Nam…. a continuation

I watched Cat as he made his way toward me.  I had no idea what he’d said to Top as they’d passed, but I knew I was getting ready to find out, just from the look on my friend's face.

“Top shouldn’t be sending you to the field”, Cat said, as he walked up to where I was standing. 

“Is that what he told you”?

He fingered the little black beads that he wore around his neck, without answering my question.

“Just Song Mao, I’ll be back tomorrow”, I said, then added, “before dark, mother dear”.

“Still don’t matter”, he said, ignoring my sarcasm, “the field be the field, and you know how fucked up it can get”.

“Yeah, well it can get fucked up here too”.

“But it don’t,” he replied, as he looked outside; the rain had quit, and the sun was shining, something we’d not seen in a couple of days.  “Anyway, you shouldn’t of told him you’d go”. 

“Hey, it wasn’t like he asked me”, I said.

“Sure he did, even if you wasn’t short he would of never ordered you to go, everybody knows how much he likes you”.

I started to say something, but Cat was on a roll.

“You and Top have been tight ever since Dalat, ain’t no way he’s going to order you anywhere, especially a bullshit deal like this, so save your bullshit”.

“He didn’t have much choice Cat”, I said, adding, “Jenson is still in Phan Thiet”.

“Oh like nobody else can do it”, he said, laughing out loud, flashing his brilliant, perfect teeth smile, their whiteness a sharp contrast to his dark skin.

When those who didn’t know Cat, saw him this way, laughing and smiling, they thought he was joking with them, but if you knew him like I did, you knew that he was not joking and in fact, was starting to get pissed.

“Let’s talk about something a little better, like your escape from Vietnam tomorrow”, I said, smiling my own smile at him.

He laughs again, and says, “ok cool, I’m letting it slide for now, but I’m going to rap his white noggin tonight”.

“That’s between you and him Cat, but you know I don’t need anyone fighting my battles”.

“Screw you and your white boy battles, I’m just going to tell him he shouldn’t be sending short-timers to the field”.

“Fine”, I said, “give him hell about it, but leave me out of it, ok”?

“Sure”, he said, lighting up a cigarette, and looking around the hooch, as if he was thinking about buying it.

I left him studying the inside of the hooch and smoking his cigarette.

Walking outside, I started toward the motor pool, thinking I would see what was happening down there this afternoon. But feeling a need to take a dump, I veered to my left, walking between two hoochs, heading for the shitter, which was nothing more than a twelve-hole outhouse at the far end of the compound.

Grandpa would have been amazed at its size and the number of people it could accommodate.  I was just hoping the flies weren’t bad today.

My thoughts were not on Song Mao, it didn’t bother me to go to the field, I’d been there most of the time anyway, and it didn’t scare me. At least not like it did the guys who’d served their whole tour in the rear, like Cat. The guys in the rear always seemed so scared of the field, which was a by-product of always being in the rear.  A “circle fear” was the way Cat had described it one time.

I heard the chopper before I saw it, which was normal, you could always hear the whipping noise the chopper blades made first, and then you’d look in the sky and usually spot it a ways off in the distance.

I saw it then, it was about a hundred yards out, a standard Huey; I wondered if Squeaky was flying today.  Squeaky was the nickname of Warrant Officer Terry Durant, who I had gone to basic training with, way back in 67, two years ago.  He’d promised me one more ride in a chopper before I left for the world; it would be nice if he was flying tomorrow when I went to Song Mao. 

The weekend cont’d

“Now, you folks are married correct”? Dickie was smiling at Diane, ignoring me.

“Yes,” Diane answered for both of us, handing him our marriage license that she had already pulled from her purse.

Dickie made a show of examining it, as I wondered for the hundredth time why we had to produce a marriage license to visit a nudist camp for one day, resisting the urge to ask him directly, not wanting to upset Diane.

“Ok”, he said, handing the license back to Diane.

“What is your reason for visiting Sunshine Park”, he asked. 

Diane looked at me, but I didn’t even act like I would answer the question, which I know gave her a little relief.

She said, “actually we’re thinking about buying a yearly membership, if we like it here”.

I knew what her answer was going to be before she said it.  Her friend, Sally, who had visited Sunshine Park about a month ago, had coached her last night about what to say, and what not to say.

It seems that one of Sally’s other friends had made the drive out here only to be turned away without being allowed in the park.

