Long Range Patrol: A Novel of Vietnam (The Jim Hollister Trilogy Book 1)

by Dennis Foley

  Getting out of the sedan, he buttoned his blouse. The army-green uniform had not been designed to sit in or to ward off cold, wet, winter wind. He thought about wearing his hat and then opted not to since he only had to cross a few yards of concrete before he was inside.

  As Hollister walked into the station manager’s office he could hear Sergeant Barry Sadler singing “The Ballad of the Green Beret” over a radio in the grease-rack area. He smiled at the lyrics. “One hundred men will test today, but only three win the green beret.” He looked around for whoever had selected the radio station.

  Out front the pumps were busy with homebound commuters. Hollister busied himself looking at the road map taped to the wall. In ballpoint pen someone had marked an X and written U ARE HERE at the service area on the turnpike.

  From the X his eyes followed the turnpike past New Brunswick, up through New York and on to New Canaan. The drive wasn’t that long in actual miles, but even if he tried to make it, he wouldn’t get there until nearly midnight. Anyway, he didn’t have to be in New Canaan until the funeral.

  A young mechanic came into the office, wiping the grease off his hands with a shop rag.

  “Hi. Say, do you have change for a dollar?” Hollister asked.

  The mechanic recognized the uniform and smiled. He hit the No Sale button on the register and deposited a few bills from his grease-ringed shirt pocket. “Vietnam, huh? I got a brother over there in Quang Tri. Been there?”

  Hollister shook his head. “Nope. I never got that far north. He’s a Marine?”

  There was not enough correct change in the register. Slamming the drawer shut, the mechanic reached into his pants pockets and pulled out change from each. Holding his dirty palms up, he scanned the change. There still wasn’t enough to make a dollar.

  “Yeah. He’s a MP. Little shithead. I told him not to join the Marines. But he had to go an’ be Mr. Big Shot Marine. Ya know, I don’t have enough change. People come in here and wipe me out for the damn candy machines. I could open one of them. Wait a sec.”

  He leaned back and yelled out the open doorway to the pump area, “Hey, Larry. C’mere a minute.”

  A long-haired pump jockey bounded into the office. The smile on his face quickly cooled when he spotted Hollister’s uniform. “What d’ya need, man?”

  The mechanic jabbed his thumb at Hollister. “The lieutenant here needs change of a buck.”

  The pump jockey reached into his pocket and came out with a huge handful of coins. Poking through it with a blackened finger he found the correct change. He handed it to Hollister and took the dollar without looking at him. “I got customers,” the pump jockey said, looking at the mechanic, and left. It was clear that he wasn’t happy.

  “What’s that all about?” Hollister asked.

  “He’s one of those peace pussies that think we ought to love the fucking commies into submission. Don’t pay no attention to him. He’s jus’ afraid of getting drafted.” The mechanic laughed. “Hell, guess that he don’t want it to interrupt his meteoric career in the petroleum business.”

  Hollister thanked the mechanic and walked outside the station to the doorless phone booth next to the rest rooms.

  The phone rang forever, and Hollister was afraid that Susan wouldn’t be home. He was thinking about the next opportunity to call when a voice on the other end said, “Hello?”

  Hollister’s heart beat faster. “Susan. Honey. It’s Jim.”

  “What? Jimmy, are you okay? Where are you? Have you been hurt? Oh my God!” she said.

  “Calm down. I’m okay. Really—everything is fine. I’m in New Jersey, near exit nine on the turnpike. I can be at your place in an hour or so, if I don’t get lost or the traffic and the weather don’t kill me.”

  “Jimmy, oh Jimmy! This is so great. Yes … yes, please hurry. Oh, I can’t believe that it’s really you. Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not hurt? What are you doing home? What’s going on? Is it over? I mean, do you have to go back to that awful place?”

  “Susan. Susan, relax, honey. I’m fine. I’ll explain it all to you when I get there. Now let me get back on the road. Okay?”

