That’s why that bastard from Saigon has me so riled. What I overheard was this. “We’re pulling out. Don’t tell anybody,” K said. “We’re going to pull out and let the communists have the country.” He told them, absolutely instructed them, “Don’t waste your people on the indigenous population. Cut back materiel and effort.”
I almost fragged the bastard. I think mainly he means the farthest out villages and hamlets—which is exactly where CAG operates and where we’ve had great success. How will this bode for the next circle in? Seems to me, it will make “that” circle the outer ring of our defenses.
The bottom line is this. We’ve been used. The PFs and RFs have been used too, but we’ve been used far worse. Men get used in every war, but they’re especially wasting us in this one. I think, if we really are pulling out, and who’s higher in country than K, I think we’ll see it as the dumbest thing we’ve ever done in our entire history. All our efforts, wasted! This country pockmarked for nothing.
The real sad part, if we pull out, is we will have wasted the virtues of an entire generation of American boys—its will, its patriotism, its concern for those beyond our own borders. What will be left? We are the Will. We are those who have said we will defend those who cannot defend themselves from tyranny. We are the Will. We are those who have said, “We will squeeze the trigger in defense of liberty, in defense of self-determination, in defense of self-rule.” We are the will and they are wasting us. That will have a profound and detrimental effect on America for a long time. And the South, with M-1s and M-14s, won’t be able to withstand the North. Again—for America, if we destroy the will to go conventional, the alternative warfare will be much more horrifying. I am the Will. The Will is being destroyed!
Tony stopped reading, stared at the letter, worked his tongue anxiously against his teeth, did not look up.
“What do you think?” Uncle James asked.
“Who’s Mr. K.?” Isabella pressed.
“What’s he talking about, ‘destroying the will’?”
Tony looked up. He felt grave. “I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know.”
“Is this about the peace protestors? Burning flags, indeed! Or the Chicago Eight? Or this My Lai place?”
All Tony would say is, “I don’t know.” He read the remainder of the letter, which was cheerful, newsy. Li had sold a sketch of three marines and three PF soldiers to a major British magazine. She had sketched a portrait of Jimmy with his new rank insignia. The fighting, very sporadic, was going well for the ARVN, the RF/PF, and the Americans. Viet Namization was heavily underway farther south, but in I Corps the region’s security still depended upon the Americans.
“I still want to know about this Mr. K.,” Uncle James said.
“I see it this way,” Tony finally responded. “Jimmy’s a professional Marine now. He knows what he’s doing and I trust him. I’ve got complete faith in him.”
At dusk Tony and Linda rode through Old New Town and New New Town, circled back through Creek’s Bend, then down, across the river into Lutzburgh, up River Front Drive, past the great homes, the Mansions of the Five Families. Then they looped back behind the town offices, down Second Street to Mill Creek Road, through the Warehouse and Small Mill area, across the old truss bridge and back to Tony’s folks’ home.
All the while Tony kept feeling—I should be there. I should be helping out. I’ve left them. I should be there to help them win. He thought about K. but he didn’t know if K. was Komer or Ky, Kissinger or a code name. And all the while Linda clung to Tony’s back, trying to stay warm, trying to squeeze her husband in that special way that transmitted her love and her warmth.
“Tony,” Linda said before they got off the Harley, “you don’t know how lucky you are. This is a wonderful town. I could live here.”
So things went through November and December and into January 1970. Tony and Linda spent a shallow, walking-on-eggshells Christmas in French Creek, spent New Year’s Eve back in their own apartment. Tom McLaughlin, Chas and Cathy, Alvin Lewis and his wife Luann, and Tom and Gina, all stopped in on their way to parties but at midnight Tony and Linda celebrated alone. “It’s going to be a great year.” Linda kissed her husband.
“To the best year of our lives so far,” Tony promised. “To the three of us.”
