What, Gus?
Chestnuts.
The heart monitor played a solitary bugle note.
Postscript
“Hey, drummer boy, I didn’t know you could play that well.”
“You weren’t too bad, either bugle boy.”
“Ever think we’d see a day like this?”
“Gotta admit, never heard of a “roll-in.”
“Yeah, a ceremony for two dead cadets. Strange.
“Hey, you carvin’ another notch on your sticks? Thought you only did that with rollouts.”
“Nope, no notches. This time it’s a smiley face.”
PART II: SHOES
Prologue
The fields and jungle floors lie fallow now, fertile from countless years of decaying organic matter… and the blood of young men dying in old men’s wars.
1864
He died that mid-May day.
He was barely seventeen years old and a day’s horseback ride from home.
He died shoeless.
1964
He died that mid-May day.
He was twenty-three and half and a world away from home.
He died shoeless.
Rain
1864
The clouds cried for three days.
The roads were wagon-wheel ruts of mud, horse droppings and debris.
His company, his friends, ignored the sucking sounds, until the quick-sand mud sucked their boots and wool socks off.
1964
The C-131 transport landed at Cam Ranh Bay field that late September, 1963 day.
The humidity was drenching as he and his company disembarked.
It added to the flop-sweat rings on his fatigues.
He felt his feet sliding on the insides of his boots.
The old timers at the base laughed at the newbies.
“Wait’ll you see what the monsoons do, kid.”
As It Was in the Beginning
The soil-stained skull grinned at him.
It sat perched on the pair of mildewed field combat boots in the small, antique French portmanteau on his desk.
Was it only ten minutes ago that life as he knew it had ended?
Two senior cadets sat nervously in the small receptionist’s office. An odor of decay emanated from the antique box lying next to the young Asian female cadet. Her partner, a lean, olive-skinned boy, politely enquired once more of the Commandant’s secretary.
“Please, ma’am; please let him know we’re here.”
He really is busy, but I’ll try, cadet.”
She stood, walked the three steps from her small, gun-metal gray desk and knocked gently on the frosted glass-windowed door. Gilt letters spelled out COMMANDANT NATHANIEL BERKSON.
She heard the “come in” and entered.
“Commandant…”
“Yes, Miller?”
He wondered why she didn’t use the intercom. She had been his right hand for years, so he trusted her judgment. The look on her face confirmed it.
“Two seniors (first-year cadets) to see you, sir. They both insist it is of the utmost urgency.”
He shook his head then reconsidered, as Miller added, “they brought a box with them, sir. The thing scares me.”
Miller wasn’t easily scared. She had single-handedly saved his life in Saigon by taking out two Viet Cong assassins stalking him.
He stared at her gray eyes and graying hair.
“Okay, show them in.”
Two cadets in their final year entered the small, well-kept office, braced and saluted smartly.
He recognized them as Cadet Kiran Bhatia and Cadet Thu Vu Pham. Top of their class and, from the looks of it, probably going to have a crossed-swords wedding ceremony at the chapel on graduation day.
“Sir … uh … I … uh … we regret disturbing you, but Cadet Pham received a package that….”
The young man looked at the young woman, and Berkson saw the love between them. Bhatia was obviously descended from the warrior caste of India. Six feet tall with black, penetrating eyes matching an olive complexion that only Mother India could produce. The Commandant had met his father, a Supreme Court justice, and his grandfather, a legendary figure in the international world, at Bhatia’s entrance to VMI.
Pham, ah yes, he recognized that look too. She was the truly aristocratic descendant of Vietnam. Somewhere in her family line a Frenchman had shared his DNA. But the cadet, normally placid even in the most adverse conditions, was overtly agitated.
“Sir,” she blurted out, “I received a special package three days ago. It was sent on behalf of my grandfather’s attorneys. I….”
Her eyes welled up.
Bhatia took over. “It’s a small trunk, sir. Thu’s grandfather passed away several months ago while revisiting his village.”
He then mentioned a name that caused Berkson to blanch, but he remained silent.
Pham composed herself. “It’s a long story, sir. Back in the war, my paternal great-great-grandfather was the chief, the leader of our small rural village. He acted as liaison between our group and the ARVIN (Army of the Republic of Vietnam) and their U.S. Special Forces advisers….”
Once more she hesitated. Her keen eyes swept the décor in the office and spotted the Green Beret resting in a place of honor on a shelf behind the Commandant’s desk. Numerous medals, field combat ribbons and more joined in chorus.
“We brought the box here, sir,” Bhatia interjected. “May we bring it in?”
The old soldier had turned gray. His lean, six-foot-two-inch frame seemed to hunch over. He knew. His mind screamed “Oh, God, no!” but he waved them to bring in the box.
Bhatia quickly exited to Miller’s office and returned carrying a two-by two feet miniature French portmanteau. He hefted it onto Berkson’s desk and stepped back.
