THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  “You didn’t have combat every day.”

  “True. Numerous weeks in between action, could be mind numbing with so little to do but patrol. But there’s always that tension that combat could occur at any moment and any location. Remember, we didn’t have front lines. The need to be mentally ready for combat twenty-four hours a day is physically and mentally exhausting. That’s why I so appreciated a relation who sent me paperbacks every few weeks, and my Mom sent me a medical journal each month.” He began rubbing his temples again. “I should make notes on today’s incident.

  “After Seth sleeps tonight, I need to tell you about a milestone event in my life,” Rachel said with a coquettish expression.

  Chapter 18

  Seth asleep, Brian sat on the floor while reading, his back against the couch where Rachel read a novel. She closed the book then stared at the flames in the fireplace. “It’s nearly bedtime but before we sleep, I want to tell you how I experienced our first meeting.” She slid off the couch and sat across his lap, rested her head on his shoulder.

  He smiled and tightened his embrace. “You do remember!”

  With a broad smile, she nodded and kissed him. “So, I was a freshman in high school. Attended a distant relative’s wedding in the, far from Brooklyn, city of Houston. Over one-hundred-fifty guests. There was a dance at the reception. Back then, I wore thick glasses, like the ends of a soda bottle and had a figure with all the curves of an airplane runway. Guys and girls roughly my age, about thirty of us, gathered in a group to one side of the dance floor. Between songs, one boy told another to ask me for a dance. Instead of asking, he made fun of my glasses, said he wouldn’t dance with someone who had four eyes. Everyone who heard him laughed. I wanted a hole to open and swallow me. My eyes filled with tears. I’m certain my face was beet red. I was mortified.”

  She rubbed her nose against Brian’s cheek.

  “Then, like magic, out of the crowd a college guy approached, offered me his hand. In a southern drawl he asked me to dance. I was in shock. This guy, not tall but big boned, broad at the shoulders and hips, and piercing blue eyes. I considered he might be making fun of me. I didn’t move.”

  “Rachel…”

  “Please,” she said, putting a finger on his lips. “Let me finish. He grabbed my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine, guided me onto the dance floor, and we danced to a number of fast songs. In between songs, we talked like old friends…every time I looked at him, he showed me this warm smile. A cha-cha played, I barely knew how, but he led in a way which made it easy. He told me I was a natural. A slow tune began. I’ll never forget it. Henry Mancini’s Dreamsville. He didn’t even inquire if I’d slow dance with him. Just pulled me against him.” Rachel laughed.

  “I distinctly remember offering no resistance. My father didn’t approve. The moment the college guy’s arms were around me, my father stood. I gave Papa what he later referred to as, the look. Not pleased, he sat down anyway.” Rachel sighed, kissed Brian. “The warmth and emotions the guy filled me with…our conversation…made me proud of who I was.

  Another dance and he brought me an iced tea. We sat at a table, talked like no one else was there, and shared wedding cake. Conversation so easy with him. He wanted to know all about me. My goals for college and, of all things, we talked about Maimonides, the medieval Sephardic philosopher. Then more dancing, another slow tune, more conversation.”

  She kissed his cheek, cuddled against him then continued. “The older guy told me, ‘Thank you, for providing such a memorable evening, pretty lady.’” Rachel sighed and traced the outline of Brian’s jaw with her finger while saying, “Not that being called pretty lady is a special name but, he said it in a way which made me feel special. I shook my head. Not pretty, I told him.”

  “Your smile, he told me, it warms me. He then reached up, and with a gentle motion, used both hands to remove my glasses, folded them and put them in his shirt pocket.”

  “He said…And your deep brown eyes, I could get lost in those. Yes. Pretty lady you are.”

  Rachel kissed Brian’s lips.

  She sighed, “Late that night, the music ended as did the magic of our first meeting. You put your hands on my shoulders, your lips brushed mine, a brief goodbye and you walked away.”

