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Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me: A Fictional Memoir
Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me: A Fictional Memoir
Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me: A Fictional Memoir
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Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me: A Fictional Memoir

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This work is built around a unifying element which involves the journey of a conscripted soldier through his military experiences during the Vietnam War. This “road story” is a genre unto itself and more than a fictionalized memoir. Our protagonist, in this fictional memoir, enters the Vietnam war and is challenged with surviving it in an ever-changing and sometimes hostile environment. His adventure is also the perfect metaphor around which conflict lurks and builds as his voyage delivers him into the combat zone. This journey transports the reader to the innermost place within James J. Justice's soul, where his character is forged and tested.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateSep 30, 2016
ISBN9781483581316
Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me: A Fictional Memoir

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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
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    This may be the best book I have ever come across. It is a thinking person's type book that clued me in on the type of person I want to become. How the main character transformed himself into an adroit person able to live through the Vietnam war, is amazing.

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Vietnam, The Green Machine, & Me - James Justice, PhD

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CHAPTER 1

FAST HANDS

Let me introduce myself. My name is James J. Justice, and I strive for honesty, integrity, and fair play, in a Nietzschean sort of way. This means that such virtues are not grounded in strict boundaries of good and evil, but rather in excellence, which translates into the will to overcome adversity through strength, willpower, and self-determined righteousness.

In December 1965, I was a first quarter psychology graduate student at Kent State University, and it was final exam week. My favorite hangout was the Blue Moon Café just off Water Street. It was a small neighborhood storefront bar run by a nice older couple, Bud and Irene, and being the son of a bar owner, I adopted both of them as my away-from-home surrogate parents. It was a shot and beer joint, but generally friendly. Old time regulars and college age kids didn't mingle, but tolerated each other.

I enjoyed spending evenings there mostly because its only recreational offering was one of those shuffleboard games in which you slid a puck down and knocked pins up into the machine. I could produce a 270 to 300 game practically at will, challenging all comers, and almost never paying for a beer, which was the usual bet.

On a Monday evening I found myself sitting in a back booth preparing for an Abnormal Psychology exam when about fifteen fraternity guys, celebrating a basketball victory, showed up. I found all the back-slapping and noisy commotion distracting, but pressed on. About a half hour later, I saw an ROTC uniform walk in with his girlfriend. There were a few hoots and hollers directed at the girl as they settled into a booth about two down, trying to ignore the rowdy goings-on. After the cadet ordered a beer and a mixed drink for his girl, one of the fraternity guys walked up to him and said, So, general, you gonna’ be one of those commie killers that blow away women and children when you make it to Vietnam? This caused considerable laughter among his buddies.

Look, I just came here for a beer. I'm not bothering you. I'd appreciate it if you left us alone, he said, turning away from his tormentor as his drinks were delivered.

This was met with the frat guys getting their hackles up and chanting, Baby killer…baby killer.

The frat guy persisted, leaning over their table. So when you get shipped over, your little chick here is gonna' be veeery' lonely, isn't she? You know…we could bring her over to the house while you're doing your killing and provide the boys with some…entertainment. What do you think, brothers? She looks like she's the type that knows how to show a guy a good time, doesn't she?

Yeah! Woo! I got first! yelled out one, while another said, Sloppy seconds for me.

The guy in uniform moved to get up and the frat guy cold-cocked him before he could exit. As he staggered from the booth, three others jumped him while the girl began to scream. I immediately ran over and began to pull them off him and was struck in the back of the head with a beer bottle. I went down to the floor, and was kicked repeatedly into unconsciousness.

I woke up in the hospital with a concussion, multiple cuts and bruises, and a lower back injury that required minor surgery. I missed my exams—and this was not considered an excused absence. My parents paid the deductible from the hospital bill with my tuition money, which caused me concerns regarding spring quarter funds. Dad suggested that I should start thinking about getting a part-time job to cover their cash outlay and was not pleased that my injuries occurred in a bar when I was supposed to be hard at work with my studies.

I spent two weeks in the hospital, and about the beginning of week two, the ROTC guy showed up in my room to thank me. He had a black eye and some facial cuts, but he seemed, otherwise, in good shape.

Hey, James, thanks for what you did. I'm sorry you got the worst of it.

Yeah, I couldn't just sit there when you had four guys on you, I replied. Looks like you came out of it…okay.

Just some cut and bruises. Guys in the bar broke it up pretty quickly after they saw what happened to you. They all scattered. I don't usually wear my uniform, but we had a ceremony that night and I was too lazy to go back and change. I've gotten some crap about the military and the war before, but never anything like that.

