Reaching Page 2

  A bunch of men had gathered around the bunk. Patty spoke to the circle of faces. "I'm Hal Patsin, from Philadelphia. You can call me Patty."

  "Another northern boy. Just what we don't need," said Baker. He and his sidekick, Leigh, walked away.

  "My name's Italy, and I'm from Boston. It's good to have another big city man around."

  "What about me?" asked Mac.

  "Harlem don't count," responded Italy. "That's cotton fields in disguise."

  "Yeah," said Mac with a smile. "I hear that everything outside of the Big Apple ain't nothing but sticks."

  "And what about me?" asked Italy.

  "You, man, you're a whole tree."

  Everybody laughed.

  "Hey, Patty," said Italy, "You play poker?"

  "Some."

  "Watch him, man." said Mac. "You'll lose your shirt."

  "I'm hungry," said Italy. He pushed away and made for his bed.

  The other men introduced themselves and soon drifted away until only Patty and Doc remained.

  "You and I are bunk mates," said Doc as he toweled the sweat from his bony body.

  "Yeah," said Patty to Doc's back. "I hope we'll become good friends."

  Doc turned around and flared. "Listen, Patsin, don't do me any favors. Nobody makes friends around here. That way you don't worry when somebody kisses off."

  "When somebody what?"

  "Kisses off." They looked at each other. "You know," said Doc, softening. "Bites the big hog. Takes the last trip."

  "I know," said Patty. They grinned at each other.

  "Where did you find a picture of such an ugly squirrel?" said Patty, pointing to a magazine photo of a pimple-faced, heavily made-up, chunky girl on the wall.

  "That's my baby," said Doc. "That's Janice Joplin. Life's one happy cesspool, and she's at the raunchy bottom. I like to look at her and remember how delicious things can get.” He dropped the towel in his locker and pulled out his shirt. "Let's make it to the mess hall. They don't serve any seconds and not too many firsts because food brings a good price on the black market in Saigon."

  "You're kidding."

  "Am I?” He walked out buttoning his shirt.

  Patty's first night in his new home was a rough one. There was no familiar lump in the mattress, no warm, remembered smell in the room to help him through the black hole of night dreams. He lay in his bed and dozed lightly. Startled awake by strange snores, he peered through the gauze of night and tried to imagine the windowless room as protection against the whoosh and thump of incoming mortar fire. Sweat dried slowly on his forehead. The ache of exhaustion dipped into the dull throb of a headache, deepened into the ferocious land of nightmares.

  Patty picked up the rock on the first day of the peace march. Each day he honed it on the larger rocks he found along the side of the road. He slid his hand into his pocket and felt the point. It was sharp and ready. He pressed it against his thigh until he felt warm blood sliding down his leg.

  He marched down United Nations Plaza. Police blocked the way. Patty readied his rock, but the cops were swept away as in the exhale of a short breath. Millions cheered. Pete Seeger sang and the people joined in, their voices blowing past Patty in great waves of green and white song. "Strontium, Strontium 90 will get you even underground.”

  Bob Dylan twanged a nasal guitar. "Yes, and how many times must the cannonballs fly before they're banned?” Whoosh, boom went the drums. "And how many times must a man look up before he can see the sky.” Dylan smirked. "Yes, and how many deaths will it take 'till he knows that too many people have died."

  Martin Luther King flew above the city of Washington. His great black robes draped the monument as he spoke. He dripped tears on little black boys sizzling in great fires.

  I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

  I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

  I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

  I have a dream today.

  . . . So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York . . .

  But not only that: Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Georgia: Let freedom ring from every hill and mole hill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

  When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last."

  Finally Martin Luther King grew silent. The fires smoldered and died. Patty gazed at dim shadows on the roof.

  He dreamed of climbing to the top of the mountain of freedom on a cool, clear, autumn day. Under a blue sky with flecks of white clouds, he called to the people gathered below, "You're free, free at last." The echo of his voice came back to him and he leaped from the mountain and shattered on the rocks below.