Pham reached into her tunic and removed an old-fashioned iron key. Unspoken permission crossed between her leader and herself, and she inserted the key into the heavy brass fitting that served as closure and lock. With a twisted scraping, iron springs turned within and the latch popped open. A familiar odor, one the old soldier had smelled many times during his military career, permeated the room.
He knew it well: the odor of the grave.
“Sir, I know you will understand why I brought it to you when you see the contents.”
Berkson’s hands reached forward slowly, raising the teak and variegated metal top and gazed within.
Death was no stranger to him. He had seen his share of dead and dying comrades, from Vietnam through the early Middle East wars. The grinning skull meant nothing by itself.
What turned his hair were the combat boots and the verdigrised oval bronze belt buckle lying on the bottom of the trunk. He knew that buckle, a historic symbol of the school he served. It bore the letters VMI.
He also knew why the skull grinned back at him.
Pham’s voice continued the oral history, but he didn’t need to hear it. He had lived it. He sat at the desk, fixated by that remnant of the man he had known, and he relived the story in his soul.
“Ashburn, Berkson, congratulations.”
They stood at attention as their commander, Colonel Enfante, placed the coveted Green Berets on their heads. They were Special Forces now.
“Whaddya say, Nate, a three-way wedding?”
He stared at his friend, Lonnie Ashburn. They had survived the Rat Line at VMI together with Lon’s twin brother, Sam. Both Ashburn boys had dated the twin Mayhugh girls while Nate was sweet on another local girl.
“I dunno, Lon, I’ll bet we won’t have the time. Most likely we’re gonna be, quote, advisers somewhere in Asia the way things are going.”
It was early 1963 and President John F. Kennedy had upped the ante in Vietnam by increasing the number of military advisers sent to instruct the ARVIN. Kennedy wanted to avoid the failure of the former French occupiers and their disastrous defeat by the Vietnamese at Dien Bien Phu in 1953.
Vietnam was the classic military tar baby.
Its leaders were despised even by the normally placid Buddhist priests, the Bonze, who immolated themselves in protest. They, too, joined the insurgent North Vietnamese.
“Besides,” Nate continued, “I don’t think Sam’s up to it. He didn’t make it.”
The two young VMI grads nodded.
They had leave time. They left Fort Benning, Georgia, and headed back to Lexington, Virginia. Both guys gave knowing grins as they split up, heading off to different sections of the town. Each knew where the other was going.
“Abby!”
She melted in his muscular arms. It had been so long and now he seemed to appear at her door by magic. He had written to her, almost daily. Those missives were precious to her. But now he was here!
They danced and dreamed together that night.
“Nate … uh … I didn’t know you were coming.”
He knew something was wrong the moment he spotted the Chevy convertible in front of her house. He hadn’t called. He wanted to surprise her.
He did.
The petite brunette elementary school teacher tried her best to block his view into the house she shared with her parents. It didn’t work.
He spotted the other guy standing by the settee.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, I didn’t mean to disturb you. Give my best to your parents … and Tim.”
He headed back to the digs he shared with Lonnie Ashburn. He knew that his friend wouldn’t be back that night.
He lay on his bed, clad only in army-green shorts, and stared at the ceiling.
Glory 1864
“We’re goin’ in, ain’t we?”
They whispered as all soldiers do when their sergeant isn’t looking.
“Sergeant, assemble the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Companies A, B, C and D, fall in.”
It was raining that day. The sky alternated between platinum and dark gray. Large black clouds moved about, emptying their water-filled bladders in heavy downpours.
“Guess we’re a goin.”
“Yep.”
“Scared?”
“Nope. Uh … are you?”
“Uh-unh.”
They were comforted in each other’s lie.
They were shaggy-dog wet, as they approached their destination.
The town was gathered to greet their young men.
The rain had stopped, and the May heat and valley winds soon dried them off. Now they strutted their manhood down the main street, snare drums rat-a-tat-tatting, drum sticks twirling, as they were tossed in the air to impress the young ladies of the local Episcopal Women’s Seminary cheering them on.
She caught his eye. They had met once before at an arranged social between the seminary and the Barracks students.
He was once more smitten.
That evening she quietly escaped the duenna eyes of the school mistress and came to a large poplar tree near the bivouac area.
He heard the female owl call and quietly arose from his comrades snoring watch.
She hugged him.
That night they became one.
He arose and reached into his side pocket. It was the only thing he could give her, the 18-karat-gold, French fuse repeater watch his father and mother had given him. He pressed it into her hands and kissed her again. He kissed her and asked her to carry his watch always. If he didn’t return, well, its ticking would remind her of his heartfelt love.
She startled him by taking his whittling knife. She reached up and cut a lock of his hair and placed it within the outer hunter’s case of the pocket watch. Then she cut off a curl of her own hair, tied it and placed it in the tunic pocket above his heart.
She kissed him once more and then both departed, she to sneak back into the parsonage, he to pretend to lie quietly next to the smoldering camp fire.
The young women heard the hill-echoed artillery that fateful May day.
In the distance they saw the smoke rise in the now-cloudless sky.
He stood with his mates, clutching the loaded long rifle. He was afraid.
