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Fourteen Good Men.

Mike Schneider

    All I intended to do that Monday morning was what I do every day, walk over to Lake Merritt and eat my lunch. But some days don’t go as planned.
    I have my own accounting firm on Harrison, near 12th, small business and personal income tax, not much corporate; work it by myself nine months of the year, have a couple retired CPAs who help out during tax season, February through April. They’re partners, been together since the ‘80s. The money they make with me funds their annual sojourn to British Columbia, where they have a cabin on Kootenay Bay. They stay three months. Superlative fishing, they say, also do a little hunting.
    Without James and Ted in the office my mostly one-man accounting firm can get pretty lonely, so every day at 11:30 I walk about a mile down 12^th Street to Lake Merritt, the 140-acre freshwater/salt water gem of Oakland’s urban environment. Sometimes I also walk the foot path that encircles it, another two and one-half miles, give or take, but usually I just sit and people watch. Dog watch, too, of course. There are always walkers, joggers and bike riders. Not many skaters as it gets way too rough in places.
    This particular day I was eating my salami with Hellmann’s Real Mayonnaise on soft rye and watching a pair of swans swimming about 50 yards out when I caught sight of this old man approaching from the left. Had to be at least 70, maybe older. Even from a distance I pegged him as one of the city’s unfortunate homeless, who often inhabit the park land surrounding the lake. His soiled blue jeans, well-worn tan uniform shirt with round and rectangular dark spots where patches with company logos had been removed, told the story.
    He surprised me because I don’t think he intended to stop but as he passed he turned his head quickly, stood still, studied me for a few seconds, then took a seat at the other end of the bench.
    “You look like Damon Thomas Atkins,” he said. “Are you related to him?”
    “Not that I’m aware of. Is he a friend of yours?”
    “Are you from Walnut Creek?”
    “No.”
    “Are you sure? Damon is. You sure look like him.”
    He seemed on the cusp of being confrontational, I didn’t answer him, quickly finished my sandwich, and left. I have nothing against homeless people but many have mental issues. I didn’t want to become proof this man did.
    Back at the office I scanned June’s figures, forwarded by 2-for-1 Carpet Cleaning, into the computer, arranged them as needed, called three clients with minor questions, and didn’t think any more about the homeless fellow in the park.
    But the next day he came back and again took a seat on my bench, this time with a sandwich of his own. Peanut butter and jelly. I was glad to see he had peanut butter, necessary and manageable protein for folks without access to refrigeration and only limited ability to cook.
    “You look like Adam Rogers,” he said. “Do you know him?”
    “I don’t,” I replied.
    That was the end of the conversation. No attitude this time. We both quietly ate our sandwiches and left.
    “See you tomorrow,” he said as we both got up to go.
    “Yeah. Take care.”
    He didn’t doubt me like he did the first time. Frankly, I was somewhat intrigued by how I could look like two different people. I suppose my looks are rather common, 5-11, 175 pounds, kind of squared face, non-descript brown hair, brown eyes, no facial hair or tattoos, 39 years old. Kind of an everyman, I guess. I think I actually looked forward to seeing him again. Perhaps get to know him a little better, learn his story.
    Wednesday a morning appointment with a client whose record keeping can be a major challenge, ran longer than expected and I got to the lake half an hour later than usual. He was waiting for me, again with a peanut butter sandwich, untouched.
    “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
    “Me, too. I don’t like eating late, had some work I couldn’t avoid.”
    I ate silently, contemplating all the goose poop surrounding us, no doubt from a whole flock hanging out the night before, when he said, “Pedro Garcia. I knew you looked like somebody. Pedro Garcia. Is he your relative?”
    “No.”
    “Pedro lives in Fruitvale. You live out that way?”
    “No, I don’t.”
    I took a couple more bites of my sandwich, corned beef on toasted but cold pumpernickel with a little sauerkraut, thousand island dressing and unmelted Swiss cheese—kind of an on-the-go Reuben that I only make on days when I don’t have afternoon appointments, as corned beef stays on my breath well into the evening.
    “This Pedro is a friend of yours,?” I asked.
    “Yes, a good one. Known him since I was 22.”
