This is the story of a middle class Catholic boy from the suburbs, who tried to break out of this mediocre existence to chase his dreams, only to end up back in the suburbs after a series of experiences beyond anything he had dreamed. It tells the story of how he joined the Army, became an infantry lieutenant, and went to Vietnam. It tells how he got involved with Vietnam Veterans Against the War, and was indicted for conspiracy to incite a riot at the Republican Convention in 1972 -- the so-called Gainesville Eight case -- and how his friend turned out to be an FBI informer who testified against him at his trial. In the early 80s, he became involved with the New York Vietnam Veterans Memorial Commission, and in the late 80s, he was part of a delegation of Vietnam veterans who went to the Soviet Union to meet with Soviet Afghanistan veterans. It tells the story of how he fell in love with a Russian woman, married her, and spent nine years living there, fathering two children, then bringing his family back to the US and the suburban middle-class life he had left so many years before.
This is the story of a middle class Catholic boy from the suburbs, who tried to break out of this mediocre existence to chase his dreams, only to end up back in the suburbs after a series of experiences beyond anything he had dreamed. It tells the story of how he joined the Army, became an infantry lieutenant, and went to Vietnam. It tells how he got involved with Vietnam Veterans Against the War, and was indicted for conspiracy to incite a riot at the Republican Convention in 1972 -- the so-called Gainesville Eight case -- and how his friend turned out to be an FBI informer who testified against him at his trial. In the early 80s, he became involved with the New York Vietnam Veterans Memorial Commission, and in the late 80s, he was part of a delegation of Vietnam veterans who went to the Soviet Union to meet with Soviet Afghanistan veterans. It tells the story of how he fell in love with a Russian woman, married her, and spent nine years living there, fathering two children, then bringing his family back to the US and the suburban middle-class life he had left so many years before.
The call came sooner than expected. The last prognosis had been six months, yet it ad barely been three. I knew instinctively what the call was about as soon as I heard my mother’s voice. Joseph Richard Mahoney—the man—my father, had died.
My first reaction was self-recrimination, guilt being one of the primary motivators for Irish Catholics, even lapsed ones like me. I hadn’t been to see him one last time, to tell him all the things I had never spoken of, to exchange finally all the father-son confidences we had never shared. The truth is, we wouldn’t have said much more to each other than we ever did. Even if I had tried, by then he was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s, too late for shared intimacies and heartfelt talks.
Beyond that, I realized I wanted to remember him as he had been, a physically strong yet gentle man, not what he had declined into in his last months. I had seen him the year before, in 2006, when he and my mother came up to Long Island for the funeral of his sister. Alzheimer’s hadn’t yet taken over; he was still there a lot of the time. He would sit in the room with others and seem to drift off into his own world, but if you addressed him directly, he was alive, engaged, and even self-deprecating about his inability to remember simple things. He had frequent bathroom accidents and needed help at the dinner table, but the spark of Joe Mahoney still glowed. When things finally went downhill, my mother said, it seemed like he had just given up.
What is my father’s legacy? Of all the fine things I learned from him—hard work, family loyalty, humility—his greatest lesson was to be ordinary. He had his chance—as did I—to break free of the patterns that life had set for him, to reach beyond what was expected, to strive for greatness, but he chose to be ordinary. I struggled with the same thing. For years, I dreamed of being someone extraordinary, but my fate has been the same as his—a brief shooting star of astonishing experience, followed by the mundane existence of an ordinary man. I have fought mightily against the suburban life for which my father strived. His mantra was always What will the neighbors think? He was afraid to be different or to be seen as different, afraid to show how unique he was.
