My father had a love of all things military.
I didn’t understand his fascination with these items because of his hatred of his time in the war. He condemned our government, which sent men to war, but would make special trips to see war memorabilia for sale. Mother looked upset every time he came home with a new purchase, but she never said anything about the money he spent. I suspect she knew better. Even I knew Father was in charge of the money. Mother had to ask several times when she needed to buy us clothes for school.
He had quite a war collection by the time I was ten. The items were kept in a big wooden armoire with a lock. When he was drunk he’d set a chair in front of the armoire and lovingly handle each item. If he was in a good mood, he’d let us touch some items in his precious collection. He’d tell us which war the item was from and speculate on the type of man who’d used it. Sometimes he’d recite stories about his collectibles . . . the men who carried the guns, wore the clothes, earned the medals. I knew the stories weren’t true; some of these wars had happened before he was born. How could he know who’d used those things?
He’d let us try on the hats. There was a black metal helmet worn by Germans from a very old war, and a weathered tan hat with a brim and a dirty-looking metal pin with an eagle and a shield. He claimed this one was used by Americans. It smelled old . . . like dust and gasoline and oil. Both were too big on my head.
My favorite hat was the red beret. It was slightly crushed but would mold to my head better than the others. Its patch had a star and a gold wreath, but Father said it wasn’t American. It was from Vietnam. The manufacturer’s label was in a foreign language, so I suspected he told the truth. Another neat thing from Vietnam was the camouflage-covered helmet. Someone had written Born to Kill on it with a fat black marker and drawn peace signs.
He wouldn’t let us touch the weapons. He had about a dozen knives with battered scabbards, and the prize of this collection was a long bayonet. I don’t remember what war it was from. He had several handguns, but I thought they looked like the weapons used on cop shows on TV and they didn’t hold my interest. The one gun I did like was a French submachine gun. It was long, black, and deadly. It looked like someone had added parts to a regular gun. My father claimed it had been stolen in another war and then used by Vietnamese guerrillas. Most of his memorabilia was from the Vietnam War . . . including some collectibles that shocked me.
He rarely talked about his war. The keepsakes from his war were pushed to the back of the armoire, and he rarely brought them out. When I’d find the armoire unlocked, I’d look through them, wondering which belonged to him and which he’d bought. He called the camouflage from his war “chocolate chip.” I never knew if that was a joke or real. He had a medal in a box. I don’t believe he earned it, because it was on a red-white-and-green ribbon and imprinted with a foreign language, but I could read the year. 1991. I suspected the Operation Desert Storm patch was his.
All these items were his obsessions. I believe he cared more about them than about his kids. Or wife. Sometimes he would lock himself in the bedroom for days and drink. Mother would sleep on the couch and tell us to leave him alone. I could hear him rooting through the armoire, muttering or swearing to himself.
After one long binge, Mother pried open the bedroom door. She’d been listening and pacing outside the door for an hour, concern on her face. When it opened, I saw him motionless on the bed, wearing the chocolate chip camouflage. I stayed by the door and watched her creep close to bend her head to listen by his mouth. I saw his chest rise and she silently dashed back out of the room.
I swear I saw disappointment on her face.