Telemurdering: Chapter 5 & 6

 

Telemurdering

                                                                 

Chapter 5

          When Paul strolled into the telemarketing room at the Safe Sentry offices the next afternoon, Dean Perry, whose bandage threatened to slide off the end of the finger he injured, immediately grabbed him. The exposed injury looked nasty; scabbed and swollen. To top it all off it he appeared to have either changed a tire or performed some kind of automotive repair that day. His shirt and hands were beyond filthy. Squeezing Paul’s upper arm, Dean blurted out, “Did you hear the news?”
    Paul stared, horrified, at the greasy prints on the sleeve of his brand new Italian, silk shirt. “S-S-See what you d-did, D-D-Dean? I just got this sh-shirt. Giselle is g-g-going to have a f-f-fit! Why d-d-don’t you go wash your hands, or something!”
    Attempting to make amends, Dean rubbed at the smudge, which only enlarged it, before he continued with his hot news bulletin. “Jim didn’t come in today! Jerry said he never even went home last night! He’s never missed a day before, man. He’s never even—”
    Paul wasn't listening. “I c-c-can’t believe you just ru-ru-ruined my new shirt, Dean. I d-d-don’t care about Jim, anyway. May-May-Maybe he has a girlfriend. There’s lots of nights Giselle doesn’t come home.”
    Dean considered Paul’s statement briefly, and said, “I don’t think Giselle staying out all night is quite the same as Jim not going home. No offense, Paul, but Jim isn’t a prost—”
    “How d-do you know what Jim d-d-does, when he leaves here?” Paul shouted, “He could be selling drugs, or, or, anything!”
    Wondering why he became so disturbed, Dean looked at Paul, and asked, “What’s eating you, man?”
    “N-N-Nothing,” Paul replied, “j-just leave me alone.”
    Donnie put down his phone, leaned back, and stuck his head around the side-panel of his cubicle in the corner, “Will you two shut up? I can barely hear my customers.”
    Max got up and went to see Jerry. Noticing the door slightly ajar, he pushed it open a little further and peeked in. Jerry was on the phone with a concerned look on his face and didn’t notice Max. “No Sam,” Jerry exclaimed, “I didn’t see anything around here that would indicate any kind of a struggle. His office and his desk seemed to be in perfect order. Too bad it rained last night. Attila the Hun and the Roman army could have fought it out on the parking lot and there wouldn’t have been so much as a drop of blood to be found today.” Out of the corner of his eye Jerry noticed Max. He motioned for him to come in and sit down. Max listened while Jerry continued his conversation, “I’ve got a friend  who's an HPD homicide detective coming by around five. Sure, you can come by here, anytime, Sam. You’re always welcome here. No problem, you can talk to anyone. I’ll look forward to seeing you; I just wish it were under better circumstances. Yeah, he made a pretty good living here. He did a good job for us. Oh, really? I met her up here last night. How's she holding up? Yeah, well, they’ve been married a long time. Stranger things have happened. Well, let’s hope so. Okay, see you soon.” Jerry hung up and turned his attention to Max, who seemed on the verge of tears. “What is it Max?” Jerry asked.
    “It’s all this tension in the air, Jerry, about Jim. What’s being done?”
    Jerry folded his hands on the desk, and replied, “Everything that can be done, is being done. I’ve got a friend coming by from the homicide division to see if we’ve overlooked anything that might be considered suspicious.”
    Max actually turned pale. “Homicide? Then you think he’s been murdered? Oh dear," he reached into his hip pocket and retrieved a handkerchief to dab at the beads of persperation appearing on his brow. "I just can’t work under these conditions," he whimpered. "I think I...”
    “Now, Max, for God’s sake, don’t get all shook up about this, yet. He may be okay. We just don’t know for sure. For all we know, he may come through those doors at any minute. Go on back to your desk and try to focus on setting a few good appointments this evening. You know what Jim would say. The sales consultants count on you, Max. Without your appointments, they can’t make a living.”
      Max shook his head, stuffing his handkerchief back in his pocket as he got up from the chair, “I don’t know, Jerry. That's asking a lot. I don’t know if I can do it.”
    “Well, try, anyway.” Jerry urged, exasperated with Max’s perpetual whining. “You know Jim would want you to.”
    Lumbering out, Max looked back over his shoulder, and said, “Okay, I’ll try. But I’m not making any promises.”
    Jerry shook his head. Max was one of the kindest and gentlest souls he'd ever met, to the point of absurdity. Sometimes it seemed as if he'd break down if someone stepped on an ant, but, he supposed, in this case it seemed appropriate.
    Around five that afternoon Lieutenant Bill Velasquez with the HPD homicide division dropped by. Sitting in the large, branch manager’s office with one elbow propped on the round table beside him, he asked Jerry, “Do you know of anyone that might have a reason to harm Mr. Patton?”
    Jerry shook his head. “I don’t know of anyone here that doesn’t like Jim.”
    Looking around the office, at the inspirational posters and plaques on the gray walls, including a concise “Mission Statement,” from Safe Sentry corporate headquarters and the obligatory Better Business Bureau membership notice, Velasquez said, “Oh come now, Jerry, surely he must've fired someone at one time, and he must've written people up and put employees on probation for various rules infractions. What manager hasn’t done that?” Velasquez asked. “Who’s on probation right now?” he wondered.
    “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m not sure,” Jerry answered. "Jim usually runs a pretty tight ship and I don’t have much cause to stick my nose in his business.” Jerry got up and went to his file cabinet. He lifted a folder out, marked “TMK Personnel Issues,” and laid it down on his desk. Thumbing through the gold-colored copies, he picked one up and said, “Looks like just one person is on probation . . . Paul Grand. But Paul’s a little slow, and because of that he makes repeated mistakes. I can’t imagine he would do anything . . .”
    Eagerly, the Lieutenant leaned forward and asked, “Would you mind if I spoke to him?”
    “No, I don’t mind,” Jerry said, “but he gets pretty nervous when he feels pressured, so take it easy on him, or he won’t be of much use to us for the rest of the evening.”
    “Have you got any rope, so I can tie him to a chair, or bright lights that I can shine in his face while I interrogate him?” Velasquez grinned. Seeing that Jerry wasn’t smiling, he said, “Just kidding, Jerry. I’ll take it easy on him. Would you go get him and bring him in here?”
    Jerry got up and went out to the telemarketing area. He looked around and was satisfied that everyone seemed to be working. In the tray that held tomorrow’s appointments  it looked as if six or seven had already been turned in. He waited for Paul to hang up, and trying to seem as easygoing as possible, said, “Paul, could I see you for a minute?”
    Paul immediately became apprehensive and stammered, “N-N-No, n-n-not right now. I have a c-c-call-back I have to m-make.”
