CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“TIGER SIX, THIS is Papa Four. Be advised, LZ is hot. Victor Charlie’s echo side of LZ,” the team on the ground tells Timothy.

“Roger that, Four. Coming in hot. Tiger Five, you copy?”

“Tiger Six, copy that,” Tiger Five says. “Going in one-eight-zero. Hot on the echo side of LZ.” Tiger Five is Bobby.

“Popping smoke,” Papa Four shouts.

“I see purple smoke,” Timothy responds.

“Affirmative,” Papa Four says.

As they approach the landing zone, tracers streak by the helicopter. Timothy feels the thuds. He yells to his crew chief, “Scoot, we hit?”

“Yeah, couple through the tail, but we’re okay. Pretty nasty on this side.”

“Tell these guys to jump right, Scoot.”

“Got it.”

The troops jump off the helicopter at six feet.

“They’re off. Let’s get outta here,” Scoot says.

“We’re gone—” Timothy yells.

As Timothy pulls up on the collective and pushes forward on the cyclic, an RPG strikes the belly of his Huey.

“Papa Four, Six took an RPG in the gut,” Tiger Five screams.

“We see it, Five. We’re on it. Get outta here.”

Bobby lifts off and performs a quick 360.

“Tiger Five, get outta here unless you want to join him on the ground. This place is erupting. Get the rest of the troops out here. We need them.”

Papa Four is at the crash site.

“My friend, Six—”

“Copy, Five. We’re on it. Stay safe.”

“Roger that—” The radio goes silent.

“Tiger Five. Tiger Five. Do you read? Tiger Five, this is Papa Four.”

Radio silence.

“Tiger Five, hold tight. We’re on the way.”

Timothy listens on Papa Four’s radio. The impact tosses the gunner and crew chief away from the wreckage. The copilot, a Vietnamese trainee, dies on impact. The gunner dies from shrapnel. Scoot, cut and bleeding, gets to Timothy first, who fades in and out of consciousness. His leg has a gaping wound from the impact of the RPG.

“Tim, can you hear me? You okay?” Scoot says.

“I can’t feel my leg, Scoot.”

Scoot rips open Timothy’s pant leg to see the wound. “Yeah, it’s pretty beat up, but it’s still there. That chicken plate you sat on saved your ass.”

“Get down, Scoot.”

Timothy draws his .45 caliber pistol and shoots a charging VC.

“Shit, that was close,” Scoot says.

“Bobby—” Timothy says.

“Dust-Off Two, this is Papa Four, popping smoke.”

“Roger, Four, I see red smoke,” Dust-Off Two says.

“Confirmed. This place is fucking hot. Be quick,” Papa Four says.

“What are we picking up?” Dust-Off Two says.

“Two KIAs and two wounded. Again, be quick.”

“What happened to Bobby?” Timothy asks.

“They’re going for them, man. I’m going to stay and make sure we find them,” Scoot assures.

Dust-Off Two touches down to pick up two KIAs and Timothy. Scoot refuses to go. Timothy falls unconscious on the way to the field hospital in Saigon.

Timothy startled awake, sweating, shaking, and screaming. He knew this dream too well. He lived the nightmare. As he lay in his sweat-soaked bed, in the safety of his home in Saint Louis, he tried to calm himself.

Mom stood at the door to his room. “Timmy, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Mom. I’m okay.”

“I heard you screaming. Are you having those dreams again?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Son?”

“I’ll be okay, Mom. I just want to lie here a few minutes before I go back to sleep.”

“Okay then, I’ll leave you alone,” she said along with other unintelligible utterances as she walked away.

Okay? How can I be okay? I’ll never be okay. I will always be broken. This thing never ends. I always wake before finding out what happened to Bobby. Maybe if I go back to sleep, I’ll find out what happened.

From the dozens of times he dreamed this sequence, he knew going back to sleep did not help him figure out what happened. He rolled over and closed his eyes anyway. He wanted to get up and walk around the house—one more perimeter check—but resisted the impulse. Eventually, he found sleep.

The sun in his eyes jarred him awake. Timothy looked at the clock radio, which read 9 AM. He slept longer than he planned. He had to be at Schoen’s at ten. He shook his head as if to shake off his nightmare. He rubbed his injured leg to see if all of this was real or one big nasty dream. The twelve-inch scar answered his question.

Damn, I’m going to miss Mass again.