The World Played Chess, page 8
Charlie.
I heard the rattle of machine gun fire and heard and felt the explosions.
Kenny struggled to free himself from his poncho. He’d become entangled in the plastic and started to scream in frustration. I reached down and helped pull the poncho off him as additional bursts of M-16 gunfire rattled overhead and red tracers flew in every direction. Red is friendly fire. Green is Charlie.
I was uncertain what to do. The sound was deafening and disorienting.
Kenny wasn’t uncertain. Freed from his poncho, he grabbed his M-16, and despite Cruz’s warning, he crawled atop the sandbags and started shooting, at what, I had no idea. I stuck my head up. Red trails crisscrossed the firebase. Illumination flares continued to light up the ground.
I aimed at the razor wire and fired a burst with my M-16 on semiautomatic. A mortar detonated. The ground shook, dirt clods rained down on my foxhole.
I was certain we were about to be overrun by NVA. I was going to look up and see Charlie dropping down on top of me, sticking me with a bayonet. That was my perception of war. Those were the movies I watched as a kid.
I heard Kenny firing on fully automatic. He slapped in a new magazine. I still had no idea what he was shooting at. Now he was snapping off bursts. He didn’t spray. He was deliberate. Hunting. I imagined just like he hunted in the hills of Kentucky.
My ass quivered. My butt cheeks shook. I couldn’t control them. I couldn’t keep them from shaking.
The fighting ended as suddenly as it began. Five minutes, just like Cruz had said, but it felt like five hours.
I heard shouting. “Cease fire. Cease fire, you assholes.” Cruz. The corporal came down the line yelling obscenities. I stayed in our foxhole, listening. Waiting. Cruz came up behind us, like a ghost in the glare from the illumination. He nearly gave me a heart attack.
“Penny,” he said.
“What?”
“Penny, Shutter. Penny.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. Then I remembered. “Lane,” I said. “Lane.”
“You good?” he asked.
“I’m good,” I said, but he didn’t wait before he turned to Kenny. “Haybale, you good?”
Kenny didn’t answer.
“Haybale?”
Cruz went to Haybale, shook him, then swore. “Shit.” He yelled, “Corpsman!” in a loud voice. “Corpsman!”
A navy corpsman is attached to our platoon. The company actually has four because we are light artillery. It is not something I like to think about.
I checked my clothing. I didn’t feel blood. Did I get hit? Was I dying?
Guys rushed forward, boots pounding the ground. The corpsman, a pudgy twenty-year-old named Hayes, dropped beside Kenny. He’s not a doctor. He received eight weeks of training in battlefield injuries. I thought, Just like you’re not a photographer.
I watched, paralyzed, unable to look away. Cruz spoke to me, but I couldn’t hear him. His lips moved, but I couldn’t hear his voice. My ass continued to shake. I tried to stop it, to not look so scared. But I was scared. I was having these weird thoughts, flashbacks of my life, thinking I got hit, that I was dead, and I just didn’t know it yet. They say that happens. They say when you die, you don’t know you’re dead, not right away. You walk the earth wondering why nobody pays any attention to you.
I think again of The Wizard of Oz, of Dorothy talking to Toto, the little black dog that started all her damn problems.
Like Dorothy, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.
Nor Kentucky, Haybale.
I’m thinking Dorothy should have shot Toto.
She should have just shot the damn dog.
Maybe then she could have just stayed home.
Chapter 6
October 23, 2015
Football season Beau’s senior year meant Friday nights playing under the lights. We had sent Beau to Serra after much debate. From my own experience, there were things about the school I had not liked, but Serra had changed in the intervening years. It had improved its academics, worked hard to change the culture from a “jock” school, and collaborated with the all-girls schools to have classes and other nondating events together. Unlike me, Beau would meet girls in normal high school settings and, hopefully, make friends. Beau’s best friend, Chris Carpenter, also chose to attend Serra, which more or less sealed the deal.
