Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  It was also much too good for a squad of Marine grunts. When their company returned to Camp Evans after two weeks in the field, Willy’s squad discovered that staff officers had taken over the palace and turned it into the Regimental Command Post.

  There was some bitching but not much. Willy’s Marines drank the case of cold beer sent by the colonel as an apology and forgot about it. It was the construction that counted, not the structure. And they would always remember those good times among the bad ones that followed.

  Through the sweltering days in the dusty kitchen of the brown-stone where they worked that summer, Willy used the snick of a light finishing hammer on fine nail heads to set a comfortable rhythm for himself. Concentrating on perfect spacing, countersinking the nails, doing a craftsman’s job for a workman’s wage, made him feel worthy. It allowed him to ignore the bombast and rhetoric over the worsening situation in Southeast Asia that swirled through the nation, the stuff his Dad insisted on watching at Hogan’s or on their old Motorola in the living room of the apartment.

  On his way to or from work, the radio in his father’s old GMC truck told him horror stories. Nixon and Kissinger ate a murder of Le Duc Tho’s crow and signed a peace pact that was so weak and lopsided as to be an international joke. Willy didn’t need a degree in political science to understand that peace with honor was just a political term more acceptable than admitting that the U.S. got its ass kicked in Vietnam. All U.S. military action in Vietnam had been halted and those who could were running for the exits.

  There was no more MACV, only a few burned-out advisers scattered throughout the country, trying to prop up the ARYN while their ship of state sank like a rock. On TV, Walter Cronkite said there would be no more than 50 American military people left in Vietnam by Christmas. He was gloating when he broke the story, but sobered up to announce 46,163 U.S. KIA to date. Willy Pud finally unplugged the TV and shoved it into a closet. He kept the truck radio tuned to an FM rock station that did not break for news, but none of that kept him from feeling very empty inside.

  He spent most of the muggy summer nights getting comfortably buzzed at Hogan’s where there was respite, elbow room, and lots of kitschy neon signs he could ponder without engaging his brain overmuch. None of the regulars ran off at the mouth about Vietnam. There was nothing the guys down at Hogan’s could do about a thing like that.

  He usually sat along the short leg of Hogan’s L-shaped bar with his father and Frank Hovitz on either side. Sometimes they would commandeer a back booth to play penny-a-point cribbage. Drunk or sober, Willy Pud usually stayed late, sometimes competing with himself at shuffleboard and sometimes simply staring into Hogan’s stained, faded excuse for a mirror that backed the bar.

  And sometimes when all the other drinkers had gone home and he sat watching Hogan refilling the coolers, Willy caught glimpses of Salt and Pepper. He’d see them grinning over his hunched shoulders, gloating because they’d been right, they’d abandoned a loser and backed a winner. The bastards had gotten away with it after all, he thought on those late nights. And no one knew of their treachery. The President with the smelly feet was a liar after all—and a crook, if you believed all the Watergate stories.

  j

  “Stosh says you got a future as a wood-butcher.” Hogan spun a cold beer bottle down the bar and touched a kitchen match to a fresh cigar. “You gonna work with him from now on, or go on back to school?”

  Willy shrugged and shook his head. “Who the fuck knows, Hogan? Seems like before l left they said you couldn’t do shit without a high school diploma. Now they say you’re fucked if you don’t go to college. I don’t know how its gonna turn out, tell you the truth.”

  Hogan poured himself a shot of rye whiskey and set it on the bar next to Willy’s bottle. “We done that to you kids, you know? Always pushing the education bit... mostly because we never had much and wound up busting our asses to make ends meet. Sometimes I wonder how come a steady job ain’t good enough nowadays, you know? Where’s it say every kid grows up in the country has got to become a high-paid executive sitting on his ass in the air-conditioning? It seems like the only ones doing anything with their hands anymore are them goddamn hippies.”

  “It’s a bitch, Hogan. Seems like everybody wants to be an officer but you don’t need officers if you ain’t got troops for them to lead.”

  “They might have given you a discharge, Willy, but you’re still in the Marines. So, are you going back to school or what?”

