Keep Old Glory Flying

Keep Old Glory Flying



With a practiced eye, Amos Richards observed the ebb and flow of evening workers as they streamed, like foraging ants, along Central Avenue; his vision, partially obscured by the weed choked wire fence, gave the scene an old-time movie effect as lower limbs flickered past the intermittent gaps.

Amos enjoyed people-watching. Not that he saw people as such, just legs, positioned as he was, below road level. Still it provided an interesting perspective and helped to pass the early evening hours. He wasn’t ready yet, to join the wave of humanity at street level, so he perched on his small fold-up camping stool, sipped cold coffee from a polystyrene cup, and people-watched.

The narrow depression where he hunkered down was bordered by the wire fence and an abandoned red-brick townhouse with large boarded up windows, and graffiti scared fascias. He had been here three days. He felt safe, comfortable; out of sight, below eye level, concealed by the overgrown weeds which made him invisible to the world.

Amos preferred to camp outside the dilapidated building. He had searched for an entry point, found a loose board within minutes, teased it backwards and forward for a few more and was easily able to pry it back enough to clamber within.

The townhouse was darker inside than he had expected. The boarded windows permitted only thin slivers of light, barely sufficient to navigate the black space. He had explored briefly, using the chipped plaster walls as a guide, uncomfortable within the dark, confined space. Amos stumbled several times, tripping on broken furniture and other detritus scattered across the floor. The darkness had smothered him, and he found his chest constricted, as if a pillow was being pressed against his face.

Amos wasn’t afraid of the dark per se. But the darkness, combined with narrow spaces, filled with god-only-knew what traps; well that was a different matter. The uncertainty roused too many, long buried, memories. Given the nightmares that overtook him most nights, Amos didn’t need to add fuel to his own fire. So, despite the opportunity to remain dry, he chose to camp outside, under the stars, preferring to face the worst of the weather, rather than the worst of his demons.

The evening hum of commuter vehicles waned and foot traffic on the street reduced significantly, the daytime noise replaced with more subdued sounds; the gentle whisper of a walker talking to her long eared cocker spaniel as they took their daily stroll around the block, the rhythmic thump of music from a jazz bar across the street, gentle tones of the Crusaders Soul Shadows flowing from the open door. Amos checked his Westclox watch. The old timepiece, with its plain black face, large white numbers, and luminous hands shone brightly in the dim light; 19:50. Time to move, he thought to himself, marveling that the old watch still operated after so many years.

Amos removed a worn book from his rucksack. The old volume was the size of a paperback and half an inch thick, its moleskin covers faded and worn through countless thumbing. In the dim light, he flicked through the pages, his eyes scanning his familiar script, searching for a certain record. Ten pages from the front he found the entry he sought; Jerry Atkins, Springfield, Illinois. Beneath the name, a long series of numbers; ’78,’80,  ’82,’87, ’90,’92, ’94,’97, ’99,’01, ’03,’06, ‘09.

Two years, he thought. Was it really two years since I was last here? My god! Where have the years gone? Amos studied the entry again, closed his eyes and pictured the face of his friend. Unlike Amos, whose five foot ten frame had broadened and sagged with the passing years, his recollection of Jerry Atkins remained trapped in time; tall, lithe and pasty, Jerry had a face that refused to grow a beard. Amos recalled the ribbing the nineteen year old received from other members of his platoon; all good humored, the kind of hazing reserved for men with deep respect for each other in trying times. At least you haven’t had to deal with growing old alone, old friend.

There were several entries on the page. In each case, a name was followed by a location and a string of numbers. Each entry, styled in his small tight script, varied in colour and thickness depending on the pen he owned at the time. His wandering brought him back to Springfield every few years or so. The tale was the same with every other city entered in his book. The only exception to this trend was the five year break through the eighties. Like his fear of dark enclosed places, Amos didn’t dwell too long on the years of therapy.

Springfield had changed since his first visit, but only in the size and shape of the buildings. The population had largely remained stagnant, growing perhaps 20% in the intervening years. As the city center flourished, old buildings such as the brick townhouse, had been abandoned, awaiting redevelopment.

