“And events I caused,” Brian said, “Most people don’t know who they are or what they’re made of until they find themselves in impossible situations.”
“But what about the resulting emotional pain? How’d you deal with it?”
He looked at her with a quizzical expression. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Like after you…you’ve killed someone…isn’t there emotional pain?”
“Not exactly pain.” He thought for a while. “More like a combination of guilt, anger, and happiness.”
Andrea took some minutes to consider his response. She repeated his statement in a whisper then said, “Doesn’t make sense.”
“Little about killing makes…Auburn lady, you expect logic when we’re talking about war?”
“But happiness?”
He nodded. “Happy I was still alive and fought in a way which supported my squad members and accomplished our mission.”
“I’m not sure…”
Brian leaned away from her, stared outside and remained silent so she didn’t inquire further.
They left the ferry, walked along a row of three- and four-story buildings, most with shops on their lower floors and apartments above.
“Sun’s out. Warming up,” he said, unzipping his jacket.
At a street corner, a sign pointed in the direction of the Royal Botanic Gardens.
“Take me there?” she asked. “It’s not far.”
“Why?”
“Plants are peaceful.”
“Which is good for?”
“Tortured souls.”
They quickly covered the distance to the Gardens. Andrea said, “A shame but little color this time of year.”
They walked in silence until Andrea asked, “What is the difference between killing someone with a rifle and killing someone with a car?”
“One is intentional and the other is an accident…assuming the driver didn’t intentionally aim for the other person who died.”
“Is it different if the soldier is being attacked as opposed to his attacking someone?”
He considered her question for a bit and shrugged. “I suspect little difference in a soldier’s mind, although, I remember a guy in close combat having a feeling of wondering why the enemy soldier was trying to kill him when they didn’t know each other.”
She wrapped her arms around his arm, then said, “You mentioned being a sniper.”
“Worlds apart from fighting in a squad or platoon.”
“From what I’ve read, snipers were hated throughout history.”
Brian nodded. “My understanding as well. Most armies are desperate to use them then try to forget them as soon as an armed conflict ends.”
“Is killing mentally more difficult on snipers because it’s a more personal type of killing?”
“Personal?”
Andrea said, “You carefully select a target. It’s unlike spraying bullets or dropping an artillery shell on an area.”
He thought for a while as they walked, stopped to buy them tea, sipped his then said, “I didn’t feel it was more personal. A sniper doesn’t always carefully select, generally just aiming at a body.” Brian sipped his tea again, pointed out perennials which were just pushing through their previous year’s growth. “Maybe after the war, looking back on what I’ve done, I may feel differently but now, dropping an enemy is dropping an enemy whether at a distance or up close, although, as a sniper, I do it through a scope. Somehow that and the physical distance helps mentally separate me from the target. I also have a teammate with me. Not sure what, if any, his presence makes, although we are a team. Never want to let down a team member.”
“Do you hate the enemy?”
“Not really, although one guy in another platoon lost his brother. He was full of hate. Willing to do crazy, dangerous stunts. The Army got him out of combat. They put him to work unloading airplanes till the end of his tour.”
“You mentioned distance…”
“I have to think about that to give you a good answer.” They walked in silence for a while.
She pointed out a row of bushes. Their dark, leathery, green leaves just beginning to emerge.
Brian vigorously shook his head. “I was wrong. Dropping an enemy is not just dropping an enemy. Surely it is more difficult the closer you are, especially if you see their eyes.”
They wandered the gardens for a number of hours, then found a photography studio where they posed for photos, both serious and silly.
“A week to develop so I won’t see them,” he said as he paid.
“You give me your address in the states and I’ll send copies. Back to my place?”
He nodded.
***
After a brief walk, the entered her apartment. Andrea said, “A bit chilly out there today. Favor a Brandy?”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
She poured Brandy into two snifters.
The duo held up their drinks, said, “Cheers.”
They snuggled together on her couch. She pulled his arm around her then asked, “Did you worry about dying?”
