Carry Me Home

by John M. Del Vecchio

  There was his last battle! Chills ran up his back, neck. “The Battle of Ap Bia Mountain.” He bit his lip. Couldn’t, he thought, they refer to it as Dong Ap Bia like we did? Under the accompanying photo he read, “Hamburger Hill: Was the slaughter really necessary?”

  The Nixon Administration, rattled by Congressional criticism over the battle, sought last week to disclaim responsibility for stepping up the pace of the war.... To disclaim responsibility! What the—? White House aides insisted to reporters that there had been no escalation of military operations by U.S. forces since President Nixon took office on Jan. 20....

  NEW TACTICS: As with many arguments about the Vietnamese war, the truth in this case seemed to be more elusive than was indicated by Washington’s statistics. Undoubtedly, Hanoi’s policy is to maximize U.S. casualties in South Vietnam in hopes of making an impact on American public opinion and improving its bargaining position at the Paris peace talks.... Which is exactly our policy also. To inflict enough hurt on them to make them stop invading the south. Cautioned by North Vietnamese President Ho Chi Minh that they must “economize human and material resources,” the Communists this time are avoiding human-wave assaults. Instead it appears they have opted for radically different tactics that combine mortar and rocket attacks with hit-and-run raids by small, elite sapper squads.... What’s radically different about that? That’s been going on for years. What the hell are these guys ...

  When he halted the U.S. bombing of North Vietnam last November, President Johnson also approved a policy of exerting “maximum pressure” on the enemy in South Vietnam. The Nixon Administration has never thought fit to alter that policy.... Why the hell should it? What are we supposed to do, exert minimum pressure? They’d simply fill in the voids. They’d be in the population centers. These people don’t understand.

  U.S. military men defend this “maximum pressure” strategy as the only one that can prevent large-scale Communist ground attacks on South Vietnam’s major cities. “The idea of pulling back and letting the enemy have the jungles because it would cut down on American casualties is a military fallacy,” said a high-ranking U.S. officer.... “If we let them back in, it would increase casualties, not lower them.” That may be so. May be? But in the meantime, as the latest weekly casualty list showed (265 American dead, 1,863 wounded), both sides seem intent on using military force to crystalize their political position.

  Wapinski stopped reading. The cacophony of sounds, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the click of high heels on tile floors, the broken and static announcements, the roar of takeoffs, a baby crying, and the asinine perspective of the article tore at him. He closed his eyes, tight, opened them, took a deep breath. If we didn’t, he said to himself, do they think the NVA’d stop? Do you think they’d just go away? It is a war over there. These people don’t understand. They just don’t fuckin understand.

  He flipped further into the magazine. There was a lengthy article about the military-industrial complex, a reiteration of President Eisenhower’s 1961 warning that the nation “must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence” by the MIC, and an assessment of congressional moves to exert control over the Pentagon.

  Wapinski flipped back to the Viet Nam section. “Disclaim responsibility,” he read again. He almost threw the magazine across the waiting room. He ground his teeth, lit a cigarette, flipped back to the photo of the 101st Airborne troops on Dong Ap Bia. He searched the faces to see if he knew the men. Sure, he thought, he recognized one. Again the chill. He looked about, checked his watch. Why wasn’t the Williamsport plane at the gate? He flipped to the back of the magazine, to the Stewart Alsop column entitled “No Disguised Defeat?” He could not read it.

  “It means—” he heard a voice, glanced left, right, “when everyone is saying this is the way it was—” another takeoff roar, another static announcement, another flyover vibrating his damaged eardrums, no one near him, yet the voice, “don’t let em convince you ...”

  Wapinski stared at the column. He shook his head imperceptibly. The articles gave a different dimension to the Southeast Asia he had been dealing with for the past year. He knew the North Viet Namese had suffered seriously during his tour, that intrinsic South Viet Namese resistance had been tremendously reduced, the result of massive losses during Tet of ’68 and the abandonment of their cause by so many due to the barbarity displayed by the northern Communist leadership while they held Hue ...