Her husband’s flippant comments had not been exactly what “Sunshine Park” had been looking for. In any event it was decided by Diane that I should not speak any more than necessary, to prevent the same thing from happening to us.

Diane’s answer seemed to please Dickie, and he went on, “have either of you ever been to a nudist camp before”?  Now I had to speak up, because during our phone conversation on the previous day, I had told him that I’d done the nudist thing before, hoping that it would impress him. 

“Yeah”, I said, I did it once out in California a few years ago”.  It was the same thing I’d told him yesterday.  I was just hoping he wouldn’t ask for proof, or references.

But he didn’t, and appearing quite satisfied with our answers, he started folding papers up and sticking them into a long envelope.  Turning in his chair, he picked up two clipboards from a small table behind him, and handed one to each of us.

Looking at it, I saw that it was a Standard Release Form that absolved Sunshine Park of any damage to our vehicle during our stay, and of any loss of personal property.  There was also a clause that protected them from any injury we might sustain while at the park, including drowning in their pool I assumed.  I signed at the bottom of the form and handed the clipboard back to him.  Diane had already signed and handed hers to him.

“Ok folks”, the clubhouse is right down the road, you can’t miss it, there is a parking area out front where you can leave your motorcycle.  Be sure to lock up all your valuables.

We stood up, and he popped out of his chair, and walked around the desk sticking out his hand to me.

I shook his hand, well above waist high, and he then shook Diane’s hand.  I wondered what kind of deal we were consummating, but refrained from saying anything.

“When you get to the clubhouse”, he said, go around to the west side where the showers are and disrobe.  Take a quick shower and then you may go into the clubhouse and sign our guest book.  Have a good time and if you have any questions just ask somebody.  This is a friendly place; I think you two will enjoy yourselves. 

And with that, we headed out the door to the clubhouse. “The showers,” sounded ominous to me, but I was on a slippery slope here, just sliding my way down to the clubhouse.

Nam - continued

Standing at the door, I notice that the rain has let up, and a small ray of sun is sneaking through the clouds.  Behind me the card game has ended, and I can hear Cat’s music drifting into my consciousness.

The song is an old Sam Cooke song that talks of “a change coming”… like the one I know is coming. I love the song, though only having heard it for the first time, a few months ago.  

I was born by the river

In a little tent

Oh and just like

the river

I’ve been running…

every since

It’s been a long..

a long time coming

But I know…

a change going to come

Oh yes it will

Its been too hard living

But I’m afraid to die

For I don’t know what’s up

beyond the sky

It’s been a long..

a long time coming

But I know.. a change is going to come

Oh yes it will

I go to the movie

and I go downtown

Somebody keeps telling me

Don’t…. hang around

It’s been a long…

a long time coming

But I know.. a change

going to come

Oh yes it will

Then I go to my brother

And I say brother

help me please

But he winds up…

knocking me

Back down on my knees

And Ohhh…. there’s been times that I thought

I couldn’t last for long

But now I think

I’m able to carry on

It’s been a long…

a long time coming

But I know.. a change going to come

Oh yes it will

Cat is standing beside me, as the song ends, looking outside as he smokes an ever-present “Kool”.

“So,” I say… “You ready for the world again”?

“Yeah man”, I’m ready, I’m ready to get it on, you know - life.

“Well … you be careful in that Chicago town ok”?

He laughs as he walks away, shaking his head.  Cat doesn’t let you get too close.  I can hear him mumbling under his breath, something with “mother fucker” in it… I’m sure.

Behind me I hear someone coming in through the screen door, and then simultaneously; I hear the voice of my First Sergeant, and the slamming of the door, “Tyler I’ve been looking for you”, then sniffing the air, he says, “been smoking that shit again in my barracks”?

“Yeah it’s the same ‘shit’ me and Lt. Bryan smoked in your room the other night, remember”.

“Hmmf”, he snorts, and using his famously known logic, says, “that was the other day, and today is today”.

“Tyler”, he continues, before I can reply, “Would you escort some changeout M-16’s to Song Mao, and bring back the 14’s? Sgt. Jenkins was supposed to but he’s still out at Phan Thiet; stuck in the mud most likely”.

“When”, I say slowly, thinking of Sgt. Jenkins, the unit armorer, who had been in a month long process of issuing the newer M-16 rifle to everybody in the unit, while retrieving the older M-14’s in exchange.

