THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  Betsy ran to him and yelled, “Hi, Uncle Paul. Come push me on the swings.”

  While he did, he began reminiscing about Nora and what she’d done for him and the children. From housekeeping to guiding and teaching Betsy, not to forget six months of daily physical therapy with Kevin, his home was a place where Paul loved to live and work.

  The following Saturday morning he drove to a florist and brought home flowers.

  “What’s that for?” Nora asked when he arrived home. “It’s our six-month anniversary,” Paul replied. “Find a sitter. I have reservations at a great place in Baton Rouge so we can celebrate.”

  “We’re just friends, you don’t need to do anything special.”

  “You’re more than a friend.” He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her lips. “I have a complete family again, woven together with your love.”

  Her expression radiant, Nora said, “Thank you. Those are the kindest words…”

  “The children and I adore you. You’ve made this pile of wood into a home again. Never thought I’d want to get close to someone after Candice died because I felt like I’d been crushed. I never considered I’d find someone to fill the hole in my heart, but you, Nora Taylor, we belong together. Marry me?”

  Tears filling her eyes and her throat tight, she nodded and whispered, “I’d love to.”

  * * *

  We married up in Shreveport…same church where I married Candice. Nora asked me to put up two more flag poles so I can fly the 101st and POW/MIA flags on either side of Old Glory.

  I’m still close to Candice’s family, especially her parents. We’re having them and some cousins down for Thanksgiving.

  My work is paying good money. We’re thinking of driving over to Texas next spring. We’d love to meet your family. Nora loves to tent camp but I’d like a shower every day so we may buy a camping trailer which we’ll tow with my pickup. Do you have room so we can camp at your ranch?

  One more thing. Nora is pregnant with twins…should arrive mid-March.

  Hope to hear from you soon. Be well. No Slack, Buddy.

  Paul

  * * *

  The Levin family took their motorhome to a campground along the Gulf in Galveston, Texas.

  They’d decided on a fish dinner. The family entered a small fish market adjacent to a fishing-boat lined canal near downtown Galveston. Just caught that morning, shrimp, red snapper, grouper, crab and other local delicacies were displayed on ice.

  A teen with a mischievous smile, yelled from behind the counter. “Sorry. No bread today.”

  Brian spun and stared at the familiar face. She ran around the counter and embraced him.

  Brian introduced his wife and two children. Dot introduced her uncle and his family. “Where’s your grandmother?” Brian asked.

  “She’s not here today but she will be happy you came to our market.” She addressed Seth and Abbey. “My name is…Dot. Your father found me, burned, with broken bones and bleeding. I was dying. He gave me something for the pain, bandaged my wounds then sent me to a medivac hospital where they operated on me. After the surgery, your father stayed up all night with me, reassuring me, a frightened ten-year-old, until I was moved to a hospital ship the next day.” She stopped to wipe a tear off her face. “Your father saved my life, and arranged for me to be sent to Galveston for rehabilitation.”

  The children turned to their father, who said, “That’s what doctor’s do,” paused for a bit then asked Dot, “And you? In school?”

  “Of course.”

  “Boy friend?”

  She giggled. “No! My grandmother warned me, threatened really, if I have time for a boyfriend, I can come to the market every day and clean fish.”

  They laughed.

  Rachel asked, “Favorite class?”

  “I live for Chemistry. My college major will be chemistry.”

  Brian gave her his card. “If you’re in Dallas, we’d be pleased to welcome you to our home.”

  Rachel addressed Dot’s uncle, “I’d like four Red Snapper filets, please.”

  He chose four fat fish, weighed then fileted and wrapped them in plastic film.

  Dot whispered something to her uncle in Vietnamese.

  He laughed, handed the fish to Dot who placed the filets in a bag along with crushed ice. She handed the bag to Rachel saying, “Souvenir you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rachel said with a questioning expression.

  “No…” Brian said.

  Her uncle said with a bowed head, “You save my niece, so free fish for you today.”

