Tripp scrubbed a hand through his hair. He heaved a sigh. “Almost.”
“I’m sorry about…everything.”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I could say life gets easier.”
“Seems it’s about to get a lot tougher.” Tripp handed the letter to his uncle, the senior partner in the law firm.
Jake Hartwell released a low whistle. He read the letter aloud. “This is to inform you that the United States Selective Service Board has selected your lottery number. Your report date is…”
His uncle thumped the letter. “I can call in favors—pull a few strings.”
Tripp’s mind shuffled through a list of reasons why he should accept his uncle’s offer. He frowned, trying to make sense of the irrational notion his brain was screaming at him.
“Mother has always been proud of the family’s long military history. I think I’ll add my name to the list.”
“Vietnam is a long ways from South Carolina. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”
“I need a change, Uncle Jake. Southeast Asia is as good a place as any to start.”
Five weeks later, Tripp Harlan Hartwell the Third found himself at South Carolina’s Fort Jackson, in boot camp. And then, assigned to 1st Battalion 212th Aviation Regiment, he was transferred to Alabama’s Fort Rucker, where he trained to fly Huey UH-1 helicopters.
****
Tripp admitted he was more than a little nervous about being summoned to the top brass’s office. He drew a deep breath, blew it out slowly, then rapped on the office door.
“Enter.”
Tripp stepped into the dimly lit room. He snapped to attention with a salute.
“At ease, Captain.”
Though his stance was legs apart and hands behind his back, Tripp felt anything but relaxed. He waited, wondering if the document the post commander held was deployment orders.
Major Jankowski seemed to scowl as he lifted stern eyes to stare at him. Tripp noted the sarcasm as his superior officer spoke. “Captain Hartwell, what I have here is a letter from your father requesting I grant you special leave so that you may stand next to him when the votes are counted next week. Is he that sure he will win a second term for South Carolina governor’s seat?”
Tripp swallowed the knot of agitation in his throat. And while he felt heat growing under his collar, he hoped his face remained stolid. “My father does place great confidence in the voting public, sir.”
“What is your position on being granted early leave from aviation training, Captain Hartwell?”
“I wish no special favors, sir.”
“I see.”
Tripp was surprised that he was even engaging in this conversation with a member of the senior staff. He found himself annoyingly irritated that his father would use rank and position to wheedle special favors—especially without consulting him first.
“I can sign off on this with the condition you forfeit your two-week Christmas leave.”
“May I speak freely, sir?”
The Major nodded his consent.
“I cannot gain the respect of the men assigned to my command if I allow my father to use his political position to get me particular favors. Christmas has always been a special time for my mother. She isn’t in the best health, sir. Since I’ll deploy in February, I’d like to make this holiday exceptional for her.” In truth, Tripp wasn’t sure how many Christmases he’d miss once he landed in Vietnam.
“Spoken like a true solider, Captain, a gentleman and a caring son. I’ll notify your father his request is denied.”
On the night of the election, Tripp sat in his quarters watching the returns on a small portable television. Cameramen focused on his father at the Judge’s campaign headquarters. Among the throng of people, he spotted his Uncle Jake and searched for his mother but knew, of course, her state of mind was much too fragile and his father didn’t need the paparazzi homing in on her.
The moment the count was over and his father had been declared the official winner as a second-term governor of South Carolina, Tripp picked up the telephone and dialed.
“Congratulations, Father. I’m certain the people of South Carolina made the right choice.”
“Damn right they did. Wish you were here sharing the victory. I should get that Major Jankowski busted down to buck private for not letting you leave the base.”
Tripp chuckled. “I’ll be home December twenty-third. In time to help Mother put the angel on the tree. How is she?”
He heard the hesitancy in his father’s voice. “We’ll discuss it later, son.”
“Reporters?”
“Like bees after honey.”
“I understand. Tell Mother I’ll be home in a few weeks.”
