Sergeant Molinari could hear the brush of footsteps as the enemy crept within yards of their hiding place. His heartbeats pounded in his temples as he clicked off the safety of his M-16, readying it for automatic firing. He knew as sure as he was crouching there, that if he had to use this weapon, his group was doomed. He suspected this advanced platoon of enemy scouts was the eyes and ears of a much larger infantry group, possibly a regiment. If a firefight started now, he and his squad were dead meat. If the enemy platoon passed through the village without incident, his team would have dodged a big bullet. His group and the villagers would then survive.
The Viet Cong seemed in a hurry and not particularly interested in searching every hut. Maybe they would walk past him. Geno thought a well-spoken prayer might be in order, but he couldn’t shake one loose from his paralyzed memory. Although he had been drilled and drilled by the brothers at Butte Central for what seemed forever, he could not conjure up a single “Our Father” or “Hail Mary” to save his soul. Right now, he would settle for any prayer that would salvage their collective hides—Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Buddhist—any prayer, any miracle would do.
Beads of grimy sweat ran down his forehead, stinging his eyes. His fingers squeezed his rifle in a strangle hold of fear and raw nerves. He had been here before. Three tours of duty in Vietnam as an Army Ranger had plunged him into killing fields of horrible shapes and sizes. Death stalked him and his comrades like a constant companion with whom no one made his peace. It proved ruthless, unpredictable and continually terrifying, no matter how many times Geno confronted it.
Be cool, he thought. Take it slow. Stay quiet. They’re walking past. We’ve got it made.
The baby started fussing. Her wiggling became more of a struggle, escalating into gasping noises. The peasant woman started to panic, pulling the baby to her chest and rocking her vigorously. The infant’s face wrinkled into waves of frustration, as her gasping became louder with each breath. Geno’s corporal shot a look of alarm in the sergeant’s direction, as the child began wrestling wildly in the woman’s arms. Geno couldn’t believe that a girl this small could be so strong with her thrashing and flexing.
The sounds of steps outside the hut stopped. Geno jerked his attention to the baby’s face, which was contorting in anticipation of a full-blown cry. He had little time to think. They were seconds away from being detected if the baby began bawling. If the enemy patrol investigated the noises, the rangers would be caught inside the tiny hut with no exit. There was no place to hide. There was no place to go.
Tossing his rifle at the Ranger next to him, Geno sprang at the child, grabbing her head with one hand while silently drawing his bayonet with the other.
Good God! he thought, as he stared at the infant’s face. She’s no older than my daughter! She’s just a little baby!
Time collapsed inside him. He watched in horror as the baby stretched her mouth to its farthest limit as she prepared to release an ear-shattering scream. He saw the young mother’s face knot up in shock by his sudden movement as he swept the infant from her arms. The woman seemed riveted in a horrifying helplessness, unable yet to scream. He felt himself reeling like a rusty robot through a temporal tar pit, slowly executing a well-practiced motion. Gripping the cold leather and steel of the bayonet’s hilt, he sliced the blade upward toward his hand that was holding the baby’s head and exposed neck. His powerful stroke met little resistance, pausing only slightly before blood began to spurt and flow. With his other hand covering the baby’s nose and mouth, Geno muffled any sound that might be made by the child’s choking and gurgling.
Splattered by her infant’s blood, the paralyzed mother started to shriek. Geno had no time to react, but his corporal already had anticipated her move. Trapping the woman’s head inside his arms, he gave a violent twist with his shoulders and forearms. Geno sickened at the sound of the muffled crack from her cervical vertebra as her body lost all muscle tone. Catching her before she fell, the corporal grasped her lifeless torso and gently laid her on the dirt floor with a broken neck.
Tears blurred Geno’s vision as he gingerly placed the infant at her mother’s breast. In the same motion, he grabbed his rifle and pushed his ear to the wall of the hut. No one inside the thatched house dared take a breath. Two persons were unable to. Each moment now limped wounded into a black hole. Time had never been so agonizingly interminable. The blood on Geno’s hands began to coagulate and dry, but he was too frantic to notice. Then he heard it. The patrol’s footsteps started again. They’re leaving, he thought. Thank God, they’re leaving!
