PHILADELPHIA, WEDNESDAY, 14 AUGUST 1968—Tony reviewed it, reheard it, relived it. The hallway, the ward, painted two-tone drab, gray above putrid green, government SOP. “I want em to cut em off the rest of the way.” Rick’s voice. An inversion layer had settled over the city, had clamped down the humidity, locked in the exhausts and odors, echoed back the cacophony of sirens and horns and trucks, trains, cars, construction, kids screeching, irate women, men, workers, mothers, and rock ’n’ roll. Inversion layer condensing it all into the gully of the hospital grounds, ramming it through the barred windows of the basement ward, barred as if a prison.
The first whiff had knocked the zeal from him, knocked the jive from his step even before he entered. His thought of singing, “I’m - A - Mag - Ni - fi - cent - Bastard: You’re - a Bas - tard - Too!” was dashed, crushed, enveloped in the humid reek before he even saw a single dressing.
How do these guys stand it? he’d thought.
The guy in the bed next to Rick’s had groaned, pain-killer-doped groan. Pisano had wanted to look, couldn’t. He’d gone to see Rick because Rick had been in 2–4, had been wounded at Dai Do. He didn’t know Rick, hadn’t known him in Nam. They’d been in different companies. Still, Rick was his combat brother. Tony felt he owed Rick the visit but he had not expected the scene, the heat, the smell, the bitterness. These wounded were different than battlefield wounded. Somehow, with just-wounded, he’d always had an image of repair, recovery. Like his own thigh. Or quick death. But these broken bodies, he’d thought, they’re dead but death forgot to take em.
Tony Pisano lay on his rack in the room he shared with Christopher Crocco at his new duty station. Assignment in Philly should have been ideal, could have been had he been given the duty to which he was assigned—section leader of the guards for the Marine Detachment at a substation near the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard. But they’d made him a driver and he’d spent his first weeks in modified dress blues, dress pants with the red stripes, tropical khaki shirt and white hat, looking sharp, driving Lieutenant Kevin Mulhaney and a priest or a minister or a rabbi—the local notification team—to the homes of area Marines killed in Viet Nam. If the family chose military burial, Tony Pisano, USMC sergeant, three months shy of twenty-one, would be the NCOIC, the noncommissioned officer in charge—color guard, family assistance, peon, jerk. He’d rather have spent his last year in the Corps on KP cleaning grease traps on the giant kitchen stoves at Parris Island. He’d rather have been shot himself than have to visit Rick from 2–4.
“Rat!”
Tony’s head had snapped away from Rick to the end of the ward where the commotion was. “Shit,” Rick had grumbled. Bullshit, Tony had thought. He viewed it again as he lay on his rack. “Rat!” the man had screamed. The ward was depressing, not dirty. “Rat!” Tony’s eyes focused on the sheet covering the man, on the white dressings, on the barred windows and the view of grass and a single tree outside and two men in light blue pajamas thumping along on crutches. He reviewed it but he could not see anything of the ward except the end of Rick’s bed and the white shrouded commotion, and he again thought, “Bullshit,” but he wasn’t sure and the last thing he had was the fortitude or desire to challenge what a legless body claimed. Lying on his rack he realized there were alternatives to challenging, like exploring, but in the ward he’d been dumbfounded.
“Up to here,” Rick said. Tony looked back at him. Rick drew his hand across the crease between his abdomen and upper thigh. “That way I won’t have to carry it or feed it.” Rick turned his head away. Then he looked back. “They don’t fuckin understand, Man. They either ignore us or shut us up.”
“Maybe—” Tony tried, “maybe they can’t handle it.”
“Can’t handle what?!” Rick snapped. “Can’t handle Dai Do? Can’t handle me tellin em I shot a dozen of them fuckers and they kept fuckin comin? I killed a dozen, Man, but those motherfuckers kept comin at me and I keep killin em every night and they keep comin and my ammo runs out!”
“I know.” Tony said it quietly.
“How the fuck do you know?!” Rick’s breaths were coming hard, fast.
“I was there, Man. Remember? I was there when we ran out.”
“Well, fuck! So tell these assholes.”
Tony had hung his head. He hated this, hated being there, feared it as if it were contagious. Hated the situation because he didn’t have any more words to say. Hated himself for hating it. Hated that he couldn’t come in and cheer Rick up, cheer up the entire ward, give them back their limbs. He was not a member of this club. Not even close. A few pieces of shrapnel, a ripped quadricep, all nice and clean and mostly healed, doesn’t put one in the club with a guy with a shattered spine, no feet, begging to have his legs cut off.
“It’s dead meat.” Rick had looked back at him. “Dead fuckin meat, Pisano.”
“Fuck,” Tony had said. “What am I supposed to say? Hope it don’t rain?”
“Yer not suppose to say nothin,” Rick had said bitterly. “Just tell my fuckin Doc to cut my legs off.”
“You don’t want that, Man—” Pisano had begun.
“Tell im to cut em off here,” Rick screamed. He drew his hand across his throat.
Tony lay in uniform, eyes closed, flat on his back, his pillow on the floor, his hands side-by-side, right on his abdomen, left at the base of his sternum. His pulse beat hard, again, not fast, just hard enough to jolt his rack—DUB DUB DUB—banging steadily, hard, not hard enough to jolt his awareness away from each thought that flitted into his head. Rick, Stacy, Maxene, Annalisa, Lieutenant Mulhaney and his Welcome Back to the World Mickey Mouse horseshit, amputees, burials.
