Arthur Cole passed away on September 17, 2007, almost a year after he was interviewed for profile. A copy of this piece was found on his favorite chair. This story is dedicated to Arthur, a dear friend to everyone that knew and loved him. May he rest in peace.
Arthur Cole was 18 years old and a recent high school graduate when he was drafted to fight in the Vietnam War. He was not afraid. He endured a rough training course in North Carolina where he familiarized himself with bazookas, World War II tanks and other "weapons you wouldn't believe." A challenging mixture of sweltering summer conditions and endless rain made his preparations for Vietnam even more intense. Still Cole remained brave, admittedly finding a sense of adventure and opportunity in the use of weaponry. He left for Vietnam void of expectations and soon arrived at an evacuation hospital called Long Binh, located outside of Saigon. That night, as the nonstop firing of bullets and the lingering smell of gun powder filled the air, Cole fell into a sound sleep. But he was soon awoken by what he describes as a huge explosion -- and the disturbing realization that his good friend, Richard Barron, had been killed by a bomb. That’s when everything changed.
"Nothing was found of him," Cole, now 58, somberly recalls. Cole, who has resided in Brooklyn for 51 years, slouches in his favorite burgundy recliner, one hand lying on his round stomach and the other displaying specific gestures to illustrate selected words. "I didn’t go to sleep for the next day and a half," he says.
His dry feet are bare and he is comfortably clothed in a large shirt from "Big Daddy Clothing Factory", navy sleep shorts and a pair of reading glasses. His apartment appears notably cluttered -- hundreds of books, particularly Louie Lamoure and P.G Woodhouse titles fill the room and at least seven clocks are in sight. At exactly 8:45pm a cat meows, but this noise is not from a pet because Cole does not share his Midwood co-op. The sound actually comes from a clock, which features a different breed of cat for each hour.
On a tabletop beside Cole is a wooden chest and a case containing thirteen bottles of pills. "This trunk is full of diabetes supplies needles and stuff," he explains. Cole, who lives with diabetes type 2, also suffers from posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), a psychiatric disorder that may occur following the experience or witnessing of life-threatening events such as military combat. "I take thirteen pills in the morning and eleven at night -- and insulin too," Cole attributes his experiences as a soldier in Vietnam as the cause for his wide array of health problems.
In 2000 the Air Force released a study that evaluated airmen's exposure to Agent Orange, a defoliant sprayed over crops to deprive enemies of food, in association with increased risk of diabetes. The study found that veterans with higher dioxin levels (a primary ingredient in the powerful herbicide) were 47 percent more likely to develop diabetes. Another study conducted by the "National Vietnam Veterans Readjustment Survey", additionally established that 15 percent of men who served in Vietnam were diagnosed with PTSD. Recent veteran affair statistics also show that 161,000 veterans are still receiving disability compensation for the anxiety disorder. Cole exists in this fraction of soldiers who primarily suffer from nightmares, flashbacks and difficulty sleeping.
Cole was originally drafted as a helicopter gunman, whose key duty was to sit beside the door of a helicopter and shoot its machine gun. Upon arriving in Vietnam, he was informed that there were no gunman positions available and was instead given the task of a stevedore. As a stevedore, Cole delivered ammunition and loaded ships with palates -- portable platforms used for storing or moving cargo. His stint as a stevedore did not last long because of a fluke accident in which his foot became trapped inside a palate and was run over by a truck. While his broken foot healed, Cole was put to work in a nearby hospital, a place where his most traumatic memories of Vietnam originated.
"The job I had in the hospital was to put the body parts, of people that got blown up, in bags," his voice remains steady as he recollects a moment that has etched his ongoing struggle with PTSD. "I had a torso… no head, no nothing. I had to put two arms and two legs into the bag. They didn’t care if it went with the body."
"That was gross. I got to go to the doctor for it now. I still have nightmares," he says. Every Thursday for the past eight years, Cole sits with a support group of ten other Vietnam veterans who also struggle with PTSD. "We get it out of our system by talking. I’m much better now."
According to Frederick Aiese, licensed clinical social worker at the International Center for the Disabled, dreams of being back in battlefield, startle response and intrusion of thought are all common effects of PTSD. "The person thinks repeatedly about the traumatic incident even when they least expect it," says Aiese. Using a method called psychodynamic psychotherapy Aiese helps patients with their drives and experiences, advanced eye movement, desensitization and reprocessing. "Their progress depends on how significant the trauma was, how long they were exposed to it and what their individual constitution is," he explains.
