Rachel buried her face in Brian’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and kept repeating, “I’m so sorry.” She cried quietly.
The little one ran up and asked, “Why Mommy Rachel is crying?”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hands then reached for the little’s one hand. “A sad memory. But if you hold my hand, I’ll be happy again.”
Seth grinned and skipped as they walked. The little one mumbled, “Make Mommy happy.”
Rachel wiped her eyes again. “I know the wind chimes are personal to you and Andrea, but, through Seth, I feel close to her. Like sister close. As if she’s still part of our family. When we’re back in Celina, would you mind adding a set of wind chimes for me?”
“Brilliant idea. You find a set you enjoy and I’ll hang them with the others.”
“Enough about me,” Rachel said. “What does Brian want from life?”
“To finish the research and use it to improve the lives of soldiers and their families.”
“Anything else?”
“Be an excellent father to Seth and spend the rest of my life with you.”
She pulled his lips down to hers for a long kiss. “Thank you, pretty lady.” Brian said.
VI
PART SIX: WAR’S AFTERMATH
Chapter 17
Dear Sgt. Levin,
So the Vietnam War has finally ended. I was thinking of you so thought I’d write. I’m on a one- week vacation with my wife. Visiting the French Quarter in New Orleans again. Good times musically and superb eats down here. The children stayed with relatives. No business calls, no children needing our attention. Lots of time to think…and remember…resulting in this letter.
In my own mind, my thoughts run to cold wet nights, exhaustion from weeks of inadequate sleep, rarely a hot meal and the personal responsibility for causing death and maiming. Also, sadness for wounded we couldn’t save. However, the memory of the friends I made, warms me like a bowl of gumbo on a cold night.
Personally, I wanted to serve my country and stop the communists. While I did accomplish the first, the second goal hasn’t happened. Makes me wonder if we really accomplished anything. Your thoughts? Sad to think so many died and we didn’t achieve the goals the country set out to achieve.
Must mention Savanah, a lady from Baton Rouge. As you likely remember, started corresponding as pen pals and exchanged letters for the duration of my tour. Agreed we’d meet when I got home. Didn’t imagine events in Vietnam would affect our relationship…
* * *
Ten o’clock sharp, the bus pulled up to the pharmacy and general store of the tiny, South Louisiana town. Coming to a halt, the air brakes releasing a blast of air that generated a barrel-sized dust cloud that floated across the street on that, hot and humid, mid-August day of 1971. Once a bustling town which served the local farm community, it was bypassed by the interstate ten years prior, its population dwindling ever since. Across the street, Paul Slidell, dressed in denim overalls but wearing a sleeveless plaid shirt, leaned against a lamp post and watched a single passenger disembark. Released by the Army a week earlier, his hair was still military short, he waited with his hands in the pockets of his overalls, twisted the toe of his boot in the dirt.
A woman of average height with curly black hair, wide hips and small bust, descended from the bus preceded by the driver. She waved a paper fan at her red, sweat covered face, used the back of the hand which held the fan to wipe damp hair out of her face, her other hand tightly gripping a leather bag. Her sandaled feet on the dusty road, she glanced about then proceeded to the open cargo door of the bus, gave the driver a few coins then collected her single suitcase.
Paul crossed the street. “Miss Savanah Stewart?” Paul said in a nervous voice.
“I am, sir. Whom am I addressing?”
“Paul Slidell, at your service.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Slidell.”
The door of the bus slammed closed; its engine moaned as it pulled away from the bus stop.
“An honor to meet the woman whose correspondence provided a link to home while I prowled the mountains and lowlands of Vietnam plus raised my spirits during my recovery from the wound in my hip.”
They shook hands. He took her bag. They walked to his two-door pickup. He opened the front door for her, placed her bag in the back.
He fired up the pickup, backed into the street, and proceeded toward his home. She angled the wing vent so it would direct as much air as possible onto her. Savanah asked, “You recovered from your Army service? No nightmares or stuff?”
“Just got home. Nothing yet.”
After a minute’s silence, she said, “On one hand I feel like I know you but on the other, I sense we’re strangers who’ve just met.”
“If you’ll pardon my disagreeing, I felt your pain when you received the news that your brother Robert, was Missing In Action…and I know your concern was evident, and appreciated, when I got wounded. Makes us more than strangers…”
She smiled. “I’m pleased you feel that way. Any one in your platoon MIA?”
“A few died, a few torn up but no MIAs. Your folks managing?”
“No. Inconsolable would describe their emotional state. They had plans how he’d take over the family business…” Savanah crossed her arms across her chest said in a bitter voice, “They wouldn’t think of giving it to me. Actually feel, like they wish I was the one who’d gone MIA. I’m glad to get away from them for a while.”
“Tell me about your brother.”
“We were close. Fraternal twins, as it happens. Have four other brothers and sisters but they’re quite a bit younger than us.” She thought for a bit, smiled, then added, “We did all kind of things together growing up. From fishing to hunting, we were a good pair. I was as good a shot as he was.”
Looking sheepish, he said, “I was nervous waiting for you to arrive.”