DUB DUB DUB. He tried to clear his head but had little control over thoughts bounding in, jouncing out. She kissed me, he said to himself. He tried to force an image of Stacy into his imagination. He’d thought about her often during the past three weeks, about the kiss. She was beautiful, seemed to like him. He could not explain to himself why he’d fled, why he’d felt so angry at Pellegrino. Perhaps she’s just too much for me, he thought. Too classy for a bastard like me. DUB DUB. There was a village ... south of Dong Ha. Lots of children. A lovely young woman. DUB DUB. I wish I had a woman, he thought to himself. He squeezed his eyes hard, tensed his neck, shoulders, abdominals, let the muscles slowly relax. What’s happenin, Pisano, he thought. You can’t even talk to a guy from 2–4 cause he’s got no legs. Can’t even relate to him. And this burial shit and Mulhaney. I should grease that fucker. I should go back.
Crocco came in from the showers. Tony did not move, did not open his eyes. He knew it was Crocco from his breathing. “Hey, paesan, get your ass up.” Crocco banged his wall locker. “Come on. Let me buy ya a beer.”
Pisano remained still.
“Tony,” Crocco put his foot on Tony’s cot, shook it, making the steel legs vibrate on the highly polished tile floor, “what’s going on with you? You’re a good time guy. How come you’re bein so angry? Where’s this all comin from, Man? If it’s Mulhaney, fuck im. He’s an asshole. Don’t let him get to ya.”
Pisano opened his eyes without moving, without allowing any expression to reach his face.
“Hey, it’s your anniversary,” Crocco said. “Come on. I’ll buy. What’d he do now?”
Pisano sat up. “That motherfucker, Chris. He’s been riding my ass since the day I got here. I’m goina waste him.”
“FUCK Mulhaney! Man!” Chris’ arms snapped forward accenting his words. “Ya only go over three once. Don’t let him get to ya. Do I gotta tell ya that ever day?”
“That son of a bitch. You see that candyass’s uniform? One fuckin ribbon. One fuckin firewatch ribbon. He’s never been anywhere, and he aint ever goina make it anywhere. Where’s he get off given me CQ tonight?!”
“Geez Louise! Lambert said he’d take it for ya. Why give a fuck?”
“That’s not the point, Chris. Don’t ya see? He knows it’s my anniversary. He’s just fuckin me over.”
“Here.” Crocco brought his hands to his mouth like a megaphone. “Say this: ‘Mulhaney Is an Asshole. He Is Not Worth My scoraggiato.’”
“Scoraggiato!” Tony laughed. “Why the hell can’t you say agita like every other wop?”
“Come on, Man. We’ll meet some townies.”
“Last thing I need is to chase some chick who’s playin cocktease. This duty ... God damn thankless, gutless ...” Pisano stood. He walked to the window, rested his ass against the black marble sill. “It’s a lousy deal, Chris. Notification’s the easy part. Know what happened today with that asshole?”
“What? What’d he do? He do another one of his famous Mulhaney-isms? I’m glad I don’t do that shit. I think it’d be harder than anything we ever went through across the pond. God! Havin to drive a priest up to somebody’s door! You got picked, paesan, cause you look so good in that uniform.”
“I don’t know if I can take another funeral, Chris.”
“Yeah. What happened with that lady, anyway?”
“Shit Man, the bugle was starting, you know, and Mulhaney says to me to help her. I was trying to help her. I thought she was going to collapse. So I grabbed her hand. You know, not grab it, more like cup my hand under her wrist, give her somethin to lean on. And she turns to me and she’s crying and she says, ‘How is it—’ Man, she says it in this eerie voice that’s comin from outer space, she says it real loud, ‘How is it, young man, that you are alive and my son is dead?’ And Mulhaney, he laughs right out loud. Right there. Then that candyass fucker laughed about it all the way back. He repeated it a hundred times.”
“Good,” Crocco said. “Now you got it out. Let’s go celebrate.”
“Dammit, Chris. I’m an action Marine, Man, or I’m no Marine at all. They either transfer me from this Mickey Mouse unit or I’m getting out. And fuck it, I aint goin back to Nam Bo. I’m not goina let im push me into volunteering to go back.”
“That’s what happens to all you good Catholic boys,” Crocco said. “You take this shit seriously and you end up volunteering to go back. Don’t let it get to ya.”
“You know what I could do?” Pisano said. He began to remove his uniform. “I could teach. That’s what I’d like. I used ta think about it in Nam. I’m a good teacher. I am. I’d like to get down to Parris Island and train boots.”
“Now you’re fuckin with yer own head.” Crocco was mostly dressed. “Eat the apple.” He chuckled. “Fuck the Corps. Shit, paesan, some beers tonight, then tomorrow or on the weekend—”
Pisano cut in. “I’m serious, Chris. I’m a hell of a teacher. I’d train em so they don’t step on their dicks first day they hit Nam.”
“Screw it,” Crocco said. “This weekend we’ll get a stereo and get some tunes in here. Goddamn it, Man. We’re alive! We made it back. It’s time to start livin.”
“Please come,” Judy Reardon begged.
“I really don’t know why you want me to go along,” Linda Balliett answered. “You’re practically engaged to the guy.”
“I am not.”
“Judy.”
“Well, maybe. But we haven’t been there before and it makes me nervous.”
“I don’t want to go. I can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“I know. I have this image of a men’s locker room.”
“Yeah.” Linda laughed. “Dirty sweat socks and jocks strewn all over the place. How come he wants to take you there?”
“I think it’s because it’s the end of the month and he’s out of money. You know, sailors only get paid once a month? Paid and laid,” she giggled. “That’s what some of them call it.”
“I could handle that.” Linda ignored the joke. “What I can’t handle is the sweat socks. And Judy, good grief, August isn’t even half over. It’s only the fourteenth.”
“I’ve been spending all his money.” Judy shrugged innocently. “Thank God Tom isn’t planning a career of it. In two months they discharge him and he’s free. Then he can get a real job.”
“That sounds awful. Discharge. Like pus or something. I think I’m going to pass on it. Besides, I’ve got the blood gases test tomorrow and I’m on call tomorrow night.”
“Please, Linda. I already told Tom you were coming. I really want you to meet him. You said you’d come.”
