“The voting’s already started,” said Ben, after Sasha joined him at the bar and told him the latest news. “We haven’t got a moment to waste, because Fiona’s been telling everyone you’ve spent the past two days in a police cell. You’ve got to admire her nerve.”
“Not to mention her timing.”
“Pity Warwick didn’t lock her up for the day. That would certainly have helped our chances. But we can still win.”
They began to work the room. Several members shook Sasha’s hand warmly, while others turned their backs on him—one or two of whom he’d considered supporters, even friends. He tried to speak to everyone who hadn’t yet voted, even if he knew they had no intention of backing him. It was clear that some people still believed Fiona’s story, or wanted to, while others admitted to him that their own fingerprints might well be on that fire escape. Sasha didn’t stop until the last vote had been cast at six o’clock, when he joined Ben and Charlie at the Union bar. Fiona’s supporters occupied one side of the room, while Sasha’s filled the other half.
“When will you find out the result?” asked Charlie as she sipped a lager.
“Around seven,” said Ben. “So not long to wait.”
Ben’s prediction turned out to be wrong, because it was nearer eight when the retiring president, Chris Smith, entered the bar and made his way to the center of the room, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He waited for complete silence before he spoke.
“I would like to begin by explaining why we’ve taken so long to announce the result. Three recounts were required before the tellers were able to agree on the outcome. So I can now tell you that, by a majority of three votes, the next president of the Cambridge Union will be…”
19
ALEX
Vietnam, 1972
Alex read the letter a second time, before he showed it to his mother. Elena wept, because she knew exactly what her son would do.
“If only we’d gone to England, this would never have happened,” she said, and couldn’t help thinking they’d climbed into the wrong crate.
Many young men who were reading the same letter that morning would already be on the phone to their fathers’ lawyers, or paying a visit to the family doctor, while others would simply tear up the draft, hoping the problem would go away. But not Alex.
Elena wasn’t the only person who cried. Addie begged him to at least try and get a deferral, pointing out that as he was in his final year at NYU, they would surely allow him to complete his degree. Although she cried all night, Alex wasn’t persuaded.
He still had one pressing problem that needed to be solved before he could pack his bags and leave home. His eleven stalls were now making a handsome profit, and he certainly didn’t want to sell any of them. But who could run his burgeoning empire while he was away? To his surprise, it was his mother who came up with the solution.
“I’ll give up my job at Mario’s, and Dimitri and I will take them over until you come back.”
No one raised the subject of what would happen if he didn’t return.
Alex happily accepted their offer, and on February 11, 1972, he boarded a train for Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to begin an eight-week course of basic training, before being shipped out to Vietnam.
* * *
The lights went on. “Up, up, up!” shouted a staff sergeant at the top of his voice as he marched down the corridor between the sleeping recruits, his baton striking the end of every bunk. One by one the young men were rudely awakened, and, unaccustomed to the hour, blinked and rubbed their eyes, with one exception. By four in the morning, Alex would already have been on his way to the market.
“The Vietcong are charging toward you,” yelled their instructor, “and they’ll kill the last man who puts his feet on the ground!”
Alex was already heading toward the showers, towel in hand. He turned on a tap that offered no choice between cold and cold.
“Anyone who hasn’t showered, shaved, and dressed in fifteen minutes, won’t be fed before lunch.” Suddenly bodies were racing toward the showers.
Alex was the first to be seated on one of the long wooden benches in the mess hall. He had quickly become aware how his mother had spoiled him over the years. It wasn’t until the third morning, by which time he’d become so desperate, that he accepted a breakfast of lumpy porridge, greasy bacon, burned toast, and a hot black liquid the army called coffee.
When he was introduced to the parade ground, followed by the gym, route marches, and wading across a freezing river holding a rifle above his head, he quickly discovered he wasn’t quite as fit as he’d imagined. However, he did manage to stay a yard or two ahead of most of his fellow recruits, who until then had considered Saturday evenings were for drinking and Sunday mornings for sleeping it off. The staff sergeant gently reminded them that the Vietcong didn’t take the weekends off.
While Alex continued to hold his own in the gym, on the shooting range, and in the hills during night operations, he excelled in the classroom, where the education officer attempted to explain why America had become embroiled in a war in the Far East.
Alex became fascinated by the history of Vietnam, and how the north and south had been united since AD 939, but were now at each other’s throats.
“But why are we sacrificing our soldiers’ lives for a small country on the other side of the world?” asked Alex.
“Because if the communists in the north took control of the whole of Vietnam, who would fall next?” replied the education officer. “Laos? Cambodia? And would the enemy even stop when they reached Australia? It’s the domino effect. Allow one to topple, and others will follow.”
“But Vietnam is still on the other side of the world,” said Alex.
“You can’t be sure of that,” said the EO. “With Cuba in the hands of Fidel Castro, the communists are only a stone’s throw from the US coast, and if they were to get their hands on anything other than bows and arrows, Florida could be next in line.”
Alex didn’t ask any more questions, as he was well aware of how the Red Army had occupied the whole of Eastern Europe while the Allies sat and watched.