Did you know those guys? I asked.

''No, never saw them before, but we both saw the lettering on their shirts and at least know where to find them. Are you going to press charges?"

''No, I don't want to continue this. I don't have any money for a lawyer, and what would I get out of it? I just want to know how to find the four who did this to me."

Yeah, I can probably find out, but I don't know if anything good will come out of it, he said grimly. He then handed me a book titled No Shining Armor, an oral history prepared by Otto J. Lehrack.

I thought you might have some time to read this. It gives some insights into what we are fighting for in Vietnam. Wherever you stand on the war, this provides some pretty disturbing reading, he said.

Thanks, I replied. I've got some time on my hands and will read it.

He left, and I began to read the introduction which sent chills down my spine. Lehrack was a Marine infantry captain; his collection of oral reports made me thankful to hold a student deferment, especially when I read his report about PFC Yost, who awoke at the General Army Hospital, located in Japan:

I woke up to this inhuman sound…Ooooh, like that. So I asked the Army medic what had happened and he said that this Marine had been captured by the North Vietnamese. They cut his ears off, they poked out his eyes, they cut his nose off. They cut his hands off at the wrist and they stuck a bamboo shoot up his rectum and punched it out through his stomach and left him to die. And he made it through and he couldn't talk and was blind. Was mute. And he was mutilated. And that's what the North Vietnamese soldiers did to Marines if they caught them.

***

While selecting classes for the spring quarter of 1966, I decided to supplement my self-improvement efforts by taking a self-defense course taught by the university’s head wrestling coach, Joe Begala. Joe was at the end of a wonderful teaching and coaching career and was named the top college coach in the nation by Sports Illustrated magazine. He achieved that status while having no wrestling scholarships to offer. As a student at Ohio University, Joe would do anything it took for the team, dropping or gaining weight as needed while winning the Buckeye Conference wrestling championship three years in a row. As coach, his dual meet record was an outstanding 282-68 and he produced ten All-Americans. Joe was one tough cookie and taught the self-defense course using Taekwondo techniques.

There were about fifteen of us, all hung over, when we suited up for our weekly Wednesday eight o’clock practice. After the first few weeks everyone was on time, because if an individual straggled in late, he or she was the subject of a demonstration, and it was always unpleasant. The auxiliary gym in which the class was held was always too hot. The partially rolled out green wrestling mats had some tears from which the stuffing was trying to escape. During these sessions we learned choking, freeing, blocking, and kicking techniques. Coach Begala’s voice echoed with a surreal quality as it bounced off the concrete walls. I was staring down at my battered Converses, half listening to the specific instructions for the day’s class and half thinking about an unfinished psych paper due at 3 p.m. Unfortunately, I looked up, suddenly caught in laser-like eye contact, his finger pointed in my direction.

You! Up here with me.

I was fairly sure that I was on time for class, and didn’t understand why I was selected to be the next victim. I felt a bead of sweat trying to roll down the side of my face, partially because of the heat, and the fact that I could not see anything positive coming out of this. At an even 6 feet and 180 pounds, I didn’t consider myself weak by any means, but I was no match for the coach.

Stand right here, he commanded.

He positioned me about three feet in front of him, the class viewing our profiles.

Now bow your head, slowly.

As my head approached chest level he tried to slap me in the face. I detected his right palm in my peripheral vision and reflexively raised my left hand, blocking the slap.

I have always prided myself on having fast hands. When I was about ten, I remember watching a juggler on the Ed Sullivan Show. I was amazed that he could juggle odd objects, such as an egg, a paint can, and a bowling ball. The audience loved it and so did I. Determined to become an accomplished juggler, I found three tennis balls in the park and spent hours in my room learning to keep them in the air. After about a week I could keep them going indefinitely, and I could even watch television while the balls kept moving. The neighborhood kids were in awe of my ability, and I practiced until I could keep four going. In my teenage years, snatching flies out of mid-air and tossing them to the floor was another skill that made me a hit at parties.

Coach took a step back, training the lasers on me once again, and I was certain that the next thing I would see would be the dome lights on the gym ceiling.

Good! he barked.

Turning toward the stunned class, he pointed a stubby finger at them and said, When you bow, never lose eye contact. Never take your eyes off the enemy. Now pair up and bow, then get to work. The class continued its usual kicking and blocking exercises. At the end of the 45 minute session he said, Okay, good job. See you next Wednesday, and be on time.

