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Don't Judge A Book

A friend's loss is another friend's gain

By Chuck EdwardsPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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Don't Judge A Book
Photo by Stijn Swinnen on Unsplash

Don’t Judge A Book

The 1960’s were a volatile time in America’s history. Political divide, racial injustice and a musical soundscape that spewed lyrical protest toward the war in Vietnam. Benny hailed from Meridian Mississippi and just after high school his number came up in the draft. The old south had taught Benny, an African American to question and to be leery of the world. His father had been a second-generation sharecropper and barely able to feed his family of eight. Benny was more enlightened than his parents and siblings. He had been given an old tube radio by a man Benny dug a drainage ditch for. In lieu of money, the man paid Benny with the antique radio that still worked quite well. The radio became a companion to Benny and gave him a window to the world far reaching the mid-south. Mystery Theatre and other programs of that era helped Benny use his imagination more vividly than a television which the family never owned.

The morning came when Benny boarded a bus headed for army boot camp in Fort Benning Georgia. As his mom and dad bided him goodbye his asked his father to take care of his radio and to follow the news reports on the war as Benny was certain his first stop after basic training would be Vietnam. The hot Summer in 1968 and the eastward trip on the bus was quite uncomfortable. There were a few rests stops through Mississippi and Alabama. At one gas station in rural Alabama Benny stretched his legs and wanted something cold to drink. The attendant inside was flanked by some locals making conversation. “Where are you going on that bus boy”, one of the men quipped? “On my way to basic training sir.” Without hesitation another man said, you are going to the Nam, so you probably won’t live to pass through anywhere again.” With the men laughing, Benny put a dime on the counter and with soft drink in hand headed back to the bus.

When Benny reached his final destination, the welcoming was far worse than the gas station bunch. The Drill Instructor shouting and claiming to own the young men’s souls would be standard operating procedure for the next ten weeks. Les was a former college football star from Fort Worth Texas. He came from a wealthy family that made their mark in the oil business. Les was the apple that fell far from the tree. While making riches was the central focus for his family, Les bore a social conscious. Seeing the news every night of the war made Les question the system. Why are the poorest of the poor being drafted and he went unscathed enrolling at the University of Texas? Much to his family’s displeasure, Les dropped out in his junior year pursuing a finance degree and enlisted in the United States Army. Les’ military entrance score predicted he was officer material, and the army would help create that path. He was less concerned about that and was eager to serve on the frontline. Les’ cozy life was now in the rearview mirror and the army barracks was a far cry from the country club he once knew. His bunk assignment was on the top with a bunkmate below. “Names Les from Fort Worth… what’s yours?” “Benny, I’m Benny from Mississippi.” Benny was relieved about Les’ friendliness and that he didn’t try to assert himself in the bottom rack as whites had. As the weeks went by, Les and Benny struck up a friendship. As the others got to know Les background, all called him “college boy.”

By graduation both Benny and Les knew what their jobs would be following infantry training. Les bypassed officer training school and opted for infantry. Benny had been assigned training as a medic. Both training regiments happened at Fort Benning so Benny and Les continued their friendship. Both of their upbringing was a stark contrast. Benny was shy in the beginning on conveying his sharecropper roots but became comfortable telling with the trust that was built. Les chose to tell more tales of football and the girl that he broke her heart. Les never bragged about his family’s affluence and wanted to blend in. After both completed their training, orders came down and their platoon was being sent to Vietnam. Both soldiers had grown up in the south and were accustomed to the heat but when the airplane hatch rose, Les said, “I feel like I just got hit in the face with a hot washcloth!” North of one-hundred degrees with the thickest humidity the living conditions on the base were less desirable than boot camp.

It was shear luck that both Benny and Les managed to stay linked from basic to now. There were a few other soldiers that the pair had known since basic, and the familiarity brought positive moral to the men. The new captain of the platoon, Charlie Company was a seasoned soldier and leader. The men had two days in country before an operation would be held with their insertion. Many soldiers were gung-ho, many were nervous. It was common in this conflict to send inexperienced men in first. There was a code that a guy’s life wasn’t worth as much as a soldier who had already served in many battles. They were told contact with the enemy was likely and their platoon would be used for bait, or at least that was the rumor. Benny was very confident in his role as a medic, but war was Greek to him. It’s one thing to administer aid in simulated exercises and another in real time. Les was more bravado about what was ahead and told Benny, “If I get hit, make sure you know how to use that morphine.” Benny snapped back, “What’s that? All I’ve got is aspirin!” The next morning at daybreak Benny, Les and the men from Charlie Company boarded choppers for the thick jungle. This would be the first of many missions the platoon would conduct over the next year. There were lives lost but Benny and Les persevered. During this time Les found out through a letter that the girl he left behind married one of his friends. Benny said, “at least when your friend comes to visit, you won’t have to waste time getting to know his wife!” The two laughed as they often did just try to make it back home alive. Benny didn’t receive much mail but on one occasion before another mission he did. The three-page note was from his mother. The family was uprooted as the landowner sold the farm. She apologized that in order to have some money, they sold Benny’s antique radio to a buyer that revealed it was quite valuable. Benny was heartsick over his family’s upheaval. The only person he had to confide in was Les. “Benny, with all your experience as a corpsman bud, you can go home and be a doctor or something, buy them their own farm.”

