Just Another War Story

 A syllogism, to wit: Major premise, minor premise and conclusion.

 Fiftyeightthousandonehundredthirtytwo names blasted into black
 granite demand a syllogism.

 Major premise: 58,132 Americans, untold Vietnamese, Cambodians,
 Laotians, Thais, Filipinos, Koreans, Australians, Rosencrantz,
 Guildenstern, most of the court at Elsinore, and Wayne are dead.

 Minor premise: There must be a reason for all those deaths.

 Conclusion: Maybe Tom Stoppard was right.

 Maybe Tom Stoppard was right and Wayne knew it all along, after all
 he left before the end of Scene I. Nineteen years old, from New
 Jersey, an "FNG" (Fuckin' New Guy), a green pea, a jeep, an outsider,
 a scapegoat. He tried too hard, and we were too cool...

 But first the scene...

 Clark Air Base

 Vietnam burns across the horizon and the sun sets in the haze.

 If you stood quietly at three a.m. you could hear the screams.

 Cargo planes - flew out day and night with supplies.

 Cargo planes - flew in day and night with casualties.

 They loaded the casualities into big blue busses for transportation
 to the hospital - fifteen miles an hour, red lights flashing, litters
 and plasma bottles dangling in the windows.

 If you stood quietly at three a.m. you could smell the smoke.

 We took the FNG's to the Medivac Terminal as sort of an initiation.
 See the blood.
 See the guts.
 Nervous laughter.

 Nope, can't happen to us, no not us - we're immortal. We're Security
 Police, Sentry Dog Handlers, with ninety five pounds of paranoid
 German Shepherd and a .38 caliber revolver.

 Sentries, we guarded the ultimate smoky sunset - the nukes. Tactical
 nuclear weapons with 35 acolytes; fighter bombers on eighteen minute
 Thirty-five Nagasakis in a nanosecond.

 Big responsibility.
 Stress (but they didn't call it that then).
 Gotta let the boys blow off steam!

 They gave us TOWN - Angeles City, twohundred bars, twothousand bar
 girls and every licit and illicit drug in the world.
 Women and horny nineteen year olds.
 It was heaven.
 We were depressed.
 And the war went on.

 Wayne appeared just like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern (hereafter
 The lights came up and he was there.
 Someone called for him and he answered.
 He could have done the Army and Mekong Delta
 The Marines and Khe Sahn
 No too risky.
 Maybe the blue bus.
 Maybe more.
 Wayne took the Air Force.

 R&G on the road to Elsinore find the Player, an omen, a signpost, a
 foil, a mentor or at least a source of dramatic irony. R&G sense the
 Player's the thing, the key, the answer. Isn't he traveling to
 Elsinore too? Maybe he can explain the knock on the shutters.
 What is wrong with Hamlet?
 Can you really toss all those heads in a row?
 Does he love her?
 Does he hate her?
 Which way does the wind blow the hawk, the handsaw the hacksaw?
 Oh God!
 Is there a God?

 No non sequiturs.

 Finally R (or is it G?) says:

 No it is not enough, to be told so little -
 to such an end - and still, finally,
 to be denied an explanation -

 And the Player replies:

 In our experience, most things end in death.

 There you have it. The Player knows the play, or at least the Cliffs
 Notes or the review in the Times.

 Wayne's Player showed up in the night, on the next guard post.
 A magician.
 Acid King.
 Teller of tales and now you see it - now you don't. You see, guarding
 is easy, just stay awake and the dog does the rest. But, guarding is
 boring, alone and homesick. Armed forces radio, but no Adrian
 Cronaur. Wayne found his Player and his Player found him and they
 talked of town. Strange bars that invented decadence, The Rape of the
 Sabine Women and the rape the fourteen year olds.
 One part.
 Both parts.
 All parts.
 Opium journeys edged with speed, dirty sheets, warm beer, the clap
 and Jim Morrison's Oedipal End at three a.m.

 Step outside, smell the screams, hear the smoke.

 R&G's Player tries to explain, doesn't he? Not sure. Maybe. Maybe he
 knows they won't listen so he CAN tell them. Maybe they already know.
 So, why don't they turn the Godamn boat around and go home. Go ask
 Hamlet or Claudius, why? Do they have to die?

 Did fiftyeightthousandonehundrenthirtytwo plus have to?

 Aside: Was it Stalin that said? "One murder is a tragedy and ten
 thousand is a footnote"

 For God's sake William, aren't five murders and a suicide enough
 fodder for tragedy?

 For God's sake America the black granite seems to go on and on and

 Wayne and his Player did the town, the dope and the magic. But
 Wayne's Player never told him, I know, I stood by watching and
 listening, a Greek Chorus of one, "Watch out!, stay away from this
 Player! Danger! but uh, no stay away from me too, too cool me."

 One night the Player shows Wayne the best trick of all: Take all the
 bullets out of the revolver but one.
 Spin the cylinder, snap!
 It's closed.
 Cold barrel, right behind the ear.
 Pull the trigger.
 Click, you live.
 Boom! You Die.

 Right out on the acid edge.
 Magic? A jump across the opium abyss?

 Nope, a parlor trick, slight of hand, the player palms the bullet.
 It's dark, no one can see the cylinder's empty. Wayne's Player can
 play, but no fool he.

 Days later.

 Wayne alone,
 Clap sick. What will mom say? VD, dirty, sin, guilt, Catholic sin -
 guilt, we find this out later.
 No player.
 No magic.
 Take five out.
 Spin the cylinder, snap!
 It's closed.
 Cold barrel right behind the ear.