****
The crisp December night invigorated Tripp as he switched off the engine of the BMW. He lifted the box, wrapped in red foil paper and sporting a large green bow, from the passenger seat. A picture of him in his uniform would delight his mother.
The sound of sirens caught his attention. His heart lurched as he watched the red bubble lights flashing up the driveway. He tossed the package back to the seat and sprinted toward the front door of the house.
Once inside, he shouted, “Father? Pearlie Mae?”
The maid came to the top of the stairs. She held the apron to the corner of her eye. “Oh, Mr. Tripp, praise be, you’re home.”
“Who is it, Pearlie Mae?” A ball of white heat seared Tripp’s stomach. Sprinting up the stairs, he wrapped Pearlie Mae in his arms as she wept.
“It’s your dear mama. I called the Judge, but he ain’t got here yet.”
“How bad is she?”
“Barely hanging on by a thread.”
“And you called the ambulance?”
“I was too scared not to, Mr. Tripp. Did I do right?” She wiped her eyes again.
“You’ve always taken care of us, Pearlie Mae. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Go let the emergency team in.”
A table lamp cast a shadowy light over his mother’s face. She reminded him of a small child lying there in the massive fourposter bed that had once belonged to her mother. It pierced his heart to see how much she’d withered in the few months he’d been at training camp.
He wasn’t familiar with death. Yet he knew by the ashen pallor masking his mother’s face there was no need to check her pulse. Somehow it seemed appropriate that the woman he loved most in the world should die in the same bed in which she’d been born.
On Christmas Day, instead of helping his mother place the angel on top of the festively decorated tree, he laid the delicate ornament to rest between her hands. He leaned into the casket and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I wish you could have hung on a little longer, Mother.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sounds from the creatures of the night reverberated through LZ-Albany’s moonlit encampment. Tripp stepped to the doorway of his quarters and flicked the spent cigarette. Unease crept over him. It was quiet. Too damned quiet.
A voice said, “Eerie, ain’t it, Cap’n?”
Tripp squinted through the dark. “That you, Private Wilson?”
“Yah, sir. Good night for them VC vermin to creep up on us.”
“We’ve doubled the guards, and the dogs are out. All the same, stay alert, Private.”
“Yah, sir, Cap’n.”
Even though it was February, the night air was thick with heat that seemed to boil down daily from the sun and swell up from the earth in a shroud of humidity.
Sweat moistened Tripp’s face and saturated his underarms. He propped a shoulder against the door frame. His thoughts drifted to the unopened packet that lay on his desk.
“Begging your pardon, Cap’n, don’t mean to break any protocol ’tween ranks, but I’m bustin’ at the seams to tell somebody.”
“Speak freely, Private Wilson.”
“My wife sent me a picture of our new baby boy. Duane Wilson, Jr. Sure wish I co
ulda been there to witness his birth.” The sentry went quiet for a moment. “Sometimes I’m afraid I might never get back home to Mississippi.”
“How old are you, Private?”
“Nineteen, sir. Be twenty next week.”
Having reached his twenty-eighth birthday, Tripp felt like an old man compared to Private Wilson’s youth. He understood the lad’s homesickness. He, too, longed for home, the lemony tang aroma of South Carolina’s magnolias, sweet iced tea, and Pearlie Mae’s home cooking. He allowed his dreams of home and family to dissolve in the hot night air.
“Thoughts like that will get you killed, Private. Keep the picture of your wife and son close and you’ll be okay.”
“Yah, sir. Thank you, Cap’n.”
Turning, Tripp stepped away from the door and returned to his desk. He picked up the large brown envelope and crossed the small space. He tossed the thick package on the cot, unstrapped his service revolver, and tucked it behind his pillow. Sitting on the edge of the small bed, he tugged off his brogans and set them within easy reach. The bed springs squeaked as he propped against the wall, his right knee crooked to a comfortable position.
Mail from the States was rare. An occasional note from his father with newspaper clippings regaling his position as governor, sporadic notes from his Uncle Jake, and Christmas cards from Pearlie Mae that arrived long after the holiday had come and gone. Three years and never any letters from Kathryn—not even a greeting card. Until now.
