ANDY ADKINS

Tom buried his memories of a long-ago war along with his Bronze Star and Purple Hearts. Yet, when he begins to rebuild a relationship with his father, those memories return with a vengeance. Even in Ed's demented state, any mention of WWII triggers his memory and his mind sparkles, not only about his time in WWII, but also during the Vietnam War.

Ed doesn't have much time left before he literally loses his mind. But he knows he needs to mend his relationship with his son. He also knows Tom still struggles with his Vietnam demons.

With the help of the resident psychologist and an aide in the memory unit--both with deep, personal connections to Vietnam--Tom begins his difficult journey to heal and to forgive. The question is, can he and Ed resolve their differences before it is too late--for both of them?

NEVER FORGET is a work of fiction and is a multi-generational father, son, and grandson novel about WWII and Vietnam. It is not about combat; it is about overcoming personal conflicts caused by a war. The story takes place in 2001 and reflects upon our current society of an older generation (WWII), aging baby boomers (Vietnam), and the current generation (global terrorism). It brings together multiple facets of dementia and survivor's guilt in a moving story of personal struggles and growing relationships.

Tom glanced at Ms. Myers, his eyes flashing for a quick moment. "Yes, it would. I have no idea why on earth Ed wanted to see me, especially after not hearing from him all these years." Tom tried to remain calm.

"We weren't aware that Ed had a son--he kept that to himself. In fact, when we asked about his wife, Louise, he didn't want to talk much about her death either. Those memories were obviously still painful. All Ed would tell us was that she died of a heart attack in the 60s."

Tom remembered that fateful day--that entire life-changing year. He took a long puff and exhaled a cloud of smoke before replying, looking out toward the green foothills. "I was in Vietnam when I got the news. I flew home for her funeral."

"I didn't know that, Tom. I'm very sorry."

After a few moments of respectful silence, Ms. Myers stated, "Tom, your father has Alzheimer's disease. Do you know what that is?"

"It's a loss of memory, I think." Tom lit another cigarette.

"Sort of. You are probably familiar with the term, 'senility.' As people age, some things may begin to give out. It could be their sight or their hearing. For others, it could be physical, such as knees or hips. Not everyone experience these problems, but the odds increase as you get older.

"In your father's case, he is physically fit. But he is beginning to lose his memory. Unfortunately, it's something that is irreversible."

Tom listened carefully, but avoided eye contact.

"There are four types of dementia--Alzheimer's disease is the most common. Sixty percent of dementia cases are Alzheimer's. In the U.S., one in nine people older than age sixty-five have Alzheimer's. The odds increase to one in three when you reach eighty-five."

Tom heaved a big sigh while staring at the ground. "Why are you telling me this?" It was obvious he still harbored an animosity toward his father.

"Because the Ed you saw today--perhaps the same father you parted ways with years ago--is not the same Ed we've known here at Sterling Oaks. He asked us to call you. He's frightened and he's confused. He knows he is not well, and I sincerely think he wants to make up lost time with you."

"Well, he certainly didn't show much of that a few minutes ago. It was the same hate-filled argument we had years ago that split us apart," Tom replied defensively.

Looking intensely at Ms. Myers, Tom asked, "What the hell am I supposed to do? He told me the same thing, using almost the exact same words he said twenty-five years ago. Whatever I say or do, it seems it's always the wrong thing." Tom paused a moment. "Besides, it won't matter. He won't remember anything, right?"

"Mr. Jones. I'd like to introduce Tom Reilly, Ed's son."

"Good morning, Tom. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

He wasn't sure how to take that, but Tom assumed Mr. Jones was being courteous.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones."

"Tony... please call me Tony."

"Tony it is, then. Nice to meet you, too."

"If it's okay with the two of you, I'll quickly check on Ed, then I've got an appointment to meet." Michelle resumed her professional tone of voice.

"Certainly. I'll talk with you later."

Tom gave the lawyer a hard look. He was getting... a... little... jealous?

"Tom... do you mind if I call you Tom?"

"Not at all. That is my name."

"Good. Mind if we go to the conference room? Your father will be fine-they are probably helping him shower before he gets dressed. I have several legal documents that Ed wanted me to discuss with you."

"Okay. Lead the way."

Tom was a little confused and anxious. Why would his father need a lawyer? Michelle had told him that Mr. Jones--Tony--was his father's lawyer and his friend. That thought made him feel a little less uncomfortable.

The conference room was outside the memory unit, right around the corner. Tony closed the door and motioned Tom to sit at the round table across from him. He put his briefcase down on the floor beside him. When he put on his glasses, Tom noticed his weathered expression showed years of legal experience. Yet something was missing...

