The Last Road Home

by Danny Johnson

  It felt like time was passing, but it didn’t seem important. When the abrupt noise of guns and shouting erupted, it destroyed the white light, and I was pulled back through the tunnel. “Here he is! Junebug, Junebug, can you hear me?” Strong hands dragged me out of the water. “He’s got a sucking chest. I think he’s dead.” I became aware of the hot burning in my chest, but couldn’t move my hand to touch it. I screamed at them to leave me alone, but realized they couldn’t hear me. I wanted to go back to the other place.

  “I got a pulse. Hold that compression tight and let me get this jelly gauze on. It’ll seal the hole.” Seconds later I felt a rushing sensation, and a great gush of air sucked in and stayed. “Get him on the stretcher and haul ass. Call for a dust-off and tell ’em to hurry.”

  I heard myself moan. “Hold on, Junebug, we got you. Can you hit him with the morphine, Doc?” I felt the jab of the strettes in my leg. “Hang in there.” I could barely make out Mo’s face. I wanted to raise my arm, but didn’t have the strength. The pain eased and I floated toward the light again.

  The next time I woke up, I could hear but not see. Maybe I had died after all. I started to panic, thinking I was in a death box. Then the downdraft from rotating blades blew the towel off my face, and I was being shoved into the belly of a chopper. “They’re going to get you fixed up, Junebug. Time for you to go home.” Mo gripped my palm and grinned at me. “I’ll be doing that praying for you, count on that. You’re a good man, brother. Tell that gal of yours hello for me.” I tried to smile. When the chopper lifted off, my head flopped to one side. I wasn’t on the ride alone. There was a body bag beside me.

  * * *

  I saw hands with gloves and faces with masks, and I slept without dreaming for what seemed like a very long time. When my eyes opened, the stark brightness hurt and I had to blink several times to be able to focus. White walls, white ceilings, white lights, white sheets, not at all like the peaceful place from before. Only the floor was different, a blue linoleum. I turned my head to the right, and in the bed next to me was a guy with his head totally wrapped in white gauze except for his nose, one ear, and a small opening for his mouth. He lifted his hand to touch his face, and I could see the skin had been burned off in some places below the wrist. I checked my own head, but all the handiwork was on the left side of my chest and extended below my rib cage.

  I tried to turn to my right side to get a better view, but pain shot through me so bad it took my breath. I looked up and could see medicine lines running from my left arm to bags over my head, the same way they’d done on Grandma. The tube poking from my chest ran toward the floor.

  I did my best to lie absolutely still and put my mind somewhere else. I closed my eyes and pictured Fancy in her pigtails when she was little, and us talking under the tobacco barn shelter, and kissing that first time. I thought about collecting bottles and eating blackberries. Lying there that night listening to the moans of pain and the screams of nightmares playing out in the minds of those around me caused my own dream horrors, like the sound of Lightning’s body hitting the bottom of the well. And Huy tied to that stake.

  A nurse made rounds the next morning and brought me pills and water. “Ma’am, where am I and how long have I been here?”

  She was an older, strong-faced, motherly type, and I could tell she didn’t take any crap. But there was kindness in her hazel green eyes. “You’re in the Naval Support Activity Station Hospital in DaNang. Today makes a week.”

  I swallowed the pills and water. “Any idea how long I’ll be laid up?”

  “As long as it takes to make sure you don’t have any infection. That’s what this tube”—she touched the one in my chest—“is for, to drain your damaged side.” She leaned over and brushed hair off my forehead. “Your war is over, sonny boy, so don’t get any ideas that you’re going back to the field. You’re lucky you aren’t in the morgue, so don’t give me any trouble, you got it?” She gave me a smile and a pat on my good shoulder.

  When she came that night, she talked while taking my temperature and checking my bandages. “The docs are saying about a week to let your strength build up. They need to make sure your upper body doesn’t blow up with air on one side since you only got one lung working.”

