On the eleventh Sara said, “I can’t believe it. They’re not going to do anything.”
“Who?”
“The school. These kids have the school board completely buffaloed. We’re simply abdicating all responsibility.”
“Oh,” Bobby said, “I thought you meant Ford. And Congress. They’re not going to do anything either. They’re giving Hanoi a green light.”
And that evening, like buckshot coming from all angles, “Bobby”—in Linda Pisano’s voice there were tears—“he had a TIA. They don’t know why he’s throwing clots.”
“Oh geez. I don’t know what that—”
“Transient ischemic attack. It’s an obstruction in the blood flow to part of the brain. He’s had a stroke.”
“Oh no!”
“He’s resting,” Linda said. “His vital signs are stable but he’s lost all movement on his right side. And it’s ... it’s too early to tell.”
“I’ll try to get a flight tomorrow.”
“Ah ... unless you can stay ... call his doctor first. I had a patient when I was in Philadelphia that went through this. She regained most of her functions but it takes time. There’s nothing you can do right now except sit. And he’ll need help ... Can ... can you get Tony to come back? He might need someone full time.”
More calls. Brian. Miriam. Jo and John Sr. St. Luke’s. And to and from Linda, again and again. The twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, fifteenth, on to the twentieth—Sara trying to prepare a nursery, working, worrying about Bobby, holding him, listening to him, talking, visiting her own grandparents and parents and brothers.
And mud! Mud everywhere. North Peak cloaked continually in cool mist or drizzle, the earth turning to mud through which Bobby walked Josh, “civilization” encroaching on “their” open space, the further expansion of North Peak CondoWorld, “Keep that animal on a leash.” Restless, unsettled, sell your crop, don’t leave me. Bobby slept like a turning wheel. There was Bowers left on Hamburger Hill, left wounded, the rain turning the hill into a snot-slick slope, attackers marching in unseen, he hiding behind the wall, the stone wall, the road, unseen assailants, mud, pigs, “You sound like a pig! When are you going to learn to eat?” Masked men probing, blood, the smell stuck in his nose, his head hurt, “This your dog? Nice looking animal. How come you haven’t been up to see me? There’s corn fritters and syrup waiting,” probing, eyes only seen in green shrouds, “I’m cold. God, I’m so cold.” “Next.” “And with 289,000 North Viet Namese soldiers in South Viet Nam, any emergency aid ...” “Next.” “But he’s still alive, Sir.” “Just push those brains back in and put him in the corner....”
Bobby was pissed. It was Friday, January 31, 1975. Tony had shown up out of the blue saying it was almost time to go syruping. “Look, damn it! I went down there three times looking for you guys. There’s not going to be any goddamn syruping this year! He needs help. I need help. He keeps coming in and out. He’s partially paralyzed and Linda says there’s a problem with fluid in his lungs.”
“Well, you tell me, Man.” Tony too was angry, defensive, frightened by Bobby’s account of Pewel’s health. “What do you want me to do? I can go back. I owe him that.”
Now Bobby was conciliatory. “I’ve just been wanting to get in touch with you. You don’t owe him anything. You don’t owe me anything. Did you get that picture to Ty?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he do anything?”
“He put it in his shirt.”
Bobby’s anger flared. “What is it with you guys?! Don’t you know what the word responsibility means?!”
“Fuck that! You don’t have a fuckin idea what we’re like. Not one motherfuckin idea!”
“No wonder”—Bobby could not have said a more hurtful thing—“Linda reinstated those divorce papers.”
Tony looked at him—stunned. The last strings were being cut. “Fine.” His voice was low. “Fuck you.”
Bobby louder, “Fuck you too.”
Four feet apart they squared off, heads lowered, teeth clenched, fists balled, breathing in long deep breaths, staring, trying to stare each other down, not wanting to throw the first shot, Marine versus Airborne, ready to counterpunch, to deliver the knock out, to rip out eyes, throats.
At that moment Sara came home. “Oh—” she was surprised yet happy to see Tony, “you two must be talking about the truncation talk.” She hugged Tony first, like a visiting brother, then kissed Bobby. “I’ve been listening to it on the radio.”
“What truncation?” Bobby asked. He turned on the TV.