From the postmark, it had taken six months for the envelope to arrive. He slid his finger under the flap, reached in, withdrew a packet of paper-clipped documents.
Tripp felt his middle drop to somewhere below his knees. Why did he feel so disappointed? Why was he even surprised? It wasn’t as if he and Kathryn had spent much time together as husband and wife. Six weeks, to be exact. Other than sex, there had been no real connection between them. Their marriage had all been the creation of Kathryn’s overly fanciful desire for a fairy tale wedding.
He closed his eyes, feeling dejected and pitiful. He felt older than the majestic oaks that lined the driveway up to the antebellum home that had survived the Civil War and still stood strong back in South Carolina.
His first inclination was to rip the divorce papers into shreds. Kathryn’s letter explained how she hated Dear John letters, but she had met her true love. She hoped sending the divorce papers wouldn’t unduly upset Tripp.
Upset him? Hell. His mood turned black. His stress level peaked. He felt angry, reckless even. It’d serve her right if he didn’t sign the damned papers. Who was to know any different than that the documents had never reached him? Plei Me was a remote Vietnamese outpost, after all.
His stomach soured as he tromped from the cot to the table that served as his desk. Flipping through the maze of legal documents and decoding the finer implications gave him no satisfaction. Not tonight. Tonight his mind was pricked by anger. He gripped the pen and scrawled his signature on each line marked with an X.
“How generous of you, dear Kathryn, to included a return envelope,” he muttered aloud as he jammed the signed documents inside the large, brown, self-addressed, stamped package. He licked the glue and sealed it shut by slamming his fist down on the flap.
****
The rains came, hot and humid weather with monsoon-like downpours. Tripp recorded in his journal: June, 1969, VC sappers have attacked our camp every night for a month. Our lines are holding. The Hueys are the main target. The VC’s objective—to keep our birds grounded so we can’t give air support to our guys pinned down on some Godforsaken hill. Every night, Hanoi Hanna announces over the radio that a regiment of NVA troops are going to annihilate our camp. Hasn’t happened, yet. Several of the men are sick from the heat. Private Duane Wilson, KIA. I hate writing letters to the families of these boys dying for a meaningless cause.
He scrubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Three years ago when he had enlisted in the Army he’d felt a sense of adventure. Now, three years seemed like a lifetime. When he’d arrived in Nam, he knew he’d have to always be on guard. The watchword was—Be alert or be dead.
****
Four months later, dawn came with a crispness that gave new life to the wet misery of the soldiers, and it brought the news that during the night a battalion of infantry had crossed into the La Drang Valley, seventeen kilometers from Plei Me.
Tripp dodged mud puddles as he sprinted across the encampment yard in response to the summons from Major Armstead.
He stepped inside the office. “You sent for me, sir?” Tripp snapped off a salute.
“We have a situation, Captain.” Tripp listened intently while the major outlined the details. “Four hundred fifty men from Black Horse Company are pinned down here.” He pointed to the location on a large wall map. “Last word is they’re surrounded by two thousand NVA and taking on heavy casualties.”
“My squad is ready, sir. We’ll give fire support so the medevac teams can get in and out.” Tripp’s muscles jumped. An eagerness was upon him like a pit viper uncoiled from sleep and ready to strike.
An awkward silence descended the quarters.
Major Armstead scowled. “Enemy fire around the LZ is too heavy. Major Blessing is refusing to allow his medical evacuation helicopters to fly into the landing zone.”
Tripp’s gut clenched. “Give me a pilot of my choice, sir. There’s no way in hell we can let our guys die without giving it our best to get them out.”
“You’re volunteering, knowing the dire consequences?”
“I am, sir.”
“You’ll be unarmed. Go in light and tight, get in, and get the hell out fast.” Major Armstead snapped to and saluted Tripp. “Can’t expect a man to do what I wouldn’t myself. I’ll ride shotgun.”