As I walked to the locker room, I heard that raspy voice coming from behind me, You—lemme talk to you for a minute. I did an about-face toward my mentor.

Standing directly in front of me, a little too close, he snapped, You got fast hands, kid. That’s the first time anyone ever blocked the face slap. Nice job. He turned on a dime and walked back toward his office.

It was with a great sense of relief and a certain amount of pride that I accepted the locker room congratulations, becoming an instant class celebrity. I noticed that a few of the guys weren’t paying much attention, not that I cared. One of them, Nick Adamchock, was usually trying to push the envelope a little bit. When we were paired up, he tended to be unnecessarily aggressive. I could easily counter his moves, but he increased the intensity every time I blocked him. He was a redneck, often making disparaging comments and jokes about anyone who was not white or KKKristian. Nick’s excessive, self-centered style rubbed me the wrong way, mainly because of his insensitivity to others.

Always quick to laugh loudly at his own jokes, often at the expense of another, Adamchok obviously considered himself a badass. He was a little taller than me and in good shape. As he was putting on his undershirt, he looked toward me, shaking his head, and said with a slight smirk, I guess Begala’s lost a step or two over the years.

As I sat on the bench in front of my locker I called over to him, but not looking in his direction, So Nick, you think you can help me out with a trick? I decided to demonstrate a skill that I had developed in my sophomore year of high school. He sauntered over, looking a bit suspicious, head cocked, and sneered, What kinda trick?

As the inevitable crowd gathered around in the sweaty, steamy locker room, I grabbed a dime from my jeans. I stood at the intersection of four lockers, where the crowd could get a good look. A couple of guys stood on the bench. The buzz in the locker room ceased and there was dead silence.

Hold out your hand, palm up, I ordered, placing the dime in the middle of Nick’s palm. Placing my hand directly under his and looking directly into his eyes I said, I will take the dime from your hand before you can close it.

Again smirking, he looked around at the toweled crowd, then turned his gaze on me. So suppose you can’t do it? Still standing with my hand under his, I replied, Okay, if I grab the dime, you give me five bucks. If I can’t get it, I give you five bucks.

You’re on, said Nick, seemingly readying himself for the challenge. He moved into a half crouched, athletic pose, as if he were preparing to serve a tennis ball.

Okay, you move when I move, time starts now.

At the word now, I flashed my hand on top of his and scooped up the dime to the wild applause of the crowd. I was hoping he would like a second try, because I was positive that I could do it every time. I had never failed. My intention was not to take his money, but just to bring him down a few pegs. At least he was smart enough to return to his locker and grudgingly, wordlessly, open his wallet, take out the five bucks, walk back and toss it at me. If he hadn’t been such an arrogant son of a bitch, I would have given it back to him, but I picked it up and stuffed it in my wallet.

Master Kan offered a similar challenge in the TV series Kung Fu. Young Kwai Chang Caine was told to grab a pebble in the first episode. Quickly as you can, snatch the pebble from my hand, directed the Master. Young Caine tried to do so and failed. The Master then said, When you can take the pebble from my hand it will be time for you to leave. This skill would serve me well in providing entertainment for my fellow GIs in the future.

Coach kept me after class on several occasions to teach more advanced techniques while trying to talk me into joining the wrestling team. His individualized instruction enabled me to deliver clean kicks that were fast and strong. I also learned how to quickly free myself and neutralize an attacker. In the advanced sessions he taught me Chil Sik Sul, the art of applying a stranglehold to deprive the attacker of either oxygenated blood from the carotid artery or oxygen from the lungs through the trachea. Coach taught me that chokeholds are particularly dangerous and are only taught to higher level Taekwondo students, since over-exertion can crush the trachea and cause sudden death.

During those meetings, the 61-year-old Begala constantly challenged me in one-on-one practice sessions. Although I was never able to get the better of him, I learned much from these encounters.

My favorite moves were the ones used when confronted by an attacker face-to-face. If one were to place an unfriendly right hand, for example, on my chest, I would, with lightning speed, trap the hand by placing my left on his and peel up his thumb with my fingers, then apply the Cobra Grip with my right to the wrist, pulling and twisting his hand away. I would then take a cross step to the left, extending my arms, while twisting his right arm counterclockwise. This maneuver ends with the attacker on the ground, immobilized by the arm twisting and writhing in pain, also exposed to numerous disabling maneuvers. I could pull this one off in the blink of an eye, thus ending a battle before it had actually begun.

Once I was bathed in sweat in that hot gym after being taken down for the third straight time and saying, It’s frustrating to go one-on-one with you. I feel like I’m never going to get the upper hand.

