Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  “I gotta go, Pop.” Sal reached out to shake his father’s hand.

  Sneering at the gesture, Peter snapped the newspaper raising it up in front of his face. Dejectedly, Sal dropped his arm to his side and picked up his suitcase. He made his way to the door and opened it. “I’ll be seeing you, Pop,” Sal said, looking back one last time. “I’ll write you when I get to Vietnam. You take carea yourself. Awright?” Stepping out into the hall, Sal closed the door behind him.

  Slamming the paper down hard onto the table, Peter called out barely above his normal speaking voice, “Salvatore! Salvatore, I don’t want you to go.”

  Hearing his father’s words made Sal smile. “See you, Pop,” he whispered softly.

  With his suitcase firmly in hand, Sal hurried down the three flights of stairs, stopping outside on his stoop. Having great affection for his neighborhood, Sal inhaled deeply as he gazed up-and-down Arthur Avenue. Fondly, he remembered his first stickball game, his first day of school, and the first time he kissed a girl on the corner. Then with a spring in his step, Sal proceeded down the sidewalk into a dark and dangerous future.

  How different this was from when Salvatore had been uprooted from his grandparents’ home in Sicily so many years ago. Yet, once again, someone who loved him wanted him to stay. Fighting back his tears, Peter hung out his window for as long as possible, watching his son until he turned the corner at the end of the block, and was gone from sight.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Each evening, the national and local television news aired film footage of American military casualties. The Vietnam War had become dinner theater as Americans watched young, brave men fight and die. The sweltering temperatures of the summer of 1968 paled in comparison to the heated debates on Capitol Hill regarding America’s involvement in Southeast Asia. The growing anti-war movement had found its way from the liberal big cities to the conservative rural towns of the Midwest. As a result, even the staunchest proponents of the war in Indochina were now second guessing the United States involvement in this costly and divisive conflict.

  Falsely believing this campaign could be won through a “war of attrition,” the Joint Chiefs of Staff had greatly underestimated the fighting spirit of the North Vietnamese people. This misguided philosophy, combined with the White House’s policies: not to exceed troop levels of 550,000 combat soldiers in Vietnam; not to invade the north; not to mine Hai Phong Harbor; and not to allow American forces to pursue the enemy into Laos and Cambodia, would prove to be their undoing.

  Propped up by several pillows, Sal laid on his bunk writing a letter that he knew would go unanswered. Having returned from field operations several hours ago, he still wore the muddy olive-drab green uniform that he had worn for several days out in the bush. Curiously, the other men who shared Sal’s tent were nowhere to be found. They were probably out getting drunk, or releasing their pent-up frustrations in the numerous brothels and night clubs that had sprung up on the outskirts of their base camp. Although there was excessive drinking and a great deal of drug use by a noteworthy percentage of the soldiers, when it was time to saddle up, most of the men did their job with great efficiency and skill.

  First Platoon Leader, Second Lieutenant, Jonathan Symonds, sat in his billet sipping Kentucky Bourbon to steady his nerves as he wrote reports and letters to the families of the American soldiers killed in action. Undoubtedly, Symonds would state in his debriefing report to his superiors that Delta Company’s mission was a tremendous success, with minimal loss of American life, and a favorable kill ratio of four-to-one. Being as diplomatic as possible, Symonds would then explain to the parents of the fallen men how bravely their sons fought, and that they died honorably in a worthy cause to keep the people of South Vietnam and the world free from the threat of Communist expansion.

  Delta Company was deployed by Huey’s, East of Binh Long, on the border of Cambodia near the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The well-known trail, which ran south from Laos down through Cambodia to the gulf of Thailand, was the main supply and support route for the North Vietnamese military. They funneled troops and munitions to their units in the south through this passage. Delta’s military objective was to set up a listening post and an ambush for suspected enemy forces moving freely along the border. They were to engage the enemy, take prisoners if possible, and gather intelligence. Delta was slated to be in the field for three days, after which time they were to hump several clicks to a predetermined landing zone for pick up.

