cold.

         Years later, while serving as a correctional officer in the prison system, Joe smiled and simply refused to follow the advice of others, urging him to “put in” for sergeant. The same thing occurred while working as a sheriff, handling prisoners to and from the courtroom where I had met him.

     Why doesn’t he apply for a higher rank, a higher position? Courtroom employees wondered about Joe’s refusal to try to get more money and become a sergeant. He was qualified, and sometimes, he was actually doing the job of a superior officer.

Can’t Even Give Orders to Others at Church

     The members at his Baptist Church in Philadelphia asked similar questions after Joe, time and again, politely refused to be named a deacon. He could not give an order from any official position, he said.

     He could not bear the loss, the pain, the hurt of a person following his order who could fall prey to, no matter how minuscule the risk.

     One will never know what life Joe would have led had he not be stricken in war. You can only imagine coming in contact with a guy like Joe.

     You won’t see any of Joe’s injuries at the first meeting with him.

     But they are there. They’re part of his PTSD.

     And some wounds may never ever heal.

Continue reading →

 It’s just like heaven . . . Being here with you . . . You’re like an Angel . . Too good to be true. When You are near me.  My heart skips a beat.  I can hardly stand on. My own two feet.  Because I Love You; I Love You, I Do.  ‘Angel Baby’. My ‘Angel Baby’. Oh, Ooh, I Love You, Oh, Ooh, I Do . . .  No One Could Love You . . .  Like I Do!

                                                   — Rosie & the Originals

     Angels appeared to me through a synchronicity of dreams and later, a conscious meditation, where I realized that certain people that I had met in my life served as agents of change, directing me through the hills and valleys of my present journey. Yes, I call these “messengers” angels, thank you, Dr. Carl G Jung. And you will see why!

     First, let me tell you about the dream. A white-haired man dressed in a three-piece suit spoke with another man also dressed in a suit.  They stood in an aisle of a train, near the seats where I sat, along with another man and a young woman.

No one appeared to know the other, but the seated passengers, myself included, were deeply engrossed in the conversation the two standing men were having. “Don’t you know me?” the taller man spoke to the white-haired, older man, who had identified himself as Socrates. I forgot if he mentioned his last name.

—————-

     “I’m sure you will recognize me,” the second man, who called himself Plato, added. This man was slightly bald and started challenging the elder speaker to recall an earlier time the two spent long hours together. I don’t remember any details of their discussions, but they were profound, enlightening, and mesmerizing.

     The men looked toward us, the seated passengers, as if they had interrupted some activity, but I spoke for the three of us, stating that we were keenly interested in what they had to say, and to please continue with their discourse.

     Moments later, I was alone with the white-haired man. I noticed that he had a slight beard, trimmed neatly, and had a cherub-round face. Was the face German? Nordic? Or was he from some other nearby European country that provided red cheeks and a rugged look among its dwellers, I thought. He told me he had finished one book and was writing a second. He seemed cautious and concerned about my reaction when he told me about the first one, claiming some people would not warm to the subject matter or believe in its content.

     “What’s the name of the book?” I asked, curious and interested in his story as I looked into his eyes to get a clearer view of this man. “The book is about Angels,” he said, initially glancing to the floor and then directly towards me, his eyes lighting up. “Those I Know, have Known, and will be Knowing,” he added with a smile.

• Before I had a chance to ask him more, whether that was the name of the title or something else related to the writing, the scene had shifted, and we were near the front of a bus, not a train, and I was getting up to exit the front door where Mr. Socrates and his fellow conversationalist continued their discussion. I nodded goodbye to all, stepped off the bus, and only realized hours later that the white-haired man was some sort of messenger, perhaps the real Socrates, and his sidekick was none other than another philosopher from 500 to 400 BC. But I wasn’t sure of his name. Until days later!

(See Part II at Angels 2)