Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “You know it’s kind of personal. Something you don’t usually talk about in public—like Lucinda being a lesbian.”

  She smiled like a well-fed cat and closed her eyes. As she scrunched around to seat her shoulders in a lumpy cushion, her calves seemed to massage Willy’s throbbing crotch. Was that on purpose?

  “You mean shame? I’m not ashamed of Lu and she’s not ashamed of who she is. Are you ashamed of what you did in Vietnam?”

  “No, I’m not ashamed, but people don’t understand. They think they want to until you start to tell them the truth and then they want no part of it. It makes me nervous sometimes. Like I’d think living with a lesbian might make you nervous.”

  “Why should I be nervous about living with a lesbian? I’m not locked up here. I can leave any time I want. Lucinda does her thing and I do mine. That’s the way people ought to do.”

  “Yeah, I signed a petition to that effect last week.” Heat from his crotch was crawling toward his face and Willy realized he was getting angry. This was not the time for that. Ricky seemed to realize it too.

  She chuckled deep in her throat, curled her legs under her, and began to nuzzle at his neck in painful little nips that were salved by the warm perfume of her breath. He could feel the rubbery texture of her nipples on his bicep. It was exquisite torture, and Willy thought he was bound to explode. There was such a short length of fast-burning fuse between rage and desire.

  “It’s just that...well, I was thinking about it the other day, Ricky. I get this horrible picture of her trying to lure you into bed.”

  She giggled and whispered into his ear. “She’s mentioned it, but I’m not ready for that.”

  He squirmed to face her, brushing sweat from his upper lip along her cheekbone until he managed to find her lips. They kissed and tasted each other, flowing back and forth between tension and pleasure. She gently but firmly refused to let him push her into a prone position.

  “I’m not ready for you either, Willy. Not yet...”

  “Jesus, Ricky. I’m fairly strong...but this is getting ridiculous. I can’t wait much longer.”

  She rose to blow out the candles and flowed back into his arms. In a moment he felt her hand fumbling at the zipper of his jeans. He maneuvered to give her better access and in no time at all she had him free of his underwear. She pushed him back on the couch, pinned his shoulders and began to stroke him with a free hand, pausing at irregular intervals to tease at his most tender parts with her fingernails. When the explosion finally came, it lifted him off the couch in a huge moaning muscular spasm.

  Ricky seemed pleased at the intensity of his orgasm, but Willy couldn’t shake a certain sense of humiliation. What was wrong with doing it in a more conventional fashion? What was wrong with her? Or him? But that was all for the night. She lit a cigarette and watched while he struggled back into his trousers and then walked to the door. She kissed him tenderly and lingeringly before he left, and asked him to call tomorrow.

  He said he would, but as he walked home through the crystal-clear winter night, Willy Pud thought maybe he’d had enough frustrations and complications in his life. He thought maybe he’d wait on the call, find someone else to fuck. He wanted to see if it felt as good as he thought it might when he stopped bashing his head against Ricky’s brick wall.

  j

  Willy Pud hadn’t seen Ricky other than casual campus encounters for nearly two weeks. During that morose time, he’d dated different women with mixed results. A redheaded Earth Mother from his English Lit class helped him consume a large pizza and two bottles of wine and then introduced him to her dope connection, borrowing money for a grab bag of acid tabs, meth, Quaaludes, and hash. He picked out a few Dexedrine tabs from the stash and sat with her for four agonizing hours while she rode the acid roller coaster from wall-melting hysteria through a monumental crying jag into bleary-eyed oblivion. They were naked in the middle of a candle-lit room for most of the trip, but Willy never got closer than three feet without sending her curling into a fetal position.

  He was hitting the uppers fairly hard when he let his second date take him to a local disco. He couldn’t abandon himself on the dance floor and the pulsing strobe lights made him so panicky he had to borrow a few downers to handle the situation. She led him to her bedroom when they got home, but Willy was too wasted to function. He staggered out to make room for a next door neighbor who practically pole-vaulted in to take his place in the woman’s bed.

