A Promise Kept…

In January of 1969 I was still recovering from my malaria attack. Adjustment to the States got very complicated. It was times like this that I needed my spiritual father Glen Davis, at the Christian Servicemen’s Center, in Clarksville TN.

Life events make the same people and same places look so very different. They haven’t changed; you have. Yet Glen always knew how to read me. I could tell Glen my whole heart. He never saw the horrors of war…but he knew the young man who went off to that dark side. Glen was also very spiritual and had a good sense of the right path. I would return to Maine with renewed confidence.

A young soldier at the center agreed to drive me part way North. He also committed to take me by Coatsville PA. I wanted to look up Christopher Smith. With that grand thought in mind, we said our good byes to Clarksville.

The next stop was the post office in Coatsville PA. I went to the counter and looked the man straight in the eyes. I said, “I am passing through, but need to see my war buddy. I have minutes to find him. There are so many Smiths in the phone book. Please help me sir.”

The postman stared a while before replying, “We are not authorised to devulge that information. There may be a young man by the name of Christopher Smith, about your age. But I can’t tell you.”

This postman was my only shot. I countered, “We fought together sir. He is like a brother. Please.” The postman spoke firmly, “There is nothing I can say. However, that piece of paper, by your hand, might be of some help to you.” I grabbed the small white slip like a treasure. I softly spoke a thank you. As I turned I heard, “Thank you for your service.”

Bursting out the door, I flipped the slip over to see an address. We hit pay dirt! I had to warn my ride of what DZ had told me several times. ‘Don’t come straight to my home. White folks aren’t welcome there.’ He laughed it off by saying, “We are too close to turn back now.” I liked his attitude.

With some local directions, we arrived at the address in 10 minutes flat. I went alone to knock on the door. The inside door opened tentatively…a screen door seperated us. I said, “Ma’am, is this the home of my 101st friend Christopher Smith?” The door and screen opened as wide as that smile on the elderly lady’s face. She firmly gestured for us both to come in. She sat us down in grand living room style…like honored guests.

She called into a back room, “Christopher, you’ve got company!” I heard a stir and a lanky man emerged straightening his pants. The big brother grin told me this trip was worth it.

DZ spoke up, “You get your ass back here in one piece?” I nodded affirmatively. He just shook his head. Then he replied,  “Well I didn’t. They breached the perimeter and came straight through. I was listening to my music and getting high. The tent flap opened and the grenade rolled across the floor. I dove under the side; I didn’t clear the tent before it blew. I rolled free in the dark. All I could feel was blood!”

I sat there stunned. Everybody seemed worried that I wouldn’t make it…but I was one of the few who did make it in one piece. Then I saw the telltale limp. I started to hurt with his every labored movement.

We put a lot of men on those medevacs. We didn’t think about their future then…only that our job was done right. DZ is a lot stronger than his smarts. I thought to myself, ‘How is this 22 year old going to make a living? What future does Chris have?’ It was then that a young girl slipped by DZ’s side. She was pregnant.

DZ opened up, “They don’t check the wounded. I brought back a boat load of the best pot. I will give you half!” I graciously refused. I did reply, “Please remember Al sometime when you light a joint. Smoke one in my honor.” He grinned with approval.

My ride friend started moving about a bit nervously. It was about time to move on. He had been so gracious and patient…like so many who were influenced by the Christian Servicemen’s Center. This had been a priceless experience.

After a short good bye, we stood to leave. Chris painfully regained his own footing. It was then that he confessed, “I have a black friend living less than 50 miles, another less than a hundred. You would think they would at least call. My little white friend goes way out of his way to see me. You are going to Maine. Damn.” I nodded and quietly responded, “You are a brother. I don’t leave brothers behind. See you soon.”

Currahees…I lost track of DZ. Life got complicated. Some lessons are hard to learn…harder to walk away from. Doc Smith was a good medic. I pray he remains a great family man. We fought another kind of war to regain our footing Stateside.