THE GOOD SOLDIER

by Paul C. Steffy

  “Before I could stand up and go get it, he smiled and said, ‘Oh, that’s OK. I’ll carry it for a while longer.’ It was still on the ground beside him. Two minutes later, we departed, and he had it on his shoulder. Ten minutes later, at about noon, several sharp, quick AK-47 shots rang out a few yards in front of us. On the trail, Michael was about five yards ahead of me. We’d walked single file along with the others. In an instant, everyone hit the ground and tried to find cover. The commanding officer, CO Tomson, yelled, ‘Get a machine gun up here!’ Michael’s was the nearest. And that was the last time I saw him alive.

  “Half an hour later, after two navy airstrikes on another, more distant VC position, the shooting stopped. While all of this was going on, I was hit in the leg with a rifle bullet, and then a few minutes later, a piece of shrapnel the size of my little finger from one of the airstrike bombs dropped onto my stomach when I rolled on my back to get another magazine for my M-16. The small piece was so hot and sharp with jagged edges that I couldn’t pick it up. I had to shake my shirt and roll onto my side to get it off me. Neither one hurt me much though. My guardian angel was working overtime.

  “After the shooting stopped, when it sounded safe, I stood up along with the others. We looked around the area and then walked slowly to survey the scene. I wanted to see how many of my friends were injured or dead this time. Other men, still dazed from the ordeal, were milling around in silence, lighting cigarettes. The story I heard from them was that Michael had worked his way up to the point of contact. There was a log on the ground. He had placed the heavy and obvious M-60 on the log. As soon as he had looked over the top, a single bullet took his life. A sniper had been in a palm tree twenty feet above the trail. At some point, once the shooting started, the sniper had been shot dead by several bullets and was hanging limp by a rope tied around his waist. The other end firmly attached him to the tree trunk. He was impossible to reach. No one tried to get him down or to learn anything more about him.

  “A moment after hearing that story, I located Michael. Somebody, probably a medic, had positioned him with his back against a tall, sturdy tree. It provided plenty of shade from the grueling sunlight. His head was slightly tilted back, eyes closed. He looked to be in a peaceful sleep. His helmet was near him, upside down on the ground. I saw a small entry wound above his left eye and an exit wound about two inches above his left ear. Considering the angle of the bullet’s travel, I wondered, Did he look up and see the sniper in the tree pull the trigger just before he was hit? Or was a ground-level VC responsible? I won’t know in this lifetime. A half dozen other KIAs were near Michael. I recognized two of them.

  “During the next few moments, I looked at Michael’s face a few times. Each glance was brief. My first close friend had died. Later, the first two Huey medevacs arrived. They landed nearby, and one had empty body bags on board. The air crew taking the KIAs shut down the Huey’s engine and waited for their load of Americans. The other helicopter waited, turbine engine and main rotor at low rpm, until the wounded were secured on board, and then it departed. I asked a soldier who stood nearby, from the unit we’d gone to rescue, to help me put Michael into a bag. Several of the yet-to-be-used bags were zipped shut and handy on the ground. Most likely they had been recently hosed with water to clean them from a previous occupant. Now, removing the loaded body bags by helicopter was the most important impending duty.

  “We placed Michael’s limp body inside the sturdy, rubberized, drab olive-green bag. The soldier who had helped me then picked up his M-16 and quietly walked away. I never saw him again. Michael was leaving soon, and this was my last good-bye. The reality weighed heavily upon me. I knelt on both knees beside Michael, the bag still open. With solemn determination, I lifted the brass zipper handle and slid it upward, carefully, a few inches at a time. I looked at his youthful face inside the darkened bag as the zipper neared the top. Then, for the last time in his presence, I said a final, silent prayer—my last good-bye to him.

  “I whispered, ‘I will never forget you or what you did to keep me alive.’ And I’ve kept that promise.

