Off Limits (15 page)

The clanking of the keys in the lock, the protesting screech of the iron-bar door opening and closing, filled the sour-smelling air. Jim remained tense and quiet until the brig chaser left for his station at the end of the passageway.

Matt gestured for him to sit down. Keeping his voice very low, he pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Jim.

“From Alex.”

With a nod, his heart doing double time in his chest, Jim carefully opened the letter, his hands trembling. He hadn't expected a response, and joy poured through him, momentarily erasing the sadness that had hung with him since he'd returned to Da Nang.

Alex's handwriting was small and flowery, so very feminine in comparison to his large, almost unreadable scrawl. Jim glanced over at his skipper.

“Was she able to read my letter at all?”

Matt smiled. “Yes.”

“I don't know how. It looked like hen scratchin' in the barnyard.”

“I think,” Matt added, “that loving you as much as she does, she could read anything you wrote.”

Jim's heart thudded hard in his chest. He held Breckenridge's wry look and then hungrily began to read her letter.

Dear Jim,

It was such a relief to know you're all right. Lieutenant Breckenridge has been wonderful about explaining all that's happened. And yes, I will go see your parents and deliver his letter as soon as I get home. That's a promise. I'm sure your father won't be ashamed of you. I know I'm not. I'm proud of you, Jim. Proud you have the courage of your convictions, proud of your honesty, morals and values. I stand behind you all the way.

Matt said you would probably be at Long Binh for imprisonment. He gave me your address, so I'll be writing to you. Jim, I love you. You can't tell me to go away and forget you. What I feel for you, even if it was born out of the wartime situation, is real. I'm not going home to forget what we shared or what you mean to me. I know you love me, too. I saw it in your eyes every time you looked at me. I'm willing to let time test our relationship. I'll be waiting for you. I love you—forever.

Alexandra

“Lordy,” Jim whispered, his hand clenching the letter.

“What?”

He glanced over at Breckenridge. “That woman's got the stubbornness of the worst Missouri mule I've ever known.”

With a grin, the lieutenant said, “You deserve Alex Vance whether you know it or not.”

“Sir, you know what kind of life I could offer her. I'm a hill boy. She's the daughter of a congressman. She's got book learnin'. We're from different sides of the track. Why doesn't she see that?”

“I guess because she sees the good in you, Jim, like I do. Economic level, education or where you live has nothing to do with what you are inside.” Breckenridge shook his head. “I hope like hell my morals and values are never asked to be tested as yours have been. I'd like to think I could stand up for my convictions the way you have.”

“I never thought my time in the corps would end like this. I wanted to make my pa proud of me....”

“Alex said she'll talk to your folks. I'm sure that, between my letter and her explanation, your father will understand.” Breckenridge gave him an appraising look. “You love her?”

“Yes, sir.”

Placing his hands on his hips, the officer sighed. “I hope you can overcome your own prejudice about Alex and write back to her, then. She'll be writing to you.”

Unhappy, Jim bowed his head. He stared at the pristine white paper in the gloom of his cell. “I—I don't know if I can. I'm sure once she gets back to the States, this intense love she feels for me will go away.”

Breckenridge came over and patted Jim's shoulder. “You're afraid of losing her, aren't you? You're not really doubting her love at all.”

With a nod, Jim shut his eyes. “She's too purty, too special, Lieutenant. How can someone like Alexandra love me? She's like a dream. I have no bloodlines, no money. My folks are poor. Once she gets back to her own kind, she'll forget about me.”

The lieutenant gripped his shoulder. “I don't have the answers you need, Jim. Maybe the letters you share with each other will help. You two need time anyway, to get to know each other better. Perhaps something good will come out of this, after all. I hope for your sakes it does. You deserve to be happy after all the hell you've gone through.”

Tears leaked into Jim's tightly shut eyes. He wanted to cry for himself and for Alex. Lieutenant Breckenridge left, and Jim sat alone in the gloom. Despair settled around him. Tomorrow, he'd be sentenced at the court-martial and hauled in chains down to Long Binh. Would Alex write once she got back to the States? Or, as his weeping heart was already warning him, would she forget him?