  Wapinski inhaled, slowly exhaled attempting to release his tiredness, his tension. He looked up. The baby had stopped crying, the flyovers and takeoffs didn’t seem so loud. He unzipped his AWOL bag, stuffed in the Newsweek. He decided he would follow the story, the developments, closely. He would find out what was happening politically. He would speak out about what he had seen, what he knew, what he believed. But not now, not yet. Then he told himself, they won’t ever get to my mind.

  Wapinski arrived in Williamsport at ten o’clock. Again he called home.

  “Rob, I’m not feeling too good,” his mother said. “And your brother’s not home. I forgot to call him when he came in from work. Maybe you could get a bus to Laporte and Doug could pick you up there?”

  Jesus, he thought. Nothing like putting yourself out a little. “Okay,” he answered. “I’ll get in however.”

  “Oh, that’s good,” she said. “I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “No, don’t worry. I’m a big boy.”

  At ten P.M. there were no buses going north, although there was one that ran to Montoursville, Hughesville, Red Rock, and Wilkes-Barre. He took it to the Hughesville depot, then walked the half mile to the junction of 220, 405 and 118 and began to hitchhike. Almost immediately he was picked up by a farmer in a battered, red Chevy pickup who brought him to Muncy Valley. There he waited for an hour, finally caught a four-mile ride that took him toward Eagles Mere. A third ride brought him past the small lake, over the mountain, down and halfway up to World’s End State Park. From there he walked.

  The cool night air felt clean. He felt happy. Confused, numb, tired, too tired to think anymore, but happy. The sun blisters and jungle rot on his arms and legs had mostly scabbed over and cleaned up. His grunt tan—arms and neck only—had faded. Most of the pimples on his face had cleared and even though he still didn’t feel completely clean, he felt strong. He was happy to be on the familiar road, at night, without a person about, without a light to be seen except for the stars, without a sound except the peepers and crickets, the lovely voices of the creeks, the squeak of bats and the silent flyby of an owl. Tomorrow, he thought, no, today he would see his mother and her boyfriend, his brother and sister, and he would surprise Stacy.

  Quietly Robert Wapinski tried the screen door to the front porch. It was latched. He walked around to the back door. It too was locked. He hesitated, tried to hear if anyone was up. He looked through the kitchen window. The room was mostly dark, the door to the dining room closed. Gray light fell across the table. Miriam Wapinski hated mornings. For as many years as he could recall she had set the table for breakfast immediately after removing the dinner dishes. No one sat around her table after meals. The table was set for two.

  Wapinski returned to the front of the house, picked a twig from the Japanese maple and used it to unlatch the screen door. He put his AWOL bag down on the small table and tried the front door. It was latched and bolted. Flash image in his mind—he calling out cheerfully, “Hey, I’m home,” as in a normal family and then, doors swinging open, parents and siblings cascading down the steep Victorian stairs, flowing out onto the porch, surrounding him, hugging him, falling over themselves to treasure him returned to them. He looked through the beveled glass into the hall, halfway up the stairs, through the arch into the parlor. Dark grayness, stillness, polished dark oak flooring, a new large-screen TV, knickknacks in perfect order. He moved to the nylon-webbed chaise longue, slowly sat, not making a sound, not creaking a floorboard. He lifted his feet, sat back, closed his eyes. A hazy shr
oud of blackness seemed to envelop him, closing down his ears to sound, dulling his skin to feeling, descending over his forehead to seal his eyes and slacken his taut skin. Someplace in the distance a car, rubber tires whining on concrete, the sound soothing like that of ocean waves to beach dwellers, smooth, relaxing, home, really home.

  The shroud receded. Wapinski opened his eyes. It was light. He looked at his watch. Seven ten. Without moving he took in the street, the sounds of new-day activities, cars starting nearby, old Mrs. Franklin down Third Street sweeping her sidewalk. He swung his legs to the floor. They were stiff, sore from walking and resting and sitting in airplanes. He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, exhaled, stood up. Doug unlatched and unbolted the front door. “Rob! When did you get here?”

  “Hi Doug. About an hour ago.”

  “Let me get Miriam. She’s upstairs.” He went back in. Wapinski shook his head again. Not even a handshake. He grabbed his AWOL bag, stepped into the house. The moment he entered peaceful reentry ended. The whirlwinds began.

