“But just leaving the wounded…” Rachel said. She shook her head in disbelief.
“In the military,” Arnie said, “you must believe, leadership has an overall view, therefore, know what needs to happen.”
“Leaving the wounded…” Rachel said, continuing to shake her head, “Don’t know if I could have done that.”
“When we arrived at day position, we could hear helicopters in the distance,” Arnie said, “we were told to gather our gear as they would be arriving to transport us to the Central Highlands to support other troops. Within ten minutes we were many miles away.”
They were quiet for a while, sipping their drinks, each lost in their own thoughts.
“You mentioned another incident?” Arnie asked Brian. “Something horrible?”
“Scott Hendricks-remember?”
Arnie nodded, sipped his drink. “Yea. You and I weren’t in-country yet. He used a machete to chop a guy’s arm off.”
“I talked to him recently. He lives in Dallas and told me it didn’t bother him at the time. When it happened, Scott laughed about the blood spurting out of the guy’s wound landing on his chest, but now he’s been having nightmares. Something about the guy’s eyes staring at him.”
Quiet enveloped the room for a few minutes.
“That’s enough war discussion for now,” Arnie said with a yawn. He stood. “Night all.” The Brooklynite headed for the guest room.
“Are you having nightmares about the killing with the pen?” Rachel asked after they were alone.
“Not so much a nightmare but reliving it in other ways.”
“Like?” Rachel asked.
“At the baseball game with Arnie three days ago, someone in front of us stood, slowly turned to look our way. As he rotated his head, I became apprehensive that he would have a pen sticking out of his eye.” He stretched his shoulders, forward then back. “I was going to do some research that night but was afraid I’d read something which would trigger a nightmare.”
Rachel crossed her arms. “I remember that night. You got angry with me over something I thought was trivial. We had words then you drummed for an hour.”
He nodded and kissed her cheek. “Sorry. Tough to get a grip at times. Gets so damn frustrating. Even had thoughts of dropping the whole research project.”
In a firm tone, Rachel said, “Bullshit. I won’t allow you to let down your fellow vets because of your frustration.”
“Frustrated? I can’t get people to even discuss my findings. Of course I’m frustrated.”
Shaking a finger at him, she remonstrated in a loud voice, “This will continue to be a multi-year project. Get used to it. I’m in this for the long haul, which is also how you should be thinking.”
Brian held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Just said it came to mind. I’m not dropping anything.”
“Good,” Rachel said, then asked, “Did you talk to Arnie about getting hauled out of Yankee stadium?”
He shrugged. “Said it was blown out of proportion. Laughed and said he downed too many beers.”
“That’s odd. As far as I can remember, he doesn’t drink beer.”
VII
PART SEVEN: AUNT ABBEY AND WAR VICTIMS
Chapter 20
1975 January
“Rachel, this is a treasure trove of information on the mental state of Civil War Soldiers; both during and after the war.”
Brian spread the papers out in his office, arranging them chronologically. Stopping to review many of them.
“My aunt’s papers…useful then?” Rachel asked. Seated in a rocker, she looked up from the care-of-newborns book she was reading.
“Oh my Lord, more useful than you can imagine…heck, more than I hoped for. My final research will have to list her as a contributor.” He rifled through a number of papers then held one up. “Consider this letter. Not war related but a demonstration of the depth of her thinking. She acknowledges differences between the closeness of women to nature and, as she describes, the desire of men to bend nature.”
Rachel tilted her head and asked, “Does she give an example?”
“She mentions a sylvan scene at the edge of a lake. Your Aunt Abbey loved watching a flock of geese bob in the water then describes one taking off. She then discusses a man adjacent to her viewing the same thing, but he wonders what it would take to make a flying machine which could carry a man.”
Rachel rubbed her chin, twisted slightly then folded her hands over her thirty-five-week swollen belly. “Interesting…”
“Also, she mentions women are reminded they are child bearers on a monthly basis from their teen years on, which could make them feel closer to nature than men. Aunt Abbey felt this was something she should take into account when treating women with mental concerns.”
Brian was lost in reading and note taking for the next four-hours.
“Rachel,” Brian said as he and Seth joined her at the kitchen table for lunch, “Abbey discusses being part of a team making it more likely for a soldier to engage in killing.”
“Because…”
“Not wanting to let down your fellow soldiers.”
“Example, please,” Rachel said.
Brian thought for a bit then said, “I suspect crew served weapons, those who loaded and fired cannon in Aunt Abbey’s day, tank crews, artillery, sniper teams, and machine gun crews, in our day. Each a team and depending on each other. I’m certain she’s correct.”
He ate quietly for a while. “The research I’ve done would explain the success of the Greek and Roman phalanx occurred for the same reason.”
Rachel looked up with a questioning expression.
“The phalanx was a group of soldiers working in unison but with different weapons such as various types of spears or bows, and lead by men holding shields. They depended on each other to complete their mission.”
Brian said, “It’s like…Dr. Kaplan is talking to me. Her voice coming through time as clear as can be. She must have been possessed of extreme intellect and sense of compassion, not to mention sense of drive. Her analysis of the soldiers, not to mention analyzing herself, must have been painful. And she knew she didn’t have answers but thought we might one day so her observations are written for future use.”