“In Viet Nam,” Sara said. “They’re talking about giving up part of the country”—while she spoke she removed her rain jacket, put her book bag by the table; Bobby flipped channels trying to find a news program—“in order to defend the heart better. Something about a withdrawal from the north.”
“That’s Quang Tri,” Tony said. “I saw it in the paper. There’s only a pile a rubble left anyway.”
“‘... threats and scare tactics,’ the senator said.” Bobby backed away from the set so Tony and Sara could see. “Senator Kennedy,” the anchor continued, “demanded that the administration substantiate its five hundred and twenty million dollar request. ‘Once again,’ Kennedy told the Senate, ‘we are hearing the same old arguments and the same old controversies over the same old war. The lingering and bloody conflict deserves more of our diplomacy, and not more of our ammunition.’” The news topic shifted. Bobby gritted his teeth. “Nice way of saying, ‘Get stuffed,’ huh?”
Bobby became more antsy. He could not work, could not design. He worried over every dime, every wasted minute. He felt ill. Perhaps it was psycho-sympathetic. His weight loss accelerated and Sara became afraid for his health.
Tony stopped by in mid-February. He too was anxious. He told Bobby that Ty was cleaning up his act, getting straight, that they’d been talking about going back, together, but had decided to wait until March just in case they didn’t have a place to stay.
Then on Washington’s birthday, Linda called with more bad news. “The doctor told me they may have to take his right leg. There’s just no blood in it. It’s a truncation process,” she added. “You can protect the vital organs by eliminating peripheral needs.”
Bobby could barely speak. He gave the phone to Sara. “Have they told him?” Sara asked.
“Oh, Sara—” Linda, she’d been strong for Bobby, now she burst into tears, “he just wants to go home. He’s been pleading with them to let him go home to die. They want to put in a pacemaker, but he just wants to go back home.”
Sara too was in tears. To Bobby she said, “You’ve got to go back. I’ll be fine.”
On the eighteenth Bobby made arrangements to fly back on Sunday the twenty-third. He talked to Pewel on the nineteenth and the twentieth. Bobby could not read, could not concentrate on the news. Phnom Penh was surrounded but he did not care. He talked to Pewel again on the twenty-first and the old man reminded him that the next day was Pewel and Brigita’s fifty-second wedding anniversary.
On the twenty-second, with Bobby all packed, Linda called with terrible news. “He’s had another stroke,” she told Sara. “He’s comatose. They’ve got him on life support. I ... I know your situation. If you don’t have the money ... for coming twice ... he ... Bobby shouldn’t come. Grandpa could be like this ... he might not make it through the night but he could hang on for months.”
Tony came again, gave him “as a peace offering, Man,” a copy of the 27 January issue of Sports Illustrated, the swimsuit issue with Cheryl Tiegs on the cover. Tony was shaken by the news. The two sat in the mist and dark of the basketball court, killed three six-packs, talked about High Meadow, about Viet Nam, about women, children, cousins, wives.
“I use ta hit her, Man,” Tony said. “I couldn’t control it, Man. That’s why I left. I figured I’d kill her. I almost chopped my daughter’s hand off, too.”
“She never said ... did ... did you try counseling?”
“Man,
I did that for a year. Fuckin shrink said I killed these kids and a mama-san. Said I repressed it and it comes outta me making me act like that.”
“Did you?”
“Man, I don’t fuckin know. But I know I can’t go there and do it again. I should go back though. It’s late but I could still bring in some sap. Time to go back, Man. Time to go back.”
“We’re goin back.”
“We’re goin back, Man.”
“Man, we’re goin back.”
“You shittin me. Sides, I can’t go back. I gotta go maple syrupin.”
“Syrupin?” “Wildman” David Coffee crawled over to Tony. “Syrupin!”
“What the fuck! Okay. There ain’t no fuckin syrup this year anyway.”
“Count in the Twenty-Fifth,” Frankie “The Kid” Denahee said.
“Big Red One,” said Sheldon “Fuzzy” Golan.
“One-Oh-Worst,” added Ty.
“Fourth,” said Coffee.
“The Magnificent Bastards,” said Tony.
“The whole goddamn Corps,” said Big Bro Boyson.
