Richard Alan Schwartz
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel
First published by Village Drummer Fiction 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Richard Alan Schwartz
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Richard Alan Schwartz asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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Previously titled Wind Chimes, War and Consequence
Author: Richard Alan Schwartz
Second edition
ISBN: 978-1-970070-34-7
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
Find out more at reedsy.com
This novel is dedicated to the following:
My father, Gerald, of blessed memory. A crew chief in WWII, he prepared me for service with his memories of war, and helped me transition back to civilian life after the war.
Mickey Krueger, OBM, who sent me a paperback monthly while I was in Vietnam.
Mike, Craig, and Ben. Thanks for staying in touch since our tour in 1970.
Lastly to our nation’s combat soldiers and their families. Especially those who suffer due to PTSD and/or physical injuries.
Contents
Preface
I. PART ONE: BRIAN
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
II. PART TWO: ANDREA
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
III. PART THREE: BACK TO THE WAR
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
IV. PART FOUR: SETH
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
V. PART FIVE: RACHEL
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
VI. PART SIX: WAR’S AFTERMATH
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
VII. PART SEVEN: AUNT ABBEY AND WAR VICTIMS
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Author’s Notes
Dedication
About the Author
Also by Richard Alan Schwartz
Preface
“However horrible the incidents of war may be, the soldier who is called upon to offer and give his life for his country is the noblest development of mankind.”
Douglas MacArthur
Private Brian Levin’s contribution to the Vietnam War, began as a member of the infantry, under a star-filled but cold, moonless night in early January of 1970. He and his squad mates lay in a rain and mud filled rice-paddy. His body shivered enough, he thought, to generate seismic waves. Finding sleep impossible and trying to pass the time, Levin reviewed surgeries he’d performed prior to enlisting. Like a bad dream, the harder he tried to speed up time, the slower it became.
Word was whispered down the line that there was enemy movement in the stand of bamboo opposite them, which stretched for a mile in either direction then sloped up and away into the distant mountains. The whoosh of a rocket propelled grenade was heard. Levin reached for his M16, slipped it off safe. The RPG exploded to the former surgeon’s left.
***
At the same time as Brian’s first night of the war, but in the countryside northeast of Adelaide SA, Australia, twenty- two-year-old, Andrea Campbell, drove her Ute like a woman possessed. On the dirt and gravel backroads surrounding her parent’s sheep station, she’d perfected tail-out drifts and slides. Ten-foot high rooster tails of dust and dirt announced her passage, as did the roar of the potent small block V8 which she and her brother installed to replace the Ute’s anemic in-line-six.
Born into a family of sheep ranchers, Andrea had a few more months of study and she would complete the requirements for a degree in psychology at the University in Sydney. The future psychologist was home for Christmas break. On the way to town with her seven-years-older sister- in-law and the sister-in-law’s infant son, Andrea was in heaven to be back in her two-door pickup. She demonstrated this by hanging the tail out on a number of dirt-road switchbacks and tight turns.
“Must you?” her sister-in-law complained.
“Makes me feel free…and competent…and glad to be home.” She hung the back of the car out with a combination of steering and throttle, held the angle throughout the turn with the same, all the while looking out the side windows…because that’s where the vehicle was headed. When the road straightened, the car did as well…much to her sister-in-law’s relief.
“I’m going to vomit if you don’t stop it.”
“Near to town. Solid roads begin at the intersection.”
She brought the car to an abrupt halt at a four-way-stop. Andrea glanced to the left and shaded her eyes as the setting sun blinded her. A car approached from the right. She assumed it would stop at the sign. Andrea proceeded left but halfway into the turn, sensed mortal danger. The sickening crunch of steel on steel, breaking glass, her sister’s scream, and the squeal of tires forced to slide sideways, provided an auditory soundtrack which terrorized her as the Ute spun like a carnival ride. She jammed her eyes shut. Lastly, a sickening thud sounded as the side of the car impacted a tree. Silence enveloped Andrea while the scent of gasoline and antifreeze filled the air. The lack of sound eventually yielding to moans as she felt the pain from cuts and bruises, a gash on her scalp throbbed, her hips, feet ached. Andrea opened her eyes, discovered her sister-in-law and child no longer in the car. Briefly pinned by the twisted wreck, which was once her Ute, she smelled smoke. With much effort she dragged herself out of the wreck as flames began licking at the engine compartment. She had difficulty moving her legs so pulled herself along the ground to her sister and nephew.
