NOTE: This story is dedicated to the Webmaster, Patty Shaw aka Pidd. Thank you, Pidd, for all of your patience and smarts in answering my endless, inane questions. Your kind suggestions and gentle corrections were always greatly appreciated. The encouragement and humor you provided, to help me through my constant insecurity, was immeasurable. So here’s to hoping the proper names are capitalized, the contractions are few, the thoughts are italicized, the imagery is vivid, and there are enough commas and periods to keep the run-on sentences to a minimum. The story depicts the LT’s last two weeks in Vietnam. Enjoy!

Sergeant Anderson stood outside Lieutenant Goldman’s door like he had countless times over the last year. Taking a moment, he reminisced about some of the tumultuous meetings, and explosive conversations of the past. It had taken time and patience for Anderson to get beyond the fiery temperament, and sarcastic nature of the lieutenant, but it proved to be worth the effort. The comfortable relationship he and Myron now shared went well beyond the normal bonds of trust and friendship.

Thinking of all the missions that had been meticulously planned, and carefully thought out by the intelligent, young officer, caused a surge of pride to run through the sergeant. A careless oversight or mistake, due to lack of preparation, was simply not acceptable to Lieutenant Myron Goldman. Not when it could cost some poor kids’ life. The sergeant was not sure it was his place to take pride in the lieutenant, but there was no denying that’s what he felt.

The lieutenant had two weeks left on his combat tour, and the sergeant prayed the boy would have the sense to get out of the field, and into some less dangerous line of work. Anderson and Sergeant Marcus Taylor were the only remaining members of Goldman’s original platoon, and they had both secretly agreed to kick the lieutenant’s ass all the way back to New York if they had to. Zeke smiled to himself, hoping it would not come to that, though he would relish that conversation…that would no doubt be a real corker.

"Hey, Zeke," the lieutenant said, nodding toward the chair nearest his desk. Anderson considered it his chair from all the time he spent sitting in it. Pouring them each a drink, Myron gave Anderson a crooked grin and held up a piece of paper.

"What’s that, LT?" Anderson asked, hoping it was the lieutenant’s orders for some cush gig in the rear.

"We have a mission," Myron said, lighting a cigarette and rolling his eyes.

"A mission?" Anderson practically yelled.

Amused at the normally laid back sergeant’s reaction, Myron had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling.

"Yeah, a mission. You have heard of that, right?"

Anderson recovered quickly. "You got two weeks, LT, tell’em to stick their damn mission, or tell’em you’re sick," he suggested.

"I can’t do that, Zeke."

I know lots of ways of getting around going out," the sergeant said seriously.

"Oh, I am sure you do, Sergeant," Myron laughed. "Do me a favor, and don’t share any of them with me."

It suddenly dawned on Zeke that maybe the lieutenant did not care about the mission because maybe he was not leaving in two weeks. "LT," Anderson asked nervously, "tell me you did not extend your tour."

"What’s the matter, Anderson, you tired of me?" When the sergeant did not even crack a smile, Myron quit joking. "No, I did not extend my tour. I got my orders right here," he smirked, holding up the paperwork as proof. "I’m going stateside."

Sergeant Anderson breathed a visible sigh of relief. "And the mission?"

"Army SOS," Myron continued. "Reconnaissance and force, let’s see, it specifically says we are to… find and engage the enemy."

Sergeant Anderson appreciated the humor. "Yeah, and if we could do that this war would have been over a long time ago," he responded. "Does it say in there how long we are supposed to look for Victor Charles?"

Myron checked the orders again. "As a matter of fact it does, Sergeant," he replied in good humor. "Ten days."

"It’s gonna be a long ten days," the sergeant acknowledged. Ten days of worrying about the LT. It was so close to being over…but the Nam was a hard ticket home. Once she had you, she did not want to let go. The sergeant could attest to that. "How many graves were filled with short timers with less than two weeks?" Zeke worried.

The lieutenant’s spirits were high on the prospect of going back to the World, and that was always dangerous. The kid had the look of a short timer, Anderson decided…that added spark of enthusiasm and humor, usually only visible in the eyes of the greenest of newbies, and those extremely close to their DEROSE. The veteran sergeant knew that carelessness was usually the result of that look. Anderson decided he would talk to the lieutenant about it. "Not today," Zeke thought. "Let the boy enjoy his orders today." "Is that all, Sir?" He asked.

