Mickey's Wars

by Dave McDonald

  “You understand that we don’t want you to move or even try to move. Okay?”

  Bob half chuckled. “You’ve got me strapped in like I’m Frankenstein for God’s sake, and you’re telling me not to move?”

  “You’ve got company, and we don’t want you getting excited. Okay?”

  “Who is it?”

  “A Marine, a Mick Mackenzie.”

  “Well send him in here,” Bob said in a loud voice. “I promise I won’t try to jitterbug with him. Oh, and could you put my glasses on me so I can see that dumb son-of-a-bitch?”

  I shook my head and grinned.

  A moment passed, and then the nurse’s blonde head pushed through the curtains. “Come on in, but you can only stay five minutes, okay?”

  I walked through the curtains into a space not much larger than the bed. Bespectacled Bob lay flat, with several straps across his chest, abdomen, and legs. An oxygen mask lay on the pillow next to his face. Several tubes hung from under the sheet connecting to bags hooked to the frame, one containing yellow fluid and the other brownish red.

  “Well look who also made Sergeant,” Bob said with a smile. “After what I heard you did they should’ve made you a General.” He chuckled.

  “You’re the one who should be an officer.” I touched his hand. “How are you?”

  “What can I say? I’m alive, and I’m home.” He forced a smile. “Did you hear what I called you before?”

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “I expected it. I saw Jerry in Korea before I left, and he also greeted me the same way and told me why. And I might add that all of you were right; I should’ve stayed home.”

  “I don’t think so. According to the newspapers, there’s a whole bunch of healthy Marines who would disagree with us. How’s Jerry doing?”

  “He’s like everyone else still there, skinny and scared.”

  “Ah, I don’t want to sound nosey, but I’ve got to ask,” Bob said as the nurse checked his blood pressure. “What happened between you and Sara?”

  The exact story including Sara being married would require too much explanation, so I decided to keep it simple. “Sara and I were living together in an apartment here, in Savannah. Things were great, or at least that’s what I thought. Until . . . until I guess you could say I overreacted to Carl Henry’s death and enlisted. Then, after I got in country, I found out she was pregnant.”

  “Christ all mighty.”

  “Yeah. But Sara moved in with my folks and everything seemed okay. But then one day she just disappeared.”

  “This is starting to sound like one of those radio mysteries. So what happened?”

  “I’m not sure. My dad helped me move back into our old apartment yesterday. And I plan to see Sara after I go to Washington.”

  Bob nodded. “So when’re you going to see President Truman?”

  I saw the nurse’s head turn.

  “Oh excuse me, I’ve lost my manners,” Bob said, eyeing the nurse. “Ah, what’s your name again, Miss?”

  “Cathy, Cathy Fredericks.”

  “Miss Fredericks, meet Sergeant Mick Mackenzie, recipient of our nation’s highest military award, the Medal of Honor.”

  “Oh, my,” she said, offering her hand. “I read about you. It’s a pleasure meeting a hero. Are you really going to see the President?”

  I gently shook her hand. “Yes, and Bob you haven’t changed a bit, have you?”

  Bob’s chuckle was interrupted with a deep, jarring cough.

  With a stiff arm against Bob’s shoulder, the nurse turned to me. “I think you’d better go now, Sergeant Mackenzie.”

  “I’ll be back, Bob. And the next time I expect a jitterbug.”

  On the way out of the hospital, I saw a couple of phone booths near the entrance across from a waiting area.

  I loosened my collar and stepped into a booth, closing the accordion door behind me.

  I reached into my pants pocket and retrieved a fist full of dimes and laid them on the small tray beneath the phone. Then I fumbled the little piece of paper with Sara’s number on it out of my shirt pocket.

  I jammed a dime into the slot, and I dialed the number.

  “That will be twenty cents for the first three minutes please,” a female voice said.

  I stuffed a dollar’s worth of dimes into the phone, trying to recall the words I had practiced over and over again last night.

  I was still working on my words when after the fourth ring, a male voice answered, “Hello.”