Days later would be the most prolific battle the platoon would ever endure. It was projected to be met with considerable casualties. A few men including Les and Benny met with the chaplain at their basecamp to pray. That evening Les approached Benny for a favor. He pulled out a little black book that looked a bit torn and tattered and asked Benny to hold it for him. “Hey bud, there’s a less chance of a corpsman taking a whack than me, so I need you to hold on to it.” Benny asked, “is this raggedy old book where you keep names and numbers of all those Texas beauties?” “Benny didn’t your parents never tell you, never judge a book by it’s cover?” Les opened the book and pulled out a single gold coin and said, “this is my good luck piece my grandad gave me.” “Benny one more thing, here’s an important letter and I need you to drop in the mail when you get back to basecamp if something happens, ok?” Benny agreed and kidded Les about this negative juju. The next morning was one of many helicopter rides into the teeth of danger. The first day was uneventful but as daylight waned the soldiers would conduct a nighttime operation with smaller teams. As the units began to enter the jungle with only the moonlight for sight, the men who prayed with the chaplain hoped those prayers took. After walking nearly two miles the captain ordered the units to set up small positions. Radio men were listening for muffled communications from forward troops. It was eerie quiet when mayhem broke out and a firefight erupted. The enemy had breached the parameter and the battle seemed never ending. Just when the men of Charlie Company seemed to make headway, they were barraged again. Benny was working feverishly to attend to the wounded as there was only one other corpsman with the unit. A sergeant yelled, “Medic over here!” Benny crawled as fast as he could with rounds peppering all over the place. He reached a soldier with serious shrapnel wounds to his chest and stomach and wasn’t breathing. As the medic cleared the blood from the G.I.s face for C.P.R. the face was soberingly familiar, his best buddy Les. In fog of battle there is no time for emotion, just reliance on training and reaction. It wouldn’t be for some hours later sitting on a cot back at basecamp, Benny was overcome with shock of watching his friend die in the dark wore torn jungle. Losing Les was like Benny dying himself; It was personal. Benny kept his word and mailed the letter and held tight to the little black book.

Two years later Benny landed in San Francisco for his permanent place back in the world. Prior to his bus trip back to Mississippi he reached into his duffle bag and pulled out the little black book. He anticipated returning it to Les’ loved ones in Texas. Inside were four puzzling things. A small key, an address, the name Lloyd Parsons and a note to Benny. “Dear Benny, since you’re reading this, I guess things didn’t work out so well and I wanted you to have this brother. Thank you for your friendship. Les.” This seemed a bit cryptic and Benny presumed the address would lead him to the person receiving the book. After a two-day bus ride, he arrived in Fort Worth. He took a cab ride to the address which happened to be Cattlemen Bank of Texas. Dressed in uniform Benny walked into the lobby and asked for Mr. Parsons. A couple minutes later a man dressed in a suit and cowboy boots approached Benny. “I’m Lloyd Parsons, branch manager, what can I do for you?” “Sir my name is Benny”, before Benny could finish his sentence Parsons said, “Benny, I’ve been expecting you, come this way.” The two headed for a small room dedicated for safety deposit boxes. “Benny this is box 241, you have the key?” Benny took out the key, turned the lock and slid the metal drawer out. “Mr. Parsons, I don’t understand?” The banker said, “open it up.” When Benny saw the contents, he was still perplexed. Parsons said, “son this is a gold coin collection Les’ grandfather gave him, and he wrote me a couple of years back and he wanted you to have them, they’re worth right at $20,000.”

In the early nineties, Benny’s mom and dad were laid to rest on a one-hundred-acre farm in Meridian. The farm value skyrocketed through the years and provided a good living for the family. In his 80’s Benny spends much of his time with grandchildren. The house he built by hand is decorated with photos of family and friends. He looks at one framed photo a lot. Two soldiers with arms around one another shoulders. The picture sets a top of a vintage 1946 RCA tube radio.

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About the Creator

Chuck Edwards

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