I was not a Vietnam combat veteran, nor was I a veteran. My over 30 years of veterans’ advocacy are the result of my close relationships with two friends who were killed in Vietnam. I grew up in Little Falls with Stash Zawtocki (Marine SSgt. Joseph Zawtocki Jr.), who died in a Viet Cong prison camp on December 24, 1969, aged 23, after suffering 684 days in captivity. I met Edmund P. Juteau Jr. in the fall of 1980 when he spoke before my Western Civilization classes at Herkimer County Community College. He also died in ‘Nam after being exposed to the toxic herbicide Agent Orange. Only it took over a decade for him to do so.
During the course of my advocacy, I had the occasion to meet and befriend several combat vets. During these experiences, I became aware of their many travails, including mistreatment at VA hospitals, misdiagnoses by VA and area physicians and psychologists, blanket rejections of their disability claims by the Federal government, and disrespect from their state and local political representatives. Their sole salvation was a group counseling session run by one of their own with a degree in the field. Vet Center was originally intended to be a play written in 1986. I only finished one act. What follows is based on the real-life experiences of the featured characters. While the names and some incidents have been changed for obvious reasons, most of the interactions discussed happened.
Recently, I was asked by a friend why, after all these years, did I come forward with Vet Center? Simply speaking, I wanted Vietnam combat veterans’ children and grandchildren, and for that matter, the general public, to understand what they went through after returning home from that jungle hellhole. The interactions depicted are a microcosm of what transpired in hundreds of vet centers throughout the country during the 70s and 80s.
I’m dedicating this effort to Stash, Eddie, Dennis Thorp, Ron Schoonmaker, the Gloo and Kraeger brothers, Jim Walczak, Gabby Bielejec, Joe Maline, Freddie Stronko, Gary Williams, and all the other Vietnam combat veterans who gave far more than they received and must never be forgotten for their valor and their courage in the face of enemies, both abroad and home.
RJ Lenarcic-July 15, 2021
Editors Note: Some may find the language harsh, but this is how it is…
Vet Center Script
SETTING: A dimly lit room located in the back of a Presbyterian church. A picture of Jesus hangs from one wall, one of George Washington from the other. Five men sit on folding chairs around a card table empty save for two ashtrays. Four are plainly dressed-blue jeans or slacks and T-shirts. Among the latter are a couple with rather unique designs-either Agent Orange or POW-MIA. The fifth man is attired in dress pants and a white shirt and unlike the others, is clean-shaven and sporting a short haircut.
CHARACTERS: Charlie: A 31-year-old combat vet who served with the 1st Cavalry (Black Horse Division) from 1967-1968. Among his commendations was a Bronze Star for Valor. He’s 6’2, 200 pounds with black hair, a well-trimmed beard and dark complexion (he claims to be part Mohawk American Indian)). A perpetual scowl masks a face distinguished by a pushed-up nose and deep-set black eyes. Twice married with a total of 5 children, he presently lives with a girlfriend. He sees only on occasion his former families. Unemployed since a less-than-honorable discharge from the Army in 1977 for punching out a full-bird colonel, Charlie subsists on a Social Security check and a 40% Veterans Administration disability award. He has been in and out of the Albany VA Hospital’s psych ward on several occasions and has been classified by doctors at that facility as having PTSD (Psychological Stress Disorder). He is loud, profane, macho and bitter; but also intelligent beyond his ninth-grade education as evidenced by his “down-home” ability to articulate his views. He has been attending the Vet Center for several months.
