Gunnery Sergeant Fleming Reuben Diebolt, better known to me and my siblings as Grandpa Flem was a history lesson and comedy show all in one dinner.  Now, I was about the only one who laughed, or who was interested in the history from that time, but it didn’t matter.  We all had to eat together, which meant listening to Grandpa’s stories every third Thursday of every third month. This was June 18, 2020, and Covid virus or no Covid virus, Grandpa Flem was coming to dinner.

            As usual, Mom would make her father’s favorite meal, sauerbraten with spaetzle, and cucumber salad.  Apple strudel was dessert. Now, don’t think our family ate like that every night. Only on the third Thursday of the third month.  The rest of the time, we ate like normal Americana, pizza, chicken McNuggets, Kentucky Fried chicken, or occasional meatloaf or spaghetti.  Things like that.

            So, if for no other reason, we all looked forward to Grandpa Flem coming because of the sumptuous Pennsylvania Dutch food we would get.  Now, I liked Grandpa Flem for many reasons, not just the spread of food, which I thought was just a little hypocritical of Mom because she led Grandpa Flem to feel we ate that way all of the time.  But, don’t think too bad of her.  She was a nurse, and anyone with a lump of sense in his brain would know she didn’t have time to cook that way every day.  And besides that, my dad, Captain Thomas Morton, had been killed in Iraq, so Beverly, my mom, had her hands full raising me, my young sister, Shelley, who was 11, and my baby brother, Gordon, who was seven.  Oh, I’m the oldest.  I am Thomas Morton, Jr., and I’m 13.

            Military service sort of runs in our family.  Grandpa Flem had been a gunnery sergeant in the Vietnam War, and boy did he have the stories to tell; new ones every time he came to dinner.  Kind of like in those three months he didn’t visit, he said he was back in Vietnam getting new stories for us to hear.

            Anyway, the stories always made Mom sad or mad.  I guess they made her think of my dad, and once I heard her say that his “crazy tales” were a mockery to men and women who had died in war.  I didn’t get that, but, hey, you know, everybody thinks different.  Right?  Grandpa told her that was just his way of getting through the war.  I didn’t get that either because the war had been over for almost 50 years. My sister didn’t appreciate Grandpa’s humor, or she just didn’t get it.  That girl was way too much into her phone for being 11.  Gordon just wanted to eat and go play video games.   Now, don’t get me wrong.  I like video games, too, But Grandpa Flem was way better than any video game.

            June 18 turned out to be a different kind of visit. 

            “Did I ever tell you kids about the time old LBJ sent me as an ambassador to talk some sense into Ho Chi Minh?” Grandpa said, after stuffing a big piece of beef into his mouth. 

            We had to wait for him to chew and swallow before he continued. He speared another piece of meat, but not before he took a long drink of iced tea.  I thought I saw his hand tremble, but that was just my imagination.

            “I slapped Lyndon on the back and told him I’d be glad to talk to Ho. I told my president I’d make him right proud, and I could tell Ho a few things that might open his eyes a bit.”

            “Like what, Grandpa?”

            “Well, my main mission was to convince Ho he could trust us American boys, and I had a lot of stories to prove it.”

            “Dad, please,” Mom said.

            “Now, let me tell my story, Beverly.  Kids need to know what their old grandpa did in Vietnam.”

            Shelley was through with her meal.  She said, “May I be excused?”

            “Yes,” Mom said, “but first give your grandpa a kiss, unload the dishwasher, and we will have dessert in the living room.”

            “But, Mom,”

            “Now,” Mom said and pointed her finger toward the kitchen.

            “Can I do it later?” Shelley had the worst whine I ever heard.

            “Mom, she just wants to text on her phone,” I said.

            Grandpa interrupted.  “Before you go, Shelley, let me tell this one story.  It’s about a girl just a bit younger than you.  Then, I’ll unload the dishwasher for you.”

            Shelley smiled and sat back down.

            “You see, once, I think it was about 1966, there was this air strike, and my unit was in the district of Chu Chi.  We were supposed to be the ground cover.  Well, helicopters were coming from all directions dropping our boys out of the sky.  My troop was outside of a village, and we watched those American and Australian soldiers, like a swarm of flies, pepper the blue sky.”

            “How’s that going to make Ho trust Americans?” I asked.

            “Just listen.  I ain’t got to the good part.  People in this village began running around acting all crazy.  I just knew they were going to get killed.  But, my guys, we knew they were just simple folk. ‘We’ve got to save these people,’ I told my boys.  The zinging of guns could be heard getting closer.  One of my men. . .”

            “Were you the leader, Grandpa?” I asked.

            “Sure I was, and I was going to make sure my troop did the right thing.  You have to keep honor in your soul, Thomas.  Don’t you ever forget that.  All of us picked out old people and children to grab.  I saw the prettiest little girl, about your age, Shelley, and she was just standing in the middle of the village crying.  She was barefoot and holding some old raggedy doll. I didn’t think a thing about it.  I ran right for that little girl, grabbed her up and ran back to the covering of the trees. I had to zig, and I had to zag because by now, the Vietcong were shooting at us.   I held her in front of me and kept her head against my chest, so if I got hit, my body would protect her.  Yes, sir, I saved that little girl’s life, and that made me feel I had done something good.”

            “Anything else happen then, Grandpa?”  I asked.  I noticed that Shelley was listening and smiling.

            “Did you save anymore children, Grandpa?” Shelley asked.

