Five months ago, the Viet Nam War claimed another casualty.
I knew "Bud" for about 5 years. During that time, he lived in a half-way-house type shelter for adults who can't function independently. He subsisted on his veterans' disability pension, supplemented by collecting aluminum cans and dumpster-diving. But at least Bud had a roof over his head, somebody to make sure he ate and (usually) took his meds. He didn't live in a cardboard box under the freeway like so many homeless vets.
Bud spent his days walking or biking around our small community, making the rounds of the two convenience stores, two cafes, and numerous bars; buying a single item at each stop -- a candy bar, a package of Top roll-your-own tobacco, a cup of coffee or a beer, a pair of nail clippers or packet of razors. At the store where I work, we could expect to see Bud three or four times a day, sometimes on an errand for the cook at the cafe next door, sometimes for a book of matches or change for a dollar; filling the hours of the day with continuous activity, trying to still the voices in his head with some small measure of human contact. Sometimes Bud would ride his bike down to the river and try to fish, but he couldn't sit still long enough, couldn't stand the quiet.
Most of the time, Bud was very polite; we all made an effort not to be annoyed with his constant counting and repetitions (think "Rainman") because he tried so hard to reach out of his lost world. But I learned more about Bud's history during those times when he'd go off his meds, when he'd stand on the sidewalk yelling obscenities, or obsessively telling the nearest person how he lost 4 fingers to a grenade, or ranting about the girl who dumped him when he came home from Nam batshit-crazy.
On July 12, a beautiful summer day, Bud rode his bike down to the river. A couple of boys who were fishing at the public boat landing said he "got mad at his bike", and threw it from the landing far out into the river. Then he jumped in after it. The kids yelled for help, but the current swept Bud way out of their reach, and beyond anyone's help. Hours later, his body was recovered almost 2 miles down-river.
Bud spent a year in Viet Nam, and 30 years dying from it. I never knew his real name until I read his obituary, but Bruce Allen Schneider, 1953-2004, should be on the Wall in DC. That war won't go away until men no longer die of it.