Chooch: A 30-year-old former medic with the Rangers who served in l968-69. His decorations include 2 Bronze Stars, the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry, etc. At 6’2, 240 pounds with jet black hair, pale skin, dark eyes and high cheekbones, he reminds one of a light-complected Sioux (Lakota) warrior. He wears dark glasses night and day. His deep, resonant voice is used effectively to intimidate nearly everyone he meets. . A martial arts expert with a violent temper, Chooch has few friends, even within the “Nam vet community. Perhaps his most distinguishing characteristic is his sick laugh, a high-pitched staccato that makes a body’s hair stand on end. Following his return home, he drifted for a while with the Hell’s Angels, spent time in the infamous VA psychiatric facility at Menlo Park, California, and experimented with every drug known to mankind. Later, Chooch became one of the first veterans to be classified as permanently unemployable because of PTSD. He divides his time among his four children, his Legion post where he’s a service officer and his fortress-a turn-of-the-century home featuring a maze of drop ceilings, secret passageways and escape hatches with a score of weapons hidden throughout. Like Charlie, he hates all Orientals, classifying them collectively as Gooks.
Ray: A 31-year-old Air Force medic who served in “Nam for a tour and a half of duty. He took the last five months of his brother’s stint so that the layer could return home and get married-a decision which would ultimately be fraught with irony. He is of medium height, overweight in a manner of looking bloated, bald with a beard that begins at his ear lobes. He walks with a limp caused by a massive tumor located in the small of his back and pressing against his spinal column. The bloated look and baldness are byproducts of chemotherapy treatments. Ray’s sensitive about his appearance and his high-pitched voice. In spite of the latter, he spends several hours a week speaking before civic and veterans’ organizations on the topic of Agent Orange. He is bitter, not because of his painful illness, but because of the incompetent doctors at a VA hospital whose misdiagnosis prevented his cancer from being discovered at a possibly treatable stage. Married and the father of an eleven-year-old son, he expresses, openly, guilt about having chosen to devote his final days to the cause rather than his family. He has six months to live according to his doctors.
Fitz: Served with the Air Police during the years 1967-68. Many people associate the term Air Police with a cushy job of patrolling a base already well-protected with technological devices. Don’t tell that to Fitz. His job was to serve as the first line of defense against the Viet Cong by occupying a foxhole some 25 miles from the fortified perimeter of the air base. He left ‘Nam with a chest full of medals and went to Korea where he was stationed for several years. There, he taught Air Force recruits the martial arts, met and married a native who would bear him three sons. Upon his return to the States, he entered a Russian monastery intent on becoming an Orthodox priest. Unfortunately, a combination of factors including a poor educational background and a retention span shortened by the onset of PTSD resulted in his expulsion from the monastery. Broke and with nowhere to go, Fitz and family settled in a caretaker’s house on the estate of a world-renowned Russian musician who had fled the USSR with several million in gold and relocated near the monastery, the countryside reminding him of home. Fitz was told that he could live there without charge as long as he kept the place up. Lately, in a change of heart possibly caused by Fitz’s psychological problems, the maestro gave him his eviction notice. In the meantime, Fitz fought for and won a 100% disability claim from the VA (for PTSD), and began counseling with an internationally famed psychologist at the Albany VA. Presently, he is defending himself in an effort to forestall his eviction. Around 5’7”, slightly overweight, with a scruffy beard and eyes whose shape belies his Ukrainian heritage, Fitz speaks in a soft, almost whisper-like voice. He always dresses in fatigues and on special occasions-i.e. when he’s in the public’s eye-he dresses in camouflage from head to toe. He prefers to be called Shadow. It is said that his home and surrounding land is booby-trapped; a protection against a forced eviction attempt by the local sheriff’s department. He is a self-educated expert on the Russian Orthodox religion and American Indian.
Mitch: Thirty-three and a veteran who served with the Armored Cavalry during the years 1967-69. He is extremely quiet, reserved-6’ tall and 165 pounds with brown hair and eyes. His generally mild-mannered appearance is accentuated by the large, round-rimmed glasses he wears. He walks slowly, as if in pain, and slightly stooped over. He reminds one of a tall Wally Cox (Mr. Peepers of TV fame). He certainly doesn’t fit the combat veteran stereotype best personified by Charlie or Chooch. And yet, Mitch saw more action than any of them. In fact, the Armored Cav contingent was never stationed very long in one place. When asked where he served, he responds “anywhere and everywhere.” Mitch lives with his wife and two daughters and until recently, worked for the telephone company. But the sudden onset of physical problems that a dozen doctors have yet to diagnose rendered him incapable of performing his duties. Because of the pain caused by his back problems and arthritis, his minor drinking problem became major league causing a bout of pancreatitis which nearly killed him. Mitch has stopped drinking but taken up smoking. His relationship with his wife has deteriorated rapidly as she and other family members have begun to view his problems as mental, some going as far as to brand him a malingerer. This is his first visit to the Vet Center. He drove 85 miles because he has no where else to turn.