“Tomorrow”, he says, “out in the morning back before dark”.

“Sure, not a problem Top”, I say, using the common nickname for First

Sergeants.

“Top” is on his way out the hooch, via the other door at the opposite end of the hooch. He says something to Cat as he passes him, and then hollers back at me, “chopper leaves at 8, draw a sidearm from the arms room. I’ll see you when you get back". 

“Song Mao”, is a Tactical Command Post, for our Brigade Commander, located about 90 miles North of Phan Rang; it’s where he goes to be closer to the action, during a battle if the need arises.

Out in the middle of nowhere, everybody calls it “The Alamo”, because it’s a huge two-story, “house like” building, with a rock wall all around it.

Also within the walls are a couple of smaller buildings, and an area where about 30 or so vehicles are usually parked.

Besides being the Brigade Commander’s little hideaway, it houses an entire S-3 section, which monitors the firing of the big artillery guns, as well as enemy troop buildups. 

One of my best friends, Doug Cortell, has been in the S-3 section there for the last 6 months.  It will be nice to see him and the others, one more time before leaving.

Weekend – continued

The little naked guy walks right up to me, and peering up into my eyes, says, “you the Tyler party?”

I recognize the whiny voice as belonging to the guy who I had talked to on the phone the previous day. “Yeah, that’s us”, I say looking at Diane who is staring at the little naked guy, with a whimsical smile on her face.

“Well good”! He exclaims, “Glad to see you made it on time”, as turning on his heel, he strides back toward the office, “issuing a ‘follow me command’, over his shoulder.

I look at D, and reading my eyes, she grabs my arm and guides me up the steps, toward the door, saying under her breath, “come on give it a chance”.

I look at the little guy’s naked backside going through the door and think to myself, “yeah man, give peace a chance,” chuckling out loud, John would of loved this.

Inside the office, the elaborate furnishings surprise me; a low slung, blue couch is in the middle of the room, with an expensive looking coffee table sitting in front of it.  To the left, in the corner of the office, is a wood desk with papers, and assorted stuff scattered around on the top of it. 

Behind the desk, a comfortable looking, high back leather chair sits.  Our little man who has identified himself as “Dickie Lee,” I swear I’m not making this up, that was his real name, has jumped up into the chair and pulled himself up to the desk, which is a blessed relief to me, not to have to look at him, and all his dangling parts.

He starts to look through some papers on his desk, motioning us to have a seat.  I look around in the area he has pointed to, and see a couple of metal folding chairs leaning against a wall.  Unfolding one for D, and then the other one for me, we have a seat as I’m thinking, “uh the guests don’t get the royal treatment here do they?

Reaching over to a little square box sitting on his desk, Dickie turns a knob or something and we hear music, “Cherry Bomb”, a Mellencamp song is playing. 

“That’s when smoke was smoke, and grooving was grooving”.

I sit back against the back of my chair, humming the song to myself, enjoying the excellent sound system, while waiting for Dickie to get on with it.

Cherry Bomb ends, and as I sit there waiting on the next song to start; Dickie seems engrossed in his paperwork, and D just crosses her legs, looking around at stuff hanging on the walls.

And then I hear the opening of one of my favorite songs during that time in my life.  It’s a song, that D doesn’t particularly care for, ever since, during our last “temporary separation”, when I had told her that it -Blame it on your lying, cheating heart - by Patty Loveless - should be the song to define our relationship, instead of Desperado, the Eagle hit song that she had declared “our song” back when we first met.

Anyway, I love the song for the words, which is perfect for someone like me, “caught up with a “loving heart like I am”, which I imagine to be somewhat like what the dieselman ran into a few years ago.

Anyway, he loves Patty, and so do I, especially this toe-tapping, steel guitar playing song - that is now beginning to play - and I just can’t help myself, as I start to dance in my chair, keeping the beat with Patty and her great song.  