I realized all this a few years before my father died. I was at my house in Vermont—a summer weekend vacation home, one of my prized possessions, the mortgage paid for by skiers renting it in the wintertime. My brother Henry was vis- iting, another of the Mahoney clan who’d once had visions of greatness. Henry loved music. He had attended Berklee College of Music with dreams of becoming a composer, eking out his tuition as a back-up road musician. The money ran out before he could graduate, however, and he managed finally to earn a degree in music education a few years later at a state college. He worked for a number of years as a high school music teacher, excelled at the job, but when his marriage fell apart, he chose to live in New Hampshire so he could be near his daughter and continue to be a father to her. Music education, however, wasn’t much of a priority in New Hampshire, so Henry, the aspiring composer and inspiring music teacher, ended up as an oft-unemployed construction worker. I would invite him to my home from time to time, with some home improvement project in store, and we would spend the week- end talking trash and building something.
At the end of one of our construction days, Henry and I were drinking beers, roaming around the splotchy patch of grass, weeds, and moss in my front yard, talking about improving the look of it. Henry was telling me about what he did with a similar patch in front of his rented trailer. Suddenly, we looked at each other with wry smiles of recognition. Here we were, two middle-aged former rebels who had fled suburbia, desperate to escape the stifling, keep-up-with-the-Joneses mindset, contemplating lawns on a sultry summer evening. Drinkin’ beer and talkin’ about lawns, thinking about how far we had traveled to get to the same place.
In one of those excruciating ironies that life sometimes throws at us, on the morning of my father’s wake, I was closing on my first house in the suburbs. The closing was in Westborough, Massachusetts, and my father’s wake was in the afternoon on Long Island. My wife, Natasha, and I signed all the papers in the lawyer’s office and then drove to the too-expensive piece of property we had just purchased for a quick walk- through and look-see. As we drove up to the house on the quiet suburban street, I noticed that the lawn hadn’t been mowed for some time. My first thought was, Gotta mow that lawn; what will the neighbors think? My father’s mantra had become mine.
Then it was on to Long Island for the gathering of the Mahoney clan. My four brothers and two sisters were there, along with my mother and a considerable assortment of uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Irish Catholic families of my parents’ generation tended to proliferate. There were eight children in my Uncle Jack’s family and five in my Aunt Virginia’s, both on my father’s side. My Aunt Justine, on my mother’s side, had six children.
Also in attendance was my father’s best friend, Seymour Epstein, Uncle Sy we called him, and his wife, Gloria, who had flown in from Las Vegas. Joe Mahoney and Sy Epstein were quite a pair. Born and raised in Brooklyn, they met in the South Pacific in 1944, having enlisted in the UDTs—Underwater Demolition Teams—the precursor to the Navy SEALS. The mission of a UDT was as simple as it was maniacally dangerous. Dressed only in swim trunks, a diving mask, and fins, with a Ka-Bar knife strapped to their waists and satchels of explosives bound to their backs, they would swim up to beaches of Japanese-held islands, recon the area, and blow up any obstacles in the path of the Marines before they waded ashore.
After the invasion of the Tarawa Atoll in the Gilbert Islands in November 1943—where over a thousand Marines were killed and over two thousand wounded—the need for pre-assault recon and demolition of natural and man-made obstructions became clear. The UDTs were created for this purpose. After Tarawa was the island of Kwajalein. The original plan called for night reconnaissance, but Rear Admiral Richmond K. Turner, the commander of the amphibious forces in the South Pacific, was determined to avoid a repeat of Tarawa; he wanted to know about the coral as well as any blockages the Japanese may have emplaced around the island. UDT 1 was ordered to perform two daylight recons. In keeping with the Seabee tradition of doing whatever it took to accomplish the job while not necessarily following the rules, UDT 1 did both. The mission was to follow standard procedure with each two-man team in a rubber boat—wearing full fatigues, boots, life jackets, and metal helmets—paddling to the beach to make pertinent observations. Team 1 found the coral reef was preventing the craft from getting close enough to shore to ascertain the beach conditions. Ensign Lewis F. Luehrs and Seabee Chief Bill Acheson, anticipating this potential problem, had worn swim trunks beneath their fatigues. Stripping down, they swam forty-five minutes undetected across the reef.
