Disclaimer: This story and characters are from the television show Tour of Duty. I am no longer sure who they belong to; only that it is not me. No copyright infringement is intended. It is in appreciation and care that I attempt to bring them back to life. No money is being made from this story.

Acknowledgements: I would like to acknowledge the HUM90 website for providing the timeline I used to arrive at the month, the year and the order of events for this particular story. It immediately follows The Hill. That site, along with Pidd’s site (my home and comfort zone), and more recently, the wonderfully detailed Tour of Duty Info Page are great resources for fan fiction writers. I also want to thank the Touofdutyfanpage for the great questions and answers provided on that MB, particularly by Lee Russell. All of these are a tremendous help. The time and effort that goes into maintaining these sites and answering questions is greatly appreciated!

Rock Bottom - December - 1967

One hell of a week.

Lieutenant Myron Goldman sat up abruptly, vaguely acknowledging the dawn. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he yawned and tried to recall what it was that made that simple statement so profound. It didn’t take long for the brutal images of the past six days to reclaim him…Hill 1000.

Armed with a pen and a bottle of JB, Myron had spent the previous night at his desk, writing letters to the families of the men, boys mostly, who had paid the ultimate price for Command’s utter stupidity in taking that goddamn hill. For the third time, he thought bitterly.

Still groggy, the lieutenant’s eyes scanned the room for the booze, so he could run the test. A stupid game he played to determine if his drinking had crossed the thin, barely visible line that separated the heavy drinkers from the bona fide alcoholics. The whiskey was on the floor at his feet. Within arm's length, he noted. Definitely not a good sign. Slowly raising the near empty bottle, Myron felt his stomach lurch at the thought of a nip and congratulated himself on passing with flying colors.

Hill 1000...the bloody vision popped back into his consciousness with a vengeance. But it wasn't just the Hill…something else was pulling at him. Myron visibly flinched at his mind’s suggestion that the morning drowsiness was causing him to forget something equally as important and painful as the last mission.

Seven men lost their lives on that hill. Seven families would receive a letter written in the lieutenant’s own careful handwriting. Detailing each man’s last few days and minutes on this earth…as much as was possible and appropriate anyway. Details, along with a few words of comfort from their "oh so sorry" Platoon Leader, extolling each man’s upright character and stellar performance to Duty, God, and Country.

It was just a few days before Christmas and Myron worried that the families of the deceased would be informed of their loss on Christmas Eve, or worse yet, Christmas Day. Did the army deliver death notices on Christmas Day? Probably not, was his first inclination, though he had to admit it would not surprise him. Not that it mattered. The holidays would be forever marred for the loved ones of these men. The acute pain generated by the letter would most likely resurface for decades to come. His words would be read and reread until they became nothing more than a ghostly reminder of the past and a yearning for a future that would never be. His own name forever immortalized at the heart of each family’s sorrow, neatly scrawled and legible at the bottom...2nd Lieutenant Myron Goldman.

More than all this? Yet something did still nag at him.

Captain Wallace’s death? No, that was weeks ago and it already seemed like years…another lifetime.

Private Roger Horn? The wounded RTO had gone from deserter to hero in the span of a few precious minutes. But Myron had beaten that horse to death last night while under the influence…contemplating the implications and ramifications of every possible ‘what if’ scenario. Only a whisker separated a five-year stay in Leavenworth from the Bronze Star. Even drunk, Myron could see the irony. The question he kept berating himself over was a simple one…why did Horn come back?

They've always been there for you. Always!

Maybe his gung ho army speech had done the trick after all. But what if his motivational efforts had gotten Horn killed? What then? The Horns were not the Goldmans. Horn’s family might prefer a five year stint in Leavenworth as opposed to a violent death on a bloody, meaningless mound of mud that would probably change hands a dozen more times before the powers that be put an end to the madness.

Last night, the thought of his own father, the General, the Medal of Honor winner, the great Martin Goldman, made Myron wince and come to some stark conclusions. If the General had the choice, he would choose a plastic bag for his son over Leavenworth every time. Myron was positive of that. Honor, duty and protecting the family name had been drummed into him since boyhood. Believing it above all else was another matter entirely, especially after getting a taste of this war up close. Still, he tried his damnedest to live up to the legacy. Not so much for the General, (who would never be pleased) but for himself, and more importantly, for the men under his command. After downing a few more shots, Myron envisioned how his father might actually enjoy visiting his gravesite at Arlington, bragging about his heroic, dead son to anyone who would listen. At least he'd be proud of me, the lieutenant had drunkenly concluded.