Tony Jones looked directly at Tom and without hesitation, spoke. "I guess I should get right to the business at hand. Ed told me about your little argument years ago. It didn't seem that big a deal to me. I can certainly understand why he was upset, but I can't understand your attitude."

Nice way to start off a conversation, asshole. Tom hadn't dealt with many lawyers, but this one pissed him off.

"Mr. Jones..."

"Tony, please call me Tony."

"Mr. Jones," Tom spoke with the determined confidence of a combat veteran. "Were you in Vietnam?"

"No."

"Korea?"

"No."

"World War II?"

"No, I wasn't in the military."

"Then you don't know shit about what I feel, what I went through--what we all went through--do you?" Tom caustically replied, slammed his fist on the table, then quickly stood up and walked toward the door.

Mr. Jones' expression changed dramatically as he sat back in his chair. Tom heard him take a deep breath.

"My son was killed in Khe Sanh in 1968. You probably didn't know that." Mr. Jones spoke softly after a few moments of silence. Tom stopped dead in his tracks.

As soon as Mr. Jones mentioned his son's death out loud, his eyes changed from a combatant lawyer to a soulful father. A father who had lost his son in a long ago war. Tears welled up in the attorney's eyes as he spoke.

"I can't imagine what you and he had to do while you were over there. I only know he was fighting for his country and that he believed in what he was fighting for."

Tom slowly turned and walked back toward the table. "I'm sorry. No, I didn't know."

As Tom started to speak, he sighed like most people do when remembering something intense. Not wanting to look directly at Mr. Jones, he spoke in a quiet monotone, almost in a matter-of-fact voice.

"When I first went over, I was like your son. I was fighting for something I believed in, too. But when I returned to Vietnam after my mother's funeral, there was a difference... a major difference... in what I believed. It's difficult to describe that change. I saw so many of my buddies needlessly killed and wounded, I started not to make any more friends. My attitude went from killing the enemy to simply keeping myself and my buddies alive. It was almost that simple.

"What was your son's name, Tony?"

"Jerry... He was a Marine."

Now Tom sat down hard, staring out the window. His hands trembled as he pulled out a cigarette, but didn't light it. He didn't care if he was breaking the rules.

"I knew your son, Tony. He was one of my best friends in high school. He joined a little before I did."

Tom took a deep breath. "When I came home for my mother's funeral, I also went to Jerry's funeral. He was an oustanding soldier and a great football player. And... he was my friend." Tom's eyes began to tear up. "I was heartbroken when I found out he died. I lost a lot of friends over there. In more ways than I can count, I don't think I ever came home. Part of me feels like I am still over there."

Sitting down beside his dad, Chris looked much older than fifteen. "I know you have a Bronze Star, Dad. But whenever I ask about Vietnam, you always change the subject. You never wanted to talk about it."

"I didn't want to talk about it simply because I didn't want to remember. I've tried to forget that day, though for lots of reasons, I simply couldn't. Maybe it is time I finally told you."

Tom closed his eyes for a moment and took another deep breath. For the first time in over thirty years, he let the memories flow freely of that fateful day.

"We were out humping the boonies on a search-and-destroy mission. My squad got ambushed. I was on point, but for whatever reason the gooks didn't shoot me first. Instead, they shot the 'slack man'--the guy ten feet behind me--and he went down. He was dead before he hit the ground. A bullet went right through the middle of his helmet and blew out the back of his head.

"We all hit the ground and started shooting--fully auto, rock 'n roll, and let it go. But Charlie had us surrounded--the wood line lit up. We killed a few of them, but not before a few more of our guys were hit, including me. It wasn't bad. I caught a piece of metal in my arm. It hurt like hell, but I could still fight. I bandaged myself up. Then, they seemed to disappeared into thin air.

"We got everybody's wounds dressed, ready to move out and withdraw. Then, Charlie opened up on us again. I couldn't tell if it was the same group or another. It didn't matter. I could still fight, as did the other guys, even those that were wounded. But Charlie wouldn't stop.

"We scamplered back down the trail and got the hell outta there. But someone needed to keep Charlie off our ass. Here's the stupid part: two of us volunteered.

"The rest of the squad withdrew and my buddy and I kept firing at the enemy as they appeared. We needed to cover our ass before heading back to join everyone else. We set an ambush using a couple of fragmentation grenades and a trip wire, hoping that would finish off anyone coming our way. Our luck ran out, though, and my buddy was hit again. He couldn't move.