  “Oh, Robbie,” his mother said from the stairs. “I’m glad you’re home. Leave that bag on the porch, please.” She descended to the foyer. “Have you lost weight?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Brian’s home. I don’t know what time that brother of yours came in last night, but I heard the car when I was in bed. You can go over and see him and Cheryl while I clean up, okay?”

  “Okay,” Wapinski said.

  “Your sister decided to stay at school for the summer. She wanted you to call her when you got in.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Keep it short. This phone’s going to put me in the poorhouse.”

  While she rattled on nervously he made small gestures, opened his arms, waiting for her to at least hug him. She seemed awkward, like a child with a secret. He stepped toward her to give her a kiss. She was short, half a foot shorter than he, and stocky and strong. “How’ve you been?” he asked as he stepped to her. She stepped back, grabbed out for his hands, gave them a small squeeze, let go, stepped back farther.

  “Not so good,” she said. “My condition’s not getting any better.”

  “Oh!” he said. He took out his cigarettes and lighter. “How about you, Doug?” he asked. Doug had been standing in the archway, watching quietly.

  “He’s fine,” she answered for him. “I’m the one with a condition. Don’t smoke in here. It just makes ashes on the floor that I’ve got to clean up.”

  “Same old mom.” He laughed. He put the cigarettes away but kept the lighter in his hand. “It’s good to be back. I’ve missed you, and this place.”

  “Well that’s nice,” she said. “We’re glad you’re home safe and sound. There’s so much that needs doing around here and I can’t do it anymore. And Doug’s no help.”

  “That’s quite a row of ribbons there, Rob,” Doug said.

  “Oh, don’t go into that,” Miriam snapped.

  There was another awkward pause, then Doug said, “Miriam, why don’t we all have some breakfast?” To Wapinski, “We got a new store on Third Street. I was just going to get some eggs.”

  “I saw—”

  “Go get the eggs, then. And Robbie, why don’t you go over to Brian’s while I clean up. This house is a mess.”

  Doug slid past him and went out.

  “Did Stacy call?” Wapinski blurted.

  “You and that girl. I told her not to call until you got back.”

  “You might be civil to her,” Wapinski snapped. “Someday she’s going to be your daughter-in-law.” Immediately he felt ashamed, felt he should not have said it, should not have given her one more lever to use, one more weapon with which to threaten him. A thickness congealed in his gut.

  Wapinski’s mother’s house was a nine-room Victorian built at the turn of the century when Mill Creek Falls was in its lumbering and tanning heyday. Brian’s house, behind Miriam’s, was a four-room cottage built in 1921 for a war-widowed daughter by the original owner of the Victorian. The two structures were still on a single gas line, single water and sewer lines, single electric meter. Miriam owned both houses. She charged Brian what she called “a reasonable rent.”

  When he saw Rob approaching, Brian exploded through the door. “God Damn! Good to see ya! Look at you!” He wrapped his brother in his arms, squeezed the breath out of him. “Why the hell didn’t you call? When’d you get in? Oh, this calls for a celebration. Come in. Come in. Cheryl, Robbie’s home!”

  “I’m not dressed,” Cheryl shrieked, giggled, vanished down the hallway.

  “He’s my brother,” Brian shouted jovially. He winked at Rob. “Nice ass, huh? I’d share her but I don’t think she’d put up with it.”

  “I got some of my own coming.” Rob laughed back.

  “Jim Beam?” Brian asked. He pulled the bottle and three glasses from the cupboard. Cheryl walked back in wearing a loose robe.

  “Robbie.” Her eyes smiled; her face lit up. “Oh, poor Robbie.” She kissed his cheek and hugged him hard. He could feel her breasts against his chest. Lightly she shimmied against him.

  “Oooo-oooo!” He laughed and she laughed, too.

  “Here’s to the soldier from Vet Naam,” Brian said. He handed Cheryl and Rob double shots of the bourbon. “Welcome home.” He downed his shots. “Aaaaaahh! We saw you on TV.”

  Cheryl sipped at the drink. “I was so scared for you.”

  “On TV?” Rob asked.

  “Brian thinks he saw you,” Cheryl said.

