All I could think of, though, was how it might be for Larry. How he felt about the daily reported death count now that his father was among the numbered. And what he thought of the protests. I hoped it didn’t make him wonder if his father’s death had been nothing but a waste.
I could think of nothing worse.
Joel looked like an oversized kid, sitting Indian style on the floor in front of the television, watching the Charlie Brown Halloween special. His loud laughter had drawn me into the room to see him there.
Stepping around the end table, I lowered down to sit beside him even if the floor was hard and cold.
“Poor Charlie Brown,” he said, shaking his head. “All he got for trick-or-treat was a lousy old rock.”
He pushed up his glasses, never taking his eyes off the screen.
In four years he’d have to register for the draft. The boy who still laughed at Charlie Brown and shook his head at the injustice of Lucy bullying him. A child who would try to talk Mom into letting him trick-or-treat just one more year. He wanted to dress up as John Lennon since he already had the right kind of glasses.
I wasn’t the kind of person to take the side of the hippies. There was no war protest in my veins. But I did hope, as they did, that soon we’d have peace in Vietnam, that all our boys would be able to come back home.
And that no more of them would have to go.
I rested my head on Joel’s shoulder.
I couldn’t bear the possibility of him having to go to war.
Dear Mom, Annie, and Joel,
Well, I made it all right. It sure was a long flight over. I thought we’d circled the earth at least three times. When I asked the stewardess, she just laughed and told me I was silly. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t joking.
I never did find out the real answer.
It sure is hot here and humid. It’s like walking through a steam cloud all the time. No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get comfortable. From what I understand, winter starts soon and everything will dry out and cool off. Although the guy who told me that is from Florida, so I’m not sure he understands what cool really means to a Michigan boy.
It didn’t take long for me to be put right in the middle of the action. They’ve got me on what we call a “dust-off.” That’s just a Huey helicopter that goes into the middle of the fighting to pick up wounded guys to take back to base where the hospital is.
The night before I went on my first medevac mission (like an ambulance in the sky) I was so scared I hardly slept at all. Then, before I hopped on the dust-off, I couldn’t keep my breakfast down. Talk about embarrassing!
Our first call was to go get a kid who cut his leg with a machete. It wasn’t all that bad, really. I just applied pressure to the wound for the whole chopper ride. He’ll be fine after his stitches heal and he gets all his shots.
He was pretty upset when he found out that wasn’t his ticket back home. I think I would have been too.
I already miss you all. Write to me as much as you can. And tell Oma that she can start baking whenever she’s so inclined. I’ve already promised my buddies that I’d share with them, but only if they promise to send her thank-you notes.
Love,
Mike
Dear Mike,
While you’ve been basking in the heat we’ve been freezing our noses off. I fully expect it to snow any day now.
Not too much going on here. Just the normal, everyday, quiet life of our sleepy town. You might want to know, though, that Fort Colson High beat Borculo High at our homecoming game. I, of course, know nothing of football, but I was informed that it was “a heck of a game” by Bernie. I’ll have to take his word for it.
Don’t worry, cookies should be coming soon. Oma and I baked the day after you left. She shipped them in old coffee cans. You’ve got two on their way. We made the kind with the peanuts on top and some molasses cookies (I used Grandma Jacobson’s recipe). We hope you like them!
Let me know if you have any special requests. Oma and I are happy to keep sending them. She’s so worried that you’re not going to get enough to eat over there. So, cookies to the rescue!
Praying for you all the time.
Love,
Annie
41
They buried Larry’s father, Alan Roberts, on the morning of Halloween. A breeze wove through us as we stood at the graveside, apart from the family who had wooden folding chairs under a black canopy. The dark clouds threatened rain, and I was glad that Mom had thought to bring an umbrella.
Larry sat to the left of his mother, head hung. I imagined he was either crying or trying hard not to. His little sisters—two standing on either side of their mother, the third on her lap—cried without reservation. They wept and wailed so that I could hardly hear the words of the minister.
It was all right. I didn’t need to know what he was saying. I was just glad no one tried to hush the girls. Mrs. Roberts reached her arms around all three, holding them tightly, the only way she could, holding them as close as she could manage.
Mom stood beside me, hanky folded in her hand and held to her lips. She kept her eyes on the girls. Every once in a while she’d shake her head ever so slightly.
“And the words that Jesus said to Martha I now share with you.” The minister held up a hand as if in blessing over the family. “He said, ‘I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.’”
It seemed odd to me, his quoting from the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead at a funeral. There would be no calling of Alan Roberts’s name. He would not come forth from the grave. And, even though I knew in my heart that Jesus meant for the resurrection to be into a heavenly life, it still struck me as cruel. It almost seemed to be a tease.
Jesus raised this one man. But he isn’t going to raise your father. Not today. Not this side of heaven.
My faith in that moment felt less akin to Martha and more to her sister Mary who had wept at Jesus’s feet.
