PROLOGUE

No Attachments of Any Kind

Corporal Richard Santo of the United States Marine Corps was drunk. He stumbled into the open bay barracks of sixty men and veered left among the two rows of racks. The sound of sleep was everywhere.

He listened to the restless movements and the irregular breaths of sleeping men as he took off his clothes. Then he eased himself into the bottom third rack, leaving his clothes where they had fallen.

There was darkness, no thoughts, and soon the blissful emptiness of sleep erased him into the relief of nothingness.

Morning always came with the intrusion of a bugle blowing reveille. Its harshness was sufficient to drive most men out of their racks.

After the bugle and the lights and the stirring of men, an encroaching pall of cigarette smoke appeared and grew steadily in the barracks. This thick smoke hung at the level of the top racks like an anxious fog that refused to dissipate. It produced an other-worldliness that made Santo pause introspectively before starting another day in a life that generally meant waiting. It was also the closest thing to an existential experience for Richard Santo, who was simply marking off his last few days in the Marine Corps; he'd just returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam.

He stretched and yawned. Then he swung his legs onto the deck and sat on the edge of his rack where he reached for his pack of smokes. The first puff activated his senses and the second, his thoughts. But introspection only carried him as far as this evening's activities of alcohol and women.

He showered, shaved, jumped into a clean uniform, and stepped into a breakfast chow line that ended with coffee. It was a quiet time of day when half-conscious eyes wandered aimlessly, though careful not to invade another man's privacy.

The completion of coffee marked the beginning of involuntary motor functions: going through the motions, getting through a tedious day of hurry-up-and-wait. It began with morning formation's dress-right-dress, with Gunny Sergeant's roll call, with First Sergeant's Plan of the Day announcements, and with zero-eight- hundred's salute to colors. Then the day proceeded with a maze of debriefs, physicals, out-processings, counselings, and lines—everywhere lines and formations and rows of seats.

He wandered through the day in a semi-comatose condition, knowing this was his torturous prelude to civilianhood. But it didn't matter. Because he'd already subtracted another day from the Marine Corps, leaving only four.

At the end of each day, he tried to remember the faces of the people who had spoken to him. But he couldn't. This intensified his emptiness even though he was rarely alone.

He spoke and laughed like the other Marines. But their emotions never penetrated the veneer of friendliness that guarded his deeper feelings. This inaccessibility made him invulnerable and freewheeling and respected around the barracks. Corporal Santo was considered a good guy.

He approached that day's final muster smoking the last part of a cigarette, which he flicked away with his thumb and forefinger.

“Corporal Santo, pick up that cigarette butt!” the First Sergeant ordered, his face hidden behind a clipboard.

He scrutinized the First Sergeant with an angry eye, his face hardened with defiance and his body tense with indecision. He wanted to curse the bastard but remained silent until rationality conquered his emotions.

Four days was all he had left. He was too close to freedom to ruin it now.

“Right, First Sergeant.”

He found the discarded cigarette butt, picked it up, and field- stripped it. And after letting the wind blow away the fragments of charred tobacco and shredded paper from his fingers, he fell into formation where he blended into a sea of green uniforms.

The end of final muster was the beginning of time's eternal present. Not because spring was in the air and a fragrant wind blew through the leaves with a sound that cleansed one's thoughts, but because time had come to a standstill. He was free until tomorrow morning: without worries, without responsibilities, without destination. He was like a thoughtless wind blowing in all directions and, therefore, in no direction. And while the other men stormed into the barracks to shower with aftershave lotion and change into civilian clothes, he went for a walk to avoid being asked to join one of the many small groups going into town. Wanting this independence made him a loner.

His late afternoon's aimlessness was one of his joys and, as he walked, he absorbed the life around him: the sight of the shimmering leaves, the sound of the wind, the breath of clean relaxation, and the taste of dry lips. A cluster of shattered glass caught his attention. Because of the angle of the sun, he found multiple reflections of himself—jagged pieces that did not reflect a whole person. A brown eye. Some black hair. The left side of a strong chin. The profile of a prominent nose. These surface features revealed portions of a worn-out expression but lacked the depth to mirror emptiness.

After dismissing this abstract portrait, he discarded that day's past and distilled himself into nothing…and everything. It was like being all emotion, yet having none. He was everything and nothing and it didn't matter because he was on liberty and nobody knew anything about him.

Everybody was either in town or at the chow hall when he returned to the barracks to dress himself as a civilian. But he knew he was still an alien in the outside world and could be singled out as “one of those boys in the military.” There was nothing that could be done about that. The town within reach of the base was too small for complete anonymity. And until he received his separation orders and a plane ticket home, he would have to settle for being a Marine in civilian clothes.

He hitched a ride into town with somebody driving off base. And when he entered the first available bar, he found his world intact: where money bought just about anything—with no attachments of any kind.

This time, she had dark hair. She was pretty, and he did not care where she was from or where she was going. He bought her drinks and did not bother to find out her favorite color.

They danced. They even laughed together about something. She did most of the talking, and they managed to avoid the subject of Vietnam. To his very soul, he was sick to death of hearing about the war.

These relationships quietly ended with sex, without the formality of spending the night. If she wasn't asleep, he would kiss her gently on the lips, light her a cigarette, and leave money on a table on his way out; no attachments of any kind. Then he would hit the juice joints again and drink until he began to talk. But by that time it was too late; everybody was too drunk to listen.

He drank his last drinks and howled with the other Marines until all the bars were closed and there was nowhere else to go. Then he managed to catch a ride back to the base and find his barracks: on the edge of somberness and as a stumbling shadow in search of his rack among men who had survived the same war.

He eased himself onto his rack and listened to his darkness as he wondered what the future had in store for him. He felt uneasy but he wasn't particularly afraid. Fear was something else in his life now; the war had certainly changed that. He drifted until the alcohol took over and sent him far away into a deep, dreamless sleep. And, as always, this sleep would end with another shuffling day in a life that seemed to have no end; even though there would only be three days left.