“The round is between his skin and his rib cage,” Brian said.
She nodded.
Brian injected pain killer. He used a scalpel to slowly expose the round. “Don’t let it rotate,” he reminded Krista as she steadied the shell. He continued to cut. The round free, staying low, she moved in slow motion, extending her hand beyond the wall of sand bags. Blood covered, the round began to slip. She dropped it, quickly withdrawing her hand. The explosion left them dusted them in sand.
“You okay?” Brian asked Krista, sat up then coughed and spit, wiped sand off his face, brushed it out of his hair.
“A bit shaken but okay.”
She cleaned and he closed the soldier’s wound. “Am I gonna die?” the still trembling soldier asked.
Major Downey replied with a grin, “You will Lieutenant, but not today.”
Other soldiers ran over and helped move the wounded man to a stretcher.
Brian put his hand on his right butt cheek. It felt wet. He dropped the right side of his pants a few inches.
“A scratch,” Major Downey said as she cleaned the area then injected pain killer and used three stitches to close the wound. “Your cute butt is going to have a scar on it.”
A brief jeep ride and they were back in the medical unit. Upon arrival, the Colonel approached. “You two take the rest of the day off.”
Brian checked his watch, saw it was another two hours before supper. He walked to his hooch, laid down, figuring he’d sleep for an hour then read and do paperwork. Instead, Brian woke on time for breakfast the following day. He shook his head, laughed, and said to the empty tent, “Guess yesterday’s little incident used more energy than I thought.”
* * *
Following breakfast the same day, a newly arrived surgeon yelled, “Nurse, get your ass over here.”
The Lieutenant rolled her eyes.
The new surgeon shouted, “I saw that, when I give an order, you move your fucking ass, not roll your eyes.”
Major Levin took him aside, said in a calm voice, “You will treat the staff with respect and always consider those here have more experience than you.”
The Captain seemed unimpressed, replied with a half- hearted, “Yes, Sir.”
With fury in his expression, Brian bellowed with sufficient volume to rattle the building, “Or perhaps you’d like to use your medical education to disimpact bowels for the duration of your tour. I can arrange that. Speak in a disrespectful manner to staff of any rank and I promise, for the next year, you will find yourself up to your elbows in assholes. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Sir. Won’t be a problem, Major,” said the now, red- faced and trembling, new arrival.
Major Downey tried but couldn’t conceal a grin. She mouthed, “Thank you, Major Levin.”
At dinner that night, Brian said to Krista, “I was told you’ll be discharged from the Army when you head home.”
“Yes. Two days and a wakeup then on my way. Great ten years of service complete.”
“Where will you go? What will you do?”
“Heading back to the family farm in Iowa. I’ll take over the bookkeeping…inherit the place one day.”
“If you’re ever near Dallas…”
She gave him a warm smile. “I’ve got your address.”
“You and I…”
“I understand,” Krista said with a knowing grin. “Good friends who supported each other and saved many lives. Our friendship along with understanding each other’s needs, made our work easier. Bless you for that.”
“A few more weeks and I’ll be heading home as well,” Brian said. “I wonder how hard it will be to become a civilian again.”
IV
PART FOUR: SETH
Chapter 11
“The combat was bad enough, but the way we were treated when we came home was disgusting.”
Richard Alan Schwartz, 101st Airborne Division, 2/327, Delta
Company (1975)
1971 March
He arrived at his North Texas acreage via taxi from Love Field, on a blustery, cool day. He paid the driver, and walked up the flagstone path to the front porch. Brian smiled and marveled that his wind chimes survived. He was certain they played a welcoming tune. Their sound warmed him as he unlocked the front door and dropped his duffel bag in the entry. Brian proceeded to the kitchen, put water in his coffee maker, and checked the fridge. He found a bottle of cream with a welcome-home note from his folks, plus eggs and butter. The veteran checked the freezer and said, “Thank you, Mom.” He was certain it held enough food for the next three months.
Brian called his folks to let them know he was at home in Celina. His mother answered. “You’re home!” she said, then began crying and handed the phone to his father. The combat veteran said he’d be over in a few hours. He filled the coffee maker, and sat at his kitchen table. While it perked, he thought of his buddies who were still at war. Brian wondered how Arnie’s recovery was progressing and grinned when he thought of James Ware driving the monster sized mining truck then hoped James reintegration with his family would allow him to avoid talking to himself. His head bowed, he recited a prayer for the safety of the men and women he left behind. Upon reflection, he recited another for the sanity of men and women who witnessed or committed wartime horrors. He also prayed for those he couldn’t save, and recited a prayer which asked that the family members of those who came home in a casket achieve a sense of peace.
In his office, Brian sipped a mug of coffee. He found a note from his father. It listed needed repairs around the property. From a roof leak in the detached garage to fences which needed mending, there was much to keep him occupied.
“A great idea,” he thought. “It gives me simple, relatively mindless things to do while I adjust to civilian life.”
He picked up a bottle of spray glass cleaner and a few rags then proceeded to the front porch. He sprayed and wiped each of the crystalline chimes.