  The petite lady kissed him again. “After that, whenever I felt I’d never have a partner, I’d remember the man who said I was a pretty lady. That memory helped me through numerous sad times. I prayed another man like him would enter my life.” She kissed his cheek. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined the same guy would show up again. When Arnie came home from Vietnam, he told us stories about his friend Brian and what they accomplished in the military. I fantasized that it might be the same Brian. A soldier, a surgeon, a best friend to my cousin, but dared not believe it. And then you were there. Even called me pretty lady again.”

  “I’m amazed you remember in such detail. A long time ago and you were so young…”

  “Not a major event for you, but for a plain girl from Brooklyn who felt she had few prospects, who couldn’t even get a guy to ask her for a lousy dance, a life-changing event.”

  “I didn’t even tell you my name.”

  “True. I heard someone call you Brian but no last name.” He enjoyed the warmth of her body, eyes closed, massaged her back muscles, the week’s concerns leaving him. Brian shook his head, saying, “At the reception, I was furious with myself, falling for someone I couldn’t ask out because you were so much younger than me, but…”

  “Falling for her…?”

  “How about intrigued? Fascinated? Drawn to, and the scent of apple blossoms. Crazy but when we danced close…I remember the sweet fragrance of apple blossoms.”

  She laughed. “Apple blossom perfume. Only thing I could afford.” Rachel kissed him. “Tell me. Why did you ask me to dance? Dozens of girls there, better looking and older than me.”

  “During dinner, this young girl, sitting at a nearby table, gave an intellectual discourse on Maimonides. How much of his work attempted to bridge Judaism and philosophy. When those at her table asked complex questions, her learned, confident replies reminded me of the time I watched the Mississippi river as it rounded a bend near Memphis, Tennessee. Strong and steady with huge energy hidden beneath its surface. Did I want to meet her? I was drawn to the petite lady like iron to a magnet.”

  “For real?”

  “You were, and are, good looking, but it was your thoughts and the way you expressed them that attracted me.”

  A satisfied smile crossed Rachel’s lips. “Who would believe, Maimonides died in 1204 and seven-hundred years later, he brought you to me.” Her fingers caressed his cheek. “Did you recognize me when you arrived at Arnie’s?”

  “I did but assumed you didn’t remember me. Within minutes, though, we were talking like old friends. And I believe my son sensed we had a connection. Only a matter of minutes and Seth was secure around you.”

  “Which pleased me no end.”

  “Since Andrea died, you’re the first person he’s comfortable with besides me.”

  “You held me one time at my condo.”

  “Yes, following my…discussion with Samuel.”

  “Discussion?” Rachel laughed. “You can’t imagine how I felt, your arms around me again.” She kissed his cheek. “A combination of relief, warmth, and gratitude. A terrible event but resolved a huge problem in my life. He never came near me again.”

  “I worry problems from my war experience will surface and push us apart.”

  Rachel sighed. “We’re two torn and tattered souls. Putting together a relationship is like fitting the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.” She kissed him then giggled. “Speaking of pieces that fit, and based on what I’m sitting on, I think it’s time for bed.”

  He laughed and nodded.

  * * *

  Three weeks later, late Sunday morning in the big garage, Brian wore coveralls with the sleeves folded above the elbows. Dirt and grease cov
ered his forearms and hands, plus he had a few streaks of dirt on his face. He had just installed new V-belts on the 442. Seth was just outside the big door, played on a jungle gym.

  Rachel approached, took a stool from the workbench, placed it near the front of the car, and sat down. “How’s the maintenance going?” Her expression one of unease, she rubbed the tops of her thighs, often running a hand through her hair.

