Elizabeth heeded Nana’s gentle command and doubled back, scooping up shoes and jacket as requested. She rushed to her room and tossed her belongings on the floor just inside the door, grabbed a few pieces of lined notebook paper from her binder, and flopped down on the bed, stomach first. She settled into a spot that was uncluttered with stuffed animals and over-sized pillows. With elbows propped up and feet crossed in midair, she wrote:
November 20, 1966
Dear Sam,
I got your letter. I wasn’t even expecting to get anything so soon. It sounds terrible and I can’t even imagine what you must be thinking. We’re getting ready to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas, and you have to know we all miss you so much. I just keep telling myself we’ll be together next year and you need to tell yourself the same thing. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that we’re putting together a package for you. We’ll ship it in plenty of time for the holidays. You probably won’t be able to eat all the cookies, but I’m sure your friends won’t mind helping you. You boys are always hungry!
I’m enclosing a picture of me that Nana took on my 16th birthday, with the afghan that she and Mama made for me around my shoulders. It’s so pretty—wish you could see it in person. It was the best birthday present ever!
I’m doing well in school, but I still haven’t made any friends. Don’t worry—it doesn’t bother me. I think it matters more to Nana than it does me. There are a few girls I eat lunch with now and then, but most of them have known each other since kindergarten, and I feel pretty much like an outsider. Some of them have brothers in Vietnam, but they don’t seem to write them like I write to you. It’s also pretty uncomfortable when I overhear conversations about dodging the draft, going to Canada, how much they hate our military. I’m all right, honest, probably better that I keep it mostly to myself, and I’m actually having a good time with Nana. She’s a special lady and I never even noticed until now. Mama’s mom . . . A comforting thought.
I know this isn’t a very long letter, but I want to get it to the mailbox before the last pick-up. You probably won’t get it until after Thanksgiving, so I hope you had a happy one with lots of turkey and stuffing. Try to stay dry and write me back. I’ll tell everyone you said hello.
Love Your Little Sister,
Elizabeth
P.S. I hope you like the picture!
)
Elizabeth never knew how long it would take Sam to receive her letters. She hated the fact that he was so far away, out of reach and out of touch. The only good thing that had come from his enlistment was the bond that had been created. Sam’s inflexible attitude and determination to enlist was no longer a wedge between them, and her brother’s safety was the only thing that mattered.
Almost every day she went to the school library, studying the large map that took up half the wall. She strained to find Chu Lai, Saigon, Mee Cong Delta, Hanoi, Nha Trang—any town or village that Sam had mentioned or that she recognized from the nightly news. They were a cluster of names she couldn’t pronounce, and she had no real sense of where in the world they were. But one thing was certain—Sam was far-removed from his country, his family, and his home.
It was a relief when she didn’t hear any stories about fighting in Chu Lai or the surrounding villages, and so far nothing much had been reported about that part of Vietnam, no broadcasts or reports of bombings nearby. Some evenings she and Nana ate dinner in front of the TV, on small trays created for convenience and solitary meals, so that they wouldn’t miss Walter Cronkite and his stoic nightly accounts of the battles. Nana loved Walter.
“What’s this world coming to?” Nana complained every time Elizabeth asked if they could eat in the living room. “It’s a deplorable corruption of the traditional sit-down family dinner. Don’t get used to this, my dear.”
Elizabeth wasn’t so sure she disapproved of this new dinner hour ritual as much as she claimed. She guessed Nana secretly looked forward to the time they spent together, even if it was to watch the news and little else. “I know you don’t like it, Nana, but it’s hardly corrupt. It’s the only way we can eat dinner at six o’clock sharp and watch the six o’clock news at the same time. Sounds like a good compromise. Just you, me, and Walter.”
“If I didn’t think you were attempting humor, I would say you were starting to sound a little sassy,” but Nana knew Elizabeth was right and chuckled as she responded. Since Sam left for Vietnam, traditions took a back seat to everything, while regular updates on the war became the most important part of their day. “Don’t forget, Aunt Deborah, Uncle Bill, your sisters, and Ricky will be here day after tomorrow for Thanksgiving. And we’re eating at the dining table together.”
