The platoon broke for mess, which was a sorry collection of leftover food from the past few days. They had not had a supply delivery in a while and it was making Robert and his men restless and irritated.
Robert tried to enjoy his rations by thinking of his mother’s fried chicken, hot-water cornbread, yams and black-eye peas. He could almost smell the aromas wafting from the kitchen to the bedroom he shared with his brother Marcus in their Detroit home.
Robert remembered once when he was particularly hungry and sneaked into the kitchen and relieved the planned meal of one of its fried chicken drumsticks. He wolfed down the leg and then deposited the licked-clean bone under his brother’s side of the bed.
Of course, his brother got whipped for his sin, but in the end, his father had found out the truth and Robert had gotten his father’s best. Robert smiled a little. Only in Vietnam would the memory of an ass whipping be a relief.
Robert pulled up his dog tags. Next to the stamped metal was a picture of his wife, Denise. The only thing he missed more than home cooking was her. He looked at her soft brown eyes and the curve of her hips and before he could stop himself, he was thinking of being naked and between her legs in their bed. Marvin Gaye was on the radio and he was rolling in the slippery ecstasy of their union.
Robert had partaken of the whores on R&R when he felt it was safe. Once, he screwed a young girl wearing two rubbers. It was like making love to a catcher’s mitt. Finally, he had given up and had her manually bring him to release.
Over his three years in Vietnam he had had sex a total of three times. That wasn’t human, he thought. War really was hell. Robert put the picture away and the memory faded.
Foster came over and sat next to him. Robert smiled at the thin White man. He and Foster had become fast friends. Foster was a volunteer like Robert and had come from a dirt-poor family in Alabama.
Foster admitted that members of his family were racists from long back, including an uncle who was a leader in the KKK. None of that hatred had infected Foster, somehow. Foster had an easy way and lazy smile that made him look like innocence itself. Foster sat next to Robert; his meager rations were hardly touched.
“Got ol’ big Percy with that screwgee, didn’t I?” Foster said, using the player’s term for a screwball. His voice rolled out the words slowly with its southern accent.
“Yeah, you did,” said Robert. “You should think about trying out for the pros when you get back.”
“I just might,” said Foster. “Shit, I know I ain’t goin’ back to Bama. What team you think I should go out for?”
“I’m a Tiger fan myself,” said Robert, smiling.
“Shit, everybody in Vietnam knows that. That’s all you talk about. How about the Yankees? That’d really piss off my daddy.”
“The Yankees are good but everybody wants to go there. Try a southern team, like the Cards.”
Foster nodded in his laconic way, and then tried to eat some of the food.
Robert took in a deep breath and smelled the jungle again and the stink of war just underneath, sulfurous and bitter.
He understood how unlikely his friendship with Foster was. Robert didn’t have any White friends back in Detroit and despite his parents’ pious teachings; he had not trusted White men very much. But Vietnam was a different story. The two men sat in the middle of the jungle, the human distance between them obliterated by the inhumane.
“Supply jeep!” shouted Foster suddenly.
Robert jumped to his feet. The sentries had already raised their weapons. Just because a vehicle appeared to be American didn’t mean it actually was. But as the jeep got closer, ripping dust into the air, Robert looked through binoculars and saw two very American soldiers in the vehicle. The driver was Black and about twenty or so. He looked so much like Robert’s brother that it alarmed him a little. The other man was White and a Lieutenant by his insignia. But what made him smile was the back of the jeep. It was filled with supplies.
Robert signaled his sentries to stand down as the jeep approached the camp. The Lieutenant’s vehicle pulled in and stopped. Robert went to the jeep and snapped a salute.
“Sir,” said Robert.
“Sergeant Jackson?”
“Yes, sir,” said Robert.
“I’m Lieutenant Ferguson and this is Private Taylor. I’m new in charge of this sector’s HQ.”
“What happened to Captain Reed?” Robert asked with a little concern in his voice.
