They put me in this steel box with the killers and the psychos and the rebels. Don’t know how long I’ve been breathing their infected air—after a few days in this shithole, I lost count. I’ve learned to follow the emptying of a day: the cots confiscated two thousand breaths before dawn, the tongue of light sliding through the mouth of the box, the slow crush of heat, the endless high-noon burn; and then the can peeled open, and we are spilled out into the sun like baked beans, rolling around the yard, greasy with our own juices, blazing in the sun; then back into the can, hotter now though the sun’s dying, and everybody is crazed from the air and the space and that giant white sky. They let us settle, wait for the banging and screaming and hollering to stop, then bring us our chow: raw potatoes, bread with bugs baked in, a cup of warm water. The long, gray wait for sundown; and as the slit-mouths darken and disappear, the heat eases from the box, one gasp at a time; and when the sweat stops bleeding at my pores, that’s when the guards open the cells and throw us our cots. I lie down, imagine I’m staring at the black open sky, think of home, of baseball and ice cream and Jeannie’s chicken casserole, of Charlie and Pete and Bobby.
They treat us like we’re human trash: cuss-hurl, power-trip, rough-hand us any chance they get. But the one thing I know is this: I might be a brig-rat, a cracker, and a little bitch; but I am not a murderer.
Jeannie / June 1968
“Jeannie has news.” Billy fumbled his cutlery against his plate. He was always nervous around his father.
“Are you expecting, dear?” asked Dorothy, arranging her mouth in a tasteful smile. “I thought you were looking a little thicker around the middle.”
“No, Dorothy,” said Jeannie. Billy gave an embarrassed half laugh. “I spoke to the Department of Defense today,” Jeannie continued, her voice bright against the muted walls of the room.
“You did?” said Dorothy, carving her meat into neat chunks. “Fanny said you’d been busy.”
“It’s good news,” said Jeannie.
“That’s the best kind,” said her father-in-law.
“Kip received his charges.”
“Yes?” Dorothy’s face was held in an expression of patient discomfort.
“His commanding officer didn’t die.”
“He didn’t?” A real smile broke over Dorothy’s face.
“Kip’s being charged with attempted murder. Which means—”
“Which means they’re not going to swing him,” said her father-in-law.
Billy choked on his beef; his mother patted his back.
“That’s very good news,” said Dorothy. “Attempted murder’s one thing. But murder’s quite another.”
“And it means we can start helping him,” said Jeannie.
“I don’t see how you mean to help him,” said Dorothy. Her smile was hardening into the one she used to corral her hennish committees, the one that still reduced Billy to a boy.
“I think Jeannie means we can start thinking about his future,” said Billy. “After all this is . . .” He gave a vague wave of his fork.
“What I mean is, I spoke to Herbert Chapman today,” said Jeannie; Billy’s cutlery paused over his peas. “Your lawyer friend, Dorothy—the one you introduced me to at your fundraiser.”
“What do you mean, you spoke to him?” said Dorothy.
“I found his telephone number. In your address book.” Ettlinger’s news had made Jeannie bold; she presented the information without apology, and readied herself.
Billy’s face was working in an anxious twitch.
“That’s who you were talking to when I came in?” Dorothy was rising in her seat.
“The man at the DoD told me Kip can use a civilian lawyer. Chapman said it was advisable.”
“Makes sense,” said Jeannie’s father-in-law. “I can’t see a military lawyer working too hard for your brother, all things considered.”
“You spoke to Herb Chapman about what your brother did?” Dorothy was half standing, her voice raised.
“Dolly.” Jeannie’s father-in-law’s face gathered into a shushing expression, and he held his hands out, like he was bringing an orchestra to a pause. Dorothy sat down in her chair; Billy bowed his head.
“I will say my piece, Richard,” said Dorothy, shifting in her seat. “It’s not Jeannie’s place to run around airing her dirty laundry to our friends.”