He spotted the breach in the gray ranks and saw his friends run forward to fill it.
He did not hesitate. As he ran full charge, the water-logged soil of the farm turned battleground sucked off his shoes and stockings.
He felt the piercing pain as the Minié ball tore through his tunic chest pocket. It entered his chest and penetrated his aorta.
He felt his heart as it sped up then stopped.
Her lock of hair now lay within his heart forever.
Her hand closed tightly on the pocket watch in her blouse. She stifled a scream as she felt the knife-like pain pierce the left side of her chest.
She knew.
She knew soon after finishing her matriculation at the Women’s Seminary in June.
She could not stain the honor of her family or the memory of that soldier boy and the child that lay within her.
She accepted the hand of the eager young man who had courted her in the past.
She was now the wife of the Honorable Eustace Mayhugh, attorney at law.
The boychild who entered the world eight months later became her only solace.
Glory 1964
“Send a squad to…”
The major noted the name of the outlying village in alpha quadrant then looked up at the colonel.
“Trouble, Zach?”
“Yeah, the Intel boys say there’s been increased Cong penetration up there. I dunno, Reid, is this worth it?”
Sterett hesitated. He, too, felt the futility of trying to help in a country that hated its own leadership. But theirs was not to reason why.
“Got anyone who knows the area?”
“Two. Ashburn and Berkson. Both top notch, both have worked the area and know the village people.”
“Okay, you know what to do.”
“I’ll send Berkson. Ashburn’s men just came in off patrol.”
Sterett rose. He saw Catterton’s shoulders slumped, his forehead creased in worry lines. He knew that feeling, too. When you not only walk but live in the valley of the shadow of death, those you work with become more than brothers.
Yeah, there were morons. Some spit-and-polish academy types didn’t seem to give a shit when they sacrificed their own men in gung ho maneuvers, but Special Forces guys weren’t like that.
Too bad the spit-and-polish types didn’t learn when their own men took them out.
He sighed and shook his head then called his sergeant.
“Get Berkson over here.”
“Sorry, sir, Captain Berkson was just taken to Saigon. I think he’s going to be operated on.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Dunno, sir, he was talking with some of his guys then he doubled over like he was pole-axed. One of the medics thinks his appendix burst.”
“Shit! Okay, get me Ashburn.”
“Captain Berkson, we’re gonna need to take your appendix out.”
He lay there in the field hospital. The young surgeon peering down at him through gown and face mask didn’t sound like he had started puberty yet, but he seemed to know what he was doing.
“Okay, now breathe deeply.”
The anesthesia induction mask was placed over his face by a medic and he started to breathe. Despite the morphine they had given him, it was agonizing at first, that burning, penetrating right lower quadrant belly pain. Then, nothing.
He awoke, now lying in a field hospital bed. He felt nauseated, dizzy.
“Feeling better?”
She hovered in his field of view.
Must be the pain meds. Didn’t realize Army nurses looked this good.
She laughed, as she saw the sheet over his legs start to rise.
“Why, Captain Berkson, I guess the guys were right. You are a dirty old man after all.”
“What? Oh, shit!” he croaked.
He managed to look down and saw the source of her merriment. He turned red.
Her name tag read MILLER.
His mouth was dry, his neck still aching from the endotracheal tube that had been shoved down his throat after he had undergone anesthesia.
“How … long?”
“It’ll be awhile but you’ll be back with your men in a few weeks.”
“But….”
“Don’t worry about it. I hear there’s an even bigger stud out there at your camp who’s filling in.”
“Lonnie?”
“Yeah, that’s what I heard. Captain Ashburn.”
“Ashburn, you know about this village?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve been out that way several times. The chief is a nice old guy. Hates the VC for killing his son.
“Good. Now, remember, the VC are moving more men in there, so watch your six.”
“Yes, sir. Uh, how’s Nate?”
“He’s doing fine, Ashburn. From what I hear, he’s keeping the nurses in stitches.”
Both men laughed.
Sterett watched, as Ashburn called his squad together. They checked out each other’s gear then headed out. The major belched and went back to reading recon reports.
They moved carefully. The jungle underbrush could conceal very lethal pitfalls. Deep holes lined with sharpened stakes coated with human feces that would impale the unwary who walked over carefully placed vegetation mats meant to conceal them. Bouncing Betty mines that, when tripped flew up to waist level before detonating. And more devilish maiming and deadly gadgets.
They faced an enemy who could survive on a bowl of rice a day and live off the land or under it. Compounding that was that the VC could easily fade into the surrounding village people until ready to strike again. Even the women VC were deadly.
They came to the village edge and stopped. All communication was by hand signals until an all-clear status was established.
“Captain Lonnie, Captain Lonnie!”
The young boy, fourteen maybe, came running toward them.
He knew it was safe then.
“Khai, you’ve grown just since last time!”
He patted the boy’s head and slipped him a candy bar. The chief’s grandson had a real sweet tooth.
Shoes: Tails from the post Page 9