“I said I’d think about it. Why can’t I meet him when you go out to some place normal? Nobody goes to those—what do they call them—clubs.”
“EM Clubs. Or maybe it’s NCO. It means enlisted men’s club or non-committed officer.”
“I don’t know about this. I don’t like the idea of going over there. I can’t imagine.... I think of them as seaweed-covered cretins with wooden legs or as scoundrels with VD and a prostitute in every port.”
“Please. Just come for a little while. Follow me over in your car. Then you can go when you want.”
“Oh brother. Okay. If you can’t get anyone else, I’ll go. But Judy, try to get someone else.”
The club at the naval substation was small, twenty flimsy tables each with four folding chairs, a pool table, a small circular bar, and a dance floor. The music system and dance floor were adequate, as good as many of the night spots in town; the band was fair; the food salty; the drinks cheap.
“I don’t believe I’m doing this,” Linda said as they approached the brick building. In the parking lot, in the light of the early evening, the music seemed somehow incongruous. “I don’t date servicemen. Number one, we couldn’t possibly have any common ground. Number two, it’s like, ‘What’s wrong with you? Weren’t you popular in school?’”
“Linda! I’m going with a serviceman.”
“That’s different, Judy. You knew him before he was in the service.”
“Be nice,” Judy said. “Tom said he’d meet us right inside the door.”
“Then the kid says to his dad,” Chris said, “‘you mean, birds and bees do it just like people?’”
“Ha.” Tony laughed. “That’s a good one! Just like people.”
“I gotta piss. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Take your time,” Tony called as Chris left. “Hope it comes out all right.” He signaled the bartender. “Two more.”
“You really go over three today, Sarge?” The bartender brought the beers.
“Three down, one to go,” Tony answered.
“These are on the house, Sarge. Happy Anniversary.”
“Thanks,” Tony said. After the heat of the day the coolness of the club felt refreshing. The first cold beer had seemed to be absorbed by his palate even before it reached his throat. The second just began to quench his thirst. This one he could sip. Tony turned, rested his back against the bar. The club was less than half full and half of those were older petty officers eating dinner. The band finished their warmup and went on break. Chris returned from the head. Tony glanced at him; he began chuckling as he thought of what he was about to do. He poured the rest of his beer from bottle to glass, grabbed the bottle like a microphone, turned back toward Chris and began singing.
Kicked mah ah-ahss in Phu Bai,
Beat mah ahsss in Do-ong Ha Bay
I’ll be there fo’evah,
Aint no one goina get in my way—
Ba-boom—BOOM!
“Hey.” Chris laughed. “That’s all right! Hey, maybe we oughta go into town.”
“Nah,” Tony put the bottle back on the bar. “I feel good right here. I don’t wanta mess with my mood.”
“This is Linda,” Judy said to Tom. “And this is my man,” she said to Linda. She put her arm around Tom’s waist and squeezed herself onto him.
“Nice to meet you,” Tom said. “This is Bill Curney. Why don’t we grab a table and have a drink.”
Oh no, Linda thought. She looked up at the second sailor. He appeared dour beneath a flaccid smile and he towered over her by more than a foot. She followed Judy and Tom to a table by the dance floor. Bill walked behind her. Damn, Linda thought. Judy didn’t mention this. What am I going to do with this creep. Bill pulled the chair out for her. She glanced quickly before she sat, making sure there weren’t any food scraps or maybe a beer puddle on the seat. She gripped the seat as she sat, half expecting Bill to pull it out from her and guffaw as she fell. This is going to be worse than I ever anticipated, she thought. The last thing I need is to ruin my pants. Judy sat. Tom and Bill went to the bar for drinks.
“Judy,” Linda whispered angrily. “Who’s the big jerk? I thought it was going to be just the three of us.”
“I don’t know. Honest. I didn’t. ... Well, but isn’t Tom something. Have you ever seen such a hunk?”
“Beer for me, gin ’n tonic for the dollie,” Bill said serving Linda. Tom moved his chair closer to Judy.
I’m going as soon as I can, Linda thought. The band began playing again. Linda glanced at Bill. He was holding his beer glass with both hands, looking down at the table. Slouched in his chair Bill looked like a child, an enormous, timid child. Creep, she snickered at him in her mind. He did not look at her. She sipped her drink. “Dollie!” she thought. “Dollie and the Creep.” She finished the drink by the start of the second song. She looked over at Judy and Tom, glared at Judy who had made no attempt to include her. Bill still said nothing. Tom and Judy cuddled closer. Linda turned her seat toward the band.
“I’m goina get another beer,” Bill said. “You ready for another gin?”
Linda sighed. “Sure,” she said. The band launched into a rendition of The Kingsmen’s “Louie Louie.” “They’re actually quite good,” Linda began to say as she turned back toward her friend.
“Dance?” Tony Pisano was two steps from her. He had come from the bar without her noticing.
“Excuse m—”
“Dance?” he repeated. He wore his most disarming smile.
“Sure,” Linda rose. Anything, she thought, to split from the creep. “I didn’t see you come over.”
“That’s because I have magic feet.” Tony’s eyes were twinkling. Something about him made her smile.
Linda Balliett was wearing a pair of tan cotton bell-bottoms and a three-quarter sleeve boat-neck blouse. Her hair was bunned at the back of her head with two curled strands falling before her ears. The first thing Tony noticed was that she was three or four inches shorter than he; the second, her neck and ears were lovely, and then, her eyes were different. He could tell they were different but he could not really see them clearly in the low light.
What Linda saw was a clean, handsome young man, slight, wiry, a good dancer if a little stiff in the legs, and a smile that engaged not just his mouth but his entire face.
Tony and Linda danced two songs back-to-back. The music was loud and they weren’t able to talk other than a laconic phrase or two. When the second song was over, Tony escorted Linda to her seat and returned to the bar.
“What’s her name?” Crocco asked.
“I don’t know,” Tony answered.