Ferguson’s change of expression said it all before the words came out of his mouth. There was a way you knew death had visited. It lived just behind everyone’s eyes and words.
“Killed in a fire fight,” said Ferguson. “Well, first things first. We brought fresh supplies.”
“Thank you, sir!” smiled Robert. “This stuff we’re eating is giving us the shits and—- sorry, sir.”
“No problem, Sergeant” said Ferguson and Robert could see Private Taylor suppress a smile. “I even got some fresh meat for you but you’ll have to cook it soon.”
Robert signaled to Cole and some other men to begin unloading the back of the jeep. The other men moved. Cole didn’t.
“Did you hear me, private?” Robert intoned louder.
Cole grunted something but went off to help. Robert liked giving Cole manual labor because he saw the insult in Cole’s eyes just before he began to follow the order.
“Problem?” asked Ferguson.
“Man don’t like Negroes, sir,” said Robert.
“You want me to speak with him?”
“No, sir. That would only make him happy if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I see,” said Ferguson nodding a little.
Robert told Foster and some others to fire up the meat. And then he turned back to Ferguson. He liked this man, Robert thought. There was little of the arrogance he felt from most officers. Ferguson seemed to know he was in charge by rank, which made Robert an inferior soldier, but Ferguson didn’t seem to treat Robert like an inferior person.
“As to your other supplies,” said Ferguson. “There are five med kits in there, six new launchers and ten cases of ammo.”
Robert regarded the superior officer and knew what this meant. “I guess we got new orders,” he said.
“Yes,” said Ferguson. “I need your platoon to secure a patch of road in Sector Twenty-Three.” Ferguson pulled out a set of papers and a map. He spread it on the hood of the jeep.
The mention of the area made Robert’s heart race. Sector Twenty-Three was as bad a place as any in the war. The enemy’s strong hold was not far away and they had continually killed anything breathing on its roads. Robert had been there once when he’d first gotten to Vietnam and he’d barely made it out alive.
“We’re planning on taking that sector for good,” Ferguson continued. “We need a big supply convoy to pass. You’re going to get air support as well as ground from the infantry. We’ll need that road safe for passage a day from now.”
Robert had never maintained any illusions about the possibility of dying in this far off land. There were only two reasons a man even went to war. He was drafted or he had a death wish. Robert had volunteered so the former reason did not apply. Death was waiting for him back home on the streets in some form, so Robert had decided to take his chances doing something worthwhile. He didn’t even know why America was fighting the war but it didn’t matter, really. Sooner or later every man had to fight.
In basic training, Robert discovered something that pleased and frightened him. He was meant to be a soldier. He was tough, mean and savvy when it came to violence. He was a natural leader and possessed a fearlessness about him that other men recognized and respected. These things raced quickly through his mind before he said:
“It will be, sir.”
Ferguson smiled a little, impressed by Robert’s can-do attitude. Robert moved to the hood of the jeep, so he could see the map better. Behind him, he smelled the meat being roasted. It was like heaven and thoughts of Saturday bar
becues, mini skirts and summertime fun floated through his head.
“So how are things going back home?” asked Robert.
“Difficult,” said the Lieutenant. “People are actually protesting the war, if you can believe it, cursing soldiers after they come back home.” Ferguson looked away for a moment, as if searching for the answer to some secret he contemplated. “The protected never understand their protectors,” he said finally.
“And baseball, sir?” said Robert. “How are my Tigers doing?”
“Don’t know,” said Ferguson smiling. “I’m a Red Sox man myself.”
Robert spent the next hour working through the plan with Ferguson. It would be a tough outing and the prospect of finally losing a man occurred to him with grimness.
The Lieutenant joined them for dinner. He sat with the enlisted men and shared laughs and stories with them.
Robert enjoyed the moment but could not help but think that the officer, though a very fine man, had brought The Cleaners their last meal.
