The Drawer                            

 

 

When I returned from Vietnam I swore I wouldn’t think about the war. On the first

 

 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 Nam I’ve

 

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 Nam stuff. It’s odd, I open it quietly so as

 

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 U.S. flag that I carried my entire tour. When ever I

 

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 Nam and I miss it.

 

          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 Vietnam, I’m proud of my friends. Thirty some years ago I felt guilty about

 

surviving and leaving my friends behind, thirty some years later, I still do. I never talked

 

about the really rough stuff from Nam when I first came home. I shied away from other

 

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