A "combat" PTSD veteran asks FACEBOOK to cutback on the threats to ban him. It harasses his PTSD.
Almost each day, living 24/7 in a Vietnamese rice-farming village, we would get intel from the villagers that the Communists planned on wiping us out that night. This might seem a stretch connecting the two together, but with combat PTSD there is no need to stretch.
https://www.change.org/Veteran_Su***de ...
"COMBAT" PTSD VETERAN SU***DE AWARENESS
Please Become Aware of Veterans PTSD Su***de
Details and Evidence: http://www.americans-working-together.com/attor.../id73.html ...
http://www.americans-working-together.com/the_year_2016/id119.html
USING SOME OF HIS WAR EXPERIENCES AS A PARALLEL, A VIETNAM DECORATED VET IS WRITING AN OUTLINE TO A MOVIE SCRIPT TO HIGHLIGHT FRAUD AND DECEPTION WITHIN THE NEW JERSEY SUPREME COURT
Justice Forbidden - A Vietnam Veteran’s Journey To Hell
Vietnam War, opening scene outside the refugee village of Duc Duc.
I am alone on a small knoll, a couple of feet over a rice paddy, waiting
for my three Marine buddies to come back with water. They are burned out
from long hours of fighting in the 100-degree heat and have left their
weapons with me in order to carry more canteens.
I have an M-60 machine gun, 2 M-16 rifles, and an M-79 gr***de launcher. They found the well, and I can hear them laughing as they came back along the thin
d**e of the paddy to our position. They must have full stomachs.
Suddenly, gunfire erupts, and the three men dive into the rice paddy. I want to scream about the Bamboo vipers in the paddy, but there isn’t time. I
have to do something to save them! I have to draw the fire to me so they
can move out of the rice paddy. I cannot give up. Their lives depend on
me.
It has nothing to do with being a “hero.” It’s all about doing what’s right.
I start crawling around the small knoll, from the M-60 machine gun, to the
M-16 rifle, to my own M-79 gr***de launcher, trying to draw the enemy’s
fire to me. It’s working! The communist terrorists are firing on me. The sounds of incoming bullets and RPGs are constant now. Their bullets are hitting the dirt around me. With so many bullets going by my head, it sounds like I’m in an African beehive.
I have no time to be afraid. I must put out as much firepower as I can, so my buddies can pull themselves along the rice paddy faster. It's exhausting both physically and mentally. I say a few prayers in the hope that I succeed.
*****
THOSE are the kinds of nightmares that plague me. It’s like a
repetitive movie in my head . . . and what occurs 30 year later keeps the PTSD
alive.
*****
Next Scene: Thirty years later in a Superior Court house in Sussex New Jersey.
How like battle life has become. I face a powerful enemy, not with bullets
and gr***des, but against the forces of a corrupt state government. They
are arrayed against me, and instead of bullets, there is sarcasm, underhanded actions, threats, government fraud, and open government deception. The Supreme Court case number is DC 4102-02.
I have been on a quest for justice since the corrupt law firm of Maynard & Truland failed to represent me properly in my divorce, years ago. They failed to respond to my ex-wife’s divorce action in a timely manner, leading to my “defaulting” in that action. They changed my lawyer from one to another within the firm, without a word. They overcharged me.
Robert Correale is the Vice-Chairman of the local New Jersey Supreme court
attorney ethics committee. He is representing the Maynard & Truland
law firm and is one of their lawyers. He’s also assistant District
Attorney for two townships here in the County. Like the Viet Cong, he
outnumbers me, this time in sheer political power. Maynard & Truland has already sent against me a tag-team of four terrorist-like lawyers: Joe Truland, firm's partner, Edward Busicho, Robert Correale and the latest Joseph A. Molinaro.
But I will never give up.
I can’t find an attorney to represent me in a legal malpractice lawsuit
against him. I’m alone once again. My chances to beat such a powerful
state lawyer and his state-wide influential law firm on legal
malpractice charges are very slim.
But I took it before the Superior Court Judge Ronald Graves, and he sided with my detailed evidence; Maynard & Truland's contract, their invoices, Superior
Court filed letters and documents and some of my Veterans Affairs
medical records show the impact the Maynard & Truland's corruption has on my PTSD.
My charges of gross negligence, over billing, false billing, coming to court unprepared, and complete lack of communications were clear. Superior Court Judge Ronald Graves stated in Superior Court that my evidence and charges warranted the Superior Court law division for damages. Judge Graves' opinion made me feel great. It felt like I was being rescued from a terrorist attack on that rice paddy knoll. But most of all, it gave me back some trust in the court system.
