by John L. Hart
“The Killing School,” Gregg repeated. “What the hell kind of school is that?”
“I think we do good work together,” was JD’s answer.
“Uh . . . uh . . .” Izzy felt as though his vocabulary had been reduced to a single syllable, but he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued. As long as snakes and caves and maniacal albinos weren’t part of the deal.
As if reading his mind, JD said, “Go back to New York, Izzy. Take a month or three; longer if you need it. And take Margie along with you. I already have two first-class tickets. See what it’s like back in the world, see where you belong and who you belong with.”
And with that JD reached into his pants pockets and pulled out from either side a silver bracelet.
“One for you,” he said, extending a bracelet to Gregg, “and one for you,” the other one held out to Izzy. “These are from Zhang. A token of his and the tribal people’s appreciation for your courage and your service to them and others. They will remember you.” JD bowed deeply. “It is my honor to present these to you.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, a glance exchanged, both Izzy and Gregg knowing that with such honors came great responsibility.
Izzy bowed back to JD and with the minimal amount of Vietnamese he had picked up, expressed his gratitude with, “Lòng biết o’n.”
“And the honor is mine to accept such a gift,” Gregg intoned, also bowing.
“And then so it is,” JD confirmed as he placed the bracelets on their left wrists. “Although I have not always been worthy of the cup of your friendship, never doubt that whatever you decide, or wherever you go from here, I will always consider you my most trusted friends. And I will always have your backs.”
Epilogue
On the boat ride over to the island he called home, JD knew it wouldn’t quite be the same when he arrived. Not without Kate to share the hammock beneath a tropical, dusky sky, or to share a dinner of crispy fish and pineapple from the headman’s sister with Kate saying, “I’m calling the front desk and extending my stay.”
Although Kate would not be at his little bungalow, and she would not be picking out stereo albums to dance to—“One” was his theme song now—at least the things that mattered most to him would still be waiting. The Jungle Book his mother had read to him as a boy; the handkerchief with lipstick traces beside an embroidered PJ, but now missing a gold coin to go with it; the rest of his treasures from the past in a sandalwood box. The centuries-old Go board the abbot had presented to him in a deeply meaningful ceremony.
He had written about that, and so much more, in the journals and stray pages he had accumulated over two decades of writing. Writing about his mother, the truths, the lies, the suspicions, his education few in the Western world would readily understand. Their world was too new, and that informed their realities.
They had theirs. And he had his.
As for Kate’s choices, the reality was he had been crushed. He had, after all, hoped Kate would be his salvation; he had willed the past to rewrite itself with a new beginning that went beyond working for a country he was a citizen of, but had no particular fondness for. Southeast Asia always had been, and always would be, his home, while America was an arrogant big pirate who could do, and had done, great things for many, and yet had a very bad habit of stomping all over their little whores when they deemed it in their best interest.
Pirates and Whores. He wondered if Phillip had shared that story with Kate.
The journals and pages in his hands were enough to make Tolstoy weep. What a fool he had been to want to give Kate every knowledge about him that no one else had. And now, if he opened his hands and threw it all away upon the South China Sea as intended, no one else ever would. At least not by virtue of all the memories he had recorded, many of them honoring the voices of his teachers, their lessons.
JD debated. He thought he detected a faint whiff of jasmine and sandalwood, a distant wind chime of a whisper telling him, You silly boy, do you think it will change anything? You know the story isn’t over yet, now don’t you? There will be more to tell.
He hesitated, but only slightly, before laying his life story on the deck, beside his feet, protected from the sweet, cool breeze that softly kissed his ear.
As the boat moved on and up and over the next swell he thought of another boat, where he had given Kate the Go stone as a symbol his life was incomplete without her.
She had given it back to him, along with his silver Montagnard friendship bracelets, in Paris. Only then had she confronted him about leaving her alone to fend for herself on the boat.