The wind chimes increased in volume from a sudden gust, which reminded him of Andrea.
As if the wind chimes could hear, he said, “While I was half-way around the world, the memory of your sound, reminded me of home.” He sighed. “Now you remind me of an Auburn-haired lady.”
“Blessed Andrea,” he mumbled. His eyes filled with tears as he looked skyward and said, “Please, Lord, take care of that precious lady.”
Brian decided to wear his dress uniform. He heated an iron and pressed out duffel-bag caused wrinkles. After polishing his shoes to a mirror gloss, he dressed in the uniform then entered the attached two car garage. He remembered the day he left home, wondering if that was the last time he’d see his Oldsmobile 442. Resplendent in gold with white stripes and a gold interior, he’d taken one look at this vehicle in the dealer’s show room and knew it was for him.
“It represents who I am in an automotive form,” He’d told his father at the time.
Brian looked at the other vehicle in the garage, a four- door pickup which had been recently cleaned and polished. He opened the Oldsmobile’s door, slid behind the wheel, and twisted the key. The reassuring rumble and vibration of the four-hundred cubic inch engine coming to life made him grin. The sound assured him he was home, and not dreaming.
After a brief drive south to the town of Plano, Brian walked up to the front door of his parent’s home. His father threw the door open, embraced his son then yelled to his wife. She came running, grabbed him and didn’t let got for quite some time, crying quietly. They sat in the living room; his dad handed him a Scotch neat.
“What the hell?” his dad said. “When did you become a Major?”
“Long story,” Brian said. He related the series of incidents which lead to his becoming an officer.
“What was it like to go from infantry to surgery?” his mother asked.
“Mentally different to use all one’s energy to save rather than destroy life, but both were physically and mentally exhausting, at times like torture. You make a mistake in either endeavor and
people die.”
“Have you read about the anti-war demonstrations?” his mother asked.
“Saw it in newspapers at the airport in Washington State. I wondered if it was okay to wear my uniform once I arrived home.”
“This is Texas,” his Dad said. “Shouldn’t be a problem here. When I came back to the States from North Africa, World War II hadn’t ended. I was given one week’s leave to visit my folks in Chicago. When approaching a butcher shop on Milwaukee Avenue, wearing my uniform of course, I remember a grinning youngster running to open the door for me and the customers insisting I get served before them.”
That evening, his father asleep, Brian talked to his mom.
“Dad went out to your place once a week to check on things,” Brian’s mother said. “I think he felt like he was closer to you when out there. If nothing else, he’d wash and polish your Oldsmobile and the pickup, take them for a run to ensure the batteries were up. Twice a month he’d fire up and run the John Deere to make sure it was ready for your return. The motorhome as well.” She chuckled. “Even kept correct air pressure in the tires of your bicycle.”
“Thought about you guys when I was over there.”
His mother sighed. “You wonder what your children think when they’re so far away…if the values you taught them will help or hurt them…especially in a war zone.”
“With Dad telling me so many stories from WWII, I had a pretty good idea what to expect. Even the harassment from the drill Sergeants during basic training didn’t bother me because of what he’d said. Hell, I was mentally prepared. For other guys, the discipline chafed like ill-fitting shoes.”
“Saturday night, the neighbors who watched you grow up, would like to come over and welcome you home. Also your Uncle Mike will be here. He can’t wait to see you. If you remember, he was in the 101st Airborne Division during World War II.”
“Sounds great. I’m looking forward to seeing everyone.”
“As far as your research is concerned,” his mother said, “Remember, it wasn’t only the men who felt they had a huge stake in the outcome of World War II, so did the women. While my home was here in Texas, I went to Georgia to be a coast watcher. I kept up correspondence with nine men besides my first husband. He was a navigator on a bomber, and as you are aware, died near the end of the war.”
***
His third weekend home, Brian and his father painted the interior of the garage at his parent’s home. The planned on selling the place and retiring to Apache Junction, Arizona. A large jet flew over, gear and flaps down, on its way to landing at Love Field in Dallas.
His father nodded toward the sound. “I was in still in North Africa when we heard the Germans had a plane that flew without a propeller. We laughed like crazy until fighter pilots told us they were faster than the P-38s and P-51s.”
Brian said, “Makes me uncomfortable to think my friends continue to die on the other side of the globe and I’m out here painting.”
“I understand,” his father said. “When I was sent back to the states, six months before the war ended, I had the same feeling. Except for seeing so many men in uniform, I felt like I was far from being in harm’s way.”
“You’re saying, I’m safe and my former team members are still fighting and dying.”
“Precisely. But we were in the war until the end,” his father said. “Although I was in the States to train new crews, I was anticipating orders to send me to the Pacific. Would have happened but the war ended.”
They were quiet for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. The paint rollers making the only sounds.
