by Tom Reilly
“I don’t know, Scoot. Bobby was supposed to transition to Cobras but stuck around to fly with me until the end of my tour.”
“Listen, man, the snakes got shot down too. He could have as easily been shot down flying a gunship as he did flying slicks.”
“True,” Timothy said.
“You keep this shit up and you will be dinky dau.”
Timothy nodded.
“So how’s your woman?” Scoot asked.
“She’s good. Too good for me.”
“Man, you’re really feeling sorry for yourself today. You keep saying that kind of shit often enough, and she might agree with you someday.”
“Maybe she should, Scoot.”
“Hey, knock it off. She’d be lucky to get you. And you’d be lucky to have her. Look, I gotta go—this pity party is getting too crowded for me,” Scoot fired back.
Scoot’s straight talk put a different spin on things for Timothy. He nodded slowly.
“Thanks, Scoot. I appreciate you stopping by. Want some coffee?”
“No way. That sludge looks worse than the oil I drain from my bike. Look, Tim, I want you to do me a solid.”
“What’s that?”
“Lose the attitude. It doesn’t wear good on a guy like you. You’ve always been a guy from the light side. Don’t let the darkness blind you.”
“You’re right, Scoot. Thanks.”
They exchanged fist bumps. Scoot kick-started his motorcycle and the windows shook. He cracked the throttle and left some rubber on the street as he rode away.
Timothy sat at the table. What can I do to make this work? He sipped the sludge and a name popped into his head: Father Schmitt, the dean of students and a former Army chaplain. When Tim started back to school, Father Schmitt had a meeting for all the veterans who were attending that semester. He told them if they ever needed anything, they should reach out to him. Maybe he can help me with tuition assistance.
Timothy went down to the basement.
“Fred, how long do you guys think you’ll be here today?”
“Probably four o’clock, at least,” Fred said.
“All right, I have to go out for a while. I should be back in a couple of hours.”
“No sweat,” Fred said. “If the gas company guy comes by, I’ll sign the papers for you. I know those guys and they cut me some slack.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
TIMOTHY WALKED TO Father Schmitt’s office, rehearsing what he wanted to say. A secretary greeted him and said to wait while she checked with the priest. Timothy thumbed through some magazines.
After a few minutes, the secretary directed him into the inner office.
“Come on in, Tim. Good to see you.” Father Schmitt extended his hand. It looked more like a fielder’s mitt. He had a strong grip for a priest. It probably came from his chaplain days. “Have a seat, son.”
“Thanks, Father.”
“So how are things? Are you adjusting to civilian life?”
“I’m getting there, sir.”
“Sir?” Both smiled. “Yeah, me too. It takes a while,” Father Schmitt said.
“It’s weird, Father. When I pass a professor in the hall or in the quadrangle, I catch myself thinking about saluting.” After he said this, Timothy felt embarrassed to admit it. The priest’s demeanor encouraged Timothy to open up.
“Tim, a lot of guys have trouble adjusting. At the end of their tours, most guys got on an airplane and were home within twenty-four hours. Did you know the World War II vets spent weeks getting home?”
“No.”
“The government called it Operation Magic Carpet. They boarded transports that took a week or two to get home. They processed through repatriation centers on the West Coast. Then, because of the sheer numbers of veterans trying to get home, they faced delays crossing the country. They were welcomed home by the kindness and hospitality of grateful strangers. These strangers fed and housed the returning vets. That extra time made a difference for them. It gave them time to let things settle in. Your generation didn’t have that luxury. You were greeted with jeers instead of cheers.”
“Sounds nice for them. There was no magic carpet for us. I can see how that would help, Father.”
“So why did you come in today?”
Timothy looked at the floor. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Is this a priest visit or a dean visit, Tim?”
“Both, I think.”
“What’s going on?” Father asked.
Father Schmitt listened as patiently as a therapist as Timothy told all.
