10 Cents and a Silver Star . . . A Sardonic Saga of PTSD

Bruce D. Johnson

Description

10¢ and

a Silver Star...

A Sardonic Saga of PTSD

Just as WWII gave us Catch 22 and Korea produced M*A*S*H, Vietnam delivers 10 cents and a Silver Star. No one can laugh off the incredibly cruel Vietnam War, but Bruce Johnson’s sardonic antidote to the plague of PTSD helps recover the truth – if you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.

An unworldly young man volunteers to be drafted early. He ventures into the essence of an old combat adage: War is long periods of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. His life is devoured by terror. He dresses it up with outlandish humor as an antidote to PTSD. A haunted life laughed at.

A tough fatherly sergeant orders him to lie low in filthy muck as gunships rip into ambushing enemies. He lives another day, one day at a time, for 13 endless months. It’s never over for the young man who came home with a sardonic ‘attitude’ and a Silver Star for valor. It’s not even his.

PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) spins into a dazzlingly humorous montage of survival over decades of recurring flashbacks. He’s just one of 500,000 U.S. individual PTSD afflictions, each different, but Bruce’s attitude weaves a lasting humorous tale of a civilian ambushed by war.

That attitude wins him a bride and a father-in-law who thinks he can do no wrong because he got a Silver Star. He muddles through the American Dream because his sardonic attitude views that dream as one big long joke.

With no job he finances a car; with no corporate experience he stumbles to the top of his dad-in-law’s chain of Mexican restaurants, pilots a plane and performs his way through life in a Walter Mitty daydream. He buys houses and country club membership, never sure about the Silver Star. Is it a lucky piece or a jinx? Who really earned it?

Surrounded by weirdo characters in Vietnam, they become even more outlandish in civilian life. Upon awarding the Silver Star, the company commander: “I wanted to get this decoration into your hands just as soon as possible; while you’re still alive, that is. I can't tell you how much I detest awarding these things posthumously. It's so, so disconsolate, and double the paperwork . . . Here you go, kid. Back in the world, this and 10 cents ought to get you a cup of coffee just about anywhere." That was before Starbucks.

A month into marriage, the marriage and family therapist Maria and I procured for guidance caught me looking down her blouse, interrupted my innocent curiosity as "emotional infidelity," and implored Maria to get out of the marriage just as soon as possible. "You’re not having sex with this creep, are you? Thank God you had the good sense not indulge in that! It's a filthy, perverted act invented by Satan to spread disease and corrupt society."

Rarely do remembrances in snippets of semi-reality fail to come back to life, “The words You must have me confused with someone who gives a shit were neatly painted on his helmet.”

Apparently, my college had been doing some aggressive recruiting of the Psych Ward patients at Walter Reed Hospital. I took a seat next to a trembling fellow who was wringing his hands obsessively. "Hi." I greeted him. "I hope you remembered to unplug your iron before you came here." He got up and bolted out the door. We were left with 12 Vietnam veterans in the room (which begged the question as to how many of us it would take to screw in a light bulb) and the group leader, who identified herself as Mindy, a psychology grad student and qualified "psychodramatist."

A little role-playing?

"Goodie. I want to play an alto cheese Danish."

Sujets

• Sociologie, société et politique
• Humor
• Veteran
• Posttraumatic stress disorder
• Vietnam War
• Trouble de stress post-traumatique
• Satire

