Who Are You Talking To?
By: Carl Munson
Frederick Forsyth’s excellent short story The Veteran begins tells of an older man with a pronounced limp attacked by London thugs, one big with a shaven head, the other of average size with lank, greasy hair. The attack occurred in a part of London that came alive only at night when gangs, “unemployed and unemployable,” roamed “grim residential blocks crusted with filth, slick with urine.”
The limping man looked to be an easy target. The thugs just wanted his wallet. The location was a large, public housing project, a “grey, poured concrete gulag commissioned by a borough council that flew the red flag of world communism above the town hall.” Most former shop spaces had windows boarded up.
The limping man unexpectedly fought back. That the victim had something extraordinary in his past – why did he limp? – was evident from how hard he fought back. The two booted thugs finally dropped him and kicked him continually in the body and head. They took his wallet and left him to die. Hospitalized in a coma, however, he wouldn’t die, at least not as expected. After six improbable days, he finally breathed his last.
Investigators knocked on doors. Residents said they saw nothing. A lone convenience store owner, however, saw the attack, described the perpetrators, and agreed to tell what he saw. The two thugs were eventually located, taken into custody, and given a public defender. The identity of the murdered man had not yet been established.
Then things got interesting. One of London’s most prominent barristers became aware of the homicide and volunteered to defend the two thugs pro bono. Counterintuitive. And the reader is not told why. Author Forsyth does a masterful job of credibly portraying court testimony and cross examination. Enough doubt of guilt is raised to where the two thugs are declared not guilty. The reader, who knows they are, wonders what’s going on.
The thugs contemptuously believe they are free. But are they? The high-powered barrister knew that if he did not defend them, they would be convicted, spend a few years behind bars, and be released. The justice served, however, would be that of the Old Bailey, not the Old Testament. If found not guilty, they would be back on the streets immediately. But how, then, was justice served at all?
In Forsyth fashion, the last page of the story puts it all together. The murdered man is finally identified. When inspecting the murdered man’s modest flat after the trial, inspectors see an old photo of the deceased, smiling as he kneels in front of three other soldiers, a corporal, a sergeant, and a young officer, men with whom he served in combat decades earlier. Although the officer in the photo is now much older, the inspector recognizes him. The high-powered barrister.
The other inspector wonders what might happen if the corporal and sergeant should ever find the two murderers. That question is answered in the last paragraph of the story. “That evening, two bodies were recovered from a lake near Wanstead Marshes, east of London… The file on the case was opened but never closed.”
I summarize The Veteran because the thugs knew nothing about their victim – who he was, where he’d been, what he’d done, who he knew or, more to the point, who knew him. It’s fiction…but the lesson is real. When speaking with an older man who you don’t know, in the back of your head weigh the question: Who am I talking to?
My ballcap indicates I was in the Navy. Few people know what the stuff on the cap means.
Sometimes I wear the cap on appropriate occasions, e.g., Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Veterans Day. Otherwise, I don’t. When I occasionally wear the ballcap, I am told, “Thank you for your service.” Appreciated. There was a time when I would have been castigated. Fortunately, we – the country and most Việt Nam vets – are beyond that. Pretty much.
Without the cap, my service is not evident, and it’s that way for all unmarked veterans. Fine with us. But still, in the back of my head when talking to a man of my age with whom I am unfamiliar, I silently consider the question: Who am I talking to?
Below are some interesting examples of men who others would never guess went through what they went through. Never guess.
Dennis “Spider” Johnson wasn’t always called “Spider.” Nothing about him suggested what he went though. He didn’t talk about it. His Việt Nam Ranger company commander, later killed in action, said Spider was afraid of only one thing, spiders. Hence, the nickname.
People talking to Spider wouldn’t know he was a POW twice (having escaped but then eventually recaptured) and had three purple hearts. He said American interrogation of captured Iraqi jihadis was soft because North Vietnamese masquerading as indigenous Việt Cong never wrote a book on the subject. Bamboo spikes. Use your imagination.
Spider died three years ago from a brain tumor precipitated by Agent Orange. When he died, most people who thought they knew Spider, didn’t. Like many veterans, while Spider left Việt Nam, Việt Nam never left Spider. He never reverted to Dennis. He stayed “Spider.” Most never knew why.
Ken Knox was an older gentleman who had led a hard life. I took him to lunch years ago and in conversation he mentioned a purple heart. I asked where and when he was hit. He reflexively responded, “Which time?” Then he clammed up; didn’t want to talk about any of it. Who would understand? I pressured him. I was a vet. So, he told the story.
When he was sixteen in southern Oregon, he tried to enlist. There was a war going on. World War II. He was rejected by the American Army. Too young. He and two friends went to Vancouver, BC, lied about their age and background, and – long story short – began training to be fighter pilots for the Royal Canadian Air Force.
Great Britain was rapidly losing pilots. England asked Canada if any Canadian pilots would volunteer to fly for the RAF. Ken volunteered.
The kid from southern Oregon was in the Battle of Britain. Who would know? Shot down three times during the war, he said the worst was over France. He was scared. He thought he would be captured and killed. After evading Nazis, he managed to get back to England through the French underground.
Sitting across the table from me was a man I thought I knew. After his story, I knew him much better. Previously, I and most others didn’t know him at all.
Bryce Lilly and I were driving along the highway between Mt. Vernon and Anacortes, chatting about this and that. Bryce was an older gentleman, slender, pleasant. I suggested we stop for lunch at a new restaurant down the highway.
“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d rather not. I have stomach problems.”
He continued to drive and said nothing else. Okay, I thought. Perhaps it was none of my business, but the way he said it and the fact that he did not elaborate made me curious.
“What’s wrong with your stomach?”
“I was a prisoner of war. I lived on rice soup for several years.” He told me his weight went from 195 to less than 100 pounds. Decades later his stomach was still screwed up. He added that, toward the end of the war, the POWs were glad to hear the Doolittle bombers come, and just as glad to hear them go.
That was a thorough explanation, and I certainly knew much more about Bryce Lilly than before. But after a few moments I had to ask another question.
“Where were you captured?”
“Bataan.”
That ended the questions, the conversation. “Bataan.” That one-word answer spoke volumes.
I got to know Bryce Lilly. He spoke at high school assemblies, telling the students a little about his ordeal but mostly why it was justified, and about the greatness of the United States.
Bryce Lilly has passed away. I hope those students’ memories are strong and, if they haven’t already, they’ll come to truly appreciate both the man who spoke to them and what he said.
At the Spokane VA, I see Việt Nam vets in varying states of disability. A few are in wheelchairs. Some wear prostheses. Some wear identifying veteran’s hats or jackets. Most don’t. As with Spider Johnson, Ken Knox, and Bryce Lilly, what most went through would never be apparent.
Veterans Day – or any day – when you speak to an older man, someone who you suspect might be a veteran, keep in mind the question: Who am I talking to? If you wish, ask. While the answer will be succinct, keep in mind that the story behind the answer could fill volumes.
Bio
Carl Munson is a Việt Nam veteran and author of the historical novel To Forge a Nation: An Immigrant Journey in an Immigrant Land. He serves on the Medical Lake Planning Commission.