Finals

by Alan Weisz

  “I’ll find a way to keep myself entertained,” I said. “So don’t worry, I will be here when you return.”

  “Good,” she said in customary peppy voice as she leaned down for a smooch, and with one zealous kiss, she departed speedily, leaving me to ponder my options.

  Resting on Hayley’s bed, I closed my eyes taking in that sweet Burberry scent I loved so much. This was great. The whole being here alone aspect wasn’t wonderful, but in general I was happy to be in my ex’s burrow. I was rather curious about the contents of her message. From the pretense of her affirmation for me to stay put, it sounded serious. I didn’t like Hayley being serious. I seriously disliked seriousness, especially in regards to lovey-dovey situations. It’s a given that one person is going to end up feeling awkward. Someone will say, “I love you,” (a phrase one shouldn’t take lightly) or you’ll get one of those cliché breakup lines that are devastating to hear. “You’re too good for me,” or “I think we should just be friends,” or the classic, “It’s not you, it’s me.” All potential relationships killers and all are equally as unpleasant to hear. I guess “I love you” isn’t that bad in comparison to getting kicked in the balls with an “I think we need to take a break.” Actually, hearing “I love you” from Hayley wouldn’t be too bad. In fact, it’d be refreshing to know that I hadn’t gone through all this heartache in vain.

  In the middle of daydreaming about Hayley’s imaginary confession of love and whether or not I’d follow up with a reciprocal “I love you,” my pants starting vibrating.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Wayne? This is Father O’Connor,” said the priest warmly.

  “Hi Father. How’s it going?”

  “I’m doing well, my boy. I’m sorry to intrude on your celebration since I’m very much aware that you’ve recently finished your finals, but I was hoping you might pop over for a visit this evening. I wanted to put in my congratulatory two cents to your graduating class with a short article in the paper.”

  Since the prospect of skimming through Hayley’s Glamour didn’t exactly whip me into a frenzy, I agreed to go visit my favorite priest. Despite the fact that it wasn’t my responsibility to assemble articles for the graduation paper, it gave me something to do while I waited for the blonde to come back with her oh-so-serious message, and I’m sure Sister Robinson would be pleased to hear about yet another piece going in The Gazette’s final production of the year if I could get it to her in time.

  After a quick search, I found Hayley’s massive stash of note cards in one of her desk drawers. I scribbled down “Had to run a quick errand be back soon! ~W” before placing the card neatly on her Mac where she would likely have no trouble finding it.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In a somewhat bizarre fashion, Father O’Connor answered the door unshaven wearing a wool cardigan rather than his usual priestly getup. He greeted me with a hearty, “Wayne, my boy,” as per norm as he led us to his home office, a place I had seen only a time or two before. I would have thought this an unusual place to conduct our normal happy-go-lucky conversation if not for The Gazette article that was likely stored on his computer.

  The office was a conventional haven for an intellectual such as O’Connor. Like the cheesy line from Anchorman, the rich mahogany desk and cabinets reeked of importance and sophistication. The black leather chairs tied in nicely with the wood pieces as did the archetypal photographs of the university taken from decades past. Truthfully, if Ethan Allen were to decorate a custom office for a university professor, this room would likely be the result. Except for a hunky gray Dell computer and printer that sat on the priest’s desk like an eyesore, the room was magnificent.

  O’Connor flopped down in the black leather chair as I took a seat on the opposite side of the desk. The priest rubbed his eyes together and exhaled loudly. I guessed that the last few nights of grading finals and calculating totals, in addition to the man’s numerous administrative duties were beginning to take a toll.

  “Looks like you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, Father. At your age, you should know you can’t mix alcohol with all those meds you have,” I said in jest.

  “I apologize if I appear lethargic. I have had a couple of long evenings.”

  “I understand, it’s a busy time for everyone,” I answered.

  “It is, but it’s also an exhilarating one. You’re about to don the infamous St. Elizabeth purple and gold as you receive the diploma you’ve strived to obtain since freshman year. It’s quite an achievement, my boy.”

  Most students were jazzed about the prospect of taking the glorious walk up the podium steps to shake the president’s hand and triumphantly pump their arms in the air, degree in hand. It wasn’t as though I wasn’t thrilled to receive my degree, but compared to the hefty amount of unwavering trouble that was still on my plate, this accomplishment was taking a backseat.

  “I suppose graduating is a big feat,” I said, watching as the priest clicked on his mouse a few times, likely trying to get his article to print.

  “It undoubtedly is, my boy!” the priest said, as the printer decided to match the old man’s enthusiasm by making little excited noises as well.

  “I know your main reason for stopping by was to collect this article,” he said passing over his two page printout. “But I was thinking a congratulatory drink is in order as well.”

  To my surprise, this man of God opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch in addition to two clear glasses. I couldn’t help but laugh as my old friend poured the brown substance in the glasses before he pushed one in my direction.

  “Usually I save this for rough days but in this case we’ll make an exception.”