"No, actually that’s not all," Myron said, taking on a more serious tone. "What are your plans, Zeke?"

Anderson shrugged.

For once, the lieutenant waited patiently.

That was the only sore spot for Myron regarding his reassignment, worrying about his sergeant. The thought of Anderson being ordered around by some twenty-year-old, inexperienced kid was making the lieutenant crazy. And if the kid got Anderson killed…Myron was not sure he could live with that.

If there was one thing Anderson had taught the lieutenant, it was to be persistent in the face of adversity. Myron thought of all the people Anderson had helped when others, including himself, would have given up. Percell and his drug problem immediately came to mind. Myron smiled, remembering how his sergeant was ready to storm into Cho lan, with an armed commando squad if necessary, to rescue the troubled private.

Sergeant Anderson was not one to give up on people; he was big on second chances. Anderson even tried saving the hopeless and the doomed. Myron grimaced, recalling Sergeant Decker, Private Martsen, and Sergeant Greg Block…all recipients of second chances from the big-hearted sergeant. Thinking back on his own first few missions as an inexperienced, second lieutenant, made Myron grateful for his sergeant’s unique ability to overlook the faults and shortcomings of others.

Not to mention the kids. Myron recalled the suspected VC kid Zeke had protected from interrogation, and then smuggled out of the dispensary. The sergeant had never admitted to smuggling the kid out, and Myron had the good sense not to ask, but the lieutenant never had a doubt who was behind the kid’s great escape. There were other kids as well…and baby Judd.

Lieutenant Goldman resolved that this was the one time he would be persistent; he would take care of Sergeant Anderson, making sure Zeke got out of Vietnam alive. Myron was determined not to take no for an answer.

"I don’t know LT…what about the war?" Anderson finally asked. He was thinking about all the poor kids coming in with no training, and no experienced officers and NCO’s to help them out.

"The war?" Myron repeated incredulously. "You know as well as I do, Zeke…the war is over. All that’s left is to see how many kids have to die in order for the politicians to save face. And I am afraid it is going to be a lot." Myron put his hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. "It’s time to get out, my friend."

The lieutenant never failed to surprise the sergeant. Anderson was prepared to argue, fight, beg or plead with Myron to convince him to get out of the field, and take a job in the rear. Instead, the lieutenant was trying to talk him into it. "I’ll think about it, Sir," Anderson promised on his way out.

"Zeke," Myron said firmly, "do more than just think about it."

*******************

Sergeant Anderson found Sergeant Marcus Taylor in the mess hall, and took the seat across from him. Zeke watched intently as Marcus dug around in the mound of food on his plate. "You gonna eat that, Taylor?" He finally asked.

"Hey, Sarge," Marcus greeted him. "If you got anything edible, stashed for a rainy day," he whined, still poking suspiciously at the food, "this would be the day."

"Taylor," Zeke asked, "how long have you been in this man’s army? I swear if you was a general, you’d still be sittin’ around here bitching about the chow."

"Wait til’ you taste it," Taylor muttered defensively.

Zeke shook his head at Taylor’s groaning. In the fifteen months plus they had been serving together, the boy always managed to amuse the sergeant. "We have a mission tomorrow," Anderson said more seriously. "Ten days…search and destroy. Are the men ready?"

Taylor gave Anderson a shrug. "They’re as ready as they’ll ever be, I guess, Sarge," he groaned. "They seem pretty nervous, maybe you could stop by and give’em a talk."

"Talk? Talk ain’t gonna help them tomorrow," Anderson answered.

"I don’t know, Sarge," Taylor responded quietly, "it always helped us."

"Do what you can, Taylor. You’re the sergeant now. You talk," Anderson advised, thinking that maybe Marcus was a little too dependent on him. "I’ll try to stop by later," he added, patting the young sergeant on the back.

Taylor nodded gratefully. "So is the LT really going?" Marcus asked, trying not to think about the ramifications of that.

"Yeah, but he ain’t gone yet," Anderson answered nervously.

"I hear you," Taylor nodded, understanding Anderson’s meaning. "Don’t worry, Sarge, the LT will be okay. You and me…we’ll watch out for him," he said, sharing his sergeant’s determination.