Alex quickly made friends among his fellow recruits, some of whom were, like him, first-generation immigrants. He helped them write letters to their families and girlfriends, fill in forms, and even taught one of them how to tie his shoelaces. However, there was one—there’s always one—who took against Alex from the first bugle call.
Big Sam, also known as the Tank, was 6 foot 4, and the scales didn’t stop until they’d reached 226 pounds, most of it taut muscle. He certainly didn’t consider Private Karpenko the unit’s natural leader. Most of the other recruits avoided Big Sam, and even one or two of the staff sergeants were wary of him. Alex also kept his distance, but he couldn’t avoid Big Sam when, during one gym session, the two of them were ordered into the boxing ring for a friendly bout. Big Sam didn’t do friendly. All the other recruits crowded around to witness the inevitable slaughter.
“I am the greatest,” Alex whispered without conviction as he climbed through the ropes, hoping the words of Cassius Clay would inspire him, and he might at least survive the three three-minute rounds.
For the first round, Alex danced nervously around the ring while his opponent threw punch after punch, none of them hitting the target. Alex somehow made it to the end of the second round, even hitting Big Sam a couple of times, not that he noticed. But Alex’s legs were quickly turning to lead. This wasn’t a slow waltz at a local dance hall with a young lady as your partner.
About halfway through the third round Sam managed to land a glancing blow on the side of Alex’s head. Alex wobbled long enough for Sam to hit him a second time, on the chin, when he collapsed in a heap onto the canvas. A wiser man might have stayed put. But not Alex. He attempted to haul himself to his feet as the referee counted, “Five, six, seven…” He was still only resting on one knee when the next punch landed squarely on his nose. All he could see in front of his eyes were stars and
stripes, and far more than fifty. Big Sam would have been disqualified if it had been a championship bout but, as the staff sergeant pointed out, no one would have time to explain the Queensberry Rules to the Vietcong.
When he came around a few moments later, Alex was horrified to see Big Sam standing over him. He braced himself for the next blow, but Big Sam took off his glove and helped Alex to his feet; his new best friend.
* * *
In week two, they were introduced to the rifle range and stationary targets.
“Tomorrow the targets will move,” said the staff sergeant. “And once you’ve got used to that, they’ll shoot back.”
During week three, day became night. No food, no sleep, and if you weren’t dead, you wished you were. Week four was hand-to-hand combat, but only after they hadn’t eaten or slept for fourteen hours. When they were finally allowed to collapse onto their bunks, they hadn’t even fallen asleep before they were ordered back on their feet and told the Vietcong had just launched a counter-attack. “And don’t forget, for them, it’s a home game.”
No one was surprised when in week five, Alex was made up to corporal and put in charge of a dozen of his fellow recruits. He immediately chose Big Sam as his second in command.
By the end of the sixth week, Alex’s squad were regularly outperforming their rivals. Every one of them would have followed him over a cliff.
In the seventh week their platoon commander, Lieutenant Lowell, took Alex to one side after morning parade.
“Karpenko, have you considered applying for a transfer to officer training school? Because if you did, I’d be happy to support your application.” He was disappointed by Alex’s reply.
“I’m a street trader, sir. I have no desire to be an officer. I’ll stay and fight with my unit, if that’s all right with you.”
Over the next few weeks Lieutenant Lowell made several attempts to get Karpenko to change his mind, but he always received the same uncompromising response.
On their final day at Fort Bragg, Alex’s platoon received a commendation from the commanding officer. Big Sam accepted the award on their behalf.
“You’re one of the finest units I’ve ever had under my command,” said the general as he handed over the pennant.
“Show me the others,” said Big Sam. The general burst out laughing.
On June 5, 1972, Lieutenant Lowell, Corporal Karpenko, and the enlisted men of the 116th Infantry Division climbed aboard a dozen trucks in the middle of the night before being shipped out of Fort Bragg and driven to an airport that didn’t appear on any map. Fourteen hours later, after three brief stops when the plane was refueled and they weren’t, the troops finally landed on a heavily guarded runway somewhere in South Vietnam. They were no longer recruits, but trained infantrymen ready for war.
Not all of them would return.
* * *
The 116th spent a couple of weeks settling into their makeshift barracks, and another fortnight preparing for their first assignment. By then, every one of them was more than ready. But ready for what?
“Our orders are clear,” said Lieutenant Lowell at his morning briefing. “We’ve been assigned to patrol the area along Long Binh. The Vietcong occasionally stray close by in the hope of finding a weak spot in our defenses. If they’re foolish enough to do so, it’s our job to make sure they regret it, and send them packing.”
“And will we get the chance to take the fight to them?” asked Alex.
“It’s unlikely,” said Lowell. “That’s left to the professionals—the Marines and the US Army Rangers. Only in exceptional circumstances would we be called on to assist them.”
“So we’re no more than traffic cops,” said the Tank.
“Something like that,” admitted Lowell. “They also serve who only stand and wait.” Alex would have to look up the quote when he was next in a library, which might not be for a couple of years. “The good news,” continued Lowell, “is that every six weeks you’ll have a few days’ R and R, when you can visit Saigon.”
