The Last Road Home

Snake reached over and clipped it from my mouth. “Charlie will sniff an American cigarette from half a mile, same with aftershave or smelly soap. You need to smell like the ground, the mud, and the shit water in the paddies. These boys are at home in the jungle, know what’s supposed to be here and what ain’t, and if you want to live you got to learn the same way.”

We spent most of that day practice shooting until my shoulder was sore. I started to feel like the rifle was an extension of my arm. In the afternoon Snake took me on a walk across the valley and along a small creek that threaded between the hills. He taught me the telltale signs of booby traps. We went over hand signs for when we would be “creeping” as he called it, things like cupping a hand to your ear if you heard voices or making a circle over your eye if you could see a trip wire, the silent language of a sniper.

We lay back at camp and watched the stars light up like a million little lamps coming on at once. Snake took off his boonie hat and rubbed his head. I’d noticed he had a good amount of gray in his “high and tight” cut. “How long you been in the corps?”

“Cold.” Fighter jets screamed to the east of us, followed by several giant fireballs of napalm. We watched until it died down. “The ground froze so hard you couldn’t dig a hole to hide in; so cold you couldn’t feel your fingers to adjust your sights. We killed all we could, but the Chinks kept coming.” He stretched his head back and rubbed his neck. “They’d start screaming, and charge at you like a pack of rabid dogs. At times it got down to hand-to-hand, using rifle butts and shovels. I was about your age then. Never thought I’d live to be this age. I saw boys do stuff no man should be capable of.” Snake’s voice struggled some on that last part. He looked at me. “That’s all war is, Junebug: survival. It ain’t about flag and country. Hell, fifty years from now, nobody will give a shit you were even here.” He got quiet. “We didn’t win that one and we ain’t going to win this one.” He pulled his boonie hat over his eyes and lay down; the talking was over.

Without conversation, we moved back across the valley and onto the hill we worked yesterday. This morning, Snake walked with a purpose, heading due north. By the time daylight began to peep over the horizon, we had crossed the top and were looking down on scrub brush and more craters. Across the way was another small village. We circled toward it, but stayed high enough to move among the heavy foliage. We pushed through five-foot-high, brownish yellow elephant grass that had blades sharp enough to cut skin. Snake came across a worn foot track, and pointed it out. We backed ourselves higher up the side of the hill to have a better view.

The top rim of a red sun edged into the sky to our right, and the warm light made my eyes want to close. Snake tapped my shoulder and handed me the glasses. “He’s headed from the last hootch, the one closest to us.”

My palms were damp as I pulled the Remington to my shoulder. When the man crossed the goalposts at three hundred, I no longer needed the binoculars. I sighted him in the scope, checked the grass tops for wind, and adjusted. He looked down as he walked, making it hard to see the face below the hat. Gently, I put pressure on the trigger, let my breath out, and waited for the next heartbeat to end. At that moment, he lifted his head and looked right at me. I could see his black eyes staring, like he knew what was coming but couldn’t turn away. I squeezed. His face exploded. He pitched backward. I couldn’t move the scope off him, fascinated by the sight. The spit in my mouth got a strange sweet taste.

It took all day to get back to the firebase. We humped through the guard post with enough light left so they could identify us. Our house had a new hole in the ground beside the top, and a bunch of our sandbags were busted open. “Guess we missed the fun last night,” said Snake. The inside wasn’t damaged, just a little extra pile of dirt at the bottom of the ladder. We dropped our packs and stretched out on the bunks.

I turned my face to the ceiling. It hadn’t been like killing Twin or Lightning; they had been trying to hurt me. Maybe I’d just killed some poor farmer who happened to be in the wrong place. I couldn’t get those eyes out of my head.

I’d been on the hill two months when a resupply chopper came in loaded down with food, ammo, and mail. There was a letter from Fancy. I put it to my nose and inhaled, then slid my fingernail under the flap to slowly ease it open. It was like a piece of candy not meant to be chewed, but rolled on your tongue to make the sweetness last. I pulled out the white paper.

Dear Junebug:

I hope this finds you well and making out all right in the marines. I’ve been struggling along here in New York, and have come to realize things aren’t really that much different than they were back home. Like you said, all I’m doing is still cleaning white folks’ mess. They don’t put us coloreds down to our face, but I sense their real feelings.

I wanted you to know I’m thinking about moving on. I work for this white lady who is rich and travels all over, and she wants me to hire on as her girl and go along to take care of things. She’s headed to France in a month, so I have to make up my mind soon. I’m pretty sure I’m going. It’s still working for a white woman, but if nothing else, maybe I’ll have a chance to see some of them places I read about in books. I’ll write to you when we get settled. We’ll probably be gone six months or more, and she said we might keep on to Italy. I think about you all the time, Junebug, and you’re still the best man I’ll ever know. Don’t you get yourself hurt over there.

Love,

Fancy

I pictured Fancy’s smile. It made me happy she might get to visit places she’d always dreamed of. I sat in the bunker and wrote a three-page letter, telling her Vietnam was a very strange place. I didn’t tell her what I was doing, just that it was hot, smelled awful, and the story about having shit detail. When I licked the seal on the envelope, sadness settled over me. It felt like Fancy and me were on two different planets. Life pulled the plug on us, and I had no idea if we could ever reconnect it. I encouraged her to go with the lady to France, and if she moved on somewhere else, to go there too.