Dear Alex,

By now, Lieutenant Breckenridge has probably gotten ahold of you—he promised he would—to tell you about my court-martial and sentencing. My mail can be censored, and there are a lot of things I can't write about now that I'm in Long Binh. I'm doing as well as can be expected. I wonder when you'll receive this letter.

My leg is much better, but the doc said even if I wanted to go back into combat, I couldn't 'cause I chipped one of the bones and it won't stand for the kind of punishment a recon would put on it. He said that heavy construction work was out for me, too. Guess I'd better change my idea of careers, huh? I had thought of going home and apprenticing as a construction worker after my tour was up. I like working with my hands. A lot of hill folk go down to the city and work in the walnut factory where they make bowls and other wood products for the tourists. I don't know if I want to spend the rest of my life cutting and shaping bowls from walnut wood.

How are you doing? Is your shoulder healing? I think about you a lot. Lieutenant Breckenridge mentioned you went round and round with your father, and that he was het up. That's Missouri slang for being angry. I hope you've made peace with him and you're now back getting ready to graduate after summer school.

I really don't expect you to write, Alex. I just wanted to let you know I'm well and things will settle down now that I'm in prison. They gave me four months, a bad conduct discharge, busted me down to private and fined me. Aside from that, I'm alive. I want you to go on and live your life and forget about what happened here in Nam. You deserve only the best. I got a letter from Ma the other day, and she said you came to visit them right after you got Stateside. For that, I owe you plenty, gal. Her letter made me cry. They forgave me for my decision. Even my pa, who can't write much at all (he only had sixth-grade book learnin'), penned me a few lines. I don't know what you did, Alex, but whatever it was, they think I'm some kind of hero instead of an undesirable jailbird. Thank you, gal. You're the kindest, purtiest lady I've ever met, and I pray for your happiness back in the real world.

Your friend,

Jim McKenzie

A
lex sat curled up on the small sofa in the apartment she shared with two other nursing students. Tears blurred Jim's handwritten pages. His white stationery was stained with sweat and dirt smudges. Outside the apartment, the June breeze barely moved the yellow curtains that framed the window.

Another letter, this one from Lieutenant Breckenridge, had arrived two days earlier. Alex reached down and opened it up again, her stomach twisting with fear for Jim.

Dear Alex,

Jim McKenzie was sentenced to four months at hard-rock labor at Long Binh jail, down near Saigon. I had hoped he'd get less of a sentence, but the local military machine wasn't going to show much leniency. The appointed counsel for Jim told me after the sentencing that two years had been talked about earlier. The counsel felt all your work, the publicity and the threat of further media spotlighting of Jim's case forced them to give him a “light” sentence. Right now, I'm in the midst of an appeal process for him. It will be slow, but Jim is worth fighting for.

What Jim won't be able to tell you are the conditions he'll be under at Long Binh. Deserters, malingerers (men who maim or injure themselves on purpose to get out of combat duty) and AWOL individuals are housed at this facility. All the mail is read by censors. Further, Jim can't say anything “bad” about his jailers, the jail itself, his living conditions, or anything that might be viewed as a negative. You're really going to have to read between the lines of his letters to glean the truth.

I'm sure Jim will get his mail. I believe the military wants this whole thing to blow over and be forgotten. I don't think they'll fail to deliver your mail to Jim for fear you'll start granting more interviews.

I'll miss Jim out on recon missions. He was one of the best, and I told him so. I also realize that each of us has a limit that, once it's reached, we can't go beyond. Jim reached his. I don't see his decision as negative. I respect what he did. I just hope I don't hit my limit. I'm going back in the bush, so this is the last letter you'll get from me for a while, but I will keep you posted on the appeal's progress. However, if you do have problems getting mail to Jim, write and let me know. I'll see what I can do from my end.

