“Describe a cruel decision.”
“I’m here to get away from…I’m not really comfortable talking about my decisions. I hardly know you. Why? What do you want to know?”
“Just one, please.”
They walked in silence for half a block then, after a rapid sigh, he stopped walking, turned to face her and said,
“We agree. Just one.”
“Yes.”
“Our squad of eleven soldiers, out on reconnaissance, stopped to rest along a path on the edge of a small village.
Vietnamese, two young women and an older man, were planting twelve-inch rice plants in a flooded paddy, fifty meters ahead of us. Two kids, a boy and a girl roughly three- years-old, were playing on the trail. When we stopped for a break, we sat on the trail leaning against our rucksacks.
The little ones approached. I dug in my ruck and gave each of them a hard candy…remember giving the girl a yellow lemon drop. She removed the wrapper, slipped the treat into her mouth, gave me a great smile, pointed at me, and, in a heavily accented voice, said, ‘You number one.’ One of the guys called me over to look at a rash. Another soldier pointed out the workers were leaving the rice paddy. The female worker yelled something in Vietnamese at the children.
They’d run a few steps when a mortar shell landed near us. Gunfire broke out. We’d been ambushed, the children injured by the blast. I emptied four or five magazines then low crawled to a point roughly halfway between them. Both sustained terrible wounds…both bleeding profusely. I was forced to choose, the boy or the girl. I’m right-handed and the boy was on my right so maybe that’s why I chose him…truthfully, I’m not sure why…I began closing a huge laceration, bullets flying around us like angry bees.
I looked over at the girl about halfway through my repair on the little guy. Flat on her back, she raised her head, turned to me with tears in her eyes, anguish in her expression. I knew she must have been in terrible pain. She beckoned with her little hand…asking…no… begging…for my help. I concentrated on the boy for a few more minutes, finished covering his wounds then low-crawled to the girl and, even now it hurts to say, she was gone.
Eyes still open. Still full of tears. I slid my hand across her eyes, closing them. I watched a tear run down her rosy cheek.
By now we’d called in artillery fire and the shooting was over. We got the little boy helicoptered to an Evac station…but the little girl’s eyes haunt me. Her little hand beckoning. I’ve been racking my mind. What else could I have done? Everyone else was busy shooting. There must have been something…”
He used a shoulder to wipe a tear off his cheek.
Teary eyed, Andrea turned him toward her, embraced him and kissed his cheek, then rested her head on his shoulder. “Such a pain-filled memory.”
He lifted her chin and briefly kissed her lips. The twosome began walking again.
She sighed. “Likely nothing you could have done.”
Brian stared at her briefly, shrugged then studied a few fluffy clouds in a mostly blue sky. “Not sure.”
“No one else could help?” Andrea said, using both hands to wipe away her own tears.
“One medic per platoon of three or four squads. He was out with another squad that day. Everyone else was busy shooting. Perhaps I should have been shooting as well…”
“You seem to be the kind of person who runs toward a fire…not away.”
“I’ve been told that, but when a person decides to run toward a fire, what decisions will he or she make when arriving at the fire? My choice killed the little girl.”
Andrea stopped him and said, “You did not kill her. The war did. I imagine decisions like that happen in all wars. Not like you can plan for them.”
“Enough talk about that…depressing crap.”
“Time to jolly-up Yank.” She put her hands on his upper arms, kissed his cheek, and put on a warm smile.
He returned her smile in kind. “I’ll try.”
“My place is around the corner and down the block. Two small rooms; tiny but cozy. You can relax there instead of heading back to your hotel. And I’d love to go dancing.”
“Uh…like to spend time with you but…I come with lots of anger, desires, and crazy expectations.”
Andrea displayed a knowing smile. “I understand. You Yanks come here hoping to, as you say, get your rocks off. I get it.” She bowed her head while they walked and without looking at him said, “I’m willing to be your girlfriend for the week, if you like, because…I’ve never met anyone who expresses himself, such as, the way you referred to your wind chimes, ‘On clear mornings, the sunrise refracting through them painting rainbows…giving voice to the sunlight as it poured across the plains.’ You created a perfect picture in my mind.”
“Just a description…”
“And we communicate well…you tell me about your experience, and I can learn from you.”
“Learn what…about war?” He shook his head. “Right now you’ll only get sleep from me.”
Under her breath she whispered, “You’ll help me understand how soldiers manage after traumatic events.”
“I’ll what?”
She wrapped her arms around his left arm. Gave him a broad smile. “Home with me, Yank. How much have you slept recently?”
“Every night’s sleep in the Army is interrupted by guard duty. Some guys adjust…I have to a degree but the last few weeks were rough. Lots of new guys. We don’t know how they’ll react when in combat. I always worried about newbies falling asleep on guard or screwing up such that others get killed.”
They walked in silence for ten minutes then entered her little apartment. There were books, magazines, and newspapers, on numerous shelves and piled on every horizontal surface except one counter in the kitchen.
As they removed their jackets, which she hung on a peg board near the entrance, Andrea said, “We’ve had similar experiences and you’re going to help me with memories from an event…which, as yet, I’m unable to talk about…to anyone.”