  Though I should have, I hadn’t prepared for this. I hesitated.

  “Hello,” he said again.

  “Is Sara there?” I asked in a tone as calm as I could muster.

  “Who’s calling?” he asked.

  I blew out a breath. “An old friend.”

  “Who is this?”

  I summoned my courage. “Tell her Mick’s calling.”

  A slight hesitation followed. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, Mackenzie. You think winning some chunk of metal gives you the right to call another man’s wife?”

  My dad’s words echoed in my head departing a pang of guilt in my gut. Being defenseless to his accusation, I could only counter by repeating his earlier words. “Who is this?”

  “Unfortunately for you, today’s the butler’s day off. This is John, Sara’s husband.”

  The ‘butler’, ‘a chunk of metal’, ‘lot of nerve’; his words finally lit a flame under my boiler. “John, I’m sorry. I didn’t know Sara was married. But I do need to talk to her.”

  “That isn’t going to happen.”

  My grip tightened on the phone. “I’m going to talk to her. If I can’t talk to her on the phone; I will talk to her face-to-face.”

  “That’s not going to happen either, Mackenzie.”

  The thought of Sara carrying our baby and now being denied to even talk to her put me over the edge. I slammed my fist down on top of the phone. “Let me fucking talk to her!”

  A long paused followed.

  “Surely, you remember Richards, Mackenzie.” He hung up.

  I held the phone against my ear long after John had hung up. It was as if my brain didn’t want to process the final words he had uttered. Then the vivid memories of that dark, stinky tunnel in North Korea came to life.

  Chapter Sixty

  It was close to two a.m. when I quietly removed my shoes on the front porch of my parents’ home.

  I was tired of waiting.

  I’d been hanging out and drinking a bit at Goodman’s store where Frieda had hero-worshipped me all evening until she’d closed the place. Then she’d invited me to her house for a nightcap, but I knew how that would end and politely bowed out.

  I’d walked the town thinking about John Venturini. Who was he and how did he have the power and tentacles to persuade a Marine across the world to kill me? I didn’t know. What I did know was John Venturini was a dangerous man.

  It was after eleven o’clock when I arrived at my parents’ home. I knew my parents would be in bed. I sat and waited for what seemed like more than three hours.

  No one ever locked anything in Bluffton. There was no need. I eased the front door open, and stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. I didn’t plan on being here long.

  Tip-toeing through the living room, I entered the hallway and stopped at the door to my parents’ bedroom. I pressed my ear against the door. Dad’s deep snores were separated by Mom’s soft ones.

  I slowly turned the knob and eased the door open an inch, silently. Two inches further and a high metal-on-metal chafing caused me to stop.

  Frozen, I held my breath. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead, though the house was cool.

  Damn how could I have forgotten that? The door had always squeaked. Mom had constantly chided Dad about it for years; the nagging honey-do that hadn’t been crossed off the list.

  On time, the snoring continued as if to a rhythm of an invisible conductor.

  I slid my hand inside and grabbed the other doorknob. Lifting upw
ard on both handles, I eased the door open another inch without any noise. Two feet later, I was inside my parents’ bedroom.

  I stood unmoving, trying to gain control of my breathing. This was insane, but I had no choice.

  The snoring seemed so much louder inside the room.

  I had no idea what I’d say if they woke up.

  Two steps further and my feet found the area rug Mom had placed under the bed. Dad hated getting out of bed and putting his bare feet on a cold floor.

  Slowly I walked around the bed to Dad’s side. My hands found the nightstand. As I leaned down to open it, I could feel Dad’s breath wash over my face; too close.

  I found the knob to the drawer and eased it open, a very soft wood-sliding-on-wood noise between snores. Then I waited for a few seconds for Mom’s soft breath to sustain the cadence.

  When the staccato harmonic continued, my hand searched inside the stand until it found the Army-issue Colt 45. Carefully removing the automatic from the drawer, I shoved it into the waistband of my pants. A second excursion into the drawer found the box of shells he always kept there. I prayed the box was full so the bullets wouldn’t rattle around. I eased the box out without a sound and slide it into my pants pocket.

