***Song To While Away The Class Struggle By-Bruce Springsteen’s “Brothers Under The Bridge- With A Story From The Pen Of Joshua Lawrence Breslin
Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:
Recently in grabbing an old Bruce Springsteen CD compilation from 1998 to “burn” and download into my iPod I came across a song that stopped in my tracks, the one highlighted in the title to this entry Brothers Under The Bridge. I had not listened to or thought about that song for a long time but it brought back many memories from the late 1970s when I did a series of articles for the now defunct East Bay Eye (California, naturally) on the fate of some troubled Vietnam veterans who, for one reason or another, could not come to grips with “going back to the real world” and took, like those a great depression generation or two before them, to the “jungle”-the hobo, bum, tramps camps located along the abandoned railroad sidings, the ravines and crevices, and under the bridges of California, mainly down in Los Angeles and created their own “society.”
The editor of the East Bay Eye, Owen Anderson, gave me this assignment after I had done a smaller series for the paper on the treatment, the poor treatment, of Vietnam veterans by the Veterans Administration in San Francisco and in the course of that series had found out about this band of brothers roaming the countryside trying to do the best they could, but mainly trying to keep themselves in one piece. My qualifications for the assignment other than empathy, since I had not been in the military during the Vietnam War period, were based simply on the fact that back East I had been involved, along with several other radicals, in running an anti-war GI coffeehouse near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and down near Fort Dix in New Jersey. During that period I had run into many soldiers of my 1960s generation who had clued me on the psychic cost of the war so I had a running start.
After making connections with some Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) guys down in L.A. who knew where to point me I was on my way. I gathered many stories, published some of them in the Eye, and put the rest in my helter-skelter files. A couple of weeks ago, after having no success in retrieving the old Eye archives, I went up into my attic and rummaged through what was left of those early files. I could find no newsprint articles that I had written but I did find a batch of notes, specifically notes from a story that I didn’t file because the Eye went under before I could round it into shape. The format of those long ago stories was that I would basically let the guy I was talking to give his spiel, spill what he wanted the world to heard, and I would write it up without too much editing (mainly for language). I have reconstructed that story here as best I can although at this far remove it is hard to get the feel of the voice and how things were said. This is Jeff and Zeb’s story as told by Jeff, probably one of the only stories that have ever driven home to me the hellishness of war and what it does to men’s souls.
For the record Jeffrey James Adams served in Vietnam from mid-1969 to-early 1970 and Zebulon Samuel Johnston from mid-1969 to late 1971. Zebulon Johnston’s name appears in no rededicated wall down in Washington but just maybe it should. Read below why. Josh Breslin
**********
This conversation took place one afternoon (date, unknown) in late October, 1977 under a massive concrete overpass along U.S. Interstate 5 just south of Inglewood near Los Angeles, California.
“Ya, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on, a guy you could count on, if you know what I mean. Who did you say you worked for, mister? Oh, ya, The East Bay Eye. I still miss the bastard, miss him for leaving me here without a guy I could count on, and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. A real brother, unlike my own brother who sometimes was a brother to me and sometimes just a same last name.
Zeb and I went back, went back to basic training in the Army down at Fort Gordon in Georgia. Jesus just remembering that hellhole place and that hellhole time and that hellhole way the good citizens outside in Augusta treated us the couple of times we had weekend passes just like the blacks just because I was a Yankee and old Zeb was from broken down Appalachia, some dink town called Hazard, a coal dust town from what he said about it. A town he always said was full of history and written up in song and in the books. But I had never heard of it, and truth, never have heard of it since so I think that was old Zeb just being old Zeb. Just so you know when you write this story his real name was Zebulon Samuel Johnston, named after his father, his pa-pa he said, simple as that. And don’t call him a Johnson, either. He was a Johnston, born and bred, he said.
But the big thing about how we hit it off right from the start was that first day when we got off that olive drab bus and hit the barracks and Jeb was bunked across from me and I had to show him how to tie his boots. See, he never had proper shoes from the way he told it and the way he tried to tie those boots before the boot camp sergeant snapped his neck back for him I can believe that and maybe that was the way things were down in broken down Hazard. All I know is that all through basic training, through rough woods stuff, Zeb paid me back, paid me back big time, for my minute kindness. See he knew more about the woods, and how to survive in them, and little tricks about how to use this and that to get stuff done than a city boy, a big time Boston city boy, Yankee to the core, and corner boy smart not woods smart could ever know.