Greg: Thirty-six and a former officer with the 198th Light Infantry Brigade. He was in ‘Nam from 1967-68, stationed most of that time in Tay Ninh where he saw a great deal of action. A college graduate, he enlisted in the Army along with several of his friends following the death in combat of one of their former schoolmates named Billy. He had flunked out of State U., been drafted, became a radioman and spent all of nine days in-country before being blown to smithereens after stepping on a mine. Because of his education, Greg was transformed into a ninety-day wonder and, at 21, sent to Saigon totally unprepared to lead boys two years his junior and equally unprepared to engage in guerilla warfare. When he returned home, he went back to school, got his MSW degree, married, fathered a son and secured a job with a county mental health department. But the marriage didn’t work. He got divorced and fled an environment too painful to be compromised with weekend visits, settling down again several states away. There, he secured a job with a federally-funded vet center as a counselor, met Jeannie and just recently made a second trip down the aisle. Six-feet tall, 185 pounds distributed with an unkind bulge around the middle, sporting thin, sandy-colored hair, Greg’s light blue eyes are deeply set in a pleasant face flawed only by a lengthy scar running from his left ear lobe along his jaw line to the middle of his chin-a daily reminder of his tour of duty-his red badge of courage. To those who don’t know him, he gives the impression of being a “together guy.” Those who are closest to him don’t really know him.
ACT ONE
Charlie: I hate fucking Memorial Day.
Chooch: Why, man?
Charlie: Three reasons. You know when we go to visit the stones in Little Falls, Herkimer and Frankfort to place lilacs on them? They remind me of Jerry. Three days before I left that fucking shithole we were on patrol. Jerry was on point and I was right behind him. We were heading back to base camp, about ten minutes away, when Charley hit us. Man, before we could take cover, Jerry took a round full in the head. I felt this wet stuff on my face as I hit the ground and crawled into the elephant grass. After about five minutes the firing stopped. I crawled back to the trail and as I was getting to my feet, I felt that shit on my face and wiped it off. I looked at my hand and the shit was Jerry’s brains. When I see the names on those stones I start thinking of Jerry (pauses, voice faltering, head lowered) and I can’t stop thinking about his brains on my face.
Greg: Take it easy, Charlie. It’s O.K.
Charlie: N(loud voice-obviously agitated) Fuck You, it’s O.K. I’m the one who can’t sleep nights. I walk the streets and suck coffee at Dandee Do’s and walk some more. By the time I get back home, it’s dawn.
Fitz: Greg’s only trying to help, Charlie. Don’t take it out on him.
Ray: I know what you’re saying, Charlie. Sometimes I’m walking down the street and a guy passes by. I look at him and I see the face of one of the kids I tried to save. Other times I have this dream. It’s a military parade and the old men in uniforms two sizes too small have young faces-always the same-the guys I worked on in the bush. I bet I’ve had that dream 10,000 times.
Fitz: I hate all the holidays. The 4th of July with those goddamned firecrackers.
Chooch: I hear ya, man. I knew this brother, Sid. He was a Shoshone. After the war he was back home in-ah-I think it was Utah. Anyway, the VA hospital out there said he was O.K.-he’d gone there a few times to try to get help for his problem with booze. So he’s passed out in an alley on the 4th and some kids laid a bunch of firecrackers along side him and lit them. Sid freaked, man. He thought he was in a firefight. He pulled out his piece and wasted three of those teenaged assholes. (long, sick laugh) They ain’t ever gonna forget that 4th, man.
