Michael Thomas Ford - Full Circle

by Michael Thomas Ford

  I saw the rooster before I saw anything else. It was badly burned, only the tip of the beak and part of the name intact. It had apparently taken a direct hit. I could only wonder what had become of the men inside. I could see stretchers on the ground, with medics hunched over them. There was much shouting as soldiers were directed what to do with the wounded men.

  I ran up and peered over the bowed backs of the medics. I saw Andy at once. He was lying on a stretcher, his body covered by a blanket. As far as I could tell, he was alive, but I saw blood seeping through the blanket where it draped over his legs. Before I could talk to him, two soldiers picked him up and carried him toward the medical building. I could only watch as he was taken away.

  "What happened to him?" I asked one of the medics who had been attending to him. "Bullet wounds," he said brusquely as he moved to another man.

  "He'll be all right?"

  "They tore through his femoral artery," the man answered. "He lost a lot of blood on the way back here. If he's lucky, he'll just lose a leg." My heart sank as I realized my worst fear was coming true. Compounding it was the fact that I could do absolutely nothing but wait. Andy's life was in the hands of the men in the operating room. All I could do was go back to my hootch, sit on my cot, and prepare myself for the possibility that Andy would die. Like so many people in my position, I thought with regret about how angry I'd been at him recently. I chastised myself for trying to turn him into something he wasn't, and not just accepting him as he was.

  Although flawed, I was certain that he cared for me. Maybe he wasn't in love with me, but he was undeniably my lover, and that was close enough. Could he help it if he wasn't ready to acknowledge that we meant more to one another than we ever spoke about?

  I immediately forgave him everything—the irresponsibility, the aloofness, the inability to recognize his capacity for love. I swore that I would let him come to me on his own terms, without pushing for more than he could give or demanding that he accept more from me that he could handle. I would love him even more than I already did, and better.

  I did something else then that is typical of those facing the loss of a loved one. I made a deal with God. We hadn't been on speaking terms for many years, God and I, but in tried-and-true human fashion, I suddenly found an infinite capacity for belief in his ability to save Andy's life. If he did, I promised, I would stay in Vietnam another year and pay him back by sending soldiers to him in the best condition I possibly could.

  When I was done, I sat and waited for his answer.

  CHAPTER 30

  In April of 1972, giant pandas Hsing Hsing and Ling Ling arrived at the National Zoo in Washington, D.C., a gift from China's Chairman Mao to commemorate the recent diplomatic thaw between our two countries after a visit by President Nixon in February. Excited zoo-goers waited hours in line for a glimpse of the black-and-white bears, while Hsing Hsing and Ling Ling, oblivious to their role as goodwill ambassadors, sat in their bamboo-filled enclosure and peered back at their visitors with the inscrutability for which their countrymen are famed.

  The same week the pandas came to Washington, I left Vietnam bound for San Francisco. I was a few months shy of both my second anniversary at Quan Loi and my twenty-second birthday. I felt much older than I was, because of what I'd seen during the past twenty-two months, but also because of my health. In January, I'd contracted a gastrointestinal parasite, and ever since I'd been fighting a running battle with my bowels. It was this that had earned me a premature release from duty and a seat on the Continental Airlines Freedom Bird that lifted me from the airstrip at Bien Hoa and carried me across the Pacific Ocean.

  My new assignment was to be at the Presidio, the military base on San Francisco Bay. Built by the Spanish in 1776, it had subsequently been a Mexican garrison until it was taken over yet again in 1846, this time by U.S. Army troops, who repaired the fort's adobe walls, which had gradually washed away during years of winter rains, and established it as a key military outpost on the West Coast. It would remain so for the next 148 years, changing and growing continuously as army soldiers used it first as a base of operations in campaigns against the Modoc and Apache Indians in the U.S. and Pancho Villa in Mexico, then as a coastal defense site in World War I, and later as a point of embarkation for the Pacific Theater during World War II.