I felt that I was not alone. Most of all too, Judge Ronald Graves was
giving a PTSD veteran a voice...
[While civilians may never be able to fully understand the experience of combat, it is also the case that those without PTSD may never be able to fully experience the way that today’s stresses and disappointments and conflicts reawaken feelings of isolation and distrust and disloyalty and being under assault that are rooted in combat experiences. But they do.]
Suddenly, the transcript of that verdict conveniently disappeared and was never typed. The Sussex County court clerk said that she could not find the judge's verdict on the verbal court transcript.
How could that happen? Surely Correale doesn’t have that much power? Now I get it, the state of New Jersey can’t have him found guilty of legal malpractice. Cases would have to bereviewed. Some would be dismissed.
I can’t give up once again. I can’t tell my family, my VA doctors, my friends . . . that my PTSD is causing suicidal thoughts. I am so deeply angry at the corruption. Inside I’m exploding with anger against the State of New Jersey. How DARE they treat an honorable veteran like this? How can they be so
corrupt? This is just like the days when we came home from Vietnam. We
still mean nothing to America.
But I can’t give up; that’s the first thing. For the sake of my children I must pull myself together. What would I do if I was still in the Marines? These corrupt terrorist-like lawyers are trying to save their friends whether I’m a PTSD veteran or not. But my PTSD is making it easier for them.
On that small knoll, I fought for my buddies against all the odds. I can’t give up no matter how difficult the way has become.
Scene Change: Hospital
At New York Hospital, I am visiting with my older sister, Nancy O’Brien,
who is recovering from having a lung lobe removed due to cancer. She
calls me “Little Brother.” Her doctor enters the room, but doesn’t chase
me away. The doctor gives Nancy an update on her condition and his plans
to remove another lobe from her other lung. The doctor comments how Nancy must have some strong genes because she recovers so fast.
After the doctor leaves her room, Nancy states “That’s some good news to
hear. It’s about time.” She asks me about my battle with the corrupt New Jersey law firm.
I explain how the Superior Court Judge said, “Your evidence made the case warranted for damages in the Law Division.” I pause, my face growing intense. “A few days after the court case, the court clerk said that she can’t find the audio transcript to type.”
In spite of Nancy’s pain, she sits up more in the bed. “What! How’s that possible? How can a court transcript go missing before it could be typed?”
I interject that the VA doctor increased my meds. “It’s like a bad nightmare. The doctor asked me if I need the PTSD unit. I told him no. I can’t take the time away. I’m still bringing this to the Law Division. I’ll just explain it all in my court papers.”
My two nieces enter the hospital room. Hugs go around, and the topic changes to how their mother feels.
A few hours later, I’m sleeping, dreaming about saving my three
buddies’ lives. As the enemy concentrated shooting on me increases, the
three Marines are in various distances in the rice paddy. Only their
heads are above the water as they pull themselves closer to me by
grabbing rice. One Marine screams “Snake!”
I scream and sit up in bed… sweating. I cover my face in my hands. I mumble the word “Lawyers.” My fiancée, Joan Walsh, wakes up next to me and
puts her arms around me. “Another war nightmare?” I remain silent.
Joan kisses him. “That’s the third one this week. That battle with your
former law firm really got you.”
I open a legal malpractice case in Sussex County New Jersey Superior Court Law Division against theMaynard & Truland law firm of Morristown, NJ and their lawyer Vice-Chairman of the local New Jersey Supreme Court Office of Attorney
Ethics Robert Correale. I receive the case number (L-207-03) and write a letter to Judge Karen D. Russell informing her of the court transcript of Judge Ronald Graves going mysteriously missing and yet Judge Graves found that my evidence warranted the law division for damages. I include the same evidence that Superior Judge Ronald Graves had in which the judge said that my evidence provedmy case warranted the Law Division for damages. I request
Reasonable Court Accommodations for my PTSD from Vietnam.
In the actual court papers for the Law Division, I mentioned Judge Ronald
Graves’ missing court transcript at least four times and that the Judge
stated my case warranted the law Division for damages and how the
transcript went missing right in the same Sussex County Superior Court
house.
Jack changes the heading on the same letter and sends the
same letter and evidence to the Governor of New Jersey, New Jersey's
Attorney General and the director of NJ Superior Court Office of
Attorney Ethics.
