THE GOOD SOLDIER

by Paul C. Steffy

  The Good Soldier

  The Good Soldier

  Paul C. Steffy

  A veteran with PTSD returns to Vietnam to ease his pain and find the village where, in 1968, an aging woman gave him a gift to give to the American people.

  This story is a work of fiction. It originated entirely in my mind. It is based on events I experienced during my year in Vietnam. Any resemblance to reality in any way, including names, places, events, and businesses, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by Paul C. Steffy. All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1506139132

  ISBN 13: 9781506139135

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900307

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  To Sherri, for your acceptance, understanding, and

  willingness to carry the load while I remembered the past.

  In 1967, eighteen-year-old Brad Thomas heard the patriotic call of military duty. He joined the US Army to serve in the infantry. During his year in Vietnam, more than two dozen of his friends and acquaintances died—some within his reach.

  One day, when he had only three weeks remaining in country, Brad’s platoon walked through a small Vietnamese village where he received an unexpected gift from an elderly local woman.

  In October 1968, he returned home, and the truth was obvious: both he and his country had changed.

  Now, decades later, to give meaning to the woman’s gift, and to lessen his war grief and post-traumatic stress disorder, Brad returns to her village with other veterans on a seven-day tour of South Vietnam.

  Freedom comes with a price, but why do so many combat service members pay their portion for the rest of their lives?

  “Tragically, in war, men and women of all strengths die. The strongest of them can break in weak, unexpected places. Some wounds are not physical, and over time, many sufferers regain their strength. Frequent, uninvited war memories may linger until one’s death. Yet, after years of remembering sorrow and anguish from my Vietnam days, I returned to South Vietnam on a tour with other veterans. Nearly five decades after the war, we all sought personal closure. I had the chance to visit a village where an elderly Vietnamese woman gave me an unexpected gift meant to show Americans the peaceful spirit of her country, the true Vietnam.”

  —Brad Thomas

  Ninth Infantry Division, US Army

  Vietnam, October 1967–68

  January 2015

  “Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure the survival and the success of liberty. This much we pledge—and more.”

  —John F. Kennedy

  Inaugural Address

  January 20, 1961

  For most Americans, the Vietnam War began when combat units were deployed beginning in 1965. More than 2.7 million US military personnel served in Vietnam. More than 58,000 Americans died during the war. More than 303,000 Americans were wounded. Of those, more than 153,000 were hospitalized. Direct US military involvement ended on August 15, 1973.

  For many of the men and women who served in Vietnam, their mental anguish continued long after they had returned home. For some, it continues to this day.

  Contents

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Epilogue

  I

  It’s 2:30 a.m. It happens every morning about this time, almost as regular as clockwork. As if on command, I sit up in bed, fully alert. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead while I stare into the darkness. The most terrible of my dreams are over—until tomorrow. I’ll be awake for two hours or so, plenty of time to rehash the many events I lived through decades ago. I remember the most terrible ones all so well. Will these memories ever stop? Sometimes, I feel like I’m going up a one-way street into a blind alley of despair. Now, years later, I seldom feel so all alone. When I take my share of happiness, I don’t need much. But when my heart aches, it always feels heavy like a stone.

  To forget my dreams, I remember my wonderful years in San Francisco. I recite my favorite street names and recall how the scenery looks. I especially like the views as I see them from the highest northern hills of the city: Alcatraz atop its cold, lonely rock; the majestic Golden Gate Bridge painted in its unique international orange color; and Marin County.

  My memories of the splendor of San Francisco stand in stark contrast to my dreams of Vietnam. I’ve dreamed my Vietnam scenes so many times that I’m not sure if they are recollection or anxiety.

  The damned army doctor wants me to take whatever pills he’s pushing this month. I’m never going back to see him! The trouble is, those pills aren’t supposed to be taken longer than a couple of years, and then what happens? Change pills and wait for another two years to expire? No way! I’ll take care of this myself, thank you. Besides, my liver should hold out. I’m sixty-six now. Hell, my year in Vietnam began forty-seven years ago. Age-wise, my body is holding up just fine. The good news is, the possibility of Agent Orange damage may never surface. The salubrious red wine must be doing its job. A bottle a day isn’t too much in my book. I drank the hard stuff for a few years, but it was wearing me down; that’s all over now. To stay healthy, I buy bottles of red wine—good ones, but cheap.

  II

  A week ago, my divorce was final—my fourth! I’ve retired successfully from two careers, but my personal life needs a few changes. Teri, my latest ex, received a tidy inheritance last year and bought my half of the house. And yes, she paid me a fair price for it. Until I decide how I’ll live, I’m a little squeamish about getting married again. I’ve dated a wonderful woman named Sue a few times, and I’ve moved into a small, furnished third-floor apartment on the north side of Geary Boulevard, two miles west of downtown San Francisco. I’d forgotten how little wall space a studio apartment has until I tried to hang three pictures on my largest wall. The fold-down kitchen table takes up too much room, so I bought a card table and one folding chair for my dining pleasure. I didn’t have to downsize my things drastically after my divorce, so I managed to easily fit my most important possessions into this studio apartment. I have a great view of my favorite city. Scenic San Francisco has cool, windy days and nights, and the steam radiators warm my place nicely.