  I laughed as our glasses clanked together as a joyous “cheers” followed. I don’t know why I thought this sudden appearance of alcohol was so funny considering the man was Irish after all.

  Immediately after taking a swig, I broke into a coughing fit and it was Father O’Connor’s turn to be amused.

  “Straight scotch takes time to get used to I’m afraid,” he snickered, watching as I tried to catch my breath. “But this stuff will put hair on your chest.”

  “And likely sterilize any injury,” I retorted.

  “I didn’t really become accustomed to it until Vietnam, and then it became a necessity.”

  Many elderly men, such as my grandfather, spouted out war tales as if it was a form of Tourette’s, but O’Connor wasn’t such a man. He held his cards close to the chest. This occasion notwithstanding, we mostly talked about lectures after Mass, my classes or campus activities. The man had a knack for drawing the conversation back to the other speaker. I felt as though I was one of his closest cohorts on campus and I hardly knew any details about his personal life. I knew he was raised in a small Midwest town. He had two brothers, both of whom were great baseball players. He grew up in a strict Catholic family, not surprising given his current position, and he was an avid John Grisham reader.

  In comparison, aside from Hayley and my roomies, the priest knew everything there was to know about me. Aside from my sexual liaisons (which were few and far between) and my heinous activities, there was nothing I wouldn’t share. Father O’Connor was caring, intelligent and provided great guidance and moral support. He was basically like my third grandfather.

  “I never knew you were in Vietnam, Father. That must have been quite an experience,” I said.

  I watched as the priest leaned back into his chair, taking a rather long sip from his glass. He stared blankly at the ground for a moment as if collecting his thoughts or contemplating how to best describe his duration overseas.

  After a lengthy pause, I knew the story soon to be spoken was one that was earned, not fervently told. In many personal matters, O’Connor’s responses were short and sweet. A prompt answer was given before the habitual topic change took place. This silence meant preparation, a tale rarely received by students past or present was going to be my reward for a four-year frie
ndship with this man of the cloth.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “In the summer of 1968, at the age of twenty-one, I was drafted,” O’Connor began. “The first eight months in Nam weren’t difficult. My training lasted for quite some time and once I finished my tasks were hardly considered dangerous. I scouted a few areas and ran supplies between bases and AOs, but it wasn’t until I became a part of the Artillery Forward Observation Team assigned to the Infantry Company that my time in Vietnam started becoming life threatening.

  “It’s been so many years an old man forgets things, but my last mission is one I still vividly recall. It will be embedded in my memory until I die.

  “In early October 1969, our team, 22 Delta, was assigned to find and destroy the North Vietnam forces that were crossing over from Cambodia in an attempt to mount an attack on the city Tay Ninh. The previous morning our squad had conducted a little reconnaissance. We concluded the party was merely a small band of suppliers and some North Vietnam Army soldiers. Little did we know, we only got a glimpse of half the unit. In reality, this was a group of well-trained, well-equipped soldiers that equaled, if not surpassed, the number of men in Delta.

  “I remember that morning feeling uneasy. I felt apprehensive as if I already knew this day was going to be far different from any day in Nam so far. I was close to a few men in my unit. Chuck Daniels and Noah Johnson were two of the most cocky, self-absorbed men ever dropped in Nam, but honest to God there were no soldiers I would rather have had guarding my back than those two men. My closest friend was Isaac Rebello, but everyone called him Finch because he was very articulate, which wasn’t the norm over there. One of the boys pegged him as Finch because he thought Isaac talked like Gregory Peck’s character in To Kill a Mockingbird, and truth be told his nose stuck out like a bird’s beak as well so the name suited him quite nicely. Like me, Finch was a well-read, God-fearing Christian, who had a passion for AL baseball. We were simply two peas in a pod.

  “Before we broke camp, I knew Finch was feeling similar to how I was because he was curiously quiet. Most mornings when Daniels and Johnson debated on who was going to kill more gooks, Finch would be there to jazz them about how often they cited “mechanic malfunctions” as their primary excuse for misfiring, but not today. I remember asking him if everything was okay as we packed up our gear.

  “You see Wayne, my boy, a man at war can never say ‘I’m scared’ or ‘I’m nervous’. It just doesn’t happen, no matter if you feel that way or not. For the sake of your troop and for your own well-being, a man can’t go into battle afraid he might die. Your fellow soldiers won’t be reassured and if all you think about is death then by God you’ll eventually will it to transpire. Finch knew that as well as I did, which is why he didn’t say anything. He said he just missed his wife Whitney and his year-old son he had yet to see. That might have been the truth, but I think what he was really saying to me was ‘O’Connor, I need to go back home to my family, I can’t die here.’ I remember patting him on the back, and telling him that I’d make sure he didn’t get himself killed for his wife and son’s sake. He gave me a slight grin, and I think he felt more at ease after I said that, but who knows what’s running through a man’s head.

