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I sat on the bed, reading. I scratched my head and a blizzard of dandruff flakes fell down. It was due to a fungal infection I’d picked up from being out in the field so long without being able to shower. We’d fill up our steel pots with a couple quarts of cold water and wash up that way, but it didn’t really do the job.
Someone walked up and sat on the edge of my bed. It was Greg. He had a large manila envelope with him. “How you doing, Carl?”
“Not bad, and you?”
He nodded slowly and forced a smile. “Things are looking up,” he said softly. His look grew serious. “How’s your leg?”
“Almost healed. Doctor Walker said he’s giving me another week down here with the crutches and then I’m going up to nine with a cane.”
Greg frowned and grew silent. I liked Greg. He was one of the most serious, mature guys I’d known since I’d been in the army.
Greg opened the manila envelope and pulled out a stack of letters wrapped with a rubber band. They looked familiar. “You know,” he said, “after they took Jack away, the ward nurse went through his night table and found these.” He handed them to me. They were all my letters to the company, to the lieutenant, to Battalion Headquarters. They were all sealed and untouched.
“He never mailed them?”
Greg nodded.
I looked through the letters. I didn’t see the ones I’d written to my folks. “This isn’t all of them,” I said.
“He only kept the ones going to Nam.”
I looked at him in a daze. “Why?”
Greg shrugged. “Who knows? I have an idea, though. He was trying to help you make a clean break with all of that, so that you wouldn’t want to go back.”
It didn’t make sense to me. What did ‘want’ have to do with it? Did Greg’s not wanting to go up to Ward Nine, and not wanting to go back to Vietnam make any difference? Did Krouse’s?
Greg and I stared out the window at Fuji’s cold white form. I felt a tiny twinge of relief. I’d been worried about why the squad and the lieutenant hadn’t answered my letters. At least they were okay. I took the letter to Battalion and the one to the lieutenant and put them up on the dresser. There was no telling where the company was now, but they would find out. I dropped the others in the waste can.
Greg pointed to the letters I had put on the dresser. “You sure you want to send them out?”
I nodded.
“You know, you’re still a borderline case. If you really tried you might be able to tip the scales and not go back.”
“Maybe.” I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It was too depressing. “So,” I said, trying to get the topic of conversation off of me and on to him, “have you heard anything about going back to Vietnam?”
“I’m not going back.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to Okinawa.”
“You’re kidding!”
He had a big smile on his face as he shook his head from side to side. I was amazed. He’d only been in Vietnam a month and then a month here. And now Okinawa?
“Pretty lucky, pal,” I said.
“Yeah.” He laughed. “Noriko says it’s because of the chanting.”
I shook my head in wonder. That was the Army for you. There were always a couple of guys who would get over with incredible luck.
“Well,” he said, “I have to go. You ought to try chanting too.” He slapped me on the back and extended his hand. “Good luck, man.”
“Thanks, Greg. It’s been great knowing you.”
Later, the Japanese lady came by and I asked her if she would mail my letters for me. I’d felt really low since Greg left, but now, as I watched her walk off with the letters, I felt hope again. Soon I’d hear about Ron and Glock and Chico, and the lieutenant, and maybe even Chantal. I couldn’t wait.
After Greg left, time seemed to stop. I had no friends and nothing to do but lay around and read, and I was too depressed for that. My world became a quiet, uneventful hell.
Then one day Chip pushed a gurney awkwardly through the far doors. The guy lying on the thing quickly yanked his hand away as one of the doors closed on it. Chip pushed the gurney closer. The wounded guy’s head rested on a pillow and he had his two yellow, iodine-stained, skinny arms folded behind his head. He looked familiar. When he was about ten feet away, I realized he was from my company.
He recognized me and turned to Chip. “Whoa, hold up there. I want to talk to this here fella.” Frowning impatiently, Chip stopped the gurney by my bed. The guy smiled at me. He was very skinny and pale, and his hair was long and dirty looking. He reminded me of a painting my parents had of Jesus Christ dragging his cross up a hill.
“You’re from company B, aren’t you?” he said.
“Yeah. So are you.”
“Well, I’ll be damned!” He smiled. “We did a patrol together.”
“Dig it. What’s your name again?”
“Arley Hayes. Yours?”
“Carl Melcher.”
Chip started pushing him away and Arley turned to him angrily. “Hold up there, will ya, sport?”
Chip stopped and glared at me.
“We’ll have to talk some,” said Arley. “You come on over and see me tonight after chow. You hear?”
“I’ll be there,” I said excitedly. I’d been dying to talk to somebody from the company and here he was! I watched Chip push him away and noted what bed he put him in.
After they took my meal tray away, I went to see Arley. He was tall, too long for the Japanese-sized bed. He extended a skinny hand to me to shake. “Pull up a chair, buddy,” he said.
