THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  “Isn’t taking care of these tiny one’s the most precious gift God gives us?”

  “It certainly is.”

  Donna smiled, rocked the little one who returned her smile in kind.

  “Like to tell me about your concerns in regards to James?” Rachel asked.

  “Voices. He’s hearing voices, and I’m afraid he’s listening to them as if they’re real. At times, he argues with them.”

  “Do you feel he’s dangerous or might become dangerous?”

  “Just concerned that his mental health is less than normal, but what if it gets worse? I lay in bed at night worrying, having a tough time sleeping. For the most part the boys haven’t noticed.”

  “Brian knows of a number of veteran’s groups and is involved with the VA. He’ll know who to contact if he believes that’s necessary.”

  “Mitchel found James arguing with one of his imaginary…what should I call them? Friends?”

  “Was your son frightened?

  “Concerned would be a better description. He told his father that there wasn’t anyone in the room. James smiled, said he was talking to a memory.”

  Abbey began yawning after a third song, Donna placed her in the crib James put up for the tiny one’s visit, and tucked a blanket around her.

  * * *

  “I left a phone number for a VA counselor,” Brian said to Rachel on the flight home.

  “Donna seems overwhelmed by his behavior.”

  “Perhaps she should see a counselor as well.”

  Brian checked his son who was fast asleep. “A while ago, you mentioned you had another life experience I should know about. Seth’s asleep…might be a good time to tell me.”

  Rachel nodded. “My sister Mirna, sixteen at the time, and I were watching television, my parents gone to Florida for a week, a noise at the back of the house startled us, we ran to her room. She told me to hide in her closet once it was apparent strangers had broken into the house. Mirna piled dirty clothes on me. She slid under her bed, where they found her. I listened while four men abused her, peaked out at one point, and saw them. The police found three, who my sister and I identified, and some years later, as I’ve told you, killed the fourth, who was trying to find and kill me.”

  “What effect did this have on you?”

  “I took a self-defense course and began carrying a knife in my purse.”

  “Mirna left home because?”

  “The note she left for my parents, only saw it once, indicated they wouldn’t talk to her about the incident. They acted like nothing happened. Poor Mirna, and my poor folks. They didn’t have a clue what to do with their two abused daughters.”

  “Know where she went?”

  “A friend of hers said she took a bus to California.” She thought for a while and said, “Not sure how, but, one day, I’d love to find her.”

  “I received a second letter from my platoon buddy who lives near Baton Rouge,” Brian said. “On my dresser if you’d like to read it.”

  Chapter 21

  Dear Sgt. Levin,

  You remember I liked to sing Gospel music? My church choir was invited, along with other Baptist congregations, to sing at a gospel music festival in a huge church in Shreveport, La. I drove up there on a Saturday morning. You might remember, my home is near Baton Rouge, so about a three-and-a-half-hour drive. Probably one-hundred of us attended, began practice after lunch that same day. Saw a lady about our age who looked familiar but put her out of my mind to concentrate on my singing. Saturday night, a few locals and I ate dinner at a funky little blues bar. We performed during the service on Sunday morning. You know that bible passage that instructs us to bring a joyful noise before the lord? We fulfilled that verse by providing a melodic and energy filled performance. We rocked that old building to its foundation. The church members provided an outdoor buffet. I proceeded down the food line, filling my plate with turnip greens, okra, fried green tomatoes, and other southern delicacies. That lady I’d seen, seemed to be moving with me but stayed a few feet away. I spied a couple hams at the end of the buffet table; brown sugar coated and prickly with cloves so I didn’t pay her much attention…

  * * *

  His plate, a mound of Southern deliciousness, Paul looked for a place to sit.

  “Excuse me sir, but are you Paul Slidell?”

  Surprised at the question from the bright eyed, slim woman who now stood at his side, he answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “From Baton Rouge?”

  “Have we met?”

  “Ever rescue a girl from a burning building?”

  “Candice!”

  She grabbed his hand. Walking with a slight limp, Candice pulled him between a number of tables to an opening among the tall sycamore trees where her family members occupied three, lined up, end to end, picnic tables.

  “Y’all hush,” Candice yelled. She waited until she had their attention. “Y’all know the story of how I was rescued from a collapsed, burning building. How I was holding on to a soldier’s shirt?” Dropping Paul’s hand, she gripped his shirt. “I’m holding his shirt again.”

  A man of average height but stocky, leaped to his feet and ran around the table, shook Paul’s hand then gave him a hug. Candice introduced her father, Thomas.

  “An honor to meet the man who saved my daughter’s life. And a fellow 101st Airborne veteran as well.”

  Overwhelmed, Paul said in a modest voice, “Just a soldier doing what needed to be done, Mr. Thomas.”

  Teary-eyed, Candice’s mom embraced Paul for so long he began to feel embarrassed. Her husband finally pulled her away, saying, “Let the boy sit and eat, Anna.”