Informations

• Publié par: ItsYourAirplane.com, LLC
• Date de parution: 04 juin 2019
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780578425917
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Some of Many Book Reviews
When I was growing up, and still to this day, I loved to watch M*A*S*H and Bruce D. Johnson has captured a similar vibe with a humor similar to the famed TV series. If you were to bring Hawkeye into a more modern context, this would be a very close result. The humor was great and really lightened the horror being experienced by the characters. There are many memorable lines, chuckles, and even darker moments, as you would expect from a work of this style. Bruce D. Johnson’s 10 Cents and a Silver Star only briefly touches on the gore side, keeping it manageable and less horrific than actually being there would be. I thought the dialogue was well scripted and enjoyable and the issues were handled in a very sensitive manner. This book gives you a good, but light-hearted perspective on life in war and the camps and the array of characters are diverse, and each has their own important role in giving a glimpse into this war-ridden chaos.
Reviewed by K.J. Simmill for Readers’ Favorite. K.J. Simmill is an award-winning British author with books released in both the fantasy and non-fiction genres.
Part humor, part snarky sarcasm, 10 Cents and a Silver Star by Bruce D. Johnson is the tragi-comic memoir of a Vietnam veteran. Bruce’s maxim is, “It’s better to laugh than cry.” His book is a testament to his sense of humor as he grows into manhood during one of the world’s most confusing and senseless wars and beyond. Spiked with (at times, sardonic) humor, and many heartwarming incidents, this book will take you on a unique journey through the depths of the hazardous Vietcong jungle, to the mad jungle of Chicago as the author learns how to curb his bitterness and heal the scars of the war. What better way to mend than with humor and penning a great novel? Written in a delightfully snarky first-person narrative, this book will have its readers laughing out loud, crying, and smiling warmly as they experience the wonder of unconditional love, understanding, and hilarious moments. I appreciated how the author shakes the perception of the crazed Vietnam veteran while touching on the more painful and sensitive issues such as PTSD and the resulting trauma of war. I recommend this book to readers that have family in the military or would like an inside peek into the life of a soldier at war.
Reviewed by Alyssa Elmore for Readers’ Favorite, one of the most prolific reviewers at 287 reviews and counting.
Bruce D Johnson’s 10 Cents and a Silver Star is a gripping blend of humor and a military story, a narrative with strong emotional and psychological underpinnings, featuring likeable and well-developed characters. Johnson has a unique sense of plot structure and develops very interesting relationships between the characters. Character development is impeccable, and it combines with the humor to make for a delightful read. The quirkiness, the focused scenes, and the emotional strength of the narrative are elements I enjoyed the most in this engaging tale. It will get your emotions rattled, have you laughing at unexpected moments in the story, and you will learn to see painful situations differently. I enjoyed every bit of this story. An eye-opening read.
Reviewed by Ruffina Oserio for Readers’ Favorite


10¢ and
a Silver Star...
A Sardonic Saga of PTSD
A Novel
Bruce D. Johnson



Copyright © 2018 by Bruce D. Johnson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author.
ISBN 978-0-578-42591-7
Printed in USA by Ingram Spark & Lightning Source® for Edit Ink Publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.


This book is dedicated to:
Ron Johnson, who struggles with PTSD, one day at a time
and
Erik Enstrom, who tragically lost his battle with PTSD
and
the 500,000+ lives impacted by this disorder.


ACKNOWLEGEMENTS
This novel is not finished. Admittedly, it boasts a plot, conflict, a point of view, a setting, characters, and even a theme . . . lots of neat literary stuff, but, it’s not finished. However, like an airplane, barreling down the runway on its takeoff run, it has reached V1, the “commitment to fly” speed. The book is with the publisher. Not a day goes by that I don’t conceive of another amusing or salient tidbit that I wish I could pop in here or there, but, for better or for worse, this is what the reader gets. For the sake of my dear wife Gail, I hope you enjoy it. She has been amazingly tolerant of my choice of a leisure recreation. Now, I’ll have more time for watching YouTube videos depicting people attempting wacky stunts that, more often than not, end up causing agonizing trauma to their groins.


