Going Home

I lay on my bunk, looking at my picture of Julie. I encased the photograph in plastic, otherwise I would have worn it out months ago. The past year, all I have had is this wallet sized image from the senior prom. And her letters. I wouldn’t have survived without her letters. Looking at her, I think about the sweet smell of her hair and her soft, moist mouth. I’m going to drive myself crazy. I glance over to my short timer calendar, three days. Three days and then I ride the freedom bird home. Going home to Julie.

“Hey, you!” I’m startled by an angry voice. There is a hulking presence between my bunk and the outside door.

“Yeah.” I focus and respond. “What ya’ need Connor?” The guy isn’t noted for civility or brains.

“You the one leaving, shipping out.” He asks.

“Yeah, that’s me. Three days, then I’m out of here.” I put Julies picture in my wallet, slip it in my pocket and stand to face my visitor.

Connor’s body begins to shake, “No! You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” The M-16 he carries rattles against his body. “You got no right takin’ my place. I’m goin’”

“Connor, it ain't my doing.” He is pissed. But Connor is always pissed at something or someone. He has done twelve hours on the perimeter. Twelve hours up in a tower, heat bearing down, staring at rice paddies, and nothing happening. No Viet Cong, not even a farmer tending his crop. Just the occasional water buffalo plodding across the diked fields.

I'm going home. Connor is staying right here, until his number comes up. I didn't exist until he realized another guy is going to be leaving country before him. Now, I materialized before him. Connor’s muddled thinking, I pulled strings, I kissed up. He doesn't get it, you serve your time and then off you go. Home. There is no conspiracy here.

Connor is scarier than usual, glassy, red-rimmed eyes, shaky hands, drool at the side of his mouth. What's the drug of choice today? Some guys, it’s the only way they can get through the day.

“You ain't going nowhere!” Connor's voice trembles, the muzzle of his M-16 comes up, waving across my chest.

“Cool it man. No need to get upset. Let's talk.” My voice calm.

“Talk, nothin'. I'm taking your place. Freedom bird is goin'a take me home. Tha’s jus’ the way it’ll be!” Connor swipes at his mouth.

I watch his finger. It twitches over the trigger. “Damn you!” I reach out, grab the muzzle and begin to push it aside. Everything is going in slow motion. The flashes. The thump, thump sound. The burning heat. There is no pain. “Connor, you gotta be the world’s worst shot.”

I’m on the floor, looking up at the ceiling. Flat on my back. Boots are thumping on the barrack’s floor. There are shouts, “Call the medics!” “Waste of time!” “Get that weapon away from Connor before he kills someone else!” “Captain’s going to raise hell.” “Forget the Captain, he’s drunk as usual.”

I say, “Hey guys, nothing to worry about, probably just a grazing wound. Get me up from here.”

“Medics were in the mess hall, here they come.” Someone is saying.

Another shout. There is so much noise. Is that Connor I hear crying? I seem to be the only calm person in the hootch.

“Didn’t mean to shoot him. Thing jus’ wen’ off.” Yeah, that’s Connor.

Now the medics have arrived. Finally. One of the guys I know from back home. Motor City. “Hey, Richard.” We hung out at Earnie’s hamburger stand back home. Saturday nights we polished up our cars, cruised the boulevard and met for cokes and burgers. “Fix me up, Richard. I’m going home, Julie is waiting for me. You remember Julie.”

I look up at him, his hands pull away my fatigue jacket, his face goes white, his shoulders slump. With the back of his hand he swipes at his eyes. “Jones!” He calls to the other medic, “forget the bandages. Let’s get him on the stretcher.”

“Richard, I’m no medic, I know you gotta slap some bandages on somewhere. That’s what you do. But not today?” They toss me on the olive drab canvas litter and slowly carry me down to the field ambulance. “Come on, Richard, we can go faster than this. I gotta get back. Finish packing.” He and Jones don’t get the message.

In the ambulance we bounce over every pot hole and crater to be found, hardly V.I.P. treatment. “I’ll remind you of this when you get back home.” I call over the truck noise.

I’ve seen the dispensary Doc at work. He’s good. He’ll get these guys squared away.

The ambulance throws up a cloud of dust when we get to the Aid Station. They give me the same slow walk inside. “Richard, you know what it’s like. Wanting to see your girl. Speed it up, I’m going home.”

They put me in the corner, away from the action. Doc is finishing up, stripping off his gloves and looks at me. Hands on his hips, he does that mental triage thing. This I could see. “Over here. I’m next.” I demand.

“Jackson, Jones take care of our friendly fire fatality there.” The doctor calls out, nods at me. “You call this friendly fire. Drug crazed Connor popping off. Doc, you get over here! You fix me up.”

Richard has come back. Now he has a hefty pair of scissors. He begins cutting away my shirt. “Stop right there! What are you doing? I need this for just a few more days. Then I’m a civilian, no more need for Uncle Sam’s property.”

My old friend keeps up the cutting. He pushes me on my side, then pulls away my shredded shirt. Now the worst begins. They take my wallet out of my back pocket. Army ID, Michigan diver’s license, “No!” Don’t you dare touch the pictures. “Doc!” I yell. “Tell them not to touch the pictures.” Why should I expect anyone to listen.

“Yeah, this is his car.” Richard shows Jones the picture of my metallic blue, GTO. “Always had it polished to a high shine.” Now the picture of Julie. I don’t let just anyone look at her. She’s special. Richard shakes his head, looks at her blonde hair and blue eyes, her bright smile and the pink formal. “Prom picture.” He says.

“Okay guys.” Doc is hovering over us. “I’ll take over.” He wears a new set of gloves, he bends down, pushes and prods. He uses his gloved fingers to probe the wound.

“Hey Doc, not so deep. Connor just grazed me.” I protest.

Doc writes on a card with a dangling string, hands it to Richard, who ties it around my big toe. “What’s this all about. I’ve had enough. Take me back to my barracks. I thought you were better than this.”

Jones, the other medic comes over with a big bag, looks to be rubberized canvas, smelling of disinfectants. “Okay, Jackson.” Jones says. They lay the bag on the floor and slip me inside.

“Now what?” Why do I bother asking. No one has talked to me since this nightmare started. Jones pulls on the zipper, the bag begins to close. I begin shouting. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing? I’m going home!”