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.
As I’m peacefully standing
in the theater line, the cool ocean breeze is washing
away the heat of the day. I’m
in Torrance, California, a beach community just west
of Los Angeles. I’m talking
to my wife, when, from behind me, I hear the words,
“Papa Bear! Is that
you?”
I freeze in mid sentence and
shudder as the hair on the back of my neck stands on
end. I’m instantly hyper
alert as the North Vietnam jungle flashes through my
mind. It’s now September
4th, 1990. It’s been 18
years since I was known as Papa Bear. I stifle another shiver, swallow, and turn to
see who is speaking.
As I turn, I hear those words
again. “Papa Bear! Is that you?”
He
looks intently at me and adds, “I’d know that
voice anywhere.”
There before me stands a
living piece of my past -- a piece I’ve buried in denial for
almost two decades. A tall,
handsome man in his late forties with tears in his
eyes is staring at me. It’s
all I can do to hold my composure. I
glance at my wife. She has a
puzzled look on her face. She
knows nothing of my past. Official
military records indicate that I have never been in
any branch of the armed services.
Again I hear, “Papa
Bear, is that you?” I
look up at him and say, “I’m
sorry you must have me confused with someone else.”
He insistently replies,
“Papa Bear, I know it’s you. I’d
recognize that voice anywhere.”
He is absolutely right, but I
dare not acknowledge him. I
do have a rather distance accent to my voice.
I was born in the Middle East. As the son of a Jordanian diplomat and lived in
several countries during my childhood.
Arabic is my native tongue. I
also speak French German and English. Even after all these years in America, my
English still has a distinct Arabic flavor.
I’m shivering inside, as I
see a unique opportunity standing in front of me.
I’m torn between the urge to hug him and the
fear of my wife finding out about my past.
Three times I vehemently deny
who I am. At the third
denial, his eyes grow dim and his shoulders droop.
He turns and slowly steps out of my life. I’m completely torn up inside.
I had prayed that Papa Bear stay buried. Again, I see that is not to be.
I am no longer just Tony. I’m
Papa Bear as well. As he
turns and slowly walks back to where he was standing
in line, he walks with a slight limp in his left leg.
His limp breaks the final barrier between Tony
and Papa Bear. I am
absolutely certain he is indeed one of the downed
pilots I rescued from a fate worse than death in North
Vietnam.
In less that a minute I find
my life has again been turned upside down.
I turn back to my wife. She
is confused, but I confess nothing. I
can pay almost no attention the movie. That night the cycle of nightmares begins
again. In the middle of the
night, I wake up screaming and instinctively lunge at
my wife. She screams. I stop.
She’s
terrified. So am I.
For years, I refused to keep
any weapons near me while I slept. I’ve
been afraid that I’d wake up from a nightmare and
kill someone before I fully realized that I wasn’t
still in the North Vietnamese jungle.
The following morning, I’m
an emotional basket case again. My
wife sees my anguish and asks a lot of questions.
Soon, I can no longer pretend I’m just an
ordinary guy, so I confide my secret past to my wife.
She is compassionate, but the experiences I
tell her about are completely foreign to the world as
she knows it and to the facade of a man she calls
her husband. She simply
cannot relate to my experiences. For
her, I cover my experiences with ketchup and rose
petals so that the true sounds, smells and sights are
blurred. It doesn’t work. In less than two months, our relationship is
history.
Now I need to get this story
off my chest, so I’m going to tell it like it
actually was, without the cover of ketchup or rose
petals, so if you want to listen in, pull
up a chair. Since this is a
true story as I actually experienced it, I am assuming
that you’ll want to hear the truth. You do!
Good.
Then lets start by
straightening out this Rambo rubbish you’ve seen in
the movies. Rambo is a fake
-- a fucking, bullshit, prom queen. You
stand up like that with bullets flying in your
direction and it’s only a mater of time -- usually a
minute or less -- before you’re a dead man.
Here’s the truth: When
you’re behind enemy lines and encounter an
adversary: you get in -- you kill -- you get
out -- and you're gone. Anything else is
media hype designed to sell theater tickets.
And quite frankly, I don’t
give a rat’s ass whether or not you buy a ticket.
End of Chapter One
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