Soldier Doll

by Jennifer Gold

  Red had waved his hand.

  “Red?”

  “Yeah. What’s the point of this damn war again, sir?”

  Boots snorted. Sarge frowned. “Shut up, Red, or you’re taking point.”

  “Yes, sir. No thank you, sir.” Red’s emphasis on the word sir bled with heavy sarcasm.

  Sarge had shot him a warning glance, and they’d all dispersed.

  “Fries, you know where we headed tonight?” Miles had finished his peaches. He was smoking now.

  “Just the bush, dude.” Fries—whose real name was David McDonald—shrugged. “Zippo mission, maybe. Search and destroy. Find ’em, kill ’em, run like hell.”

  “Another snafu in the making, then,” said Red in a bitter voice.

  Mike spoke up. As the squad leader, he was saddled with the responsibility of keeping the men in reasonably good spirits and from killing each other. It was difficult when he didn’t feel all that gung-ho about a night in the jungle himself. “Take it easy, Red. No one is happy about it.”

  Red shook his head, disgusted. “It’s this war, man. It’s just useless. My old man, he was in France back in ’44. They used to do stuff, you know? They used to take towns. Hills. We keep walking and walking, and we don’t do nothing.”

  Mike sighed. They’d all heard the speech a hundred times, maybe more. Red was political: an angry, brooding sort of guy. On the back of his flak jacket, he’d sketched a peace sign underneath which he’d scratched the words Ship my body to Nixon. He also liked to quote Tolstoy.

  Fries rolled his eyes. “You gonna start with the Peace and War again?”

  Miles shot him a look. “It’s War and Peace, man. Come on. Everyone knows War and Peace. Even you ain’t that stupid.”

  Boots grinned. “He might be. He volunteered.”

  Ignoring them, Red continued. “You kill one Viet Cong soldier, maybe two, and they call in ten confirmed and the mission’s a success. It’s messed up, I tell you.”

  Fries shrugged. “We here to kill some commies. That’s all I know.”

  “Commies.” Boots laughed. “Communists, my foot. As if you can tell everybody apart. I wonder how many of the guys we killed were probably on our side? It’s a snafu all right, College.”

  “Boots, man, shut it. You short. You going home, man. What the hell you always complaining about?” Miles again. He and Boots were tight, but neither Boots, a white southerner, nor Miles, from Chicago’s south side, liked to admit their bond. Racial politics ran deep in the corps, even out in the bush.

  “How long now, Boots?” asked Fries.

  “Ninety-six days and one wake up, dude. Back to the World, back to Becky.”

  “I thought she was with another guy now.”

  “Shut up, Red. That’ll all fix itself when I get out of this living hell.”

  Mike thought of Karen and felt awash with sympathy for Boots. He wondered if Karen was seeing someone else. Probably. She was a real catch, Karen. She’d have moved on. She never responded to his letters, anyway, other than to send newspaper clippings deriding the war.

  “Screw her, Boots.” Mike tossed some crackers at him. “Here. I got spaghetti; I don’t need ’em.”

  “Thanks, College.” Boots gave him a grateful smile.

  Mike nodded. “No problem.” He settled with his back against a tree and tried again to remember what color Karen’s eyes were and found he couldn’t.

  . . .

  It had been less than a year ago that they’d started the draft.

  “Man, French!” Muttering to himself in frustration, Mike tossed his textbook aside with a groan and flopped back on his bed. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what his professor had said about conjugating verbs, but couldn’t. With a sigh, he leaned over toward his bedside table and flipped on his radio. Music blared loudly—the Rolling Stones. Mike hastily turned down the volume. He was a huge Stones fan, of course, but if his mom heard the music, she’d flip. She insisted he study in silence for two hours every day. He had tried to reason with her—“Ma, I’m a music major, the book-learning stuff isn’t that important”—but he had been cut off with a look that would have caused a Rottweiler to pause in its tracks.

