In training, they beat the boy out of him. He learned to take orders. To take punishment. To eat food that had no taste. He had grown up in a household without a father or brother, and now he learned to live and sleep in the constant company of men.
He was grateful his lean build had saved him from the barbs of the drill sergeant, who tormented those carrying any excess pounds. And while he was not exempt from being called a “shitbird,” one of the drill instructors’ favorite slurs for anyone who failed at an order, Jack was among the few recruits who could finish a twelve-hour run holding a rifle, four canteens of water, a helmet, and a heavy pack.
When he wasn’t doing close order drills, physical training, or weapons classes, Becky floated in the back of his mind. She had kept her promise and written to him almost daily. Her letters were always written on pretty stationery, sometimes on daffodil-colored paper, other times on cheery pink. When he read them, he tried to imagine her saying the words.My dearest Jack …She always began in her big loopy handwriting. She signed off with love and kisses, decorating the remaining space on the page withx’s ando’s.
During his two-week home leave following his infantry training at Camp Lejeune, they had spent as much time together as possible. They drove to Atlantic City, and he blasted the radio, and Becky pulled her hair out of her ponytail to let it whip free in the wind. Jack splurged on lobster dinners for each of them. He loaded his baked potato with sour cream and butter and ate every single kernel of his corn on the cob. Every sensation seemed heightened to him. The smell of Becky’s perfume. The flash of light in her eyes when she threw her head back and laughed.
After dinner, in the soft, hazy twilight, they walked down the boardwalk hand in hand. The smell of the Atlantic filled Jack’s nostrils, and the briny salt air made him feel alive. He was happy the Corps no longer made it a requirement for marines to be in uniform when they were on leave. Too many incidents had occurred with peace activists attacking men in uniform. So Jack wore a soft flannel shirt and his favorite pair of jeans, happy to return to his old, familiar skin. They found one of those instant photo booths. She made funny faces and planted kisses on his face. His favorite one was of her in profile with her eyes closed, her lips pressed firmly on his cheek.
The following morning, they drove back to Allentown so he could spend time with his mother. In the months he was away, his mother appeared to have aged terribly.
She walked toward Jack and wrapped her arms around him.
“My sweet boy …” She sighed as she looked up to him. Her short corn silk hair was parted on the side, her blue eyes rippled with emotion. “You look like a man now.” She touched his cheek with her hand.
“Aw, Ma …” he answered and kissed her on top of her head.
“You’re going to stay here the rest of your leave, right? I told Walter that I wasn’t going back to work until you left for Camp Pendleton.”
“You didn’t need to do that, Ma,” he said and hugged her tight.
“Why? I haven’t taken a vacation in years,” she joked. “I think I deserve a little more time with my son.”
He would stay with her, and they’d watch TV together, all the shows she enjoyed, likeCarol BurnettandThe Ed Sullivan Show. She loved Kentucky Fried Chicken and mashed potatoes, so they’d get an entire bucket and eat the leftovers cold the next day.
At night, when his mother had fallen asleep in her big comfy chair, the television’s white noise still churning in the background,Jack would empty her ashtray of extinguished cigarettes and drape an old afghan blanket over her legs before quietly leaving the house. The moon would be bright against the night sky as he drove over to Becky’s small apartment, where he’d find her asleep with a book open beside her pillow. He unbuckled his belt, shed his jeans, and slipped next to her. His body folding into hers.
The sweet memory of being in Becky’s arms would be the last time he saw her. After his leave from Camp Lejeune, he would spend eight weeks in Camp Pendleton, where he was literally run into the ground and toughened up both physically and emotionally for what was to come. After his second month there, he received his orders to join a rifle company in Vietnam, and a week later he shipped out with several hundred men to Da Nang.
During one of his first days in Vietnam, Jack headed north, packed into an olive-drab transport truck with the members of his new platoon. Beside him sat a shy-looking private by the name of Stanley Coates. His head bowed toward his lap, his rifle tucked between his knees. Jack had hardly noticed him back in training camp, but earlier that morning after the young man pulled out a small, leather-bound Bible, his innocence stood out in high relief to Jack. He watched Stanley quietly, almost in awe, as the boy whispered a psalm, his lips moving as his index finger traced the words.
Amid the crude talk and the harsh jungle conditions, Stanley stood out. He had large blue eyes that bulged slightly, making him appear as though he was locked in a perpetual state of wonder.
“Where you from?” Jack asked as the vehicle bumped along Highway 1.
“Bet you never heard of it.…” Stanley smiled. “Bell Buckle, Tennessee.”
Jack clasped his rifle between both hands and grinned. “You’re right, man. I never have.” Jack looked at Stanley from the corner of his eye. He was tall and lanky, with hardly any muscle on his bones. So fair, his skin looked as white as milk. “You don’t look like you’re even old enough to go to high school.”
Stanley’s laugh was soft and low. “That’s what the everybody said back at Pendleton. It’s not true, though. I enlisted three days after I turned seventeen.”
The men in the truck were packed shoulder to shoulder, the heat so oppressive that as the sweat rolled down their cheeks, it made them look like they were crying. Stanley pulled his shoulders inward, creating a slight space between him and the others.
“Can I ask you something?” Stanley probed.
Jack shrugged. “Sure.”
“Do you ever pray?” His gaze looked hopeful and painfully childlike—as though he was searching for a friend to anchor himself to in his strange new surroundings. “I noticed back at Pendleton, you were one of the only guys not talking trash about women.”
“Nah,” Jack muttered. “That’s not something I do.”
Stanley grew quiet. As he turned toward Jack, a ray of sharp sunlight hit the truck for a moment, and he appeared eerily illuminated. “My daddy’s a Baptist preacher. He didn’t want me to come fight out here, but I wanted to show him I’m no baby.” He nibbled a little on his bottom lip. “I thought signing up was the best way to prove to him I was a man.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “You needed to come all the way to Vietnam for that? Couldn’t you have just shot a deer and brought it home for dinner or something?”
Stanley shrugged. “I dunno, maybe … but I’m here now anyway. Right?” His pale hand lifted up to adjust his helmet. “No looking back, that’s what they say.…”
Jack was only half listening to Stanley now; instead, he was distracted by the unfurling new landscape: the thatched villages, thick tropical trees, and water buffalo hitched to carts.
