Not sure why some Americans are down on themselves, but there is such a thing as an American hero.
And it was my privilege to meet one of them.
The Youth Hostel in Madrid in 1970 was unlike any others I had encountered in my travels. There did not seem to be any curfew, travelers slept in as late as they pleased and many had been living there for months. There were travelers from all over the world and we would talk far into the night about our respective countries, lives and philosophies while indulging in vino tinto and blanco. I don’t remember any girls other than one incident. It was our custom to adjourn en masse to the University of Madrid for lunch. (15 pesetas as I recall. I had been earning 350 pesetas an hour working on the line in a Kitchener factory. I had enough money in traveler’s checks to buy a Spanish villa on the Mediterranean coast). As about twenty of us, replete with wine and delicious bean and chorizo stew were sunning ourselves after lunch on a grassy knoll, my friend Julian confidently approached a group of office worker lovelies on the adjoining knoll. Julian was a tall, handsome, muscular Australian with long blonde hair and charm to match. He delivered his lines with his customary aplomb and the Spanish beauty looked down her perfectly shaped nose and said: “Dirty hippy. No money”. Well… no girls in Madrid. But it was a great time, nevertheless.
Greener fields beckoned. So Julian from Australia; Paul from Hamilton, Canada; Mike, the American and myself, an eighteen year old South African immigrant to Canada, all piled into Paul’s ramshackle Volkswagen and headed for the Mediterranean coast. My companions seemed to typify certain conceptions of their countries. Julian was rash, brash, and generous to a fault with a heart as big as the great Outback. He was twenty one and had been on the road for years. Paul was twenty and like most young Canadians had been caught up in the Haight Ashbury thing. Also like all Canadians, he was one of God’s children: decent, quiet, innocent and honest as the day was long.
And then there was Mike from California. Mike was twenty four years old and like us, had the long hair and other hippy paraphernalia. He was tall, rangy and looked like the film version of the American hero: a cross between Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart. But there was a vast difference between Mike and us. Mike had volunteered for the Marines and had, incredibly volunteered for an additional term in Viet Nam. He had ended his military career as a sergeant, had been wounded in battle and had numerous medals. Mike was quite laconic and I was the only one who knew his background having elicited it by adroit questioning after noticing how everyone unconsciously deferred to his rare pronouncements.
Our quixotic journey across Spain was the ultimate adventure. We got lost on numerous occasions, but what the heck, we did not have to be anywhere at any particular time and anyway, Mike would take care of us – and he did.
I remember a typical instance where we ended up in a remote region high in the mountains. We made camp on a hillside and walked into the nearest village to get food. It was midday forty two years ago but I remember it like it was yesterday. We walked into town along the main street: Mike, Julian, Paul and I. The entire town turned out to see us. The dogs were barking, the children were screaming, the women were pointing and talking and the men were staring. I remember how blue the sky was, how bright the sun shone, I also seem to remember birds squawking overhead. It was surreal. Like a painting, somehow. The villagers had not seen anyone like us for hundreds of years.
Everyone, my buddies, the villagers, and I focused on Mike who seemed at ease and calm and we all relaxed. We got our meat, bread and vegetables at the only store in the village. The crowd was still outside and followed us to the end of town.
We made a big fire, cooked our supper, drank our wine and talked as few men have ever talked. I fell asleep looking at a star studded sky.
The next morning a chauffeur driven limousine, followed by a car full of Guardia Civil with some pretty heavy looking armaments pulled up. Mike calmly walked over to the limousine as the lowering window revealed a black suited gentleman. Mike spoke to the man, who nodded and smiled. Mike came back and said we were welcome to stay as long as we liked.
After many adventures, which we thoroughly enjoyed since Mike shouldered all the attendant problems, we ended up at the Valencia Youth Hostel. This was just like a luxury resort, with swimming pool, no restrictions and we settled back to the life of Riley.
Such is the nature of man that even Paradise palls after a few weeks and adventure called across the Mediterranean from Morocco. So we all piled onto the ferry to Algeriras. We were all long haired hippies at that time, but Mike had the forethought to cut his locks. As a result, he was waved through to Morocco while we were turned back.
Like the American hero he was, he rode off into the sunset. And that was the last time I ever saw him.
I’m sixty years old. I attained my age in a time of cynicism. We don’t believe in heroes in our day. But this twenty four year old was my hero when I was eighteen and …. I have to admit he still is today.
And I’ll tell you why.
It’s not because he was a war hero in the most unpopular war ever fought. Nor is it that even the hippies listened to him and recognized him as a hero in their own sphere. It’s because he really was a hero for all the times. While I was in that Youth Hostel in Madrid, I met another American that I spoke to at length. He was trying to dodge the draft. He was the most anguished individual I’ve ever met. Mike is my hero because I saw him, a decorated veteran, trying to give this individual some comfort.
Mike, wherever you are, I salute you.
You are a true American hero.