“. . . radio is your responsibility. If you can’t shit without taking so long you better learn to hold it.” Sergeant Milner ambled off without saying where he was going.
Sometimes alone wasn’t so bad. Singer opened his last can of Cs, not knowing if he had the time to heat it, uncertain how soon before they’d leave. Heat didn’t often help the flavor, anyway. Eating it now would leave him with nothing until they got resupplied or went in. The texture was mushy and the flavor something like cardboard, but he finished it and washed the last mouthful down with a couple gulps of Kool-Aid that failed to flush away the metallic aftertaste. The burger he promised himself when he got back would be huge and so rare the juices would soak the bun, with thick slices of onion and tomato, crisp, fresh lettuce, and lots of mayo. The kind he and his buddies had had at the Lake Side Inn, just outside of town, where they killed time in the summer months or when school was too boring to bear. Where they nursed their Cokes and played with their french fries, pretending to still be hungry while ogling the waitresses.
One girl in particular, Patsy, Patrice, or something like that, held the most interest. She was tall and thin with a figure no high school girl should have and straight blonde hair that hung down to the middle of her back. Her eyes danced with a mischievousness that suggested a hint of trouble. She was something to look at and he lusted for her just like his buddies did. At the burger joint, which was the only place he ever saw her, she was friendly and flirtatious, leaning over her elbows on the counter while she talked, exposing her cleavage and bending over to adjust things on the lower shelves, putting her little ass in the air. All of it seemed intentional, done with awareness of its effects on them. She smiled at their staring, youthful agony and they always left her big tips. Life had been good and simple then, when all he had to worry about was girls and cars and burgers. He stored the empty can in his ruck, making sure it didn’t rattle, resigning himself to months of Cs and persistent hunger.
After closing up his ruck, he checked the straps, making certain the radio was secure and wouldn’t shift while he walked. He checked the chamber of his M16 and the seating of the magazine, then the magazines in his web gear and bandolier. While checking the rounds he was beginning to believe he might never use, he thought about the guys and how they’d ended up together here, reliant on each other, and how this life was so different and separate from their past that they even had their own names which identified each other in this time. Their jungle fatigues were absent labels of their birth, as if it were irrelevant. Only their dog tags would allow this time, should they die, to be connected with their past.
With everything ready, he settled back to wait. The jungle turned into countless shades of green in the growing light, almost beautiful. It seemed like it was taking Sergeant Edwards a long time at the briefing for what was supposed to be an easy mission. He pulled Susan’s letter from his helmet, putting it back on lest Sergeant Milner come back and say something about it. The paper was limp, blue gone pale but still a reminder of her eyes. The ink of the address bled in spots across the parchment but the beauty of the flow of her hand across the page was mostly intact. It reminded him of times he sat beside her on the basement sofa while she wrote a paper, the drone of some TV show in the background. Her thin fingers would hold the pen lightly as it floated across the page, leaving blue swirls in its wake. He wanted to lift her hand and kiss it, to kiss each finger. A few weeks ago she touched this paper.
Today he didn’t need to read the words. It was enough to hold something she had held, to feel her energy. He tried to hear her voice saying the words he’d memorized from the letter but it faltered, like a radio station gone out of range. It had been so long already since he’d talked with her that he struggled to recall the tone and tempo of her voice, though he knew he’d recognize it. But it irritated him that he couldn’t conjure it up now. The MP had slammed the phone hook down, ending the last conversation. They never got to say goodbye.
He had met her in the school hall when, on a rainy day, he helped her pick up books and papers she dropped while fumbling with a wet umbrella. She’d said chivalry was dead. He told her for some it hadn’t died. So they started hanging out. They were both seventeen, though he was three months older and a year ahead of her in school. She was finishing her senior year now and would graduate in a month. He wondered how she’d fill her summer without him.
He ran a finger over the swirls of his name, seeing her draw each letter in her meticulous manner, as if crafting a piece of art. Sometimes when he sat beside her as she did homework, something she was more serious about than him, she would start to write his name and keep going until she filled a notebook page. She’d hold the page up to show him, proud of herself as though she’d just solved a difficult chemical formula. He couldn’t help but laugh. She’d pretend to pout, eventually giving in to giggles before leaning over and kissing him.
Maybe she was trying to remind him to hold on to his true self. How could she have known?
The days here pushed his old name deeper into the past so that at times he nearly forgot it. Then a letter would arrive holding the familiar script and he’d have to puzzle over the name, trying to remember.
She wrote his name as she always had, unaware he was someone different now. It was something he could never tell her, along with so many other things.
“Singer” was more than a name. It was his identity, marked by this place and the guys around him. An intimacy few would understand. He doubted he would ever think of himself by any other name again.
“Sergeant Edwards back yet?” Sergeant Milner asked, flopping down beside his ruck then proceeding to spread out its contents of socks, boxers, towel, toiletries, notebook, and too many cans of Cs for the last day.
Singer looked around the otherwise empty CP.
“Nope. Still at the briefing, I guess.”
“No, Sergeant.”
“No, Sergeant, it’s just you and me here.”
