Sally Boy (14 page)

“Pop, I’m proud of what you did during the
war. I really am. But I gotta do this. The bus is gonna pick me up
around the corner in ten minutes. I just wanted to say ‘good-bye’
to you.”

Peter slowly shook his head in disgust. “You
didn’t hear a fucking word I said? Did you?”

“I heard you, Pop. But it don’t change
nothing.”

“What about your little girlfriend. How does
she feel about you going off to avenge your friends and leaving her
here all alone?”

“We talked. Nicole cried a lot. But she
understands. Nicole promised she’d wait for me.”

“Don’t bet on it, kid. I seen plenty of
broads make promises like that and not keep ’em. What makes you
think you’re so fucking special? You’re gonna lose her. And chances
are you’re probably gonna get killed, too. And for what? Ou
gots!”

“I gotta go, Pop.” Sal reached out to shake
his father’s hand.

Sneering at the gesture, Peter snapped the
newspaper raising it up in front of his face. Dejectedly, Sal
dropped his arm to his side and picked up his suitcase. He made his
way to the door and opened it. “I’ll be seeing you, Pop,” Sal said,
looking back one last time. “I’ll write you when I get to Vietnam.
You take carea yourself. Awright?” Stepping out into the hall, Sal
closed the door behind him.

Slamming the paper down hard onto the table,
Peter called out barely above his normal speaking voice,
“Salvatore! Salvatore, I don’t want you to go.”

Hearing his father’s words made Sal smile.
“See you, Pop,” he whispered softly.

With his suitcase firmly in hand, Sal
hurried down the three flights of stairs, stopping outside on his
stoop. Having great affection for his neighborhood, Sal inhaled
deeply as he gazed up-and-down Arthur Avenue. Fondly, he remembered
his first stickball game, his first day of school, and the first
time he kissed a girl on the corner. Then with a spring in his
step, Sal proceeded down the sidewalk into a dark and dangerous
future.

How different this was from when Salvatore
had been uprooted from his grandparents’ home in Sicily so many
years ago. Yet, once again, someone who loved him wanted him to
stay. Fighting back his tears, Peter hung out his window for as
long as possible, watching his son until he turned the corner at
the end of the block, and was gone from sight.

* * * * *

Each evening, the national and local
television news aired film footage of American military casualties.
The Vietnam War had become dinner theater as Americans watched
young, brave men fight and die. The sweltering temperatures of the
summer of 1968 paled in comparison to the heated debates on Capitol
Hill regarding America’s involvement in Southeast Asia. The growing
anti-war movement had found its way from the liberal big cities to
the conservative rural towns of the Midwest. As a result, even the
staunchest proponents of the war in Indochina were now second
guessing the United States involvement in this costly and divisive
conflict.

Falsely believing this campaign could be won
through a “war of attrition,” the Joint Chiefs of Staff had greatly
underestimated the fighting spirit of the North Vietnamese people.
This misguided philosophy, combined with the White House’s
policies: not to exceed troop levels of 550,000 combat soldiers in
Vietnam; not to invade the north; not to mine Hai Phong Harbor; and
not to allow American forces to pursue the enemy into Laos and
Cambodia, would prove to be their undoing.

Propped up by several pillows, Sal laid on
his bunk writing a letter that he knew would go unanswered. Having
returned from field operations several hours ago, he still wore the
muddy olive-drab green uniform that he had worn for several days
out in the bush. Curiously, the other men who shared Sal’s tent
were nowhere to be found. They were probably out getting drunk, or
releasing their pent-up frustrations in the numerous brothels and
night clubs that had sprung up on the outskirts of their base camp.
Although there was excessive drinking and a great deal of drug use
by a noteworthy percentage of the soldiers, when it was time to
saddle up, most of the men did their job with great efficiency and
skill.

First Platoon Leader, Second Lieutenant,
Jonathan Symonds, sat in his billet sipping Kentucky Bourbon to
steady his nerves as he wrote reports and letters to the families
of the American soldiers killed in action. Undoubtedly, Symonds
would state in his debriefing report to his superiors that Delta
Company’s mission was a tremendous success, with minimal loss of
American life, and a favorable kill ratio of four-to-one. Being as
diplomatic as possible, Symonds would then explain to the parents
of the fallen men how bravely their sons fought, and that they died
honorably in a worthy cause to keep the people of South Vietnam and
the world free from the threat of Communist expansion.