Brian’s father stopped painting, seemed lost in thought for a bit then said, “A strange thing happened near the end of my time in North Africa. A lone JU-88 came over and began strafing our airfield. Rounds came close to me while I was running toward a bunker. A strange thought entered my mind. I was angry with the pilot because I hadn’t done anything to him and yet he was trying to kill me.”
“Strange indeed but I’ve heard similar reactions from others,” Brian said.
His father climbed off a ladder, opened a new can of paint, stirred it, climbed the ladder and returning to painting. He sighed then continued a previous thought. “Perhaps it’s different emotionally to be in it to the end, as opposed to struggling to stay alive for twelve months. Also the guys we trained with initially were the guys we went to war with. We knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Surely we were a cohesive team because of that.” The World War II veteran concentrated on the work for a while as he placed masking tape on the edge of the ceiling. “Most of us came home with the same guys except, of course, those who died. We were together for two weeks on ships arriving at ports on the east and west coasts, reviewing what we did, thinking of the friends we lost, missions we went on, talking about plans when we got home.”
“A cohesive team from training to end of the war,” Brian said. “Quite different.”
“Another thing you might consider,” his father said, “The Vietnam War doesn’t have the all-out support of the public. That could be a problem for the soldiers returning home.”
During cleanup, his father asked, “How’s work at the hospital?”
“I’ve only been there a week and it will take a little time to adjust to their procedures but I have a great surgical team to work with. I work four, ten-hour days so have a three-day weekend, interrupted by the occasional emergency if they get slammed in the Emergency Room. I’ll have plenty of time to get the ranch in shape.”
“For a family?”
Brian laughed. “Not yet. Want to enjoy being single for a while. My new position at the hospital and getting the place in shape are enough responsibility for now.”
“You going to do any traveling?”
“Next weekend. I’ll be visiting a couple friends near Houston. One’s in medical school, the other in a rehabilitation center. I want to check on that condo. Thanks for buying it for us”
“Don’t mention it. It’s nice to see old friends. Are these friends you knew during the war?”
“Yes,” Brian said. “Going to drive the motorhome down. I’ll camp on Galveston Island.”
“Beautiful location. You’ll love it there.”
***
“How’s medical school?” Brian asked former medic and platoon mate Martin Evans. He’d just picked up Brian at the campground in Galveston.
“Frustrating at times but it ain’t combat so I just keep plowing ahead,” he said, while dodging early morning traffic. He was driving his Army buddy from his campground in Galveston to their jointly-owned condo.
“How are your folks and your girls?” Brian asked.
Martin smiled and chuckled. “I arrive home. Two days later my wife abandoned us just after Janine was born. My folks moved in to help. Just like when I was growing up, my mom runs the household and my Dad, when he’s not working, loves playing with the girls.”
“Dot’s grandmother?”
“I moved her into the condo a few days ago. She’s a nervous wreck being in a new country and not speaking the language, but I found a Vietnamese couple who helped her get settled. They’ve taken her shopping and introduced the neighborhood and the bus system. I suspect she’ll be relieved the minute she visits Dot.”
“How’s the little lady doing?”
“Her English skills are increasing by an exponential rate. One of the rehab nurses is giving her lessons and written homework every day. You will be shocked at her English language skill.”
“She knows her Grandmother is coming today?” Brian asked.
“Dot can’t wait. They’ve spoken over the phone a few times since the old woman arrived. Dot’s last day of residency at the rehab center is this Friday. She’ll move in with her Grandmother then.”
“I’ve managed papers for them, so they can stay in the States if they like.”
Martin gave his friend a quizzical look. “That must have cost a pretty penny.”
Brian shook hi
s head. “Don’t ask. I’ve never in my life, seen so many people with their hands out.”
The old woman, waited in the lobby of her building. Dot’s grandmother smiled the moment she recognized Brian. He walked her to the car and Martin drove them across town to the rehab center.
They knocked on the open door at the entrance to Dot’s room. She sat a small table, wearing University of Texas emblazoned, orange sweat shirt, and sweat pants. Dot saw her visitors, then grabbed a cane and limped over to embrace each one of them. Brian left briefly to find extra chairs. Returning, he heard the relatives chatter away in Vietnamese.
Dot laughed hysterically, turned to Martin and Brian. “She said the most difficult part of her journey was the strange food.”
The men laughed.
Brian asked if he could review her medical records. Dot nodded. Pouring over a thick file, he said. “Excellent progress.”
Dot smiled. “Home to live with my Grandmother in three days.”
The grandmother said something to Dot.
“Typical grandmother,” Dot said with a giggle. “She has a job lined up at a bakery two blocks from her apartment. The people who helped her last night made some phone calls for her.”
The former soldiers listened to more Vietnamese from Grandmother.
“She said she will be paying rent soon and will pay you back for the airplane ticket.” Dot listened for a bit then laughed again. “Grandmother also said she knows where I will be starting school.”
Martin asked, “Dot, any nightmares or concerns from the war?”
“Sometimes ugly dreams.”
“I know a counselor you can talk to.”
“How many days will you be here?” Dot asked Brian. “Two more, then I have to head home for work.”
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 12
