I was the last one to go to bed that night. But before I did, I checked the bottom floor’s doors and windows, making sure they were locked. I placed my pistol under my pillow. A few hours later I was still awake, peering into the darkness. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fall asleep. I felt leery, nervous, and tense. I became acutely aware of mixed smells in the house: tobacco, food, perk-coffee, perfume, and household disinfectant. I could pick out distinct subtle sounds from my bed too: the kitchen faucet dripping water; sounds of the refrigerator; the ticking of the dining room wall clock; the heating furnace clattering; screeching car tires on the streets; a police siren in the far-off distance; the barking of dogs; the crisp, clear beating of my heart; and the wailing wind blowing coldly against the windowpane.

In my mind, these sounds started intensifying in turbulent resonance until the noises were violently ear-shattering. My heart started pounding faster and faster. The bedroom started spinning as I erupted into a strange icy sweat. Mixed smells of the jungle slowly penetrated my nose. I started gasping! Deep, scarred memories took me back, plunging me smack in the middle of the hot, steaming jungle. I trembled. I was being hunted! The ticks of the dining room clock became the sounds of enemy bullets chasing me. The barking of the dogs became the sounds of high-pitched screams. The wind blowing against the windowpanes became the chilling voice of death itself, beckoning to me, demanding my soul.

A piece of tree branch, pebbles, or something slammed against my bedroom window. In a split second of hearing the sound, I had my pistol out and cocked, aiming point-blank at the window. About a minute passed before I started coming out of the frightening flashback I was experiencing. How and why the flashback even started I didn’t know. How and why the flashback ended like it did, I didn’t know either. Maybe my survival instincts sensed that there wasn’t any hostile force close by. Lowering my arm, I uncocked the pistol, but still held on to it tightly. I was home, not back in the war, I realized more and more. I felt depressed knowing I’d just had my first flashback, anxiety attack, or whatever, right at home. I wondered what the neighbors and police would have thought, had I blasted a magnum-round through my bedroom window. That was close.

This was the United States, not Viet Nam, I kept reminding myself. I had no enemy here! I wouldn’t be shot, knifed, or bombed here! Wouldn’t be ambushed here! I kept trying to convince myself that hostile forces were halfway around the world, not here. There was nothing menacing to me in Lackawanna or Buffalo, right? I’d almost convinced myself of all this, too, when suddenly a terrifying voice from the depths of my very being screamed, “WRONG!” Total logic and pure reasoning began rapidly assessing my present situation and environment. In seconds my mental computations concluded that I was indeed wrong. The savage man that was created as a functioning living machine within me, showed that survival meant everything and all things. Survival equaled violence! Violence equaled savage man! And savage man was Blackhawk-One!

Blackhawk-One knew that the whole world was hostile and threatening. Lackawanna and Buffalo were urban jungles filled with drug-traffickers, drug addicts, pimps, armed robbers, murderers and other dangerous elements. Blackhawk-One knew that violent death was just as certain here as it was in Nam. Violence was part of mankind’s essence, and a major part of its history. Blackhawk-One also realized that he would destroy any man or animal that threatened his survival too.

Sliding silently out of bed, my senses once again became keenly tuned to minute sounds. I put my pants, shoes, and undershirt on. With my pistol in combat readiness, I quietly checked under my bed. Then I checked the bedroom closet and peeked cautiously out the window. I considered the upstairs area of the house secured. But anyone on the bottom floor was the enemy, and a direct threat to my survival. Coming out the bedroom in a soundless crouch, I looked, listened, and smelled. In the darkness I checked the bathroom, the den, the hallway, kitchen, dining room and living room. I went down into the basement, checking every square foot before corning back up. I went outside into the freezing cold, while snowflakes fell heavily to the ground. Walking around the fenced yard, I checked for fresh boot prints, sandal prints, and bare footprints. I checked the garage thoroughly before coming back inside the house. My whole body was shivering uncontrollably while I walked back to my bedroom. Taking my clothes off, I dried myself with a towel.

While my tenseness slowly seeped away, I thought about my friends and relatives here. Could I still give them adequate friendship and love? Would I still freely accept their friendship and love? Was I still capable of giving and receiving affection after seeing and doing so much? I’ve changed and I knew it, but was this change a positive or negative aspect for me? I felt so mature and so knowledgeable. But at the same time I felt used, like I’d been emotionally and mentally raped, like part of my true identity had been violently stolen against my will.

Viet Nam was like living in a dreamlike world, a no-man’s land. A serious price was paid for trusting other people in Nam. And when you tried acting like a normal, emotional human being, you got ridiculed. I still remember the voices of some combat buddies after enemy kills, saying, “Cut off their ears or cut their heads off.” This was a peer pressure chant that challenged your male ego and savageness as a combat soldier.