  I waited for a Dad-snore to close the drawer. Then I edged my way around the bed and out the door, leaving it open. I couldn’t risk closing it. Hopefully they’d think the other had left it open when they got up to go to the bathroom.

  I hadn’t gotten back to normal breathing until I finished tying my shoes sitting on the porch steps.

  I stood and pulled the gun from my belt and checked it. It was loaded.

  The Marines had changed me in a lot of ways, one being a man’s relationship with a weapon.

  With the Colt in hand, I was whole again. Ready for another Richards.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  My parents and I stood by the podium in the Rose Garden to the side of the White House, awaiting President Truman. The ceremony for my Medal of Honor award was scheduled for eleven in the morning; just minutes away.

  Fortunately, it was a warm, sunny March day in Washington. I thought my mom had never looked prettier or my dad had ever beamed more pride.

  Normally this ceremony was held inside the White House, in the East Room. But the presidential domain was just a structural shell in the background. The interior was under renovation, having been methodically gutted by President Truman’s order due to the need to restore the age-damaged rooms.

  My Marine dress blues looked good in a mirror, though getting stiffer and warmer the longer I stood in front of the seated crowd. I’d never been the object of so much attention before, the focus of such a large gathering, dotted with dress blues, and roaming photographers.

  Suddenly “Hail to the Chief” was played by a small Marine band, the crowd stood, and President Harry Truman briskly walked to the podium.

  My breath caught in my throat. I was inches away from one of the most powerful men in the world.

  Though he was shorter than I thought, I felt small. He looked very fit in his double-breasted gray suit and blue tie. He stopped, turned, and shook my hand; my hand. He had a firm grip.

  ”Welcome and may God bless you, Sergeant Mackenzie. The United States of America thanks you for what you’ve done. It’s an honor to meet you, son,” he said, his blue eyes sparkling behind his wireless glasses. And then he grasped the hands of my parents as well.

  I had to concentrate on being a Marine to keep my joy from rolling down my cheeks.

  After his greeting of all the attendees, the President called me to his side and read my award. “When a Marine Company’s advance was stopped south of Seoul because of an enemy road block, Sergeant Mick Mackenzie, a Chosin Reservoir Marine, and Private Anthony Sculini attacked the enemy’s flank which was protected by a machine gun nest manned by fourteen NKPA soldiers. Severely wounded in the back and legs during the attack, Sergeant Mackenzie took the enemy position, and then, under fire from four more charging NKPA soldiers, dragged wounded Private Sculini into the trench. The Sergeant then killed the attackers securing the flanking action. Sergeant Mackenzie’s heroism resulted in the Company being able to eliminate the roadblock, killing or capturing most of the remaining enemy soldiers while suffering the loss of only one Marine, Private Sculini.

  “For his courage and valor above and beyond the call of duty, it is my honor to bestow upon Sergeant Mick Mackenzie the United States of America’s highest award; the Congressional Medal of Honor.” He placed the ribbon-suspended medal around my neck and shook my hand, holding it as he turned and faced the exploding flash bulbs.

  The flashes jolted me, stiffening every fiber.

  The President cupped our joined hands with his left hand and leaned close. “Steady there, son,” he whispered. He straightened. “Congratulations, Sergeant Mackenzie,” he spoke to the crowd. “America thanks you.”

  I was numb except for the hair tingling on the back of my neck. Despite all of the weeks of readiness for this moment, I couldn’t believe national praise was really being bestowed on me. Me, Mick Mackenzie, from little ol’ Bluffton, South Carolina, was standing here holding the hand of the President of the United States and being honored by him.

  Applause followed along with the band playing the Marines’ Hymn. And then all the attendees filed by to shake my hand, the first being the Commandant of the Marines Corp, four-star General Clifton B. Kates. After that the rest were a blur. A happy, praise-slathered blur.