Sincerely, Matt Breckenridge

Both letters lay in her lap as Alex mulled over the situation. Jim's folks were warm, simple people, and seeing them had helped heal some of her unseen wounds. It had also increased her love of Jim, and her commitment to him. Getting up, Alex moved to her study table. She was in the middle of summer school and wanted to pen Jim a long letter before she sat down to hit the books.

June 20, 1965

Dear Jim,

I hope you know how important and wonderful it was getting your letter. I just got back from one of my summer-school classes, and your letter was waiting in my mailbox at the apartment building where I live off campus.

I realize more than you know that you can't talk about a lot of things. That's okay, I understand. I can't see you spending your life in a wood factory turning out walnut bowls, either. Why not reach for the stars? Go after something that may seem impossible but really isn't? You were so good with me when we were under fire. Your calmness, your common sense and practicality are skills not everyone has. And why think only of menial jobs when you get out of jail? You have a good head on your shoulders. How about college? I'm going to send you my college's catalog of courses. Maybe there's something in there that interests you. What about starting a correspondence course? Why let the time in jail be a waste? Let it be a concentrated period of learning, instead. I know you have to perform physical labor there, but surely you would have time to study, too.

I'm afraid my father and I aren't getting along at all. He's still “het up” over my active participation on your behalf, so we aren't talking much. I still do go home on weekends. Mom and I get along fine, and she understands my feelings. My father's a proud man with stubborn opinions. I wish he could bend, like you did, Jim. But I don't think he will. Mom says with time he will get over being angry with me.

My shoulder wound is healing well. I'm undergoing some physical therapy to get full use of it, but right now I've got about eighty percent mobility. Around school I'm a heroine, if you will. Everyone wanted to know what happened, because they'd read magazine and newspaper accounts—which I'm sending on to you—of the crash and you rescuing me. They all think it's neat, but I don't. War is a terrible thing, and I try to get them to understand that. They tend to look at me sort of funny, think I'm crazy for saying it and shrug it off.

I've talked to my college counselor, Mrs. Riddell, who was an army nurse in a medical unit during the Korean War! So far, she's the only one who understands what I'm going through. Yes, I get nightmares (I could hear you asking that question as soon as I wrote the above sentence!) and whenever I hear a car backfire or something, I wince. Or, worse, I break out in a cold sweat. Twice now I've had vivid flashes of the time we were in the jungle getting bombed by the B-52's. Mrs. Riddell told me she had similar reactions to things that happened to her in Korea. We share a commonality.

I've talked to Dr. George Fielding, the head of the psychiatric department here at the college, and asked him if these kinds of reactions had been reported by men in other wars. He got so interested in my observations of my own responses that he wants me to start compiling them. I think we're onto something, Jim. Mrs. Riddell has agreed to help me make up a questionnaire because of her combat-duty experience. I don't know where this all is leading, but I'm bound and determined to try and help our returning men adjust after this awful war.

I enjoyed my time with your parents. Your mother is so warm and outgoing—like you. Once I had told them the whole story, she cried. Your father is a kind man, too. You have his sensitivity, Jim. He asked me a whole bunch of questions about the circumstances surrounding your decision, and when I was done answering them (hours later!), he nodded. I asked him if he was angry with you and he said no, that he understood exactly what had happened. There was this look in his blue eyes, a faraway look, Jim. I know your father was a marine in World War II, and I wonder if some terrible atrocity happened to him, too, and that's why he understands your situation. I'm sure you two will have a lot to talk about when you come home.

I'm going to be sending you a big “care package” of material—something to keep your mind busy while your body's imprisoned, so to speak. If you want to sign up for a correspondence course, let me know, and I'll help you.

I'm counting the days until you get home. And I'll be waiting for you. This isn't goodbye. You're not getting rid of me, Jim McKenzie. There's so much I'd like to say, but knowing my letters are going to be read by a stranger before they reach you stops me from being too private. I hope you understand. I pray for you every night, and I know your parents do, too. My love to you.