Becker

It is expected that when one is injured, or permanently incapacitated during employment, there is some form of recompense, Disability, a pension, something which tells the injured person that the organization to which he/she belongs recognizes the infirmity in a very real, material sense.

Let me tell you about George Becker, that’s not his real name, but what happened tells you something or other about allegiance. He was a combat photographer for ABC News in Viet Nam and went wherever the action was most intense. It didn’t make him more brave than the next man, but it made him a professional among professionals, and you had to expect to go into combat if you were covering the war. In short, he was respected. That didn’t come hanging loose in Saigon saloons.

There were those that hung out in Saigon or went on reasonably safe missions. You know, go into the bush in your fatigues, let a day’s growth of beard suggest you were really humping it, then do a “Stand Up” on the aftermath of the previous week’s bloodshed, a political story, or one with a feature angle.

Late in 1968, Becker jumped into a chopper and when it got five hundred feet off the deck it was hit by a Chinese-manufactured rocket. Although the chopper pilot fought to hang in the air, it turned turtle and crashed into a waterway. Men died in that crash and Becker had his ears virtually torn off, suffered lacerations and other injuries, swallowed a quart of kerosene, but was saved by friendly forces. They wrapped a guard belt around his head to keep his ears on and he was a mess for months after that.

I was back in New York in the WNBC TV newsroom when I turned and saw him sitting, waiting for an interview with one of our executives. I was glad to see him, but he seemed subdued and I asked what he was doing at a rival network. He said, “Guess you had already left. When I got out of the hospital, they fired me.” We didn’t say much, he had his interview, which turned out to be futile, and we talked for a moment. Something made me asked how he was making out. He hesitated and said, “I’m a little low at the moment, but something will turn up.”

Turns out he was flat broke, had nowhere to stay, and knew that he had to hang in New York to get any kind of network job. I invited him to stay at my place and that’s the way it happened. He still suffered from his injuries, had several pieces of shrapnel still in him and was despondent. He didn’t know what had hit him.

One Saturday morning I woke up to hear him screaming, and that became a regular feature of his stay whenever he heard the Port of New York Authority helicopter take off from a nearby building. I pulled him off the floor and didn’t know what else to do, so I held him and kept repeating, “It’s O.K., Georgie, they’re friends.” He shook and stared at nothing, then made small sounds until he crawled back into bed and stared at the ceiling.

This story should end here but something else happened which I can’t ignore. One Friday night we were perched on the stools of Jack Barry’s saloon on Greenwich Avenue. He liked the typical Village residents, the music and general conviviality. Except for one dude, who rather brusquely brushed him aside and, I thought, pushed him a little too hard. I said something to this clown but Georgie moved between us and said, “It’s O.K., it’s O.K., it was an accident. “ He settled me down as the offender smirked at the pair of us.

This guy then proceeded to “accidentally” pick up my drink and down it and smiled when I stood up. The bartender picked up on the scene, brought me another drink and said, “My fault Tom, I put it in front of him.” Tommy Fanelli, the bartender, had the reputation of being one tough dude and nobody to fool with. I was boiling when the perpetrator of the last actions “accidentally” ran his cigarette across my cashmere coat. I was all over him in three seconds.

I hit him six or seven times and he started to slump to the floor. Someone tried to grab me but I used my old Judo and threw him over my shoulder. The clown started to get up and I methodically proceeded to punch him to pieces. Two others patrons tried to hold me but there were months of rage and frustration and this guy had set off a powder keg.

Women were screaming as I continued to pound this guy even after he hit the floor and didn’t seem to be breathing. Fanelli leapt over the bar, looked down at him and said, “I think you put him away.” I stood with the red veil over my eyes and a bizarre thought crossed my mind. I could see a headline which read, “NBC Reporter Kills Man in Saloon Brawl.” I was hyperventilating when Fanelli threw a pitcher of ice water in the guy’s face and he blinked. They picked him up, walked him out the door and parked him against a car. He lay over the hood but moved occasionally.

Georgie looked at me, put his arm over my shoulder and said, “I kinda always thought you blew a little hard. Jesus, Tom, you’re crazier than I am.”

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