“How the fuck we gettin back?” Ty asked.
“Same way as the first time,” Denahee said.
“I flew over,” Ty said.
“That Texas billionaire’s behind it, Man,” Denahee said. “We’re meetin here. They’re meetin every place, Man. We’re all goin back. Goin back.”
“We need”—Ty turned to Tony—“Wapinski. Man, we gotta get Wapinski.”
“Who’s that?” Big Bro.
“The Captain, Bro.”
“We don’t need no mothafuckin officers.” Big Bro Boyson pulled back from the group on the rooftop squat. “No mothafuckas,” he repeated.
“Captain’s okay, Bro,” Ty said. “Saved lives, Man.”
Then aside, later, Tony and Ty alone. “We can get you there,” Tony said. “We just have to be cool about it.”
“You sure it was me they was lookin for?”
“Shit! He had all your aliases on the warrant.”
“I didn’t fraud no one.”
They converged on the nicely maintained ranch house on the quiet subdivision street in San Jose, California—not just the six roof rats, not just homeless veterans, but fifty-nine strong—men in suits and ties, men in worn field jackets and worn-out jungle boots, men pulling up in new cars, men who’d walked miles. It was March 12, 1975, Tyler Mohammed’s twenty-fourth birthday. Two days earlier the NVA had detonated their blossoming lotus in the vital Central Highland’s city of Ban Me Thuot. For two entire months Congress and the Ford administration had been battling publicly about aid to Viet Nam and Cambodia. Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield led the antiaid fight stating that he was “sick and tired of pictures of Indochinese men, women, and children being slaughtered by American guns with American ammunition....” Eric Sevareid had reinforced this point of view with his “Death Rattle of a Failed Policy” broadcast on February 26th. He was by no means—in the print or electronic media—alone. On the ninth of March there had been a sudden shift in news emphasis—away from Cambodia, away from the aid debate, to the fighting at Ban Me Thuot. On the twelfth Bobby began his true reentry and reeducation into the realities of Viet Nam.
“Man, I can’t fuckin believe this.” Wapinski’s voice was low. He was in the corner of the living room in the San Jose ranch house. He’d shaken hands with the roof rats, was standing between Tony and Ty. Before them, some in chairs, some sitting on the floor, were forty other vets—and more were arriving, packing into that small living room—all talking quietly in twos or threes or not talking at all.
“Fuckin amazin, huh?” Tony whispered.
A vet before them turned back. “What’s really fuckin amazing is how those bastards have cut and run.”
“The dinks, Man?” Ty asked.
“Congress,” the seated man whispered.
Another vet turned. “There it is, Bro.” He raised a power fist to them. “Once you commit you can’t just cut loose and say ta-ta suckers.”
For a moment they were all silent. A few coughed. A few fidgeted. Into Bobby’s mind popped the word responsibility, the accusation cut and run. He wondered, How can these guys be responsible when there’s such a lack of leadership in Congress and the administration? Irresponsibility breeds roof rats.
“Hey,” Tony whispered, “any word on Grandpa?”
“He’s still in a coma. My mother and sister, my brother too—they want to disconnect him. Screw that, Man. You don’t just put somebody in the corner to cool.”
The meeting settled down. The host introduced himself and his Viet Namese wife, who bowed slightly, then immediately retreated to the kitchen. “There’s one hundred thousand of us meeting all over America,” the host said. “That’s the word. A hundred thousand, just like us, ready to go back. And things have just started. Plane fare will be provided for the first ten thousand. They’re still trying to put together the logistics and get a manifest of who’s ready to go.”
Again more asides. “What about weapons and ammo?”
“The weapons are already there. Waiting to be distributed.”
The host began telling people in front about his in-laws who lived in Tay Ninh. In the back another conversation erupted. “I don’t know, Man,” Bobby whispered.
“Yeah, huh.” The vet directly in front of him.
“What?” Big Bro.
“I want to know it’s organized, Man.” Bobby.
“Yeah.” A seated vet. “Give us our weapons here, and we’ll go.”
“How the ninety thousand goin who don’t fly?”
“Boat,” a vet farther in said. “I went by boat in ’65.”