“She’s a real cutie,” Chris said. “Here, have another beer.”
“Thanks.”
The band played another song. Tony drank half the beer, resisting the urge to turn and look at Linda. At the table Linda finished her second drink. Bill remained somber, still, clutching his beer, seemingly concentrating all his attention on the tabletop. When the next song started Tony asked Linda to dance again, and when the song was over he again escorted her back to her table.
Tom was at the bar. “Tom’s friend had to go,” Judy announced as Linda and Tony reached the table. “He’s on call, or something.”
“Oh,” Linda said suppressing a sigh of relief. The band slowed the tempo, began The Shirelles’ “Tonight’s the Night.” Linda turned to Tony. She had no idea what to say, what would come out as she began to speak, but she began anyway. “Why don’t you—” she laughed a little girlish laugh, “sit.”
“I’d like that,” Tony said.
Tom returned before either could sit. “Hey, where’d Bill go?”
“Can we dance this one?” Linda asked softly. She touched Tony’s hand lightly. Low voltage current seemed to come from her fingertips.
On the dance floor Tony held her gently, gentlemanly.
“So,” Linda said as they slow danced, “what are you?”
“Me?!” Tony extended his arms, held her at arm’s length. He was aware that this girl was pretty, not high-fashion pretty, but excitingly pretty. “I’m a dago. What are you?”
“That’s not what I mean.” Linda stifled a laugh. “I mean, are you a sailor? My girlfriend’s fiancé is a petty officer. Something like that.”
“Oh, I thought you meant, you know, like what’s my sign. That’s why I said I’m a dago.”
“Come on,” Linda smiled.
“I’m a Marine. I’m a sergeant in the Marine Corps. And I like to dance. You’re a good dancer.”
“So are you. I thought all the men here were sailors.”
“We’ve a detachment of Marines to stand guard. Do you come here often?”
“Oh God, No! I mean ... I’ve never been here before.”
“Sure.”
“Sure what? I’ve never been here before. I only came because my friend wanted me to meet her fiancé.”
“Yeah.”
“Really.” Linda stopped dancing and stepped back.
“Yeah.” Tony said mock sheepishly. “I believe you.”
“I really never have been here before,” Linda blurted defensively.
“I believe you.” Tony couldn’t suppress his laughter.
“I’m not the kind of girl that would come to a men’s club,” Linda said. “This is out of character for—”
“No. No. Look. I’m not saying that you are. I’m just saying, ‘Sure.’”
“Hhmmm.” Linda pursed her lips.
“What are you?” Tony asked. They resumed dancing.
“I’m studying to be an LPN,” Linda said. Tony looked quizzically at her. “A nurse,” she said.
“Oh,” Tony said. The song ended. They walked back toward the table. “That’s great. I’d like to do that someday. We had a corpsman once who cross-trained all our squad leaders and platoon sergeants in emergency medical aid. I’ve started IVs, given shots of morphine.”
“You have! Look at this. Where’d they go?”
“Who?”
“Judy and Tom. Great! She gets me over here to meet her guy then she just about sits on him from the moment we come in and now they leave....”
“Is that her? Over by the door.”
“You must have really good eyes,” Linda said.
Judy came back to the table. “I’ll see ya later,” she whispered to Linda. “We’re going to a hotel downtown.”
“Do you believe that?” Linda looked at Tony, shook her head. “Some friend. Oh well, tell me, how is it that you got to start IVs if you’re not a medic? Who would let you do that?”
“Ah, when it’s necessary, whoever can do it does it.”
“Sure.” Linda laughed.
“Sure.” Tony chuckled back.
“Come on. Where did you get to do that?”
“Around Dong Ha.”
“Where?”
“In Viet Nam.”
“Oh. I see. Oh!”
The tempo changed—Isley Brothers, “Twist and Shout,” then “Twistin with Linda.” For an hour Tony and Linda danced. They paused for a drink, exchanged names, a few comments. And they smiled. Linda was surprised. She was enjoying both the dancing and the presence of Tony Pisano. For Tony, the more he looked at Linda, the more beautiful and exciting she was to him.
“Ah, can you drive me back to my barracks?” They had exited the club, were standing at the edge of the parking lot.
“Sure.” Linda laughed. “If you can guess which car is mine.”
Tony scanned the lot. There were about thirty cars. “That Plymouth.” He pointed to a close-by late-model sedan.
“No.”
“Uh. The Tempest?” He indicated a car halfway across the lot.
“Noooo.”
“Oh no. Not that one?”
“Um-hmm.” At the center of the lot there was a battered, cream-colored two-door coup of indeterminable age or make. And it was covered with large daisies. In the petals of the largest daisy, painted on the hood, were three lines making each petal a peace symbol.
Tony took a deep breath. He looked around to see if anyone was about. Then he looked at Linda. “Well, Ma’am,” he said in John Wayne imitation, “let’s go.”
“Where’s your barracks?” Linda asked after she’d started the engine.
“There.” Tony pointed across the lot.
“There?” Linda burst out laughing.
“Well, Ma’am, you wouldn’t want to make a Marine walk real far in the night air, would ya now?”
Linda drove across the lot and parked. Alone with Linda for the first time Tony felt awkward. And he felt very awkward before his barracks in the daisied car. But there was something about her that he liked, something different, he thought, something he wanted to understand. Her eyes were different, but it was more. For one thing she didn’t seem to feel the least bit awkward or shy, defensive or aggressive. It’s like we could be friends, he thought. Good friends.
Their talk alternated between serious and playful. Tony spoke quietly, sincerely, passionately about the Marine Corps in Viet Nam. Linda listened attentively, asking a few questions about the Corps but gracefully avoiding anything to do with politics and the war.
“Then a lance corporal is like a seaman or a PFC?” Linda asked.