Delta Company was deployed by Huey’s, East
of Binh Long, on the border of Cambodia near the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
The well-known trail, which ran south from Laos down through
Cambodia to the gulf of Thailand, was the main supply and support
route for the North Vietnamese military. They funneled troops and
munitions to their units in the south through this passage. Delta’s
military objective was to set up a listening post and an ambush for
suspected enemy forces moving freely along the border. They were to
engage the enemy, take prisoners if possible, and gather
intelligence. Delta was slated to be in the field for three days,
after which time they were to hump several clicks to a
predetermined landing zone for pick up.

After two and a half days of dealing with
insects and mosquitoes the size of golf balls, boredom, excessive
heat, dehydration, snakes, and C-Rats, they found the elusive
enemy. Or rather, the enemy found them. A company-strength unit of
combined NVA and VC forces had set up an ambush for the
unsuspecting American soldiers as they made their way through the
jungle to their designated LZ for extraction.

Just before dawn, automatic gunfire from an
AK-47 shattered the jungle’s serenity. First Platoon took cover and
returned fire. After several hours of relentless fighting, the
momentum swung in the American forces favor when Sal and Platoon
Sergeant, Beckman, were able to call for a fire mission and
accurately rain artillery-fire down on the enemy’s position. The
two men then led a fire-team up a nearby ridge out-flanking the
opposing force and caught the enemy in a crossfire. In the
aftermath of the clash, four American soldiers lay dead and two
were wounded. However, “Charlie” suffered the greater number of
casualties, with fifteen confirmed KIA’s.

Sal’s uniform was stained with the dried
blood from a soldier he tried to save after the young man was shot
in the stomach. Though Sal assisted the medic as best he could, the
fatal wound inflicted by the Russian-made AK-47 eventually snuffed
out his life. Only eighteen-years-old, the boy died silently.
Moments from his end, he looked up at Sal, smiled, and was gone.
The ugliness of war had become a way of life for these skilled
jungle fighters. However, looking another human being directly in
their eyes and watching them die was something not even the most
battle-hardened veteran could ever really get used to.

The stress of combat had taken its toll and
greatly changed Sal’s appearance and gregarious personality. Once
possessing a lush, beautiful flowing black mane, Sal now had a
short, regulation G.I.-styled head of hair. Although his face was
tan and still very handsome, Sal’s warm, sexy brown eyes had taken
on a savage glint. His laser-like glare could burn through steel.
Combat veterans who had seen too much death and destruction
referred to it as the “thousand yard stare.”

Like most of his fellow soldiers, Sal slept
in a strong back tent designed to house twelve to fourteen men.
Basically, the tents were a framed structure made out of 2x4s with
canvas draped over them. The tops were secured by lashes and pegs,
and if you were lucky enough to have flooring, it was usually made
of wood.

The tents were gloomy, dirty, and musty, but
the men did their best to make their living quarters comfortable.
Their flimsy Army-issued cots lined the floor on both sides,
creating an aisle down the middle of the tent. Individual
footlockers rested at the base of their bunks and housed their
belongings. Some of the more resourceful grunts slept in homemade
hammocks with netting draped around them to keep the mosquitoes
away at night. Sweat-soaked towels, empty beer cans, dirty
uniforms, and pornographic material were strewn about. The canvas
reeked of mildew from the jungle’s incessant rain and heat.
Pictures of loved ones and mementos from home cluttered the shelves
and tables made out of discarded ammo crates and sandbags.

The framed picture Sal’s grandmother gave
him rested on an empty ammo crate he used as a nightstand. Though
Peter never wrote back, Sal tried to write his father at least once
a week. Holding his crucifix in his fingers, Sal slowly ran it
back-and-forth along the gold chain around his neck as he quietly
re-read a letter to himself to ensure its accuracy.

“How you doing, Pop?