  Paul took a seat at the end of the picnic table opposite Candice’s parents. She asked what he’d like to drink, returned with a tart lemonade then sat next to him, actually against him. He moved to make room for her. She leaned toward him, whispered with a giggle, “Come back here.”

  He chuckled, moved so their hips and shoulders were touching again.

  “What outfit?” her father asked.

  “2/327, Delta Company,” Brian replied.

  With pride in his voice and wearing a broad grin, Thomas said, “I went into Normandy with the 2/327 battalion on D- day, Charlie Company. Glider unit back then.”

  “They referred to us as Airmobile because we rode around in helicopters.”

  Paul and her father began trading war stories, both serious and hilarious.

  When they were finished eating, Candice took him down the trio of tables introducing him to family members which included three cousins, two of whom served in Vietnam with the Marines and one who served with the Navy. Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best with the exception of a frumpy and disheveled women who appeared to be in her early-thirties.

  “My cousin Nora,” Candice said. “She lives with and takes care of her invalid parents.” Paul extended his hand and, with a quick glance, the frumpy woman met his hand with a limp grip and a weak smile. Ironically, she would become one of the most important people in his life.

  He also met ten-year-old Betsy, whose parents died in an airplane crash so she lived with her grandparents.

  The couple sat again. Candice’ father turned to his wife, said, “Mother…”

  She nodded and said, “Of course.”

  “We’d be honored son,” Thomas said, “if you’d spend the afternoon at our home, and stay for dinner. We have a spare room you can sleep in at our place tonight so’s you don’t have to drive home in the dark.” He motioned down the line of tables. “Most of the family comes over for Sunday dinner and we watch sports if there’s a game on. Even those two Marines are invited.” Most joined Thomas’ laughter.

  “Sounds great,” Paul said.

  Candice rode with Paul in his pickup, directed him to a modest craftsman home which was filled with family. After an hour of talking with Thomas, the two marines, and the sailor about their military service, Candice asked, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

 
“Love to.”

  They started toward the door. Betsy approached, her hands on her hips. “Aunt Candice, the boys are being mean. Can I go with you?”

  Candice glanced at Paul who said, “Of course, young lady. Let’s go.”

  Sporting a huge grin, Betsy grabbed their hands and led them outside.

  A brisk breeze accompanied the trio as they followed a sidewalk to a small park, conversation between the two adults consisted of what they’d done since coming home which included many months of rehabilitation for Candice.

  “I’m living with my grandparents because my parents died,” Betsy explained. “That makes me an orphan.”

  Paul explained he was an orphan as well.

  “I’m surprised a lovely woman like yourself is still single,” Paul said to Candice.

  With a twinkle in her eye, she replied, “When people asked, I always told them I hadn’t found the right guy.”

  They returned to her home to watch the late afternoon football game. Betsy climbed onto his lap. “You got rough skin on your face. How did that happen?”

  “Got too close to a fire.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “I was busy at the time so didn’t think about it.”

  “Aunt Candice has skin like that on her arms.”

  “Same fire burned both of us,” Candice said then kissed the scar on Paul’s cheek, pulled his arm around her, and cuddled close.

  * * *

  Being an orphan, I didn’t have family to welcome me home. No one excited to see me, no one to share stories with. Didn’t realize how sad that was. How the lack of family made it tougher to get over the bad stuff I witnessed or took part in. The point I’m trying to make is, I had no pride in my military service after I came home. All the negative news coverage, the demonstrations against the war, the anti-military rhetoric, all of it depressed me. But with Candice’s family, between Thomas and the other’s joy at meeting a fellow vet…well…her family wasn’t just proud of me because I rescued their daughter…but proud that I served my country. Every time her dad greeted me with our 2/327 battalion moto, “No slack,” the words reminded me to be proud of my unit. The closer I felt to her family, and without saying the words, they made me feel my participation in the war was appreciated. I started to feel good about myself and my service…and damn proud I was part of the 101st. Candice and I married after three months of dating. We brought Betsy to live with us, and we had a son…but the war wasn’t finished with us.

  I’ll write again when I have time.

  No Slack, Paul

  * * *

  Three weeks after their visit to Butte, Montana, teary eyed, and with deep sorrow written in her expression, Rachel entered Brian’s office. “Donna called.”

  He looked up from his typewriter. “James?”

  “Killed himself early this morning.”

  “Ah shit.” Brian used both hands to cover his face, his head dropping to his chest, his eyes tearing. “Don’t need this.”

  “I’m so sorry. He died in the parking lot of a police station. Seems he planned it so his family wouldn’t be the ones to find his body.” She walked up to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Oh hell. Donna and the kids must be a wreck.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his head in his hands. Without looking up asked, “Funeral?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “His parents?”

  “Devastated. Lost their only child.”

  “Her parents?”

  “Trying to get to Montana from Chile.”

  “I need to call Arnie.”

  Brian’s eyes filled with tears, he stood, and Rachel embraced him.

  He pushed her away. “After I call, I’m going to drum.”

  For the next hour, Brian punished his drum set with a steady tattoo of anger, frustration and sorrow.