So he kept me on, as he said, as his mascot. And anytime he needed some fancy way to get out of something he would yell for me, and then he would be my mascot. Tight we were right from basic. Same tight, and you'd better be tight, or get our asses kicked when we took Advanced Infantry Training down at Fort McClellan down in Alabama where the civilians put Yankees and hillbillies below blacks in the pecking order they had established, or so it seemed every time we had town leave.
And then shipped out to ‘Nam. Ya, ‘Nam hellhole of all hellholes and I know, know for certain I never would have made it out alive if not for Zeb. See one time after we had a few days off from the line we hit Saigon and jesus, the place looked just like home, or somebody’s home if that home was Vegas or one of those glitter town, action night or day. I couldn’t leave the place, or want to. Zeb could take it or leave it so he went back first. Well one day, yes, day time he pulled me out of some brothel, some sweet Eurasian girl specialty house just in time to keep me from being locked up for about six months in Long Binh for being, well, a few days over my leave time.
But I am getting a little sidetracked and confused because that is not really the time he saved my young white ass. No that was when we were out in the boonies, out in the Central Highlands, near Pleiku just doing a routine patrol, keeping as far away from the enemy as we could and as close to this little river, a crick Zeb called it, but really a creek, a little low during the dry season. From out of nowhere we start taking fire from “Charlie,” or maybe NVA regulars because the field of fire was pretty concentrated like these guys had done it together for a while. In any case the fire was getting heavy and so I wasn’t paying enough attention to where I was heading. Next thing I know I am in the creek, water all around and muddy, big muddy, and I can’t get out, no way. I take a round in the shoulder; see that scar there, ya, that’s Purple Heart territory. I guess the hit made me crazy, crazy not with pain as with fear, animal fear, and that ain’t no lie. I could smell it and it wasn’t pretty.
I started crying out, started crying out like crazy “Zeb, don’t leave me here to die alone so far from home, please Zeb.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more about it because as you can see Jeb did not leave me in any 'Nam. Ya, he got the Bronze Star for that, and a Purple Heart to boot for his own wounds carrying me to the medivac area although I must have passed out because I don’t remember much after the screaming and that fear smell. My war was over, and I lost a little contact with Jeb as guys will do when they get split up in wartime.
Back in the real world and out, maybe 1972, I was doing okay, a little of this and that, nothing big and nothing that couldn’t be shoved aside like air if I wanted to take off. Then about a year later I heard through a mutual friend that Jeb had made it back to “the real world” after another tour of duty in ‘Nam and was out in Los Angeles. What that friend didn’t tell me, or didn’t know, was that second tour took the stuffing out of Zeb and he had started doing some girl. You know what that is right? Cocaine. Ya, drugs to ease the pain and erase the horror. And once girl couldn’t shake the dreams and the pain then boy, plenty of boy took you out of this world. Boy, since you didn’t know what girl was, is nothing but horse, heroin, sweet dreams, for a while heroin.
Ya, Jeb was in a bad way out there in L.A. living on the streets, knocking off drug stores and I don’t what else is what he told me later when he was sober a couple of times. Somehow our mutual friend gave Zeb my number and one night, one hellish stormy night up in Maine where I was staying working at a small shipyard, I got a phone call from Zeb saying, “Jeff, don’t leave me out here alone to die, please Jeff.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more because I did not leave Jeb to die alone in any L.A. Jesus, no, not a good old country no shoes boy like Zeb in L.A. They would eat him alive.
So, a few days, maybe a week later, we met in a Mission Of God house or some such place over on Wiltshire, not the good part, and I got him fixed up there for a while. He was shaky, very shaky. Then, after a few months, he decided that he had to get out of that mission house and live on the streets. Well not exactly the streets but in a place like this, near the railroad tracks, in case he wanted to head home he said, just a hobo jungle really. So I stayed with him naturally. Somehow he got some boy from god knows where and he went off to the races again. He wouldn’t even consider getting help or leaving the jungle. He said he felt at home under bridges, and along railroad tracks.
Well, somehow one day, I wasn’t around that day I was down at the pier looking for a couple of days work to tide us over, he got a hold of some badass smack , some poison left-over stuff and started dancing on the tracks from what some ‘bo who was there said later. You know as well as I do you can’t dance on any railroad track and not draw a wrong number. They say he tried to get off the track but he wasn’t fast enough.
Ya, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on if you know what I mean. I still miss the bastard and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. Poor Jeb lived on sweet dreams and train smoke and I guess I will for a while. Maybe do a little of this and that again. But not right now, okay.
Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:
Recently in grabbing an old Bruce Springsteen CD compilation from 1998 to “burn” and download into my iPod I came across a song that stopped in my tracks, the one highlighted in the title to this entry Brothers Under The Bridge. I had not listened to or thought about that song for a long time but it brought back many memories from the late 1970s when I did a series of articles for the now defunct East Bay Eye (California, naturally) on the fate of some troubled Vietnam veterans who, for one reason or another, could not come to grips with “going back to the real world” and took, like those a great depression generation or two before them, to the “jungle”-the hobo, bum, tramps camps located along the abandoned railroad sidings, the ravines and crevices, and under the bridges of California, mainly down in Los Angeles and created their own “society.”
The editor of the East Bay Eye, Owen Anderson, gave me this assignment after I had done a smaller series for the paper on the treatment, the poor treatment, of Vietnam veterans by the Veterans Administration in San Francisco and in the course of that series had found out about this band of brothers roaming the countryside trying to do the best they could, but mainly trying to keep themselves in one piece. My qualifications for the assignment other than empathy, since I had not been in the military during the Vietnam War period, were based simply on the fact that back East I had been involved, along with several other radicals, in running an anti-war GI coffeehouse near Fort Devens in Massachusetts and down near Fort Dix in New Jersey. During that period I had run into many soldiers of my 1960s generation who had clued me on the psychic cost of the war so I had a running start.
After making connections with some Vietnam Veterans Against The War (VVAW) guys down in L.A. who knew where to point me I was on my way. I gathered many stories, published some of them in the Eye, and put the rest in my helter-skelter files. A couple of weeks ago, after having no success in retrieving the old Eye archives, I went up into my attic and rummaged through what was left of those early files. I could find no newsprint articles that I had written but I did find a batch of notes, specifically notes from a story that I didn’t file because the Eye went under before I could round it into shape. The format of those long ago stories was that I would basically let the guy I was talking to give his spiel, spill what he wanted the world to heard, and I would write it up without too much editing (mainly for language). I have reconstructed that story here as best I can although at this far remove it is hard to get the feel of the voice and how things were said. This is Jeff and Zeb’s story as told by Jeff, probably one of the only stories that have ever driven home to me the hellishness of war and what it does to men’s souls.
For the record Jeffrey James Adams served in Vietnam from mid-1969 to-early 1970 and Zebulon Samuel Johnston from mid-1969 to late 1971. Zebulon Johnston’s name appears in no rededicated wall down in Washington but just maybe it should. Read below why. Josh Breslin
**********
This conversation took place one afternoon (date, unknown) in late October, 1977 under a massive concrete overpass along U.S. Interstate 5 just south of Inglewood near Los Angeles, California.
“Ya, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on, a guy you could count on, if you know what I mean. Who did you say you worked for, mister? Oh, ya, The East Bay Eye. I still miss the bastard, miss him for leaving me here without a guy I could count on, and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. A real brother, unlike my own brother who sometimes was a brother to me and sometimes just a same last name.
Zeb and I went back, went back to basic training in the Army down at Fort Gordon in Georgia. Jesus just remembering that hellhole place and that hellhole time and that hellhole way the good citizens outside in Augusta treated us the couple of times we had weekend passes just like the blacks just because I was a Yankee and old Zeb was from broken down Appalachia, some dink town called Hazard, a coal dust town from what he said about it. A town he always said was full of history and written up in song and in the books. But I had never heard of it, and truth, never have heard of it since so I think that was old Zeb just being old Zeb. Just so you know when you write this story his real name was Zebulon Samuel Johnston, named after his father, his pa-pa he said, simple as that. And don’t call him a Johnson, either. He was a Johnston, born and bred, he said.
But the big thing about how we hit it off right from the start was that first day when we got off that olive drab bus and hit the barracks and Jeb was bunked across from me and I had to show him how to tie his boots. See, he never had proper shoes from the way he told it and the way he tried to tie those boots before the boot camp sergeant snapped his neck back for him I can believe that and maybe that was the way things were down in broken down Hazard. All I know is that all through basic training, through rough woods stuff, Zeb paid me back, paid me back big time, for my minute kindness. See he knew more about the woods, and how to survive in them, and little tricks about how to use this and that to get stuff done than a city boy, a big time Boston city boy, Yankee to the core, and corner boy smart not woods smart could ever know.
