by Paul Drew

Excerpt

Chapter 1
August 1966: In the Beginning

"I never expect a soldier to think."
The Devil's Disciple, Act II
George Bernard Shaw

He is the most fascinating man I ever met, perhaps the most fascinating man who ever lived. You decide. I'll present the truth as I know it and, then, you decide. Amidst the natural beauty of war-scarred Vietnam I witnessed in him acts of human dignity, personal sacrifice, and selfless kindness. Without being maudlin about it, I saw him live, truly live, those generously, practiced miserly. More, though, he inspired the same in all whom he touched, as well as all who had heard about and sought to be touched by him. A man of action without bravado; a man capable of long, deep thought who did not, could not abandon the world or the people who suffered in it; a compassionate human being. Have I missed anything?

Yes, humility. Above all, he was a humble man. And there is one more thing about him I could not have known during our time together. He had suffered. By the simplest of definitions, war provokes suffering: physical pain, emotional torment. Some get over it an extent, that is, they get on with their lives after the immediacy of war passes. Some are scarred fort he rest of their lives. Some rise above it.

I wonder what it is about the war that brings out the worst in some, the best in others. How can members of the same species act so profoundly different toward each other? Some turn downright nasty. Others, despite the cruelty they witness on a grand scale, numbed by the numbers alone of incidental atrocities and random victims, shield themselves within a cocoon of seeming indifference to the horrific acts they cannot deny. I know how perfunctory it sounds to reduce the complexities of war to a simplistic statement about the presence of good and evil in the world. For it would be more than presumptuous to claim that I, Nick Calloway from Harrison, New Jersey, could decide, or claim, or even surmise that that man over there is inherently bad. That one, too. But he, he is good, and he, and she.

In general, I cannot do that; nor, I feel comfortable in saying, can anyone. Then comes along the exception that proves the rule, one who rises above the banal. he stands out immediately because he is so unlike so many of us. He travels through life, unlike ourselves, without the baggage of pettiness and jealously. He is a man obviously at peace with himself, not oblivious to events and circumstances, but also not allowing them to influence or control him in any way. Fortunate indeed the person who knows this man. More fortunate the person who shares his time and space and experiences with him, who learns from him. Most fortunate the person who lives on to tell this man's story. Call me lucky, I guess.