The morning light peeked through the blinds as the sun rose a little higher in the sky. Myron got up to splash some water on his face and clear the cobwebs. Shirtless and barefoot he stumbled to the basin, but stopped short when he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. The light brown hair was sweaty and spiking up from the nighttime. The perpetual dark circles under his eyes were still there, though maybe a tad lighter from the night's rest. New lines had sprouted on his thinning face underneath the growth of his morning beard. The stranger staring back was a shock to the young man. For the first time he noticed how much weight he had lost, and how his face looked drawn, almost gaunt. Only the intense brown eyes seemed unchanged…dark and thoughtful.

The self-inspection brought the sting of the memory that had been eluding him. I’m not going to marry you, Myron. The lieutenant choked back an anguished cry that hitched in his throat as he grabbed a towel. Drying his face, he took one last glance at his own image.

Who the fuck could blame her?

Three months in-country and he barely recognized himself.

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

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Zeke shifted a little uncomfortably in front of Lieutenant Goldman's desk waiting for the lieutenant to speak. They were not normally this formal, but the LT seemed agitated and jittery, frantically puffing away on a cigarette. The lieutenant’s jaw was set in an angry grimace that the sergeant was all too familiar with. The irate eyes were pinned on him, narrow and challenging, just itching for a fight. Looking for any excuse to pounce, the sergeant thought wearily. The boy obviously needed to vent some frustration, but Zeke did not feel inclined to be used as a punching bag this afternoon, so he stayed quiet, patiently waiting the lieutenant out.

Since taking the Hill two days ago, the LT had made himself scarce. Zeke was worried…positive the boy was holed up in his quarters, drinking, smoking and hurting. From the looks of things, his reliable instincts were right on target. A per functionary check of the room revealed the near empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the floor near the bunk, as well as the tin cup overflowing with mounds of ashes and discarded butts. The trash was filled to near capacity with balled up pieces of paper, stuffed in and pushed down. And perhaps most telling, the picture of Myron and the pretty blonde lieutenant was almost, but not quite, hidden under a requisition form that Zeke guessed the LT had hastily thrown over it to avoid any discussion. But the photo had not escaped the sergeant's trained eye. Not much did.

The Hill and Lieutenant Nikki Raines. Was it any wonder the kid was so skittish? Spying was not Sergeant Anderson’s normal MOS, but Zeke had unintentionally (well, almost unintentionally) overheard every word of the conversation between the LT and Lieutenant Raines that morning after the medal ceremony. It grieved Zeke to watch the young lieutenant bear the huge weight of his responsibilities and now, his personal pain, alone…like he did everything else.

Pushing the issue would not help though. One thing Zeke had learned was that pushing the LT was never a good idea.

"Good news," Myron finally said. Even good news didn’t sound good the way the lieutenant said it. "The colonel has decided since we’re so low on manpower and Christmas is the day after tomorrow, he’s giving us the next three days off. That ought to make everyone happy."

"Well now, that is good news, Sir," Zeke said cautiously. From the scowl on the LT’s face he might just as easily have said they were going back out on the Hill.

"That’s all, Sergeant." Myron nodded dismissively.

Zeke treaded carefully here, he didn’t want to end up blowing this. The lieutenant was in desperate need of some company and time away from his hootch and his whiskey bottle, but convincing him of that would be tricky. Most of the platoon was going into town tomorrow night and Zeke had already determined that the lieutenant would join them.

After casually tossing out the carefully worded invitation, Zeke calmly waited to respond to the one hundred and one reasons the lieutenant would offer up as to why he couldn’t go.

Turns out he only had one.

"Sergeant…Zeke…the men don’t want me there." After a brief pause he added, "You guys go, have a good time. You all deserve it," his eyes softening just a bit at the efforts of his well-meaning sergeant.

Zeke enthusiastically jumped at the small opening in the lieutenant’s defenses. "They do want you to come, LT. They asked me to ask ya."