*******************

Two days into the mission, the platoon came across an abandoned enemy bunker. "Taylor, Percell," Myron yelled, "check it out." Taylor stopped in his tracks, staring at the lieutenant. Realizing his mistake, Myron corrected himself. "Perry, go with Taylor," he ordered. The lieutenant could see Anderson, a few yards behind Taylor, shaking his head and giving him a disapproving look. Myron raised his eyebrows, and gave Anderson a barely perceptible shrug. The gesture only seemed to further annoy the sergeant, so Myron turned away, refocusing on the task at hand.

Later, settling into their NDP, the sergeant checked on the troops and made his customary report to the lieutenant. Anderson seemed quiet; if Myron didn’t know better, he would call it downright moody. "Everything okay, Sergeant?" Myron ventured. Not at all sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Well, since you asked, LT," Zeke began, making no attempt to hide his displeasure. "No, everything is not okay. With all respect, Sir, you have been diddybopping through the jungle like some FNG."

Myron noted that whenever his sergeant started a sentence with the phrase, "with all respect, Sir," it was normally followed up with an opinion that showed very little respect at all. This was no exception. "Don’t hold anything back, Sergeant. Just say what’s on your mind." Myron replied sarcastically.

Anderson did not seem to notice. He was not use to his lieutenant being so distracted in the field. Until Myron was safely on that freedom bird home, the worried sergeant would get no rest. "That’s all I wanted to say. You ain’t home yet LT, and you can’t walk around with your head in the clouds for the next nine days, that’s all I’m saying."

"It was just a slip of the tongue," Myron mumbled, defending his lack of concentration.

Anderson nodded, but did not seem convinced.

"It’s true," Myron thought. Over the past year, it had been Taylor and Percell's names he had called the most. It had always amazed the lieutenant how he could just yell, "TAYLOR, PERCELL" in the middle of any fire fight, and no matter how intense the battle, they would both appear beside him, seemingly out of nowhere. Expectantly waiting for their orders, willing to do whatever he asked without question. Myron knew it was because they trusted him completely. It had been an overwhelming responsibility, a blessing, as well as a heavy burden.

The lieutenant put these thoughts to the back of his mind. "Hey, Zeke," he whispered, knowing he was pushing it, "twelve days and a wake up."

The sergeant was not amused. "Lord, have mercy," he mumbled under his breath.

*******************

Lieutenant Goldman folded up his map of the AO and stuck it back into his shirt, grateful for how quiet the last few days had been. Looking at his watch, Myron tried to determine if he had time for a quick smoke, as the fifteen-minute water break he had ordered neared its end. Pulling out the cigarette, the lieutenant caught a glimpse of Taylor, arguing with one of the men, and decided to see if his rookie sergeant needed any help. "What’s the problem here, Sergeant?"

Marcus looked up at the lieutenant, trying to figure out what to tell him. Being fairly new to the job, Taylor was not always sure which situations warranted his CO’s attention and which ones he should handle himself.

"Nothing, Sir," Marcus decided.

Lieutenant Goldman nodded, about to walk away and let Taylor take care of the problem, whatever it was, until he spotted the clear plastic bag hanging out of the newbie private’s pocket. "No, Sergeant," he said, changing his mind. "I’ll handle this."

"What is that, Private?" The lieutenant calmly asked. It was not the first time in the last few months that Lieutenant Goldman had spotted soldiers smoking dope, but it was the fist time he had noticed it in the bush. It was not just that the newbie had brought the marijuana on the mission that had Myron so irritated, it was the fact that the private had not even bothered to conceal it. Smoking on the base was bad enough; the lieutenant was almost getting use to it, but out here in the boonies…that was another matter all together.

"What’s what?" the private answered glibly.

Grabbing the small bag of pot, the lieutenant took a breath, struggling to keep his legendary temper in check. Glancing at the soldier’s fatigues for his name, Myron glared at the newbie. "Gibbs," he asked, maintaining his composure, "are you insane?"

Private Gibbs chuckled. "Relax, Man. It’s just a little weed."

"Relax? You are in a war. Men are depending on you. Does that mean anything at all to you, Private?" Myron asked incredulously.

Gibbs shrugged.

"Consider yourself on report," Myron said, disgusted at the private’s attitude. "I will write you up as soon as we get back, and disciplinary action will be taken.

