In our little town he was known as G.I. Joe. A tall rawbone man complete with jutted jaw and determined eyes who walked around our town dressed in army fatigues and jungle boots. His gaze never wavered as he appeared to be oblivious to any life that was going on around him. You knew exactly where he lived as he would constantly step out onto his back porch and fire a shotgun into his trees to keep the birds away.
Birds. Now there was the one thing he always noticed and seemed concerned about, birds. Whatever went on through his mind, it was obvious the birds warrented a special concern in his heart as the whistle of a cardinal, the squawk of a grackle, or the mocking tune of a mockingbird would get his immediate attention, causing a slight hesitation in his gait, followed by a pick up in his pace.
He seemed harmless enough but you never quite knew if you should be concerned about him or just let him wander your streets without provacation. There were children to be concerned about and several suggested he should be submitted to Big Spring for psychiatric testing but most of us thought the tortured world he lived in was most likely a big enough foe for him to conquer without worrying about his turning his attention on us. We were right as he soon faded from the local scene into a hospice bed where he died from cancer.
Nothing like a good obituary to enlighten folks and on the day of his passing we found out that G.I. Joe was a war hero from Vietnam. He had completed three tours where he had flown helicopters and was the first helicopter pilot to ever capture the enemy on the ground. His list of citations and awards was mind boggling and suddenly you had a tiny glimpse of what this man must have seen in his time over there. I can only imagine the nightmares that haunted him and I’m sure the sounds of battle, the smell of death, and the screams of wounded soldiers and civilians must have greeted him every night as he entered into the realm of morpheus.
I’m a Tweener, growing up between the conflicts of my country and therefore have never experienced the horrors of war first hand. ‘Nam was over three years before I graduated and Desert Storm was starting five years after my registration for military service had expired. I’ve been fortunate enough to had some in depth discussions with soldiers from both sides of my Tweeness and I admire their sacrifice and sense of duty, applaud their time of service, and pray they are free from haunting memories created by the machinations of mankind at its worst.
I do catch my self wondering how many “G.I. Joes” will be returning from Iraq, Afghanistan, or other soon to be announced places. What battles will they face nightly as the darkness falls and their minds begin to leak unwanted memories into their dreams. How will they cope with their own private hell? Who will be around to catch them should they fall between the cracks of sanity and reality?
In a fast paced selfish society as ours, I fear such folks will be left marching around small towns, shooting at birds from their back porches, or abandoned to fend for themselves against the unseen foes that hover above them. Perhaps we will do better this time and see the opportunity to help those who weren’t so fortunate as to be a Tweener.
Flailing Away with Frustrated 