I’m not looking for sadness or pity because of the PTSD. I was always looking for support because of who I was up against. Average people would not believe a PTSD Vietnam vet over a state's Supreme Court Office of Attorney Ethics. And that is what Vice-Chairman Office of Attorney Ethics Robert Correale, his Maynard & Truland law firm made certain happened. Everything relayed on the
evidence of their contract, invoices, court filed letters, court filed
documents and my Veteran Affairs medical records.
Scene change again, more nightmares:
Back at the knoll in Vietnam, the first Marine makes it to his M-60 machine
gun and quickly fires. He gives me a thumbs up and motions a thanks
with his mouth. I give a quick wave and continue sending out
gr***des with my gr***de launcher.
The other two Marines make it back to their M-16 rifles and the sound of full auto fire blasts through the area. There is relief in their faces. The seven Viet Cong end their fire and sneak away. Once they realize the enemy firing has stopped, one of the last two to make it back gives me a silent hug.
After the hug ends, I let out a major sigh of relief and sit down
holding my head in my hands. The nightmare ends, and I come back
to the present.
Back to the Present:
I stare at the sunrise from my bed. I hold my head in my hands. Joan, my
fiancé, moves over to me in bed and gives me a hug. She asks me if
it was another bad dream. I let out a sigh and say, "It was a good
one for a change." She kisses my lips softly.
Days later, I attend my weekly PTSD therapy session at the Port Jervis, New York Veterans Affairs clinic. I’m sitting in the waiting room when two
laughing Vietnam vets come into the clinic together. The three vets hug
as they greet one another. It's clear to see their brotherhood.
[Will anyone who is not a veteran really be able to understand the bond between those who are? Probably not. Because the stresses veterans experience forge incredibly strong bonds between them. If professional sports teams feel bonded when opposing other teams on various fields of play, imagine the exponential way in which warriors bond when the game is about life and death, triumph and defeat, freedom and enslavement.]
One of the vets, wearing a United States Navy veteran T-shirt, asks me,
"Did they ever find the missing court transcript?" I remain silent.
You can see the anger in my face when I shake my head no.
The Navy vet says, "How the government still loves fu***ng around with
Vietnam vets." The other vet states that he doesn't know how they can
lose a transcript before it could be typed. The Navy vet says, "They are
trying to protect this corrupt law firm and their own Supreme Court
official. They just want you to fade away and give up."
The other vet states “They probably wish you would just kill yourself like so many other PTSD vets.”
Three PTSD therapists enter the waiting room to start their sessions. As I enter my therapist's office I turn back to his vet buddies. "I'm
not giving up on bringing these bastards to justice even it kills me."
The two vets give me a big thumbs up.
As soon as the therapist closes his office door, he comments, "I guess by your statement to the guys, Sussex County Court house has not found Judge Graves' transcript."
I give a quick no.
"How are you feeling about it?"
I pause before I answer. "It's all I think about and dream about. Now, my chest and ribs has been killing me."
The therapist asks if I think it is my heart. I quickly say no.
"My nerves are triggering pain from a bomb blast I took in the village.
It's what I got a Purple Heart for."
“You better get it checked out by a doctor,” the therapist insists.
That night, the nightmare continues as the video in his mind fills his sleep.
Nightmare:
The scene starts with me inside the crowded, refugee village marketplace
of Duc Duc, where my CAP Team served (24/7). I am one of nine (9)
American Marines living with 1,500 Vietnamese peasant-farmers in the
densely populated village.
I am walking around the different stalls, looking for a good buy on bananas. It’s common for American Marines to walk around inside the village alone. If you wanted a normal life, you had to learn to trust. And trust the Marines did. Both sides had to trust. Their lives all depended on trust. But Jack will soon learn to distrust people who he thought were supportive, or at least
should have been trustworthy.
I am wearing a green military issue pair of shorts, blue flip flops, a New York Yankee baseball cap, with an M-16 rifle hung from my shoulder. I am walking through the market. I am wearing no shirt and have a nice build from lifting weights. A good number of the mostly peasant women buyers and sellers, greet me by name. I return each with a smile and wave. I am friendly and negotiate with a few stall owners until I get a price I agree with and buy a large bunch of bananas.
I am walking back to the other Americans, who are staying in two nearby
village huts. My mind is thousands of miles away from the village as I
think about a beautiful girl I met in Disneyland in California. Suddenly, I hears a loud snort from a water buffalo ten yards away. I panic and drop my bananas and my New York Yankee cap. One of my flip flops drops off my foot. Two passing elderly women cover their faces with a hand to hide their laughter.