"I dropped my rucksack, picked him up, and threw him over my shoulder. Grabbing my M-16, I started back, but got hit again with a round from an AK-47. I stumbled along the trail. My buddy was cranking out shots while I ran with him. About that time, the grenade ambush we'd set went off. The VC stopped firing. Who knows how many were killed, but somebody else would have to go back and get that body count.

"We caught up with the rest of the squad--it must've been a hundred meters or so--and just fell down. But my buddy was dead. He had been hit again while I was carrying him out. He never had a chance.

"They awarded me the Bronze Star a few days later. It don't mean nuthin', 'cause a lot of guys died that day. For some reason, I was spared. Yeah, I was shot and got a Purple Heart and the BSM and a few days off. For the life of me, I don't know why I wasn't the one killed that day."

Chris was completely absorbed in his dad's recollection and sat stunned with a look of bewilderment. "You are a hero, Dad."

Before his son could continue, Tom bluntly interrupted. "Don't ever call me a hero. The heroes are the ones who didn't come back. All I could think about at the time was saving my buddies. It was pure reaction and adrenaline, something I had faced a hundred times before. Only this time my luck ran out. All I did was try to keep myself and my buddies alive.

"That was it, plain and simple. I'm not the hero, Chris. My buddy is the hero. The fact that the last bullet that killed him while I was carrying him out, should've hit me instead..."

Tom let that last statement hang in the air.

"I've felt guilty every day ever since that happened. That was supposed to be my bullet, not his. I shouldn't be here."

"You never told me that before."

Both were startled and turned to see Ed standing in the hallway. Neither had heard him get up.

"Now I finally understand the guilt you've been carrying all these years, Son. I'm sorry you lost your friend. It was one of the hardest things for me, too. I still live with some of those memories every day. I'll never forget them.

"What was your buddy's name, Tom?"

"Wayne Johnson. We called him 'Sunshine.' He lit up the room with his big smile and sunny disposition." Tom cracked a slight grin.

"He always had good things to say about anyone and everyone. Never a bad word, no matter how crappy a day it may have been. His demeanor, his coolness--even under fire--kept us all calm. Nothing ever rattled him. Sunshine died protecting me, keeping me safe. I did everything I could to save him, but it just wasn't enough."

Tom fought the tears rolling down his cheeks.

Without hesitation, Chris commented, "Geez, Dad. You and Granddad were both awarded the Bronze Star for risking your lives to save others. It's pretty clear you put your lives on the line for others."

Both Tom and Ed looked at each other, then at Chris. He seemed much older than his fifteen years.

Ed sat down hard in his recliner. "I could use a drink. How about you?"

* * *

The doorbell rang. Tom looked at the clock, it was two in the morning. "What the fuck?" He was a little discombobulated, then remembered he was sleeping on a couch in his father's apartment. Once he realized that, he got up to answer the door, not knowing who it was. In the back of his mind, he wondered if something had already happened to his dad. They had just moved him to the memory unit earlier that day.

"Who's there?"

"It's me. Open up the fuckin' door."

Tom opened the door to his father's big shit-eating grin.

"Dad, are you okay? What's going on? I thought you were in your new room."

Ed walked in right past him, looking over his shoulder. "I didn't like that fuckin' place. This is my home and I want to stay here and sleep in my own bed."

Tom wasn't prepared for this. Chris opened his eyes and sat up. "Everything alright, Dad?"

"Your grandfather decided he wanted to come back to his apartment. Everything's fine.

"Dad, did you let anyone know you were leaving?"

"Fuck no. If they want me, they can come and get me."

Tom could tell that Ed was having fun. He had escaped the memory unit and evaded Security.

"I'll call the memory unit to let them know you're over here and that I'm with you. I think we should do that, don't you, Dad?"

"If you say so. Say... do you want a drink? I think I've got some Gin around here somewhere."

"No. I'm good."

"Chris, you want to join your grandfather for a drink? It may be the last time for a while."

"No, Granddad. I'm not old enough to drink."

"Good boy. On second thought, I think I'll just go to bed. That okay with you?" Ed stated as he marched down the hallway to his bed.

As he called Security to let them know his father was back in his apartment, Tom began to giggle. Despite what anyone else would ever think, this was hilarious. He wasn't sure what else to do, but he would certainly want to share this with Michelle... and Charles. They would both get a kick out of it. They would probably need to review the security procedures in the memory unit. Somehow, he didn't think his father posed any threats. After all, this was his apartment. At least, until tomorrow.

Tom laid back down on the couch with one eye open and one eye shut--just like back in 'Nam. Only this time, the "incoming" was not mortar or rocket fire. It was only his dad. He smiled at that thought and nodded off.