“After spending a number of years as a surgeon during the war,” Rachel asked, “surviving what must have been traumatic horrors, what motivated her to work on this?”
“Can only tell you why I did the same. But words like dedication, compassion, commitment, and curiosity, surely describe her.”
“And what motivates you, Brian Levin?”
“Before I joined the Army, writing a book about combat. But then older friends returning from Vietnam suffered terrible depression, although we’d likely call it PTSD now.”
“And now?”
“The burning desire to understand the psychological impact of war on a soldier, as well as his society. I’m coming to believe, the need to understand and take corrective action in regards to combat and returning soldiers is greater than ever.”
Brian put logs in the fire place and started them burning. “I was thinking,” Rachel said, “about your research showing many men in combat are reluctant to shoot their fellow human beings. Consider, please, animals of the same species don’t kill each other. Like males competing for mates, their combat rarely results in a death.”
Brian stared at her, jaw dropped. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“You are a genius,” he said, bent toward her, planted a long kiss on her lips then returned to his desk chair, writing a flurry of notes.
Rachel left the room briefly then returned with tea and slices of cheese cake.
“Thank you,” he said then sipped the tea. He ate a few bites, stared out the office’s windows briefly, rubbed his chin then said, “I just remembered a WWII story my dad told me. My father was a crew chief on a B-26, twin engined bomber. He flew on many of the missions his aircraft went on. On one mission a waist gunner
was wounded. Dad placed bandages on the man then took his place at the fifty-caliber machine gun. Thirty minutes later he spotted a lone fighter approaching. Dad fired a few bursts from the gun, putting tracers close to the fighter’s canopy. The enemy aircraft immediately banked away then headed for the tree tops.”
Rachel queried, “And that is significant because…?”
Brian rubbed his chin for a bit while formulating an answer. “If you’re good enough to put tracers near an approaching plane’s canopy, you’re good enough to hit and destroy that plane.”
“But why didn’t he…”
“Never thought to ask. But your observation that animals rarely kill their own kind may explain many stories of front-line troops I’ve read who were reluctant to engage the enemy.”
“What about those who fought in fighter aircraft?” Rachel asked.
“Among American fighter pilots during WWII, ten- percent of the pilots accounted for ninety-percent of the kills.”
Rachel nodded while stating, “Which corresponds to Marshal’s estimate of only ten to fifteen-percent of combat soldiers engaging the enemy.” She engaged in quiet reflection for a few minutes then asked. “How did you feel toward the enemy soldiers?”
“Feeling ranged from dislike to indifference when I was over there.”
“And now…”
“Strange but I feel a sense of brotherhood. The brotherhood of those who have fought a lethal struggle at their country’s behest.”
Brian put paper in a type writer and banged the keys for the next hour. He reviewed his work, made some hand written notes then said, “Enough for today.” The former soldier moved to the couch next to Rachel.
“Thought of a name for our child?” Brian asked.
“Tradition says we name after a relative who has passed.”
“Such as…”
“If a boy, William, after your grandfather, if a girl, Abbey after my Great-aunt.”
“William or Abbey…love those names.” He came around the desk and kissed her.
* * *
A month later, Brian rushed into the family room late one evening. Rachel was just hanging up the phone. He exclaimed, “I have to tell you what I discovered in Aunt Abbey’s papers. She discusses war fatigue in terms of a boxer, who can only take so many blows…but in a soldier’s case, blows to their mental state.”
“Love to discuss it in few days,” Rachel said, standing then arching her back.
“A few days? Why?”
“Abbey or William is arriving tonight. Chana will be here in five minutes to baby-sit Seth.”
Chana arrived, obviously more anxious than Rachel, assisted Brian in getting her friend out of the house and into the Olds.
A noisy car ride and seven hours later, those in the delivery room were treated to the sight and sound of a battle-hardened combat soldier dancing with his newborn. Abbey Louise Levin was treated to the upbeat sound of Leslie Gore’s, “Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, everything that’s wonderful is what I feel when we’re together…” followed by numerous choruses of the Beach Boys’, “I Can Hear Music.”
* * *
Brian entered the bedroom they had converted into a nursery, where Rachel, seated on a rocking chair, was nursing two-month-old, Abbey. Seth played at her feet.
“But I thought when I have a sister,” Seth complained, “she would play with me. Abbey just eats and sleeps.” He giggled. “And poops her diapers.”
“She’ll be able to play with you but needs to grow first,” Rachel told him.
Disappointed, Seth went back to building with his construction blocks. Brian plopped into a chair.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked Brian, seeing his concerned expression.
“I’ve mentioned a platoon mate, James Ware. Donna, his wife, called. She’s worried about his mental state. Wants me to visit.”
“We’ll all go. She might need support as well.”
“Abbey?”
“Will help.”
“A newborn? How?”
“Go. Pack. But first, please put a small suitcase in Seth’s room.”