Then came finals and Tony’s last papers. For English 101 he wrote an essay titled, “The Hidden Pullout: To Will or Not To Will.” Still he worked for Stites and Emerson, a mule in the coldest month of the year. On the twelfth of January Tony received his first grade, a B in Western Civilization. Then came a C in Spanish, C in Biology and B in Religion. Linda was thrilled. On the cold night of the seventeenth Tony rode in from Watertown, the wind in his face numbing his nose, his lips, his unshaven face even through two layers of scarf, freezing the skin of his exposed forehead above his goggles, below his now long thick dark hair and the brim of his watch cap. He refused to wear the Bell Star he’d purchased—except when Linda rode behind him. He stopped at BU to see if Groesbeck had posted grades. “Incomplete,” was written opposite his name.
He was dumbfounded. He stumbled away, muttering, anger growing, hoping it was a mistake, thinking he’d have to come back during the day, miss half a day’s work, talk to Groesbeck. Then he rethought the conversation he’d had with Groesbeck where the man had agreed that Tony could turn in his essays at Groesbeck’s office. Now Tony thought Groesbeck had played him, had fucked him because he didn’t like him, fucked him because of the “Hidden Pullout” essay, the “will to squeeze the trigger” paragraph. Tony went back to Groesbeck’s door, rechecked his grade. He checked the entire list. All of Groesbeck’s Girls, including Nguyen Thi An, had received A’s; the plain-looking and the boys had all received B’s; Tony’s grade was the only variant.
For half an hour Tony circled the blocks about BU. He crossed the BU bridge into Cambridgeport, circled, came back, putted in and around the apartments of the thousands of students who occupied much of the area. Vaguely he searched for An, vaguely—thinking he’d ask her if she knew Mr. K. from Saigon. He’d learned she was from Saigon—that her family had a home in the resort area near Da Lat. Her father was an importer and an adviser to President Thieu.
A week later Groesbeck withdrew Tony’s incomplete, changed the grade to an F for “missing more than half the classroom hours.” Tony was confused. At first he did not recognize that his 2.3 grade point average without his English mark was now a 1.875 average, and that as a “conditional” freshman he was on academic probation; he did not realize that he could not work days and be a full-time day student; did not understand that he had, in effect, dropped out. When the realization hit him he bought two pints of Jack Daniel’s, shared one with the carpenters, drank one himself, and late afternoon on the twenty-sixth of January, 1970, James Stites of Stites and Emerson Construction of Boston, fired Anthony F. Pisano, also of Boston, for “drinking on the job.”
So things went and thus it was two days later Tony was in the apartment when the phone rang.
Tony is slumped on the couch. Linda is in the study. From the stereo, volume low, seeps the rich voices of Gary Puckett and the Union Gap...something about trying so hard, about striving, about her not coming around. Tony tenses up.
Outside it is cold, the wind of Commonwealth Ave. rattles the old French doors, teases its way though cracks to puff out the curtain. Tony’s eyes are shut. In two days he has not slept for more than one hour straight, has not slept when not stoned or drunk in weeks. He has been thinking about school, about jobs, about Linda and the baby.... The song doesn’t want their love to crumble... Tony has not carried a single thought to completion but as each solution begins to congeal in his mind, he allows it to be replaced with words from one of his albums. He worries because he is not union, has not yet joined, word might spread he’d been drinking on the job—actually that he was a troublemaker, greased nails indeed!—and in the dead of winter jobs were scarce; that Linda at five months pregnant wou
ld slow down, would soon need to take a leave of absence—he’d spent too much money on weed, on booze, on accessories for Jimmy’s Harley—there isn’t much in their accounts. He wants Linda to quit work, wants her to want to quit—some level, not conscious—she is working, he isn’t; she is going to school, he isn’t; she is handling the apartment, food, clothes, bills, he isn’t. He lifts his legs, flops, scrunches deeper into the cushions, flips restlessly. He opens his eyes, cranes his neck, stares through the curtain at the muted dusk, looks up, about the room, back to the French doors, the billowing curtain. He sits up, his feet still on the sofa, scratches his shoulder, scratches his right thigh at the scar, crashes back onto the couch jamming his eyes into the pillow, forcing the pillow to force his eyes to stay shut. He feels as if the music is guiding him.... Still he can see light. ...molding him like clay... Babe, you can be my sculptor. Up again, down again. He puts the pillow over his face, tries to let his mind run on its own, go its own course ... tell me what to do ... He hasn’t thought about it in a long time but suddenly he can see Annalisa, naked, with Shepmann, held by Roy. The image is pleasant, disgusting, exciting, like watching a porno flick, gross, she is his cousin and he knows they are about to hurt her. His mind floats.... There is Dai Do. There is Jimmy at Dai Do.