The sounds of men walking became fainter and fainter. The Viet Cong were withdrawing from the village. His squad was safe. He nodded at the looks of relief in his men’s eyes. Then he stared at the two lifeless bodies on the floor and his blood-caked hands.
* * *
His voice shaking, Geno struggled for composure.
“I’m not sure where to begin, Doc. I can’t remember much of what happened. My platoon, or what was left of it, got pinned down in this Montagnard mountain village. No one was killed but this little baby.” Searching for some validation or escape through the eyes of his compatriots, he found only questioning stares. He jerked away from making any more eye contact and mumbled, “That’s about it.”
Buck Hanson looked down at the conference table and began rubbing at a pencil mark etched in its surface. Without looking up, he asked Molinari, “You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Molinari snapped back.
Hanson kept rubbing at the table. “Just checkin’.”
Hoffmeister picked up on the conversation. “Are you suggesting that there’s more to the story?”
“Not suggestin’ anything.” Buck tipped his chair back on two legs. “’Cept that Geno does his share of yellin’ in his sleep. Just wonderin’ what’s goin’ on.”
“He’s got a point, Mr. Molinari,” Hoffmeister said. “I’ve heard you yelling at night too.”
Molinari doubled up his fists, started to get out of his chair, but then stopped. Sinking deep into his seat, he grabbed his head and began shaking. Sweat built on his forehead as he grabbed at his hair. He started to cry but then stopped. In a low, croaking voice he answered, “Yeah. Yeah, there’s more.”
Geno’s speech grew stronger as he unlocked his hands and hissed through his teeth.
“I killed a little baby girl. Slit her throat to shut her up. Broke her mother’s neck. Because a bunch of V.C. would have shot the shit out of all of us if they found us in that hut. That baby girl’s blood squirted all over me. It’s still squirting. God help me, it’s still squirting.”
Looking at Dr. McGinnis, he stared with pleading eyes, “Is talking about this shit going to help, Doc? I mean, I have this nightmare every damn night. Drugs don’t stop it. Nothin’ stops it. It’s like I’m doomed to Hell for doing my fucking duty!”
Geno stared around the room, as his words sunk in. His eyes seemed to beg for some relief, some forgiveness . . . something. Buck Hanson continued rubbing at the table. Loren Hoffmeister started to speak, and then dropped his attention to his gray slippers, staring at their zippers.
Molinari began to shake, his shoulders heaving up and down. Bowing his head, he began to cry. Sucking air like he was suffocating, Geno snatched breaths while croaking out gasps and grunts. Raw, bleeding emotion exploded to the surface, unchecked by any semblance of control. Geno sobbed . . . and sobbed. Struggling to talk, his mouth twisted and curved around his tear-washed face. He moaned like a man buried alive, straining to say something but strangling on his words. Shaking his head, he stopped trying to talk and bawled like a heartbroken baby.
“Help me!” Geno moaned, grabbing his head with both hands and bowing into his lap. “Stop the bleeding!”
A voice cleared its throat in a rhythm of uncertainty. “This is the first time I’ve seen you so vulnerable. I’d like to help you. Somehow. Some way. I don’t know how for sure.” Eyes shifted to the source of this attempted consolation. It was Hoffmeister.
“I know I sound like a pompous professor at times, but I’d really like to help. I suspect talking in four-letter words makes the world less scary for you, but let me put the ‘shits’ and the ‘fucks’ aside for a moment.”
Hanson signed. “Probably not a good time for a speech. Not right now.”
“Hear me out,” said Hoffmeister. “I’ve studied war—from the Ulysses at Troy to the Ulysses at Appomattox. I fail to see any glory in it. Only blood and death. Herodotus once wrote, ‘No one is so foolish as to prefer war to peace; in peace children bury their fathers, while in war fathers bury their children.’ You had to bury a child, Sergeant Molinari, deep inside yourself. A child that duty required you kill. Her death and your duty are still eating you alive.”
“I don’t think the man needs a lecture,” Hanson said, looking up from the table directly into Hoffmeister’s eyes.
