“Is this how you want it to end?” The words sliced through my drunken rage with razor-sharp clarity.

I slumped down on the park bench, my bent and dirty physique belying the fact I had only been on earth two score years.

The June sun filtered through the sheltering trees where birds perched on their stage branches, singing to the Creator I hated.

The Staten Island Choo Choo rattled by while I chewed on God’s offer. I knew deep within me if I said yes to God, he’d have granted my request.

Opening Shock

“Gott sei dank! Dien neues Vater,” the nun exclaimed as she carried me toward the American officer standing at attention. “Guten tag, Herr Crane,” she greeted the stranger. “Just think of it, Taylor Happ!” she gushed, calling me by my German name and giving me an affectionate squeeze. “Der Americanischer wants to adopt you.”

Sister beamed with delight at such a miracle — a German orphan escaping the ravages of World War II for a secure life in America. My mind was too young to know that our country was being carved into four sectors for the victors of World War II, and my name was on a role to go to the Russian sector, soon to be part of the Eastern Bloc.

“Herr Crane has informed me you have a brother, Sonny, and a sister, Heidi, waiting at your new home,” Sister continued. “Sonny is 8 and Heidi just a bit older than you. God is so good, Liebchen,” Sister consoled me with a final squeeze. “You have a real family now. Go and be blessed,” she said as she placed my small hand into that of the strange man.

“Thank you, Sister,” he responded as he turned toward the door. I watched my beloved Sister and the only person I knew as Mommy recede from my 3-year-old vision.

When the stranger stopped his car in front of an unknown house, I kicked and screamed with all my baby strength. He simply picked me up, slinging me under his arm like a sack of potatoes, and entered the home. When he set me down inside, a strange lady beckoned me with one hand.

She spoke words I’d never heard before to the boy and girl staring at me. Her tone sharpened when she addressed the adults standing behind the kids.

“Ja, Frau Crane. Ve vit the children German no speak. Ve understand.” Each bowed in acquiescence.

I never heard my mother tongue again.

“Kathryn, we’re shipping out,” Major Crane, my new American father, informed my new American mother. A few days later, we boarded a troop ship bound for New York City.

“Jaye, wake up.” Mrs. Crane shook my shoulders, calling me by my new American name. “The Queen Mary is coming.”

She rushed us three kids topside to stare at this huge ship flying toward us. It was as big as a city, with a zillion twinkling lights shining against the inky darkness. Our sleepy eyes filled with awe over this wondrous sight.

“Hey, squirt,” an American GI called me over to him. “Wanna Coke?” Sonny, Heidi and I had become stars among the weary troops, anxious to get home to family and peace. They showered us with Cokes and candy — until Mrs. Crane found out.

“You will not take anything from those men,” she lectured. “They are American heroes. Let them enjoy their own goodies.

“You are very lucky to come to America,” she continued. “It is the best country in the world. Someday you will understand.”

Our ship docked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, joining countless other somber gray ships, each filled with soldiers anxious to once again feel American soil under their booted feet. But, like the Pilgrims on the Mayflower, my young mind couldn’t comprehend the significance of my landing in America nor the serious trials to come.

 

Hang Tough

 

“I’m through!” Mommy screamed at Mr. Crane. “I want a divorce.”

Divorce? My 7-year-old mind tried to understand that unfamiliar word. A few days later, Mr. Crane boarded the train and vanished from our lives.

Not long after Mr. Crane’s departure, Mommy picked up the kitchen phone and dialed a number.

“Hello? Yes, I need an officer here right away. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Goodbye.”

I hid in my room in terror. Why had Mommy called the police? Is she sending me away, too?

The officer’s gentle knock sounded like the pounding of galloping horses to my frightened heart.

“Ma’am,” he said when Mommy opened the door. “You called for help?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Take this boy away.”

My heart jumped like a jackrabbit in my throat when the officer led Sonny from the house. I peeked through the curtain and saw him open the rear door. Before Sonny got in, he plucked off his shoes, the only missiles available to him, and threw them at Mrs. Crane. “You need your shoes,” she shrieked, throwing them back.

Sonny aimed and heaved a final time before slamming the door against his life with us. He disappeared with the same swift finality as Mr. Crane had.

