Carry Me Home (6 page)

Wapinski laughed. The pup was ferocious, yet he looked so soft and cuddly to Bobby the incongruity was hilarious. “Come on,” Wap said, going to the door and raising the latch. The dog backed up to the middle of the eight-foot run. Wapinski went in, closed the door behind himself without taking his eyes from the pup. The pup backed to the rear of the cage, still growling, twitching his head quickly, not taking his eyes off the man but searching for an escape route. Wapinski squatted, spoke softly. “What’s yer name, pup? What’s your name? Is it Sally or Sue? Come on. How come you’re so defensive? Sally or Sue or Stacy? You a bitch? Who needs em, huh? You’re a boy, aren’t ya? Oh yeah, I can see. Have you been beaten?”

Wapinski talked to the dog for ten minutes without trying to move closer. A warden’s assistant came into the kennel room, saw Wap, said, “Are you nuts? That little bastard bit me the first day—”

“Sssshh.” Wap had risen when the boy came, though he had not removed his eyes from the dog. Now he backed out of the stall and re-latched the door. The pup flew at him, snapping his teeth just as Bobby pulled his hands out. “What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” the assistant said. “They found him and two others downtown in a box. You know them hick farmers all a time bringin dogs to town, dumpin em in front of the stores and figuring town people’ll just give em homes.”

“That right?”

“Yeah. We end up destroying three-quarters of em. That one’s goin next. If I’d had my way, they woulda injected im the first day we got im.”

“When are you going to kill him?” Wapinski asked.

“Friday. Maybe.”

“He got a name?”

“Yeah. Jerk.”

“Hmm ... Jer ... Joe ... Josh.”

“What?”

“I’ll take him. His name is Josh.”

“Hey, RJ,” Joe Akins said over the phone. He was a college friend of Wapinski’s who had stayed in school, had graduated in June ’67 as Wapinski would have had he remained. “Half dozen of us from our class are going back to the house for a party,” Akins told him.

Wapinski looked at Cheryl’s back as she washed the dinner dishes. Brian was reading the paper. They had barely spoken to him since he’d brought Josh home. “Geez, Joe,” Wapinski said. He massaged Josh’s ears. The pup almost purred. “I haven’t been there since ... shit, it’s three and a half years!” Josh nuzzled his head against Bobby’s leg.

“That’s okay, RJ,” Akins said. “The guys who are going back are all guys we graduated wit—ah, I mean, you know, guys we pledged with.”

Lights shown from the open door of the fraternity house and from the basement windows. The rest of the house was dark. Wapinski slowed his car. Music blasted from the cellar barroom, up through the house, out into the sticky evening air. Wapinski parked the Mustang half a block away, left Josh curled up in the passenger bucket on the sleeping bag, walked in the shadows from tree to tree up the side of the street opposite from the house. Cars were parked in all directions, both sides of the street, up the side roads. Big party, he thought. He stood against the trunk of a large maple across from the house. The music was so loud he could feel vibrations in the ground. I should have met Akins somewhere, come with him, he thought. He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, caressed his lighter. There was someone upstairs in the house. He knew it, felt it. Two barefoot coeds in cutoff shorts and T-shirts came down the inner stairs. Through the open door he watched them emerge from the darkness, walk across the large hall, disappear into the depth of the house. A man emerged from the dark stairs to the upper floor. Wapinski felt a pang of bitterness. He walked back to his car, grabbed a pint bottle from the back seat, patted Josh, returned to his observation post.

Nittany Mountain College was a small school with a reputation for excellence in engineering fundamentals and architectural design. Bright high-school students with average scholastic transcripts often used Nittany as a stepping stone. Get accepted, buckle down, maintain a 3.0 average for two years, then transfer to Penn State. In 1963 that had been Wapinski’s plan too, but he never made a 3.0, only once in five semesters broke above 2.5, and twice had dropped below 2.0. He had enjoyed a lot of parties.

Wapinski nipped from his bottle, smoked more cigarettes, crossed the street. He felt fire in his arms and in his eyes. He did not know where it came from, did not know why he felt anger, contempt for the freeness, the easiness with which the students moved. He felt something awful lurked inside, something he would have to confront. Alcohol numbed his skin, his thoughts, yet he felt wary, aware of every breathing thing, every inanimate object near him.

