AN UNFORGETTABLE SALUTE
SKIRMISHES, BATTLEFIELDS, AND MAKING PEACE WITH MY FATHERBy JOHN R. GOUINiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Col. John R. Gouin
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-3979-0Contents
Acknowledgments................................................xiiiIntroduction...................................................xviiChapter 1: Backwash (Iraq, September 2005).....................1Chapter 2: Saturday Night Fights...............................5Chapter 3: The Equalizer.......................................22Chapter 4: Fourth and Goal.....................................30Chapter 5: September 1974......................................39Chapter 6: Wooden Soldier......................................64Chapter 7: Big Man on Campus (Again!)..........................85Chapter 8: Rebuilding Burnt Bridges............................93Chapter 9: The Best Man........................................108Chapter 10: New Beginnings, Old Habits.........................118Chapter 11: The Final Salute...................................126Chapter 12: Burying the Past...................................136Epilogue.......................................................145About the Author...............................................147
Chapter One
Backwash (Iraq, September 2005) This is a pain I mostly hide, but ties of blood, or seed endure, and even now I feel inside the hunger for his outstretched hand, a man's embrace to take me in, the need for just a word of praise. ~ Jimmy Carter
Strapped into the backseat of a Blackhawk helicopter, I could feel the arid heat from the backwash of the rotor blades blasting across my sweaty face. The temperature on any given day could run as high as 125 degrees; there was no escaping the heat. I felt like I was sitting under an enormous hair dryer, despite the fact that I was drenched in sweat from head to toe.
My body armor, which weighed nearly forty-five pounds, along with a Kevlar helmet, a CamelBak canteen, a basic load of ammunition, and assorted survival gear, intensified the heat. This was the military equivalent of wrapping a potato in tin foil and baking it. My eyes were already dry and itchy from the desert heat. The blast of wind from the rotor blades stirred the fine, powdery particles of sand into the helicopter, making my eyes even more red, raw, and irritated. My lips were cracking and my mouth was parched, but the thought of drinking water out of my CamelBak canteen, water that would be roughly the same temperature as the desert, barely crossed my mind. I had no appetite for hot water soup that day.
With a loaded weight of approximately twenty-two thousand pounds, the Blackhawk was surprisingly agile, flying at speeds of approximately 125 knots or 140 miles per hour. Its crew of four and one passenger kept constant vigil for enemy activity as they flew fifty to one hundred feet over the eternally shifting sea of sand below. The first time I saw one of these magnificent flying creatures, I was in awe. I stared at it like a high school kid checking out the latest Corvette. Yet the first thought that came to my mind was that the name of this awesome machine didn't quite match the sleek, powerful outer shell of this amazing creation.
The reference to the predator hawk was obvious, but a Blackhawk in flight brings to life more than nature. Rotors at the ready; the nonreflective, flat black skin, scaly and tough; a shape as sleek and aerodynamic as a heat-seeking Sidewinder missile—it looked more like an insect than a bird. It resembles nothing more than a well-groomed metal wasp. Watching one tragically downed in combat is to witness man's insignificance in the grand scheme of things; another insect squashed on history's windshield. Watching several in flight is to see the awesome wonder of man's modern marvel of a swarm in action.
There I was, inside that swarm, hitching a ride from one of those well-groomed metal wasps, feeling completely anonymous, inexplicably numb, and extremely vulnerable. At fifty-one years old, I didn't feel fully prepared to go to war, even though I had over twenty-eight years of military training, ranging from Special Forces Sniper School to the parachute training school at Fort Benning, Georgia. My infantry training as a private helped me understand the foundation of the entire military, including the mechanics of the foot soldier. No matter what kind of support he or she gets, eventually a private will have to kick in a door, walk out on point in a patrol, and secure the ground he or she just took from the bad guys.
Sometimes my sense of humor and easygoing personality suggested that I was a pushover; but when I said something, I said what I meant, and I stood by what I said. My previous military and civilian medical background made me a perfect asset for a new assignment with the 228th Combat Support Hospital and its home station in San Antonio, Texas. Now I was accompanying them on their deployment to Iraq.
The constant daily threat of surface-to-air missiles and small-arms fire kept me on my guard, wondering if my end would come from a shoulder-fired, rocket-propelled grenade, better known as an RPG.
Despite the fiery images constantly played on TV for the anxious crowd back home, I found that the fighter pilot ratio of "99 percent boredom, 1 percent sheer terror" was true for the modern soldier as well. At this point, I wasn't sure which was worse.
Like most soldiers, during the boring times, I looked out over the barren Iraqi desert and reminisced about my family, my job as a respected podiatric surgeon, and the very comfortable civilian lifestyle I'd left back home. Some parts of my life had already started to disappear by now: the office pallor, the early signs of the middle-age spread, the mornings free of aches and pains. But other parts were still very real to me.
