by Peter Gilboy
This is Julia’s first time at the Wall. She blames the war for so much. For me, mainly. She thinks I have a problem, isn’t that what she said? That there’s something wrong with me. That things are locked away upstairs. Okay, they are. But Nam didn’t shatter me. If anything, it clarified things for me. I’m more gentle now. I’m stronger. I know what’s consequential and what’s trivial. I know what’s vital and what’s petty. I forgive faults. I can overlook slights. And I know when something pivotal comes into my life. Julia.
Eddie is grouped here on the West Wall, on panel 2, among the others in the squad. Just their names, of course, etched into the quiet, black granite.
• JAMES L. GELTZ • EDWARD O. COBB •
• SAMUEL T. GREENE • THOMAS COLOME •
• HOWARD ROGERS • LEROY WILLIAMS •
• ROBERT T. WILCOX • CHARLES N. LUTE •
No rank. No branch of service. No medals. No race. No hometown. No mention of who was a hero and who wasn’t. Everyone is equal here. As equal as anyone ever gets.
The Wall is shaped like a wide, shallow V. From above it looks like a wound. It should. One side of the V points to the Lincoln Memorial, the other side to the Washington Monument. There are one hundred and forty panels here. Fifty-eight thousand two hundred and eighty-six names in all, listed chronologically from the date of what the government calls their incident. The sheer mass of names. Of lives. It’s more than eerie. It’s a crowd of soldiers staring at you. Then you realize there’s something else that’s making you uneasy. It’s your own reflection in the polished granite. You’re the one who made it back. You’re the one who didn’t keep his promise.
The names go back as far as ’59, the Eisenhower administration; and then forward sixteen years through the next four administrations—Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, and even Ford. Rather than bright lamps glowing overhead, the names here are lit by footlights, as if they are each somehow on stage. They are. They are on stage to remind us. No, I think it is more than that. All these names are grouped together here to startle us. To bewilder us. To astonish us.
• MICHAEL O. SHELLY • ROBERT E. STAUFFER •
• GEORGE G. MOLINA • JAMES L. GELTZ •
• EDWARD O. COBB • SAMUEL T. GREENE •
• THOMAS COLOME • HOWARD ROGERS •
• LEROY WILLIAMS • CHARLES N. LUTE •
• KAYLE D. HENDERSON •
• CALEB T. LANGSDALE •
• LAWRENCE M. DAWSON • JOHN M. BATH •
• ROY THOMAS •
I touch the letters of Eddie’s name, run my fingers from left to right, feeling the stone and the indentations. The cold burns, but there is a strange relief in the pain. Then I touch each of the other names of those who were there in the ditch. Millions have come to stand before a name and feel the letters as if reading Braille. The letters seem brittle. Snow blows against my fingers. The wind rushes against the granite. Julia stands behind me, bundled in her gray parka and white scarf. She is silent, respectful. I think she is crying.
There’s hardly anyone here tonight. Much too late and much too cold. There’s a jogger in blue who is making the rounds on the curving paths. And an older woman is here too, alone. She seems oblivious to the cold and the snow. For some reason she has come at night. Maybe she couldn’t sleep. She’s a half dozen panels away, and I see that she’s brought a photo in a frame. I know what she is thinking. How old would he be? What would he be doing? How many kids would he have?
The jogger in blue passes behind us twice. I listen carefully as he slows the second time, then turns and comes back. I hear him stop behind Julia.
“How are they?” he asks.
“Dead,” I say, without turning around.
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I say. Julia comes closer and stands beside me.
“What years?” the jogger asks me.
“’70 to ’72.”
“I was there ’66 to ’68,” he answers.
“’68 was tough,” I say, still not turning.
“Eleven Bravo. You?”
“Same,” I say.
“Sorry about your guys,” he says again.
“You’re Magellan,” I say.
I turn and face him. He’s half-shadowed by the lighting, but I see his blue cold-weather vest, the gloves and heavy running pants. Early sixties, I figure. I can see that he’s fit, but the rest of him is unremarkable; six feet, average weight and build, as if he was born to blend into the background. And I’m sure he does. His only distinguishing features are his sad eyes and a black knit cap that doesn’t fit right on one side. He’s missing an ear.