If you had been here, my brother would not have died.
I held my hands in tight fists, my eyes on the three little girls, on their mother, on Larry. And I struggled, knowing that God could have spared the life of their father, of her husband, and knowing that he’d chosen not to.
But then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the sight of a tiny brown sparrow, perched on a gravestone nearby. It shook the rainwater from its feathers before taking back off to flight.
My fists relaxed, but the tightness in my chest didn’t relent.
I wished I could watch that bird and come upon some sort of transforming revelation about the goodness of God even in the midst of sorrow. But I couldn’t. Not hearing the cries of those little girls, not watching the way Larry’s shoulders shook.
So, instead, I gritted my teeth and tried to remember the words of Jocelyn’s latest letter, even if I wasn’t so sure I believed them.
All manner of things shall be well.
I’d come upstairs from the church fellowship hall, looking for a few spare folding chairs to take down to the funeral luncheon. That was when I saw Larry sitting on the steps outside. Everybody else was inside eating cold cut sandwiches and potato salad. But Larry was alone, staring off toward Old Chip.
The chairs could wait.
Crossing my arms around myself against the chill, I stepped out and sat beside him. The concrete was cold beneath me and sent a shiver up my spine.
What I knew from having brothers was that if a boy didn’t want to talk, no amount of prompting would persuade him. I’d learned that it was better to be quiet and let them start on their own.
So, I kept my mouth shut and waited.
After a couple of minutes, he spoke.
“It’s cold out here,” he said.
“A little bit,” I answered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Juicy Fruit, offering it to me first. I took a slice, thanking him, and unwrapped it. He nodded, not look
ing at me.
He folded his stick of gum before popping it in his mouth, sucking on it for a second or two before chewing.
“Do they have anything good down there?” he asked. “Cake or anything?”
I nodded. “A couple of the ladies made sheet cake. All different flavors.”
“Hm.”
“I could get you a piece. I’d bring it out here for you if you didn’t want to go inside.”
“Nah.” He tucked the gum into his cheek. “I don’t feel much like eating.”
“That’s all right.”
“Did you get a sandwich or something?” He wiped under his nose.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry either.”
Resting my elbows against my thighs, I watched a flock of Canada geese flying in an uneven V shape. It always made me sad, seeing the geese rehearse their leaving. Winter would come soon and I never seemed ready.
“Why do people keep telling me they’re sorry?” Larry asked.
“I don’t know.” I tilted my chin so I could watch the flock glide through the sky over our heads. “Maybe they don’t know what else to say.”
“How am I supposed to answer them? Am I supposed to say it’s okay?”
“You don’t have to say anything.” I swallowed. “They’ll understand.”
“Nobody laughs around me now.” He turned his face, looking at me for the first time since I sat down. “Everybody’s being so serious.”
“Well, maybe because they don’t want to seem disrespectful.”
“You know what my dad always said?” he asked. “He said, ‘You can make it through anything if you find a way to laugh.’”
I smiled at him. Licked my lips. The sweetness of the gum was starting to fade, still I chewed it, rubbery against my teeth.
“Knock, knock,” I said.
He smirked. “Who’s there?”
“Owl say.”
“Owl say who?”
“Yes, they do.”
“That was bad,” Larry said, shaking his head but chuckling. “You know any more?”
I told him every joke I could think of until people started to leave the luncheon. They quieted their voices as they walked past us down the steps.
“I should see how my mother’s doing,” he said, standing and rubbing his hands on the thighs of his slacks. “Thanks.”
I knew he meant for the jokes. I nodded and smiled at him.
He went inside, but I stayed seated on the steps.
I’d never gotten the chairs Mom had asked for.
Hi, All!
I’ve been hearing from some of the fellas here that there’ve been a bunch of protests back in The World. That’s what they call America around here. And they call Vietnam “In Country.” Don’t know why, exactly.
Anyway, they said there’s a bunch of hippies and such protesting the war. I read in the Stars and Stripes (the newspaper we get every day) that some of them even had flags from North Vietnam they were waving.
In case anybody was confused, North Vietnam happens to be the folks we’re fighting against. Them and the Viet Cong. And neither is all that friendly when you get down to it.
If anybody in Fort Colson is protesting, you tell them to knock it off, would you? For me and all the other guys in country. It’s just making our hard job that much more difficult. You know how hard it is to be fighting for a bunch of people who are against you?
Besides, the NVA (North Vietnamese Army, in case you didn’t know) keeps saying that our own country is against us. That’s not exactly good for morale.
Sorry that I’m so grumpy. I haven’t slept very well since I got here. It’s not good for my temperament.
Other than that, I’m in one piece and eating three squares a day. Those squares happen to taste like cardboard covered in tasteless gravy sometimes. Other times it’s cardboard covered in gravy that has a flavor to it. Too bad that flavor happens to be stinky socks.
