Reaching

  REACHING

  A Vietnam War Novel

  ALLEN DORFMAN

  "REACHING is a compelling soldier's tale that reads as true as a memoir. Dorfman deftly captures the brutality of war, the essence of the times, and the moral struggle America faced both on an individual and a collective level. I dare you to read this and not be moved!"

  -Frank Zafiro, author of the River City novels

  SYNOPSIS:

  In the spring of 1967, Hal Patsin receives his draft notice as the Vietnam War escalates. He plans to register as a conscientious objector – until his father says, “I’ve never asked for anything, Patty, but now I ask this: Serve your country.”

  Determined not to fire his weapon, Patty becomes a first line grunt and is sent to a combat zone during the Tet Offensive. Nothing has prepared him for the reality of the missions ahead with his unit or the friends he would make in the heat of battle – Mac, Italy, Doc, and Jimmy. Patty’s ideals are peeled away as he becomes a soldier intent on survival and on protecting the men of his unit.

  REACHING presents the horror and absurdity of war in direct, intense prose. The characters spring to life, each with flaws. Humor and tragedy shape the transformation of all.

  DEDICATION:

  To my girls,

  Beth and Rachel.

  And to Timmy Fuller,

  my friend who died in my arms.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2014 Allen Dorfman All rights reserved.

  Cover Design: Angela Zambrano

  Chapter 1: The Choice

  Chapter 2: Introductions

  Chapter 3: Town

  Chapter 4: C. Q.

  Chapter 5: Three Men

  Chapter 6: Weed

  Chapter 7: Scared of the Dark

  Chapter 8: Dead Weight

  Chapter 9: The Great M.P. Raid

  Chapter 10: Number One, Number Ten

  Chapter 11: On the Boat

  Chapter 12: John

  Chapter 13: Reaching

  Chapter 14: The Letdown

  Chapter 15: Bryan

  Chapter 16: Divorced

  Chapter 17: The Helmet

  Chapter 18: Award Ceremony

  Chapter 19: Battle Fatigue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1: THE CHOICE

  The truck lurched to a stop. The driver yelled above the rattle of the motor, "Patsin, U.S. 53804721."

  "Here," responded Patsin.

  "Make it, buddy. You're home." A fellow recruit tapped Patsin on the shoulder. "Good luck," he said.

  Patty nodded. He grabbed his duffel bag and tossed it into the road.

  "Move, buddy," the driver called from the cab. "I still got a lot of men to deliver and I ain't got all day."

  Patsin hoisted himself over the tail gate and jumped down into the road. He caught his helmet as it started to fall off and stuffed it back on his head. Someone waved as the truck jerked away. Before Patty could wave back, the dust billowed behind the truck and half-choked him. He grabbed his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, pressed his rifle tight against his other shoulder, and trudged to the edge of the road.

  Home, he thought. He slid his duffel to the ground and looked carefully around. The dust settled slowly. The flat street stretched almost to the horizon where the late afternoon sun hung like a great ball on an empty beach. The sky was a deep blue with not even a hint of a cloud. Rough wood buildings lay scattered and sun blasted along the road. Low piled sand bag bunkers alternated with the buildings.

  Patty wiped the sweat from his forehead and rubbed his wet palm on his pants. He was a short, thin Irishman with red hair, a few sun freckles on his pale face, and a big nose that turned red in the sun.

  Patty glanced between the buildings and saw a bunch of bare chested men playing volleyball. A powerful, tanned, blond haired guy spiked the ball. It slapped a man's head and bounded away.

  "That's it," yelled a dark, squat man beside him. "Make him eat it, Fearless."

  "Up yours, Italy," responded Fearless.

  Soldiers. Roommates, wondered Patty. The ball rolled to him. He picked it up and punched it back. Nobody said thanks. Patty turned back to his duffel. A short, black man eyed him silently.

  "Hi," said Patty. "I'm new."