As I sat down, he popped a chaw of chewing tobacco in his mouth. “Wanna plug?”
“No, thanks. When did you get wounded?”
“Last week, up at Ban Me Thuet. A couple sappers got through the perimeter, but we tore ‘em up.” He smiled as he chewed happily. A trickle of brown saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. “You got hit on the road, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, me and about twenty other guys.”
He nodded. “It was bad up on the Firebase, too. They kept hitting us the whole time you were down there.”
“Really? I never knew that. I was medevac’d out. How’s the rest of the company doing?”
“The rest? There ain’t hardly any old timers left.” He turned and spat into a can on his bedside table. “Yeah, that was bad. And we ain’t never had it that bad since.” He shook his head in wonder. “The whole time you all were down there, they were trying to get through our wire. I shot three myself. I thought we’d never get off that darn hill.”
“What about the guys from the road, how’d they make out?”
“A lot of them did, a lot of them didn’t. The lieutenant was okay, the young one. I forget his name.”
“Goodkin.”
“That’s right, Goodkin. And about twenty others, I don’t know their names. They brought back eight bodies.”
“Beobee was one of them.”
“Yeah. I knew him, a good ole Southern boy.”
I nodded. “What about Ron Jakes and Glock?”
“Glock?”
“McLoughlin. We called him, Glock. And Ron Jakes.”
“Oh, yeah. We called them Salt and Pepper. Ron was the black fella, right?”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head sadly. “They both died down there on that darn road.”
I felt dizzy.
“That Puerto Rican fella from New York helped bring their bodies in. What was his name?”
“Chico.”
“Yeah. He carried one of them back hisself. He got blown up later, though. Enemy grenade landed in his hole. Lordy, lordy. I thought I’d never get off that darn hill. Are you okay, buddy?”
“Yeah.” I got to my feet. I thought I was going to be sick and started for the latrine.
“C’mon over later and we’ll play some cards, okay, buddy?”
I waved without turning.
There was a full moon and we could see the submarine out there past the breakers, its stick-like black form floating on the silver sea. We knew they’d be coming, and we were all straining our eyes in the dark, watching for them. Would they come in rubber rafts? I wondered. Or would they swim?
The sand was still warm from the sun that had burned down on it all day, and a warm breeze was blowing in off the sea. As I listened to the gentle roar of the breakers, I wondered if I had enough bullets. I asked the guy next to me if he had any extra bullets and he wouldn’t answer me. I thought it was Glock, but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was Beobee.
We waited for what seemed like an hour and I looked up and noticed that the disc of moon was higher now. Still, I couldn’t see them. Then I heard a shout.
“There’s one!” someone said from up in front.
“Where?” another voice said.
“Over there. No, two ... three of them. Over there, see!”
“There’s at least a company of them,” Ron said.
Around me the others made a heck of a racket, slamming magazines into their weapons, releasing the bolts and chambering rounds.
I stared at the surf in the distance and finally I saw their black shapes, scurrying quickly, bug-like, here and there, and then dropping and disappearing for a moment and then scurrying in the other direction. Someone in front of me fired a round at them and then everybody else started shooting. I was trying to get a clear shot between the two guys in front of me. When I finally saw one, I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I tried again and again but my rifle wouldn’t work.
I noticed the others falling back. Not wanting to be left behind, I grabbed my rifle and followed. We ran into an old barracks and up the stairs. Looking down between the wooden balusters of the balustrade, we watched for them, waiting for the door to come crashing down. Suddenly the lights went out and someone cursed. Downstairs the door crashed open and all the windows seemed to shatter at the same time. There was only the red glow of the little emergency light by the door and I could see their dark shapes down there, moving around, scrambling toward the stairs.
“They’re coming up!” Glock shouted.
“Where?” Ron asked.
“Like hell they are!” Beobee said. He popped the pin on some kind of grenade and I briefly saw him, Ron, Glock and Chico in the orange flash before he threw it downstairs. There was a rushing hiss as a rosy, glowing foam erupted, quickly engulfing the downstairs area. I could hear them thrashing about under it, an occasional black, tentacle-like limb breaking the surface.
“I think it’s working,” Glock said, as we watched the tumult below.
I wanted to believe him, but I could see that the stuff was beginning to dry up and recede. “Do you have any more?” I asked Beobee.
“No.”
“They’re starting up the stairs,” somebody said.
“Oh, Lordy,” Beobee said. “Sweet Jesus help us.”
I awoke from my dream abruptly. The ward lights were on and my dinner tray, still covered, sat on the bedside table. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes after seven. My new neighbor, a black guy named Johnson, lay in Krouse’s old bed. Krouse had only been dead one day when they brought Johnson in. I guess they really needed the beds.
I decided to go out to the main corridor to the candy machine. I hadn’t been able to eat much the past couple of days. Candy bars were about all I could get down. After Krouse died, and after finding out about Ron and the others, I just didn’t care about anything.