  Willy Pud was seriously pondering the question when a gaggle of late customers heading home from a Cubs double-header at Wrigley wandered in the door. While Hogan tended to their drink orders, Willy tried to decide something—anything—about his future when the long, muggy Chicago summer ended. Should he give school another shot or chuck it all and look for work? He liked books…or at least what he read in many of them. There was so much he hadn’t realized about the worlds he traversed as a Marine. Every once in a while, he’d look up from something he was reading and the world around him would appear a little clearer, a little more understandable. Things he’d seen and things he’d done or seen others do made more sense if you didn’t insist on measuring them against just your own opinions. A guy could get a valuable frame of reference for all the shit involved in living life if he had some education.

  Hogan was announcing the last call for alcohol when she walked in the door. The woman perched on a corner stool, dropped an armload of books on the bar, and ordered vodka. Willy watched while Hogan checked her ID and then served the drink. Details were hard to spot in the soft neon light, but her profile featured a long, straight nose and high cheekbones. When she winced at the first bite of liquor on her tongue, Willy saw fine lines—like tiny arrows in a quiver—at the comers of dark brown eyes.

  Collecting change from the bar, she slid off her stool and headed for the cigarette machine in the corner. Her journey there and back gave Willy ample time to admire a pair of long, muscular legs that rippled and flowed beneath the hem of a leather miniskirt. She stared straight back at him as she returned to her drink. There was the hint of a smile, but Willy dropped his gaze back into his beer. A flash of heat crawled up his neck and onto his cheeks as he suddenly realized he didn’t have the first clue about introducing himself no matter how badly he wanted to do that at the moment.

  She fumbled around in a huge suede saddlebag of a purse looking for a match. Willy saw Hogan start to move and waved him off as he pulled his battered Zippo out of a pocket and walked down the bar. She nodded at him, flipping a hank of long blonde-streaked hair over her shoulder to avoid the flame.

  “Thanks,” she smiled. “You know they used to give you matches in those machines.”

  “Take these.” Willy craned over the bar and reached around to find the box Hogan kept back there. He slid a book of matches in her direction and grinned. “Hogan keeps them for his regulars.”

  “Are you a regular?”

  “Oh, yeah, I live in the neighborhood. I’ve been coming here for years.”

  She seemed willing to talk, so Willy retrieved his own smokes and drink and slid onto the stood next to her. “It’s a neighborhood bar, you know? Not many strangers. We don’t get the disco crowd.”

  “Disco crowd?” She laughed. “Do I look like I’m from the disco crowd?”

  Willy felt a flush of embarrassment but her smile wiped it away. She had a throaty chuckle that ran up a pleasing scale and back down to a grin. “I’ve been out at Wrigley and they lost. I needed a drink.”

  “Cards and Cubs, I heard. How bad was it?”

  “Tied through the tenth…and then Lou Brock dings a two-run homer over the right field wall. Cards won it six-four.” She shook her head and hit the drink. “Fucking Cubs…”

  Willy flipped open one of her books and saw the U of C library imprint. “It looks like we are fellow travelers on the road to higher education.”

  “Funny I haven’t seen you on campus.”

&nb
sp; “Yeah, funny…if I’d seen you out there, I’d damn sure remember.”

  She smiled and signaled Hogan for another drink with her eyebrows raised in supplication. Hogan checked the clock and decided he could afford the time. He brought her a vodka on the rocks and a fresh beer for Willy. “That’s it, folks. I gotta close after that.”

  “I don’t get around much,” she said. “I’m snowed with summer session classes, trying to get my teacher’s certificate.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be a trained observer.”

  She set her drink on the bar and appraised him carefully up and down with her lips pressed together like she was reading a menu. “And that would be trained by the military?”

  “It shows, huh?” There was a glint of challenge in her eyes but it didn’t seem hostile.

  “I’ve got a confession to make.” She laughed again on that sliding scale. “I know who you are. I asked some friends and they said you were in Vietnam.”

  “I was.” Willy shrugged and tried to keep his voice level. “And I did what I needed to do. Then I got out. Now I’m in school. Simple as that.”

  She nodded and stuck out her hand. “I’m Ricky Roberts.”

  “Willy Pudarski,” he said taking the hand. It was warm and strong. She gave his hand a little polite squeeze before breaking contact and reaching for her drink.