  A couple of times my blood pressure dropped and they had to lift the seal on the hole in my chest to let some air out. It was actually two weeks before the doctors decided I was stable enough for the ride to Japan. When the airplane lifted off, I gave a salute to Mo, and Gunny Phillips, and Hotah, and a place I knew would never leave me.

  * * *

  The navy hospital in Yokosuka, Japan, was a much bigger and livelier place, as modern as the hospital back home where Grandma stayed. They asked me if I wanted to make a phone call. Who the hell was I going to call? We got a lot of TLC from the docs and nurses, and the little Japanese aides were cute.

  In addition to the chest wound, the skin on my feet peeled off in layers and smelled awful from jungle rot. They treated me with medicines for that and the leech bites on my ankles. My main doc came to see me early one morning after I’d been there a month. He was a tall, fairly young navy officer. His name tag said Dr. Halperin. “I know you understand your lung is collapsed, and so far, we’ve been fortunate that there’s been no serious side effects from the bullet, like lead poisoning, or some other nasty infectious stuff that guys get in the jungle. With time, your lung might possibly reinflate, but probably not. Either way, any ideas you had about playing professional football, forget them.” He was a nice guy for a navy puke.

  Some days I’d read newspapers that showed white kids protesting or running off to Canada so they wouldn’t have to go to Vietnam. I thought about Mo. What kind of appreciation would he get fighting for a country that would rather see him back picking cotton?

  When I was strong enough, rehabilitation folks began to work with me to try and bring my body back into shape. I’d lost over twenty pounds and looked more like a scarecrow than a marine. First it was simple things like moving my arms in a circle, knee bends, and agility tests with my hands. Over the next several weeks, it progressed to more strenuous stuff like walking short distances. The place in my back where my bad lung was would burn like forty hells. Understanding what bad shape I was in humbled me. It took three months before I learned that making do with one lung required me to think differently, and practice patience.

  Mental issues were another can of worms entirely. I would dream about trying to cover the bullet hole in my chest, but it kept growing bigger and bigger until it was huge, then Huy’s head would pop out from it. I saw Lightning and Twin, and the first Vietnamese man I’d killed while he looked me in the eyes. I would dream I was drowning in water, then realize it was an ocean of blood, so thick it choked me, so heavy it pulled me under. I swam for all I was worth, desperate for a log that would save me. Some nights I would take my pillow and blanket and lie underneath the bed, afraid to sleep.

  In October mail caught up with me. There were three letters from Fancy and one from a life insurance company wanting me to continue my coverage when I was discharged. The last one from Fancy was dated in May.

  Dear Junebug:

  I am so worried. I’m praying to God this letter will find you and you will write back to let me know you are okay. I don’t know what I’ll do if some harm has happened, or worse. I wrote Momma to ask her to get in touch with that Lawyer Stern to see if he had heard anything, and she said she did and he hadn’t heard anything either. I look at the stars every night and send you all the love I’ve got.

  I decided to stay in France when Mrs. Francetti moved on. This is a place where I’ve found comfort and peace. The people here only judge you by who you are. I’ve got a job that for once doesn’t include cleaning up for white folks, have made some good friends, and am learning so much I would never ever have had the chance to at home. Please let me hear from you because my mind will not rest until I do.

  I love you as always,

  Fancy


  Immediately I sat down and wrote.

  Dear Fancy:

  I’m very sorry I haven’t written. I got hurt a little and have been in the hospital in Japan. Don’t go to worrying because I’ll be fine. They are treating me very good and I hope to be recovered by the first of the year. I’m so glad you sound happy and have found good friends and, most of all, a job you like that don’t involve saying “Yes’um” to nobody. You deserve what you’re getting, and knowing you are at peace makes me feel so much better. Tell Roy and Clemmy I hope to see them sometime next year when my enlistment is up. There have been many times when I was at my worst and could feel you around me. It never failed to keep me going. I’ll watch that last star in the handle of the Big Dipper every night it’s shining, and if you do the same, we’ll know we’re thinking of each other.