Tripp’s lips lifted in a half-smile as he returned the salute. “Can’t think of a better man to have guarding my tail, sir.”
“Good luck to us both, Captain Hartwell.”
“How soon do we leave, Major?”
“Soon as your bird is ready.”
Tripp shook hands with his superior officer. “She’s ready now, sir. Saddle up. Time to lock and load.”
Tripp and his commander had volunteered to fly the unarmed, lightly armored UH-1 Huey in support of the embattled troops. The terrain over La Drang Valley was deceiving. Ringed by sparse scrub brush, with occasional trees ranging upward to a hundred feet, the landing zone was covered with hazel-colored, willowy elephant grass as high as five feet.
To the west and northeast, the area was inundated with thick jungle growth, and a dry creek bed ran along the western edge of the valley.
Tripp spoke through his mouthpiece. “Looks like a bunch of sun-baked termite hills, sir.”
The major responded, “From my view, some look as tall as a man.”
Tripp blinked. He adjusted his goggles. “Is it my imagination, Major, or are those termite hills moving?”
“Hellfire and damnation. Go in low, Captain. Let’s see if I can pop a few tops with this M67.”
Tripp flew a total of fourteen trips to the battlefield, bringing water and ammunition and taking out wounded soldiers. Regretting that he couldn’t get them all out, he watched American soldiers die around him.
By the time he grounded his bullet-riddled Huey, Tripp had been wounded four times by enemy fire. Major Armstead, KIA.
Airlifted to a nearby MASH unit, and in guarded condition, Tripp imagined he saw Honey Belle watching over him. He tried to reach out and touch her. He thought he spoke her name.
He was sent home from Vietnam, and a year later he was separated from the United States Army with an honorable discharge.
During a ceremony with full military honors, his father, Governor T. Harlan Hartwell, pinned the Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Flying Cross on Tripp’s uniform.
“You’re a hero, son.”
Tripp closed his eyes and heard the womp-womp-womping of a Huey’s giant chopper blades inside his head. He
could still smell the acrid smoke from mortar rounds. “No, Father, the real heroes are the men who didn’t make it home.”
Inside the war zone, Tripp had experienced the roar of battle and adrenaline and fear and hope all rolled into one. A prosthetic leg was his permanent reminder that getting home had been the longest journey of his life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Washington, D.C.
1980
Honey Belle lurched up from the bed, her heart racing from the images of the nightmare echoing in her mind. Although the temperature inside the hotel room was comfortable, she was coated in sweat. Her nightgown clung to her like an extra layer of skin.
She swallowed, trying to bring her rational mind into focus. But her dream had been so vivid, the leering face of Judge Hartwell so clear as he’d shown her picture after picture of herself reaching for an empty cradle. Her skin felt pricked by shards of glass, and anxiety pierced her heart. Perhaps it was the Judge’s image, jabbing a finger in the air, and his voice, mean and low, that awakened her. No bastard babies to taint the Hartwell bloodlines. Forbidden…hear me…forbidden!
With her heart in her throat, she kicked off the sheet. She turned and was on the edge of the bed. She scooted back to keep from falling off. It took her a full minute to collect her wits, to remember she was in a hotel room in Washington, D.C. and today was Monday—the day she intended to seek an appointment with Senator Tripp Hartwell. The day she had dreaded for seventeen years.
She stumbled to the bathroom and bathed her face in cold water. But afterward she stopped to stare out at the morning, memories of walks on the beach with Tripp bringing tears to her eyes… Honey Belle drew in a deep breath. This time she didn’t feel the sting of tears. She was done crying.
She remembered waking up weeks ago, when her son had proudly shown her the letter stating he’d been selected by Georgia’s state representative to serve as a page to Congress. That one letter had brought back to the forefront of her mind the mistake of falling in love with a rich and powerful man’s son. That one letter had unraveled her world.
****
Forbidden Son Page 15