Copyright October 2000
This story is rated PG-13 for violent images and mild language.
TOUR OF DUTY: AFTERMATH
In 1950, Congress exercised its responsibilities over military justice by enacting the Uniform Code of Military Justice that would apply to all branches of service.
The Huey slowly descended until it was stopped with a jolt by Ladybird's dusty landing pad. Loose red dirt swirled violently into the helicopter's open compartment as the blades continued their cyclonic spin. Soldiers, both on board the aircraft and on the ground, threw their arms up to protect their faces from the sting. All, save for Private Baker, Specialist Johnson and Sergeant Anderson who continued to clench each other's tightly closed fists.
When the bird finally settled into the clay, the crew chief hopped to the ground and turned to assist the wounded specialist who had reluctantly released his grip from the two hands onto which he had been fiercely clinging.
Wincing against his agony, Marvin Johnson rolled his wounded body around the bolted-down machine gun and toward the opening through which he allowed himself to drop. He had been shot just minutes before Lieutenant Goldman arrived to deliver the three men from their desperate plight, but the bullet in Johnson's side was only a small part of the pain he was suffering.
Without looking back, Johnson leaned heavily into the supportive stranger as they made their way the short distance from the bladed morgue to the ambulance that would take him to the Mobile Army Surgical Hospital. Johnson allowed himself to slip to the floor of the vehicle and, lying on his back, raised his arm to cover the tears that threatened to stream down his face.
As Johnson disappeared into the ambulance, Lieutenant Goldman gently directed the injured private to exit from the opposite hatchway. Scott Baker had been blinded in the firefight, but after the rescuing officer had wiped the dirt and debris from his eyes, Baker's vision was gradually beginning to return. Through the blur, he could make out the shape of a soldier standing outside the helicopter waiting to help him to medical care.
The private forfeited the hand he had been holding onto and allowed it to fall limply into Sergeant Anderson's lap. Before lowering his burned and battered body to the ground, Baker turned and tried to take a final look at the small form wrapped in the thin rain parka that was lying on the floorboard between Sergeant Anderson and the LT. The darkness of the chopper's interior made it impossible to see anything but the sun shining through the open doorway on the other side, so Baker turned around and, with a sigh, allowed Danny Percell to guide him to the ambulance.
Goldman waved his arm to catch the corporal's attention, and indicated that the medics should not wait for the sergeant to get the other two WIAs to the hospital. Before climbing into the back of the truck with his friends, Percell conveyed the message to the driver who punched the accelerator, and with a cloud of dust in his wake, made a hasty retreat to the nearby MASH unit.
The pilot had cut the engines and the helicopter's blades were slowing their angry spin. The two men in the cockpit looked over their shoulders and gave a questioning look to the platoon leader who frowned and tilted his head toward the door. Understanding Goldman's unspoken request, the pilot and his copilot quietly climbed over their seats and, careful not to step on the bundle by the staff sergeant's legs, exited the chopper. Lieutenant Goldman was left alone with Zeke Anderson and his lifeless charge.
The officer looked at the tiny, blue fingers wrapped around Anderson's finger, uncertain how best to handle the unfortunate situation. Realizing that the debriefing would need to be handled with great care, Goldman had not pressured any of the men for answers during the wordless flight back to base. However, watching the private circle of grief that Johnson, Baker and Anderson had formed around this unidentified infant, the lieutenant knew he had cause for concern.
Of the three men who had been picked up from the bloody hillside, Sergeant Anderson seemed to be suffering the most from whatever had happened out there. Except for the bandage on his arm, the sergeant had not allowed himself to be attended to by the lieutenant, pushing Goldman away with nothing more than the severity of the gaze that marauded his eyes. Zeke's focus had remained locked on a point in front of him for the duration of the flight, but he did not appear to be seeing the passing terrain through the grimy window beyond the pilots. In Anderson's eyes, Goldman could see a strange combination of rage, revulsion and heartache that boiled just behind his empty glare.
Sitting deathly still in the now quiet helicopter, the staff sergeant continued to be oblivious to his surroundings as he stared out at Firebase Ladybird. Anderson made no attempt to depart, his only movement coming from his thumb as it absently stroked the soft skin of the tiny hand that he had retrieved the moment Johnson let go.
Although Goldman was saddened by the baby's death, he could not understand the depth of his sergeant's bond to the child and nothing he knew about the NCO could offer a viable explanation for this odd behavior. Goldman knew that the sergeant's physical injuries required attention, but Anderson's emotional state was becoming increasingly worrisome.
"Sergeant," Goldman tried, finding the sound of his own voice unsettling as it broke the chronic silence of the small compartment. "Zeke, you're shot. You need a doctor." The officer reached down to dislodge the baby's hand from Anderson's hold.
Sergeant Anderson immediately bolted forward and intercepted the dead child, not allowing Goldman to obtain possession. The sudden movement unwrapped the baby from the plastic shroud and, without hesitation, Sergeant Anderson frantically untied the long green band from around his head and used it to swaddle the lifeless form.
Goldman was startled by the sergeant's swift and unexpected reaction, and almost fell backward trying to maintain his balance. As the officer reset himself in a low crouch, supporting his shoulder against the back of the pilot's chair, Anderson pulled the baby close to his chest and slowly started rocking it. Without a word, Zeke again turned his head and, with the same blank look in his eyes, stared out into the day.
The macabre sight of Zeke Anderson cradling the corpse of a newborn in one arm while his other hand tightened around the barrel of his M16 rifle was more than the platoon leader could bear. Myron Goldman had grown to respect Anderson's seemingly infinite strength of will, but this bizarre melding of weakness and potency was unnerving and the lieutenant desperately wanted to make the whole disturbing scene go away.
