A Requiem for Paddy

              

Part I

 

                              “A Requiem for Paddy”

      

      The passing of a sibling is a seminal event in one’s  life, that registers deep within the psyche. These illustrious individuals were born of the same parents as we are. Their DNA is match and their psychological makeup is conditioned with many of the same factors that make up our own personalities.

 

          In that my parents had twelve children, the pycho-dynamics of our upbringing are both varied and complex. Unfortunately, we lost nine of these siblings, long before their natural span. We weathered the impact of their loss as best we could manage. Given the wide spread of our ages, each child was closer to those in their age grouping. In that I was “born in the middle of the family,” I had a pretty fair acquaintance with the entire clan. Each sibling had a different and unique personality. All of them were very bright and did well in school. Between us, we were able to achieve eleven undergraduate degrees, one Law Degree and one medical degree.

 

 

        I have tried, in a few other books, to remember several of my siblings. In this effort, I try my best to remember my older brother Paddy. He didn’t have an easy passage through life. But, he did the best that he could. I need to honor and respect that. And whatever else happened to him in his journey, I will always remember Paddy as “one of our own.”

 

        Patrick (Paddy) Michael Martin was born in 1942. He was the third in line of 12 siblings, arriving behind two sisters, to the family of Francis Harold and Eileen May Martin. He was the eldest of seven brothers. He was small of frame and favored, in appearance, my father’s mother, Mary Tevington Martin, with his short, sleight stature, brown hair and blue eyes.

 

           In that I arrived five years behind him, I don’t know much about of his younger years. He had a normal childhood and earned money by operating the shorter of the family’s two paper routes. It covered the area around our home, on Seneca Parkside, in South Buffalo, for the morning Courier Express. He played baseball and clowned around with a lively sense of humor. I also remember him as a skilled archer who could and did fletch his own arrows. His interests were many and varied reflecting a lively intelligence.

 

          Pat went on to Bishop Timon high school. Crew was his chosen sport. His smaller size made him ideal for the Coxwain’s position. He finished four years there with the Franciscan Brothers, before heading off to Canisius College and the Jesuits, with a major in Biology and involvement in the R.O.T.C. program. His study of Russian influenced me to take  up study of  the language several years later.

 

Medicine was  his career interest at the time. He had planned to become a Dentist. I remember Pat working nights, at the old East Side refuse transfer station in Buffalo. He was the watchman and weight recorder, a job my Uncle Edward had procured for him so he could study nights, while working his way through college

 

Pat worked hard at college and got good grades. At the time there was an archaic rule that said if you missed three classes, you could fail a course. Some ungenerous Jesuit father held him to it and delayed awarding his degree. For some reason, I remember a pile of cat bones, in an old cigar box, from one of pat’s science experiments.

 

 He wore his hair short, favored brown desert boots, tan chinos, blue button-down collar shirts and affected the "collegiate look" at the time. I don’t remember any of his girl-friends, but a few old school chums, like Murray Reagan and Nick Kieffer from nearby Theresa Place, come to mind. I can remember one evening when Paddy patiently taught me the difference between electro and covalent bonding in chemistry. I don’t know why he spent that time with me, but I retain that arcane information to this day. At other times, we would face off with an old table hockey game, the stakes a dollar on his part and a dime on mine. I won several games and he always paid up.

 

Paddy had a tiff with my dad and moved out in the early 1960’s.It left him bitter and estranged from the family. It was the last I was to see of him, except for brief visits at my sister Maureen’s and father’s funerals.

 

He then served in the Peace Corps in Sudan, Africa. Like all of the Martins, he was less than tolerant of knuckleheads in authority. He slugged an over bearing supervisor and got sent home, eventually getting called up for service in the U.S. Army.  It was the last I was to see of him, except for brief visits at my sister Maureen’s and father’s funerals. My uncle Edward arranged for Paddy to be airlifted, from the jungles of Viet Nam, in June of 1968, to attend my sister Maureen’s funeral service.

 

For the younger members of the clan, “Viet Nam” is a vague term describing one of the many conflicts engaged in by the United States during the 1960’s. To those of us who lived during that era, it was both a much bigger and more tragic an event that impacted the lives of millions of Americans.