  “Okay. Hurry. I can’t wait to see you. I’ve missed you so much, honey.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Oh, and Susan … I love you.”

  Her voice got softer and more serious. “I love you too, baby.”

  Hollister hung up and waited for the operator to call him with the toll charges. As he waited, he looked over at the third pump island. The long-haired pump jockey was leaning up against an oil can display rack, staring at him.

  Hollister had never felt hate before, but he was sure that was what he saw in the boy’s gaze.

  Finding a spot, Hollister maneuvered the army sedan into a parking place half a block down from the Café Wha in Greenwich Village. He felt a twinge of guilt knowing he was on the gray side of authorized use of an official sedan to go see his girlfriend. He rationalized, telling himself that the stop at Susan’s was on the way to Lucas’s home in Connecticut. Anyway, he had to stay somewhere. And wherever he stayed, he would have to get there in the sedan.

  The Village had changed a bit. When he was last there, everyone dressed in coffeehouse black or looked like the Kingston Trio. Clearly, the prep school look was gone and there was a shift taking place. More Levi’s, and the hairstyles were longer on the men and straighter on the women.

  His feet hurried him around the car to the trunk to get his bag and then across the sidewalk and to the walk-up that was Susan’s place.

  Susan looked through the peephole in her door and then screamed, “Jimmy!” The door burst open and she was standing there, trying to keep from hopping up and down. She was every bit as beautiful as he had remembered. Her hair was clean and shiny, and the faded jeans she wore told him that she hadn’t gained a pound.

  He stepped in and took her in his arms. She smelled so good. She was warm and soft. They held each other tightly, trying to convince themselves that they were really together again.

  Susan pulled her head back to kiss him. It was wonderful. That moment with Susan was something he had thought about for months. Now it was happening.

  Suddenly, Susan pulled away. “You’re so skinny! What happened? Are you okay, Jimmy? Really okay? Don’t lie to me.”

  He held her by the waist, their hips pressed together. “I swear. I’m okay. It’s just that Vietnam is the best diet in the world.”

  “What is all this about? Why are you home? Tell me … Tell me …”

  Stepping back, Hollister reached up and pulled off his necktie. He then undid the four large brass buttons on his uniform blouse. “Later.”

  Susan smiled devilishly. She started helping him with the buttons on his shirt. They picked up the pace, hurriedly undressing each other, leaving a trail of clothes from the front door to the bedroom.

  Finally Susan stood naked before Hollister. She was delicious. He took off his watch and his dog tags and walked over to her. Without speaking, he lifted Susan in his arms and placed her on the bed. As he straightened up, she grabbed his wrists and placed his hands on her bare breasts.

  They sat in her kitchen—Susan in a large terry-cloth bathrobe, Hollister in his boxer shorts and a T-shirt. He moaned with pleasure as he devoured a BLT that Susan had made for him. It was after two in the morning.

  “This is so good. Food is the second thing I missed in Vietnam.”

  “What was the first?”

  He nodded toward the bedroom.

  Susan giggled playfully and swatted the air near his shoulder. “Ohhh. Well, I hope you aren’t caught up on that yet.”

  He wiped the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “This sure is a good sandwich.”

  She reached over to the side sink and turned the clock around. “Well, if you’re all caught up on the other …”

  He laughed. “I might get caught up if we get back in that bedroom.”

  “Well, just how soon do you think you’d like to do th
at?”

  He put down his sandwich, scooted his chair back from the table, and stood up.

  They exchanged looks, and both bolted for the bedroom laughing, in a mock race.

  Hollister woke before dawn. He quickly realized where he was and rolled over to face Susan. He couldn’t resist the urge to slowly slide the sheet down off her shoulder to a point below her naked hips. He watched her breasts gently rise and fall as she breathed. She was as beautiful as he had remembered her in the long dark nights on so many patrols.