Her sister-in-law’s lifeless body was twisted. Upper body one-way. Lower body the other. There were tire marks on her hips where she’d been run over. The woman’s face turned toward the sky, wide-eyed but no longer seeing; her body surrounded by a pool of her own blood.
Andrea dragged her nephew onto her lap, his eyes pleaded for help. He coughed up blood and the infant’s eyes rolled back in his head as he exhaled his final breath.
Her wail rent the air, accompanied by thunder as a torrential rainstorm began.
***
Half a world away, twenty-six-year-old Rachel Moskowitz, entered her Manhattan townhome after a grueling thirteen-hour recording session.
The voice coming from the second floor sent chil
ls down her spine.
“Where’s the bitch? She put my brothers in jail where one of them died. When’s she returning? Tell me or…when I find the little whore I’ll gut and kill her right before I kill you,” the voice growled.
Rachel, four weeks pregnant, slipped out of her shoes, pulled a survival knife from her purse, climbed the stairs to the second floor. She peeked into her bedroom. A slovenly man in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, his back to the doorway, pointed a gun at her husband. Dov, his military service having ended six weeks previous, was tied to a chair. There were bloody wounds and bruises on his face and neck. He cursed his attacker through bloody lips, his face beaten such that it was barely recognizable. The intruder used the butt of his pistol to slam the side of his victim’s head. Blood oozed from a laceration caused by the pistol.
While the intruder continued to rage at her husband, Rachel padded into the room, survival knife at the ready. When she was an arm’s length from him, the intruder noted her approach in the reflection of a small mirror on a nightstand. His eyes widened. As she had trained to do, the musician shoved the five-inch blade into the intruder’s kidney. His gun fired. Rachel withdrew the knife, prepared for another thrust. The intruder’s body convulsed, losing his grip on the gun which clunked to the floor. He arched his back, one hand straining to reach over his shoulder, the other reaching behind, as if reaching would end the pain; so severe it silenced its victim. He half turned toward her. The intruder stared at Rachel, mouthed a profanity. Hatred in his eyes, he took a step toward her. The hatred replaced by terror, his face turning pale, likely sensing now, the wound he’d received was fatal. A hand, like a claw, reached for her. She prepared for another strike, but he collapsed, a pool of blood spreading across the carpet. Eyes wide, his body convulsed twice. Rachel heard his last exhalation. She turned to herhusband.
With a look of shock, Dov mouthed her name, the last gunshot having left a hole in his chest. His eyes pleaded for help.
She ran to his side putting her arms around him. He turned to her then his body went limp. Rachel held him tighter as if her embrace could keep him alive. She checked for a pulse but didn’t find one. Rachel shouted his name, shook his lifeless body, pressing his head against her chest. His blood transferred to her hands, arms, face, and neck. She pleaded with God to awaken her from this nightmare and find Dov alive and well. After several minutes sobbing, Rachel struggled to her feet, picked up the bedside phone, dialed the police, and gave her location. She viewed the two bloodied bodies, dropped the phone and vomited, retching numerous times then staggered out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and out the front door. She alternated sobbing and apologizing to her husband then gazed skyward.
“I was so lonely Lord then You gave me Dov. We enjoyed a little time before he became a soldier and a lousy week during his R&R. You let him survive Vietnam then in such cruel fashion take him from us. How will I raise my child without its father?”
Rachel doubled over as a sharp pain invaded her belly.
I
Part One: Brian
Chapter 1
The solider understands there are times when all others have failed, and then he must “pay the butcher’s bill” and fight, suffer, and die to undo the errors of the politicians and to fulfill “the will of the people.” Douglas MacArthur
1970 January
Halfway between Hue and Da Nang, they’d come up a dusty, rut filled road, off Highway 1 that paralleled the Troi River. The ride in the back of the stiffly sprung deuce-and-a- half truck bounced the three soldiers around but they didn’t notice; their prime concern being survival during the next twelve months. The heat was mid-nineties and humid as a wet sponge; and this was early January. They arrived at a former Catholic church. Its gray exterior pock-marked from bullet strikes, plus its windows and doors were blown out long ago. The trio jumped to the ground, pulled their rifles and gear off the end of the deuce-and-a-half. The last item barely clear of the truck, the driver put it in gear and roared down the road to ensure he made it back to base camp before dark.
A shirtless soldier on perimeter duty pointed at the church. “Head inside. Ask for Staff Sergeant Touhy.”
The Michelin Man shaped staff sergeant lined them up then lectured in a grim voice, “You don’t use your training, then you step on your pecker; you Momma gonna be crying at your grave.” He used his index finger to emphasize his message to the three new men. “Do shit like your leaders tell you. Work as a team then you go home in one piece in twelve months. The lieutenant will talk to you shortly. I’ll work out your squad assignments.”