  "I'm Jimmy Lincoln.” The man smiled. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

  "I'm Hal Patsin.” They shook hands and smiled at each other, but no words came.

  “Where do I report?" said Patty awkwardly.

  "Headquarters. Right there.” Jimmy pointed to a little white sign above a screen door - H.Q.

  "Thanks."

  "See you," said Jimmy.

  "Right," responded Patty. He picked up his duffel, went to the door, and knocked.

  "Hey, Patsin," called Jimmy. "Welcome to 'Nam."

  Patty waved.

  "Come on in," called the clerk. "We don't answer doors around here."

  Patty opened the screen and went in. The door clicked shut behind him. The typewriter clacked for a second and stopped. The clerk looked up. "What can I do you for?"

  Patty pulled his orders from his pocket and handed them over. The clerk scanned them and looked up. "Welcome to the land of the living, soldier."

  "Hi.” Patty smiled. "What do I do?"

  "Take that load off your shoulder and relax. I have to show these to the C.O.” He went through a little curtain to the back room.

  Patty slid his duffel off. It dropped to the wood floor with a low thud. The room was windowless but bright with the light from the street. A single bare bulb added no light. The old wood furniture offered no warmth. An army radio, on a table in the corner, crackled. Patty jumped. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a gray and black speckled river rock. He felt its heft in his palm. His fingers closed over it. It was cool, like the trickling stream he'd pulled it from back in the world. He kissed it for protection and tasted sand grains on his lips. He slid it back into his pocket.

  The clerk came out. "Okay, Patsin, the main man will see you now. You can leave your bag out here but the rifle goes with you everywhere."

  Patty pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the back office. The light was dimmer. A single bulb hung low from a black wire above the captain's desk and cast dusky shadows into the corners of the room. A pipe smoldered in a glass ashtray on the desk. The room smelled acrid from stale tobacco. The captain sat at attention, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He had a high forehead and skimpy dark hair. He wore black frame glasses and a pencil thin mustache.

  Patty saluted. "Private Patsin reporting, sir."

  The captain nodded a greeting. "At ease, soldier.” He spoke softly. "You don't have to salute me. You're a combat infantryman. That's salute enough for me."

  "Thank you, sir," said Patty.

  "Take a load off your feet."

  Patty sat down on a wood folding chair. One leg was slightly shorter than the others. It clicked on the floor as Patty shifted in his chair.

  The officer looked at Patty's orders. "Hal Patsin. I always like to get to know my new men. Tell me about yourself."

  "Well. I don't know. My friends call me Patty, sir."

  "Okay. I'll call you Patty."

  "I don't really want to be here. I don't want to be a combat soldier, sir."

  "Who does?” The officer smiled. "You were drafted?"

  "Yes, sir.” Patty paused. The room was hot. Sweat dripped do
wn Patty's chest. "It's hot here," he said.

  "It's the tropics. You'll get used to it.” The captain leaned back in his chair. "You can get used to anything. Yep. That's the great thing about people. They can get used to anything."

  "Sir.” Patty leaned forward. His chair bumped the floor. "I have something important to tell you. I can't fire my rifle."

  "Sure you can," said the officer. He extended his left arm straight out. He sighted down an imaginary rifle. His right forefinger rested on the trigger. He closed one eye and aimed carefully at Patty. "Now you just squeeze the trigger nice and slow until – click – and that’s all.” He leaned back in his chair. "There's nothing to it. You'll get to like it, believe me."

  "Sir, I know how to use a rifle. I got expert in basic training.” Patty leaned forward. He squeezed his hands together on the desk. "I just don't want to carry a rifle. I don't want to use a rifle. I don't want to kill anybody."

  "Sounds like you should have been a conscientious objector."

  "I know that, sir. My father didn't want me to be a c.o."

  "What's he got to do with it?"

  "He passed away. It was his last request."

  "Then honor it, boy." The captain stood up.

  "I'll go out but I won't shoot anybody," said Patty.

  "You ever read the Bible?"

  "Yes, sir, a little when I was a boy."