  During the little downsizing I did, I found something I’d forgotten about: a suitcase full of Vietnam souvenirs and remembrances. Some of them evoke those deep, dark memories from my year in the infantry. The memories that don’t go away. I’ve always kept the small, flimsy case closed and in an out-of-the-way location. I didn’t want to see it and be reminded of my past. I hadn’t given it much thought until a week after I moved into this apartment. I had a powerful, unexpected need to find the case. It took me half an hour of looking through boxes, but I found it in my basement storage room. I brought it upstairs, put it on the bed, opened it slowly, and stepped back in time four decades. That night, the less important items stayed on the bed. I moved the ones that brought tears and memories over to the card table until it was covered with war mementos. I placed them—perfectly aligned, spaced, and with reverent precision—in descending order of traumatic experience.

 
; Soon, though, I grew tired mentally and emotionally from seeing my things—and from remembering Vietnam. I glanced at the red illuminated numbers on the clock beside my bed. It was past midnight. Next to it, I saw my empty thirsty-man wineglass. I’d drunk a bottle of expensive Merlot and made a handkerchief wet from plenty of tears. I wondered how I’ll ever get these thoughts and memories out of my mind, or at least make them more manageable.

  Among my things are two paintings on black silk, about fourteen by eighteen inches, minus frames. These paintings still haunt me. They beckon my imagination to learn what happened to the woman who gave them to me.

  I’ll never forget the day I received them. The Vietnamese grandmother who looked to be one hundred years old and could barely walk when she approached me was holding out her hands, clutching the paintings. Her long, limp, and soiled black dress and the dark bluish piece of cloth wrapped around her head are still bold in my memory. Wearing her flip-flops, she was at least a foot shorter than me, and her dark brown face and arms were wrinkled and timeworn.

  That afternoon, a South Vietnamese army lieutenant was with us because we expected to capture a few Viet Cong, or VC as we called them. He translated the woman’s message for me. If it weren’t for him, I’d have never known what she was trying to say and accomplish.

  From inside her hut, she saw me and came outside at her slow pace, straight toward me. At first, I thought she might have a grenade with the pin pulled and that she wanted to hand it to me. It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened to an unsuspecting American. Then I saw that she carried something black and flat, like paper or cloth. When she came nearer, I saw fear in her eyes and a thin line of beetlenut juice running from a corner of her small, wrinkled mouth.

  “Take these,” she said through the young lieutenant’s words. “VC will be here today or tomorrow; I do not know. They will burn our village and take the men who remain behind. They may kill the rest of us. The people in our village don’t know where to go. We have a reputation for helping Americans, and the VC hate us. I am afraid. The VC took three of my grandsons two years ago. We never heard from them again. These two paintings are all my family has to pass from one generation to the next. Take them to America and let the people see how we are a kind, peaceful nation. Most of us do not want war. Our leaders force it upon us. Many of our boys and men die fighting the Americans, but they do not want to do this.”

  Just then, the lieutenant said something to her. She spoke to him sternly and then didn’t speak again for several seconds.

  When I asked him what she said, he told me, “It’s nothing. She is old and speaks her mind.”

  She eventually continued. “My grandfather painted these and gave them to my grandmother when they married many years ago. Do something to show the American people we enjoy artwork and peaceful living. I must go back inside now. I trust you to do what I ask.”

  Before she turned away, I noticed the yearning look in her eyes. I wondered, Should I give her something in return? I have nothing she can use.

  Then she shuffled back to the confines of her tiny hut. I still can’t get the woman and her gesture of goodwill out of my mind. I held the two paintings and stared in amazement. I was speechless from the whole scenario set before me—cultural, political, economic, social, and the gripping mood of helplessness her people surely felt. The two paintings showed scenes of women with conical hats knee-deep in water planting rice, a solitary fisherman standing in a boat throwing his flimsy net across the water, and a man plowing a paddy with a stout water buffalo that pulled a single plow. The colors were vibrant against the solid black, shiny, silky material. I rolled the paintings and put them inside my rucksack to protect them as best I could.

  We didn’t actually see any VC that day, but they lobbed a few mortars at us later that killed two of my friends. That brought my total number of dead friends and acquaintances to two dozen. An hour later, when I got back to my armored personnel carrier, I took out a shoot of bamboo that I’d cut from beside the trail when I’d had a chance. I cut out a sturdy piece of bamboo the diameter of my little finger and as long as the paintings were wide. I put the bamboo inside several layers of old newspaper and then rolled the two paintings around the paper. I didn’t want the cherished works to bend, be crushed, or show fold marks that could flake off the paint. Somehow, I managed to get them home three weeks later without so much as a wrinkle. In a way, decades later, it seems as if it was by magic. Bringing them to America was meant to be.