"I don’t care about that army shit," Gibbs laughed. "But c’mon, Man, can I have my stash back?" Myron could hear some of the other newbies snickering in the background.

"I am not your Man, Gibbs," Myron said evenly, getting in the private’s face. "And you will call me, Sir."

"Whatever," Gibbs smiled, shrugging his shoulders and looking to the rest of the troops for support.

Lieutenant Goldman had enough. The angry officer reached out and grabbed the stunned private by the collar of his uniform and jerked him forward. "You look at me when I am talking to you, do you understand?" The private stopped smiling.

That drew Sergeant Anderson’s attention. "I’ll take care of this, LT," he tried to intervene.

"I am taking care of it," Myron snapped angrily.

"Yes, Sir," Zeke whispered under his breath

"Maybe you better start caring about army shit," Myron continued to Gibbs. "When we get back to the base, you are going to look up the penalty for insubordination during wartime and report back to me on the specifics," the lieutenant seethed, maintaining his grip on the private’s fatigues.

"You got that, Soldier?"

"Yes, Sir," Gibbs whispered.

"Now, you really don’t want to mess with me, do you, Gibbs?"

"No, Sir," the private agreed.

"Good," Myron said, releasing the newbie. "Let’s get ready to move out," he ordered his troops.

Anderson and Taylor exchanged glances. "I guess he did take care of that, huh, Sarge?" Taylor whispered.

"Sure did," Anderson laughed.

Settling in for another night, Lieutenant Goldman took the first watch. Even though it had been hours since the incident with Gibbs, Myron was still worked up over it. "You awake, Sergeant?" he asked.

"Yeah, LT."

"You see now why we need to get out of the field? You see what’s happening here, Zeke? These kids don’t want to be here. Hell, I try to take that into account, but there has got to be a line," he ranted, pausing to get his sergeant’s opinion on the subject.

Myron typically took Anderson’s lack of response as a sign that the sergeant did not agree with him. When that happened, the lieutenant’s usual reaction was to pick a fight.

"You didn’t like the way I handled that whole situation, did you?" He asked in an accusing tone.

Zeke smiled to himself. After serving together for well over a year, the sergeant had learned to recognize all of his CO’s moods, looks, and tones. "I got no problem with it, LT," he calmly stated.

"Then why did you try to run interference?" Myron asked, forcing the issue.

"Just thought you might not want to deal with it, that’s all."

"That kid was an ass." Myron said, hoping for some kind of argument from the sergeant.

"Yes, Sir."

"Lucky he didn’t get himself killed," the lieutenant continued venting.

"Yes, Sir."

"Not to mention getting someone else killed… and stop saying, yes, Sir," Myron added testily. "I hate when you do that." It had initially taken Myron a few months to figure out when Anderson was actually agreeing with him, or when the sergeant just did not feel like arguing with him. This defiantly fell into the second category.

Anderson stifled a laugh. "Do what, Sir?"

Myron thought for a minute, trying to think of the right word. "Humor me," he finally decided on. "You think I don’t know when you are humoring me, Sergeant? You know, you don’t have to always agree me."

"It ain’t that I don’t agree with you, LT. It’s just that you’re always thinking and analyzing, and sometimes I just get tired of all that. It’s over. Stuff just… is what it is," Zeke stated simply.

Myron shook his head, wondering how many times he had thought Anderson did not agree with him, when in reality, the sergeant was simply not interested in discussing the matter. "You mean to tell me that sometimes, you do agree with me, but you just don’t feel like talking about?" He asked.

"Well, you do tend to over think everything," Anderson replied. "I ain’t as smart as you, LT. All that stuff just gives me a headache."

Anderson’s admission made the lieutenant laugh in spite of himself. "Oh I don’t know, Sergeant, I think you’re smarter than you let on."

"Yes, Sir," Anderson smiled, trying to get comfortable for his two hour nap.

Myron laughed again as he stared out into the night. "Hey, Zeke," he whispered, deciding to update his nightly countdown, "eight days and a wake up."

"Yes, Sir," Anderson acknowledged groggily. "Whatever you say, Sir."

*******************

Two days later, the mission was proving to be more tedious than anything else. Lieutenant Goldman’s only concern lately was trying to keep his two sergeants spread out along the column…watching the troops, instead of watching their lieutenant’s back. "Taylor, I want you up front," he ordered impatiently for the umpteenth time. "Anderson, you got the rear." Both of his well-intentioned sergeants seemed to be complying for the moment.

Thankfully, the day proved as uneventful as the previous days and the platoon dug in for another night. Standing guard, with the sergeant sleeping lightly beside him, Lieutenant Goldman started to wonder what his life would be like outside of the Nam… back in the World.

Unexpectedly, the lieutenant found himself thinking of the massacre at Phu An and in turn, his old friend, Skip Beller. Myron had not consciously thought about Beller since the day of the lieutenants’ suicide. Tonight, he recalled Beller’s prophetic statement made before Phu An. "I may leave too many of the pieces… right here," the distraught lieutenant had confided.

Looking back over the past fifteen months, Myron thought about the men who had left their own hopes and dreams, right here. He remembered the Skip Beller he knew before Vietnam. Hell, Myron’s own father had died since his tour began. And Alex… "How many pieces would be too many?" he worried.

Anderson’s internal clock woke the reliable sergeant right on time, interrupting the lieutenant’s troubling thoughts. "Everything quiet, LT?" Anderson asked, instantly alert.

Forcing his attention back to the bleak night, Myron realized he was having a hard time concentrating. Damn, Zeke had been right, he was already losing his edge. "Yeah, all quiet," Myron confirmed, feeling infinitely better having Anderson to talk to.

"You all right, LT?" Zeke asked, thinking that the boy was looking mighty grim.

"Fine," Myron answered, wondering if his sergeant could read his mind. Trying to get comfortable on the jungle floor, Myron could not resist needling Anderson. "Hey, Sarge," he whispered, "six days and a wake up."

This time, Sergeant Anderson smiled. "Yeah, and only two more days in the bush," he thought happily.

*******************

"MORTARS," Taylor screamed, hitting the dirt, as the shells began exploding around them. The experienced were already on the ground, taking cover, while the newbies stood motionless on the trail. The seasoned combat veterans seemed to have a sixth sense that defied all logic and explanation…one second walking a trail, the next, hitting the ground, before the first audible sound of the explosions. That half-second often proved to be the difference between living to hump another day, and becoming a grim statistic in Command’s sacred body count.

"Get Down," Anderson continued yelling at the two kids, still panicked and frozen in fear on the open trail. One of them finally did manage to get into the brush. The words caught in the sergeant’s throat as he saw the lieutenant appear out of nowhere. Anderson watched in disbelief as Myron attempted to make his way to the private. "NO," Anderson heard himself scream; suddenly unable to move…the sight of his lieutenant producing a paralyzing fear that was gripping his own heart. Two more huge rounds exploded before the relative quiet returned.

Sergeant Anderson forced himself to look toward the vicinity of where the kid had been standing. No one was standing now. As the barrage finally ended, Zeke found himself in an unfamiliar position. He was afraid. Afraid to move… afraid of what he might find. "Six days and a wake up," his mind kept repeating. Trembling, the sergeant finally managed to get up, and make his way over to where the men were gathering. "He’s dead," one of them said.

Anderson felt an excruciating pain in his chest that was making it hard to breathe. Forcing his body to go numb, the sergeant stifled the rage that was building inside him. Breathing heavily, Anderson’s eyes desperately searched for the lieutenant.

"Sarge?" Taylor asked, giving Anderson a quizzical look.

Pushing Taylor aside, Anderson was shocked to see Lieutenant Goldman, sitting on the ground, looking disheveled and shaken, but very much alive. "Myron," Zeke managed, his voice cracking with emotion, as relief flooded over him.

Confused, Myron looked at Anderson; the sergeant had never called him by his first name in the bush, in front of the men. The lieutenant was baffled as to what the sergeant was so happy about. "The boy is dead," he stated flatly, nodding towards the newbie. "Eighteen years old," he added sadly.

Squatting down on the ground, Zeke gently grabbed the lieutenant’s shoulder. "You okay…he asked, stopping himself from once again using the lieutenant’s given name…Sir?"

"I’m fine, Sergeant," Myron answered tersely, perplexed by Anderson’s non-reaction to the boy lying dead in front of him. "Let’s get the men moving."

"C’mon, you heard the LT, let’s get ready to move out," Sergeant Taylor yelled.

Anderson slowly came to his senses and joined Taylor. "All right, grab your gear, let’s go," he ordered the beleaguered troops. The lieutenant called for a dust off for two of the men who had been wounded, and for the deceased private.

Taylor passed Anderson, as the platoon prepared to move out. "That was close, huh, Sarge?" He whispered. "LT almost bought the farm on that one."

Anderson nodded numbly as he hoisted the private’s lifeless body across his broad shoulders, painfully aware that it could just as easily be Myron’s body he was hauling. Anderson’s only thought was the immense relief he felt at the LT’s close call. As the sergeant’s adrenaline slowed, he thought of the young soldier he was carrying, and felt ashamed. "Sorry, Son," he whispered, still straining his eyes down the trail, trying to catch a glimpse of his lieutenant.

Dug in, and sharing a foxhole for perhaps the last time, Zeke stared at Myron as the lieutenant tried to rest. Still shaken at the idea of losing the LT on his last day in the bush, the sergeant had no illusions of sleep.

"What?" Myron asked slightly irritated, feeling Anderson’s protective gaze.

Zeke looked down at the ground and voiced a feeling he would have kept to himself, if not for the fact that it was the lieutenant’s last night in the field. "You scared me to death out there today, Myron," he said honestly, feeling more like an older brother… or a father… than a sergeant.

Myron was a little taken aback by his sergeant’s candor. "Yeah, I guess I scared myself out there," he finally responded with a relieved grin, slapping Anderson on the shoulder. "Relax, Zeke, I’m fine."

Sergeant Anderson was having trouble smiling or relaxing over Myron’s close brush with death. Zeke felt responsible, blaming himself for not going after the teenage private. He had stayed on the ground, yelling, while the lieutenant was already on his feet, trying to save the terrified boy. The sergeant would need a little time before he could forgive himself for that.

"Hey, Zeke," Myron whispered, hoping to cheer up his worried sergeant, "five days and a wake up!"

"One more day in the bush," Anderson thought wearily. One more day before he could breathe.

*******************

Sergeant Anderson exhaled deeply as the Huey safely touched down. Lieutenant Goldman grabbed the sergeant’s arm as they exited the bird. "Sergeant," the LT yelled, trying to be heard over the roar of the rotors, "the KIA, Wilson, what was the kid’s first name?"

Drawing a blank, Anderson shook his head. "I’ll get back to you, LT."

Overwhelmed with fatigue, Sergeant Anderson made his way to his quarters, and forced himself to follow his post mission routine of showering and cleaning his weapon, before collapsing on his bunk. Closing his eyes, the sergeant assumed he would quickly pass out from exhaustion, but as was often the case in the Nam, sleep proved elusive. When he did close his eyes, the sergeant would see Myron running towards the ill-fated newbie, just before the two explosions. Next he would see himself, helpless to do anything but scream.

Restless, Anderson got up and poured himself a drink, hoping it would help. The grief and anguish he had felt about the LT’s fate had been real, even though Myron’s death was not. The idea of almost losing the lieutenant on his last mission would no doubt haunt the sergeant for a very long time.

Pouring another drink, Sergeant Anderson let his mind wander back to one of his first missions with the LT. "I am not going to order these men to do something I wouldn’t do myself," the lieutenant had once said. Although annoyed at the time, Zeke had always admired that sentiment. It was one of the first things that the sergeant had come to respect about Myron Goldman. Most officers never took that into consideration. Smiling, Anderson remembered how the brash young lieutenant had followed that up with, "You work for me. I don’t work for you!" How he had bristled at the tongue-lashing from the green, second lieutenant!

They had certainly come a long way together. Sometimes Anderson thought that he understood the lieutenant better than the kid understood himself. "I am going to miss the boy," Anderson admitted for the first time. Not just in the field, as an experienced officer, but on the base, as a confidant and a friend.

Finally asleep, Anderson’s unconscious mind again replayed the scene. Myron rushing towards the newbie. "No," Zeke screamed out loud, sitting up, rubbing his eyes and catching his breath. "Damn," he thought, massaging a pain that was beginning to pound just above his left eye. It was the guilt that was keeping him so restless, the sergeant finally decided. Guilt …for his own lack of concentration… for what almost happened to the lieutenant… for having to ask Taylor the KIA’s first name.

"LT is right," Anderson sighed. "It’s time to get out." After making the decision to take the matter up with his sergeant major, Sergeant Anderson fell into an uneasy sleep.

*******************

Lieutenant Myron Goldman left the officer’s mess and walked around the base for the final time. The army’s out-processing procedure had been mind boggling in its mounds of paperwork. With endless forms needing to be filled out in duplicate and triplicate with all the required signatures. It was a lot harder getting out of the Nam than had been getting in, Myron noted. But he had gotten through the red tape relatively unscathed. "Finally, my last night in Vietnam," he marveled.

As Goldman passed the dispensary he stopped and thought of his former medic, Francis Hockenberry. The lieutenant had heard rumors that the Doc was having a drinking problem, but regretfully, he had never checked into the matter.

Hockenberry’s conscientious objector status and his unwillingness to carry a weapon had always made the free spirited medic somewhat of an outsider. After the circumstances surrounding Private Kuslit’s death, the Doc had practically become a pariah among the men and had eventually moved out of the barracks, and into the dispensary.

As a former member of Team Viking, the Doc had proved himself courageous under fire, and for that, the lieutenant would always be grateful. Feeling a little guilty, Myron turned into the dispensary and wondered what kind of reception he would receive. The lieutenant found Hockenberry in the back storage room, his makeshift quarters. "Hey, Doc," he greeted the medic.

"LT," Hockenberry replied, not appearing all that surprised to see his former CO.

Myron took a breath. "Listen, Doc, me and some of the guys are getting together for a few drinks later … it’s my last night. Why don’t you stop by?"

"Yeah, congratulations, LT. Taylor said you were leaving. I can’t tonight, I’m on duty," Hockenberry lied.

"Are you okay, Doc?" Myron asked.

"Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?"

"If you need anything…" Myron offered.

"Once a member of Team Viking, always a member of Team Viking, huh, LT?" Hockenberry stated with just a hint of sarcasm. He was remembering how the guys had snubbed him after Kuslit’s death. Eventually they had come to terms with it, but things had never been the same. "Even now," Doc thought.

Myron hesitated, unable to read the medic’s tone. "Yeah, something like that," he smiled sadly.

Hockenberrry was thinking how he had not seen Lieutenant Goldman in over a month. "Now, on his last night in country, he comes by asking me if everything is okay. Well no," Hockenberry thought. "No, everything is not okay." But he would be damned if he would let the lieutenant know. Lieutenant McKay was the only one who had truly understood."

Myron uncomfortably offered his hand to his former medic. Hockenberry hesitated for just a second, before accepting it. Shaking hands, Myron reiterated, "We’ll be there if you change your mind, Doc."

*******************

After a few hours of drinking and reminiscing about the past year, Anderson decided to make a toast. Myron felt his emotions rise as Zeke raised his glass and gave him that slight, down-home grin, and barely perceptible nod that the lieutenant had become so accustomed to. "The sergeant had a way of NOT looking at you when you spoke to him (which was so damn annoying) or looking right through you when you least wanted the attention," Myron reflected. God, how he was going to miss that look!

The lieutenant doubted he would ever form a bond as strong as the friendship he shared with his sergeant. "Former sergeant," he corrected himself. "How many times has he saved me?" Myron wondered. "Not just from the enemy, but from myself." Sergeant Anderson had never wavered in his steadfast loyalty. "Even when I didn’t deserve his friendship." Thinking back to the times he had lashed out at the sergeant, acting more like a rebellious teen than an officer in the United States army, made Myron cringe.

Amazingly, Anderson had the ability to let all that go. The lieutenant realized that is what he was going to miss the most… someone to count on, no matter how wrong he was, or how badly he screwed up. His own father had always pointed out his son’s inadequacies and failures. Myron had never been able to live up to the general’s expectations. Right or wrong, Sergeant Anderson’s support had never wavered. That unconditional trust, Myron decided, is what ultimately made him a better officer… and a better man.

"Here’s to you, LT," Zeke said. "The finest officer I ever had the pleasure to serve with."

"Here, here," Taylor agreed.

Getting ready to say his goodbyes, the lieutenant looked at the two sergeants who had been through so much with him and took a deep breath. "I guess this is it," he said simply.

"You believing in me, LT, is what made me believe in myself," Taylor said sincerely.

"Yeah, well Sergeant Taylor…you’ve come a long way from shooting craps and selling air conditioning tickets," Myron joked. Before Taylor had a chance to render a proper salute, Myron stuck out his hand and smiled. Taylor accepted the lieutenant’s offering, and the handshake turned into a brief hug. "You take care of yourself, Marcus," Myron ordered.

"Yes, Sir," Taylor responded. Making his way to the door, Marcus added, "Thank you, Sir… for everything."

Myron turned his attention to Anderson, wondering what he could possible say to this man who meant so much to him. "Let’s have one last drink," Myron decided, refilling the empty glasses. "To you, Sergeant…your leadership, guidance, patience and your sense of humor. You always managed to pull us through another day."

"Why thank you, LT," Anderson said, smiling broadly.

Downing the whiskey, Myron realized how hard it was going to be to say good-bye. "So you should be out of combat within the month, right?" He fretted, double-checking his sergeant’s plans.

"So they say, Sir," Anderson affirmed.

"Good," Myron said satisfied. "It’s a good decision, Zeke."

"Well, Sir, it’s like I always say…"

Myron put up his hand to stop Anderson in mid-sentence. "Wait a minute, just hold on a minute," he interrupted, suddenly unable to control his laughter at another of his sergeant’s quirky speech habits.

Zeke could not remember hearing the serious lieutenant laugh as hard as he was laughing now. It did the sergeant’s heart good to hear it, but he began to wonder if the boy had too much to drink. "LT?" He asked, starting to laugh himself, but having no idea why.

"It’s just that…" It was hard for Myron to get the words out. "It’s just that, I have never heard you say any of those sayings, in all the times that you supposedly, always say them."

Zeke’s eye’s lit up as they both laughed again at the lieutenant’s astute observation.

"I am going to miss you, Zeke," Myron said, suddenly serious, as he and Anderson embraced in a farewell hug. "If you ever need anything, you come find me. Consider that an order, Sergeant."

Zeke nodded, having trouble letting go of the boy he had watched grow into a man. "Taylor and I will be out first thing to see you off, LT," he said, quickly turning to leave. Hoping the lieutenant had not seen the tears in his eyes.

Myron lay down on his bunk for the last time. He had left a lot of the pieces right here in Vietnam, but he had found a few pieces too. It was not an even trade…not by a long shot, but it would have to be enough. Feeling at peace with himself, the lieutenant rolled over and tried to catch a few hours of sleep.

"I’m so short, I’m already gone!" Myron smiled, recalling the standard short timer adage before drifting off.

*******************

Seeing Vietnam for the last time, First Lieutenant Myron Goldman jumped on the Huey, and stared out the open door at his friends. Marcus Taylor snapped to attention, and gave his former CO his best salute. Smiling sadly, Myron, much less formally, returned it. The young sergeant maintained his posture in a show of respect.

Raising a hand, Sergeant Anderson did not salute, but instead gave the lieutenant a wave. Slowly, Myron raised his own hand in response, holding back his emotions. The lieutenant watched the two men get smaller and smaller, until the Huey turned away and they disappeared altogether.

It was hard to believe his tour was finally over and he had survived. Looking back at all the men he had served with, the lieutenant thought about the war, and of the young men that died here. "For what?" He could not help but wonder. "Peace with honor," he thought, visualizing his men’s deaths, and not seeing the honor in it at all. "It don’t mean nothin’," the familiar phrase came to mind… taunting him. Myron had never believed the saying. He had always been steadfast in his conviction that the deaths had meant something, needing to believe that they did, otherwise…

But today, the insightful lieutenant could not help but think about the war in broader terms. In the final analysis, when time had passed, how would history look upon what happened here? Myron recalled the times he had heard soldiers saying, it don’t mean nothin’. Uttering that phrase to cover up some of the most horrific atrocities ever visited upon men. Myron had always thought that he understood the expression. It was a defense mechanism, usually used when the opposite was in fact true.

Uneasiness set in as Myron contemplated the possibility that maybe the saying was not a cover up…what had they accomplished? Maybe when history looked back on the war, the phrase would be taken at face value…it don’t mean nothin’. A tear escaped the lieutenant’s eye, and he quickly brushed it away. "Not a thing," he whispered.

*****The End*****