    “How long ago was that, if I may ask?”
    “Fifty-four years.”
    “It’s nice to have a friend that long.”
    “Not always,” he said, got up and left.
    On Thursday I looked like Dave “Fresno” Wallings. Friday it was Jason Burge.
    “That’s five different people you’ve said I look like. I’ve always heard everyone has a twin somewhere but I’ve never heard it stated everyone is a sextuplet. How is it I look like all of them?”
    “You just do. You masticate your food like Fresno, about every fourth chew your lips part slightly. You sit like Atkins, erect, never leaning back against the back of the bench, have that good posture when you walk, no slight hunch, not a bit of roundness in your shoulders.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. That’s how I spotted you. You were eating your sandwich but it just as easily could have been Atkins, sitting there straight as a board eating a pomelo or drinking a 33 beer. You’re older, of course, but just like him.”
    And so it went for the next nine days. I looked like Travis Littleton, MaQwe Washington Robinson, someone named Kingfish Willis and six others.
    Every noontime encounter began with my alter ego, as he perceived it, then we’d talk about a few other things as we became more familiar with each other. I pulled out of him that he was in HVAC with a going business employing six journeymen, plus a lady who ran the office before alcohol and drugs got to him about 15 years ago. He said by then the pain of a nearly lifelong leg injury that never healed correctly had outrun the strongest pain medications doctors would prescribe. He supplemented them with street drugs and alcohol. Mostly alcohol.
    “People—my kids, my friends, my shrink—like to tell me it was a mistake, as though they can feel the pain. They have no idea. I still take the doc’s pills, and drink, can’t imagine what life would be like without them, but know I would choose not to live it,” he said.
    “Football injury?”.
    “No but I did play in high school, all-conference halfback.”
    “What was it then?”
    “Something worse,” was all he said.
    By Friday of the third week I felt we were comfortable enough with each other that I asked him, “Ok, who do I look like today?”
    “No one,” he said.
    “Well that’s a surprise. No more names?”
    “Nope. Used them all up.”
    “Who are they?” I asked.
    “Who were they?” he said. “Fourteen good men. They were fourteen good men I killed.”
    While most people would have been taken aback, I knew him well enough by then to know he wasn’t a serial killer. Plus, I never heard of a successful serial killer boasting about his accomplishments.
    (But I must say, later I sharply drew in my breath when I realized a serial killer could indeed brag about his past crimes, if he knew he was talking to his next victim!)
    “That’s not what I expected to hear. How did you kill them?”
    “By being a team player. Or rather, trying to take one for the team that I shouldn’t have.”
    “Football?”
    “Vietnam.”
    “Team player?” I asked.
    “Yes. Squad leader. On patrol, rooting out Viet Cong northwest of Da Nang.”
    I could tell he was uneasy talking about it, his fingers were fidgeting, but I wanted to hear the story.
    “And you found them?”
    “Yes, machine gun nest halfway up a small hill. The lower part had been Agent Oranged, higher up was still heavily vegetated. The machine gunners were in the vegetation. We couldn’t see them from our position but they had a clear view of us.”
    “I can see how that wouldn’t end well. But how did you kill them?” I asked, hoping I was not digging too deeply.
    “I was the squad leader. The men respected me, loved me, would have done anything for me. Twice before when we were pinned down I charged the enemy and wiped them out. Got a Bronze Star the first time, oak leaf cluster for it the second.”
    “That’s remarkable, you’re very brave.”
    He looked out at the lake.
    “Scared shitless, actually. But didn’t want to send anyone to their possible death. Couldn’t stand to think about the parents or wives of any of my men hearing a knock at the door, opening it and seeing two marines standing there.”
    We were both silent for a few moments. I don’t believe he liked thinking about what had happened but sensed he wanted to tell me anyway. Like maybe he considered me a friend with whom he could share the horrible experience.
    “How many men were in your squad?” I asked.
    “Fifteen, including me.”
    “Oh my goodness! All of them.”
    “Yeah.”
    He pulled a small flask from his pocket, one of those not much bigger than palm size, the kind you might take to a ballgame, drank three swallows like it was water.
