by Tom Reilly
Hope in the Shadows of War
by Thomas Paul Reilly
© Copyright 2018 Thomas Paul Reilly
ISBN 978-1-63393-704-8
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. The characters may be both actual and fictitious. With the exception of verified historical events and persons, all incidents, descriptions, dialogue, and opinions expressed are the products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
210 60th Street
Virginia Beach, VA 23451
800-435-4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
PRAISE FOR
HOPE IN THE SHADOWS OF WAR
“In Hope in the Shadows of War, Thomas Paul Reilly chronicles the struggles of Tim O’Rourke, a former helicopter pilot and one of many veterans who returned from Vietnam to a society that was at best indifferent and often hostile to him and his comrades. This was particularly hard on those like O’Rourke who, wounded and permanently injured, had to fight his way to an education while supporting himself and his mother as best he could. With grit, a little luck, the support of friends and the love of a good woman, he comes through as his kind invariably will. Hope in the Shadows of War is uplifting and well worth reading.”
—Neal F. Thompson, Vietnam helicopter pilot, 1st Aviation Brigade, author, Reckoning: Vietnam and America’s Cold War Experience, 1945-1991
“So I’m in the middle of reading this book, and as a veteran I can identify with Tim, the main character. The characters are real and the issues they grapple with I’ve seen firsthand with Vietnam veterans while serving in the Corps. Tom does a great job with the settings and references that make you feel like you are back in 1973. Can’t wait to finish this book!”
—Scott Morris, Cpl, USMC ’77-‘81, 1st Floor Manager Central Library St. Louis, MO
“Amazing, awesome, WOW, what a GREAT BOOK! You hit it out of the park, and bases were loaded! Thanks for sharing, what a wonderful story!”
—Jon Alexander, combat engineer, 9th Infantry, Vietnam
“Finally a book written by someone who not only was there, but understands the personal changes wrought by combat from a professional psychological perspective. This is an easy and believable read because Tom Reilly does not embellish any of the real life experiences of a vet. He does not try to make the story one of extreme heroics, dramatic recounts of serious combat aimed at a movie deal, or anything but, ‘If you were there, you will understand, and maybe this will help you.’ We can remove the word ‘Maybe,’ because it will.”
—Col, USAF (Ret) command pilot, wing vice-commander
“I can identify with many of the situations Timothy was in after Vietnam. I had 7 or 8 jobs my first year back from Nam. Loved the different characters. Spot on and a great read.”
—Carl Gordon, Sgt. USMC, Vietnam 1969-70
“This is a for-real book about the Vietnam War and its aftereffects on veterans’ struggles to readjust and cope with the emotional toll of war that affect family, friends, and jobs. Well-written, easy to read.”
—Charles l. Bess Sr., United States Air Force, sergeant 35th Security Police, air base defense Phan Rang Vietnam 1967-1968
“Having served in Vietnam, what impresses me most is the accuracy with which Tom brings the realism of not only Vietnam, but life after Vietnam to us. Tom is a unique author that brings facts to the forefront in an enjoyable and flowing manner. This is a ‘page turner’ that will be difficult to put down.”
—Doug Harper, SSgt, USMC veteran
“This book should be read by veterans and non veterans of not only the Vietnam era but of all periods of conflict. It should be read by Vietnam vets and Vietnam protesters. I feel this is the best story about young men returning from war since The best years of our lives. As a Marine during the Tet Offensive, I felt as if I had just returned home after reading this wonderful book. I came home in 1969. In 45 years, I had about 30 different jobs. I did not get help for my PTSD until I was 62 years old. I read Tim’s story and felt like I was there with him. If we really want to continue to send young men to war, we need to consider the consequences. I give this book five very large thumbs up!!”
—Larry Decker, former sergeant USMC and Vietnam veteran, February 1968 - March 1969
To my 58,272 brothers and sisters who
perished in the Vietnam War
Lest we forget
VIETNAM WAR JARGON
This is a partial list of the jargon used by US service members in the Vietnam War and terms used in this book.
Boo-coo: Slang derivation of the French word beaucoup, meaning “much” or “many.”
Cobras: The Bell AH-1 was a helicopter gunship with rocket pods, 40 mm cannons, and mini-guns (7.62 mm high rate-of-fire machine gun). Cobras were also called “snakes.”
Dear John: A letter sent to a serviceman by a girlfriend or wife who was breaking off the relationship. Sometimes used as a verb.
Didi mau: Vietnamese slang meaning “to go quickly”; didi is a shortened form that American GIs used.
Dinky dau: Vietnamese slang meaning “crazy.”
Doughnut Dollies: Young women who volunteered through the American Red Cross to spend a one-year tour in Vietnam to boost the morale of American troops. They operated recreation centers, visited hospitals, and visited frontline base camps to bring cookies, doughnuts, and Christmas presents to soldiers.
Echo side of LZ: East side of landing zone; echo is code for the letter E.