 

Many books have been written about the conflict. James Webb in particular scripted some gripping tales of life in a war zone. A local Buffalo author, Steve Banko,              penned several gritty and moving stories of men and women in combat. Their brotherhood, their courage and their humanity still deeply moves readers of his stories.

 

Wikipedia as usual had a capsule summary of the conflict:

 

The Vietnam War was a conflict in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia from 1 November 1955^{[A 1]} to the fall of Saigon on 30 April 1975. It was the second of the Indochina Wars and a major conflict of the Cold War. While the war was officially fought between North Vietnam and South Vietnam, the north was supported by the Soviet Union, China, and other countries in the Eastern Bloc, while the south was supported by the US and anti-communist allies. This made it a proxy war between the US and Soviet Union. It lasted almost 20 years, with direct US military involvement ending in 1973. The conflict spilled into the Laotian and Cambodian civil wars, which ended with all three countries becoming communist in 1975

 

It isn’t much of a description of a war that claimed the lives of 58,000 Americans. I urge you to read up on this seminal event in American History. I do remember vividly a dramatic scene from the end of American involvement in the war.

 

Huey helicopters were rescuing American personnel from the roof of the American Embassy in Saigon. They ferried their evacuees to American carriers offshore. To make room for arriving helicopters, bull dozers pushed several Hueys over the side and into the sea. It was an ignominious end to America’s involvement in an unpopular war.

 

Paddy had been drafted into the army and was sent to Viet Nam in 1968, as a combat medic. At this time, the war had been elevated to an area wide conflict that had taken the lives of many thousands of young Americans. The Tet offensive, an attack across all of South Viet Nam, by cadres of VC and North Vietnamese regulars had caught American forces by surprise, inflicting many casualties everywhere. After that attack, the heart of American involvement seemed to seep out of our effort. Many thousands of young Americans still fought and died there for the next few years, but I think we all knew that the end was near.

 

All of these fine soldiers stationed in Viet Nam were not necessarily ardent supporters of the war. But, their Country had called them up in the draft and sent them to Southeast Asia, to fight for what was then advertised as the “war against communism. These brave men and women did their duty in the filthy jungles and steaming hell of an inhospitable land. 

 

They fought and died more for the men and women around them than for any obscure cause. Their heroism, suffering and loss will be remembered as one of dedicated men and women, performing their patriotic duty. God Bless them all for their service.

 

Paddy fell into this category. I never really had a chance to talk with him about his service in Viet Nam. Like most who served there, they were reluctant to talk about the horrors that they had experienced. But, he proudly carried thereafter the nick name “Doc,” as his company’s chief medic.

 

 I remember some stories from the time, after Paddy had been pensioned off from the military. The accounts were varied and unclear. Apparently, he was serving in "I Corp,” up near the DMZ in Northern, South Viet Nam. Reports were sketchy. Apparently his platoon was overrun and slaughtered in a fire-fight with North Vietnamese regulars. Paddy was captured by the enemy and held prisoner. He escaped, after a few days, and hid out in the jungle, until finding his way back to American lines later that week. I don’t know what he saw in that jungle hell, but it rocked him to the core. He never came back to Buffalo.  A ruined man, he was pensioned from military service with total disability and wandered the face of the globe, in search of what I do not know.

 

        I again saw Paddy at my dad’s funeral in 1976 in Buffalo. During both occasions, the contacts were fleeting and brief. The most we knew of Paddy was that he lived part of the year in San Juan, Puerto Rico and skied in both Chile and Killington, Vermont. He had acquired a goodly command of Spanish and was able to live in the San Juan area for pennies.  I think his contacts with my mother were more frequent, because he had his military disability checks forwarded to her address for many years.

 

 

My Sister Mary Eileen also scripted her remembrance of Paddy:

 

                  I was sixteen months older than Paddy. We were close growing up. He was the first-born son after three girls, the first of whom was still-born. 

