So that’s a typical day. We take orders, we follow them. We keep our heads down and our mouths shut, and we wait for our time to run out so we can come home and forget about it.
I know it’s difficult not to worry about me, sweet Meg. I know that, because I worry about you, too. It scares me to think of you going to neighborhoods like the one you described, alone. I don’t know what I would do if anything ever happened to you. I feel so helpless, because I know there’s nothing at all I can do to protect you, and I hate that more than almost anything.
Just promise me you’ll be careful. Knowing you’re safe is the only chance I have.
I love you.
John
P.S. I’d like to have a picture of you. Will you send one? Your face is burned into my memory, with zero chance of being forgotten, but I’d still like to be able to look at you.
* * *
Journal Entry
Thursday, January 29, 1970
Got promoted to sergeant. I’m a team leader now, in charge of eight other men. I guess I’m supposed to feel honored, but it doesn’t feel like much of a privilege.
Another mortar attack last night. This one was worse than the others. Bigger. I was on night watch, in my bunker with a kid from Arkansas named Rice. He’s new, so he was learning the ropes. When the first blast hit, he was talking sports, something about the Dallas Cowboys, while I pretended to listen. The quiet gets to be too much for some of the guys. They have to talk to fill the empty space.
We heard the first explosion right behind us, this deafening crack, the world splitting in two. A couple more explosions, and the flares went up, bright as daylight. I aimed my weapon out the hole, but I couldn’t see anybody. I wondered if this would be it. Wondered how you brace yourself for the end. No line of thought seems the least bit rational in that moment. There’s no way to prepare. No way to find peace when rockets are whizzing past and people are crying and yelling all around you.
Three more. I thought of Meg. Clung to the sight of her in my mind, loving her. Another kid, Russell, scrambled down into our bunker, bleeding out of his ear. Rice tried to ask him what the hell happened, but he couldn’t hear, probably because of the ringing in his ears.
Then a helicopter came into the landing zone, a Medevac. It was all over. A blip on the radar.
This morning at breakfast, the announcement came that three guys were killed. Mandatory memorial service. As if any of us needed to be forced.
—
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
(HW Longfellow)
* * *
14 February 1970
Dear John,
Happy Valentine’s Day, from my heart to yours. I hope you got my package. I picked out your gifts based on your New Year’s resolutions. The man at the art supply store said the drawing pencils are about the best money can buy. I bought the journal from an art bazaar in Santa Barbara. And the photo of me is a recent one - Irene snapped it when she was showing me how to use my camera several weeks ago. I’m afraid it isn’t my best, but I’m hopeful you won’t mind.
I’ve missed you dreadfully this past week. I always do, but it’s been especially profound of late. I wish I knew why. Absent a true answer, my imagination tends to run away with me. At times I grow frightened, believing we’re psychically linked and my pain is somehow connected to yours. Twice this week I’ve woken abruptly in the middle of the night in a panic, and I fear it’s because something has happened to you. I pray nothing has. Writing to you helps ease some of the pain, because it grants me hope that you’ll soon be holding this very sheet of paper in your own hands. I like to picture that.
It helps, too, being able to envision you in your everyday existence. When I was covering my shift at the library the day after I received your last letter, I found an atlas and a book about Vietnam. Based on your description, I think I was able to pinpoint your approximate location on the map, and in the book I found photos of the mountains and jungles and elephant grass you mentioned. They show occasional flashes on the news as well, but I try and shield myself from the media coverage as much as possible. I think paying close attention to it would be counterproductive to my carefully constructed peace of mind.
In other news, my job search has stalled, as I’ve been pouring all of my time and effort into prepping applications for grad schools. I’ve sent apps to Berkeley and Stanford, but after talking with one of the admissions counselors at Columbia, I think it might be my first choice. I’m terrified of leaving California, though. I’ve never lived anywhere else, let alone the opposite side of the country. Can you imagine me in New York City? I’ve never been, so the idea of it is provocative and horribly intimidating all at once. I would welcome your opinions on the subject.
I love you, always and forever.
Meg
* * *
7 March 1970
Dearest Meg,
Happy belated Valentine’s Day, love. I had every intention of writing to you sooner, but we just returned from several days out in the field. I’ve never been so happy to be done with anything in my life. The journal and pencils are much appreciated, and the photo is perfect - I keep it with me at all times, whether I’m sleeping or awake.
Rain. Fucking rain. Will it never stop? I can hardly remember when it started, and still it comes down in buckets. How does this entire godforsaken country keep from washing into the sea? It must be the godforsaken roots and tubers woven together in the godforsaken soil - the same crap that gets twisted and tangled in all our equipment and clothing day after day. What a wretched place.
Granted, I suppose it’s no worse than the island jungles my dad’s generation complained about in the Pacific theater of the Second World War - but whereas they fought to save the whole of western civilization from the tyranny of fascism, here we accomplish nothing, against no one. I sometimes wonder whether our effort here is entirely wasted.
