Up Country (5 page)

I found myself in a circle of light under a lamp pole, and I wasn’t walking. I turned back toward Karl Hellmann. We stared at each other across the darkness, each of us visible in a pool of light. I called out to him, “Would I have any contacts in ’Nam?”

“Of course,” he called out. “You’ll have a contact in Saigon, and one in Hanoi. Plus, there may be someone in Hue who can help. The mission is in place. It lacks only a person to fulfill it.”

“How long would this person need to fulfill it?”

“You have a twenty-one-day tourist visa. Any longer would arouse suspicion. With luck, you’ll be home sooner.”

“With bad luck, I’ll be home even sooner.”

“Think positive. You must visualize success.”

In fact, I visualized a lot of people gathered in my honor, everyone drinking whiskey; a homecoming party, or an Irish wake.

I don’t mind dangerous assignments. I thrived on them once. But it was the ’Nam thing . . . the idea that I escaped my destiny and that destiny was stalking me. It was creepy.

I asked Karl, “If I don’t make it this time, do I get my name on the Wall?”

“I’ll look into that. But think positive.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I’m positive.”

We both laughed.

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Be at Dulles at eight hundred hours. I will e-mail you instructions for a rendezvous at the airport.”

“My own passport?”

“Yes. We want light cover. Your friend at the airport will have your visa, tickets, and hotel reservations, money, and a few things to memorize. You need to go in clean.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Can I buy you a drink?”

“When I get home. See you later.”

Karl said, “Oh, one more thing. I assume you will let Cynthia know you’re away. Don’t be too specific. Would you like me to speak with her after you’re gone?”

“Do you mean gone, dead, or gone to Asia?”

“I’ll speak with her after you take off.”

I didn’t reply.

Karl said, “Well, then, good luck and thank you.”

If we were closer, we’d have shaken hands, but we both just gave half-assed salutes by touching our caps. We turned away from each other and walked off.

A
fter my meeting with Karl, I had a few drinks by myself at home, then sent an e-mail to Cynthia. You should never drink when you have access to any form of communication—e-mail, cell phone, telephone, or fax machine. I printed out my message to her and put it in my overnight bag, intending to re-read it in the morning to see how drunk I’d been. I erased the message on my computer, in case CID Internal Security were the next people to go into my computer.

There was an e-mail from Karl with my airport rendezvous instructions, as he’d promised. His short message ended with “Thanks again. Good luck. See you later.”

I noticed he didn’t invite either a phone call or a reply to his e-mail. In fact, there was nothing left to say. I deleted his message.

I left a note for my housekeeper, informing her I’d be away for about three weeks and to look after things. In fact, I tidied up a bit, in case the CID arrived before the housekeeper to look for sensitive materials that may have been left behind by the deceased. I always tidy up; I want to be remembered as a man who didn’t leave his dirty underwear on the floor.

A
t 7
A.M.
the next morning, I checked my e-mail, but there was no reply from Cynthia to last night’s message. Maybe she hadn’t accessed her mail yet.

A horn honked outside, and I gathered my small suitcase and overnight
bag and went out into the cold, dark morning, sans overcoat, as instructed by Karl. In Saigon, it was eighty-one degrees and sunny, according to the efficient Herr Hellmann.

I got into the waiting taxi, exchanged greetings with the driver, and off we went to Dulles Airport, a half-hour drive at this time of the morning. Normally, I would drive myself to Dulles, but long-term airport parking might not be long enough for this trip.

It was a gloomy morning, which may have accounted for my morbid thoughts.

I recalled a similar dawn trip to the airport, many years ago. The airport was Boston’s Logan, and the driver was my father in his ’56 Chevy, which has since become a classic, but which was then a jalopy.

My thirty-day pre-Vietnam leave had come to an end, and it was time to fly to San Francisco, and points west.

We’d left Mom at home, crying, too upset to even scramble eggs. My brothers were sleeping.

Pop was pretty quiet during the trip, and it was only years later that I thought about what he must have been thinking. I wondered how his own father had seen him off to war.

We had arrived at the airport, parked, and went into the terminal together. There were a lot of guys in uniforms with duffel bags and overnight bags, a lot of mothers and fathers, wives or maybe girlfriends, and even kids, probably siblings.

Sharply dressed military police strode in pairs through the terminal, an unusual sight just a year before. The homefront during wartime is a study of extreme contrasts: sorrow and joy, partings and reunions, patriotism and cynicism, parades and funerals.

I was flying American Airlines to San Francisco, and I got in the appropriate line, which was comprised of mostly soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen, and some civilians, who looked uncomfortable being in the same line.

My father wanted to wait, but it looked like most of the families had left, so I talked him out of it. He took my hand and said, “Come home, son.”

For a moment, I thought he was ordering me to leave with him and forget this idiocy. Then I realized he meant come home alive. I looked him in the eye and said, “I will. Take care of Mom.”

“Yup. Good luck, Paul.” And he was gone. A few minutes later, I caught
a glimpse of him through the glass doors, watching me. We made eye contact, he turned, and was again gone.

I checked in at the ticket counter and went to the gate, where I discovered that this was where most of the families had disappeared to. You could go right to the gate in those days to see people off. I thought maybe my father might re-appear, or even my girlfriend, Peggy, who I insisted not come to the airport. I realized that I really wanted to see her one more time.

Despite the large number of guys my own age from the Boston area, I didn’t see anyone I knew. This was to be the beginning of my year of looking for familiar faces, and imagining them on other people.

So, I stood there by myself while people around me stood quietly, or talked or cried softly. I’ve never seen so many people make so little noise.

A few MPs stood at the edge of the crowd, looking for signs of problems among the young men who were about to leave for ports of embarkation and war.

In retrospect, this whole scene had made me uncomfortable: the MPs, the mostly unwilling soldiers, the quiet families; the sum total of which was this very un-American feeling of government control and coercion. But it was wartime—though not my father’s war, which was about as popular as any war could get—and in wartime, even the most benevolent governments get a little pushy.

This was November 1967, and the anti-war movement wasn’t yet in full swing, and thus there were no protesters or demonstrators at Logan, though there were a bunch of them around when I landed in San Francisco, and a lot of them a few days later at Oakland Army Base, urging the soldiers not to go, or better yet, to make love, not war.

On that subject, my high school girlfriend, Peggy Walsh, was a pretty but rather repressed young lady, who went to confession on Saturday and took communion on Sunday. At a confraternity dance in St. Brigid’s High School gym, we were all made to raise our right hands while Father Bennett led us in renouncing Satan, temptation, and the sins of the flesh.

The chance of Peggy and me having sex in peacetime were about as good as my father’s chances of winning the Irish Sweepstakes.

I smiled at that thought and came back to the present. The taxi was making good time, just as my father had done so many years before. I remember thinking then,
When you’re going to war, what’s the hurry?

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to the months before I was waiting to board that airplane at Logan.

I
’d gone into the army a virgin, but during advanced infantry training at Fort Hadley, I and some adventurous barracks mates discovered the young ladies of the cotton mills—lint heads, we called them, because they had cotton fibers in their hair from working in these hellish mills, doing whatever they did. The hourly pay was bad, but there were plenty of hours available because of the war. There was, however, a better way to make more money for less work. These girls were not prostitutes, and they’d make sure you understood that; they were mill workers, patriotic young women, and they charged twenty bucks. I was making about eighty-five dollars a month, so this was not as good a deal as it sounds.

In any case, I spent all my off-duty Sunday afternoons in a cheap motel, drinking cheap wine, and picking lint out of the hair of a girl named Jenny, who told her parents she had a double shift in the mill. She also had a boyfriend, a local guy, who sounded like a total loser.

Predictably, I fell in love with Jenny, but we had a few things going against the relationship, like my eighty-hour training week, her sixty-hour workweek, our bad-paying jobs, and me always being broke (because I paid her twenty bucks a pop), her other dates, which caused me some jealousy, my impending orders to Vietnam, and last but not least, her strong dislike of Yankees and her love for her loser boyfriend.

Other than those things, I think we could have made a go of it.

Also, there was Peggy, who insisted that our love remain pure. In other words, I wasn’t getting laid. Having discovered the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, however, I was obsessed with the idea of showing Peggy what Jenny had taught me.

So, after infantry training and airborne training, back in Boston for my thirty-day pre-Vietnam leave, I worked on poor Peggy day and night.

Bottom line here, my infantry training had taught me how to storm a fortified hill, but storming the defenses of Peggy Walsh’s virginity was more difficult.

In a stupid moment of honesty, I told her about Jenny. Peggy was really pissed, but it also got her hormones going, so instead of giving me the heave-ho, she gave me absolution, along with a punch in the face.

She informed me that she understood that men couldn’t control their animal urges, and acknowledged the fact that I was about to ship out for Vietnam, and there was the possibility that I’d never return, or might get my dick shot off, or something.

And so the last seven days of my leave were spent in intimate hours with Peggy in her bedroom while her parents were at work. I was surprised—shocked, actually—to discover that Peggy Walsh was about ten times hotter than Jenny, whose last name I never knew. Better yet, I didn’t have to pick lint out of Peggy’s hair.

B
ack to the present, I noticed my cabdriver looking at me in the rearview mirror. He asked me, “What airline?”

I looked out the window and saw we were at Dulles. I replied, “Asiana.”

“Where you heading?”

“Vietnam.”

“Yeah? Thought you were heading for someplace nice. Saw you smiling.”

“I just came back from someplace nice.”