Steve’s shorts: Mayhem, Murder, and Music’s Glory Road…
[This one’s inspired by Billy Batson’s powerful imagery found in “I’ve Got a Long Way to Go” as sung by Hedge and Donna. I saw that singing couple on a Pete Seeger show years ago, liked them a lot, and bought their LP—that old vinyl technology for recording music for those born after the CD revolution. It’s the first LP I managed to get into my iTunes database. The story is partly based on real events and occurs at a time when PTSD didn’t exist as an acronym.]
Glory Road
Copyright 2015, Steven M. Moore
Paul saw the explosion just before he heard it. When he awoke, he was no longer in Vietnam. The nurses and doctors were U.S. Army people, but the hospital was in Tokyo. He figured that out without seeing much—just blurs and splashes of pastel colors. He felt very much alone.
A bit later, a soft hand took his wrist. “How are you doing, soldier?”
“Not great, if I’m here. You’re from the South.” He liked her soft voice, but was the tone pitying or compassionate?
“Good ears. You’ll need them,” the nurse said.
“Because I can’t see? Is that permanent?”
“When we get you back to the States, we’ll find out. Right now, count yourself lucky. Others in your patrol lost their lives. You’re pretty much intact, except for the eyes and losing a few fingers. I think they dug a round out of your back. That will be sore, but the least of your worries.”
“Right hand,” he said, wiggling his fingers enough to feel the heavy bandage. He already knew his eyes were bandaged. “Why am I here?”
“On the way back,” she said. “You’re going home. Your trek down that glory road is over, at least as far as Vietnam is concerned.”
***
Paul relived the attack many times in many hospitals before he ended up back in Indianapolis, his home. Jersey was the lieutenant, he was the sergeant, and the others were new at combat. Ricardo Santos, called Jersey because he was from there and spoke with the accent, was OK, but some of the new recruits didn’t like him. He asked a lot of everybody, but the new guys had lost the lottery and some were bitter about it. One in particular, Jimmy Coulter, a Southerner, didn’t like taking orders from Jersey. Paul had tried to mend fences, but there was always tension.
But was it bad enough to shoot Jersey and me in the back? Catching them both by surprise, he had turned enough to see Coulter and wound up facing the blast. The shot was insignificant as Jersey took the brunt of the explosion, shielding Paul. Is Jimmy dead? Paul hoped not. He wanted to find the bastard!
“Mr. Holloway, do you understand what I’m saying? You’ll pay nothing.”
“Huh?” Oh yeah, the GI bill, that gift of a grateful nation, a nation where the peaceniks spit on and insulted veterans, blaming them for the war. “What am I going to live on?”
“The government provides a small stipend. Can your parents finance the rest? It isn’t very much.”
Paul nodded. Money wasn’t the problem. He was rethinking his whole dream. Wanting to go to college was stupid—he was legally blind!
“How about getting around? How will I see anything in class?”
“We can hire a person to be your aide, your eyes, if you will. It’s a great job for our work-study students.” Paul heard papers shuffling. “We have other handicapped students. Their graduation rate is above average. It says here that you want to study psychology to be able to help your fellow veterans. I’m not sure I understand that.”
“Physical ailments aren’t our worst maladies,” said Paul. “Some of us return a little nuts. I have repeating nightmares. Other suffer from bouts of anger or depression. Highs and lows. It’s a huge roller coaster we ride on. Some have committed suicide. I think I can help. But I’m blind. I’ll need someone even to read the textbooks. Most aren’t in Braille, and I’m not very good at Braille anyway.”
“We can find help for you. Don’t worry.”
***
The first person didn’t even show up the first day. The second couldn’t dedicate enough time, and they wouldn’t give him two helpers. The third was a second-year student. Paul was first-year, but he was two years older than Marjorie was. They hit it off.
Four years later, Marjorie had graduated and was working to support them while Paul finished his degree. His nemesis was Spanish. He needed to pass a year of Spanish during that summer. They hired a tutor, not a Hispanic but a guy from California who spoke Spanish like a native. Paul passed the required course, and tutor and student went out to celebrate.
“Paul, this is a topless bar,” said the tutor.
“Yeah, so your graduation gift to me is to describe all the naked boobs you see. For obvious reasons, I can’t bring Marjorie here.”
“Why eat hamburger when you have steak at home?” said the tutor, referring to Marjorie.
“That’s clever.”
“I think Paul Newman said it about his wife,” said the tutor. “So, answer the question.”
“Maybe I want to compare,” Paul said. “Everyone says Marjorie is a real catch, but I can’t see her.”
“Forget the looks.”