  It was also home to Letterman Hospital, which had cared for sick and injured soldiers during every military conflict since the Spanish American War. The largest facility of its kind, Letterman had seen many cases of men returning home from tours abroad with all manner of exotic flora and fauna inhabiting their innards, and it was to be my first stop upon arrival. Following the eradication of the bacteria currently using my intestines as a Slip 'N' Slide, I was to report for duty in the quartermaster unit, where I would serve out the remaining months of my enlistment.

  I was thrilled to be in San Francisco. My enthusiasm for the city hadn't died since I'd first seen it during my layover on the way to Vietnam, and I'd specifically requested to be stationed there. But I wasn't excited about the city just because it was beautiful. I was excited because Andy was there. He'd survived the surgery and had, in fact, been far luckier than the pessimistic medic had supposed he might be. Despite serious damage to the nerves and muscles, it had not been necessary to amputate his leg. It was, however, the end of his military career. A few weeks after the shooting, he'd been shipped home for further treatment and ongoing physical therapy at Letterman. Keeping up my end of the bargain with God, I'd signed on for another tour.

  During the intervening year, Andy had corresponded with surprising and welcome regularity, beginning with a letter every month and progressing to one or sometimes two a week. It was as if in letters he was able to say many of the things he'd been unable to when we were face to face. He thanked me for my friendship, and revealed his frustration with not being able to fight the war that had come to mean so much to him. He was, he wrote, proud of me for staying. He stopped short of saying that he loved me, but by then I was used to his detachment and hardly noticed. After my arrival in California, it was four long days before I saw him. During that time I submitted to numerous tests and to the inspection of my colon by various doctors wielding a succession of increasingly unpleasant instruments, all of which seemed to have been placed in a freezer for several days before being inserted into my rectum. At the end of this orgy of prying, during which the effluents of my system were collected daily and examined in minute detail with frightening enthusiasm, I was prescribed a program of antibiotics and pronounced fit enough to venture out into the world, albeit with a warning to avoid the consumption of raw eggs or undercooked meat.

  That night, I met Andy for dinner at the Sausage Factory, an Italian restaurant in the Castro. Emerging from the cab that brought me from the Presidio, I was stunned by what I saw. The sidewalk in both directions was lined with men, almost all of them in Levi's so tight that their packages were clearly outlined. They leaned seductively against buildings and over apartment balconies, and paraded by singly and in groups, laughing and talking in the warm spring evening. A first exposure to the city's—and perhaps the country's—gayest neighborhood has often been likened to Dorothy's first glimpse of Oz after the drabness of Kansas, and while the comparison is admittedly overused, I can think of none that captures the moment more fittingly. Never having seen anything like it, I found myself staring.

  "Hey, soldier. You looking for some action?" I turned to see Andy standing behind me. He, too, was wearing jeans, his damaged leg hidden beneath the faded, well-worn fabric. He also had on a red-and-black-checkered flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a battered pair of combat boots.

  "You saved them," I said, pointing at his feet.

  He looked down. "Actually, no," he said. "Would you believe I bought them? I should have saved mine. Everybody wants these now." I walked over and gave him a hug. Holding him in my arms, I almost started to cry. It had been so long since I'd seen him. He felt thinner, harder, as
if he had been purified and all the excess burned away. To my surprise, he kissed me, briefly, on the mouth.

  "You've got a moustache now," I observed.

  He ran his fingers over the hair on his lip and smiled. "Like it?"

  "It suits you," I said. "Let me guess—everybody wants one now."

  He laughed. "Hey, it never hurts to look good. Speaking of which, it's time for you to grow your hair out. You're not in Nam anymore." "But I'm still in the army," I reminded him as he opened the door to the restaurant and we went inside. I noticed that he was limping as we followed the host to our table. When we sat down, I asked him how his physical therapy was going.

  "Not bad," he said. "I don't use a cane anymore. The doc says by this time next year I might be pretty much normal. At least until you see me naked."