“No, I’m Smith,” he responds, his breath pluming into cold air. “I’m Roy Smith.” He puts out his hand.
“Of course you are,” I say, accepting his hand.
Julia stands to the side, looking back and forth as we speak. “Do you know him, Quintyn? You said Magellan.”
“He’s Smith,” I tell her. I turn back to him. “What happened to your ear,” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says. “What happened to your nose?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“We got a job for you.”
I hear Eddie in my ear. Careful. Careful
“We?”
“Me. I’ve got a job for you.”
Don’t trust him, Quintyn.
“Thanks. I already have a job.”
“It’s about her, Ames.” He points with his thumb to the next panel. “Our girl over there. Pavlik. You should go take a look. Next panel, tenth row down, third name over.”
“I’ll get there,” I say.
“Sure. Pay respects to your pals first. They earned it. Then see her. She’s earned it too. Except she shouldn’t be here with the others.”
Julia looks to me. “Is he talking about that woman?” she asks. “Pavlik.”
Smith takes two steps toward me. “What does she know, Ames?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“This is not for civilians!” he says angrily.
“I’m a civilian.”
“You’re a civilian. Right.”
“What do you care about Pavlik?” I demand.
“I’m going to fix this, Ames. I’m going to get her out.”
“You mean if she’s there.”
“She’s there. Somewhere. You saw the ROWBEC letters.”
Julia looks to me. “What’s he talking about?”
“Then where’s she been all this time?” I ask him.
“My intel says Savannakhet. Just across the border. Laos. It’s controlled by the Vietnamese now, as you know. Fucking communists. And Americans think the cold war is over.”
“It’s hundreds of miles from Savannakhet to where the ROWBEC letters were,” I tell him. “No one could make it that far.”
He smiles without humor. “Yeah, hundreds of miles. Fucking amazing, isn’t it. Must be one hell of a woman. Or crazy. Unbelievable, if you ask me. Through hills and jungles and swamps. You wouldn’t believe the country she must’ve gone through, Ames.”
“I’ve seen tough country.”
He laughs. “Not like that. Pure wild like you wouldn’t believe. Days too hot even for the birds.” He shakes his head. “She must be a fucking machine. Hell, it had to take her a year ’til she put up that ROWBEC billboard.” He laughs shortly. “Fucking amazing,” he says again. “I don’t think I could have done it, Ames. Maybe she’s just lucky. Or crazy. Or both.”
Julia steps over to the next panel. She searches the names, then points.
• PATRICIA A. PAVLIK •
Smith goes over. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “That’s her.”
“Or maybe she was killed,” I tell him, “back in ’72. Just like the Wall says.”
“And maybe I’m out here in the cold for my health. You know how many we left behind over there, Ames?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I do.”
Julia looks to me. “What?”
“Over fiftee
n hundred,” I explain to her. “But most of those were already known to be dead. It’s just that no one was able to recover their bodies.”
“Oh, that’s rich, Ames. Most of them known to be dead? What about the others? What about the ones known not to be dead? You’re a joke, Ames. You’re a fucking joke.”
“Quintyn, I want to go.”
“You ever hear of Charles Shelton, Ames?”
“No.”
“How about Dennis Pike? Ever heard of him?”
I shake my head.
“They’re missing, too. From Laos. Along with three hundred others we didn’t go back for, Ames. And forty-nine in Cambodia. I know the numbers, Ames. I live with them. I live with them every day.” He shakes his head at me.
Julia looks to me. “Is that right?”
“It was a different time,” I tell her. I take her arm and steer her back toward the path. “Have a good night,” I tell him.
Smith follows. “That’s right, it was a different time,” he calls after us. “He remembers what it was like, lady. Everyone wanted out. Everyone! At any cost. Look here!”
We turn as Smith goes back to the Wall. He points.
