by Ed Marohn
“What could work?” I said. My concern must have shown.
“James, John is staying at my house through Christmas. Let’s plan on meeting here tomorrow.”
“Agreed.” Woodruff extended his hand to me as I stood. We shook. Then he quickly walked out, saying, “I can find my way out.”
“What the hell, Jim,” I said. “What crap are you getting me in to?”
“I don’t know, old buddy, but I trust James, and I think he will help clear up the mystery for you.” Jim lifted the bottle and asked, “Another one?”
“Hmmm.” I rubbed my tired eyes and then picked up my glass of cognac, finishing the remains in one swallow, the burning sensation jolting me. “No, I better not. And I was hoping to return to Charlotte tomorrow to see Sally.”
“Reed killed himself because of what he did,” Jim said. “I suggest you stay here and return to Charlotte after Christmas. You need the thorough briefing from Woodruff.”
We stood in silence.
“Do you have a gun?” Jim said, studying me.
I focused on Jim. My .45-caliber pistol stayed in a drawer in my condo, a replica of the one I used in the war. I was an expert shooter with it.
“Yeah, my .45, why?”
“Precaution. Just to be safe. Please keep it handy when you get back to Charlotte.”
Feeling uneasy, I said, “This is a strange conversation.”
Jim shrugged. He looked worn. I could tell the conversation had drawn him back to Nam. We stood up.
“Leave the glasses. Now, let me take you to your room.”
Jim was silent as he escorted me to the guest bedroom. “You know your way around. Extra towels are on the bed. It is late, and I need some shuteye too. Kim is running late, so we will see you for breakfast.” He closed the door behind me as I told him goodnight.
I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand. It showed midnight. I decided to call Sally even though it was late. I turned on my cell phone and speed dialed her cell number.
After six rings she finally answered. Her sleepy voice said, “Rather late.”
“I hoped to catch you at the office earlier today. And now before you went to bed. I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK. I suppose you are struggling with what we started. Is it hard to include me in your schedule?”
“Sally, that’s not fair. I planned on getting a return flight tomorrow. Just so I can be with you,” I said.
There was a long pause and then Sally said, “I like that. Maybe you do care about me.”
“Of course I do. I think we started something good. Anyway, I feel that way.”
“OK, handsome. Call me tomorrow on your return times. I will plan a nice dinner at my house if your flight schedule works. And I do expect you to stay over.” She giggled. “Boy I am bold tonight.”
“I will be there, Sally. I am slightly drunk from Jim’s cognac, so I better get some sleep. Miss you,” I said. The words came out easily, surprising me.
“I miss you too, John. Goodnight.”
I wanted—needed—to make this work, and deep down, I knew I desired her in my life. I would not hang around DC over Christmas as the CIA had requested.
Alexandria, Friday,
December 20, 2002
Kim, Jim, and I had just finished an early breakfast at which I had argued with Jim that I needed to get back to Charlotte today. Upset, he kept insisting that Woodruff expected me to hang around for at least a few days. Just then, Reed’s daughter called me on my cell, so I retreated into the living room to answer the call and avoid arguing with Jim.
“Hi, Jane,” I said, noticing that Jim had picked up his cell phone. His waving hand conveyed frustration with whomever he was talking to.
“Hi, look, I’m here in the apartment at Rock Hill going through Dad’s stuff,” Jane said. “I want to get done and get home by tonight. Most of his stuff is going to charity. Did you get the journal?”
“Yes, and thanks for sending it. I want to hold onto it for a while if that’s OK?”
“Keep it. It will only remind me of his death. For your information, I’m cremating him. The funeral home will send me the urn later. Don’t think badly of me, but I’m not doing any type of service. It’s time we moved on, and I can’t handle all this anymore.”
“No judgment . . . do what you feel is good for you. Are you OK? I’m hoping to fly back to Charlotte late today. Do you need to meet me in Charlotte before you return?”
“No, that’s fine, I’m just about done getting everything arranged in boxes and then will get them to the Goodwill drop off. With luck, I can catch the evening flight back to Nashville,” Jane said.