Five O’Clock Follies: Daily press briefing given by military personnel in Saigon.
Huey: Bell UH1H helicopters; called slicks or choppers and served as workhorses in Vietnam.
I heard that: An expression of acknowledgement that could mean several things.
Jodie: Term used by GIs to describe men at home who dated servicemen’s girlfriends while the servicemen were away.
Lifer: A career military person.
LZ: Landing zone in the field for helicopters.
November: Code for the letter N, representing north.
One-eight-zero: Due-south heading.
Papa Four: Call sign for ground troops in this story.
Popping smoke: Igniting a smoke grenade to identify one’s position.
RLO: “Real live officer”; a commissioned, regular Army officer versus a warrant officer.
RPG: A shoulder-launched, rocket-propelled grenade.
Sierra: Code for the letter S, representing south.
Slop and slugs: Coffee and doughnuts.
There it is: An expression of acknowledgement that meant whatever the person wanted it to mean.
Tiger Six: Call sign for Timothy in this story.
Tiger Five: Call sign for Bobby in this story.
Viet Cong: AKA Victor Charlies, VC, Chuck, Charlie, Gooks, and Dinks.
Warrant Officer: A highly specialized expert in his or her specialty but different from a commissioned officer.
Whiskey side of LZ: West side of landing zone; whiskey is code for the letter W.
Xin loi: Vietnamese idiom meaning “sorry” or “too bad.”
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
>
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
THE BATTLE OF ADVERSUS
LEGEND HAS IT that at the dawn of time and in the cradle of civilization, opposing forces met on the fields of Adversus in a primeval battle for the minds, bodies, and spirit of humanity. A horrific battle—relentless and fierce—raged for seven suns. Bodies blanketed the blood-soaked soil. Cries of the wounded muffled the thunderous sky. Death welcomed the sweet smell of rotting flesh. A curtain of bitter-tasting air, saturated with the humidity of blood, hung heavy and motionless as the dead slept.
As the eighth sun rose, enemy commanders met at the center of the battlefield. Eados commanded the oppressors—the legions of despair. Dochas commanded the liberators—the warriors of hope. They stood a breath apart. Eados gazed into Dochas’s eyes and saw the light of his nemesis—hope. Dochas stared into Eados’s eyes and saw the darkness of the great abyss—despair.
Eados stretched his arms over the land and pillars of fire rose to the sky, scorching everything within sight. Dochas reached to the heavens and summoned torrents of rain that smothered the fires, washing the landscape clean of the ashes of despair.
An infuriated Eados said, “This will never end.”
“I know,” Dochas responded.
They turned and left, knowing they would battle again and forever.
Eados dispatched his legions to the four corners of the world, spreading germs of despair. Dochas commissioned his forces to the four winds, sowing seeds of hope. Each spawned generations of followers to carry out their missions. Eados’s followers became the disciples of despair, leaving hopelessness in their dust. Dochas’s progeny became the guardians of hope, shepherding the human spirit.
CHAPTER ONE
“WHERE’S THE BODY? Where’s the body? Where’s the damn body!”
He woke with a jolt, the way a baby startles at loud noises. For Timothy, the line separating nightmares from reality was as thin as an eyelid. Mom stood at the doorway to his bedroom, just as she did when he was a youngster having nightmares, except now he was no youngster.
“Timothy, are you okay? I heard you shouting.”
“Huh? Yeah, Mom. I’m fine.” But he wasn’t fine. He doubted he would ever be fine.
Timothy could feel each heartbeat in every part of his body. Blood raced through his veins. Sweat covered his face, but not from the November night air. Trembling embarrassed him. He viewed it as a form of weakness, and it didn’t fit the narrative he had created for himself. Nightmares stripped the bark off his tree, and he felt naked.
“Are you having those dreams again?” Mom asked.
“Yeah.” Timothy didn’t want this conversation.
“I don’t know why those people at the VA can’t help you with that. You boys come home and—”
Timothy interrupted. “I’m okay, Mom. Go back to bed.”
Timothy stood to get a drink of water from the kitchen. Mom gave him a hug, burying her head in his chest.
“Try to dream better dreams, Son,” Mom said, returning to her bedroom.
“I will. Thanks, Mom.”
He sat at the kitchen table and stared at the glass of water, heart thumping and hands trembling. It took a while for this much adrenaline to fade. He returned from the Vietnam War eighteen months earlier, and like tens of thousands of other returning veterans, he learned one of the great paradoxes of war: though he left the war, it never left him. The memories lived a thin layer of skin beneath the surface. The military taught them to fight the war but failed to teach them how to live the peace.
Timothy remembered a story he read about Japanese soldiers returning from World War II. The village elders took the returning soldiers aside and thanked them for their service—for their being brave and loyal soldiers. Then, the elders told them the village needed the soldiers to become good citizens, fathers, and husbands. No one had this conversation with Timothy, though he longed for it. After nearly a decade of fighting, the country was tired of the Vietnam War and felt contempt for its weary warriors.