  “Thank you.” Brian said.

  “You welcome,” the uncle said. “And thank you for saving my precious niece.”

  “We’re at a campground in Jamaica Beach,” Rachel said to Dot. “Perhaps you and your family could join us for dinner Saturday night.”

  “An honor,” the uncle said.

  * * *

  Rachel appeared puzzled on late Saturday afternoon as she finished cleaning a few utensils in the motorhome. She asked Brian, “How did the grandmother have the money to buy a fishing boat for her son? I was under the impression they left with nothing.”

  ‘They’re here now. You can ask.” Brian said, as he opened the door to the motorhome.

  With Dot translating, Rachel asked her grandmother how she managed to get to Houston.

  “An American bought me a plane ticket to Houston,” Dot said as she translated for her grandmother. “He arranged all the paperwork. Then he and a friend bought an apartment which they rented to me. The apartment was near the hospital where Dot received her rehabilitation. I took a job in a bakery. Saved money and paid back the Americans then asked them for a loan to buy a fishing boat when my son arrived.”

  Rachel glanced at Brian. “You?”

  He nodded. “And Martin Evans.”

  “Why did the military bring Dot to Houston?”

  “I said she had family in Texas. I believed she’d have the best care at a hospital in Galveston. Also close enough, either Martin or I could check on her.”

  “You trained there?”

  Brian nodded. “Med school and surgical residency.”

  “But she doesn’t have family…”

  “I lied and said she was my child.”

  Rachel stared at him with a questioning expression. He smiled and shook his head. “She’s not.”

  They enjoyed further conversation. Brian noted Dot seemed fascinated with Abbey. She also taught Seth a Vietnamese children’s song.

  The evening ended with promises that the families would visit again.

  * * *

  Back in Celina, Brian looked up from his work as Arnie, now married to Chana, entered his office. Chana and Rachel, wearing expressions of concern, engaged in whispered conversation just outside the office door.

  “Thought you were going to a ball game,” Brian said.

  Arnie, rubbed his red eyes, used his shoulder to wipe a tear off his cheek, his appearance was that of a man who was saddened and angry, like a man who was struggling to keep his emotions in check. Brian motioned to the couch. The Brooklynite plopped down then said, “Chana thinks I should talk to you.”

  “About?”

  “There was this traffic accident, a station wagon, overloaded with kids going to a little league game, ran a red light…got slammed by a moving van, three or four cars collided into the first two.” He twisted on the couch, kept crossing and uncrossing his arms and legs while he talked.

  “Kids got tossed out of the station wagon. I left my car with my first aid kit, ran up to the first injured kid I saw, knelt at his side. He’s moaning, pleading for help. His left leg from the knee down…looked like it went through a meat grinder, his right lower leg one way…his foot the other…the foot attached to his leg by a thread of muscle. I felt light headed. The Army taught me what to do, watched you plenty of times…my first aid kit next to me. I was ready, but instead of helping the poor kid…I stood, walked a few
steps and started vomiting. I wretched my guts out. People who were trying to help me, asked if I was in one of the broken cars. I glanced back at the little boy…other people were using my first aid kit to help him, but I couldn’t help. A kid and, Lord forgive me, I couldn’t help him. I staggered back to our car, told Chana she needed to drive me home. Instead she drove me out here. She insisted I talk to you.”

  Chana entered the room sat next to Arnie and tried to put an arm around him. He shoved her arm away.

  “If you were there,” Arnie said to Brian, “you’d a taken care of him. Taken care of most of ‘em, I’ll bet. But me…” His eyes filled with tears.

  “Not everyone can do…”

  In an angry tone he said, “Hell, man. You think I didn’t notice? When you needed someone to help with bloody injuries, you never once asked me.”

  “Some people…”

  His voice now one of rage, Arnie shouted, “That damn kid needed my help today and I couldn’t. If you’d asked me to help during the war, I’d a gotten over my nausea. But no.” He shook his head. “Not the great surgeon. He wouldn’t ask someone he thought was nothing but a scumbag for assistance.”

