The Man Who Walked Away From War, Part IV

       The evening resupply chopper came and went. Moreland didn’t come back. I sat on the sandbags and ate dinner -- roast beef, mashed potatoes and brown gravy with too much salt, green beans, some sort of apple thing for dessert -- and drank a canteen cup of real coffee. As real as army cooks made it, anyway. Night neared. I wasn’t worried about Moreland, deciding he was walking the platoon perimeter, sitting in on stories, one-upping everybody until people got tired of him and suggested he go back to his own squad. Everybody in the platoon knew Moreland and his penchant for outrageous lies.

       I did worry when darkness began to settle. I put out two Claymores, running the wires back to the hole and connecting the clackers. I figured surely Moreland would be there. He was afraid of Claymores and delayed putting them out as long as possible, always waiting for me to do the job. Night came for real, and still no Moreland. Wizard and Marsetti had the hole to my right, then Billy D and Hunter. Third Squad’s holes were to my left, then First Squad and Fourth Squad, the platoon perimeter arching around the small clearing.

       After a time alone in the hole, I whispered across: “Wizard! Hey, Wizard!”

       His whispered answer came quickly. “Yo! You got movement?” I heard his M-60 move, belted rounds clacking against the gun.

       “Negative! Negative on movement! Moreland’s not here! Pass it up to Sergeant Reid!”

       Wizard snorted, then whispered back: “Dumb fuck’s lost, most likely.”

       “Just pass it up!”

       I waited. There wasn’t anything else to do. I couldn’t leave the hole and go walking around, looking for Moreland. There were too many wired nerves attached to fingers on triggers.

       It seemed an eternity before Wizard relayed: “Sergeant Reid says there ain’t shit we can do right now. We’ll do somethin come first light.”

       I nodded, which was a dumb thing to do. Nobody could see. “Roger,” I said.

       The night turned spooky. I had never been alone at night; someone always occupied a hole with me. There were noises in the night. Bushes moved, but that always happens. You look at a bush and then away and back at the bush, it will have moved. Ignoring the bushes that moved, I concentrated on the noises, occasionally closing my eyes, trying to see with my ears. After a time, the noises went away.

       I lost count of the times I nodded off, quickly coming awake, touching the Claymore clackers, making sure they were where I left them. I touched my rifle, too, drawing comfort from its nearness. The night dragged on and on. It was about four o’clock when my numb mind began to put the pieces together. “There was a grunt walked away from the war,” Moreland had said. A grunt who got on the evening resupply chopper, telling the crew chief he was going on R&R. Impossible, part of my mind argued. But another part, the part that knew Moreland ... Yeah, that might be something he’d do. Impossible. But it’s Moreland.

       When the first hint of dawn pinked the horizon, I sat in a corner of the hole and lit a cigarette. Flame from my lighter made some light, but right then I didn't care. Besides, if gooks were in the bush, they knew were the holes were. It had been daylight when we dug in, and any gook worth his rice would have marked each position. I sat in a corner of the hole, cursing Moreland, especially the idiotic idea that somebody -- anybody -- could simply walk away from the war. You just don’t do something like that. Then I wondered: Why not? What had we ever given Moreland except a hard time? The answer came quickly: Nothing. I felt no remorse at the way we treated Moreland, though. What was done was done, and there was nothing I could do about it.

       Thinking about Moreland reminded me of Charlotte and Charlene. I took off my helmet and unfolded the plastic and stared at the pictures, dark in the dim morning light. I remembered how the girls looked, and I suddenly realized another reason why Moreland walked away. Two reasons: Girls who could have been twins. I wondered what it was like, doing both girls. I swore at myself then. Thinking of things that would never happen ... But we all did that, thought about girls back home, girls we could have taken out, maybe, but never had. And Moreland, maybe worried about stepping on something that went “Click!” when the striker hit the fuse and then the thing blew off a leg or two or everything between his legs. I laughed at that thought: Moreland having bigger balls than the rest of us because maybe he was afraid of losing them.

       When there was enough light to see, Sergeant Reid slid into my hole. “Moreland isn’t anywhere on the perimeter. Tell me what happened.”

       I kept my eyes to the front, hoping Sergeant Reid would think I watched for gooks sneaking up in the dawn. “He said he was going to the CP. He had outgoing mail.”

       “That’s it?”

       I nodded. “We finished the hole, smoked a cigarette. Then he picked up his rifle and his ruck and said he was going to the CP.”

       Sergeant Reid’s fist made a muffled sound when he punched the dirt. “Shit!”

       I said, “You think maybe the gooks sneaked in and grabbed him?” The idea was so monstrous that I could look at Sergeant Reid while saying it.

       He shook his head. “No. Not a chance. He would have yelled. No.”

       “Well,” I said, “he damned sure didn’t walk away. I mean, Moreland can be dumb sometimes, but he ain’t stupid.”

       Sergeant Reid swore again. “He wouldn’t ... No.”

       “What?” I asked, but I knew.

       “You think he got on the chopper last night?”

       “Moreland? Jesus, Sergeant Reid!” I wondered when the first chopper would leave base camp that morning, maybe going to Tan San Nhut, figuring maybe 0730, thinking there might yet be a chance. At Tan San Nhut, Moreland could catch a hop to wherever he was going. “You can’t ... Nobody walks away. Moreland’s a grunt!”

       “Yeah, but ... Dammit, he ain’t here!” He sighed, and I knew he would go to the LT, confirming Moreland’s absence. I knew, too, that the LT would have to call the CO back at base camp. The LT would get on the radio and ... I almost laughed. Talk about a career fuck. The LT would tell the CO that Aero Rifle Platoon was missing a man, and the soldier in question might have taken the resupply chopper back to base camp, and would the CO be so kind as to send someone around the troop area and ask if Moreland was there. I could hear the LT’s voice when he made contact with the CO. “See, the thing is, ah, one of my men, uh, maybe left the field, and ... ” Desertion under fire? Nah. We weren’t taking fire when Moreland left. In the face of the enemy? But, there was no enemy, was there. Not in the immediate vicinity.

       “What?” Sergeant Reid said abruptly.

       “Pardon? Oh. Nothing, Sergeant Reid.”

       He exhaled noisily. “Shit. Well, I pity his ass when they catch him.” He climbed from the hole, walking slowly back to the platoon CP.

       Wizard spoke from his hole when Sergeant Reid was out of hearing. “Shit, Man. You think he really did it?”

       “Did what?”

       “Deedeed, Man.”

       “How? How would somebody just leave?”

       “On the fuckin chopper, Man.”

       I shook my head. “Nah. The chopper crew would ask, wouldn’t they? I mean, a grunt just gets on the chopper, wouldn’t you ask?”

       “Yeah,” Wizard said, “but I ain’t a fuckin airedale.”