Sierra
03-29-2005, 03:21 PM
I’d like to tell you a story. There’s no happy ending, and there’s little glory; unless you consider one man’s fight to deal with the hand dealt him glorious, that’s for you to decide.
This is Tommy McDonald’s story; no you never heard of Tommy, he was a Marine who served during the Vietnam War. He wasn’t a perfect man; he was no poster child of character or deportment, but he was someone I’ll never forget.
Several years ago my nephew Darren and I were on a deer hunt in the Sierras near my home. It was the last week of deer season and we wanted to get some time in before the woods filled on the last week end. We arrived at one of the many campsites established by the forest service on Monday intending to have the place to ourselves for several days. I was surprised to find a black Ford van parked in one of the spaces; normally the sites are empty during the week. Wishing privacy we selected a spot on the other side of the camp ground.
As we were setting up our camp and leveling my small travel trailer we were interrupted by a small scarred man in a wheel chair. He was missing part of an arm and one leg. He introduced himself as Tommy McDonald. He seemed a friendly, if somewhat somber sort. Later that night he shared a fire with us and over the ensuing week I got to know this man well. I learned he lost his arm, leg and most of his stomach during the fighting for Hill 881 outside of Khe Sanh during the Tet Offensive.
Tom was feisty little guy who backed down from no one. Later that week some young men pulled into the camp site riding dirt bikes fast around the camp. McDonald rolled his wheel chair in their midst and in no uncertain terms told them to leave or else. What that else remained unanswered as one look at those flinty gray eyes of his indicated just how much determination lay within that his frail form.
Tom lived out of his van; it was his only really valuable possession if you don’t count his hundreds of CDs and a 12 volt JVC player with head phones. He had a picnic table covered with all those CDs at night and would sit by his small fire listening to music drinking cheap vodka; something else he had in great profusion. Each night he would drink himself to a stupor and then drag himself to his van to sleep.
The week rolled by and the weather was getting colder. We spent much time talking as we were both Vietnam vets and my 1st cavalry outfit was one of the first units to break the siege at Khe Sanh. I asked him what he did when the snows came to the mountains, he remarked he had a sister in San Diego and he would winter with her before setting out again in the spring. I asked him why he didn’t just stay there, he told me he hated the pitying looks he got from people down in the cities and preferred the solace of the mountains. Once in a while he would head down the hill for food, CDs and, of course, the gallon bottles of vodka he favored. I told him that cheap crap will kill you; he responded with what has become almost the battle cry of all Vietnam Vets, “Don’t mean nothing”. Besides, it keeps me from dreamin’ ……Man, I don’t like dreamin”.
Our time hunting ended and I said good-bye to Tom; he told me he would see me next year. Normally I would dismiss such statements and write this strange sad little man off as just another interesting person I’ve met but there was something about the man and I knew we would meet again.
Events proved my premonition to be true as the next year there he was just as he’d never left. So it was for that year and the next two after that. Tom and I would spend many evenings together talking about all manner of things. There was an easy banter between us the big hulking career Army Officer and the little Marine enlisted man who never rose above Lance Corporal. We became close and Tommy began to spend part of the winter at my home; try as I might I could not get him to lay off his unending supply of cheap vodka. Over time I could see what it was doing to him. One of his many combat wounds was only a partial digestive tract. Always it was the same reply “Aw Man!” “It don’t mean nothin”.
Finally one year Tom didn’t show; I waited hoping to see my friend, but he never came. His sister and I had long since exchanged phone numbers; returning home I called to ask where Tom was; his sister paused and then replied he had died that past February, I realized his poor broken body had finally succumbed to the wounds that should have taken him so long ago.
I was sad for a time for the loss of this man who had become a true friend. In time I realized this was a selfish emotion, Tom was beyond his pain now; he was back with his buddies he lost so long ago on Hill 881. I’m sure he’s now whole in body and spirit, listening to his CDs on a player that never needs batteries. Best of all there’s no need for that vodka to chase the ghosts of his past. Wherever he is now I know Tommy McDonald can finally dream.