A small cheer went up.
“But you can’t afford to relax even then. You’ll have to assume that anyone who approaches you is a Vietcong agent. Be particularly wary of attractive young women, who’ll offer you sex in the hope of extracting what you might consider a trivial piece of information.”
“Couldn’t we just have the sex and keep our mouths shut?” suggested a soldier.
Lowell waited for the laughter to die down. “No, Boyle,” he said firmly. “Whenever you’re tempted, just remember it might cause the death of one of your comrades.”
“I’m not sure I can go six weeks without a woman,” said Boyle. Although the rest of the unit burst out laughing, they clearly agreed with him.
“Don’t worry, Boyle,” said Lowell. “The army’s made a provision for soldiers like you. We have our own designated brothel on the outskirts of the camp. It’s run by a lady called Lilly, and all the girls have been carefully vetted. On the only occasion that Lilly discovered one of her girls was working for the Vietcong, she was found floating in the river the next morning. Every unit in the camp has been allocated one night a week on which its men can visit Lilly’s establishment. Ours is Wednesday.”
No one needed to make a note.
* * *
Alex found patrolling boring at best, and pointless at worst. It was five weeks before they spotted a Vietcong patrol. Lieutenant Lowell immediately gave the order to advance and fire at will, but they failed to hit anything other than the odd tree, and within seconds the enemy had melted back into the jungle.
When Alex described the incident in a long letter to his mother, he tried to reassure her that he was more likely to be killed crossing Brighton Beach Avenue than on patrol. This observation was redacted by the censors.
Alex received regular letters from his mother. Bernie had finally retired, and Elena confessed that since he’d left, they were just about breaking even. Alex didn’t have to read between the lines to realize that neither his mother nor Dimitri was a natural trader. Elena told him they couldn’t wait for him to get back, although Alex had to accept that it wouldn’t be for at least another year. As the long weeks turned into longer months, he wondered if he shouldn’t have taken Addie’s advice and applied for a deferral. He would have completed his final year at NYU and, more importantly, asked Addie to be his wife. He even had the ring.
20
SASHA
London, 1972
“I would like to request your permission, sir, to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
“How gloriously old-fashioned,” said Mr. Dangerfield. “But, Sasha, don’t you think you’re both a little young to be considering marriage? Shouldn’t you wait a little longer before you make such an irrevocable decision?”
“Why wait, sir, when you’ve found the one woman you want to spend the rest of your life with?”
“I’d ask if you were confident my daughter feels the same way about you, if I didn’t already know the answer.” Sasha smiled, well aware that Charlie was sitting in the next room. “So, as your prospective father-in-law, I think I’m meant to ask about your prospects?”
“I’ve had three job offers for when I leave Cambridge, sir. My problem is that I can’t make up my mind which one to choose.”
“An embarrassment of riches,” said Mr. Dangerfield.
“Without any guarantee of riches,” admitted Sasha. “And what makes it worse, none of them is what I really want to do.”
“Now you do have me intrigued.”
“Trinity has offered me a prize fellowship, provided I get a first.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir. But I don’t think I’m cut out to be a don. I prefer the battlefield to the classroom.”
“Any particular battlefield?”
“A mandarin from the Foreign Office has approached me and suggested I sit their entrance exam. But I’m not sure if they want me to be a diplomat or a spy.”
�
��I didn’t realize there was a distinction,” said Dangerfield. “But I’ve no doubt you’d do both well. And the third job?”
“Mr. Agnelli, the owner of Elena’s restaurant, where my mother is head chef, has asked me to join him. He has no children of his own, and has hinted that in time I could take over.”
“Cambridge don, spymaster, or restaurateur. You couldn’t have a more eclectic choice, although a restaurateur would be the closest to the battlefield, and probably the best paid.”
“Not only would it be better paid, but I’m quite well qualified for the job. For the past five years I’ve worked in a restaurant during my holidays. I started out as a washer-up, moved on to laying tables, before having spells as a barman and a waiter. It sometimes felt as if I was taking two degrees at the same time.”
“But you say that none of the three jobs is what you really want to do.”
“No, sir. Like my father, I’m a politician at heart, and Cambridge has only made me more determined to become a Member of Parliament.”
“And have you decided yet which party’s colors you will be flying under?”
“No, I haven’t, sir. The truth is, I’ve never cared for either extreme. I prefer the center ground, as I often find myself agreeing with the other person’s point of view.”
“But you’ll eventually have to jump one way or the other if you’re hoping to pursue a political career,” suggested Dangerfield. “Unless of course you decide to join the Liberals.”
“No, sir,” laughed Sasha. “I don’t believe in lost causes.”
“Neither do I, and I’ve voted Liberal all my life.”
Sasha turned bright red, and said, “I apologize, sir.”
“No need, dear boy. I think you’ll find my wife agrees with you.”
“Before I make a complete fool of myself, sir…”
“Susan’s a lifelong Conservative, although she sometimes has to hold her nose when she goes to the polls. So she’s even worse than you. But didn’t Charlie tell me that after you failed to become president of the Union, you promised her you would never stand again?”
Heads You Win Page 18
