by Skip Nichols
It was my first reunion for military interpreters in Monterey, California. The year was 1978.
There might have been 150 people in the huge room — and I didn’t see a soul I knew. I should have known it would be like this. Why did I even bother …
That’s when I felt a hard slap on my back and spilled my drink all over the elaborate rug — and the gold insignia of the Defense Language Institute, West Coast Branch.
“Goddamnit!!!” A thick Texas drawl got my attention — along with everyone in the room. A huge paw — the one that had smacked into my back — was firmly gripping my shirt. It … he had kept me from falling flat face into the soggy mess on the elaborate rug.
“Sorry about that, Marine,” said a heavily muscled Hispanic man. “Do you remember me … ?”
I looked up at the huge man. After a few seconds it dawned on me, it was Jorge Guerra. We graduated from the institute together as Vietnamese interpreters and he and I had arrived in Da Nang on the same jet in 1967. Jorge was then a second lieutenant — a rank which featured short odds on surviving a 13-month tour in Vietnam. I was a lowly corporal.
“Let me get you another drink and we can talk,” he said. It didn’t take long and I had a clean, double shot of whiskey. We found an empty table and sat down.
“Well, how ya doing?” he asked.
Time for the dreaded small talk, I thought.
“I think about dying every day,” I said. Jorge’s face dropped in confusion. The silence was unnerving to him — and me. I wasn’t sure where it had come from. It certainly wasn’t small talk. But it was true and yet I’d never told anyone about it.
“Are you sick … what makes you think about dying?”
“No, my health is good … I run a couple of miles every day,” I said. “It’s just the guilt from surviving ‘Nam overwhelms me at night and dying is the first thing on my mind in the morning.”
Guerra’s once-happy face darkened. I knew he was thinking about the Marines he had known who hadn’t survived.
I picked up my whiskey and swallowed it in one swift swig. He did the same.Then we lapsed into real small talk for the rest of the night. The next morning I checked out and began the rest of my drive back to Texas.
As usual, my first thought was about dying.
Red Badge Project’s Mission Statement
To support Wounded Warriors in the journey to reconstruct their individual sense of purpose, understanding of self-worth, and place in community, as they discover and give voice to their unique stories. Outcomes include:
Improved self-acceptance and personal efficacy
Participants discover greater self-acceptance and efficacy as they find their voice, and produce stories inspired by their life experiences.
Improved communication and writing skills
Participants understand the creative process and utilize a variety of tools to express themselves within and beyond the classroom.
Improved sense of community
Participants feel safe within and beyond the classroom through outreach to participants’ families, peers and the larger community.
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