2
FAMILY PORTRAIT
Thomas Riley tried to keep still as he listened to the Police Chief’s closing remarks. The man had been speaking for close to an hour and he sounded like he was winding up.
Thomas was tingling all over his twenty-two year old body. This was it, he thought. The moment he’d toiled for and dreamed about over the last year. In a few minutes, he would become a newly minted officer of the Detroit Police Department.
The ceremony was being held outside on the Academy’s grounds. It was a beautiful spring day in the city. The sun was mild and pleasing and though he didn’t know it, the cloudless sky was a deeper blue than the one in Vietnam a world away.
Vietnam was a big issue at home these days but that trouble seemed distant to the young cadet. A sweet aroma, probably apple blossom was in the air. War, death and Sector 23’s did not exist.
The graduating class was small this year. The war had taken away many good men and others who resisted the draft were in prison or had fled the country. And even if those men were still in the U.S., they would certainly not be considered DPD material.
Thomas was in an excellent position. He had not qualified for military service and so he quickly stepped into the family business. His father, Frank, was a retired officer, a thirty year man who had never made it beyond street duty.
His deceased brother Shaun was also an officer when he died in the Korean War.
His grandfather, Cahan, had been a cop at the turn of the century. Cahan had similarly retired in a uniform. He’d told Thomas once that he would never trade being a cop for a detective’s gold shield.
Once the war was over, the city would be overrun with soldiers wanting to become police officers. Since Thomas was going in now, he’d have seniority when that day came. Yes, this was a great day, he mused. The kind you’d never forget.
“... and so as our nation continues the war and we face challenges at home,” said the Chief. “It is up to you, the domestic soldiers, to maintain the peace and freedom of this great country in this time of need. God bless you, God bless America and congratulations to you all.”
The class broke out in lively applause as the Chief smiled and sat down. The Academy’s Dean stood. He was a big man, thick in the middle with piercing blue eyes. He went to the podium as an officer brought out the diplomas. The cadets stood and formed a line to accept their commissions.
Thomas felt a surge of energy race through him as he stood. He was like a kid and now the dream melted into stark reality. Since he was a child, his family had filled him with the dream of wearing a uniform and carrying a gun.
While his classmates in high school talked about college, parties and changing the world, Thomas had only been interested in police work.
“Eric Adams,” began the Dean and the first cadet crossed the stage.
Thomas lingered near the end of the line, anxiously awaiting his name. He looked out over the gathering. There were about two hundred spectators. He smiled at his father and his mother, Esther, sitting near the front in the middle of a row. He could see his mother wiping away tears and his father beaming with pride.
His kid sister, Katie, was to their left and next to her was Sarah Nelson, his fiancée. Sarah caught his eyes and smiled sweetly. She was petite and blonde with dazzling green eyes. Thomas regarded Sarah and wondered, as he often did, why she’d gone for him when she could have claimed any man she wanted.
“Carl Henderson,” said the Dean.
Sarah and Thomas had met while he was working as security for Wayne State University. Thomas was waiting for his assignment to basic training in the Army and wanted to keep busy until then. Even though as a last son, he could have been exempted, he wanted to serve. This made his father proud. Frank made Thomas promise to join the DPD as soon as he returned stateside.
Thomas had struck up a conversation with Sarah in front of some other students. The men in the group had laughed at his attempt to snag a date with the prettiest girl on campus.
Their laughter was soon turned to shock when Sarah asked him out right in front of them all. Thomas understood then that Sarah was different from the other girls with their mildly phony innocence and shy behavior.
What Thomas didn’t realize was that he was a good-looking man himself. In Thomas’ world, men didn’t think of themselves as handsome. If you did, other men might think that you were queer. And that was not something any man wanted in the minds of other people.
What Sarah saw was a tall, young man in a security guard’s uniform that stretched from his wide shoulders. She saw dark blue eyes, thick dark hair and a face of pure innocence.
