by Thomas Laird
I was in the same war he was, and I saw shit that no one should have to watch. There were soldiers who crossed the line, and I saw some of it take place, and I never heard that they were brought up on charges. But I’m not privy to everything the government adjudicates. I just lived through my piece of Vietnam, and I am heartily glad it’s over. We lost almost sixty thousand GIs, and the Vietnamese had far more casualties than we did. I see no point in comparing numbers since one man’s death is holocaust enough.
But I don’t spend time pontificating to myself about the rights and wrongs of the Vietnam War, or any other war. They’re all bullshit, no matter who started it and for whatever reason they caused a lot of human beings to go batshit crazy.
Evan tried to right an unanswered wrong, but no one asked him to, and no one sanctioned the five executions, either, of course. If he had survived he would likely be serving a life sentence in a max prison setting somewhere. He was a serial killer, and he’ll always be remembered as such—except in the eyes of Diana, his only surviving family, as it were. I’m not sure what Earl thinks of his son, whether he has demonized Evan or forgiven him or forgotten him.
Something terrible happened in Dia Nguc, that unknown and vanished hamlet in the jungle, and there was never a formal investigation into it, but the Chicago newspapers have been writing about Azrael’s case, and there was mention of an incident in Vietnam that “might” have spurred him to kill five United States Army Rangers.
It’s all a bit late now, at any rate.
And Rita is on her way to settle in at the University of Illinois, where she’ll be starting law school in the fall. She’ll make a great lawyer, I think, because she’s got street experience behind her, a qualification I’m sure not many other would-be attorneys at the university share with Rita.
I miss her physically and emotionally, but I have to let her go.
It’s like the end of that book that Melville wrote about the crew of the Pequod: All are gone now, and it feels like I’m the only one left to tell you about it.
However. Steven James also survived. He’s convinced that Evan spared him out of guilt or remorse or some goddam thing, and his motives for cutting James loose from his death list don’t seem to matter to Steven. He was married and he’s starting his first tour as a Chicago policeman in early August.
So I’m not the only survivor, like Ishmael. Not really. It just feels like a solitary thing when I go home and there’s no one there, meaning Erin. But the kids show up, eventually, Mary and Michael, and then I remember I’m not as solitary as I think I am. They’ll need me for a while, yet.
So I think I’ll stick around and find out what happens to them.
They say that life is hope, beyond the physical explanation of this existence. If that’s true, I haven’t thrown in the towel quite yet. I’m not an old man. I only feel like one, once in a while.
Maybe I’ll call up Diana, out in Orland Park, and ask her if I can buy her a drink.
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