You’ve got a thing or two

to learn about me baby

Cause I ain’t takin in no more

and I don’t mean maybe

You don’t know right from wrong

well the love we had is gone

So blame it on your lying cheating

cold dead-beating, two timing,

double dealing, mean mistreating

…. loving heart

Well all I wanted

was to be your one and only

And All I ever got from you

was being lonely

Now the dream is laid to rest

cause you have failed the test

So blame it on your lying cheating

cold dead-beating, two timing,

double dealing, mean mistreating

…. loving heart

Are you heading for a heartache oh yeah

Going to get a bad break

oh yeah

You made a bad mis---take

Oh yeah

Well You’re never gonna find

another love like mine

Someone’s going to do you

like you’ve done me Honey

And when she does you like

she’ll do you it ain’t funny

You’ll need some sympathy

but don’t be calling me

So blame it on your lying cheating

cold dead-beating, two timing,

double dealing, mean mistreating

…. loving heart

----Great guitar playing here, and by this time I’m playing my “air steel guitar”, which I used to play for real back in the 70’s.  Dickie and Diane are just looking at me; and I’m wondering if someone has asked me a question or something. ----

Are you heading for a heartache oh yeah

Going to get a bad break

oh yeah

You made a bad mis---take

Oh yeah

Well You’re never gonna find

another love like mine

Someone’s going to do you

like you’ve done me Honey

And when she does you

like she’ll do you

it ain’t funny

You’ll need some sympathy

but don’t be calling me

So blame it on your lying cheating

cold dead-beating, two timing,

double dealing, mean mistreating

…. loving heart

Yeah …

blame it on your lying, cheating,

cold dead-beating, two timing,

double--dealing, mean mistreating

…. loving heart

As the song ends, Dickie clears his throat, and says, “Now, Mr. and Mrs. Tyler, just a few preliminary questions”.
       

Hello.  You’re reading this letter now because I’m dead. How you obtained this letter is beside the point, because it was inside a suitcase that contained

15 rubber banded bundles of $100 bills, of which by the way, if you don’t already know, contain 100 bills each, which makes each bundle worth $10,000, and that by simply counting the bundles and arriving at a 15 count, you now know that you are in the possession of $150,000.

The suitcase was in a locker at the Bus Station on Pine and Second Street, and thanks to the envelope I either gave you, or you somehow obtained, that had the key to locker 23B in it, and the note that told you where locker 23b was, you’ve come into possession of $150,000.  It is indeed your lucky day!

It doesn’t matter if you wallered in the money first, then read this letter, or if you read it before you fondled, caressed and counted the money; it doesn’t matter either way.

It doesn’t even matter if you chunked this letter and just hightailed it off. I know it is not going to matter to me.

Anyway, I need to assure you that the money is yours free and clear, to do whatever you want to with; no strings attached.

Be assured that nobody now living knows that you have this money, or how you’ve gotten it. If by some chance I’m not dead, it still doesn’t matter. “Finders keepers, losers weepers”, right? 

The money was attained legally, and I’ve planned for this moment, for a long time.  I have thought it out well.  I have no known family. I’ve lived on the streets for the last 12 years, in many different cities, coming to your city 4 years ago this coming August. I want you, whoever you are to have the money.  I only hope that you are someone in desperate need of it; and one that knows how to handle it, for it is on you to make finding it, worth it.

So… this is my ending and your beginning. 

May you live long and prosper.

I folded the letter up, and put it back in my pocket.  I thought about how my life had changed, since finding the old man.  My name is Mary Turner; I’m 45 years old and I live alone in an apartment over on 3^rd Street.

Everyday but Tuesday, I used to go to Harry’s Diner on 2^nd Street, next to the bus station, and put in 10 hours of waiting on customers.  But, that’s all over with now, ever since that morning about two weeks ago, when I went to the bus station and got the suitcase out of locker 23B.

To say I was “stunned” with the money I found in it, would be a mild description of what I felt when I opened that frigging suitcase.

Mind blowing comes to mind, but let’s just say I “tripped” on it, and that I am still tripping about it.  Christ! I’d never seen so much money in my life.

That was a crazy morning to be sure.  “Harry,” my boss had been in a really foul mood, and part of the reason had been that I had been 30 minutes late for work, which was not that unusual for me.  Harry usually didn’t say anything about it; but on this particular morning, he’d let me know that he was pissed about my tardiness.

I’d gone out back to empty trash and saw the old man lying by the dumpster.  I recognized him by the old gray coat, that had streaks of red paint on it, that he always wore. 

I’d seen him around the back door many times before, scouring through the garbage for whatever he could find.  I’d even seen him eat food that was in there.

But that day I could tell he was in trouble.  He was gasping for breath as I knelt down beside him, asking him what was wrong.