  He took his index finger and placed it gently on her neck just below her ear, then traced the outline of her figure down over her shoulder, down her arm to her waist and over the curve of her hip.

  Suddenly her eyes fluttered. She woke gently, smiling at Hollister. “Hi, honey.”

  “Hi yourself. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Susan smiled in disbelief. “Oh yeah?”

  “Okay, okay. I confess. I couldn’t wait for you to wake up.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He reached out to embrace her, hoping to make love again. She let him fondle her for a moment and then put her palm on his chest, pushing him away. “You promised.”

  Hollister looked at her, puzzled. “What did I promise? Not to touch you?”

  “You promised to tell me why you were home. Is it over? I mean, are you finished over there?”

  Hollister fell back onto his pillow, remembering his mission. “No. It’s not like that. I’m home on escort duty.”

  “What’s that?”

  He told her. And she listened quietly, recognizing the pain that he was in even though he was trying to disguise it.

  When he finished, she made love to him. It wasn’t hurried and passionate like the night before. It was warming, healing, loving and caring.

  Later Hollister sat at the kitchen table drinking freshly brewed coffee. “I can’t remember the last real cup of coffee I had. I’ve been drinking powdered C-ration coffee and overboiled mess hall coffee so long that this is heaven.”

  As he talked he watched Susan flit from the bedroom to the bathroom, getting dressed for work. Hollister could see her standing at the mirror in her bathroom from where he sat. She leaned over the sink to put the final touches on her eye makeup wearing her bra, panties, nylons, and a garter belt.

  The sight of Susan’s perfectly toned body so provocatively clad tempted him to interrupt her. But she caught his eye in the mirror and gently shook her head from side to side; she had to go to work and couldn’t be late.

  He quietly watched her as she kept dressing, checking her watch every couple of minutes. It reminded him that he too had things to do. “I’ll be back the day after tomorrow—Friday. But I have to leave the next day to head back to Vietnam.”

  There was a moment of silence as she looked at him in the mirror. “I’ll be back from work early this evening. Will you still be here?”

  Hollister got up and poured another cup of coffee. “Yes. I think so. The funeral is tomorrow, and all I have to do today is make sure that Lucas’s remains get to the funeral home.” He turned back around and she was standing in front of him fully dressed in a conservative wool dress and moderately high heels. She looked wonderful. “I’ll be here. Count on me.”

  “I will. I’ll give you a call during the day. Just make yourself at home. Relax. There are a couple of books in the front room that I have to review. You might be interested in them.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m so happy to see you, honey. Even if it is such a terrible job you have to do.”

  She kissed him lightly on the lips, picked up her purse, and opened the front door. She turned back and looked at him. “I really loved last night. ’Bye,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

  Hollister finished calling the Survivor’s Assistance officer, Captain Callestone, and the Transportation Office at Fort Hamilton, to tie up some loose ends for the army. He ran down the checklist again to be sure that he hadn’t skipped something. Every item was lined through except the entry that said Lucas family, and had the home address next to it.

  He knew they had been notified by Captain Callestone that he was coming. He also knew that he wanted to put it off just as long as he could. He wasn’t sure what he would tell them. What if they asked about Lucas? Would he be forced to tell them the awful details of his pain and wounds?

  He got up and crossed the room, pulled the curtain back and looked out the window. None of the people out in the street seemed to know about the Lucases of the war, men who were proud to serve in Vietnam. He decided that even though he didn’t know Lucas’s parents, he would hold back as much of the painful details as he could. He just couldn’t see passing on the pain to them.

  He got another cup of coffee, put some real cream in it as a treat, and wandered into the bathroom to clean up. The room smelled of Susan’s soaps and perfume. He decided that before he got into the shower he would just spend a few moments savoring the scents and remembering what she looked like standing in front of her mirror putting on her makeup. It filled his chest with a warm and exciting feeling.

