THE WALL OF FACES

SPECIALIST 4

JAMES JOSEPH PASTORE JR.


served with the


7th PSYOP BATTALION


( PSYCHOLOGICAL OPERATIONS )





YOU ARE NOT FORGOTTEN

NOR SHALL YOU EVER BE

I'm only 30 years old and I personally don't know James Pastore Jr, but I just read the last entry from Michael E. I could never know how anyone who was in that war or any other war feels, but I thank you for fighting for my Freedom and giving me the America that I love today!

0018 hours, November 13, 1969, somewhere over the Pacific.
"Gotta light?"
"Sure."
We whispered because it was late, and the lights were dimmed, and a lot of the troops on board sleeping.
"I hope we get assigned to the same place, you know."
The thought hung between us, reminding us of our vulnerability. Reminding us that we had little or no control over what was to come. We were going to Vietnam. A war zone. Neither of us knew what we would be doing, or where we would be going, or how much danger we would face in the hours or months to come. It was useless to try to even imagine it. Better to not think about it at all, I thought.
"Me too."
The jet engines droned, the plane throbbed with power, and all around us in the half darkness of the cabin, other soldiers not sleeping were talking in hushed tones.
I knew the guy beside me because we had trained together in the States. He was one more face out of the 500 or so I could put a name to from morning formations, and from nights drinking beer. But in the last twelve hours we'd started a friendship of necessity. A friendship that began when we were given seats together on the flight out of Oakland. A friendship fueled by isolation, and fear. A friendship on this leg of our flight from Alaska to Japan.
The guy beside me seemed an okay guy. He said he was a Porsche mechanic from Connecticut. That was cool. Said he had a girl he wanted to marry back home, but they’d both decided to wait for his return. Just in case.
I'd heard that before.
I was thinking of getting some sleep myself when he turned to me and spoke real softly.
"You know, I'm really afraid . . . I think I'm going to die over there. I really think I am, and I want to ask you to do me a favor, okay?"
I thought he was going to ask me to hold a letter for his girlfriend in case he died, or something like that. Or maybe ask me to agree to make a deal we should look out for each other no matter what happened. I'd been thinking things like that ever since they left the ground in California myself.
"What is it," I asked.
"I want you to help me get out of Vietnam."
I listened, but my guts tightened with every word.
"I've been thinking about this, and when we land I want you to report that I made a pass at you, you know? You could tell them I touched you or something. I'm really afraid I'm going to die over there and if they think I'm a homosexual they'll send me home, but you'd have to tell them I tried something because they wouldn't just believe me and . . . "
I didn't want to listen anymore. The guy was asking him to do something I couldn't do. I thought about how frightened I was of dying, as frightened as the guy next to me in the dark, but I wasn't asking him to do something that could get him into trouble. Why was he asking me to do this on top of everything else I had to worry about?
" . . . you know, if you said something like I made a pass at you then they'd think I was homosexual, and they'd send me back. Will you do it?"
He was looking at me for an answer. I could tell he was serious, but I didn't want to be serious. I didn't want to talk about it, and suddenly I didn't want to be next to him. I couldn't say yes, and I didn't want to turn him down either. I felt trapped, and wished it hadn't happened.
"Look man, I know I'm asking you for a big favor but I'm really scared, you know. I really think I'm going to die over there, and I just want to go home. I don't care what they do to me as long as I get out of Vietnam . . ."
"You're not going to die over there," I said. It was all I could think of. I hoped if I could get him to stop thinking about dying I wouldn't have to listen to any more of his fears, or give him any kind of answer. "We're gonna be okay, you know. We're gonna do alright. Nobody's gonna die."
"You're not listening to me man. I know I'm gonna die if I stay in Vietnam. I'm telling you I'm really afraid. Will you do what I asked you? Will you?"
"I don't know, man. I don't know," I told him. I was confused. It was more than I felt I could handle. I didn't want one more thing more to worry about. And I didn't want to say no either. I didn't want to let the guy down, but I couldn't take it on, not one more worry. I was barely holding it together against my own fears as it was.
"Will you think about? Will you just think about it, 'cause I'm really serious, and I'm really afraid something's gonna happen to me, and I just want you to help me save my life. Will you think about it?
"Okay, okay, I'll think about it."
But I didn't want to think about it. I didn't want to think about helping this guy get out of being afraid by putting myself in a tough spot. I was already scared enough. I was scared shitless, and I didn’t want anything more to think about.
After that, we caught some sleep and he never asked me again. So I didn't have to listen any more. And I never gave him an answer.
~
Six thirty in the morning, April 18, 1988; Washington, D.C.
The weight of it forces me to my knees, bows my head and chokes me. I've decided to do this alone, and out loud.
Leaning forward, one hand in the dirt, the other reaching out to touch the damn wall, I remember and do what I came for.
"I’m sorry man . . . I couldn't hear you. I couldn't know." I add this before I start crying. I don't know, for him, for me? When I catch my breath, "You couldn't either, I don't think."
In the background, my wife, friends, of decades stroll around the memorial. They're waiting for me, after all these years. But the damned wall has me now.
"I was too young." I moan. "Too young and too afraid to listen." I try to clear my throat. "But for what it’s worth, James, to honor you, to honor me, I've listened to everyone since."
I take a few breaths to build my courage. I lean back and looked up at all the names. I read some of them that came before and some after.
Then, "Good bye, Jim." And I grieve for as long as it takes.

I didn't know James well. I didn't know myself at all. I lost him, as we all did. Now, as a psychotherapist, I listen carefully. I wish I'd been older then. I wish a lot of things. But mostly, that I had lied for James. Mostly, that I had figured it out sooner. I'm sorry, Jim.

Pappy,
There but for the grace of God go I.We grew
up togehter on the back streets of Stamford,played football, and went to school.I don't know why I made it and you didn't. From one veteran to another:"God Bless You....Jim Westerman