Ray: What happened to Sid?
Chooch: He used the last bullet on himself. No way he was gonna spend the rest of his life in a cage, man. He went out like a warrior. Chalk another one up for the fucking VA.
Charlie: You don’t like Christmas, Fitz?
Fitz: Yeah, I just love Christmas. Last year was the first year in ten that I could afford presents for my kids. Do you know what it’s like to have to tell your little boy that you can’t get him a lousy tricycle? Nobody gave two shits for me. I was the fucked up ‘Nam vet with the Chink wife. All those church groups, you know, they didn’t want to hear it when I knocked on the door asking for help. Tis the season to be jolly-bullshit! Once I almost pulled out my 99-millimeter to waste this idiot in a Santa outfit who was laughing at the way my kids and I were dressed.
Chooch: What did you expect, Shadow? You and the kids had camouflage suits on in the middle of K-Mart for chrissake.
Charlie: Shadow, you weren’t the only one to do without during Christmas. I know Chooch and I had the wolf at the door more than once.
Chooch: Yeah. I got lucky and won my disability claim so now my neighbors think I faked the PTSD to get on easy street. Some easy street. You guys know Jack Certen-the bartender over at Louis’ Place-lost his foot after stepping on a punji stick-he hates Christmas too.
Ray: Why?
Chooch: His whole goddamned company got blown away in the DMZ around Christmas ’68. He checks into the cuckoo ward of the “Sadexcuse”-I mean Syracuse-VA hospital every December 20th and don’t come out until Groundhog’s Day.
Charlie: Hey, Greg. I suppose you like all the holidays, huh? (sarcastic)
Greg: Actually, I do-especially Halloween. Then I can put on my khakis and dress blues and go trick or treating. (laughter)
Fitz: I know one thing-you don’t need no mask with that pretty red hook on your mug.
Ray: Come on, Greg. You mean you really like all the holidays?
Greg: Well, I’ve got some problems with Christmas, too. When I was in basic at Lejeune, I met a guy named Stash-a big, round-faced, red-cheeked Polish kid from Buffalo. We got to be really good friends. I guess we almost had to be-he was my radioman. Anyway, we survived the tour. He went his way, I went mine, but we promised to stay in touch. Five months or so later he wrote that he had reupped and was heading back to ‘Nam. While he was there the first time he got real close to some orphans-singlehandedly took them off the streets and got them a permanent place to stay. He convinced the base commander to look after them. Well, it seems Stash had gotten too close to a couple of the kids and couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening to them, so he decided to go back.
Charlie: You mean he went back to that shithole just to be near a couple of Gook orphans?
Ray: Man, when are you going to stop the hating? Huh? What the hell you got against little kids? For all you know, one of them might be yours!
Charlie: What do you mean?
Ray: According to you, you screwed half the women in ‘Nam. Christ, how many little Charlies are running around there now? Raising holy hell. (laughter)
Charlie: A gook is a gook is a gook.
Chooch: I’ll second that.
Fitz: I suppose that goes for my wife and kids-huh-brothers (draws the word out)?
Charlie: Nah. She’s OK. And the kids too. Most of them are gooks, though.
Greg: I can see I’ve got my work cut out for me, huh Ray?
Ray: No shit, Dick Tracy. Anyway, what happened to Stash?
Greg: He went back to his old unit, hooked up again with his kids, and then about a month or so later got captured by the VC while on patrol. October 15, 1969. They held him for 22 months-carted him from camp to camp, alternating his torture from physical to mental.
Charlie: How do you know that?
Greg: A couple of guys who were later captured and spent time with him escaped and talked about his refusal to break. The VC apparently made Stash their special project-they took his refusal to be broken personally.
Ray: Wait a minute. Didn’t that “Jane Fonda” Bobby Garwood talk about Stash-only he called him Joe in his book?
