This story is rated R for graphic violence and language

TOUR OF DUTY: THE FINAL DRAFT

Draftees accounted for 30.4% of combat deaths in Vietnam.

Lieutenant Goldman closed his eyes and released a long, labored sigh, relieved to be alone again with his thoughts. The young officer was mindful that he had disarmed Sergeant Anderson with his brashness, but the lieutenant's attention had to remain focused and he had neither the time nor the energy to quarrel with his subordinate over issues of protocol. I'll worry about smoothing things over with Zeke in the morning, he lectured himself, fighting to shift his concentration back to the unpleasant task he had been working on prior to the sergeant's interruption.

Second Lieutenant Myron Goldman had been holding the near-empty glass in his hand since before the sergeant's exit, absently swirling the whiskey in a lazy circle and losing himself in the sound of the liquid sloshing against the glass. With his eyes still closed, he savored the melody of the steady swish plop swish, as the alcohol tried to make its escape, only to be rolled safely back to the confines of the glass. A brief image of a very young , rain-drenched soldier danced through his mind's eye, but the lieutenant was quick to squelch the memory as he tossed the last drops of the fiery liquor to the back of his throat.

An explosion of disgust erupted as the cigarette Goldman had fired into the glass during Sergeant Anderson's visit chased its way after the whiskey into his protesting throat. Sickened by the taste of the unpalatable tobacco on his tongue, Goldman pulled his body forward, clenching his stomach to relieve the pressure, and coughed until he felt like vomiting. Even after the cigarette butt was successfully extracted, the lieutenant hacked uncontrollably, trying to rid himself of the acrid taste the loose ashes left behind. Furious with himself for his carelessness, Goldman hurled the glass to the floor, where it shattered against the typewriter that had met a similar fate just a short time earlier. "I knew smoking would eventually kill me," he coughed bitterly to the empty tent, "but I didn't think it would be by choking."

Still slouching forward in his small wooden chair, Goldman resigned himself to the fact that any immediate attempt to relieve the churning in his stomach would prove to be futile. He was certain it would be the combination of stale cigarettes and cheap whiskey that eventually sent him home to The General in a body bag. Myron pondered the idea of lying down until the nausea passed, but he was afraid his exhaustion would lead to sleep, and he could ill-afford such a luxury before finishing the letter to Private Greene's mother. "No," he scolded himself, "sleep will have to wait."

After several minutes and feeling no less ill, the lieutenant shifted his body halfway around so that he could rest his arms on the back of the chair. He ignored the dampness on the sleeves of his soiled shirt and the smell of his own perspiration permeating through the olive-green cloth as he rested his forehead on his crossed wrists. Just a few minutes to get yourself together and then get that damned letter written, he silently ordered himself. Goldman closed his eyes, but with his body crying for relief, he was afraid sleep would eventually seize him, despite the fact that he was sitting backwards in a small, uncomfortable chair he had scrounged up from God knew where. He forced his heavy eyes to open and lifted his head so that his chin replaced the forehead resting on his arms. Lieutenant Goldman slowly surveyed the dreary hootch around him.

What a mess, he thought warily. This is no way for an officer to live.

As his eye traveled the perimeter of the small room, the young officer's attention drifted to the spot on the plywood floor where the charcoal black typewriter rested in a fractured heap. Couldn't have a dirt floor like the enlisted men, could you Goldman, he chided himself, wondering if a softer floor might have spared the equipment its untimely demise. Pieces of smooth metal lay next to the machine, and Myron could see that the roller had uncoupled on one side, leaving it looking disjointed and useless. Knowing that a very long night lay ahead of him if he didn't get the machine upright and operational, Goldman gingerly hoisted himself out of the relative solace of his chair and carefully picked up the broken machine. Struggling to keep any more pieces from detaching, the officer returned the typewriter to the extended shelf of the dilapidated field desk.

Studying the damage, Goldman moved the roller and popped it back into place with relative ease. He snapped the lever toward him a few times and was relieved to see the mechanism advancing properly. After meticulously pushing the letter hammers back into the cavity, the lieutenant tapped a key to test the action. To his surprise, the hammer spiked forward, leaving a small, ink-blotted letter e on the ebony roller. "You see, Zeke," he directed to the absent Sergeant Anderson who had seen the abused machine's fall from grace. "Didn't frag it after all."

Relieved that the typewriter was still in working condition, Goldman pulled the chair closer to the boxy desk, kicking aside a small mound of crumpled papers that housed his previous attempts at the obligatory letter. He was shuffling around the various compartments of the field desk, putting things into some semblance of order, when he realized that the near-full whiskey bottle sat precariously close to the carriage return of his typewriter. He picked up the bottle to move it before it could wind up on the floor next to the broken glass.

"Oh, God," the officer gasped as his eyes fell on a small cardboard object stuck to the bottom of the bottle. Cigarettes and whiskey forgotten, the nausea that now threatened to overtake him came from the sight of Jimmy Greene's prized possession, a 1955 Sandy Koufax rookie card. With the humidity hovering heavily in the sweltering night air, the sweat accumulating on the bottle had adhered the small cardboard memento to the underside.

The lieutenant had not noticed the card there earlier. It had slipped the his mind that he had placed the baseball card on the desk upon his return to the base earlier that afternoon. He must have set the whiskey bottle on top of it without thinking and now, seeing the card again, Goldman was consumed with the memory of retrieving it from the dead boy's bloody hand. "His mother will want this," he had justified to his grieving squad.

The dispirited officer carefully laid the card on the shelf next to the typewriter and lowered his body into the chair. Paralyzed with despair, Myron Goldman sat there for a long while, regarding the smeared blood that covered the twin images of the Brooklyn Dodgers star pitcher. The celebrated Sandy Koufax had ended a great career in Los Angeles; Private Greene's career would never even begin.

It's my fault, Mrs. Greene. I killed your baby boy. I'm so sorry.

Myron Goldman tipped the bottle to pour a small amount of whiskey on the end of his shirt but, betrayed by the trembling in his hands, the liquid spilled out with a vengeance. Jimmy's blood spilled like that. The lieutenant ignored the puddle by his boots and instead lifted his dripping shirt to carefully dab at the blood on the card. The whiskey diluted the crimson blotches which eventually faded away under Goldman's careful touch. Meticulously wiping each stain away, his efforts revealed the smiling image of Jimmy Green's hero. The task cost Goldman several hours of his precious night, but he was determined to return the card to Mrs. Greene cleansed of her son's blood. The blood--the memory--will stay in-country.

When the last stain was removed, the young officer sat back in the chair to examine his work. Satisfied that he had done all he could to adequately restore the card for Private Greene's mother, Goldman lifted himself from the chair, winced as he stretched his stiff muscles, and reached for a cigarette. Working to dispel the unpleasant memory of choking on his previous smoke, Goldman finally lit the tip and inhaled deeply. He allowed the fire to continue to burn on the top of the lighter for a few moments, watching its dance illuminate the room. Myron studied the area in front of him as his nose and mouth expelled a considerable cloud, marveling at how much smoke could be extracted from the negligible fire burning on the end of a cigarette.

The barrel of the pistol smoked that way. Such a small explosion. So much smoke.

It wasn't until he had finished his second consecutive cigarette that the lieutenant realized he had been pacing the floor, lost in the memory of a cloud of smoke and death in the jungles of Vietnam. The sound of Private Greene's breaking bones burst into Myron's consciousness as he suddenly became aware of the shattered glass crunching under the weight of his heavy boots. The officer released a brief shudder and returned his attention to his typewriter.

Goldman found his way back to the bulky desk and dropped his weight into the rigid chair. With his glass broken on the floor, and no other receptacle to take its place within arm's reach, Goldman lifted the whiskey bottle to his lips and swallowed hard, welcoming the flaming sensation as the liquid crawled down his throat and into his blood. He pulled another cigarette from the near-empty pack, lit it, took a long, satisfying drag and tucked the cylinder between his middle and ring fingers where it would not get in the way of his typing, but would also not be out of his possession. Believing he was ready to begin, Myron took a piece of paper from the stack on the desk, inserted it into the top of the feed mechanism of the typewriter, spun the wheel to line it up, looked over the top of the guard, and using only his two index fingers, began to type.

Killed in action. Killed in action? The lieutenant stopped typing and stared at the words he had just written.. It wasn't action! It was bullcrap! A stupid FNG mistake. And it didn't have to happen. It just didn't have to happen.

Without bothering to change the paper, Goldman allowed his intense fury to invade his sensibilities and a violent avalanche of emotion flooded the typewriter.

Lieutenant Goldman stopped abruptly, realizing the insanity of the words spilling onto the paper in front of him. With an irrational and uncontrollable passion, the horrified officer lifted the typewriter and again fired it across the tent, this time watching it explode into hundreds of tiny pieces as it hit the unyielding, wooden floor. His heart beat with a wild rage as he gasped in heavy sighs, trying to replenish his depleted lungs. Goldman moved his hands to his head, clenching his short brown locks into his fists as he began to openly weep at the relentless image of Private Greene's broken body.

Oh, shit, Mrs. Greene. No one ever told me it would be this hard.

Turning his attention away from the shattered machine, the lieutenant seized the soggy baseball card from the desk and slowly made his way across the room to his beckoning cot. He hesitated only a moment before sinking down on top of the coarse woolen blanket that covered the small bed, and, with a soft groan, Myron Goldman rolled onto his side and pulled his legs into his chest with his hands.

Although aware of the tick tick tick coming from the clock as it marked the passing seconds, the anguished lieutenant could not bring himself to move from the fetal position into which he had curled his body. He was vaguely aware of the violated typewriter on the floor and of the letter that needed to be completed by morning, but the concept of resuming his attempts at expressing the previous days incident into written words was beyond his comprehension or ability. He continued to lay there listening to the clock tick away the few remaining hours of the night, clutching the dead private's baseball card with such intensity that it seemed to become a part of him. Unable to close his mind to the intrusive memories, Myron Goldman submitted himself to reliving the death of Private James Alan Greene.

The rain pounded the ground with the steady rhythm of an M60 machine gun firing through the dense entanglement of vines and weeds, as the men of Bravo Company zigzagged their way back toward the pickup zone. They had successfully completed a formidable fifteen-day mission and were ready to return to Firebase Ladybird, feeling tired, hungry and irritable. The downpour added to the tension of the fatigued squad as they struggled to listen for any indication that the enemy might be in the area. The pace of the line was slow and grueling and the soldiers seemed to struggle with every laborious step. Everyone, that was, but Private James Greene. Jimmy was a perpetually cheerful young man. With his widowed mother's objections to her only son's voluntary enlistment, he had been ecstatic to receive the draft papers shortly after his eighteenth birthday. He looked at the war as one big adventure and delighted in exploring the wider world outside his rural home in West Virginia.

Always appreciating the opportunity to bait an inexperienced new guy, the other soldiers in the squad had regularly teased the skinny young private about his small stature, his rural roots or his affinity for the game of baseball. In his naiveté, Jimmy Greene relished this friendly banter between his comrades and took their gentle ribbing as evidence of their camaraderie. Jimmy had no doubt that the other men did in fact like him, because they often enjoyed testing him on his knowledge of The Game. Sometimes, late at night, when the humidity hung in the air and the stifling heat prevented anyone from drifting off to sleep, the stillness of the hootch would be broken by a,"Hey, Jimmy, who won the 1904 World Series?" "No one." came the instant reply, "They didn't have a World Series in 1904!" Jimmy had yet to disappoint the guys.

The arduous trek back to the pickup zone was void of any such banter. With the rain falling too heavily to make unnecessary conversation practical, the saturated soldiers favored walking the line in silence. The rain never seemed to bother Private Greene though. He found the frequent showers refreshing and enjoyed slushing through the puddles like a schoolboy, humming some nameless tune as he trudged along. Jimmy held his Sandy Koufax rookie card in his hand under the plastic rain gear he was wearing, quizzing himself on the player's college statistics from the back of the card. In his mind he would ask himself a question, answer it, peek the card out from under the dripping pancho to check his answer and giggle with satisfaction upon confirmation that he had been correct all along. Private Taylor sometimes feigned annoyance at Jimmy Greene's relentless exuberance, but it was impossible not to admire the boy's energy.

When the squad had nearly reached the pickup zone, Private Greene dropped his treasured reminder of home into the grassy brush. "Oh, man," he fretted, bending over to retrieve the soggy baseball card before it could be trampled by one of the men coming up from behind him. Reaching his hand down, the young man's eye caught a glimpse of a thin, white wire traveling through the leafy plants like a spider's silky web waiting for an unsuspecting fly. Still leaning forward, Jimmy turned his head to survey the length of the line, mindful of the seven men, including Lieutenant Goldman, who were fast approaching the spot on the trail that harbored the Viet Cong monstrosity. His body froze with excitement as the significance of his find flashed through his brain, and Jimmy tried desperately to recall the rules he had been taught in combat training for handling such a situation. Greene had scarcely enough time to ask himself how PFC Percell, who was leading at point, had failed to notice the wire, before hearing Marcus Taylor's voice demanding an explanation for what the hell was going on and why he had stopped his scrawny little butt in the middle of the trail.

With only the thought of saving the lieutenant, who he had grown to admire and hoped to emulate in his own military career, racing through his mind, Jimmy Greene bolted his body to an upright stance. He reversed his position to face the advancing men and extended his arms to either side in an attempt to block their path forward. "Wait a minute, you guys," he enthusiastically cried. "I think there's a booby tr..."

In his fervor to point out the device to his friends, Jimmy turned his body just enough to send his right foot back a pace and directly onto the triggering mechanism that sent a dozen bamboo rods shooting through the air. Six of the deadly spears found their mark into the private's yielding body and pummeled him back into a thick tree on the opposite side of the path.

"Oh, God," the stunned private had blurted, a blank look raiding his bright, green eyes. The mild exclamation was surreal to the stupefied men witnessing the macabre sight before them.

Lieutenant Goldman was the first to react. "Get him off of there!" No one moved. The soldiers stood paralyzed, unable to comprehend the officer's direction. "Now, dammit! That's an order!" He started to move himself toward the bloody private but was held back by Sergeant Anderson's powerful grip.

"No, Sir! We can't get him off that thing. There's no way!" Aware that the lieutenant had chosen to reject his warning, the sergeant used his free hand to grab Goldman's other arm. Anderson yanked the smaller man back with a force that caused the lieutenant to nearly lose his footing and go stumbling into the thick tangle of elephant grass behind them. "LT, you try pulling those things out of him and you'll rip him apart! He's as good as dead already!" The exasperated officer struggled free of Anderson's grip and turned to challenge the squad leader's insubordination. Just as Goldman was about to threaten Anderson with a court martial for not complying with the order, Private Greene began to scream.

The shock of the blow had been replaced by an excruciating agony, causing Jimmy to release a gruesome wail. He was attempting to form words, but blood gurgled in the private's throat from the grisly spears piercing his chest and abdomen. The only word Jimmy Greene was somehow able to articulate was the most painful word Goldman could have imagined. "Momma."

Horrified by the hideous sound, Lieutenant Goldman turned to search the more experienced sergeant's eyes, only to be met with Anderson's own daunted gaze. With the bamboo rods causing so much internal injury, Goldman was astonished that the boy had enough air in his lungs to produce such deafening cries. The lieutenant knew the pandemonium must be stopped before the VC heard and prevented their extraction. "Doc, give him some morphine!"

"Yes, Sir," the medic agreed, hurriedly searching his pack for the medicine. Doc Matsuda snapped the top off the serette and moved to inject the thrashing soldier.

"LT!" Anderson shouted above the inhuman screams coming from the tortured private. "That's not going to help. It could take a long time before that stuff works. We can't let him suffer like that. He's gonna die anyway!" Goldman continued to ignore the sergeant's appeals. "Sir! Listen to me! Let me let him die with some dignity!" Anderson eyed the lieutenant's 1911 Colt .45, making his intentions perfectly clear. Goldman looked at his sergeant, wide-eyed, his mouth opened in shocked disbelief. "Sir, it's the only way!"

The boy's cries continued to pierce through the afternoon rain, echoing off of rocks and trees and creating a thunderous vibration throughout the jungle canopy. The VC were going to be on top of the squad at any instant if Greene didn't cease his shrieking, but Goldman knew the poor kid was helpless to resist. The young lieutenant directed his eyes at the even younger private, struggling to come to an alternate resolution that might save Mrs. Greene's only son. The downpour failed to relieve the sweat building on Goldman's brow as he faced the most horrendous decision of his short military career.

"And how do you expect to explain the bullet, Sergeant?" Goldman demanded, beginning to panic. He frantically rationalized why this could not happen. "Damn, Anderson. He's been shot with bamboo. There's no way I'm going to be able to explain a bullet from an American weapon." Anderson did not respond, understanding that the lieutenant was neither seeking nor needing the answer. The price for allowing this young boy's misery to go on was much higher than any punishment a military court might deliver.

The men in the squad stood deathly still, silently looking from sergeant to lieutenant hoping that one of them would stop Greene's torment. Not one of the soldiers was thinking about the dangerous possibility that the Viet Cong might hear Jimmy's howls. It was the bloodcurdling sound of the dying boy's screams that sent shivers down their spines. "Shit, man. Make it stop," Taylor muttered in a quivering voice to no one in particular. With as much as they wanted Goldman to give the order, no one in the squad could bring himself to hurry the lieutenant's decision. They knew it was not an easy one to make.

Unable to endure Greene's shrill cries any longer, Anderson grew determined to take action. "Ruiz, give me your sidearm, Son." The inexperienced machine-gunner hesitated, looking nervously to the lieutenant to see if there would be an objection. Private Ruiz was uncertain whether to follow the sergeant's order or to wait for Goldman's decision, knowing that disobeying either man could mean a challenge from the other, prolonging Jimmy's agony. "Come on, Ru. Give it here."

"No," Goldman interrupted. "I'll do it." The lieutenant had finally relented, deliberately avoiding the eyes of his men. He reached his arm across his stomach and, using both hands, fumbled to unsnap the holster and pull his own sleeping weapon from its home he wore around his waist

Anderson could feel the lieutenant's anguish and tried to intervene. "Sir, it's OK. I'll take care of it."

"Back off, Sergeant. That's an order." The command was soft-spoken, and Anderson recognized the futility in arguing with the lieutenant over this matter. The soldier reluctantly took a step back, leaving the officer to perform his appalling duty. Goldman gazed down upon the heavy black weapon laying loosely in the palm of his hand, weakly noting the tickling sensation as heavy drops of rain spattered off the cold steel and dribbled down his fingers. He stared into the sergeant's eyes, wordlessly pleading for another option, but the mournful expression on Anderson's face firmly assured Goldman that the only other choice would be to allow this poor boy's torment to continue.

Goldman crossed the path to move closer to the hysterical private, hoping to soothe the boy's terror as death loomed nearby. "Greene," the lieutenant spoke softly, wrestling to maintain control. "Jimmy, listen to me now. I'm going to make the pain go away. I know you're hurting but I'm going to help you now." The sound coming from Private Greene slowly became more subdued as the screams were replaced with heavy sobs. Myron glanced back at the sergeant, hoping to borrow some of the more experienced man's stability and returned his attention to the dying soldier. "All right, Jimmy. It'll all be over soon. I promise."

"I...I...k-k-know," the boy moaned, the unexpected clarity of Greene's voice startling the officer. "Th-th-thank you, S-s-sir." Goldman stared into the brilliant green eyes that had lost none of their youthful glow, and struggled to choke back his dismay. Jimmy Greene was thanking the lieutenant for doing the unconscionable. Wanting to turn away, but cognizant that the dying private was fighting with every fragment of strength he had left to communicate his final thoughts, Goldman waited for Private Greene to continue. "W-would you t-tell m-m-y momma," Jimmy struggled with every syllable, "that I l-l-ove her and I'll be w-w-waiting for her with J-J-Jesus up in H-Heaven?"

"Yes, Jimmy. I'll tell her." Goldman was barely able to speak, feeling his emotions threatening to explode. The officer laid a reassuring hand on the young man's arm before stepping back to fulfill his promise to make the pain go away. Goldman numbly watched as Jimmy Greene raised his right arm in a final, respectful salute to his lieutenant and closed those bright green eyes for the final time to await his ultimate peace. Lieutenant Myron Goldman stifled his emotions, struggled to control the trembling in his hand, released the safety from the weapon, pointed the pistol at Private Greene's head and pulled the trigger. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he returned the salute.

The lieutenant was sharply pulled away from his memories, as the usual noises of dawn commenced on the other side of his canvas tomb. He struggled to his feet and compelled himself to move across the tent to where the field desk and his unwelcome task awaited him. With great care, as if the slightest movement might destroy it, Goldman rested the Sandy Koufax rookie card against the small lamp sitting in the corner of the extended work space, and regarded the nearly empty bottle of whiskey he had abandoned nearby. Licking his lips to wipe away a salty tear that had found its way down his cheek, Goldman raised the whiskey to his parched mouth, reconsidered and returned the bottle to its place on the desk next to the lamp. The dim lamplight burned through the amber liquid, casting an eerie halo in the middle of the white paper stacked in front of the weary officer.

Without further delay, Lieutenant Myron Goldman removed the last cigarette from the pack that was resting on top of a pen, pressed the rolled paper between his lips without lighting it, picked up the writing instrument that had eluded his earlier search and proceeded to write his first letter home to a grieving mother.