    Jerry’s voice was calm, but firm, as he beckoned for Paul to follow him. “It will only take a minute, Paul, then you can make your call-back.”
    An incredible urge to run grew within him, but Paul knew he couldn’t. He got up from his chair, resigned to the fact that he had no choice, and followed Jerry back to his office. Paul’s eyes grew wide momentarily as he saw the policeman sitting in Jerry’s office.
    Sitting down on the other side of the round mahogany table from the officer, Paul fidgeted nervously while Velasquez studied him. Leaning forward he said, “So, you’re Paul Grand.” He stared at him for a moment, squinting as if trying to see inside this very guilty looking man. “Tell me, Paul, what kind of relationship do you have with Mr. Patton?”
    Without looking up, Paul answered, “I work here, and he’s the m-m-manager of the telemarketing department.”
    “Yes, we know that, but I mean how do you two get along?” Velasquez asked.
    Still staring down at the thick blue carpeting, Paul said, “Okay, I guess. Sometimes I m-m-make Jim mad at me for not doing wha-wha-what he asks.”
    Jerry interrupted at that point, noticing for the first time Paul's terribly swollen nose. "My God, Paul," Jerry exclaimed, "what the heck happened to your nose?"
    "Giselle and I had a fight last night. I didn't hit her. I just let her punch me until she got it out of her system."
    Velasquez stroked his chin, and said, “I noticed that you’re currently on probation, Paul. What did you do to warrant that?”
    “I scared a lady that li-li-lived in a bad neighborhood where several rapes had occurred. I told her she shouldn’t live there wi-wi-without an alarm system. I was just trying to set a lead, and...”
    “Paul,” Jerry interrupted, “you know we don’t set leads, here. We pay you to set firm, qualified, appointments with all of the decision-makers planning to be there at the time of our visit. Jim has gone over the difference between a lead and an appointment with you many times.”
    “Yeah, okay, I was t-t-trying to set an appo-appo-appointment, and Jim said I was using sc-scare t-tactics.”
    Velasquez asked, “Did you actually know if there had been rapes in that neighborhood, or were you just making it up?”
    “Well, there are rapes all over the p-place, all the time. So I wasn’t really lying.”
    Officer Velasquez closed the folder lying on the table, and said, “Let’s get back to your relationship with Jim. When Jim put you on probation, how did that make you feel? Were you mad?”
    For the first time, Paul looked up at the Lieutenant, making eye contact with him for just a second, before quickly looking back down again, and said, “No, I didn’t care.”
    “You didn’t care? You didn’t care? Get serious Paul. A man puts you on probation when you’re just trying to do your job and you don’t care? Now, I’m a cop, I’m not a telemarketer, so maybe it’s different, but if someone put me on probation when I was just doing my job, I’d be pissed. Tell the truth, Paul, you were pissed off, weren’t you?”
    “No.” Paul didn’t look up. He rubbed his sore knuckle, which was black and swollen.
    Velasquez pressed the issue further, saying, “You were furious, and you had a right to be, didn’t you?”
    Paul kept looking down. He could feel the tension within him growing, along with the increasing fear that this cop might somehow know something. Struggling to maintain control of his emotions, he said, “N-N-No. I shouldn’t have s-s-said what I said to that lady.”
    Silently, the homicide detective stared at Paul, sizing him up, wondering if this frail, longhaired, ape-man look alike was capable of killing his boss. Wondering about the reason for the lengthy silence, Paul looked up again, right into the piercing eyes of the Lieutenant, and just as quickly looked away, turning his head towards Jerry. He asked, “Can I g-go, Jerry? I really have to m-make that call-back.”
    Velasquez turned to Jerry, nodded and said, “It’s okay, Jerry, I don’t have any more questions.”
    Paul wasted no time getting up and heading for the door, but before he got out of the room the Lieutenant stopped him, saying, "Just a minute Mr. Grand. That's a mighty expensive looking shirt you have on. What is it, one of those designer silk shirts from Italy? An Armani, or something like that? Those things are over a hundred bucks, aren't they?” Paul shrugged. The Lieutenant continued, “I’m curious to know how you afforded that. Did you come into some unexpected money?"
    Paul stopped without turning around. He had learned a long time ago that if cops could watch your eyes they could frequently tell when you weren't telling them the truth. Thinking quickly, he said, "Giselle bought it for me yesterday. She had a g-good week last week," he lied, "and made a lot of m-m-money, so she g-g-got me a gift. That's what the fight was over. I t-t-told her I thought it made me look like a fag, so she b-beat the shit out of me." He didn't wait for another question. He opened the door and walked out, hoping his performance had been good enough.
    When Paul had left the room, closing the door behind him, Jerry asked, “What do you think, Bill?”
    “I don’t know Jerry. He’s an odd one, no doubt about it, but whether he’s capable of something like murder, well, I just don’t know. He ran his hand through his short, jet-black hair and got up from the chair. “We can’t start a full blown murder investigation unless we have evidence of a murder, and right now I have to say we don’t have any real evidence at all. I’ll turn this over to the missing persons department and let them know what I know. You call me if this Patton guy miraculously shows up, okay?” He put out his hand to shake and Jerry gratefully clasped it.

Chapter 6

    Waiting anxiously for Jeff to get home, Nathan sat on the couch, talking on the phone. “I’m 55 today, how about that? Those doctors in Vietnam never thought I’d live to see my twentieth birthday, and yet here I am! So how have you been?” There was a long pause, and then he said, “I hope you’re happy. I still love you, Lindy. I always will. I wish you could be here with me today, but I guess I understand why you had to go. I still haven’t ever been able to hold a job for any length of time. No, I still haven’t gotten to where I can stand crossword puzzles either. I just can’t make myself concentrate that hard on anything for that long. No, I haven’t even tried to do one since you left. Yes, I remember the doctors saying it was therapeutic. Well, they drive me crazy, that’s why. I mean, what’s the point, anyway? What do I win if I get a word right? That’s not going to make me normal again! Okay, I’ll calm down. Oh sure, I still take my medicine, when I don’t forget. Yeah, I forget too often, but Lindy, I still don’t like the way it makes me feel. The Razorbacks could be scoring a touchdown, and I’d be like, big deal, who cares. Now that’s not normal either, is it? Jeff is taking me to Arkansas for the game this weekend and I can’t afford to be all laid back and dopey for that, now can I?”
        He paused again, waiting for the answer, and then said, "Look, I'm fine, well, maybe not perfectly fine, but fine enough. If you were still around, I'd be in even better shape. There was another pause, followed by, "No, you don't have to go so soon, not yet. Just talk to me a little longer. Lindy, I miss you so bad. Please. Well, will you call me next week? Okay, I'm going to the Razorback game this weekend, but I'll be back on Monday. Call me, please, will you? Lindy? Will you? Yes, I still hate to answer the phone, but when I pick up the phone and it’s you, I like that. That makes it okay. I like that a lot! I still love you, sweetheart, always and forever." He hung up, his glistening eyes clouded by emotional memories.
    Wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he wondered why his vision didn't clear. He felt the first sign of a headache, and noticed, even though he was inside his home, the faint smell of something cooking outdoors, far off in the distance. Arriving with the odor was the sound of voices speaking a foreign language that seemed vaguely familiar. The walls of his comfortable home began to shimmer and melt away as the odor and sound intensified, reminding him of the reason for all of his problems. Recognizing the language to be Vietnamese, and the smell to be that of fishcakes cooking over an open fire, Nathan realized what was happening. He collapsed onto the old, blue, denim couch and grabbed the sides of his now throbbing head with both hands. If only he had stayed home, rather than enlisting, he would never have been shot, and today he would have been working at Piper Pipes and Drilling instead of sitting at home. His whole life would have been so different, if only...
    He squinted with pain as a brilliant, multi-colored explosion occurred within his mind and suddenly he was back, once again reliving everything that had happened. It was 1966 in Vietnam.
    There was no such thing as solid ground. The torrential rains, which fell for days on end, reduced everything to a slippery, squishing, constantly shifting quagmire that threatened to send you sprawling with each unsure step. There was no way to run in the resulting muck, not even if your life depended on it. Being able to see what you were shooting at was another problem. In the steamy jungle at night it was virtually impossible to detect enemy movement, as the dense jungle vegetation coupled with the pounding monsoon rains drowned out distinctive individual sounds and limited vision to not much more than a few yards in front of your face. Even during the middle of the day visibility remained poor, as the thick cloud cover and the perpetual shroud of mist hanging in the air allowed only meager amounts of light to penetrate the leafy ceiling created by the forest’s thick foliage. Nothing in his life had, in any way, prepared Nathan Piper for this experience. The ever-present horde of biting and stinging insects, along with the snakes, rain, and oppressive heat, made this quite possibly the most miserable place to be on the entire planet.
    Taking advantage of the 120 day deferred enlistment plan, in 1966 he and his best friend, Jerry Ehrlich, joined the Marines months before they were to graduate from Will Rogers High School in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Idealistic teenagers, eager to do their part in stopping the advance of Communism, the two boys had played war games together since they were five, beginning with cowboys and Indians on the playground at Herbert Hoover elementary school, and graduating to after school assaults against the Germans and Japs. Hiding behind hills and rocks, on the south side of Sheridan Road at the end of East 28th street, the two boys fought side by side as they grew up and won more mythical battles than John Wayne. When not in school they were outside till way past dark, yelling, “I shot you,” followed by, “I shot you first,” waging war from yard to yard under the dim glow of the streetlamps. If they weren’t outside it was because of inclement weather, or because there was an unusually good action film on TV. On such days they could be found watching the four o’clock movie on Channel 6, thrilling to the World War One exploits of Gary Cooper, in Sergeant York, or cheering for the World War Two G.I.’s on Iwo Jima, or Bataan. However, the French-Indochina war of 1946-1954, which ended with the surrender of France and the creation of a communist North Vietnam and a non-communist South Vietnam was absent from the lineup of conflicts they saw dramatized and glorified by Hollywood.
    Now they were Marines, proud to serve their country and entirely willing to go wherever they were sent to defend the interests of the United States of America, but this swamp war was not what they had expected. The villains were no longer named Hitler or Hirohito. They had been replaced by the leaders of Russia and Communist China, who presented potentially greater threats to mankind and world peace. Ruling over huge countries with massive armies, Nikita Khrushchev and Mao Tse-Tung were the new names to be feared. Khrushchev, most certainly, and Mao Tse-Tung, reportedly, possessed weapons of mass destruction which could lead to a nuclear holocaust if they chose to carry out a preemptive strike on the United States, or our allies. Khrushchev had gone so far, in 1956, as to bang his shoe on the podium of the United Nation’s main meeting hall, making his foreign policy plans for the western world abundantly clear by bellowing, “We shall bury you!” It wasn’t the kind of threat the people of the United States took lightly. In the 1950’s and early 1960’s, Communism, whether it was Russian or Chinese in origin, was viewed by the American public as an evil thing that couldn’t be allowed to spread.
    In October of 1962, Communist leader Khrushchev nearly plunged the world into thermo-nuclear war by shipping missiles armed with nuclear warheads to Cuba, which were then aimed at the United States. President John F. Kennedy demanded that the Russians turn their ships around and dismantle any missiles already on Cuban soil or they would be attacked. Khrushchev, on the other hand, gave orders to launch the entire contingent of already assembled missiles if the United States attempted an invasion or any hostile action. After the world teetered on the edge of a cataclysmic war for two weeks, the Russians finally backed down and agreed to disassemble their missiles if the United States would agree never again to attack Cuba, as they had in the failed 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion.
    During the peak of the crisis, Nathan Piper’s father, like thousands of other Americans, was motivated to build a makeshift bomb shelter in his home, reinforcing a large walk-in closet with concrete bricks and stockpiling canned goods. Nathan had eagerly helped his father with the construction of the bomb shelter, and on his fourteenth birthday, he remembered, his dad had received a call at work from an old friend who worked at the pentagon, supposedly saying the “Reds” were definitely going to “push the button,” and blow us all to kingdom come. His dad had rushed home, completely forgetting Nathan’s birthday and had scared his family to the point of tears, telling them that this was most likely going to be the last day of their lives and most likely the last day for the entire human race. As Nathan listened, convinced that his birthday was going to mark the end of civilization, his father explained that he must never let anyone into their shelter, not even his closest friends or their families, and that if Mom or Dad became ill due to radiation poisoning, that they would have to leave and from then on he would have to take care of himself and his eight year old brother, Jeff. He knew he could take care of himself and his little brother if he had to. He routinely babysat for Jeff when his parents went out for the evening, and had become, to his way of thinking, quite a chef. He had even learned to prepare the essential food groups, pizza and hamburgers, which both of them loved. The only problem was that porky little Jeff would eat too much and then end up barfing on the kitchen floor. Well, if he could clean that up, he felt he could do darn near anything. Nathan was taken to a field that afternoon to learn how to shoot a real pistol, for the purposes of protection, and in the event of radiation poisoning for other purposes as well.
    To those that cherished freedom and the American way of life, Communism was about the worst thing in the world. Each time a country succumbed to Communist domination another was sure to follow, and as more countries fell the Communist presence continued to spread closer to our shores. The “domino effect,” as it was called, even in a place as far away as Southeast Asia, had to be stopped. That was the mindset of the boys like Nathan Piper and Jerry Ehrlich. That’s why they had enlisted.