His bony hand grabbed my arm with strength that surprised me and he pulled me close to his face.

“Take this,” he wheezed at me, handing me a thick, white envelope “and what’s inside is yours”.

I stuck the envelope in my pocket and ran back inside to call 911.  Inside I hollered at Harry that we had a man dying out back, and picked up the phone and called 911.

The old man was dead when I made it back outside.  Harry was knelt over him with his fingers to his neck, and when I came out he looked at me and said, “He’s dead”.

They came and got the body, and as they put him into the ambulance I thought about giving the medics the letter, but I didn’t.  Instead I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and opened the envelope and inside was this piece of paper and a key.  The paper told me that the key was for locker 23b, at the bus station.

I went over there and opened it.  Inside was this big ass suitcase.  I took it home and inside was all this money, and now I’m getting ready to leave this sorry ass town.  The old man was right.  It was my lucky day.

Nam - continued

The more I stared at the cards the more I disliked them; finally I threw them on the table and got up.  Walking over to the screen door I stared outside at the rain. Seventeen more days in this stink hole and I would be back in the states.  It didn’t seem real.  Nothing did.

When I’d arrived almost a year ago I had stayed in this same hooch. Lanier, who I was replacing, was also here, and he was climbing in and out of his bunk on a little two-foot ladder he’d made out of wood and bamboo.

He was going home in 3 days, and told me that he was so “short” - he needed the ladder; otherwise he would never be able to get into his bunk.  I’d thought he was both funny and a little nuts, and the way he acted, I’m not sure he hadn’t been; nuts that is.

When he’d asked me how many days I had left in Nam and I told him 363, he had cackled like a rooster, and ran around in circles laughing, until he finally fell to the floor in a heap. I found out later that he’d had a few run-ins while in the unit, and most everybody was glad to see him leave.

To understand the real meaning of “short,” you had to experience it, and though it was not unusual for guys to make “short-timer ladders” and the like, when only having a few days left, for the most part those getting close to going home were usually subdued in an odd sort of way.  Or said another way, short-timers were more than a little wary.  Lanier was not wary at all, and after I’d been in Nam longer, I would come to understand his actions a little better.

I was sent to a field unit a couple of days later, and never seen him again, although I can still picture his crazy looking smile, and the way his hair went in every direction.  It was odd too, that he had never spent a single day in the field, spending his entire tour in the relative safety of Phan Rang.

Phan Rang was heavily defended both from the ground and the air.  Of course the Air Force had plenty of built in protection with the fighter jets and all, but when you factored in that the 101^st Airborne was headquartered here, as well as several South Korean Infantry Units, an Australian Army attachment, and various Artillery units like my own, it was obviously a place that - “Charlie”- didn’t really screw with. The base itself was not new, it had served as a Japanese base during the 2^nd War, utilizing a 3500’ runway, and before that the French had used it as an airbase.

On top of its security, the base had a large modern PX, both Air Force, and Army enlisted and officer clubs, a fairly sophisticated hospital, and it’s own brand new, air-conditioned movie theatre.  All in all, not a bad place to be if one had to be in a combat zone.

At first I’d thought that I might get lucky, and be assigned to the Headquarters Battery, and stay in Phan Rang, especially since I was replacing a guy who had been there for his whole year. 

But, the Army true to its quirky ways, had different plans for me; I was assigned to a field unit and spent the entire year in the boonies, except for a couple of months of convoy duty, which proved every bit as dicey as it sounded.

Now I was back where I’d begun, having been sent back to Phan Rang from the field a week ago to process out.  I was lucky. Not everyone got sent back to base camp when they were close to going home; some stayed in the field right up to a couple of days before they were supposed to leave. 

It all depended on your replacement, and how well the First Sergeant liked you. My replacement had arrived a little early, and my First Sergeant didn’t hate me, so I was sent back with 24 days to go.

All I had to do was to take it easy, play cards, catch a movie here and there, and generally just lay around and count the days till my turn came up. Or so I thought at the time anyway.

Weekend – continued

Shanna was screwing with us I could tell; actually she was screwing with D, because I was pretty sure that she knew that I knew, that she wasn’t serious about going with us. 

Still, I let Diane stew a little before I said, “well since we’re going on the cycle I guess you can run along beside us”. Shanna laughed and said, “just kidding guys, I’m going to Dallas for the weekend”. 