Cole’s exposure to Vietnam has certainly affected all facets of his life. "If I didn’t go into the service, I’d have been married," he says fondly of his high school sweet heart, a thoughtful woman, whom while he was in combat; mailed him packages of liquor flavored lollypops and empty mayonnaise jars filled with melted snow, which he subsequently drank. "She met somebody else while I was in the service," he reminisces, matter-of-factly, a warm smile remaining fixed on his mouth.
Cole has never been married nor does he have or want any children. When asked if he plans to wed someday, he is quick to use his most frequently exclaimed phrase, "Are ya kidding?" a saying that is fittingly articulated in a Brooklyn accent. "Too young," he says of himself. "Maybe when I’m seventy when I need somebody to clean for me," he jokes. "I’m too set in my ways. I’m a slob so nobody could live with me. Let me tell ya!" One glance around Cole’s apartment could easily affirm this admission. Fill-It-In activity books, planners, calendars and tabloids are strewn across messy tabletops and an unused master bedroom carries nothing but storage. A fridge stocked with cases of Poland Spring water, Arizona Iced Tea and a single carton of eggs is adorned with M&M magnets, the kind that are likely to be found in Good Housekeeping ads.
Cole seems to find solace in life’s simplest pleasures, speaking proudly of his collection of oddball gadgets, pocket knives, watches, mugs, baseball cards, paper money and his mother’s prized antique bells. Adopted as an infant, together with his fraternal twin brother, Stephen, Cole considers his late mother, Elsie Cory, the most influential person in his life and lives by her motto to treat people the way you want to be treated. Having received a plaque for saving a four-year-old girl from the confines of a rapist and another woman held at knifepoint, Cole has certainly established himself as an example of this saying.
"Big deal. Anybody would have something like that," he humbly says of his heroism. "Adults don’t bother me because they can defend themselves. Animals and kids -- That bothers me."
"In Vietnam, they used to put spikes in the jungle in holes and when you stepped on it, the spike went through your foot," he vividly describes, referring to sharp bamboo stakes or punji sticks, which were concealed at an angle in high grass, holes, or deep mud. Often coated with excrement, they were deliberately planted to wound and infect the feet of enemy soldiers. But Cole has a different vision of these weapons and he evokes a haunting memory involving innocent Vietnamese children that were wounded instead. "They used to wear those flip flops like the ones we wear to the beach and I’d see these kids come in the hospital with grungy sticks through their feet," he says, with a chill. "They lost their feet."
"You never get over that. You know, I watch the news, Iraq, and it brings it all back." Cole briefly mentions the hundreds of soldiers he encounters at the Brooklyn VA Medical Center who also suffer from PTSD, including many young men who are recently returning from Iraq. "The ones that went into service now joined for college credit. They couldn’t afford to go to college. They didn’t know they were going to Iraq."
It is apparent that Cole is reflecting upon his three harrowing years in the military as he openly sympathizes with the current state of the army. "I wouldn’t want to be there now cause’ half of them don’t know which end the bullet comes out of. They’re all reserves. They’re not trained."
Cole exudes a calm tenderness throughout most of his retelling of war and death, even when speaking of his step-parents passing. Both his step-father, David Cory, who practiced ministry; and step-mother died in their late ninety’s. And though Cole made the attempt to keep in touch with many friends from Vietnam, he sadly admits to having lost a few to suicides. "They couldn’t take it when they got back to the civilian life," he says. "When we got off the plane in Washington, protestors were throwing rocks at us cause they thought the war was so bad."
Most of all, Cole seems to have an understanding and acceptance of the natural process of life and death. His carefree demeanor and appreciation for simple wonders is a quality that is sincerely illustrated in every sense of his environment and being. "Rarely do you meet someone of his character in your lifetime," says Pat Gardner, Cole’s good friend of 12 years. "He is generous, reliable and honest. He never criticizes and offers good heartfelt advice. He genuinely listens and cares." Though Cole has a deeply captivating life story, he does not regularly address his past experiences in combat. In groups of people, he speaks only when he is spoken to. Often the quiet type, Cole selflessly offers his attention to others with genuine interest and concern.
It is almost hard to believe but underneath Cole’s publicly quiet character exists a true tale of wisdom, bravery, brightness and enduring triumph.
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