Like a phantom limb, I couldn't shake the expectation that each morning I'd rise to find myself at home, safe in my large California-style bed. In my memory, awakening to a blaring Bose stereo alarm clock was no longer an annoyance—not when compared to the sound of the morning Muslim call to prayer. I missed having my beautiful wife, Leslie, near me as I brushed the sleep from my eyes; I missed a good morning lick in the face from our twelve-pound cockapoo, Gus. It always took me a few moments to readjust to the nomadic, desert lifestyle I'd slowly grown accustomed to, a lifestyle that included the endless threat of unexpected violence from improvised explosive devices (IEDs) and mortar and rocket attacks. True relaxation was impossible, and REM sleep was a thing of the past.
Even though I'd adjusted, I couldn't forget about my life back home—a life most people could only dream about. I lived in a two-story Mediterranean-style home with beige stucco, a dark red tiled roof, and a gorgeous view of the Gulf of Mexico. When I closed my eyes, I envisioned the cool, fresh water of our blue lagoon pool cascading from the rock waterfall. The lush, tropical backyard laced with palm trees, hibiscus, and bougainvillea plants was my refuge, my paradise, my home—and now over a half a world away. I had volunteered for Operation Iraqi Freedom and, on Christmas Day 2004, left behind a wonderful family, a beautiful home, and a lucrative medical practice. As the rest of the world opened presents and spent the day complaining about relatives while surrounded by the aroma of baking turkey and pies, I was embarking on the first leg of a journey that would lead me to ground zero of the fight against terrorism.
The most peculiar aspect about that Christmas was that it snowed on Christmas Eve and continued through the early morning. Rising from my warm, comfortable bed, I was surprised to see a winter wonderland in the backyard. A blanket of snow several inches deep is not so peculiar if you live in one of the northern states; but it had been nearly one hundred years since the city of Corpus Christi had had that much snow. Was this rare, cold, shimmering covering of snow a teasing reminder of the grizzly heat I was about to endure for the next year?
I repeatedly asked myself why a fifty-one-year-old man would volunteer to go to a combat zone, leaving behind everything he had struggled to achieve. I had come such a long way since my family's days of poverty, when we lived in a housing project. I no longer needed to put cardboard in my worn-out shoes. Why would I leave my gorgeous wife, who promised to patiently wait for me in our beautiful home on North Padre Island, Texas? Why would I leave a successful medical practice and risk my life to come to a place like this? Why would I trade in civilian luxury for military issue? Why would I trade an office full of loyal patients and staff to suit up and ship out? Perhaps most puzzling of all, why would I trade personal security and safety for violence and mayhem?
There was more to my sense of obligation and service to my country than the obvious. I accepted the fact that there were thousands of soldiers, civilians, and families who had already made the ultimate sacrifice; my service would be only a small contribution. I would be making an insignificant personal sacrifice, especially compared to those who had served before me and to those who were about to do the same.
I may have been groomed for this mission since childhood. It is said that the ghosts of our past haunt us until our days on this planet are done. These spirits are constantly nipping at our heels and looming in the shadows, ever present, no matter what our triumphs or failures may be. Had my past finally caught up with me? Had my own personal demons followed me to the desert? Had they, perhaps, sent me there in the first place?
I became lost in thought, hypnotized by the sound of the helicopter blades. I was no longer conscious of my surroundings, which was dangerous in a combat zone. The constant hum of the engine slowly faded, and I began to drift back to my childhood, those long-lost but not forgotten days of violence, poverty, fear, and devotion. As I left one world, a vivid, frightful picture of a previous world gradually emerged. I began to think about my father ...
Chapter Two
Saturday Night Fights I am absolutely sure that a lot of Daddy anger has more to do with unrealized dreams than with messy rooms. Trust me. You're not really angry at your kids. You're angry at somebody else, somebody who is a far less distinguished person than he dreamed of being. ~ Hugh O'Neill
My childhood world could not have been any further removed from Iraq than if it had been written in the pages of a classic novel. I began to relive the story of my past as it unfolded in my mind and overpowered my hot, sweaty, sandy reality. What slowly emerged was a scene as all-American as watching the Red Sox play at Fenway Park on a bright summer afternoon; or biting into a piece of homemade apple pie with vanilla ice cream melting and dripping over the sides; or smelling popcorn and cotton candy at a Fourth of July parade while standing on the curb in a small New England town, waving an American flag. It all seems so picture-perfect—or so you'd think.
It was autumn 1965, a typical fall evening in New England, the kind perfectly captured by a Norman Rockwell painting. The air was brisk, and the colorful dry leaves rustled in a cool evening breeze as the sun began to set. The harvest moon reared its bright orange head with its mysterious Mona Lisa smile.
A small, historical industrial city in northern Rhode Island, consisting mostly of French Canadian immigrants, was the center of my childhood and young adulthood. My parents were lifelong inhabitants of Woonsocket and rarely ventured out from their comfort zone and meager income. Although my parents spoke fluent French, my dad refused to allow his children speak it because of the stigma associated with being a "Canuck." Despite his French Canadian background, he felt there was a negative association with migrant workers and speaking French.
These migrant workers were mostly employed in the once-bustling textile industry that had flourished at the turn of the century. They continued to work at the factories until the early seventies. Now, the mostly vacant redbrick textile plants had broken, boarded-up windows; they would soon be renovated into affordable elderly residences and condominiums.