“That makes good sense,” I said.
“One thing . . . I did find some more of his journal notes here in his apartment. I want you to have them and will drop them off at your office today.” Her silence kicked in.
“. . . That’s fine.” I wanted to say something, but the silence took over. Reed’s whole life would be summarized simply as ashes in an urn, his personal stuff given away. Reed had evolved into a memory now.
Jane broke the silence. “I don’t think I can ever forgive him for killing himself. He left a mess for me to clean. It’s so like him.”
“Jane, he had mental issues . . .”
“That’s all well and good, John. But he failed my mother and me in the end. But thanks for trying to help him and now me.”
We hung up. Tom Reed’s daughter couldn’t be blamed for being upset with her dead dad.
Placing the cell phone in my suit pocket, I returned to the kitchen. Still on his cell, Jim seemed frustrated as well as angry. I noticed Kim gave him space by focusing on cleaning the breakfast dishes. Something seemed wrong. Still, I needed to call US Airways for a flight out today and began dialing the number, all the while studying Jim.
He finally hung up, deep in thought; he took a minute before pocketing his phone and heading to the living room.
Something forced me to follow him as I waited for the airline rep. Ignoring that I had a phone call in progress, he said, “Sorry to do this to you, John, but that was Woodruff. You need to hang around for a day or two, at least.”
With disbelief, I hung up on the airline. “Why?” I asked. “I promised Sally I would fly back today.”
“I know, I know. Shit, I feel like I am reporting to my old battalion commander.”
“You didn’t answer me, Jim.” The anger showed on my face.
“For national security reasons. He will explain when he comes over tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, buddy. I don’t know where the fuck this is going.”
“Shit,” I said and sat down on the sofa. “National security? What bull is this? And tomorrow is Saturday, which is weird, since he said he wanted to meet today.”
“Something came up. You and I are good soldiers. We need to hear him out.”
“Crap. What do I say to Sally?”
“Tell her that you are stuck here for a few days because the CIA wants to discuss Reed’s suicide. Leave it at that. In the meantime, you will be spoiled here with more home cooking. Not all that bad.” Jim’s sheepish smile did little to soften my anger. “You better call her,” he said as he went into the kitchen to talk with Kim.
It was close to noon, and I hoped Sally had finished with her sessions as I dialed her office phone.
She answered on the second ring. “You’re not coming back today. Are you?”
“How do you know these things?” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
“Just tell me why. If you have a good reason, then I have a solution for you to get out of the doghouse.”
I felt relieved. “The CIA needs to discuss Reed’s death with me. Something about national security that I don’t really buy, but Jim convinced me that this is serious, so I should stay over one or two extra nights.”
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“God. You are making it hard for me to be in a relationship with you.”
“But I would pout, and you don’t want that. I want you, but I am stuck with Reed’s suicide for now.” Jim looked at me from the kitchen doorway. His empathy showed. “You were right, I should have just accepted the death and moved on. My nosing around must have hit a raw nerve somewhere. I am so sorry to do this to you . . .” My disappointment boiled.
“Well, John, that’s being honest. And since you are beating yourself up, which is good, my solution is whenever you get done with DC, hopefully by Christmas at the latest, you come out to my folks’ place on the Outer Banks to spend what is left of the holiday with me. I am driving to the Outer Banks this Sunday since we have closed the office until January 6. No clients. No sessions.”
Her tone seemed upbeat, happy. I grasped the solution without hesitation: “Yes, I will be there, and hopefully by . . .”
“No, don’t tell me a day. Just wait until your CIA friends are done. And you need to spend some time with Jim and Kim. They are your closest friends. Christmas Day arrival works for me. But you will have to share my bedroom.” She laughed.
“I can’t wait,” I said.
“OK then. I need to get ready for the rest of the sessions today. Call me later. Kisses.”
I sat back, relieved. Jim came over, a little nervous, worried about what he may have done to my budding romance.