“Oh no,” Tony said. “They’re the same pay grade but it’s altogether different. Lance corporal in the Marine Corps is a very prestigious rank. It comes from the Latin lancia spezzata which is what the Romans labeled their best fighters, the ones who had the most broken lances. PFC in the army’s nothin. They all make PFC. Really, a lance corporal in the Corps is more like a sergeant in the army.”
“But you’re a sergeant in the Marine Corps. Then that must truly be a prestigious rank.”
“Well,” Tony said modestly, “I’ve been in for three years. Today’s my anniversary date. I’ve been to Cuba and Norway, plus Viet Nam. So I’ve been around.”
“I guess so.”
“Hey,” he brightened up. “What color are your eyes? They’re different.”
“They’re hazel,” Linda said.
“Let me look.”
“Boy, if that isn’t a line!”
“Naw. Naw. I’m serious. I was tellin my cousin ... Geez Louise ... you got em.”
“What?”
“Naw. I’m not goina say anything cause you think I’m feeding you a line.” Suddenly Tony was feeling eerie, intimidated. He almost asked her about her hair but he decided to wait.
“Tony,” Linda said, “I’ve really got to go now. I have that exam tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” Tony said pensively. “You told me that before.” He wanted to stay with her a little while longer but he wasn’t sure how to keep her. So he said, “I think it’s really neat that you’re going to be a nurse. When you were telling me about that, about wanting to save people or lessen their suffering, you know, I think if I—I mean—when I get out—I think I’d like to go to school and do something like that. I think I’d be good at it. I’m good with people. Maybe be a teacher. I could teach high school or something.”
“Then you should do it,” Linda answered him.
“I probably will. I could go on the GI Bill and I think if I needed it, my father would help me. He put my brother through school and he’s paying most of my other brother’s tuition. My brother Joe is starting medical school in September. We could be, you know, like the Mayo brothers. Open our own clinic. The Dago Brothers’ clinic.”
Linda didn’t answer. She missed the joke and was doubtful that a combat marine from Viet Nam could ever be a nurse, much less a doctor. She was skeptical but not to the point where she dared question him. After all, at twenty years old he had reached the rank of sergeant in the Marine Corps and she was now convinced that was a real accomplishment. Perhaps she was going easy on him because she kind of liked him.
Tony took her quietness as pure skepticism, as a put down. “You know,” he began. He stuttered but he decided to speak his thought. “I ... this may sound weird, but I, I feel the same way about being a Marine as you do about being a nurse. I wanted to save people. I wanted to lessen their suffering. And if I saved one other human being’s life in my lifetime, never mind just if I ever reproduce myself with kids, but if I save another human’s life, I’ve more than justified my existence. And—and—and I have. I was with the greatest fighting force in the world and what we fought for was to save lives. You know, ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic,’ third verse? There’s a line there. ‘As He died to make men holy; Let us live to make men free.’ That’s what we were doing. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll get out.”
“No.” Linda reached over and touched his hand. “No. Not ... I mean ...” She withdrew her hand. “Tony, that’s a very beautiful thought. You, you’re really a very special person. I can see why they made you sergeant. You seem really to care about people.”
“I do. I think I do. Part of me always wanted to be a medic. That’s why I thought I’d be a good nurse or technician. I don’t think I could stand to spend so much time in school to become a doctor.” He changed tone suddenly. “Hey, how long is your hair?”
“What?” She laughed.
“You’ve got it all knotted up in back. I was wonderin how long it was.”
Linda smiled. She reached back to pull the pins out. “I’d expect that line from a sailor,” she joked.
“See, you have been here before, huh?”
“No, I haven’t!”
“Okay. Here let me.” Tony reached over and pulled out the last hairpin.
Linda shook her head. “I had it up because I haven’t washed it since this morning.” Auburn hair fell to her shoulders.
Tony sat back, stared. Eyes, hair, right height, he thought. He tilted his head, closed his eyes, thought a second, then looked at Linda. “Somebody someplace took that order.”
“What?”
“Oh, nothin. Nothin.”
“Tony, I really do have to go.”
“I know,” he said. He wanted to end the night right. Wanted it to end with the assurance it was only the start. “I know,” he said, “that you’d like me to kiss you good night. But, ah, I never kiss a girl on the first date.” With that he opened the door and got out.
Linda Balliett did not hear from Tony Pisano for three days. It was not a matter that he was not thinking of her. Indeed, even during the two notifications and one burial at which he’d assisted he could not stop thinking about her. Christopher Crocco had noticed it the moment he’d walked into their cubicle. He noticed it as Tony sang and even danced his little jig while he dressed in the morning. He noticed it the following evening, in the weight room, as Tony went through his routine twice, pumping more weight, doing more reps.
On the second morning Crocco said, “Well, are you goina tell me about it?”
“No,” Tony answered.
“Damn, paesan. You’re floating like an airhead and you’re not going to talk!”
“Nope.”
“At least tell me her name. You did get her name, didn’t you?”
At Linda’s dormitory the scene was quite different. Though at times she found herself thinking of Tony, she spent the first two hours back reviewing blood gas theory and equations. In school the next day she concentrated hard during quiz and classes. And not until she had lunch with Judy Reardon and two other student nurses did she think about Tony.
“Who was the cute guy who picked you up?” Judy asked.
“Listen,” Linda said. “He was the biggest jerk. I mean, he was a good dancer but do you know what he did?”
“What?” All three girls leaned closer.
“You’re not going to believe it. This guy was so presumptuous ...” And she repeated for them Tony’s last few sentences.
“I can’t even believe you went over there,” one of the friends said.
“Neither can I,” said the second.
“I didn’t expect you to stay,” Judy said. “I thought the band was terrible.”
“No it wasn’t,” Linda said. “It was good. And he was a good dancer.”
“But when you found out he was a Marine,” Judy said, “why didn’t you ditch him. Ucck! A Marine.”
“‘I want a good luck charm, hangin on my arm ...’”