“Things are pretty crazy here. I just got
back from patrol a couple of hours ago. We lost four men. The good
thing is we killed about fifteen or so of these gooks. They’re not
as stupid as everyone back home thinks. They got balls, too. I ran
into Joey ‘The Chin’ and ‘Fat’ Angelo from the neighborhood on
leave in Saigon. They’re pretty messed up. There’s a lot of drugs
and stuff here. But you don’t gotta worry about me ’cause I’m good
to go.

“I guess you’re still pretty mad at me for
leaving the way I did, but I really wouldn’t know, ’cause you never
answer any of my letters. That’s okay. You never answered any of my
mother’s letters either. I did what I thought was right, Pop. Even
though you don’t agree with my decision, it would be kind of nice
to hear from you sometime. I bet you must have been pretty pissed
off when you heard I re-upped for a second tour. I would’ve liked
to seen your face when you got the news. You can yell at me in a
year, when you see me. That is, if I don’t get zapped by some
slope.

“I lost touch with all the fellas from the
neighborhood a long time ago. I guess they’re all too busy to write
me. I hate to admit it, but you was right about Nicole not waiting
for me. She wrote me a letter about a month before I re-upped. She
said that it was immoral for her to be involved with somebody who
murders women and children. I don’t know what she’s talking about.
The only people we ever KIAed was the VC shooting at us first.
Something weird must have happened to her when she went to that
college upstate. We was talking about getting married when I got
home, and the next thing I know, she’s telling me she never wants
to see me again. I guess I’ll never figure out broads.

“Anyway Pop, I hope you’re doing okay. I
guess I’ll see you when I see you. Oh yeah, by the way, happy
birthday.

“Salvatore”

The loud, clumsy entrance of a vaguely
familiar soldier from his platoon disrupted Sal’s thoughts. Angel
Hernandez was a better-than-average looking, slender, dark-skinned
Puerto Rican, standing just under six-feet, with a peach fuzz
mustache, dark eyes, and a poor complexion.

Growing up in Spanish Harlem, Angel was
raised in a shit-hole tenement infested with cockroaches and rats.
The outside of the building was covered with graffiti, and the
first floor windows were boarded up for years because of an
electrical fire. The hallways reeked of urine. Junkies routinely
shot up in the stairwells. Winos slept on the front steps, and in
the winter they made their way inside to sleep anywhere warm. There
was very little, if any, heat in the winter, and no
air-conditioning in the scorching summers.

Angel’s father, Jose Hernandez, wasn’t much
of a father at all. A full-blown heroin addict, Jose was in-and-out
of the Bronx House of Detention so often he considered it his home
away from home...that is until one day he got shived by a fellow
inmate in a dispute over a card game for a lousy pack of smokes.
Jose died a bloody and painful death clutching his chest on the
floor of cell-block D.

Once a beautiful young girl, Ruby Hernandez
had dreams of becoming an actress. Ruby was active in the drama
club at her high school and was earning good grades until she
dropped out soon after meeting Jose. Shortly after that, Ruby found
herself hustling for money to buy scat and shooting up almost as
often as Jose. Six months later, Jose turned her out. Ruby began
turning tricks on the corner to support their habit, and to earn
grocery money to feed Angel and his younger half-brother,
Roberto.

When Angel was sixteen, his mother met her
ugly demise at the hands of an insane homeless man. The bastard
stabbed her in the face and chest forty-four times with a kitchen
knife. After Ruby’s death, Angel did the best he could to care for
Roberto himself. Working odd-jobs and menial duties around the
neighborhood, Angel even sold a little junk to support them.
However, after a phone call was made to Child Services by a
concerned neighbor, the State of New York took Roberto away. They
placed him in a foster home where Roberto was physically abused and
sexually molested by his foster parents. Truly, Roberto was the
only person Angel ever cared about. Having his brother taken from
him would torment Angel for the rest of his life.

Though he lacked any formal education, Angel
was still a slick operator with a line of bullshit second to none.
Confidence and the gift of gab got him over with the ladies, but
none of the other soldiers liked him. Having only been “in country”
a short time, Angel didn’t seem to want to listen to, or learn
from, the veteran soldiers in his squad.