Amos sighed, lifted a slim, mass produced pen, and made his latest entry; the notation extended the macabre Fibonacci sequence, whose relevance only he could understand. The double stroke of the number ‘11 caused him to shudder. The two digits stood shoulder to shoulder, a poignant reminder of why he followed his chosen path, why he had given up the chance of rebuilding a life shattered by a savage war.

Tonight would be his last in Springfield. After one final task, he would head west along I72 toward Grand Island, Nebraska and an appointment with Barry Fitzgerald. Amos slowly packed his rucksack, careful to ensure a plastic wrapped package remained on top, slung the pack over his shoulder, headed for a break in the fence and stepped onto the road.

As Amos headed north on 5th Street, he thought back to his final day in Vietnam.



---------------



Amos wiped rainwater from his eyes, pulled down his battered helmet, gathered his poncho tighter around him and took a long drag on his soaked rollup. The gesture was futile; he was saturated. The driving rain infiltrated ever gap in his clothing, gradually drawing through his clothes until he was drenched inside and out. He was sodden. It felt like it was always sodden here.

May through September the rain settled in; water seemed to hang in the air, penetrating clothing, skin and equipment. Amos couldn’t remember a time in the previous three months when he had been dry. Even inside his tight leather boots his feet were constantly damp, he didn’t want to think about the rot settling in between his toes. He’d lost count of the number of monsoon seasons he had tolerated.

He took another drag and slowly scanned the twenty men around him. Each sat on an overstuffed duffle; each face told its own story, the eyes more so. Many had eyes that no longer conveyed emotion, numbed by the horrors of one or more tours here. Amos knew his own would reflect the same deadness.

Even today, as he and the others prepared to be evacuated, none looked happy or relieved.  Most had suffered some form of injury, or still mourned the loss of one or more friends. To his right, Frank McKenzie sat, face stern, eyes constantly scanning the sky. Amos knew what he was watching for. Frank continued to listen and watch for the signs of incoming fire, just as he did. None of them were safe until they left Vietnamese airspace. Whilst they were still here, anything could happen.



-----------------



Amos detoured at Capitol Avenue, wanting a final view of the state building before he left the city. The approach was stunning. The road ended in a T-Junction; the Capitol standing at the head of the T, the domed building guarded by the imposing figure of Abraham Lincoln, ramrod straight, cast in bronze. As he walked, he thought of Frank McKenzie. The pair had been inseparable during their three years in Vietnam, arriving together with forty-eight others, destined to endure the war fighting hand to hand in the tunnels of the Vietcong. Of the fifty recruits, he and Frank had been the last, all others perishing during the years of conflict.

Now he was alone; Frank McKenzie had joined the ranks of the fallen, victim of a senseless hit and run six months ago. He’d read about it in the Veteran’s Journal. According to the reporter, Frank had been struck crossing the road outside his home. Taking a corner too quickly, the woman driver tried to veer away from the elderly man, striking a glancing blow, spinning him about. Frank’s head struck the sidewalk. He had died instantly.

Amos had always considered life a merciless experience; after all, what world would send nineteen year old men to a war, fought in darkness, cocooned by walls of earth, never sure if you would be shot in the face, blown to pieces by a booby trap, or impaled on a bed of spears as you dropped through an eighteen inch hole in the pitch black?

As part of his journey through the mainland states, Amos had always found time to visit his old friend. Toledo, Ohio, wasn’t too far off his circuit and both men enjoyed the two weeks they would spend together. Frank hadn’t been as mobile as Amos, and always appreciated the effort his old friend made. For Amos, the time spent on Frank’s porch overlooking Maumee Bay on Lake Erie was therapeutic. Each evening, the pair could be vulnerable in the safety of friendship, opening up their fears and darkest moments. Beer in hand, they would reminisce their youth and mourn the loss of friends and colleagues, often recounting the day a member of The Tunnel Rats died. They drew fond memories of each soldier, as if reliving the fun times could erase the horror of their death.

Amos reached the statue; Lincoln stood, as he had since the statues erection in 1918, looking eastwards over his home town. Behind him, engraved into the marble wall was the complete text of his Farewell Speech, given, as the president-elect departed for Washington DC and his place in history. Amos appreciated this likeness of the great man, aware also that the sculptor was the son of the great Daniel Chester French who created the imposing figure of the seated Lincoln that presides over the Mall in Washington. Just along from the Vietnam Memorial, Amos thought to himself.