CHAPTER ONE
The Silver Star
“Hey Ken,” I greeted Ken Quidero, our commonly capable company clerk, as I stepped through the flimsy screen door into the less than orderly, orderly room. “You wanted to see me?”
“Not me . Captain Riley sent for you,” Ken replied without looking up, a filtered cigarette dangling precariously from the corner of his mouth as he continued typing.
With his sleeves rolled up past the elbows, Ken sat behind an Underwood Standard #6 typewriter, factory-painted, matching the hue of his olive drab jungle fatigues. The massive manually manipulated machine sported a white-stenciled, 16-digit U.S. Army inventory control number and a polymerized ethylene-vinyl acetate, adhesive-backed decal that read: “Join the Army; See the World; Meet Interesting People; and Kill Them .”
“Is that Specialist Johnson?” came the captain’s thick baritone voice as he emerged from his rear office, reading glasses low on his nose, a holstered Model 1911 sidearm on his belt, and a fat Corona Gorda cigar between his pudgy fingers. He wore olive drab jungle fatigues with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows and a class of 1965 West Point ring on his left hand.
“Bruce, thanks for reporting. It seems that Military Assistance Command, Vietnam has approved your recommendation for a Silver Star.”
He raised the volume of his voice a few decibels to compete with the din of an Eagle Flight of departing Huey helicopters.
“Sorry we can’t do this presentation with a kitschy ceremony, but I wanted to get this decoration into your hands just as soon as possible; while you’re still alive, that is. I can’t tell you how much I detest awarding these things posthumously. It’s so, so disconsolate, and double the paperwork.”
I had no inkling I was under consideration for a commendation, nor did I have any reason to suspect such. In fact, I aspired to be accused by the U.S. Army of a cowardly reaction to enemy fire (which could be easily corroborated), and discharged for unbecoming behavior, or disrespect, or insubordination, or disobedience, or dereliction of duty, or fraternization, or malingering — anything to get me out of this shithole country and back to the United States of America with her spacious skies, fruited plains, amber waves of grain, purple mountain majesties, and one lawyer for every 265 citizens. Nonetheless, Captain Riley handed me the medal in its cardboard-sleeved presentation case along with an official-looking certificate in a white envelope.
“Here you go, kid. Back in the world, this and 10 cents ought to get you a cup of coffee just about anywhere.” (Nobody had ever heard of Starbucks back in those days.) “Go ahead. Read it. I think you’ll appreciate the sentiment, if not the graphics, which I’m of the opinion is on the amateurish end of the aesthetic scale. Uncle Sam needs to recruit some more adroit graphic artists, in my opinion, but I’m just an airborne infantry captain, so what the hell do I know?”
Ken and the Captain looked on while I opened the envelope bashfully, as if it were a birthday card from Aunt Clara, with a crisp $10 bill enclosed.
“You’re not going to sing, are you?” I asked sardonically. (For you’re a jolly good killer. For you’re a jolly good killer. For you’re a jolly good kil-l-l-l-er. That nobody can deny.)
I read:
On March 2, 1969, while engaged in military operations involving conflict with an opposing foreign force, in the Republic of Vietnam, Specialist Fourth Class Bruce D. Johnson distinguished himself by extraordinary heroic achievement and conspicuous gallantry in action, beyond the call of duty; blah; blah; blah; at the voluntary risk of his own life; blah; blah; blah.
Richard M. Nixon, Commander in Chief
I glanced over to my friend Ken (a “grunt” by association), squinting my right eye and raising the palm of my left hand slightly upward as if to ask, “What’s going on here?” He shrugged his shoulders, then continued typing the standard-form condolences letter he worked on: I wanted to let you know how much we regret the loss of your son (Fill in the blank). Please accept my deepest sympathy . . .
By this time, the cigarette in Ken’s mouth had grown a disconcerting ash three quarters of an inch in length (or about 19 millimeters for those of you who subscribe to the metric system).
“Well, take care now, soldier.”
The captain patted me on my scapula through the blouse of my olive drab jungle fatigues, that I wore with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows.
“I’ve got to get back to work now. I’m knee deep in KIA paperwork and body count reports.”
“How’s that going?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, so far, this month, our unit’s winning by a landslide; twenty-ei