“Not really. Worried about being captured and tortured. If I died, that would be the end. Over quickly one would hope.”
“If you don’t fear death, what kept you from engaging in irresponsible acts which might result in your death?”
“Imagining what my parents would suffer if I came home in a box. Also, doing something crazy might result in my squad mates getting hurt.”
“Different topic?” Andrea asked.
“Thank you.”
“I’m a country girl who doesn’t fall for big city lads. Why do I feel close to you?”
“I know…but you may not like what I have to say.”
“Even if I don’t, please tell me.”
He put his hands on either side of her face, kissed the tip of her nose. “We’re both inquisitive and share strong intellect and, I suspect, similar emotional experiences. Mentally, we combine like two metals slamming into each other at high velocity and high energy with such force they meld together, become one, as if inside each other.”
She frowned. “So close, we’re inside of each other. I’m not sure if I like that.”
“But being so close,” he continued, “we feel each other’s pain, and if not careful, can easily cause the other pain.”
Andrea thought for a bit, looked up at him, smiled, nuzzled his cheek, “If we are, as you say, inside each other, then until you leave, our mental balance is in each other’s hands.”
His expression became one of concern. “Then we each have a huge responsibility to tread lightly, without leaving footprints.”
Andrea pulled his arm around her. Brian pulled her close. Lost in thought, the duo were silent for a while then continued reading. An hour later, both slept in each other’s arms.
Late in the afternoon, the phone ringing awakened them. Andrea received a call from best friend Mary. She asked Brian if he minded having dinner with another couple.
“No problem,” he said.
Back on the street and after a brief walk, Andrea nodded to a set of double swinging doors. Brian opened a door for her and followed into a building where an elevator took the couple to a rooftop restaurant.
Checking out the sixth story view and queued near the bar with fellow patrons waiting for a table, Andrea called to Mary. Her friend introduced her new acquaintance, Michael Cooper. He was a combat soldier from the 1st Air Cavalry Division, whose home was in Boston. The men moved to the bar, ordered drinks for themselves and their dates.
“You heard what it’s like when we get home?” Michael asked Brian during dinner.
“Protests and stuff,” Brian said. “You heard different?”
“Seems lots of guys having problems readjusting to the world.”
“The world?” Mary asked.
“That’s how we refer to back home,” Brian said.
“My older brother,” Michael said, “after his tour in Vietnam, wit
hdrew from the family. We think he’s living someplace in Boston, but no one knows where. His plan was to finish college and teach High School English. Came home, started drinking, moved out and no one’s heard from him in…I guess, three years now.”
“Was he a combat soldier?” Andrea asked.
“No. Army journalist. They’d be out in the field for a few days, then back to an office to write stories about the soldiers they met. He did see combat a number of times. He told some stuff to our father but not me. Dad told him he needed help.”
“We’ve had Army journalists out with us a few times when we hit the shit,” Brian said. “They acquitted themselves well…became disciplined riflemen until the shooting stopped. They experienced the same horrors we did. One guy helped me repair a bloody injury without flinching…” He added with a grin, “but puked his guts out afterwards.”
The others laughed.
They were guided to a table with a marvelous view of Sydney harbor and the Opera House.
“I wonder,” Mary speculated, “if it was harder on them…mentally speaking…coming from a peaceful rear area where they typed up their stories, to the hell of combat then back to the quiet rear again.”
Brian, while considering Mary’s comment, stared out a window. Sydney transitioned from day into night. Lights in buildings winked on while gaudy neon signs glared. In the distance, it was still light enough to make out the Sydney Opera House whose roof design made it appear like a group of intermingled sails. He held up his glass of Chardonnay, swirled the contents, peered through the golden liquid then took another sip. Brian let it rest on his tongue before swallowing. “Excellent,” he pronounced then reached for the bottle and read the label. “From the Piccadilly Valley.”
“Near Adelaide,” Andrea said with pride in her voice. “A few hours from my family’s sheep station.”
Mary turned to Michael. “How was your twice-cooked Bangalow Pork Belly?”