  "You're still a boy. Listen to this.” He went to a shelf a pulled a well-thumbed Gideon from it. Quickly he turned to the right page. He handed the book to Patty. "Read this aloud – starting here.” He pressed his thumb in the book.

  Patty read. "'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . . .'"

  "That's enough.” He took the Bible and put it back on the shelf. "Two things, boy. Here, your rod and staff are a rifle and bullets, and the table is not going to be a picnic table. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir," said Patty.

  The captain sat back down. "I don't like cowards," he said matter-of-factly.

  "Yes, sir."

  "You'll go out, and you'll learn to fire. You'll be scared like everybody else but you'll remember your family and you'll do your duty.” He leaned across the table and touched Patty's hand. "I'm a good judge of people. You'll fight when the time comes.” He leaned back thoughtfully in his chair and drummed his fingers on the table. He smiled softly. "Son, let me tell you something. When somebody's trying to kill you, the animal takes over. He whispers in your ear that it's either you or your enemy, and you know for damn sure who you want it to be."

  "Sir, I'd rather it be neither of us."

  A little frown edged the captain's lips. "You're in the third squad. That's the first floor next door. The men will let you know what to expect. Just introduce yourself around and make yourself at home. We have a mission tomorrow. That's all."

  Patty started to get up. The chair banged a last time.

  "Oh, by the way," said the C.O., "I'm Captain Madison.” He stood up and extended his hand. They shook hands. "Welcome to Vietnam," said Madison.

  "Thank you, sir," responded Patty.

  Patty pushed the curtain aside and walked into the outer office.

  The clerk looked up from his typing. "The old man's not so bad once you get to know him. He's gruff and a little talky at first but he's a good guy."

  Patty nodded. He picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  "Don't feel bad about not getting out of combat. The old man won't hold it against you. Plenty of guys try. After about six months, you might be able to luck out and get a clerk job. That's what I did."

  Patty frowned. "I don't play games with people."

  "If your rifle's not clean, it won't fire tomorrow," said the clerk sarcastically.

  "You got a good ear," responded Patty.

  He pushed out the door and into the company street. He stepped between the office building and the barracks. The sounds of the volleyball game echoed off the buildings.

  "Come on, Baker, serve that ball to me. I'm one hungry mother," yelled Mac.

  "Shut up, you ugly black bastard," said Baker.

  "Black beauty to you, mother," answered Mac.

  Patty squinted at the sun. He strode into the long shadow of the barracks. It was different from the other buildings, a rough two-story wood building with a high, sloping roof. It looked like a country church amid the flat buildings on the long, dusty, street. Above the door was a little hand painted black and white sign - "C. Co.” Patty pushed open the screen door and went it. The door banged shut behind him. After the harsh glare of the sun, Patty's eyes adjusted slowly to the indoor light. He focused on a narrow aisle between rows of olive foot lockers and two long rows of beds covered by mosquito nets. They looked like canopy covered pews. There were no windows and just two bare light bulbs overhead.

  "Don't look awed. Come on in. This is home."

  Patty looked around. "Where are you? I can't see you."

  "I'm right here on the bed, writing a letter to the wife and kids.” The man jumped up from the third bed and rustled his mosquito netting aside. He bounced over to Patty and extended his hand. "Name's Sergeant Thompson. Everybody calls me Sarge."

  He was a muscular, crew-cut black man with a pale two-inch scar on his right cheek. He had a steel grip, and Patty winced as they shook hands.

  "Welcome to Charlie Company." said Thompson. He rubbed sweat from the gray hair on his chest.

  "Thanks, but I can't say I'm glad to be here. I'm Hal Patsin, but my friends call me Patty."

  "Glad to know you. I don't blame you for not wanting to be here. This ain't summer vacation. Put your duffel over there.” He pointed to the bed next to his. "That bed's empty now."

  Patty slipped the duffel bag off his shoulder and laid it down heavily on the locker at the foot of the bed. "Who used to sleep here?" he said.

