THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the man from Baton Rouge replied then hauled himself into the back of the truck, again gripped Candice’s trembling hand.

  “See you in Sydney,” Sgt. Levin yelled to his buddy.

  II

  Part Two: Andrea

  Chapter 4

  “If you know any Vietnam vets, give them a hug. They probably need it and certainly deserve it.”

  Aussie lady wearing pink skirt and a warm smile, selling clothing in a small shop, Sydney, Australia

  (July 1970)

  Brian ate a typical Aussie breakfast of eggs, beans, smoky bacon, and toast, washed down with Billy tea, then walked to a small shop for civilian clothing. Everywhere they walked, he and his fellow soldiers were shown a warm Aussie welcome.

  That evening, Brain leaned against a long bar at a dance hall, located a couple blocks from his hotel in Kings Cross, Sydney. A hundred-plus US military personnel in civvies, just as many Aussie girls, drank and danced to an excellent sound system. Guys who’d visited Sydney on R&R before Brian, told him this was the best place to meet a girl who’d be willing to accompany him back to his room. He sat at the bar for a while, chatting with a couple guys from the 101st Airborne Division but a different battalion, each with a lady on their arm. Brian smiled at a few girls, said, “Hi,” to a few more but none of them seemed interested. He downed his second Scotch.

  He noted a cute lady, about five-feet-tall, with lovely auburn hair, a slim waist, muscular legs, and a modest dress. Brian asked her to dance. The unsmiling lady looked him up and down then nodded. Two dances later, he offered to buy her a drink.

  “Girls who come here know what you guys want,” she said after turning down the drink. “Only reason I’m here is my friend didn’t want to come alone.” She smiled then patted his shoulder. “You’re nice looking and a good dancer. You’ll find someone.”

  “Your voice,” Brian said, “reminds me of home.”

  She turned and said over her shoulder as she walked away, “Find someone else.”

  “The hell with it,” he thought. “I’m still anxious…combat at any moment anxious. Need a day to relax.” Brian walked back to his hotel. Giggles and grunts from the rooms on either side of his, indicated his fellow soldiers weren’t alone.

  He perused brochures left on the nightstand. One described a beautiful beach at a place called Bondi Junction.“Might be pleasant to be alone,” he thought. “A day of reading at the beach might be perfect for a little peace of mind.”

  ***

  The following morning, Brian stopped at a news stand, purchased a paperback which went into his jacket pocket then walked to a bus stop. “Looking for a bus to Bondi Beach,” he said to an older man waiting there.

  A large bus hissed to a stop in front of them. “Not this one,” the man said. Two passengers boarded; the door slammed shut. The bus’s engine emitted a deep moan as it moved away from the curb.

  “You enjoying Sydney?” the man asked.

  “All the Aussies I’ve met, make me feel happy I’m visiting Oz.”

  “Good. You lads deserve a break.”

  A second bus stopped. A few people got on.

  The man called to the driver. “This here Yank’s looking to get out to Bondi Junction, visit the beach.”

  “Hop on, lad.” A gray-haired driver with an infectious grin waved him on, then pointed to a nearby seat. “Sit there, Yank.” He tromped on the throttle; the engine groaned as he spun the large steering wheel. The bus moved away from the curb and swung into traffic. The driver gave him a brief grin. “Met a lot of Yanks during World War II. Maybe your Dad?”

  “He spent his time with the Air Corp in North Africa.”

  “Myself, I never left the Pacific.”

  Brian stared out the window, hoping the driver wouldn’t ask about Vietnam.

  “Been in combat?” he asked while turning the steering wheel.

  Not wanting to discuss the battles he’d been in, Brian said, “No combat. Just a clerk.”

  The driver gave him a brief glance, checked his mirrors, then said, “That bad, hey?”

  Brian didn’t reply, stared out the window for two stops then asked him, “How’d you know?”

  The old man’s eye’s filled with sadness. “A combat veteran myself. Know the look. Distress in the expression. A person what knows…he can peer into a soldier’s eyes and see the wounds in his soul.”

