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10¢ AND A SILVER STAR... A SARDONIC SAGA OF PTSD A NOVEL Bruce D. Johnson Copyright © 2018 by Bruce D. Johnson All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or trans- mitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. ISBN 978-0-578-42041-7 Printed in USA by Ingram Spark & Lightning Source® for Edit Ink Publishers. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. This book is dedicated to: Ron Johnson, who struggles with PTSD, one day at a time and Erik Enstrom, who tragically lost his battle with PTSD and the 500,000+ lives impacted by this disorder. ACKNOWLEGEMENTS This novel is not finished. Admittedly, it boasts a plot, conflict, a point of view, a setting, characters, and even a theme . lots of neat literary stuff, but, it’s not finished. However, like an airplane, barreling down the runway on its takeoff run, it has reached V1, the “commitment to fly” speed. The book is with the publisher. Not a day goes by that I don’t conceive of another amusing or salient tidbit that I wish I could pop in here or there, but, for better or for worse, this is what the reader gets. For the sake of my dear wife Gail, I hope you enjoy it. She has been amazingly tolerant of my choice of a leisure recreation. Now, I’ll have more time for watching YouTube videos depicting people attempt- ing wacky stunts that, more often than not, end up causing agonizing trauma to their groins. CHAPTER ONE The Silver Star “Hey Ken,” I greeted Ken Quidero, our commonly capable company clerk, as I stepped through the flimsy screen door into the less than orderly, orderly room. “You wanted to see me?” “Not me. Captain Riley sent for you,” Ken replied without looking up, a filtered cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth as he continued typing. With his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, Ken sat behind an Underwood Standard #6 typewriter, factory-painted, matching the hue of his olive drab jungle fatigues. The massive manually manipulated machine sported a white-stenciled, 16-digit U.S. Army inventory con- trol number and a polymerized ethylene-vinyl acetate, adhesive-backed decal that read: “Join the Army; See the World; Meet Interesting People; and Kill Them.” “Is that Specialist Johnson?” came the captain’s thick baritone voice as he emerged from his rear office, reading glasses low on his nose, a holstered Model 1911 sidearm on his belt, and a fat Corona Gorda cigar between his pudgy fingers. He wore olive drab jungle fatigues with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows and a class of 1965 West Point ring on his left hand. “Bruce, thanks for reporting. It seems that Military Assistance Command, Vietnam has approved your recommendation for a Silver Star.” He raised the volume of his voice a few decibels to compete with the din of an Eagle Flight of departing Huey helicopters. “Sorry we can’t do this presentation with a kitschy ceremony, but I wanted to get this decoration into your hands just as soon as possible; while you’re still alive, that is. I can’t tell you how much I detest award- ing these things posthumously. It’s so, so disconsolate, and double the paperwork.” I had no inkling I was under consideration for a commendation, nor did I have any reason to suspect such. In fact, I aspired to be accused by the U.S. Army of a cowardly reaction to enemy fire (which could 2 Bruce D. Johnson be easily corroborated), and discharged for unbecoming behavior, or disrespect, or insubordination, or disobedience, or dereliction of duty, or fraternization, or malingering — anything to get me out of this shit- hole country and back to the United States of America with her spacious skies, fruited plains, amber waves of grain, purple mountain majesties, and one lawyer for every 265 citizens. Nonetheless, Captain Riley handed me the medal in its cardboard-sleeved presentation case along with an official-looking certificate in a white envelope. “Here you go, kid. Back in the world, this and 10 cents ought to get you a cup of coffee just about anywhere.” (Nobody had ever heard of Starbucks back in those days.) “Go ahead. Read it. I think you’ll appre- ciate the sentiment, if not the graphics, which I’m of the opinion is on the amateurish end of the aesthetic scale. Uncle Sam needs to recruit some more adroit graphic artists, in my opinion, but I’m just an airborne infantry captain, so what the hell do I know?” Ken and the Captain looked on while I opened the envelope bash- fully, as if it were a birthday card from Aunt Clara, with a crisp $10 bill enclosed. “You’re not going to sing, are you?” I asked sardonically. (For you’re a jolly good killer. For you’re a jolly good killer. For you’re a jolly good kil-l-l-l-er. That nobody can deny.) I read: On March 2, 1969, while engaged in military operations involving conflict with an opposing foreign force, in the Republic of Vietnam, Specialist Fourth Class Bruce D. Johnson distinguished himself by extraordinary heroic achievement and conspicuous gallantry in action, beyond the call of duty; blah; blah; blah; at the voluntary risk of his own life; blah; blah; blah. Richard M. Nixon, Commander in Chief I glanced over to my friend Ken (a “grunt” by association), squinting my right eye and raising the palm of my left hand slightly upward as if to ask, “What’s going on here?” He shrugged his shoulders, then continued typing the standard-form condolences letter he worked on: I wanted to let you know how much we regret the loss of your son (Fill in the blank). Please accept my deepest sympathy . 10¢ and a Silver Star... 3 By this time, the cigarette in Ken’s mouth had grown a disconcerting ash three quarters of an inch in length (or about 19 millimeters for those of you who subscribe to the metric system). “Well, take care now, soldier.” The captain patted me on my scapula through the blouse of my olive drab jungle fatigues, that I wore with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows. “I’ve got to get back to work now. I’m knee deep in KIA paperwork and body count reports.” “How’s that going?” “Well, as a matter of fact, so far, this month, our unit’s winning by a landslide; twenty-eight to seven to be exact, if you count women and children. And that’s with a first lieutenant grappling with a ulnar col- lateral ligament tear, and one of our key automatic riflemen on injured reserve for a groin strain.” “It’s too bad about those seven, however.” “That’s like saying the glass is half full. You need to be mindful, son, that back in the world, more people perish in automobile accidents each year than die in combat here in Southeast Asia. You might just be safer walking point on a long-range patrol in the A Shau Valley than you would be backing out of your own driveway.” “I’ll try to remember that. It’s an intriguing statistical hypothesis. But, is it substantive and replicable?” “Yes! And that’s not even factoring in passengers of Senator Ted Kennedy’s Oldsmobile.” “Thanks for the insight. I’m feeling a little more invulnerable now.” “Great! But, I sort of hoped for invincible. It helps greatly when the 18-year-olds I send into combat feel themselves to be invincible.” “I’m not sure about invincible. Would you settle for indomitable? I think I could muster indomitable; especially with your inspiration and demonstrated superior leadership ability.” “Sure. Anything I can do to help. However, I want you to also think of me as your mentor, not only your commander.” He seemed to have no idea that I was being flippant. “You’re my commander?” “Of course I am. Who did you think I was? Cool Hand Luke?” “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t relate well to the concept of superiors and minions. I come from a staunch union family, you see.” 4 Bruce D. Johnson “I understand. It’s a confounding notion for some white folks who never lived in the South. You need to be able to just put your faith in the system, however. The Army’s got it all figured out for us. Trust them just like you might trust Jesus Christ himself.” “I’ll work on it.” “Don’t just work on it. Pray on it. Pray for the gift of understanding.” “Understanding, you say? “No, you’re right. Washington certainly doesn’t want that! The Pentagon prefers to keep us baffled by the war. On second thought, pray instead for, for deference.” “Okay. Great. I’ll be sure to do that,” I lied. “And, thanks for the cool medal. Bye.” “It’s my pleasure. Take care now, son. There’s no need to salute me. This is a combat zone after all.” “I wasn’t going to.” “Well, just in case you were.” “It never crossed my mind. Bye, Ken.” The ash from Ken’s cigarette (just like I knew it would) had fallen into the mechanics of his typewriter, and he was blowing on the key- board.