Tony sits up. This thought too is unpleasant. His body is vibrating, tense, like a rung bell, but soundless. He leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees, rests his eyes on the heels of his palms, works his palms circularly, scratching his eyes. The phone rings.
“I’ll get it,” he calls. The record is over, the stereo shuts off.
“If it’s personnel, I’m not here. I’m not going to work an extra shift tonight.”
“Okay.” He lifts the receiver. “Hello.”
“Tony?” It is his father.
“What? What is it?” Anxious, not angry. His parents have never called on a weekday. Only weekends. “What’s happened?”
“It’s Jimmy ...”
“Augh fuck. Augh Jesus Christ God no. What’s happened?” He is crying. He is already crying. He knew it, knew it last night, knew it a minute ago.
“Tony,” Linda calls from the study, “is everything—”
“He’s been killed,” Tony’s father begins.
Tony screams. He screams. Blood-curdling pain yell. “NOOO!”
“We saw the car pull up ...”
“Nooo,” he wails. He jerks the phone up, rips it from the wall. “Nooo!” His body quakes, racks spasmodically. He smashes the phone against the wall. He grabs it with both hands, shatters it against the wall, beats it into the old plaster. “God, no. No. No.” He falls to his knees. “No. NO, no, no.” He whimpers. “Oh God!” he shouts.
Linda is on the floor with him. She touches him lightly, one hand on his shoulder, one hand on his arm. “Tony! Tony?” She’s alarmed yet calm. “Tony,” she repeats trying to break into his consciousness. “Tony, what is it?”
He takes a deep breath. The spasm ceases. His arms still tremble. “They killed my cousin,” he says. Then the tears start again.
Linda inches forward. Tears fill her eyes. She puts her arm around him, pulls him to her breast. Tony resists. He pushes away. He sniffs hard, sucks the mucus back up his nose, swallows. “Those god damned motherfuckers. God damn fuckers. God damn fuckers.” He jerks his shoulder from under her hand, rocks, stands. He does not look at her, does not help her up. “I’m goin out. I gotta go out.”
I buried my cousin on 1 February 1970. I buried him in full uniform. Both of us. I was strack, Man. I mean I was ultra strack spit-shined, polished, clean. I don’t even know how Linda got to Mill Creek Falls. I can’t talk about this to anyone. I just can’t. I buried so many Marines it ripped my soul loose—but when I buried Jimmy it ripped the soul right out of me. I remember the priest from St. Ignatius, I remember his words. And Uncle James read the Prayer of St. Francis.
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sow love....
I did not shed a tear. But I did not say a word either, could not trust myself to utter a single sound for fear I’d offend Aunt Isabella and Uncle James and every member of my family and all the Pellegrinos and even Shepmann and Roy and all our friends from town who came. At the grave I moved in on the color guard the Corps provided, I told—I must of told him, the sergeant in charge—told him this was my duty, this was my cousin.
Lord God, through your mercy
let those who have lived in faith
find eternal peace.
I can see the dirt walls below the casket. The walls are perfectly carved.
Forgive the sins of our brother
whose body we bury here.
Welcome him into your presence.
Linda is there. She is so beautiful. She is a pillar of strength for my mom, and for my pop, and for Nonna who mumbles and prays and says over and over, “Dignity.” I can just barely look at them.
Our brother has gone to his rest in the peace of
Christ. With faith and hope in eternal life, let
us commend him to the loving mercy ...
There is snow on the ground but it is not cold. Or I do not feel the cold. The sky is cloudless—opening to allow Jimmy’s soul easy access to the grandeurs of eternity. Isabella is wailing with unabashed grief. Annalisa holds her hand. Uncle James is stoic, arms crossed. He looks pissed.