“If you two German brats ever get the notion of leaving,” Mrs. Crane screamed at me, her face inches from mine, “I’ll make sure you get deported to that hell-hole you came from.” Her booze-laden breath gagged me. “You’ll dig ditches the rest of your life, Jaye. Mark my words. And, Heidi,” she turned on my sister, “you’ll never be anything but a maid.”

Life settled into a numbed desperation as Mrs. Crane sought solace through the bottle. She dragged us from bar to bar, sobbing her plight to any ears that would listen, while Heidi and I sat at mute attention waiting for her to finish.

“Hey, kids,” a patron whispered, careful not to let Mrs. Crane see or hear him. “Have a Coke.” Customers felt sorry for the two little kids who sat night after night, waiting for their drunken mother to take them home.

“How dare you leave food on your plate!” Mrs. Crane screeched, swiping at my ear, while the lone, offending pea rolled around and around my plate. Often, after the dishes had been washed and put away, she would prowl the kitchen, ready to pounce on any fabricated infraction.

“This dish is filthy,” came her familiar charge.

Even with the vivid imagination of a 10-year-old boy, I couldn’t find the dirt that triggered another endless tirade. “You two will wash every dish and pan in this house until you get it right.” Mrs. Crane parked herself on a chair facing the kitchen. “And I will be watching.”

Wrapped in the thunderous silence of hopeless misery, Heidi, who had been purchased by Mr. Crane for a wool coat and 10 U.S. greenbacks, washed while I dried. Mrs. Crane observed and lectured. Heidi bent over the soapy water, hiding her pinched face behind a curtain of blond hair. We limped off to bed after the last pot had been returned to its proper place. The kitchen clock stared down at us, ticking off 3 a.m. in an accusatory manner.

When would we get it right?

Life in Tandem

 

“Here comes Baby Crane and his stupid friend,” my male classmates greeted me with mocking singsong chants. “Baby Crane, Baby Crane.”

I cocked my fists, prepared to defend Long John Silver, my little plastic pirate doll and best buddy in the whole world. “Leave us alone,” I warned.

I couldn’t live without John. He sat at the desk next to me in school or I refused to go. He went everywhere with me. Everywhere. I defended John because he gave me hugs on demand — the only hugs I’d ever known in all my 10 years.

John never criticized me, never screamed at me, listened to all my fears and hopes and was available 24/7. Such loyalty deserved defending.

As the teasing and fights escalated, I got promoted from fourth to fifth grade in a desperate attempt to control my behavior. The only male teacher in the school taught that grade.

Late one afternoon, I sat on a school swing, clutching a bag of valentines for my former fourth grade class, another bag for my fifth grade class — and my faithful friend, Long John Silver.

“Don’t go home.” A voice came to me while I sat there. I knew that voice belonged to God.

“Why are you still here, son?” Mrs. Angel, the school principal, asked as soon as she saw I hadn’t left the school grounds.

I scuffed my toe in the dirt. “I can’t go home, Mrs. Angel.”

“Come into my office,” she invited with a kind smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Mrs. Angel called a friend who served on the police force. When he arrived, the officer took me to Mrs. Crane’s to gather my few belongings. Before I left, she pressed a candy bar in my hand.

I looked down at the chocolate, turning it over and over. The last time Mrs. Crane had given me a candy bar was in Germany, eight years prior, on the day of my adoption.

In one swift motion, I threw the candy bar at Mrs. Crane. The sweetness of being adopted into an American family had turned to the bitterness of reality.

“Come on,” Sarge urged in kindness. “It’s time to pick up my kids.” He took us all to a hamburger joint, where we ate and played. For the first time in my life, I knew what it was like to be and act like a kid.

Later that evening, Sarge approached me. “I’m so sorry, son, but I can’t keep you here. I’m going to take you to the Albuquerque Detention Center until the authorities find a more permanent place for you.” I spent two weeks there, away from the general population, while the adults tried to figure out what to do with me.

“Jaye, we have good news for you,” a staff member of the detention center told me. “There’s a new place in town called All Faiths Receiving Home. They provide temporary housing for needy children such as you.”