  “I knew a couple of the other men in our unit but most were new soldiers, also known as Cherries. They were thrown straight into the action due to the war’s escalation. Our team’s lead man was Harry “Nails” Westman, nicknamed because he was tough as nails and always had a way of getting out of a tight jam.

  “Our company broke camp in our three standard files, I was center file behind Nails. We walked for about two miles, not knowing we were heading into an ambush. The NVA had set a large U-shaped perimeter and were hoping to get our entire party into their kill zone.

  “Thankfully, someone on the enemy’s side had an itchy trigger finger. Before our party was sucked into the ambush, a machine gun opened fire injuring our man at point. Nails ordered us to the left where we ran into more heavy fire. This caused the platoon to split, most hit the ground but Nails, a few Cherries and I broke off to the right. Since I was the RTO for this mission, it was my job to radio in for Bounce Max, a call that in essence meant we needed air support to subdue the enemy. The Cobra of the 2nd Battalion could be in the air to render assistance in as little as two minutes, so when I heard the Cobra flight leader’s voice I was thanking the dear Lord that backup was on the way.

  “His call sign was Bravo 42, and when I heard the flight leader and his wingman were quickly approaching with rockets, 40 MM grenades and a mini-gun I thought for a second we might all get out of there with our lives. During their first run, Bravo 42 managed to wedge a small gap between our scattered platoon and the enemy, but the airborne crew expended their ammo in just a few minutes, forcing them to return to base.

  “While Bravo 42 was at station, another Cobra flight team helped fend off the enemy but our situation on the ground was becoming worse with each passing minute. The majority of Delta 22 was hunkered in near the tree line, and was under intense fire. Our small section of Delta was under the adjacent tree line divided by the NVA troops. Thanks to a couple rockets and Chi-Com hand grenades, several Cherries in our group were killed. As the enemy advanced upon us, I’d say only eight or nine men include Nails and I were capable of defending our position. The rest were dead or badly wounded. Compared to our position, Finch and the majority of our boys were in far worse shape. Although the tree line was providing much needed cover, the NVA troops were closing in.

  “As grenades exploded all around us, I could vaguely pick up the voice of the Bravo 42 flight leader informing us of his position. The pilot told me he was at about three thousand feet but still a few minutes out.

  “While our tiny unit attempted to hide in the nearby brush, I began thinking there was no way we were going to get out of this alive. The enemy was pushing down on us and both sections of Delta were in serious danger. The increasing smoke from the Cobra’s rockets and the enemy’s grenades made visual conformation impossible. The enemy was right on us, and Nails was screaming at me to give Bravo 42 our coordinates. The next thing I remember was telling the flight leader our position near the far tree line. In the heat of the moment, I forgot to give the coordinates of the location where the majority of our team sat. The Cobra flight leader said he couldn’t see a thing and that he was afraid he was going to hit the Friendlies, but Nails, who was right beside me on the ground yelled, ‘Just shoot the damn rockets you bastard!’

  “After that call, the rest of the mission was a blur. At the hospital, Nails informed me that the Cobra’s rockets hit the trees near our location. Apparently, alongside with killing the enemy, the explosion knocked us back. I think I blacked out for a few minutes but when I awoke, I tasted blood and I knew my left arm was broken. Blood was streaming down my face into my eyes but I couldn’t move my arm to wipe it away. I could hear wild screams around me, so I closed my eyes believing this was truly the end. I can say for certainty that was the scariest moment of my life. I truly believed I was going to die.

  “When I awoke, I heard the humming of a helicopter and Nails with his arm around my waist was shouting in my ear, ‘Pick up your goddamn feet soldier!’ I can’t tell you how I got on that chopper, but I managed somehow.

  “Two days later, I woke up in the hospital with my head bandaged and my left arm in a cast. The doctors informed me that I had suffered a concussion and my arm was broken in three places. The pain grew far worse; however, when I learned that I was one of only five members of Delta that survived the mission. Nails informed me that he and a few of the rookies that took cover near our position lived, but the enemy, as well as the possible friendly fire from Bravo 42, killed all of the soldiers that broke off from our party, including Daniels, Johnson and Finch.

  “It took several months until the doctors gave me the all clear and I was released. I spent a couple days traveling but I was in the air on a plane back to the U.S. in no time. Shortly after I returned
home, I joined the seminary, and I’m sure you know the rest.”

  Father O’Connor refilled his glass and gave me a top-off before sinking back seamlessly into his chair. His face was void of expression and I was having difficulty reading his emotions. Maybe time had dulled the pain because he didn’t appear too upset, but I knew the events of that mission had caused him to become a man of the Church.

  The one aspect of the story I had yet to wrap my mind around was how he came to that swift decision. “Wow, Father, was there something that made you want to join the seminary once you returned or was the experience itself simply that traumatic so you decided the world needed another man to teach the word of God?”

  “That’s a good question, Wayne,” he said. “The guilt was a heavy burden. I felt responsible for the death of those men.”