The sun outside shone brightly, but to Frank it was a dark cloudy day, the kind of day where it's so dark you have to turn on the lights in the middle of the afternoon. Frank was contemplating suicide, very seriously. For the third time in as many minutes, he had placed the business end of a Colt .45 against his left temple, his index finger waiting for the message to contract, transforming his head into shapeless mush.
In the distance, he heard the noise of a parade. It was the fourth of July, the day the citizens of the greatest country on earth wave high the grand old flag. Yes indeed, the day one gives thanks to God, Mom, and cheese on your apple pie. But Frank no longer gave thanks; he didn't believe in God, could care less about his mother, and hated apple pie, with or without cheese, thank you.
The parade began to pass by Frank's window and he put down the Colt to watch. He saw the children and the old ladies pretending they were patriots, filled with fervor and zeal every young man should have when marching off to war. He saw the VFW, all the old men still pretending that WWII, that's the big one, sonny, had just ended and they were young again, their hopes and dreams alive. The Shriners were there with their red fez and gaudy earrings. Frank chuckled as he thought, "When I had long hair and no earring, people looked at me like I was queer; these Shriners dress like fruits and it's goddamn patriotic."
All the usual signs were there: SUPPORT YOUR NEIGHBOR, BUY AMERICAN and LET'S PICK UP THE PIECES AND START AGAIN and even DON'T FORGET THE VIETNAM VETERAN. The last sign brought the tears of anger and frustration that Frank's young-old eyes knew so well. He was a Vietnam veteran and he recalled his treatment. "I was fucked over, derided and ignored. Now, ten years too late, they say don't forget us", he thought.
Frank's father had written him a letter shortly before Frank had left for home. When he first read the letter, Frank laughed, but now the truth of it makes him cry. The letter went ".Son, I know you're anxious to leave the jungle, but I think when you get home, you'll see you've never really left."
Memories of his return home enshrouded his present thoughts. The memories rushed in at full speed, as if they intended to inflict their damage immediately and retreat, safe from reprisal. Unconsciously, Frank raised the gun to his head, but returned it to the table almost immediately. He sensed the dichotomy within himself. He wanted to live, but didn't know how; he wanted to die, but couldn't take his own life. The words of a Zen saying came to his mind, still an enigma to him. "To be is not to be, not to be is to be; to have is not to have, not to have is to have."
Frank dawdled with the saying for a few minutes and then moved back to his memories. His lips moved as the thought and he spoke quietly to himself. "When I came home, for the first few weeks I'd wake up in the middle of the night. I'd open my eyes and see the jungle; I'd smell the rot of it seeping into my nostrils. But that passed and I thought that's what my father meant. I figured hell, it's over; I've left, I know it and I'm glad.
But Frank felt an unaccountable loneliness, especially with his family and friends. They really tried hard to make him feel at home and one of them, but he felt like a ghost, drifting between the smiling faces unseen and unfelt.
Frank remembered the party his parents threw for him his second day home. The basement was alive with color, streamers hanging from every fixture imaginable and more WELCOME HOME FRANK signs than he cared to count. Relatives he never even knew existed were patting him on the back, shaking his hand and offering advice on the future. Finally, it was time to eat. Two long picnic tables had been placed end-to-end and Frank sat at the head of the table, befitting the guest of honor.
"Well, Frank, I'm really glad to see you home. I know how proud you must be to have served your country in its time of need", said Uncle John.
"I'm just glad it's over", Frank said, but he thought "Jesus, of all the insufferable pricks to sit next to, I've got to get a goddamn flag waver."
"Did you kill anybody, Frank?" this from his ten year old cousin, Bill.
Frank smiled and ignored the question. "Goddamn little asshole", he thought, "The war's over and I don't want to think about death anymore."
But neither his cousin nor the other well-wishers would be ignored. They plied him with questions whose answers he wanted most of all to ignore.
"Frank, did you kill anyone?"
"Were the gooks any good as fighters?"
"Or lovers?"
"What about all those stories of atrocities, Frank? Could Americans really do that?"
Frank could stand it no longer. Jumping to his feet, his face a deep red from anger, he answered all their questions.
"Listen to me, goddamnit, all of you. While you were worried over which pair of socks went with which shoes, I was trying to stay alive and sane. While you watched TV, I huddled in the rain, wondering if I'd ever by dry again. While you waved your flags on the fourth of July, I was stuffing what was left of my friends in body bags. While we're sitting here, the friends I left behind are still suffering. They're people, real people, and I wish to hell I was with them."
With that, Frank spun on his heels and left, the sound of his mother's voice calling him to come back and simultaneously apologizing to the guests.
Alone in his room, the door locked, he felt the terror of the jungle come upon him, the jungle he left less than one week ago. His breathing became rapid and his body flowed with adrenalin, ready for whatever would come next.
"Damn those fucking pigs downstairs! Why the hell don't they leave me alone? I've suffered enough without having to relive everything simply to satisfy their curiosity. Why can't they realize I want to be treated like a human being, not a goddamned hero? Don't they know all the heroes are dead?"
