Victor Dark. Blaine Sims

yet they care not who they offend. Know-it-all’s, seen-it-all’s; we are supposed to bow to their every wish or they turn into Baby Huey. Like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. They can’t tell the truth if their life depends on it because they don’t know the truth. Instant gratification, always someone else’s fault; no sense of responsibility or duty amongst them.

      “Whose hand is in the cookie jar when mommy told them no cookies?” asks the mom.

      “Not mine,” declares the child.

      We are on a planet with 7 billion people. You are not helpless nor medically incapacitated. Neither are you intellectually incapable of contributing. Do something useful. Work at being constructive, not destructive. Make something of yourself. Be somebody — don’t deprive others of oxygen. If you insist on keeping or taking yourself down, don’t involve other people.

      Victor cries out for yet fears love. His mind becomes a puzzle by the meaning of the emotion. Its essence is overwhelming in simplicity, nonetheless, its acceptance has always brought grief and rejection. Victor doesn’t always see the logical side of things, and with love, neither did his friend. The important thing was they accepted each other without condition. Victor often thought, “Damn him for taking his life and depriving me of his vast knowledge. Someday, I would have bested him.”

      In an unknown place, Andrei sits back, smiles, and says, “It was never a competition, ‘bro. I was preparing you for what’s coming.”

      His friend was like a brother to him, and he aches for the man’s wisdom and companionship. Powerful, and the logical mind he possessed, captivating.

      A good ass-whooping from Andrei starts the transformation to maturity and altered perspective by Victor. He’s not there yet, but he’s heading in the right direction.

      A stop in a bar he has never been to leads to an acquaintanceship with a Vietnam veteran named Chet, also a first-timer in the establishment. The recipient of the purple heart, Bronze Star, Vietnam Cross of Gallantry, and the Vietnam Service Medal, along with a host of medals issued under routine circumstances, such as the Good Conduct Medal, this man saw extensive combat.

      Bronze StarPurple HeartVietnam Cross of GallantryVietnam Service Medal

      He moved through the ranks to become a Master Sergeant (E-8). Wounded, he walks with a limp. An 0311 (Marine Corps Military Occupational Specialty/Infantry), he participated in the Tet Offensive.

      Of particular interest to Victor is the Purple Heart, as he’s most familiar with the award and what it stands for. He implores Chet to tell him the details of how he earned it. All he will say is, “I forgot to duck.”

      Chet's Bronze Star certificateChet's Purple Heart certificate

      The tavern is a relic, and in its hey-day, the place to be seen. Now, except for an old-time regular, it is uncommon for the owners, John and Mary, to have customers. Decorated in faded, peeling yellow paint, and adorned with memorabilia from the fifties, sixties, and seventies, its name is “Buckhorn Inn,” which stems from John’s fanatical backing of his Alabama High School’s football team, the Buckhorns.

      The Buckhorn Inn

      John and Mary met while attending and married a short time after graduating. The reason the business continues is it’s their life. All they have is the building, memories of happening times, their faithful dog, Gus, and each other. Ah, Gus. A large, old German Shepard with a wonderful disposition, he will rear on his hind legs, place his front paws on your shoulders, and dance to music from the antique jukebox. One can lose themselves in a bygone era.

      Victor and Chet have pleasant moments enjoying each other’s company. In their short time together, the conversation centers on stories by Chet of the war. A statement by him is one Victor will never forget. “Whoever said, ‘War is Hell,’ was wrong. It’s the life afterward that’s Hades.” Quite the pool sharks, they indulge in a few breaks during their get-togethers. Chet has the up on Victor, even though the younger man is a tough competitor. Late one evening, after leaving the establishment, Victor suggests stopping in a strip club. Jeannie, his favorite private dancer is working. When Andrei was alive, he and Victor would go there to see her performances. They call her, “Shake ‘em up Jeannie.”

      Victor recollects about Andrei and his time in the Corps. Their recruit training lasts the longest of the U.S. military services, 12-weeks. His stint was at the exclusive resort of Parris Island, South Carolina in the middle of summer. Sand fleas you swear are bigger than rats, mosquitoes as large, heat, severe thunderstorms, and constant degradation. There is a purpose. It is to build you up.

      This Recruit Training Depot is one of two for the Corps, the other is in San Diego, California. The stories you hear and read are true. Among the things you’ll learn, of many, is never call a Drill Instructor “Drill Sergeant” and don’t refer to them as “you.” To say the least, it is an experience you will never forget.

      One incident, in particular, Andrei faced pertained to “General Orders.” There are eleven. On the first day, the platoon was told to sound off their General Orders individually when commanded, the Junior Drill Instructor, a Sergeant, asked Andrei when it came his time. No one else could remember any of them all the way through. “Private, what’s your first general Order?”

      “Sir. To take charge of this post and all government property in view. Sir.”

      The DI looked in contemplation for a minute and barked, “What’s your second General Order?” Again, a flawless response. Third, fourth, fifth, and so on through the eleventh. When finished, the JDI stared, glanced at his feet, and said, “Thank you.” He did a left face and departed the squad bay. Andrei never knew for a fact but thought he may have been the only recruit to ever be thanked by a Marine Corps Drill Instructor. Chet smiles and says, I would have liked that man.”

      Victor is antiwar but listens with intensity as Chet reminisces about his days in-country. At first, Chet was gung-ho to enlist in the Marines and fight communists. As time passed, he turned against the policies of the United States. Pro-military and pro-USA, his opinion of the war soured. Too many of his buddies lost their lives in what he came to see as a senseless conflict. Among them, two he went through boot camp with at Marine Corps Recruit Depot, Parris Island, South Carolina. He was one of the last to leave the capital of Saigon in 1975 after the North Vietnamese attacked and overran the country. A noble cause, it was the political interference and micro-management of the military which made him bitter. Former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara did not make his list of favorite people.

      As are many, Andrei Ruchkin was of the firm belief the United States should do a better job taking care of its military veterans. Their needs, health, and welfare ought to come before illegal immigrants, drug addicts, people who are too lazy to work or better themselves, criminals, and other nations. He wasn’t saying all assistance or aid should be cut off, rather, more should go to those who served and sacrificed honorably. A nation owes its respect, admiration, and gratitude to these men and women.

      Once ramrod straight and proud, he now exhibits a slight stoop. His visible stature belies his tenacity. Short, yet taller than Victor, Chet is a divorcé with two children, a male and a female. He is a good father and provider. One infant, a male, died two days after birth. His wife put the blame on Chet and filed for divorce. A smoker during his time in the Corps, he kicked the habit after his first child was born. Victor enjoys listening to Chet tell yarns and truths about his kids since he yearns to father two-and-a-half of his own.

      Few friendships last long, and the aphorism holds