  “They call you Willy Pud. Is that right?”

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Same friends…”

  “Would they be some of the vets on campus?”

  “Some of them are. They said you spent a long time in Vietnam.”

  “Yeah, maybe too long…” Willy really didn’t want to explore that with her. She hadn’t shown any disgust or disparagement but you never knew. “So, I’ve got a weird name thanks to my old man. How’d you come by yours?”

  “My full name is Jane Frederica. They started calling me Ricky when I was a little girl and it just stuck. Go figure.”

  “You live near here?”

  “Yeah,” she said draining her drink. “My folks live in Evanston. My dad’s a dentist and he helps pay the bills until I get my certificate. I share an apartment over on Marquette Road.”

  “I live over on South Calumet...with my old man.”

  “So, are you going back to school this year?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I kind of like it. Maybe I’ll be a teacher. Got any room in your classes?”

  “Well, I hope we see each other again. Thanks for the matches and the conversation.” She stood to gather her books and purse.

  “You heading home now?”

  She hefted the books and smiled. “Got a bummer of a class tomorrow…bunch of stuff to read.”

  Willy Pud stuffed his cigarettes and lighter in a pocket. “You got a ride or you gonna take the L?”

  “It’s just a few blocks. I walk it all the time.”

  “OK if I walk with you?”

  She shrugged and headed for the door.

  The night air was cool and bracing after the stuffy atmosphere of the bar. Willy breathed deeply and fell in with her long, steady stride. There was no mincing in her step, and she kept her eyes locked straight ahead. He glanced at her and chuckled.

  “Share the joke?”

  “I was just thinking. The way you walk…you would have done just fine in the infantry.”

  She stopped suddenly. Willy was two strides ahead before he could turn. She was staring at him with a dark look in her eyes and angry clench to her jaw.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Jesus...sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. You just walk different than most women. You get right along, you know? Kind of like what we used to call humping.”

  She stared, blinked, and then the lines around her eyes and mouth crinkled into view. She laughed and picked up her stride. “Where I come from, humping means something entirely different.”

  “Yeah…shit, I’m sorry. No offense…”

  They turned right onto Marquette and Willy let his gaze wander over the tightly packed homes on this old Chicago block. Ricky kept her eyes riveted on him. She seemed to be thinking about something other than the neighborhood.

  “Did you do a lot of humping in Vietnam?”

  She was smiling at him and he felt a warm glow spread up from his belly. She was so beautiful that just looking at her made him happy.

  “Which kind?”

  “Either…”

  “I walked a hell of a lot, that’s for damn sure. There wasn’t much time or opportunity for the other kind.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  She had stopped walking and stood with one foot on the stoop of a brick four-family flat Willy glanced up and scanned the address. He wanted to remember this place.

  “Everybody had it different over there. Some guys had access to hookers. I didn’t.”‘

  “Good night, Willy Pud.” She nodded thoughtfully and started up the stairs leading to the building’s front door. “I’d invite you up, but my roommate’s probably asleep by now.”

  “How about I call you later? I’d like to see you again.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and walked back down the stoop to stand near him. She looked into his eyes for a few silent moments and then sat on the stoop. Willy Pud sat beside her and waited while she dug around in her big purse.

  “Everybody’s got a sad tale to tell,” she said. “So here’s mine.” She pulled a little tin box out of her purse and tapped it idly on a fingernail. “I was going steady with a guy the first couple of years in school at SIU down in Carbondale. We lived together and everything was cool until he lost his deferment.”

  “And so he gets sent off to the Land of the Lotus Eaters, right?” Willy watched her eyes, shining from the glow of a nearby street lamp. There was no sadness he could see, just a sense of resignation as she toyed with the little box.

  “That’s right. He got sent to Vietnam…and got himself killed over there. I didn’t much give a damn before, but now I hate that fucking war. I hate what it’s done to people.”

  She opened the box, pulled out a slim paper cylinder and tweaked at the ends. Reaching back into her purse, she found the matches Willy had given her and lit the joint. Willy smelled the familiar, pungent reek of marijuana and watched her inhale deeply. When she offered him a toke, he barred her hand and just shook his head.