“Sinfull,” Michael replied. The others laughed.
“Your spatchcock?” Andrea asked Brian.
“Crispy skin, moist interior plus the pomegranate sauce was the right note to accompany the dish. Not too sweet, not too sour. A perfect balance.”
Michael asked, “And ladies, the lamb you shared?”
“Perfection,” Mary said while Andrea nodded agreement.
“Mary,” Brian said. “As to your thoughts on alternating between a peaceful area and combat; I’ve read that pilots in WWII experienced mental problems for that reason…peaceful airfield then an hour of doing your best to kill your fellow human beings while they did their best to kill you, then back to a quiet rear area as opposed to constantly in combat. It was a huge struggle for many.”
“Wonder if it was that way for your brother?” Andrea asked Michael.
“If we find him, I’ll ask.”
***
Once the bill was paid, they left the restaurant where, three American soldiers accosted them, trying to entice their dates away.
“Leaving so early?” one of them queried.
“You ladies need to join some real men,” another said.
Michael told the obviously tipsy trio, “We’re both 11B10. You’re outnumbered. Walk away.”
The man closest to Brian said, “Ain’t afraid of you, little shit.” A fist the size of a ham flew at Brian’s face. The Texan leaned back, simultaneously slamming a foot between the guy’s legs with enough force to lift him off the ground, the would-be assailant dropped to his knees then rolled onto his side while moaning and using both hands to grip his crotch. The second spun Brian to face him. For his trouble, the second assailant received an elbow to the face which broke his nose then a chop to his neck which left him choking. Brian followed with a fist in his belly, knocking the wind out of him. The second assailant slowly collapsed to the sidewalk, hands on face, blood spurting between his fingers while choking on his own blood and gasping for air. Brian’s new acquaintance, having avoided the pipe the third man held briefly, used combinations to keep him against a wall. The man cursed at Michael. The 1st Air Cav soldier replied with a viscous kick which, based on the volume and intensity of his assailant’s screams, shattered a knee cap. Andrea retrieved the pipe, gripped it like a cricket bat, fury in her expression, ready to assist. As the third man hit the ground, she cursed the three men, dropping the pipe.
The combat vets nodded to each other, took their dates by the hand and walked away from the groaning trio.
“Shites,” Mary said, then asked, “You said, 11B10.”
“The Army’s designation for combat soldiers,” Michael said.
Andrea glanced over her shoulder at their assailants, then asked, “What if those guys had been in combat?”
“No chance,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Combat vets don’t go looking for fights.”
Michael nodded agreement.
“You picked up the pipe,” Brian said to Andrea. “Would you have used it?”
“Hell yes. I’m a country girl. Tough as a mother croc protecting her nest, if need be. Wouldn’t hesitate busting a couple skulls.” She smiled at Brian, pulled him close, and kissed his cheek. “Our six days aren’t over yet. Have to take care of you.”
“Where’d you learn to fight?” Michael asked.
“Neighbor was a karate expert. Spent hundreds of hours working out and practicing together. You?”
“Grew up in a rough neighborhood, learned to box.”
Continuing down the street, they stopped at a neighborhood pub with an area for dancing, Andrea watched Mary and Michael spin around the polished, wood grained surface then shouted to Brian over the din of the dance hall, “Great couple. They’re expressions sparkle at each other.” She intertwined her fingers in his then stood. “Let’s dance.”
After enough dancing to develop a thirst, the foursome slid into a round booth. Michael took drink orders then he and Brian headed to the bar.
Upon their return, Mary shouted to be heard over the music, “Andrea said she’s confident enough in your relationship to let me dance with you. Come on Yank.”
Brian looked at Andrea who smiled and nodded. They headed to the dance floor.
Andrea shouted, “Come on, Michael.”
The foursome spent the next hour dancing and laughing, occasionally changing partners.
They returned to the booth. Andrea cuddled against Brian.
He whispered, “Maybe you’ll go home with Michael.”
“No chance.” With a mischievous smile, she poked a finger in his ribs then whispered in his ear, “He might not be as good in bed as you.”
