The soldier took me and some other homeless children to an orphanage3 run by the Red Cross. Four years later I was transferred to an orphanage in America. Soon after, a f***ly who lived in Donaldson, Pennsylvania, adopted me. Again, as with that first taste of chocolate, it was as if I’d gone to heaven. Later, I joined the Army, then attended college under the GI Bill. Eventually I earned a master’s degree in clinical social work. God, I want to pay back all the people who were so good to me, I prayed.
So in 1983 I went to work for the Department of Veteran Affairs as a clinical counselor, treating veterans who suffer from post-traumatic4 stress syndrome5.
The troubled soldiers sit in my office and wonder how I can possibly understand them or help ease their pain. “What do you know about living with terror？” Asked one Marine, who still was tormented by the image of a platoon member being killed in a battle.
That is when I tell them my story, and about the GI god sent to save my life.
“I never did learn his name, but I remember his kindness,” I say. And then I open a drawer in my desk that is always full and offer them some chocolate.
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