  Patty tossed his rock to a smiling policeman. "Keep it, buster.” Patty grinned without any teeth. "It goes well with your smile, copper."

  Patty's father greeted him at the door. "How was the trip?"

  "Great, absolutely terrific."

  "We saw you on T.V."

  "Yeah. How'd I look?" said Patty.

  "Like you always look. Come on into the kitchen and eat, and we'll talk."

  They walked into the kitchen together. The old man walked with a tired step. His battered captain's hat covered a fringe of gray hair. He spoke softly.

  "There's cold chicken in the fridge."

  Patty grabbed a leg in his fist, took a bite, and plopped into a chair. "I'm famished.” He took another bite. "It was great."

  The old man sat down at the table. "You know I was idealistic when I was your age."

  "You still are, pops."

  "No. Now I try to be a realist and that's what I want to talk to you about."

  Waves of Formica color floated off the table and around the room. Chomp. "Delicious chicken. Shoot. I'm listening."

  "We've talked about McCarthyism."

  "Yep."

  "Did you know I once attended a communist meeting in the thirties?"

  "I've heard stories."

  "Luckily, it didn't appeal to me, and I never went back, never signed a membership or anything. I say luckily because all those youthful idealists lost jobs, lost everything twenty years later during the McCarthy era.

  "Dad, what's this got to do with me?” Patty caught a jagged black rock and stuffed it into his shirt.

  "You're such a babe in the woods. I don't want you to suffer twenty years from now because you were a leader, because you signed a membership card, because your picture was on T.V."

  "It's a little late now, don't you think?"

  "Your mother tells me you're going to be a conscientious objector if they draft you."

  "That's right."

  "You know the way you'll be treated, like an outcast."

  "Look, I'm just not a killer."

  "Who is?"

  "Anybody who shoots another person.” Patty floated along the ceiling, giggling at his innocence.

  "In the real world, you have to learn to compromise."

  "I'm short enough already without having to walk around on my knees like some kind of moral midget."

  "You're so self-righteous."

  "You taught me right from wrong. You're the one who told me that integrity can't be bought at a discount store or found in a millionaire's briefcase.” Patty tore off a chunk of chicken and s
tuffed it into his mouth.

  "Let's not argue. Ideals have a way of fading as the years pass and the days of failure mount."

  "Nonsense. Right is right. Period."

  "Please. Let me say just one thing. You think about it, then do what you have to do."

  "I'm listening."

  "My four years in the navy were among the best in my life. I'm proud that I served."

  His father's voice was real and loud, and Patty tried to wake up and get away from it.

  "I've heard that one before."

  "Don't argue, just listen. I've worked sixty hours a week with no vacations for many years. I've tried to be as loving and giving and supportive as I could. Remember the World Series game I took you to see, and the times I've argued with teachers and principals when you were suspended for political activities."

  "You've always backed my right to my principles."

  "I've never asked for anything from you."

  "And I appreciate it."

  "Well, this is the first and last time I'm asking, and I'll never ask for anything again. Don't become a C.O. Please."

  "Pops . . . ."

  "That's all."

  He got up from his chair and left the room.

  "Wait, Pops, this isn't fair," Patty yelled after him.

  "Neither is life," he called back.

  I love him, but I won't do it. He's done a lot for me, but he led his life and now it's my turn. Patty walked over to the sink and threw the chicken bone in the garbage. His fingertips were sticky with grease. He turned on the cold water and washed them.

  His father lay small and shriveled on the living room couch. He was gray under the cold fluorescent light. His eyes were a dull, lifeless blue. Pink ridges dented the sides of his nose where glasses used to hang. A nurse leaned over the bed and closed his eyes.

  "Wait, Pops, this isn't fair," said Patty.

  "He's dead," whispered the nurse.