    “Want to hear the rest?” he asked after slipping it back in his pocket.
    “If you want to tell me. Yes, of course.”
    “In school I could run the 100-yard dash in ten flat but I couldn’t do it with all the paraphernalia you wear in combat so I stripped down to pants, boots and shirt. No rifle, canteen, helmet, MRE, first-aid kit, not even my M-16. I took one grenade in each hand, told my men to cover me, and lit out to send the two machine gunners to the big rice paddy in the sky.”
    I could see tears forming in the corners of his eyes as his memory of the long ago event came front and center.
    “So what happened?”
    “Earlier that morning we were going through some heavy vegetation, didn’t see a log, a fallen tree, roots held it about a foot off the ground. Whacked my shin good, hurt like hell.”
    “Was it broken?”
    “Probably but I didn’t know it. Cracked maybe. All I knew is it hurt big time bad but I told myself if I could stand the pain for about eight seconds, I could get close enough to pop a grenade into their bunker and they’d be gone. That’s how I killed them, by not sending someone else.”
    “I don’t understand,” I said.
    “Everything went great for several seconds, then my leg snapped right in two. Ever see Joe Theisman break his leg that time when he played for the Redskins? It was like that. Like my knee was half a foot lower than it used to be.”
    “I can’t imagine the pain. But how did they get all your men but not you?” I asked, a small part of me wondering if he really had killed them.
    “By them trying to rescue me. Even though I didn’t need rescuing. When I fell I came to rest behind two large stumps left from trees that had grown together, like conjoined twins. It was unlikely they could’ve hit me.”
    Full-fledged tears were running slowly down his cheeks now, as he continued.
    “Black Jack Dugan was the first one out. He came running toward me, I yelled to him to go back, that I was ok, protected. But he just kept coming, got within the length of a bowling alley from me before they cut him down.
    “Damon Thomas Atkins came next, then Clyde Tombaugh Jacobs, Nate Williams and on and on. I yelled for all of them to go back but they didn’t listen. It all happened very fast, as soon as one went down another came out of the gate. This was the third time I’d put my life on the line for them, they all put theirs on the line for me and lost. Lost because I wasn’t smart enough to send someone else.”
    “That’s so tragic,” I said. “How did you get out?”
    “I was still about 30 yards from their location when I went down but took one of the grenades—I don’t know where I got the strength or accuracy from—hurled it their way and it went straight in the front of their little dugout like a guided missile, killed both of them. I crawled and pulled myself downhill to MaQwe, our radio man, called home base. They sent Hueys to pick me up and retrieve the bodies.”
    I had some tears in my eyes now, too.
    “That’s an amazing story. It must be very upsetting to tell it. Your hands are shaking,” I said.
    “It is but you know what’s more upsetting?”
    “No, what?”
    “That guys like you sent us there!” he said as he sprang up from the bench, turned and started punching me.
    “Fourteen good men killed because guys like you in suits in Washington D.C., sitting on your asses with nothing better to do than start a war half way across the world for some half-assed reason you probably can’t even remember. Do you hear me? I killed 14 good men because you said it was ok as long as the president wanted it, and your kids didn’t have to go. Fourteen good fucking men!”
    “I’m not in Washington,” I yelled. “I’m here in Oakland, always have been! I wasn’t even born then!”
    Fortunately, he was an old man and couldn’t hit very hard but he had his legs straddling mine, leaning against me with his left forearm across my throat, punching me with his right fist and I couldn’t get away from him. Tears were streaming down his face as I kept moving my head, trying to avoid his punches. Twice his fist hit the bench instead of me, and a couple times the air.
    I don’t know how long it lasted but it couldn’t have been but a few seconds before about five people pulled him off, held him on the ground until the police got there. Thank God for cell phones!
    An ambulance showed up, too. The police took statements from several people while the old man remained handcuffed in the back of the cruiser. They asked me to come by the station later. I had no serious injuries but quite a bit of blood on my face and clothes. The paramedics cleaned me up with anti-bacterial wipes before applying one butterfly, and two regular, bandages.
    They were still working on me when the police left. As they drove away the old man turned around as best he could, mouthed, “Sorry.”

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