“Okay, Nana. That’ll be nice. I’m looking forward to it,” she said aloud and then added silently: But I can’t help but wonder what Sam will be doing.
Chapter 8
“Have to get this letter to the supply sergeant after breakfast. I want to make sure Elizabeth gets it before Christmas, and that’s in three weeks. Can’t wait to dive into those powdered eggs and burnt toast.” Sam smiled but grew concerned when he noticed the growing number of men, almost overnight, that stretched the length of the mess hall tent.
“Anything seem strange to you? Just last week this base looked empty. Now it’s filling up with new men, ammo piles, extra supplies. We’ll have to rely on the grapevine if we want to know what’s going on.” Sam tucked the letter into his pocket as they took up the end of the line.
“Saddle up men; it’s time to rock and roll!” The commanding officer burst into the tent shouting orders, disrupting conversation, and expecting every man to take action. “Drop your trays, don’t take that next bite, and don’t even chew that last bite of food. If it’s in your mouth swallow it—now! Move it!”
All personnel came to attention. The calm was about to turn into a storm. “Keep packs light, we’re moving out at zero eight hundred to Thang Binh, and then choppered to a landing zone. Expect heavy fire and casualties. God be with you.” Men scattered to their hooches and did as they were told, hearts pounding, eyes on fire, and ready for combat.
Ferocious winds and pelting rain pounded the camp. Fear tightened its grip on the men as they rushed to obey orders. Paul and Sam managed to scramble aboard the same chopper, wondering if the pilot would be able to land in these conditions. One man after another struggled aboard, and it was questionable if they could make it off the ground. They were not prepared to fight in this kind of weather, in the soft soil of jungle mud, and didn’t know if they were capable of the bloody confrontation they knew was imminent.
Dropped in the middle of a firefight, the men scattered for safety. The atmosphere was thick with humidity, and the smell of rocket fire permeated the air. Huey gunships and jet fighters pounded the enemy with rockets and bombs, and soldiers on the ground were using every conceivable method of destruction in an effort to stay alive.
Still fighting after the sun went down, Paul and Sam found themselves closest to the thick, impenetrable jungle footpaths crawling with the enemy. They followed their commander who was shouting, “We’re movin’ in! We’re takin’ the perimeter. I said move it!”
No one hesitated to obey, and as the wounded and dying fell over one another, yelling, screaming, rifles firing, charging forward, Paul heard one distinct voice not far behind him. “I’ve been hit! My hand, my goddamned hand!” He knew it was Sam, and sliding on his belly to reach him, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, he felt a searing pain on the side of his face. He didn’t hear the explosion, only saw one blinding flash that illuminated the pitch-black night. In an instant, his world went dark.
North Vietnamese Army mortar shells continued to wreak havoc in the middle of the violent confrontation. No one was safe from the bullets and explosions that rained down on them. Sam called out in agony, “Oh my God, my sweet God, what the hell is happening?” He tried to stand, get his bearings and come to his senses, but he fell backward into the mud-soake
d tangle of thick vines and vegetation. He bled profusely from his right hand, which was connected to his wrist with a few exposed muscles and tendons. Instinctively, he tore at his shirt with what little strength he had left, managed to peel it off his body and wrap it around his wound in a futile attempt to stop the flow. He watched his blood blend with the rain water streaming past, mixing with a pool of mud and sludge already tainted red from the carnage . . . blood and life lost on both sides.
)
What seemed like hours was only minutes before he heard the familiar chop,chop,chop of the Huey medevac chopper blades. It hovered at a safe distance and waited. A group of young Marines were chosen by the commanding officer to evacuate the wounded. One of them bent over Sam. “Hold on, man. Sit tight. We’ll get you out of here.”
Distracted by this boy’s resolve and calm demeanor, all Sam could think was, Kids. They’re just kids! We should be home watching the fucking Ed Sullivan Show, not watching our friends die and killing someone else’s son. How in the goddamned hell did we get here!
Another young Marine joined the first and together they bundled Sam onto a litter, made it to the landing zone, and loaded him in the chopper for dust-off.
