New Fiction: "Like they say about sleeping dogs"

 Dedicated to Berta. To help her through trying times.

                                                                                        

The barracks where it happened

     I moved from door to door looking for somebody in charge. I didn’t care who, a sergeant, a general, anybody. The sign next to one door said, Battalion Commander, good enough. I knocked. A roar came from inside. I entered the stuffy room, a swamp cooler kicking up a racket in the corner. A kid, a PFC, with a pimply face looked up at me. “Well? And don’t tell me you didn’t sign up for Vietnam. I don’t give a rat’s ass what your orders say. Once you’re in, your ass is Uncle Sam’s, got it! If your orders say Vietnam then that’s where you’re going.” 

     I cut him off. “My orders say Germany, not Vietnam.” 

     His brow furrowed, and his eyes bore into me. I repeated, for effect, “I joined Airborne, Fort Benning, not Germany.” 

     His jaw dropped. I rushed the next words, “I’ve got the papers back in the barracks to prove it. I need to see the post commander.” 

     I could see him trying to read me. “Privates don’t talk to the post commander.” 

     “Well, who can change my orders? They got ‘em wrong.” 

     He rose slowly, leaned forward, his hands on the desk, the clicking sound of the swamp cooler getting louder, outside, the Oklahoma heat a furnace. 

     An hour earlier, we’d received orders after graduating from Fort Sill's artillery school, most of my friends assigned Vietnam, a few to Germany, like me, Roy Sandoval, Bobby Lucero, and Birdman Montoya who told me not to mess with fate, to accept my destiny, and thank the gods for my luck. 

     “You go Airborne, you go to Vietnam, baboso,” Bobby had said. 

     I told them I’d dreamed of being be a paratrooper since I was a kid, like my dad and uncles, family pride. Truth be told, my dad was pissed when I told him I joined the army instead of going to college.

     Roy Sandoval, the oldest and smartest of our group, had said, “Pride is one of the deadly sins, man.” He shook his head, slowly, “Kiki, you think people will dig it because you got some chicken shit paratrooper wings pinned to your uniform? Nobody cares. You’ll still be a goddamn Mexican, brother. Don’t you see, it’s just a thing, you know, nothing but a thing. You got it into your head that this thing will somehow make you a man, macho and shit. It won’t. When it’s over, you’ll still be just another guy, or a dead Mejicano.” 

     After a half-hour of trying to convince me to see reason, Birdman said to everyone, “We gotta send the dude off happy, you know. Salas don’t need no bad energy where he’s going, man, so let’s just let this shit lie, ese, like they say about sleeping dogs, tu sabes.” 

     The clerk barked, “Did you hear me?” He was angry, his voice sharp? “The chief is out, just the captain, his exec. is in, and I already said, you go where your orders say. I don’t want to hear anymore bitching today about orders.” He gave me a strange look. I don’t remember what came next, except, like I’d been transported through time, I found myself standing in front of the captain, a man perfectly groomed, his khakis crisp as a board, and, on his collar, two gold shimmering bars, jump wings, three rows of ribbons, a purple heart with a star, and a CIB over his left breast pocket. He had an aura around him. He exuded confidence and pride. He turned and gazed out the window, toward the empty parade ground, his office bathed in light—the calm before the storm. I removed my cap, saluted him, and stood at attention. 

     He lowered the blinds then slanted them, letting in rays of light. He sat down. 

     “Sir,” I said, before he stopped me. 

     His voice was low, gravelly, controlled, “I don’t remember asking you to speak.” 

     “Yes sir.” “

     What did I say?” His eyes moved, as if studying every part of me, from my shoes to my waist, my shoulders to the top of my head. Since I knew I was strac, perfect, I was confident, a good soldier. I had memorized all the regulations, the Code of Conduct, even the key points to the Geneva Convention. Still, I’d never done anything like this, question authority. 

     He said, “I don’t want to hear it, trooper. The army doesn’t get orders wrong. If it says Vietnam, I can’t help you. Now get out!” 

     “My orders don’t say Vietnam, Sir. They say Germany. 

     He answered, robotically, like a kindergarten teacher, reciting instructions. “I told you…to…get…out.” 

     The words tumbled out of my mouth. “Sir, I’m supposed to be going to Fort Benning for jump school.” A cloud must have covered the sun outside. His office grew dark, maybe a shadow over the building. “I have a copy of my enlistment papers,” though I wasn’t really sure what papers were in my footlocker. 

