CRS

More and more old friends seem to be finding me as the internet expands; and it’s a good thing, I guess, except for one revelation. They keep speaking of things of which I have absolutely no recollection. Apparently, I was stationed with them in the time frames they speak of, and I must have been somewhere in the area when this stuff happened, but the events are washed from my memory as if they never were. Gone like the moisture from a quick summer shower falling on arid ground after a long drought.

A guy I was stationed with in Cut Bank, Montana spoke of a fire that took place in the trailer park section of the housing area while I was there. The entire squadron fell out to fight it. The nearest town, Cut Bank, for which the site was named, is some forty-four miles away. I suppose they have a fire department; I don’t remember, now (naturally). It was, and I’m told, still is, a small town of some two thousand souls and one stoplight. There probably was a volunteer fire department. The entire squadron could have burned to the ground had we waited for assistance from them, though.

In any case, the incident still registers a total blank for me, although I remember the trailer park well enough. Maybe I was on duty in the radar towers at the time the fire occurred, but nevertheless, I should remember the event. Regardless of where I was in the squadron area, I would have responded to fight the fire. I mean, when you’re isolated out in the middle of nowhere, little things like flaming house trailer units burning down definitely warrant attention and should stick in your memory, if for no other reason than such incidents served to break the mind-numbing monotony of life in the boonies.

However, I’ve discovered that those cobwebs don’t just encumber my mind. I’m not the only one afflicted with CRS (Can’t Remember Shit). One friend didn’t remember being mortared and rocketed repeatedly in Tay Ninh West while we were TDY in Vietnam until I reminded him. He recalled some attacks while we were on Trang-Sup, a few miles outside of Tay Ninh, but not the attacks in Tay Ninh West until I brought them up.

It’s a good thing I did, since he was trying to get compensation for PTSD symptoms from the VA and was looking for someone to verify that he had been under hostile fire while in the Nam. Amazing that he would forget events that had lasted several days, the very events that would help bolster his claim. Maybe he was on one of the first flights out back to the PI, and what happened was more vivid in my memory because the Captain and I were the last to leave days after the last of our crew had departed.

A second old friend tried to stir my memory of another who had served with us in the Philippines, but to no avail. Naturally, and to my embarrassment, the guy I couldn’t recall had a very clear and favorable recollection of me. Months later, rusty gears shifted, something clicked in my mind and I realized the ‘forgotten’ friend was actually someone I did remember. Problem was, I remembered him as “Joe”. The man’s name is actually Peter – Peter Parenti – we called him Pete. He was a short, black-haired, mischievous kid with bright brown eyes who liked to tease me. I have no idea when or why my mind substituted the name “Joe” for “Pete” in my memory. He even helped clean my house one day after a party, despite the fact he didn't like Mina, my live-in girlfriend.

I suppose it’s inevitable that memory falters as the frost gathers on our pumpkin heads in the autumn of our years. Trouble is, I keep wondering how much juicy stuff has slipped into the sub-basement of my consciousness over the years. What delicious, titillating adventures am I forgetting to drag out and savor anew? In view of some of the things I do remember, I could definitely be missing out. Especially those times in Bangkok and Barcelona… CRS and its associated affliction, CRAFT (Can’t Remember A Friggin’ Thing) are awful, insidious maladies indeed.

©Copyright November 9, 2003 by Thurman P. Woodfork