Private Brian Levin, slightly less than average height, big boned, wide at the shoulders and hips, and muscular arms revealed by his rolled-up sleeves, said, “Yes, Sergeant,” in unison with the others then briefly remembered his mother’s expression of worry and trepidation when she dropped him off at the airport for his flight to Vietnam. “All Levin soldiers make it home,” she yelled in a trembling voice as he got out of the car. She was referring to his father and father’s two brothers who survived World War Two.
Assigned to second squad, two of the newbies dropped their gear against the wall where most of that squad’s men were sitting.
“Where y’all from?” Brian asked the other newbie in a thick southern drawl.
Arnie responded, “Brooklyn. Yourself?”
“Dallas, Texas.” Sliding his helmet off to run a hand over his military short hair, Brian chuckled. “We sound like where we come from.”
Arnie grinned and said, “Yea. You and John Wayne; me and Bugs Bunny.”
Those within earshot laughed.
“Have some distant relatives in Dallas,” Arnie said. “What did you do before the Army?”
“I was a student. Studied biology,” Brian said, looking away from Arnie, folding his arms across his chest. “You?”
“Education major, although, if I had the talent, I’d play pro-baseball. Love that game, also love basketball. There was a YMCA near my home. When not studying or attending classes, I just about lived there.” He stopped to sigh as he replayed memories of his hours engaged in sport. “The crack of a bat solidly connecting with a well thrown baseball on a bright spring morning, the glare of the lights at Yankee stadium, the rumble of the elevated trains while throngs of fans were moved to silence while the pitcher gets the sign and nods. He goes into the wind-up, anxiety in the stands rising, hotdogs no longer chewed, beer no longer sipped. People leaning forward, as if decreasing the distance between themselves and the field by a few inches, will make them feel closer to the drama on the field. The pitcher checks the runner on first base, then unwinds like a clock spring. The white sphere leaving his hand at ninety-miles an hour. The batter swings, the umpire yells strike, and the fans erupt.”
“Great description,” Brian said.
Arnie, grinning and staring at nothing but memories added, “I love the squeak of gym shoes on hardwood floors as multiple players try to stop or change direction while fighting for possession of a basketball…heck,” he chuckled, “even like the smell of the locker room…”
The two newbies sat on the floor, leaning back against their rucksacks.
“You? Play any sports?” the Brooklynite asked.
“Weights, occasional hike, but no sports. I love vehicles,” the Texan said, then thought to himself, “In truth, I live for my biology-based career.” He glanced at his new friend and wondered if he should say more about his career then decided not to.
The dull church interior held some thirty soldiers, roughly grouped by squad assignment. Card playing, cleaning rifles, writing to family, reading and re-reading letters from home or fitful attempts at sleeping occupied most. The staff sergeant introduced the new arrivals to members of their squads. Most shook hands and returned to whatever they were doing. Inexperienced soldiers, and their possible screw- ups, endangered the experienced men so for the first few weeks, the new soldiers were expected to do what they were told and keep quiet.
As Br
ian scanned around the room, he noticed Lt. Moss who stood at the front of the Church.
“Y’all listen up,” Lt. Moss yelled to the men of his platoon, his expression one of distress.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to face their platoon leader.
He waved a handwritten letter. “Just got this. Most of us remember Alex Dunn.” Many nodded. “He really had his shit together. Became an excellent squad leader. Everyone’s friend. He rotated home a few months ago. This letter is from his parents. Seems he drove a car into a concrete silo at high speed. They believe he killed himself.” Many men shook their heads in disbelief. The Lt. studied the letter. “Says here, the rest of us need to be wary when we go home cause we ain’t the same after we been through this shit, and the world we goin’ back to ain’t the same.” He looked around at his men, “Y’all watch your asses when you go home.” The Lt. held up the letter. “Don’t want no more damn letters like this.”
The platoon leader’s expression one of disgust, he then turned to the three new arrivals and yelled for them to report to him. They approached and saluted. He looked them up and down and returned their salute. “Do what you’re told, remember you are part of a team, and make sure your buddies can rely on you.” With a sloppy salute, he dismissed them. They heard the Lieutenant take a deep breath and let it out slowly while looking over his platoon. He sat on his folded poncho liner and studied a map.
An hour after eating dinner, second squad gathered their combat gear and headed to a night ambush position. Just out the door from the church, with an hour hike ahead of them, several of the men cursed as cold raindrops the size of walnuts pelted them.
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