     He had me in his sights. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. Three months ago, I was drinking beer with friends at the neighborhood park. Now, I was confronting an officer, a combat veteran, and a paratrooper. “Sir, my orders say Germany, Frankfurt. The only reason I joined was to go airborne.” 

     He remained quiet for a long time before speaking. “You said that.” 

     His words seemed to come from far away. I mean, I saw his lips move, but the sound, something about the timbre, more of a soft noise slipping into my ears. I realized I was more nervous than I thought. The sun pressed in hard, like the room was shrinking. His swamp-cooler whirred, quietly. My heart pounded, the pressure rising slowly to my face, but I stood, as trained, rigid, my eyes on a West Point baseball cap, top shelf, behind him. 

     He leaned back in his metal chair, his fingers tapping the armrests and his eyes on me, “Stand at ease,” he commanded. I relaxed, clasped my hands behind my back, and separated my feet the right distance. “So, then Germany’s where you’ll go.” 

     “The recruiter promised me Fort Benning, Sir. I don’t want to be in the army if I’m not a paratrooper.” 

     “You’re already in the army, and you’ll go where we send you.” 

     He was too young for WWII, so it was Korea, Santo Domingo, or Vietnam where he’d earned his combat awards. His face was set in stone, his blue eyes like flames. His name plate, Rivers, shone above his right breast pocket. The room brightened, again. The cloud must have moved past. “Do I make myself clear?” his words like a rifle shot, distinct, final. 

     My eyes stayed firm. I’d never spoken to a captain or any officer before. Of course, I’d heard them give orders, and we’d respond in loud cheers or Yes Sirs! But I’d never spoken to one, man to man. “Yes Sir, but….” 

      “No but…orders, trooper! You….” 

     Whatever he was going to say he stopped himself. I could have filled in the blank with a thousand words. “…Can go,” he finished. 

     I held fast. “So, the army lied to me, Sir.” The words leaped out of my mouth. “The day I walked into the recruiter’s office to sign the papers, to go airborne, he lied, and I was proud, I mean really proud, for the first time in my life. Everything changed that day. I wouldn’t have done it, I mean, joined, if I knew he was a liar.” 

     “You’re out of line,” he growled. Waiting a few seconds, he asked, puzzled, “proud? First time…your life?” 

     “Yes, sir.” 

     “How old are you?” 

     “Just turned 19, Sir.” 

     “Get out! I don’t want to hear anymore,” he said, lowering his head into the palm of his hand, breaking his pose, or, maybe, just exhausted from standing outside on the parade grounds all morning.

     “I don’t mean any disrespect, Sir. I won’t stop until someone makes this right. If I need to see a general, I will. I have the papers to prove it, Sir.” 

     I may have been on the fringes of insubordination. 

     “Rogers! Rogers!” he called, his voice hitting the ceiling and bouncing off the walls. He moved quickly, standing, without my seeing him go from his chair to his feet, all six-plus feet of him, standing there, towering over me, rays of light coming through the blinds. I did everything to keep my legs from trembling. I stiffened my thighs, knees, and calves. 

     The door opened, and the clerk rushed in. “Sir!” Rogers barked. 

     “Get this kid out.” 

     “Yes, sir!” 

     The word kid struck me to the core. Four months I’d completed everything the army had thrown at me, the harassment, the physical and mental abuse, a twenty-mile forced march with a 60-pound pack, weapons training, and too many sleepless nights firing the howitzers, from dark to dawn. A “kid,” no way. I wouldn’t move, not an inch. They’d have to drag me out. 

     Rogers grabbed me. His hand burned my arm. He tried pulling me, but I remained firm, unmovable. He had no power over me. I blurted, “You’ve got them, Sir! Jump wings.” 

     Rogers snapped, “Come on, private, out! Before you get your ass busted.” 

     The captain slowly sat down in his chair and leaned back. “You don’t know shit about it, private. You have no idea what you’re asking,” he said in a softened voice but still stern. “Go to Germany, follow orders.” 

     He appeared defeated, not just tired but weakened, his face pale, nearly white, ghostly I’m sure I didn’t have anything to do with it. He’d been meeting guys all morning trying to get out of Vietnam. 

     “I just want the same chance you had, Sir, to live my dream too.” 

     “Dream? What do you know about it?” 

     Rogers tugged and whispered, “Get the hell out. Come on before you get your ass court-marshaled. Like the captain said, you don’t know what you’re asking.” A smell came off Roger’s body I couldn’t quite place, some type of flower, roses, lilac, too much cologne. 

     “It’s my dream, Sir. You gonna lie to me too?” 