Tom wondered how she knew these things. Was she keeping tabs on him?

"Charles is one of my favorite people here. He's a veteran like you and picked himself up from the lowest place one could ever be. He has really made a remarkable comeback.

"I mentioned before that I was once married to a Vietnam veteran." Michelle settled back on the bench, looking out toward the hills.

"Well, at the time we divorced, I knew Bill still had problems from the war. But he refused to talk about them to me. Or anyone, for that matter. Sometimes we'd go out to dinner or to a movie, and it seemed he just wasn't comfortable in strange places, especially if they were dimly lit. He'd sit with his back to a wall and always seemed to be wary of anyone near us. It was almost like he was ready to fend off an attack or make a quick exit. He seemed to talk a little less and drink a little more."

Tom easily related to that, but kept listening. Everything Michelle described--everything--he had experienced, some of which he still did.

"We now know it as PTSD--Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." Michelle shifted position on the bench and switched to her professional role, trying to explain--confess--her own personal experience. "It's had other names, including 'shell shock' and 'battle fatigue.' Even during the Civil War, it was called 'Soldier's Heart.'

"The name is new--it wasn't officially called PTSD until 1980--but the experience is not. About a third of all Vietnam veterans have been or will be diagnosed with PTSD. The research is still in the early stages, but we are learning quite a bit.

Michelle's voice changed from a professional tone to a more somber, softer one.

"Denial is a strong psychological tool. But eventually, denial breaks down. I knew something was going on with Bill. But I was deeply involved in my research and school. He was so distant at times, I guess I just didn't put two and two together and realize what he was really going through. Or maybe, it was just easier to ignore him. Sometimes it was hard to tell.

Her gaze turned to Tom, with a slight upbeat in her voice.

"Anyway, Charles has helped me better understand how PTSD affects a veteran. He's also helped me better understand my own feelings, having been married to a veteran. I just wish I had known earlier. Perhaps I could have salvaged..."

That unfinished statement hung in the air for a few moments before she stated matter-of-factly, "But the past is past. I needed to move on with my life."

Michelle again shifted her posture on the bench. "My principle area of research focuses on dementia and how it affects combat veterans. My father was also in World War II. He never talked about the war. As a kid, I guess that was normal for us--we didn't know any different. I'm sure you felt the same. But as I got older, I noticed some things seemed to bother my dad that didn't bother other World War II veterans."

Tom listened to a very familiar story. Michelle was telling his story as a young boy growing up with his dad. She wasn't just relaying professional guidance. She was talking to him as a friend and confidant, someone she could easily talk to. He liked this new role.

Michelle took a deep breath. Tom sensed she was going to confess something deep and personal.

"When I was having my own marital problems, my father never understood why I couldn't work things out with my husband. They were both veterans. My father overcame most of his problems. At least, I think he did.

"We tried to talk about it, but my father's stubbornness always got in the way of logic. He didn't want to hear about what I knew, either from my research or from my own marriage. He became more defensive of my Vietnam veteran husband than he was of me--his own daughter."

Tom recalled when his father seemed to side with everyone but him--that argument that led to his parting ways with his own father. He knew exactly what that alienation felt like.

"Is your dad still around? Does he better understand things now?"

As Michelle spoke, her face fell, her eyes cast downward. "No, Dad died in 1989. He was only sixty-nine years old when cancer took him. We were able to reconcile and come to terms, though I think it was probably too late. I finally forgive him and let him know I loved him and appreciated him. Still..." Michelle breathed out a heavy sigh.

"That's one reason I'm intrigued with you and your father, Tom. Maybe 'intrigued' isn't the right word. But there's something about you that wants me to get to know you better."

Tom took all this in, hearing every word, but hardly believing it. That is until he looked into Michelle's sparkling hazel eyes--eyes that spoke more to him than any words he could possibly hear. He reached out to touch her hand, but Michelle flinched, backing off a little with a soft smile.

"I need to be careful, Tom. I've been through this drinking, self-destruction, and depression once before. I don't want to go through that again. Besides, I work here. People may question my professionalism if I get involved with a family member of one of my patients while I'm here on the campus. Does any of this make sense?"

When Michelle spoke in that soft, reassuring voice, Tom searched her eyes for sincerity, something to hang onto.

"Of course it does, Michelle. It's just that it's been such a long time since I've been in a relationship. I've almost forgotten how to act."

"I don't think so, Tom," Michelle laughed in her appealing way, all white teeth and cute laugh lines. "You are quite the gentleman."