“Mother,” said Billy, giving Jeannie an alarmed look. “I’m sure Jeannie’s sorry if she—”
“I’m sorry, Dorothy,” said Jeannie. “But when you said you’d do anything to help . . .”
“Give you a home? Yes. Care for your child? Yes. But have our name mixed in with a murderer’s?”
“Like I said, he’s charged with attempted murder.” Jeannie heard the sass in her own voice and covered it with a polite smile.
“Jeannie.” Billy’s hand was in the air, a schoolboy trying to get the teacher’s attention.
“You’re lucky Chapman is discreet,” said Dorothy. “Do you have any idea what this kind of association could do to Richard’s reputation?”
“Well, it couldn’t get any worse,” said Richard. He pressed against Jeannie in a long nudge, giving her a jovial glance; but his mouth was tense, and as he settled back in his chair, Jeannie caught him sending an acid look toward his wife. Dorothy’s eyes glittered.
“Now,” said Richard through a mouthful of teeth and meat. “Let’s hear Jeannie out. What did Chapman suggest?”
“We can fly somebody over to represent him,” said Jeannie. “Someone who can get the real truth about what happened, who can help Kip tell his side. Chapman can make someone available.”
“And who’s going to pay for this?” said Dorothy, voice high-pitched, face taut, as though her strings had been pulled tight.
Jeannie breathed deep. “I wanted to ask if you’d make us a loan.”
“Well, I’m not sure that’s—” said Billy.
“And how will you pay it back?” said Dorothy. “I’m assuming Muni isn’t paying your father handsomely. You’re a dependent. And your brother—”
“Enough, Dorothy,” said Richard, screwing his napkin and bringing his fist down on the table with a thump. The china trembled. Richard gave a stiff smile of embarrassment.
Jeannie turned to face her father-in-law, Dorothy’s eyes sharp on her neck, Billy beet-red and fidgety at the edge of her vision. “I know how generous you and Dorothy are, how you’ve always helped people who are powerless. I understand it’s a lot to ask. But I know Kip’s innocent. And whatever happens, doesn’t he have a right to a fair trial, to committed representation?”
“I think it’s time to change the subject,” said Billy.
“But it really is a matter of urgency,” Jeannie continued, placing her hand on her father-in-law’s arm. Billy bobbed for eye contact; she ignored him.
“You’re family, sweetheart,” said Richard. “Whatever you need, we’ll help.”
“Richard, I really think—”
“Shush, shush. It’s all right, Dolly. We haven’t thrown any money Chapman’s way in a while. It’s about time we started lining his pockets again. And now that’s settled, let’s enjoy our dinner. This beef is delicious.”
“Thank you,” said Jeannie. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t say another word,” said Richard.
Knives were taken up; the sound of serrations on china. The second hand of the antique wall clock heaved through the seconds. Billy cast sweaty glances at Jeannie, champing on his beef with an indignant vigor, while Richard calmly cleared his plate. Dorothy kept her eyes on Jeannie, following every lift of her fork to her mouth. Jeannie avoided the older woman’s gaze, ate her meal quickly and without tasting it, her mind running on what she needed to do next.
“Extraordinary,” said her father-in-law, almost to himself, as he placed his knife and fork together on his empty plate.
Dorothy muttered.
“I mean,” Richard continued, “that the man survived. A grenade in
his sleeping quarters, is that correct?” Jeannie nodded. “So the force of the explosion is contained inside a bunker. How the hell did he get out alive?”
“Thank God for miracles,” Billy said with a forced brightness.
“I have a similar case at the hospital,” said Richard. “Officer; got caught in a close-quarters explosion in a terrible battle over there, somehow managed not to die. Terrible thing, multiple wounds—lost a leg and most of a hand, internal injuries, badly burned. We’re trying to repair the burns to his face, but”—he shook his head—“he’s a damn mess.”
“I’m guessing infection’s your major problem?” said Billy.