“Can we get the hell out of here?” radioed the pilot to the crew chief in the belly of the chopper.
“One more, just behind us. Is there room?”
The pilot turned his head and surveyed the approaching wounded Marine before he answered. He wasn’t sure if one more would fit in the already-crowded chopper. He shouted into his mouthpiece above the noise, trying to be heard over the din of the persistent artillery fire. “Yeah, get him on board—hurry!”
With strength that nothing else but adrenaline can provide, two more men emerged from the bushes with the wounded Marine. They crammed his litter inside, pushed and shoved to make room, and jumped back to give the pilot clearance to take off.
Sam was conscious and in searing pain. He wondered if he would bleed to death before he made it to the field hospital. He had just enough room to turn his head to one side and come face to face with the young man who made it aboard with moments to spare. It was Paul and he was unconscious. His head was wrapped in bandages, his face covered with open wounds and small pieces of shrapnel that protruded from his skin. His body was motionless and limp. He looked more dead than alive.
Paul groaned, and for a brief moment, opened his eyes. He rolled over on his side and managed to utter, “Where are we? What’s happening? My head, my goddamned head . . . feels like it’s going to explode.”
Paul drifted back into unconsciousness and Sam’s eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. Ears trained on the whirling noise of the chopper blades, he hoped this helicopter ride would take them to safety. He looked at his friend, and murmured, “Don’t worry, buddy. We’re gonna make it out alive.”
Chapter 9
The overloaded Huey struggled to land at the field hospital in Da Nang. The capacity in this tent city for the wounded had tripled, and operating rooms expanded to treat those who could be saved with emergency life-saving procedures. Corpsmen hurried from one litter to the next, sorting out the worst of the injuries within minutes, and making split-second decisions.
“Let’s go! This guy’s about to bleed to death! Already unconscious!” A capable corpsman yelled at the stretcher-bearers. Nurses prepped the incoming. The wounded were being unloaded like cargo and as soon as orders were shouted, they were carried out. The rush to get Sam inside to the pre-op room was urgent, and already unconscious, he was put under and prepared for surgery.
Dr. Leonard Shapiro cut away Sam’s blood-soaked shirt. He shook his head and spoke to the two nurses and the assisting surgeon. “He already has signs of gangrene.” He had seen wounds like this, and worse, too many times before. He took a deep breath while he examined the extent of Sam’s injuries. “Too much blood loss. There’s no way I can re-attach it. I can save his life—I can’t save his hand.”
)
“We need another room. Where’s an empty room?” A nurse held Paul’s hand. He opened his eyes and blinked fast, as if that would make this scene go away and he would wake up. He was dreaming. He was sure he was dreaming.
“You’re okay, son. Just lay still. The doctor will be here as soon as he’s out of surgery.”
Paul touched his face and felt the dried blood and little shards of metal just below the surface of his skin. “Am I bleeding?”
“No, you’re going to be just fine.” The nurse stood up and reached for a clean towel just as the doctor approached Paul’s bedside.
“Hello, young man. Dr. Shapiro.”
Paul managed a nod. “Hi, Doc. Lance Corporal Paul O’Brien.”
“We’re going to run some tests on you, but I’m pretty sure there are no open wounds on your body. Looks like shrapnel pieces in your face and some are close enough to the surface that they can be extracted. Depending on what the X-rays show, we may or may not have to perform surgery to remove any rogue pieces we find next to a vital organ.” Paul nodded.
He lay still on his cot while he waited for Dr. Shapiro to return with his test results. He struggled to stay alert, even though watching the scene that surrounded him ripped him apart from the inside out. Paul tried to lift his head and get a glimpse of the ward full of wounded men. He couldn’t recall how he got there, but thought Sam might have been with him in the chopper. He craned his neck to search out every corner of the room, but couldn’t find his friend’s familiar face. He gave up, feeling like there was a jackhammer ripping apart his brain inside his head, and one simple movement was more than he could bear.
“Good news, young man.” Dr. Shapiro was back at Paul’s bedside. “Besides the shrapnel we’ll remove from your face, two larger pieces have lodged in your skull.”
“That’s good news?” Paul was being facetious even though his head continued to pound.