He had done no such thing, of course. Two of the special forces marines who had come to summon him were specifically assigned to stay until he returned, and upon realizing such was not to be, he had secured the necessary promise from General Claymore, who reported to Phillip, that Kate would be safely returned to the mission.
Even so, he took responsibility for not anticipating the initial protection might be insufficient, his orders trumped, or the promises given, a sham.
Whether it was Phillip or The Pale Man or possibly both who ensured she was kidnapped to trap him into their game, he did not know. But the end result to his and Kate’s relationship was the same. Kate believed the worst of him, that he would leave her unprotected, his promises as worthless as the father that had deserted her mother. And she had turned on him as a result.
He wanted to believe that was excuse enough, that he would have done the same thing, and what they once had was still worth fighting for.
JD fingered the white Go stone Kate had returned. There was a last golden rule of Go that was not his favorite but held great wisdom for those players who would heed it: Look for peace. Avoid fighting in an isolated or weak situation.
JD skated the white stone across the water and watched until it sank beneath the sea.
Red Fish in Love with Lotus Flower
Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.
— Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning
Acknowledgments
Every author should have the good fortune of being with a publisher who treats them as respected artists and encourages, supports, appreciates and yes, when needed, coaches them toward their best work. For this and more, Olivia and I are grateful to our Story Plant editor and publisher, Lou Aronica. Our thanks again to early readers Nuala Vermeiren, Anne Algard, Sonja Kamber, Nancy Gold, Judy Wolf, Christine Rupprecht, and my brother Joseph Hart. Gratitude and special thanks to our expert consultants Dr. G.S. and Dr. N.S., Sue Elle, and dear friend and Vietnam War veteran helicopter pilot Steele Clayton. To my teachers, master calligrapher and Chinese Brush artist John Nip, and master Chinese Brush artist Shirley Pu Wills: it is an honor to be your student. A very special gratitude to the esteemed Tai Ji master Chungliang Huang who also honored me by taking me on as a student and inspired many aspects of this story. For Professor Alfred W. McCoy whose work, writings, and courage has informed us and provided source and reference material. Thanks again to Nora Tamada for early story and editorial feedback and to Gerry Lopez for her art expertise. You are very much appreciated. To Philip Newey, our spot-on copyeditor, a big “Good onya mate!” We especially thank Scott Rupprecht and Andrea Hart for once again going the distance and carrying us through another long march of storytelling with your love and support. Thank you brave women and men of the 98th (KO) and 8th Field Hospital, the Red Cross, those that volunteered and served in missions and NGOs, and those who fought and served during the Vietnam War. You gave your hearts and souls and, too many of you, your lives. You are not forgotten. We thank you all.
Authors’ Note
The music of the 1960s and early ’70s plays a significant role in Making a Killing, which ends in May 1970. For storytelling purposes we needed to sligh
tly alter the timeframe of the following releases: “Ohio” by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (June, 1970); “War” by Edwin Starr (June, 1970); “What’s Going On” and “Mercy, Mercy Me” by Marvin Gaye (1971); and “The Candy Man” by Sammy Davis, Jr. (1972).
About the authors
John L. Hart has been a practicing psychotherapist for more than forty years, starting in Vietnam where he was a psychology specialist and then receiving his doctorate from the University of Southern California. John is an internationally respected lecturer, has been a consultant to the nation of Norway for their Fathering Project, and maintained a private practice in Los Angeles for over twenty years. He is the author of Becoming a Father from HCI Books and co-author of Modern Eclectic Therapy (Springer). John’s poetry has appeared in many literary journals and magazines such as Verve and Rivertalk. John divides his time between Hawaii where he is an artist at the Mauna Kea Hotel and Vancouver Island, B.C., where he is Executive Director of Spirit Bear Art Farm and adjunct associate professor at the University of Victoria in British Columbia.
Olivia Rupprecht is an award-winning, best-selling author whose novels have sold worldwide. She lives in a historic tavern on a lake in Wisconsin.