“Yes, well, that and the catastrophic injury to the typical donor sites, the damage to the jawbone, the risk of acute bleeding and hematoma, not to mention graft hypertrophy, contraction and necrosis.”
“Of course, of course,” said Billy, dropping his head to spoon potato into his mouth, his face darkening.
“Tough kid, though. Knew his father at Stanford. George Vance.”
Jeannie’s stomach rolled.
“Built like a brick house,” continued her father-in-law. “College team quarterback. Hooked the most beautiful girl on campus.”
“Your patient,” said Jeannie. “He was in the Army, you said?”
“Army? No. Marines. Leatherneck family, all the way back to the Civil War. They flew the poor bastard in from Japan a couple of weeks ago. A lot of blast injuries in this war. They’ve gotten good at keeping them alive. It’s testing this old blade’s skills, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I think that’s enough for one night,” said Dorothy. She stood, suddenly frail; Billy rose from his seat and took her arm. “Jeannie, I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”
Jeannie swallowed. “Charlie and I are heading back to Noe tomorrow morning,” she managed. Billy turned to her in surprise.
“Time to return to normalcy, hey?” said Richard.
Jeannie nodded.
“As best you can,” said Richard.
“Indeed,” said Billy, turning to escort his mother from the room, stiff-shouldered, his ears burning red.
Kip / June 1968
The box has released me, and I’m never going back. They’re moving me to medium. A regular cell in a regular block with ordinary, plain-dealing criminals. I’m standing in the guard shack, legs wobbling, while the same rear-echelon motherfucker that checked me into this joint sweats and grunts like a hog in front of me, licking his trotters as he turns the pages in his Big Bad Book.
“You look at it the right way, you were lucky,” he says.
“Lucky?”
“At least you’re alive.”
“Breathing.”
“I’ll bet your buddies would swap places with you in a heartbeat.”
Whatever game this guy is going for, I don’t want to play. I ignore him, look out at the yard, where the mediums haul sand into bags and guards circle with their guts puffed, yelling and twirling their batons like fat majorettes.
“Hill 981, right?” says the Hog, hunger gleaming in his little eyes. “FSB Deadwood?”
“What about it?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“It happened—what?—a couple weeks ago. You must’ve just missed it. VC cleared those guys out. Killed everybody in the compound. No prisoners taken, everybody dead.”
He’s fucking with me; just another shit-kicking taunt, and I’m getting tired of it.
“So many bodies the helicopters hauled them away in cargo nets.”
“That’s some story,” I say.
But he’s scratching something in his book, his pink head furrowed in a frown. “Bad business,” he says. “You were better off out of there, boy.” And it dawns on me that this asshole’s not joking, that there might not be an ounce of play or wit in his piggish body.
“All over the newspapers,” he’s saying. “Word is it’s got the brass real jumpy, got the commander in chief crawling up their butts.”
My breath bellows. I push it down into my chest; it sticks there and I can’t shift it and my chest gets tight with it, too tight, like it will burst; and I hear something ringing in the ceiling and the sun switches off and—
“Kid fainted.”
“Get him in his cell, give him some water.”
“Too much time in that damn Conex.”
“He didn’t know.”
“He didn’t know?”