I overheard an Air Force Major say the other day that if Washington would just let us, we could have this mess cleaned up and all be back home with the people we actually care about within 6 months. And you know something? I believe it. If you could just see all the equipment and manpower lying around, rotting in the muck, you’d believe it, too.
I understand the hope for a peaceful end to this, but it seems like every time we go to the table and think we’re getting somewhere in our negotiations, these bastards open up a new offensive and wipe out 5 or 6 companies. We’re talking about hundreds of guys who will never grow older, because they’re sitting on their asses when NVA strike, as ordered by the upper brass. Meanwhile, these fucking politicians sit in cotillion, drinking sherry and kissing the enemy’s ass while we sit here rotting in the rain.
If there’s a silver lining to any of this, it’s that they’re giving us two days off - no patrols and no ambushes, so long as we don’t get any surprise visitors. We even got to sleep in an extra hour this morning. Mail call was after breakfast, which was when I got your letter, along with one from my mother and one from each of my nieces. And just like that, the hellishness of our present circumstances melted away and became of far less importance.
As for that pain, I know all too well what you mean. It’s a twisting sort of ache, am I right? A hollowness that feels lik
e it shouldn’t hurt, because it’s only emptiness, and yet it does. And you carry this awareness with you, knowing just exactly what would take the pain away, if only you could have half a minute to look at and just...touch that one certain person.
So you never know - maybe we are psychically linked.
I have to tell you, Meg, I am so happy you’re giving serious consideration to grad school. You’re far too smart to while away your days correcting fragments and run-on sentences. Explore your options, push your bounds. Maybe you’ll find that you enjoy writing, or even teaching. Leave no leaf unturned.
As for Columbia, I’ll admit I’m slightly giddy at the idea. Don’t get me wrong - the thought of sweet, innocent you having the run of Manhattan is terrifying in its own way, but you can’t begin to imagine how you’ll grow in taking such a momentous leap outside your usual zone of comfort. East and West Coast cultures are, in many ways, so dissimilar. It can only strengthen you as a woman and a lover of literature, having such immersive exposure to both.
Of course, it’s also partly for selfish reasons that I relish the idea. Columbia’s campus is on the Upper West Side, a mere two and a half hour drive from my mother’s house in Unionville. Make no mistake: that should in no way factor into your decision - but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the part your proximity to my family would play in my support of your being there. I only wish that I’d had the opportunity to introduce you before I left. I have no doubt my mother would adore you.
I adore you.
Love,
John
* * *
Journal Entry
Sunday, March 8, 1970
I’ve been here going on four months, and today was the first day I actually came face-to-face with the “enemy.” We were briefed last night that today our patrol would be 20 km up the border in the direction of the mountains. After breakfast the choppers flew in, and we loaded up. As we were flying, one of the choppers radioed to let our pilot know they were taking on small arms fire from some indeterminate number of NVA and the landing zone would be hot.
We’ve all heard horror stories about hot LZs (meaning they’re occupied by NVA or VC), so obviously that snagged my attention. I looked around at the other guys onboard, and I could tell they’d just experienced the same jolt of realization I had. It’s interesting to watch how different people are affected by it. Thomas started breathing heavy and looked like his eyes were about to roll out of his head. Kellerman squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head into his fist - praying, I suspect. Janssen’s cheeks puffed out, and he just nodded like he was getting psyched for a fire fight. Duncan chewed on his lip so hard I thought he might draw blood.
Johnny was on a different chopper, but I know what his adrenaline face looks like, too - his eyes turn down at the corners like he might cry, but his mouth forms into a firm line, like he’s determined, or maybe just resigned.
We got close enough that the choppers started circling, and the door gunners fired into the LZ all the way down, creating this swirling funnel of ammo, peppering the ground with machine gun shells. We got close to the ground, but the choppers didn’t touch down. They hovered feet above the ground so they could make a quick getaway, while we leapt to the ground and ran for cover, shooting who knows where, just for effect. It’s a goddamn miracle we managed to keep from shooting each other.
We took some fire. I saw a blur in the trees around the landing zone, all the NVA guys in their green uniforms and goofy helmets, scurrying around with their weapons. I tried to not to think about the fact that we were on their home turf, an area about which we knew nothing and they knew everything. Tried not to wonder whether they had us outnumbered. And I especially tried not to look into their eyes. As I was shooting, I sure as hell didn’t want to know what any of them looked like.
It was over surprisingly quickly. They retreated, and somebody called the all clear. We waited it out to make sure there weren’t more coming, that they hadn’t just sent for reinforcements - you never want to be caught unawares, especially in unfamiliar territory - but eventually we moved on with our patrol. Thank God we at least had a few hours reprieve from all the lashing rain while this was happening.
God in heaven, what I wouldn’t give to be back in California, just for a day - Christ, even just for an hour. Just to see Meg’s smiling face, and hold her in my arms. I physically ache just thinking of it. She’s like a phantom limb, some essential part of me that was amputated and now smarts from the loss. I wish there was some way I could explain to her, in terms that don’t seem entirely too trite, how much I love her.