  Brian wondered what the old man had experienced. They pulled up at a bus stop. A short woman with a full bust and a wide rump accompanied by five young, chubby, children climbed on. She greeted the driver in a cheery voice, paid their fare then waddled to the back of the bus, her brood chasing after. He chuckled as they appeared like ducklings following theirmother.

  The driver waited until they were seated, then studied approaching vehicles in his mirror, the turn signal clacking away. He guided the behemoth into traffic. “You try and get some peace this week. Find yourself a lass to spend time with.”

  The old man nodded as he spoke, honked at the cabbie who cut in front of the bus causing him to make a brief stab at the bus’s brakes. A satisfied smile appeared on his lips, “Been together with my Gracie since I returned from the war. She kept me on an even keel in those tough months after I first came home.” He nodded. “Take it from someone who’s been there, that’ll help.”

  A few more stops and Bondi Beach came into view. “Here you are,” the driver said pointing to the horseshoe shaped, white sand covered, shoreline.

  Brian stood, held out his hand to the driver, “Take care. Good talking to…a fellow combat veteran.”

  After descending from the bus, he heard the driver yell at his receding form, “Give ‘em hell when you have to.”

  Glancing back over his shoulder, Brian grinned and nodded as he gave him a brief, shoulder high wave.

  ***

  Brian sat cross-legged on the sand, his butt sinking into the tiny grains. He wished he’d brought a towel to sit on. Brian breathed in the salty air, enjoyed the sounds of the surf, the gulls and giddy children’s laughter as they played along the water’s edge. A sunny but cool day in early July, a group of college aged men were huddled together, busy ogling the various lassies.

  The combat vet closed his eyes and smiled, remembering his sex-starved college buddies who lived in the same apartment complex near Austin, Texas. Gathered in a pack at a party or dance club, with tongues hanging out, trying to consume enough alcohol to find the nerve to ask for a dance; then did so while panting and eyes riveted on some sweet young lady’s chest. They were shocked and deflated when turned down. Thick-witted, they couldn’t figureout why they couldn’t pick up girls. Brian tried to avoid their never-ending, mindless, discussions of how to get a girl turned-on by grabbing at her various parts.

  “If you want a girl’s body,” Brian tried to explain once, “She has to welcome you into her head. Once you have the head, the body comes with.”

  Their laughter and hoots of derision embarrassed him. The regularly made fun of his old, four door sedan, even though it was all he could afford.

  A pack member, who’s most intellectual achievement was knowing the exact number of breweries in Milwaukee, declared, “That’s an old man’s car. Never gonna pick up a babe with that thing.”

  “Hell, you don’t even drink beer,” another member of the pack stated, the others laughing. “And you’re always studying, even on weekends. No babes for you!”

  If only he had a camera to record the incredulous expressions of the pack members when he brought home various comely ladies who generally stayed the weekend. Dying to know how the short, wide, plain looking young man achieved his success, they were too macho to ask and therefore admit they had no clue.

  In an attempt to be social, he joined them one weekend evening, all gathered around a beer keg. After an hour of mind numbing, pointless, conversation, Brian stated, “If belching and farting become an Olympic sport, you’d all be gold medal winners.” The pack cheered.r />
  The pack members tried to be friends, but only on Friday or Saturday evenings, hoping, hell, downright praying, to be invited on Brian’s occasional prowl for a lady. He chuckled to himself and shook his head. Gathered in the common area, beer-besotted and unsteady by seven in the evening, waiting for him to leave his apartment; he’d disappear out the back.

  Brian smiled as he watched children squeal with delight as the cool Bondi surf brushed their legs.

  Enjoying the warmth of the sun on that cool but windless day in Oz, he checked his surroundings. A slim girl, wearing a yellow sweatshirt, lay belly-down on a pink beach towel. A plaid scarf casually wrapped around her neck and a gray jacket rolled up at her side. She was ten feet away and closer to the ocean such that he couldn’t see her face. Concentrating on her reading; she displayed a cute butt wrapped in black denim jeans. Her auburn hair pulled into a neat bun; her unease evidenced by constant tugging at a few curls which escaped the bun and fell half-way to her shoulders. He noted ugly scars on the backs of her hands.