Also by john hart and olivia rupprecht
This wasn’t supposed to be Israel Moskowitz’s war. What country in its right mind would draft a child psychiatrist fresh out of his residency from Columbia University Med School and send him to Vietnam in 1969? But Izzy was here for the duration: three-sixty-four and a wake-up. A year that would change everything.
Assigned to the 99KO, the psychiatric unit of the 8th Field Hospital in sultry Nha Trang, Izzy attempts to use his skills in ways he never could have imagined; not to heal, but to get boys back onto the field of battle. A circle of compatriots soon grows around him – Gregg, the surfer dude turned psychologist; Rick, the tough-as-nails Special Ops commando; J.D., a man of many guises and even more secrets; Margie, the gorgeous, relentless head psychiatric nurse; Kate, the stunning thrill-seeker with a taste for the illicit; Nikki, the endearing, incongruously sweet Red Cross dolly. As their relationships weave and intertwine, the face of Vietnam evolves for Izzy.
But nothing will turn his world upside down – and redefine the nature of war to him – like the mission on which he finds himself an unwilling participant. Someone is massacring soldiers in unthinkable ways with the goal of demoralizing via terror, and Izzy needs to be part of the team tracking down the killer. Before he’d come to Vietnam, Izzy had never heard the term “ghost soldier.” Now one might dictate what remains of his life.
Written with the verisimilitude only possible from someone who has been there, There Will Be Killing is an unforgettable work of fiction brimming with horror and humanity.
Here’s an excerpt:
“There are many kinds of casualties in wars,” the Colonel began. “Psychiatric casualties, of course, have been around since the beginning of warfare. Human beings, although an aggressive, brutal, and vicious species, are not well designed for long-term combat stress.…”
Israel stared at his new Chief of Psychiatry and CO, Lt. Colonel Kohn, a kindly middle-aged career officer from the Midwest, and tried to focus on his little welcome speech. The other medical personnel, including Gregg, were busy with morning rounds, so just three of them were gathered at the table that doubled as a nurses station: Colonel Kohn, him, and the other new shrink, Dr. J.D. Mikel, who had called him by an old nickname, Izzy. He said it so slap-to-the-back familiar it felt déjà vu weird. Only his best friend Morrie could still get away with calling him that. And that was only because Morrie had been confined to a wheelchair since seventh grade after trying to save Israel’s dog from getting hit by a speeding cab on their way to play ball in a park.
The unit’s mascot, a mutt Gregg had called “K.O.,” parked her rump by Israel’s chair, which directly faced the air conditioner unit blasting cold air for the entire room, and its marching line of beds filled with psychiatric casualties. If the random tremor in his hands and constant urge to puke were any indicator, Israel feared it wouldn’t be long before he was a candidate for one of those beds himself.
Mikel caught his line of vision, gave a slight conspiratorial smile, and then covered his mouth for a little yawn as Colonel Kohn went on about earlier American wars, when soldiers would return with “the shakes,” or people would say that old Sam had lost his nerve, but how, by the beginning of the Vietnam War, Pentagon researchers had scientifically determined that nearly everyone in a combat situation was slowly breaking down the entire time that they were exposed to war.
“Basically, it is just a matter of time.” Colonel Kohn gestured toward a thrashing patient in full restraints. “Everyone’s psyche, they realized, was slowly eroding. Some faster, due to earlier childhood and life traumas, and others perhaps from too much, too soon in the war zone, with quick and repeated exposure to horrors moving up the erosion—”
“Help me! HELP ME!” screamed the patient, jerking against the restraints with such force his spine arched off the mattress, causing the metal headboard to slam against the wall. The head nurse, a luscious redhead in jungle fatigues Israel had briefly met, Capt. Margie Kennedy, broke from the morning rounds entourage and moved in that direction.
“True, some humans are slower to wear down,” Colonel Kohn sonorously intoned, “perhaps due to their fortunate genetics and upbringing. And in rare cases, a few individuals actually seem to thrive. . . .” He glanced at Mikel before looking again directly at Israel. “But by the time we got to this war, here in Vietnam, the Pentagon was anticipating these kinds of mental casualties. This is why we are all here.”