  “Music,” his mother sniffed. “You call what you do music? Mozart; that’s music. Your music is more like noise. You will study your English and your math, Michael, because you are going to be a high school teacher!” And this was, of course, followed up with the usual “as long as you live under our roof” speech. He got that one so often, he knew it by heart.

  Mike rolled his eyes just thinking about it. His mother had no understanding or appreciation of rock and roll. She wouldn’t even listen to music if it had lyrics. His father was the same way. They would have never let him major in music if it had been up to them. Luckily, Boston College had come through with a full-tuition musical scholarship. His parents had then latched onto the idea that with a music degree he could teach and that, naturally, he would be a high school teacher. They were happy with this—teaching was a noble profession, in their opinion. His father, who had left Czechoslovakia shortly after the war, had never had the opportunity to attend college. He worked at a small grocery near the Common and swelled with pride at the idea of his son as a teacher.

  “A teacher is a professional,” he would say, patting Mike on the back. “It’s a good, steady living. And important. Worthy of great respect.”

  And Mike would bite his lip in frustration, because he had no intention of ever setting foot in a classroom. Well, not as a teacher, anyway. It was a respectable job, fine, but it wasn’t what he wanted to do. In fact, the thought filled him with dread. He could remember all too well how he and his friends had treated their high-school teachers: he recalled Miss Webb, who had fled the room in tears after Eddie O’Hara had put a scantily clad Miss November inside her history textbook, and Mrs. Andrew, who’d fainted in terror at the cockroaches Billy Gallagher had slipped into her lunchbox. But what could he say, really? He didn’t want to hurt his parents, and he couldn’t afford to move out and live on campus.

  It seemed like everyone at BC had money but him. His family wasn’t poor, not exactly, but they weren’t rich, either. Certainly there was no money to spare for Mike to move only a few city blocks away. He sighed. Too bad it hadn’t been a scholarship to a California school. Then he would have had no choice but to leave.

  Mike grabbed a pillow and covered his face with it. It was depressing, really, living with your parents at eighteen. Besides the rules, there were other issues. Girls, for instance. The girls at college weren’t like the girls he’d grown up with. What would he do—ask one back to watch TV at his parents’ house and eat cabbage rolls? Just thinking about it made him cringe. Rolling over, he looked longingly at his guitar leaning against the bookcase. He was only allowed to practice once the two hours he was supposedly devoting to French were up.

  “Michael?” His mother’s voice called from downstairs. Panicked, Mike reached over and shut the radio off. How could she have heard it on such a low volume? The woman must have supersonic hearing! As a kid, he had believed it when she said she had eyes in the back of her head. For years, he hadn’t wanted to touch her hair, convinced he’d find a watchful pair of eyeballs underneath, green and knowing.

  “Michael.” It was his mother again, this time just outside the door. She rapped on it lightly. Mike sat up hastily and pretended to be busy reading his French text. “Come in, Ma.” He gave her a bright smile. “Just practicing my French.”

  “What?” His mother looked at him, distracted. “Michael, you have to come downstairs, to see the television. On the news, there is going to be a lottery for the draft, for the war…” her voice trailed off. She looked scared as she wove her fingers in and out of each other, the way she did when she was nervous.

  Michael felt his heart skip. For months, h
e and his friends had worried about this possibility, discussing it in dorm rooms and cafés and bars around the city. He had tagged along to a couple of protests against the war, too—he just made sure to keep his attendance a secret from his parents. His father, who had escaped the communists in Czechoslovakia, supported America sending troops to intervene in Vietnam. His mother had escaped too, of course, but was silent on the controversial subject. She didn’t sound happy now, though.

  Mike looked up at his mother’s anxious face. He stood up and hugged her awkwardly. “It’s okay, Ma,” he said. “Let’s go see what they’re saying.”

  Silent, his mother turned and headed back down the steps. The television had been left on in the living room, and Mike could see the reflection of the flashing images bouncing off the bay window at the back of the house. The CBS newsman looked serious as he discussed the draft lottery with another journalist.