  That evening in San Francisco, I left my apartment and walked two blocks to the neighborhood bar. I ordered a shot of Jameson and a glass of Guinness. A dozen other customers were there, but I was the only one at the far end of the long bar.

  Tony, the bartender and owner of the decent and respectable place, was talkative. He wasn’t a very big man. He said he’d been a tunnel rat during his tour in Vietnam. He was one of the first Americans to see the inside of the Cu Chi tunnel complex. He remembered the tunnels being hot, damp, cramped, and filled with stale, putrid air. They were uncomfortable to move through, and they held booby traps, snakes, and centipedes. There were also usually punji stakes, sharp bamboo stakes meant to gash the feet and legs of enemy soldiers, hidden from view. The tunnels were dangerous to navigate. When Tony told me these things, his twinkling blue eyes looked straight into mine. I wondered if he was having a flashback to his days in Vietnam.

  “I went on a tour with ten other veterans last year,” he said. A smile slowly appeared on his aging face. “I’m seventy-three years old, and I didn’t want to wait any longer.”

  “How can I find out about joining a tour?” I felt an unexpected burst of adventurous energy.

  Tony wiped his hands on a towel, brought out his wallet, reached in, and pulled out a business card.

  “I meant to get this out of here. I’m glad I still have it to give to you. I’ve got a few more of his cards at home,” he said as he handed it over. “Call him; he’ll give you all the details. He said he’s been guiding vets on these tours for four years. The man is our age, and all of the guys I’ve talked with say they like him a lot. He’s an excellent guide, and he took my group under his wing. At the end of our trip, on the flight home, most of the men said that seeing those places again helped relieve some of their emotional pain. His name is John Turner, and he’s a retired army colonel from Dallas, Texas. He spent three tours in Vietnam. He lost a brother over there, too—a Cobra helicopter pilot. He shows each group he leads the place where it happened.”

  We talked for another half an hour before I stood up to go home.

  “Take care of yourself. I’ll see you later,” I told him.

  Tony responded with a smile and a wave.

  III

  That night, shortly after midnight, I woke up from another bad dream. I’m sure I hadn’t been that loud and vocal for quite some time. I heard myself yelling. I was trembling and talking in a half-sleep about how it was my turn to carry the M-60 machine gun. My thoughts were back in Vietnam. On that hot morning, my friend Michael had noticed how tired I looked, and his forty-five-pound weight advantage probably played into his decision. Whatever the reason, Michael didn’t seem concerned when he picked up the M-60 and got ready to move.

  Then I thought of Saigon during Tet and how terrible it was when six guys I knew were killed within a few seconds. Half a dozen mortars had dropped onto their position in the middle of a firefight.

  I then remembered a few months ago when Teri had listened to one of my stories for the final time in our relationship about this same bad dream.

  “Darling, how long have you had these dreams?” she asked as soon as she looked into my eyes. She had already gotten up and turned on the closet light to add soft rays in the bedroom.

  “Oh, off and on, mostly on, since about a year after I came back.”

  “Isn’t there anything you can do? Does the VA have any medicine you can ta
ke?”

  “I don’t want to take their medication. I’ve lived without it this long,” I replied. “Hell, another fifteen or twenty years and it’ll all be over, won’t it?”

  Her question aggravated me, but I tried not to let it show.

  “Some guys take the meds, but I don’t want them in my system. Too many unknown side effects. At least, that’s what I’ve heard and read.”

  “You know my brother, Dale, is a psychologist. He says that when people talk about their problems, after a while, it usually makes the issue seem less severe. Did you ever talk about your dreams with Janice while you two were married?”

  “Nope. She said she had enough problems of her own and that if I had something to say, I should go to the VA because she wasn’t a trained shrink.”

  “Spend a few minutes right now and tell me the story of you and Michael. I’m willing to listen.” Teri reached out her tender, loving hands and held one of mine while our eyes locked.

  I could tell that Teri was intensely interested in what I had to say. Back then, she wanted to help me in any way possible.

  “All right, I’ll tell you the full story.” I inhaled, slowly exhaled, and then began. “We were returning to base camp after going to help another unit that had been ambushed the night before. It had taken twenty minutes by helicopter to get there. We located them and sent off their dead in two helicopters. The wounded were long gone. We started our walk back to base camp in a column, as usual. There were about sixty of us. We stayed on the move for forty-five minutes, and then we’d take a ten-minute break. After our second break, it was my turn to carry the M-60—a machine gun that weighs twenty-three pounds without ammo. I was six feet tall and weighed about a hundred and forty pounds, the most I’d ever weighed. I was strong for my size but obviously very thin. Michael was about five foot eight and weighed about a hundred eighty-five pounds. He had carried the M-60 since our previous break. The newest guys in each unit carried it, and each platoon usually had two of them. Michael and I had arrived at B Company on the same day, October 21, 1967, both eighteen years old. I will always believe that Michael felt empathy for me for having to carry the M-60. He and most of the other guys were thirty to fifty pounds heavier than I was.