Anyway, I love all of you.
Mike
42
Bernie had set up a television on one of the tables in the diner, and all our breakfast regulars gathered around, silent, watching NASA’s launch of Saturn V. I stood on a chair to see over their heads, holding my breath as soon as the twenty-second countdown started.
David rushed in, grabbing a chair and standing on it, right beside me.
“Good morning,” he said.
“You made it just in time.” I smiled.
The screen looked like it was on fire when the injectors went off, and everyone in the diner cheered as Walter Cronkite yelled out about the “terrible roar” of the launch. I held my hands folded together and over my heart.
David stood, unmoving and unblinking, not taking his eyes off the television, his mouth open in an awestruck grin.
Climbing down the chair, I couldn’t help but feel a measure of disbelief. How could such a thing be possible? I still couldn’t grasp it even after so many other launches. I pushed open the door of the diner and stepped outside. It was cold and I’d left my jacket inside, so I wrapped my arms around my waist.
David had followed me, offering me his jacket.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I have to go back inside soon.”
“No matter how many times I watch those launches, I’m always amazed,” he said.
“It makes me feel small.”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “Do you really believe they’ll be able to send a man to the moon?”
“I don’t know. It seems too wonderful.”
“Yeah.”
Staring at the sky, I wondered what it might feel like, blasting off so far and so fast away from earth. I couldn’t imagine it.
“Well, I better go,” David said, uncrossing his arms and checking his watch. “But if all goes as planned, I’ll see you at lunch.”
“See you then.” I watched him walk toward his office. He looked back once before opening the door and going inside.
For the first time in so long, anything seemed possible.
Just about ten o’clock Bernie locked the door and turned the sign to “closed.” When I asked him what he was doing, he just told me we needed to have a talk, pulling out a chair at one of the tables near the counter.
I took the seat across from him, worried that I was going to get in trouble for something. Worried that he couldn’t balance the books and that he’d have to close down the restaurant. Concerned that maybe something had happened that I didn’t even want to allow my imagination to picture.
“Annie,” he said, clearing his throat. “I got the mail a little bit ago. I didn’t look at the name on the front. I just opened it.”
“Okay,” I said.
“It was a letter for you.” He patted his shirt pocket. “From Mike.”
“He sent it here?”
Bernie nodded. “He did.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Some things are too hard to write to your own mother.” He took it from his pocket. It had been folded in half, still in the envelope. “I only read a little of it before I realized it wasn’t for me.”
“That’s all right.” I reached for it.
He held it just an inch from my fingertips. “Go someplace alone to read it. And don’t let your mother see it.”
“Is it bad?”
“It’s not good.”
“Is he . . .”
“In one piece? Yes.” He put the air mail envelope in my hand. “You can read it in the office if you want. I won’t disturb you.”
“I’ll just stay here,” I said. My legs felt as if they’d turned to jelly, and I didn’t want to try to walk on them.
I waited until Bernie had gone into the kitchen and the door had stopped swinging before I looked at the envelope. He had used a straight edge to open it, his pocket knife, I would have guessed. The slice at the top was clean and crisp.
I put the letter on the table in front of me, smoothing it across the cold, flat top.
I took in a deep breath before I
read.
Hey, Pal,
I have no idea what day it is. All I know is that it’s night because it’s dark and that means I can’t go out on missions anymore until the morning.
Gosh, I wish this night could go on until I can come home. My chest gets tight whenever I think about morning.
They still have me on the dust-off, picking up wounded guys, sometimes two or three at a time, and bringing them to base. Then we turn around and go back out. Over and over. All day long. Sometimes we’ve got to land in a hot LZ (that means a lively and terrifying landing zone with shots going off all around us).
We had to get this one kid today, gosh he looked young. He looked younger than me, even. I could’ve sworn he was no older than Joel. He was injured in his stomach and was bleeding so bad. I couldn’t stop it no matter what I did. Even with my training at Fort Sam, I didn’t know somebody had so much blood in them.
He asked me if he was going to make it.
He asked me that, Annie.
I didn’t know what to say, so I lied and told him he’d be just fine. He made me promise him and I did.
The kid was dead before we made it back to base. There was nothing I could do for him.
I’ve never seen somebody die before. It was awful. One minute he was there and the next he was gone. The glisten faded from his eyes. He was just dead.
At the end of our runs I had to clean all the blood out of the chopper. I don’t want to tell you too much about that, I don’t want you to have that picture in your mind. Just know that it’s the least pleasant job I have to do.
I didn’t get halfway done when I lost it. Never in my whole life have I cried like that. I was just glad that nobody was around to see it. It was the first time I’ve ever thought I very well could lose my mind.
It scared me. A whole lot.
Tomorrow I have to do it all over again and I don’t believe I have the stomach for it.
Pray for me, Annie. Please. Pray every day. Pray all day long. I need to know you’ll do that for me.
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