He burst into laughter and Andrea kissed his cheek.
Returning to her apartment, they slipped out of their clothing and slid into bed.
“An angel found me on Bondi beach,” he said while caressing her chest.
“No angel here.”
He kissed her lips. “Aussie lady, you are so much more than you realize. Kind, caring, intelligent…”
She interrupted, shaking her head. “Thank you, but not bloody likely.”
***
The following day, after breakfast at the same bakery, they walked along the Bondi to Bronte coastal walk, stopping to sit on a bench and watch the ocean’s waves crashing on the rocks at Mackenzie’s Point. A cool breeze coming off the ocean that morning, they cuddled tight together. Andrea said, “Last night you said some kind words.”
“I meant what I said. Spending time with you…nearly have my sanity back. You have a way of making me choose my words with care…no partial logic with you. Need clear, complete and concise reasoning when I voice a thought. I love that about you.”
Andrea smiled. “Could be why the sex is so good. Doing…no…sharing…our bodies makes us closer.” She kissed his cheek. “I have to admit, I love our talks, and yes, sharing our bodies, we were made for each other like bees and pollen.”
“Which makes honey.” He turned her face toward him and kissed her lips. “A beautiful simile.”
> Gazing out to sea at the gathering black clouds, Andrea said, “A bit cool and thunderstorms on the way.” She shuddered when a distant flash of lightening was followed by a report of thunder which rumbled across the sky. “How about a day of reading at my place?”
“Love to.”
As they walked to her apartment, a light mist began falling.
Brian watched her shudder after another deep boom reached them. “You seem anxious.”
“I don’t like noisy storms. Out on our sheep station, lightening can cause an endless variety of problems, and I’m anxious because I feel like we have limited time together, no matter the outcome of this week. We need savor every moment.”
“I agree. We continue to build a relationship then who knows how long we might be together?”
“Still feel like we have a short time. I don’t know where the feeling is coming from.”
He put an arm around her, pulled her close. “One day at a time, lady from Oz.”
Cuddling at her place while reading, the phone rang. “Hi Dad…doing well…Haven’t forgotten.”
She listened briefly then put her hand over the phone. “My father wants to know if I’m coming out to the Seasonal Fair the end of this week.”
He nodded.
With sparkling eyes and a voice again reminding him of his crystal chimes, she said, “We’ll be there. Have someone I want you to meet.” Andrea listened for a while, laughed, grinned at Brian while saying, “He knows nothing about sheep.” She listened again then said, “Serious enough we’ll be staying in my room.”
That evening, Brian and Andrea met Mary and Michael for a second dinner date. While the foursome waited for a table, they talked to a Marine pilot and his date. He was stationed at the airbase in Da Nang.
“Thanks for the support on a number of occasions,” Brian said.
“If it was me,” the Marine said with a laugh, “You’re welcome.”
“Brian, did you ever see the damage caused by the bombs?” Andria asked.
Brian nodded. “Yes I did. We patrolled a village that was napalmed. An hour earlier, we were taking fire from it. Bullets buzzing around and between us so we called in Arty. They said two Marine jets were nearby then directed them to our location. Each dropped two shells which flamed an area as long as a couple football fields, yellow-orange flames at the base, billowing, black smoke above.” He sipped his drink while contemplating how much detail to tell them. “An hour after the airstrike, we recon’d the village. Small fires still burned in the remains of a number of buildings, everything black and soot covered. A deceased little boy, flat on his back, most of his clothing burned off, charred skin on his face and anywhere flesh was exposed, eyelids burned off, eyes in a permanent, sightless, stare. His arms extended heavenward, frozen in death, reaching out like he wanted one of us to pick him up and take away his pain. A woman’s body nearby, also scorched, possibly his mother. The smell of burned flesh assaulted our noses. Other adults and children scattered across the ground in twisted, grotesque poses indicating they’d been writhing in pain during their last moments. One of the worst scenes I’d witnessed.”
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 7