Here. As in the 99th KO. The 8th Field Hospital’s psychiatric unit conveniently placed in a combat zone. We. As in the psychiatrists, psychologists, psychiatric social workers, psychiatric nurses, and enlisted psychiatric techs who are doing the good work for our brave fellow men in uniform, serving on the front lines of Vietnam.…
Finally, Colonel Kohn wound it all up with, “The rate of psychiatric casualties is huge and basically unknown to the general population back home. But really, there is one thing, and one thing only, that matters and you can never forget. The patients here are very dangerous. Every minute, every hour and day that you are here, never forget that these patients were trained to kill people. There is no locked ward. Forget, even for a second, that you are treating trained killers who have been pushed over the edge, and you could be the one going back home in a body bag. Any questions?” was clearly directed at Israel who stared numbly back at Colonel Kohn while the loud drone of the air conditioner blended with another shriek of “HELP ME!”
“Okay then, we have an interesting catatonic patient with Dr. Thibeaux to discuss, along with our rather vocal Sergeant Waters in the restraints over there. Dr. Mikel, Dr. Moskowitz?” The colonel got up, his attention carefully trained on the new child psychiatrist. “After you.”
As they moved toward the mind-blasted Sergeant Waters, Israel tried to wrap his brain around what he’d been repeatedly told in officer’s training: His first priority was to “preserve the fighting force,” which meant not getting damaged soldiers like these home. No, his job was to get them back to their units and the same combat zones that had landed them in this front line mental hospital that made Bellevue look like Club Med.
“As you can see, we have fourteen beds here,” Colonel Kohn was saying. “These patients have been brought in from the field or came through our Camp McDermott outpatient clinic. It’s just a short drive and for now the two of you will be accompanying Dr. Kelly out there every day directly after rounds.” Having caught up with the group, Kohn addressed the leader, mid-thirties at most, with thinning brown hair spared from a comb-over. “This is our chief psychiatrist, Dr. Robert David Thibeaux. Robert David, I believe you were on call last night. Would you care to fill us in on the situation here with Sergeant Waters?”
“Well, no
w thank you Dr. Kohn, it would surely be my pleasure.” Robert David Thibeaux’s refined southern accent and aristocratic bearing struck Israel as absurd in this setting as the military making attempted suicide a punishable, criminal offense because it damaged government property. “It was a quiet night except for Waters. The Sergeant has been agitated, and ranting and hallucinating constantly about this so-called Boogeyman story that got started a few weeks ago and seems to be spreading like a bad case of VD.”
“And what has the Sergeant said about this Boogeyman?” Mikel asked.
Waters cried out a terrible sound, a keening wail punctuated by “Ghost Soldier! He gets you in the dark. Shep’s dead, everyone’s dead. Oh god, please,” he gasped, pleaded, “Help me!”
For a blessed moment Israel was able to completely detach, to step outside his body and observe the macabre scene like he was back home in the movie theater, watching the horror film he’d seen last year, Night of the Living Dead. Only now starring in the show was Sergeant Waters, eyes bulging, panting, and sobbing; writhing in restraints on the mattress like he was being attacked by ghouls. And Mikel, he could be the director, stroking his chin and strangely untouched by the riveting performance. The surrounding audience, all dressed in mottled green, zoomed in and out, then snap.
A SLAM of metal bed to steel Quonset wall coincided with the sudden shriek of “STOP”—Slam—“STOP”—Slam—“STOP!” Waters’ earlier shrieking and writhing violently escalated, accompanied now by terrible grimaces and facial tics that were hideous to watch.
Thibeaux urgently tried to calm him with that low, soothing voice that dripped culture from somewhere down south, an assurance of “Shh, nothing will hurt you here. All the bad things have gone away.” Then, to Margie asked, “How much Thorazine did you give him before?”