A Love Story at the Equator's Edge

Saturday, January 24, 2009
In six or eight hours, we’ll cross the equator. As I write, we are 0° 47’ north and 37° 37’ west. I am proudly wearing half a mustache, having shaved the northern half off earlier--since I am departing the northern hemisphere. Of course, I must face east for that to work, but I have taken out an option. I hope to send photos of this face, but may not for thinking it actually looks prettier covered in hair. Someone else should judge, but lacking a jury, I’ll wear half a mustache until it can be resolved. I shall tell you if the toilets flush backwards in the southern hemisphere when I find out. Coriolis effect, they call it.

What follows is a story about Benny, the Dragon, and Raul, his brother. It is a love story, I think. When you have read it, please let me know.

On an end table of their little home, there was a wedding picture of Imelda, Toya, and Raul Villego. Imelda was pretty and obviously very happy, seated on a high-back chair. Her three-year old daughter stood next to her mother. The child was radiantly smiling and clutched a little blue pony. She was dressed in frills and lace, with curled hair, and paten leather shoes, and showing sweet little baby teeth. Next to her was the groom, her new dad, dressed in a cheap suit with a poorly tied tie, offering a gentle smile of utter joy. The little girl was the centerpiece of the photo and of age and demeanor to be the show piece, but she wasn’t. Imelda showed perfect white teeth in a lovely smile, luxuriant black hair, and flawless, creamy skin on a strikingly pretty woman. She was not the center of attention, either. It was Raul, his eyes. They almost glowed in a benign face that brought something into the viewer’s mind, something almost spiritual. He seemed to be seeing something wonderful, something no one else knew was there. One did not notice that he had no hands.

He also lacked the left leg from the knee down, and his body still carried shrapnel from the mine that rendered him thus. There were two pocks on his face from the explosion, but his stomach and legs were hashed and criss-crossed with shrapnel and surgical scars. Raul should have died, almost died, but he did not. He was 26 years-old: he looked 20 in the face, and 80 in the body. He used a modified cane, or a crutch. His arms and hands were synthetic, prostheses of stainless steel, nylon, and rubber. His left leg was aluminum, as was the foot. His heart was human, though, and much tougher than the metals that made him semi-mobile and semi-functional. That heart was large, and it lived in a small Latin man who seemed not to notice any disability.

Raul was drafted for the war in southeast Asia. Like most of the soldiers of his ilk, he was made a rifleman in an infantry outfit, the most over-worked men on earth. He was new to the outfit and was on patrol with his platoon when the man in front of him stepped on a mine that blew him all to hell. The man if front of him was seriously injured, and Raul should have been killed. I happened to be flying nearby, having accomplished a dedicated mission and was returning “home”. The call came through on ABCCC, and we were nearest and available. We loaded five WIA and one KIA and started for the hospital as the monsoon enveloped us. Our own paramedic was at work on Raul and the other badly wounded man. When I asked him how they were doing, he told me one might make it and the other would not. Both were given morphine. Blood rolled up the floor, then down again as the helicopter changed attitude. The next cycle brought more blood, and so it went. I could smell them, the cordite, the burned flesh, the blood and sweat, and the stink of overworked men. I managed to find the hospital, where those men were quickly carried to triage and surgery; then I flew to the ramp and shut it down. We needed fuel and a break in the weather. We got the fuel. I am not an openly prayerful man, but I pleaded with the Maker to help those boys, they were only boys, and that they had to have help beyond mortal capacity. I didn’t really know whether that meant bringing death to the one, or letting him live in god-knows-what condition. Those things affect soldiers, forced to be tough…There was a common saying by grunts in those days, “it don’t mean Nothin’” It was less a statement of macho than a whimper of pain. Don’t mean nothin’, Bro.

Several months later, I received a parcel from a Raul Villego in fine hand-writing. It read: “I am writing this for my boy friend. He says that on June 17, you flew your helicopter to help some injured soldiers. I am Raul, and I was badly injured by the mine. You saved my life, and I am now in rehab with new arms and a leg. I still have some surgeries, but I am happy to be here to have them. God bless you, Captain Griffith. I am sending you my Buda, since I don’t need him anymore. I hope you never need him. And I hope you will come to see me someday. Mostly, I hope you don’t get hurt over there, and none of your friends, either. Me and my family, we pray for you, and I am very happy. Someday that war will end. Sincerely, Raul Villego, ex-pfc. (Imelda Herrera)”. There was a small, bronze Buda wrapped in tissue paper with a card in Vietnamese and English, “For true good luck, rub the Buda’s belly.” The superstitious say that a Buda brings luck only to those who are given a Buda. A bought Buda has no luck. I never got hurt, but Buda was not my only good-luck charm: I had a St Christopher, a rabbit’s foot, a horse shoe, a laminated ace of spades, a new testament, and a shaker of salt. One of more of them worked!

Within a few days, I received PCS orders to a base very near the town from which Raul had written, so I wrote him a nice (sterile) get-well card, enclosed a squadron patch, and told him where I would be stationed and hoped to see him “up and about soon”.