This is Tommy McDonald’s story; no you never heard of Tommy, he was a Marine who served during the Vietnam War. He wasn’t a perfect man; he was no poster child of character or deportment, but he was someone I’ll never forget.
Several years ago my nephew Darren and I were on a deer hunt in the Sierras near my home. It was the last week of deer season and we wanted to get some time in before the woods filled on the last week end. We arrived at one of the many campsites established by the forest service on Monday intending to have the place to ourselves for several days. I was surprised to find a black Ford van parked in one of the spaces; normally the sites are empty during the week. Wishing privacy we selected a spot on the other side of the camp ground.
As we were setting up our camp and leveling my small travel trailer we were interrupted by a small scarred man in a wheel chair. He was missing part of an arm and one leg. He introduced himself as Tommy McDonald. He seemed a friendly, if somewhat somber sort. Later that night he shared a fire with us and over the ensuing week I got to know this man well. I learned he lost his arm, leg and most of his stomach during the fighting for Hill 881 outside of Khe Sanh during the Tet Offensive.
Tom was feisty little guy who backed down from no one. Later that week some young men pulled into the camp site riding dirt bikes fast around the camp. McDonald rolled his wheel chair in their midst and in no uncertain terms told them to leave or else. What that else remained unanswered as one look at those flinty gray eyes of his indicated just how much determination lay within that his frail form.
Tom lived out of his van; it was his only really valuable possession if you don’t count his hundreds of CDs and a 12 volt JVC player with head phones. He had a picnic table covered with all those CDs at night and would sit by his small fire listening to music drinking cheap vodka; something else he had in great profusion. Each night he would drink himself to a stupor and then drag himself to his van to sleep.
The week rolled by and the weather was getting colder. We spent much time talking as we were both Vietnam vets and my 1st cavalry outfit was one of the first units to break the siege at Khe Sanh. I asked him what he did when the snows came to the mountains, he remarked he had a sister in San Diego and he would winter with her before setting out again in the spring. I asked him why he didn’t just stay there, he told me he hated the pitying looks he got from people down in the cities and preferred the solace of the mountains. Once in a while he would head down the hill for food, CDs and, of course, the gallon bottles of vodka he favored. I told him that cheap crap will kill you; he responded with what has become almost the battle cry of all Vietnam Vets, “Don’t mean nothing”. Besides, it keeps me from dreamin’ ……Man, I don’t like dreamin”.
Our time hunting ended and I said good-bye to Tom; he told me he would see me next year. Normally I would dismiss such statements and write this strange sad little man off as just another interesting person I’ve met but there was something about the man and I knew we would meet again.
Events proved my premonition to be true as the next year there he was just as he’d never left. So it was for that year and the next two after that. Tom and I would spend many evenings together talking about all manner of things. There was an easy banter between us the big hulking career Army Officer and the little Marine enlisted man who never rose above Lance Corporal. We became close and Tommy began to spend part of the winter at my home; try as I might I could not get him to lay off his unending supply of cheap vodka. Over time I could see what it was doing to him. One of his many combat wounds was only a partial digestive tract. Always it was the same reply “Aw Man!” “It don’t mean nothin”.
Finally one year Tom didn’t show; I waited hoping to see my friend, but he never came. His sister and I had long since exchanged phone numbers; returning home I called to ask where Tom was; his sister paused and then replied he had died that past February, I realized his poor broken body had finally succumbed to the wounds that should have taken him so long ago.
I was sad for a time for the loss of this man who had become a true friend. In time I realized this was a selfish emotion, Tom was beyond his pain now; he was back with his buddies he lost so long ago on Hill 881. I’m sure he’s now whole in body and spirit, listening to his CDs on a player that never needs batteries. Best of all there’s no need for that vodka to chase the ghosts of his past. Wherever he is now I know Tommy McDonald can finally dream.