The Doctrine of Presence. Benjamin Vance

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      I guess it’s not such a bad thing being around a bunch of human misfits when about all they love is old memories and young animals. The people you have to watch are those people who abuse animals. Jeffrey Dahmer started out abusing animals, and look what he did. No, give me a bunch of ugly, old, decrepit has-beens any day, especially if they’ve served their country with honor. My God, what accomplishments they’re capable of, mentally and physically, is beyond description. In moments of deep thought, usually on the crapper, in the shower or driving, I still shake my head at the synergistic innovation our crazy bunch created. Most of them believed this: Consider every day a holiday; every meal a feast and you’re sure to enjoy life.

      Charley “Gimp” Lindell caught an Improvised Explosive Device gift from the Taliban in Ascrackistan and was missing a section of his tail bone and nerve tissue that kept him from walking without excruciating pain in his left leg. The Marine Corps and Veteran’s Administration doctors wanted to remove his left leg with the sciatic nerve causing his pain, but he refused. Initially he lived on pain killers and was no good to anyone, but ultimately a great VA psych doctor got him off the drugs and onto an exercise regimen, which over the years relieved a lot of pain and vastly improved his self-worth. He had a little girl friend who doted on him, but he considered himself undesirable I guess; thus the self-created nick-name “Gimp”. He’d never been married. Although handsome in a skin-head sort of way and possessing the upper body strength of Schwarzenegger, he seemed preoccupied with his IED experience, to the detriment of everything else in his life. Why he started hanging with us; I’ve never understood. He was 36 years old during the time.

      Greenie Mitchell had been in the Navy for a stint and started attending our monthly lunch and bitch sessions because he pretended to be an aspiring three-gun master and retirement was not his forte. He knew everything about weapons, but couldn’t shoot worth a shit. In that regard he was a contradiction. He had been an armorer for the Arizona Army National Guard for over forty years and could do anything with a weapon; anything except shoot it accurately. Sometimes it bewildered and hurt him to see someone else shoot much better than he could, with weapons he had customized. What a talent Greenie had though. No one knew his real name, or if Greenie was his given name. No parent would do that to an offspring … would they? Greenie was a bit chubby and 59 years old during the time.

      Alfred “Fredo” Alvarez got his nick-name from haunting the bars and cat-houses of Nogales, and some other border towns between New Mexico and California. I heard someone thought he looked a little like Fredo, from The Godfather. In any case, he above all people, considered himself a ladies’ man. Actually he was a most excellent communications expert, who still ran a MARS station and speculated about strange uses for GPS satellites. He could make two cans and a piece of string broadcast for a hundred miles and he could set up a perimeter alarm that a centipede couldn’t breach. He was a horny old goat and 63 years old during the time.

      Leroy “Leo” Dykehouse was an anachronism. He should have been in the Second World War; perhaps he was. Initially, no one knew much about Leo, except that he had been in Vietnam, Bosnia/Kosovo, Iraq, and Afghanistan. When U.S. troops were pulled out of Afghanistan, he retired. He lived in our home town because his only relative; a sister was there. He was an extreme combat veteran, and medic when needed. He was known to drink too much, and no longer had a driver’s license, although people reportedly saw him riding a Harley on occasion. He was tattooed from head to toe, and Fredo said he had a rubber duck tattooed on his right ass cheek. I don’t know; don’t care how Fredo knew. All I know is that when there was a job to do, Leo was there doing more than his share. No one knew how old Leo was during the time, and he no longer imbibed.

      Dai-uy is Vietnamese for Captain. It is pronounced Dai-uwee or Daiwee. Although I made higher rank in another government organization, I never lost the nick-name. That was thanks to some of the brave men I served with; who I ran into in the States, Germany, Korea and elsewhere from time to time. It seemed everyone wanted to keep me at the rank of Captain. I guess it was just easier to talk to a lower-ranking officer, especially one who left Army Special Forces for a job with Weapons Engineering Development, or whatever. When I consulted with Armed Forces technical weenies, I always seemed to bump into someone I’d known in ‘Nam or elsewhere. They always called me Daiwee, so it stuck. What did I do after I left Army SF? Well, it was lonely but a lot of fun; classified … still. I was almost sixty years old during the time.

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