Greg: That’s right. Anyhow, on Christmas Eve, 1970, Stash died. Garwood claims to have been there at that time. He describes Stash as a human skeleton with running sores all over his body. One of the others there who eventually escaped said that Stash’s last act was to spit in a VC officer’s face as he was bending down to check for breath.
Charlie: A real fuckin Grunt to the end, man. Semper Fi. Where’s he buried? I want to go pay my respect.
Greg: Arlington Cemetery. His family waited 16 years for his remains and when they were returned in August of ’86, they came back in a cigar box.
Chooch: How the hell did they know it was him?
Greg: Forensics. Medical technology is so advanced today that they can identify a person with nothing more than a few shards of bone or a couple of teeth to go on.
Charlie: Come on, man. Do you really believe that was Stash that came home?
Greg: Honestly? No. The forensic report described the person identified as Stash as being right-handed.
Charlie: So?
Greg: He was left-handed.
Ray: And his family accepted that?
Greg: Ray, they’ve agonized nearly 20 years over this. And they’re, well, they’re red, white and blue, the” government can’t do any wrong” to the core. I don’t think they even noticed the discrepancy. Stash was home at last, got a hero’s burial, and in one fell swoop the pain of not knowing was ended.
Chooch: Did his hometown do anything for him? Like a monument or something? He shoulda got the Medal of Honor from Uncle Sam!
Greg: No.
Charlie: That fucking figures. Who’ll go a waltzing Matilda with Stash?
There’s a knock at the door. Greg rises and answers it. Mitch enters.
Greg: Have a seat and introduce yourself. I’m Greg and team leader of the Vet Center-i98th Light Infantry Brigade.
Mitch (quietly): I’m Mitch from Lowville. I was with the Armored Cav.
Ray: Welcome, Mitch. I’m Ray. I was a medic with the Air Force.
Charlie: Howdy, Mitch. Charlie with the Black Horse First Cav. What do you do?
Mitch: I’m unemployed right now. I used to be a lineman with the telephone company.
Charlie: You’ve come to the right place, bro. The only one in the room with a job is Greg and he don’t work for a living (laughs loudly-alone)
Fitz: I’m the Shadow-Air Police, Ranger Division at Cam Rahn Bay.
Chooch: What’s happening, Mitch? I was a medic with the Rangers. Got a family?
Mitch sits quietly with hands folded and doesn’t respond.
Greg: Mitch, I’d like to explain some of the ground rules we play be here. OK? I’ve got a printed handout I’ll give you before you leave. First and foremost, what’s said in here, stays in here. One of the reasons I survived ‘Nam, and I’m speaking for most if not all of the guys in this room, is because I trusted the men around me, knew that I could always count on them in the clutch. This group is no different. We may not like each other some time, we may shout at one another in disagreement, but when we leave, we leave our differences behind. God knows there isn’t enough trust in this world and God knows not a helluva lot of people give two healthy shits about us, so we’ve got to trust each other and care about each other and that’s the bottom line. That’s rule number one. Number two. You talk when you want to, answer questions when you want to, leave when you want to, come back when you want to. Someone asks you a question and you don’t want to answer-fine. No hassle. We respect you and trust you and understand that if you don’t want to talk-so be it. You know, sometimes it just helps to listen. Third, no one has the right to try to sabotage this group. I mean, if I or the group in general feel that someone is trying to screw up this meeting, he’s history. If we learn that someone is betraying that trust, maybe leaking stuff said here to outsiders, he’s history. Finally, while I’m a qualified counselor with the VA, I’m not their spy, nor will I try to label you-you know-Charlie’s a schizoid or Chooch is paranoid or Shadow suffers from delusions of grandeur.
Ray: Bingo! Three for three-you’re on a roll, big Greg. (laughter)
Greg: Or Ray is an insufferable megalomaniac.
Ray: What’s that, man?
Fitz: You think your shit doesn’t stink now, didn’t yesterday, won’t ever stink.