“I’m not a therapist…and didn’t come to Sydney to talk about Vietnam.”
She nodded to the overstuffed, leather-covered couch while spreading her beach towel over the back of a chair. “Sit there. I’ll put the kettle on.”
He sighed as he sunk into the deep cushions. Brian mumbled, “This is comfy. Just need a moment to rest.” He put his head back and sighed. Andrea returned with two mugs of tea. She placed the mugs on a glass-topped coffee table then grabbed a blanket, unfolded it and covered him. The Aussie lady whispered, “We’ll take care of each other this week and you…will help me get over the deaths I caused.” With gentle movements, Andrea sat at his side, spread the blanket over both then cuddled against him. He kissed the top of her head, put an arm around her and pulled her against him.
Andrea used her finger tips to caress his cheek, then rested her head on his chest. She whispered, “Six days. For the rest of the week, you’re mine. I’ll be so kind to you; you’ll tell me what I want, and you’re going to lean on me…use me to get rid of that turmoil.”
“I’ll try,” he said then kissed her lips.
The soldier imagined he’d briefly close his eyelids then talk to her; but once closed, this girl and her apartment caused his mind to relax and for the first time in the last six months, he was out like a light.
***
“Might help if you talk about combat,” Andrea said as they entered a disco that evening then headed for the bar.
He shook his head, said, “Forget that,” and ordered drinks.
Andrea’s friend, Mary, called to her. They walked over, joined her at a small round table.
The music filling their spirit, Andrea shouted in a glee- filled voice, “Come on Yank. Dance with me.”
They returned to the table thirty minutes later. He went to the bar to buy them drinks.
Around midnight, Andrea took a long sip of her drink then slid her hand onto his crotch, caressing his member until she felt it swelling. She l
eaned toward him and whispered, “Back to my place?”
He nodded.
At her apartment, he gave her a long kiss. Andrea removed his shirt, tossed it onto the chair next to the bed. She noted the silver chain and tiny, abstract, six-pointed star which hung from it.
“You’re…”
“Jewish.”
“Don’t meet many in Oz.”
She slipped out of her clothing then held his naked body tight against her. They engaged in another long kiss then Andrea pulled him into bed.
The following morning, Andrea was cuddled tight against him. Brian gave her a long kiss and they made love again.
“I’m going to shower,” he said. She nodded toward the bathroom.
Brian adjusted the water, stepped in, then to his surprise, Andrea entered.
Although blushing, she said, “Only have six days. No time to waste on modesty or inhibition.” She soaped a washcloth. “Let me scrub your back.”
He turned away from her. “Andrea, that’s…” He moaned. “Oh my God that’s wonderful.”
“Brian, you have a body like…”
“A fire plug or a brick outhouse?”
She laughed, gripped his butt, which he flexed for her.
Andrea said, “And well-defined musculature.”
“Worked out with weights since I was young.”
“My turn.” Andrea turned her back to him.
A thought made him chuckle as he ran the soapy cloth over her smooth back side. “There’s this tribe in…the Amazon, if memory serves. When a couple bathes together they’re married…stop bathing together then divorced.”
“Wow,” she said then giggled. “A water contract.”
“So, we’re married.”
“For this week,” she said with a level of sadness in her voice, which surprised him. Andrea rinsed off, stepped out of the shower, threw him a towel, wrapped her hair in one towel then used another to dry her body. “You Yanks treat us like goddesses for a week; we give you what you want then we never hear from you again.”
“Perhaps we’ll be the ones to break that pattern.”
She sighed while shaking her head. “Unlikely…”
“Andrea, I’m enjoying the hell out of our time together.” He raised he chin and kissed her. “It’s only been one day, but spending time with you…our conversations…we fit up here.” He tapped her forehead.
“And in bed?”
“Last night was all a guy could ask for.”
“We fit…you’re right.” She kissed his lips. “What would you like to do today?”
“See more of Sydney…with you, of course.”
“There are ferry boats to take us all over the place. Might be fun to explore using them as a stepping off point.”
They dressed in light jackets. Andrea wrapped her plaid scarf around her neck.
“Special plaid?” he asked
“Campbell tartan,” she said with pride.
“Scottish Ancestry?”
“Of course. Just like Jackie Stewart.”
“Oh yes. World Driver’s champion. One of the great ones.”
“Your ancestors?” Andrea asked.
“Russian and Spanish.”
“Fiery mix. Have to keep an eye on you,” she said.
On the street, Brian asked, “What is that delightful smell?”
“Bakery up ahead. How about breakfast there?”
They sat at a small round outdoor table and dined on flakey, just out of the oven, apple, cherry and banana fruit tarts, washed down with tea, then rode a bus to a wharf near Lynne Park.
Alighting from the bus at New South Wales and Kent Road, a horn wailed. Tire squeal from a delivery van assaulted their ears like fingernails on a blackboard. The small truck strained to stop then a sickening thud was heard as the van struck a small sedan; broken glass and metal parts clattering to the pavement.
Andrea sucked in her breath, put a hand up to her mouth then spun away from the scene.
Brian put an arm around her. “Aussie lady, what’s wrong?”