                                                                                      ~    ~    ~

    Neck deep, wading with their rifles held up above their heads, speech had become virtually impossible. Due to flooding as they attempted to make their way back to the base, they had been forced to travel through the swollen stream after the banks had completely disappeared. Nathan and Jerry were doing their best just to breathe, taking tiny sips of air through their mouths rather than trying to breathe through their nostrils. The driving force of each individual raindrop in this deluge caused a splash that leapt up from the stream into the mouths and noses of the struggling marines. The resulting effect threatened to drown all eight of the Marines on this recon patrol without anyone’s face ever slipping below the water. Midway through the monsoon season, the current downpour continued uninterrupted for the fifth consecutive day.
    Nathan wondered, “Where is Noah and his Ark when you need him?” It seemed as if the entire Mekong Delta was going to be submerged by an angry God going back on his promise of never sending another great flood. Perhaps, as Mark Twain had once suggested, God had decided to give the earth back to the monkeys, this part of it anyway, because man was too much of a disappointment. The swollen bodies of drowned livestock trapped in low lying areas by flash flooding floated by from time to time. “Yeah, but you never see any dead monkeys,” Nathan thought, “they’re the chosen ones. Too bad God didn’t just wipe out the gooks over here a few years ago. It sure would have saved us a lot of trouble. I could still be back home, going to college, going out with Lindy...”
    Lindy, was Linda Lee Parsons, Nathan’s girlfriend ever since they were in kindergarten. Before puberty the other boys incessantly kidded him about it, but he liked her as much, if not more than anyone else he knew, except Jerry, of course. She was the only girl he had ever gone out with, or ever would. He would marry her as soon as he finished college and got a decent job. He recalled the first time he kissed her, in the cloakroom at Herbert Hoover elementary. They were only seven years old and he had told her to meet him in there right after recess, but before class started up again, so he could tell her a secret. When she arrived, he told her in a matter of fact way that he loved her and wanted to marry her when they got old enough. He was surprised when she told him she loved him too, and gave him a little peck right on the lips. “Whoa Nellie,” Nathan always smiled at the memory. He had told Lindy, “That’s not how it’s done, you’re supposed to lean backwards into my right arm, like we’re dancing, and then I bend over and hold you, and kiss you.”
    She giggled, and agreed to give it a try, saying she'd seen it done in the movies like that. It wasn’t a kiss of passion. It was just two kids playing, mimicking how they thought a grown-up couple was supposed to act, but unfortunately, while concentrating on their form and technique, right in the
middle of their big smooch, their teacher, Mrs. Brophy, came around the corner and caught them. It wasn’t the only time Nathan ever got in trouble at school, but it was the most embarrassing, as the parents of both children were summoned to school to discuss the matter with the principle. The next time they kissed would be years later.
    His memories were interrupted as he accidentally sucked water down his windpipe. Other members of the patrol veered around him as he coughed. That was when he heard the whiz and clinking noise of a bullet striking metal. Private Alvin Benson, who had just passed him, stopped suddenly, and fell face first into the stream. Nathan was still coughing as he reached out for the newest member of their unit and pulled him up, out of the water. The blood, coursing down the side of his face, the hole in his helmet, and the blank, glazed, look in the young man’s eyes told the sad story. His tour of duty was over just three weeks after arriving. As Nathan searched in vain for some sign of life he became aware of Lieutenant Gary Jenson’s voice, barely audible above the roar of the downpour, shouting for everyone to stay low and spread out. Nathan removed the dead soldier’s dog tags, released his grip on the sleeve of the uniform, and looked around for Jerry, while at the same time scanning the trees on both sides of the stream, hoping to spot the sniper. Another whizzing bullet found its target, as Mickey Cheatum cried out, “I’m hit!” Jerry ran to his aid and put his shoulder under Mickey’s arm, while grabbing him around the waist. They began to wade towards the left, where the water became shallower and it looked as if there might be a small area above water where they could lay the wounded man down. Mickey had been hit in the upper right side of his chest and was valiantly trying to keep moving, although he was quickly finding it harder to breathe. The bullet had clipped his lung, and the resultant pain, nausea and weakness that swept over him threatened to render him unconscious before they could get out of the deep water.
    Lt. Jenson shouted, “Ehrlich, I said stay low! That’s an order! Do not head for shallow water! You’re just making yourself and Mickey a better target! Get down!” He coughed as he swallowed a mouthful of the brown, muddy water, and again motioned for his men to stay low and spread out. Jerry sank down into the water with Mickey, as ordered, while Nathan struggled to catch up with them. He put his shoulder under Mickey’s other arm, and said, “I’ve got him Jerry, you watch for the sniper!” Jerry had always been a better shot than Nathan, earning high praise time and again in boot camp for his excellent marksmanship. While the rain continued to steadily pound on his helmet, he braced himself against the fast moving stream and squinted in the direction he thought the last shot had come from, waiting to see either the flash of a firing rifle, or a glint of metal that might give away the location of the sniper’s nest. He didn’t have to wait very long.
    Perched a good 25 feet up, in a tree about 40 yards downstream, the sniper, Tran Van Pin, a rice farmer’s 14-year-old son had picked out another target. He squeezed the trigger of his soviet designed AK-47, supplied courtesy of the Chinese Communists, and watched with satisfaction as another Yankee dropped his weapon and fell, either dead or dying, into the surging floodwaters. North Vietnamese Communists, accompanied by several Red Chinese advisors, had arrived at his fathers farm roughly six months ago recruiting fighters for their cause, a unified Communist North and South Vietnam, free from American interference. As part of their recruiting tactics, they told the boy’s family that the hated “American Devils” raped Vietnamese women, ate Vietnamese babies, and killed the old men and children for the sport of it. With his father’s encouragement the boy had gladly gone with them and had been taught to fire the weapon which he now used. Unbeknownst to the lad, had he resisted his father would have been executed, after which his body would be laid out on the road as a warning to others who might fail to exhibit the proper response to the North Vietnamese call to arms.
    Jerry spotted the flash of the rifle and heard the thud of a bullet meeting flesh and bone less than three feet to his right, just before Corporal Steven Biddick dropped his weapon and fell forward. Biddick was one of the veterans on the patrol today and had been just three days away from going on furlough. Now, he had become another tragic statistic, another reason for a proud father and mother back home to go through the stages of bewilderment, denial, anger, sorrow and emptiness after being notified of their loss by the war department. A courageous soldier and good friend, known as “Gorilla,” because of his big head and small ears, had been reduced to just one more lifeless object floating downstream along with the drowned livestock, debris from collapsed homes, and uprooted trees that had fallen into the rushing stream due to soil erosion along the banks during the torrential rains.