After I got settled into my new assignment, I had the occasion to visit a friend in the VA hospital. I was in uniform, thinking of nothing when a slight little man in a wheelchair greeted me by name. It was Raul. He weighed maybe 120, was swathed in bandages. The stump of one arm was visible, purple, and unnatural-looking. He only had one foot showing on the wheelchair. Despite looking so bad, he had a radiant smile as he reminded me who he was:
“Those wings you wear: they mean a lot to me, Captain.”

I promised him that it was I who was blessed in being able to save his life with the machinery at my control. He assured me that he was well, could walk okay, and was learning to feed himself, but that there was a setback because his stumps were raw from ill-fitting prosthetics. That would soon be fixed. He was friendly, happy—even jovial. I can not—even today—know how his attitude was so high, his morale excellent. He had glistening eyes and a serene smile that made me know it to be the truth. I pushed him around as we chatted, cordial, positive. He actually made ME feel better. He was such a remarkable man. When we came to his room, which he shared with three other veterans, a lovely young woman greeted him: Imelda. I could see immediately that there was special bonding there.

Raul was easy to know and good to be around. In time, his arms and leg worked well enough for him to find a job, one of which was offered at the VA. He was able to reach into flower beds and shrubs without worrying about nettles, thorns, or critters, and he was a very good yard man. He worked hard, gave it all he had. Soon, nurseries were putting him to work. It was modest labor, but it suited him. I came to know the family.

Benny, the Dragon, was Raul’s brother. He was also in love with Imelda. He tried not to show it, but failed miserably. Imelda knew it; Raul was oblivious to it. Benny was crazy about his brother, almost worshipped him. He told me, “Raul is a damnfine war hero. We have a letter from the General, and that’s what he said. The whole Secretary of the Army wrote him a letter, too, and we framed it and hung it up. Raul? He don’t even look at that stuff. Raul got a lot of medals, more than I ever saw anywhere, but he don’t ever wear them. I would. I’d wear my uniform and all my medals if I was a hero like Raul is. Raul don’t even talk about it. We don’t even know what happened, except what the General told us. He talks a lot about you, though. He remembers watching you fly. He could see you when he was conscious. He told me God sent you with a fine, great helicopter that you flew, and you took him from his death straight to a hospital, where he didn’t die. You might be a hero, too”. I told him I was no hero, but Raul surely was, and that General was certainly right about his brother.

One time, Benny was called Benny, the Dragon Man. “It was my car,” said. “It was a TransAm, green, with flames. Fast: that car was really fast, and I never lost a race in it. It was the car that was the dragon, but they called me Dragon Man. When I lost that car, my name got shortened to Benny, the Dragon.”

“What happened to the car?” I asked.

“Well, my cousin, Felipe, he borrowed it, and he wrecked it. He didn’t have no insurance, and mine didn’t cover him as a driver, so I lost the car. Bad deal. But I got a pretty good car now. It’s a green Pontiac, but it don’t run like that TransAm. Nothing does. Someday, I’ll get another one, but it will be an automatic, so maybe Raul can drive it. Some day. Maybe.”

Raul and Imelda were to be married. They announced it at a family dinner with great and obvious excitement. It was jubilant and happy, except for Benny, who tried his best. Good will and salutations were offered all around and the family was beside themselves. That announcement is the reason that I had been invited to dinner. Later, I saw Imelda take Benny’s arm and lead him outside. They were gone for a rather long time, and then she came back inside and went straight to her fiancé. She was completely smitten by her man, and it showed. Benny did not come in, and after a time, I went outside to find him sitting on the curb in the dark. I sat beside him and asked if he were okay. He gulped a great big sob, and nodded his head yes.

In a while, he found his voice. “I am a failure. I been trying not to cry. I never wanted her to know how I felt. She saw me cry, so she probably thinks I am weak. I couldn’t help it, and I wanted to be strong for her, for Raul.” He sobbed, quivering, miserable. “I got to go in there and congratulate my brother, but I can’t right now.”

“She told me, ‘Benny, I DO love you, but not the same way. I am IN love with Raul. It isn’t pity, but it could be. He has no arms to hold me, like you can. He has no legs to dance with me, like you. He has no hands to caress me, nor to dry my tears, nor to hold our baby. He is not healthy, but he is happy, and he makes me happy. He is completely honest with me: he will never tell a lie because he can not tell a lie. His heart beats with a strong message: he loves me. But you know what? He loves you, too. I will tell you a secret that you must keep. Raul will not live long, like you will. After that, we’ll talk again, but you must accept this, Benny. You are my second favorite man, and we need you. You’ll find a lovely lady soon, you’ll see…’ But I don’t want nobody else, and I don’t want to want her, either.”

He was inconsolable, so I left him, tears streaming down his cheeks, ashamed of himself for a sin not committed, miserable.

They had a lovely marriage for a short time. Raul died in 1975 from injuries received years earlier in an Asian war. His service meant nothing, and neither did his death, except to a few of us. His body was lying peacefully beside the lovely roses he was working on. His tools lay neatly aligned. He had one arm draped over his chest, and his face was serene and calm. His eyes were closed, and that quiet hero slipped away from the living as gently as he’d lived. He remains the most remarkable man I ever knew.

I’ll write the second part of this story later. Was this a love story?