Esposito — Roper — Hutch — Pederson — Carter — Fugate — Baby — McCarthy — Gross — Mayfield — Cheeks — Boyce — Salinas — Womack — Gilligan — Campbell — Tracy — Elvis — Langton — Boston — Krause — Ortiz — Lurch — Hollis — Tucker — Lopey — Corbin — Dammit — Schroeder — Kodak — Montgomery — Dog — Berkowitz — Pussy — Reimey — Boudreaux — Six — Paulsen — Schmidt — Fulgoni — Eightball — Dubois — Skeeter — Tex — Gonzo — Old Dude — Pawlowski — Something-else-ski — Gunny — Chaplain — Carlos — Carlos — Carlos — Communications Guy — Irish — Hillbilly — Fat Kid — Rich Kid — Acne Kid — Jock Kid — Freaked Kid — Mellow Kid — Meathead Kid — Indian Kid — Douche Bag — Power Brother — Power Brother — Power Brother — Power Brother — Power Brother — Woody Strode — Fucking New Guy — Other New Guy — Corpsman —
We were saved. Vance and me, lifted out of there by angels with blades for wings, before the enemy made its raid. I remember the smoke rising from the firebase as we pulled through the sky; and as the angel bore south, so we turned away from it, from the amazing thing that was happening on that scratch of dirt below, where kids were smearing from life into death, where the battle had arrived that we’d all feared but hoped was just a fantasy. Esposito hiding in his hooch, smoking one of his regulars (scared for good off those Cambodian fuckers); Carter chowing on his beef and gravy; Roper sweating in the FDC; Fugate John-Wayne-ing around the firebase; Elvis singing his songs, still hurting over that girl in Milwaukee; Dog bitching at the bugs; Pussy shit-birding out of patrol; Pawlowski straining in the last of the light to write another goddamn letter; Fucking New Guy still trying to figure out how to fix his pistol belt. And Ortiz, hauling up the observation tower, working a massive wad of gum in his jaws. What did he see? Did he wonder about the shapes moving on the hill? Did he feel it, something invisible and evil, approaching over the scrub? Hear the snip of a wire, the harsh-slop dink-whispers, the click of the charging handle on an SKS?
And I think on it again, that hot white light that ran through my blood, that flew through my fingers and flung that grenade into the darkness; that ripped and hurled Vance, and bore him away someplace safe, where he would live, and keep living; that drove me up into the sky after him, to this place, which might be the scratching asshole of the military justice system, but at least it isn’t six feet under. The light took us, and it saved us; the divine plan of a god, of an angel in chief; we two were elected to be redeemed, chosen to be saved.
Beyond the Headlands
Tom / July 1968
He heard the door swing open, the squeak of rubber soles on vinyl. He braced for the pain; it climbed his body, fixing at his cheek. He opened his eye—the other held shut by the padding—and watched for the whip of the curtain.
A half-dozen pairs of eyes were on him. The chief, flanked by rookies. The chief nodded. Tom registered the paunch, the wristwatch, the expensive shirt, and hated him.
“You,” said the chief, nodding at a clean-cut kid built like a linebacker. “History, please.”
Linebacker stood to attention—military material, should have been humping in country, instead of the shitbird Category Fours they kept sending him. “Yes, sir.” He cleared his throat.
“Patient was injured by a fragmentation grenade while serving in Vietnam.” Tom imagined Car Wreck and Factory Accident, listening. “When medics reached him at the scene, his right leg was shredded to the thigh. There were multiple pellet puncture wounds over the whole body, and severe injuries to t
he right hand, fingers amputated at the proximal interphalangeal joints. The patient also sustained second- and third-degree burns to the abdomen, chest, and face.”
The other rookies took notes, except for one, the only female, a tall girl who was hard on the eyes, the kind that excelled at field hockey in high school. Her eyes traveled over Tom’s dressings. Tom reached for the gripper on his locker; the chief nodded for Linebacker to continue.
“The medic administered morphine and albumin, and the patient was transported to a nearby surgical hospital, where they debrided the wound to the right leg and open-packed it with occlusive dressings, infusing the patient with Ringer’s lactate and antibiotics. Surgeons then conducted an exploratory laparotomy, where they removed the right kidney and repaired lacerations to the liver. During the procedure, the patient was administered twenty-five units of blood. The burns to the face and torso were lightly dressed with antibacterial dressings, and the patient was prescribed morphine. In addition to the major traumatic injuries, doctors identified a right upper brachial plexus injury, rupture of the tympanic membranes, and superficial burns to the groin.”
The Outside Lands Page 19
