The World Played Chess (43)

Mary Beth sobbed and went upstairs. Beau remained upset, but I could see that Mary Beth’s words and her tears had pierced a hole in his shield of anger.

“You do what you want,” I said.

“Don’t guilt me,” Beau said, but his tone had changed, now soft and regretful.

“If I wanted to guilt you, you’d know it,” I said. “I mean it. You do what you want. Go or don’t go. But I don’t want you there if you’re going to ruin your sister’s birthday. We’re going to make this night special for her, with or without you.”





May 2, 1968

The peace talks continue, but so does the war. Our firebase has been on alert since April 30. NVA troops have engaged marines in the Battle of Dai Do along the demilitarized zone, trying to punch an invasion corridor into South Vietnam. A battalion of marines known as the Magnificent Bastards is repelling them. We are hearing rumors of another NVA offensive, what is being called a Mini-Tet.

While we wait for orders, I wrote my first letter home since being in-country. I decided it was time. I’d put if off because I didn’t want my family to expect the letters, not knowing when I’d get the chance to write another or how long it would take for the letter to reach them. I have received letters from home. They come in with the Hueys that resupply our firebase and take my film back to the lab at Da Nang. My mother apparently sent a birthday package with cookies and a cake for my nineteenth birthday. I received an empty box. I don’t know if the guys here ate the contents, or if they were eaten in transport. Too bad because I’m losing weight and could have used the extra calories. The heat of the bush melts the pounds off and kills your appetite, as does the thought of eating another C ration.

I kept my letter bland because, well, but for that first night when Kenny died—seems like a long time ago now—it pretty much has been bland. I told my family I missed them. I thanked them for the birthday gifts. I didn’t want to say, “I’ll see you soon,” or that I couldn’t wait to come home, remembering Cruz’s admonition not to talk about home while you’re in Nam. Marines have all kinds of superstitions.

“What good is talking about home going to do? You’re here. You’re in Nam. This is your home. This is where you live. We are your family. You keep your mind here and you keep your body here. You let your mind go home . . . and your body goes home. You don’t think about it. Don’t talk about it. Comprende, homie?”

I learned quickly. The calendar I hung on a nail near my bunk was torn down the first day I arrived. I never did find it or find out who took it down, but I understood why. “You don’t count days until you’re a short-timer sent back to the rear,” Cruz said.

It’s lonely here, even with all these guys. We know one another but not too deeply. Another superstition. “You don’t make friends,” Cruz told me on another night. “We ain’t friends, Shutter. You understand? I don’t have any friends in the Nam. I don’t make any friends in the Nam. Most guys aren’t here long enough to care about anyway. They rotate out, their DEROS comes up, or they get flown out in a body bag. That’s Nam. It’s easier to say goodbye when you aren’t friends.”





Chapter 11


July 9, 1979

My mother worked late, taking a seminar, something she called continuing education. The oldest at home this year, I cared for my younger siblings, as my older siblings had cared for me. After cooking and putting out a meal, I cleaned the kitchen and took a shower. My mother arrived home, and with everything in order, I told her I was headed out.

“Don’t be late.”

“Never,” I said.

She gave me the look—she wasn’t buying it. I smiled. “I won’t be late. I got work in the morning.”

Mif picked me up in a yellow Volkswagen bug. “Whose car?” I asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

“My sister’s. My brother’s home from school and has the other car.”

In my house, when siblings came home, the available car often went to the oldest. The same rule applied in Mif’s house.

“Where’s Billy and Cap?”

“Billy’s got baseball. Cap is going to meet us at Ignatti’s.”

Mike Ignatti, a junior, had a basement with a pool table and a pinball machine. His father was deaf in one ear. Ignatti said his dad put his good ear to the pillow and couldn’t hear anything in the basement. That meant playing music and drinking beer while shooting pool, playing pinball, and throwing darts. It made me uncomfortable, drinking beer in someone’s house, knowing their parents were home, but it didn’t stop me.

I could only recall drinking beer with friends one time in my parents’ home. My dad had walked into the family room and handed me, Mif, and Cap one can of Coors each as we debated what to do with our night. It was a small act, but it meant something to my dad, and it meant something to me. A man of few words when it came to these things, my father was no dummy. He knew I drank. He knew my older brother drank. Handing me a beer in front of my friends was his way of telling me he no longer thought of me as a child, but also that he would hold me to a higher standard and expect me to live up to that standard.

When Mif and I drove up to Ignatti’s house, Cap stood out front like a thief scoping out a burglary. He bent down to speak in the driver’s-side window.