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The Other Casualty of
War - Chapter One
by
Paul Bylin
I had awakened
into in a nightmare when I arrived in Vietnam. I
was in a place where there was no respect, no
decency, only chaos and confusion. This is not
where I wanted to be and I don’t believe the South
Vietnamese wanted us there either. It was a
constant fear that overcame me.
Later, that
fear turned to something else. I’m not sure what it
was, maybe hatred, or maybe survival mode kicked
in. No matter what it was, it was something that
brought me from my boyish thoughts of girls and
cars to a man, killing and surviving. This is not
how I had pictured my life to be.
I was born in
South Boston, Massachusetts, but grew up in a
predominantly black neighborhood in
Lynn, Massachusetts. I was raised and went to
school in a multi cultural neighborhood, which
consisted of mainly poor people. It was a good
neighborhood because there was always something
going on and most everyone was friendly to each
other. The homes consisted of mainly run down
three-deckers.
Every Sunday singing could be heard
from a home that was used as a Southern
Baptist Church. My stepfather used to call the
parishioners from this church the “holy rollers.”
I never knew my real father. The only thing I know
about him is that he was an alcoholic who is
said to have beat my mom and us kids. I never knew
what he looked like, as I was too young when
they divorced. While visiting my sister one day,
she showed me a clipping from a local Boston newspaper; it was an obituary with my real father’s
name on it.
I felt like I should visit his second
wife to see if I could get a picture of him and possibly learn a little about him, but I never knew
how to approach her. Do I knock on her door and
say, “Hi Mom,” when she answers? So I just let
it be. Although, I still wonder what he was like. I
only heard what my mother told me about him.
Not that I don’t believe my mother, but it is only
one side of a story that I would like to know more
about.
As far back as I can remember my stepfather raised
me. He was a first generation Greek
immigrant. At 220lbs, he was a kind person whose
mere concern was to make money for his
family. He had a strong love for cars and worked as
a mechanic for a trucking company which was
owned by his cousin. His parents were from the
outskirts of Athens, Greece. I always called him
dad, because he was a father figure to me. We would
always celebrate two Easters, one of which is
the Greek Easter. He was not very educated, but
made up for it with his kindness and his hard
work at a trucking company, which was owned by his
cousin. I remember how he would go to the
fruit and vegetable stands in the countryside. At
that time, you could drive your car into the fields
and pick your own corn. He would pick a bushel of
corn and put it in the back seat. He would also
pick another bushel of corn and hide it in the
trunk. When we’d come home, he would pass out all
the corn he had hidden in the trunk to the neighbors.
The Greek Easter was a monumental affair with my
step dad’s family. His dad would roast a leg of
lamb over an open pit, very slowly. Occasionally,
he would sip a little seven star Metaxa while he was
cooking in the cool outside air. Inside the house,
rice pilaf, breads, Greek cookies and pastries
would all be adding to the wonderful odors that
have stayed etched in my mind for all these years.
Even today, my wife and I continue to celebrate the
Greek Easter, which has become a tradition in
our family.
Chapter 2
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