  “Michael and I had arrived at B Company just under three months before, in the back of the same tarp-covered deuce-and-a-half truck. We were a few months apart in age. Now we each were on different sides of the invisible veil that separates life and death. I looked at him and wondered, Is he watching me?

  “I zipped up the last few inches of the body bag, stood up, and walked away. On the inside, I felt hollow, empty, and numb—too numb to cry.”

  At this point, I paused and said to Teri, “It isn’t easy to tell you about my experience.” I had tears in my eyes, and many others had dripped from my chin. “During my year in Vietnam, sixty-seven young men in my battalion, out of about four hundred and twenty-five, had died. Most of the twenty-seven men I knew were acquaintances. Michael’s friendship meant a lot to me. He and a few others were friends, and I cared about them. The odd thing is, during my year in Vietnam, I didn’t shed a tear—I couldn’t. My eyes stayed dry for twelve months. I felt emotionless on the inside. Crying happened after I’d been home from Vietnam for ten days, on leave before going to Fort Meade for the remainder of my enlistment. The day I finally cried was the day I’d heard on a noon radio news broadcast that another Mike, a high-school friend, had died in Vietnam a few days earlier. We’d talked in the PX a month earlier, and now he was dead. I broke down and cried silently until my chest ached from holding in the sobs. I didn’t want my parents in the next room to hear me. If Mom heard me crying, she didn’t say anything to me later.

  “Two weeks after Michael was killed, my unit and many others were sent to Saigon, in the city’s Cholon District. During a firefight with more VC, six of our guys died when a few mortars were lobbed at us amid the shooting. I knew all six of them. Later, I saw them laid out on stretchers, hurriedly covered with ponchos, waiting for their last helicopter ride to Graves Registration and then home. A young lieutenant’s right leg, missing from the shin down, was visible. The stump looked charred.”

  I stopped talking and dried my eyes. Teri pulled me toward her. She held me tightly in her arms, and we shared a long moment of silence. I felt closer to her than I’ve ever felt to any other woman. It was great sharing our love. In fact, its intensity surprised me.

  “Thank you for listening to me. I’m sorry I fall apart so easily,” I said. “After my first year of being back from Vietnam, I began to experience my most haunting memories. The first few months of shaking and fear in the middle of the night were terrifying. You’re right about talk being helpful. The first few times I talked about it with the VA shrink was when it released the most sorrow. Then, after an additional few months, those symptoms went away. A few months later, I felt much better. I never took any VA prescription drugs. I took a few Valium for a month or so, but I consider them just sleeping pills. I never took any drugs in Vietnam, either. So, as of now, all I’m struggling with are the dreams and not being able to sleep at night.”

  Teri responded, “If you ever want to tell me anything at any time, please know I’m here for you, sweetheart. Your feelings are natural and normal for what you’ve been through. Millions of other men who were in the military have sadness and sorrows. It’s nothing to be ashamed of or anything to keep bottled up inside forever. Release them; let them go. Please, for you and me.”

  I didn’t know it then, but that would be our last time of closeness together.

  IV

  The next day, I called the long-distance phone number for John Turner and left my information on his voicemail. He called back that evening and gave me the phone number for and basic information about the tour company he worked with for vets returning to Vietnam, and a few days later, I made my reservation.

  I feel positive about this visit, I thought. I’ll be returning to places I’ve never really left behind. Experiencing reality after all these years may break the chains of my lingering torment. And I w
ant to find the village where the woman gave me the paintings. I’m sure she’s long dead, but perhaps someone might know the story of how she gave an American a family gift to show the true lifestyle of the people in her country.

  However, the day of my trip, I felt more anxiety than I had felt traveling alone to Oakland Army Base at eighteen years old. Then, in October 1967, I had arrived, signed in, and waited two days for my bus ride to Travis Air Force Base. At 9:30 p.m. three days later, my chartered flight to Vietnam on Flying Tiger Airlines lifted off the runway, and my year of experience and change began.