  "I can't wait," I said. He ignored my intended come-on, looking intently at the menu. I wasn't sure he'd heard my comment, but I felt that repeating it would look like I was trying too hard. I wanted our reunion to be a good one, so I didn't say anything. Finally the waiter came and took our order. When he had gone, Andy asked,

  "So, how are things at Quan Loi?" "The same," I said. "A lot of the guys we knew are gone. Now it's mostly helo jockeys and special ops. I don't know where things are headed. They're talking about a pullout." Andy shook his head in disgust. "They're just giving up, man. They're letting those VC bastards win."

  I didn't want to talk about Vietnam. I'd left it behind me, and I wanted to look ahead. Andy, however, wanted to go back and relive it all over again. I knew if I didn't find a way to change the subject, we'd be talking about the same old guys and telling the same old stories the entire night.

  "What are you doing these days?" I asked him. "For work, I mean."

  "Different shit," he said. "Mostly I bartend at this place not far from here."

  "Bartend?" I said. "The army didn't set you up with anything?"

  He gave a derisive snort. "Fuck no, they didn't," he answered. "I mean, they tried. They had me working goddamned carpentry with this guy who fought in Korea and runs a construction business. His whole crew is vets. But he was kind of an asshole, and with my leg and all, it just didn't work out. Besides, I make more bartending."

  "Great," I said. "Where do you work?"

  "Just down the street," he said. "Place called Toad Hall. It's a queer bar. We can go over there afterward if you want." "A queer bar," I repeated, the word uncomfortable on my tongue.

  "This whole neighborhood seems to be kind of, you know, like that."

  "The Castro?" said Andy. "Yeah, it is. Used to be all Irish and German families. They're the ones who built all the painted ladies. I don't think they're too crazy about all the gays moving in, but there's not much they can do about it."

  "And the bar you work at is gay," I said. I wanted to ask him if he counted himself among the gay population, but I just couldn't. I hoped he would say it himself. I wanted to see how far he'd come in talking about who he was.

  "Gays tip the best," he said. "Especially if they think it'll get them into your pants. I can take home a hundred bucks a night easy."

  "Wow," I said, impressed. "I can't wait to see the place you've got with that kind of money coming in."

  "It's okay," he said. "I share a flat with a buddy. It's the second floor of a house over on Diamond. The stairs are a bitch, but it's big." This was the first I'd heard of a roommate. Andy had never mentioned one in any of his letters. I found myself getting a little jealous, especially as I still didn't know whether or not Andy had thrown himself into the city's apparently thriving gay world.

  Our food came and we began to eat. Used to dinners in mess halls, where time was often of the essence, I put my head down and ate quickly. It was only after I'd put away half my bowl of spaghetti that I realized Andy was watching me. I put my fork down and wiped my mouth. "Sorry," I said. "I guess I'm still not used to being back in the real world."

  "This isn't the real world," Andy said. "This is Never-Never Land, and we're the Lost Boys. The real world is back there." He jerked his head toward the window and, eight thousand miles beyond it, Vietnam.

  "Tell me what's new these days," I suggested. "Movies. Music. Television. That kind of stuff. I've really been out of it."

  Andy shrugged. "I saw The Godfather last week. It's pretty good. Music, I don't know. They play that

  ‘American Pie' song every five minutes. You must have heard that one. I don't really pay a lot of attention to that shit."

  "What do you do for fun?" "Fun?" Andy repeated. "You know what I do for fun, Ned? I get high and I think about killing VC. I think about being in a chopper with an M60 blasting away at whatever the fuck gets in my way. That's what I do for fun."

  Taken aback by the anger in his voice, I concentrated on twirling spaghetti around my fork. I hadn't realized how much Andy resented being taken away from Vietnam, and I didn't know what to say to him.

  "Look, man, I'm sorry," Andy said, sounding less upset. "I just get worked up sometimes. It's not easy being back. People don't get it unless they were there. I have to listen to them talking about how we fucked everything up, especially after Calley and his boys went on trial for blowing the shit out of those people at My Lai. I try to explain what was really going on, but it all comes out wrong and they just look at me like I'm fucking nuts."