  “Arnie, I never…”

  Brian’s former squad mate waved a hand of dismissal then interrupted saying, “Remember the day you jammed a pen in that poor guy’s eye? Didn’t see it personally, but got sick just hearing about it. What a fucking loser I am.”

  “Treating bloody injuries is not something everyone can do.”

  The Brooklynite shook his head, saying, “Don’t give me that crap. I’m a man…I was in combat. I should have been able but, if people, like you, didn’t immediately assume I wasn’t capable then given me a chance to get over my problem…I could a helped that kid today.” He crossed his arms. “But no…”

  “Arnie people are different…”

  “Sure,” his voice raising enough to rattle the windows. “You could be up to your elbows in intestines, the smell of warm blood, the stink of shit from torn guts…you ignored all that and worked to save them, and Zalman is off to the side puking.” He shook his head. “Nobody offers to help me. You must have thought I was nothing but a damn loser. The genius surgeon is fucking right as usual. It’s clear. To him, I’m not much of a man…”

  “I didn’t say anything of the kind. No one thought that.”

  Chana tried to get his attention then, red-faced, left the room.

  “You think, when you left the platoon, they asked Arnie Zalman to become the squad leader? Hell no. Ten months in-country and I was never even asked to be a team leader. Did you, my good friend, recommend me? Of course not. They took someone who’d been in-country half the time I was, and they did that because he could do most of the shit you did, that I… wasn’t trained to do. Me. Your buddy you came in-country with. I wasn’t worth training.”

  “You had a different upbringing, you’re a different person.”

  Arnie twisted on the couch and swore. There was fury in his voice and visage. “A kid. Laying on the pavement today, bleeding out. I knew what to do but couldn’t. Do you know how painful that is? Shit. Maybe you don’t. I still see it today. Still experience the horror. Heads exploding into red mist, body parts torn off by artillery shells, men cut down like stalks of wheat, and you, you just kept shooting, not letting the suffering affect you. Allowing other people do what they could for the wounded until the firefight ended. Lord almighty, how could you? All your knowledge, your ability to repair grievous injuries, and you kept shooting. Talking on the radio directing arty which tore the hell out of people. Body parts flying everywhere with each explosion. Atrocious suffering in all directions. But, but you…I’d give anything to be able to do that medical shit, and yet, damn you, you chose…I mean…you made a conscious decision, not to help.”

  “I had responsibilities as a squad leader…”

  Arnie stood, walked to Brian’s desk, hands on the desktop leaning toward him. The Brooklynite’s body trembled as he yelled, “A trained…god-damned surgeon. What were you doing? Slumming with us grunts? Out to prove your manhood or some shit? After you left, everybody wanted to know why…your precious damn research you told me. What bullshit.” He shook his head, then stood straight, placed his hands on his hips, and continued ranting, “And don’t think I haven’t heard, nobody wants to read your precious research. How many of our friends died so that you could complete, that fucking, waste of time, bullshit research?”

  “Arnie, calm down.”

  The Brooklynite ignored him, didn’t move, he just glared at Brian.

  Brian stood. “I’m sorry you feel…I’ll leave you alone…You need to calm down, then we can talk. I’ll be outside.” He left the room then discovered Rachel was listening just beyond the door.

  They walked to the front porch, sat together on the glider. She put a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “He didn’t mean what he said.”

  “Bullshit.” Brian sighed. “He absolutely did.” He stared at the horizon. “Chana?”

  “Left.”

  Brian sighed and said, “I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “My cousin is frustrated because of what happened today. The accident shoved in his face what he perceives as his inadequacies.”

  “He blamed me. Why all of a sudden? The entire time I’ve known him, I never heard him carry on like that.”

  “His anger is from his inability to follow in your footsteps and Shira walking out. He took his frustration out on you.”

