Corporal Max Bertram

12 August, 2003

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

Dave didn’t answer the caller’s question. You’ll understand why.

I closed my eyes and 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, I had taken, Bertram had taken.

“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. None of what you’ve said so far ever happened. You know as well as I do. We were not in Cambodia. 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 11 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 few days 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 only found Batson by luck. I was passing through Coos Bay about 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. Imagine my surprise, Captain Miliken – Batson and Mallard, neither who they said they were. But now they’re both dead sir; so their secrets died with them. Except for, well, I know and you know. Don’t you see, sir? That’s why I couldn’t find anybody. I contacted the army and filled out forms and did everything I was asked to do but they said they never heard of any of you. I figured it was just a screw up. As screwed up as things were when we left ’nam, I can imagine a lot of records got lost. Can’t you, sir?”

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 his sleep at a cheap hotel in Louisiana 21 months ago. Sudden heart attack…at least that’s what the paper said happened. But what do they know, huh? Nothing. They don’t know nothing.”

“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 Cambodia. 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 patience, not to mention my Remy needed refreshing. That was my way of dealing with the memories. “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 doesn’t make sense.”

“It all adds up Sgt Jackson. The commander’s wife told me he was the picture of health. The picture of health. He shouldn’t have a heart attack like that. Those were her exact words, not mine. 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?”

“Things happen, Hotrod. Life is like that. Now, I’ve got to go.”

“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 15 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. Ever.