  “I thought all you guys did grass.”

  “Not all of us. Seemed to me it was hard enough staying alive when you were straight.”

  “You never did dope over there?”

  Willy shrugged and lit a cigarette. “Did some dex…too much sometimes. I used to get it from the Corpsman in my outfit. It helped me keep alert when I needed to.”

  She opened the little box again and showed him an array of white pills.

  “You’re a walking pharmacy.”

  She just shrugged and shook the box at him to make the pills rattle. Willy pinched one of them and examined it. It was Dexedrine for sure. He popped the little pill into his mouth and tasted the acrid, familiar flavor. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight anyway for thinking of this woman, so it didn’t seem to matter.

  Ricky stretched her legs and propped herself on the stoop, leaning on her elbows. “Well, I guess it’s whatever gets you through the night.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “What do you say, Willy Pud? Did Vietnam turn you into a speed freak?”

  “Don’t think so. This is the first hit I’ve had since I been back in The World.”

  “How’s it feel?”

  “Nice rush…but you pay the price later.”

  “I mean how’s it feel to be back home?”

  Willy Pud stared at her and felt stirrings in his crotch. The familiar little electric sparks were snapping and popping in his brain.

  “It feels good. And then again it don’t. I don’t know. Things are s
o different than what I remember. Sometimes it’s just hard to give a shit about…stuff. Regular stuff doesn’t seem important here like it did over there.”

  She pressed a cool palm against his stubbly jaw and Willy could feel his facial muscles twitching against her fingers. The speed was working now, and he wanted to leave before he got the jabbers and said something stupid.

  “You need to open up, Willy Pud. Maybe you should drop some acid.”

  “Maybe…but I gotta go and check on my old man. Can I see you again? I’d really like to.”

  “No promises, Willy Pud.” She tore a page from one of her notebooks and scrawled a number on it. “Call me. We’ll see.”

  The old man was up and making coffee when he burst through the door and into the kitchen. “Hope you got laid. Ain’t much else worth losing a night’s sleep over.”

  Willy grinned and headed for the kitchen sink. The long walk home had blasted the speed out of his system. He gulped a glass of cold water and mopped at his sweaty brow with a coarse dish towel. His father handed him a cup of steaming coffee and a thick envelope with an embossed seal on the flap.

  “You.ain’t gonna be worth a damn today. Stay home and read your mail.”

  After a long cold shower he opened the letter and discovered that he was being installed in something called the Medal of Honor Society. A representative of that prestigious organization, composed solely of the living men who had received the nation’s utmost decoration for heroism, would be contacting him shortly.

  j

  She said a busy class schedule kept her from making the dates Willy called for three times over the next couple of weeks. When they finally managed to hook up for pizza at a popular joint down on the Loop, she showed up with her roommate. Lucinda Harris was also an education major, but from Willy Pud’s point of view, that was all she could possibly have in common with Ricky Roberts.

  She was short and stocky, almost muscular, with garish red hair cropped around a small skull and fine spray of freckles across a flat nose. She had an odd way of shaking bands. Clasp, grip, one pump and then Lu Harris jerked her stubby fingers back as though she wanted to keep contact at an absolute minimum. The roommate seemed pleasant enough over dinner, laughing politely at Willy’s lame comments about college classes and nodding in affirmation when Ricky offered advice about a major Willy had been pondering. When Willy spoke, he caught her staring at him with a hard glint in her eyes. She had an irritating way of arching an eyebrow at him as if she’d discovered some flaw but was too polite to mention it. By the time they’d polished off a large combination pizza and two bottles of red wine, Willy Pud felt like he’d been through some kind of rigid personnel inspection. Still, it seemed to go well, a pleasant, intimate evening among friends. As he fumbled with cappuccino and the check, Willy decided he must be falling in love. It was an odd sensation that caused him painful frustration and an unfamiliar angst. He needed to do something about that, explore and discover before he declared himself. Ricky had been fairly aloof during dinner, but Willy thought he saw willingness in her, a connection that could be made given the right moves on his part. He just had to slow down and make those right moves which meant ignoring the urges that made him want to just rip off her clothes in an all-out frontal assault.