  Now, decades later, in the Los Angeles airport terminal, I checked in at the ticket counter, gave up my suitcase, and sat fifty feet away from a man holding a printed sign showing the travel group’s name. Four other men my age sat side by side. I made eye contact with them.

  “Hi. Brad Thomas,” I said. The four other travelers smiled and nodded to me.

  “Harry Grayson. Nice to meet you.” The man with the sign smiled, walked over, and shook my hand. He put a checkmark on his list beside my name. He wore a well-tailored, expensive suit, a stylish haircut, and a neatly trimmed beard. He resembled a male model for a tuxedo advertisement more than a travel agent employee.

  “How many more people are coming with us?”

  “Supposed to be eight more, but one called yesterday and cancelled. He said he’d had a death in the family. I don’t know which upset him the most—the death or his not being able to go with us.”

  “Do you go with us?” I wondered why he’d fly for so many hours wearing that suit.

  “No. I help on this end. I see to it that everyone gets on the plane, and then I stay here. A company employee will meet you at Tan Son Nhut in Saigon. We’ve been doing it this way since the beginning, and it works well. I think the real reason is that they don’t want to pay anyone to ride on a plane.”

  During the next twenty minutes, six more men arrived. They each checked in at the ticket counter, turned in his luggage, and came to our area. As each man arrived, we introduced ourselves.

  Five minutes later, the last man finally joined us. As soon as I saw him, I nearly burst with excitement. He was my old platoon buddy, Wes Lane. We had been like twin brothers in Vietnam, except that he’d been there two weeks when I arrived. Back then, we had several things in common: no siblings, no girlfriend, no job prospects, no car, and not the slightest idea what we’d do when we were civilians again. We also both shared an adventurous spirit, a willingness to drink copious amounts of beer, and an understanding that although we didn’t ask a lot from life, we trusted that we’d surely get what we wanted—and the sooner, the better.

  “Well, I’ll be! Fast Lane, it’s great to see you. I’m so glad you’re on this trip!” I said. We hugged and slapped each other on the shoulders and backs. It was a rich moment for me. Wes was a year older than me, and years ago I looked up to him like a brother.

  “Look at you, Brad. You don’t look that much older.”

  “Thanks. I can say the same about you. We’ve got so much to catch up on.”

  Harry told us who would meet our group in the terminal at Ton Son Nhut. Then he handed each of us our photo ID cards and our first packet of information from the tour company. He led us to the airport security inspection area and then said good-bye.

  I looked at the other men while we waited to board the plane. Our group of twelve veterans was made up of men all nearly seven decades in age who had paid more than $3,000 each to visit the same Vietnamese battlefields where we’d fought our elusive enemy nearly fifty years ago. I had plenty of Vietnam memories. Now, I wanted my one-week visit to expunge the bad ones. I suppose most of the other vets felt the same way.

  V

  The heavy 767-300 aircraft departed LAX on schedule. Passengers occupied all 214 of the seats. Wes and I sat next to each other. We agreed to trade time in the seat next to the window. The tour company had reserved a block of coach seats for our group, and it was first come, first served. Four of the oldest veterans said they didn’t want window seats. It wouldn’t matter anyway, since much of the flight was at night or over water.

  Wes was the only veteran in our group I knew. Although some of the men knew each other, no one else with us had been in the Ninth Infantry Division. Wes and I were strangers to them all, and they were strangers to us.

  A few minutes after takeoff, I began my ride down memory lane with Wes in tow.

  “Remember the shenanigans we did during our year over there?” I asked. “It started when we were new in that country. Do you remember the incident that happened on our second day in the field on Operation Santa Fe—our first combat duty? Eventually, Santa Fe lasted sixty-four days, our longest stay in the boonies. Sergeant Hamil found four of us sitting in the shade having a good time. We were supposed to keep busy because headquarters expected a one-star general to fly in by chopper that afternoon to visit our CO. I don’t remember who the other two guys were, but all of us were hiding, shamming, and drinking warm beer on empty stomachs before lunch. One of the other guys had sixteen cans of warm—make that hot—weak-tasting beer. The humidity was always terrible, so the cans had rusted around the top and bottom edges. It’s hard to imagine that they didn’t have aluminum cans back then. But hey, no problem. Each of us easily drank four of them in short order. Then, all at once, the alcohol kicked in, and then—surprise!”

