Duty and Dishonor: Author's Preferred Edition

by Dale A. Dye

  “Ford said it was time to heal the wounds of war.” The Daily News reporter propped a little microphone in front of him and Willy Pud stared at it like it was a snake about to strike.

  I

  I

  “Yeah, that’s a funny thing. You hear people talking about how someone got injured in combat. That ain’t right, you know? You get injured in a car crash or falling off a barstool. You get wounded in combat. I always want to correct people about that.”

  “So…the wounds of war thing?” The Sun-Times guy redirected him. “How about that?”

  “I guess for my money I’d like to see ’em concentrate on taking care of the guys who went. Let the guys who ran deal with their lives the best they can. Nobody forced ’em to run.”

  “There’s a lot of people would disagree with that, Mr. Pudarski. There’s a lot of people who say the threat of being drafted to fight in an illegal war forced them to run.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s still a free country. They can say what they want. It don’t make it right.”

  “So you’d say the President’s granting of clemency was wrong?”

  Willy glanced at waiters bustling around the room and tried to gauge the proximity of dinner. “Look, I think this country was founded and prospered on certain principles. One of them is that nobody gets something for nothing, you know? You do what the country asks you to do and you earn your rights as a citizen. You make a choice to duck out on that obligation and the country doesn’t owe you a thing…not clemency, not anything else. That’s just my opinion, but there it is for what it’s worth.”

  “What kind of message does that send to Vietnam vets who have joined the anti-war movement?”

  “l don’t know. Maybe they should stop whining and get on with their lives. Can we talk about something else? I need to go pretty soon.”

  “How do you feel about being asked to join one of the most prestigious and exclusive organizations in America?”

  “Very honored and very humbled.” Willy swept his hand across the room. “These guys are legends, you know? They represent everything that’s good about us…spirit, determination, all that kind of stuff. I’m not sure where I fit in, but it’s great to be asked to join them.”

  Willy was saved from further torment by the dinner bell. Sergeant Major Schaeffer hustled the reporters out of the room and then led Willy Pud to his seat at a head table. There was a prayer for the repose of the souls of all of the nation’s war dead, and then waiters arrived bearing a sumptuous dinner made more comfortable for Willy by the presence of Schaeffer and O’Meara at his elbows. Sensitive to the need for common ground in an organization with members of diverse backgrounds and pursuits, the Medal of Honor Society arranged dinner partners by branch of service. There were fairly large groupings of soldiers and Marines around smaller assemblies of sailors and airmen.

  At the end of the meal, Sergeant Major Schaeffer approached a small speaker’s podium and waited for the room to quiet. He switched on a green-shaded reading light and began to intone the words of Willy Pud’s Medal of Honor citation. As he listened to the familiar words, images flickered on his dinner plate flashing briefly in and out of sight like muzzle flash from a shadowy treeline. Willy closed his eyes and tried to ignore the haunting of old ghosts.

  When he heard the part about “steadfastly and courageously holding the hill alone while. his men attempted an escape,” Willy saw Fowler, the old shit-kicker, dead now like so many others that he knew and liked, who shared the crucible of war with him.

  The waiter pouring his coffee was Asian, looked like a Vietnamese to Willy Pud. As he watched the man quietly circle the table, pouring and clearing, two shadowy figures appeared at the man’s shoulders. Salt and Pepper were there, grinning in green NVA uniforms covered with medals. Willy blinked and they disappeared. Bob O’Meara was elbowing him and pointing toward the podium. It was time for his speech.

  Willy acknowledged a spattering of polite applause, tried to relax as he adjusted the reading light to better see the words he’d typed, and launched into his remarks. He hoped the words were right…or at least not as stupid as they sounded saying them. He’d written what he thought was expected, words and phrases about honor, humility, dedication to higher ideals and the unshakeable human spirit. It was mostly stuff he’d read elsewhere and copied down to use. Some of it he’d even culled from the little pamphlet stating the purpose and goals of the Medal of Honor Society that Sergeant Major Schaeffer had given him.