    Jerry quickly sighted his target and fired before the sniper could cause a world of grief for another American family. A rifle fell from far up near the top of the tree, followed by a diminutive, tumbling body that fell with a splash that was seen, but not heard, over the incessant drumming of the downpour. “Fucking Gook. What were you fighting for? Did you think we wanted your rice paddy? Did you? You stupid, Fucking, Gook!” Jerry stood there screaming, more from frustration and despair than hate, at the figure which floated away just as Biddick and Benson had done.
    Nathan watched the body of the Vietnamese boy for a moment, which floated not far behind the body of Biddick. “The killer and his victim, side by side. Well, I guess we’ll all float downstream together, someday, if we stay here long enough. Kind’a Biblical, ain’t it? Everybody’s goin’ downstream together, except the monkeys that is.” He figured for sure Gorilla was the one guy who wouldn’t get it while he was over here, what with his nickname and all. “Hell, he even looked like a big monkey,” Nathan thought. “Oh well, I guess God spotted the difference.”
    Feeling the tug of additional weight he turned to check on Mickey, who had gone completely limp, “Ah shit, Mickey, not you too?” While the others gathered around Jerry, congratulating him on his sharp shooting, Nathan removed Mickey’s dog tags and let him go. “Kind’a like a Navy burial,” he thought as he watched the body float away. “Too bad we can’t do a Viking funeral for you buddy, but there ain’t no time, and besides, in this downpour we’d never be able to get a raft to catch fire. There ain’t a dry piece of wood left on this side of the world.” Now He had two sets of dog tags in his pocket. He didn’t want any more. He didn’t want it to rain anymore, either. He figured if he ever got back to the states, he’d buy the driest, most barren piece of land in Oklahoma and just go out each day and admire the cracks in the ground.
    Jerry came wading over now and Nathan slapped him on the back, quoting a line from one of their old favorite war films, “Sergeant York,” he shouted, “Atta way, Dan’l Boone!” He spat out a mouthful of water, as the five surviving members of the patrol started moving forward again. The rain was coming down even harder than before the sniper attack and it seemed as if the rushing water was moving even faster. It was more difficult now to resist the force of the waters that threatened to sweep them all off their feet. The process of constantly leaning back, fighting against the strength of the current, while pulling your feet out of the mud that sucked you in above the ankle with each step, was wearing all of them out and they still had a long way to go.
    With each breath you took you knew it could be your last. That was one of the things that really wore you down. You never knew when you would step on a mine or take a bullet, but you couldn’t think about it, you had to keep going or you would just freeze up and then you’d be a goner for sure. Stay sharp and keep moving. Do what you’re told and don’t panic. Those were the ways to increase your chances of going home in one piece, alive. Some of the soldiers simply accepted that we were all dead, already, which seemed to help them deal with the loss of their peers. If they happened to be alive when they got back to the states, then they would resume an appreciation of, and interaction with the living. When you first landed at Chu Lai, with all of the eager rookies around you, it was easy to be confident about surviving your tour of duty, but with each passing day, as you realized the challenges that lay before you and became aware of the mounting casualties, your optimistic outlook began to disappear.
    Nathan and Jerry were both optimists by nature, but as they became more fatigued, continuing downstream, turning occasionally to make sure they weren’t being followed, the idea that this could be the end began to force its way into their minds. Maybe the pessimists had the right idea. If you were already dead, what did you have to fear? Maybe, if you were dead, you became like a ghost, invisible to the living. Maybe, Nathan wondered, as his mind wandered, they really were already dead, and didn’t realize it yet. He looked around to see if “Gorilla,” Mickey, or Alvin were visible, figuring he would be able to see them if he had died. For just a split second he thought he saw something, but then whatever it was faded and they were nowhere to be seen. What he did see, however, was no cause for celebration. Two large, green, crab eating water snakes came gliding by on the right, less than a foot away from Nathan’s shoulder. They were one of the approximately 30 species of poisonous snakes indigenous to Vietnam. While their venom was not nearly as toxic as the cobra, or a number of others, you still didn’t want one latching onto your neck. Today, however, this pair of snakes showed no interest in the struggling Marines. They were far more concerned with their own survival, as they labored to navigate what normally was a peaceful stream.
    The five of them moved on, one foot in front of the other. As usual, “Little Joe” Thundercloud was on point, followed by Lt. Jenson, then came Jake, “the snake,” Christian, who carried the radiophone. Jerry and Nathan brought up the rear. To say that “Little Joe” was a character would be a monumental understatement. Before each patrol he would do a short ceremonial dance, which naturally attracted the attention of everyone within hearing distance. When he first arrived a lot of the “veterans” made fun of him and were seen to mock his dance, hopping around and doing their best impressions of Indian war whoops. The kidding quickly subsided, as Joe established a reputation for being an accomplished scout. He was the perfect man to guide a group through the Mangrove forests of the Mekong Delta. In spite of the ribbing he took from other Marines, he always went into battle wearing war paint as his Cherokee ancestors had done. On each patrol he would share a tale of Cherokee history with his fellow soldiers, partly because he was proud of his heritage and partly to keep everyone’s mind off the imminent danger they constantly faced. Today, as they reached a slightly shallower part of the stream and could finally breathe without being in danger of sucking in water with every breath, he told of how his home town, Tahlequah, Oklahoma had been named.
    “Tahlequah has been the capital of the Cherokee Nation since 1841,” he began, as they continued downstream, his sharp eyes scanning the trees for any unnatural motion, which might indicate another sniper. “Some say Tahlequah got its name from the Cherokee town in Tennessee, called Ta-lik-wa. That may be so, but it is also told that after the Eastern Cherokee people were driven by the white man’s armies to the end of what they referred to as their “Trail of Tears,” they decided to join  with the Western Cherokee tribe and select a site and name for the capital of the new, united, Cherokee government. Heavy rain fell the day before the meeting and flooded the rivers, causing only two Indians, one from each side, to reach the agreed upon
meeting site. They waited most of the day for others to arrive. As the sun began to set one asked the other what they should do. The reply was “Tah-le-ya-quah.” “Tah-le” is the Cherokee word for “two”, and “ya-quah” the word for “enough” or “plenty,” meaning that two were enough to locate and name the capital. These floodwaters reminded me of that story.”
    “Yeah, well, lets hope we get more than “Tah-le” of us back home today,” Lt. Jenson wisecracked.
    Jake asked, “Are you sure that ain’t some kind of rain dance you been doin’ before we go on patrol, Little Joe? This shit is ridiculous! Isn’t there a stop the rain, dance?”
    “There are dances and chants for everything, but they are nothing more than what you would think of as prayers. They are our way of reaching out to the spirits and dealing emotionally with not having what we want or need.”
    Jerry shouted over the noise of the rain, “Joe, you’re a smart guy. What the hell are you doing, dancing around before each patrol? Everyone thinks you’re nuts, man!”