“Show some proper military discipline. This is still the army.”
“Right, Sergeant.”
“Sergeant Edwards may like you, but I don’t. You spent too much time talking with the old guys.”
“You mean the second-tour guys?”
“Be careful how you act. You’re just a Cherry.”
“Like you, Sergeant?”
“Insubordination will get you an Article 15. You should remember you’re just a private. The army has rank for a reason—”
“Singer.”
He turned to see Sergeant Edwards’s expectant look and he wasn’t sure if he’d missed an order or how long Sergeant Edwards had been listening.
“Call all the squad leaders up here.”
Singer stood with his rifle and bandolier in hand, happy to get away from Sergeant Milner.
“And Singer.”
“Yeah, Sarge.”
“Tell Stick to come to the CP with all his gear.”
With his rifle relaxed in one hand and his bandolier slung on his shoulder, Singer wove his way through the trees and vines to the platoon’s line to look for the squad leaders and Stick. Why did Sarge want Stick at the CP with all his gear? It was unusual that he’d want to see him at all, much less with all his equipment. It sounded like Stick was going to be sent someplace.
Some of the squad leaders had already gathered around Sergeant Edwards when Singer returned and sat down next to his gear. Sergeant Edwards had the map on his lap, but was sitting quietly, looking tired and old.
Stick ducked under a branch and around a tree, stepping into the platoon CP with his rucksack on, carrying his web gear in his hand. His ruck was open, straps hanging loose. Something clanged inside the pack as he rounded the tree. Then he stopped and stood there with a bewildered expression on his face. His gangly body looked as disordered as his gear, like a teenage body still trying to adjust itself after a growth spurt.
When the equipment jangled, Sergeant Edwards looked up from the map and watched Stick come to a halt
.
“Stick, you’re my RTO today. Get the radio from Singer and be ready to move out in ten minutes. Singer, get back to your squad.”
Without pause, Sergeant Edwards leaned over the map, pointed with a bony finger and talked in quieter tones to the four assembled squad leaders. Sergeant Royce looked between Singer and Sergeant Edwards like he was waiting for an explanation.
It took a second before Singer could move. Despite his request last night, it came now without warning or preamble. He wanted to jump and yell and pump his fist. He was going back with the guys.
Instead, he turned to Stick. “Come on, I’ll help you set up your gear and strap it on.”
“Thanks,” Stick said, glowing as if he’d just won some prize.
While he helped Stick move his pack to the bottom of his ruck frame, he could hear the murmurs of Sergeant Edwards’s voice in the background. He fumbled with his straps, hurrying too much as he undid the radio and handed it to Stick, who held it for a moment, seeming to admire it before putting it on his ruck. Singer helped Stick make it tight and showed him how to run straps behind it to keep it off his back. After he explained the dials and the handset, he busied himself readjusting his pack, unable to think of anything else to say.
His discussion with Sergeant Edwards last night about wanting to return to his squad, he knew, brought about the switch. It was what he had asked for, but it felt strange now giving up the radio and handing it to Stick. During the past week he had taken on some ownership of it. He would miss his visits with Doc Odum and the contact with Sergeant Edwards, but being back with the guys, with Rhymes, Trip, Bear, Red, and even Ghost would overshadow any regrets or guilt.
Stick stood and slid into his ruck with the radio, his shoulders less stooped than normal, turning slightly as if examining himself in a mirror.
“Thanks. Really, thanks.”
“Right.”
Singer picked up and shouldered his ruck, which felt weightless now without the radio. Standing there, he watched Stick looking pleased and grateful, though he knew he hadn’t done him any favor. He’d shifted the burden of the extra weight and the danger of the radio to someone else who had no more say in it than he had when it had been thrust on him. It was even more troubling that Stick didn’t seem to understand this, but instead seemed happy.
“Fuck it.” All he cared about was that he was back with the guys. That meant everything to him.
The jungle seemed less an obstacle as he nearly bounded up to the squad’s night positions, where Rhymes and Trip sat with Bear and Red in a loose group. Their web gear was on, weapons in their hands, but rucks still rested on the ground.
“Aren’t you a little bunched up?” Singer asked.
Rhymes folded his book shut, his eyes questioning.
“You the new tactics officer?” Trip asked.
“We’re moving out. You better get back to the CP,” Bear said.
“What the fuck are you doing back here again without the radio?” Trip asked.
Singer dropped his gear on the ground as if to reinforce the fact that he was back and staying. He couldn’t suppress his grin. No amount of teasing could upset him. In fact, the teasing just made him happier. It was part of what he missed. All he could think about was how happy he was in this moment and how he cared about these guys like he had never cared about anyone before.
“Shit, Sarge sent me to look after your sorry ass. Said you’re worse than a fucking new guy and someone needs to help you.” Singer grinned, enjoying pushing the limits with Trip again. Bear laughed from his belly, which started Singer laughing, too.
“Fuck you! The day I need you looking after me is the day I’m really fucked.” Trip stood looking indignant, but he was a poor actor.
“You are definitely fucked, then.”