“When you bring your girlfriend into it, it makes me feel like I’m back on duty, listening to lovesick and forlorn GIs.” He smiled warmly. “What are you looking to do?”
“I don’t know, Father. That’s why I’m here. I need financial help and some hope. I already have student loans and don’t want to dig that hole any deeper. Is there any type of help for a guy like me?”
“You mean like grants or scholarships?”
“Yes, any type of help.”
“Candidly, no. Your grades are up there but not scholarship material,” Father Schmitt said. He had lost none of his military bluntness. “You’re already working, so it’s not like you lack income, plus you get the GI Bill tuition assistance. I do understand your debt load is heavier than most students; I don’t think more loans are the answer either.”
They sat in silence until Father Schmitt piped, “One option is to talk to Colonel Flagger in the ROTC department to see what he could do.”
“You mean go into ROTC and give the Army four more years?”
“It’s an option, Tim. A lot of folks do this. It may not be ideal, but it is a solution.”
“With all due respect, Father, it’s not for me. Besides, my leg would be an issue.”
“That’s right. I forgot, sorry. The only other thing I can think of is a teaching assistant position next semester. It will give you some tuition relief. The problem is those usually go to graduate students.”
“I would be willing to do that. It’s mostly grunt work, right?” asked Timothy.
“Generally. There may be some class work or lab work. We’ve awarded these to undergrads in the past. Give me a couple of days, and let me see what I can do. Come back later in the week, and we can talk some more.”
“Thanks, Father. I appreciate your help.”
“Anything for our boys, Tim. By the way, speaking of the boys, tomorrow morning I’m taking a group of vets to sandbag at the River Des Peres. The Mississippi is pushing its banks, spilling onto the Des Peres, and the folks down there need some help. Who better to fill sandbags than a bunch of ex-GIs?” Father Schmitt said.
“I have to work the three-to-seven shift at the hospital tomorrow night, but I could be there in the morning. I don’t have any classes scheduled for the morning.”
“Great. We’ll meet at nine at the Steak ’n Shake on the corner of Watson and River Des Peres. You know where that is?”
“Sure. I’ll be there. Thanks, Father.”
“My pleasure, son.”
Timothy went over to the Student Union and called Cheryl at work with the news.
Smiling, he said, “Hey, guess what?”
“What?”
“I may have a way out. I talked to Father Schmitt today, and he’s looking into a TA position for me next semester. It would help with tuition.”
“That’s great, honey. You work so hard it’s nice to see some things go your way.”
“Yeah, and get this. He asked me if I would join a group of vets tomorrow morning filling sandbags for the River Des Peres.”
“How are you going to have time for that? Don’t you have to work at the hospital?”
“Yeah, but that’s tomorrow evening. Look, I’m trying to get some financial help, and it doesn’t hurt to do a favor for the guy who can help me.”
“I understand,” she said.
“I’ll swing by later, and we’ll get a beer to celebrate.
”
“Sure. That would be fine. See you then. Tim, I love you.”
“Yeah, me too.” He smiled at this private joke between them. He had no difficulty with the words, but the way he said this made fun of guys in general.
“You goof, see you later,” she said.
Timothy stopped at the bank on the way home from school. When Fred and his crew prepared to leave, Timothy told him about his plans for Tuesday. He said he would be there in the morning to open the house, but would leave for a few hours to help the other vets sandbag.
“Seems like you got a lot on your plate, brother,” Fred said.
“Yeah, trying to keep it all together.”
“Gotta respect that,” Fred said.
“We should finish sandbagging by lunch, and I’ll be right home. We can square up then if that works for you,” Timothy said.
“Works for me. We’ll be finishing up by then. It’s going pretty fast down there. Not a lot to do with the ductwork. The new system will go in easy.”
“That’s good news,” Timothy said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TIMOTHY HAD DECIDED to spend the night at Cheryl’s after they went out for drinks. He only drank a couple of beers because he knew hangovers and sandbags didn’t mix well. Morning suited Timothy’s sober personality. He was an early riser. The Army made it a permanent habit for him.