  A quick glance at her and while checking the tension on the belts, Brian said, “Going good. New plugs and leads, chassis greased, changed oil and filters. Checked the brake pads, have another six months at least before they need replacing. Still need to grease a few parts but enough for today. I have to reattach the battery negative cable and I’ll finish the rest tomorrow.” His head and upper body still under the hood, he glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”

  She took a deep breath. “I may be unable to conceive. We remain together, Seth may never have a brother or sister.” Rachel stared at the ground. “It’s the anniversary of three deaths today. I miscarried at eight weeks, the same night I caused two deaths. It took a number of days in the hospital to get my strength back, almost a year and a half to get my mind near an even keel.”

  Brian straightened and closed the car’s hood. “Arnie mentioned the miscarriage.” He picked up a rag from the top of the car’s radiator and began wiping his hands and forearms. “It doesn’t mean it will happen again.”

  “But the odds are higher it will. I’m not a soldier. I don’t know if I can endure the loss of another child.” She twisted on the stool. “We had names picked out. A room prepared, a crib and baby supplies. I gave it all away.”

  He popped the snaps down the front of his coveralls then pulled them off his shoulders, stepped out of them, and stuffed them into a black plastic bag. “You may not be a soldier, but you have a soldier to support you.” Brian moved to a sink. Rachel followed. He opened a large can, took a handful of skin cleaner then scrubbed his face, hands and forearms. A few minutes of work with a nail brush followed. He finished washing with bar soap then pulled a clean towel off a shelf above the bench.

  Rachel, now teary, brushed a few strands of hair out of her face. “It was like the nightmare that never ends. Except for women who’ve gone through the same thing, most people in my life didn’t understand my loss, they treated me like my child never existed and thought I should be happy and jolly like nothing happened. They wanted me to just forget about my baby like he never existed. It was so painful.”

  Brian moved to her side.

  She buried her face in his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. “He was real to me from the moment I knew I was pregnant. I was his Mother, who let him down.”

  “I wasn’t around so can’t tell you what happened, but my medical knowledge and experience have taught me that it’s rarely something the mother did. We don’t know why but it happens. You didn’t let him down.”

  “I loved him. He grew inside me. When I experienced a tragic evening…in one seven-hour period, I killed someone, caused my husband’s death, and the same evening lost my child.”

  “Traumatic events may result in a miscarriage.”

  Hands on hips, she spat out her words. “Miscarriage. What a terrible, non-descriptive word. It doesn’t begin to describe the depression’s crushing embrace inflicted on a mother when she loses a child.”

  “What can we do for you?”

  “Staying close is enough for now.”

  He put his hands on either side of her face, kissed her lips.

  She wrapped her arms around him. “Being out here, far from the locations of Dov’s and my son’s deaths, is wearing. Especially today. It’s like…” She paused to run a hand through her hair. “Like I’m on an emotional hike but it’s always uphill and gets steeper over time. Negative emotion weighing me down and holding me back as I struggle to keep moving forward.” She stared at the floor. “Like I’m dragging an emotional anchor.”

  Brian raised her chin, wiped a tear off her cheek, and kissed her. “Miscarriages happen all the time, but no one wants to talk about them. Perhaps you could get together with women who’ve experienced similar loss. Exchange thoughts and ideas. My understanding is, someone loses a child during pregnancy and no one wishes to discuss the event. As you said, you felt him move, heard his heartbeat. I would imagine others feel the same. You could write an editorial in our local paper with a brief discussion of your own experience. Give our phone number and see if anyone would like to get together.”

  Rachel nodded. “If more than a couple people showed up, someone knowledgeable should be present to lead the group.”

  He pointed at her. “You, pretty lady, would be perfect.”

  “I don’t have a clue how to do that.”

  “I’ll talk to a psychologist I know at the hospital, get some ideas.”

  She still appeared apprehensive.

  Brian added. “You could meet with her. If you wish, I’ll help lead the first meeting. If you think it will help, use my name, state that I’ll be there.”

  Rachel spent a number of hours writing an article which Brian edited and made suggestions to improve the clarity of a few points.

