THE GOOD SOLDIER

by Paul C. Steffy

  “I remember the day it happened, the entire horrific incident and the losses,” I said. “It was awful! Everything happened within two minutes. We were so stunned. I don’t think any of us did much shooting at the VC. We didn’t see them for more than a few moments. They ran back into the jungle and got away. I don’t think we found any of them dead later on when we checked the area.”

  Wes got a faraway look in his eyes, and then he spoke. “I was riding on top of the second APC when it was hit with an RPG. VC must have been lying on the ground in tall weeds a few yards from the road. The two I saw jumped up and aimed at us from two left-side positions—one at eleven o’clock and the other at nine o’clock. They fired at almost at the same time, and I thought both rockets would hit my track. Instead, the one at eleven o’clock had turned slightly, and when he hit the track ahead of us, the gas tank exploded a second before we were hit. Our RPG must have been a dud; it barely exploded, but the shrapnel from it and what it did to our track hurt several other guys on top with me. Somehow, except for the concussion hurting my ears for an hour and the blinding flashes of light like a million flashbulbs, I didn’t need medical attention. I’d never seen such an explosion so close before—the gas tank ahead of us, I mean. The heat felt like a thousand suns on a hot summer day. The driver died instantly. I remember two other guys being badly burned. One, or maybe both of them, died before they were medevaced. The force of the two separate explosions was unbelievable. At the time, it seemed to me that everything was happening in slow motion. I—” He paused for a few seconds. “I don’t want to think about it!”

  Then Wes stood up and hurriedly walked off the bus. Outside, he walked as if he couldn’t wait to get away from us. He finally stopped several yards behind the bus, a short distance from the road. He looked straight ahead into the distance. His rigid stance reminded me of a statue.

  Within two minutes, most of us filed off the bus and spread out in all directions to take pictures. At first, I couldn’t decide if I should walk over to Wes or let him be alone to think and maybe resolve his issue. I decided to wait. If he didn’t move within five minutes, I’d go to him. Five minutes later, just when I was ready to walk in his direction, he turned around and went back to the bus. His eyes were red, and he carried his handkerchief in his left hand. Strangely, I felt no grief or sadness. I was numb again, reliving my vacant emotions as I had felt them when I was here at eighteen and nineteen years of age. Then, and now, I had no idea what I was supposed to feel buried so deeply within my confused emotions.

  Except for our lunch break, this was our longest stop that day. One by one, when we’d had enough time outside in the hot sun, we each climbed onto the bus and waited to depart. The coolness of the AC felt good.

  “I want to say something before we go,” John said to us all. “I see that some of you are working through old memories. That’s good; I’m glad you’re making progress. The more you face those thoughts head-on, the more easily you will begin to understand what is really happening inside your mind and within your heart. Even for those of you who have no sad memories at some of these locations, just making the connection of being here can help you resolve your long-suppressed feelings and confused emotions. That’s why most of the men I meet on these tours have returned to Vietnam. Deep down, they want to release pent-up, uncomfortable memories they are retaining. Please understand that it is possible to release them. Trust me, because I thought I’d never get over losing my brother. We were very close after our dad had died unexpectedly.”

  John put his hands on his waist and straightened his posture. He moved his head around as if his neck were stiff. “I think we are here in this lifetime to accomplish personal growth using free will and our ability to think with the intelligence that nature gives us. No one is promised a long life. The loved ones we leave behind us will grieve years longer than is necessary, until they realize that once our time is over, our souls move along to experience further growth. Many of us feel that it’s an ongoing process. I’m not asking you to believe me on this, but many folks in the Western world today accept this idea of perpetual spiritual growth through many lives. Everyone is, of course, free to believe whatever he or she wishes. This spiritual idea is what works well for me. Use whatever belief system you choose to find the peace and happiness you need in life—or no system at all, if you choose.” John paused a moment before continuing. “We have a few days remaining on our tour and more places to see. If you keep an open mind and a desire to allow new ideas to enter your thinking, your unwanted thoughts may leave you when you least expect them to go. To enhance your lives, I hope you leave Vietnam feeling more fully restored than you’ve ever been—at least in mind and spirit. OK, Tran, let’s go.”

  As we traveled, I said to Wes, “I don’t need to stop and see the place where we were ambushed, how about you?”

  “No way. Being here and driving through it is enough for me.”

  “John, the two of us don’t need to stop further ahead to see where it happened. We were there, and we have enough to think about just knowing we’re passing through the area. Thanks for the offer. I, for one, am finding more healing on this trip than I’d thought possible, and we still have a few days to go.”

  XIII

  The ride back to Saigon was quieter than usual. All of us vets had plenty to think about from our drive that day. I knew I’d had more troubling thoughts that afternoon than I expected. I hoped that seeing the places that bothered me the most wouldn’t ruin the rest of my trip or make me hesitant to step off the bus in the coming days to get a closer view of a different troubling place. I hoped it wouldn’t make me become awkwardly inward or less talkative or make me want to be somewhere else alone.

