The
Drawer
When I returned from
night
home, after a nice dinner and reunion with my parents I found myself alone.
All I could
do was think of my friends still over there. I took a walk around our small
town and it seemed so unreal. I wore my dress
uniform, partly cause I was proud and
also to irk those that protested the war.
People looked at me as though I didn’t belong.
I asked myself the same question. My friends
had eerie stares, they came from seeing to
much ugliness . We called it “The Thousand Mile
Stare”, I had such a stare once.
I watched tv that night with the news covering
the war. Mom just smiled and said how
glad she was that I was home and safe. Without
saying a word I went to my room feeling
as though I was going to explode. Later, with
the tv off I could still hear the choppers
and hear the gunfire. I was frightened, my
friends were back there, my life was back there
with them. Had I made a mistake coming home?
I stayed in the Army for twenty years so I had
constant reminders of the war,
uniforms, weapons and everyday soldiering. It
helped me cope. When I retired I no
longer had my uniform to protect me from my
inner demons, as I call them. I didn’t have
that tough guy sergeant image to hide behind.
I went through periods of depression
where I would look at my dress uniform and
remember
when I mattered in life. For twenty years as a Grunt I trained and led troops.
Soldiers
and superiors knew they could trust and depend on me. I no longer had that
feeling
and it hurt deep inside.
I belonged to a Vets group at one time.
We had the war in common and a lot of
the same common memories, most of all we couldn’t
forget the war. Since
never had friends. Me and most vets judge
friendships by what we had with guys over
there, there is no comparison. No one could be
as close as those guys, Christ, we would
die for each other. I know this sounds insane
but its how I feel.
Throughout the years, too often, I wake
up at O-dark –thirty, as we call it in the
service. I find myself going thru my drawer of
to not awaken anyone. I want this to be my
private time with our memories. I want to be
back there with them.
The doctors at the V.A. have told me to
get rid of all my army stuff because it
brings back bad memories. I responded to them
that my “Things” are no different than
pictures of my aunt and uncle. They said that
my aunt never stepped on a booby trap,
“Touche”.
In my drawer I had a small
was dog tired or sad at the loss of a friend
and yes even an enemy, I would take a hold of
this piece of cloth and gain the strength to go
on. Now I feel that if I closed my drawer
and never opened it again, I’d be letting my
friends down, they would never let me
down. They never did.
I guess in some odd way I am torturing
myself by re-hashing my memories. I gain
some sort of inner peace when holding their
pictures and recalling when they were taken.
A part of me can’t forget the helplessness when
off loading our dead from choppers
Another part still sees their smiles and funny
recollections. My tears are those of sadness
and a flicker of joy. Even after all these
years its funny, not really funny I guess, that
images are so real and the odd sound or smell
can take you back in time.
People can’t understand
why I acted weird at times, hell, I didn’t know. I was
only 21, one of the older guys in the unit.
Going thru the drawer helps me go back in time
to when I felt alive. I remember my buddies who
are long since gone and wonder what
their lives would have been like if fate had
allowed. I’m amazed at how I can, to this day,
remember things in such detail. The other day I
was watching our kittens play and
laughed out loud. It felt great, I’ve not done
it much since the
I was fortunate to have married a
beautiful young girl who stood by me thru some
hard times. She took it upon herself to educate
not only herself but other wives about the
problems that vets are having and how the wives
can cope and also the children. We have
two wonderful daughters who could teach doctors
a thing or two or three about P.T.S.D.
I’m in awe of vets that shrug off their
demons and nightmares. Some use drugs
and or alcohol to cope, I used neither which I
take great pride in. I have used my
memories to focus on my writing. Doctors in and
out of the V.A. have used my poetry in
dealing with vets who can relate to the various
experiences, both the good and bad.
Sometimes when I go by the drawer I feel warm
inside. It’s as though I feel a
little safer knowing what’s in there. I want to
remember my friends, the same guys I
shared good and bad times with. Boys, not yet
men, who cried, laughed, shed tears and
fears. Death is not the final act. You don’t
forget with the zipping of a body bag. Perhaps
that’s when it begins.
Other vets I know have their drawers,
some a shoe box, a paper bag and for the
adventurous, a suitcase. I guess in some ways
none of us want to let go. I’m proud of
what I did in
surviving and leaving my friends behind, thirty
some years later, I still do. I never talked
about the really rough stuff from
vets, had he seen what I had, had he seen more.
Most of the time when vets meet we just
nod or give a thumbs up. I never felt that I had done enough, I didn’t
die.
I think about the
children that never were, the lives that could have been. Now
after all these years I realized the finest
tribute I can pay their memories is to make my
life worth while. Be the kind of man they never
had the chance to be, live right, give of
yourself and remember what’s important.
Perhaps one day I’ll
pack my drawer away, maybe one day, just not today.
By. Michael Monfrooe
Private
Collection of poems and stories.
This one dated: July 2001