The next day he bought a car and began his travels.
Frank never stayed long enough in any one place to become a part of it. He was still a ghost, doomed to wander. He visited friends from the army, but to no avail; the friends he yearned to see were all dead. He visited the parents of one of these deceased friends. That was the worst of all. The parents spoke of the dutiful son, sending roses to his mother for no reason at all; Frank spoke of the friend he knew, refusing to walk point for the third day in a row and nearly receiving a courts-martial. He stayed a few days and left suddenly, leaving the parents tearful and lonely, but Frank felt entombed by the past and had to go.
Returning home, he decided to try college again. He found himself surrounded by students four and five years his junior. He listened to these heirs of the future speak of the occasional necessity of wars like Vietnam; knowing they would speak of a different necessity should they become personally involved. Frank frequently argued with them, making many more enemies than friends. It was not a good time for him and he felt cheated. He had found no one with whom he could share his experience.
After one year of adequate grades, he grew tired of school, found a job and met a girl. Frank could see a light at the end of the tunnel after all. He married her and returned to school.
The marriage had trouble from the start. He couldn't speak to her of his problems, her life always taking precedence. He recalled the arguments they'd had, especially the ones about school.
"Why do you get to be the one to go back to school, Frank? I've only got one more year left and I'll have my BS."
"Kim, we talked about this before we were married. You agreed it was a good idea then."
"Well, I changed my mind."
"What if you get pregnant? Then where the hell are we? You unable to work and me with a nothing job. Besides, you make more money than me."
"If you really cared about me, you'd do what I want. You want to hold me back, suppress me because I'm a woman. You're no better than my father."
"I'm not your father and I wish you'd quit comparing me to him. I can read and write English, remember?"
"What a terrible thing to say about my father. He's always been nice to you."
Frank, sensing this argument was going nowhere, left for the corner bar.
Divorce crossed his mind often, but he was afraid. His marriage was the only outward sign he could point to that indicated he was leading a normal life, that he had the things a normal American male lusts for and desires.
He stayed with her for six more years, not out of love, but because her presence seemed to part the waves of loneliness that constantly washed over him.
Frank's thoughts drifted again and this time the memories of the pain and agony of the jungle flashed through his mind in a kaleidoscope of events. The pull and ripping of the wait-a-minute vines as they shredded his flesh; the mosquitoes, leeches and other insects that found his body a delectable host; the smell and taste of the red-brown water of the rice paddies; the sight of bubonic plague, the large suppurating swellings in the armpits and the groin, black in color and smelling for all the world like death; the hugely swollen limbs, mottled gray, of those afflicted with elephantiasis; the sound of men screaming in agony, blood gushing from the sudden holes in their bodies.
And then the worst came. He saw himself on a cold wet February morning eleven years ago. He was standing on the outskirts of LZ Center, a little firebase halfway between the coast and the Laos border. Less than two hundred yards away, his best friend had just stepped on a booby trap. Frank ran towards him, his aid bag bouncing at his side. Someone grabbed Frank's arm and held tight.
"Forget it, Doc, he's dead."
Frank stared dumbfounded, the words heard but not understood.
"I said forget it, Doc, Dave's dead. You can't help him."
Frank's gaze traveled to the ground and he saw what he had missed earlier. Not five yards from him was Dave's right leg, the boot and pant leg intact up to the knee. Above that was meat and bone. Tears ran down Frank's eyes as he cradled the leg and waked over to where his dead friend lay.
The booby trap had blown a hole five feet wife and three feet deep. Dave lay face down; on the edge of the hole lay a picture of his fiancee, face up.
"Damn, it's like she was his last thought and he wanted us to know that. Goddamn war! Why do all the good guys have to die?"
"C'mon, Doc, why don't you go back to the base? We'll take care of things here."
"No, Steve, I've got to do it."
"Why?"
"He was my best friend and I've just got to, that's all. Now either help me or leave me the fuck alone."
With Steve at his back and Frank at his front, Dave's body slowly rose from the hole.
"Goddamn, Doc, the blast blew off both his arms."
"Just pull, goddamnit, pull!"
"Jesus, Doc, both his legs gone too."
"For Christ's sake, will you knock off the running commentary?" said Frank, not wanting to admit the gruesomeness of the sight of the limbless torso. Frank could only stare at the left femur, removed of its connecting tissue, jutting past the pant leg.
Finally, they got Dave's body up far enough to roll him out of the hole. Dave landed face up. But Dave no longer had a face. His brown wavy hair hung into a red mush, not resembling the Dave anyone knew.
Frank tried to speak but couldn't. The tears were coming too hard. He found himself in present time, real time, and he was crying now as hard as when he saw Dave for the last time.
Frank could stand the pain no longer. He positioned the Colt at his left temple, his index finger caressing the trigger. This time his brain did not delay and instantly flashed a command to the waiting finger: contract! As the Cold fired, Frank saw a brilliant white light and felt the heat of a thousand suns. A second later, he was dead.
Last Updated January 7, 2007
Last Updated January 7, 2007
All original material © Mike Dubrick 1980-2007. All rights reserved.