Beau had been named a team captain, and Elizabeth and I decided to make the season memorable. Elizabeth became a team mom and helped put together the team dinners on game day as well as the special night for senior players. I decided to organize tailgate parties for the parents before the home games to promote camaraderie. With the games on Friday night, I could escape the clutches of the law, at least for a few hours, and I was determined to be at each of Beau’s games.
I bought a portable grill to do the tailgates up right, and I barbecued chicken, hot dogs, and hamburgers, and other parents brought side dishes to share. The tailgates were a chance to get to know the parents of Beau’s teammates, especially the underclassmen moving up to varsity. Some we knew from prior seasons and some, like Chris, we had known since grammar school. The Carpenters lived just a few blocks from us in Burlingame, and we had carpooled before the boys could drive. Chris was a big kid who became an even bigger young man. At six foot four and 290 pounds, he was a beast on the football field but a gentle soul off it. He played both ways at offensive and defensive tackle, and not surprisingly his play was generating letters of interest from nearly every Pac-12 school as well as Notre Dame, Oklahoma, and Michigan.
Chris and Beau’s relationship was symbiotic, as were their positions on the football field. Beau played fullback and usually ran directly behind Chris, who opened holes like a bulldozer. On defense, Beau played middle linebacker and Chris, a defensive tackle, tied up offensive linemen, which allowed Beau to split the gaps and make tackles and sacks behind the line of scrimmage. Beau had heart and strength and stellar statistics, but not size. Six feet tall, he struggled just to reach two hundred pounds. As happy as I was for all the interest Chris had generated, I felt bad for my son.
Beau’s junior year, Serra won the Northern California championship but lost the state championship to a Southern California school. Serra had brought back a lot of starters on offense and defense, but their archrival, Bellarmine Prep, brought back even more, including an all-American running back who had already committed to Alabama. The two teams were undefeated heading into a showdown on Serra’s home field.
Elizabeth and I gathered with the Carpenters and other parents in the parking lot two hours before game time to prepare the tailgate. Mary Beth, who attended Mercy, an all-girls school in Burlingame, didn’t stick around long, finding friends and disappearing.
“Chris heard from Stanford,” Art Carpenter said to me as we set up tables and unloaded food from the back of his Suburban and my Subaru.
“Yeah?” I said.
“They’re interested,” Art said. “But they’re waiting for his SAT scores before they offer him a scholarship.” Like my parents, the Carpenters needed a scholarship for Chris to attend Stanford. Art owned an appliance store in Burlingame and Josephine taught at a public elementary school. With four kids, money was tight.
“That’s terrific,” I said, but I again thought of Beau. Though he had better grades than Chris, he would not have nearly the same options; football would not get him a scholarship. It wasn’t fair, but neither was the real world.
“Do you realize what a Stanford education could do for Chris?” Art continued.
I did.
Art pulled out a pack of hot dogs and handed them to me. “He could do whatever he wanted. I’m more nervous now than I’ve ever been.”
“Why?”
“Because Chris is one bad tackle or bad play away from an injury. I hate to say this, but I’m hoping he just gets through this season healthy and gets in.”
I almost said, You can’t think that way, but I’d been reading William’s journal and it had spurred my memory of the conversations William and I had shared during those summer months. William had told me the only difference between him and all those young men who died in Vietnam was bad luck. They took one step in the wrong place, stuck their head up at the wrong time, got on the wrong chopper, or slept in the wrong bunker.
“Chris is a big kid,” I said, putting the hot dogs beside a row of hamburgers. “He can take care of himself.”
“I hope you’re right,” Art said.
As game time approached, an electricity filled the parking lot and the stands. We cleaned up the tables, put away the food, and made our way to the bleachers in time to see both teams exit the locker rooms and storm onto the field. Serra had put money and resources into their field, but it was far from a stadium. It was a high school football field with bleachers. As we stood in the parents’ section, I looked around and noticed a lot of young men I didn’t recognize.
“Scouts,” Art said, catching my gaze. “Chris got phone calls they’d be here.”