“Tyler”, D said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table to me. Tyler was my last name, and the one most everyone called me.  Hardly anyone called me by my first name, Paul.  D had thought it odd, and for awhile called me “only” by my first name, but had finally gave up, and started using Tyler, although when I told her that while in Vietnam I was called “Cool,” she had thought that hilarious.

“Why,” she had asked, “do men insist on having silly nicknames, especially when going through a “bonding” experience of some type”?  I just laughed, and said, “it’s a man thing”.  She laughed too, but she never called me Cool, and I’ve always wondered why?

I looked at the paper she had slid across to me.  It was a brochure advertising the nudist camp. Anyone interested in visiting for a day could call in advance for an appointment.  All couples were instructed to bring proof of marriage, and although “singles” were welcome, the brochure seemed to go over the top a little in promoting a “family” atmosphere.  It was definitely not a “dating club,” and one got the feeling of “rules, and regulations”, which I took for a good thing.

I called the next day, got sorta interviewed/grilled over the phone by this guy with a whiny voice.  After he took a gob of information about Diane and me, an appointment was set for 10 a.m., Saturday morning. 

“Bring your own towels,” was the last thing he said to me before hanging up.  I didn’t bother to answer.

Saturday morning I was up early, messing with the Harley, setting the idle up a little, adjusting a few things; some that I knew about, and some I didn’t.  It didn’t matter what I done, it still sounded good, like distant thunder, magnified.

After breakfast, we packed the saddlebags with a coffee thermos, cigarettes, and a couple sacks of chips. Getting the cooler, with our beer and sandwiches, strapped down behind D was tricky, but I finally secured it, and climbed on.

It was a beautiful summer day, clear blue sky with a few puffy clouds drifting in the sky; which, to me, seemed like cotton balls, suspended from invisible strings. 

Saturday morning traffic in the city was light, and as we left town for our 30-mile journey, it felt good to be going somewhere, and it felt even better to be on the Harley again; it had been too long. 

Out on the highway I opened it up and was doing 90 before I eased back a little. I could see D in my mirrors, laughing, as her hair blew backwards in the wind.

“Sunshine Park” was off the main highway, nestled in a little valley between some hills that wanted to be mountains.  The road going up to the park changed from pavement to hard packed dirt less than a hundred feet up, and trees lined the road on both sides. 

As the road inclined upward a little, we met a couple of cars coming down, and the people in them waved madly at us, making me wonder if we were on the right road. A little further up we saw a sign that said, “Park-2miles,” and then another one, right after that, that said, “Private Property, Appointment Required”.

Rounding a bend in the road we came to a log cabin that had a  “Sunshine Park” sign out front, with a smaller one above the cabin’s door that said, “Office.”  Pulling up in the driveway, I killed the engine and coasted to what looked like a parking spot in front of the cabin.

Getting off the cycle, I heard the door slam and looking in that direction, I saw this little man, not more than 5 feet tall, walking toward us with a clipboard in one hand, a coffee cup in the other, and not a stitch of clothing on.

IceZone

Nam

Phan Rang, South Vietnam is home to a U.S. Air Force Base located on Vietnam’s South China Sea coast. It is also home of the U.S. Army’s 3^rd Bn, 22^nd Field Artillery, to which I’ve been assigned for the last 348 days.

Right at this moment I am staring at a pair of Aces and Eights, also known as “the dead man’s hand,” because legend has it that Wild Bill Hickok was holding the same hand, when Crooked Nose McCall shot him in the back of the head.

Are you playing today, or in the morning?  The question hangs in the air. There are four of us playing poker in the middle of the afternoon, listening to “rock and soul,” drinking Black Label beer, and smoking reefer.

I am so mellow from the beer and smoke; that nothing outside of a rocket attack would of bothered me, which was not far from my usual demeanor anyway, which is why my friends called me “Cool”.  To everyone else I was Tyler, or Sgt Tyler, depending on who was doing the talking.

Of the four of us, three are “short,” which means we have less than 30 days left in country.  I leave for “the world’ in 17 days, but the guy who asked the question is shorter; he leaves in the morning for Cam Rahn Bay and the “freedom bird” that will get him back to the world, sixteen days before me.

“Cat,” I say, in response to his question, for the question had been directed at me, “why don’t you just hitchhike to Cam Rahn right now, you’re driving me nuts”.