After an uneasy moment, the officer again leaned forward to remove the baby from Anderson's arms, this time attempting to pull rank. "Sergeant, give me the kid," Goldman sternly ordered, his eyes locking with the staff sergeant's. A spark of tension passed between the two willful men as an unmistakable fury set itself into Anderson's sturdy features.
The sergeant still did not speak, but his jaw twitched as his eyes narrowed, bringing his brow line to a rabid angle. Goldman saw the veins protruding from the sides of Anderson's neck and the big man's muscular arm flexed convulsively as his hand moved closer to the trigger of his weapon. A wave of fear circled through the lieutenant's mind, but needing the sergeant to stand-down, Goldman seized the rifle from Anderson's grip and flung it through the open hatchway where it landed in the dirt with a dull thud.
"What the hell are you doing, Sergeant?" the platoon leader demanded, allowing his knees to fall to the floorboards of the Huey. Breathing heavily, Goldman leaned back on his heels and slapped a hand to his forehead. He stared incredulously at the still seething NCO, unwilling to believe the danger he saw in Anderson's eyes. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?"
Without warning, Sergeant Zeke Anderson raised his now-free left arm and, ignoring the blood that was oozing through the green cloth wrapped around the open wound, balled his hand into a fist and fired a blow directly into the young officer's jaw.
Unprepared for the attack, Goldman's body offered no resistance and his arms flailed out to either side in a vain attempt to find something on which to hold his balance. His backward motion was not easily stopped as he fell between the two pilots' chairs and rocketed into the cockpit. The officer scrambled to get his legs out in front of himself while struggling to keep his body from sliding into any of the controls. Tasting his own blood as it seeped through his gaping mouth, Goldman raised a hand to his throbbing jaw and vigorously rubbed the already swelling bruise. The shocked look Goldman delivered to his sergeant was matched only by the anxiety in Zeke Anderson's eyes.
Mortified by his monstrous act of insubordination, the staff sergeant dropped his shoulders and looked despairingly at his platoon leader. His reddening knuckles stung as the nerves shot their incrimination to Anderson's brain, his battle-induced injuries angrily announcing themselves with a sudden stab of excruciating pain.
Up until the moment he had abruptly moved his body, Zeke had been only vaguely aware that he had been shot during the battle with the VC. Now, after thrusting his left arm to punch the lieutenant, the wound had reopened and the tourniquet was no longer sufficient to hold back the flow of blood as it wept from his maltreated injury. The hole in his right calf was bleeding even more heavily, having received no treatment at all, and now, without question, Sergeant Anderson knew that he had suffered a perilous loss of blood. His mind reeled as his body began to surrender.
Feeling his strength fading, the staff sergeant slipped both arms around the tiny body he was still holding, and giving it a final, tender embrace, he gently laid the lifeless form on his platoon leader's lap. "His name is Judd," Zeke choked, just loudly enough to be heard. Goldman looked from the sergeant to the corpse, unintentionally recoiling from the morbid offering. Slowly, so as not to jostle the infant's remains, the lieutenant used his arms to straighten out his posture and helplessly watched as his friend collapsed.
Unable to resist his infirmity any longer, Anderson's eyes rolled up into his head as the thoughts of arrest and court-martial for striking the officer vanished from his mind. Zeke Anderson lost consciousness. He dropped against the padded metal wall in the back of the compartment and his body slid down into a sitting position with his head dropping onto his shoulder in a grotesque caricature of a cadaver. The blood streamed from the hole in his biceps, coiling down his sleeveless arm and over his wrist where it pooled into his upright palm. The scarlet stain on the leg of his fatigues glistened as a fresh supply of gore expanded from the bullet wound in his leg.
Realizing the possibility that he could lose his comrade because he had not pressed harder to get the man to medical care, Goldman squashed any thoughts of arrest and court-martial that he had briefly harbored and reached forward to move the baby from his legs. Feeling the coolness of the body in his hands, the lieutenant paused and looked intently at the tiny face. The infant's eyes were tightly closed and his lips were pursed in an eternal expression of peaceful slumber. If not for the deep blue tone shadowing the pinkness of his newborn skin, Goldman would have entertained the thought that the child was napping. The officer's eyes locked on the headband that loosely covered the baby's naked body. An icy shiver convulsed down Goldman's spine.
His name is Judd.
Forcing his concentration back to the fallen soldier, Myron gently laid the baby on the khaki rain pancho that had found its way near the pilot's seat. Now free of the burden, if not the terrible image, Goldman was able to clamber to Zeke's aid. He lowered the staff sergeant's large body flat onto the floor of the Huey's passenger compartment and grabbed the medic pack he had brought along for the dustoff. Finding a roll of gauze, the officer began rewrapping the wound in Anderson's muscular arm to slow the surge of blood, and maneuvered over to the open hatchway. Pulling the sergeant's arm along with him so he could continue dressing the injury, Goldman leaned out from the chopper and screamed for a medic.
***********************
The dark-haired man sat on the beautiful green hillside, alone except for the tiny treasure he was tenderly rocking in his powerful arms. The sun was warm, but a cool breeze brushed against his tanned skin and he wrapped the soft, pink blanket a bit tighter around the newborn to protect her from the elements. A songbird whistled a happy tune off in the distance, and the man smiled as a butterfly flitted through the field of spring wildflowers. He felt more fulfilled than he had in years, the mild fragrance of the baby's hair sifting through his senses, filling his heart with purpose. "My beautiful Katie," he whispered, kissing his daughter delicately on the forehead. Gently, very gently, he laid the infant on a soft patch of grass and beamed with delight as the daisies engulfed her with their wind-swept dance. "I love you, darlin'," the man promised as he got to his feet and raised his M16 rifle, aiming it at his little girl...Baby love, my baby love.