Fred and his crew arrived on time at Mom’s house and Timothy left for sandbagging. Even though he’d already driven it this morning, Timothy’s car fell into a deep sleep. He cranked it dead. His neighbor Rob heard the grinding of the starter and offered to help.
“Again?” Rob said.
“Yep. This thing is dying a slow death, I think,” Timothy said.
“I’ll get my cables and we’ll get this thing going,” Rob said.
On the third crank the old Fairlane finally churned. Timothy thanked Rob and got to the rally point just in time. He saw the rugged-looking crew of vets standing around.
“You gotta be kidding me,” a vet named Stubs yelled. “I can’t believe my lying eyes. An officer is out here to help sandbag. What do you think boys?”
“A warrant officer, Stubs,” Timothy said.
“I heard that,” Stubs said. “No RLOs here except for the padre. Ain’t that right, sir?”
“What’s that, Stubs?” Father Schmitt shouted.
“Nothing, padre. Talking about real-live officers,” Stubs said.
Stubs’s real name was Leonard Stubble. He picked up the nickname Stubs in Vietnam. Everyone thought it was a shortened version of his name, but his buddies called him that because he rarely shaved.
“I see you’re still not standing too close to the razor these days, Stubs,” Timothy said.
“Got that right, Tim,” Stubs said.
Green Beret Sergeant First-Class Stubble served two tours of duty in Vietnam as a member of the 5th Special Forces Group out of Nha Trang. Discharged from the Army in 1972, he started back to school and met Timothy there. They became fast friends.
“Padre Schmitt got you down here too?” Stubs asked Timothy.
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about doing this, and he told me about it yesterday, so I thought I would come down and show a bunch of grunts how to do this job right. Besides, it keeps me on Father Schmitt’s good side.”
“Hear that, boys? This officer is going to show us how to fill sandbags,” Stubs said. The group hissed.
“It’s good to see you, Tim,” Stubs said.
“Back at ya, Stubs. It seems like our schedules don’t overlap much this semester, except for political science,” Timothy said.
“Speaking of that, is Professor Leibert giving you any more grief?”
“No more than usual or anyone else, I guess.”
“Well, he’s leaning hard on the rest of us. You know that low-life burned his draft card in ’68 when he was a graduate student,” Stubs said.
“I heard that too. And it was all bullshit anyway, since he had a 2-S deferment for school. Just shows what a hypocritical asshole he is. He burned the card to make himself look good in front of those other assholes,” Timothy said.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was one of those hippie pricks that burned down the ROTC building at Washington U back in ’70,” Stubs said.
“Could be. I don’t know where he was in those days,” Timothy said.
The vets in his class nicknamed the freshly minted PhD David Leibert “Comrade” Leibert. Like much of the country, he hated the Vietnam War and anything associated with it, especially the warriors. He made no secret in the classroom about his feelings. Most had to sit quietly and bear it to salvage a grade.
“A group of us were thinking of complaining or boycotting or something. Want to join us?” Stubs asked.
“Not me. I’m not interested in his view on anything. All I need is my B in political science this semester, and I’m finished with him.”
“Do you honestly think he will give you a B?” Stubs said.
“If I answer the questions correctly on the multiple-choice exam, he’ll have to,” Timothy said.
“You’ve got more faith in the system than I do, brother,” Stubs said.
“What are you two men talking about?” Father Schmitt walked in on the tail end of the conversation.
“Nothing, sir. A couple of GIs griping about the system,” Timothy said. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah, nothing changes.” Father Schmitt walked away.
Timothy looked back at Stubs. “I heard a rumor about you. Are you thinking about quitting school and going back in the Army?”
“Yes, that’s mostly true. I’m thinking about it. Why?” Stubs asked.
“Why?”