  He sought refuge at Hogan’s, staring at himself in the mirror, trying not to think about Ricky, and fighting to mute the newscast on the TV mounted over the bar. A strange and twisted new world had him in an unfamiliar orbit. He’d been out of uniform for nearly two years and he still felt like a stranger in an increasingly strange land. The news anchor said there were no Americans left in Vietnam. He couldn’t imagine that. There was no more Commander, United States Military Assistance Command Vietnam, leaving unanswered the bush-beast refrain: “Oh, who can he be, this COMUSMACV?”

  The news was full of gut-wrenching images as 590 American POWs finally came home to a nation that didn’t believe—or didn’t want to hear—the horror stories about their brutal treatment in captivity. No sign of Salt or Pepper. Willy wondered if they might try to slip back home disguised as prisoners. He’d been prepared to blow a long, loud whistle if they climbed off a plane at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. But they were elsewhere, either dead or waiting for the inevitable victory parade when they could claim their fame as heroes of the revolution that murdered Indochina and disemboweled America. If there was any justice left in the world, they were dead and rotting somewhere in the jungle, but Willy knew better than to expect justice. It was a lofty concept that rarely delivered as advertised.

  There just didn’t seem to be any concern with regular things in the swirl around him these days. Everything was somehow political, everywhere except Hogan’s. Outside the bar, on campus, on the streets, social norms were anything but normal. What about football and the old college spirit? Where the hell was that? Wasn’t that supposed to be a big part of the college experience? Willy remembered the quasi-religious reverence for the Fighting Illini among the hopeful seniors on his high school teams. Why did everything have to be fraught with social or political import? You had to make some kind of half-assed statement with everything from the clothes you wore, to the music you liked, to the classes you took. Join this group, protest the actions of that group, take a stand on this issue, be this or be that. No room in between for a guy just trying to get along and make something decent and peaceful out of his life. Getting an education wasn’t about getting smart. It was about getting involved.

  And it overflowed into everything, even dating and romance. Those games ought to be played by instinct as matters of the heart and the libido. What’s political about that? People were still sweating and straining, doing everything possible just to get laid, but the rules had changed radically. Now the romance was gone. It was free love for everybody who wants it. And who doesn’t? The short-term goal was the same, but the long-term stuff like going steady, getting engaged, and getting married? That was for squares, nerds, druids, and Neanderthals who failed to get hip along with everyone else. What happened to the thrill of the chase, the mystery of romance?

  In the middle of his third week without so much as a phone call to Ricky, Willy Pud was making regular visits to a connection on campus that sold him good Dexedrine and even experimenting with meth. In the middle of a speeding high, the changes didn’t seem to matter so much. He was in a jangled trip around the perimeter of the living room at four in the morning when Stosh Pudarski finally confronted him.

  The old man snapped on a lamp and lowered himself into the ratty armchair across from the television. He stared blankly at his son for a few minutes and then slung a skinny ankle over the side of his favorite perch. “Any chance of you slowing down long enough to tell me what the hell’s bothering you?”

 
Willy stopped by the window and stared at the misty streetlights through the slats of ancient, yellowed blinds. He fought off the rush that was impelling him to tell his father to fuck off and leave him alone. The old man didn’t deserve that.

  “It’s nothing, Pop. Go back to bed.”

  Willy heard the rasp of slippers on the worn linoleum as Stosh sauntered into the kitchen. There were two soft taps that sounded like chimes to Willy’s speed-fueled brain. Stosh returned to the living room with two cans of cold beer and handed one to his son. Willy’s hand shook as he reached for the can Stosh offered.

  “Jesus, Vilhelm, you’re shaking like a dog shitting peach pits.”

  Willy clenched his jaws against the drug pumping through his system and rolled the cold metal can across his forehead. “I can’t sleep. Don’t let me keep you up.”

  Stosh returned to his chair and sucked at his teeth for a while. The noise shot through Willy like a sharp bayonet but he said nothing, just continued to stare through the fogged window at the dark, empty streets below their apartment.

  “Story in The Sun yesterday,” Stosh said. “There was this guy back from Vietnam. They had to put him in the goddamn hospital because he couldn’t sleep. Guy said he kept having nightmares about what he seen over there and it damn near killed him.”