“You were never a soldier, right?” Paul knew the tutor had heard the litany before, but went on. “You don’t have any idea what it’s like to be thousands of miles away from your home, slogging through the paddies and jungle, knowing that the only girl you’ll see for a long time will be a nurse in a hospital. When I woke up, I couldn’t see them! Then we come home and all the peaceniks spit on and swear at us.”
“I’m a peacenik, but I don’t do that.”
“I know. You were 1Y. I’m worse than 1Y now. I should be a fucking hero.”
“I won’t disagree with that. And you’re not responsible for this awful war. The people who sent you over to die are, along with the Viet Cong.”
But the tutor began describing the waitresses.
***
“I found him!” Marjorie said.
Paul muted the stereo. His hearing was off too, so he played it loud, but he tended to lose speech with any interfering sounds.
“Found who?”
Their Indianapolis one-bedroom apartment was a bit tiny, but Marjorie and Paul weren’t there much. She worked in a hospital; he worked in a veteran’s addiction clinic. Most nights they were exhausted, as much from their patients’ stories as from the actual workload.
“Jimmy Coulter,” said Marjorie. “He’s a used car salesman in Kansas City.”
“Kansas or Missouri?”
“Missouri.”
“I need to confront that bastard! He deserves a bullet, but I won’t shoot him in the back.”
“You can’t shoot him. You can’t see.”
“I just have to aim the gun at his stench,” said Paul.
“You’d spend the rest of your life in jail,” she said.
“There’s that. What can I do?”
“I think there’s a better approach.”
Marjorie was always the calm one.
***
“We’re looking for Mr. James Coulter,” said the MP.
The secretary looked at her watch. “He’s late. I assume you’re not here to buy a car.”
Coulter had returned from Nam healthy and became a reservist. “I’ll wait for him.”
“He’s an American hero, you know,” said the woman.
“Not if he’s the James Coulter I’m looking for.”
Coulter appeared a half hour later driving a convertible he had taken home from the lot. “Always good to see a soldier. Have you had a time to look around at the inventory?” He brushed his hair back and straightened his tie. “You’re big, bro. I think you need a man’s car, a pickup.”
“Did you know Sergeant Paul Holloway and Lieutenant Ricardo Santos in Vietnam, Mr. Coulter?”
“Sure. Paul and Jersey. Real soldiers. They bought the dirt farm like so many others. Only three of us survived from our group.”
The MP took out his cuffs. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Lieutenant Ricardo Santos and the attempted murder of Sergeant Paul Holloway,” he said.
“You’re kidding. What evidence do you have?”
“A sworn deposition by Mr. Holloway,” said the MP.
“It’s my word against his,” said Jimmy, holding out his hands.
***
The court martial took only two days. The bullet they’d pulled out of Paul was U.S. made. Jimmy’s defense made the argument that anyone could have shot Santos and Holloway. He was given only six months. Santos’ parents left the courtroom furious. Paul didn’t blame them.
After serving his sentence and being dishonorably discharged, ex-Private First Class James Coulter decided to drive to Georgia and restart his life.
They found him dead from gun wounds at a remote rest stop in Tennessee not far from Nashville.
***
“That was a nice vacation,” said Marjorie as they pulled into the parking lot at their apartment complex. “I’m glad you thought of it. It seemed to take a load off your shoulders too.”
“You described all my favorite country and western venues very well, honey.” He thought of the tutor describing the topless waitresses and felt guilty. But the tutor had come through for him.
“Funny meeting your old tutor there in Nashville. I guess you guys deserved your time in the bar. Was it topless this time?”
Wow! She knew all along! “I’m sorry about that, Marge. We were just married. I had a lot of issues.”
“I know. I did too. I was thinking you only loved me because I took care of you.”
“And I was thinking you only pitied me. Guys in ‘Nam warned me about falling in love with my nurse.”
“You expected to be in all those hospitals?”
“I expected to be dead. Instead, I found someone who makes me feel alive.”
She kissed him. “Me too. Did you guys go to a bar?”
“Drove around a bit listening to his damn folk stuff. I’ll admit I liked some of it. Beer and music afterward. Catching up. Guy things. You would have been bored.”
She kissed him again. “I’m never bored with you. We need to start thinking about making a family.”
“Yeah. I can think about that now. Like you said, I took a load off my shoulders with this trip.” He kissed her back. “I think we should name our first son after the tutor. He’s a real friend.”
***
[Note from Steve: Fragging crimes that occurred in Vietnam were hard to prove. Pros and cons of a volunteer army are often debated, but fragging incidents have greatly diminished with the volunteer army. The politicians didn’t learn much from Vietnam, though.]
In elibris libertas…