“Then what do you think he needs?” asked Dr. McGinnis. The room turned silent. “What do we all need when we feel ourselves coming apart?” McGinnis got out of his chair, and walked over to where Molinari sat wringing his hands. He gently squeezed the sergeant’s shoulder. Geno’s chin began to quiver as he stared up at the doctor. He started to thank him, but began crying again, slumping over in his chair.
“How about relief?” Buck Hanson said. “Something to take away the hurt.”
“Good God, yes,” said Molinari. “I see that baby in my dreams every night. Every damn night.”
Dr. McGinnis sat down next to Geno and touched him on the knee.
“Geno, let’s try something, you and me, to get you out of this Hell right now. It won’t change history but it might help get you some immediate relief.”
Molinari nodded his approval.
“Instead of trapping yourself in your memories and thoughts, focus on the physical feelings you are experiencing right now. Tell me what you are physically feeling.”
“I’m feeling like a pile of worthless dog shit for killing an innocent baby.”
“No, Geno. Focus on your body and tell me what you are physically feeling. Scan your body. Pay attention to where you are feeling muscle tension. Is it in your head, stomach, arms, legs . . . where is it? What’s it like? Is it hot? Cold? Painful? Where is the pain? How does it feel?”
“My head feels like it’s ready to explode. I think I’m going crazy.”
“Stay with the physical feelings, Geno. Pay attention to your head. Trace on your head where it’s getting ready to explode. Tell me more.”
Sergeant Molinari slid his right index finger around the center of his forehead. “It’s right here, Doc, and it burns like hell.”
“Good, Geno. Now stay with those physical feelings. Scan the rest of your body for how it’s feeling right now. Any other places? Any other sensations?”
“My chest feels like it has steel cable wrapped around it and someone is tightened it up. And underneath it’s like I’ve got knives sticking in my heart.”
“Good, Geno. Stay with those physical feelings. Let them build or go wherever they want to go. Don’t worry about giving me the details. Keep your eyes shut. Continue to scan and notice what is physically happening to you right now.”
Geno sat up in his chair, slumped back against the backrest, and began to breathe more slowly and with less effort. His shoulders sagged back in a more relaxed position. His facial muscles started smoothing out. His teeth clenching gave way to a sagging jaw, which parted his lips ever so slightly. The intervals between breaths grew longer as Geno’s breathing became deeper.
“I don’t want to see that baby no more, Doc.”
“Just keep focusing on your physical feelings. Ignore your thoughts. Take a deep breath . . . that’s it. Tune into how your body feels . . . the warmth or coolness of your skin, the pressure of your body against the chair, the touch of your right hand rubbing against your left. Let your senses loose inside yourself . . . hearing, touching, smelling, tasting . . . let them explore on their own. You need do nothing . . . just follow your senses . . . attend to what sensations they are bringing to you.”
All eyes riveted on Molinari, watching his body let go of tension. The skin on his face slackened along his cheekbones as he slowly began to nod forward. His hands lay motionless on his lap, with his arms hanging limp from his shoulders. His eyelids drooped over his eyes. He took a deep, slow breath and exhaled with a sigh.
“What are you aware of right now, Geno?” Dr. McGinnis asked.
A long pause and then a muted reply. “I’m afraid. I screwed up.”
“Focus only on how your body feels, Geno. Tell me what’s going on with your body.”
“My chest feels like it’s going to get tight again and my heart is going to start racing.”
“Focus only on how you are feeling right now . . . not what you fear is going to happen. Pay attention to how your chest and heart are feeling . . . are they tense? Changing temperature? Pulsing or throbbing? Note how they are physically feeling . . . even if you don’t have words to describe it. Just feel the physical sensations. Let happen what happens.”
Geno drifted deeper and deeper into a calmness that seemed to massage away his demons. His breathing now seemed to happen on its own, with no voluntary control on his part.
In a few moments, Dr. McGinnis interrupted.
“Geno, when you are ready, open your eyes. Continue to enjoy the relaxation and peace that is yours. And when you are ready, rejoin our group.”
Molinari’s eyelids began to flutter. Then his eyes squinted open. He gingerly glanced around the therapy room, stretched his shoulders, and grinned.
“You’re looking better, Geno,” said McGinnis. “Welcome back.”