Upon their return, they brought sketches of gun emplacements and other vital intelligence directly to Rear Admiral Turner’s flagship and gave their report, still in their trunks. Admiral Turner concluded that the only way to obtain this kind of granular intelligence was to send out individual swimmers, and he relayed these thoughts to Admiral Chester W. Nimitz, Commander in Chief of all Allied air, land, and sea forces during World War II. Because of these men’s ingenuity, their recon improvisation proved to be a flashpoint in UDT history, changing the mission model and training regimen of Naval Special Warfare forever, with a new emphasis on developing strong swimmers, daylight reconnaissance, and training without lifelines. The uniform of diving masks and swim trunks became the lasting image of the UDTs as “Naked Warriors,” among which Ensign Lewis F. Luehrs and Seabee Chief Bill Acheson were the first.
My father and Uncle Sy were in UDT 4 during the invasion of Guam, and they famously left a sign on the beach as a joke to greet the landing Marines: “Welcome Marines AGAT USO two blocks Courtesy UDT-4.” My father was a very quiet man, and like many veterans, he didn’t speak often about his World War II experiences, but Uncle Sy was the opposite. An inveterate storyteller, he loved to regale us with tales of the adventures of Sy and Joe in the South Pacific while my father would sit there and roll his eyes, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as Uncle Sy would talk about how they had smoked marijuana or chased Hawaiian booty. I suspect many of Sy’s yarns had been embellished over the years. One of his favorite tales was about how he and Joe had schemed to get extra beer money. Sy was a small, wiry guy whose physical presence was not overwhelming. He was, however, like my father, strong as an ox, a key requirement for the type of work they did in UDT. They would challenge other sailors to a heavy-lifting contest between Sy and the strongest from among their adversaries. The other sailors would take one look at Sy and figure they were in for some easy money. Sy, of course, always won—or at least he always won in his retelling of it. Now, Sy swore that this was my father’s idea, but it is hard to believe that the fast-talking little Brooklyn Jew who later went on to a highly successful career as a criminal attorney in New York City wasn’t the brains behind that operation.
Sy would also tell the story of when my father first met my mother. Back in the States after the war, while waiting to be discharged, they attended a dance in their white sailor suits. Sy said my father took one look at my mother and was imme- diately smitten. Sy saw the two of them leave the dance floor, and when they came back a short while later, Sy swore that my father’s white sailor pants were covered with dirt because he had dropped to his knees and proposed. When I asked my mother about this, she just smiled and shook her head.
“Uncle Sy has a vivid imagination,” she said.
My father and I did not see eye to eye on politics and life-style choices, but as his oldest son, I thought it was my place to deliver the eulogy at his funeral. My mother, however, had asked Henry instead. I didn’t know if this was a not-too-subtle dig at my black-sheep status in the family—something my mother enjoyed reminding me of—or whether she just assumed I wouldn’t find the time to sit down and write it. I was a little hurt by this until Henry’s words rang out:
The streets of heaven are crowded tonight—Earth is a little less interesting—
Joe Mahoney has gone.
He was an Irish lad … a Brooklyn boy.
He was a Frogman … a courageous man … a demolition man.
A jazzman … a music-loving man … a dancing
man.
He was a hard-working man … a shipfitter man.
A fun-loving man … a beer-drinking man.
A religious man … a righteous man.
A weight-lifting man … a powerful man.
He was a family man … a humble man.
A stoic man … a quirky man.
He was a sharp-dressed man … an outdoorsman.
A traveling man … a fisherman.
He was a blue-collar man.
He was a man among men … he was a one-woman man.
Above all, he was always a gentleman.
Husband … Father … Grandfather … Great-Grandfather …
Brother … Uncle … Friend …
We were all blessed to have Dad in our lives.
Thanks for everything, Dad.
You will be missed.
We love you so much … We love you madly.
Whatever my mother’s reason, she had made the right choice.
A few months after my father’s funeral, my wife, kids, and I were still settling into our new suburban existence. I was sitting at home on a Friday night, watching the Knicks lose another basketball game, when Natasha came to me with the phone. “It’s someone who wants to talk to you about some genealogy survey,” she said, handing me the phone.