“Fucked for sure,” Trip said, finally grinning. “Fucked for sure.” He started laughing with the others.
Rhymes set his book aside and came over to Singer. At first Singer thought Rhymes was going to hug him, but he merely clasped his shoulder with his free hand.
“Good to have you back.” Then he gave his reassuring smile.
Singer felt unsaid promises pass between them that were spoken once on a grassy, windswept hillside, one of those first dark nights when the air was thick with a sense of death and he had grappled with his fear. He’d awakened Rhymes, who listened, but dismissed the noise as just the wind. Then Rhymes talked in his calming voice of how it was normal to be scared, but that they were in this together. They had each other’s backs. If they stayed close, they’d both be all right. They had never spoken of it again, but marked and reaffirmed those promise, many times since with a nod and a smile.
“Yeah, I can’t tell you how good it is to be back.”
“How’d you swing it?” Trip asked.
“Just told him the truth, that you needed me.”
“Yeah, we need someone to go in the next tunnel we find,” Trip said.
“Don’t get too comfortable. Your fucking vacation is over. It’s about time you came back to work.” Bear grasped the back of Singer’s neck in his large hand, squeezing gently and pulling Singer toward him while Singer bent and twisted to get away. “Welcome back,” Bear said as he released Singer.
Singer stood rubbing his neck. “Shit, Bear, someday you’re going to hurt someone doing that.”
“You got soft sitting up at the CP. I’m going have to toughen you up again.” Bear shook with laughter as he walked back to his ruck.
Singer picked up his ruck by the top frame and carried it over next to Rhymes. He sat down and rubbed his neck again.
Rhymes had packed up his book and sat examining an M79 round, his weapon open across his pack beside him, the chamber empty. He spun the round slowly, wiping each side, though to Singer it already looked clean.
Singer took out a round from Rhymes’s gas mask bag that carried a large share of his supply and held it up, turning it around. “Someday you’re going to make somebody a good wife.”
Rhymes grabbed it back and wiped it off carefully again. “I’m not letting my stuff get fucked up. Dirt will kill you.”
“Dirt will kill you? Shit, I should write that down. I thought it was the gooks.”
“You better hope your weapon works when you need it.”
“Hey, my weapon’s always ready,” Singer said, patting his M16.
“I saw a guy get killed when his rifle jammed. Wasn’t that dirty.”
“Don’t worry, that M79 of yours ever locks up on you, I’ll be there with this.” Singer held up his M16.
Acknowledgement spread on Rhymes’s face and Singer felt good his friend believed in him.
“Hey, I saved one of my girl’s brownies for you.” Singer turned and opened the top of his ruck. “It might be a little old,” he said as he dug for the remnants of the last package he’d gotten, a few weeks earlier.
“You saved one all this time?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. Even old, those brownies are great, but I’ll save it ’cause I just brushed my teeth.” Rhymes stored the brownie and closed up the gas mask pouch with his cleaned M79 rounds. He picked up his M79 and ran the cloth across the already spotless barrel before slipping in the round and closing the breach.
Sergeant Royce came back from the briefing looking tense, his lips pressed tight and his eyes pinched.
“Singer, quit fucking around with your gear. Fourth platoon has the point. Get your shit together. And the rest of you keep it down. Christ, I could hear you up at the CP. You probably got every gook in the country heading this way. Bear, where’s Ghost? Goddamn it.”
Bear shrugged as Ghost materialized from some bushes as though he’d been there waiting for his entrance all this time.
“Going with us this morning or staying here by yourself?” Bear asked.
“Jesus, I don’t know why we’re back here,” Ghost said.
At the edge Red hung back, still looking uncertain about saying anything after
his rebuke from Bear. When there was time, Singer thought he would ask him some baseball question.
“Ghost, don’t be goddamn disappearing again,” Sergeant Royce said. “We’ll go the farthest down the road. The drag platoon will be dropping offto cover independent sectors close enough to act as reaction forces for each other. We’ve moving out now.”
Everything seemed the same to Singer as he quickly closed up his ruck. It was as though he hadn’t been gone at all, and he delighted in the easy transition back. The guys seemed the same except for Sergeant Royce, whose surliness had grown in just over a week. It wasn’t much of a welcome back from his squad leader, but he hadn’t expected much. Sergeant Royce had become more humorless and short-tempered since they arrived in Nam. Back at Bragg when he was drinking he had been more likable, a happy if somewhat obnoxious drunk. But perhaps it was being back in the Nam with too many days left rather than the lack of drink that had taken away Sergeant Royce’s humor.
Rhymes was already standing and strapping on his gas mask bag of rounds. Singer shouldered his ruck and stood beside Rhymes. Being back next to Rhymes and the others had lightened the day far more than being free of the twenty-five-pound radio. He felt like he could easily run, even with his ruck and gear. It would be a good day.
Sergeant Edwards, with Stick bearing the radio near his side, looking proud, moved up past Singer until they were out of sight among the network of trees and fronds. Singer looked away as Stick passed, though Stick looked happier then he’d ever seen him, eyes locked on Sergeant Edwards rather than the ground.
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