“It’s good news since it would be more dangerous for us to remove those bigger shards, so we’re going to leave them right where they are, and there will be no surgery. There is a possibility they could work themselves loose over time, but in most cases, they’ll remain where they are for the rest of your life.”
“Anything you can give me for this headache?” Paul clenched his teeth, hoping to reduce the lightning bolts behind his eyes. He tried to remember how delicious it felt to be pain-free.
“We’ll get you something.” Dr. Shapiro turned to his nurse. “I’m ordering a mild sedative for Paul so we can remove the shrapnel. When we’re done, find him a spot in the ward and—”
Paul interrupted. “I have a friend who was wounded. I think he was on the chopper with me. Do you know if Sam Sutton is here?” He looked at the doctor for reassurance.
Dr. Shapiro knew who Paul was talking about. He laid a hand on Paul’s arm. “He just got out of surgery. I’ll see if I can get him a bed next to you once the anesthesia has worn off.”
“Will he be okay?”
“Yes, we treated his hand.” That’s all Doctor Shapiro would share with Paul. He stood up and moved to the next patient in line. Paul struggled to prop himself against the wall, comforted only by a small pillow for his head and a thin blanket to minimize the shaking he couldn’t repress. He surveyed the scene that unfolded before him and waited for Sam to join him. The room was filled with muffled groans from dozens of young men, many in critical condition with life-threatening injuries, mutilated limbs, and grotesque facial wounds that replaced the once handsome, strong, vigorous appearance of youth. Some screamed in agony as young nurses did their best to scrub lacerations and change dressings, while others lay silent with nothing more than a vacant, faraway look.
Paul watched a trim and confident nurse, her chestnut hair securely pulled away from her face in a tight bun that showed off her high cheek bones and almond-shaped eyes—rich, like the color of chocolate. She wrapped the final piece of clean gauze around the head of a distressed young soldier and whispered something in hi
s ear. Whatever she had said appeared to relieve his agitation as a slight smile crossed his face and he surrendered his broken body to sleep.
The nurse walked over to Paul, pulled up a chair, and introduced herself. “Hello. My name’s Diane. Feeling okay? Any pain? It’s almost time for another dose of medication.” Amidst all the suffering, she smiled and waited for Paul’s response.
“Hey, hi, I mean hello, Diane. My name’s Paul. Waiting for my friend, Sam Sutton. Doc said they would bring him out soon. Ya know if his hand’s okay?” He hoped Diane might have more information about Sam’s condition, but she politely excused herself as she rushed to meet two medics entering with Sam, still groggy from surgery. They inched closer to Paul and the empty cot next to his. Diane’s gentle hand guided the corpsmen as they lifted Sam from the stretcher to make his transition to his bed as comfortable as possible.
Paul gasped aloud. He couldn’t help it. There was no way to silence the sound that rose from his throat when he saw his friend beside him, his right hand thick with bandages, wrapped as if to protect something that was no longer there. Paul slowly brought his hands to his face and felt the layers of soft bandages, only his eyes, nose, and mouth exposed. His head pulsated and his face felt tight and swollen. With crystal clarity, his mind flashed back to the instant when his life, when Sam’s life, were forever changed. His body tensed with the memory—the sounds, the heat, the explosions, the cries for help, and the smell of death all around them. He choked back tears and resolved to remain stoic and grateful that his wounds would soon be invisible. Unlike Sam, he had escaped a lifetime of disfigurement and the constant reminder of his brush with death.
Diane hovered over Sam as he stirred. She had played this part too many times the last nine months, soothing traumatized young men, convincing them that everything would be just fine, even though it was not always the truth. She knew he would need a voice of reassurance when he realized where he was and the severity of his injuries. Sam’s eyelids fluttered. He tried to focus on his surroundings and take in the foul odor and musty smell of the tent, lined from one end to the other with broken bodies. The stench of disinfectant, humidity, and soiled linens stuck to the canvas walls of the makeshift hospital like glue, and he swallowed hard to prevent the nausea from taking hold of his body. Sam rolled his head to one side and looked at Paul, who appeared composed, determined, and calm.
Keep Forever Page 5