With the quick tap from a long skinny stick and a few strange sounds from her mouth, a seven-year-old girl, who is riding ba****ck on the 1,200 pound beast, keeps the animal from charging him. The skinny little girl waves at the man and keeps the animal walking away. I grab my Yankee cap, my
bananas and flip flop. I quickly walk backwards as I keep both eyes
on the animal.
I think to myself, that was a close one.
Many Americans who served in Vietnam had similar experiences with village
water buffaloes. For some strange reason, the huge buffaloes disliked
Americans. Yet amazingly, a seven-year-old girl, sometimes younger, could
completely control the animal.
Later, my large bunch of bananas is on a wooded table inside the hut of a village woman whose daughter was riding the buffalo. She yells at her kids to leave the bananas alone.
Out in front of the hut, I am still dressed in the same green shorts, but am barefoot, as I play catch football with two other Marines and three young Vietnamese teenage boys. One of the Vietnamese boys stands out with his passing and catching ability. Ten yards away, the CAP Team's U.S. Navy corpsman is treating a small line of peasants with his medical gear.
The Marine sergeant exits the hut next door and calls the Marines to a brief meeting. "Cunningham, your Superbowl Game will have to be postponed."
Within a minute, there are a total of eight Americans standing around the sergeant. Four of the Marines are in heavy combat gear. The sergeant gets right into the business of giving the details for the CAP Team's daily night ambush plans.
"We are under threat of a large attack on us. Intel has it that over 100 Viet Cong are coming across the river sometime tonight. They're planning to wipe our CAP Team out."
Two of the Marines laugh. One of them says, "What else is new? This is the third threat of being wiped out this week. Last week, we had a total of four threats to wipe us out."
The sergeant nods his head in agreement and starts assigning defensive position two-man teams. He tells me that if the action starts, I am to immediately send up an illumination round from my gr***de launcher. At the end of the meeting, the sergeant adds that the Viet Cong from across the river have increased the bounty amounts of each of the Americans heads if a villager kills one of us.
An hour after the night ambush meeting, I am sitting down at a table
with three Marines and the Vietnamese family in the hut where I left
my bananas. They are passing around a large bowl of rice and filling
small bowls. Something happens with some special-fish sauce and everyone
at the table laughs. The young girl on the buffalo giggles at the
expression on the Marine’s faces. After dinner, I hand out my fruit
to everyone, with the two young girls each getting two of the small,
sweet bananas.
A few minutes after two o'clock in the morning, as the Americans are silently set up in their ambush site with 100% watch, Viet Cong hand gr***des start going off along with AK-47 rifles on full automatic. Brrrrt, brrrrt . . . I let an illumination round fly like my sergeant ordered. As soon as I do, I immediately place a high explosive gr***de in my launcher and watch as my illumination round pops open and the dark sky lights up.
Suddenly, I am engulfed in a large flash and explosion that sends him flying. He crashes hard into some short, nearby walls. He is knocked out. He's bleeding from his head, shoulders, stomach and legs. His flak jacket used to protect his upper body is torn to pieces. A buddy quickly comes to his aid. I
start to come to, with a maddening buzzing in my ears. Blood rolls down my
forehead, into my eyes.
The combat lasts for 20 minutes. The communist terrorists sneak away,leaving five dead and seven blood trails from their wounded. The Americans have four wounded, which is almost half the CAP Team.
Three of the American wounded are taken out by helicopter to a U.S. Navy hospital in Da Nang, twenty minutes way. I am not taken out because my wounds
are not serious. I stay the rest of the night in the village with the
five other Americans. I am taken out in early daylight by a Jeep to
the An Hoa 5th Marine Combat base, which was two miles away from the
village. I was back to the village by late afternoon.
The six Marines stayed in the village of 1,500 peasants for a week until they finally got replacements.
It was during this period (with six Americans in the village) that the Marines found out that some of those in the Vietnamese militia platoon they were serving with were feeding the communists our planned movements around our peasant village and other important information. After setting a trap to prove it correct, the Marine sergeant arranged for the Vietnamese militia platoon removed from the village, and it was quickly replaced. It was hard for me and the other Americans to get over this betrayal. Could we trust the next Vietnamese militia platoon? I often thought. This really impacted who the Marines could trust during combat. Some of the militiamen could actually turn their rifles on the Americans, even shooting them in the back.
[When civilians think about soldiers from combat, they probably can’t begin to understand what it means to be coming home, after having to be on high alert, even with supposed friends, for months or years. The idea that veterans can all transition effortlessly back to jobs and relationships is obviously an uninformed one. Many veterans will struggle with trust issues, to say the least.]