Begala put his arm around my shoulder and said, Keep your spirits up, kid. When you get to be my age, you will easily be able to get the better of me.

So you think I’ll then have the experience to take you down? I replied.

Coach gave me a twisted smile and said, James, it won’t be you that takes me down; it’ll be Father Time. I’ll be 100 then.

***

As the spring quarter was coming to a close, I had the occasion to get together with two of my pals from the Youngstown area. Tom Getch was an undergraduate, Youngstown University, Sigma Tau Gamma fraternity brother who loved to fight. He was a six-foot-four basketball star who, when drinking, had the habit of picking a fight with any bad ass that came his way. My role on those occasions was to call for a fair fight and crowd control. In those days, I could hold my own but was not even close to matching his furiosity, so mostly assumed the role of a referee. Tom then would unleash his savagery by inflicting unthinkable damage to his opponent.

His high school pal, Bill Martin, was a five-foot-ten, two-hundred-pound block of solid muscle. He was also a running back at Kent State and a martial arts instructor as well. It was a treat to meet up with Bill when Tom came up to Kent to tip a few with his two best buds. It was about midnight and well into our sixth beer at the Blue Moon Cafe, no matter how much I told myself I should forget about my disastrous encounter, the incident with those frat boys kept popping into my head. With my head hung low, I recounted the events of that evening.

As I went into the details, they both became incensed and when I identified their fraternity, Bill said, I know those guys—they think their shit doesn't stink. The four you're talking about not only did you in, but also sent one of our players to the hospital.

Tom chimed in and said, I'd sure like to meet up with those bastards. Let's go over to their frat house and call them out. Bill's face lit up like a Christmas tree. Those four are thick as thieves and hang out at the Cove, just up Water Street, always sitting on their cars, insulting anyone who walks by.

It was then that Tom said, Let's…take a ride.

Before I knew it, I found myself driving Tom's Jeep to check out the happenings at the Cove. As we drove by, I saw the four of them with about a dozen of their brothers sitting on their cars and yelling insults at the passersby. As I cruised past, Bill spit out his gum at the guy who had hit me with the bottle. It hit him right in the side of the head.

As we cleared their vehicle I heard him say, That guy spit on me…let's get em'.

Looking in my rear view mirror, I could see several cars pulling out behind us. Not expecting these odds, I floored it. Water Street empties into a lonely stretch of road, and I was doing about ninety headed north, with the four assailants hot on my tail. As the chase continued, we managed to put quite a distance between the two speeding vehicles and the five others, when Bill said, Pull over! I've had enough of this shit. So, I pulled over and the three of us took up positions across that dark, deserted highway. When the chase car reached us, out jumped the driver, who charged us, screaming, I'll teach you punks to spit on me!

Bill intercepted him before he got to us and walloped him with a flurry of punches that sent him to all fours and then began to pound him in the lower back with killer blows. Instantaneously, Tom ran to their car and nailed the second to jump forth with an uppercut that caused him to be lifted about a foot in the air and then tumble down a steep embankment. I greeted the next to exit with a karate kick to the mid-section, then followed with a roundhouse head kick that immediately put him down for the count. The fourth just sat there as Tom ripped him out of the convertible and quickly finished him off. All the time, Bill just kept blasting their leader with chambered kidney punches.

Having severely put them out of commission, we regrouped side by side in the middle of the darkened roadway as the armada approached. Apparently, noticing that their advanced forces had been decimated, the lead vehicle made a glorious U-turn with the others following suit. It was quite a sight to watch the turning headlights reverse direction, abandoning their comrades.

We sped off in the Jeep and were no more than a half mile away when, Bill shouted, I lost my wallet. We gotta' go back and get it.

I groaned and said, Let's make some tracks and circle back later. No, I need that wallet, turn this bitch around!

What choice did I have as I headed back towards the Alamo. Much to my delight, the road was now clear, not a villain to be found. Bill searched the road and sure enough found that wallet.

I think I sprained my damn wrist when I knocked that clown out, said Tom, examining it in the passenger seat. My old man is pissed about me getting into these fights. I'm blaming this on you, Justice.

Tell him you slammed it on the rim. I guess those frat boys have the same problem, I replied. What do you mean, James? asked Bill.

They'll have to come up with a story to explain why they got their asses ripped. I can hear them now: 'Those three turned out to be Green Berets…the toughest fighters on the planet. You guys were lucky you turned back.'

We all had a good laugh, while I basked in glory at being able to have served some justice on those frat toughs.