  “The draw will be done tomorrow, December first,” the second man explained.

  The anchor was nodding his head. “Please tell us again how it’s going to work, Don.” He made eye contact with the camera. “It’s a bit confusing; I’m sure our viewers would appreciate another explanation.”

  The man nodded and launched into a complicated explanation involving birthdates and numbers and capsules. Mike’s eyes glazed over like they did when he studied; he tried to follow, but found his mind wandering. What if he was drafted? He tried to picture Vietnam on the map. Was it next to China, or was that Japan? Next to French, geography had always been his worst subject.

  On the television, the anchor was still bobbing his head. “I see,” he said to the expert. His tone was grave. “And that’s for all men born between 1944 and 1950, you said?”

  The other man inclined his head in agreement. “That’s correct.” He looked like he was about to say something else, but the anchor interrupted him to go to commercial.

  Mike got up to shut off the television; he looked over at his mother, who was leaning against the doorway, tense and pale.

  “You are included in this, then, Michael?” It was posed as a question, but he could tell she already knew the answer. She was a smart woman, and her English was better than she let on.

  “Yes, Ma.” He tried to smile. “Don’t worry though. My birthday could be drawn last, right? The war could be over before my number is even called. If that jerk Nixon—”

  His mother bristled at his words. “We do not refer to the president as a jerk,” she said, her tone severe. “Even if you disagree with him, you must show some respect.”

  Mike bit his lip, exasperated. Good thing she hadn’t seen the posters Scott had made for that protest over in Cambridge—she’d have had a heart attack, probably. They certainly didn’t paint the president in a very flattering light. One had a maniacally grinning Nixon toting a rifle pointed at a group of cowering Vietnamese children.

  “Mom, you’re so old fashioned,” he said instead, kissing the top of her head. His mother, though a formidable woman, was tiny and delicate, standing barely five-feet tall. He had grown taller than her well before his fourteenth birthday.

  Mike dashed upstairs and grabbed his guitar, which he quickly zipped into its case and slung over his shoulder. He then hurried back downstairs. Opening the closet, he found his coat and hat. “I’m going to go see my friends about this, okay, Ma?” he said, zipping up the front of his blue parka. “I’ll be back in time for dinner, I promise.” He pulled his homemade red hat down over his ears.

  His mother frowned, disapproving. “What about your math?” She looked at her watch. “You should be doing your school work.”

  “Ma.” Mike’s voice was pleading. “This is important. I need to talk to people about the draft and get more information. I need to see Scott and Howard and the others. Come on. Please.”

  He didn’t add what else he was thinking. “I’m an adult!” he wanted to shout. “I don’t need your permission!” But he said nothing else; he loved his mother.

  Her expression softened with understanding. “Go,” she said. She reached up and touched his face quickly. “I know you’re a good boy, Michael,” she said. Her voice was quiet now, and more urgent. He looked at her, surprised. She noted his expression. “Your father may be in favor of this war and this draft,” she said. “But I have only one child.” Her voice caught, and she turned away quickly and hurried into the kitchen. Mike said nothing as he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

  . . .

  It was the darkness that did it every time. Even the bravest of men cowered in the face of the unremitting blackness of the jungle at night.

  “It’s like being blind,” Mike had said stupidly on his first night mission.

  “You learn that in school, College?” Red had replied, his tone scathing. Mike had flushed, embarrassed. Thankfully, in the dark, his color went unnoticed.

  Tonight was the same; the only thing that changed in the jungle was the season. It was the monsoon now, and together with the relentless blackness came with the unending downpour of rain.

  Mike heard a noise in front of him. “Boots?” he tried to keep his voice to a whisper. “Everything okay?”

  “Sorry, College. It’s these damned malaria pills.”

  “So that’s what that stink is.” Fries said, laughing.

  “No, that’s Red. He’s crapped in his pants, he’s so scared.”