    Little Joe nodded his head, and said, “They’re right. I am crazy. So are you Jerry. We enlisted, remember? I had a 3.8 grade average in high school, and was offered a full scholarship at Northeastern State University. I must be crazy to be here. But, to answer your question, it’s just a way for me to get my head right before I go on a patrol. You know, it’s like my own personal pep talk.”
    “Northeastern, that’s in Boston, isn’t it?” Nathan asked.
    “No, not Northeastern University,” Little Joe corrected Nathan, “I’m talking about Northeastern State University, in Oklahoma. They have a great Optometry department. That’s what I want to do when I get back, if the spirits allow it.”
    The water was becoming even shallower and now only came up to the waist of the five men, who began looking around to see if there was enough dry land along the side of the stream for them to get out of the water and walk along the bank like they had planned to do.
    “Hey,” Jake shouted, “I know a good Indian joke. Wanna hear it?”
    “Not really,” Little Joe answered.
    “There’s this guy,” Jake began, completely disregarding Little Joe’s reply, “He goes to the psychiatrist ‘cause he’s been havin’ bad dreams, see, and
he gets one of them ink blot tests, where you say what stuff looks like. The psychiatrist shows him the first card and asks what he thinks it looks like, and the guy says a teepee. Then the psychiatrist shows him another, and the guy says it looks like a wigwam. The psychiatrist leans back in his chair and says I know what your problem is. You’re two tents! Get it? Like too tense, only---”
    “Get down!” Little Joe shouted. “Everybody down! There’s movement behind those trees over there!” Everybody crouched down in the water and swung around towards the direction Little Joe indicated. Emerging from the dense vegetation was a group of ten Viet Cong. They had seen the Marines and came out with their weapons blazing.
    Jerry nailed two of them right off the bat. So did Little Joe. That brought the originally one sided affair from 10 against 5, to a much more even 6 to 5. Nathan made it all even as he dropped another gook and began to splash his way towards the opposite side of the stream. As a general rule, in a fair fight the gooks usually turned tail and ran, but these were totally serious about killing the Marines they had spotted, as they splashed into the stream in hot pursuit. Jake lost his balance against the current as he struggled to reach the bank and fell into the water. The force of the rushing water made it difficult to right himself and he found himself floundering around without his weapon, which he had dropped while trying to get his feet back under him. Jerry, Nathan, and Little Joe were firing away, doing their best to drive the gooks back, and protect their buddy, while Lt. Jenson waded over to Jake and helped him to stand up once again. That’s when Lt. Jenson was hit. Jake was just scrambling up on the bank when he heard the Lieutenant cry out behind him. He turned to see Jenson falling backwards, clawing at his throat, which had been torn open by one of the gook’s bullets. Jake started to go back after Jenson, but was grabbed and pulled back by Little Joe.
    “It’s no use, man. He’s gone,” Joe shouted. “Get on the radio, I think there are more of them behind those trees! See if we can get some artillery, or air support, Hueys or Jets, or anything! At least let them know we’re in trouble!”
    Sure enough, another fifteen or more appeared, screaming and wading into the stream. The hailstorm of bullets whizzing by, smacking into the trees around them, coupled with the constant pounding of the rain was enough to unnerve any man. But the sight of so many Viet Cong coming across the water after them with no one around to help was a sickening sight indeed.
    Jake squatted behind a tree and began to try to get help. “Mother Hen, Mother Hen, this is Chicken Little, repeat this is Chicken Little, come in, over.” He waited for about fifteen seconds, and repeated, “Mother Hen, Mother Hen, this is Chicken Little, come in. Over.” He ducked, as a spray of enemy gunfire hit the tree he was hiding behind.
    As he straightened up, holding the radiophone to his ear, Jake heard this reply, “Chicken Little, this is Mother Hen, we read you. What is your location? Over.”
    Jake answered, “Mother Hen, Mother Hen, Chicken Little is in sector 12 Beta, on the west bank, that’s 12 Beta on the west bank, four men down, repeat, four men down. We are under attack, we are outnumbered and need artillery or air support. Over.”
    Jake waited for an answer as Nathan, Jerry, and Little Joe defended their position. Jerry had shot two more gooks, and Little Joe and Nathan had added one each, but that still left them outnumbered by about 15 or 16. They were going through their ammo quickly and desperately needed help.
    “Don’t waste your ammo,” Little Joe shouted. “Make every shot count, let them get closer...”
    “Yeah, I know this one, dude,” Jerry yelled, “And don’t fire ‘til you see the whites of their eyes!”
    “Exactly,” Little Joe replied. “Ole Hickory, Andrew Jackson, said that. He was the man who lead the armies that drove the Chicamunga Cherokees out of the Southeast.”
    “Damn, Little Joe, you sure know your Indian history,” Jake shouted, still waiting for a reply on the radiophone. “I know a famous quote from General George Custer. Wanna hear it?”
    “Not really,” Little Joe replied, as he squeezed off a shot that felled another attacker.
    With the phone still held against his left ear, Jake leaned out from behind the tree, and continued, “It was when Custer looked out from on top of the hill that he and his men had retreated to. He said ‘Look at all them fuckin’...” There was a whizzing sound, a metallic sounding clink, and Jake’s face froze in mid-sentence. The radiophone receiver tumbled out of his hand and fell to the soggy ground. A stream of red from under Jake’s helmet ran down his face and he collapsed, falling at the foot of the tree he had been hiding behind. Jerry ran over and checked on Jake. Finding him dead, he quickly unbuckled the communications gear from his back.
    Little Joe looked down at Jake and then at the Viet Cong guerillas that were still coming towards them. He said, “I think I finally know how Custer felt, Jake.” He raised his rifle again and dropped another foe. Nathan gritted his teeth and fired another round, stopping his target in the middle of the stream, but still they came.
    Little Joe shouted over to Nathan, “Hey, in 1776, Before writing the Declaration of Independence, John Adams said, “Sink or swim.” That kind’a fits our situation, don’t you think?”
    Nathan shouted back, “In 1776 some guy named Nathan said, “I regret that I have but one life to lose for my country,” well good for him, but I personally regret having to lose even one.” Looking across the stream and spying what looked like about 10 more gooks emerging from the forest, Nathan said, “I think we need to move deeper into the forest Little Joe, what do you think?” Little Joe nodded and they all turned to run to the next place where they could hide or make a stand.
      Jerry shouted, “Wait, I got something here, it’s the base!”
    Blinking, trying to keep the water out of his eyes as it continued to rain heavily down on them, he heard static as he wiped his face, followed by, “Chicken Little, Chicken Little, this is Mother Hen, advise you to head for sector 10 alpha, say again, that is sector 10 alpha. No Charlie activity reported in 10 alpha. We have a patrol heading in that direction to rendezvous with you, repeat, we have a patrol in route to rendezvous with you, artillery and air support are not available at this time, repeat; artillery and air support are not available, over.”