Greg: Mitch, I’m only here to referee; keep things rolling or in order. If asked for help, I’ll try to do the best to provide it, or make a referral, or whatever it takes. This isn’t a one guy spills his guts, counselor makes a hasty diagnosis and prescribes some V’s to solve the problem meeting. It’s just a weekly get-together among guys who care about each other and appreciate the support provided by the process.
Chooch: All that’s right on but there’s more, Mitch. After we leave, we know that if something comes up during the week, we got someone to turn to. I wish I had a buck for every cup of coffee I’ve had at 2:00 AM with Charlie or Ray or Shadow. When I can’t take watching my little boy suffer no more or feel like stomping the old lady or have a flashback or something, I can get out of the house and meet with one of the guys to talk things out. We’re there, always, for each other. Fuck the VA, fuck the State, fuck Washington D.C. and superfuck the American people. We don’t need them-we got each other. We covered each other’s backs in ‘Nam-we cover the same backs here, man.
Charlie” I wish I had a buck for every cup of coffee I bought Chooch-he’s tighter than the asshole on a baby buffalo.
Fitz: I don’t get it.
Charlie: What?
Fitz: Asshole on a baby buffalo?
Charlie: OK-for you Shadow, how ‘bout the bark on a fucking tree?
Fitz: Trees fuck? (laughter)
Greg: (Clears throat loudly while smiling) Anyway, Mitch, that’s it. Feel welcome, leave your address and phone number if you want and take a look at ours on the handout. We’re there for you and don’t ever forget that.
Mitch: Thanks, Greg. I really appreciated that.
Ray: We were talking about holidays and the fact that we don’t like a lot of them. How about you, Mitch? Any holidays you don’t like?
Mitch: Well-ah-I guess I never really thought about that. Actually, I like most holidays. Especially Christmas. The music, the lights, colors, snow-I really enjoy walking around town at that time-especially when it snows. I walk by myself, you know, late at night-everything is so still, absolute peacefulness and so pure. The snow covers all the dirt and ugliness. Sometimes I wish that those moments could last forever. (voice trails off-silence for a few seconds-men’s heads bowed)
Ray: That’s fascinating, Mitch. Earlier some of us were bitching about Christmastime but you’ve reminded me of another side to it. I like the colors and lights and music and I enjoy the hell out of walking in the snow. And you know what I like best?
Chooch: Yeah, opening your toys at 5:00 AM Christmas morning. Did you get that blow-up doll last year, bro? (laughter)
Ray: No, but I got to shack up with your wife for a week though. (raucous laughter-Chooch feigns anger and throwing a punch at Ray) Seriously guys, I like the laughter. Man, I’ll never forget Ricky’s laughter last year when he was opening his presents. The man upstairs made sure my last Christmas was a memorable one.
Mitch: I don’t mean to be personal, but why did you say last Christmas?
Fitz: (softly) He’s dying, man.
Mitch: (horrified expression) Oh God, I’m sorry.
Ray: No, Mitch, please don’t be. You didn’t know and besides, man, I can deal with it. We’ve talked about my bout with cancer for a year or so now. I really believe that being up front with the problem and the love and support these guys have given me helped me beat the odds.
Charlie: Yeah-tell Mitch about the VA dinosaurs. How when you first got sick and went to them, they said you had the gout. The man’s got non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and those fucking quacks diagnose the gout.
Ray: True enough-but later they changed their minds. When the gout treatments didn’t do no good, they took more tests and decided I had this rare disease caused by an African parasite.
Chooch: The closest Ray ever got to Africa was when he got lost in fucking Harlem on his way to a Yankee game. (laughter)
Mitch: Did you say non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma?
Ray: That’s right.
Mitch: I just read that a study done somewhere-Iowa I think-that said farmers were suffering from that form of cancer in numbers much greater than what might be expected. .As I recall, the study claimed that their exposure to a weed killer or something was the cause.
Fitz: The same goddamned weed killer they dumped on you in ‘Nam, Mitch.
Mitch: Orange. That’s right-now I remember-the article did refer to Agent Orange although mainly it used the big, mile-long medical terms or some numbers.