The intelligence reports of the CAP Team getting wiped out were still coming in. Five straight days of intelligence came in, stating that 200 to 300 communists were planning an attack to wipe out all nine Americans in the village. After living through just the first night the Marines felt that they were on death row. They hoped that, at the last minute, they would be saved by the equivalent of the governor's phone call coming in during daybreak.
[Again, imagine the impact on a man’s psyche of living under threat of being killed, day-in, day-out, sometimes for weeks without a break. Can a husband return to his marriage and not wonder whether it is really secure. Can a father send his children off to school and not wonder if they are truly safe?]
The constant reports burned some deep thoughts and fears into their young minds. The pressure on them (and me) never let up. These reports caused some of our Popular Forces (village militia) to disappear at night. They saw no reason to “fight today” when there would always be tomorrow. Some PF militiamen even took off their uniforms and hid them, along with their rifles, so they could blend into the peasant population.
A lot of b***y traps were being laid in the hope that one of the Americans would step on one. The communists also wanted to inflict terror in the
peasants working their fields and rice paddies.
I received another huge blow. I received pictures from an unknown source back
home, showing my hometown’s Vietnam Veteran Memorial getting desecrated
with black paint and tar. The attack was on the side of the memorial
that had the seven names of the town's Vietnam War dead. I was so
proud of that memorial; I thought every town had a Memorial to Vietnam
vets. I was there at the memorial for its dedication the year before.
Now, this!!
Twice in a week the Rosedale Queens, NYC memorial was attacked by the same tar and paint. Someone was making sure I received every news story about it. I burned the news articles so that my buddies would not have to see the pictures and stories. They never caught the scum that did it. They attacked at night when no one was around. Just like the terrorists and cowards we were fighting. (The memorial was dedicated May 1968. My hometown’s Vietnam Memorial was one of the first in America). Those two days of news clippings made me feel like he lost two of his CAP Team buddies.
I, and the other American Marines in the village, were about to take another huge punch to our guts. The communist activity against the village was getting worse. The 5th Marines sent a company (150 men) of grunts (infantry) and two tanks to work the area outside our village. Even with them, we are
getting hit with sniper fire constantly.
Not far from me, one of the 5th Marines got his legs blown off by a b***y trap. We found a tunnel where we captured three Viet Cong (terrorists), $5,000 in American green money, $3,000 in American military money and boxes and boxes of clothes and other supplies donated to the Viet Cong (Freedom
Fighters) from a student union from Berkley University in California.
That really hurt and frustrated everyone. Here we were fighting for our
lives (and peasant lives, but for what? We already had heard about all the
demonstrations across America. But now, they (students) were even
helping our enemy. This was extremely hard to believe. There was never a
let up. We had no one to turn to but each other. Even the people back
home were against us, our allies, and at times it seemed even our own
superiors. We became even closer with each other (better than brothers).
Between the student union from Berkley University, the anti-war vandals twice
attacking the Rosedale Vietnam War memorial and hearing how returning
Vietnam vets were being treated, especially being spit upon, I had had
enough of the whole fu***ng war. What were we fighting for?
Next Scene: Back to the Present
It’s another night of terror. I wake up sweating in bed, holding my
head. Joan is already hugging him. Her lips are on my head. I lift my head up and look at her.
“I don't know who to trust,” I say. “I'm wondering how far this cover up to protect Robert Correale will go. I looked at Correale's law firm's bio page for him today. On his page, he is listed as the Vice-Chairman of the local Supreme court Attorney Ethics committee. He's also listed as a couple of Sussex County assistant DAs. Correale has power around the state. Not just in Sussex and Morris Counties."
Joan asks, “How the HELL did that transcript go missing? This is in the Sussex County Superior Court!”
At the breakfast table, Joan and I are discussing the next day's court
case in the Superior Court Law Division. After taking a sip of
black coffee, I say that this case has the same evidence and charges
that my case before Judge Graves had before him. My detailed evidence
contains Maynard & Truland's contract, their invoices, Superior
court filed letters and documents and some of my Veterans Affairs
medical records. My charges of Gross negligence, over billing, false
billing, coming to court unprepared, complete lack of communications
were clear.
I mention Judge Ronald Graves’ missing court transcript. "I wrote about this missing transcript threw out the court papers. I also asked for reasonable accommodations for my PTSD."
"We'll just have to see," says Joan.
The next day, my Law Division court case was over in record breaking
time. During opening arguments (docket L-207-03) I immediately
brought up Superior Court Judge Ronald Graves' missing court transcript.
A new Maynard & Truland lawyer Brian Banasiak was up against me.