That was not exactly true, but the lieutenant didn’t need to know all the details. God help any of the men who didn’t at least act enthused to see their CO. They would deal directly with the sergeant’s wrath and none of them were too keen on that prospect. Zeke had made it perfectly clear that the LT would feel welcome…or else. The sergeant would be damned if the lieutenant was going to sit alone in his hootch on Christmas Eve…Jewish or not. The kid was twenty-two years old and he needed to get out and relax as much as the rest of them did, maybe more.

Resigning himself, Myron nodded and shifted his intense gaze away from Anderson to dig around the papers on his desk for another smoke, inadvertently exposing the damn, smiling photograph. Zeke glanced down at it and slowly raised his eyes to meet Myron’s gaze. For a second Zeke could see the hurt and vulnerability before the impenetrable defenses snapped back into place and the LT’s eyes went dark and menacing again, daring Zeke to make a comment. The sergeant wisely decided not to bite while the lieutenant was in such an edgy mood. He made a mental note to figure out a way to discuss the personal issue with the LT as soon as possible…before the kid exploded with it.

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

"Well, that sure puts a damper on the party now don't it?" Danny Percell observed, voicing the thought on everyone’s mind and opening the floodgates for the inevitable bitching about the recent change of plans forced upon them by their favorite sergeant.

Ruiz was munching on a chocolate chip cookie, courtesy of Percell’s mom. "Yeah, we lose seven guys right before Christmas and now instead of getting wasted we got the lieutenant tagging along with us. What the hell is Sarge thinking anyway?"

"He ain’t. I say we blow off the Happy Time and just go some place else," Marcus Taylor said irritably. He had been the only one to dare voice his dissent to Anderson’s face and had gotten an earful from the sergeant for his trouble.

Even though the rest of guys agreed with Taylor, they had stayed quiet, realizing that Anderson wasn’t there to get their opinion on the subject. He was not asking them what they wanted to do, he was telling them, in no uncertain terms, what they were going to do. Marcus had been the only one brave enough to speak up, and now he was the one to offer up a solution to the problem.

"I don't know, Marcus," Ruiz said nervously. "Sarge sounded pretty serious. I think he'd kick our ass’s all the way to the DMZ if we blew him off like that."

"You may be right, Ru," Marcus whined excitedly. "You guys do what you want, but I’m just not goin’ if the LT’s goin’. The man hates me. Why would I wanna spend Christmas Eve with him?"

Ruiz glanced up and smiled. He loved when Taylor got himself all worked up like this. "It’s not exactly hate, Taylor. He just doesn’t know ya well enough to appreciate your finer qualities. Maybe it will be good for ya to spend more time with him."

"Good point, Ru," Danny joined in the teasing. "Hell, Marcus, I hated ya till just last week myself."

"Fine, you grunts laugh all ya want" Marcus mumbled, "I ain’t goin’."

"C’mon guys, the LT’s okay. He got us off that Hill, didn't he?" Baker asked, sticking up for the lieutenant, trying to smooth things over. The private seemed like an unlikely supporter. The LT snapped at him as much, or more, as he did anyone else, but Scott Baker didn’t have the heart for excluding people, even if it was Lieutenant Goldman.

"You’re sticking up for Goldman, Baker?" Ruiz asked in disbelief. "Did you already forget about your birthday? We were just trying to have a little fun…remember? We wound up filling a million sand bags and the LT had you burning the latrines!"

"Yeah, in one hundred degree heat," Danny added, still cringing at the memory.

Baker shrugged. Honestly, he had pretty much forgotten about that.

"Look, I ain't sayin' he ain't okay," Marcus jumped in to answer Baker directly. "He is okay," and then to emphasize his next point he practically shouted, "in the bush...as the lieutenant!" Marcus let that sink in for a minute.

"All I'm sayin' is I don't need him as a drinkin' buddy! He’s probably just coming to watch us anyway, see what rules and regulations he can catch us breakin'." Marcus paused again before asking another interesting question. "Why the hell would he want to go out with us anyway? Don't he got any big shot officer friends he can pal around with?"

"I never seen him with anybody," Percell said thoughtfully. "Maybe he don't have any friends."

"You think it's because he's Jewish?" Ru asked, starting to feel a tad sorry for his CO.

Taylor put a stop to that in a hurry. "It's got nothin' to do with him bein’ Jewish. It's got everything to do with him bein’ such a prick all the time. Always gotta be the Lieutenant. In charge. Can’t cut anybody any slack. Like it would kill him to look the other way, just once. I'll bet he'd put his own mama on latrine duty if she was out ten minutes past curfew."

"I don’t think he’s got a mama, Taylor," Danny said, though he couldn’t remember where he’d heard that.

"You know what I mean," Taylor snapped.

"Well, what do ya expect? He's a rich kid from New York with an attitude, and his daddy's a General. How many friends is he gonna have over here, officer or not?" Ru stated logically.

Marvin Johnson, the voice of reason, had been quiet up to this point but decided to throw in a few ideas of his own. First things first though. "Throw me another cookie, Danny." Marvin caught Percell’s toss from across the room, took a bite and started out slowly with "plan A". Plan A would be best, because it really required no planning at all.

"Look, just because Sarge says he's inviting him…that doesn't mean he's gonna come."

"Yeah," Ruiz agreed slowly. "He probably wouldn’t want to be caught dead hanging out with us anyway. If his old man’s still in-country he's probably going to meet up with him somewhere. It’s some Jewish holiday too, ain’t it?"

Johnson nodded, not really sure about that, waiting for Ru to finish so he could present "plan B"… just in case. "Okay, listen up, either way…we'll all go down there just like we planned, if the LT shows up, we'll have a few drinks with him. It won’t kill us," he added, glaring at Marcus. "Then we'll drift out, very slowly, one or two at a time, and we’ll meet up at The Oasis. That way everyone will be happy." Johnson nodded his head, pleased with himself for coming up with the perfect compromise. He looked around the room to see if his idea was agreeable. "Everybody okay with that…Taylor?"

"Yeah, okay," Taylor grudgingly agreed. "But don't tell Sarge. He thinks he's the LT's personal babysitter or somethin’." Marcus sat back down on his bunk. "I don't know why," he muttered. "The LT ain't all that nice to him either."

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

"I'm not sure this was such a good idea, Sergeant," Myron shouted, trying to be heard above the peculiar sound of the All-Vietnamese live country band. The Happy Time was jammed to double its normal capacity, with hundreds of soldiers desperately trying to drown their holiday blues in the blare of the music and an endless river of booze. Fumbling for a cigarette, Myron tried to carve out a spot just behind the bar and hold his ground to keep from getting bumped and pushed in the massive sea of humanity.

"What?" Zeke yelled, turning away from the bar, shrugging his shoulders at the lieutenant, and pointing to his ear.

Myron shook his head; the thought wasn't worth the effort. Zeke still wasn’t actually up to the bar that had to be three deep in fatigue clad customers.

Taking a long drag on his cigarette, Myron held the smoke until his lungs burned and tried to relax, scanning the room for his platoon. He spotted them at a good table towards the back. Taylor must have staked that out. Taylor, Baker, Ruiz, Percell and Johnson were there, as well as a couple of the newer guys. Harley Akins for one. Myron groaned inwardly at that. Akins was a naive eighteen year old from some jerk water town in Indiana. Not much of a soldier, but a nice kid nonetheless. Now Akins was in this seedy bar in Vietnam probably half way to the worst drunk of his young life.

Worry came naturally to Lieutenant Goldman and now he couldn’t help but worry about the kid. This is exactly why this is such a bad idea, he cursed. He hated this stuff. Back in his hootch, he would have no idea what Harley Akins was up to nor would he care. The thought would never cross his mind. But now that it had, he couldn’t help but worry.

Traymore was there too, 2nd Platoon’s temporary replacement for Doc Matsuda. The private's first name escaped him but he was a medic, so everyone called him Doc. Myron had already had a few run-ins with the new Doc over procedures. The last one had gotten loud with Myron letting Traymore know that he didn't give a damn how things were done in his last platoon. Traymore had managed to control his shaky temper and even offered up a salute on his way out, but it had taken an effort, and Myron doubted the medic would be able to demonstrate such self-control drunk.

And of course, Marcus Taylor. Since day one it seemed like Taylor had been sparring with him. Damn Zeke Anderson for dragging me out here. Taking another deep hit on the smoke, Myron resigned himself to the situation. He was here and he would just have to make the best of it.

It was interesting watching his men from a distance. Baker had Akins in a headlock while the guys took turns rubbing the short bristles of the kid’s army issue buzz cut. The kid must have complained when they finished because the guys were falling on the floor with laughter as the Doc checked out the newbie’s scalp.

Myron noted how the laughter faded as he and Zeke made their approach.

"What’s so funny?" Zeke asked, as he passed out the beers, completely oblivious to the abrupt change of atmosphere. It was just like Zeke to be so unaware. He didn’t notice because it wasn’t something that normally happened to him.

"Nothin’, Sarge, just rubbin’ up the cherry for luck." Johnson answered.

"Why don’t you try it, LT?" Taylor piped up with a grin. Akins looked mortified at the suggestion. It was no secret that he was terrified of Goldman, which is what prompted Taylor’s question in the first place.

Myron shot Taylor a sideways glare to let him know that he wasn’t amused. He took another puff before answering to hide his disappointment. Judging from the atmosphere, Myron’s initial instincts were confirmed…the only person that wanted him here was Sergeant Zeke Anderson.

"No, that’s okay, I’ll pass," Myron answered, glancing at Akins. The kid had guiltily stopped drinking and looked a little queasy. Myron marveled at the ill effect he had on people. It would be easy to chalk it up to being an officer at a table full of enlisted men if not for the fact that his presence often had the same effect long before he joined the army. His mother use to say that everyone lit up the room - some by coming, some by leaving. Myron had no doubt which category he fell into tonight.

Good old Zeke took the initiative to tell a few of his patented "Zeke Anderson" stories to keep the situation bearable. The urge to just get up and run for cover was overwhelming but Myron fought it down. It didn’t help that he hated crowds. Myron never felt more alone than he did in a roomful of people. It was as if everyone around him was moving in slow motion. Their mouths moved with words and laughter, but the lieutenant always found it difficult to follow the flow of the conversations. It was the same at most social gatherings. The sense of isolation could be acutely powerful. Try as he might, Myron never had much success at unlocking the mystery of "partying", not sober anyway.

Taylor stood up, first in line for putting "plan B" in motion. "Boy, am I tired," he exaggerated, stretching his arm’s high above his head in a phony yawn.

Marvin Johnson cringed and rolled his eyes at Marcus’s lame attempt to escape. Lieutenant Goldman may be a stubborn, impatient, temperamental hard ass, but he was not stupid.

"Sit down, Taylor." Myron cursed himself that it came out sounding so much like an order. It had the desired affect as Taylor shut up and sat while Myron regrouped. "Look, I, uh…I can’t stay guys, but thanks for inviting me. The next couple of rounds are on me."

Waiting at the crowded bar, Myron watched his men slowly revert to their previous antics. Akins started drinking again as Taylor launched into another story and the laughter gradually got louder.

"You okay, LT?"

Myron hadn’t noticed Zeke make his way over, but he was prepared with his preplanned excuse. "It’s the music, it’s giving me a terrific headache." That was at least partially true. "Do me a favor," he continued, handing the sergeant a fistful of money. "Get the guys a few rounds on me. And Zeke…make sure that Akins kid gets back all right."

Anderson nodded and handed the LT the keys to the jeep. "Catch ya later, LT," he yelled before being swallowed up in the throng of swarming, homesick, drunken, GI’s.

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

Myron collapsed at his desk and breathed a sigh of relief, happy to be out of the Happy Time; much preferring the company of a pack of cigarettes and Mr. Jim Beam…after all it was Christmas Eve. He could still smell the nauseating combination of cigarettes, sweat, booze, and cheap cologne on his fatigues, but couldn’t muster the energy to leave the safety of his hootch for a shower. Instead, he grabbed a glass and poured, wondering if other officers were more comfortable out in the bush than at a bar with their own men.

An hour later, Myron was surprised when Sergeant Anderson showed up at his door. Apparently, the lieutenant had been right about the Akins kid, he had passed out, stone cold drunk. Zeke brought him back to the base and the kid was now at the barracks, safely tucked in for the night. Myron was even more surprised when Zeke handed him a small, badly wrapped gift claiming it was from all the guys.

The small box contained a gold lighter, engraved with all the lieutenant’s specifics - name, rank, date, etc. "Thank you, Sergeant," Myron said slowly, genuinely pleased with the sentiment as well as the practicality of the thoughtful gift.

"You’re welcome, Sir," Zeke answered, happy he had managed to do something that seemed to make the LT smile and relax just a bit.

While Myron flicked the lighter a few times, Zeke’s eyes scanned the desk, and once again fell on the photo of the two young lieutenants, partially hidden underneath the endless mound of paperwork. The sergeant decided to forge ahead to see how that particular problem was coming along. This was as good a time as any. He doubted he would catch his CO in a better mood any time soon.

"How’s things with Lieutenant Raines, LT?" Zeke tried keeping the tone of the question casual, keenly aware that the lieutenant would not take kindly to his spying. Having decided on the more subtle approach, he wondered if Myron would intentionally lie to him about the broken relationship.

The lieutenant’s eyes followed Zeke’s gaze to the picture. "Oh that," he answered evenly, "that’s over." He quickly picked up the photo and shoved it into his pocket.

"Is it?" Zeke pushed, waiting to see if Myron was going to show his explosive temper. Instead, the LT looked so worn out that Zeke decided he would have preferred the tantrum.

"It’s going to have to be, Sergeant," Myron finally responded, looking up trying to gage Zeke’s reaction. When he saw the concerned, impassive expression he decided to take a chance on his sergeant and unburden himself.

"I told her I loved her, and she said, ‘I know’," Myron stated simply, staring down hard at his desk. Zeke stayed quiet. "She never looked back," the lieutenant continued quietly. "Not once. I watched until that bird was out of sight…she never looked back…ah, what the hell, huh?" Myron tried shrugging it off with false bravado as he reached for the bottle and poured them each a shot. Raising the glass, he attempted a weak smile, "Merry Christmas, Sergeant."

"Happy Hanukkah, LT." Zeke smiled back, wishing he could say something to make this better for the kid.

After the toast Zeke made his way to the door. Myron held up the lighter. "Thanks again, Sergeant…for everything.

"You’re welcome." Zeke paused in the doorway and decided to go ahead and say what was on his mind.

"Hey, LT…maybe she’s not worth it."

Myron raised his head to meet Zeke’s concerned eyes. He wet his lips and gave the sergeant a slight shrug. After Anderson was gone Myron slumped back down at his desk, letting the sergeant’s words roll around in his mind. He played with the gold lighter a few more times, flicking it on and off, mesmerized by the flame.

Reaching into his pocket, Myron pulled out the worn photograph and stared at the two of them together, Nikki smiling at him. Holding the corner of the picture over the burning edge of the flame, he watched the heat creep up the paper until Nikki’s image shriveled up and floated down to join the other glowing embers. Only when his fingers started to burn did he drop the photo into the cup and watch his own image curl up to join her.

Fascinated, he watched the ashes of the photo mingle and become indistinguishable from the cigarette ashes. Using his finger, he stirred them together, watching the last remnants of their relationship disappear completely.

Nikki not worth it? Could Zeke possibly be right? He was right about a lot of things, Myron conceded. But he doesn’t know me. Not the real me. It came to him then that the Myron Goldman in the picture, the one that Nikki loved, no longer existed. Did he ever exist? Or was that just an image of what Nikki wanted him to be. What she thought he should be. A front he put on for her that she had fallen in love with. One that he couldn’t have maintained much longer anyway. She never loved him, not the real Myron Goldman. Hell, if he was being honest, she didn’t even love the front…not really. God, he had been so naïve.

A dull throbbing ache started in the back of the lieutenant’s head and was slowly working its way into his right temple and behind his eye. Reaching for the glass, he hoped one last drink might hold the pain at bay. It’s Christmas, he told himself, a few more shots can’t hurt. I can always run the test in the morning.

Just as Myron raised the glass, he caught a glimpse of his image in the mirror and stopped. Once again taken aback at his own reflection.

"Hell, Zeke," he whispered to no one. "That wasn’t really fair."

--The end--