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2020-11-04
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I Did Not Go

Summary:

Starsky's visit to The Wall brings up memories for Hutch as well. Companion piece to 'The Wall'

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Author Notes: Kenneth P. Hutchinson, Jr. is a real person who served in Vietnam in 1965. He was from West Virginia, a lance corporal in the Marine Corps, and he was 18 years old on December 13, 1964. When he left for Vietnam in February of 1965, he left behind a young bride he would never see again. He was killed by hostile fire on June 5, 1965 in Quang Nam province -- in the service of his country.


I Did Not Go

September 16, 1985

We've been partners for over fifteen years now and in that time, I think we've talked about more things than I can count. I know as much about his family as he does, and he could say the same about my family. We know each other's likes and dislikes, aspirations, ambitions, and dreams, sports affiliations and music preferences. We've had time to get to know each other. To explore our pasts and futures, and to live in the present. To plan and imagine and hope.

Yeah, I would say that in fifteen years, we've talked about just about everything.

Except --

The war.

He served his country and lived through hell.

And me? Well, I did not go.

I'm amazed that it hasn't been a bigger stumbling block between us.

Oh, it rises up sometimes, but Starsk never lets it get too big.

The night it ended, when Nixon made the big announcement and we began pulling out -- I watched him watch the tube and then he got well and truly shit-faced, but he never said a word about what was going on in his head. He let me strip him down and tuck him in my bed and I stood watch over him that night. And when he screamed in his sleep, and broke out in a sweat, I wiped his face and held his hand, but we never talked about it.

And then, a few years later, the movies started to come out. Like enough time had elapsed that it was okay for Hollywood to start taking their piece of the pie. I wanted to understand. I wanted to see what it had been like for him. I wanted him to talk to me. So, when The Deer Hunter came out in '78, I tried to get him to go. We used to do a movie night once a week, if there was anything good out. Took turns picking. When we got to the theater, he just read the marquee, looked at me with this really sad expression and walked away.

I felt like shit because, you see, I did not go.

A few months later, I tried again with Coming Home. He left me standing at the box office and this time, he didn't even come home. I looked for him all night, worried myself sick and kicked myself over and over again for even trying. I found him the next afternoon, just sitting on the steps to my place looking totally ravaged. His head was in his hands and he wouldn't meet my eyes. I touched his shoulder and he slowly leaned forward until he was resting against me. I didn't know what to do, didn't know what he needed. So I just said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again, and he wept against my abdomen for what felt like hours.

I finally managed to get him to his feet and drag him up the stairs and get him into bed. Once again, I felt like shit because he lived it and I wanted to watch movies. He survived, when I did not even go.

When Apocalypse Now came out the next year, he got a little leery about movie night, but I'd learned my lesson. That year we saw a lot of science fiction and comedy. The Star Trek movie came out and he loved it, but bitched about the new uniforms for weeks after. We saw The Muppet Movie and he talked like Kermit and took to calling me Gonzo for some reason still known only to himself. We saw The Amityville Horror and he talked about ghosts and possession and other supernatural occurrences and went on a reading binge. And then we saw Alien and I had nightmares after that. Every time my stomach would hurt, I couldn't help but flash on that damned movie. But Starsk loved it, of course, and since it got us past my Vietnam gaffes of the previous year, I was more than willing to spend a few nights dreaming that there was something in my belly clawing its way out.

It seemed a small enough price to pay, because after all, I did not go.

When they started talking about a memorial, I wondered if he would want to visit. I found it interesting that the man who had conceived of the idea, a Vietnam vet himself, did so after seeing The Deer Hunter -- the first movie Starsky had walked out on me over. I followed the publicity over fundraising and sent in my own contribution. I felt a little hypocritical doing it -- like I was trying to pay for not having gone myself, but it still felt like the right thing to do. I didn't tell Starsk, and as far as I could see, he not only didn't contribute, he was totally unaware that a memorial was going up.

I watched the controversy over the selected design. I remember reading that young Asian girl's description of her winning design. She wanted it to be stark and simplistic, and to sit not on the ground, but in it.

"I thought about what death is, what a loss is," the designer, Maya Lin, had said. "A sharp pain that lessens with time, but can never quite heal over. The idea occurred to me there on the site. I had an impulse to cut open the earth. The grass would grow back, but the cut would remain."

Her words had always stayed with me and I wondered about the size of the cut in Starsky's ground. Oh, the grass had grown up pretty well, but I knew the wound was still there.

So many people objected to how different it was. Purists and traditionalists wanted a statue or an obelisk like the Washington Monument, but once I saw the design, I knew that that young girl had come up with exactly what this country needed to help itself heal. But I never said anything to Starsky. We never talked about it.

I had no right, because I did not go.

He started having nightmares, really bad nightmares, and they just got worse and worse. He lost his edge in the field, his sharpness faded. He was struggling with something so big, so heavy, and I was helpless to help him. All I could do was be there for him -- and wait.

He was moody as hell for months; at times just saying his name was enough to get me nailed with a look, a gesture, an angry word. And at other times, he seemed so lost and alone, somehow so delicate and fragile that I longed to wrap my arms around him and yet was afraid my touch would make him shatter.

So I waited.

Dobey announced he was retiring and we held a big party. For a while, Starsky was more like himself, but the moodiness came back quick enough.

I passed the Lieutenant's exam and we celebrated again. And again, Starsk had a few days of happiness before the gloom reclaimed him.

When he finally finished his bachelor's, got the degree he'd been doggedly struggling towards for most of a decade, I took him out for dinner and drinks. I'd wanted to throw a party, but he'd vetoed the idea, saying anybody that took ten years to finish a degree didn't need to announce that fact to the world. I thought it showed tremendous commitment on his part, especially since I knew academics weren't my partner's strong point and I knew how hard he'd had to work for each and every class he took. So we'd settled on a compromise -- no party, but dinner and drinks because he did need to celebrate his accomplishment. And when I'd lifted my glass and toasted him, I'd seen the pleased flush creep over his face before he'd ducked his head in acknowledgement and dug back into his meal.

He wasn't sleeping. He looked like shit. Dreams haunted him at night and I think he was even having flashbacks at times. After he cold-cocked me one evening when I woke him from a nightmare, I learned to keep my distance when I woke him up.

He felt so bad about the bruises on my cheek, my chin, my black eye. Somehow it seemed fitting to me. He was suffering so much, it was little enough penance on my part to have a sore jaw.

After all, I did not go.

The night he'd hit me had been a turning point. He'd raced for the bathroom and gotten violently ill, and I'd had to exert every ounce of self-control I had not to follow him. I'd made coffee instead and had it waiting for him when he came out. But he'd been shakier than I'd realized and he'd dropped the cup, scalding himself with the boiling liquid. It seemed to trigger something in him and he froze, not moving until I grabbed him and dragged him to the sink to run cold water over the blistering skin. I had no idea what was going on in that head of his, but I could see it wasn't pleasant. I bandaged his hand, promised him it wouldn't scar, and once again put him in my bed.

Within weeks, he told me he wanted to come here.

And he wanted me to come with him.

So we came.

And he talked.

For the first time in fifteen years, he talked.

I marveled at the strength of him, that he had carried all this by himself for all those years. I know he didn't tell me everything, but what he did say was enough. It was more than enough. I'd waited all this time for him to talk to me, to let me help carry the load, and now I found that I was afraid I was not up to the task. Before he'd finished the first of his tales, I'd been crying and it had seemed to make him uncomfortable. I'd gotten it under control and managed to hear the rest of it with more discipline than I knew myself capable of.

When he'd finished telling me about his unit being taken out, when he'd nearly collapsed at the end, I'd helped him to the grass and sat with him, holding him up.

I'd listened to him talk about his letter to his brother and now I've been sitting here, just holding him in silence.

I want to scream.

I want to rage.

I want to cry.

But I don't have the right.

I did not go.

Starsky's lost in the past, lost in his memories, and all I can do is wait for him to return to me.

I want to tell him I wasn't a coward. I wasn't afraid. I didn't go because I was the only son and it would have killed my mother. I wanted a college education, wanted to finish school, but I didn't deliberately use it as an excuse. If I'd been called, I would have gone.

And I want him to know that I wasn't one of those war-hating, anti-military freaks who spat on the soldiers when they returned and screamed 'baby-killer' at them. I didn't protest or picket or participate in any of that crap. I just went to school and got my degree -- that's all I was trying to do.

I want him to know that it's haunted me. I've wondered more times than I can count if I would have been able to make it over there. I did see The Deer Hunter -- alone. And Coming Home and Apocalypse Now and every other movie that came out about the war. And I don't know if I would have been strong enough to do what he did. I don't know if I would have been able to make it.

There on the wall today, I saw a name.

Kenneth P. Hutchinson, Jr.

And I saw how easily it could have been me. If I'd been a little braver. A little stronger. A little less self-centered.

If I had only gone.

Maybe then Starsky wouldn't have to carry this terrible pain by himself.

Maybe then I could help him because he'd know I understand.

Maybe we'd have been able to talk about it and it wouldn't have been this, this wall between us for all these years.

Maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty for burying my head in my books and looking the other way.

I want him to know how much I admire him. How strong I think he is. How proud I am of him and how proud I am to know him.

I wish he could understand about my mother and college and how confused a young man could be about what was the right thing to do at that time.

I wish I knew if he thinks I was hiding, or running away, or deliberately avoiding my obligation.

I wish I knew if he thinks I was a coward.

I wish I knew if he saw that name, too, and if it made him wonder about me and why I am here beside him and not up there with the other Kenny Hutchinson.

I wish I could do more than listen when he talks to me now. I wish I could talk too, about all the things it makes me feel to see him and hear him and be here with him.

But I can't.

All I can do is be with him and give him as much support as he'll take. Try to let him know he's not alone and that what he did was necessary and honorable and he should take pride in his service.

I need to remember that when it comes to Vietnam, no matter what I feel, it's all about Starsky.

You see, my feelings don't count when it comes to this. My emotions have to take second place. He lived it; he survived. He went and was a hero. He came home and put it behind him and went on to make a good life for himself -- something so many of the others weren't strong enough to do.

There's nothing I can say that would matter more than any of that, and I know it.

Because, after all -- I did not go.