Bringing Brother Home: by Ronnie Ray Jenkins

Charles "Chuckie" Jenkins

He left in February, and by early June,  he was dead.  June 10, 1965 to be exact, sometime after midnight Vietnam time. 

But it was the next day near Clear Creek when a knock came to the front door. It wasn’t the Army; it was his pregnant wife that I saw from my hiding place behind my Mother’s yellow sundress. 

I never saw my brother’s wife cry before, but as she stood framed in the doorway with the bright light of summer behind her, she sobbed.

It was all so confusing for an eight-year old to witness such a thing. Scary too. It was the first time I ever heard such mournful wailing, and when she passed a telegram to my mother it increased two-fold. The telegram stated my brother, a Green Beret, was missing in action.

What’s that mean, Mom? Is he lost? He was just here a few months ago. He came upstairs, Mom, and sat on the edge of each of our beds taking turns telling us to be good kids and to listen to you and Dad. 

Where’s Vietnam, Mom? I thought he was in North Carolina, Mom. Remember for my class project, I chose North Carolina to write to their tourism bureau to find out about their state?  Mom?  (I only thought those words; there was too much commotion now).

That night we had a lot of visitors. I climbed up on a chair and watched the television. My Dad watched it too, I liked Chiller Theater, but Dad kept trying to find the news. Two stations were the only choices, and I never saw my Dad change the channels back and forth so much. 

I got to stay up late, and even when I was getting fidgety, they didn’t yell at me. My Mom’s eyes sure look red. Dad’s face looks blank, and empty. There were six other kids in the house, but I didn’t know where they were, they were so quiet. Things were never quiet around here.

When the last visitor left, and the television signed off to nothing but white specks on blackness, I went upstairs to bed. I could hear my parents in muffled serious voices, but could make out very little. They rarely talked in such quiet tones. So, I lay on my back with my hands folded behind my head and stared up toward the black ceiling.

Missing. Action. Vietnam. What did it all mean anyway?

My brother knew these woods like nobody did, I thought. He probably was camping, or hiding from the other guys. He did that a lot of times with us kids. He was good at it. I wished I could walk as quiet as he did. You couldn’t hear his boots in the leaves. 

He’d jump out and scare his buddies for sure. That’s what he did to us, and we’d all let out a startled squeal, and take off running back to the safety of the big yard, or house. But, none of us could come close to outrunning him. I doubt anyone could catch him over there. He’d just run and run, and if he had too, he’d climb right up in a tree too. He wasn’t afraid of being in any tall trees; he’d go right to the top. He even jumped out of planes. I don’t like being up high.

The covers feel soft, and I pull them over my eyes to make my darkness even darker. I fell asleep wondering if it was as black there in that place called Vietnam, and if they had katydids. I knew they had monkeys, because awhile back he sent home a picture of him with two of them clutching onto him. He even wrote on the back that they looked like the twins when we were little. Mom laughed, see, I have a twin sister. Good night.

Morning light through the window sure can make a blanket hot. I kicked them off, and noticed all four beds in the room were empty. I walked on my knees on the soft bed and positioned myself at that window. There were cars parked along the road outside the house and people milling around in the yard with their heads down.

A dark green car with a star on the side of it turned around in the middle of the road and I squinted from my perch and watched it leave.

Chuckie's Headstone

We rarely have this much company. That looks like Uncle Paul down there. Hey, there’s my older sister and her husband.  They live far away, and we don’t get to see them much at all.

Why are all these people hugging Mom like that?

I know.  I know.  I know ... I bet the Army guys are bringing my brother home.

The Audio Version of "Bringing Brother Home"

Ronnie Ray Jenkins

About the Author

Ronnie Ray Jenkins is the author of The Flowers of Reminiscence, The Flynn City Egg Man Series, Pickletwit, and hundreds of award winning short stories. 

His series, Son of Trout is a consistent Number One Best Seller on Amazon Kindle. 

He has appeared as a featured author on Huffington Post, CBC Radio, and his blog, Ronnie Ray Jenkins--A Writer's Life is read by thousands.

Visit Ronnie's Blog

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

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Yeah - I Knew Him: by Ben Weihrich

It took years to write this here little ditty, but in '92 it was placed in the "VETERAN'S VOICE", a magazine for hospitalized veterans. 

(almost 2 yrs in and out of nut wards, but things are straight now). 

Then in '94 it was placed at the PERMIAN BASIN VIETNAM VETERANS MEMORIAL 11/11/94. ~Ben Weihrich

YEAH – I KNEW HIM

For My Brothers and Sisters who stood the watch in the “RICE PADDIES.”