Brian was the fifth different lawyer Maynard & Truland had up
against the Vietnam veteran. Brian quickly put down that Judge Graves
decision was a nothing issue.
I was dumbfounded that a lawyer would lie like that to a judge. I went silent.
Sussex County Superior Judge Karen Russell said that she was forced to rule
my legal malpractice case had to be closed for lack of merit. LACK
OF MERIT? Immediately, Maynard & Truland lawyer Brian Banasiak
states the fact that I was serving PRO SE with an emotional
disability was not taken into consideration because the State of New
Jersey did not consider health an extraordinary circumstance.
Within another minute, I was sitting on the bench in the hall. "Judge
Graves' decision was a nothing issue," I repeated to myself.
I came home from Superior Court to return letters from the NJ Supreme
Court Office of Attorney Ethics, the NJ Governor, and the Attorney
General.
I am a nervous wreck. First, I open the Supreme Court Office of Attorney Ethics letter. I am so nervous I cannot read the letter. I have to place it back on the table in front of me. When I finally calm down enough, I take the letter out, take a deep breath and sigh. The New Jersey Supreme Court Deputy Ethics Counsel John McGill III wrote that he was assigning the primary investigation to the District X Attorney Ethics committee, which was Vice Chairman of Attorney Ethics Robert Correale's own committee.
My PTSD went through the roof.
“How the hell can a high officer in the Supreme Court of New Jersey be so
dumb to assign the investigation to Robert Correale's own committee? It
must be some kind of joke.
It’s a real letter on NJ Supreme Court stationary. I have PTSD, but I'm not the dumbest ass in New Jersey.”
I walk into the living room and hands Joan the letter. "Please read this letter and tell me the first thought you get.”
Joan reads the short letter and before she finishes, she stares at me with
a strange look on her face. "Isn't this a major Conflict of Interest?"
I sit down next to Joan. "I wonder if I didn't have PTSD would they send a letter like this?"
I pause and takes a long breath. "This is a real cover up to protect
Robert Correale and the good name of the New Jersey Supreme Court." I hold my
head in my hands, like I always did in Vietnam. "This assigning deputy knows Correale is on that committee. I said he was their vice-chairman in all my letters. This has to be a cover up all the way up to the New Jersey Supreme Court."
My thoughts go back to Vietnam. "They should not be allowed to treat PTSD
veterans this way. I still have to fight them."
Scene change, current time frame:
I do not get much sleep the next few days. I keep on waking up and thinking
about how Robert Correale will be investigating himself and his own law firm, Maynard & Truland. "And I have to direct all my questions to his committee.” The words repeatedly run through my mind.
I pour myself some black coffee and sit down at the kitchen table. I open
the curtain to let in the sun. I remember that I did not open the New Jersey governor's letter. I chuckle that I can't get any more upset than I have already.
“I bet the governor is going to have me direct my questions to Correale's
committee floor janitors.”
Excited, I fumble with the letter. I start reading how I am to direct all
my questions to the New Jersey Supreme Court Director of Attorneys
Ethics David E. Johnson.
The governor wrote that he also forwarded Jack's entire package to
Director Johnson. Right next to Johnson's name was his phone number.
“This must be Christmas Day,” I think to myself.
I walk over to the phone and immediately call Johnson’s direct number.
I think, "Thank you governor where ever you are this morning."
The secretary of David Johnson answers the phone and informs me that the
director is at a meeting. I question if the secretary received a
package from the governor. The secretary has it on the top of a pile of
mail she plans on giving the director. I give some brief contact
information and asks for a callback asap. I ask if the deputy of
counsel John McGill the 3rd was in the area. The secretary gives a quick
chuckle. The deputy counsel is at the same meeting as the director.
For the next four days I get the run around from the secretary and
Director David Johnson. I lose my patience and tell the secretary
that I strongly feel that there is an active cover up going on.
And it lands in District X with Vice-Chairman Robert Correale and his
committee. Jack asks the secretary if she has all the information to
give deputy McGill and Director Johnson. “Pam, please mention the
coverup in the New Jersey Supreme court.”
She chuckles again, "I'm sure they both will feel there is more than enough information.” She assures me that he will get a call back.
Another four days pass without any communication. I start writing a letter to the governor, Director Johnson and Deputy McGill. The letter opens up by
asking, “Is there a major cover-up going within the Supreme Court's
Attorney Ethics Office?” Then I go on to give details that Robert
Correale’s own Committee is assigned to investigate himself and his
own law firm. I list the names of local politicians. I add the Ccs to the top of the letter for all to see.