“Byron Peterson,” said the Dean.
Thomas gave Sarah a little wave and she returned it with the peace sign. He laughed a little at this. Sarah was what they called an intellectual radical and a hippie. She was active in the anti-war movement, which he also found interesting and strangely attractive. He just wished his father did.
Sara’s politics caused animosity with Frank Riley who was a war hawk and conservative Democrat. But Thomas didn’t care. Sarah was his girl and that was all that mattered. By the time it was decided that he wasn’t going to war, he and Sarah were engaged.
Thomas perked up as he heard the name of Randall Richardson being called. He was next. Thomas took a breath and put one singular thought in his head. “Don’t trip walking to the stage.”
He felt a little better about this fear as Randall stumbled on his way up the stairs and caught himself just before his body was about to crash into the stage floor. Now that it was done, Thomas had no fear.
“Thomas Riley,” said the Dean.
Thomas walked onto the stage and accepted his commission. He crossed the stage to applause and went down the other side. He stepped off the platform onto the hard ground. Thomas took his seat as the last cadets were called. They remained seated as the Dean took the podium again.
“Congratulations, officers, and welcome to the Detroit Police Department!”
The cadets broke into thunderous applause and tossed their cadet hats into the air. The audience stood and cheered.
Thomas turned and searched for his family but they were already making their way to him. The smile on his face was so wide that it hurt a little. He was hugged, shook and slapped on the back by his fellow rookies even as he moved to meet his family.
“Well, you did it!” exclaimed Frank, patting his son hard on the shoulders. There was still a bit of Irish lilt in Frank’s voice. His brother Shaun also had the lilt though Thomas always felt that Shaun was just doing an imitation. Thomas had no hint of Irish in his tones and sometimes he wondered if this meant he was devoid of some deep family power.
“Thanks,” said Thomas gleefully.
Frank Riley was what Thomas called a Real Man. A Real Man was a man that played sports in high school, didn’t go to college but went to war for his country to kill America’s enemies. He drank hard, played harder and he voted Democratic but wasn’
t a liberal pacifist. And he did something with his hands for a living, something that made him proud.
Shaun was a Real Man. He was a high school baseball and football player, a cop and a Korean War vet. So was his grandfather, Cahan who was a carpenter, a cop and a sergeant in World War I. Thomas had most of the Real Man qualifications but he did not wear them as a badge of honor.
“How do you find your hat?” asked Katie looking at the hats littered across the lawn.
“My name is in it,” said Thomas absently. “Mom, are you still crying?”
“Can’t help it,” said Esther dabbing her flushed face with a handkerchief. “You know what ceremonies do to me.”
Thomas couldn’t contain himself any longer. He stepped over to Sarah and kissed her.
“Wow, we are excited,” said Sarah.
“Right out in public,” sighed Frank, embarrassed by the display. Katie just giggled.
“Sorry,” said Thomas, although he didn’t mean it.
A cadet walked over and handed Thomas his hat. Thomas thanked him and put it on his head.
“Well, the Riley tradition continues,” said Frank. “And the city is safe for another twenty years.” Esther repeated the last part with him and Frank scoffed. “Now all we have to do is get a grandson and-—“
“Maybe we’ll have a girl and she’ll join the police force,” said Sarah with a touch of defiance.
“Righteous,” said Katie. It was an expression that was relatively new and to Frank; it was Negro talk. Frank cut Katie a cautionary look that silenced her.
“It would be righteous,” said Thomas not wanting his kid sister to feel bad.
Frank said nothing although he was already on record as saying that women should not be allowed to be cops. He had all the usual reasons for having this opinion but Frank’s favorite was the science of aggressiveness. Females were just not mean enough to be police. That was another Real Man sentiment. Thomas wondered if his father felt he was wrong about this when his mother was mad at him and gave him that glare that could wither a rock.
Dark Town Redemption Page 2