There is singing—communal grief. I could not participate. This was too personal. His conscious was my subconscious, his laughter was my joy, his deep compassion, my heart. With him died anything in me that was worthy. With him died the Will.
I do not know how Linda returned to Boston. Maybe Pop drove her. I remember she told me later that he said something like, “Geez, he acts like Helen and I are having an affair!” Linda told him that I suspected they were—that I was worried he and Jo were going to divorce. He was shocked at that. Linda told me he said that he and Helen were a lot alike, and that they both loved Jo, that he’d kissed Helen once—when they were celebrating my homecoming. Someplace, time, in here I don’t know when, I was robotic, I took a copy of the death notice, stuck it in an envelope, got the address from her mom, sent it to Bea Hollands in San Martin, California.
10
FOR A WEEK, EVER since returning from Jimmy’s funeral, Tony has not been able to close his eyes without dreaming, without finding himself stuck in a dank fetid tunnel, without smelling the rotting flesh, without seeing himself chopping heads as they attempt to thrust bayonets into him, without holding Manny, without Manny being shot again, without Manny becoming Jimmy. No longer are they mere dreams, night-day-mares, but now full-blown night-day traumas where Tony relives every sight, every action, every odor, every corpse.
Linda was petrified. Tony would not come into the bedroom with her, would not lie beside her in bed. She had called her folks from Mill Creek Falls, had thought they should know. “Tony’s cousin—you met him at our wedding ...” she’d explained to her father. He’d been nonchalant, cold. “That happens in war.” She’d told Chas and Cathy. They’d replied, “That’s what happens when you go sticking your nose someplace it doesn’t belong.” She’d told Tom McLaughlin. “Oh Linda, you poor woman. He must be a bear to live with. I’ve got some stuff that’ll mellow him out. If he gets too bad, come down and sleep at my place.” No one, she felt, gave her the right answer, the expected response, anything the least bit helpful. She worried Tony would never smile again, would never again do his crazy little jig, never again include her in his outrageousness, never let her be close to him. She worried for herself, for their baby. Tony was glum. He went out for hours without explanation, returned angry, tense, physically rigid, silent. Still she carried on, working, going to school, studying, doing all of the apartment chores. After ten days even she could no longer take it. “Come on, Babe. Let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Look, I can’t do this all by myself.”
He did not look at her. There wa
s no gentleness in his voice. “Can’t do what?”
“All the cooking and cleaning and your laundry and—”
“God damn it! Then don’t do it. I don’t give a fuck. Leave my clothes alone.”
Her face pinched, her eyes tightened, moistened. “Babe ...”
“Jesus Christ! Don’t start that sobbing bullshit!”
The pain dropped from her face, replaced by her own rage. She stamped toward him. “You bastard! I didn’t kill him. Don’t take it out on me!”
“Fuck off!” he snapped angrily.
“Fuck off, yourself!” She slapped him. She slapped him as hard as she could across the face.
The slap jolted him. Physically. His eyes bulged, his hands closed to fists, he stepped into her. She banged his chest with the heels of her hands. “Get out of here!” she screamed. Tony raised his hands to grab her. Again she hit him in the chest. He stopped, froze for one second, then spun on his heels, grabbed his jacket, gloves, cap, keys, and left.
For hours Tony rode the Harley through the streets of Boston. On side streets with patches of ice or sand he purposely skidded the 700-pound machine, half-thinking he’d not be able to catch it, right it, that he’d slide it into a curb, highside, smash his brains against something hard, end it all. He blasted up Storrow Drive, hitting ninety, the frigid wind in his face so severe he could not see. Still he did not crash. He exited, came back the other way, half-hoping he could hop the center guardrail, meet a semi face-to-face, half-fearing he might hop the rail, hit a car with a mother and her children. He exited, rode about BU. He could have gone back. At Thanksgiving his father had taken him aside, had told him what with Linda pregnant and all, that he wanted to assist them. Between Tony’s GI Bill benefits and John’s help, Tony wouldn’t need to work while in school. Tony had told him he’d think about it—a polite refusal.
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