  "Daddy, come back. Come back, daddy," called Patty,

  Patty bolted upright in his bed. Through the mesh, he saw gray dawn slipping into the barracks. Barracks, he thought. I'm in 'Nam. We have a mission today. He pressed his forehead into the palm of his hand and let the thought sink in.

  There was no bantering in the helicopter. The only sound was the heavy pulse of the engine, a dull sound for men who seemed half asleep, with eyes closed on lonely worlds. Breakfast in the mess hall had been a silent affair of almost night. The men had avoided each other's eyes and mechanically wolfed their food. Now they waited, digested precious minutes, and tried to empty their minds of all thought and feeling until only the vibration of the helicopter remained.

  "This is it," called the pilot as the helicopter swooped down to a flat brown field in the middle of a hundred flat brown fields, in the middle of nowhere.

  "Move it," yelled Thompson into Patty's ear.

  Patty jumped out the open door into the swirling dust before the helicopter touched the ground. He ran out from under the chopper blades and flattened himself against the dirt.

  "Easy," said Doc as he came up.

  Patty blinked up at the shadowed face framed by the sun.

  "There's nothing here but cow shit," said Doc.

  The helicopters were already zooming away. The whole company lay in the field. Doc was one of just a half-dozen men standing.

  "Almost everybody's laying down," said Patty. "Why don't you get down?"

  "I'm a hero. I don't duck unless Charlie's hanging around."

  "Okay," said Patty. He stood up.

  "Good man.” Doc smirked. "Maybe you'll be a hero too, someday."

  "Okay, third squad," boomed Sergeant Thompson. "Everybody up. Looks like we got a nice long walk today. We're point."

  "Hey, Patsin," said Doc, "you're too white. Put some of this bug juice on your face or the sun will fry you. And if you're smart, you'll roll down your sleeves."

  "Thanks," said Patty. He rubbed the foul smelling oil on his face. "Man, this stuff smells terrible."

  "The smell keeps the bugs away," said Doc. He walked off, and Patty fell into line.

  The day drifted slowly, one step at a time, through shimmering heat waves and blaring sunlight. Hours passed as globs of sweat dripped over belly rolls of fat onto naked pants until it seemed that every soldier had peed his trousers. They rested five minutes and they walked, rested and walked some more. They walked through open rice paddies, flat empty land shimmering with the heat of the dry season, the clay dull brown, baked hard, and cracked. All day they walked in shining silence and brown emptiness, distance measured only by the broken dikes scattered over the land, those narrow foot-high peasant trails that separated one barren paddy from another. The men avoided stepping on them for fear of booby traps.

  Patty followed in Sergeant Thompson's footsteps, sticking close. He was tired, and his head ached from the heat. Sweat glued his headband to his forehead. Finally a wood line, cool and shady, glimmered in the hazy distance.

  "Patsin," the Sarge called out, "See the woods."

  "Yeah," said Patty.

  "They're there."

  "How do you know?" muttered Patty.

  "I been around. I know."

  An inner silence settled on Patty. It squeezed in upon him, pressing his breath, leaving him alone with the heavy beat of his heart. He slid his hand into his pocket and rubbed the rock. He walked toward the trees.

  "Everybody on line and spread out," ordered Thompson.

  The men moved forward in a wide sweep.

  "Patsin, stick with me.” Thompson looked over and smiled. "Don't be scared, boy. They'll fire too soon and miss. They always do. Just keep putting one leg in front of the other. You'll know when to duck."

  The wood was still distant when the first crack came, a soft sound followed by echoing gun barks. Little dirt spouts flew into the air. The men ran forward and dived behind a dike.

  Patty's helmet fell off as he hit the ground. He grabbed it and glued it back on. Thompson dived beside him.

  "Clumsy, aren't you?" said the sergeant. "You think this is rough. Wait 'til we get on the boats.” He smiled. "Have a drink of water. We'll be bellying it from here."