I smiled at him and said, “It will work. She wants me to come to the Outer Banks by Christmas Day. I just need to get all this CIA bullshit done.”
“How about that,” Jim said, his big grin dominating the living room. “She is good for you. Oh, I called into the office. My sons are covering the business, so what say you and I tie one on. It is a holiday after all. I make great martinis. Right, Kim?”
Kim came in and sat down next to me on the sofa while Jim hovered over me. “Yes, but also please say you will stay for Christmas with us.”
“Yes, but I have an important date with Sally on Christmas Day, so I will leave later that day. OK?”
Happily, she clapped her hands. “Jim, you better make the drinks for you two. I am going food shopping for holiday meals.” She kissed me on the cheek and then Jim, grabbed her purse on the foyer table, and disappeared out the front door.
“Well, buddy, it’s time you and I get in a happy mood.” Jim marched to his bar, rubbing his hands, delighted that things had worked out.
I nodded, relaxed as I hadn’t been in days, knowing that Sally and I would be OK despite my delays to see her.
Jim returned with two martinis. “Hey, why change now,” he said, noticing my raised eyebrows. “We drowned a lot of demons with booze in Nam. Now we can reminisce about that fucked-up war.”
“We seem stuck in a time warp. Always talking about Vietnam,” I replied. “After Woodruff’s discussion yesterday, I keep thinking of Saigon with Colonels Loan and Hung.”
“How the hell could I forget them? Now they’re back in our lives,” Jim said, dropping next to me on the sofa.
Jim’s living room felt good and safe, but Saigon in 1969 did not.
Saigon, August 1969
Saigon, the Paris of the Orient, absorbed us with its streets crammed with vehicles: cars, bicycles, mopeds, motorbikes, and military trucks. People scurried in every direction, on sidewalks and through the vehicle traffic. Allied military presence existed throughout the turmoil. US Army and ARVN MPs roamed the streets, ignored by the general Vietnamese population except for the vendors and beggars. Many of the American soldiers, sailors, and airmen, watched by the MPs, sought diversions from the war: bars, willing girls, hookers, or massage parlors with prostitutes. The largest city in Vietnam melded millions of various ethnic backgrounds. The Vietnamese represented the largest segment, but the Chinese population, concentrated in the Cholon district of Saigon, embodied the largest retail and wholesale market region with a bountiful black market. The Colonial French had helped make Saigon a vibrant, international city. The sights, sounds, and smells were unlike anywhere else in the world, and former French colonists still reminisced nostalgically as if it were Paris in Indochina.
Our jeep driver soon found Tu Do Street, which traversed the heart of the red-light district through which we drove, passing the various shops and massage parlors. We were enthralled with the hubbub and flow of people. Throughout the side streets, the black market appeared, stands loaded with US military supplies, everything from uniforms to OD cans of insect repellent—something we lacked constantly in the field. Leaving the red-light district, we spotted the Continental Hotel. We pulled up to the main entrance; Captain Jim Schaeffer and I jumped out with our duffle bags, M-16s, and field gear in hand.
Our driver drove off with instructions to pick us up tomorrow at noon to catch our flight north from Ben Hoa Airport. Our new assignments as company commanders with the 101st Airborne Division awaited us. With our .45-caliber pistols holstered under our fatigue shirts, we watched the jeep disappear in the traffic. Saigon represented danger, not unlike the jungle. The Viet Cong, disguised as civilians in small hit teams, often attacked the city, bombing crowded restaurants, wounding or killing Americans, ARVNs, and civilians. By wearing our holstered .45s, we felt a degree of safety.