  It was over before Willy Pud realized he’d reached the last page of his script. He stood blinking in the light, nodding and red-faced at the applause ringing through the room. And then he was standing in a reception line with a fresh drink in his left hand. The right hand was being grasped, gripped, and pumped by a conga line of his fellow society members. As he looked into each man’s face, trying to remember names, he realized there was a common thread here. Each of them—even the blind man whose sightless eyes were hidden behind shades—had a certain charisma, a mysterious depth visible only if you knew to look for it. If you could somehow explore their innards, you’d see little closely guarded packets of pain and suffering, or death and destruction beyond what most humans could imagine. There was in all these men also an air of dark, looming menace. Somewhere in their make-up was a great white shark, swimming just beneath the surface, ready to bite, tear, and rip.

  After the ceremony, he found a dark comer of the lobby bar and sat sucking bourbon through ice cubes. The old man had promised to drive over and pick him up, but Willy hadn’t called. He wanted to chew on the evening a bit, think about his new status and what it might mean for his future. He remembered the pride he felt at the White House when he’d received the medal, but that had faded after a few days. Now here he was again, plucked out of the ordinary and declared officially extraordinary, given a seat at Valhalla with the other legendary warriors.

  Bob O’Meara found him and swung onto a stool at his shoulder. “You OK, Pudarski? It looked like you sort of went away for a while there at dinner.”

  “Yeah, sometimes weird to hear those words in your citation, you know?”

  “Roger that, my man. I get the same kind of reaction every time I hear somebody read mine. You just sit there wondering who the hell they’re talking about.”

  “Just seems weird. You’re sitting in there with a bunch of real heroes, guys who laid their lives on the line and would do it again in a heartbeat.” Willy made a vague notion toward the windows. “And out there…”

  “And out there you got a country that don’t give a shit. Out there you got a President who just pardoned all the draft dodgers which means those of us who did the right thing are a bunch of losers and jerks who didn’t have the guts to say no. That about right?”

  “There it is. Funny, except for you, I never heard any of the others mention it all night.”

  “For most of them, this ain’t their war. They fought in wars where there was a clear good side and a bad side, you know? They have trouble figuring this one out, so they just don’t talk about it much. For most of them, it’s my country, right or wrong, my country.”

  “And our generation gets the shitty end of the stick.”

  “There it is. Nobody wants to be remembered as the outstanding player on the losing team.”

  “I guess we really have lost the damn thing, haven’t we?”

  “It ain’t pretty for guys like you and me, Willy Pud, but it’s true. I’m betting the whole shooting match will swirl down the crapper by Christmas.”

  They drank in silence for a while, realizing they’d eventually have to let it go and face the reality that they were members of the first American fighting force to actually lose a war. Willy could see O’Meara’s jaws clenching as he contemplated that dark reality.

  “Bob, you suppose there’s any Americans left over there?”

  “What? POWs? Yeah, sure, they didn’t give all of ’em back.”

  “No
t POWs.”

  “What else is there?’

  Willy glanced once around at the nearly empty bar and whispered what he knew about Salt and Pepper. He told O’Meara the whole story in little fits and starts, keeping his voice low but intense. When he’d finished, O’Meara sat facing him with wide eyes.

  “You actually saw those two dudes?”

  “Up close and personal, Bob. Salt and Pepper ain’t no grunt myth like everyone always thought.”

  “And you never said anything to anyone in all this time?”

  “It was classified Top Secret…still is as far as I know.”

  “Well, shit, Willy Pud, that can’t make any difference now. The outfit that classified it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Well, we still got a government, right? If it wasn’t still classified, they’d have said something before now. If nothing else just to keep from being embarrassed and caught flat-footed if the story ever gets out.”

  “Maybe so, man…but I can damn sure see a lot of holes in that argument.”

  “So, you got any suggestions about what I ought to do about it?”

  “Not right off hand, I don’t. They gotta be dead, right?”

  “Beats me, but just the thought of those two assholes surviving somewhere over there makes my skin crawl.”

  “They’re dead, man…or else the gooks would be parading them in front of the press. That’s their thing, you know? Look what they did with the POWs trying to say some of them were collaborators.”

