Reflections on news of a war buddy's death.

Byline: Bob Welch / The Register-Guard

Ffrom his home in Yakima, Wash., Ron Bravo heard the words on the phone but wished he hadn't.

John Simpson. Dead.

John Simpson. War buddy. A shipmate of Bravo's aboard the Genesee, the two of them helping ferry fuel to bases along the eastern coast of Vietnam in 1965-66.

John Simpson. A 1963 North Eugene High graduate who had recently been living in Veneta. Though Bravo hadn't seen Simpson in the 40 years since 'Nam, the two had hooked up in recent years, by phone and e-mail, while sharing stories of trying to get benefits from the Department of Veterans Affairs for cancer they believe was caused by Agent Orange.

They had talked about getting together but it hadn't happened. Neither was in great health; Bravo, 59, had prostate cancer. Simpson, 61, had that and more - diabetes and, last July, a heart attack.

"He kind of had dropped out of sight," Bravo says. "He was sick and depressed. He wasn't answering e-mails. I called and the phone had been disconnected."

It all fit, once Bravo got word from Lane County Veterans Services of his buddy's death. Bravo said he was told Simpson had "died sometime in September."

After hearing the news, Bravo wept. Prayed. Remembered the two of them on patrol in the 22-foot whale boat, slowly circling the ship in the darkness lest the Viet Cong plant a mine on the Genesee's hull. Remembered the fear. Remembered the two of them feeling connected not only by war, but by roots - both being from the Northwest.

"You're a small unit of men working and living together and depending on each other," Bravo says.

"And because of that shared experience - the fear, the adrenalin rushes, the boredom - you just never forget it."

But after learning of Simpson's death, Bravo knew he had to check his emotions. Had to tell the others. He e-mailed The Register-Guard about getting a copy of Simpson's obituary. An editor searched, couldn't find one, but told Bravo that some people choose not to have an obit published.

Bravo went ahead and e-mailed some Genesee sailors with the death news: Bob Phillips in Billings, Mont.; Alex "Ike" Isadore in Seattle; and a handful of others.

It was 8:15 a.m. on Feb. 17.

At the same time, in Veneta, John Simpson had just gotten out of bed and was brushing his teeth. He'd had his share of ailments in recent years, but it was good to be alive.

For three weeks, the Genesee sailors assumed Simpson was dead. Then, on March 10, Bravo was checking his e-mails when he saw one that thumped his heart: It was titled "Hurrah, I'm still alive." The name on it? John Simpson. "I thought it was some kind of cruel joke," Bravo says.

But, no, it was from Simpson. "Rumors of my death are highly exaggerated," he said, paraphrasing the Mark Twain quote.

Ironically, Simpson was not, however, referring to veterans services' disclosure to Bravo but to his simply having been out of touch as of late because of a move, a marriage and an Internet problem.

Bravo told Simpson about the "death news," which, it was later learned, occurred when a new work-study student at the vets' office apparently pulled the wrong "Simpson" file from a cabinet.

The two had a good laugh over the incident - "Well, Lazarus, I am glad you're back," wrote Bravo - but there was a serious side to it, too. Especially after Bravo told Simpson about the guys on the Genesee so grieved to hear the news.

"I didn't know I meant so much to other people," Simpson says. "I mean, as you get older, sometimes you ask: Did my life really count? Because I lived on this Earth, did I make things better for anyone, easier for anyone? Or have I been a detriment to the Earth?"

Bravo, meanwhile, says he's not taking anymore excuses from Simpson about the two getting together. "I'm coming down there and I won't take no for an answer."

After all, not everybody gets a second chance.