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Bob Anderson, PhD, CMSgt USAFR (Ret)
936.520.9696

One of my recent columns dealt with what I call the 'No Right Answer' game: the common assumption by politicians and journalists that America's armed forces are doing the wrong thing, no matter what they happen to be doing. Since that column hit the street, my inbox has been flooded with emails. The overwhelming majority of responses have been from military personnel who are tired of being criticized by anyone who can grab two minutes of cable air time. A few emails were from Soldiers who didn't recognize the intended irony in my words, and who wanted to assure me -- in no uncertain terms -- that America most certainly does not have the wrong Army. Several messages were from readers who think I'm totally out to lunch, and a couple of the responses were from service members who are either stationed in Iraq, or have recently returned from there.

Of this last group, a particular email stands out in my mind. One Soldier just back from the sandbox reminded me gently that sometimes there are no right answers. Sometimes our troops encounter situations so far from sanity that there are no good or reasonable choices.

I know this, of course. I try not to think about it, and the optimist in me doesn't like to believe that it's true, but I've known it most of my adult life. I learned it from one of my mentors: an ex-Army chopper pilot whom I'll refer to as Jack, although that's not his real name.

Jack had recurring nightmares about Vietnam. I realize that's not exactly uncommon among Vietnam veterans, but the dream that tortured my friend wasn't the sort you usually hear about. It wasn't about combat, or the Viet Cong, or even the Vietnamese jungle. It was about something that happened during an R&R visit to Saigon.

It's been more than twenty years since he told me the story, and I have to confess that neither of us were entirely sober at the time. Had it been someone else, I might have discounted the story entirely. People say all sorts of things when they drink. But this story sounded real. It felt real. And in all the long years since, I've never forgotten the pain on that man's face the night he told me about Saigon.

Jack and three buddies from his squadron had managed to scam their way into a visit to Saigon. They weren't due for R&R, but the squadron needed some repair parts, and Jack and his friends managed to wrangle an overnight trip to pick them up.

They got business out of the way first, picking up the parts shortly after arrival so they could concentrate their attention on partying. They were on the way to one of their favorite clubs when Jack realized that he was out of cigarettes. He spotted an old Mama-san selling black market Marlboros from a cart across the street.

Jack told his buddies to wait for him as he crossed the street to score some smokes. He was busy haggling over the price when he happened to glance across the street at his buddies. A young Vietnamese girl, about 12 years old, had stopped to offer them shoeshines. She had a wooden shoeshine kit, and judging from her animated manner, Jack decided that the girl was really pouring on the salesmanship. He was about to turn his attention back to the Mama-san when he spotted something in the girl's shoeshine kit. It was a bomb.

Cigarettes instantly forgotten, Jack started running across the street, shouting to his friends and waving to get their attention. They couldn't understand him, but one of them spotted him and waved back, apparently deciding that good old Jack was just acting the fool.

Jack was half way across the street when his friends started to catch the gist of his shouts. One of them pointed to the girl's shoeshine box. The young girl, apparently sensing that her opportunity was passing, reached into the box toward the bomb. Jack knew what was coming next.

To hear Jack tell it, he doesn't remember drawing his sidearm. He doesn't remember reaching for it, or even deciding to reach for it. But he remembers pulling the trigger. And he remembers standing in the middle of a Saigon street with a smoking 45 in his hand. He remembers watching his bullet slam into the back of that little girl's head, and the sight of her tiny body crumpling to the sidewalk. He remembers the surprise and horror on the faces of his squadron mates, and those few blessed seconds of emotional numbness before it hit him like a hammer blow ... He had killed a child.

There was an investigation, of course, but the conclusion was never really in doubt. The little girl's shoeshine kit hadn't contained polish or rags. Just the bomb. She hadn't been reaching for a brush; she'd been reaching for the triggering device. Given another second or two, that beautiful little girl would have killed herself and murdered Jack's friends.

Everyone assured Jack that he had done the right thing; he had made the only possible choice. But Jack couldn't see anything right about his choice. He had shot a little girl in the back of the head. How could that possibly be right? How could that possibly be justified?

The night Jack told me about Saigon, he confessed to having nightmares about the shooting. That seemed perfectly reasonable to me. I couldn't imagine going through something like that and not having nightmares afterward.

According to Jack, his nightmare comes in two versions. Sometimes his dream plays out the way the real event did, and it ends the same way: with Jack holding a smoking 45 and the little girl lying dead in the street. The other version of Jack's nightmare is even more horrific: he sees the Vietnamese girl reach into the shoeshine kit, but he cannot force himself to pull the trigger. He watches helplessly as she and his buddies are ripped to bloody shreds by the explosion. This dream also ends with the little girl lying dead in the street, but now she is surrounded by the bodies of Jack's friends.

We're taught that life is a series of choices, and that the decisions we make shape our development as human beings. Implicit in that idea is the unspoken assumption that every decision point provides an opportunity to choose between good and evil, between light and darkness.

But life frequently refuses to divide itself into our neat dichotomy of black and white. The real world is messier and more complex than we like to imagine. Sometimes we are forced to choose between bad and worse -- between darkness and greater darkness.

Life

On the first day, God created the dog and said: "Sit all day by the door of your house and bark at anyone who comes in or walks past. For this, I will give you a life span of twenty years."

The dog said: "That's a long time to be barking. How about only ten years, and I'll give you back the other ten?"So God agreed.

On the second day, God created the monkey and said: "Entertain people, do tricks, and make them laugh. For this, I'll give you a twenty-year life span."

The monkey said: "Monkey tricks for twenty years? That's a pretty long time to perform. How about I give you back ten like the Dog did?"And God agreed.

On the third day, God created the cow and said: "You must go into the field with the farmer all day long and suffer under the sun, have calves and give milk to support the farmer's family. For this, I will give you a life span of sixty years."

The cow said: "That's kind of a tough life you want me to live for sixty years. How about twenty, and I'll give back the other forty?"And God agreed again.
 
On the fourth day, God created man and said: "Eat, sleep, play, marry, and enjoy your life For this, I'll give you twenty years."

But man said: "Only twenty years? Could you possibly give me my twenty,the forty the cow gave back, the ten the monkey gave back, and the ten the dog gave back? That makes eighty, okay?"

"Okay," said God, "You asked for it."So that is why the first twenty years we eat, sleep, play and enjoy ourselves. For the next forty years, we slave in the sun to support our family. For the next ten years, we do monkey tricks to entertain the grand-children. And for the last ten years, we sit on the front porch and bark at everyone.   Life has now been explained to you......

B.J. Garner is a former member of the USAF Reserve and the Texas Air National Guard.  He ended his career as a Lieutenant Colonel and currently resides in Houston Texas.  As head of the Garner Vision Center, Dr. Garner holds degrees as a Registered Pharmacist, Doctor of Optometry and an Optometric Glaucoma Specialist.  He and his wife Laura have two married daughters and three grandchildren.  He and his wife are active members in the Sagemont Baptist Church.

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