EPILOGUE

Yesterday and a Wake-up

Thirteen months and a wake-up. That's where Rick found himself sixteen months ago in dusty Da Nang while awaiting transport to his new unit. The stunning reality of his exile from all things familiar was as unclearly defined to him then as it was for him now. Because for thirteen long months, he was an alien on his own planet, an experience that was going to influence the rest of his life.

There was a definite lack of commitment and a definite lack of believing in things, which made him deficient by society's standards. True, he was enrolled at Florida State University. True, he wasn't worried about money—he more than earned his G.I. Bill. And true, he didn't know what to do with his life.

Why didn't he care? Why wasn't he impressed by people and their values? And why did he feel like he was just going through the motions? Because maybe, he thought, staying in motion was the only thing he knew how to do.

Keep moving. Don't think. Survive.

Then he felt the weight of the canvas bag that was slung over his shoulder; he had to remind himself that it wasn't ammo or food or water—these were books! He remembered now: he was happy! He was free to put his life back together. Free to forget the dog faces…the sweat…the unexplainable…the eyes of the dead.

He accidentally bumped into another student and heard himself apologize, anticipating a rebuke. But he received an apology instead. The person treated him as an equal. An equal! He was back, and he was one of them. They couldn't see what the war had done to him. He looked like everybody else.

He was stunned by this realization.

He wasn't alone! The nightmare was over! Yesterday and a wake-up was here…and now! Nothing mattered! Because he was going to live…until he died.

He started walking as if he was leaving his past worlds behind him: the world before the war, the world of war, and the Six-thirteen world after the war. The war: it became a tolerable daydream that couldn't hurt him anymore because it made his life real; he was no longer afraid.

Click. The daydream turned into the specific sound of choppers overhead. He looked up into the sky as he approached the edge of Landis Green's giant water fountain. And despite the distant sound of small-arms fire, the sky was beautiful—there was no paranoia.

He knew nobody was watching him or even cared to watch him. These moments of gentle insanity were his alone; he no longer resisted them.

He dropped his canvas bookbag on the ground and plunged his cupped hands into the fountain's water for a drink. This had once been a bombed-out crater filled with stagnant water; he drank the water hoping to contract a disease that would get him medevac'd out of that life. Now, he drank the water to cleanse himself—to be medevac'd into this life. When he saw himself reflected on the fountain's surface, he plunged his cupped hands into the water again and splashed his face.

A young lady wearing shorts and wading in Landis Green's water fountain brought him back into the present. But he remained calm. Because he was alright…even though the war would always be with him: no regrets. Listen, the distance…and the sound of choppers: to cry, without a cry…tears.

He stepped into the fountain. The cool water lapped against his legs as he looked up into the bright blue sky and realized: he no longer dwelled in the kind of darkness that held no promise of a dawn.