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There’s a blue leather briefcase in the corner of my office that has collected dust for 5 years since I retrieved it from a storage locker where it rested for at least 10 years, and, before that, it spent almost 20 years in attics before going to storage. I always knew where it was, even if apparently neglected. The
briefcase has a tattered yellow ribbon with black stripes tied to the
handle, a souvenir from a January ’69 bottle of Canadian Club, ‘V.O.’
(Very Old). Southeast
Asian cognoscenti would recognize the ‘short-timers’ ribbon, a
prized possession that was worn by a U.S. serviceman in the lapel of his
military blouse if, and only if, he had less than 30 days remaining to
serve in Vietnam. Only
those who had ‘been there and done that’ would have any idea of how
special was that ribbon, much less what it represented, besides
survival. There is
a Playboy decal on the cover of the briefcase that is a giveaway that
the briefcase, and likely its contents, are the 60’s era possessions
of a person who was a young male at that time.
Hints of rust show on the latches, indicating it has rarely been
opened. The
briefcase speaks. “When?”
it asks. I am
surprised by the query, but ignore the question. I wondered if it would
try to communicate if brought from the storage locker and regret the
retrieval decision. Oddly, I am comforted by its presence, and the
knowledge it holds, which includes detailed memories long-forgotten, or,
perhaps, suppressed.
I’ve regarded the briefcase from time to time, when moving it
from place to place for storage, and felt a stirring of deeper and
darker thoughts and feelings.
Four
years pass and it speaks, again. “We
are waiting.” “I am
not ready for you,” I answer, surprised at the sound of my voice as I
sit alone in the office, but not alarmed at my conversation without the
presence of another living person.
I know I am in the presence of an undeniable Awareness that I
accept and it now demonstrates, at the same time acknowledging that this
interchange may be but the mere manifestation of a psychological
transference that could be explained as a common condition associated
with the so-called ‘post-traumatic stress syndrome’, though I’ve
only rarely experienced the symptoms
associated with that particular condition.
“Are
you afraid?” I ignore
the question and nothing more is said for another year. The following January, it speaks a last time. “There
will be a sign.” I do not
respond, but now sense my readiness to proceed, though I’ve no idea
about the sign. The next
day is the anniversary of the onset of the Tet Offensive. I receive an
e-mail from a Vietnam friend I have not heard from in 34 years, when the
briefcase was closed. A
sign or, more likely, a mere coincidence? It could be either, for this
is a memorable anniversary for those who were there at that time. I firmly
grasp the briefcase and lay it on my desk, releasing the latches that
spring open, almost exuberant to relieve the pressure from a packed
container. Two leather-bound Diary books are visible. There is a ragged,
cloth-covered Journal on which I had drawn our unit’s emblem, a pair
of crossed pistols, and written boldly on the cover, ‘This is the
Record’. When I
first pull back the cover of the Journal, it opens to a page that
contains a sketch of the person that sent the e-mail, perhaps confirming
the ‘sign’ suggested by the briefcase, or my intuitive sense. There
are numerous other items, including the written prayer that I said every
night before my dusk-to-dawn patrols began. That prayer was sent to me
by my father, who had flown B-17 bombers on numerous missions over Nazi
Germany. I would later entrust it to my oldest son, who then serves in
the Marine Corps. There is
a legend that accompanies
the prayer, believed to be over 700 years old. It promises protection to
those who recited it. Some soldiers carried lucky-charms like a
rabbits-foot. I carried that prayer.
The
Journal contains a hand-drawn map of the ‘Battle of Bunker Hill 10,’
a largely unknown, but heroic battle that military accounts would liken
to the famed battle at The Alamo, but with a different outcome. We would
win this battle and save the Bien Hoa Air Base being overrun, which,
consequently, would enhance the ability of American forces to respond to
simultaneous and continuing attacks on various targets inside, and
around Saigon, as well as numerous other locations in South Vietnam. The
President of the United States would award our unit a distinctive
personal citation, delivered by General William Westmoreland, the
Commander of American Forces in Vietnam, but that gold-framed ribbon
would lose its luster when the American Congress later abandoned the
effort and the people of South Vietnam, making vain the valor and
sacrifice of those who gave their lives that night and those of us who
placed our lives in harm’s way to secure our base and save our
brothers. The map
reflects the battle’s sequence, which I felt compelled to document, an
effort to memorialize those sacrifices.
It was drawn from first-hand, front-row knowledge as a witness
and participant in the battle, part of an effort to sort-out, give
shape, and a measure of understanding to overwhelming events whose
significance would not be known for many years. My
companion during this event would remain in Vietnam, a casualty of war.
His name was C-Note, a Sentry Dog and survivor of 17 months service.
That magnificent animal, who was as much a part of me as my own flesh,
now rests in the soil of that fertile, foreign land, a continent and an
ocean away, but now, and often, as close as the feelings in my heart.
Our
nightly patrols began at sundown, when I would hop-down from the back of
a ‘Duece and-a-half,’ a 2 ½ ton
transport, lower my muzzled partner, and make our way, alone,
to the outer perimeter of the base.
The next team would be at least ¼ mile distant, perhaps up to a
½ mile away. Patrol locations would change each night in order to keep
both of us alert to the sounds, smells, and sights of a distinct, new,
and potentially threatening area. I carry
an AR-15 weapon, as comfortable in its sling as in my personal clothing,
a bandoleer of ammunition clips, an ineffectual .38 handgun, used mostly
to shoot rats, four (4) fragmentation
grenades, a pair of hand-held flares, a Claymore mine detonator, and a
handheld radio, my lifeline to support forces, with K-9 equipment
consisting of a leash, choke-chain, collar, and muzzle. The muzzle and
choke chain will be removed when the truck is distant. The collar will
be secured to the leash, and we will begin ‘quartering’ our post in
the endless hunt for hostile humans, never knowing what the night or the
hunt will bring, besides memories and ghosts that would hide in
unsuspecting places, like briefcases. At sunrise, we will withdraw from
the fields and return to a designated pick-up point, unless events are
underway that change the routine, such as would occur on the night of
the Battle of Bunker Hill 10.
The
briefcase is open and the memories materialize into images and spirits,
emerging, as I knew they would, explaining my hesitancy to open the
briefcase, a hesitancy
reflecting a lack of confidence in my capacity to deal with the
knowledge they would bring and to answer the questions they would ask.
Those who emerge have questions and seek answers. I apologize for not
facing them and listening to their questions earlier. I am honest when I
tell them my delay was not from fear, but from uncertainty.
I am no closer to giving answers now than I was 35 years earlier,
when they were first sealed in the briefcase. I am
comforted by their understanding. We reminisce. Some
were dear friends whose last breaths were of the air of that terribly
beautiful but poor and wretched land, which I abandoned with shame and
sadness as I wore my short-timer ribbon and boarded the plane home,
carrying these bundles of memory packed tightly inside the briefcase.
There was no other option, but that did not change the pain of
parting or the feeling of abandonment. I had
given all I could, save my life, to these friends and the beautiful,
tragic people of Vietnam, and my own demanding country, serving an
additional tour of duty, voluntarily, during the most terrible phase of
this protracted c0nflict, and had surrendered two (2) ‘R & Rs’
(a week-long ‘rest & recreation’ break, with travel costs paid
by the U.S.) so that I
might remain with my undermanned unit. I admit that these are
transparent excuses given to assuage my guilt and are empty in
comparison to the sacrifice of those who have emerged, for nothing can
offset the immense weight of blood given by young men, nor the claim to
honor they so justly deserve. There
are others whose fragments of memory lie within the briefcase and
desperately seek to come out, awaiting invitation. Most are Vietnamese,
including North Vietnamese and Viet Cong, hundreds and hundreds,
who are unnamed and unknown except in the faded memory of their
faces and mangled bodies last seen loaded onto flatbed trucks and then
dumped into a mass grave. I
know each and every one and acknowledge all with sorrow. I begin,
slowly, the work of telling the story of those who were there. I do not
know if their story will be fully told, but I begin to write. The
briefcase is open. It is quiet. My office is filled with faces not seen
since those days so long ago.
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