“Man, I don’t fit in here. I’m six or seven years older than the other students. I look at them and see boys and girls, not men and women. It’s like we’re a generation apart,” Stubs said.
“Shit, Stubs, none of us fit in. People think we’re all crazy, don’t you know? Just watch the news.” Timothy grinned and Stubs laughed. “When was the last time you felt you fit in somewhere?”
“When I was still in the military,” Stubs said.
“That’s my point. Nobody out here wants to hear about what we saw or did. They don’t want to talk about that shit. It scares the hell out of them. Look, you’ve been around the world and seen things these kids can’t even imagine. You’ve lived through stuff that wouldn’t make it into their nightmares. Hell, most of them have probably never left Saint Louis. You’re here for an education, not a fraternity party,” Timothy said.
“Copy that. But there’s more. When I was in Special Forces, it seemed like what we did mattered. We had a mission, a purpose. This stuff out here doesn’t seem to matter. When I got back from Nam, I was stationed at Fort Bragg for eight months until I was discharged. Everything was fine there. I fit in. Here, back in the world, I don’t. It’s different here and now,” Stubs said.
“Yes, it is, and thank God it’s different. You’re getting an education. You can do something with that,” Timothy said.
“I hear you. The problem is that I look around and try to figure out stuff. In Nam, life was simple—kill or get killed. Being that close to death made me feel more alive. I miss the action. I miss jumping out of airplanes. Fuck, I even miss being shot at. Don’t you ever miss that shit?”
“Yeah, I miss some of it. I miss flying. I miss my brothers. Sometimes, I miss the rush. You can’t tell people that, though. They’ll think you’re nuts,” Timothy said.
“Maybe we are. Here, nothing makes sense. There are times I want to start running and never stop. I see people protesting, and a lot the of times they don’t even know what they’re protesting. They have no respect for anything. No discipline. No sacrifice. All I see is the ‘Me Generation,’ a bunch of spoiled brats complaining about everything. It pisses me off. I don’t want to be a part of that,” Stubs said.
“So don’t. It pisses me off too. It’s like they�
�re getting a free ride on all of us. Get your education, and do something meaningful with it.”
“You’re right, dude. Sorry to puke on you,” Stubs said.
“I get it, bro. No problem. Did you talk to Father Schmitt about this?”
“Yeah, he said most of us go through this stuff. He even asked me if I was depressed. What the fuck? Like I’m gonna say yes to that. I told him that guys like me don’t get depressed. He encouraged me to stay another semester and make my decision next summer. He told me I didn’t have to make that decision today.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Heck, if you could survive jungle school and Nam, you can last five more months around here,” Timothy said.
“Good way to look at it.”
“Right on,” Timothy said and gave Stubs a high five.
For the next two and a half hours, they filled enough sandbags to protect a gasoline station in the path of floodwaters. The owner showed his appreciation by offering each of the guys a free tank of gas. Timothy rarely had the money to fill his tank to full. As crazy as it sounded to most people, Timothy thought his car ran better with a full tank.
When Timothy arrived home, Fred’s crew was just finishing up. Fred demonstrated the new furnace to him, and Timothy paid Fred eleven hundred-dollar bills. Feeling broke, Timothy cleaned up for his Tuesday evening at the hospital. Time to fill the coffers again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HOFFEN STOOD AT the fire barrel warming his hands as the temperature hung just above freezing. Close by, Kenny fabricated a Christmas tree story. Dez and Edna worked the shop. Rush hour didn’t apply to the tree business, but it picked up after dinnertime. Hoffen heard Timothy’s car pull into the lot. He couldn’t miss the sound. The engine gagged like a sick patient.
“Hey, Tim, how goes it?” Hoffen said.
“Oh, it’s goin’,” Timothy said.
“Pardon?” Hoffen said.
“My life these days.”
“You do keep busy.”
“Got to. It’s easier that way. Otherwise, I have too much time to sit around and think.”
“I understand,” Hoffen said. “Is your home warm again?”
