His expression hardened at the question, but she saw something deeper within him falter. “I did my job,” he said. “I wasn’t there to run.”
“Do you remember your first encounter with the enemy?”
They were sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs in her office, and her door was closed. They’d come a long way from those days when he’d been shackled to his bed. He was bent over, his forearms resting on his thighs, his heels flat on the ground. He wrinkled his nose at the question.
“I do. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
“What do you remember?”
“I was fresh out there, you know? I was the FNG. Seems like forever since that day.”
“FNG?”
He started to speak, then he stopped himself. “TheNGstands for ‘new guy.’ I’ll let you guess what theFstood for. Sometimes we called them Cherries.”
She made a sound of acknowledgement and encouraged him to keep going, but in her mind, she couldn’t help but appreciate the different sides to this man. A warrior, a killer, and a gentleman.
“I was by a stream, filling my canteen. The heat out there, it drains every drop from you. The other guys were somewhere behind me. I heard them laughing at something, then someone yelled. All of a sudden, bullets were whipping into the grass around me. Sounded like sharp whispers, you know?”
She thought she could hear them, his description was so clear.
“I got into the water, but that was no good. The stream was dappled by all the bullets, and it wasn’t deep enough for me to dive.”
“What did you do?” she asked, forgetting briefly where she was. He’d brought her with him into the jungle, and his terror rushed through her veins.
“I don’t know how long I stood there, frozen, basically waiting to get shot. Then one of the guys shouted, and that cut through the bullets. It was like a window opened, and I heard everything: the men, the guns, and the enemy screaming something I didn’t understand. I stopped panicking and ran headlong into the fight. I mean, I was trained for that, right? I didn’t go all the way to Vietnam to hide. I started shooting, my hands so sweaty I was afraid I’d drop my gun. I barely even knew what I was doing. It was sheer desperation.”
Her own palms were damp just hearing the story. “What happened?”
“I was standing out there like a target, shooting like an idiot, then Tex ran over and shoved against me, making sure I was paying attention. The authority in his voice saved my life. I followed him, I dropped into underbrush when he did, and I got back to work.”
As he grew quiet, Marion leaned in. “Did it ever get easier? Being out there?”
His shoulder lifted. “Sure. I mean, it’s always a surprise, but we tried to be ready. That’s what it’s all about, right? Getting there first, taking the enemy off guard, getting out alive. I was a pretty good shot. I used to hunt as a kid, and that came back to me almost right away. I wonder if I can still shoot now. I’ve never tried with only one eye.”
Marion paused, considering the question she wanted to ask. Was it the right time? “This is a tough question, and you don’t have to answer. I’m wondering how it felt to kill someone.”
There was no change in his expression. “I know what you’re asking. Am I a man or a monster? It’s not that simple, Doc. Nothing is out there. Fact is, someone’s gonna get killed, and you don’t want it to be you. They die or you do. That’s all. Every man in every war understands that.”
She waited, because he’d lost focus. He was remembering something.
“I used to think I’d have a problem killing someone. That didn’t last. Over there, you’re always hunting, always trying to stay alive long enough to do it. I’ve thought about that a lot. I can picture talking to my dad and my grandfather about it now that I’ve lived it. That’d be interesting.”
Her own father’s face came to her, strained and unsure. Wouldheever tell her how it was?
“What about the fear? Did it get better?”
He chuckled lightly. “Oh, that never goes away. If you’re not scared, you’re gonna die. I’ve seen men die because they were too confident. They forgot to listen for the things that didn’t fit. The breathing. A twig snapping under a boot that’s not yours.”
She shuddered. “So basically, you are constantly in fight-or-flight mode.”
“Flight’s not an option.”
“And yet you wish you were still there.”
“I told you. It’s not the place or the fight. I dream about the jungle and the fighting, but what matters is my brothers. I’m a part of them, and they’re a part of me. It’s like, oh, I don’t know. I had an aunt who used to weave baskets. Every straw held the next one in place. That’s how it is.”
“So the brotherhood is the thing?”
