Journeys
Pilgramages in the Aftermath
by
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At the base of one of the panels there was a chalk outline. But there was something peculiar... I looked at it for a minute or more. The shape of the fallen body was strangely shortened, at least from the pelvis down. Gus was talking to one of the cops and glancing in my direction every few seconds. He announced his return by inquiring, "Have you figured it out yet?" "I’m hoping it’s not what I think," I answered with an involuntary shiver. "And what might that be?" "That a vet, an amputee, died here. Probably suicide." It was Gus’ turn to shudder. "Guess that’s a pretty sick notion, huh?" I asked when he didn’t confirm or deny the suggestion. He expelled a long breath, the exhalation of the martial artist he was in private life, the student of chi reordering his thoughts, rechanneling an unanticipated surge of dark energy. In a soft, nearly tranquil voice he replied, "Yes. Except that I have seen just such an act. Not here, though." His voice tightened as he changed mental time frames. "No, it’s an understandable guess, given the way he fell and how you can see the full size of the upper torso. I’m afraid this guy had the arms and legs that a lot of maimed vets would have gladly murdered to have back. Yeah, he had all his parts. At least the physical ones." We both continued looking at the chalk inscribed walkway. He knowing, me speculating. Perhaps we were both speculating: I, as to what had happened and he as to why. "See the lump there? Those were his feet. Just behind and below his knees." He glanced at me to see if I had made the association. I strained but my efforts were useless. "He was kneeling."
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The shadows were growing elastic. Light dapplings which had earlier been dependent upon a certain configuration of trees and sun, began evaporating into the encroaching dusk. He took a third beer and handed me my second though I wasn’t ready for it. "This guy, the one at Chet’s grave, he came to tell my mother. Our mother. He said he felt she would want to know."
"We were flying out of Dak Seang, doing medevac. Things had been screwed up all year, ever since we started fucking around over in Cambodia, begging your pardon ma’am." The man who said this was sitting at the edge of a worn plaid couch. He was using his left fingers to slowly rotate a gray cowboy hat resting over his right hand, the one he initially kept out of sight, first in his pocket, now in the satin lining of the Stetson. "I’m fifty-one years old, Mr. Bennett. I’ve had two husbands, one that I buried and one that I should have. I’m raising the last of five sons. Out here I sometimes have to do emergency first aid until someone locates a pick-up truck we can use as an ambulance. There isn’t much you can say in the way of cuss words I haven’t already heard. So you go on and say what you have to, however you need to say it." "Thank you, ma’am. Well, we were based on the coast but when it started hitting the fan we could end up anywhere. I met your son, Chester, in late December. Took him out for a leg wound ... he was lucky, shrapnel just missed the right femur ... and we got to talking. He ended up at the 12th Evac Hospital in Cu Chi and I stopped in to see him once. I heard he healed up pretty good, got R & R’d and didn’t figure on seeing him again. "Day in April, around 1800 hours we go pick up three guys from a flanking squad. Some Cong had detonated a frag mine. Chewed them up bad. Wherever the hell the VC were in that jungle they could see the rest of the squad. Machine guns spraying. The occasional RPG. Anyway Chester was right there, him and this other guy, laying down cover fire with their M60s so we can get in and out. While we’re dusting off I looked back, saw him crouched down like he’d figured out where they were. I heard later that he took out a whole nest of gooks ... seven, eight, nine. Depends on who tells it. I was impressed.
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About the Book
Neither father nor son are thrilled with the trip about to be undertaken. The elder Coulbourn thinks his son's pending career choice is a dull one. But at least it's safe. His son, Rick, thinks Forestry, a sometimes solitary life among trees, is exactly what he wants. But his application to the U.S. Parks Department's internship program does not carry him to the vast expanses of Yellowstone National Park. Instead, it takes him only a few hours north of his home to an assignment at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. During the two months he spends in Washington, DC, Coulbourn encounters a cross-section of visitors and the seemingly peculiar offerings they place at The Wall. It affords him a time-capsule view of America's 'world' as it was in the years just preceding his birth, a perspective on the events that shaped the stranger who is his father. Society tends to brand every war with a particular degree of decisiveness. For most who can remember, the "shame" of Vietnam is summed up in one all-too-familiar photo: military choppers evacuating the American embassy in Saigon on April 30, 1975. But some lessons do not emerge until long after the smoke fades. Vietnam is an ongoing learning experience. This is a book for those who can recall the pivotal decade of 1965 –1975, nostalgically or otherwise, as well as for those cannot.
About the Author
The author, a transplanted East Coaster now living in the Midwest, has published essays with the Hartford Courant. Fiction has appeared in Wellspring, the Florida Literary Foundation's anthology, Paradise, The State Street Review, and England's World Wide Writers. Award winning short stories include "Hammock" (University of Georgia Center for Continuing Education) and "Chorus" (Florida First Coast Writers' Festival).