Black Irish Veteran

I don't remember it terribly well -- partly because it was past sundown on St. Patrick's Day and the drinking had long since commenced, but also because I do not have a trained reporter's mind. As with many things, I remember impressions, images, sounds, and have to invent facts to give them structure.

The downtown was crowded and I was lucky to find a spot just four blocks from the bar I was headed to. As I fed the meter I heard a man shouting, the sort of shouting men do who hear voices and must answer them. I glanced up and he was crossing the street at an angle, straight for me. Well, I thought, the fates have been kind, no need to run from chance encounters.

He stood before me, watch cap glistening under the light rain, bloodshot eyes trained clearly into mine, a compact and robust black man half a foot shorter than me, wished me a happy St. Patrick's Day, and proceeded to tell me his story.

I envy people who remember conversations. I will not invent a proxy for this one. His eyes bore into mine, his attention entirely on me, and when I saw the pain in his eyes there was nothing for it to put my attention upon him in return.

He loved this country. The United States is number one. He saluted. He rambled about killing the women, the children. After a bit he spoke more clearly and mimicked holding his M-16 shoulder-high, spoke of the rice paddies. He killed a man, he killed many men, when he was eighteen years old. His eyes contracted when he told me that, and the red in them deepened. Eighteen, he said. Sixty three now.

Followed a long soliloquy on the Screaming Eagles, various Forts in North Carolina, Kentucky, and Louisiana, the lieutenant I looked like, where I wore my bars, occasional salutes, the Korean DMZ, love of country, numerous punches to the chest, assistance getting his cigarette lit, the Black Irish, etc. Secondary to his eyes, which held a lot of private suffering, I recall his voice, loud and clear if somewhat slurred while he jumped randomly from place to place.

He also loved God and Jesus, and showed me his VA card which he kept in a small pocket Bible, and pointed out the ravens flying and cawing overhead, drawing connections between them and various saints. At the end, which came when I said I was meeting friends, he called me a saint too, to which I disagreed, we embraced, he saluted, and walked away in the drizzle.