  “We were a bunch of happy drunks—laughing and telling silly jokes,” Wes responded. “We’d fall down, lie on the ground, and maybe roll around in the dirt. We’d look up at the sky, relax, and laugh. Sergeant Hamil watched us briefly, and then he walked over and casually said, ‘Dig me a hole, gents. If the colonel sees you drunk, he’ll want to give you an article fifteen and take money out of your pay for making him look bad in front of the general. Then he’ll burn my ass, too. I’m going to save you from all of that. Here, take these two shovels and dig me a six-foot-square, six-foot-deep hole. By the time you’re done and have finished filling it in, you’ll be sober again. And I want it out in the hot sun, right over there.’ He pointed and smiled. Remember the wide gap between his large front teeth?”

  “I remember naively asking the others if he was kidding,” I said. “‘I wish he was,’ one of the other guys had said, and our smiles and laughter stopped. Shovels in hand, we worked unenthusiastically in sleepy, disinterested pairs. An hour later, hole partially dug, a smiling Sergeant Hamil reappeared. “‘You fools sober yet?’ he said. It was obvious we were, and we were soaked in sweat. ‘All right, the general is gone, so fill in the hole and put the shovels back in the supply truck. You jokers have thirty minutes to fill in the hole, eat your C-ration lunch, and get ready for a patrol. A dozen of us lucky ones are going out. You should thank me for saving your asses. The colonel never knew you were drunk.’ He looked right at me and said, ‘You got lots to learn, city boy.’ He hurt my pride,” I said to Wes. “I felt bad. And worse, I was getting a roaring headache from the cheap, hot, foamy beer. I knew I was older than a boy, but not yet a man, and he had proven that in front of all you guys.”

  “I remember that day, too,” Wes said. “It was the last week of October 1967.” He looked at me with a wide grin. “Sergeant Hamil was quite a character. He’d grown up in Atlanta and had been in the army for twelve years. At least, I think that’s what he’d said. You’ve probably forgotten that I had the can opener for the beer.” His grin relaxed. “The other two guys, Levine and Rogers, they both died in January during Tet. Levine was married, and they had a young child. Rogers was seventeen, and his dad had to sign his permission for him to join.”

  Whether he intended to or not, Wes threw a heavy wet blanket on my laughs with that story. I hoped it was the last time for the entire trip. We stayed silent for a few minutes. I noticed that no one else around us said a word. Perhaps they’d heard Wes remind me what had happened to the two other guys—and, with their own baggage of stories, perhaps
they went into distant dreams while the plane punched holes through the clouds eight miles above the earth.

  After that, we rode in comfort, talked, ate, watched movies, and read the in-flight magazine and whatever books we’d brought along.

  The aircraft’s two large engines created a continuous, muffled rumbling—a 500-mph metallic rush of air. The noise stopped when we landed to refuel in Hong Kong fourteen hours and forty-five minutes later. After three hours and forty-five minutes of layover, we departed for the final two-hour-and-fifty-minute flight to Ho Chi Minh City. I sensed that other passengers wanted these final hours to end, to conclude our flight. I was glad when we stopped at our airport gate in the former Saigon and the pilot shut down the engines. Everything was suddenly nice and quiet. I was anxious to leave my seat, grab my things out of the overhead bin, and deboard the plane. From the comments I heard in English, everyone else felt the same way. Although the flight went well, fifteen hours was a long time to be in such close quarters. As usual, the coach passengers hurried to stand in the aisles, only to be blocked by first-class riders who took their time as if no one else was on board the aircraft. Fifteen minutes later, my group stood in the lobby looking for our guide.

  VI