So he kept me on, as he said, as his mascot. And anytime he needed some fancy way to get out of something he would yell for me, and then he would be my mascot. Tight we were right from basic. Same tight, and you'd better be tight, or get our asses kicked when we took Advanced Infantry Training down at Fort McClellan down in Alabama where the civilians put Yankees and hillbillies below blacks in the pecking order they had established, or so it seemed every time we had town leave.
And then shipped out to ‘Nam. Ya, ‘Nam hellhole of all hellholes and I know, know for certain I never would have made it out alive if not for Zeb. See one time after we had a few days off from the line we hit Saigon and jesus, the place looked just like home, or somebody’s home if that home was Vegas or one of those glitter town, action night or day. I couldn’t leave the place, or want to. Zeb could take it or leave it so he went back first. Well one day, yes, day time he pulled me out of some brothel, some sweet Eurasian girl specialty house just in time to keep me from being locked up for about six months in Long Binh for being, well, a few days over my leave time.
But I am getting a little sidetracked and confused because that is not really the time he saved my young white ass. No that was when we were out in the boonies, out in the Central Highlands, near Pleiku just doing a routine patrol, keeping as far away from the enemy as we could and as close to this little river, a crick Zeb called it, but really a creek, a little low during the dry season. From out of nowhere we start taking fire from “Charlie,” or maybe NVA regulars because the field of fire was pretty concentrated like these guys had done it together for a while. In any case the fire was getting heavy and so I wasn’t paying enough attention to where I was heading. Next thing I know I am in the creek, water all around and muddy, big muddy, and I can’t get out, no way. I take a round in the shoulder; see that scar there, ya, that’s Purple Heart territory. I guess the hit made me crazy, crazy not with pain as with fear, animal fear, and that ain’t no lie. I could smell it and it wasn’t pretty.
I started crying out, started crying out like crazy “Zeb, don’t leave me here to die alone so far from home, please Zeb.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more about it because as you can see Jeb did not leave me in any 'Nam. Ya, he got the Bronze Star for that, and a Purple Heart to boot for his own wounds carrying me to the medivac area although I must have passed out because I don’t remember much after the screaming and that fear smell. My war was over, and I lost a little contact with Jeb as guys will do when they get split up in wartime.
Back in the real world and out, maybe 1972, I was doing okay, a little of this and that, nothing big and nothing that couldn’t be shoved aside like air if I wanted to take off. Then about a year later I heard through a mutual friend that Jeb had made it back to “the real world” after another tour of duty in ‘Nam and was out in Los Angeles. What that friend didn’t tell me, or didn’t know, was that second tour took the stuffing out of Zeb and he had started doing some girl. You know what that is right? Cocaine. Ya, drugs to ease the pain and erase the horror. And once girl couldn’t shake the dreams and the pain then boy, plenty of boy took you out of this world. Boy, since you didn’t know what girl was, is nothing but horse, heroin, sweet dreams, for a while heroin.
Ya, Jeb was in a bad way out there in L.A. living on the streets, knocking off drug stores and I don’t what else is what he told me later when he was sober a couple of times. Somehow our mutual friend gave Zeb my number and one night, one hellish stormy night up in Maine where I was staying working at a small shipyard, I got a phone call from Zeb saying, “Jeff, don’t leave me out here alone to die, please Jeff.” And you know I don’t have to say anything more because I did not leave Jeb to die alone in any L.A. Jesus, no, not a good old country no shoes boy like Zeb in L.A. They would eat him alive.
So, a few days, maybe a week later, we met in a Mission Of God house or some such place over on Wiltshire, not the good part, and I got him fixed up there for a while. He was shaky, very shaky. Then, after a few months, he decided that he had to get out of that mission house and live on the streets. Well not exactly the streets but in a place like this, near the railroad tracks, in case he wanted to head home he said, just a hobo jungle really. So I stayed with him naturally. Somehow he got some boy from god knows where and he went off to the races again. He wouldn’t even consider getting help or leaving the jungle. He said he felt at home under bridges, and along railroad tracks.
Well, somehow one day, I wasn’t around that day I was down at the pier looking for a couple of days work to tide us over, he got a hold of some badass smack , some poison left-over stuff and started dancing on the tracks from what some ‘bo who was there said later. You know as well as I do you can’t dance on any railroad track and not draw a wrong number. They say he tried to get off the track but he wasn’t fast enough.
Ya, Zeb was quite a guy in his time, a guy you could depend on if you know what I mean. I still miss the bastard and will until I leave this good green earth and that ain’t no lie, no sir. Poor Jeb lived on sweet dreams and train smoke and I guess I will for a while. Maybe do a little of this and that again. But not right now, okay.
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