“Hey, hey, RJ. Well, shit it’s been a long time.” Joe Akins had been sitting in the darkened TV room waiting for him, nodding from the early effects of too much beer.

“Joe.” Wapinski smiled. Joe rose. They embraced, slapped each other’s back. “You ol’ rattlesnake, how are ya?” They gripped each other’s shoulders.

“I’m great,” Akins said. “Good job, good wife, nice house. I started at seventeen thou a year and got a company car to boot. I’m doin great. Gahhddammmm! You’re the only one to show. They all punked out. How are ya, RJ? I mean, really. Yer arms are hard as steel.”

“I’m hangin in there. You know.”

“Yeah. Where you been, anyway? You look terrible. You been on a diet? And where’s yer hair?”

“I’m hangin in there,” Wapinski repeated.

“You been in the army, huh? Yeah, I remember them guys tellin me you got drafted. You gotta excuse me. I’m looped. Me and Tayborn were tryin to drain the keg. You still in?”

“Naw, Joe. Discharged a couple a weeks ago, ah ... I guess about ten days.”

“Let’s go down en get some beer. Tayborn’s down there with about ten loose dollies. Gahhd, you oughta see the tits on the one in the yellow T-shirt.”

The basement was divided into a poolroom and a barroom. The pool table had been pushed against one wall and covered with a plastic sheet. Both rooms were packed. Half a dozen people were dancing on the pool table. The music was loud, the floor was wet, sticky with beer. People were dancing barefoot in puddles, gyrating their bodies without lifting their feet. Akins squeezed through; Wapinski followed. He didn’t recognize the song, the dance, or any of the people. People kept banging his shoulders and arms. To him the students looked young. “Let’s get in there,” Akins shouted and pointed to the doorway to the barroom.

“What?”

Akins squeezed between two girls standing in the doorway. They squeezed back against him brushing their breasts on him. The three laughed. He grabbed one by the ass and squeezed and one pinched his ass hard and he jumped into the next room. Wapinski slid between the girls. They were both braless. He hesitated, smiled. The girls slipped past him into the poolroom. He looked over his shoulder, down at them, at their butts. One had her mouth at the other’s ear. He sensed they were talking about him. Fuck it, he thought. Drive on.

“What?” Wapinski shouted back at Akins. Akins had pulled him to the far end of the bar where the music wasn’t so overwhelming.

“I said, ‘Are you deaf?’ Ha. This is Rick Tayborn. He’s house president. Mickey’s little brother.”

“Pleased to meetcha.” Wapinski nodded. The bar was less crowded than the poolroom, and the speakers were smaller but it was still tight and noisy. Against the far wall a group of students were passing a joint. Through the ceiling lights, the haze glowed. Wapinski was taken by the long straight hair of several of the girls, put off by the length of Tayborn’s.

“You met him before,” Akins shouted. Tayborn handed them each an overflowing red plastic cup of foamy beer.

“You’re the guy who’s a green beret, aren’t ya?” Tayborn asked.

Several people at the bar turned, caught by the words. One very drunk, very large boy, maybe a defensive tackle, put his arm around Wapinski and kissed him on the forehead and laughed good naturedly, almost elfish except for his size. “Welcome to my house,” the big boy said. “Ricky, gimme more beer.”

“He just got outa the army,” Akins shouted to Tayborn.

“Not green beret,” Wapinski said, “101st.”

“What’s that?” Tayborn asked.

“Hundred and First Airborne Division.” Wap could see that that didn’t register either. “Screaming Eagles,” he tried. No recognition. “I commanded an infantry platoon and then a company,” Wapinski said. A few more people pushed in close. Someone turned the music volume down. It was still loud but not so loud that they had to shout.

“Is that right?” Akins asked. “I didn’t know that.”

“Where was that?” An older man to Wapinski’s right asked.

“Huh? Ah, Three Corps and I Corps.”

“Viet Nam?!” Akins said.

Wapinski’s head snapped to Akins, back to the man at his right, back to Akins. Again he was caught off guard. “Yeah.” He was shocked that Akins didn’t know.

“Holy shit, no wonder you look so messed up,” Akins said. “That musta been horrible.”

“What did you do over there, Mr. ah ...”

“Wapinski.”

“Mr. Wapinski. I’m Professor Tilden. Arnold Tilden.”

“Bob Wapinski.” He extended his right hand. The professor either didn’t see it or ignored it. “Commanded an infantry platoon down along the Cambodian border until they moved us up north. I worked in operations and as a liaison to the ARVN and to the Marines. Then I commanded a company out along the Laotian border.”

“Weren’t you afraid,” Professor Tilden began, “of being shot by your own men?”

“Ah ...” Wapinski floundered. He found the question very odd. He knew there were circumstances of officers being shot by their own men, but he knew also that it was rare. “No,” he said. He did his best to sound professional, sincere, to hide his drunkenness. “We were a pretty tight unit.”

“Did you see much action?” the professor prodded.

“I saw some,” Wapinski answered warily.

“An awful lot of American boys are being maimed and killed over there for some rather vague reasons. Is it true that battle casualties are five times higher than what’s being reported?”

“I don’t think so. You know what—”

“I’ve seen the figures of the number of men hospitalized and matched them against the reported wounded and killed. It’s five times higher, Mr. Wapinski.”

“Of course it is, Professor Tilden,” Wapinski said. He drew himself up to his full height. The condescending tone of the professor grated like an awl being dragged down his spine, but he knew he was on solid ground here. He knew the figures inside and out. “Our battle casualties account for a little less than one-fifth of our hospitalizations,” he said simply. “What really drains manpower from operations are infections, like those caused by insect or leech bites, or just grass cuts. Those, malaria, diarrhea, funguses—”

“Fungi,” Tilden corrected.

“Fungi,” Wapinski repeated, not knowing that either was correct.

“You know a lot about the war?” Tilden asked rhetorically. Wapinski didn’t answer. He sipped his beer, tried to hide his anger, his disgust at what seemed to be a setup. “It’s something we can’t win, you know,” Tilden said.

“Why, Professor, can’t we win?”

“That nation is historically predestined to be reunited. We can’t win. The people will rise up and kill every American.”

“What people?” The statement was so distant from Wapinski’s experiences that he felt bewildered. “The South Viet Namese?! If they wanted to rise up they would have during the Tet offensive last year.”

“Maybe our bombers were too much for them.”

“No. No. You don’t understand. Two years ago the fighting was in and around the cities and the villages but the invading army and the guerillas were pushed back. Last year they staged one major coordinated assault at Tet and they were trounced. Now most of the fighting’s in the border regions.”

“And you can take responsibility for that?”

“Mr. Tilden, I took responsibility for myself and my men. And I’m proud of what we accomplished. I’m proud—”

“Tell me about that responsibility. Pushing conscripted men up foreign hills to their deaths while you stay behind the lines—”

“Wait. Wait. It’s ... I can’t tell you how tremendous the responsibility of being an officer is. That’s almost impossible to describe.” Wapinski lowered his shoulders and head, paused for a moment, calmly said, “When you command a platoon or a company in combat, you’re responsible for every man’s life. Very few of my men were drafted. Very few. Most were volunteers. Almost a third were on their second tours. When you’re in charge of a man in combat, it’s not like in business or something. We’re not talking about his job or his grade. I’m talking about his life. Do you know what that means? If you hiccough wrong you might get that guy killed. When I got there I was twenty-two years old. I thought I’d get a platoon of old-timers and I’d be the kid. Half of my platoon was nineteen. Sir, after one fight, I knew what responsibility was. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have one of your men killed? Not flunked, Professor. Killed. Not even killed from somebody making a mistake. Not from bad tactics. From combat. It eats at you.”

“Exactly,” Tilden said condescendingly. Several of the students laughed. Wapinski felt humiliated, angry. “It should eat at you because you caused it. What it is really all about, Mr. Wapinski, and I’m sure you must agree, is the institutional rot and corruption of the Army’s officer corps that allowed men like yourself to win promotions using conventional tactics to claim imaginary victories when the
enemy
, in reality, simply withdraws without you knowing it. It should eat at you even more when innocent villagers are napalmed. You see your one tiny segment and you think you know what’s happening.”

“Do you want to know what I did over there or do you want to hear yourself speak?” Wapinski charged back.

“You’re being provincial,” the professor retorted.

“And yer a fucking jerk,” Wapinski snapped. “If you don’t understand what’s going on over there, keep your mouth shut. You’re getting good people hurt.”

“I believe, in this country, we have a right to speak our opinions,” Tilden said smugly. “You’ve heard of the First Amendment?”

“You’ve got the right to your opinion,” Wapinski said, “but you don’t have the right to be wrong in your facts.”