“Give us ammo and weapons”—another voice—“and we’ll land a force of a hundred thousand American ex-military ...”
“Perot’s behind it, Man. He’d follow through.”
“Who told you?”
“Word on the street, Man.”
“Good enough for me ... ah ... long as we get ammo and weapons as we step on board.”
“Good enough for me, too!”
“I’m not lettin it go down the tubes, Man.”
“It’s hallowed ground, Man. My buddies’ blood’s there.”
“Yeah. Mine too.”
“And my cousin’s, Man.”
“Fuckin dinks. Worthless bastards. Don’t give a shit. They fight like shit.”
“Ah ...” Loud, from the front, a vet friend of the host. “I’d like to read to you some parts from these intelligence reports. These are dated January seventeenth and twenty-first and February sixth. Ah, you can all read em in full later if you want. I know what you guys are sayin. I was saying it myself last week. ARVN ain’t worth shit.”
Called from the midst, “Right on.” Murmurs of assent.
“Well, you were right. They weren’t worth shit. Especially if you saw em in ’65 or ’67 or maybe even some units in ’71. How it got to the point where regional forces, ruff puffs, Man, where they could go nose to nose with regular NVA units and kick butt, I don’t know. But it happened. That’s what I want to show you. These guys have been fighting their asses off.
“I didn’t know, Man. Nobody in America seems to know. It’s like from ’72 ... like the past two or three years have been a complete blackout. You know the reputation of the 1st ARVN, and their Airborne, and Marine Divisions, and their Rangers. But I’m telling you the ARVN 3d, 7th, 9th, 21st—even the 22d and 23d Divisions—despite Saigon—they’ve matured. Gone in and done the job. They didn’t give up. They haven’t given up. And conditions are much worse than anything any of us saw when we were there. They’ve done things like ... like the ARVN 7th—they had to make their own division farm to feed their people because aid cutbacks have thrown South Viet Nam into an economic depression. They’ve been fighting without gas for their APCs, without air cover because there’s no aviation fuel. Congress has been fuckin sellin em out. And us too! I don’t give a shit about Thieu or his cronies, but I do care about those
people I trained. And I care about their families. Fuck the politics. If we cut and run—that’s the most dirty, filthy, obscene thing we can do. Listen to this:”
CONFIDENTIAL
American Consulate General II
SUBJECT: Debriefing (1830 hrs, 21 January) of S-3 Officer, Phuoc Long, escape to Quang Duc.
INTROUCTION: Major ------- is, as of this date, the last GVN soldier to escape from Phuoc Long ... evading communist forces for 18 days.
PLACE—Sector TOC, Song Be: 3 January 1975: Shelling of the city by NVA 130-mm artillery had been intensified during the last three days (this was the 24th day of shelling) to an estimated 3,000 rounds per day ... At approximately 1130 hours on 6 January during heavy shelling, the Province Chief with four bodyguards, plus the Sector S-2 and S-3 and 2 NCOs from each section, dodged the incoming shells and made their way out of the TOC. Their timing was essential as four T-54 NVA tanks had rolled into the area and had shelled point-blank the Province Chief’s house and bunker and had destroyed the Province headquarters building and had moved up the road toward the Sector TOC. The tanks commenced shelling the TOC and surrounding bunkers. Some RF soldiers had attempted to knock out the tanks with M-72 LAWs but the weapons were ineffective against the new Soviet-equipped armor. Maj------- attempted twice himself with no results and witnessed one 81st Ranger soldier sneak up less than two meters behind one tank and fire his LAW, also with no results. The soldier was so close that the explosion left his face a bloodied mess. Other soldiers were seen jumping on top of the NVA armor attempting to open the hatch and throw in hand grenades to no avail as the hatches were secured....
The man paused, flipped through the pages, said:
The NVA shelled the city with thousands of rounds ... with many direct hits and the delayed rounds had further devastating effects. Most civilians as well as military were living in bunkers during these days of late December and early January.... With no responding ARVN artillery (it had either been knocked out or they just didn’t have any ammo) NVA units moved closer.... The S-3 estimated that as many as 40 T-54s entered the city and crippled it.... Maj------- remarked that city had been out of food and water for days and he could hear the ill and wounded at the province hospital crying for help....
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