  That last village was as unexpected as they come. The location, so near to where we had been ambushed, was an outright shock to me. In all of my dreams about those horrible moments, not once did I see how desolate the location was or how destitute the village was. Then again, the place—full of people I’d never met who were living out their lives—had no reason to remain important in my life. I had many devastating memories about that much-distant event. The ambush had left several of the guys I knew dead or seriously injured. Seeing the asphalt road that day, with my recurring mental overlay of the narrow dirt road and the impoverished village from years ago, threw me for a loop. For me, this constituted an anachronism masquerading as a flashback that was fast-forwarded into an aging mental mystery of tragedy and sadness. That day, within my struggling brain chemistry, it was too much to comprehend.

  “This is the first day since I’ve been here that some really sad and vivid memories have come back,” I told Wes. “And seeing how the village has prospered after all these years seems so odd. I have memories and thoughts of explosions, death, and dying when we were ambushed, and now it’s as though those scenes are covered with a green veil of jungle growth to hide them or wash all of them away from view.”

  “Maybe it’s best to keep them that way. If we stop thinking about those times and they go away forever, I’m all for it. I’m sick to death of having my own storehouse of bad thoughts that come out one after another, month after month, year after year!”

  As if we’d agreed in thought to not say another word about what we’d just seen, Wes and I, and everyone else on the bus, said nothing more about our afternoon of sightseeing. Forty-five minutes later, the bus rolled to a stop near the front entrance of the hotel. With the engine idling, Tran opened the front door and waited for us to exit.

  “I want to thank you gentlemen for allowing me to show you a few more stops on our tour,” John said. “You are free for the evening to do what you wish. Meet me for breakfast in the usual place, or just be at the bus in the morning at nine. It should be right here. Either way, have an enjoyable evening, and I’ll see you then.” John smiled and looked at each of us. Then he turned and exited the bus.

  Wes said to me, “I want to stop by my room for
half an hour. Do you want to meet in the lobby at five?”

  “Sure. I need to stop by my room, too,” I told Wes. “It sure feels good to stretch.” I spent a few seconds doing an upper-body stretch. It felt good to be standing once again in the heat of the parking lot.

  XIV

  Later that evening, I saw Wes standing in the lobby. He was a few feet away from the middle revolving door at the hotel entrance, and I met him with a question: “Well, where to this evening?”

  “I read about a French restaurant not far from here. Are you game?”

  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later, we stood in front of the restaurant. It felt reasonably cool in the shade of the outdoor patio, so we sat there and ordered our food. I had seafood; Wes ordered beef. The two of us had eight courses each, including foie gras, truffled scrambled eggs, and a few other items I don’t recall. All of them were tasty, and we drank a bottle of fine French wine to complete the meal. We finished our dessert and paid the check.

  On the way back to the hotel, we decided to stop in at another of Saigon’s tallest buildings for more drinks. The elevator ride didn’t take long to reach the fifty-fifth floor. We saw a booth with a nice view across the city, so we sat down on the comfortable dark-green bench, leaned back, and waited for a server. I decided to stay with red wine. Wes wanted a martini. We gave a lovely young lady our drink orders and continued to look around the large room to see if we recognized anyone.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m going to call Sue,” I said. Then I got up and walked toward the elevators and the restrooms. I found an alcove with a grain of privacy and dialed Sue. The phone rang four times.

  “Hello?”

  “You sound like you were asleep,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m usually doing at six in the morning, unless people call and wake me up.”

  “Oh, no, I forgot. I thought the time difference was twelve hours. It’s not, is it?”

  “No, Brad, it’s fifteen hours. So, let’s see, it must be nine in the evening where you are?” Sue asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry. Let’s be brief, and I’ll let you go within five minutes.”

  “You may as well talk longer. I’m awake now.”

  At first, we talked about little things. Then I started telling her about the place where we were ambushed so long ago on that lonely, narrow stretch of dirt road.

  “I won’t go into detail, but we stopped by a place where my unit lost several guys in only a few minutes. But I actually feel like I’m breaking through barriers, and I’m going to get through this thing a better man. I sure hope so! I think every man in my tour is going through the same thing in one way or another. Who knows, we may all get some big benefits from this trip.”

  “I sure hope you do. I hope all of you get something good from the trip and feel a positive change. You deserve it!”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “I miss you,” she said.

  “I wish I were with you right now,” I responded while I felt warmth in my heart. “I have only a few days remaining, and then I’ll be back in your arms again.”

  “Brad, I can’t wait! Oh, did you see the village where the woman gave you the paintings?”

  “Not yet. I’ll let you know if I do. I’m thinking of you. Bye for now.”

  “Be safe. I’m thinking about you, too. Good-bye, Brad.”

  I ended the call and walked back toward Wes and our booth. I felt wonderful inside.

  “Is everything at home all right?” Wes asked before he took another sip from his second drink. I supposed that he wished he had someone to call. Even simply hearing the familiar voice of a caring friend would be soothing.

  I slid into the booth. “Yes, Sue’s fine. I want to stay in touch with her at least every other day. I really enjoy her company. She’s so down-to-earth. I appreciate someone like her in my life.”