Chris Crocco looked up as Tony came bopping into their cubicle, bopping, singing, snapping his fingers, knees bent and torso swinging in Elvis imitation. “Hey, paesan ...”
“‘... to have, to hold, tonight.’” Tony drew out the last note.
“You keep singing and the dudes in the next room are goina buy us that stereo. Man, there’s one I saw with a built-in eight-track that’d—”
“Fuck!” Tony snarled, irate.
“Now what the hell is it?”
“Burials, motherfucker.”
“I swear, you’re like Jekyll and Hyde except worse. You’re like Jekyll and Hyde in one breath. Simultaneous schitzo-fuck. Mulhaney?”
“No.” Pisano plopped down on his cot. Two letters at the foot bounced on the tightly tucked blanket.
“What then?” Crocco was angry. Tony’s mood shifts made the continuum of conversation impossible.
“Promiscuous bitch.”
“Who? That chick?”
“Old bitch, Man. Death, Man. Takin another Philly boy, Man. Fuck it! But we keep linin up ... a billion of us ... a billion boys carrying on their generation’s wars, generation after generation after ad inf-fuckin-nitum generation. I don’t wanta bury em anymore.”
Pisano grabbed the letters from his bed, glanced at the return addresses. One, a thin one, was from Jimmy Pellegrino. The other, a fat letter, was from his brother Joe. Tony fell over onto his rack, collapsed on his left side, his letters cradled against his stomach.
“Hey, paesan.” Crocco shook his head imperceptibly. “I figure we each kick in a hundred and twenty—Can you swing that?”
“Yeah, Chris.” Tony’s voice was faint, flat, as if he’d burnt out.
“You all right?”
“Yeah.”
“Didja eat?”
“Nah.”
“That’s what’s happenin, Man. Your bod runs outa gas. You go manic until you crumble. You gotta smooth it out, paesan. Gotta be cool, Man.”
“Yeah.”
Crocco got up, left. Tony lay on his side until the mid-August sun came horizontally through the window. He thought about calling Linda, about it being Friday, about Friday night, about her telling him she doesn’t date servicemen, that Wednesday night had been a mistake. He thought about the morning funeral in Germantown at National Cemetery, about the drive back past La Salle College, about going to school when he got out, about Philly General, Mercy Douglas, and Methodist Episcopal hospitals—he hadn’t even asked her where she was doing her student nursing—about Philadelphia Naval Hospital, about Rick. His thoughts became vague: concepts of city-people stupidity, of slimy civilians standing in doorways, hanging out windows, bopping along streets without seeing, without looking where they stepped, where they went, stupid, so easy to shoot, to be shot by anybody, to be mortared with no hole to jump in. And he felt afraid for them. And afraid of them—afraid their stupidity might get him killed. Then he let it go, unstored, unrecallable. He rolled to his back and opened his brother’s letter.
Dear Tony,
Josephine sent me a large box of oatmeal cookies, like the ones she used to send to you overseas. I’m sure it’s her response to our being away. But there’s too many, they’ll go bad here. So I’m sending half, separately from this letter, to you. I wanted to tell you that so if they get waylaid you’ll know I was thinking of you. Don’t tell her, okay?
I’ve enclosed a few articles here for you. One’s a speech by Humphrey. He’s certainly the best man running this time. Look, I need your opinion on something. Do you remember my friend Todd? He’s been teaching Science at Rock Ridge Junior High, but he’s being drafted. He was scheduled to go for induction August 1 but he didn’t show. He has a letter from his principal stating that there’s a shortage of science teachers (which is bullshit), but the Army didn’t accept it and they rescheduled his induction for September 9. He’s staying with me for a few days and we’ve been analyzing all the alternatives—Army life, jail, splitting for Sweden. We’ve talked at great length but time is running out. He’s filed for C.O. status but sincerely doubts he’ll even get a hearing. We need your opinion.
I’ve thought about applying for C.O., also. I thought about it all during my senior year but I knew when I was accepted to med. school I didn’t have to worry. Still I hate the draft for confining me into school as it has. That must sound trivial to you, a banality from the unscathed. But it does trouble me! These years are going to be of such historical significance and I’ve hidden behind my books. I might stop hiding and become active with the local Students for a Democratic Society. What do you think?
Back to Todd. The essence of his plight is he believes he would be double-crossing his conscience if he allowed himself to be drafted yet he is not morally opposed to just wars or to the military. (Mostly he’s opposed to them screwing with his routine—new house, new car, and new girlfriend.) But if he goes to jail or splits for Sweden, that would upset his routine even more than the Army—and maybe forever! We really need your opinion, Tony. We need the opinion of someone who’s been in the middle and who knows.
Joe
P.S. I put a tab of acid in one of the cookies!
A smirk formed on Tony’s face. Before he reviewed Joe’s letter he opened the one from Jimmy Pellegrino. It was short.
Tony—
Bea and I’ll be in your A.O. about 2000 hours, Friday 16 August. I got till Sunday because I’ve gotta leave for Treasure Island on Monday. Grab a chick and LET’S PARTY!
J
P.S. Annalisa says Hi.
“Linda.”
“Yes.”
“It’s Tony Pisano. The dago you danced with the other night.”
“Tony?”
“Yeah. Remember? SURE!” He laughed, wanted her to hear his laugh. Inside he felt like a pincushion, tingling, tight. His breath was short.
“Yeah ...” Linda repeated his word. To him he felt she was smiling. “SURE.”
They both laughed. “Ah ... my ah cousin, Jimmy, he’s comin into town for the weekend ...”
“And you want me to find him a date.” She completed his sentence.
“No. Nothin like that. His fiancée comin with him. But I just found out like five minutes ago and he’ll be here any minute ... and I ah ... can we go dancing tonight?”
“Oh. I wish I could, Tony. But on such short notice, I won’t be able to get someone to stand call for me.”