  “Shut up, Boots.”

  “All right, you guys. All of you shut it.” Mike cut them off. If he had learned anything about Vietnam, it was not to let the darkness lull you into thinking you were alone. The enemy, when he came, came silently and without warning.

  On little cat’s feet, he’d thought to himself when he’d first experienced the feeling of being stalked. Silent, like a cat hunting a mouse. It was from a poem he’d read in high school, about fog, but it captured the anticipation of an enemy ambush. He’d known, once, who wrote the poem, but like many details from his old life, the memory had left him.

  “Everyone awake?” The Lieutenant came up beside Mike, his voice quiet. They had been crouching in the same position for hours.

  “Yes, sir.” Mike’s voice came out hoarse.

  “We’re going to move again, College.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mike cleared his throat. “We’re moving out,” he hissed.

  There were rustlings as the men struggled with their rifles and packs in the dark. Mike swung his own M16 over his shoulder and prepared to walk.

  There was a lot of walking in Vietnam. Red liked to gripe that if you built a bridge across the ocean, you could walk back home from here, with all the walking they did. He probably wasn’t entirely off base.

  “Intel says there’s VC about thirty klicks northwest of here,” said the lieutenant.

  “Thirty klicks?” Red’s voice rose in indignation from the back of the line. “So we were dropped off five hours ago in the damned rain, nearly twenty miles away from where we have to be?”

  “And there it is,” said Fries. “At least it was only five hours. Remember Quang Tri? That was at least ten.”

  “What did I tell you? Snafu.”

  “Aw, shee-it, Red, just shut up. It’s bad enough without your damned politics.”

  “It’s not politics, Boots, it’s common sense.”

  “You know what’s common sense? Shutting your traps so we’re not killed.” Miles now, his low voice like thunder rumbling in the distance.

  “Killed? Charlie ain’t here, Miles. You heard the Lieutenant. They’re thirty klicks away.”

  “Yeah? You want to end up like Pan?”

  Instantly quiet, they all remembered Peter Berlin, a quiet boy from Wisconsin who’d liked comic books. Pan had faced a tiger, and lost, in the blackness of the jungle. They’d had to bind the body together with field wire before they could carry it back
to base. They hadn’t been able to find all of it. His parents had been told he’d died for his country in battle, a hero.

  “Right. So shut it.”

  They walked in silence.

  . . .

  Mike grabbed another slice of pepperoni and watched as Karen Markham, the de-facto leader of the campus anti-war movement, climbed up on a chair, ready to speak. She cleared her throat loudly and waved her arms to get their attention. Her dark hair was long and straight, and she was dressed in what his mother, frowning and shaking her head, would have referred to as “hippie wear”: wide-cut, faded jeans, a frilly, lavender peasant blouse, and a thin white bandana tied neatly around her head.

  “If I could get everyone’s attention, please!” Karen clapped her hands and swung her long hair so that it tumbled down her back.

  “She’s a real looker,” said Scott in a low voice.

  Howard nodded in agreement. “Even if I was a gun-toting Republican, I’d be here.”

  Scott snorted with laughter and tapped his bottle of Coke with a spoon. “Hear, hear.”

  “Guys, sh.” Mike’s voice was disapproving. “It’s rude.”

  Chastened, the others quieted and turned their attention to Karen.

  “So,” she said, looking out at her audience. “It’s finally happened. The government is starting a draft. No choice, no freedom. If your number’s called, off you go to Vietnam. To fight in an unjust war.” Her expression hardened. “They might as well just spit on the Constitution of the United States of America!”

  People cheered. Karen was a good speaker, the kind that drew people’s attention immediately, a bit like a hypnotist at a magic show Mike’s uncle had taken him to see as a child. She waited a moment, pausing for effect, then held her hand up to silence them. “What we need,” she said, voice calm, “is a plan. A strategy. What should we do? Because—” her voice grew louder, “—there’s no way all of you guys are going to Vietnam!” She swore loudly.