I was wary as I put the phone to my ear; I don’t like to take calls from strangers. The voice on the other end of the line was somewhat hesitant and unsure, not the pseudo-cheery, aggressive salesperson type, and had a strong hint of a Southern accent. He explained that he was doing a genealogy survey and was looking for a Peter Mahoney who had lived at some point in Louisiana. I affirmed that I had lived in Louisiana in the distant past, and he continued to be very vague. I kept waiting for the pitch line, waiting for him to tell me what he was selling so I could hang up the phone. Finally, I asked him straight out what this was about, and he paused, then said a name and asked me if I had ever known that person. It was as if he had punched me in the gut. I started to panic. My first thought was that somehow this man was going to try to sue me, blackmail me, or otherwise try to get money from me. I said nothing and hung up the phone. I sat there for a number of minutes staring at the phone, dreading that it would ring again. The man didn’t call me back.
I was utterly stunned, my emotions in total turmoil. As I started to think it all through, however, the pieces began to fall into place. I checked the phone log and saw the caller’s name and phone number there. I checked the area code and saw it was for Northern Louisiana. A quick Google search on the name gave me some basic information about him. He lived in Monroe, Louisiana, and worked as a security manager for a regional grocery store. The relative ordinariness of him gave me some level of comfort that perhaps it wasn’t a scam or a shakedown. I didn’t sleep much that night, going over and over in my mind the risks and rewards of calling him back. On one level, I was terrified that the call could be a life-changing one, that the existence I had constructed for my family and myself would be irrevocably altered by this unexpected blast from my past. On the other hand, an irresistible curiosity tugged at me. Could it really be true? What would it mean? Who was this man? There was a risk, to be sure, but one I couldn’t avoid. I had to call him back.
The next day, I waited until the afternoon when Natasha and the kids were out of the house, and I called him back.
“Hi, Chris, I’m the guy you called last night,” I said.
"Yes.” Noncommittal, expectant.
I plunged in, no small talk. I was afraid I might lose my nerve.
“So let me ask you this, is this woman you mentioned your mother?”
“She’s my biological mother, yes.”
“Well, then I guess I’m probably your father.”
“Yes, I know.”
As Peter Mahoney makes clear in the author's note, his memoir I Was a Hero Once differs from other narrative structures called the Hero's Journey. While typical memoirs of veterans focus on their time of service, his book's key element is the post-dispatch life. Peter P. Mahoney refutes the common practice - and adds outstanding warmth to his words. One may say there is no point in portraying an ordinary life with its ups and downs unless a person in question later becomes someone famous: a politician, a Hollywood star, or a celebrity in general. Yet, isn't every life precious? Arent's experiences of an individual unique? And if the abovementioned individual participated in the Vietnam Veterans Against the War movement, was indicted on charges of conspiracy, and met with Afgantsy in the Soviet Union? It sounds like an extraordinary post-dispatch life!
The book's main strength is its writing style, reminiscent of a casual conversation with one's grandfather. While evaluating his own experiences, Peter P. Mahoney often asks uncomfortable questions or questions with no definite answers while not forcefully imposing his worldview on the readers. Participation in the anti-war movement and a marriage to a Russian woman, who went through a strikingly different existence within the Soviet system, broadened the author's perspective on patriotism, the prejudices of the American legal system, and politics. The author's openness also allowed him to see the controversies of the boomers generation, people who wanted to revolutionize the world yet ended up as the respectable middle class, preoccupied with earning money.
The personal nature of the book is evident whatever the topic the author chooses to focus on. First and foremost, I Was a Hero Once is a declaration of love toward his children who, I hope, discovered new sides of their father after reading the book: as a young adult ending up in Vietnam of all the places, as a warrior with a strong conviction in his ideas, and as a person, struggling to find the purpose of life. Isn't every Dad unique after all?
I received an advance review copy through Reedsy Discovery, and I'm leaving this review voluntarily.