  “Likely burns,” he mumbled.

  Brian put her out of his mind. He scooped up a handful of the sun-warmed grains, let them run out between his fingers, and remembered doing the same thing on Eagle Beach in Vietnam when his platoon was given a few days respite from the war. In-country R&R, they called it. Eating, drinking, sleeping, and flirting with the few Vietnamese women employed there. Live bands at night, sleeping-in allowed; it was a pleasant break.

  He pulled the paperback out of his jacket pocket, thumbed through it, found where he left off. He’d come to the beach to lose himself in reading but glanced at the auburn-haired lady one more time.

  Young men tried conversation but, without removing her gaze from her book and with a wave of her hand, she dismissed them.

  Two hours went by while Brian concentrated on his reading.

  “Good book?” a woman with a husky voice asked while standing in front of him. He could only see a dark form; the bright sun just over her shoulder blinding him.

  He held up the book’s cover. “First fifty pages slow but an interesting tapestry of well-developed characters and mystery. Takes place in Europe.” He squinted, shaded his eyes with his hand, and discovered the yellow sweat-shirted girl peered down at him through bug-eyed sunglasses, her beach towel draped over her shoulder.

  “You chose that title because?” she asked.

  “Wanted something to take my mind somewhere else.”

  She giggled. “Oz is a long way from anywhere else.”

  “Not far enough.” He nodded to a news stand. “Headlines about Vietnam. For a lousy week, I’d hoped to forget.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Sure.” He stood, held out his hand, and shook hers. “Brian.”

  “Andrea.” She pointed to a tiny, red-sided food stand. “Fish and chips?”

  “Not big on fish but I’ll try ‘em.”

  “She gets hers from the boats every morning.”

  As they crossed the sand, he thought she looked familiar.

  He asked, “Didn’t we dance last night?”

  The auburn-haired lady smiled and said, “Didn’t know your taste in literature or we’d have danced more.”

  They took their newspaper-coned meals to a small table. “Vinegar?” he questioned, as she sprinkled the acid on his fish.

  “Try it, Yank.”

  He tried a small bite.

  “Not bad…tasty actually.” He tried another bite. “Downright delicious.”

  In between mouthfuls of battered fish and potato, they engaged in a lengthy discussion on the book he was reading. She’d read it the summer before.

  Brian asked, “Is that why you decided to talk…”

  “Guessed you might be interesting.” Her eyes sparkled as she smiled. “Might have guessed right.”

  He returned her warm smile in kind. “Back at you.”

  “When did you arrive in Sydney?” she asked. “Yesterday.”

  “So, you’ve got six more days. Where’s home?”

  “Texas. Small town named Celina, friendliest people in North Texas. Established in 1876 along routes of the old Chisolm cattle trail…north of Dallas.”

  “Therefore…” She giggled, then asked, “You own oil wells, cattle, horses…?”

  He laughed. “Own a small home on decent acreage which I inherited from my folks. Before I was drafted, I bought a summer home, made from logs, near Whitefish, Montana.” He smiled as if reliving a pleasant memory. “Can see the peaks of Glacier National Park from the deck…that’s where I’ll avoid the heat of Texas summers.”

  “Because…”

  “Love the mountains. Great views, great hiking, a quiet area, and the entire Northwest to camp in. But my main residence is in Texas.”

  “A year Waltzing Mathilda in Vietnam then home to more? Thought you’d of had your fill of living rough.”

  He laughed again. “I have a motorhome waiting for me. Converted bus. Dad bought the forty-footer but didn’t like driving it. I intend to go camping in a manner which includes indoor plumbing and a daily shower.”

  She burst into laughter. Andrea’s eyes sparkled. Her voice reminded him of the sonorous tones produced by the long crystal wind-chimes which graced the front deck of his Texas home.

  “Your laughter reminds me of home. You sound like my wind chimes.”

