looked down at the pale blue stationery.
Tom,
Just one month to go. I’ve finally earned my short-timer’s stick. I cut a notch in it every day until I get out of here.
The patrols have picked up a lot since we got mortared twice last week. Two guys got hurt, nothing really bad, but with the three guys out for malaria, we’re down five in the platoon, and only two guys came in to replace them, and they don’t know shit. They say the NVA has moved a lot of people in around here and are terrorizing the villes by night. A few of the local headmen disappeared, and a couple of them got found dead in a ditch just outside camp. After that a lot of the local men disappeared, too. We figure they got “drafted” by Uncle Ho, the dink bastard. Remember how Dad used to talk about how the French and Belgians were happy to see the Americans show up during WWII? Well, nobody’s friendly to us anymore. When we went through this one ville, we searched it for weapons but didn’t find any. The ARVN scout found a cache of rice he said was for the NVA, so we set the cache and a bunch of hooches on fire and left. These people get their asses kicked no matter which way they turn. I’ll be glad to get the hell out of here. I don’t know if we’re doing any good for anybody.
I’ve been saving up my money, and when I get home, I should have enough to buy a car. A few months after I get back to the states I’ll be out of the Army – that will be before the end of the summer, and we can go to the beach whenever we want.
Send me a letter, you bum! It reminds me that the whole world isn’t 110 degrees and full of bugs. I swear to God, when I get home I’ll never complain about the snow in Buffalo again.
Your Big Brother (and don’t you forget it!),
Rory
When Tom looked up from the letter, a reporter on TV was standing in a road outside a village. American soldiers in green were walking in a line away from the camera towards the village, and there were several contorted bodies in black pajamas lying on the road.
Tom couldn’t make out what the reporter was saying as he thought, Dead bodies and they just walk past them, and Rory’s part of this craziness?
4.
Heading out through the wire at dawn, Rory Brogan felt better about going on patrol. Since Lieutenant Keenan and Sergeant Washington had taken over the platoon, Rory had watched the squad tighten up. Weapons were at the ready, noisy gear was taped down or left behind and the men kept their intervals. Crossing through the free fire zone, they used hand signals, keeping their mouths shut and eyes open as they entered the bush.
Gervase was walking point, two men ahead of Rory. He was moving slowly, then even slower. About a klick in, he flashed a closed fist and dropped to one knee. Sergeant Washington moved up and knelt next to him, stared into the bush, then stuck his arm out to the side, his hand in a fist. The squad fanned out to form a skirmish line. Rory’s pulse quickened as he flanked out to his left, toward the edge of a muddy stream. His eyes jumped back and forth from where he put his feet to the bush ahead. With every snap of a twig or swing of a branch, the blood pulsed louder in his ears. Bugs landed in the sweat on his face and neck and in his ears. Rory fought off the urge to swat them, keeping his hands on his rifle, index finger tapping just outside the trigger guard. He swung the M-16 in a narrow arc in front and kept pace with the others. To his right, Isada looked to the Sergeant, who stopped and raised a closed fist. They waited and listened. Nothing. Washington turned toward Rory and Isada and swung a raised hand back and forth. The squad started falling back into line on the trail. Rory exhaled as he flanked off behind Isada and stepped back towards the trail.
Rory heard the metallic ping and Isada spun around and looked wide eyed at him. The roar of the mine’s explosion blew him sideways through a mass of bamboo branches. He landed on his back feeling as light as air, amazed at a force that could drive him through such dense bush. He heard unintelligible shouting and thought, Goddammit, keep quiet in the bush. He saw Sgt. Washington staring down at him. Grimacing, the sergeant reached out and removed Rory’s bloodied helmet and carefully laid his head on a flak jacket.
Oh shit, I must be really fucked up, Rory thought. I can’t see anything to my left. Voices approached, and he could hear the PRC 77 operator speak loud and fast, the radio squawking back. Rory kept blinking his right eye to see what was happening, but something wet kept blocking his vision.
The last thing he remembered was watching Doc Wilson pull one of the big field dressing bandages out of his bag, being picked up, and then everything went dark.
5.
Rita heard the DJ on WBEN start to read the noon news and stood up. Lunchtime, she thought, then, but it’s just me today, as she looked in the refrigerator. The doorbell rang. She went to the steps and saw a man in a brown jacket waiting there. Who’s this? she wondered. He rapped on the door.
“Western Union,” he said.
Oh no! She remembered Pat saying, “They always send a soldier now if a GI’s killed in action.”
“Yes?” she said, slowly opening the door.
“Telegram, Ma’am,” and he handed her an envelope.
“Let me get some change...”
“No need for that.” He turned and left.
She turned the yellow envelope over and opened it. Leaning against the doorframe, she read,
FROM: MILITARY NOTIFICATIONS BUREAU
DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
WASHINGTON, DC
REPORT DELIVERY DO NOT PHONE
DO NOT CALL THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY
TO: MR AND MRS PATRICK BROGAN
75 CORDOVA AVENUE BUFFALO, NY 14214
THE SECRETARY OF THE ARMY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE FIRST CLASS RORY BROGAN WAS WOUNDED IN ACTION BY AN EXPLOSIVE PLACED BY A HOSTILE FORCE. HE HAS BEEN PLACED ON THE SERIOUSLY ILL LIST AND IN THE JUDGEMENT OF THE ATTENDING PHYSICIAN HIS CONDITION IS OF SUCH SEVERITY THAT THERE IS CAUSE FOR CONCERN. PLEASE BE ASSURED THAT THE BEST MEDICAL FACILITIES AND DOCTORS HAVE BEEN MADE AVAILABLE AND EVERY MEASURE IS BEING TAKEN TO AID HIM. HE IS HOSPITALIZED IN VIETNAM. ADDRESS MAIL TO HIM AT THE HOSPITAL MAIL SECTION, APO SAN FRANCISCO 96347. YOU WILL BE PROVIDED PROGRESS REPORTS AND KEPT INFORMED OF ANY SIGNIFICANT CHANGES IN HIS CONDITION.
JAMES H ONEILL MAJOR GENERAL USA C 114-140 THE ADJUDENT GENERAL DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY WASHINGTON DC
Rita spun inside the hallway and stumbled to the phone, gripping the telegram. Staring at the envelope, she started dialing the number for the 17th Precinct, then stopped. No. Dial Pat’s number at the DA’s office. She tried again.
“Good afternoon, District Attorney’s office.”
“Pat. May I speak to Patrick Brogan, please?”
“Mrs. Brogan? Are you ok?”
“Rory. Something’s happened to Rory. Pat, where’s Pat?”
“He’s out of the office, Mrs. Brogan. Wait on the line, I’ll try to find him.”
Rita’s legs gave out and she found herself sitting on the