I add in red ink that Correale's own committee is part of the investigation.
I write that “the amount of stupidity in this office is ridiculous to do
something so lame.” Then I close with a few comments about who I
called, left messages with and never received any message back from.
I continue to ask for reasonable accommodations for my PTSD disability, but instead I am getting a cover-up.
“If a citizen can't trust his state's Supreme Court, the nation is lost. It
is a reflection on the whole justice system in the state. It's
government fraud,” I write, as I increase the text size.
With the whole thing centered around the Supreme Court justices, I send
copies to three of New Jersey Supreme Court Justices. "It's part of
their office. They should know what's going on."
Scene change again, repeat of the nightmare from before:
I see the little girl on the water buffalo. The little girl smiles. Her face gets bigger...
Back at the knoll in Vietnam, the first Marine makes it to his M-60 machine gun and quickly fires. He gives me a thumbs up and motions a thanks with his mouth. I give a quick wave and continue sending out gr***des with my gr***de launcher.
The other two Marines make it back to their M-16 rifles and the
sound of full auto fire blasts through the area. There is relief in
their faces. The seven Viet Cong end their fire and sneak away. Once
they realize the enemy firing has stopped, one of the last two to make
it back gives me a silent hug. It’s a better dream, but I still can’t sleep.
Scene change again:
A return letter from the Federal Department of Justice (DOJ) comes in the
regular mail from the Civil Rights Division. I wrote to them about
the New Jersey corruption issue because it was severely impacting my
military PTSD disability. I read the letter and quickly make it
into a ball and throw it across the room. The DOJ Civil Rights division
said that they do not investigate in my type of problem (PTSD?).
They also state that it is a New Jersey problem and that I must deal with New
Jersey, directly.
No one is listening, nor are they able to grasp the depth of my issues that
need to be addressed. Justice seems to be out of my grasp…it’s justice
forbidden on this Vietnam Veteran’s journey.
Back in Duc Duc Refugee Village . . .
One afternoon, a water buffalo with a young girl riding on its back,
stepped on a large b***y trap, instantly killing the both of them.
I and the other Marines watched from the village and set up security. A
number of peasants were rushing from the fields to the village’s market
place with large chunks of water buffalo meat. It was here that I
learned the little girl was the same girl I met on the village path
weeks before. It’s the same girl that kept the beast from charging me.
The same young girl and 1,200 pound beast that he seen he felt a hundred times
NO!
NO!
NO! My mind races. I try to understand why the Communists wanted her dead, but I have to stop thinking about it.
It was too much to keep the little girl's smiling face out of my mind.
My memories of experiences was now always on his mind. I started to write
about it in short stories. My ribs were giving me pain from the bomb
blast.
HOW WOULD YOU FEEL IF THOUSANDS OF BAD GUYS WERE COMING TO YOUR HOUSE TO GET YOU...
Up to 5,000 communist troops were coming through our village... Against nine Americans.
It was estimated up to 5,000 communist troops were coming through our village... Against nine Americans....
During the Vietnam War, the CAP program was largely unknown.. Even to this
date, most Americans never heard about this military unit that lived
(24/7) in peasant villages..
The night the 5th Marines' combat base at An Hoa was to be wiped out.
The
mostly teenage American boys, who served in the CAP Marines Combined
Action Program, had to be able to relate extremely well with others,
regardless of culture, color, race or religion.
"The biggest difference with the Marines of Cap…
was our ability to look behind the betel
nut stained, aged Vietnamese face
and see someone's grandmother." Stated by LtColonel William Corson
Jack
Cunningham (Rosedale, NYC, Sussex, NJ) and George Dros (Vernon, NJ,
Cooperstown, NY) are sitting at a table in a Duc Duc Refugee Village
peasant hut, near the village's marketplace. The two, young United
States Marines are members of CAP Team 2-9-2. (CAP Teams were composed
of about 8 to 13 Americans, who lived and served 24/7 in Vietnamese
peasant-farming villages. The Duc Duc Refugee Village was composed of
about 2,000 homes.)
The afternoon after this event took place and
after a long patrol, in the below picture, Jack's and George's eyes
were shut, because of complete exhaustion. It was July 1970. At the time
this picture was taken, the Americans in Duc Duc were not sure whether
the CAP Unit would be pulled out of the village or whether it would be
wiped out. We were experiencing heavy combat. Intelligence reports were
coming in daily that the Communists wanted to punish the village while
the Americans were still there.