Maybe they’d see Beau, I contemplated, then immediately tried to dismiss the thought. Still . . .
Serra got off to a fast start. Beau ran well behind Chris, and on a third down, Beau plunged into the end zone from the one-yard line, followed by a successful extra point to put Serra up 7–0. The game plan was to have Beau, as linebacker, spy on Phillips, the running back, and follow him all over the field. Beau had several tackles behind the line of scrimmage and held Phillips more or less in check on offense, but Phillips also played defensive safety, and just before halftime he picked off an errant throw and ran it to the end zone. Bellarmine made the extra point to tie the score 7–7.
I’d like to tell you that it was just a game, that the score, the outcome, didn’t matter. You’d think I would have understood that better than anyone—reading the journal of a young man who for a year struggled daily to stay alive and watched so many of his friends die—but it’s hard to be objective when it’s your son on the field and you know what the game means to him. I wanted Beau to have the chance to celebrate on the field.
In the third quarter Serra scored on a pass to the tight end. With the successful point after, they led 14–7. The defense hadn’t given up a score. Beau made tackle after tackle, and I couldn’t help but glance over my shoulder at the college scouts, wondering if any paid attention.
As the clock ticked down to the end of the third quarter, Beau made another tackle, but a Bellarmine player dove at the pile after the play, spearing Beau in the back of the head with his helmet. The referees, deciding the hit had been intentional, ejected the Bellarmine player, but I didn’t care. Beau was on the ground, not moving.
Elizabeth had her hands over her mouth in silent prayer as the team doctor tended to Beau, then, unable to stand there, she bolted from the bleachers. Beau was her baby boy, and he and Elizabeth had always had a special relationship. She taught him to snow-ski when he was eighteen months, to water-ski in Lake Tahoe, and to ride horseback on his grandparents’ farm. I hurried after her as Beau was helped to the sideline, clearly groggy. The team doctor examined Beau under a tent. Elizabeth and I went inside. I heard Beau say, “I’m fine. Where’s my helmet? Give me my helmet.”
The doctor looked at me. “His pupils are dilated and his eyes are not focusing. He could have a concussion.”
“I’m fine,” Beau said again. “Dad, I’m fine.”
The doctor stared at me. Elizabeth stared at me. Beau tried to get off the table, stumbled off balance, and nearly fell over. “I can play. I’m fine. Where’s my helmet?”
In my day, guys played through concussions all the time, because we could not diagnose them as well, and we didn’t know the repercussions of head trauma caused by football. Elizabeth had been reluctant to let Beau play, but he had been adamant he wanted to play with Chris, and we had relented.
I looked at Beau. “I’m sorry, son.” To the trainer I said, “Take his helmet.”
Beau looked at me in disbelief. “Dad. No.”
“Take his helmet,” I said again, struggling with emotion. I knew what this game meant to Beau and to his teammates, but I knew what my son meant to me and Elizabeth, and I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to him. I thought again of William, and of what had transpired that summer we’d worked together, how one instant could have forever changed his life and the lives of others.
“I’m sorry, Beau. I know—”
But Beau turned away and stumbled from the tent, without his helmet. He stood on the sidelines watching the game as Elizabeth and I returned to the stands and told the other parents what had happened.
Without Beau spying on Phillips from his middle linebacker position, Bellarmine’s running back gained huge yardage. He scored twice in the fourth quarter to give Bellarmine the win, 21–14.
I watched our son walk off the field with his head down, utterly dejected. The team doctor came to the sideline and put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll check him in the locker room. But you made the right decision,” he said.
I nodded.
“Keep an eye on him. If he gets sick, starts to vomit, can’t answer simple questions, take him to the emergency room.” He handed us a card. “This is the concussion clinic at Mills hospital. Call that number and give them my name. They’ll get Beau in tomorrow.”
Beau exited the locker room with Chris. They had shed their pads and jerseys, carrying them with their helmets. Each wore cutoff T-shirts, football pants, and flip-flops. Both looked dejected, but particularly Beau.