The elderly couple who ran “All Faiths” welcomed me with kind smiles and actions. A few months later, they told me, “A wonderful home has been found for you in Santa Fe, Jaye. You’ll move tomorrow.”

The next day I sat as silent as a convict, clutching Long John. As we rolled away from Albuquerque, Mrs. Crane’s jeering words swirled through my memory, growing louder with each passing mile. I took a deep breath, prayed for courage and then blurted out, “When am I going back to Germany?”

“What?” the driver asked, dumbfounded.

“Mrs. Crane said if I ever tried to leave her I would go to Germany and be a ditch digger. Isn’t that where you’re taking me?”

“No, son,” she replied. “You’re going to Sky Top Ranch in Santa Fe.” The driver, Jean Wagner, also known as “Wag,” introduced me to Helen Coit, also known as “Noodles.” Helen was a psychologist, but I never knew this until many years later.

“Welcome to Sky Top Ranch.”

For the next three and a half years, this country haven was my healing ground. Set up like a summer camp, complete with horseback riding, rifle and bow shooting, hikes and day trips, Sky Top gave me my first taste of childhood.

God used Noodles to glue this broken kid back together. In six months, I had stopped fighting, quit all my aggressive antics and retired Long John Silver. I became a normal boy as well as an American citizen.

Then Noodles dropped a bombshell on her 20-plus residents. “Kids, I hate to have to say this, but Wag and I feel we are getting too old to do all of you justice. We will close down Sky Top as soon as we can place all of you.”

Wag, who handled all the adoptions in New Mexico at that time, worked tirelessly to find us permanent homes. One girl, Caroline, and I moved up the road where an old geezer named Jack ran a dude ranch and several hundred head of cattle.

Jack was strict about his rules, but he was always fair. When you had served your punishment, the matter was forgotten. Life continued to be good until the Santa Fe County Welfare Department decided it wasn’t good enough and yanked us out.

I sat in the caseworker’s car, choking back tears. Thirteen year olds don’t cry, I reminded myself. Jack came out of his ranch house, cradling an old Winchester rifle in his arms. This was his first rifle, one he had owned since the early 1920s.

“Here, son,” he said, handing me the gun. “I know how much you like this gun. I want you to have it to remember me by.” There’s no way to describe how much this rifle meant to Jack — or to me!

And so this crusty old guy, who had become my father figure, joined the others who’d disappeared from my life into that black vortex of oblivion.

Through the “benevolence” of the welfare system, I inhabited 14 foster homes in fewer than four years. Because I became known about town, many wonderful, busy people opened their homes to me so I could graduate from one high school. One lady taught me the financial ropes, helping me to sign my first lease even before I graduated. They made sure I had enough food to eat.

I got a job as a bagger at a local grocery store, attended high school full time and had my own pad. With money in my pocket and my own place, I enjoyed a new and positive popularity.

Then I met Mrs. Crane’s savior demon: Booze-Alcohol-Hooch.

“Jaye, wanna go to the drive-in?” a buddy asked. “We’re gonna get wasted.”

“Count me in.” My lonely heart was primed and ready for a fresh experience.

The next day I awakened to an important revelation. Wow, I realized. That was great. I got to forget I’m the welfare kid in school. I got to forget I’m the only homeless kid in class. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was like everybody else. This stuff is God’s elixir, I decided.

I didn’t drink every day, but when I did, it was with the determined purpose of a total blackout. Booze became my road to normalcy. Get wasted. Forget your situation. Be like your buddies.

Only my steely resolve to be a civil engineer kept me focused. I knew I had to graduate with good grades to get into college.

 

Cherry Blast to Hell

 

I sat in the air-conditioned library of New Mexico State University, savoring the rare silence around me. But inside, my thoughts raged.

America had been good to me. She granted me citizenship with all its rights, privileges — and responsibilities. I knew that boys my age were dying half a world away in Southeast Asia, while I enjoyed the security of campus life, working toward my dream of a civil engineering degree.

“Hey, man, why the long face?” A college buddy slapped me on the back before parking himself across the table. He studied me through a haze of long hair and thick, round glasses. His psychedelic t-shirt matched the confusion I felt.