For the next fifteen minutes, Amos walked north on 2nd Street, crossing Jefferson, Madison and Carpenter, passing shops now closed for the evening, or restaurants with small groups sharing a late dinner. The number of people and vehicles had dwindled further. Those that had ventured out ignored the slightly stooped old man, dressed in ragged fatigues that limped past them.

At North Grand Avenue the traffic was heavier. He waited for the crossing signal before stepping into the street. On the opposite side he turned left, and then right onto Monument Avenue and the entrance to Oak Ridge Cemetery. The entrance was unlocked, and Amos walked into the grounds, keeping to the winding path that led to the memorial.

The cemetery was in complete darkness, lit only by the passing gaps of clouds across the moon. Whilst he couldn’t see, Amos knew the grounds would be immaculate; the grass cut short and grave surroundings tidy. Some would be adorned by flowers, others would lay barren either neglected by family or forgotten as older generations died and younger generations concerned themselves with more relevant things in their lives. Amos wondered who would tend his grave, when it became his turn to move on. Most likely he would be buried in a pauper’s grave; with no children and no other close relatives, the city where he died would extend the barest of ceremonies for a passing stranger.

And that was the reason Amos followed this path. America had forgotten those that served in its dirtiest wars, ignored the suffering and sacrifice that so many young men made in the name of peace and justice. Until recent years, nobody recognized the cost of the war in Vietnam, the grieving of families, of men sent away into a land that most American’s couldn’t find on a map. For two decades after the withdrawal from Asia, veterans like himself had been invisible to all but a few. Most of the few were ex-military themselves. And the cost wasn’t just death. For many, death might have been easier to deal with. Thousands of returning soldiers were unable to revert to normal lives, their minds shattered by the daily stress of living on the edge, not knowing where the next bullet, mortar or grenade would come from. Hundreds more, Amos included, had spent time in psychiatric wards, cloaked in fear, unable to sleep or be near others, scared that a loved one’s touch would ignite a strike reflex that would end in a family members death. By necessity Amos was a loner. Except for the two weeks, every year or so, that he spent with Frank. And now Frank was gone.

A large oak, spread its aging arms across the path and Amos stopped briefly. Setting his bag on the ground he opened it and removed the plastic package. Had he survived the war, today would be Jerry Atkins’ 60th birthday. A year younger than Amos, Jerry had died whilst clearing a series of tunnels in the Cu Chi district of Saigon. Armed with a knife, pistol, flashlight and a ball of string, so that he could retrace his movements, Jerry had been cornered by the enemy in a tunnel that turned out to be a dead end. When Amos and other members of the clearing team found him, Jerry lay dying, whispering his mothers’ name, surrounded by his intestines, having been disemboweled with his own knife.

Like many soldiers, Jerry was buried in Arlington Cemetery, but his name was permanently inscribed on the memorial that centered Oak Ridge. As he approached it, Amos marveled at the synchronicity of the monument, the four black granite walls formed an open sided pyramid which led to a white arched structure that held an eternal flame in memory of the fallen.

Through many visits, Amos no longer needed to search for the inscription of his old comrade. Jerry’s was the 12th name down the wall. A simple inscription; Jerry Adam Atkins, 1951 – 1973.

Twenty three, Amos mourned, barely a man, yet old enough to send to war.

Amos stood quietly for a moment, retrieved the plastic package and removed the flag. The silk was folded, military style, into a triangle. Pinned to the red, white and blue material was a black silk loop of fabric. Embroidered into the loop were the words, Rest In Peace, Never Be Forgotten.

Standing, Amos bowed his head, said what he thought passed for a brief prayer, snapped a sharp salute and turned walked away. He knew the flag wouldn’t remain there long. Somebody would remove it within a day or so; a grounds man, or passerby. He didn’t mind. For Amos the flag was symbolic, an icon of his respect for his fallen comrades.

As he walked towards his next destination, he thought to himself Someone’s gotta keep Old Glory Flying.