SquidgeWorld Archive

The Wall

September 16, 1985

I'm forty now. It's a turning point, a demarcation between one part of my life and the next. I never expected to be the one to get all introspective and intense over a birthday -- that's more Hutch's venue than mine -- but for some reason, the big four - oh has raised a lot of ghosts for me, brought up a lot of things I thought I buried long ago.

It started with the dreams.

A long time ago -- a lifetime ago -- I'd spent nearly a year dealing with the dreams. I'd come back from Nam like a lot of guys, with something just a little bit off, a little bit broken. I'd drifted for a year, fought the demons, dreamed the dreams and finally found myself when I went to the Academy.

It saved my life.

It gave me something positive to focus on, a way that I could maybe help people, instead of hurting. And the rules were clear -- I knew what was right and what was wrong. I was out of the gray at last. Two years In-country had pretty well screwed my sense of right and wrong and I was glad to have some clear-cut boundaries again.

But ....

I'm forty now.

Over the hill.

Definitely part of the establishment.

And things are changing.

Dobey's retiring.

Hutch passed the Lieutenant's exam.

I'm just about finished with my bachelor's degree.

And I'm dreaming again.

Miserable hot, sweaty nights, where sleep is impossible.

Leeches on my legs after crossing yet another river.

Socks that never dry because the air's so humid you sweat just being outside.

Adrenaline rush when I hear a twig snap in my dream and wake to find myself cowering in the corner and scrambling for a rifle I haven't carried in twenty years.

Screams that echo in the night in a place where it's never quiet, never safe.

And through all this, Hutch had been patience personified. I looked like shit -- not sleeping does that to a person. I was tired all the time, cranky as hell, and I know my damned reaction time was down, but Hutch was still just giving me space, trying to let me work through things on my own.

And then one night, we'd been watching a game and I fell asleep. I woke up screaming and when my partner spoke to me, tried to calm me with his touch, I lashed out and nearly broke his jaw. He wore the bruises for a week before they completely faded.

But he never blamed me -- never condemned.

When I'd come back to myself, I'd run for the bathroom, my stomach lurching over the things I'd remembered and the fact that I'd hurt someone I care so much about. When I'd come out, he had coffee waiting. My hands were still shaky and I'd dropped the cup. Hot scalding coffee hit my arm like fire. Cold first, shocking, then the flesh bubbled white-hot and red. The smell of burnt skin had risen up, choking me.

Hutch had grabbed me and dragged me to the sink, holding my arm under the cold running water. He'd talked to me, told me it would hurt like hell for a while, but assured me it wasn't going to scar.

Right on the hurt -- wrong on the scar. I finger the fading patch of skin, still slightly lighter than that which surrounds it and I remember.

Man, was he right.

The pain, oh God, the pain! It had been so real, so immediate, so intense.

And it had brought it all back -- in Technicolor and stereo.

I close my eyes now, feeling it all over again.

Fire falling from the sky.

The napalm, thick and gooey, that stuck to everything and couldn't be washed off. Burned bodies and how, after a while, you could sort out the smells -- skin from hair from clothes.

And I'm thinking, twenty years now, and my leg still hurts when it rains.

I never talk about it.

Try to never think about it.

But I'm forty now ....

And I find myself pulled to the Wall.

Thinking maybe that can help me deal again.

I've thought about it since they put it up, thought about making the trip out, but I've never really felt the call before and so ...

I never went.

But now I'm forty.

And I don't sleep nights anymore.

And something I thought was over a long time ago is as real today as it was then, and I need to put it to rest -- as much as I can.

So I'm standing here now, staring at the scar in the ground, the cold black granite slicing into the earth like an obsidian blade.

And I can't move.

Hutch's hand is on my back and while his touch is light, I think he may be the only thing keeping me from completely losing it, right here, right now. He's holding me together and all I can think is, there are so many people here.

Not just the guys like me, thirty to forty-five year olds who did our time In-country, but all the older people. Mothers who still cry, and fathers who don't but wish they could. Guys in cammies from Nam and active duty guys -- and women -- in dress uniforms. And the children. God -- there are so many children!

A kid, maybe twelve, is staring at the Wall, and he reaches out and touches a name. "Daddy." His lips move but there is no sound and I can see him bite his cheek as he tries to be a man and not cry. I wanna tell him to go ahead and let
the tears come. This is worth crying over.

An older kid, around eighteen or maybe twenty is leaning against the Wall, his head pressed hard against the cold granite. "I started smoking because of you," he says. "All those pictures and you always had a cigarette in your mouth." He laughs and adds, "I'm trying to quit now. Mom says you'd want me to."

A young girl, maybe sixteen, stands there in a prom dress, and her mother takes a picture. "I just wanted you to see, Daddy," she whispers to the Wall.

Mothers bring pictures and fathers bring medals and brothers bring class rings and letterman jackets. Wives and girlfriends bring flowers, children bring stuffed animals, buddies bring beer and tequila and bourbon and rye. Soldiers and sailors bring flags and rank insignia.

And everyone brings letters.

I look down at my hands -- my empty hands.

I didn't bring anything.

Hutch whispers in my ear. "It's okay, Starsky. You brought yourself." How does he always know just what to say to make things right again?

"He, uh, was going to be twenty-one the next day," I say, pointing to the name Hutch holds in his hand. "I was supposed to go out, but he traded with me. Wanted to be at camp for his birthday. He was so fucking excited about his birthday." I close my eyes and Hutch's hand moves from my back but his arm wraps around my shoulder. I let myself be pulled close. I need this. I need him.

"It was just past midnight when the NVA attacked. Sappers and mortars. The water station went down. We all came pouring out and all hell broke loose. I headed toward the station and I found him. An RPG had taken his arm off and then an AK-47 had just about cut him in half. But I could still recognize him, still knew who he was."

I take a deep breath and can't quite swallow the sob that escapes. Hutch hugs me tighter. "I found him. I held him. He looked up at me and said, 'What time is it, Davey?' and I said 'You made it, buddy. Happy birthday.' He just kinda smiled and then he was gone."

For a minute I can feel the blood again, smell the jungle and the fire and the charred bodies. I look at my hands, expecting to see them covered in red, but they're just my hands. A little shaky, maybe, but still, just me.

Hutch has his head down, kinda resting it on my shoulder and I'm surprised to realize he's crying. I reach out and pat him, kinda awkwardly, 'cause I really don't know what to say. He nods, like he understands, and lets me go, so I finally get my feet moving and step forward.

I stop again, waiting for Hutch. He has the names, the panel numbers I need and he prods me forward silently. It's interesting to observe. All around us people move. Throughout the large green expanses of the mall, people walk and talk and jog and ride bicycles. Soccer and softball and rugby games are being played. Children laugh and dogs chase Frisbees and lovers picnic on blankets in the autumn afternoon sun.

But here, in the hollow of the earth created by this black monument, silence seems to reign. Even the littlest child seems to realize this is a holy place, a sacred spot, and a hush fills the air.

We stop before my panel, and I reach out to trace the names. There are so many, many names. But these two days, here together -- these hold the names I needed.

The granite is sun-warmed and yet still feels cool. The names are hard-carved into its polished surface -- a permanent testimony to too many young men, dead before their time.

"The next day, my team sterilized the area. We moved out clockwise, in a wide-sweeping arc. There were ten of us, spread out 20 meters, front to back. I was rear security."

I look up at Hutch. He isn't crying anymore, but he looks so worried about me, it makes me reach out and touch him. " 'm okay, babe," I whisper. "I need this."

He nods and swallows hard, then says in this rough voice, "Whatever you need, Starsk. Whatever you need."

I look back at the Wall -- at my names. "We were two days into enemy territory when the shit hit the fan. Shooting -- more firepower than we had -- so I knew we'd met someone. I had to run -- not away from that mess, which is what a large part of me wanted to do -- but right straight into it. There were two guys on my left and Tao, our Kit Carson Scout, was on my right. Everyone else was still up ahead. The M-60's were already glowing red and Haskins was on the radio calling for gunships. I started laying down fire with my M-14 'cause there were too damned many trees to be lobbing grenades. I was afraid they'd bounce right back at us." I look over at Hutch. He hasn't moved -- just stands there, being there for me. "Turns out we'd walked into three well-manned bunkers and they didn't like having company."

I'm looking around now and I see a tattered old ruck lyingon the ground a few panels away. I point and say, "That was all I had for cover. I dropped my ruck and fell behind it. I was trying to hear Haskins on the radio and still keep firing, but we were pretty well pinned." I reach up and run my hands through my hair. "It all just went to shit in no time. By the time the Cobra showed up, Tao had taken a hit from an AK-47. His guts were spilling out and he was trying to hold them in with his hands. Snake was making its first run with the mini-guns, but it didn't make a dent. When the Cobra came back around with the two seventy fives, I knew that would at least make 'em sit up and take notice. And then, all of a sudden, KER-BOOM! The whole fucking ground just blew up."

I look around, dazed. For a minute there, I'd been back in the jungle and now, here before the Wall, with my partner at my side, it all feels rather strange. Like I'm in two places at one time. I can see the Wall before me, feel the sharp edges of the names engraved there. But I can also smell the trees burning and taste the blood in my mouth. I lift my hand and brush my lip; it comes away bloody. I've bitten myself. Hutch hands me his handkerchief without a word.

"I didn't know what the fuck had happened, Hutch," I say and even I can hear the confusion in my voice. "My ruck was a mess, my shoulder hurt like a bitch, there was a hole in my pants. Dixon looked bad; Gonzalez wasn't moving at all. And Tao? Tao was still trying to keep his insides on the inside, only now he'd fallen and they'd spilled on the ground and he was trying to pick 'em up and put 'em back. At first I thought it was an RPG, then I realized it was one of the two seventy fives."

I laugh and I can hear the bitterness in the sound. "Who was it said, 'We have met the enemy and he is us?'"

"Pogo," Hutch says quietly, his eyes full.

I can't imagine what shows in my eyes when I look at Hutch and say, "It was the two seventy five. One of ours."

He reaches out and touches my arm, then pulls me into a hug. I lean against him for a minute but when I straighten he lets me go. It amazes me how well he reads me at times.

"It got kinda quiet and I couldn't hear Haskins anymore, so I started screaming into my handset, 'Check fire! Check fire!' I could hear the Hueys in the distance and that's usually enough to make Charlie run, so I'm thinking how this is good, this is good, and honest to God, Hutch, I just start laughing. I'm standing in the fucking jungle, bodies all around me, bleeding from half a dozen holes that don't belong in my body and I just can't stop laughing."

I stop and for a minute I just breathe. In and out, in and out.

"I got Medevac-ed out, me and Tao, and three others. Everyone else was dead. And Tao died in the chopper, still trying to put his intestines back in his belly. I ended up on a table with my clothes cut off and nothing but a washrag over my dick -- and I guess I was lucky they gave me that."

"You get out then?" Hutch asks me in a broken voice.

"Nah. They patched me up and I was back out there three weeks later. 'Nother Lurp. Did six more months before I came back to the World."

Hutch had paper in his hands. "You want a rubbing?" he asks.

I shake my head, let my hands trace the letters of the names of the men who died for me all those years ago. I lean forward, like the kid had done earlier, and rest my head against the Wall. Guess it's the closest I'll get to giving
those guys a hug -- to saying good-bye.

"Need to sit," I choke out, as I am suddenly overcome with dizziness.

Hutch leads me to the grass and lowers me down, then sits beside me. He takes the handkerchief from my pocket and wipes my bloody lip again, then produces a bottle of water and wets it. With gentle hands, he croons nonsense at me and wipes my face. I didn't know I was crying. I lean against him and he lets me. We're here, in front of men and women, mothers, fathers, and children. People from everywhere and every walk of life, and for this moment, I can lean against my friend and it's okay. I can rest in his arms, and no one will judge. He can hold me and hug me and even kiss me, and no one will look askance at us.

How is it that so much death is the only thing to make love all right?

"I still have a letter that I wrote Nick, when he turned seventeen. It starts off innocently enough. 'Happy birthday, Nicky. You getting older means I am too.' He'd written me a lot, asking what it was like, and I decided I would tell him. 'I kill people, Nicky, that's what it's like. I hunt them down and shoot them and I try real hard to kill them before they kill me. Every time I stay alive, somebody's mother's child is dead, and I did it. It makes me sick to think about it. I can't tell you anymore, 'cause I know Mom is reading this and I don't want her to hurt.'"

Hutch's hand was on my back, moving in small circles as I leaned against him.

"I couldn't tell my brother about the times I watched people literally fall to pieces. Times when men searched for a hand or arm that went AWOL, crawled to find a missing foot. I remember watching one guy finally get to the boot he'd been inching toward, only to realize it was someone else's foot inside. And he still had to try and find his own."

Hutch doesn't say a word. He's just this solid, steady presence. Always by my side, never leaving me alone. I don't think, don't remember, don't even feel. I just sit there. And then, suddenly, I look up and it's dark. Late dark, not early evening. I have no idea how many hours have passed. And Hutch hasn't moved. His arm is still around me, my head is cradled against his shoulder.

"I belong on the Wall," I say quietly. "It should have been me."

"No!" Hutch says sharply, the first harsh word he's spoken to me since we got here. "No," he says again, his voice softening, "you don't belong up there. It shouldn't have been you. You did what you had to do, and you survived. There's no shame in that, no guilt in surviving."

"Why them, and not me?"

He shrugs. "Why not them?" He pulls me close and lays his head against mine. "I'm not diminishing their sacrifice, Starsk, I'm just glad you're here."

I sniff a little -- can't seem to stop crying -- then nod. "Thanks for coming with me, babe," I whisper.

I can feel his hair brush mine as he nods.

"It was too much, Hutch," I say softly. "Too much. We lost our innocence. We lost our sanity. Too many of us lost our lives. Part of me's still there. Part of me died over there. Part of all of us who were there died."

"And part of you lived, Starsk," Hutch murmurs to me. "You lived and you grew and you became a good man who does good things."

"There's part of me that's wounded, like something was broken that can't be fixed."

"Not broken," says my very wise partner. "Changed. Tempered. Made stronger for having been tested in fire." He kisses my temple. "You survived, Starsk," he whispers, "and that's okay."

I laugh then and nod, suddenly feeling both exhilarated and exhausted. "Yeah, I did, didn't I?" I say with a smile. "I'm here, aren't I?" I climb to my feet and reach down, pulling my taller friend up. He drags me close and wraps me in his arms.

"Wouldn't want you anywhere else." The words are spoken low and quiet and make me smile.

"Let's go back to the hotel, Blintz," I say quietly. "It's late, and I think I can sleep now."