“Tomorrow night? They’re goina be here until Sunday morning. Then he’s goin back overseas. I’d like ... you know ...”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Um.” There was a short silence. “Cause I’m a Marine?”
“No. No. Really. It’s ... I’m on this whole weekend.”
“Well ... Okay. Thanks anyway.”
“Maybe tomorrow ... if I can get someone to cover. Call me?”
“Sure.”
They hung up. What a jerk, he thought. Tony Jerk. She’s probably got a dozen guys callin her. Probably waitin for Mr. Right ta call.
What a jerk, she thought. “Call me!” Why did I say that?
It was warm, drizzling. The VW’s windows were fogged. The radio wailed with Country Joe and The Fish, “Fixin’ to Die.” Jimmy drove. He was oblivious to the jarring. Tony rode shotgun. Red was in back, sitting sideways, her feet together on the seat, her shoulders against the driver’s side interior, her left arm extended between the car side and the back of the driver’s seat, her hand under Jimmy’s T-shirt, massaging, kneading, her fingers scooping through thick chest hair. On the floor three empty quart bottles of Schmidt’s beer tinked and clanged. The city street was rough, potholed, patched, neglected. Tony had suggested they leave Red’s car, take the speed-line train for town, but Jimmy had wanted the car, wanted the freedom, wanted to go in, score, leave quickly.
There were few people on the narrow street. In the night drizzle the brick row houses looked grimy. Heaps of uncollected garbage crowded the sidewalks. Jimmy searched every parked car, every doorway. Tony raised up his bottle, gulped, brought it down, stifled the fizz forcing its way to the back of his nose. He coughed. Cleared his throat.
Jimmy slowed, turned down the radio, rolled down the window. Three men were sitting on a stone stoop to his left. He stopped the car in the middle of the street, let the motor idle, opened his door. “Be right back,” he said. “Cover me.”
Red shifted, slid down. Tony took another gulp, lit a cigarette. He wasn’t worried about Jimmy. Jimmy could take care of himself. After the shit they’d been through, they were confident, poised, comfortable in situations others might deem dangerous.
Red and Jimmy had shown up just as Tony had finished showering. They were already giggling. They found Crocco hilarious. They wanted Tony to get high with them but they’d smoked up all their weed, so they’d bought a case of Schmidt’s quarts, half a dozen cheese-steak sandwiches, and set off for an address Jimmy had gotten from the CQ.
Jimmy opened the door. The interior domelight came on. “What’s happenin, Man?” Tony asked. In his peripheral vision he could sense Red’s legs all the way to her panties.
“Man—” Jimmy slid in, dropped a lunch bag on Tony’s lap, slammed the door and drove off, “do them dudes have a rap.”
“Whoa! Whatcha got? Look at this!”
“One big one, my main man. Twenty-five super Js. Packed and rolled. One U.S. Grant per dozen and one for the bag cause the dude was at Khe Sanh. He’s cool. They were already all fucked up. Torch one, Tone, torch one. There isn’t this much dope in all I Corps.”
Now Jimmy was driving fast. Tony lit a joint, sucked in a lung-full, turned to pass the J to Red. She was in the middle of the back seat, staring forward, sitting in a lotus position, her skirt above her thighs. Tony’s jaw dropped. Red giggled. She reached out, grasped Tony’s wrist, did not take the joint. Instead she leaned forward, continuing to hold his arm, brushed her lips on his hand, then took a hit and pushed him away. She winked, sassy, brazen. Tony passed the J to Jimmy.
“Par-Tee Time, mothafucka. Par-Tee Time!” Jimmy shouted. He turned the radio volume back up to blare. “Where to?”
“I don’t know,” Tony yelled back. “I don’t really know Philly. There’s clubs—”
“Naw. Naw, Man.” Jimmy cut him short. James Brown’s “Night Train,” came loud from the tinny speakers. “We’re clubbed out. Just get us to the docks where we can, you know, watch the submarine races and get wasted.”
“Okay. Shit! This stuff’s got a kick.”
“No.” Bea leaned forward between the seats. “I want to listen to some music.” Her voice was high, the words quick, her green eyes glistening. She put her left hand on Jimmy’s shoulder and Tony noticed for the first time the diamond engagement ring. “Pleeee-se.” With her right hand she gripped Tony’s tricep, squeezed, then released but continued to cup her fingers about his arm, ever so lightly tickling, tantalizing him.
They smoked another joint, drank another quart of beer, drove aimlessly, drank, smoked, finally parked in a closed lot somewhere between the bus terminal and Chinatown, smoked, watched cars driving by, splashing and spraying street muck and rain, chatted, especially Red, all about being a Cancer, about her desire to be consumed by romance this month of August 1968. They got the munchies, found an all-night doughnut shop, bought four dozen, sat in the car and ate, trying to outdo the others by sensually tonguing the jelly from the pastries, and Red grasping and licking the sugar off the crullers.
Then Tony lay back in the crotch of the seat and the door and closed his eyes. The world faded. His muscles relaxed, his skin went slack. If Jimmy and Red passed out, or if they made love, Tony didn’t know. He felt, for the first time since Okinawa, completely and totally peaceful. Then he saw Stacy. Stacy, her incredible face and eyes. He saw her sitting up in bed, a white sheet pulled to her waist, a pure white long-sleeved nightgown primly buttoned to her throat. Her eyes and teeth glistened, her smile was inviting. Tony felt so secure, so content. There were other beds. Maxene was in the bed next to Stacy’s, covered with a pure white sheet just like Stacy. Indeed the entire room was white, pure white, except for Stacy’s face and Maxene’s, and further Annalisa’s and Patty’s and Julie’s and Roseanne’s and Bea’s. Like a garden, like blooms in a snow garden. Then Linda came, walked right through him to Stacy and Stacy said very politely, sweetly, “Cut them off, please. Up to here.” She drew her long index finger gracefully across her throat. “Like everyone else.”