    “Understood, Mother Hen. Keep working on getting that air support. 10 alpha is a long run. Over.” He turned and groaned, “Did you hear that? That’s chicken shit, that’s what that is. Chicken shit! No artillery or air support, they want us to head for 10 alpha. They say they have a patrol headed there now. We’ll never make it that far!”
    “Not if we sit around here moaning about it, we won’t,” Little Joe assured him. Before turning to retreat, he squinted through the site of his rifle one last time and fired, killing yet another of their would be assassins. As enemy bullets whistled past them, he shouted, “Let’s Go!”
    They couldn’t move fast due to the poor footing, but then neither could the enemy. Little Joe led the way, comfortably dodging in and out between trees like some kind of forest animal. But as sure-footed as he was, he still slipped and fell from time to time as did the rest of them. Fortunately the enemy didn’t have Joe leading them, and they began to fall further behind. In the distance Nathan could still hear the high-pitched voices of the Viet Cong in hot pursuit. Bullets continued to zip past them, but not with the frequency that they’d earlier encountered at the edge of the stream.
    Jerry called out to the other two, who were slightly ahead of him, “Hey wait a minute, I’m getting something on the radiophone!” Bent over and panting as he held the phone up to his ear, he heard, “Chicken Little, Chicken Little, this is Mother Hen, still getting a negative on air Support, repeat, air support is a no go at this time. Are you still engaged with Charlie, repeat are you still engaged with Charlie? Over.”
    Jerry sank down on one knee in the mud, and answered, “Mother Hen, this is Chicken Little, Charlie is in pursuit, repeat Charlie is in pursuit. We are in route to sector 10 alpha rendezvous point. Current position should be sector 11 beta, tango, alpha, repeat, sector 11 beta, tango, alpha. We need a Huey to get us out of here ASAP, say again, we need a Huey! Over.” The Vietnamese voices were getting closer once again and Little Joe was motioning for Jerry to move it.
    Nathan couldn’t believe a Huey wasn’t available. “Give me that phone, Jerry, I want to have a chance to speak to those boys.” He grabbed the phone away from Jerry, stretching the coiled cord out to its maximum length, but then another spray of bullets told them it was time to move again, as fast as the miserable conditions would allow. Charlie was too close for comfort. So close, in fact, that another outburst of enemy fire peppered a tree immediately to Nathan’s right as he scrambled up a an embankment and began to slide, spread legged on his butt down the other side. At the bottom, waiting for him was another snake, but this one wasn’t one of the crab eating water snakes, this one, a white lipped tree viper, was what many of the marines referred to as a ten stepper. That referred to how many steps a man would probably take before he keeled over after being bitten. The locals called it “the green death,” not as poisonous as a cobra, but a lot worse than the water snake. The viper blended in perfectly with its green surroundings. Nathan would never have seen it, until it was too late, if it hadn’t been for Little Joe’s quick action. As the snake prepared to strike, Little Joe swiftly drew his hunting knife from his belt and pinned the snake to the ground, just behind its head, with a perfect throw. After one quick shot from Little Joe’s service revolver the writhing serpent was dead, although due to its muscle contractions it continued to move as Nathan finally slid to a halt one foot away from where the viper’s head rested on the jungle floor, its unfurled fangs still prominently displayed in the gaping, white mouth.
    Little Joe quickly cut the head off of the green body, and held it up to Nathan. “He was aiming right for your crotch you know.” He snapped his teeth together a couple of times for emphasis, raised his eyebrows and grinned, before turning and heading off again in the direction of the proposed rendezvous point. The further away from the stream that they got, the footing seemed to improve, not to the point that you could run, but at least it became possible to shuffle along at a little faster speed without falling once for every 20 or 30 steps you took.
    “God Damn snake, damn near bit me. What would we have done, Little Joe?” Nathan wondered.
    “Same thing for all snake bites in the field, make a cut over the fang marks and suck out the poison, except in your case we couldn’t have done that.”
    “What, why not?” Nathan demanded.
    Jerry answered for Little Joe, “You saw where that thing was going to strike you. Ain’t neither one of us gonna get down there.” Another round of fire came perilously close to Jerry as he did his best to keep up with Little Joe and Nathan. The communications backpack wasn’t as light as he wished it was, and he was beginning to huff and puff. “How come I gotta have this phone on my back, Nathan? You said you wanted to talk to those guys, so next chance we get, let’s switch. You get to be the radioman!”
    “Man, I can’t read those maps like you and Little Joe can,” Nathan complained, “I never have been good at reading maps or figuring out directions. I’ll carry the backpack, but if you’re gonna trust me to get us where were going, we’re all gonna wind up lost, and probably dead!”
    “Fair enough, man,” Jerry agreed, still breathing heavily, “I’ll still read the map, but you carry the crap for a while. Man it’s a wonder your parents ever even let you walk to school. Didn’t they figure you’d get lost?”
    “No, they knew I’d be walking with you, or Lindy.” Up ahead they heard the sound of rushing water once again as they approached another swollen stream. This stream was wider than the last, but whether or not it was deeper remained to be seen.
    “We’re gonna have to cross it,” Little Joe said. “The rendezvous point is another half mile on the other side. Problem is, we’ll be half way across when they catch up with us. They’ll just stand on the bank and shoot us like ducks in a barrel.”
    “I don’t like the sound of that too much,” Nathan grumbled.
    “Neither do I,” Jerry concurred.
      Looking from the water back to the jungle they had just come through, Little Joe said, “Our only chance is to make a stand and catch them by surprise.”
    “Aren’t there about 20 gooks? What are our chances against that many?” Nathan asked.
      Little Joe shook his head and admitted, “Not good, but slightly better than Custer’s. I’ll go over there behind those big trees and you guys stay over here. The gooks will probably come through that clearing, right there,” he pointed. “We can probably drop six of them before they know what hit them.”
    “Great, that only leaves 14 to 3. Hello, what’s wrong with that picture?” Nathan complained.
    “You got a better plan, Nathan?” Little Joe asked, hoping that he would say yes.
      Nathan pushed his helmet down on his head, and said,  “If we could all sprout wings and fly away I’d vote for that, but since we can’t I guess we gotta stick with your idea.”
      Jerry quipped, “We all may grow wings soon enough, in heaven.”
    As he pulled another 30 round clip from his ammo belt and inserted it into his M-16, Nathan said, “You ain’t getting’ no wings, Jerry, you’ll be lucky if you just end up shovelin’ coal.”
    From across the clearing, Little Joe yelled, “Get down and shut up, and get ready to start firing. Let the majority of them get into the clearing and then let them have it!”
    Crouched down behind a clump of trees, Nathan nudged Jerry and said, “Remember when we were little kids and could just run away if something bad was about to happen?”