The “DUKE” (John Wayne) in “THE FLYING LEATHERNECKS” said it best when he found out that one of his buddies had “bought the farm” (KIA – killed in action), ”Yeah – I knew him”.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him.  I knew of his dreams, his loves, his wish to be in the arms of his family. To be working on his hot rod, instead of being a “tunnel rat”, to be at the ballpark cheering on the Dodgers or whoever, instead of doing a “body count” in some jungle.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. To be on the beach enjoying the sun, surf, the girls and having a few cold ones, not waiting in a damn rice paddy on an ambush. Wanting to be home at Christmastime singing carols in the snow, but instead on a LRRP or on a search and destroy mission.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. Holding his newborn child in his arms and looking at his wife in love and wonderment. Not screaming out in terror in the middle of the night because of some nightmare that happened today or a dozen years ago.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. Late at night, in the bunker drinking hot beer, talking about things and girls, maybe the women we loved, going steady with, married to, or just got a “Dear John” from. Remembering her pretty eyes, the way she made love, the way she kisses, maybe how she could make us feel to be beside her, or away from her.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. Knocking the grand slam at the softball game, selling that new car to the newlywed couple, planting the last seed on the north 40, instead of holding onto his closest buddy, making his last moments in this hellhole the best, sharing his last smoke because there was no way to save him.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. Every time I light a square, because he left his “Zippo” to me, the one he bought at the PX and engraved “Joe Ragman – Nam, II Corps, War Zone C”. My mind flashes back to those days.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. As I knock on his parents', wife’s or girlfriend’s door to pay my last respects. Telling them how we were friends, how he felt about the war, how much he wanted to be back home as I gave them his last letter which he had not mailed. I saw their eyes fill with anger, hurt, tears and then the questions. Damn.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. As I stared into his face that's lost forever in the never-never-land of the V.A. Hospital and drugs: He never came home as Joe Ragman, but as a zombie, lost forever somewhere in that last firefight, dancing the “Thorazine shuffle”.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. As the friend who lives under the bridge or deep in the woods, scraping an existence off Mother Nature or out of the dumpster of Burger King or grocery stores. Hiding out to escape the stares, the hatred, and the ugliness of the war. Staying loaded to kill the pain, the loneliness, the desperation of life.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. As I walked among the rows of white headstones in the “Garden of Stones” looking at all of the names, dates and places. I look at “The Wall” finding and touching your name. I remember the good and bad times, the hopes, the dreams. I cry, not in sadness, but in hope that “This Wall” shall be the last memorial to those who fought in a war. In a war where all sides, the Victor and the Vanquished, lost. There are no winners in a war.

Yeah – Vietnam: I knew him. Here’s to you, Buddy, to your memory, to honor you, to remember you and love you. “Sleep in peace, comrade dear, God is nigh." [1]*

[*From Col Butterfield, "TAPS"] 

Respectfully submitted,

Ben Weihrich
Texican by Birth
MARINE by Choice
USMC '69 - '75
Graduate of Saigon "U" 

"The man who will go where his colors go without asking, who will fight a phantom foe in the jungle and mountain range without counting, and who will suffer and die in the midst of incredible hardship without complaint, is still what he has always been, from Imperial Rome to sceptered Britain to democratic America.

He is the stuff of which legions are made. His pride is in his colors and his regiment, his training hard and thoroughly, and coldly realistic, to fit him for whatever he must face. And his obedience is to his orders. He has been called UNITED STATES MARINE."  ~T.R. Ferenhoch, ['This Kind Of War']

email Ben

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

Taps for my Soldier

Taps for My Soldier

by CJ (Parrish, Kempf, O'Brien) Heck

A gentle breeze chatters the leaves
as birds sing their greetings.

 
The sun shines 

on a day like any other,
and yet like none before.

 
Two mirrored rows of uniforms
line up like blue dominoes,
white gloves holding rifles at the ready.

 
A lone bugle cries. 

Twenty-four notes.
Each note, slow as a tear,
blankets ears and heavy hearts.

 
In the silence between,
even nature holds its breath.

 
Gone is the breeze.
Gone are the bird songs.
Gone is her hold on composure,
all lost in the bugle's lament.

 
Solemnly a soldier approaches.
White gloves present a tri-fold flag,

 
and in one final mournful note,
legions of silent voices unite
to call a comrade home

and his young wife weeps.

[from the book, "Anatomy of a Poet", by CJ Heck]

Read a Preview of "Anatomy of a Poet"

Buy "Anatomy of a Poet" at Amazon.com  

"Taps for My Soldier" included by invitation in the Taps Exhibit, The Taps Project, Arlington National Cemetery, May 29, 1999.

"Taps for My Soldier" included in the book, The Other Side of Sorrow by Cicely Buckley, edited by Patricia Frisella (Poetry Society of New Hampshire, 2006).

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale