“Get on that chopper,
Anderson. That’s an order!” My sergeant hesitates for a split second,
caught halfway. Momentarily suspended
in time, deciding between me, and the safety of the Huey.
“Go!” I try again in my most
authoritative tone, but to no avail.
Zeke turns abruptly and runs towards me as the slick lifts off behind
him. Part of me is furious at him for
disobeying and putting his life at risk.
The other part is relieved beyond words.
“Dammit, Anderson. Do you ever listen to me?” Zeke ignores that and hauls me to my feet,
dragging me roughly through the jungle in a frantic search for cover. It takes all of my inner resources to keep
from crying out as the intense pain in my leg shoots through the rest of my
body.
My sergeant is the most
loyal man I’ve ever known. He just
passed up his chance for a cold shower and a semi-repulsive meal in an effort
to save me. It is impossible for me to
comprehend the depths of that kind of loyalty.
It must be a trait inherent to his nature. I do not believe that any part of my being is capable of
inspiring it.
We press closer into the
jungle and finally stop as Anderson silently jerks me down to the ground beside
him. Anger is all that’s left to
distract me from the excruciating pain.
“Sergeant, just what do you…?”
Zeke abruptly clamps a meaty hand firmly over my mouth, and pulls me
closer into the dense brush. A muted
groan escapes my lips as my body protests the sudden movement. Within seconds the cause of my sergeant’s
paranoia becomes apparent. NVA, at
least a couple of platoons pass by, searching for something…for us.
Prisoner of war is a term
that strikes fear in the heart of every soldier in the Nam, officer and grunt
alike. Death is often preferable. I am no different. It's not the idea of capture, so much as the idea of being
totally dependent on the captors for the basics of life. It has taken me twenty-one years to become completely
independent, self-reliant and in control.
I’m not sure what a guard/prisoner relationship of necessity would do to
me. I pray I never find out.
A nervous OCS classmate once
asked me if I thought I could handle being a POW. I superciliously blew him off.
I was an army brat, a Goldman; of course I could handle it. "What other choice is there?" Was
my smug reply. It was so clear cut and
straight forward back then...name, rank and serial number. But out here…
Out here in the jungle, the
reality of the situation quickly adjusts my smug attitude and washes away any
pretense of arrogance. Sweat pours out
my body in buckets, while my heart pulsates wildly in my ears.
I’m on my back, my head on
Zeke’s chest. His hand is still heavy
on my mouth, making it difficult to breathe.
Looking up at the sergeant’s taunt face, I’m suddenly in awe of the
sacrifice he made, wondering if I would have the guts to do the same. Leaning back, I try to relax, hoping Zeke
will get the message that I’m coherent and will be silent.
On the verge of passing out,
I finally manage to get Zeke’s attention as he tears his eyes away from the
jungle and glances down at me. We make
eye contact and he slowly removes his hand.
Gasping for air, I fight to control a cough that is desperately trying
to escape from the back of my throat.
Zeke’s hand is poised and ready to clamp back down if necessary. That fact alone is enough motivation to keep
my body under control.
Hours pass and we are silent
and motionless. Not only is my wound
sharp and painful, but the rest of my body is stiff and tingling, numb from the
waiting. Zeke is at least ten years
older than me; he’s got to be hurting.
I take a peek at him; if he is, it does not show. My sergeant is in full soldier mode, intense
and alert. I’m the lieutenant and the
officer in charge, but I will not move or speak until Anderson does. He’s been here a lot longer than me and I
trust his instincts completely. Feeling
useless and weak, my leg throbs in rhythm with the constant pounding in my
head.
Zeke finally does lean in
and whisper, “Get some sleep, LT. I
think we should move out just before first light.” He maintains eye contact, waiting for me to nod my approval. I guess so we can pretend it’s my
decision.
Closing my eyes, I wonder
where I’d be sleeping tonight if my sergeant had obeyed my order. Probably in a bamboo cage…heading
north.
*******************
Anderson lightly touches my
arm and I’m instantly alert.
Embarrassed, I try not to look at my sergeant. I can only remember one two-hour watch, which means he took the
rest. Some officer I am. When I do sneak a glance at him he looks
remarkably fresh. When Anderson is on full soldier autopilot like this he
really has no equal. His intense eyes
are not totally cold and lifeless, but they do lack their usual humor and mischief.
Feeling stronger, I
reluctantly begin to reassert my authority.
“Let’s head home.” He nods in
agreement, grateful that I’m once again lucid, and capable of making decisions. “Zeke, if it comes down to it,” I whisper,
pointing to my leg, “and there is no other choice, you leave me. Understand?” He doesn’t.
“If I was gonna to leave ya,
LT, I would have done that yesterday.
Let’s not worry about that now, Sir.
We got more important problems.”
Like I need reminding.
We are on the lam, in the
wind, in other words…on our own. I
search my brain to recall my scant OCS survival training in the art of Escape
and Evasion. The army equivalent of
hide and seek. We hide…they seek. Zeke jokingly tells me that in this case
it’s Evasion and Evasion since we have not had to actually escape…yet. I can’t even muster up a smile for the
attempt at humor. The idea of capture
scares me to the point of paralysis and I have to consciously push it
down. I wonder how my sergeant handles
the thought, but I’m too embarrassed to ask him. The twinkle has returned to Anderson’s eyes and he sounds like
his old self again, leaving me back to being the lieutenant, and the officer in
charge.
The two things I do remember
from OCS are…assume you are being hunted, and make or get a map. Both sound advice. I begin drawing a map of the terrain so we at least know where
we’ve been and what direction we are heading in. Anderson sits down beside me to share a precious can of
c-rats. Looking up at his face,
squinting into the sun coming up behind him, my sergeant suddenly seems larger
than life, so much bigger, stronger and wiser than me. For the first time, I wonder what it’s like
for my veteran sergeant to take orders from a twenty-one year old kid.
“Worried?” I venture.
“No, Sir. I trust ya.
Whatcha do’ in?”
His statement startles
me. I’m dying to ask why, but manage to
refrain. “Making a map, incase we need
it later.”
Zeke nods at that. “Ya see, LT, that’s why I ain’t
worried.” He gives me this look that
could almost pass for admiration.
“You’re always thinking, Sir,” he says smiling. “I never known an officer…or anyone, who
thinks as much as you do.” He gives me
a wink. “You’ll think of something,
Sir,” he says sounding confident. His
words actually do give me a boost.
“Time to take inventory,
Sergeant.” I’m hoping the sureness of
my voice lives up to his incredible expectations. I never fully understood what it meant to be an officer. Sergeant Anderson is on his third combat
tour. His survival instincts and jungle
savvy are far superior to my own. And
yet, unbelievably, he is putting his life in my hands, trusting in my
judgment and my training. I’ve
been in the field for almost two months.
I’ve learned a lot, but still…
Our situation is better than
anticipated. If we conserve, our food
and water could last up to three days.
We each have about twelve magazines and a couple of grenades. There are only two of us. If we need more ammo than that we’re
probably dead men anyway. We also have
a compass, a first aid kit, matches and some flares. Whether we end up using any of it or not remains to be seen, but
just having the stuff is a comfort somehow.
Zeke rummages through the first aid kit and finds an ace bandage to wrap
my grazed, swollen knee.
“Here, I can do that.” I automatically reach for the bandage,
feeling foolish. I’m never comfortable
letting anyone take care of me. It’s
such a leap in friendship. I trust Zeke
completely in the field, but the ramifications of that trust worry me no
end. No good thing has ever come from
any of my relationships.
“No, Sir, I got it,” Zeke
insists. He wraps the bandage so tight
I wince. When he finishes he takes out
the adhesive tape and wraps that around it as well. “There, that should do the trick, LT.”
“Yeah, if the trick is to
cut off my blood supply.” My sarcastic
reply stops him cold. I’m instantly
sorry when Zeke looks away from my glare, and goes into a long explanation of
how the knee should be immobilized, and how easily the bandage will loosen as
soon as we get into some serious humping.
It’s all I can do to mumble an apology.
“Ain’t nothin’, LT. You never was one to hold your tongue.” He smiles tolerantly, leaving me to wonder
how anyone puts up with me.
My sergeant’s ability to go
from being in charge, saving us from certain death or capture, back to being my
down-home, amiable, obedient sergeant, astonishes me. I realize I have a lot to learn about people…and myself.
*******************
We humped twenty miles today. This morning, I arrogantly informed Anderson
that we would make forty to fifty miles.
“Not with that knee, Sir,” he was quick to reply. I jumped all over him for that.
My father never tolerated
weakness. Never let anyone see you
emotional or indecisive was his creed. Any hesitation or uncertainty was not
acceptable. I’ve spent a lifetime
trying to live up to those impossible expectations. Over the years, I’ve developed strategies to hide any self-doubt
or perceived inadequacies, especially here in the Nam. Anger is usually my first choice. If that doesn’t work, I always have sarcasm
to fall back on. Lately, I think my
sergeant knows.
“You are ten years older
than I am, Sergeant. I suggest you
worry about yourself.”
I admonished him earlier, with
words to that affect. Honestly, I think
he stifled a laugh. Of course, tonight
I feel like an ass. I would apologize,
but I don’t think he cares. Zeke isn’t
a man who has a need to say, “I told you so”, or to watch his lieutenant eat
crow.
It’s just getting dark and
Zeke settles in beside me, handing me a can of mystery meat labeled
turkey. By the taste, it might as well
be crow. I take a few spoonfuls and
hand it back to him.
“No, Sir, that’s yours. I’m done,” he informs me.
It’s not near half
gone. He’s probably worried about my
strength after my pitiful twenty-mile performance. “Have some more,” I urge.
“No, Sir, I’m done,” he
repeats. “I just can’t eat like I use
to…when I was…younger.”
He delivers the line with a
completely straight face, and now it’s my turn to stifle a laugh. Yep, I think he does know. I think he knows that it’s all a cover up,
all of it…the orders, the yelling, the biting sarcasm, and, of course, the
infamous temper. It’s all there to
cover the fear and insecurity, to cover…ME.
Talk about your basic E & E.
I laugh to myself at the irony, suddenly realizing what an expert I
am in the art of evasion. I let
Zeke’s comment slide and obediently finish up the c-rats before settling in for
another night…lost in the boonies.
“LT,” Zeke whispers, waking
me abruptly. It’s a pitch-black night,
the kind of night where you literally can’t see your hand in front of
your face. I’m grateful for the
darkness when I realize why he woke me.
“You was having a nightmare, Sir.”
My humiliation is complete
when I remember the dream and my all-encompassing fear of capture. I’m drenched in sweat. My breathing is still heavy and irregular as
I whisper an apology. “Sorry.”
“Ain’t nothin’, LT. You didn’t make no noise. I just felt ya thrashin’ around is all,”
Zeke says lightly, excusing me.
*******************
I’m starting to feel a
little more optimistic about our chances.
Today we made just under thirty miles and we should be closing in on
friendlier territory. My knee is
hurting more than I care to admit and I’m hoping we run into a patrol and a
chopper ride back to the base.
We have enough chow for one
more day. The thought of eating insects
or spiders is nauseating and is definitely not going to work for me. The only alternative I can come up with is
the river. Glancing at Anderson, I
throw out my proposal. “Maybe we could
catch a fish.”
Zeke chuckles at my
suggestion. “You gonna catch the
fish for us, LT?”
The laughter in his voice
annoys the hell out of me. “You got a
better idea, Anderson?” He looks over
at me, surprised by my anger.
“Your Daddy ever take you
fishin’, LT?”
Basic evasion tactics
101. --Answer without really
answering--
I try to keep my voice even
and noncommittal. “My father is a General for God’s sake. He doesn’t have time for fishing!” How the hell did we get on this topic
anyway?
Zeke nods slowly. “Orphans didn’t get to fish either.” After a brief lull, he adds, “But I been fishin’ for years now, Sir. It’s a great sport. Maybe…”
My anger spills out. What I missed out on as a child is not
exactly a subject I feel like hashing over with my sergeant while stranded in
the jungle. “Sergeant, can we just drop
this?” I say it like I would an order,
hoping he takes the hint.
My sergeant does what he
always does. He says, “yes, Sir,” and
then proceeds with the conversation. “I
was just gonna say that it ain’t that hard, LT. I could take ya sometime if ya wanna try it. You might even like it!”
I can’t help but be
amused. It was not that long ago that
Anderson and I were grating on each other’s nerves and at each other’s
throats. I do feel a strong friendship
with Zeke, but before two days ago, I figured he only tolerated me because he
has to, assuming that the comfortable relationship we shared was one forged out
of necessity. I’ll admit I’ve had to
rethink that since he came to my rescue, but I’ve yet to imagine us “fishing
buddies.”
“You think that you and I
should get together outside of this war and go fishing?” The idea that Zeke would choose to spend his
own time with me, especially in lieu of my smart-ass remarks and generally
obnoxious, superior officer behavior, baffles me.
His face flushes slightly
with a look of…hurt maybe. He quickly
looks away. I suddenly realize how that
sounded. How I sounded…like an arrogant little prick of an officer who would
never lower himself to spend free time with the likes of a sergeant.
Zeke answers quietly without
looking over at me. “Well, it ain’t for
everyone, Sir.”
I want to apologize or at
least attempt to explain, but instead I resort to another tried and true
evasion tactic. This one I didn’t learn
in OCS, but at home growing up with the General.
--Create a diversion--
“Get some sleep,
Sergeant. I think we’re going to need
it. I’ll take the first watch.”
“Yes, Sir.”
It works beautifully, just
like always. No one ever cares enough
to call me on it.
Anderson nods off quickly,
leaving me with my thoughts. Being alone and lost in the jungle, with just my
sergeant, puts a whole different spin on things. If I had to be stuck out here with someone I'm glad it’s
Zeke. It took a while for me to realize
that my sergeant was not trying to make a fool out of me or undermined my
authority. He was doing his job, looking out for me, and protecting the
guys. Trying to be my friend – that
last part is never an easy assignment.
Anderson has a rare quality
about him that confuses me. I’m always
surprised by Zeke’s ability to smile and take whatever shit I throw his way,
never holding any of it against me. His
forgiving nature and infinite patience is probably what annoys me and pushes me
to new lows. At some unconscious level,
I’m always trying to rile him, to test the limits of his loyalty. I’ve yet to scare him off.
In light of the events of
the last two days, Zeke has nothing left to prove. When we first met I thought I would have to “whip” him into
shape. It’s only recently that I realized
it’s the other way around. We had a rough start, but things have smoothed out
considerably. Even before he saved me.
Glancing over at the man
sleeping lightly beside me, I’m suddenly sorry I didn’t take the time to
explain the fishing comment.
*******************
The first rays of sunlight peek
over the horizon and I'm momentarily stunned by the unexpected magnificence of
the glistening sky. Amazed that kind of
beauty still exits. I can imagine this
radiant dawn on a beach back home or an exotic tropical island, but here in the
Nam it seems…obscene, against the natural order.
The sunrise bothers me. It’s a taunting reminder that somewhere,
outside of our private little hell, life goes on…precious and beautiful. As if Mother Nature herself is mocking
us. It makes me consider possibilities
that I would just as soon ignore.
It’s unsettling to try and
reconcile the splendor of the morning, with the all-encompassing despair of
war. Fate rules the Nam and she has an
insatiable appetite. Staring at the
pink sky, I wonder how many soldiers she has assigned this sunrise to be their
last. How many of the doomed knew
enough to look? At least it was a beauty.
"Beautiful, ain't it,
Sir?"
Zeke's sudden appearance
jolts me back to reality. Is pining
over sunrises and possibilities a trait of a confident, cocky, career-minded
lieutenant...I think not.
"Yeah, I guess. Let's move out."
I'm having trouble with my
knee and the heat is brutal. The sun,
so pleasing and magnificent this morning is fast becoming the object of my
scorn.
“Let's take a break,” Zeke
suggests, probably noticing my discomfort.
"We just took a break,
Sergeant." I hate the thought of
being coddled.
Zeke looks at the ground.
“No need to be a hero, LT. There’s no
tellin’ where we might run into our own troops anyway.”
“I’m not trying to be a
hero. I’m trying to get us the fuck out
of here.” My temper flares whenever
Zeke tries to be nice to me. I don’t
know how to handle that…orders and decisions are easier for me to deal
with. Kindness and understanding are pretty
much out of my realm of experience.
Being a bastard is taking
up a lot of my energy. Evasion is not as easy as I make it look.
Changing the subject seems
like a good idea. “You think the guys are okay, Sergeant?” I’m worrying about my men. I hate the thought of them going out with
some newbie lieutenant, without Anderson or me. My platoon is always on my mind.
Worrying, like thinking and analyzing, is part of my make up, and
worrying about my troops has quickly become second nature. My men were just starting to respect me…or
maybe tolerate would be a better word.
I know they don't like me though, the way they do Anderson. Everyone likes Zeke. Even me.
No one will ever like me like that. Except maybe…Zeke.
“I reckon their fine,
LT. ‘Cept for worrin’ bout us.”
We settle into a comfortable
silence and finish up the last of the C-rats as the sun mercifully sinks into
the jungle foliage. Zeke is quiet and
thoughtful and I can’t help but wonder what’s on his mind. My thoughts have already shifted to worrying
about tomorrow’s rations. I’m not only
an expert in evasion, but my penchant for worrying is also tops in the
class. I worry about everything.
“LT, I been savin’ this,”
Zeke says with a wink, holding up a fairly large packet of crackers from the
PX. It always startles me when he does
that. I make a mental note to add “mind
reader” to the growing list of my sergeant’s attributes.
*******************
In the dream, I’m being tied
down, waiting to be tortured. The
anxiety is building in my chest and head making it impossible to draw a
breath. Then I realize I am
pinned down -- physically restrained.
I’m not normally claustrophobic, but I begin to struggle and fight,
desperate to be free from whatever is holding me in place. I can feel myself beginning to panic and try
to scream, but something is pressing down hard on my mouth making that
impossible.
“Myron, Myron.”
The sound of my given name
shocks me into consciousness. I have
not heard it spoken out loud in months, but now it’s being repeated over and
over. Suddenly I recognize the voice
and the familiar pressure on my mouth and sheepishly remember where I am. Collapsing in a heap from relief and
exhaustion, I look into Anderson’s concerned face. He nods his head, and only when I nod back does he slowly remove
his hand.
That’s twice in three days
my sergeant had to literally gag me to keep me from screaming. I have to turn away from him as the heat of
embarrassment creeps slowly up my neck and into my face. Thank God it’s still semi dark. I doubt my father ever had to be held down
and muzzled to keep from giving away his position in enemy territory.
After a few awkward moments of silence I attempt to regain
my composure, deciding to go with the tried and true. “Get some sleep, Sergeant.”
Zeke completely ignores
that. “Do ya wanna talk about it,
Sir?” He slides right back into it,
calling me “sir”, overlooking my weakness.
“No. I want you to
get some sleep.” I try that strategy
again hoping my prickly officer tone will do the trick. Zeke is staring at me
intently, but for some reason, I seem to be having trouble maintaining eye
contact.
“I ain’t tired,” he growls
stubbornly, this time not bothering to add the “sir”.
Hmm…that diversionary tactic
must be getting old. What is it they
say about not being able to fool all of the people all of the time? No problem, I have other ammunition in the
arsenal. He has no idea who he’s
dealing with here. Anderson may be the
finest soldier in this man’s army when it comes to jungle survival, but I’m
light years ahead of him in the finer points of evasion.
--Avoid all contact--
“Fine, Sergeant. I’ll get some sleep.”
“It ain’t your turn, Sir,”
Zeke says evenly. I can almost hear the
amusement in his voice. He’s confident
that it’s my watch and I won’t shirk my duty, especially after he points it
out.
Time to pull out all the
stops. I play the trump card. This always works. Evasion at it’s best.
--Camouflage your
tracks--
“Look,
Anderson, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but I’m fine.”
With that I turn away,
hoping when I look back he’ll have accepted my admission and will be attempting
to get one last hour of rest before dawn.
He hasn’t though, I can feel his intense eyes still bearing down on
me.
Unfortunately, my foolproof
evasion ploy, the one I normally reserve for the General -- escape quickly--
does not apply. My fear of being
alone in the bush is the only thing that supercedes my fear of being…ME.
When Zeke Anderson wants
something, he can be the most persistent bastard God ever placed upon this
earth and right now he wants an explanation.
A good soldier knows when to
admit defeat.
What the hell…the worst he
can do is laugh at ME. The cocky, big
city lieutenant, sweating and yelling, having nightmares - afraid to
sleep. Any respect he might have had
for me will be out the window, but this duck and cover is
exhausting. In some ways it will be a
relief.
I'm having trouble meeting
my sergeant’s persistent, steady stare. When Anderson focuses in and
studies me, like he’s doing now, I can’t help but mentally squirm. He’s trying to figure me out and I
desperately want to know what he sees in that all-knowing gaze of his. Sometimes, I think he sees ME. The
real me…the messed up kid still trying to prove himself to the world and
to the General. When he keeps those eyes on me like that I have no choice
but to give him some sort of truth.
"Capture. I dream that when I wake up, I’m a
POW. I'm a POW and I'm alone. Satisfied?"
He doesn’t answer, but he
doesn’t take his eyes off of me either. My mind is still squirming trying
to get away from the glare of his spotlight, but there is nowhere to run. He wants more and he’s waiting me out. One thing I have learned is that my sergeant
is a patient man. I have no illusions
of winning this battle.
"I just don't know if I
could handle that, if I would…break." My voice is low, barely above
a whisper. "That's what scares me, not knowing what it would do to
me. That’s what I dream about. Okay?" I look up and meet his
gaze and there is no hint of amusement, only concern and empathy.
It’s quiet for a long time.
"We all been there,
LT," Zeke finally answers, breaking his silence and my discomfort.
"Ain't nothin' different with you than with anyone else." He
nods the last sentence while still seeing right through me. My
anxiousness subsides at his calming non-judgmental assurances.
When my body relaxes I let
out an involuntary, audible sigh. That puts the glint of humor back in
Anderson's eyes, but instead of being annoyed I want to laugh right along with
him.
"Ya sure are a tense
one, Sir," Zeke observes with a grin. "You might want to
rethink your views on my fishin' offer."
Before I can answer, we both
jump at the unmistakable sound of a Huey.
It’s loud and close and in another few seconds the beautiful bird is
swooping low overhead, just to the south of us, dipping beneath the
canopy. Without a word, Zeke and I haul
ass in that direction. My leg gives out
in a matter of seconds and I have to pull up and settle for limping painfully
towards the roar of the rotors.
Contrary to the drama that
took place four days ago, I don’t need to encourage my sergeant to continue on
without me. He’s moving as fast as he’s
able, not bothering to look back. Both
of us realize this might be our best and only chance to get the hell out of
here.
Within minutes Zeke is back
beside me. Without hesitation, I throw
my arm around his neck and lean into him, letting him shoulder most of my
weight as we quickly make our way to the LZ.
We’re in the air in seconds,
and just like that…it’s over.
My leg is throbbing as I
lean my head back against the frayed padding and close my eyes, pushing down
the pain. Zeke is directly across from
me staring out the door at the fleeting landscape. The Huey was in the area to pick up a two man recon team and one
of the soldiers starts up a conversation.
He’s asking Anderson how long we were on our own, and congratulating him
on surviving the ordeal.
“Got my lieutenant to thank
for that,” Zeke answers proudly.
Sergeant Anderson never
ceases to amaze me. I’ve never met anyone quite like him. It’s
impossible for me to keep the man at arm's length and I realize maybe
it’s time to quit trying. With Anderson I can find no
ulterior motives or manipulative maneuvers. I may have won the battle of evading the VC, but I failed
miserably in the private little game of E & E I was playing with my
sergeant. I look up at Zeke and we make
eye contact.
Maybe losing that game is
not such a bad thing after all.
I have to lean in towards
him and yell to be heard above the racket of the chopper. “Fishing, huh?” I can’t help but smile at the big man. He seems so pleased with himself. “Maybe that would be relaxing,” I
concede. He grins at that and nods his
head slightly. I guess pleased at
finally wearing me down.
--the end--