  “He’s got no monopoly on war-sweats, Pop.”

  “Uh huh…well, I heard you talking in your sleep last night. It sounded pretty grim. Was that war-sweats?”

  “Yeah…I guess so.”

  “It was some strange shit, Vilhelm. You was talking about salt and pepper or something. I thought maybe you was just hungry, you know? I thought about waking you up and making us a ham sandwich or something.”

  Willy Pud cringed. He had the Salt and Pepper dreams semi-regularly, but he had no idea he talked about them in his sleep. “It was nothing, Pop. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, you could fool me, Vilhelm. Maybe it’s that gal Ricky that’s haunting you. That sound right? You ain’t seen her lately, have you?”

  “She’s worse fucked up than I am.”

  “She seemed like a pretty good gal to me, Vilhelm. What happened with you and her?”

  “Nothing, Pop. She just ain’t interested in me.”

  “I ain’t buying it, Vilhelm. I known you all your life and I know there’s something wrong. I’m just gonna sit here until you tell me what it is.”

  Willy slammed his empty beer can into a trash can. The noise sounded like a shot in the still apartment. “Pop, please…can’t you just leave it alone?”

  “No, I can’t, Vilhelm. You’re my son and I know when something serious is wrong with you. If it ain’t war-sweats and you ain’t mooning over that girl, then it’s gotta be them fucking pills.”

  Willy whirled to respond but the old man had a horny hand raised to fend off denials. “You think I’m stupid, Vilhelm? I know about that kind of stuff. I’m a damn sight over thirty, but I ain’t unconscious. You keep taking that shit and you’ll wind up dead. I seen enough guys do it in my time. Come to work hung over and then take them pills to get through the day. A man’s system ain’t geared to take that much punishment.”

  “I can handle it, Pop. I’m just trying to get through this year at school.”

  Stosh Pudarski drained his beer and stood to face his son. “It’s your life, boy, and you earned the right to do what you want. But just so you know…I ain’t so far gone I can’t smell bullshit no more.”

  j

  It was shortly after noon on Saturday when a persistent jangling woke Willy Pud. His sheets and pillowcase smelled of stale sweat and he lay still for a moment trying to remember when he’d last showered. There was a dull hum in his ears that kept him from concentrating on anything but the strident phone ringing in the next room. When his bare feet slapped onto the cold floor, a bolt of pain shot up through his knees and brought greasy sweat from his armpits. He ached all over, like he’d finished a 50-mile forced march on nothing but guts. The phone stopped ringing before could unfold himself and stand.

  Stosh Pudarski stuck his head through the curtain that separated Willy’s room from the rest of the old tenement flat and glared at his son. “There’s eggs in the fridge. I’m going down to Hogan’s and watch the game. That phone’s for you.”

  He was gone before Willy could ask who called. Maybe it was Ricky wondering why she was on ice these days. Maybe she was missing him as much as he was missing her. He staggered into the living room, squinting against the sun through the window that bleached the room with a white glare. The handset of the heavy old dial phone lying off its cradle and be grabbed at it.

  “Is this Wilhelm Johannes Pudarski?” Unless she’d developed a whiskey growl in the past three weeks, the voice on the line didn’t belong to Ricky Roberts. Willy swore under his breath and scrabbled around on the coffee table for a cigarette.

  “Yeah…who is this?”

  “Are you former Staff Sergeant Pudarski, Marine Corps, Medal of Honor recipient?”

  “Depends on who’s asking.” Willy heard a warm chuckle that seemed familiar. If it wasn’t the voice, it was the tone. “You gonna tell me who this is or do I hang up?”

  “Listen, I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time. My name is Sam Schaeffer, Sergeant Major, USMC type, one each, retired. I represent the American Medal of Honor Society. We sent you a letter last month.”

  The bark in the voice on the other end of the line was habitual and unintentional, but it served to blow away the cobwebs. A tape-loop of hard-learned Marine Corps history began to roll through Willy Pud’s memory banks. Shifty Schaeffer? The guy from the 7th Marines in Korea? The sole survivor of a platoon that fought off a marauding Chinese regiment on some hilltop above the Frozen Chosin Reservoir? The guy who fought hand-to-hand through the night and gave his men time to slip out of a death trap? Was he talking to that Shifty Schaeffer?