  Love you back,

  Junebug

  CHAPTER 53

  One morning after physical therapy, the nurse gave me a note for an appointment with a new doctor. When I found the office, it was in the Mental Health Ward. I had to force myself to knock.

  “Enter,” came a female voice.

  When I opened the door, a dark-haired, blue-eyed lady navy officer sat facing me. The nameplate on the desk read Lieutenant Heaney. Not knowing if I was supposed to salute or not, I raised my right hand to my brow. “Corporal Hurley reporting, ma’am.”

  She smiled. “No formalities necessary in my office, Corporal. Have a seat.” She nodded toward the chair. A file was open on her desk. She opened it and looked at me. “My name is Lieutenant Heaney, and I’m a psychologist. I see you were in a scout sniper unit. That must have been pretty dangerous duty.” Her voice had a scratch to it.

  I eased into the chair, suspicious. “Sometimes.”

  “How are you doing with your recovery? I understand you have a chest wound. Are you in pain?”

  My hand moved to my left side. “You know what the marine corps says, ma’am: Pain is just weakness leaving the body.”

  She smiled. “I also know marines can be full of shit on occasion.” She was a little bit of a woman from what I could see; her face, nose, cheekbones, and chin were sharp, accented by the way the sides of her brown hair swept behind her ears. I guessed her to be in her early thirties. “How about your mental recovery? Combat troops don’t often come home without bringing some of it with them. How are you doing with that?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  She waited until the silence got uncomfortable. Lieutenant Heaney closed the file and pushed back in her chair. “How about we go get a cup of coffee?” We walked to the twenty-four-hour canteen on the lower floor of the hospital. She paid for the coffee. I held a plastic red chair for her at one of the blue Formica-topped tables. “Your file says you’re from North Carolina, Corporal. How’d you come to be in the marine corps?” While her lips smiled, her eyes searched.

  “It’s Lance Corporal.”

  “Sorry. Why the marine corps?”

  “Wanted to meet John Wayne.”

  She chuckled. “Still want to meet him?”

  I watched as a marine private cleaned a tall window along the far wall. He used a long stick and spray. “Not so much.” The private had only one arm.

  “In your file, nurses say they’ve found you sleeping under your bed. Any particular reason you do that?”

  “Need a vacation sometimes.”

  “From what?”

  I spread my fingers on the tabletop, then flexed them into fists. “Everything.”

  Lieutenant Heaney sat back. “What kind of everything?”

  “Seeing faces in my sleep, hearing stuff that isn’t there. You know, everything.”

  “Soldiers often don’t get to see the faces of the enemy. I guess it must have been different in your work, huh? I would imagine being a sniper is more personal.”

  “Some.” Huy’s face appeared in my mind.

  “Why did you become a sniper? I’m pretty sure you had to volunteer for it.”

  “Extra pay.” I set the coffee cup down too hard.

  “Did you like it?”

  I stared at her. Was there something in that file from Snake? “It was a job.”

  “So is shoveling horse shit. You’re not answering my question.”

  “Sometimes.” I pushed my chair back from the table.

  She laid her hands out flat. “You always talk so much?”

  I sipped the last of my coffee. “Not always.”

  She waited for more, holding my eyes, then let out a breath. “Listen, Ray, I can try to help. But all I can do is help you help yourself. You’ve got to want to come back from where you were.” She started to fold her arms, but stopped and leaned across the table. “Let me put it to you this way, Corporal Hurley—sorry, Lance Corporal. War doesn’t end with a period, just a comma. When you survive, demons often come to live with you, and it’s possible many won’t go away. You can learn to put them in their proper place, find a way to cope when they haunt you, and if you’ll give me a chance, I’ll try my best to help you.”

  This little woman had no idea what she was asking. But maybe she was the log I had been waiting for. We met every morning at eleven o’clock. I told her about Snake and Mo. I told her the story about Snake getting his boot caught on the trip wire. I told her all kinds of stories.