It’s sobering, you know, being forced so close to death - especially when others around you are dying. There were 36 of us in that field, and now 6 will never see home again. In the beginning I was just scared, but it’s different now. Eerily different. I can’t seem to shake this feeling of inescapable fate. I don’t want to know how it ends.
Chapter 16
Bangkok, Thailand
May 1970
12 April 1970
Dearest Meg,
I have only a moment, so I’ll make this quick. I’ve been granted a 7-day R&R in Bangkok. It wasn’t my first choice, but it had the most openings. There’s a supply helicopter coming in on the 30th, and I’ll be flying out on it. I’ll have to spend a night or two on one of the larger bases close to Saigon before I can catch a commercial flight out, so it will be the 2nd or 3rd of May before I can make it to Thailand.
Please, just say you’ll meet me there. Do whatever you have to do. I’m enclosing a blank check with my signature. Use my money, I’m begging you. Just get a flight, first class if you want, and meet me there. I’m told there’s a hotel near the airport called the Golden Mermaid - I’ll wait for you there. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific, but I just found out this morning.
God, I love you. To say that I can’t wait to see you would be a colossal understatement.
J
* * *
It was her first time flying alone, first time leaving the country. She would have been more nervous, were it not for her more pervasive sense of excitement. Ah, the spirit of adventure! She’d checked out a book from the library on Thai history and culture, and she spent the days leading up to her scheduled departure poring over its yellowed pages, trying to imagine the vibrant landscapes they described.
The traveling wasn’t difficult, not really. She flew coach class, departing LAX at 8 AM and connecting in Taipei before boarding the flight to Bangkok. When the plane touched down with a juddering bounce on the runway, the stewardess in her pillbox hat announced their arrival, first in Thai, then in English. Meg hadn’t slept in what seemed like days, and yet she felt almost hyper. It was a manic sort of thrill, like the anticipation that builds before the first downward plunge on an especially wild roller coaster.
Inside the airport, she exchanged a hundred dollar bill for 3,000 multihued baht, then spoke to three different employees before locating one who understood enough English to help her find transportation to the hotel John had named in his letter (better known to the locals, Meg quickly learned, as Suvannamaccha). She was escorted to a line outside the airport where she could wait her turn for a three-wheeled taxi called a tuk-tuk.
The temperature was punishing - well over ninety degrees, by Meg’s estimation. She twisted her hair up off her neck and secured it in a knot before placing her suitcase on the ground and sitting on top of it. As she waited under a canvas awning, she watched a steady, soaking rain fall for two or three minutes before ceasing as abruptly as it began. The moisture did little to ameliorate the heat.
When a tuk-tuk arrived, she relayed the name of the hotel as best she could and breathed a sigh of relief when the driver seemed instantly to understand her. As they drove she re-read the last of John’s letters and felt the pang of sadness mixed with longing that was visited upon her each time she perused these now-familiar words. The tone of the letter she’d received in March was so different from that of his earlier writi
ngs. Gone was the idealism, the cautious optimism about his purpose for being there. In its place was evidence of a downtrodden disillusionment, with more than a touch of anger.
It wasn’t that she blamed him. No, her concern was more with their reunion. Would she know him still, the way she had before?
The hotel was painted yellow with an elaborate, pagoda shaped roof. In the window was a rendering of a lissome mermaid with a golden tower of a headdress, along with a handwritten sign declaring WELCOME US MILITARY.
A woman in a tailored suit with shimmering raven colored hair greeted Meg from behind a marble desk when she entered. Her English was heavily accented but far more intelligible than anything Meg had heard since landing in Thailand.
“I’m meeting someone here,” she explained. “Sergeant John Stovall?”
The woman nodded once. “Tall man? Pretty face?”
Meg grinned. “Yes, that’s him.”
“He just check in, maybe one hour ago. Room nine, up.” She pointed to a set of stairs that curved around a stone fountain.
“Thank you,” said Meg. She tightened her hold on her suitcase, then made for the stairs.
* * *
For John, the last hours had been a whirlwind. Climbing off that Flying Tiger Airways flight at Suvarnabhumi International was a heady feeling. He was thankful he’d opted against joining his fellow leave takers in a hit of LSD - not so much because it was beneath him (he’d sunk to those depths often enough in the past few months, after all), but because the sensation of setting foot in a country other than Viet-fucking-nam was intoxicating enough. It was a wonder he hadn’t fully anticipated, and certainly not his original reason for abstaining. No, only one Meg Lowry could be credited with that decision - or at least the idea of her. He didn’t need drugs to help him feel higher than he already was from the mere thought of laying eyes on her again.
They’d been briefed by the USO - transportation, dining, approved places to stay. What they were allowed to do and, more importantly, what was expressly prohibited. They could sightsee and shop to their hearts’ content, but they couldn’t be seen in uniform or operate a vehicle.
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