  Patty was thirsty but didn't want a drink. He pulled his rock out and squeezed it in his fist until his hand hurt and the rounded edge made a red streak in his palm. The men all around were firing. Patty looked at his rifle. A plastic toy, he thought. He didn't want to play.

  "Damn. My rifle's jammed," yelled Thompson.

  "Here, have mine," said Patty. "I won't use it anyway."

  "Okay, kid. It's your funeral.” He flipped his rifle to Patty. Patty caught it and tossed his back.

  "Let's get going," called Thompson.

  They slipped over the low ridge of the dike and crawled on elbows and knees. Bullets whistled past. Gunfire crackled. Water dripped over Patty's sweatband and stung his eyes. His elbows ached.

  "Everybody up. Let's get," yelled Thompson, as he ran for the trees, his rifle on automatic, spraying bullets.

  Patty caught up and dived beside him just as Thompson went down. He turned to Patty and whispered, "Medic.” He held his rifle out, and his eyes were still. His eyes closed, and the rifle dropped with a soft clatter. A bullet kicked up dust.

  Patty dropped his rock, picked up the rifle, and ran on, spraying automatic.

  CHAPTER 2: INTRODUCTIONS

  Patty sat on the light brown dirt of the dike with his head in his hands. His breathing slowed, and cool, sticky sweat slipped from behind his knees down the back of his calves. A trickle of wind sprang up and plastered his uniform to his body like a new olive skin. The breeze dried his forehead until it tingled.

  Around him, the fields were flat, brown, and empty, stretching for a mile through shimmering waves of heat to the wood line, a vague shape in the distance. It was silent and haunted now by the brown echoes of firing, the crack of rifles, the whirr of the bullets.

  The chop of the cry 'medic' echoed in Patty's ears, 'medic', a dozen times, eac
h more distant and broken like a shadow in a pair of facing mirrors.

  Camp walked up to Patty and sat down on the dike beside him. "How ya doing, kid?"

  Patty nodded.

  "Stop looking at the dirt," said Camp. "Look up and smile. Dig the scenery.” He kicked at the hard dirt. "You're in lovely scenic Vietnam, a member of the greatest army on earth, and you just lived through your first mission. Congratulations, sucker. We'll give you the high-priced tour when we get on the boats."

  He tapped Patty on the shoulder, a soft affectionate touch.

  "Guess I made it, huh, Doc?" said Patsin.

  "Yeah."

  "You really a doctor?" said Patty.

  "Nope. Just a medic."

  "Even a doctor couldn't have helped the sergeant," said Patty.

  Doc looked at Patty with set jaws. "Look, man, let me give you some advice.” He tapped Patty's knee for emphasis. "When a battle's over, you drop it."

  "I didn't mean nothing."

  "Yeah. You're new. Well, welcome to the unit.” As quickly as he'd flared up, he calmed down. "Pretty out here, isn't it?"

  "Yeah. I guess. But I'm beat," said Patty.

  "You'll get used to it.” Camp reached into his pocket and pulled out a pink pill. "Here. This is a salt pill. The 'copters will be here in a couple minutes.” He got up and walked away.

  Patty was nauseous. He popped the pill and sipped tepid water from his canteen. Sweat dripped into his eyes. The other soldiers spoke softly. The tinkle of their laughter drifted peacefully on the hazy air. To Patty, they seemed like green creatures from another world.

  The machine rattle of a chopper awoke Patty from his reverie. Gazing into the ball of the sun, he caught the blinding reflection of the helicopter. It hovered above like a giant screaming bug, ready to pin him to the ground, and crush him as he wriggled beneath it. The shadow blotted out the sun. The whirling blades blew dust into Patty's eyes.

  The chopper landed, and the men ran for it.

  "Come on, Patty," yelled Frank. "You want to stay here? Let's go."

  Patty ran and jumped on the edge as the bird started to rise. Frank pulled him in.

  "Let's go home," somebody yelled, and they lifted off.