Greg: Tetrachlorphenoxy acid or 2,4,5-T. And the study was done in Kansas.
Mitch: This might sound awfully stupid but what’s the story on Orange? I mean I knew a few things about it-you know-stuff written in the papers or once in a while on TV-like that movie with John Ritter that was on last fall.
Greg: You mean Unnatural Causes?
Mitch: Yeah-I think that was it.
Charlie: Wait a minute. (agitated) You mean you don’t know any more than that about Orange? Where the hell you been for the last ten years? In a time warp?
Greg: Cool it, Charlie. (stern voice) You know the rules. If the man doesn’t know, it’s our job to help him find out. Since you seem to be the expert on the subject, why don’t you fill him in with the details.
Charlie: Stick it up your ass, Greg. (rises abruptly and leaves the room).
Fitz: He’ll be back.
Mitch: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause problems.
Greg: You’re not causing problems. Orange is a sensitive topic among these guys. We’re convinced that Ray’s cancer was the result of his being stationed at a base where C-120’s jettisoned what was left of the Orange they’d been spraying all over hell.
Ray: Yeah. There were times when the shit they dumped felt so good-a cool mist-a reprieve from the goddamned heat.
Mitch: Jeez. I wonder if that’s why I’ve had these rashes and stomach problems. Been going on for the past few years. The VA doctors can’t figure it out.
Chooch: Are you shitting me? What have those losers ever figured out?
Greg: Give it a rest Chooch. What about the doc at the Rome facility who prescribed the medication which has kept you stabilized for the last few years?
Fitz: Stabilized? (laughs) Mitch, you should have seen him when he was unstable.
Chooch: Fuck you, Shadow. OK Greg. There’s one good one.
Greg: Mitch, where you been going for your exams?
Mitch: Syracuse.
Greg: We’ve had better luck with Albany. Would you like me to get you an appointment with a doctor I know? (Charlie reenters)
Mitch: Deeply appreciate it. The more I think about Orange, I’m wondering if it had anything to do with Laurie’s problem.
Charlie: Who’s Laurie? And what problem?
Mitch: My oldest daughter. She’s ten. She was born without any fingers on her left hand-only stubs.
Long silence among the group.
Ray: (Quietly): So sorry to hear that, bro. There’s all kind of evidence that 2,4,5-T causes a bunch of birth defects. Jugie’s kid, up Sauquoit way, was born without a face.
Chooch: And what about that Gyrene up north-Jackson something. His little girl died. She was 5 or 6. She suffered from all kinds of problems-I think mental ones too.
Fitz: She hallucinated a lot. Kept seeing snakes everywhere.
Chooch: Yeah. And even the know-it-alls at Boston Children’s Hospital couldn’t diagnose the problem.
Charlie: Didn’t he have an identical twin brother who was in the Air Force and did a couple of tours?
Ray: Yeah. Mike. His kids are fine. And speaking of identical twins-how about the Sinclair brothers. Jack was a grunt in ‘Nam and Jim served stateside. Jack’s little girl-a beautiful curly-haired Shirley Temple-was born without a left hand. Brother’s kids are fine. Sure as hell genetics weren’t a factor. Truth told, I’ve read that there are hundreds, probably thousands by now, of kids with deformities.
Mitch: My God. (buries his head in his hands-begins sobbing)
Greg (walks over and puts arms around Mitch) Mitch, give me details about Laurie after the meeting and I’ll send the info to my colleague in Buffalo who’s compiling a list of vets whose children have similar problems.
Charlie: Sorry about your little girl, Mitch. But-proves what I’ve always said. Getting involved in that hell-hole was the worst fucking mistake ole Uncle Sam ever made. Whoever convinced elephant trunk in his pants, probably that chicken-shit McNamara, to go to war should be shot.
Fitz: Elephant trunk in the pants?
Charlie: Lyndon Baines Jerkoff.
Mitch: Wait a minute. You’re wrong. We were obligated by treaty to help a small country stem the tide of communism. We were fighting to preserve South Vietnam’s democracy.