     “You can’t see it, can you, even if it’s right in front of your eyes?” 

     I wasn’t sure what he meant. I answered, “Maybe not, Sir. In fact, okay, I know I can’t.” 

     “I can,” he said, cryptically. “Dreams aren’t always what we think they are.” 

     “After jump school, whatever the army wants is okay with me, even Germany.” 

     “No, son, you’ll go straight to Vietnam,” he said, “guaranteed.” 

     “I will follow orders, Sir,” I said. Again, his eyes were on me. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink, fearing he’d disappear. 

     “Leave us, PFC,” he ordered Rogers. 

     “Sir?” 

     “You heard.” 

     “Yes, sir.” Rogers stepped back but before closing the door said, “It’s getting close to lunch, Sir.”

     The captain’s tone changed. “Think about it,” he said, looking down at a paper on his desk, “Private, Salas, Henry, Germany. There are guys out there would pay to trade places with you. Jump school is a ticket to hell, one way. We need good men in Europe. Germany has got the best artillery outfits. We have a jump school there.” 

     I repeated, “Sir, I joined the army to jump out of airplanes.” 

    He said, as if reading my mind. “And maybe you’re right. I don’t know either, nobody ever really knows why we do the things we do, why men go to such lengths to win others’ approval, to wear uniforms and play the game. You haven’t even a miniscule of an idea what’s waiting for you, death might be preferable, might be a release from the reality of that place, the smell, the look, the hatred, plain and simple, the hell we make for ourselves, the hell we make for others.” 

     He talked like I wasn’t even there, saying, “It isn’t what you think, private. It never is. It won’t be over for you. You’ll finally see, understand, but maybe too late.” 

     He stopped talking and waited, as if my answer would determine my fate. I remained stoic. An eerie silence crept through the air. I said nothing. Then, the sound of his voice reached my ears. He asked me to wait in the adjoining room. He got up, called for Rogers, and whispered something to him. 

     Rogers told me to come back after lunch. I don’t know who said it, but I thought I heard one of them say, “I’m sorry.” 

                                                                                      ***** 

                                                                                           

The open canopy overhead

     When I returned, a different voice ordered me inside. A corporal, an African-American barked, “Well!” 

     I gave him my name and told him about my change in orders. He listened, his face covering the gamut of expressions as we spoke. He said, curtly, “Not possible,” emphasizing how only he and the Captain Mulligan had been at their desks all morning. 

     I walked outside and checked the building and room number. The same place, no doubt about it. Clouds now filled the sky, and I could hear thunder in the distance, Oklahoma’s monsoons, right on time. 

     I stepped back insides and asked as politely as I could if he’d check to see if anyone had placed a new set of orders on his desk. He said he didn’t need to look. He was clearly annoyed. He said guys had been coming in all morning asking for changes in orders. The captain hadn’t changed anyone’s orders all day. Everyone was trying to get out of going to Vietnam claiming all sorts of hardships. When I repeated that I’d been there earlier, maybe during his lunch break, he repeated, “Not possible.”

     “Rogers,” I said. “Check with PFC Rogers. He’ll tell you. He was here when I came in.” 

     I could hear the first trickles of rain outside. He glowered and stayed silent, then said, finally, “Who?” 

     I didn't answer and asked if he’d look at the OUTGOING tray on his desk. I could see his face tightening. His eyes shifted toward the stack of papers in the tray. He reached and picked up an envelope, papers clipped to the outside. He said, “Henry Salas?” My name dribbled off his lips. 

     I responded affirmatively. He asked, skeptically, “Reassigned: Fort Benning, Airborne?” Slowly, he shook his head. 

     “That’s me,” I answered. What a relief. His eyes were on me as he handed over the new orders and the attached travel information. He scratched his face. As I opened the door to leave, I turned and said, “Tell Captain Rivers thanks—and PFC Rogers, too.” 

     He shot back, “This a sick joke, private? Get out or I’ll report you to the A.G.” 

     The adjutant general was the Army’s legal division. I thought that kind of harsh. But I was happy to have my new orders. As I reached the door, my eyes caught the date on my orders, 1965. I turned and walked back. “Corporal.” 

     “What now?” he spat, threateningly, as he picked up the telephone. But before he could dial, I said, “Wait, look.” I pointed at my orders, signed Captain Nathaniel Rivers, dated July 25, 1965. Outside, the rain was pouring, Oklahoma rain, huge drops like golf balls. I said, “They need to correct the date. It’s ’66.” 

     He blew up and ordered me the hell out or he’d report me to the post commander for defaming an officer. “But Captain Rivers….” 

      “That’s it! Trooper.” 

     “But…the date.” I stepped toward the door. 

     He said, angrily, “Nate Rivers and Peter Rogers transferred to MACV, Saigon over a year ago. Captain Rivers was a battery commander and Rogers his assistant. They didn’t make it back. What’re you trying to pull, Salas?” 

     As I stood at the door, he said he didn’t know how I did it, how I got Captain Rivers name on my orders. He accused me of breaking into the office and falsifying my records and said if I didn’t leave, he’d have me court-marshalled. I turned and walked out, shaken but relieved. In the barracks, I took a black pen and changed the ‘65 to ‘66. No one ever questioned it. Why would the corporal lie about Rivers and Rogers? That made no sense, like putting a curse on them. He must have been covering for someone’s incompetence. It was unbelievable how far these lifers would go to protect each other. Happily, I packed my duffle bag and caught a bus to the airport for a hop to Fort Benning. 

                                                                                    ***** 

                                                                                         

The Eagle's Wings

     My son promised me a trip to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial for my retirement gift, but I was always reluctant, too many bad memories, and lost friends. Once there, everything was different. We located the names of my friends who had been killed, including Birdman Montoya. I mean, I knew Birdman was killed his first week in-country, after he’d spent six-months in Germany. It was different seeing his name up on the wall, my eyes welling up. I wiped and tried avoiding tears. 

     I found the names of guys killed the day I was wounded, close friends, guys who fought side-by-side, fighting a V.C. company from over-running our artillery battery. I’d spent my life trying to put it out of my mind, especially the screams inside the FDC tent, VC everywhere, the chaos, and terror, blood-soaked tables and maps, torn flesh, both American and Vietnamese, splashed against the canopy walls. 

     After spending a couple of hours shivering in the cold, I asked my son for just one more favor, to search for the names Captain Rivers and PFC Rogers, pretty sure it was just a waste of time. My son flipped through the pages of the huge directories and said, “What’s the first name?” 

     I answered, fearing to even say them out loud. “Captain Nathaniel Rivers and Rogers, Peter, I think, probably a corporal or sergeant.” 

     A few minutes later, his teeth chattering from the D.C. cold, he said, “Got it.” 

     “Are you sure?” I asked, rubbing my hands together for warmth. 

     He read their full names, hometowns, and day killed: “July 25, 1965, Tay Ninh.” 

     I began to shiver. ’65? There’s no way. “Are you sure it says 1965?” 

     He looked again. “That’s what it says, Pop. Must ‘a been early in the war.” 

     “You said, July 25, right?” 

     “Yeah.” I could feel my temperature drop. I’m not sure if it was the cold or something else. I had my son roll me back towards the Wall, where I looked up to see Rivers and Rogers names etched in stone. My son sat down on a ledge next to my wheelchair. I was too disturbed to keep moving. There had to be some mistake. 

     “Did you know them,” he asked, “those two? You talked about other guys in Vietnam but not them.”

     My voice was jittery. “I…yeah…but,” I answered, trying to unjumble my thoughts. Maybe it was a mistake. I was talking to myself. "Just some mix up," I said.

     “Meaning what?” 

     How could I tell him? My family already thought their old man crazy from going to war and losing his legs. I didn’t need to add any more fuel to that fire, and they didn’t’ even know the half of it, or how much work it took to set me free. I could see my son shivering. He pulled the blanket up around my waist. “Hey, Dad, let’s get to some place warm.” 

     “Hold on, just one second,” I said, pulling a wrinkled sheet of paper from my jacket pocket, unfolding it, and checking the date. I saw where I changed the year from the ‘65 to ‘66, though my ink mark had blended into the type, as if there had never been a mistake. 

     “The date there,” I asked my son. “What is it?” 

     He leaned down to read. “1966. 

     “Not ’65?” I asked, making sure. 

     “1966, Pop. What, we gotta get you stronger glasses?” 

      “And the signature?” 

      “Captain Nathaniel Rivers. Wait! Rivers, signed 1966, but he was KIA in ’65? Somebody messed up, somewhere,” he said. 

     I couldn’t get myself to look my son in the eyes, worried he might see something I feared, but then, like a crow's caw, clear across the Potomac, Birdman Montoya’s voice rang in my ears, “Salas don’t need no bad energy where he’s going, man, so let’s just let this shit lie, ese, like they say about sleeping dogs, tu sabes.”