Timothy rubbed his leg. The long scar was his most visible wound of the war. Pain never slept. At night, the dull ache awakened him, and during the day, sharp pain often reminded him of the day his helicopter was shot down.
A noise on the back porch startled him. He believed Vietnam improved his hearing. He heard every nocturnal sound. He looked out the backdoor window and saw a cat scurry past. He walked around the house to check the windows and doors—perimeter duty. His muscles were still twitching. Damn adrenaline!
He finished his water and returned to his bedroom, hoping tonight’s nightmare was over. A few hours later, Timothy woke to discover he had overslept. Thankful it was Sunday and not a school day, he dressed quickly, gobbled an egg sandwich his mother made for him, downed a glass of milk, and left for his job at the Christmas tree lot.
The wet November air had turned cold. At thirty-four degrees, things didn’t freeze, but they did slow down. The cold breeze stung his face as he walked to his car on the street in front of his house.
The car door squeaked like a tired steel door waking up in the winter. He slid across the cold, cracked vinyl seat and checked his wallet. Five dollars, that’s it? Oh well, it’s enough for today. I’ll get a half a tank of gas and lunch at McDonald’s. Man, I hope my car isn’t on empty.
The car cranked lazily before stalling back asleep. “C’mon, not today, please.” The fuel needle sat half a line above empty. Late, again. Dez is going to be pissed. Too little gas and a dead battery. That’s a lousy way to start my day.
Rob—his neighbor and childhood friend—knocked on the driver’s window. Timothy jumped. He startled easily these days.
“Hey, Tim. Sorry to scare you. Trouble gettin’ that thing to cooperate this morning?” Rob said.
“Yeah. Hey, Rob. No gas, a dead battery, and I’m trying to get to work.”
“Let me help. I’ll get some jumper cables, a can of gas, and pull my car around.”
“Thanks, man.”
Timothy opened the hood of his ten-year-old car. It mimicked the creak of the driver’s door. The 1963 Ford Fairlane had a ripped interior, rugged exterior, and retread tires. The silver-moss paint job looked like a spotted, rust overcoat. This sport coupe had become a sport jalopy. Ten years wasn’t that old, but it was old before its time. Too many miles and too many bumps in the road for this tired gas-guzzler, already dying a slow death when Timothy bought it a year ago. He’d hoped to restore it at some point. He needed transportation for work and college . . . and church.
Damn, I missed Mass this morning. I’ve got to quit doing that.
Rob returned with the cables and a gallon gas can, which Timothy poured into the tank while Rob connected the jumper cables. Timothy slid back into the driver’s seat, and Rob cli
mbed into his car and started it. Timothy noticed how quickly Rob’s car started and thought, Wouldn’t that be nice?
After a few moments of cranking, Timothy’s beast coughed to life, belching a cloud of black smoke.
“Looks like the rings are bad, too, Tim,” Rob said.
“Yeah, I’m going to add that to my growing list of things to fix on this thing. Thanks, Rob, I appreciate the help.”
“Sure. Happy to do it.”
Timothy handed him the empty gas can and promised to replace it.
“It’s a gallon of gas. Don’t worry about it,” Rob said.
“No, I take care of my debts.” Timothy wanted to maintain the little self-respect a broke college student could muster.
“Okay, that’s fine,” said Rob.
“Thanks again.”
Rob waved as Timothy pulled away, a Beatles eight-track tape blaring.
“And when the night is cloudy there is still a light that shines on me . . . shine on until tomorrow, let it be . . .”
For Timothy, dreams meant tomorrow. He never stopped believing in tomorrow, no matter the past. Hope died hard in his DNA. He called it the birthright of the Irish. The weatherman had called for clouds today and sun tomorrow, an appropriate weathercast for Timothy—cloudy with a hope for sunshine.
Let it be, he replayed the song in his head. He pulled into an open space at Schoen’s lot, leaving himself enough room for a jump-start if he needed one later. He shut off the engine, but the car spit and stammered as if it didn’t want to stay, a fact that didn’t escape Timothy. He didn’t want to stay either. One last backfire and it quit—Timothy jumped. Damn backfire. Sounds like a gunshot.
Dez stood at the edge of the lot waiting for him. Dez cut an unmistakable figure. He stood five-foot-nine wearing a black winter pea jacket and a wool kartuz cap. Timothy looked at Dez and dreaded the encounter. Dez was the kind of guy that took pleasure in other people’s misfortunes. He grinned at their pain. Most people disliked Dez immediately because it saved a lot of time.
“You’re late again, ya mick,” Dez said in a gravelly voice. Dez talked out of the side of his mouth and around a cigarette, a permanent fixture. He had thin lips and a heavy jawline. He sized up people by their ancestry and didn’t shy away from commenting on it.
