“Plenty of fathers are wrangling 4-Fs for their sons. My friend’s dad helped him falsify his medical records.”
“Not ours! I’m convinced Dad wanted to make an example out of Ron. He didn’t want anyone thinking his son would get favoritism.”
My first thought every morning as soon as I opened my eyes was whether I’d see my brother again. If he died, I’d be an only child. I’d have no one with whom to commiserate about growing up with all the ridiculous rules in our house. “I swear, Livy. Sometimes I can’t sleep worrying about my mother and what will happen to her if Ron dies. I’m not sure she could live through it.” News of American soldiers dying on the front lines dominated the headlines. Especially after the Tet Offensive. The tears I’d been holding back crept down my cheeks.
With flared nostrils, Livy shook her head in disgust.
“Other nights I stay up for hours worrying about how scared he must be over there,” I said, swiping my tears away.
Livy checked her mirror and mashed the accelerator to pass someone at ninety miles an hour. Once we were safely back into the right lane, she yelled, “Of course he’s scared. This war is frightening! Horrific! Senseless!” She punched the steering wheel with each word. “Washington bastards. I blame them for the massacre in My Lai.” She glanced at me. “Ronny wasn’t there, was he?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to. What I do know is that he’s not a killer.” I wrung my hands, kneading my palms with my thumbs. “He could at least write. We never hear from him anymore.”
Livy readjusted her sunglasses. “That’s weird. When was the last time you got a letter?”
Staring out the window, I answered, “Last November. Things at our house have been at a fever pitch since Mama met Ron in Hawaii. Dad has become impossible.” I turned to face her. “I guess I can’t blame Ron for not writing. Dad insists on being the first one to read all his letters. He won’t even let Mama check the mailbox. Can you believe that?”
“Psycho.”
“Thank goodness we worked out a plan before he left. He sends my letters to Penny’s house or my PO box at Union. I have them all right here.” I patted my purse. “I don’t know how he’s made it through. Boys in his platoon have died. Others have had their limbs blown off. Vietnam is a living, breathing nightmare.”
“It’s worse than a nightmare. It’s an abomination.” Livy hesitated a few seconds, then asked, “Will you read me one of his letters?”
Dammit to hell. I should have anticipated that.I didn’t want to read her one of Ron’s letters. They were all I had left of him. A private moment. Just between the two of us.
On the Road to Woodstock
Somewhere in Maryland
Friday, August 15, 1969
8:00 a.m.
WhetherIwanted to read Livy one of Ron’s letters wasn’t the issue. As the awkward silence between us grew, the situation became clear. I was in checkmate. Livy had put my king into an inextricable check from which I had no escape. Reluctantly I dug a hand inside my purse, plucked one of the letters out at random, and read aloud.
November 4, 1967
Long Binh, South Vietnam
Dear SuSu,
How are you, little sis? I hope you’re enjoying your freshman year! I’m happy I can write to you at your PO box without Dad reading every word.
I’m pretty good. To answer your question, yes, it’s still miserable here but I’m trying to improve myattitude. It’s best for me to think about the future instead of the now. The irony is the beauty of this place. Despite the death and destruction, the landscape is gorgeous. The sunsets are from another universe. When our chopper flew into this one beach all I could think about was how, under different circumstances, I’d love to vacation here. The Vietnamese girls are pretty, too. Ha ha!
I glanced at Livy with a tight-lipped smile.
So far, I’m the only guy in my company whose dad insisted I enlist. I’ll probably meet more before I go home. My CO told me there are plenty of men Dad’s age who think their sons ought to serve their country like they did. If I hadn’t enlisted, it would have been a reflection on him. He doesn’t care that the US shouldn’t be here in the first place. I love my country, and I used to think it was an honor to serve in the military, but that was before Vietnam. I’d give anything to be holding a protest sign instead of an M16. I don’t believe in this war.
I have something gross to report today. I never gave getting leeches much thought until I got here, but during our mission we had to cross several streams with marsh and reed grass. The streams had waist-high water. Even with our pant legs tied, fitted tight over our ankles, we still got leeches. The only thing that helped to remove those blood suckers was our lit cigarettes. Our CO told us not to remove them with a knife because that would only remove their bodies.
Remember in my last letter I told you we stayed wet for days? Well, jungle rot happens if you can’tchange into dry clothes and socks. We get skin ulcers that resemble moon craters all over our legs and groin. They’re pus-filled lesions that look like giant chicken pox sores.
I looked over at Livy in horror. “Gross!” we both yelled at the same time.
One of the saddest things about this war is the thousands of innocent Vietnamese women and children who are dying. I won’t even go into detail about those horror stories. It would make you wretch. I’ve witnessed things no person should ever see. It’s hard to sleep because I can’t get the images out of my head. Johnson is lying to everyone over there. Don’t believe him.
“See, I told you,” Livy interrupted. “Keep going.”