  He cleared his throat and felt himself stiffening unconsciously into the position of attention. “Sorry, Sarn’t Major. I been…I had the flu the last couple of days.”

  “No problem, Sarn’t Pudarski. I can call back later if you’d like.”

  Willy rolled his shoulders, wondering at the effect being called by his old rank had on him. His palms were sweating and his heart was thumping.

  “It’s OK, Sarn’t Major. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, like we said in the letter, you’ve been nominated and invited to join the Medal of Honor Society. I’m sure you understand it’s a fairly prestigious group of Americans.”

  “I don’t know much about it at all. I was surprised when I got the letter.”

  “It’s all about Semper Fidelis, Sarn’t Pudarski. You haven’t forgotten that concept have you?”

  “No, Sarn’t Major.”

  “That’s what I expected. Anyway, it’s all too damn complicated to explain on the ding-wa. I’m in town and part of the reason is to see you. Can I come by sometime today?”

  Willy Pud glanced around the disheveled flat. It looked and smelled like a couple of winos had holed up inside for a four-day toot. His old man never cleaned anything he wasn’t going to eat. It had always been Willy’s job to keep the place squared away, but he’d been neglecting that lately.

  “Look, Sarn’t Major, I’d rather come see you if that’s OK.”

  “Good deal. How about 1600 today? They got a Happy Hour down here.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’m at the Sheraton Blackstone down on the Loop. Meet you in the lobby bar.”

  “I know where it is. See you there at 1600.”

  Willy Pud hung up, did an about face in bare feet, and headed directly for the shower. He was halfway dry before he realized the lead had melted out of his belly. His mind was clear and clicking through random but distinct mental images. For the first time in nearly a month, he seemed to be flying straight and level. As he shaved and selected some decent clothes, he decided that
whatever the Medal of Honor Society was offering, he ought to be buying.

  On the bus ride downtown, Willy Pud felt good, better than he had in weeks. Getting squared away was stimulating. He felt like he used to feel before an important personnel inspection, pride in his appearance mixed with apprehension. Clean clothes and a neatly knotted tie firmed up the rubber in his knees like a shower and a fresh set of jungle utilities after a long stay in the bush. A plate of fried eggs bounced hard off his shrunken stomach, and he’d had to fight the temptation to dip into his pill stash for relief. But he wanted to be straight when he met Sergeant Major Shifty Schaeffer. The man was a Marine Corps icon.

  He watched the pedestrians hustling along State Street outside the bus window and wondered how a guy like Shifty Schaeffer felt about Vietnam. He’d heard somewhere that the Medal of Honor hero had done a tour over there himself just before retiring from active duty. What would Shifty think about all the protesters and all the collective guilt that was sweeping the country over the war in Vietnam? There were still carrier battle groups off the coast of Southeast Asia. There were still strike aircraft launching from bases in Thailand. There was still Marvin the ARVN, taking his lumps but keeping the NVA wolves at bay. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to indicate the Greater Southeast Asia War Games were not completely over yet. The fat lady was warming up in the wings, but she hadn’t sung the funeral dirge.

  He watched a tall, leggy blonde board the bus and thought about Ricky, trying to determine what he might do about her, determined as he was on this new day to face that situation and think about it rationally. So…what were the facts?

  He met a beautiful woman at a time when he desperately needed to meet one. He fell in love with that woman after spending too little time with her. The more she held him at bay, the more he lusted after her. Ricky gave a sweet purpose to life that had been missing since his Marine Corps days. She was an objective, a goal, something to think about and strive for. He was sure she liked him and all, but Ricky always stopped short of commitment just as she stopped him short of making love to her. So where did that leave him? As the bus pulled to his stop half a block from the hotel, Willy Pud decided his circumstances vis a vis Ricky Richards left him what he was: A hardheaded Polack with too much pride and not enough sense to pour piss out of a boot.