  After two and a half days of dealing with insects and mosquitoes the size of golf balls, boredom, excessive heat, dehydration, snakes, and C-Rats, they found the elusive enemy. Or rather, the enemy found them. A company-strength unit of combined NVA and VC forces had set up an ambush for the unsuspecting American soldiers as they made their way through the jungle to their designated LZ for extraction.

  Just before dawn, automatic gunfire from an AK-47 shattered the jungle’s serenity. First Platoon took cover and returned fire. After several hours of relentless fighting, the momentum swung in the American forces favor when Sal and Platoon Sergeant, Beckman, were able to call for a fire mission and accurately rain artillery-fire down on the enemy’s position. The two men then led a fire-team up a nearby ridge out-flanking the opposing force and caught the enemy in a crossfire. In the aftermath of the clash, four American soldiers lay dead and two were wounded. However, “Charlie” suffered the greater number of casualties, with fifteen confirmed KIA’s.

  Sal’s uniform was stained with the dried blood from a soldier he tried to save after the young man was shot in the stomach. Though Sal assisted the medic as best he could, the fatal wound inflicted by the Russian-made AK-47 eventually snuffed out his life. Only eighteen-years-old, the boy died silently. Moments from his end, he looked up at Sal, smiled, and was gone. The ugliness of war had become a way of life for these skilled jungle fighters. However, looking another human being directly in their eyes and watching them die was something not even the most battle-hardened veteran could ever really get used to.

  The stress of combat had taken its toll and greatly changed Sal’s appearance and gregarious personality. Once possessing a lush, beautiful flowing black mane, Sal now had a short, regulation G.I.-styled head of hair. Although his face was tan and still very handsome, Sal’s warm, sexy brown eyes had taken on a savage glint. His laser-like glare could burn through steel. Combat veterans who had seen too much death and destruction referred to it as the “thousand yard stare.”

  Like most of his fellow soldiers, Sal slept in a strong back tent designed to house twelve to fourteen men. Basically, the tents were a framed structure made out of 2x4s with canvas draped over them. The tops were secured by lashes and pegs, and if you were lucky enough to have flooring, it was usually made of wood.

  The tents were gloomy, dirty, and musty, but the men did their best to make their living quarters comfortable. Their flimsy Army-issued cots lined the floor on both sides, creating an aisle down the middle of the tent. Individual footlockers rested at the base of their bunks and housed their belongings. Some of the more resourceful grunts slept in homemade hammocks with netting draped around them to keep the mosquitoes away at night. Sweat-soaked towels, empty beer cans, dirty uniforms, and pornographic material were strewn about. The canvas reeked of mildew from the jungle’s incessant rain and heat. Pictures of loved ones and mementos from home cluttered the shelves and tables made out of discarded ammo crates and sandbags.

  The framed picture Sal’s grandmother gave him rested on an empty ammo crate he used as a nightstand. Though Peter never wrote back, Sal tried to write his father at least once a week. Holding his crucifix in his fingers, Sal slowly ran it back-and-forth along the gold chain around his neck as he quietly re-read a letter to himself to ensure its accuracy.

  “How you doing, Pop?

  “Things are pretty crazy here. I just got back from patrol a couple of hours ago. We lost four men. The good thing is we killed about fifteen or so of these go
oks. They’re not as stupid as everyone back home thinks. They got balls, too. I ran into Joey ‘The Chin’ and ‘Fat’ Angelo from the neighborhood on leave in Saigon. They’re pretty messed up. There’s a lot of drugs and stuff here. But you don’t gotta worry about me ’cause I’m good to go.

  “I guess you’re still pretty mad at me for leaving the way I did, but I really wouldn’t know, ’cause you never answer any of my letters. That’s okay. You never answered any of my mother’s letters either. I did what I thought was right, Pop. Even though you don’t agree with my decision, it would be kind of nice to hear from you sometime. I bet you must have been pretty pissed off when you heard I re-upped for a second tour. I would’ve liked to seen your face when you got the news. You can yell at me in a year, when you see me. That is, if I don’t get zapped by some slope.