  Next we had a brief luncheon with President Truman, his wife, Bess, General Kates, and my parents, where President Truman and I talked about our war experiences.

  “I think the winter of ‘18 in France, was the coldest I’ve ever been. What was it like at the Chosin Reservoir, Sergeant?” the President asked me.

  I wasn’t sure what I should say in front of the Commandant of the Marine Corps let alone the President.

  I took a sip of coffee to organize my thoughts. “Mr. President, sir, it was so cold most of the equipment, including our guns, didn’t work. The plasma froze. It was almost impossible to dig a foxhole. We were outnumbered and surrounded. It was too cold to fight . . . but we did, each and all of us. The Chosin break-out made me proud to be a Marine, sir.”

  And the Commandant of the Marines stood up and saluted me, followed by the president and my father. I couldn’t believe it.

  I jumped to my feet and returned their salute.

  Now there was a moment I’d never forget.

  The rest of the day was a hectic schedule of press conferences, interviews, and an award’s banquet at the Ritz-Carlton Georgetown Hotel. The food was excellent, and the speeches and accolades were overwhelming. By the time my parents and I retired to our complimentary suites in the hotel later that evening, we were exhausted.

  Medal boxed-up, and collar undone, I sat on my gigantic bed leaning against the headboard. And, despite all the day’s events, I could only think about Sara.

  Sara loved me. I knew it as well as I knew my BAR.

  The only way to the truth was to talk to her.

  I jumped when my bedside phone rang; I must’ve dozed off. It had to be my parents; no one else knew my room number.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Mick,” a silky cigarette voice said.

  I sat up.

  “Oh my God, Sara, I—how’d you get this number?”

  “Mick, please leave me alone. Do not try to see me, ever. If you have any feelings for me, please do as I ask.”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  The next morning, I dressed in civilian clothes, gray slacks and a blue button-down shirt. Yesterday had been a wonderful day, but there was a limit to the accolades a man could accept. I didn’t need the attention the Marine uniform may bring.

  On my way to meet my parents for breakfast, I felt vulnerable, like being on perimeter guard at night in Korea. My head was constantly moving. Someone had to be watching me. How else would
they know where I was staying and what room?

  Throughout my trip to the hotel’s restaurant, I didn’t see anyone conspicuous.

  I’d decided not to tell my parents about Sara’s call. They already knew too much.

  Mom and Dad were seated at a table when I arrived.

  “Good morning,” I said, kissing my mom’s cheek and nodding at Dad.

  “Good morning,” Mom replied. “I don’t know about you, Mick, but yesterday had to be the greatest day of my life.”

  “Hmm,” Dad said. “I thought it was when you met me.”

  “I mis-spoke.” Mom patted Dad’s hand. “That was the best day of my life. Yesterday was the most proud.” She smiled and poured me a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep, son?”

  She had artfully dodged an ego-bruising issue. I wished I’d learned more tact from her.

  “Great. I got lost in that giant marsh-mellow they call a bed. It’s a shame the Marines can’t design a cot like that bed.”

  “Too soft,” Dad said. “What’re your plans, Mick? Your mom and I are planning to leave today on a noon train. First class thanks to Uncle Sam.”

  “I’m supposed to meet the Marine Commandant at the Pentagon today,” I said, “something about training for my bond tour.”

  A tall, smartly-dressed woman came to our table and took our orders.

  “So will you be coming home after your tour?” Mom asked.

  “Ah, not right away.”

  Dad shook his head and then drank half of his coffee. He sat for a moment clenching his hands together as if there were an internal fight going on within him. After a moment of silence, he sighed. “Don’t do it, Mick. Don’t chase after Sara. Can you imagine how you or I would feel if a man claiming to be your mother’s lover showed up at our doorstep?”

  “No, I can’t, but—”

  “There are no buts, Mick. That’s exactly how it will be if you go there. You’ll be putting her husband’s back against the wall and testing his pride. Not a good thing to do. A dangerous thing for everyone involved, including the baby.”