The remnants of the cobblestone streets were dotted with beautiful maple, elm, and oak trees. The steel rails from the trolley cars tracks were barely visible, buried under many layers of asphalt-laden black top. The weathered gas lamps and hitching posts on the once-bustling Main Street were long gone and almost forgotten. Finding anything like that today is rare, except in preserved historic towns like Newport, Rhode Island, or Fredericksburg, Texas.
I meandered past the apartment houses and brightly colored trees that lined our street, inching my way to the large, dingy yellow, rundown tenement building we called home. My mouth watered as I inhaled the aromas of ethnic foods wafting from the homes and apartments. The smell of fried chicken, home-baked bread, peppers, onions, and sautied garlic and sausage aroused my voracious appetite, as it would with any athletic twelve-year-old boy.
There were five other families living in the three-story wooden building, which was typical for low-income families living in this neighborhood. It was built in the early 1920s to accommodate the massive influx of migrant workers into the city. The building consisted of two columns of three single-family apartment homes stacked on top of each other. The dilapidated building was in poor condition, but its collapsing front porches and peeling exterior paint made the rent very affordable. There were no other reasonably priced options for a family of five in the area. Despite the conditions, it was better than living back in the housing project.
Inside the apartment, there was only one very small bathroom with a claw-foot tub and a handheld shower. In a family of five, there were many arguments over the use of this essential room.
An old chrome dinette set, with scratches on the imitation blue marble-top table, filled the kitchen. On the seat cushions were curled edges of tape that restrained the cotton lining protruding through the plastic covering. The set, stylish in the sixties, had seen better days, but it served its purpose. The dining table is usually a gathering place for families, where they break bread and share their stories about the day. In our home, however, at any moment it could become a place of intense fear and anxiety for the inattentive or foolishly brave.
Dad had his own place at the table. The entire family understood that Dad was the only person allowed to occupy the special place of regality. He was the breadwinner, the head of the household, but we all knew that my mother kept the family together. He laid down the law, and daring to defy that law resulted in a guaranteed slap to the back of the head. It was an expected consequence of committing such a heinous violation.
Dad strategically positioned himself closest to the stove so he had easy access to the food when my mother was not available to get up and cater to his needs. More importantly, Dad had a very low tolerance for cold. Sitting close to the source of heat during the colder months gave him the warmth he desperately desired.
The closet-sized pantry at the side of the kitchen offered limited work and storage space. Mom did the best she could with the ragged wooden storage cabinets and the four-foot-long linoleum countertop. This narrow room forced Mom to optimize every inch of workspace.
There were only two sources of heat in the apartment. The main source was the bulky black-and-white cast iron Kalamazoo gas stove, which had a heater attached. The other was a small gas space heater in the living room. The absence of central heat made the New England winters miserably cold. I would stand by the side of the stove, warm my backside, and then quickly run into bed. Having a warmed butt and extra blankets made the night tolerable, but getting out of bed in the morning was unbearable.
We always looked forward to the short, pleasant summers and the moderately cooler autumns. The apartment lacked air-conditioning and ceiling fans, but one or two oscillating tabletop fans made hot humid weather more acceptable.
As a child, I hardly knew that I was living in a low-income family. What we had was all we ever knew. Life seemed normal to me, despite what went on behind our closed doors, and even that sometimes seemed normal. Nevertheless, the living conditions were far better than at the last apartment we lived in, at the nearby housing project. There were no foul odors of cat urine reeking from the crawl space. There were no hookers with their revolving door of visitors. There were no screams for help or bloody beatings going on in the adjacent apartments. However, those screams and beatings were now beginning to happen in the new place we called home.
The walk home might have seemed like a gauntlet for some kids, but for the neighborhood kids, who didn't know the difference, it was normal. However, going home was much different for my siblings, my mom, and me. In a ritual of fear and apprehension, I would stop at the bottom of the apartment stairs, glare up at the door, and wonder what was lurking inside for the evening. What was in store for me just beyond those creaky old wooden doors? I would take a deep breath. The hair on the back of my neck would stand up, and my heart rate would accelerate. I would drag myself up that single flight of stairs, step by step, for what seemed to be an eternity.
Football practice had just finished on that Friday evening, and, like most boys in the neighborhood, I delayed going home. Hanging out on the park wall and gazing at the cool evening sky allowed me an opportunity to escape for a little while from the fear of reality.
I had a vague idea that one day I would wear an NFL jersey. I visualized charging onto the field of one of America's most famous stadiums, such as Lambeau Field in Green Bay, Wisconsin, or Soldier Field in Chicago, Illinois, amidst thousands of cheering fans. It didn't matter what jersey or what team; I just needed to be an NFL player. From a very early age, I was determined to wear a professional jersey. I was willing to make all the necessary sacrifices, endure the hard work ahead, and reach my goal.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from AN UNFORGETTABLE SALUTE by JOHN R. GOUIN Copyright © 2010 by Col. John R. Gouin. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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