  “I lost touch with all the fellas from the neighborhood a long time ago. I guess they’re all too busy to write me. I hate to admit it, but you was right about Nicole not waiting for me. She wrote me a letter about a month before I re-upped. She said that it was immoral for her to be involved with somebody who murders women and children. I don’t know what she’s talking about. The only people we ever KIAed was the VC shooting at us first. Something weird must have happened to her when she went to that college upstate. We was talking about getting married when I got home, and the next thing I know, she’s telling me she never wants to see me again. I guess I’ll never figure out broads.

  “Anyway Pop, I hope you’re doing okay. I guess I’ll see you when I see you. Oh yeah, by the way, happy birthday.

  “Salvatore”

  The loud, clumsy entrance of a vaguely familiar soldier from his platoon disrupted Sal’s thoughts. Angel Hernandez was a better-than-average looking, slender, dark-skinned Puerto Rican, standing just under six-feet, with a peach fuzz mustache, dark eyes, and a poor complexion.

  Growing up in Spanish Harlem, Angel was raised in a shit-hole tenement infested with cockroaches and rats. The outside of the building was covered with graffiti, and the first floor windows were boarded up for years because of an electrical fire. The hallways reeked of urine. Junkies routinely shot up in the stairwells. Winos slept on the front steps, and in the winter they made their way inside to sleep anywhere warm. There was very little, if any, heat in the winter, and no air-conditioning in the scorching summers.

  Angel’s father, Jose Hernandez, wasn’t much of a father at all. A full-blown heroin addict, Jose was in-and-out of the Bronx House of Detention so often he considered it his home away from home...that is until one day he got shived by a fellow inmate in a dispute over a card game for a lousy pack of smokes. Jose died a bloody and painful death clutching his chest on the floor of cell-block D.

  Once a beautiful young girl, Ruby Hernandez had dreams of becoming an actress. Ruby was active in the drama club at her high school and was earning good grades until she dropped out soon after meeting Jose. Shortly after that, Ruby found herself hustling for money to buy scat and shooting up almost as often as Jose. Six months later, Jose turned her out. Ruby began turning tricks on the corner to support their habit, and to earn grocery money to feed Angel and his younger half-brother, Roberto.

  When Angel was sixteen, his mother met her ugly demise at the hands of an insane homeless man. The bastard stabbed her in the face and chest forty-four times with a kitchen knife. After Ruby’s death, Angel did the best he could to care for Roberto himself. Working odd-jobs and menial duties around the neighborhood, Angel even sold a little junk to support them. However, after a phone call was made to Child Services by a concerned neighbor, the State of New York took Roberto away. They placed him in a foster home where Roberto was physically abused and sexually molested by his foster parents. Truly, Roberto was the only person Angel ever cared about. Having his brother taken from him would torment Angel for the rest of his life.

  Though he lacked any formal education, Angel was still a slick operator with a line of bullshit second to none. Confidence and the gift of gab got him over with the ladies, but none of the other soldiers liked him. Having only been “in country” a short time, Angel didn’t seem to want to listen to, or learn from, the veteran soldiers in his squad.

  Plopping down on a bunk, Angel silently watched Sal for several moments. Finally, his face broke into a smile and he asked, “Hey, what’s up, gringo?”

  Briefly, Sal’s eyes darted up and then back to his notebook.

  “I’m Hernandez. Angel Hernandez.”

  Sal ignored him.

  “And you’re Salvatore Scalise?”

  Still, Sal remained silent.

  “Man, you don’t say much. Do you? Look bro, I didn’t come here to fuck with you or nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute. Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Thanks for what, cherry?” Sal asked apathetically.

  “So you can fucking talk.”

  “Thanks for what, asshole?”

  “You saved my fucking ass out there today. Don’t you remember?”

  Briefly looking him over, Sal said, “No.”

  “Me and four other dudes was pinned down on a hill. You and some other dudes killed all the motherfucking dudes shooting at us, and got us the fuck outta there. Does you remember now?”

  “I killed a lotta motherfucker’s since I got here. What the fuck makes you think I’d remember your sorry ass?”

  “Look at me, bro,” Angel insisted, jutting his chin. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful specimen of a man in your life?”