  “It has to be more than that.” Brian shook his head, turned to Rachel and said, “And he’s right you know.”

  “Concerning?”

  “He wasn’t a leader. Arnie wouldn’t or couldn’t do the things necessary to become one. Not everyone can become a leader. Followers are important. And no, I didn’t ask him to help with medical stuff because I’d seen how he, well, he’d get sick when he saw bloody injuries. He never took on responsibility, never tried to be a leader. I couldn’t recommend him.” He stared at the ground, glanced at Rachel then said, “Lots of guys couldn’t handle the bloody stuff. Not a big deal. We each did what we could.”

  “Was he the only one who felt that way about you?”

  “I suspect many of the guys believed I was wacko to be a grunt instead of a surgeon. But when they got hurt, they were glad I was around.” He glanced at the wind chimes which were silent. “And he’s right about the research. After months of phone calls and letters, I can’t get anyone interested in my work.”

  “The war just ended. It will take time before people are willing to consider in an objective manner what occurred. May have to wait until those in charge retire.”

  “All that anger. I wonder how long Arnie’s suppressed how he felt about me.”

  Rachel shook her head, cuddled close, pulled his arm around her. “You’ll see. He’ll apologize and it will be like old times.”

  “No. Something’s changed. He meant what he said. It will never be the same.” He thought for a while, sighed and shook his head.

  A sudden puff of wind blew across them, also animating the wind chimes, which played an anxious melody.

  Brian continued, “When we meet again, every vile word he said today will be echoing in my mind.”

  Arnie walked out of the house, noticed Chana’s car was absent, said in a subdued voice, “I need a ride.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Rachel said.

  Head down, with a grim expression and not looking at Brian, Arnie offered his hand, said in barely audible voice, “Sorry. I didn’t mean that stuff. Don’t know what came over me.”

  “Don’t mention it, old buddy.” Brian stood and shook his hand. He watched as they got into her car, headed down the drive.

  Upon her return, Rachel found Brian reading on the porch.

  Rachel sat next to him and said, “He was silent during the ride. But such anger in your office. Never heard him carry on like that.”

  “Believed I had a lifetime friend. No longer.”

 
; “Not true, and like you said to Arnie, people are different.”

  He kissed her cheek. “He’s my good buddy since Vietnam. I feel like I’m missing something. His behavior was such a radical change…”

  They stared at each other for a moment, both with expressions transitioning from confusion to certainty. They shouted in unison, “PTSD.”

  Rachel said, “That list of PTSD symptoms accurately describes his behavior.”

  Brian nodded. “The accident Chana and he witnessed reminded him of traumatic events in Vietnam. That’s why it came on so suddenly. His behavior was manic in my office but surely depressed as he left. A definite sign of PTSD. The car accident and its casualties were the trigger…”

  “I’ll call Chana.”

  “Arnie needs to see a therapist as soon as possible. I know a therapist for Chana as well. If they’re going to stay together, I predict they’ll both need help.”

  “So sad. The war’s impact on Arnie is tragic.” Rachel shook her head. “Will your research do anything for people like Arnie?”

  “In the short run no. But for future combat trauma, my research could yield huge dividends. Speaking of my research, I had a talk with the executive board at the hospital. They want to establish a department to perform research and asked me to manage it. The position requires a Ph.D. in medicine. The board is willing to give me a paid, one-year sabbatical to complete a Ph.D. in medicine. This will allow me to finish my research, put it in thesis form, get it peer reviewed and get it published. I talked to Scott Hendricks and he thinks my research would have wide distribution if I completed the Ph.D. and used my research to form my thesis. He’s willing to use his background to assist me as well.”

  “This could be a huge time commitment,” Rachel said.

  “I’m willing to put in the time. All I have to do is think about guys struggling like Arnie and the effort is worthwhile.”

  “At last. I’m so happy for you.” She stood and kissed her husband. “By the way, everyone I’ve talked to about getting together this summer in Montana around July Fourth has confirmed.”