Richard Spalla served in the US Army as a Communication Specialist from 1963 – 1966

This story was written by a friend of mine who served with the US Army and participated in the Vietnam War. He seldom talks about his experiences, and for the most part I don’t ask, but I thought you might find it interesting. It serves as a reminder that not much has changed for our brave men and women over the years; this story was actually written almost forty years ago. Even today, our veterans continue to struggle in silence and are often forgotten about by the very people they risked their lives to protect. The author of this story is turning seventy soon, and despite his ailing health, still works long hours at a nominal wage to provide for his family. As you read this story, keep in mind the reason you can do so freely, and with whatever kind of scrutiny you choose, is because of people like him who so valiantly sacrificed part of their mind, soul, body, and all too often… their lives.

The Man Who Lived Underground

In the fall of 1976 I was driving across the United States, headed for a job interview in Arizona. I had been on the road since early morning and still had a long way to go to maintain my schedule. It was just getting dark, around eight o’clock or so, when I spotted a diner up ahead. I decided to stop for coffee, and a bit of a stretch of the legs. The diner reminded me of something from the pre-World War II era. It was one of those old street car shaped things, sitting in the middle of nowhere. The only sign of civilization was an old beat up truck parked alongside the place.

Inside, there was a counter with ten or twelve low stools, half a dozen booths, a recent jukebox, and a cigarette machine. Behind the counter was a grill, a cooler, and the usual assortment of cooking utensils. Above the grill there was a menu that showed pictures of a variety of dinners. You know it’s sad when you would rather eat the cardboard posters than the food.

The counter man-cook was about as non-descript as the rest of the place. He was middle-aged, balding, small pot-belly, with a heavy five o’clock shadow.  He wore one of those silly white paper hats and a greasy, filthy apron, that I’m sure was once white. He looked like he belonged in a gas station rather than the diner.

I sat at the counter, ordered coffee, and was going over the trip ticket and maps I had gotten from the Triple A, when I realized that someone else had been sitting in one of the corner booths watching me. I didn’t pay much attention to him, ordered more coffee, and asked for the rest room.

“Around back” was the only reply from the counter jockey.

The washroom was a small, smelly room that should have been with the cook at some garage. I begrudgingly did what I had to do, washed, then went back and finished my coffee and headed for the door. A voice asked me in what direction I was headed? I turned to the person in the booth and said;

“West, why?”

“Suppose I could catch a ride to the next town?” he asked.

I don’t make it a habit to pick up hitchhikers at any time of the day or night, but I thought it might be nice to have someone to talk to; even for a short while. “Come on” I said, and headed out the door with my rider close behind.

He slouched in the passenger seat and rode in silence for a few miles before he finally asked how far I was going. When I replied “Tucson” he sat up a little.

“Lived there once” he said. “Nice town, nice people, too damn hot sometimes”.

“Why’d ya leave?” I asked.

“Circumstances” was his reply.

We drove along in silence again, and I was beginning to wonder just how far the next town was when I felt him staring at me again. I glanced over at him, but wasn’t able to see his eyes, yet I could feel him looking at me with a certain intensity. I hadn’t paid much attention to his clothes back at the diner, but I could see what he wore from the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He was wearing what appeared to be an army fatigue jacket, dungarees, battered hiking boots, and a navy watch cap low over the top of his eyes. He was unshaven, but not dirty or smelly. He struck me as a very weary but cautious man. We passed a sign that said the next town was still about 40 miles away, so I told him if he wanted to rest I’d wake him up when we got there. He thanked me, slouched in his seat, pulled the cap down over his eyes, and was soon breathing heavily in sleep.

About 15 minutes went by and I turned on the radio, searching for some “easy listening” music; all I could get was gospel or country and western. As I turned the dial, my companion woke with a startle and reached inside his pocket. I was somewhat taken back by this and jerked the steering wheel to the left. I did however, maintain control of the car and my emotions; my rider just mumbled some half-baked apology. He pulled his hand out of his coat, but there was nothing in it but a cigarette lighter. He looked at it and said “I don’t even smoke, but it reminds me of someone.”

There was silence for a while, then he finally spoke;

“You were in the service, weren’t ya”? It was a statement, not a question.

Spalla shortly after leaving the army in 1966

“Yeah”, I said.

“Overseas?” He asked.

“Yeah”

“Nam?”

“When?”

“Sixty-six”

“I was there in sixty-eight”, he said..

“Tet offensive”, I mumbled

“Yeah, Hue”, he said

There was more silence.

“I quit” he said. “I left that god damned place in the middle of fighting and never looked back. Just caught a f-cking plane and deserted the whole business. Didn’t give a sh-t about anyone or anything any more. I died there man.”

Silence …

“You pissed at me man?”

“No” I said.  “I left some friends there though.”

“We all did” he said.

“I’d been hiding for eight, almost nine years, but I can’t go home anymore. Everyone there thinks I’m MIA. My folks would never understand man. I’ve been moving around a lot. Can’t stay any place too long. Can’t get close to anyone. Last guy I made friends with went home in a body bag… ain’t going to happen again man.”

“The war is over man” I said. “No one cares anymore. No one gave a damn then, they care even less now!”

“I died there! I got no home no more! If I went home, it’d kill my old man…he thought there was no better way for a man to die than for the good old U.S. of A.  Bullsh-t!!!”

Silence …

I saw a glow of lights up ahead, the glow of a city or town. A sign said “Ardmore, Oklahoma: population 15,000, 6 miles”.

“This is as good a place as any to let me out.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah”

“Where ya going to go out there? What ya gonna do now?”

“Go nowhere, do nothing. Go everywhere.. do everything”

“Look, I’m going to Tucson, ride with me until I get there.”

“No thanks man. This is fine. Anywhere here is as good as it is going to get.”

I pulled over to the shoulder and he started to get out.

“Wait!” I said. I reached in to my pocket and came out with a $10 bill and a couple of $1’s. “Here, you’re going to need this.”

“Thanks” He said. I saw the faint hint of tears well up in his eyes; “Be cool man.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It don’t matter” he said.

“Does to me”

“Billy”

“So long Billy”

“See ya”

He closed the door and walked off into the night. I drove away and thought of a title for a book; “Johnny We Hardly Knew Ya”, and imagined Billy standing next to what might have been his parents. I felt a tear run down my cheek.