Charlie: What the hell you been smoking? They weren’t no democracy and their leaders were corrupt as hell-maybe more corrupt than ours. And how’d Johnson’s decision work out? Huh! (loudly)
Chooch: (screaming) And who fuckin won? Damn war should never have been fought. Just imagine if it never was. My buddy Geno would be living in Utica, working at his old man’s grocery store, married with six kids….
Ray: Six kids?
Chooch: You know how those Italians are. Instead, he got captured and had his body parts cut off, one by one, by those fucking little slant-eyes in black jammies. Charlie-no war, no valium addiction or having to eat your guts out over Tommy.
Mitch: Who’s Tommy?
Charlie: Forget it. Shut your fuckin mouth, Chooch.
Chooch: Tommy was in Charlie’s platoon. Got wasted by friendly fire. Charlie thinks it might have been him even though he doesn’t know for sure. And because he doesn’t, he wakes up every day thinking about it.
Charlie: You mother-fucker. I’m outta here! (jumps up and leaves)
Chooch: Yo Ray-no ‘Nam no suffering. No more chemo, morphine, bleeding from your ass. You’d be watching your boy grow into a man. Hey Greg-no ‘Nam, no more having to hide all your fucking problems so’s you can play Florence Nightingale; no more crying yourself to sleep, alone, the load of everybody’s problems dropping you to your knees. Fitz-no ‘Nam, no more nightmares every night, no more losing it and making your old lady a punching bag, no constant worrying about being homeless. So new guy (in Mitch’s face screaming)-still think it was worth it? (turns and leaves)
Group silence – heads bowed.
Greg: That’s it for tonight. Mitch, join us for a cup of coffee over at Dandee Do’s, and we’ll talk.
Fitz: You buy, Greg.
They get up and slowly leave. Greg follows, turns out the lights, closes the door, and walks into the night.
EPILOGUE-2021 WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
Ray: Died later that year, leaving a wife, who never remarried, and a son who earned a degree in journalism and presently runs a newspaper in upstate New York. Local college kids raised money to purchase a monument honoring him in his hometown. Their teacher continues to remind the public of who he was by means of articles printed periodically in area newspapers. Ray died a martyr with a cause-fighting til his last breath to expose the chemicals companies and the federal government for their complicity in covering up the Agent Orange issue and to bring about better treatment for his comrades in arms at Veterans Administration hospitals. He was 31.
Charlie: Continued to struggle with his many problems until July 4, 1985, when he killed himself in his hometown park while his VFW commander was reading the Declaration of Independence. He was 35.
Chooch: Thanks to a combination of meds and counseling, he was able to lead a “normal” life. He remains married, has a `model relationship with his four children and five grand pups, and continues to excel not only as a service officer for his local Legion but for the entire county as well. In the latter capacity, he has helped scores of combat veterans (including Desert Storm and Afghanistan) receive better treatment at VA hospitals and win disability claims. He’s 70.
Fitz: Ended up being evicted from his home and spiraled out of control to the point that his wife left him and returned to South Korea with the children. Spent time in and out of jail for crimes ranging from assault to false impersonations to grand larceny. Whereabouts today unknown. He’d be 71.
Mitch: With Greg’s help received proper medical treatment from the Albany VA, successfully handled his drinking problem, restored his relationship with his wife and kids, won his disability claim, went back to school, and became a successful lawyer in his hometown. He has belonged to numerous civic organizations, was commander of his local VFW, served on the school board for years, is active in his church, plays to a four handicap, and devotes most of his time to his children and grandchildren. He’s 73.
Greg: Went on to earn his Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology at Syracuse U., was head psychiatrist at a VA hospital near New York City, receiving numerous awards for his contributions to the profession; beloved by his patients and second wife, MaryAnn, with whom he had two daughters. He remains close to his son by his first wife and dotes on his four grandchildren. Though retired, he still does some consulting and stays in close contact with many of his former patients, including Mitch and Chooch. He’s 75.