  “Well, not exactly you, I guess. They did a little reenactment of an assault that your unit, ah ... they killed all them Cong. I think it was your unit, wasn’t it? That’s what Grandpa said. All year long he cut the articles about the 101st from the paper. He saved em for you.”

  “Huh? Yeah?! Nice. Ah, we had a lot of units. Eighteen thousand men in the division.”

  “And you were with them guys in that valley near Laos. Up on that hill, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So ...?” Brian said.

  “So what?” Rob asked.

  “So how many?”

  “How many what, Brian?”

  “How many slopes did you kill?”

  “What?” Rob hadn’t expected the question.

  “You know, what was it like to kill a couple a hundred gooks. I want to know all the gory details.”

  Cheryl interrupted with disdain. “Brian just wants to be able to tell everybody at the shop.”

  “I don’t know,” Rob said flatly.

  “I told everybody you were a real gung-ho killer,” Brian boasted. “Each time they’d have an article about you in the paper, I’d tell em you were trying to win the war by yourself. Boy, is Joanne pissed at you.”

  Rob pushed himself against the back of his chair. “What articles? Joanne?”

  “Didn’t Mom send em to you?”

  “Send what? No!”

  “About all them medals you won! Silver Stars. That was all in the papers.”

  Cheryl put her hand on top of Rob’s. “They were nice articles,” she said.

  Brian leaned forward, cupped his hand as if to tell Rob a secret. “There’s a girl down the shop who’d like to meet you,” he stage-whispered. “They say she gives great head.”

  “Brian!” Cheryl gasped.

  “I don’t know.” Brian laughed. “I didn’t try it. Aw,” he swiped his hand in the air, “drink up, Boy. You ain’t gonna be able to buy a drink in this town for a long time.”

  Rob sighed. “Hooo, actually I’d prefer coffee. I walked in from Eagles Mere last night and I’m kinda beat.”

  “Robbie,” Cheryl said, “why didn’t you call? We could have picked you up.”

  “I, ah”—he thought of saying, I called Mom, but decided to let it pass—“ah, got a ride with some guy that far and it was late and ah ... you know, it was a nice night.”

  “Coffee’s coming up. It’s all ready.” Brian smiled, served his brother. He grabbed Rob’s bourbon, dumped it into the coffee. “Mi
lk?”

  They talked for two and a half hours about new cars, music, baseball, Brian’s work at the mill, Cheryl’s new job with The Hartley Insurance Agency, people they all knew, the 7-Eleven and old Pete’s retirement. Rob asked about Joanne, how she was doing in school, what she’d be doing during the summer; and he asked about Grandpa. He smoked half a pack of cigarettes, until he was out. He and Brian killed half the bottle and another pot of coffee. He was becoming wired-drunk. After each cigarette Rob returned his lighter to his pants pocket and kept his hand on it long enough to work his thumb over the engraving.

  Out of cigarettes, half intoxicated, he went back to his mother’s house. The back door was latched. He walked to the front. On the porch he saw that his AWOL bag had been opened. He looked in. His records were gone. He went inside. No one was in the parlor though the TV was on. He opened the door to the kitchen. The old painted wood cabinets had been replaced by new light blue formica ones with oak trim. His orders and medical records were spread on the table. He stood for a long minute, heard movement in the parlor.

  “Mom,” he called opening the door. She and Doug had seated themselves before the TV. “What’s this?”

  She looked up at him, held up a finger indicating for him to wait until a commercial.

  “What is this?” he shouted. He went back into the kitchen, grabbed his records, stormed in with them. He took up a position between the TV and the viewers. “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “You know, Robbie,” she said passively. “I thought you were dirty. You just come back from an awful bad place. We didn’t know if you were sick or not.”

  “I’m not sick. What the—Geez!” He marched back to the porch, crammed the papers into his bag, went back to Brian’s.

  “That’s what really happened last night,” Rob said. “I called. I’ve been fuckin callin fer days. Then this shit.”

  “Look,” Brian said. “Why don’t you stay here? When Cheryl gets back from the store we’ll figure out an arrangement. You can stay with us. Use our old car. Then you can go up to Grandpa’s and stay up there. He’s got lots of room. You stay here for as long as you want. I’ll tell Cheryl it’s only going to be for a few nights. That way she won’t mind.”