By wiping out CAP 2-9-2, the
terrorists hoped to leave an example to other CAP Villages. With alerts
at the highest level, night ambush responsibilities were 100% watch
throughout the night. With two long patrols a day going outside the
village, it didn't leave much time for the eight or so Americans to
sleep.
Around the day this picture was taken, an intelligence report
came in from the 1st Marine Division Headquarters in Da Nang that the
high Communist Command wanted to speed up President Nixon's troop
pullout from Vietnam.
They wanted to embarrass the Americans on a
wide-scale and influence the American People into pressuring a faster
troop pullout. Their plan called for wiping out the Fifth Marines at An
Hoa. It was going to involve thousands of Communist Forces. The Village
of Duc Duc was on the large Marine Base's perimeter and was said to be
the main route for the Communist attack. Our orders that night in July
1970 was to set up in the most well protected position. Our Cap Unit was
expected to try and hold off the Communist drive off as long as
possible. We were expected to serve as a warning or trip wire (Queen
Gambit) for the Fifth Marines.
I went from emotion to another in a
very fast time frame. In the end, we were there to do a job. For about
10 minutes few talked. We got into a group and said the Lord's prayer
together. We started talking where in the village, we were to set up. It
must be a good defensive position. One that would give the Marines up
at the An Hoa Combat base a few minutes to get ready.
In some
ways this night was going to be relief. We’ll never get another threat
of being wiped out again… (That crap plays with your mind.)
Maybe, the combat base will send out reinforcements to help us.
But we were ready for them. We will take as many of them as possible.
We
read from the Bible. We had no fox holes since defense holes damage a
peasant’s property. We had our weapons. And we were ready.
The
night went by very slow. Our minds and eyes played a lot of tricks.
Prayers came often. Our fingers were on the triggers. Sometimes, a cramp
in our trigger fingers would come and we would quickly shake our hand
out and place it carefully back. Thoughts of family and home would come.
So would the thoughts of when will our families get our bodies back to
bury us.
But that feeling of relief would come. 'We’ll never get another threat of being wiped out again…'
Almost
4 am, in the almost total darkness, rockets started coming down just
outside the An Hoa Marine combat base. Three of the rockets hit
Vietnamese huts and killed fifteen people. We waited for the ground
attack to hit any, and every second. Our hearts were pounding through
our chests. We were ready.
This was some scary crap for a
nineteen-year-old. The 5th Marines' combat base at An Hoa was to be
wiped out and the main push for their attack was our village.
But we were together. There really is a "Spirit of Corps." We were one!
It
felt like 20 hours, as we waited for the last hour before daybreak. The
Marines stayed in their positions. The Communists still could attack.
Up
the village path, Jack sees the seven-year-old girl riding ba****ck on
her family’s water buffalo. She comes close to the Americans but turns
to the left on the path. Jack wonders how safe she is on the water
buffalo’s back. Jack chuckles to himself how such a little young girl
can control such a huge animal. Jack is relieved for the CAP’s survival
as he watches the girl take her 1,200 pounds of buffalo to the rice
patties.
The CAP Team survived the night without even a small
wound. But fifteen peasants were killed by communist rockets on the
southeast corner of Duc Duc. One of the village boys, who hung out with
Marines, whole family was wiped out by the rockets. He only survived
because he was sleeping at a friend’s house. It was Jack’s house boy.
The thirteen-year-old boy must move into an aunt’s home near Da Nang. It
was a sad goodbye for both. Jack was a big brother to the boy. And the
boy was Jack's baby brother, he never had.
The war can hurt in so
many ways. The boy always had a big smile on his face. The terrorists
took it away. They killed his entire family. It's hard to realize.
Back to the current. Jack calls the New Jersey governor's office and talks to his secretary.
He gives the details of his battle with the New Jersey Supreme Court Office of Attorney Ethics and
how there was a cover-up going on. Jack could sense that the woman cared and was taking everything down.
Jack drives home the point that Robert Correale's own Ethics committee was assigned to investigate himself
and his Maynard & Truland law firms ethics violations. The secretary closes with the fact to Jack that the
governor had a running file and Jack's complaints against the Office of Attorney Ethics.
Three days after this call, Jack received a letter from the Office of Attorney Ethics that Robert Correale and
Maynard & Truland charges were being reassigned to a different near by committee due to a Conflict of Interest. Immediately, Jack called
the governor's office back and thanked his secretary for getting some movement done. He thanks her repeatedly.
"A man good enough to shed his blood for his country, is good enough to receive a square deal afterwards . . ."
-- Theodore Roosevelt
Read some of my Vietnam War Experiences at:
Marine Corps CAP Program
Wantage, NJ
07461
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