• PATRICIA A. PAVLIK •
“Well, she was the cost,” he continues, “her and the others we left there.”
I pull Julia along. “Come on,” I say.
“Different time,” Smith says loudly to our backs. “The fucking peaceniks. The hippies. The protests. The humanitarians with their fucking morality. Get out at any cost, they said. Bring our boys home. And the politicians caved, like they always do. Brave souls, those fucking politicians.”
“Wait a minute,” Julia says, turning back toward Smith. She steps toward him. “Are you saying we knew that we left people there? Just left them?”
“Not me, lady. Can’t put that shit on me. The whole country wanted out. Demanded we get out. So, yeah, they deserted them—not me, the country did, the politicians and the military; and they deserted the South Vietnamese too. We turned our backs on them all. And what happened? Then the North comes down and slaughters them. Seven and a half million Vietnamese dead, lady. Did you know that? Including the boat people who drowned and all the ones who starved to death. Almost as many as Hitler killed. And who gave a shit? Who gives a shit now? Nobody! That’s who. Today we let ’em make our Nikes. Shit. We’re selling Baskin-Robbins over there, did you know that?”
Leave, Quintyn. Leave.
Julia shakes her head angrily. “War is so fucked up!” she exclaims. “No good ever came out of war.”
Smith chuckles at her. “Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, lady. So wrong.”
“Call her ‘lady’ one more time,” I say.
“Nam was fucked up, yeah,” he continues. “We never should have gone over there, sure. But we never should have left either. We had a draft. We trained kids for eight weeks. They thought they were going to save the world, like it was Normandy. Our generals did the arithmetic: one of our boys dies for twenty of theirs. It was numbers. It was fucking numbers!”
Smith looks back at the Wall, then turns to us again.
“War is for lifers, not kids,” he continues. “Lifers go over there and fight until it’s done and over. None of this going to Nam for 365 days shit. Lifers would’ve taken care of it. Special ops. Marines. Real soldiers. Not kids.” He shakes his head. “We never should have gone there,” he repeats. “And we never should have left.”
“That was fifty years ago, Smith. What do you want from me now?”
“Like I said, I got a job for you.”
“Sorry, not interested.”
“You fly the friendly skies, Ames. I need you to use your satellites to find out where she is now.”
“There’s a missing piece,” I tell Smith.
“No missing piece, Ames. You get me the information. I go find her. I bring her out. That’s it.”
“What’s the missing piece,” I ask.
“I told you, there isn’t any.”
“Dozens of guys know the skies, Smith. You don’t need me for that.”
“But they’re kids, and they don’t know Nam. They don’t need what you need.”
“What do I need, Smith? Humor me.”
Smith’s voice trembles. “You need payback,” he says. “You need fucking payback.”
I step closer to him. He’s four inches shorter. I tower over him. There’s a hum growing in my ear. “That’s behind me, Smith. A long time ago. I have a new life now. And you need to move on too.”
“No one moves on,” he tells me sternly.
The hum is getting louder. I feel something coiling up inside me, ready to strike. “I’ve moved on,” I tell him
“That’s a good one.” He nods toward the Wall. “That’s why you’re here? At two a.m. in the freezing cold?”
“Let’s go, Julia,” I say.
“Your whole squad is up there, Ames. Look at them! Your men. You were the one in charge. They’re there because of you!”
Hit him. Hit him.
I swing hard, and my left hand barely connects with the side of his head where his ear used to be. He spins backward but doesn’t fall.
“Quintyn!”
Hit him again!
I go after him. I’m bigger. I’m stronger. Just for starts I’ll make his nose look like mine. I swing with my left this time, but he’s too fast. I try to grab him, and he dodges and spins away in the snow, jabbing his fists in the air like a boxer.”
“Careful, Ames, or I’ll break your nose.”
I lunge, and he’s not there. Already I’m winded.
He laughs. “Proves my point, Ames. Proves my point. You’re fat and slow.”
He comes closer again, within swinging distance. But he’s too quick, and I’m breathing too hard.
“Some gut you got, Ames. I could take you in a wink if I wanted. But I need your help.”