 It was said that while he lay in a pool of blood and brains a debate
 raged about how to get the dog safely away. Confused and terrified
 the dog wouldn't leave his side, protecting him. Barking and snarling
 the dog stood his ground and finally someone was sent for who knew
 the dog and then, then they got to Wayne. You see it was obvious that
 Wayne was a goner but the dog, the dog was worth tenthousanddollars.

 A tragedy? Yes. Like Hamlet? Not sure.

 Did Wayne really ask any questions? Did the Player answer? Would I
 have answered? Did I know? Did anyone really know? If we answered, if
 anyone had answered would Wayne have listened?

 Objection your honor!
 Calls for speculation as to
 the state of mind of the deceased!
 Besides, it was over twenty years ago!


 But I knew.

 Next night I have Wayne's post. Chalk marks on the asphalt with a
 blood stain at the head. My dog won't go near, good excuse for me. I
 take all six bullets out and put them in my pocket and button it -

 You see I've been asking questions since I can remember.

 Third grade current events - Civil Rights Movement, I raise my hand,
 "why water hoses and police dogs?"

 Sunday school, "If God created all the animals AND Adam and Eve, who
 made the dinosaurs?" Poor teacher, a volunteer too.

 A junior heretic, a baby liberal - a smart ass! WHY?

 But when they called (the draft board), I answered.
 NO Vietnam for me
 NO blue bus.
 And I knew they'd never use the nukes.
 They just never got the chance.

 Day before I leave for basic training, anti-war rally in Los Angeles,
 in front of the Century Plaza Hotel:

 "Hey, Hey! LBJ! How many kids you kill today?"

 Lyndon didn't answer till it was too late.
 Bobby dies.
 Martin dies.
 Mayor Daly pulls an Iago in Chicago.
 Later the Ohio National Guard goes crazy.
 Jackson State,
 Tet Offensive,
 Khe Sahn and B-52's carpet bomb Laos and Cambodia.
 Was Johnson crazy?
 Rusk, Rostow, Westmoreland,
 Kissinger - Nixon Crazy?

 Foul!! No rhetorical questions.

 Questions, more questions!

 Then I woke up at three a.m. with the bus drifting by, red lights
 flashing, and I whisper - "Can I go home now?"


 Not wanting to take any chances, I left all six in the cylinder.

 It was John Lennon, rain, the runway approach lights and some good
 Thai dope (one byproduct of all those cargo planes) that saved me.
 Swear to God. I had one joint left and I was afraid if I didn't smoke
 it they'd find it and Nixon wouldn't get the blame. So with my
 revolver in my hand I smoked the whole thing and as I started to buzz
 it started to drizzle, they turned on the strobe approach lights and
 as they flashed down and the rain drops fell through the flashes the
 drops became diamonds and I guarantee that no matter how depressed
 you are, you cannot commit suicide while singing Lucy In The Sky With
 Diamonds soaking wet and stoned.

 I opened the revolver, but the bullets back in my pocket and never
 unbuttoned it again.

 So, maybe John was my player, maybe George, maybe Ringo, I think Paul
 was dead then. Paul WAS the walrus Maybe I didn't need a player -
 maybe it was God. Maybe.
 More questions.

 So what?
 Are R&G so confused that they allowed themselves to be murdered? Were
 they so stupid that they allowed it? Are they really in the past
 tense? Present tense?

 Did Wayne know the parlor trick or not? Two Penicillin shots would
 have cured him in seven days, did he know? Did he ask? Why did it
 start raining? Was Paul dead? Why did we all answer the call?
 Go ask Paul on the road to Damascus.
 John Winthrop,
 Billy Graham,
 Fulton Sheen or Owen Meaney. In the end it's rhetoric, non sequiturs
 and post hoc ergo propter hoc while the bands play on.

 Another syllogism:

 Major premise: We are all God's fools.

 Minor premise: This only bothers some of us.

 Conclusion: Fiftyeightthousandonehundredthirtytwo names blasted into
 black granite, untold Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laotians, Thais,
 Filipinos, Koreans, Australians, Hamlet, Hamlet's Dad, Gertrude,
 Polonious, Ophelia, Laertes, Rosencrantz, Guildenstern and Wayne are
 dead. Under the bus.

 I'm still alive. Tom Stoppard's alive too.
 Go figure.

 Hold the curtain!
 Turn up the house lights!
 No one leaves till it's over.

 What did Tom Stoppard really know and when did he know it?

 Sure the show's over, AFRVN played White Christmas in April, John
 Wayne left town and they threw the choppers overboard in the South
 China Sea. Good night Saigon and good morning Ho Chi Minh City.

 "Sorry little fellers we guess you'll just have to leave by boat, be

 But, one last question deserves on last answer. What did Tom Stoppard
 really know? Sitting in the capital of a faded empire with all but
 it's Irish blood dried, with all of it's monuments crumbling and
 forgotten. Stoppard smirks and Guildenstern says:

 I've lost the capacity
 for disbelief. I'm not
 sure I could even raise
 a little gentle skepticism.

 Even the least of us know that the world should not be a place where
 parents have to bury their children.

 "Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown."

I'm a 48 year old south California native who grew up in the shadow of the Disney Studios I graduated from high school in 1966 and graduated from college in 1996. In between I was a car sales manager, warehouse manager, book store manager, educational film maker, door greeter at HomeBase, and an all around underachiever (thank God for Ritalin!). With my BA in history I now sell history and literature to alternative education (read bad kids) students in Rialto California. See alsoMy Own Private Sixties.