  “I keep thinking I need to do something about them, Bob.” He tapped the medal hanging around his neck. “Maybe I ought to use this as a lever and get a few people to listen to the story. What’s it gonna hurt now? And maybe there can be a little justice spread around.”

  “Think it over, Willy Pud. You can probably get the press to bite on the story. Those assholes will go for any controversy. But you’re gonna need some proof or the anti-war factions will just say you’re telling a horror story because you’re another sore loser.”

  “Yeah, I guess…and even if I had proof that they existed, the assholes might just become heroes among the protestors and draft dodgers.”

  “There it is. Justice for those two is death and I gotta believe they’re over there somewhere rotting under a rice paddy.”

  j

  Stosh Pudarski and Frank Hovitz were terrorizing both loose women and other men’s wives when Willy Pud walked into the VFW Post on May Street with Ricky on his arm. In a red velvet mini-dress trimmed with fake fur she was a drop-dead package of explosive sex appeal. Stosh and Frank were hitting on her—sprigs of mistletoe dangling from their VFW piss-cutters—before she was five feet inside the door.

  A couple of kisses kept them at bay briefly, but they drew a new bead and went to flank speed when she hopped up on a barstool and crossed her legs revealing a fleshy curve of thigh and Jolly Old St. Nick on a flashy green garter. Willy watched them cavort around her while he ordered beer and ran his eyes over the tall Christmas tree that winked and blinked in a corner of the cavernous hall. He’d rather have taken her to a party with a younger crowd, but the VFW flyer was the only Christmas party invitation he got, and dating opportunities had been spotty since school started. Every time he chased, she dodged, blaming a heavy course load. And worst of all, that fabulous, first gut-wrenching sexual encounter bad so far remained a one-shot deal.

  A wheezy old six-piece band, fronted by a Brylcream slathered old dude whose dentures matched the mother-of-pearl inlay on his accordion, was lagging tempo on junior-prom classics. When they segued from “Stardust” into “Moonglow,” Frank Hovitz went nuts and practically carried Ricky out onto the dance floor. Willy joined his father at the bar.

  “Nice piss-cutter, Pop.”

  Stosh cocked the hat down over his eyes and ran his fingers along the fabric to ensure it had the appropriate catch-me-fuck-me rake. It was embroidered in gold, covered with pins and gewgaws including a pewter rendering of a World War II twin-stack destroyer. Willy had picked it up for him years ago when he ran across it in a Navy Exchange.

  “You ought to be wearing one too, boy. The membership committee has been on my ass about it again.”

  “C’mon, Pop. Not tonight. I told you how I feel about that shit.”

  “I know, but there’s a big push on to get you Vietnam vets into the VFW. It’s more than just us old farts sitting around getting drunk and telling lies.”

  Willy Pud snagged a bourbon bottle from a bunch Hogan had put out on the bar and poured slugs into their beers. “I’ve been coming down to the hall with you for…what…fifteen years or more? When did you ever do anything more than get drunk and tell lies?”

  Stosh cocked a brow at his son. It took more than that to rob the old man of a party mood. He laughed into his beer. “Well, where the hell else can a guy get away with telling all them war stories? We have a good time—and you would too.”

  “My God, where did you guys get that band?” Ricky returned, laughing and hanging on Frank Hovitz’s arm. Stosh just shrugged. “We called up to Woodstock for one of them hippie bands, but they were all too stoned to make the trip.”

  “It don’t matter anyhow.” Franks Hovitz popped a beer can and toasted. “All us Polacks got tin ears and two left feet. Just look at who invented the polka.”

  When the music cranked up again, there was a struggle to capture Ricky, but she ducked it and wound up leading Willy away from the fray. “You want to drink or dance?” She asked as they moved away from the bar.

  Willy glanced around the bustling hall and noted a batch of drunks singing some old-time song completely out of sync and in direct competition with what the band was playing. “Either way, we better pace ourselves. It looks like it’s gonna be a long evening.”

