The Pig and Pvt Pyle

Permit me to introduce to you three Vietnam War veterans, two of whom I know and one I don't.

The first was a young airman who enlisted and left his pregnant wife at home to fly combat support missions in aircraft built years before he was born. He stands out because he came to me frustrated and discouraged after he had been grounded with a broken arm. I pointed out to him that in the event he was shot down and captured, his arm would become a focal point for torture. Better to let it heal before going back up. That calmed him down a bit, but he was still not happy.

The second was an NCO, my roomy, on his third voluntary tour during which he flew standardization and evaluation missions, making sure we backenders were maintaining our proficiency. He had more Air Medals than I had Good Conduct Medals, plus a few Distinguished Flying Crosses. There were those who refused to fly with him, figuring that he had pushed his luck to the point that it was about to run out.

Turns out, they were right. Shortly after I left Vietnam in April, 1970, both the NCO and airman took off on what would be their last flight.

The third is an ex-Marine. While the Marines were concentrating on finding a few good men, he managed to sneak in from behind.

Besides giving Vietnam vets a bad name, this waste of a human soul gives new meaning to the term "trailer park trash." Last March he moved into a Largo mobile home park. A few months later, in violation of a law that forbids livestock in residential areas, he moved in his blind, 300-pound pig. After a while, his surrounds acquired all the aromatic ambiance of the underbelly of Thunderdome. His neighbors complained to the park manager about the stink, and the ex-grunt went all Colonel Kurtz.

Get rid of the pig, said the park manager, Instead, the ex-jarhead got a VA shrink to write a letter advising that the porker was the vet's "emotional support animal" and thus protected by federal law. The vet "has a mood disorder and numerous psycosocial stressors (translation: loonier than a Wisconsin wetland)," said the doc. "This animal will support his coping skills."

Now, admittedly I'm a card-carrying cynic. But even if you aren't, you have to be suspicious that the doc, being both a Marine Vietnam vet himself and an employee of an agency whose raison d'etre is the care of veterans, might have a dog in this hunt. Or a horse in this race. Or, more appropriately, a pig in this poke.

While the kerfuffle over the pig continues, the reprobate has launched an all-out assault on his homeowners' association. He loaded his pick-up with scrap metal and parked it in front of his unit. He let his backyard go prairie. He allows his dogs to bark all night. He painted his trailer a mix of red, yellow, purple, blue and green. All of these petulant actions are in violation of the documents he signed in which he agreed to abide by HOA rules.

It seems that the misanthrope is also a pervert. During an argument over parking, he exposed himself to a neighbor's adult daughter. "That never happened," denied the vet. "I have lost weight, and my shorts don't fit like they used to, but if they fall down, I pick them right up."

A year ago I read the biography of Marine Lieutenant General Victor "Brute" Krulak. The general was a shoo-in for a fourth star and the position of Commandant until he told Lyndon Johnson what he thought of how the president was running the war. Krulak was George S. Patton without the prima donna nonsense. He wouldn't have slapped this argument for post-partum abortion; he'd have kicked his ass until his hemorrhoids dislodged his adenoids.

The EC-47 carrying my roomy and the airman, among others, was shot down. My roomy's back was broken. The airman and the co-pilot were killed. The helicopter that rescued the survivors also went down. My roomy made it back and, amazingly, is ambulatory, though not without effort and pain. He became a sales rep for a manufacturer of helmets for college and NFL teams.

Think of these men when you think of Vietnam vets, not those who milk the system and blame their drug addiction, alcoholism, unemployment, homelessness, and psychobabble mental "illnesses" on the war.