  "I didn't know it was so hard," I said. "You'll find out," he said. "We get vets coming into the bar. One of these guys—an old fag who was in World War II—he found out I was in Nam. You know what he said? He told me we should have fought harder, like he did. It's not just the civies who think we didn't take care of business, it's our own guys."

  "Like you said, they weren't there," I told him. "You can't let it bother you."

  "Tell me that after you've been back a year," said Andy.

  Things weren't going well, and I was starting to think that I should go back to the base and see Andy another night, after he'd calmed down a little. But I had a feeling his anger was always with him, hiding just below the surface. Worse, I was beginning to think that seeing me just made it worse. I was his connection to Quan Loi, to the war, and I thought maybe having me there to bring back a lot of old memories was hurting him more than it was helping.

  "I should probably get back soon," I said, laying the groundwork for an exit.

  "No," Andy said. "Look, don't mind me. I'm just spouting off. Come on, I want you to see the bar." We finished up dinner, I paid, and we left. Andy walked slowly, and several times I reached out to steady him when I thought he was going to fall. But he never did, and a few minutes later we reached Toad Hall. A crowd of men stood outside, smoking and holding animated discussions. More than a few of them called out greetings to Andy as we passed through them.

  "My fan club," Andy joked as we went inside. Indoors, it was even more packed with men. The walls were painted black, and on one of them someone had painted a mural of the characters from Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows , from which the bar had taken its name. Music was pounding out of the speakers, and behind the bar a huge mound of old candle wax formed a kind of pyre, on top of which a row of votives burned, adding themselves to the landscape as they slowly melted. A thin man with long hair, a moustache, and worried eyes came up to us. Andy greeted him enthusiastically, then turned to me. "Ned, this is Stan, the manager. He's the guy who saved me from construction."

  "He was in here all the time anyway," Stan said, shaking my hand.

  "He tipped for shit, so I figured I either had to hire him or kick him out."

  "Nice to meet you, sir," I said.

  "Sir?" said Stan. "You must be one of Andy's army buddies."

  "That's right," I said. "I guess you can't teach an old soldier new tricks."

  "Maybe not," Stan said. "But I bet there are some guys in here who'd like to be your new tricks."

  He and Andy laughed while I tried to figure out what Stan meant. Then Stan excused himself and left us alone. Andy went to the bar and r
eturned with two Budweisers. He handed me one and drained a third of his own in one long swallow.

  "Stan seems like a good guy," I said, raising my voice to be heard above the music and the conversations going on around us. "He is," said Andy. He was staring past me at the door, as if looking for someone. "Is it always this crowded?" I asked, marveling at the throng of men crammed into the bar. "This is nothing," Andy said. "Wait 'til you see it on a Friday or Saturday night."

  I couldn't imagine Toad Hall holding any more people than it was right then. For a guy who had never been inside a gay bar, it was a little disconcerting. I was used to hiding who I was, and now I was literally surrounded by men celebrating their sexual identity. I found myself excited but also a little scared. I drank some more of my beer, hoping it would relax my nerves.

  I was also working up my courage to ask Andy if I would be going home with him that night. Watching the men in the bar, many of whom had removed their shirts and some of whom were kissing one another, I was suddenly very aware of the fact that apart from jerking off, I hadn't had any contact with a man in a very long time. Even though Andy had been so casual about our relationship in the past, I hoped that now that he was out of the army and surrounding himself with gay men that he might be ready to be more open about himself, and about us.

  "So," I said, my heart beginning to race as I thought about touching Andy's naked skin. "I was wondering if…"

  I stopped when I saw him look behind me and wave. "Hold on," he said. "My roommate's here." I turned around, anxious to see what kind of man Andy had found to live with. Since he'd said nothing about him in any of his letters, I had no idea what to expect. I looked at the man coming toward us and felt my heart stop.