Sergeant Anderson started from his graphic nightmare in an explosive panic. His heart raced as he wildly tried to shake the horrendous images from his jumbled awareness. Bitter tears flowed freely down his cheeks and his rapid gasps for air threatened to cast him back into unconsciousness as he began to hyperventilate. Clenching the crisp, white sheet that covered his body, Anderson forced himself to slow his breathing and battled to focus his confused mind.
The foreign surroundings, of which he was slowly becoming aware, only added to his uncontrolled anxiety. Sweat beaded on Anderson's forehead as he frantically searched for some explanation for his placement in this predominantly sterile environment and for the clear synthetic artery that was pumping a thick, crimson fluid from someone else's body into his arm. Searching the canvas room, he noted the two symmetrical rows of empty beds, some of them still hosting ghastly red stains, left behind by their previous tenants. Anderson's stomach began to roil at the pungent, medicinal perfume floating in the air as it combined with the unmistakable smell of death.
The staff sergeant drew the sheet tighter as if it could protect him from his despair. Zeke Anderson was alone and afraid and sure that he had died and gone to Hell.
A dull throbbing from underneath the white bandage wrapping his left arm introduced itself and Zeke gradually began to remember the circumstances that had resulted in his debilitation. As the visions from his terrible dream collapsed into the recesses of his mind, they were replaced by a truer, more persistent memory. A memory he would do anything to forget but instead, to which he helplessly surrendered.
He remembered the brutal attack on the Huey that ended the lives of three American soldiers and severely burned Private Baker's back; he remembered the appalling sight of the massacred Montagnard Tribe and the birth of the baby to its already dead mother; he remembered the argument with Baker against bringing the infant along on their journey back to the firebase I'm the sergeant; you're the private and his subordinate's willingness to risk court-martial rather than leave the baby behind; he remembered the relentless pursuit by the Vietcong through the bamboo jungle; the "old witch"; the goat; the fever; the battle; the death. The song. Baby love, my baby love.
Beyond that, there was nothing.
Unable to endure the lonely silence of the deserted hospital tent any longer, Sergeant Anderson threw his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the protesting scream from the wound in his calf. The soldier was tempted to rip the IV from his arm, but, unsure of the seriousness of his injuries, he opted instead to remove it from the elevated metal hook and tossed the bag of blood onto the bed. Anderson glanced around and found his fatigues underneath a nearby chair, folded neatly and lying on top of his clay-covered combat boots.
Although he was alone in the room, he shyly pulled the sheet around his waist before reaching down to retrieve the clothing. In a swift motion, the sergeant pulled on his uniform pants and dropped the linen to the floor. He tried to put on the shirt, but the tube running into his arm made the attempt a failure and he sat there, annoyed at the inconvenience. Noticing the feel of the clean, crisp fabric of the shirt against his palms, Anderson knew immediately that they were not the same fatigues he had been wearing when he had...
Had what?
Something had happened between the extraction from the hill and his arrival at the MASH unit, but he could not form the memory. Zeke pondered the question for only a moment before tossing it aside and slipping into his boots. The act of dressing was more of a strain than he had expected and the sergeant began to feel lightheaded. After admitting to himself that the feeling was not going to pass, he grudgingly permitted himself to fall back onto the soft sheets and raised his hands to his face, covering his closed eyes.
A few moments passed before the sergeant moved again. Lying diagonally across the bed, he lifted his legs onto the linen and bent his knees to allow his boots to rest on the edge of the mattress that was little more than a thick blanket. He dropped his injured arm to his side, not giving a damn when he nearly knocked the IV to the floor. Sergeant Anderson allowed his other arm to drape across his forehead while he contemplated how to parole himself from this sterile prison without doing himself further harm.
Within minutes, he felt his mind beginning to drift, and willingly resigned himself to what he hoped might be a dreamless sleep. Regrettably, before he could completely retreat into his exhaustion, the soldier heard the sound of footsteps approaching his bed, and a familiar voice broke the silence.
"Going somewhere, Sergeant?" Myron Goldman demanded with a wry smile crossing his lips. He was holding a rolled up wad of papers in his right hand which he lightly rapped against the foot of the cot.
Anderson lifted his arm just enough to regard the lieutenant. Although he looked without interest into the other man's eyes, he did not focus too much attention on Goldman's face and, suddenly wishing to be left alone, the sergeant again covered his forehead with his arm and closed his eyes. "Not soon enough, Sir," the NCO complained.
Still smiling warmly, the lieutenant walked around the hospital bed to grab the chair under which Anderson had found his fatigues. Seeing the IV teetering ominously close to the edge of the mattress, he paused and rehung it on the designated hook and gently tapped the sergeant on his arm. "That thing works better if you let gravity do it's job, you know," the officer remarked as he pulled the chair closer to the bedside.
Ignoring the advise, Anderson shifted his position to bring his body more squarely onto the bed. His arm became tangled in the rubber tube that was running blood into it and he laboriously lifted himself onto his elbows so he could straighten out the mess. Goldman was ready to offer assistance, but his instinct told him that the always capable staff sergeant would detest any such intervention. Instead, the lieutenant patiently waited while Zeke attempted to make himself comfortable. Myron was disappointed to sense none of the Anderson's customary good humor which would normally be manifested during such a quagmire. The officer's smile faded.
When Anderson was finally settled, he placed an arm under the back of his neck to lift his head off the mattress. He looked curiously at Goldman, this time noticing the hideous bruise on the other man's chin. At first, he thought the lieutenant had simply not completely washed his face of the blackened cork used for camouflage, but upon closer inspection, Anderson could see that the mark had been induced by a blow of some kind. Zeke's brow furrowed as he studied the black and purple contusion that expanded from just under the officer's lower lip to the edge of his jawbone. The ugly deep color indicated that the injury had occurred fairly recently. "What the hell happened to you, LT?" the sergeant asked.
Not understanding to what the staff sergeant was referring, Goldman shrugged. "Come again?"
"You're face. Looks like someone popped you good." Anderson rubbed his own jaw as an illustration to the officer.
Goldman mirrored the sergeant's action, swiping his hand across the stubble on his unshaven face. He frowned deeply as his own touch to the tender skin reminded him of the previous day's detestable encounter and of the reason behind today's visit to the MASH unit. "You don't remember?" he asked doubtfully.
Zeke looked at the platoon leader, puzzled. He shook his head slowly, struggling to release the stranglehold on his memory, only to be daunted by an unrelenting haze of murky images--a cloud of dust tornadoing from the landing pad, an ambulance speeding away, an M16 being thrown to the ground--but details of any specific incident remained stubbornly elusive. Anderson rubbed his eyes, faintly aware of a soreness in his knuckles as he opened and closed his hand. "Something tells me I shouldn't want to remember, should I?" he sullenly remarked.
Lieutenant Goldman had spent many hours wondering how to handle the incident from the Huey. According to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, Goldman would be well within his right to issue a formal complaint against his staff sergeant for assault against a commissioned officer. An investigation would commence and the inevitable court-martial would likely lead to a dishonorable discharge, imprisonment with or without hard labor, or, because the offense was committed during a time a war, a possible--if not probable--punishment by death. Serious consequences for a serious charge.
But Zeke Anderson was more than just a grunt for the United States Army. He was more than just a damned fine noncommissioned officer who was well-liked and respected by every soldier under his command--and by most officers, including his platoon leader. He was a friend. A friend who had been through a terrible ordeal and who had reacted, not out of hostility toward his superior officer, but rather because of an unconscionable act of violence against an innocent victim of this godforsaken war, in this godforsaken country, for these godforsaken people. A furious tremor threatened to consume the lieutenant while he recalled the details of the tragedy as it had been outlined to him by Private Baker.
As he struggled to control his anger, Goldman suddenly remembered the publication he had been holding and handed the magazine to Sergeant Anderson. "I almost forgot," he said, forcing an uneasy smile to return to his mouth. "Here, I scrounged this up for you. Baker says you read this."
Zeke accepted the offering and eyed the worn-out issue of Popular Mechanics. It appeared as though the magazine had been through numerous battles of its own, with many of the dog-eared pages detached from the rest of the magazine and inserted loosely into the binding. The back cover had been completely removed and greasy fingerprints were spread throughout the extremely outdated, February 1956 issue. Anderson almost laughed as he regarded the unmistakable print from an oily set of lips that had kissed the drawing of the bright red "New" Corvette adorning the front cover of the eleven year old magazine.
"Where the hell did you get this, LT?" the sergeant asked, the amusement seeping through his weariness. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the officer's considerate gift.
"Let's just say Sergeant Kershner is out looking for a different FNG to burn the latrines this week," Goldman declared wryly. "It's amazing what guys'll bargain with to get out of that duty." The officer leaned back in the chair and removed his visored cap, quickly brushing his fingers through his hair before replacing it to his head.
Sergeant Anderson smiled thinly and laid the magazine across his chest. "Thanks, LT," he accepted weakly as his attention drifted back to the bruise on the Lieutenant's chin.
An uncomfortable silence passed between the two men for just a moment before Anderson indicted himself. "I did that to you, Sir. Didn't I?"
Goldman frowned. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the cigarettes he usually had nestled there and pulled one of the short white cylinders from the crumpled pack. His hand automatically reached for the 1932 antique brass Zippo lighter that his father had given him after learning his son had joined Officer Candidate School, but realizing that a hospital was no place to smoke, Goldman tossed the lighter back into his pocket and held the cigarette loosely between his fingers.
"Sir?" Zeke Anderson eyed the officer, fully understanding that the man was avoiding the question. The sergeant pulled himself up into a sitting position and once again rolled his legs over the side of the bed so that he could confront the lieutenant face to face. He paused a moment to allow the short wave of dizziness to pass before continuing. "Sir, I don't know exactly what happened or when, but I'm damned sure I had something to do with it." Then, with a hint of the spark returning to his eye, he added, "Myron, I may not be as educated as you, but I'm a pretty good read of human nature, and you, Son, are a big ol', wide-open book."
Goldman couldn't help but grin. The officer found Anderson's easy, Southern manner comforting and with the tension in the room reduced, Lieutenant Goldman allowed himself to finally confront the issue of his NCO's insubordination. "Yeah, Zeke," he confirmed. "You had a lot to do with it," he said, his smile wavering. Not wanting to go into detail of the events leading up to the crime, Goldman went straight to the point. "You punched me, Sergeant. A good one, too." Attempting to lighten the mood, he added, "But not good enough...you didn't knock me out. I guess it's lucky for me you're not left-handed." Lieutenant Goldman smiled. Sergeant Anderson did not.
Zeke raised his unencumbered right arm to his face and again rubbed his eyes, as if the act might loosen the evasive memory. "Goddammit, LT," he blurted, his heart racing as a sequence of possible scenarios flashed through his mind. Forcing himself to make eye contact with the lieutenant, Anderson fumbled with a worthless apology. "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't remember doing it. Not yet, anyway. I don't know why I did it or if you had it coming to you..." He paused, recoiling at the absurdity of that last statement. The sergeant didn't see the glint of amusement that winked through Goldman's eyes. "Sir," Zeke continued, his voice quavering with emotion, "it's just that Judd..."
Anderson's voice trailed off as an awful image of the newborn baby stabbed itself into the sergeant's consciousness--the vision of a tiny pink and blue hand protruding from a shroud of dark green plastic, trembling in unison with the vibrations of the Huey's floorboards. A sickening chill ran through Anderson's veins as he pushed back the fiery tears looming behind his deep blue eyes. "Where is he, LT?" the sergeant timidly asked, unable to disguise his distress.
Lieutenant Goldman leaned forward and rested his arms on his lap. He licked his lips and lowered his eyes to examine the unlit cigarette still dangling through his fingers. "I buried him, Zeke." Goldman inserted the cylinder through his lips and leaned back in his chair to study the sergeant's reaction.
Anderson said nothing.
Sensing that the man needed more, Goldman removed the cigarette from his mouth and continued, "It's okay, Sergeant. It was a quiet, private funeral for the little guy. Just me, Baker and the chaplain. Johnson would have been there too, but we had to transfer him to Brigade." The lieutenant saw the startled question forming in Anderson's eyes and quickly expounded. "He'll be fine. He's just going to need a bit longer to recover and they don't keep you at the MASH for that. He'll be back in a week or so."
Goldman formed his next words carefully, so that his friend might understand. "You know, it's against regulations to bury a body on a firebase," he explained, locking eyes with the sergeant. "It wouldn't be allowed to bury Judd behind the chaplain's tent, next to that sorry excuse for a garden of his, under a little wooden cross Baker put together using a couple of pieces of bamboo he found near the perimeter."
The message was loud and clear, and Anderson nodded his understanding.
Before the officer could continue, an attractive blonde nurse entered the room, interrupting the two men. "Sergeant Anderson?" she said in her best bedside voice. "It's good to see you up and about. But you really need to lie down and get some rest." She put her warm hands on the sergeant's muscular shoulders and guided him around so that he could lay back onto the lumpy mattress. Her gentle touch was inviting to the NCO, and he gladly allowed her to rearrange the tubes running into his arm. A pleasant shiver worked its way through his senses as the pretty lieutenant checked his wound, inserting her fingers between the bandage on his arm and his biceps, her fingernails dusting across his skin. Zeke Anderson gave his platoon leader a satisfied smirk.
Goldman rolled his eyes.
As she adjusted the bandages, Lieutenant Stone addressed the officer. "Lieutenant, you really should go now," she scolded. "The sergeant has lost a lot of blood and until this bag is empty," she indicated the IV, "he's not in a position to be interrogated."
Taken aback by the nurse's accusation, Goldman straightened his back and stood up, knocking the chair into the neighboring bed. "I was not interro..." he began his defense, but glancing down and seeing the look of amusement on Zeke's face, his rebuke quickly faded. Goldman welcomed the apparent return of Anderson's good humor and rather than cause a scene, the officer instead calmly requested a little more time with his staff sergeant. "Look, Lieutenant," he pleaded, "I need just a couple of minutes more and then I'll di di out of here." The nurse folded her arms across her breast and eyed the platoon leader skeptically. "I promise," Goldman assured her, raising his right arm as if taking an oath.
Glancing down at the sergeant in search of any indication that this would not be a good idea, Lieutenant Margaret Stone released her rigor and conditionally yielded. "Five minutes, Lieutenant. And then I want you out of here. Five minutes. And no interrogations. Understood?"
Feeling as though he had been outranked by an officer of no more superiority than himself, Goldman uneasily consented. "Five minutes. Fine," he sighed, pushing his hands into his pockets. When Lieutenant Stone made no move to exit, the platoon leader peevishly prompted, "Five minutes alone, if you don't mind."
Without further comment, the pretty, blonde officer again glanced down at Sergeant Anderson before making her reluctant departure. Goldman didn't bother to hide his contempt for the lieutenant as she exited the tent. Anderson made no effort to hide his admiration.
A minute passed while Goldman shifted his focus to the more serious matter that he knew must be addressed before he could leave the sergeant to his recovery. The platoon had a mission the following morning, which Anderson would not be joining, and the matter could not be put off until the officer returned.
Goldman again lowered himself into the chair and, pulling it closer to Anderson's cot, somberly finished what he had come to do. Removing his hat from his head and placing it in the same hand that was still holding the unlit cigarette, the lieutenant leaned forward and rested the loosely balled fist of his other hand on Sergeant Anderson's shoulder. "Zeke," he began, forcing himself to retain eye contact, "I'm not going to make a big deal out of what happened yesterday."
Anderson eyed the officer doubtfully. Having been threatened with court-martial from the hot-tempered young lieutenant before, for far less serious charges than this, the sergeant was uncertain what he should be expecting. Goldman continued. "There won't be a court-martial. The Army needs you out here, not wasting away in Long Bihn. Hell, I need you out here." The sergeant knew the admission was difficult for the headstrong officer, but remained quiet as he awaited the disclaimer that was certainly lurking behind the commendation.
Goldman's tongue darted out from his dry mouth to quickly pass over his lips before he could resume his practiced statement. "However, Sergeant, I can't let it slide, either. We were alone on that chopper and I don't think anyone else saw what happened, but if word gets out, it could cause a lot of disciplinary problems. Not just for our platoon but for the entire base. There are just too many hotheads with too many weapons out here and the only thing keeping a lot of us officers from getting fragged by our own men is the UCMJ." Myron looked sympathetically at the platoon sergeant. "Do you understand, Zeke? I have to do it."
Anderson closed his eyes in a long, anguished blink. "Roger that, Sir," he complied, turning his head away from the lieutenant, and toward the doorway through which pretty Nurse Stone had exited. "What have you got in mind?"
Goldman had studied the Military Code of Justice carefully before compelling himself to approach Captain Wallace with the incident. The lieutenant's intention was to settle the matter satisfactorily, if not necessarily pleasantly, and to do it as quickly as possible. Coming to the MASH unit today, armed with the information he needed, Lieutenant Goldman prepared his sergeant for the disciplinary action that would be issued in a few moments. He reached into his pocket and added a crinkled piece of paper to the hat and cigarette he was already holding. Unfolding the document, the officer began to read:
"Article 90. Assaulting or Willfully Disobeying a Superior Commissioned Officer
Any person subject to this chapter who--
shall be punished, if the offense is committed in time of war, by death or such other punishment as a court-martial may direct, and if the offense is committed at any other time, by such punishment other than death, as a court-martial may direct."
Goldman paused, drawing in a deep breath. The words were harsh, but the officer felt that it was important for Anderson to understand the severity of the crime in order to more easily accept the punishment that would be administered. Seeing the troubled look in Sergeant Anderson's eyes, Goldman continued.
"In lieu of admonition or reprimand, an officer in charge may impose enlisted members assigned to the unit of which his is in charge such of the one or more following disciplinary punishments for minor offenses without the intervention of a court-martial--
Article 15, Section 2: Upon other personnel of his command--
Anderson looked blankly at the platoon leader as the officer crumpled the paper into his fist. Goldman straightened his posture and slapped his cap into position on the top of his head, adjusting the brim for just the right placement. The officer stood and pumped both the paper and the cigarette into the pocket of his pants, just behind his holstered pistol, and firmly tugged at his shirt in an effort to smooth out his fatigues.
Almost immediately, Captain Wallace entered the hospital room, accompanied by Colonel Lewis and Sergeant-Major Kirkpatrick from Battalion. The company's First-Sergeant, Randolph Stevens was the last to file into the now seemingly-crowded room, closing the door behind them. Anderson's heart skipped a beat at the sight of so many of his superiors gathered in the hospital tent for the purpose of his Article 15. The platoon sergeant attempted to lift himself off the mattress to salute the officers, but Captain Wallace quickly relieved him of that burden.
"At ease, Sergeant," the captain allowed, a small but warm smile finding its way onto his otherwise serious expression. "I assume Lieutenant Goldman has already filled you in on what's going on, so let's just get this over with."
Anderson's response came in the form of a slight nod of his head as his eyes fixed expectantly on the lieutenant-colonel. The location of this action did little to reduce the formality. Sergeant-Major Kirkpatrick spoke first, reading Anderson his rights and explaining how the staff sergeant could contest the charges. Anderson wanted nothing more than to get this whole mess behind him, therefore, he declined a court-martial and left the issue of punishment in the hands of the officers before him.
Before the sergeant-major turned the matter over to Colonel Lewis, he issued a simple, but disheartening message to the staff sergeant. "Anderson, you are a fine soldier. Your record in the field is nothing less than exemplary. I wish I had more like you in this company." Kirkpatrick removed his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and locked his weary eyes with Sergeant Anderson's. "So, why did you screw up like this? To say 'you let me down' wouldn't begin to describe how really disappointed I am in you."
Lieutenant Goldman flinched just slightly, wanting desperately to come to his platoon sergeant's defense, but knowing the other men in the room could never understand exactly what happened on that Huey, nor the events leading up to it. If Zeke were to give his platoon leader any indication that he wanted assistance, Goldman would surely offer it. But for now, the lieutenant stood quietly by, looking as stern and official as his state of mind would allow.
The sergeant-major's words hit Zeke Anderson like a brick, and the staff sergeant could not help but lower his eyes to avoid the other man's gaze. He did not answer Kirkpatrick's question, trusting that it was meant to be rhetorical, but Anderson felt sick and vaguely thought that he would rather be facing gooks than facing the sergeant-major this way.
With no further comment from the other men in the room, and in the interest of expediting the matter as quickly as possible, Colonel Lewis cleared his throat and proceeded to issue his order for disciplinary punishment to the noncommissioned officer. "Sergeant Anderson, you are to be confined to this hospital for two days or until the doctors decide you are not going to bleed to death, whichever comes second. Thereafter, you are restricted to base for two weeks and you are to refrain from combative duty for the duration of that time. Although you are relieved of neither your rank nor command, I want you to understand that you are limited in the orders that you may issue and you may not, under any circumstances, leave Firebase Ladybird without specific orders from a commanding officer." He paused a moment before adding, "You will also forfeit seven day's pay."
Sergeant Anderson's expression never wavered as he absorbed the information. Unexpectedly, the colonel added wryly, "And Sergeant, don't let it happen again. I'd like to see your platoon leader get in a shave."
With a salute and a "Roger that, Sir," Anderson exhaled heavily, and he waited for the small group of his superiors to return his salute and filter out of the room. Only Lieutenant Goldman remained behind.
Uncomfortable with the heavy atmosphere that he perceived now hung between them, Goldman touched the brim of his cap, shoving it back to the edge of his hairline. A bead a sweat trickled down his forehead as he stared at his sergeant.
Sergeant Anderson hoisted himself into a sitting position, pulling his knees up into his chest. He studied the lieutenant for a moment, admiring the young man's growing sense of maturity. In the staff sergeant's judgment, Goldman had treated the situation with great diplomacy and tact and Anderson had no problem accepting his punishment, despite its unpleasantness. With as much dignity as possible for a soldier confined to a hospital bed, he bent his elbow and sharply issued a salute to his platoon leader. "Thanks, LT," he said, allowing an easy grin to cross his lips.
"For what?" the lieutenant asked, frowning down at the NCO.
"For talking them into making it only two weeks."
Goldman grinned, but did not confirm Anderson's accurate assessment. Relieved to have the matter resolved, Goldman returned the salute and moved around to the foot of the bed. Brushing his hand against the sergeant's large combat boots, he rapped them with his fist and issued a final order before exiting the tent. "Take these things off and get some sleep, Sergeant. You're not going anywhere."
*****************
Zeke Anderson could not remember the last time he had been so restless.
Being confined to the hospital for two days had been a pain in the ass, but he had to admit, the extended bed-rest, lumpy mattress notwithstanding, had been most agreeable. Despite his sleepless nights and his mending wounds, the NCO felt stronger and healthier than he had in months.
He had also enjoyed his visits with Nurse Margaret Stone, who he believed to have the best bedside manner in all of 'Nam. There had been few casualties arriving at the MASH unit during his stay, so the attractive young lieutenant had found extended time to spend with her patient. Zeke had almost forgotten the comforting feel of female companionship. Their easy visits allowed him to all but forget the painful dreams that attacked him every time he closed his eyes. Dreams from which he would soon have no such distraction.
Sergeant Anderson had dreaded the end of his designated two-day hospital confinement. He knew that he would be discharged and returned to Firebase Ladybird where he would spend two long weeks of standing down. The lieutenant had taken the rest of the platoon out on a mission that would last all of, if not more than, those fourteen days and Anderson had been left behind with little to do with his time but avoid sleep. With no pretty blonde nurse to detour his thoughts, he was certain this downtime would be a miserable experience. He had simply not realized how much.
Although he was not confined to quarters, Anderson had spent a great deal of time there, trying to keep his mind occupied with mundane tasks like cleaning weapons, picking clay out of the bottom of boots and scraping melted candlewax from the tops of shelves and footlockers. Every hootch for every squad under his command was as immaculate as it could get in-country.
When the sergeant ran out of things to clean, he had spent several days at the motor pool, helping the mechanics service the engines of dozens of military vehicles. When the last had been repaired, the sergeant found himself trading LT's Popular Mechanics, which he had already read cover to cover--twice--in exchange for the keys to a jeep and a couple of laps around the firebase.
Another day was spent at the chow hall with a morbid willingness to help prepare an evening's meal for the soldiers left on base. He only did that once.
On this, his final day of restriction, Anderson was sitting at the edge of a fairly large pit from where he was shoveling clay into empty sandbags. When each bag was filled, he stood up, hoisting the heavy sack onto his shoulder, and carried it twenty meters over to the TOC tent where he was constructing a defensive barrier. He had not been ordered to the task, and there were far easier ways in which to accomplish it, but Anderson was enjoying the hard labor, and he could feel the exertion speeding up the rehabilitation of the weakened muscles in his left arm. He was sweating heavily and, permitting himself a break, he dropped his rifle, then his body into the man-sized hole and helped himself to a long, satisfying drink of water.
Anderson nudged the M16 to one side with his boot and plopped himself down, closing his eyes. He leaned back into the shadows, shuddering against the sudden chill as his exposed arms radiated the difference between his body's heat and the cool temperature of the clay wall. Feeling satisfied, he closed the cap of his canteen and laid the container on the floor of the hole, next to the rifle. The weary sergeant impulsively hugged his knees into his chest and let his head fall back against the red earth. He lowered his shoulders, allowing himself the rare luxury of complete relaxation. Alone, in the quiet of the open grave, Zeke Anderson drifted into sleep.
*********************
The man sat on the rocky hillside, the sultry breeze grating the meager patch of abrasive grass against his exposed flesh. Thin beams of sunlight battled their way through the dense, moisture-laden clouds that hovered in the late afternoon sky, while long, murky shadows crawled out from under the large boulders dotting the terrain. In the distance, he could see the child at play, dancing in a whirlwind of delight amongst the wildflowers that cascaded across the valley at her feet. A ray of light danced with her, casting a golden halo around her silky, black hair. She lifted her delicate arms over her head and giggled melodiously as she twirled her flowing pink dress around her flawless knees. "Come and dance with me, Daddy!" she squealed with glee as her gaiety moved her further across the valley and away from her adoring father. The man longed to join his charming little girl in her joy, but the legion of clouds threatened to explode and he could not compel himself to move from his defensive position. He knew his duty was to protect the rise from the rain that would pummel the earth were he to expose it. His heart broke as the child faded into the blossoms, yet he was helpless to go after her. "Katie," he called to the deserted valley. He watched intently for his precious daughter to return, only to be greeted with a torturous stab of loneliness. "My darlin' Katie," he mourned, already feeling the emptiness in his heart. The man lowered his head in despair and unexpectedly saw from the corner of his eye, a thick, woven blanket, that had not been there before, bundled in the nook of a towering boulder. Puzzled at the sight, he heard a baby's cry pierce through the silence, and without thought, the man moved his body just enough to scoop the blanket up into his strong embrace. The crying stopped and the man smiled. The rain began to fall.
Sergeant Anderson slid out of his dream to the distant sound of mortar shells being hammered into the night air. Allowing the phantasm to fizzle away into the recesses of his mind, he shook his head to dispel an invading memory of another explosive night not long ago, and of the bastardized melody that had been haunting him ever since. Baby love, my baby love.
The abruptness of his waking left the soldier alarmingly disoriented, unsure of where he was or how he had gotten there.
A surge of adrenaline coursed through Anderson's veins when he realized he could see nothing in front of him but a solid wall of black. He was blinded by the darkness of night that had swollen from the late afternoon shadows he last remembered, and was confused at why he could not see the fiery blasts from the detonations that sounded to be within visual range.
The brightness of the moon in the cloudless sky allowed the sergeant's eyes to quickly adjust, and he let his gaze follow the smooth lines of the barrier in front of him. Anderson looked up to see Orion and his platoon of constellations emerging over the top edge of the wall. A wave of claustrophobia engulfed him, as he suddenly realized that he was looking at the stars from the viewpoint of a grave. With a desperate need to free himself, Zeke reached down and grabbed the rifle that instinct told him would be at his side. He scrambled to his feet and, using his powerful arms to pull himself up, he clambered out of the abyss and dropped to his knees, alert to any sign of immediate danger.
Anderson glanced at his watch, but before he could read the time, he decided it didn't matter and instead used his arm to push himself off the ground so that he was standing upright. He shifted the weight of his rifle to rest across his chest in a loose embrace, glancing down the quiet streets of the firebase. The sergeant quickly recognized that the artillery bombing was well off into the distance and the base was not in any apparent jeopardy. The dark streets were deserted except for a few sentries prowling the lonely perimeter. All seemed SOP at Firebase Ladybird.
With his anxiety calming, Sergeant Anderson cleared his mind and allowed the particles of his dream to twinkle through his consciousness. Though the fragments drifted loosely, stubbornly disconnected from one another--a child dancing, a baby crying, a downpour of rain--the sergeant began to understand that there was an underlying significance to the visions that he should not...could not...continue to ignore. He slowly came to the realization that Lieutenant Goldman had allowed for two weeks of standing-down with a greater purpose than to simply administer punishment for insubordination. The officer must have had the insight to know that the sergeant had enemies far removed from the battlefield, and the time had come for Zeke Anderson to confront them.
With his return to active duty just hours away, Anderson recognized what he needed to do, and gathered his courage to make the hundred meter journey to the other side of the base to do it. Pausing in front of the chaplain's tent, the sergeant took a deep breath and, for the first time, walked around the hootch to where he found a small bamboo cross attached to an even smaller mound of freshly turned clay.
The staff sergeant slowly approached the memorial and lowered himself to one knee, using his M16 for balance. He laid his free hand on the mound and gently stroked the smooth blanket of soil that would keep the baby warm for the rest of eternity. The big man felt incredibly small under the infinite canopy of stars, but the sight of this tiny grave caused him to question his very existence in the universe. With a tremor in his voice, Sergeant Anderson made his peace with the Montagnard baby named Judd.
"I'm not very good at this, Son," he began, his voice bittersweet with emotion, "and I don't really know what to say here, but I reckon I have a couple of things I want you to know, so I'll just try to get it out." He glanced around to make sure that he was alone in the remote area of the firebase before resuming his unrehearsed speech. "Johnson told me it's hard to believe what a difference a little kid like you can make in the world, even in such a short amount of time. And, you know? He got that right. I sure do miss you, Son. We almost made it, you and me. LT was on his way. A few more minutes and we would've been home-free." He choked back a lump in his throat.
"I shouldn't have left you alone like I did, and I'm sorry about that. I reckon there's a lot I should've done different, and it kills me just thinking about how much I screwed up." The sergeant paused, pulling his rifle up onto his bent knee and folded his arms around the barrel. Without thought, he allowed his upper body to gently sway back and forth, rocking the weapon like he would have the newborn.
"But, there's nothing we can do to fix it now, is there?" he continued, resolute in his decision to lay the ghost to rest. "I have to let it go. You see, Judd, my guys need me here with them now. It's my job to do better for them than I did for you." He paused to gather his thoughts. "But, before I do that, before I let you go, I want you to know, Son, that you taught me something I'll never forget again." A long thought-filled moment passed while faint images from Anderson's dreams trickled through his consciousness. After several minutes, he resumed his solemn soliloquy.
"I've got to go do something I never done before, and it sure ain't gonna be easy. But you reminded me of how much I once had. And how much I lost. I have to set it right." He let out a heavy breath and inhaled slowly, giving himself time to search for just the right words.
"I know I said you'd been better off if you'd never been born, and maybe that's right. I don't know. But, I can tell you one thing, I know I wouldn't have been. You made me a better man than I was before, and for that, I'll never forget you. What I reckon I'm trying to say, Son, is thank you. For helping me find something I never wanted to admit I lost."
Anderson swiped his sleeve across his forehead and stood up. Taking a last look at the tiny cross he would never approach again, the soldier said good-bye to the little orphan boy that he loved as much as any father could love a son. "You take care now, Judd. Sleep good." With a deep sigh of regret, he turned and slowly moved away from the one-grave cemetery and toward the lonely street that would lead him to his quarters. He never looked back.
Sergeant Anderson was relieved to see that the platoon had not yet returned from their mission, so he could accomplish his difficult task in privacy. He lit several candles and opened his duffelbag, finding a few sheets of crumpled paper and a sharpened pencil underneath a worn black and white photograph of a beautiful, dark-haired child. Removing the photo of his daughter from his meager collection of personal possessions, Zeke moved the bag aside with his boot, and sat on the edge of his cot where the candles could best illuminate the blank pages, and began to write.
"Dear Katie..."