            “Oh for sure.  Lots and lots of children.  After all, none of this war business was their fault.  I remember, it wasn’t too long after that,” he stopped to sip his tea and get a bite of spaetzle.  Again, I saw that tremor, and I thought his eye twitched, but he was my grandpa, and he was a hero.  “As I was saying, not long after that, one of the divisions, don’t remember which one, was on a search and destroy mission.  My troop had just stabilized Bo Ho Su near the 17^th parallel.  Now, we had been told that some of those Vietcong were putting explosives on little children and sending them out to trick our boys and blow us up.”

            Shelley said, “Oh, no.  Did the children get blown up, too?”

            “Yes, but the objective of the search and destroy teams was to find the enemy or anything suspicious, kill them and withdraw afterward.  Now, my troop had gotten the reputation of being soft on the gooks…”

            “Dad, please, we don’t talk like that around here.  Please call them Asians or Vietnamese,” Mom said.

            “What’s a gook?” This was he first time Gordon had opened his mouth.

            “Now, see what you’ve done,” Mom said.

            “All right, you’re right.  Our troop had gotten the reputation of being soft on the Vietnamese people, but we didn’t care.  We just knew we had to get out of that war and still like being in our own skins.  Anyway, knowing how those S and D boys could be, we went into Bo Ho Su and, again, focusing on old people and children, we hid them in a cave nearby.  Now, I got worried the fathers and mothers might get killed by accident – it was always accident – no American soldier would deliberately kill innocent civilians – so, while my boys watched our small group of villagers, I went back to face the S and D ground forces and tell them not to bother Bo Ho Su.”

            “Did they listen to you?” I asked.

            “Of course they did.  Those boys saw that I was Marine Gunnery Sergeant Fleming Diebold, and they knew not to give me no trouble.”

            “Wow! Grandpa.  You were a hero to those people.  I bet they named something after you for saving them,” I said.

            Again, his eye twitched, and he asked my mom if she would get him some coffee.

            “Sure, Dad, and it’s strudel time.  Story time is over.  Remember, you have to unload the dishwasher,” Mom said.

            “But, Mom, we don’t know what Ho Chi Minh said after Grandpa told him what his troop did to protect the Vietnamese people,” I said.

            Grandpa tousled my hair and said, “Oh, your mom is right.  I’ll tell you about old Ho and me next time I come,” Grandpa said.

            After strudel time, Grandpa went to my bedroom where he always stayed when he visited.  He said he was tired, and he had a long drive the next day.  Mom walked him to the bottom of the stairs.

            I watched as he hugged my mom.  “You’re a sweet daughter,” he said.  He turned to go up the stairs, then turned around and said, “You haven’t ever said. . .”

            “Not a word, Dad.  I would never,” Mom said.

            What did that mean?

            After Gordon and Shelley went to bed, I stayed up to help Mom. 

            “What are you doing?” she asked.

            “Well, Grandpa never did unload the dishwasher.  I thought you might need some help.”

            “Young man, you just might be growing up a bit.  Thanks.

            After the dishes were put away, I said, “Mom, can I ask you something?”

            “Sure, son.  You know you can ask me anything?”

            “I didn’t mean to, but I overheard you and Grandpa talking before he went to bed.  What was that all about?”

            Mom sighed and dried her hands.  She chewed on the corner of her mouth for a second.  “Sit down, son.”

            Somehow, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this, but I had asked.

            “I – well – I think you’re old enough to know this, but don’t ever say anything to your grandpa.  He would be – well – it just wouldn’t be good.  Have you ever heard of PTSD?”

            “No, what is that?”

            “It stands for post traumatic stress disorder.  It’s a mental condition. . .”

            “Grandpa’s crazy?”

            “No, he’s not crazy.  Just listen.  It’s a mental condition that is triggered by a really terrifying event.  It’s pretty common in the military.  People with PTSD can have flashbacks, and sometimes, their mind changes things around, so they can cope with the memory.”

            “So, what does that mean with Grandpa?”

            “Well, have you ever noticed his hands shake or his eyes twitch?”

            “Yeah, he did that tonight.”

            “Well,” Mom said, “that’s part of his PTSD.  Your grandpa has also reconstructed many experiences in Vietnam, so that he can live with the things that happened there.”

            “Are you telling me that not one word Grandpa has ever told us happened?”

            Mom shook her head.  “No, they happened, just not like he remembers.  Like, tonight, that little girl Grandpa saved”

            “Yeah. He didn’t save her?”

            My mother took a long breath.  “No, he was the one who shot her.  He said he could ‘smell’ explosives on her body.”

            No, I thought. No, no, no.  This was not my Grandpa Flem.  “And, the village his troop hid in caves?”

            She put her arms around me.  “His troop was the search and destroy team sent to wipe out everything in their path.”

            I sat in silence or a long time.  Mom didn’t say another word.  Finally, I said, “I don’t care.  He’s my Grandpa Flem, and I love him, and he loves us.”

            “Yes,” Mom said, “that’s why he comes here every three months on the third Thursday.  He wants to know you three are okay.”

            “Why that date?”

            “Because it was exactly three months after his medical discharge from the Marines on the third Thursday that he tried to take his own life to punish himself for the things he had done.”

            “He needs to come live with us,” I said.

            “He will.  Very soon,” Mom said.

            I had a habit of picking the skin on the sides of my nails until they tore and bled.  I was doing that now.  “Can I go to bed, now?” I asked.

            Mom nodded.  I kissed her on the cheek and made up the couch in the living room, so that Grandpa could sleep in my bed.