She giggled. “Me too.”
“How do your folks feel about you coming out to spend time with someone you never met?”
“Angry.”
“Because?”
She giggled. “Won’t have their scullery maid around.”
“Is that why you’re here, Miss Stewart?”
“Certainly not. In your letters…got the sense you’re lonely…that you didn’t have much to come back to…being an orphan and all.” She stared out the side window for a bit then said, “Kinda’ lonely myself. I was hoping I might be the one you might enjoy spending time with.”
“You read me right. Don’t make friends easy.” He twisted on his seat. “Want to thank you for all those letters. Meant the world to me…hearing from you every couple weeks…that kept me sane.” He stopped at a light. “Have to tell you, that box of sugar cookies you sent at Christmas time…I shared them with my squad. For a few minutes, we all had a taste of home.”
She smiled. “My pleasure.”
“Have some things for us to do…if you’d like.”
“Such as?”
“Blue Grass festival over in Edwards at the fairgrounds tomorrow.”
“Love Blue Grass.”
“I remember,” he said. “How about lunch?”
“Fine. Where?”
“My place. Have gumbo simmering on the stove since a couple hours ago. Just need to add the shrimp, heat ‘em through.”
She smiled.
He turned off the highway, drove on pavement for a while then followed a dirt road for two miles then proceeded up a gravel covered driveway. He parked in front of a small home. Kudzu covered most of the house. Old, stately trees dominated the property, Spanish moss hung from them. Four wooden steps up from the yard, a long, deep porch wrapped around the front. Two rocking chairs with a small, glass-topped, table between them, one rocker well-used, the other new. Paul unlocked the front door, pushed it open, and held the screen door for her.
“I’ll put your case in the second bedroom…it was my office but I cleared it out for you. Had a professional cleaning
outfit go through the entire house yesterday. I bought new linens for the bed in there.”
“Thoughtful of you.”
They moved to the kitchen…the table set for two. He poured wine then opened the refrigerator, removed a tray of oysters on a bed of ice from the refrigerator.
“Shucked ‘em fifteen minutes ago, just before I left to pick you up,” he said.
Following the oysters, he served bowls of gumbo.
“My Cajun neighbor’s recipe,” he said. “Hope you like it.”
She tried it. “I detect crab, chicken…no…smoked chicken, shrimp, andouille…and trinity.”
A proud grin crossed his face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Spiced just enough for me.”
After the meal Savanah, insisted on doing the cleanup.
When she’d finished, he offered to take her on a walk around his property.
They spent the afternoon roaming his land and discussing their family history and each of their likes and dislikes.
“This was just an old swamp property,” he said. “My grandfather bought it in the 1920’s. Thought when I came home from the Army, I’d hire myself out as a fishing guide, and do some mud-bug farming. I was home on leave before I was to fly to Vietnam when this fella stops by, says they want to drill for oil on my land. Tells me I get a percentage of what they pump out.”
“A lucrative proposition.”
“Ain’t gonna be no millionaire but I don’t need much so I’ve been taking courses in finance and learning how to manage my oil money in stocks and bonds.”
She prepared Etouffee for dinner with mud bugs and trinity. Savanah asked if she could put flowers in the flower boxes which lined the front porch.
“Sure,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “Don’t need but a couple dollars.”
He gave her a questioning expression. “Plants cost more than that.”
“I planned to buy seed. Be cheaper that way.”
Paul drove her to a garden center. Returning to the house, they prepped two flower beds and planted the seeds.
They slept together that night, but Paul didn’t have a sense of closeness with Savanah. He felt like she did it with him more out of a sense of duty rather than attraction.
“I know what a soldier needs when he returns home,” she said at breakfast the following day.
Following three days together, Paul couldn’t get rid of the feeling, everything she did came out of a sense of duty rather than affection for him.
He found Savanah on the porch in the middle of the night, engaged in conversation with her MIA brother. Savanah reviewed what she and Paul did as if she wanted her brother’s approval.
The following morning, she suggested Paul meet her family, learn about their hardware business, and consider taking over running it from her father.
His hands moved to his hips and his brow furrowed, he said. “In other words, replace your brother.”
“Please. Listen to me.” she said, her hands gripping his arm and her voice pleading, “Robert. Please. The family needs you.”
He stared at her. Savanah’s hand came up to cover her mouth when she realized she’d addressed him with her brother’s name.
Paul swore. “I think you should get your things and I’ll buy you a bus ticket home.”
He put her things in his pickup and drove to the bus station.
After watching her bus disappear down the road, Paul climbed into his pickup, used the back of his hands to wipe tears from his eyes. He muttered, “Seemed too good to be true, and turns out it was.”
* * *
Things have gotten better for me, buddy…but became much worse before they improved.
My wife is calling me. We have a reservation at Antoine’s in the French quarter. Look out, Huîtres en coquille à la Rockefeller, here I come!
Take Care and I’ll write again. No Slack, Paul
* * *
After a long day of surgery, Brain motored home in his 442. A policewoman waved him down. A patrol car was in front of a small bungalow, its red light still rotating, and a second patrol car sat in the driveway. Brian pulled his 442 to the side of the road, just beyond the police vehicle, cranked his window down. The policewoman ran to his car then indicated a forlorn looking man sitting on the front steps of his house.