I sat up and reached for my crutches. I always leaned them against the wall beside my bed, but they were missing. I stood on one leg and got down and looked under the bed. Nothing. They were gone! Just yesterday Doctor Walker had said that he’d keep me on them for another four or five days.
“What’s the matter?” It was Johnson looking over at me.
“My crutches, they’re gone.”
“The orderly took them.”
“Which one?”
“The little, chubby, blond-headed guy.”
“Oh.” I knew it! Chip was messing with me because I’d been Krouse’s friend. He was hassling me because he thought I was malingering. He’d done the same thing to Krouse and Mills. Both he and Dale had. They just couldn’t understand. The more I thought about it, the more angry I became. I’d never cheated the Army. I’d always played by the rules. I’d done everything they’d told me to. And the only thing that had made it bearable was the thought that I would be going back with my squad, and maybe seeing Chantal.
Still, I hadn’t cheated. I’d continued to go to Physical Therapy. I hadn’t tampered with my wound. And now they were treating me like I was some lazy slob trying to get out of doing KP or something!
Chip entered the far door, pushing the big dinner tray cart. He looked in my direction. Even from that distance, I saw his face change. He knew that I knew. I took my tray off the table and lay it across my lap as I waited for him to work his way down the ward.
He took Johnson’s tray without looking in my direction. He slid it into the rack and walked up to me, never making eye contact. When he reached for my tray, I held it fast. He blinked in confusion.
“I want my crutches back,” I said.
“What?”
“Don’t what me, man.” I looked deep into his eyes. “This guy over here said you took my crutches. I want them back now. Do you understand?”
I could see his nostrils dilating. He swallowed. “When I finish collecting the trays.”
“Good. I’ll be waiting.” I released the tray.
About ten minutes later someone approached. It was the Japanese lady. She leaned my crutches against the wall and went away. I lay back down and stared at the milky white globe of one of the overhead lights. Images formed. Ron and Glock boxed playfully in the dusty street at the bridge; Chico sat on the trail, totally exhausted, an olive green washcloth on his head to soak up his sweat; Papa ate his chow from a paper plate in the sun on the bunker roof; Chantal walked hand in hand with me down the dusty road to Tin Can City. I closed my eyes. They were all gone from me now and I was alone. More alone than I’d ever been in my life.
Someone started shaking my bed back and forth, back and forth. I refused to open my eyes, wanting instead to look on the faces of my friends from the past. Their images faded as the glare of the ward lights penetrated my eyelids. They continued to shake the bed, saying nothing.
I quickly sat up. There was no one there, yet my bed continued to shake by itself. Then I noticed the moving reflections of the lights in the blackened windows; the windows bowed in and out slightly, chattering like a huge set of teeth.
“Earthquake!” somebody shouted.
In the middle of the ward, Chip had his arms wrapped tightly around one of the columns, his mouth open in fear. All the guys in the ward were sitting up in their beds, horrified as the building bounced and shook. The tremors stopped suddenly, and I heard someone chanting, “nam myoho renge kyo.” Over and over came the chant, “nam myoho renge kyo, nam myoho renge kyo,” and then I realized it was me.
A quiet calm came over me. I’d reached the bottom of a deep, deep cave and could go no lower. There was only one way to go and that was up. Everything was very clear now. I would go home. It was all up to me, just like Ron had said so many times, just like Krouse and Greg had said.
I got my crutches and started for the door. I saw a lot of the others looking at me.
“I’m goin’ home,” I shouted at them, “I’ve done my time!” There were tears coming down my face, but I didn’t care. They continued to stare at me, and I laughed. I turned and went out the double doors to find Doctor Walker and tell him.
The door to the doctors’ office wing was open and the lights were on, but there was no one around. I waited for about five minutes. The muted sound of a siren penetrated the hospital’s walls. I was about to leave when I heard a noise in the back. I went in further and saw Dr. Walker soaking up a spill of water on his desk with a hanky. A vase of flowers had tipped over. He looked up suddenly and saw me.
“Quite a shaker, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He threw the flowers in the waist can, wrung out his hanky, and gave his desk another wipe. “Get them all the time here. Sit down, son.”
He sat down when I did and made a little triangle with his fingers and thumbs. “What can I do for you?”
I was a little nervous. “I wanted to talk to you.”
He touched his fingers together a few times as his eyes looked into mine. “You want to go home. Is that it?”
“Yes,” I said.
He leaned forward and scribbled something on a note pad in front of him. There was already a bunch of handwriting on it. “There’s a flight Monday. You’ll have to get your things packed and ready for pickup tomorrow. Can you do that?”
I had a lump in my throat and couldn’t talk. I nodded.
He smiled sadly. “Go on back to the ward and get some sleep.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said hoarsely as I grabbed my crutches and got to my feet. I went out.