  Within hours of the article’s publication it began raining phone calls. Intermittent showers at first then a deluge. Each caller wanting to know when and where the group was meeting.

  Rachel entered Brian’s office and held up the newspaper, pointing at the article. “Struck a chord.”

  Brian shook his head. “I wonder how close this trauma is to the PTSD which a soldier experiences?”

  “Come to the meeting and find out.” She smiled at him and kissed his cheek. “One more thing we’ll need.”

  “Tell me.”

  Evidencing a serious expression, she said, “Numerous boxes of tissues to wipe teary eyes.”

  Chapter 19

  On the designated Sunday afternoon, the meeting of those who’d experienced miscarriages was scheduled for two o’clock. By one-forty-five, the circular drive in front of the house was filled and Brian was directing cars to park in back. A diverse group of women arrived, young and old alike, most carried homemade baked goods to share.

  To Rachel’s surprise, Chana Goldberg and Brian entered together. Both stood at the doorway and observed the crowded family room. They approached Rachel. Chana announced, “I had a miscarriage at age twenty-two during my fifth week. I’ve never talked about it. To anyone.”

  Rachel gave her a brief embrace. “I’m glad you had the courage to come.”

  “When I got out of my car, I’m sure I appeared scared to death. Poor Brian rushed over to check on me.”

  Brian laughed.

  The willowy lady continued, “In truth, I was considering getting back in my car but, I hope you don’t mind, he embraced me then walked me inside. I needed that.”

  Rachel smiled at Chana. “I don’t mind. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  The tall women sighed, shook her head. “It took more energy than you can imagine. As recently as an hour ago, I had decided not to attend.”

  Brian said, “I hope you’re in a place where you can share your experience.”

  “No.” She raised her hands, palms forward while shaking her head and taking a step back. “Definitely not. Listening to others will do for today.”

  As the attendees approached the house, a light breeze rattled the leaves of the live oaks. Their sound combined with the wind chimes, providing a warm and welcoming audio for the arriving guests.

  The ladies gathered in the family room, the fireplace’s flames and crackling logs providing a convivial environment. Chattering among themselves, they were seated on furniture, folding chairs, bean bag chairs, and pillows on the floor.

  Brian introduced himself and Rachel. They welcomed everyone to their home then began the meeting with a prayer. “Please Lord, help each us achieve a modicum of peace through shared discussion and fellowship.”

  Rachel asked for a volunteer to detail her experience,
fully expecting she would have to share her personal journey first to get the others talking. Rachel looked around the room.

  One hand went up.

  “I’ll share mine,” a petite, white-haired, and rosy cheeked woman said.

  Rachel nodded and indicated she should stand.

  With the help of a cane, the woman stood, glanced around at the group.

  “I’m Majella Clark. I was born in Galway, Ireland, 84 years ago in the year 1890. My family came to the states when I was ten. We settled in Dallas. I’ve lived here all my life. My second husband passed two years ago. I married the first when I was 16. I experienced a number of miscarriages. In those days, a miscarriage was blamed on the mother. I wasted thousands of hours wracking my mind attempting to divine what I did wrong. My first husband divorced me as he didn’t want to be childless. Those were the darkest days of my life. People stared at me as if I killed my own children. No one, and I mean no one, would talk to me about what happened. I felt shunned and shamed.” Majella stopped talking to look over her audience. “Eventually, a woman I worked with at a textile mill befriended me. She’d miscarried then suffered the same as me. Only one person out of the hundreds I knew, was willing to talk to me about the loss of my child. Like a beacon of light, Kiana guided me on a path out of the depths of my depression.” She paused to pull a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “Like a child lost in a dark wood, she took my hand, guided me out.” Majella took a deep breath and smiled. “I believed I’d never have children, but she introduced me to her brother. He married me even though we believed we’d never have children but, bless the Lord, we brought six healthy children into the world. After the first four, I did have two additional miscarriages before the last two healthy births.”