  I felt a burst of confidence and said, “I’m going to overcome my mental demons because of this trip, and when I’m recovered, I’ll have the best relationship any man can hope for! It’s too bad that it’s taken this long. Who knows, Sue may be the one to share the rest of my life. We’re not living together.” I needed to say that to show that I’m not rushing into another ill-conceived relationship, I thought. “I need to wait awhile for that, and I think she does, too. We haven’t even talked about it. We’ve had only three dates, but it’s looking good so far.”

  Wes and I watched as a piano player seated herself in the center of the room at a shiny black piano. Then after a few seconds, she began to play mellow music. She was older than the entertainers who performed the other night. I realized with surprise that her appearance reminded me of Sue. This woman didn’t look Asian at all. She was at least six feet tall, and her shiny, waist-length dark brunet hair looked luxurious—very similar in appearance to Sue. She wore an expensive sequined evening dress, long and low-cut, the kind I wanted to see Sue wearing someday when we stepped out on the town. A special holiday evening at the Fairmont Hotel Ballroom or directly across California Street at the Top of the Mark Hopkins was what I had in mind. I wanted us to have a wonderful meal followed by dancing to big-band music. That was just the kind of evening I wanted to share with Sue, my new friend, at our first special opportunity or, our first anniversary.

  After she had finished playing her first song, the piano player said a few words about herself and began playing big-band tunes.

  “Wes, do you remember my telling you about how an elderly woman gave me two small paintings when I had about three weeks left in Vietnam?”

  “Nope. Not a thing.”

  “We were walking through a small village, and for the life of me I can’t remember where it was or its name. Our company was on a recon in force, and an ARVN lieutenant was with us for the afternoon as our interpreter. Supposedly, we were going to stumble onto a few VC in a tunnel system. If we took them as prisoners, the lieutenant would be there to ask them questions. The VC must not have gotten the word, though, because they didn’t bother showing up. We didn’t find any tunnels, either. Such is life. However, if he’d not been with us, I wouldn’t have figured out what the old woman was saying when she’d handed me the two paintings. At first, I thought she was trying to sell them to me. Her paintings didn’t have frames. I rolled them up and managed to get them home, and they’ve stayed in perfect condition. I still have them. Anyway, do you remember any of this? The name or a village location sure would be nice.”

  “Sorry, old buddy. If you had three weeks left in country, I’d have had only one week myself. I’d already have been making my way back to Saigon to turn in my remaining field gear. A few days later, I flew back to The World! Then, two weeks later, it was your turn.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re no help! I’m sure the woman has died from old age by now anyway. She looked to be about one hundred years old in 1968.”

  “Sorry, I can’t help you on this one. Remember how old the women in the countryside looked because of poverty and poor health? When they were sixty, they looked eighty. I’d never seen such poverty until I came over here. Every hut in each village had dirt floors, no electricity, and no windows or doors. Farmers plowed with a water buffalo, and the women stood in fields knee-deep in dirty, unsanitary water. Planting rice by hand in the hot sun must take its toll on the people. Oh, and don’t forget malaria or the other killer diseases that were rampant over here, too. Seeing what the conditions were like back then sure was an eye-opener for me.”

  Now the stunning piano player was play and singing the lyrics “You Must Remember This, A Kiss is Just a Kiss.”

  “That’s ‘As Time Goes By,’” I said. “It’s one of my all-time favorite songs, and it’s from the movie Casablanca. You know, Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman? It won Best Picture in 1943.”

  “I always thought that song was called ‘A Kiss Is Just a Kiss,’” Wes
responded. “Oh yeah, I know that film well. It’s in black and white. At the end, they’re standing at the airport in the fog. The plane has both engines running. Ilsa and her husband need to board. Dramatic music plays in the background. Bogart tells Victor, her husband, that he and Ilsa were once in love, but that’s all over now. Bogart knows it’s a lie, and Ilsa knows it, too. I always thought her husband thought so, too. Ilsa leaves Bogart in Casablanca. It was his own doing. She boards the plane with her husband, and they fly to Lisbon and on to America, where he continues his important work. He is a famous, tireless Czechoslovakian resistance leader fighting the Nazis. Yet she would have left her husband if only Bogart had asked her to stay. She thought he’d ask her at the last minute, so he must be nuts! I remember that movie so well, and I know a lot of the dialogue, too. But I haven’t thought of it for years. I took Nan, my wife, to see it on our honeymoon. The movie is so full of atmosphere! Just watching it and being there in each scene filled us with excitement.” Then Wes’s face turned from bright-eyed happiness to the depths of personal grief. His eyes filled with tears. He stood up and walked toward the restrooms.

  I felt empathy for Wes and his indescribable loss. He was suffering because of his wife’s death.

  While I waited for Wes, I listened to the piano player finish two more songs. She had just started another one when he returned.

  He slid into the booth and said, “I’m sorry. I need to have more control of myself.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to apologize to me about self-control. Sometimes I shed tears at the drop of a hat,” I responded.

  We listened to the music for a few minutes in silence. The piano player sounded so good on her rendition of “Red Sails in the Sunset.”

  Wes sat back, took another long drink, and asked, “Do you recall the time when our unit left Saigon the last week of January in 1968? We’d been in the Cholon area for a week.”