  "Somebody.” Thompson wrinkled his forehead. "Some things you don't ask."

  Patty gazed thoughtfully at the rolled-up mattress.

  The sergeant sat down on a foot locker and Patty sat down across from him.

  "The rest of the men are out playing ball or drinking, or both. Anything you want to know, I'll be glad to tell you.” There was a tired edge in his voice that contrasted with his bouncy manner. He looked away. "My wife worries about me, so I write her every chance I get. We have five children."

  "What are you doing in the army?" said Patty.

  The sergeant looked carefully at Patty. "I'm a lifer,” he said. "You got to make a living somehow."

  "You miss your family?" asked Patty.

  "Sure. My oldest had communion last month. I was here. My family now is you guys. Keeping you in one piece, that's my job."

  "Listen, Sarge, I don't want to ever shoot anybody."

  "Just don't fire your rifle, then."

  "You're not mad?"

  "Nah. Half the men are too scared to ever fire, anyway."

  "It's not 'cause I'm scared," said Patty. "I just don't want to kill anybody."

  "You'll be scared. It's not just the bullets. It's what combat does to you, how it changes you. It makes you an animal, with quick words, and drugs, and sex, and every life lived in a second. Be scared. It's good for you. Wait 'till you meet Frank and Doc, then you'll see what being tough does to you. You need the world right here with you, so you can remember the states and what you are. Write a lot of letters and get a lot of letters so you can remember who you are."

  "My girl says she'll write me every day. And look at this.” Patty pulled the rock out of his pocket and tossed it to Sergeant Thompson. "It's a river rock. I found it the day before I left the states."

  Sergeant Thompson hefted it in his hand and rubbed his fingers over it. "It's a little too heavy for skipping on water but it feels good.” He tossed it back. "I'd love to get back there someday."

  "You will."<
br />
  "Will I?” He looked thoughtfully at Patty. "There are some things you know before they happen. I got to get back to my letter. Make yourself comfortable.” He got up. "By the way, you ought to write home. Your family is probably worried about you." He lifted his mosquito netting and slid into his bunk.

  Patty sat still on his locker. He wanted the room to sink into him, to be a part of him. He heard the squeak of Thompson's bed. He gazed into the stillness of the room. Each mosquito net was a gossamer jail that separated the soldiers and hid their loneliness and fears behind soft warm walls.

  Patty looked at the green locker he was sitting on. He ran his hand over the thin layer of dust on its surface and looked at his hand imprinted with dark gray and smelling of sweat. He wiped his hand on his pants and got up. He looked at his folded mattress, a wordless voice that spoke to his subconscious. He raised the netting and jerked the mattress straight. Dust billowed from it. He smacked it hard twice and the dust rose and settled. Patty flipped the mattress over.

  He turned to his duffel and snapped it open. Carefully he lifted his sleeping bag from the top and opened it as one would unwrap a Christmas gift. He pulled an 8" x 10" picture in a gold frame from the center of the bag. It was a picture of the girl he was going to marry if he ever made it back home. She was a plain girl with short, dark hair and sad eyes, and the bare wisp of a smile on her face. Patty tucked the picture under his mattress and spread his sleeping bag out on the bed. He unpacked the rest of the duffel quickly and stowed his clothes in piles in the foot locker.

  As he was finishing, the volleyball players swaggered in the back door and up the aisle, laughing and joking as they went.

  "Hey, a new guy," said Italy. He jumped up the aisle and stuck out his hand. He was big and deeply tanned with dark, curly hair and friendly brown eyes. Layers of fat rippled around his bare stomach, and sweat poured from him. "Put her there, buddy.” He and Patty shook hands.

  "Don't get too near him, buddy. The smell will kill you," said the company medic, a long toothpick of a man with cheeks so bony they were almost transparent.

  "Hey, Doc, that's working man's sweat. It's good for you. It'll put hair on your chest.” Italy turned back to Patty. "Where you from, pal."