    Jerry nodded, and said, “Yeah, like the time you hit the ball through Mrs. Forester’s window. I never thought you could move that fast.”
      There was a look in Nathan’s eyes that pleaded for a way out, and at the same time a seriousness in his demeanor showing acceptance of whatever was about to happen, “Too bad we can’t just run away from this,” he said, “Let’s give ‘em hell.”
    Little Joe had been right about them coming right into the clearing. They were in a frenzied state as they ran up to the edge of the stream, right past the three Marines. They looked up and down the stream for signs of the fleeing Americans, but of course saw no sign of them. Although he couldn’t understand the words being spoken, it was obvious to Nathan what was being said, as the Viet Cong guerillas pointed first in one and then in another direction. They were trying to figure out if the Yankees had gone upstream or downstream. They knew if the Marines had tried to cross the stream they would be in plain view, wading through the rushing waters. That was when one of them must have realized they were being watched and were about to be fired upon, as he began shouting in a high-pitched voice and pointing in the general vicinity of where Jerry and Nathan were hiding.
    On the other side of the clearing Little Joe also saw, and understood, what was happening and opened fire, killing four or five of the gooks with his first burst. As the guerilla brigade turned towards Little Joe, Nathan and Jerry sprang into action, each mowing down 3 or 4 more of the enemy, which left only about 10 frightened and confused Vietnamese firing in all directions.
    Now 10 to 3 wasn’t what you would normally refer to as great odds, but it sure beat 20 to 3, which is what it had been just moments before. Little Joe began to move towards the stream as the gooks calmed down somewhat, and began searching for where the Americans might be hiding. He silently slid down the bank, into the water, and then moved downstream to where the guerillas had originally looked out from the bank, over the stream. As the Viet Cong disappeared into the jungle growth where Little Joe had originally been hiding, Little Joe climbed back up onto the bank and motioned for Jerry and Nathan to follow him. The endless rain continued to drum on their helmets, as they cautiously moved out from their position behind a large clump of mangrove trees and followed Little Joe. Now they were the ones doing the pursuing, and even though they were outnumbered, it just felt one whole heck of a lot better than running for your life. Besides, if they had just stayed where they were, the gooks would have found them for sure.
    The Viet Cong had decided the Americans must have headed north along the bank, because that’s where they all were, poking into and under bushes with bayonet fitted rifles, as they searched for the American devils that had, so far, eluded them. Nathan knew the rain would drown out any attempt at a whisper, but he was dying to say something to Jerry about how World War One hero, Sergeant York, must have come back as Little Joe. He had held his Indian friend in high regard before today, but now he wouldn’t bet against Little Joe if all he had was a bow and arrow, instead of the M-16 he carried. Little Joe motioned for them to come up alongside him, so that the three of them could wipe out the enemy in one quick surprise attack. From the time Little Joe raised his right arm and then brought it down to initiate the attack, to the time that all ten of the Viet Cong lay dead, was less than five seconds. They never had a chance.
    Little Joe hugged his companions joyfully, saying “The spirits were with us!” He let out a cry of exultation, a cry unmistakably of Indian origin, the likes of which had seldom, if ever, been heard in this part of the world.
    Jerry quickly took the communications backpack off, and handed it to Nathan, saying, “If you’d rather carry me, piggyback, then I’ll keep wearing the damn thing!”
    Nathan buckled the contraption into place and followed his jubilant companions. Now the Americans were free to cross the stream without having to constantly look over their shoulders in fear of what might still be following them. Before wading into the stream, Nathan called “Mother Hen,” and was once again told no Hueys were available for transport at that time. He was told to continue towards the rendezvous point. Ahead of him, Little Joe and Jerry laughed as they splashed into the water as if it were the municipal pool back home. For some reason Nathan didn’t feel like laughing. Instead, he felt slightly nauseated. He was thankful for the cleansing power of the rain and the river, which washed away the blood and gore that had splattered his face and uniform, but while the bloody stains faded and disappeared, the vivid memories remained. Although the massacre was over in less than five seconds, victory wasn’t as sweet as he once imagined it might be. The spraying blood and flying chunks of fragmented bone and human tissue, along with the surprise, fear and pain on their victim’s faces was indelibly etched into the mind of Nathan Piper. Those graphic pictures, coupled with the painfully clear recollections of his dead companions, would haunt him in more than just his dreams for the rest of his life.
    As the deluge lightened up to just a gentle rain for the first time in several days, he rechecked the communications backpack carefully to be sure it was sealed and watertight before he bounded into the stream. His buddies were half way across by now and he called out, “Hey, you guys, wait for me!”
    They both turned and waved. Jerry called out, “C’mon you slowpoke!”
    Nathan began to step into the water, but froze as he saw roughly 20 gooks emerge from the trees on the other side of the stream. He screamed, “Get down!” and waived his arms to alert his friends to the danger. Little Joe turned back around and saw what Nathan was shouting about. He jerked Jerry, who was still telling Nathan to get a move on, off his feet. They both sank below the water just before the gooks began firing. Nathan screamed, “Noooooo! Not Jerry! Noooo!” Wading into the stream now, doing his best to attract the attention of the gooks, he began firing his M-16 in a desperate attempt to protect his friends. He emptied the rest of the 30 round clip and had reached for another when he felt the impact and burn of a bullet. His head snapped back as if he had taken a punch to the head from Sonny Liston, who might have been beaten by Cassius Clay, but still in Nathan’s mind was the most dangerous fighter he had ever seen. His vision became blurry and he began to lose his balance. Confused, as he started to fall, he thought, “I’ve got to beat the count. I’ve got to be up before the ref counts to ten!” The water briefly revived him, giving him the presence of mind to unbuckle the communications pack, after which he  attempted to stand, but found he had completely lost his equilibrium. As he weakly flailed about, he thought of Little Joe and Jerry, wondering if they were all right. His mind then turned to Lindy, running through golden fields of wheat on her grandfather’s farm just outside of Tulsa, her long, blonde hair like a halo, illuminated by the sun, blowing freely about her head in the wind on the Oklahoma plains. He remembered her sweet, dimpled smile, her twinkling blue eyes, and the exquisite softness of her lips. With his last ounce of strength gone, he quit struggling and allowed the surging brown waters to do what they had wanted to do all day, carry him downstream. He was going to go downstream with Lieutenant Jenson, Alvin, Mickey, Jake, Gorilla, that damned Gook sniper, and the bloated, drowned livestock. Just before he blacked out, he wondered if Mark Twain would be amused, because looking up into the trees that grew out over the edge of the bank, he could have sworn he saw a monkey, laughing and waiving goodbye.

ID: 1481236   (Rated: GC) Telemurdering: Chapter 7 - 9  Nathan returns from his Vietnam memories by George R. Lasher

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