  After a shave and shower, he made another pot of coffee, found some clean underwear in his B-4 bag, and wandered into the small front room of Susan’s apartment. On the coffee table he found the books that she had mentioned. He picked them up and shuffled them to look at the titles.

  One was a book on interior decorating that didn’t interest him, one was a murder mystery, and the third was a review copy of a novel entitled The Confessions of Nat Turner by someone named William Styron.

  He put the other two down and began to leaf through the novel. He read a paragraph or two and then moved several chapters and did the same. He couldn’t generate any interest in the book and wondered if anyone else would be able to. He couldn’t tell if he wasn’t interested or if he just wasn’t in the mood to read.

  Hollister checked his watch. It was only a few minutes to one. It would be hours before Susan would be home. He needed a drink and something to take his mind off the Lucas family.

  It was a small neighborhood bar like hundreds of others that dotted the street corners of New York. This one had seen plenty of changes since it was built in the 1930s. Nevertheless, Hollister thought it odd for a place called Paddy’s Irish Isle to have a new neon sign over the door that announced “Go-Go Dancing.”

  Hollister assumed that the owner had opted to put money into updating the atmosphere inside the bar rather than into replacing the missing asbestos siding that skirted the building.

  His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark as he stepped through the double doors into a short hallway that was flanked by two cigarette machines.

  He felt a little conspicuous coming to a bar in the early afternoon, and then realized that his uniform would tell people that he was a soldier in transit just taking a minute out for a short one. That was never unusual for New York.

  The inside was a single room with an L-shaped bar. In the two front corners of the room little platforms had been built to serve as stages for the go-go dancers. Only one of the dancers was working. She wore bell-bottom hip huggers, a bare waist, and a fringed bikini top.

  The dancer couldn’t have been more than twenty, but she looked older—tired. As the jukebox pounded out Wilson Pickett’s “In the Midnight Hour,” the dancer ground her hips in a pattern that would keep her in the smallest amount of floor space and expend the least amount of energy.

  The bartender had started at the far end of the bar, gauged Hollister’s choice of stools, and met him on the other side of the bar. “What’s yours?”

  Unsure, Hollister scanned the stoppered bottles, then looked down the length of the bar where two large wooden pegs pointed skyward from a hidden keg. “Draft. I’ll have a draft.”

  The bartender poured Hollister a tall beer, spilled off the head, topped it off and then placed it on the bar in front of him. He then dropped a stiff cocktail napkin next to the drink. “Enjoy,” he said as he went back to a stack of
dirty glasses.

  Silently, Hollister nodded and raised the beer to his lips. It went down smoothly. He tried to remember when he had last had a draft. Beer in Vietnam was always in bottles and cans and never tasted as good.

  After a second sip Hollister put the beer down and turned around on the off-level rotating stool. The go-go dancer had found a better groove in “Going to a Go-Go” by the Miracles, and moved a bit more. Hollister watched her more closely. He realized that in spite of her lack of energy, she certainly had a great figure and a flat, tight stomach. It made him think of Susan’s.

  “So, what’s your story, General?”

  Hollister turned around. A second dancer had taken the stool behind him. “Mine? Same as everyone else’s. Just trying to get by.”

  She pulled out a cigarette and started looking around the bar for matches. Hollister pulled out his lighter and lit the cigarette for her. The flame allowed him to see her face. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she looked forty. Her makeup looked like it was layered on top of old makeup.

  “Thanks, hon,” she said, taking the cigarette from her lips and exhaling the first long drag. She looked up and made eye contact with him. “So, really—what’s the story here? You just another GI lookin’ to get lucky or what?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No. I’m just killing a little time and having a beer.”

  She laughed and took a sip from her drink. “Man, you are different. You aren’t crawlin’ up my leg, you don’t smell, and you ain’t one o’ them longhairs.”

  Hollister quickly realized what her life must be like. He felt sorry for her, knowing that every night was a constant battle for her to retain some fragment of her dignity. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked.