I awoke Monday morning from a few hours’ sleep

and tried shaking the cobwebs as I rose to my feet.

To the kitchen I stumbled for butter and bread

but I tripped over Rover and busted my head.

“Oh my" I exclaimed as I lay there in pain,

“this is not a good start.” But I rose once again

and slowly I made my way down the hall

until Rover decided my butt was a ball.

“You crazy mutt!” I cried out as I bled,

“Do you remember who feeds you each night before bed?

Do that again and it’s off to the pound!”

Then I tossed him outside and fell flat on the ground.

The neighbors all laughed at my terrible plight

so I picked out a small one and started a fight.

Much smaller that I, I was sure he would flee.

How the hell could I know he was a clone of Bruce Lee?

I came back inside all battered and bruised;

I tried making coffee but the pot blew a fuse.

“What else can go wrong?” I said to myself

as a jar full of jelly fell hard from the shelf.

All five of my toes turned purple and blue

and I threw out my back when I slipped in the goo

and landed spread eagle on my parquet floor.

“This is all I can take! I can’t take any more!”

On my hands and my knees as I crawled to my room

I could not shake the feeling of impending doom.

Then a gilded framed mirror came loose from the wall

and knocked my ass out right there in the hall.

Wintertime had long set in across North Alabama. It was a time of much needed rest for the good earth, as it was for the good men who farmed it. The long months of plowing and reaping now lay behind them but also lay forever before them.

Silas Thrasher was no exception to the rule. The sweat on his brow was the salt of the earth and the blood in his veins was made up of red dirt and creek water. Silas was grandson of Noah Thrasher and the eldest son of Benjamin Thrasher and the father of William Reason Thrasher. He was an honorable man and an honest man who took stock of who he was and pride in what he did..

On cold, slow days Silas and the other farmers would mostly spend their time at Young Brothers General Merchandise, or Young.Bros. Gen. Mdse. as the rough-painted sign proudly proclaimed. Young Brothers was the only store within ten miles in any direction. During the winter months, the glowing warmth of the pot-bellied stove there and the company of good friends was a welcome respite while waiting on the spring and the plow and the 18 hour days that came with them. There were three Young brothers but Quill Young ran the store. 

On this day Silas sat silently near the stove at the back of the store, smoke rising lazily from his pipe, slowly whittling away on a stick. He was a big man, a hand taller than six feet and as strong as a mule. His best friend and closest neighbor, Joe Jimmy Jenkins, was also there as was Redbeard Malone. Redbeard was a bull of a man who could stand toe-to-toe with a black bear if he had to but most times was as peaceful as a Sunday morning. Joe Jimmy owned a 100 acre spread that joined up with Silas’ on the north and east. He was as good a friend as a man could ask for.

Redbeard was staring at Silas but only because there wasn’t much else to look at. “What are you awhittlin’ there, Silas? It don’t look like much.”

“I’m just whittlin’, Red. Don’t have to make something, do I? I guess I’m just making a little stick out of a big 'un.”

Redbeard chuckled. “I reckon you made one of them yesterday.”

“Yep…reckon so…what are you doing anyways, besides looking at me?”

“Me? Why, I’m makin’ sure these here sacks of cotton seeds I’m sittin’ on don’t git up and run off.” Redbeard patted the seed and leaned a little further back. “Maybe I should just take up awhittlin’ like you Silas. Don’t look like a man would need much trainin’….”

“Nope. Guess not, Redbeard. You want me to find you a stick?”

“No…that’s all right. I ain’t in no big hurry. I can just watch you if’n ye don’t mind.”

“Not a’tall, Red. Not a’tall.”

Joe Jimmy woke up from his nap, acting like he’d been awake all along. “How’s that hound dog of your’n, Redbeard? Is coming along alright? I hope he’s learnt not to tangle with a bobcat.”

Silas stood up and stretched his long legs, and then sat right back down. “Mornin’, Joe Jimmy. Good to have you back with us. You reckon you might throw another log in the stove there? It’s about your time. It’s gettin’ a mite nippy in here.”

Joe Jimmy shook his head. “I guess you’d rather sit there on that bench and turn plum blue than get up and walk ten feet to the woodpile.” He chuckled to himself. “You just sit right there, Silas. I’ll get us a log. You rest them old bones of your’n. You’re gettin’ too old and too wore out to be up much anyways.” He looked back at Redbeard. “What about it, Redbeard? Is he up and about? I’d shore hate to lose a good dog like that.”

“He’s better, Joe Jimmy. I appreciate your asking. Doc Jackson said he should be near good as new afore too long. He might not move as fast as before but I don’t know how ye’d tell. He ain’t never been one fer movin’ fast. Fer th’ last couple of years he ain’t been able to catch much more’n a nap. He’ll be alright though. I’ve had that dog fer near 10 years. He’s just one of the family…and a mite smarter than my brother Ham.”

“That’s good to hear, Red. He ought to have another few years in him. I imagine he can find a bevy of quail better’n ol’ Ham too.” Silas and Redbeard both smiled and nodded their heads. “Ham’s a good man though. He might not be the sharpest plow in th' shed but he can out-work me.” Joe Jimmy tossed a log into the stove. “There you go, Silas. You want me to put another’n in there? I can ask Quill if’n he has a quilt fer ye if ye’d like.”

“Naw, Joe Jimmy. I'll be alright. Did you bring your pipe?”

“Yep. Always do. Why do you ask?”

“Maybe you should stick in your mouth so’s to stop your yappin’.” Redbeard laughed out loud but didn’t say anything. Joe Jimmy looked over at Silas. “How’s young Will doin’, Silas? He sure is growing up quick. I can remember when he wasn’t knee-high to nothin’….life goes by too fast sometimes, don’t it?”

“Will’s fine, Joe Jimmy. We have to plant another acre of garden to keep him fed these days.” Silas sat up a little straighter. “He’s a good boy, Joe Jimmy. It would be hard to run the farm now without him.”

“Yep…he’s a good ’un all right. If he'd like some work to do for a few days, I’ve got to put up a barbwire fence around ten acres of pastureland here before too long. I could use another pair of hands and a strong back.” Joe Jimmy paused for a second. “I think he’s getting kind of sweet on my Edna, too. I know she surely has taken a liking to him.”

“Yeah, I reckon you’re right, Joe Jimmy. He does seem a bit taken by her. Give ‘em another two, three years and I figger they’ll be gettin’ hitched. That’d make me and you in-laws, wouldn’t it? Them’s natural enemies in most parts….”

“Yep…I figger….” Joe Jimmy poked the fire. Redbeard hadn’t moved more than an inch or two in hours. “If Will can help out he can stay over to the house if it gets too late for him to get home before nightfall. He can sleep on the hay out in the barn. He’ll be warm enough. There’s a couple of old horse blankets out there if he needs ’em.”

“Where’s Edna going to be?”

Joe Jimmy laughed. “She’ll be in her room under lock and key. Besides, Will is going to be too tuckered out from stringing barbed wire to be thinking about anything but resting.”

“You reckon so, Joe Jimmy…?”

“Naw….” there was a grin on Joe Jimmy’s face “but it’s a big lock....”

WILL, EDNA AND GOLIATH

It was early on a Monday morning just after sunup and Will was already on his way to help Joe Jimmy put up his fence. It was a cool, clear late February day and the brisk wind blowing across the open pastures made it seem even colder. This day would have been a good one to spend sitting by the stove at Young Brothers but Will was still a year or two away from spending his days at the general store with the menfolk. Besides, he had work to do anyway. There was a spring in Will’s step and a grin on his face not normally seen on those of a young man heading off for a back-breaking day of putting up fence posts and stringing barbwire.

But he could hardly wait to see Edna.

When they were young and still by their mama's side, he and Edna spent a lot of time together playing and helping with simple chores like shelling butter beans or picking tomatoes from the vine. Now, it seemed to Will that they hardly ever saw each other at all. Will knew he’d get to spend time with Edna today, and that made the day a good one for him regardless of anything else. He was used to hard work, but he just couldn’t get used to the feeling he felt inside him whenever Edna smiled at him or held his hand. He didn’t ever want to get used to it.

Will didn’t have much to carry with him; Edna’s mama would make sure they had a good breakfast and enough hard biscuits and water to carry with them to last a while and, Will was hoping, Edna would drop by around lunchtime to bring them out some sweet tea or fresh lemonade and a picnic basket. “She surely is nice” Will said to any critter that happened to be nearby. He chuckled at himself, kicking at a dirt clod like a ten-year old. “And she seems to enjoy the pleasure of my company.” A hawk soaring overhead against the early morning sky caught Will’s eye. “Good morning, Mr. Hawk! I hope you are doing well.” Will laughed out loud at himself. “I surely am glad nobody is close enough to hear me. They’d all think I’d been sneaking down to the still for sure.”

Will had a knapsack with a fresh change of clothes slung across his shoulder. He wanted to be at his most presentable for supper. The mice and barn owls he’d be sleeping with didn’t care at all what he wore, but he was hoping for…well he was just hoping that’s all.

Before long, Will was within shouting distance of the Joe Jimmy's place. He’d walked at a pretty good pace. Even in the half-light of an early morning he was already close enough that he could see smoke rising from the chimney and the outline of the barn. Maybe he’d even get to spend a few minutes with Edna before he and Joe Jimmy went off to put up fence.

What Will did not see, unfortunately, was Joe Jimmy’s Brahman bull -- 1800 pounds of pure-bred dynamite named Goliath with an attitude properly befitting a specimen of his stature, and his fuse was very short and easily lit. Goliath wasn’t the only bull Joe Jimmy owned but he was most definitely the one at the top of the food chain.

Goliath did see Will, though, very early on. He watched Will with wary eye and more than a passing interest. Why would this two-legged creature dare disturb him so early in the morning? Goliath was the master of his domain and he didn’t take kindly to intrusions. Still, perhaps things would have been okay that morning if it hadn’t been for that red fox which Will also failed to notice running across the pasture trying to catch his breakfast. Will’s eyes and his complete attention were fixed solely upon his objective still 500 yards in front of him.

Will picked up his pace and began to walk more briskly, almost running. Goliath was becoming very agitated.

Will squinted his eyes. There was someone standing near the edge of the field behind the house. Why, it was Edna. And she was waving at him! “Gollleee!” Will was grinning from ear to ear. “She can’t even wait until I get to the house!” Will started to break into a full run but thought differently of it, a decision he would come to regret. “No…no…I can’t seem like I’m too excited. I’ll be there soon enough. She is really waving hard, though.” Will waved back. “What is she…she’s saying something….what could it be?” Will stopped so he could better hear her dainty voice. Only, on this morning, her voice was not so dainty.

“Will!! Will!! Run!! Run for your life! Goliath is MAD!!’

For the briefest of seconds Will froze in his tracks before spinning around to see a four-legged freight train 300 yards away barreling down on him with hot steam shooting from both nostrils. And he was closing fast. Too fast. Will dropped his knapsack and started running toward the house with every ounce of purpose his young heart and stout legs could muster. “GOLIATH! IT’S ME, WILL THRASHER. I’M YOUR FRIEND!” But Goliath had no friend.

“Hurry Will! Hurry! Goliath is going to catch you! RUN!” Edna was beside herself, but she was helpless to do anything but watch and it was going to be very close as to which of the two would reach the fence first. Goliath was properly enraged but Will was running like a rabbit from the hounds. “Hurry Will. Run faster!”

Perhaps, if the ground hadn’t been so uneven…or, if only he’d had another five or six seconds warning…. Perhaps if there hadn’t been that dirt clod just in the wrong place….

Ten feet from the barbwire fence that separated the field from the yard and just three steps ahead of Goliath, Will tripped. Fortunately, he didn’t exactly fall. I suppose it was more akin to flying.

With flailing arms and the fear of death in his eyes, he sailed through the air for six or seven feet before landing hard on the frozen ground. Goliath slowed ever so slightly, most likely not sure of exactly what he was seeing. Will clawed and crawled as fast as his arm and knees would let him and finally slid head first under the bottom strand of wire -- just in the nick of time as Goliath reached the fence half a second behind him, bellowing as if Satan himself was inside. Goliath then casually turned around and ambled slowly off toward the cedar stand where this whole ordeal had begun. His mission was accomplished.

That was the good news. The bad news was the fresh cow pie Will was unable to avoid. It wasn’t just bad, it was awful.

For a long two or three seconds there was silence. Other than his ego, Will was not seriously injured but he did not want to get up. What would Edna think? Would she hug him and be thankful he was still alive?

Apparently not. She began laughing and she could not stop. She was laughing so hard she could hardly breathe and she had to sit down on the cold ground to keep from falling.

Poor Will just laid there, his face in the dirt, wishing he were a hundred miles away.

After a few minutes that seemed more like hours, Edna did stop laughing. She stood and walked over to Will and gently stroked his soiled face with her young-lady hands. “Will, you are something else! I never knew you could run that fast.” She leaned down close to Will and kissed him on the cheek. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Will Thrasher. Every time I see you, my heart skips a beat.” She kissed his cheek again. “Mama’s got some hot water on the back porch. Get cleaned up some and come in for breakfast.” She smiled as Will finally stood up and faced her. “Don’t you ever change, Will Thrasher.” She laughed at herself. “Well, perhaps you should change those clothes.”

The look on Will’s face could have written a story. He was embarrassed and stunned at the same time. His jaw dropped. “What…what did you just say, Edna? Did I hear you say that you’re…”

Edna smiled and interrupted him. “I said that you need to change clothes, Will. That cow pie was pretty fresh.” She laughed again. “I’m sorry, Will. I just can’t help it.” Then she walked back to Will and put her lips to his ear. “And, I said I think I’m falling in love with you.” She stepped back and straightened her ruffled dress. “Isn’t that a terrible thing for a young lady to say?” She was blushing but Will couldn’t see anything but stars in his eyes.

And for the next 65 years, whenever he looked at Edna, that was all he ever saw.

12 August

I was visiting an old friend at his home two years ago this week. I’d been there for just a few hours. We were sitting in his den sipping our third or fourth Remy XO and enjoying a Carlos Toraño Double Corona. Dave was not one to cut corners on things he enjoyed. He wasn’t rich but he wasn’t cheap. He’d moved to Gulf Shores here in Alabama back in ’93 from Blackduck, Minnesota. He’d finally grown weary of the hard and long winters and “loaded up my wagon and headed south” as he told it, and he didn’t stop until he’d gone about as far south as a man could go without a boat. He’d spent pretty much his whole life in and around Blackduck except for his stint in the army. We’d known each other since the Vietnam although that subject itself was one that rarely came up. We only talked about ‘them days’ when we felt a need, which was never – at least not anymore. I don’t think we’d brought it up in half a dozen years, maybe more.

But that was about to change.

It was close to midnight when the phone rang. Dave stood slowly and walked over to where the cordless was charging in its stand. That the telephone even rang at all seemed a little odd; everyone that knows Dave calls him on his cell phone. Dave glanced at me. “Probably somebody looking for the Bay Lounge; our numbers are nearly the same.” Instead of putting down his drink and picking up the receiver, Dave just turned on the speakerphone.

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday.

“Hello…?” Dave shook his head. No response. He started to hang up but tried one more time. “HELLO?”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry, sir. You’re breaking up a little bit. Is this Captain Miliken?”

Dave dropped his drink on the floor. Captain Miliken was a name neither of us thought we’d ever hear again, or prayed that we would not.

You’ll understand why.

I closed my eyes as old memories flooded my brain, exploding inside my head like mortar shells. Suddenly there was jungle all around me. I could feel the heat, taste the fear, hear myself gasping for air, praying that the V.C. wouldn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. I shook my head to try and chase the nightmares to the back of my mind where they belonged. But they are always there.

The silence was again broken by the voice on the phone.

“Sir…? SIR! It’s me, sir. Corporal Bertram. Corporal Max Bertram. You know, Hotrod, from ’nam…. Are you there, Captain? Can’t you hear me?” This time the words were louder, more emphatic -- more statement than question.

Dave wouldn’t let Bertram know how badly he had rattled him. It was a matter of his pride and an oath he had taken, we had all taken, so many years before.

“Yes…I can hear you now, Hotrod. I can hear you. It’s been a lot of long years since I’ve heard your voice. A lot of years. How have you be…”

“Thirty-four years, sir. Thirty four years, eight months and three weeks if you want to be more exact. Of course, that’s from the end of it all, when the six of us split up and went our separate ways. How long was it we were together, sir? Five weeks? Five weeks in hell? Cambodia was hell alright. I know you’d agree with me on that, sir. It was bloody hell, the pits of hell.”

“How’d you find me, Hotrod? I’ve not spoken to anyone from our patrol since we left Cam Ranh Bay. Not a soul. Why are you calling me now?”

“Sir? Aren’t you glad to hear from me, sir? We saved each other’s asses more than once.” Bertram laughed, softly. “Hey! You remember that one Charlie that hid under the…”

“Bertram! Hotrod! Listen to me.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We were not in Cambodia. None of what you’ve said ever happened. You know as well as I do. We spent five weeks together in survival training in the Central Highlands of Qui Nhon province. Nothing else. It was hell all right, but it was meant to be hell.”

“Private Mallard is dead, sir. So is Lt. Batson. I thought you’d want to know.”

Dave sat down. “Batson died? And Mallard? How, Hotrod? When? Wait! Never mind. Don’t tell me. We all have to go sometimes. I truly hate it for their families but I put that life behind me. I had to. I figured we all had. That’s how we were trained.”

“Yes sir. I know very well how we were trained. Very well. Anyway, Lt. Batson died 12 months ago…a bad car wreck. The papers said he’d had too much to drink. His car crashed through a guardrail in Oregon and fell 150 feet into a ravine. It was a real bad way to go.”

Dave shook his head sadly. “That’s too bad. Batson was a good man…and a good soldier.”

“Yes sir, he was. I got to talk to him, though, just a day before he died. I was real glad about that. I stayed for his funeral but I stayed to myself, away from everybody else. I didn’t talk to anybody there. I wouldn’t…well, you know sir. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything. I’ve been going crazy all these years, wanting to talk about what happened then but there was nobody I could talk to. That’s when I decided to look for the rest of the squad. But, do you know sir; I couldn’t find anybody that was in our patrol? Not a soul. Not a body. Not at first anyway. I filled out forms and everything but nobody ever heard of you. I only found Batson by luck. I was passing through Coos Bay an hour south of Portland and picked up a town newspaper and there he was, big as day. He’d been elected to the city council. Only, sir…now I know that his name wasn’t really Batson, and he wasn’t a Lieutenant either. Yes sir, we had us a real good talk before he died. He must have wanted to get things off his chest in a bad kind of way. Once he started talking he wouldn’t hardly stop. He knew about Private Mallard being killed. Only…well, Mallard wasn’t a private, sir, and his name wasn’t really Mallard. Don’t you see, sir? That’s why I couldn’t find anybody. But now they’re both dead sir; so their secret died with them. Except for, well, I know and you know.”

My gut was wrenching. I sat down on the sofa. Dave stayed put, trying to keep up his demeanor. “Then…I guess you might also know about….”

“About you sir? Yes sir. Batson was a real encyclopedia of information. I know you weren’t a Captain. You were a Colonel. Col. David R. McCoy, Third Army Postal Unit. At least, that’s what your Army records say. But we both know it’s a lie sir. Your army record is a lie. Yes sir, we both know that. Said you were a captain for seven years. Not a very distinguished career, though. Never got into trouble, never saw any combat. If that weren’t so sad it would be funny. Wouldn’t it sir?”

“Look, Bertram, my Army records are…”

“My name’s not Bertram, sir. You probably know that by now. I still get called Hotrod ever now and then though, by a few of my family and the one or two friends I have left. My commander, he gave me the name Bertram just before I left to meet up with the rest of the patrol in Cambodia…you know sir, two clicks north of Kampong Ro. He said it was important that I remained anonymous. Those were his exact words. I just didn’t know he meant forever, sir. I surely didn’t know that.”

“Your commander…”

“He’s dead too, sir. Died in Louisiana just 9 months ago… newspapers said he wandered into the swamp just south of Thibodaux and never came back…imagine that…but what do they know, huh? Nothin’. They don’t know nothin’… no sir…they surely don’t know nothin’…Anyway, by the time they found him he was….well two days in the swamp with the gators and bobcats…it was real bad...kind of like those villagers we eliminated, captain. Unidentifiable”

“Sounds like our numbers are thinning out, Hotrod.”

“Yes, sir. I like the name Hotrod. Or, I used to…now, I’m not so sure. Now, whenever I hear it, I think about…well you know sir. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about…what we did. I think you gave me that name, didn’t you sir? Hotrod?”

“It’s possible. I gave nicknames to a lot of soldiers in my time.”

“What about Sgt. Gilbert?”

“Gilbert? I haven’t seen him….”

“Sir!”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Isn’t he there with you now? I stopped by his place in Birmingham. I met some of his neighbors. Sgt. Gilbert, can’t you say hello to an old army buddy? I’ll bet you haven’t been called Gilbert in a while, have you? Mind if I call you Sgt. Jackson? Are you listening, Sgt. Jackson? Your neighbor across the street…Mrs. Peterson…a real nice lady…when I told her I was an old army buddy from Vietnam, she told me you were coming down here. People surely are nicer to us Vietnam vets these days than they were when we first came home. Aren’t they, sir? Anyway, Sergeant, I hope you’re doing well. It’s good that you’re here.”

“What’s this all about, Hotrod?” Dave glanced my way but did not acknowledge Bertram’s statement and I didn’t respond.

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to talk to you and the sergeant about the time we spent together in Cambodia….”

“Well, Hotrod, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can say about something that didn’t happen. We never got to within 20 kilometers of Cambodian border. You know that’s….

“Know what, sir? The truth? Yes sir, I know the truth. Just like you and Sgt. Jackson know the truth. Just like Batson and Mallard and my commander knew the truth.”

“Corporal, why don’t we meet tomorrow for breakfast? It’ll be on me. It’s getting kind of late and I want to get some shuteye. I’m not as young as I once was.”

“Sir, I’ve seen you go three days without sleep. You, too, Sgt. Jackson. I guess when your life is on the line you can do things you never thought you could. Things like we did to that village in Cambodia.”

I had to say something. This conversation needed to end. “It wasn’t a village, Corporal. It was a V.C. compound.” I could hear my words but it was as if someone else were talking…like I was just watching a stage show or a movie. “That compound had been supplying the Viet Cong for weeks. We had to take it out or lose more soldiers. We couldn’t let a border stop us.”

“Hello, Sgt. Jackson. I was beginning to think you were going to ignore me. No sir, we couldn’t let a border stop us. How do you explain the young boys, sir? Screaming, dying. How do you explain that? How do you live with those memories, sir?”

“There were no young boys there, Hotrod. They were all carrying AK-47’s or grenade launchers or worse. The V.C. made them soldiers. We couldn’t do anything other than what we did. You know that’s true, Bertram. It was them or us. They would have killed us all and never blinked an eye.”

“That’s the best way to die, Sergeant. Isn’t it? In the blink of an eye? I’ve been dying inside for thirty-four long years. But, I’m not long for this world now, Sgt. Jackson. Somebody’s out to get us all.”

“What do you mean, corporal? You think somebody’s out to kill us?” I was beginning to lose my patience, not to mention my Remy needed refreshing. That was my way of dealing with the memories. “It doesn’t make sense. I think you need to go get some sleep, Hotrod. I’m going to do just that myself. Why would anybody want to kill us after all this time?”

“It all adds up Sgt Jackson. Me and the commander’s wife…we talked for a good long time at his memorial service…she told me that he hated the jungles and swamps ever since 'nam. Couldn’t understand why he’d go off like that. But sir…what if somebody killed him first and then carried him into that swamp? And Batson was a member of A.A. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in over ten years. Why do you think he fell off the wagon, sir? Why do you think he fell off the wagon and drove his car into a ravine? Maybe somebody pushed his car into that ravine.”

“Bertram…. You were at both Batson’s and the commander’s funerals? You saw them both just before they….?

“You never asked me how Private Mallard died, Sgt. Jackson.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he was murdered. Plain and simple. No question about that. One shot through the head from 300 yards with a 5.56 mm round 14 months ago.”

“How do you know all of that, Hotrod?”

“Well, sir…do you see that red dot on Dave’s head?

“DAVE!!! WATCH OU…..” The glass shattered and Dave fell to the floor, dead. I dove to carpet and waited for the next shot but it never came. One shot was all there was. After half an hour I called the police from the phone in Dave’s bedroom. They scoured the area, brought in helicopters with searchlights, but nothing turned up. I told them the story like I’ve told you but with a lot less detail. I didn’t tell them anything about the war, just that Dave got a call from Corporal Max Bertram who apparently shot him. Of course, Corporal Max Bertram was not his real name. I never learned his real name. So, a few hours later the police were through with me and I was in my car heading toward home. But, I didn’t go home, not for a long while. Bertram was still out there somewhere and there were only two names left on the list – mine and his.

But it's been two years now, two very long years, and I’ve not heard from him again. Maybe he killed himself. Maybe he left me alive so someone could tell his story.

But, that won't ever happen. Not ever.

I was visiting an old friend at his home two years ago this week.  I’d been there for just a few hours. We were sitting in his den sipping our third or fourth Remy XO and enjoying a Carlos Toraño Double Corona. Dave was not one to cut corners on things he enjoyed. He wasn’t rich but he wasn’t cheap. He’d moved to Gulf Shores here in Alabama back in ’03 from Blackduck, Minnesota. He’d finally grown weary of the hard and long winters and “loaded up my wagon and headed south” as he told it, and he didn’t stop until he’d gone about as far south as a man could go without a boat. He’d spent pretty much his whole life in and around Blackduck except for his stint in the army. We’d known each other since the Vietnam although that subject itself was one that rarely came up. We only talked about ‘them days’ when we felt a need, which was never – at least not anymore. I don’t think we’d brought it up in half a dozen years, maybe more.

But that was about to change.

It was close to midnight when the phone rang. Dave stood slowly and walked over to where the cordless was charging in its stand. That the telephone even rang at all seemed a little odd; everyone that knows Dave calls him on his cell phone. Dave glanced at me. “Probably somebody looking for the Bay Lounge; our numbers are nearly the same.” Instead of putting down his drink and picking up the receiver, Dave just turned on the speakerphone.

I remember the conversation like it was yesterday.

“Hello…?” Dave shook his head. No response. He started to hang up but tried one more time. “HELLO?”

“Hello, sir. I’m sorry, sir. You’re breaking up a little bit. Is this Captain Miliken?”

Dave dropped his drink on the floor. Captain Miliken was a name neither of us thought we’d ever hear again, or prayed that we would not.

You’ll understand why.

I closed my eyes as old memories flooded my brain, exploding inside my head like mortar shells. Suddenly there was jungle all around me. I could feel the heat, taste the fear, hear myself gasping for air, praying that the V.C. wouldn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. I shook my head to try and chase the nightmares to the back of my mind where they belonged. But they are always there.

The silence was again broken by the voice on the phone.

“Sir…? SIR! It’s me, sir. Corporal Bertram. Corporal Max Bertram. You know, Hotrod, from ’nam…. Are you there, Captain? Can’t you hear me?” This time the words were louder, more emphatic -- more statement than question.

Dave wouldn’t let Bertram know how badly he had rattled him. It was a matter of his pride and an oath he had taken, we had all taken, so many years before.

“Yes…I can hear you now, Hotrod. I can hear you. It’s been a lot of long years since I’ve heard your voice. A lot of years. How have you be…”

“Thirty-four years, sir. Thirty four years, eight months and three weeks if you want to be more exact. Of course, that’s from the end of it all, when the six of us split up and went our separate ways. How long was it we were together, sir? Five weeks? Five weeks in hell? Cambodia was hell alright. I know you’d agree with me on that, sir. It was bloody hell, the pits of hell.”

“How’d you find me, Hotrod? I’ve not spoken to anyone from our patrol since we left Cam Ranh Bay. Not a soul. Why are you calling me now?”

“Sir? Aren’t you glad to hear from me, sir? We saved each other’s asses more than once.” Bertram laughed, softly. “Hey! You remember that one Charlie that hid under the…”

“Bertram! Hotrod! Listen to me.”

“Yes sir.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We were not in Cambodia. None of what you’ve said ever happened. You know as well as I do. We spent five weeks together in survival training in the Central Highlands of Qui Nhon province. Nothing else. It was hell all right, but it was meant to be hell.”

“Private Mallard is dead, sir. So is Lt. Batson. I thought you’d want to know.”

Dave sat down. “Batson died? And Mallard? How, Hotrod? When? Wait! Never mind. Don’t tell me. We all have to go sometimes. I truly hate it for their families but I put that life behind me. I had to. I figured we all had. That’s how we were trained.”

“Yes sir. I know very well how we were trained. Very well. Anyway, Lt. Batson died 12 months ago…a bad car wreck. The papers said he’d had too much to drink. His car crashed through a guardrail in Oregon and fell 150 feet into a ravine. It was a real bad way to go.”

Dave shook his head sadly. “That’s too bad. Batson was a good man…and a good soldier.”

“Yes sir, he was. I got to talk to him, though, just a day before he died. I was real glad about that. I stayed for his funeral but I stayed to myself, away from everybody else. I didn’t talk to anybody there. I wouldn’t…well, you know sir. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything. I’ve been going crazy all these years, wanting to talk about what happened then but there was nobody I could talk to. That’s when I decided to look for the rest of the squad. But, do you know sir; I couldn’t find anybody that was in our patrol? Not a soul. Not a body. Not at first anyway. I filled out forms and everything but nobody ever heard of you. I only found Batson by luck. I was passing through Coos Bay an hour south of Portland and picked up a town newspaper and there he was, big as day. He’d been elected to the city council. Only, sir…now I know that his name wasn’t really Batson, and he wasn’t a Lieutenant either. Yes sir, we had us a real good talk before he died. He must have wanted to get things off his chest in a bad kind of way. Once he started talking he wouldn’t hardly stop. He knew about Private Mallard being killed. Only…well, Mallard wasn’t a private, sir, and his name wasn’t really Mallard. Don’t you see, sir? That’s why I couldn’t find anybody. But now they’re both dead sir; so their secret died with them. Except for, well, I know and you know.”

My gut was wrenching. I sat down on the sofa. Dave stayed put, trying to keep up his demeanor. “Then…I guess you might also know about….”

“About you sir? Yes sir. Batson was a real encyclopedia of information. I know you weren’t a Captain. You were a Colonel. Col. David R. McCoy, Third Army Postal Unit. At least, that’s what your Army records say. But we both know it’s a lie sir. Your army record is a lie. Yes sir, we both know that. Said you were a captain for seven years. Not a very distinguished career, though. Never got into trouble, never saw any combat. If that weren’t so sad it would be funny. Wouldn’t it sir?”

“Look, Bertram, my Army records are…”

“My name’s not Bertram, sir. You probably know that by now. I still get called Hotrod ever now and then though, by a few of my family and the one or two friends I have left. My commander, he gave me the name Bertram just before I left to meet up with the rest of the patrol in Cambodia…you know sir, two clicks north of Kampong Ro. He said it was important that I remained anonymous. Those were his exact words. I just didn’t know he meant forever, sir. I surely didn’t know that.”

“Your commander…”

“He’s dead too, sir. Died in Louisiana just 9 months ago… newspapers said he wandered into the swamp just south of Thibodaux and never came back…imagine that…but what do they know, huh? Nothin’. They don’t know nothin’… no sir…they surely don’t know nothin’…Anyway, by the time they found him he was….well two days in the swamp with the gators and bobcats…it was real bad...kind of like those villagers we eliminated, captain. Unidentifiable”

“Sounds like our numbers are thinning out, Hotrod.”

“Yes, sir. I like the name Hotrod. Or, I used to…now, I’m not so sure. Now, whenever I hear it, I think about…well you know sir. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to talk to you about…what we did. I think you gave me that name, didn’t you sir? Hotrod?”

“It’s possible. I gave nicknames to a lot of soldiers in my time.”

“What about Sgt. Gilbert?”

“Gilbert? I haven’t seen him….”

“Sir!”

“Yes, Corporal?”

“Isn’t he there with you now? I stopped by his place in Birmingham. I met some of his neighbors. Sgt. Gilbert, can’t you say hello to an old army buddy? I’ll bet you haven’t been called Gilbert in a while, have you? Mind if I call you Sgt. Jackson? Are you listening, Sgt. Jackson? Your neighbor across the street…Mrs. Peterson…a real nice lady…when I told her I was an old army buddy from Vietnam, she told me you were coming down here. People surely are nicer to us Vietnam vets these days than they were when we first came home. Aren’t they, sir? Anyway, Sergeant, I hope you’re doing well. It’s good that you’re here.”

“What’s this all about, Hotrod?” Dave glanced my way but did not acknowledge Bertram’s statement and I didn’t respond.

“Nothing, sir. I just wanted to talk to you and the sergeant about the time we spent together in Cambodia….”

“Well, Hotrod, I’m afraid there isn’t much I can say about something that didn’t happen. We never got to within 20 kilometers of Cambodian border. You know that’s….

“Know what, sir? The truth? Yes sir, I know the truth. Just like you and Sgt. Jackson know the truth. Just like Batson and Mallard and my commander knew the truth.”

“Corporal, why don’t we meet tomorrow for breakfast? It’ll be on me. It’s getting kind of late and I want to get some shuteye. I’m not as young as I once was.”

“Sir, I’ve seen you go three days without sleep. You, too, Sgt. Jackson. I guess when your life is on the line you can do things you never thought you could. Things like we did to that village in Cambodia.”

I had to say something. This conversation needed to end. “It wasn’t a village, Corporal. It was a V.C. compound.” I could hear my words but it was as if someone else were talking…like I was just watching a stage show or a movie. “That compound had been supplying the Viet Cong for weeks. We had to take it out or lose more soldiers. We couldn’t let a border stop us.”

“Hello, Sgt. Jackson. I was beginning to think you were going to ignore me. No sir, we couldn’t let a border stop us. How do you explain the young boys, sir? Screaming, dying. How do you explain that? How do you live with those memories, sir?”

“There were no young boys there, Hotrod. They were all carrying AK-47’s or grenade launchers or worse. The V.C. made them soldiers. We couldn’t do anything other than what we did. You know that’s true, Bertram. It was them or us. They would have killed us all and never blinked an eye.”

“That’s the best way to die, Sergeant. Isn’t it? In the blink of an eye? I’ve been dying inside for thirty-four long years. But, I’m not long for this world now, Sgt. Jackson. Somebody’s out to get us all.”

“What do you mean, corporal? You think somebody’s out to kill us?” I was beginning to lose my patience, not to mention my Remy needed refreshing. That was my way of dealing with the memories. “It doesn’t make sense. I think you need to go get some sleep, Hotrod. I’m going to do just that myself. Why would anybody want to kill us after all this time?”

“It all adds up Sgt Jackson. Me and the commander’s wife…we talked for a good long time at his memorial service…she told me that he hated the jungles and swamps ever since 'nam. Couldn’t understand why he’d go off like that. But sir…what if somebody killed him first and then carried him into that swamp? And Batson was a member of A.A. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in over ten years. Why do you think he fell off the wagon, sir? Why do you think he fell off the wagon and drove his car into a ravine? Maybe somebody pushed his car into that ravine.”

“Bertram…. You were at both Batson’s and the commander’s funerals? You saw them both just before they….?

“You never asked me how Private Mallard died, Sgt. Jackson.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, he was murdered. Plain and simple. No question about that. One shot through the head from 300 yards with a 5.56 mm round 14 months ago.”

“How do you know all of that, Hotrod?”

“Well, sir…do you see that red dot on Dave’s head?

“DAVE!!! WATCH OU…..” The glass shattered and Dave fell to the floor, dead. I dove to carpet and waited for the next shot but it never came. One shot was all there was. After half an hour I called the police from the phone in Dave’s bedroom. They scoured the area, brought in helicopters with searchlights, but nothing turned up. I told them the story like I’ve told you but with a lot less detail. I didn’t tell them anything about the war, just that Dave got a call from Corporal Max Bertram who apparently shot him. Of course, Corporal Max Bertram was not his real name. I never learned his real name. So, a few hours later the police were through with me and I was in my car heading toward home. But, I didn’t go home, not for a long while. Bertram was still out there somewhere and there were only two names left on the list – mine and his.

But it's been two years now, two very long years, and I’ve not heard from him again. Maybe he killed himself. Maybe he left me alive so someone could tell his story.

But, that won't ever happen. Not ever.

I must have been away, it seems, for such a long long time.

I came back home to yesterdays but none were there to find.

Running from the fields of youth our colors turned to gray.

Before our time we went to war and youth just went away.

I close my eyes and gaze again upon our innocence;

memories of grander days and grander covenants.

Now hopes and plans and promises lay broken all around;

the boys we were, and dreams we dreamed, are buried in the ground.

Those were God blessed times, old friend, before came Vietnam

where we set out to save the world, from those we saved it from.

Now I walk this hallowed ground where fallen heroes lie

and live again in times back then, before you had to die

So I salute this marble cross that marks the honored dead.

I’ll plant the Lilies of the Field as a crown upon your head.

And I stand here and talk about how good things used to be.

I know you hear, my stalwart friend; I feel you here with me.

I’ll sing your song and tell your tales and pray your prayers for you.

I’ll not forsake your suckling babe; I’ll see your battles through.

The boy I was lies there with you; there are no fields to roam.

The man I am cries here for you and tries to go back home.

I was sitting alone at the bar early Saturday evening, finishing off a Sam Adams and writing down a few thoughts on a paper napkin. You know how it is. Not much was going on. I was thinking about calling it a day and going home to catch the Hawks on the tube. That’s usually good for a laugh. But, the jukebox was playing a Hank, Sr. song, and that’s always good for another beer. I ordered up another one and put the napkin in my pocket.

Then, she walked in.

She stood at the door for a moment, deciding whether to come in or go somewhere else. She was a knockout -- tall, dark hair and a red dress that could stop traffic. She surveyed the room and decided to come on in. It was just me and the bartender and a few other sadsacks over in one of the booths. I guess she was looking for quiet. She came over and sat down at the bar a few stools down from me. She ordered a double Johnny Walker Black on the rocks. The bartender smiled and nodded his head. “Yes, ma’am. Nice evenin’, isn’t it?” Other than a cursory nod, she didn’t respond. She wasn’t in the talking mood. A double Scotch on the rocks is a strong drink for 5:30 on a Saturday.

I tossed a $20 bill on the bar. “This one’s on me, barkeep.”

She looked over at me and smiled. “Thank you.” Her voice was soft, with just a touch of a southern drawl. Beautiful. “Thank you for the drink. But, I’m on my way home. I just needed a break. I’m really not in the mood for a lot of conversation.”

“I understand. I’m going home soon too.” Her beautiful eyes locked with mine for a brief second – you know, the kind that sometimes means more than words ever would.

I had to say something to her.

“If you don't mind, though, there is something I would like to tell you. I promise, it’ll only take a minute. I’ll be done by the time you’ve finished your drink. You won’t need to say anything at all, just listen.” Our eyes connected again. “Sixty seconds. It’s important to me. You'll understand why. Then I’ll be out of here myself.”

She smiled and nodded her head. “Okay. I suppose that will be okay. I’ve got a few minutes. By the way, my name is Sarah.” She offered her hand to me. It was soft, immaculately manicured.

“Hello, Sarah. My name is Briscoe. Austin Briscoe. I am pleased to have finally met you.”

“Finally? I’m the girl of your dreams, right?” She smiled. She wasn’t being sarcastic but her smile was more of a half-smile, like she’d heard every pick-up line in the book.

“No, but…well…you’ll understand.” I paused to collect my thoughts. She was giving me her undivided attention. I didn't really know where to start so I just started with the first words that came out of my mouth.

“Sarah...It was in late October of ’71. I was in Vietnam doing my duty for God and country, stationed at Qui Nhon province in the central highlands. Under different circumstances, I suppose it would have been a beautiful place.” I paused again. Remembering was not so easy for me. “It was near the beginning of the monsoon season and the air was getting cooler. It was my night to guard the south perimeter and I was in a tower on the edge of the compound hundreds of yards from anywhere else. It was going to be a long night, but they all were. Nothing much happens at night on the perimeter. The Viet Cong were too smart for that…”

My thoughts were coming faster.

“Sarah, it is hard to imagine a dark like there is in Vietnam at night. You can see every star in the heavens and nothing else. The silence is almost overwhelming. Every movement can be heard, a twig snapping, the slightest wind, everything. It's the silence that keeps you awake.” Sarah was listening more intently now. “The night was almost over and and I was scanning the eastern quadrant one last time when the sun broke over the horizon ....”

I took a deep breath. “I hardly ever talk about Vietnam. Most of my memories from there are not good ones. But on that day…as the first rays of the sun broke through the mist from Vung Chua mountain…the sky turned an incredible shade of blue. Sarah, I had nothing to compare it with; I’d never seen anything like it. I looked around me to see if there was anyone else, anyone at all close by that saw it too . . . but, there was no one. There was just me and one old Vietnamese farmer who had his eyes to the ground and his back to the sky.” I swallowed hard. The memories were coming non-stop. “Then…then, after a moment, it was gone. The sun rose a few degrees higher in the sky, and it was gone.”

I put my hand on hers.

“Sarah, that was a long ago but I still remember it like yesterday. Even to this day when I have reason to be awake at daybreak, I scan the eastern skies in hopes of seeing that same color of blue again. But I’ve not seen it since, not even once.” I looked at her beautiful face. “Until tonight when you sat down beside me and I looked into your eyes…and there it was. There it was. I finally know now that the incredible blue I saw in ’Nam that morning was real and not just a dream of a tired soldier from long ago. You probably won't understand, but that really means a lot to me.”

I took my hand from hers.

“Anyway, I just thought you would want to know, and I needed to tell you. Thanks for listening, Sarah. I’ll leave you alone now.”

I turned to leave but she put her hand on my shoulder. “Wait, Austin. I think I might have time for another drink…if you do. It’ll be on me.”

“But I don’t LIKE ‘Becka!” There was a frown on David’s face.  “All she wants to do is play with dolls and pretend to be a mo-o-om-my and wants to play house.  I don’t LIKE to play house!  I want to go fishin’ with Billy Joe Thrasher.”

Meredith Anne smiled and chuckled to herself.  David sure had his father’s eyes, and he held his mouth in the same crooked way, especially when he wasn’t exactly pleased with his situation.  How long had it been now?  Three years?  Three years.  She paused from folding the bed sheets long enough to remember…remember the times she and Tucker spent together holding David when he was a baby not long from the womb, laughing at way he seemed to fit just right in her arms and how he would lie so still for hours on end, safe and warm on Tucker’s chest.  She always smiled at the thought of David and Tucker together, wishing he could see him now.  She sometimes felt as if he were still right there with them.  She could…she could almost smell his cologne and feel the warm sensation of his breath as it blew gently across her neck.  It made her feel warm inside, and safer somehow.  And, that made her smile, too.

“Now, now, Davey.  Rebecca is your cousin.  Family is important.  That fishin’ hole isn’t going to dry up before tomorrow.”  She kissed him gently on the forehead.  “Tell you what.  I'll call Iris and ask her if Billy Joe can come over for supper tomorrow night.  I’m fixing a venison roast, and I’ll make some apple cobbler for desert.  How’s that?  Now you go get cleaned up.  Rebecca will be here soon.  And don’t forget to wash behind those ears this time, cowboy!”   She turned him around and patted him on his blue-jeaned rear end. “Now scoot!  I’ve got chores to do.”

He turned reluctantly toward the bathroom and kicked at an imaginary something.  “I don’t LIKE girls!”   He reached down and picked up the basketball lying in the corner. “Can we shoot some hoops, Mom?  We can play HORSE.  You can go first!”

“SCOOT, David!   I’ll play with you after supper if it’s still daylight.  Of course, if you want to help wash those dirty dishes before Rebecca gets here, we might have time to play a game before….”

“…Uh…sure, Mom....maybe…I guess I oughta go get cleaned up….”

“Sounds like a great idea, Sweetie.”

“I’m NOT a sweetie, Mom!”

She kissed his cheek softly. “Yes, you are….”

In ’71 my brother said

it’s better to be red than dead

so I slapped him hard upside the head.

“Your mama didn't raise no fool.”

Your granddad went and fought a war,

and now we can drive these foreign cars

but that's not the reason he went for.

He drove a Chevrolet.

Your daddy fought in Vietnam;

not sure where that war came from.

But, it’s still a war today for some.

They can’t ever let it go.

And what the hell’s that on your shirt?

‘Make Love not War’ you naive squirt?

Are you afraid of getting hurt?

You ought to be ashamed.

Embroidered right there on your sleeve;

Is that a marijuana leaf?

Turn on, tune out ’s what you believe?​

That's a sad state of affairs.

What's that there on your keychain?

A peace sign? Are you insane?

It won’t help, you damn pea brain.

There’s always another war.

But…that was then and this is now.

He just might have been correct somehow.

‘melt the sword and make a plow’

That sounds like a good idea.

So pardon me whilst I take my leave.

I’ll take my plow and plant these seeds

and I’ll cultivate these funny weeds.

And I’ll make love, not war.

This old world needs more poets these days

with rhymes to rhyme, and words to play;

more lovers that love and prayers that pray.

The world surely needs more poets these days.

More sunsets painted with iambic grace,

and daybreaks displayed with syllabic embrace

in scarlets and ambers that others won’t see

all written down for the children to read.

God only knows we need poets these days

that write about wars in bombastic displays

of gory red colors in oozing refrain

so we will remember the heartbreak, the pain.

The world needs more poets to scream out the words

that mothers and widows and orphans have heard.

In stirring renditions, more poets to pen

words that move mountains and spirits of men

The magic elixirs of meter and rhyme

that transcend mortal purpose and shackles of time.

The world more than ever needs poets today.

In so many wonderful, terrible ways.