***

That summer, I decided to return home and help with expenses by taking a job with the State of Ohio Employment Services. I had grown up and lived in Youngstown, Ohio, an iron and steel town (a place where women iron and men steal). My father, as I mentioned, was a tavern and nightclub owner on the west side of town. He was famous for performing a magic act for the patrons in which he would saw a person into two pieces. I also had two siblings, a half-brother and a half-sister, in addition to a warm, affectionate, hardworking mother. It was a family filled with unconditional love, in which everyone took care of everyone else, no matter what.

I worked with the poor as a vocational counselor, providing direction to the directionless. This type of work was considered a justification by Selective Service to qualify for an O rating, which provided me with another occupational deferment from the draft.

While attending Kent State University—enrolled in graduate school with the Department of Psychology—I earned thirty hours of graduate credit. Psychological study appealed to me for a variety of reasons. I considered myself conscientious, self-disciplined, and determined. Psychology can help you understand yourself. My goal was to become more confident, strong, and assertive while remaining protective, resourceful, straight-talking and decisive. These characteristics and desires fueled my incurable curiosity regarding a sensible understanding of life. In addition, they fostered an internal quest for self-improvement, both mental and physical.

My intention was to serve my country by fighting its war on poverty, a much saner choice than the sinister possibility of forced military service.

CHAPTER 2

A PERSONAL CHOICE

In October of 1968, Selective Service was pressured by the administration to draft anybody who was physically able to serve. As a result, my draft classification was canceled and I was declared 1-A with little time for appeals. I tried to secure a teaching job, but October is not exactly prime time. I was hoping some local district could use a permanent substitute, but I was not even sure if that would keep me out. Time ran out. I received my draft notice, postmarked 11-11-68 (oddly Veterans Day), and noted with despair the irony: the message was clear.

I considered my options and contemplated Canada, self-inflicted injury, or becoming a California surfer lost to the real world. Although I ran these options over and over in my mind, I always knew what I would do. When it came down to it, I made the decision to serve out of my faith in democracy. I had no personal desire to take part in a war; however, I felt bound by the decision of the majority of our elected leaders. I allowed myself to be drafted because I thought it to be morally right and my patriotic duty. It was a matter of conscience. I felt compelled by a spirit of sacrifice and a willingness to give my all for my ideals.

At 5:00 a.m. on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, I said my goodbyes to my sleepy siblings and gave my mother a long hug at the front door. There was a sad smile of resignation on her face that I will never forget. I hopped in the car with Dad, who drove me to the post office in our white 1960 Oldsmobile to set off on my big adventure, the first leg of which was a bus ride from Youngstown to Cleveland. Dad was like a rock—reliable, responsible, and trustworthy—and we shared a strong bond. As we were exiting the neighborhood, he asked me if I would like to get some breakfast. It sounded like a good idea, and we stopped at an all-night diner just down the street from the post office. Over coffee and eggs dad told a few tales about his World War II experiences. He’d been a sergeant and enjoyed the privileges of rank.

As a sergeant, you will be joining an elite military club, marked by an unwritten code of trust and loyalty. Your ability to exhibit those traits, combined with your ability to get along with others will be important to your survival in Vietnam, he said, soberly.

I said, Dad, making sergeant will take a lot of doing; do you think I can make the grade?

If you want it bad enough, you’ll find a way, and if not you’ll find excuses. Son, until you make sergeant, follow these rules: If it moves, salute it; if it doesn’t move, pick it up; if you can’t pick it up, paint it. He followed this with one of his sly winks and then pulled from his pocket a book-sized package wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. He slid it over to me and explained, This is more than a book—it contains information that will cause others to take an interest in your welfare.

I reached to unwrap the package, but he placed his hand on mine. He smiled with a steely sadness in his eyes. Open it on the bus. If you find yourself in need, read this book on how to find a friend indeed.

I nodded again as we walked out of the harsh diner lights and into the gloom toward the other recruits who were lining up to board the bus in the post office parking lot. As the morning sun was starting to stream over the top of the buildings, I could see huddled family groups talking, dads patting their sons on the shoulder, and moms giving them long hugs. We were standing on the sidewalk in a chilly autumn breeze when I looked into Dad’s eyes and said, I’m really going to miss you.

I know. It’s written all over your face. Dad gave me a warm hug and whispered in my ear, Son, you will have to look out for yourself for a while. Then he turned on a dime and walked straight back to the car. For some reason I found myself thinking about the Last Supper.

I got in line,

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