                                

Paddy was a gentle soul. He was well liked by everyone. My earliest recollection of Paddy was at about age four when he broke his leg. We used to ride bikes around the furnace in the basement during the winter months at 207 Amber St., in South Buffalo. Someone was on the back of his bike, pushing him on his tricycle, and his leg got caught in the wheel. He was taken for x-rays and it took the Dr. two days to read the x-ray and finally put a cast on him.

 

I remember he took up with a rather quiet lad, when we moved to 142 Amber, and learned to use a bow and arrow. He loved to build model airplanes and would painstakingly put them together, only to have his younger brothers come in and destroy them.

 

When we moved to 10 Seneca Parkside, he took up with Murray Regan and Nick Kieffer. Within the first year of their friendship, both Murray and Nick sprouted up to close to six feet. Paddy stayed at 5ft. 3 in., a height  he remained at for much of his high school years. 

 

This was a devastating loss for Paddy. He played baseball at St. John the Evangelist and was very popular. One of the prettiest girls in the class, Beverly Sherer, liked him. He got good grades and had his paper route for a little spending money.

 

I remember teaching him to dance and he took such pains with ironing his shirt and pants to go to the dances. Because of his height not many girls were interested in dancing with him. Because of his height he wasn't eligible for most sports. He chose crew and was up at 5 A.M. in the morning, to bus it down to the West Side Rowing Club, near the Peace Bridge, for daily practice. He would practice after school as well. He was the team’s coxswain, who set the row pace, selected in part because of his size. He tried so hard to be in the thick of things but his diminutive height was often used against him. Ironically he did manage to hit 5ft. 8in. after high school but the damage to his psyche had been done.

 

Paddy always had a close relationship with Mom and spent a lot of time in the kitchen talking to her and playing with the younger kids. He was crazy about my boyfriend Jim Berst, who I think helped him out at Timon in the social world. I don't think Jim ever forgave me for breaking up with him. He called Jim whenever he came into Buffalo.

 

He was my father's right hand whenever projects were undertaken around the house, be it painting or wall papering, screen removal or whatever. I remember he got his first new suit for graduation from grammar school. He was so proud and there was supposed  to be a graduation party. Ironically my younger brother Kevin died that week, at age 9 mo. and Paddy's party was cancelled. He never got to wear that suit for all the relatives to see.

 

Paddy went to Canisius College in Buffalo. He paid his own tuition to this private Catholic College, something that was no small feat. In our house it was first come, first serve at the dinner table. If you weren't home on time, there wasn't anything left. When Paddy was involved with crew, my mother used to save him a plate of food. 

 

My father and he had a falling out. My understanding was that my father told Paddy if he helped him paint the house he would pay him a certain sum of money. Paddy did not seek other employment and counted on that money to pay his tuition. My father didn't pay him, probably because he didn't have the money. Paddy was crushed and moved out of the house. Then, he had to pay not only his tuition but his living expenses. I don't know how he managed, but it was the beginning of the end.

 

At that point in time, he wanted to be a dentist. He did manage to get through Canisius College, but it was a grueling experience. I shudder to think of his living conditions. After college, he joined the Peace Corps which he loved. He was stationed in the old French Somalia in upper east Africa. There, he had a falling out with one of his superiors, and reportedly slugged him. He was discharged from the Peace Corp. Then, he joined the army and was sent to Viet Nam. The story that I heard, regarding Viet Nam, was that his unit were all killed by the Viet Cong. He managed to survive. They hunted him for days on end in the jungle, before he finally made it back to safe ground. By the time he left the military, life was over for him.

 

Paddy managed to qualify for disability, for a service-related illness, but had to requalify every year for benefits. He would worry himself sick with fear as each yearly exam approached. He wandered the earth, from New England to Costa Rica, Puerto Rico and all points in between. Somewhere, he hooked up with Bob Dillon and was proud of that experience.

 

His life was a sad, lonely affair. He had so much potential and was basically such a good and kind person. But, for whatever reason, the obstacles constantly placed in his path finally became overwhelming. He wandered the earth in search of a home, a purpose. He never found either.

 

                                           -30-

                                  Mary Eileen Martin

 

 

                             (To be continued)