“I don’t know what to do, dude,” I responded. “I gotta join the military. I owe it to my country.”

“You flipped out, man?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows until I thought they would meet the bandana tied around his head. “Your draft number is in outer space, and they don’t send college dudes.”

“You don’t understand,” I tried to explain. “Even though the Cranes were the scum of the earth, they saved me from living in East Germany. So many people have helped me get where I am today, I feel I hafta enlist.”

I had studied the Vietnam War along with my college classes, including the life and times of Ho Chi Minh. I came to the conclusion that my beloved country had no business in this war, but, as a citizen, it was my duty to serve when she called. To ensure a place in combat duty, I joined up for airborne training in the Army. But during Basic the brass discovered my ability to change a light bulb and put me in radio school. I was scared to death of electricity in reality; as usual, the Army got it wrong!

“You either put me in jump school or I go home — sir,” I said, my PFC chin jutting out. They recognized my determination to fight and sent me to jump school.

“The jump won’t hurt you, but the quick stop can,” intoned Sarge with a favorite airborne line. After two weeks of intensive training, learning to fall from airplanes without injury to ourselves, we prepared for graduation. We buffed our jump boots to a painful shine and checked every inch of our dress greens for perfection. Soon, every rookie jumper there would have the coveted airborne pin — silver wings flanking a parachute — pinned to his uniform.

“You’re the sorriest looking bunch of losers I’ve ever seen in all my years of service,” a sergeant I’d never seen before barked at us, contempt dripping off each clipped word. He exuded perfection from the tip of his green beret to the gloss of his booted toes. “I don’t know how we can win any war with such guaranteed failures.” His snort filled the oppressive silence. “Any one of you lowlifes who think you’re good enough for Special Forces, fall out to the right.”

I’m not in the least bit interested in being a Green Beret, I thought. But I’ll be danged if I’m gonna let anyone talk to me like that. I don’t like your attitude. I’m gonna show you just how wrong you are. I fell out to the right.

With the rigorous training completed, I faced a new dilemma. Soon I would ship out to fulfill my obligation to America. I knew I would die, but that was okay. It was my duty to fight, not seek self-preservation. But someone should benefit from my likely death.

“Beverly, will you marry me?” I asked the nice girl I’d been dating. She’ll be able to collect the insurance and have a comfortable life, I thought. Much to my surprise, she agreed.

 

Drop Zone to Madness

 

We married just before the first moon walk and my own trek into the unknown. I gave her a goodbye-forever-God-bless-you-enjoy-the-insurance-money kiss and then shipped out.

The Army stationed me with 350 indigenous troops at a 5^th Special Forces Group “A” camp at Than Tri, located in an area known as The Finger. Cambodia, which surrounded us on three sides, was within easy reach of our 50-caliber guns.

“Hey, Crane,” Captain Thomas announced, gesturing to the enlisted ARVN (Vietnamese Army) soldier by his side. “Meet your radio man. He goes by Quan.”

The skinny Cambodian kid snapped to attention. I returned his salute, then asked, “How old are you, Quan?”

“Seventeen, sir.”

I shook my head in disbelief. Don’t look a day over 13, I thought.

Quan brightened my life that dreary year with his funny antics, ready smile and fierce loyalty. Our work put us together 24/7, and soon we became solid buddies. I opted out of the U.S. Army’s fine cuisine for Quan’s native foods. We used the same mosquito netting for sleeping.

“Quan,” I said, extending my loaded Colt 45, “I’m giving you my gun. I don’t care what you do with the first six bullets — but you have to promise me you will put the seventh between my eyes. I will not be captured. Understood?”

He bowed his promise with great solemnity, dark eyes rounded by my words. Toting that gun around earned him the rank of Big Man on Campus, but I knew I could count on him to keep his promise.

In an all-too-familiar scenario, my unit squatted in miserable silence, the torrential rain soaking the ground and our spirits. I held our rations in one hand.

“Thanks, Uncle Sam, for this fine grub,” I said, acid sarcasm dripping from every word.

A nearby soldier slipped a claymore anti-personnel mine from his pack, expertly dismantled it and started digging out the plastic explosive, C4, packed inside.