Julia takes my arm again. “Tell him you can’t help,” she says.
“If you know about ROWBEC,” I tell him, still breathing hard, “then you have access too.”
“No, we got the photos from an informant, in Qui Nhon.”
“We?”
“Me. Now Pavlik is missing. We need to find out where she went after she left those letters behind. Your satellites are the only way.”
“Who’s the informant?” I ask. “What’s his name?”
“It’s a her.”
“Who?”
He glances at Julia as if weighing how much to say. “Some gook chick in Qui Nhon,” he finally says. “Quite a looker, I’m told. Calls herself Shirley. I forget her real name. She works in a place called the Wellness Center.”
“Wellness Center?”
“You haven’t been back, have you? Tourists all over the fucking place. Japanese and American tourists, Russians, all sorts. Fancy hotels. They still have massage parlors, but now they’re all prettied up and have respectable names like the Wellness Center and the Royal Healthcare Resort. Anyway, the girl, Shirley, she works all sides. Real smart girl. Gets info from her customers and sells it to whoever she can. Sells the U.S. info about drug smuggling, then gets info about what Americans are up to and sells it to the Russians. Japs need info too, mostly about businesses over there, and she gets it from rich tourists from Indonesia or Hong Kong or wherever.”
“How’d the informant find out about Pavlik?”
“As I understand it, she got the photos from some colonel who was acting as liaison officer for a mining outfit of some sort.”
“What was in it for the colonel?”
“Shirley’s a whore. She was probably servicing him. And money, I suppose. What the hell else is there for those people?”
I think a moment. “Who else knows about this, Smith? About the ROWBEC letters?”
“Americans? Shit. Hardly anyone.”
“What about the government? Joint Chiefs of Staff?”
“Absolutely not.”
“The president.”
“Not a
fucking chance. Hell, he wouldn’t want to know. He’d want to be kept in the dark. That’s how they work.”
Julia is quiet, just staring at Smith, a dark figure in front of the Wall. Eddie is watching me.
“What’s your real name?” I ask him.
“Believe it or not, it’s Smith. Roy Smith. And if I can find her, I’m going to get her out.”
“What’s the missing piece?” I ask again.
“There isn’t any, Ames. Except maybe it’s you. You find her from the sky, and then I do the rest. I’m the clean-up crew. I don’t leave anyone behind.”
The hum is louder in my ear. “I can’t help you,” I say. I take Julia’s hand. We start back toward the car.
“Then she’s on you, Ames! Not me.”
I turn around. He’s still standing at the Wall, a half-shadowed silhouette in the falling snow, his breath pluming in front of him.
“She’s not on me,” I say, “even if she is there.”
“She’s there, Ames.”
“And I’m the missing piece?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“And all you want from me is to find her again.”
“That’s right. Nothing else.” Smith smiles as he holds up two fingers. “Scout’s honor,” he says.
I shake my head in disbelief. “I already told you, Smith. I can’t help. I can’t help you at all.”
30
A VILLAGE IN SOUTH VIETNAM
DAY 108
WHEN SHE AWAKENED HER first thought was of food; and then of the thing inside her. It was in its own cage. Patricia could sense it struggling. She could feel its will to live. It didn’t know about Vietnam or America or the Liberation Front. It was innocent. Maybe it was innocent. And it was starving. And dying, perhaps deformed now. She could feel it struggle. It knew only one thing—life. No politics. No ideologies. Life was all it had. A tiny life was all it was.
Crouching now, in the gloom of the doghouse, she looked past the clearing to the jungle surrounding it. It seemed to pulse in the thick air, like a dark and breathing creature eager for her to try to escape again. She heard the insects clicking and whirling and humming. She imagined the hordes of them standing on tiny feet on the undersides of leaves. Millions and millions of them, billions of them, waiting quietly until dusk when they would unfold their wings and emerge to hunt water and blood and other insects. In this place everything used everything else to live. And she sensed the fetus’s momentum toward life as it used her body to live, even amid all this. Even as it was dying.