  If Ricky was worried about anything like that, Willy couldn’t tell. She danced, drank, and sang with no sign that she was tiring. She seemed to be bent on jamming full hits of fun into every spare minute as the Christmas party roared on with guests arriving in bunches to reinvigorate any lulls in the action. Trying to keep pace, Willy alternated between a beating on the crowded dance floor and the brutal flying wedge required to reach a potent punch bowl across the room from their table. Ricky was flushed and sweaty by the time the band packed up to leave around midnight. Her dress was undone by two strategic buttons that gave him an enticing view of twin mounds of veined flesh every time she moved.

  With the band finished for the evening, she stood bounding from foot to foot as she examined the list of tunes on the VFW Wurlitzer. Willy watched her from across the room feeling the desire for her pumping through his body and fighting the effects of the alcohol he’d consumed. She looked so good and he wanted her so badly. If he didn’t get a grip, he might just bend her over the jukebox and give the crowd a real show.

  She danced her way back to their table and pulled her chair close to his. When she dangled her hand in his lap and explored gently with her fingertips he hoped he’d be strong and sober enough to last if she finally decided it was time for another bout in her bedroom. Meanwhile, he needed to pee and figure out how to approach after-party arrangements. The time seemed right and she was certainly in a party mood.

  When he returned, the crowd had thinned considerably. Wives and other survivors were policing up the battlefield, tending to the walking wounded, and calling for taxicab medevacs. Ricky sat at their table wolfing a thick ham sandwich beside Stosh and Frank Hovitz. She was wearing Stosh’s piss-cutter at a jaunty angle. Neither man seemed much the worse for wear, but they were long-standing survivors of many such parties, so it was no surprise to Willy Pud.

  He poked around the plate of ham and bread they brought to the table and made a big sandwich slathered with hot mustard. The sugar-cured ham was delicious, a specialty of Maggie Hogan’s. She always made a special ham for their regular customers at Christmas. And she always brought some along when the Hogan’s ventured out from behind their own bar to hoist
a few with friends.

  Maggie was making the rounds, forking ham onto plates. When she got to Willy’s table, she bent over to whisper in his ear. “You finally got yourself a nice lady, Willy Pud. Better take her off the market in a hurry.” She pranced away laughing and Willy waved away Ricky’s questioning look. “She just wants me,” he said. “Maggie’s planning to make a move on me when Hogan finally kicks the bucket.”

  “She couldn’t do better,” Stosh licked mustard off a thumb. “Women ought to be crawling all over you, Wilhelm. Medal of Honor and all…I can’t understand why they ain’t.” He giggled and poked Ricky’s arm. “Unless this one has got you locked up tight, of course…”

  “Cool it, Pop…”

  “I’m just wondering how come you two ain’t making plans is all. Maybe I could have a me a grandkid or two before I die…”

  Ricky swiped the piss-cutter off and flopped it onto Willy Pud’s head. She was smiling, but no one at the table except Willy seemed to notice it wasn’t sincere. “There you go,” she said. “You can take the boy out of the service but you can’t take the service out of the boy.”

  Willy tossed the hat at Stosh and tore off a chunk of ham. There was a pile of loose change on the table and Ricky scooped a handful. She headed for the jukebox while Willy glared at this father. “Listen, Pop…no more of that marriage and grandkids crap, OK? She gets nervous about stuff like that. What will happen will happen…all in good time.”

  His father and Frank Hovitz picked up their drinks and headed over to join Hogan and his wife at another table. Willy felt badly about the rebuke, but he couldn’t take any chances with pissing Ricky off, not tonight. He needed to get her out of this place, take her anywhere as long as they were alone. Watching her bob and weave near the jukebox, he felt his heart throbbing against his rib cage and his lungs working like bellows.

  “We should go,” he said when she danced her way back to their table. He got her coat and his jacket and led toward the door, waving at stragglers. They paused to shrug into their coats and Ricky caught sight of a VFW recruiting poster. It was a take-off of and old WWI poster that featured Uncle Sam pointing a finger. The caption said The VFW Wants You. “Your Dad said you aren’t a member. Seems like a good fit for you.”