“Thank you, God, for C4,” I exclaimed enthusiastically, raising the tin higher. C4 was great stuff. It burned intensely hot and couldn’t be doused, even in a downpour. A few moments over such heat made our Army fare a bit more bearable.

Using C4 for culinary purposes presented one major drawback: It crippled the purpose of the mine. The claymore was designed to slow an enemy attack with multiple injuries over an outright kill. The front of this flat mine sprang open, splaying hundreds of BBs at knee level and below. It was my responsibility to check every claymore in camp for the appropriate amount of C4.

Here, my skill for alcohol consumption served me well. I built a reputation for dismantling a claymore without ever setting my beer down. I held the mine in my teeth while pulling the detonator out with my one free hand. Keeping my beer out of the mud was more important than preserving my life. I expected death’s call, anyway.

 

Nose Dive to Turbulence

 

“Hey, Crane,” my buddies yelled when they found me skulking in the dense vegetation in search of the ubiquitous Viet Cong. “Your time’s up, man. They are sending a hunter-killer group of choppers to get you.”

“Huh?” I blinked my confusion. “Time to go?”

“Yeah, man. You’re going home.”

Home? I can’t go home. I’m supposed to die here so Beverly can get the insurance money. That’s the plan. I prepared to die — not live.

I returned stateside with no plans for survival. Drink continued as my escape to normalcy as disdained war vet joined the former stigma of homeless welfare boy.

I soon found an outlet for my frustration: beating up hippies. I haunted the local bars searching out any long-haired guy who was bigger than I and then beating him to a bloody pulp.

“Sorry, Crane, but you’ve got to stop this pastime,” an officer informed me after my latest foray of hippie thrashing. “We’ve been turning a blind eye, bud,” he continued. “Believe me, you have our sympathy. That’s why we’ve been covering your butt.” He paused. “But now, it’s got to stop, or we’ll have no choice. Next time, you’ll go to jail.” That promise shut down my bloody hobby.

Beverly and I returned to New Mexico State University. She had completed her degree in teaching, while I completed my long-coveted engineering degree. I received a job offer in Kansas City, designing power plants for Black & Veatch.

“You drink too much,” Beverly accused me, cradling our newborn daughter in 1974. “You’re ruining a good career.

“You still drink too much,” she said two years later at the birth of our son. We had moved to Bismarck, North Dakota, so I could build another power plant. My drinking had advanced right along with my career.

“Beverly, I got a job offer to build a bridge in Idaho.”

“You go right ahead and build your lovely bridge,” she shot back. “I’m going home. You’re a good engineer but a better drunk. I’m leaving before it destroys you,” she threatened.

I listened to my wife’s constant yammering about drinking but balked at any change. Nobody would take my path to normalcy from me, not my wife or daughter or son. I bailed before Beverly could carry out her threat.

A move to New York rehabilitating the East River bridges for Steinman, Boynton, Gronquist and Birdsall helped me forget the loss of my family. I also found a woman with the perfect resume for wife number two — Caroline could match me drink for drink.

We had nothing else in common, so I bailed again.

At Steinman, I crafted the reputation of a “get-’er-done” kind of guy. I enjoyed the career of my dreams with the money that goes with it. A mover and shaker. Yet, while flying the fast track to the heights of success, I chose the skids of booze.

“Jaye, can I see you in my office?” the managing director asked.

Last night’s drinking binge hindered my straight-walk progress.

“Yes, sir?”

“Jaye, you’re a fine engineer, and we’re glad you’re on our team. We believe the sky’s the limit to how far you can go, but your drinking is killing that possibility. You’re so valuable to the firm, we’re going to send you to Chit Chat Farms to dry out — all expenses paid.” He paused before resting his knuckles on the desk and hoisting himself to his full height. “You’ll go?” It was more an order than a question.

“Yes, sir.”

“Hello, Jaye.” The tall priest offered a warm, meaty hand. “I’m Monsignor Hertzberg from across the street.” He nodded at the Catholic retreat house. “I’m assigned as your counselor here. May you be blessed.

“By the way,” Monsignor continued. “Christmas is around the corner. You’ll come to our Midnight Mass?”

