Back in high school, my junior year history and english teachers were really close. They came up with this project that tied into the Vietnam War, which is the backdrop of events in The Things They Carried, by Tim O' Brien. The central idea was to meet with a Vietnam veteran, asks them about their life experience, reflect on their words and their relationship with the book, ptsd, et cetera, et cetera. Looking back now, I realize that the moments I had with my interviewee offered much insight that I never fully appreciated. Probably because the whole thing was ~~boring~~ a lot of work at the time. This is his story.

The room was very dusty. Two years prior to that moment, my freshman year, it used to be the Driver's Ed and Career Class. But because of budget cuts, it was just another room, tucked away in the oddest part of the building. Funny though. Its been many years since I took that class, and I still haven't got my drivers licence.

In the dusty, forgotten room, there entered the three of us, nervous. There was the cameraman, (aka that one kid who didn't want to do any actual work on the project), the fly on the wall, (~~verrry cute),~~ who was responsible for taking notes, observing, coming up with additional questions and so on. Then there was me. I was deemed the least shy of us, when I was too slow to find out that all the lazy parts had been taken. Back then, talking to an adult- one that you had no reason to suck up to, because there was no incentive to- sucked. So while we were waiting, I was fidgeting with my glasses, practicing my smiling, rolling my eyes because that what I did when I was nervous.

He came in, and I remember the calm that came with him. The feeling made my stomach settle, but the rest of me was dreading the moment that we had to start talking. Probably because he was so tall. His face was kind enough. But so many lines and veins ran across it. His eyes were deeply set, and his hair was wispy as hell. The amount of grey that was on his head made me wonder how he'd managed not to go bald. He was darkened to the point where his identity was blurred; my Filipino skin was to pale against his, but he wasn't night time black, or farmer tanned. But he reminded me of my grandfather that wasn't able to watch me grow.

I know now that there is an invisible line people shouldn't cross. Its defined to some as political correctness. So when the words, "What are your strongest memories from the war? Does that tie into your experience with ptsd?" came out of my script reading, sixteen year old mouth, the twenty-one year old me cringes. Aside from the basic formalities, (Hi, I'm... Thank you... for meeting with me today), my lead in question weren't really thought out. But as he talked, I couldn't help but look up in wonder.

"Well that's an interesting question. First off, let me start off by saying that I'm no stranger to tragedy," he coughs as he says this, as he does frequently in our talk. He goes on to tell me that he lost his mother when he was younger; she is the Golden Gate Bridge's first Asian woman to have plummeted down to her death. He doesn't mince his words, and his manner of speaking is hardened. But when he mentions her, there is an accepted distance in his eyes. The boy who lost his mother all those years ago, aged into this man. A former solider, dictating his memories of old. After her suicide, my veteran bounced around in foster homes, until he finally reached the age of recruitment.

Military life wasn't a hard adjustment to him. Granted, his attendance was mandatory, but still. The regimented routine, hum of cocked barrels, and travel opportunities helped him ease into a place of regularity. He told me anecdotes about his first year there, shining boots, running around, the regular drills. His voice roared; the deepness was muted by quiet strength, combined with the constant coughing the gravely sounds he made could really set him apart. I remember him saying that the war was confusing when it happened; when he came home, it was clearer that to him there was no reason for it to have started. Yet, when talking about his first year overseas, he often used the term, "them gooks", an old war habit of identifying an enemy that no longer exists.

Then there was deployment. He remembers the landscape of Vietnam fondly, he even went on to tell me that he's gone back a couple of time. The beauty of it all was never enough for him to completely take in. The strife of it all, as well. The resilience of the country, he said, was the embodiment of its beauty. Resilience is what carried him through his days as a solider and a medical officer.

It was hard for me to imagine what it actually looked like, a place in time, ravaged by war. My mind is aware that these things are still happening, everywhere around the world. What comes to my mind is massive events; explosions, exchanges of bullet fire, combat. But my veteran's war, the one that he was willing to talk to me about at least, was the one that involved faces, tears, and heart. The common denominator of the two though, was blood.

There was a priority recovery in an ongoing battle zone. My veteran was on the chopper, gearing up for the rough decent. Him and his team members passed time, shooting the shit, as they say, knowing that once they reached the landing zone, they had to act fast to recover salvageable bodies. The days like this, he said, where men were brought back home was considered a win. It was mutually acknowledged that whether a man was kicking, screaming, or decaying, that nothing in the atmosphere changed. The dead was dead. The living was dying slower.

This wasn't his first ride out; the minute they touched down, once it was declared clear, all hands on deck flooded the battle ground. There were three men that needed an evacuation stat, but only two could go into the chopper the team arrived in. My veteran stayed behind with his solider, his condition worsening, but the others condition worse. As they stayed behind, my veteran and his solider talked, shooting their own version of the shit. They talked about the 'goddamn gooks', the 'goddamn heat', and the 'goddamn war'. They talked about the wife the solider left behind. And how she was pregnant, and waiting. And he showed my veteran her picture.

For what seemed like hours, the chopper finally raced its way back to them. or a brief moment, the ride out went seamlessly. My veteran looked into his solider's eyes and saw the life he would never have. And in that moment, the solider went into shock.Twenty minutes later, moments after landing, there was another priority pickup. This time, it was for a small village on the brink of an escalating conflict zone. A handful of local civilians needed evacuation, and it was reported that few need immediate medical attention. The blood of the dead solider was still being wiped cleaned when my veteran headed back out.

Arriving to the village, there was no one who spoke English. And as frighted and confused as they were, surprisingly they followed my veteran and his team to safety. As they filled the chopper, there was a women straggling behind the rest. As they lifted off, she began wailing and yelling frantically in Vietnamese. As panic stirred throughout the plane. She was rubbing her protruding stomach, breathing heavily, and nearly fainted. My veteran was the closest medic within reach. And her baby was on its way.

He described it as an ironic deja vu. Because of his training, his medical instincts kicked in, identifying that there was clearly a problem that need fixing. But, mentally, he was not prepared for a delivery. Of all the things he had done, this was the strongest memory. It was one of the most terrifying moments in his life. She laid down, right in the cot where the solider had laid. Now, my veteran helped here give birth to the woman's baby, born from war. There was a warmth emitting in his pocket, the one that carried the picture of the solider's wife. She came out crying, wailing and irritated, as the chopper jolted to sanctuary. As my veteran held her, he looked in her eyes and saw the life she would have.

The room was still dusty when we left. But that moment will never be forgotten.

poop