* * *
Mid-morning, a light snow was falling at the Ware home in Butte, Montana. Having arrived the night before and staying at a hotel, the Levin family met James, his boys Mitchel and Corey, ages ten and eight, plus wife Donna.
“Tea or coffee?” Donna asked Rachel who held Abbey.
“Decaf coffee would be marvelous,” she said then followed Donna into the kitchen. James’ wife gave the boys soft drinks then sent them to a spare bedroom which had been converted into a playroom.
James invited Brian into their living room, motioned his former platoon mate to sit on a small couch in front of a crackling fire which glowed from the base of a large stone facade. He moved to a bar, opened a small fridge and removed two beers, popped the caps off, handed one to Brian then sat on a dark leather covered, recliner.
After conversation between the Army buddies on how things were in general, James said he hated driving the mining truck. “The trucks are slow, only an occasional turn or dumping the load to break the monotony.” He slowly shook his head. “The diesel engine drones and drones. I hate it.” He rocked his upper body slowly side to side. “I can hear the fucking thing even when I’m not at work.”
“Thought you enjoyed it…that you would enjoy driving it after our Army service.”
James shook his head. “No longer.” He sat then slouched on his recliner, extending the footrest. He took a long sip of beer. “I got a radio in the cab, can even play eight tracks, but that damn low pitch droning goes through everything… some days like a jack hammer in my head, and there’s nothing to think about except what I did to those people, them kids…wow, it hurts. Somehow, I gotta get this shit outta’ my mind.” He violently shook his head.
“How was your arrival home?” Brian asked.
“Met by a crowd at the LA airport carrying signs against the war. Was spat on.” James stood, walked over to the fireplace then used a fire poker to move the logs, which caused their flames to brighten. Bits of glowing ash shot up the chimney. “Should a slugged the long-haired, little shit but was so shocked, I didn’t do anything. A cop grabbed him. Hauled him away” He was quiet for a while, sipped his beer then said, “What we did, it was okay when we were over there. We was following orders, so it was okay, right?” James shook his head, stared at the fire. “But the people we killed…they should leave me alone. Not tell me their names and shit.”
Brian’s jaw dropped; shocked the memories were talking to James; a certain sign of psychosis. “James, we need to get you some help.”
James continued as if he hadn’t heard. “You was a sniper. You watched ‘em die through your scope. Don’t it just burn your insides? I mean, can’t ya’ still see ‘em go down?”
“A few…but this is what happens in a war. It’s what’s expected of a soldier.”
Brian motioned for James to sit in a chair opposite him. He waited until he had James undivided attention. “Life…it’s like…heading out on a march with an emotional rucksack on your back.” He paused to choose his words. “Sometimes it’s uphill…sometimes downhill…the rucksack heavier or lighter…but each day you begin by lifting the rucksack, no matter what it weighs then keep moving forward.”
“Forward? I’m trying man…but the stench of the jungle, the scent of the market place, my body starts to shiver when I think of shooting them two kids…when we was scattered along that trail, hiding behind trees and shit, shooting at them kids. All that crap is holding me back, weighing me down.”
“Buddy, I agree it was a terrible situation we were in…but remember, they were shooting at us.”
“Yea, and they’re dead and we’re okay.”
“If we didn’t return fire, they may have killed us…and we didn’t know we killed kids until it was over.”
James shuddered. “That one kid, Vo, keeps asking me…why him? Why his family had to suffer but not mine. Hell, he’s
the same age as my Mitchel. He had a family picture in his back pocket just like I carried.” James stood, walked up to the fireplace, stared at the flames, poked the logs for a bit then asked, “You remember, don’t you? That family photo Vo had?”
“Sorry, I have no memory of that. How do you know his name?”
“He told me. I know ‘em all. They all been telling me their names and shit.”
“When?”
The truck driver’s face contorted as if in he was in pain. “When I see them, in agony, twisting and turning in the dirt, like they’re trying to escape from death’s embrace…but they know it’s coming…they stared at me…their eyes dark, full of hate.”
In a voice which strained to remain calm, Brian said, “They were over one-hundred yards away. Even with the illumination rounds, you couldn’t have seen that they were kids. They were dead by the time we approached and learned those two were maybe ten or twelve-years-old.” Brian shook his head. “James, I’m worried you’re imagining more than actually occurred.”
“No man. This shit happened. I can see it. I can feel it. I can smell it. It’s as real as you and me sitting here.”
“I’m going to make a few calls. You need to talk to someone.”
“You?”
“Not qualified. Muscle and tissue, I know how to repair, but someone else has to get the demons out of your mind.”
James stood and walked to the fireplace, said in a subdued voice while he poked at the burning logs, “Ain’t no demons.” He put the fire poker in its stand then shook his head. “They’re kids I killed.”
* * *
“My back is sore. Would you mind holding Abbey?” Rachel said to Donna after they’d finish cleanup following lunch.
Seated on a rocker in their living room, Donna took the bright-eyed infant in her arms. A warm smile and radiant expression accompanied the song Donna sang to the tiny one. Little Abbey waved her arms and made cute vocalizations which brought an even broader smile to Donna’s face. She sang another song then turned to Rachel.
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 24