“Sure.”

I sat in the chapel, soaking in the heavenly music and message of Christ’s birth. Afterward, as I crossed the highway, returning to Chit Chat Farms, I inhaled deeply of the crisp early morning air.

A light, fresh snow lay covering the dirt of Chit Chat Farms and life. Only the tips of the green grass poked through the pristine blanket.

I’m gonna make me a snow angel, I thought, with my usual flip attitude on a life gone sour. I flopped on my back, moving my arms and legs back and forth, up and down in the pure snow.

I stopped to stare up at the inky sky above, dotted with celestial stars. The moon shone, bathing the farm in its soft, clean light. An unfamiliar calm settled over my body, saturating me to the core of my being.

I heard no screaming. No explosions. No fighting. Just glorious, cleansing, protecting silence. I gotta get more of this, I thought, drinking in the tranquility of that moment. This is where I need to be.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Crane,” the counselor at Chit Chat Farms informed me. “It’s New Year’s Eve. Go out and celebrate your new life of sobriety,” she encouraged with a smile.

I left, reminding myself of a promise I’d made to not drink until my daughter’s birthday. I white-knuckled those 64 days, with a soldier’s resolve and honor, then returned to my liquid passport with a vengeance. I quit Steinman’s before they could fire me and promoted myself to homelessness.

The long, low note of the Staten Island ferry announced her cargo of rush-hour passengers. I hurried to my panhandling post. Sympathetic folks pressed coins and Egg McMuffin sandwiches into my outstretched hand — the hand that once sketched power plants and bridges from one end of the country to the other.

After I’d collected enough money to buy a day’s supply of God’s elixir, I stumbled down to the beach to work on my latest problem — how to kill myself without hurting my kids through the stigma of their father’s suicide. Across the harbor lay the Brooklyn Navy Yard, where my American journey had begun 37 years before.

I drank and plotted my demise with the same attention to detail I once used to design power plants. After searching countless angles, my formerly keen engineer’s brain couldn’t find a solution to make my death appear as an accident.

I turned the impotent fury of my failure on God — the God who’d saved me from the Iron Curtain. The God who’d warned me not to return to Mrs. Crane. The God who’d given me that magical night in the snow.

I cursed him. I searched for every bad word I could find in my booze-soaked memory, swearing and cussing out this God who’d watched over me from birth. Why won’t you just zap me and take me out of my misery?

 

Achieving Zero-P or Optimum Flight

 

I wandered into Stapleton Park on a glorious summer day, oblivious to the warm light around me, too focused on the eternal night in which my soul had plunged. God chose this moment to confront me.

“Jaye, is this the way you want it to end?” God interrupted my mental tirade.

My shoulders slumped in defeated victory. “No.”

I knew of a Korean church nearby that hosted AA meetings. At that moment, I pivoted my weary soul from drink and began the trek to sobriety.

As I descended to the basement, I saw people working to clean up the mess from a rainstorm the previous night. I grabbed a mop and joined the cleanup crew.

At the next meeting, I rose and stated the obvious: “My name is Jaye, and I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi, I’m Jack Fitzgerald.” The gentle giant shook my hand. “I’m a fellow jumper; Screaming Eagles, 101^st Airborne. Jumped Normandy and Battle of the Bulge.” He grinned. “We jumpers gotta stick together. You need a sponsor in AA, and I’m it!”

A generous friend loaned me money to find lodging at a boardinghouse in my new life of sobriety. Next, this former elite engineer needed a job.

I learned the owner of a local deli needed someone to work the counter.

“Ever cut meat?” he asked.

“Nope.”

“You speak English. You’re hired. Here’s your apron.”

After a year, I’d moved on to better jobs and pay.

After two years of intense attention to working my AA program, Jack Fitz, my AA sponsor, told me I could call my kids anytime I wanted. I found out from “Grandma” where the kids were. I called the number, fully expecting rejection. They were glad to hear from me! Once again, God gave me a gift for which “Thank you, God!” was too feeble.

“Jaye, this is Beverly.” She’d phoned me from New Mexico. “I need you to be a father. Carmen is into pot, and your son’s getting wild.”