  “I remember you now. You’re that jerk-off that was pissing in his pants instead of returning fire.”

  “That was water from my canteen!”

  “It smelt like piss.”

  “It was water, motherfucker!”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever you say FNG. How the fuck did you end up over there? Youse was lucky to get outta there with your brain housing group intact.”

  “Symonds?” Angel shrugged. “I just followed his stupid white ass like everyone else. Anyways, I just wanted to say thanks. ’cause if it wasn’t for you, I’d be going home with a flag draped over my pretty Puerto Rican ass. And believe me, all the foxy mama’s back home would be crying on that day. So I thanks you, and all my bitches back in the world thanks you.”

  “You’re welcome. And by the way, you’re not much to look at, so don’t go fucking fooling yourself.”

  “Lighten up, bro. Shit, I just come here to talk.” Angel lit a cigarette. “Yo Scalise, I gotta tell you, you was like a fucking crazy man out there. You fight like this fucking war is personal or something. What’s your story, bro?”

  “You’re still fucking here?”

  “C’mon, man. Don’t make me the fucking bad guy. I was just thinking maybe we could hang out? You know, shoot some stick. The least I can do is buy you a fucking beer.”

  “You’re right. That is the least you can do. But I don’t wanna be bothered. Understand?”

  “Yo bro, I’m just trying to do the right thing here and show you my appreciation for what you did for me. Why you gotta fuck with me?”

  “Fuck with you?” Sal slammed his notebook down on his bunk. “How long you been in country, cherry?”

  “Couplea weeks, almost a month.”

  “You know what you are, fucking new guy? You’re a dead man and you don’t even know it. You ain’t got no friends. You ain’t got no family. You’re thousands a miles away from home and nobody gives a fuck if you live or die. And you’re gonna die. Screaming like a little-bitch with your fucking guts hanging out.”

  Angel swallowed hard and took a long puff of his cigarette. “Look man, I ain’t no fucking punk-bitch, awright? I ain’t scared a nothing. I’ve seen more fucked up shit and been in more fucked up places than this back home.”

  “Oh, yeah. Where’s that?”

  Angel puffed out his chest and declared, “Spanish Harlem, motherfucker! Born and raised.”

  “So fucking what.”

  “Yo
u know what that means, don’t you?”

  “No!”

  “We’re both from New York, bro. That makes us homeys, ma man.”

  “Homeys? We ain’t fucking homeys.”

  “Shit yeah, we are. You’re from the Bronx, I’m from Harlem. We’s like family,” Angel remarked, humorously.

  Sal laughed. “Yeah, we’s just like brothers from another mother.”

  “Brothers, huh? That’s cool. Dig this, hermano. We should be looking out for each other. You hear what I’m saying? ’cause I’m telling you as sure as shit these backward ass country motherfuckers don’t give a rat’s ass about you or me. Maybe next time I’ll be the one to save your ass.”

  “I fucking doubt it.”

  “C’mon, bro. You gotta have at least one friend you can count on over here. Right?”

  “You got it all figured out, huh. I’ve seen your act before, fucko. You ain’t fooling nobody with your tough talk and bullshit. You’re just another dumb fucking spic going home in a bag.”

  “I ain’t trying to fool nobody. On the real, I thought maybe I could learn something from you. Maybe enough to get outta this fucking place someday. Alive! Now, I don’t think that’s too much to ask from a homey. Is it?”

  “Well, I guess I can’t blame you for wanting to live.”

  “That’s all I’m saying. Just give me a chance. Awright? Let’s go have a few pops over at the club? And if you still think I’m just another dumb fucking spic, I’ll disappear. Cool?”

  “Well, since you put it like that, what the fuck. One drink can’t hurt.” Jumping to his feet, Sal and Angel exited the tent and headed over to the NCO Club.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Sal and Angel stood in the doorway looking around. This was the first time Angel had been inside and he felt a little out of place, but he would never admit that. Having been there several times, Sal knew what to expect. MPs were summoned almost nightly to the NCO Club to break up fights, crap games, or poker marathons that had grown violent.