“Hey, Mr. B. Hey, Mrs. B.,” Chris said. “Hey, Mary Beth.”
“Sorry about the loss, Chris,” I said as Elizabeth and Mary Beth tried to console Beau.
“We played well,” Chris said. “If it wasn’t for the cheap shot, we would have won.” He put his hand on Beau’s shoulder. “We have more games to play. The season isn’t over.”
I knew for Chris there would be many more games, but for Beau that was far from a certainty.
“I’ll drive Beau’s car,” Chris said.
“We’ll follow you to our house and I’ll drop you off,” I said. “Let’s go, Beau.”
Beau never looked at me. He looked to his mother. “I’ll ride with Chris.”
I started to object, but Elizabeth gave me a quick head shake. Then to Beau she said, “We’ll meet you at home.”
In the car, I said to Elizabeth, “Did I do the right thing?”
She looked at me like I was crazy. “Of course you did the right thing. If you hadn’t told them to take his helmet, I would have hit you over the head with it.”
“I’m not sure he’s going to get over this. I know what this game meant to him.”
“It was a game, Vince. Just a high school football game. Don’t make it out to be more than it is. He’ll get over it. If this is his biggest disappointment in life, he’ll be damn lucky.”
“Tell that to Beau.”
“I will,” she said, defiant. “And someday he’ll realize I’m right. No one died out there. No one was seriously hurt. Beau’s coming home tonight. That’s all that matters.”
I blew out a held breath. She was right, of course. William’s journal reinforced that.
She continued. “You know Beau. He never stays mad long. He’ll get through this, and he’ll forgive you.”
“Forgive me?” I said, indignant. “For what?”
“He’s just disappointed, Vince. Don’t make this personal.”
I shook my head. “Of course it’s personal. That’s my son.”
“Our son,” she said. “And no one is saying you made the wrong decision.”
“He doesn’t know what disappointment or loss is,” I said. We had given Beau and his sister a lot more than I ever had. Vacations to Europe and places like Disney World in Orlando, Florida, and like Scottsdale, Arizona. We could afford to send Beau and Mary Beth to whatever college they chose. I lost my best friend to a heart attack at forty. I lost my dad to cancer at just seventy-six. I never even met my grandfather, and I never got the chance . . . I stopped. I’d had the chance to write, but I’d chosen money and stability instead of the dream. I couldn’t lay that at anyone’s feet but my own. “He has no idea what loss is,” I repeated.
“Did you at that age?” she asked.
I hated when she used common sense.
I did not, of course. Not before the end of that summer when I worked with William. I would get a painful lesson on loss, and a perspective that eluded most young men at eighteen years of age.
April 7, 1968
I thought the hardest part would be making it through that first night on guard duty, wondering if I would even awake to a tomorrow. I figured I’d never again be so happy to see a sunrise and the light of a new day, that bright orange ball rising above the treetops, that strip of fuchsia on the horizon, ribbons of pink and yellow painting the underside of the persistent haze. Color would mean I’d survived; I’d lived another day in-country.
Kenny had not.
Daylight has brought a harsh reality.
Kenny is dead.
Though I say the words, I don’t believe them, not fully. Kenny took a bullet in the eye that blew out the back of his head inside his helmet. A one in a million shot, Cruz said. Just bad luck. Kenny never cried out. Never made a sound. He just lay there, with his M-16 pointed toward the wire. Like he was hunting.
He was the hunted.
“Why’d he leave the foxhole?” Cruz asked.
“I don’t know,” I responded.
“Goddamn it. It’s your job to know. You’re a team. Didn’t I say don’t leave the damn foxhole. Didn’t I say that?”
“You said it.”
“Then why did he leave? You should have drug his ass back down.” Cruz swears. “Goddamn FNG.”
I wish I hadn’t called Kenny “Haybale” or thought of him as Gomer Pyle. I feel bad about it, and now it’s too late to apologize. What did my mother say about words being like arrows? Once you shoot them, you can’t take them back. Not from Kenny. Not ever.