Tony woke in his rack. He did not know how he’d gotten there. It was Saturday, early afternoon, a nonduty day, cloudy, warm, humid but not raining. Christopher Crocco was sitting on his own bed watching a portable TV he’d bought and set up on the desk. “Eh, paesan, you’re alive!”
“Aw, geez. Is that me?”
“It aint a dead cat under yer bed.”
“Phhew! Oh Man!”
“Hey, when Jimmy dumped you off he said he’d be back about six.”
“What time did I get in?”
“I don’t know. I got up to take a leak about five and you weren’t in. Maybe six. Mulhaney wanted you for notification about seven but Williams covered for ya.”
“I’m not on today.”
“Yeah, but they had like six come in all at once. Gooks launched a series of attacks or somethin.”
“Shit.”
“Hey, ball game’s comin on. Wanta watch it?”
“Naw. Shit Man, what weird dreams. I’m goina go work out. Jimmy say where they stayed or what they were goina—”
“That hot little chick with him wanted to ball his brains out right in yer rack. I swear ta God. What a sweet little ass she’s got. Oh, yeah, that other girl called too. What’s her name?”
“Who!”
“The one you won’t tell me about.”
“Linda! Linda called!” Tony bolted up, excited.
“Ha!” Crocco slapped his hands together. “Linda, is it? Linda, Linda, Linda.”
“You shithead!” Tony rose, stamped. “Shithead. Leave her out of this.”
At first the weights seemed heavy, heavier than their poundage. Tony began with leg flex exercises, then extensions, working his quadriceps, low weights, high reps, being careful not to re-rip the muscle. He stayed on the bench for flies, reverse flies, pull-overs and sit-ups. Beer sweat poured from his skin, its smell mixing with cheese-steak flatus, embarrassing him. He did a full set, used the bathroom, drank a quart of water, began a second set. Now he felt better, stronger.
He thought about calling Linda but his thoughts were vague. Call, maybe be rejected again. Or worse, to have her say yes and then have her be horrified by Jimmy’s weed, by Red’s flirting, by Mill Creek Falls–style evening entertainment. His body rocked forward as he curled the bar, snapping it to his chest, then rocked back as he slowly lowered it. He watched his biceps in the mirror, thought they looked good, thought his pecs beneath his curly chest hair looked especially sexy. What if Jimmy mouthed off? He’d talk in that dopey, macho way they always talked when together, all naws and nopes and yeahs, instead of how he’d talked when he was with her, how he spoke during notifications, professionally, politely. Does she smoke dope? God, he thought, with that car, she probably runs the stuff. Naw. He began a set of quarter squats with 250 pounds on his shoulders. What if she’s weird? And I just didn’t notice because I’d had a few beers? Jimmy’d see right through her. Probably knows a dozen guys who’ve screwed her. “Maintain,” he grumbled to himself. “Main-fuckin-tain.”
That night Tony, Jimmy and Red partied again, drank again, got stoned again. Again Jimmy and Red dumped Tony into his cot.
Again the effect of beer and marijuana wore thin. Again dreams came. Vivid. Confused. More intense than before. More real. It was hot, humid, sticky, filthy. He was in the tunnel. The body was jammed in, sideways, decaying, stinking in the tight enclosure. His heart pounded. In only the light from his flashlight he tried to slip the rope, the chocker, around the corpse, under one arm, around the back, under the other. He had already shot the corpse, shot it three times with his .45, shot it and seen it splat rotting meat onto the tunnel walls. He was in deep, very deep, at an angle with his feet above his head, without air, breathing in the decaying gases of the corpse, trying to tie the rope around it, him, the corpse’s shirt crumbling as Tony tied the rope at the base of the sternum. To tie it he had had to rest his head on the corpse’s shoulder, on the wound in the dead meat that he’d shot, blasted at first glimpse, terrified the man was alive, armed, about to blast him and stop his penetration into the inner sanctum of NVA deception, into the secret nether world the communists had designed to defeat the Marines. Tony’s heart pounded. He tried to turn in the tunnel but couldn’t. He wriggled back using the toes of his boots like the teeth of a ratchet, push, wriggle back, dig in, lock toes, trying to keep from sliding headfirst, diving headfirst into the stench and rot of the corpse. Back, back, only inches at a time. His breath came hard yet was muffled in his ears, dampened by the earth, by the thick air. Dirt broke from the walls, worked under his belt, beneath his shirt. Breathing hard, slipping, grabbing the rope to stop himself. Then feeling the rope go taut, the relief, thinking he’d hold on and they’d pull him out. But the corpse ... the rope tightened, more, more. His heart pounded, the pulsing in his ears, in his eyes, in his upside-down face, pulsing—tighter tighter, dirt in his nose—the rope zipped through his fingers, the head, upper torso smashed, splatted into, onto him, drooling onto him, up top the men still pulling, below the corpse squishing the ...
Tony jolted. Leaped from the bed. He was wet, sweat drenched, tense. His body pulsed. He stared into the blackness, ready, ready to pounce.
“Just piss, Man,” Crocco moaned sleepily. “You don’t gotta wake everybody.”
It was overcast, drizzling again. Red looked terrible. She hugged Tony and said good-bye. Jimmy looked drained. “Cover yer ass, Man.” Tony clutched his cousin’s shoulders. “Stay low.”
“Hey, it’s cool,” Jimmy said. “I’m really lookin forward ta gettin back. It’s like home.” He laughed, got into the car, shut the door.
Tony leaned into the open window. The car reeked of beer and smoke and was dusty with cigarette and joint ash. He hugged Jimmy again. “Write,” Tony said. “Let me know who yer with. Maybe I’ll be there.” Tony stood back.
“Naw,” Jimmy said. “I’ll write, but you’re under a year. They won’t send ya unless you re-up.”
“Hey! Maybe we’ll be lifers.”
Jimmy pointed a finger out the window. “Be cool, Cuz. Be cool.”