“Hey, Doc. Hope you don’t mind. I recognized your car.” She nodded toward the house as Brian exited his vehicle. “Guy up there is Benton Willis. Vietnam Veteran. Picked up on drug possession a couple times. Must a’ took some pills or something. He’s slurring his speech something terrible. Won’t tell us what he’s high on,” the policewoman shook her head. “Couple patrolmen are searching the house but haven’t found anything. Paramedics on the way. Any chance you could talk to him?”
The surgeon said, “If we don’t know what he took, they might not be able to do much for him at the ER.”
Brian approached the desolate looking man, sat next to him. Trembling and teary, a scruffy black beard ringed the man’s face. He wore a torn tee shirt and jeans plus jungle combat boots. He was thin, had an overall slovenly appearance. From his smell, Brian surmised, it must have been weeks since he’d bathed.
“I’m Doctor Levin, Benton. You need to tell me what you swallowed,” Brian said.
“I let them down. I’s their sergeant, and let them down. Shrapnel from an RPG tore half my foot off. Couldn’t get around to direct fire. Couldn’t be a proper leader.”
“You must have been in terrible pain, but you need…”
“Our medic wrapped it. The guys kept me still. Said I’d bleed out if I didn’t, but I wanted to keep shooting and directing fire, calling in Arty. But they wouldn’t let me.” He wiped a tear with his shoulder. “One of my guys killed and three torn up worse than me, all ‘cause I couldn’t lead.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Wouldn’t let me lead. Chopper came.”
“Benton, I want to help you but you need to tell me what you took.”
“Still under fire, they loaded me on that chopper. I screamed, ordered them not to take me.”
“Benton, listen to me…”
“The memory of that day, rips holes in my mind. The sight of my men, torn to hell.”
“Did you take pills or inject something?”
The forlorn man shook his head, tears running down his cheeks, oblivious to Brian. “If I was leading, not fucked up, I could a’ prevented that. Didn’t lose nobody while I was their squad leader, until then.”
“Benton, what did you take? Pills? Medication? Something else?”
His head lolled sideways as he said, “Don’t matter. Won’t bring my men back, won’t fix ‘em. They deserved better.”
“Your men wouldn’t want you to die. Tell me what you took.”
Benton didn’t hear. He stared at Brian for a few seconds. “Doc, they wouldn’t let me direct fire, talk to Arty.”
His slurred his last words such that they were barely intelligible, Brian nodded to the paramedics who’d just arrived. They loaded the distraught veteran on a gurney. Brian held Benton’s hand until the gurney was placed in the ambulance, the distraught soldier’s hand becoming limp.”
Brian shook his head, walked back to his car.
“Will he make it, Doc?” the policewoman asked as the ambulance’s siren wailed into the distance.
He shrugged. “Not sure. Poor bastard. I tried but don’t think he heard me. No clue if he’ll make it.”
“Had something similar happen over in Aubrey last month.” The officer shook her head. “You think there’ll be more of this?”
“Don’t know, but for some, I’m finding the memories get more painful over time.” He removed a card from his pocket. “Certainly, there could be more of this. Call me if you think I can help. Anytime, day or night.”
“Sure thing, Doc. And thanks for trying.”
* * *
“He died?” Rachel asked. She lay on the floor in the family room in front of a crackling, warm
fire. Seth concentrated on a drawing at the art center.
Brian nodded then rubbed his temples. “I called the ER. Dead on arrival. His heart stopped as the ambulance arrived. They tried to revive him but without knowing what he swallowed or injected there was little they could do. I tried to talk to him while we waited for the paramedics. Case of extreme guilt because he felt he let his squad down.”
“Did you ever feel the same way?”
“Conflict in my mind at times because I could have used my medical knowledge to be a surgeon instead of a grunt. I know the notes I made when I was over there, allowed me to write a research paper which will help more soldiers than my surgical talent…if I can get the information spread around.” He stood, rubbed his face with both hands then walked over to a window, briefly stared at the full moon.
“One time, in the jungle, I had a bout with heat exhaustion. My guys let me sleep through the night instead of waking me for my turn at guard duty. Felt guilty over that for weeks. Still think about it.”
“Why? You were sick.”
“I let my squad mates down. Besides his own heavy pack, James Ware carried my seventy pounds of gear to our night position. Felt awful that I couldn’t carry my own gear.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, you were ill.”
“A squad is a family. Each member like a link in a chain. We depend on each other and each must carry their own load. Sick or not.”
“But if you were wounded?”
“Someone else has to take care of you which causes another link in the chain to weaken. When we lost our sniper, I took his place. He was a much better shot than I was. His shooting could have taken out targets at longer range, lessening the enemy’s opportunity to kill our guys.” Brian shook his head, rubbed his temples. “That poor guy today. I pray he’s at peace now. Guilt like his seems to magnify over time, which in his case was debilitating, and defeated his desire to live.”
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 21