  Oddly, his wind chimes were silent. He returned to his office, slumped back in his chair. Rachel entered with tea and cookies.

  Brian rubbed his face. “I wonder if he went for help.”

  “She said he did.”

  “It didn’t work or was too late.”

  “Donna said he left a sealed letter for you.”

  He took a sip of tea, his eyes again filling with tears. Brian leaned back in his chair, stared at the ceiling then said, “I dread going to his funeral. My research keeps me sufficiently depressed, rubs my emotions raw. I need some time to deal with this. A few days would be good…”

  In a stern voice, Rachel said, “Your fellow platoon mate…you guys arrived in-country together, served together. You will…”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. We had a memorial service for one of the guys in Vietnam. It was awful. One of the guys read a few bible passages, how our buddy had moved on to a better place. I pray that happened but couldn’t wonder what the Lord thinks of those of us who hunt and kill our fellow man. Not to mention what he thinks of the ones who send us to do the killing. Tom McKenzie, nice kid, hadn’t been in-country but a few weeks, a land mine tore him apart. Swore I’d never go to one of those again because the depression lasted for days and days. I could barely think straight, maybe we just show up at the funeral then come right home.”

  “We leave late this afternoon. I booked a flight. We’ll also be there the day after the funeral. Donna will need help and support. If she wants, I’ll stay longer.”

  “Rachel, please,” Brian pleaded, “the depression I experienced was so painful, let’s discuss…”

  She interrupted. “We can discuss all you wish but pack first.”

  “Please, listen…”

  Now with hands on hips, she remonstrated him in an angry voice. “I’ll listen for as long as you like but Donna and her family will need our support. I’m going. That’s the least I can do for her…for certain, you will accompany Seth, Abbey, and me. And you will begin planning what you will say to Donna and her children.”

  Dread of the depression which would accompany him, at and after the funeral, overwhelmed him. He slouched in his desk chair, closed his eyes for a while then rubbed his face with both hands. “Shit.” Brian opened his eyes, approached his wife, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll likely need your help with what to say.”

  For the balance of the day, Brian heard the wind chimes play a mournful tune.

  * * *

  At they walked up the steps of the church in Butte, Montana, Rachel asked Brian, “Arnie going to make it?”

  “East coast is snowed in. Couldn’t get a flight.” She cursed. “I know he wanted to be here.”

  They entered and saw Donna, who waved them to her side.

  Following a brief service, Brian helped carry James’ coffin to his grave through a heavy snowstorm on a blustery morning.

  He thought, “The last thing I’ll do for him.” Brian’s feet crunched through many inches of snow.

  As a preacher droned on at graveside, Brian stood stiffly, Donna and her boys on one side of him, then Seth and Rachel who held Abbey. Tears streaming down his face, Brian silently lectured his friend who could no longer hear him. “Not like this, man. All the shit we survived…to end like this…you…your family…all deserve better…all of us who went where our government sent us, we did our best to serve, not to end up like this after making it home.”

  The snowstorm intensified. He raised his collar to keep the snow off his neck, then thought he heard the deep tones of his wind chimes, but realized it was church bells; their sound further depressing his mood.

  The graveside service ended. The Levin family traveled to the Ware home. Donna and Rachel put out food for those who came to offer their condolences. After the majority of mourners left, Donna sent her children to the play room with Seth, approached Brian, and handed him a sealed envelope. Brian’s name on the front, inside a message scrawled in an unsteady hand.

  Brian,

  Sorry. I wasn’t strong enough to pick up my ruck one more time. It’s weighed down with the eleven, with what I did
to them…it’s just too damn heavy. How did I deserve to live and they didn’t? I’m not smart enough to explain to Donna why I’m doing this. I’m depending on you one last time. I know you’ll do that for me.

  Thanks. No Slack, James

  He turned to Donna. “This is addressed to me. You should read it but…sit down first.”

  She sat on a dining room chair, Rachel standing behind her with her hand on the widow’s shoulder, Abbey in her other arm. James’ wife took a deep breath, unfolded and read the letter, glanced at Brian then read it again. “What the hell is a ruck? What eleven?”

  “The ruck is a kind of backpack. He’s using it as a metaphor. He believed he killed eleven people. That memory haunted him and became more difficult over time, like a backpack with an increasing load.”

  “Get this away from me,” Donna said in an angry tone. She threw the letter at Brian and folded her arms across her chest. “Why not ask for help? Why couldn’t he tell me? He never once talked about killing…is there something I should have done so that he would have discussed this? My father was in the Marines during WWII. Didn’t come home with…all this shit…at least I don’t think he did.” She stared at Brian. “Maybe it was me…what was I supposed to do?”

  In a firm voice, Brian intoned, “No. It has nothing to do with you. Many soldiers aren’t able to discuss what happened, even with loved ones.”

  She stared at her friends then said in a pleading voice, “I need him. The kids need their father.”

  Brian said, “And you feel guilty you’re angry with him.” Donna appeared surprised at his comment.