“Do you want them to come live with me in New York?” I asked, hardly daring to hope for a second chance to be a real father.

“Yes.”

Overnight I moved from swinging bachelor to Mr. Mom, loving every minute of it. But after my kids grew up and went their own way, I felt lonely. I began chatting with women over the Internet.

“Crane’s Law,” I groaned after learning that the latest lady I found interesting lived four states away. “Why do all the good women live so far away?”

In trepidation, I typed the dreaded question to Dorothy. Where do you live? I stared at her answer in shock. Two blocks? She lives a whopping two blocks from me? Whoa! Here’s a keeper, I thought with delight.

We arranged to meet. Dorothy and I married on February 13, 1999, and then moved to Colorado where she had friends. At 53, I finally had my act together. Sober. Good job. Beautiful wife. New home.

“Run, Quan, run!” I screamed. In tandem we galloped, hunched over with the lush foliage thwap, thwap, thwapping our faces. As one, we dove to the damp earth. I reached for my radio.

“Backup!” I hollered over rapid gunfire. “We need backup now,” I ordered while giving our position. Over the noise of the intense engagement came a new, unfamiliar sound — female sobbing. Female sobbing? I shook my head. Surely the gooks hadn’t resorted to using female soldiers. The sobbing intensified. I searched frantically for its source. Finally, I felt rather than saw the woman foe. I reached out, grabbed her tunic and spun her around.

My eyes locked with those of the wounded lady gook. Quickly I tore off my sweat-soaked t-shirt to wipe the mingled tears and blood from her face.

“You’re no gook,” I gasped, staring into her lovely face, pallid with fear and pain. “You’re … you’re my wife.” I stumbled out of bed, my eyes sweeping over the apartment turned war zone. “Oh, God, Oh, God,” I cried. “What is happening to me?”

Dorothy put up with the phantom combat turned actuality for nine years before leaving in search of a safer life.

“Jaye,” Leslie, the director for PTSD at the VA hospital, explained, “I’ve been working with Nam vets for 30 years. Your situation is all too common. You brought the war home and are still fighting it.”

Once again I found myself in need of a home.

“How about moving to California, Dad?” my son asked when he phoned. “You’d be close to your grandkids.”

 

Jumpmaster Par Excellence

 

Lord, use my life and lips, I prayed, taking note of the man hovering against the wall, arms folded tight across his chest. I approached with casual caution.

“Welcome to AA, my friend,” I began, offering my hand. “My name is Jaye.”

“Jeff,” he replied, looking down at me with angry, trapped eyes.

“Jeff, it’s an honor to meet you. I was once where you are.”

“How do you know?” he challenged.

“Friend, you are looking at a former Green Beret, Vietnam vet, engineer and homeless New York City panhandler,” I replied. “I had to hit bottom’s basement before God got my full attention. Please, can we sit and talk?” I asked, gesturing at two folding chairs close by.

A faint glimmer of hope flickered in Jeff’s eyes. He shrugged. “Sure. Can’t hurt.”

“You see, Jeff,” I explained, “it’s not about drinking. It’s about thinking we can do anything. Thinking we are in control. Your coming here tonight was a most important step toward recovery. It says you realize that you can’t do it on your own, that you aren’t in control.”

The flicker in Jeff’s eyes brightened — just a bit. Encouraged, I continued. “The first three steps are simply this: I can’t; God can; let him. I’m the problem. Accomplish these three steps and the rest will flow like melted butter.”

Later, as I pulled my car out of the parking lot into the street, I raised my voice, praising the God I’ve learned to love and trust. “God, thank you for the honor of using me tonight with my new friend, Jeff.” A smile touched my lips at a distant memory. “You’re better than a plastic doll named Long John Silver. You’re better than the false comfort I got from the bottle.”

As I rolled to a stop for a traffic light, my mind turned to my favorite song. I began humming: Amazing grace/how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.

The traffic light blurred to a red puddle as my eyes filled. I once was lost, but now I’m found/was blind, but now I see.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus, for saving this blessed but undeserving wretch. You are the Divine Jumpmaster. Guide me to live out my days in and for you. Amen.”