  Andrea imagined he was teasing her. “My deep voice? Has all the charm of sounds emanating from a rain barrel. Wind chimes…unlikely.”

  “Sonorous they are, and yes, their tone sounds like you.”

  She tilted her head, still not sure if he was teasing. Her expression warmed, showing she was pleased with his complement. “Thank you. Never heard the word sonorous used to describe my voice.”

  “The last thing I did before I left for Vietnam was hang them.” Watching her eat, he noticed her face seemed not quite symmetric. She wasn’t pretty, but her eyes sparkled, and when she smiled, warmed him. The lady from Oz made him feel, he wasn’t sure what. Did she make his mind relax or was he willing to feel anything to get her in bed?

  Andrea noticed his stare. “Car accident. Couldn’t put my face back together like before.”

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to…”

  “Tell me more about those wind chimes.”

  “Long clear crystals that ring with deep tones.” He leaned back, briefly closed his eyes. His memory filled with their graceful appearance and melodic sound. “Imagine, early on a cool, clear morning, seated in a rocker on my front porch sipping a mug of steaming coffee, the sunrise refracting through the crystals painting rainbows across the floor and walls, a sylvan breeze and their sonorous tones giving voice to the day’s first sunlight as it pours across the North Texas plains.”

  Andrea’s jaw dropped. “Your description…” She stared at him. “Articulate you are, Yank…”

  Not sure of her reaction, he sighed and shrugged. “I forgot to take them down before I left. Strong winds probably destroyed them by now.”

  “Sad, if true.”

  He stared at his lap then in a quiet voice said, “But…there are times when I think I can hear them…”

  She tilted her head again then asked, “When?”

  “You’ll think I’m nuts but…happens when I’m emotionally stressed. Even influences how they sound.”

  “Such as…”

  “They reflect my mood, sad if I am, happy if things are going well.”

  She turned to stare at the surf, then asked, “Hear them during combat?”

  He shook his head. “Afterward.”

  Andrea considered his reply while finishing her fish. She wiped her lips with a paper napkin. “Tell me, Yank. First trip when you get home?”

  “My folks in Plano, Texas then Yellowstone National Park. Never seen it but read lots about it. Afterward, finish fixing up my house.”

  “Close to your family?”

  “Yes. Dad and Mom both.” He stared at her, wondered how much to tell her. “Lots of arg
uments before I left between Mom and me. I love her dearly but we have a different view of the world.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Know the feeling but my Mom died when I was sixteen.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  They finished their meals. Brian collected their waste and dumped it.

  “How about a walk?” she said.

  Brian nodded. They followed a walkway which curved a couple miles around the beach, occasionally stopping to sit on benches then spent a couple hours talking about life in Australia versus the States. She insisted the States were too violent. The lady from Oz pulled her jacket on when a large cloud blocked the sun.

  “Any college?” Andrea asked.

  “Biology major,” he replied. “You?”

  “What you’d call Liberal Arts. Learning psychology.”

  Andrea perused a few store fronts, noted their reflection in one. “Nice couple,” she mumbled then giggled. “Tell me about college life in the States.”

  Brian yawned. “Another time. Sorry but I’m exhausted. Couldn’t sleep on the plane…or last night for that matter.”

  “Find a lass to take home?”

  “My body was screaming for a girl, but my mind was depressed over something that happened before I left Vietnam but can’t get out of my head which resulted in little sleep.”

  “Can I help? Maybe if you tell me?”

  He took a deep breath, sighed then looked her up and down. “I’m enjoying your company but, I was hoping to go dancing again tonight so I should head back to my hotel and get some shuteye.”

  “Your lack of sleep. Because?”

  “War crap. Cruel memories.” Brian shrugged his shoulders, stared at her for a bit. “In truth, memories of having to make cruel decisions.” He thought for a while, shook his head. “No. That’s not right either.” They continued to walk in silence. He stopped.

  She turned partially toward him.

  “Decisions,” he said while nodding, “which are cruel to the decision maker as he knows their implementation will result in a human being’s pain, suffering or death.”