The crowded hotel lobby revealed war correspondents and American and South Vietnamese military officers. We had planned to stay at the Rex Hotel nearby on Nguyen Hue Boulevard, but we knew that the US brass held daily press briefings there, called the “Five O’Clock Follies.” Having strutting colonels and generals giving us the once-over quickly killed any inclination to stay there. On the other hand, the Continental Hotel appealed to us company grade officers and war correspondents. Unfortunately, the effects of war still confronted us, with begging amputees on the sidewalks by the hotel’s entrance, all wounded former ARVN soldiers. South Vietnamese President Thieu cared little about these poor soldiers who had sacrificed much for their country. Schaeffer and I checked in at the reception desk, agreeing to shower and then meet at the Continental Shelf, the veranda lounge of the hotel that overlooked Tu Do Street. I looked forward to having drinks and relaxing with the sights and sounds of Saigon around the hotel.
The hot water sprayed over my body, washing loose the red clay soil that invaded my skin, a part of me over the past months of field operations with the Twenty-Fifth Infantry Division at Dau Tieng and the Michelin Rubber Plantation. The shower pummeled me for thirty minutes before I relented and got dressed to meet Schaeffer at the Shelf. Armed with my holstered pistol on a web belt under a clean jungle fatigue shirt that matched my clean pants, I pulled on my polished jungle boots, courtesy of housekeeping, and made my way to the lounge.
I found Jim waiting for me, seated at a table on the veranda with two cold 333 Beers, called ba ba ba. His gaze stayed riveted to the flow of people and vehicles below, a mesmerizing street scene of a vibrant city surrounded by war. I sat down.
He grunted a greeting. “I ordered the beers. The local Vietnamese beer is much better than the Millers we got in the field,” Jim said while still concentrating on the traffic and the scurrying people.
I nodded and took a swig from the bottle. The 333 Beer tasted good. My watch said 1830 hours, prompting us to discuss dinner. We didn’t notice the civilian, dressed in a khaki safari outfit with shirt pockets everywhere, approach us. He stopped by me and patiently waited. I turned to him and recognized the French reporter who had joined me during a firefight near the Michelin Rubber Plantation. He had a heartthrob look: He was tall, with olive-toned skin, curly black hair, a Gallic nose, and a smile that captured women’s hearts. In his left hand he held what appeared to be a gin and tonic.
“Hello, Captain Moore,” said Jacques de Mont.
“Well, I’ll be damned. You did find me,” I said as I stood and shook his hand and introduced him to Jim.
“As promised. After reporting on your unit’s co
mbat with the VC at the Plantation, I learned of your new assignment to the 101st Airborne Division as a company commander. There is heavy fighting up there near the DMZ and the A Shau Valley. Be careful, my friend! The NVA are brutal soldiers. The Screaming Eagles are losing company grade officers at a high rate. They will be lucky to have you.”
“Thanks. Jim is also taking a company command. Please sit down.”
“Merci.” He sat down across from us. “And good luck to you too Captain Schaeffer.”
As Jim nodded, De Mont put his drink down. He lit a cigarette and offered one to us. I shook my head while Jim instead pulled a cigar out of his breast pocket, bit off the end, lit it, and sucked on it, exhaling a puff of smoke.
“Jim, Jacques de Mont is the reporter I met when I helicoptered in to take over command of the company that got ambushed. The acting CO, a first lieutenant, got killed.”
“Shit, that was a bloody mess. We just returned from the Cambodia border operations and missed all that fun you had, John,” Schaeffer said, puffing on his cigar.
Jacques began exhaling smoke from his mouth. I watched, fascinated by the cloud of smoke, which he immediately sucked into his nostrils in two thick columns, moments later exhaling the smoke from his mouth, forming two smoke rings. Jim took his cigar in his fingers and stared at the feat, openmouthed. De Mont looked back at us, confused by the attention.
“Captain Moore, I had an interesting talk with one of the retired French officers who fought at Dien Bien Phu in ‘53 and ‘54. I am researching for my book about Vietnam.”
“OK?” I leaned back in the chair. The beer had relaxed me. De Mont pulled out his field steno pad and flipped some pages before finally stopping, pausing, and reading silently for a minute. I recognized the dark stains on the steno pad’s cover; the blood came from the dying soldier next to me during the ambush. De Mont had tried to help me administer first aid while the unit’s medic lay a few yards from us, dead from a bullet in his head.