  After a week, she held up her hand. “Enough with the bullshit, Ray. It’s not that I don’t enjoy your little war adventures, but they aren’t why we’re here. We’ve got to get down to what’s in your head, what scares the shit out of you so much you want to sleep under your bed, what makes you wake up screaming. So, stop with all the extraneous crap. Horror doesn’t like the light of day, Ray, and if you’re going to get better, we need to put some sun on it.”

  I felt like a kid whose momma had spanked his ass good. It made me mad. If she wanted it, I’d see how she liked it. I intentionally tried to shake her calmness. I put it all out there: the gore of up-close killing, what a man’s face looked like when you shot his eye out, what a rush I got hunting other men. I even told her about Huy, and what a child looks like with his arms severed and insects are crawling in his mouth and eye sockets. I expected her to curl up and cry. But she never budged. She wanted it all and she wanted it out loud, refusing to let me have any silent gaps, even when I needed them worse than she did. Lieutenant Heaney insisted it was important that I speak the words. When the ice started to thaw, the spigot opened, and it poured out.

  A few weeks later, she surprised me. “Your file says you have no next of kin. How come?”

  The war was one thing, but my before life was something else. “Just worked out that way.”

  Lieutenant Heaney picked up an orange ball she kept on her desk and threw it at me. “Don’t even try it. We’re done with that Silent Sam stuff. I want to know what happened to your family.”

  I got up and left. It was two days before I went back.

  She folded her hands on the desk, the look on her face unsympathetic. “Are you ready to talk to me, Ray?”

  I glared at her. “My granddaddy’s dog, Grady, got run over when I was six. Grady was crying from the pain, so my daddy shot him in the head while I watched. That was the last time I cried around my daddy.”

  Her face scrunched, but she quickly caught herself. “I’m sorry, Ray, but what’s that got to do with your next of kin?”

  “I ain’t finished. When I was eight, my parents were killed in a car wreck while my daddy was hauling a load of moonshine whiskey. The car caught fire and burned him and my momma alive. I guess he wasn’t satisfied with just killing the dog.”

  I could see a hint of color change in her eyes. She blinked a couple of times.

  “Then, when I was fourteen, my granddaddy died, and I was left to look after Grandma.” I let the silence sit between us. “Two years later, my grandma died because I didn’t have sense enough to understand how sick she was.”

  Harder blinking. She intertwined her fingers. “Is that it?”

/>   “No. I killed two men in a drug deal when I was sixteen.”

  Lieutenant Heaney made no move to say anything. I wondered how she liked me now.

  “The only other person I’ve ever cared about is a black girl. I can’t be with her because of the hate it’d bring. Plus, I killed her brother and she don’t know it. That’s why I don’t have any next of kin.” I got up and left.

  * * *

  I went to Lieutenant Heaney’s office on the last Friday in December. When I entered, I sensed something. “What’s wrong?”

  “Lance Corporal Hurley, I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’ve been transferred.”

  “When?”

  “I leave Monday.” She was all military business. “You’ve done so well, Lance Corporal, I’m sure you won’t let this stop your progress.”

  This was the person I’d trusted with my soul. “So now it’s ‘Lance Corporal’?” The window slammed down; I’d seen this movie before. I stood up and saluted. “Well, good luck to you, Lieutenant Heaney.” I turned to leave.

  I heard her chair scrape. “Wait.” She came behind and grabbed my elbow, pulled me around, and put her arms around my neck. “Don’t let up, Ray. Make your peace.” Her eyes were wet on my skin.

  For three days, I refused to do anything but sit on my bunk. Once again, it was up to me to root hog or die. The flashbacks were regular. I found myself unable to stand in long lines or be in the middle of any kind of crowd. Certain smells, like wet ground or fishy food, could put me right back in the jungle. Anger was quick to come, and when it did, my first reaction was to punish the offender. I trained myself to, instead of wanting to hurt somebody, go to the physical therapy lab, work myself into a sweat, and drive out the poison. Peace was a hard place to find.