She pushed his arm away. “You check them. Soldiers know what to do. Be sure they’re okay, if not, help them.”
First taking stock of their condition, Brian helped the occupants out of their crumpled vehicles and away from the traffic.
“All okay, just minor bumps and bruises,” he yelled to Andrea over the din of the approaching emergency vehicles.
Trembling and whimpering, she nodded.
He returned to her side and held her in a warm embrace. Brian guided her to a bench then held her tight against him.
“What happened lady?” Andrea shook her head. “Will you tell me?”
“Not yet.”
“So painful?”
She nodded, buried her face in his chest and sobbed.
Chapter 5
On that cool but sunny Saturday morning, they bought tickets at the wharf, proceeded across a ramp to board the ferry, purchased tea then sat on an indoor, upper deck.
She took a long sip of her tea, appeared to gather her courage, and said, “I’d like to hear more about combat.”
“In some bloody fights.”
“Describe them.”
“You had to eat cold food if you didn’t fight your way to the head of the chow line.”
She giggled. “Seriously please, I know you were in combat but how would I describe it to someone who knew nothing about it.”
His previous upbeat mood left him; his brow furrowed. “Look! I’m not here to talk about combat. I like spending time with you but…” He took a moment to try and calm down. “Andrea, if I think about that crap, I relive it. The memories take my mood down a rat-hole. I feel guilt, then anger. Lots of it.” He stared out a window.
“Talking won’t help?”
He looked at Andrea then yelled, “Hell no!” Brian glared at her, stood then walked around the deck for some minutes. He returned to his seat, folded his arms across his chest.
“Okay, okay,” she said. She waited a few minutes then pulled his arm around her. “I hurt you. I apologize.”
More time passed…the only sound the rumble of the ferry’s engine.
Brian sighed, squeezed her against him. “I get it. We don’t have much time.” He put his hand under her chin, kissed her lips. “Sometimes my emotions get the best of me.”
She nodded.
He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, “I’m combat infantry and, in my case, when needed, a sniper.”
Brian was surprised as her expression turned to one of satisfaction.
She said, “If you will, I’m not pushing you, please give me an excellent description of combat.”
He looked around then faced her, spoke in a serious tone, “One description…”
Andrea nodded, “Won’t ask again.”
For a few minutes, Brian stared out the windows at passing sailboats rounding a mark, their crews then hoisting spinnakers which billowed to life, all the while considering what he would say. He took a deep breath, stared in her eyes. “Imagine you and your best friend Mary; the two of you are soldiers on patrol. A shot rings out. You begin shooting. Your friend no longer has her lower jaw, she utters a guttural sound then another round rips a painful hole in her belly. She collapses, bleeding profusely, grabs at you, makes ugly noises but can’t form words. From her gestures, you know she’s in terrible pain. You see she is choking on her own blood. You try to support her but you know there’s nothing you can do, so you return to shooting. She grips your clothing, looks at you, her eyes pleading with you to stop the pain, prevent her death. But your mind knows it’s hopeless. Your best friend is going to die. You are about to witness her last breath. No matter what you think of doing, she will die.”
Andrea’s eyes filled with tears, she turned away from him. “Andrea,” he said.
She shook her head then cried.
“What did he do to you?” an older man, seated nearby, asked. He glared at Brian.
Andrea turned to the old
man and tried to smile. “He told me a sad story.” Andrea twisted toward Brian, wrapped herself around him as much as she could.
He held her in a tight embrace. “Sorry,” he said then kissed her cheek. “I didn’t mean to be so graphic…”
“My fault. I asked. It’s all so damn cruel. I assume you witnessed what you just described.”
He nodded. “Left out the part where it became clear the soldier was begging for his mother to help him.”
“His mother?”
“I heard pleading for help from their mothers, from our soldiers, Korean soldiers, and Vietnamese soldiers. If they were torn up, believed they are going to die, many plead for maternal help.” He kissed her cheek. “Some years ago I read an article written by a mercenary soldier in Africa. He said he heard soldiers, on death’s doorstep, pleading for their mothers in seven different languages.”
Andrea took a deep breath, rested her head against his shoulder. “Thank you but…I’m curious about one thing concerning combat…how did you manage afterwards?”
“Don’t know.”
“But…surely you…”
“It’s not afterwards yet.” She appeared puzzled.
His shoulders drooped, he stared out a window, his eyes exploring the verdure which spread from the houses on the cliffs down to the water’s edge; all the while sensing the ferry’s bow rising and falling as it crossed the wake of a larger vessel. Brian sighed. “One week from today, my nostrils will again fill with the sweet scent of mature rice, the rotting vegetation smell of the jungle, and the acrid odor of cordite. Combat won’t be over for another six months.”
Andrea wiped a tear away, smiled at him, grabbed his hand, turned his face toward her and kissed his lips. “But you’re here today.”
Cuddled tight against each other, they didn’t talk for the next half-hour. The rumble of the ferry’s diesel engines the only sound.
“Your descriptions,” Andrea said, “were…down-right painful. I could sense what it must have been like. The suffering from events you were forced to witness.”
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 6
