Hard Rain

By James Donzella

“Pretty common for these girls to claim they’re pregnant to coerce a naive soldier into a marriage proposal.”

My inner voice: Pregnant!? She’s not pregnant for chrissake!

“I’m sorry sir, I must have expressed myself poorly. She’s not pregnant by any means.”

Chaplain Krukshank stood about 5’10”, weighed about 120 pounds, if that. His close-cropped fuzzy hair atop his perfectly round head made him look like a human Q-Tip. He sat back in his chair, hands clasped in front of him.

“It’s just that… well things are gonna’ get bad," I said. "She’s half-French, half-Vietnamese. I’m worried what'll happen when we leave. Trying to find a way to get her outta here.”

Q-Tip started a droning lecture on the procedures for permission to marry a Vietnamese national. This went on for forty-five minutes straight. Mounds of paperworko be filled out; permission from my immediate commanding officer, Battalion Commander, Division Commander, Vietnamese district official, a Rabbi—whether you're Jewish or not. It was insane. I left the office without a single hope of getting Anne Marie out of the country on the pretense of marriage. I needed another plan.

The next few days I hung around Colonel Hin’s office, hoping to catch Sergeant Pham alone. I caught him coming out of HQ around lunchtime.

“Hey Sarge. I wonder if you had a few minutes for me. I wanted to discuss somethin’ with ya.”

We walked out to where he had his jeep parked. I lit a smoke.

“There’s this girl,” I started. “I wanna get her out of 'Nam and to the States. The Army’s got a million roadblocks.”

“That's true. Whaddya wanna know?”

“How to get her out… you know… grease some palms.”

“Palms?”

“I got money… you know to make things happen.”

“It isn’t always money that's required.”

No doubt, I was taking some big chances. You could get anything you could possibly think of here if you had the right currency. Drugs, weapons, it didn’t matter as long as you could provide the right incentive. They may want cash, explosives, a truckload of food—including the truck. It was all up to negotiation.

Pham told me about a Mr. Duong, who frequented the Golden Lotus bar in Pleiku. I should bring a carton of Salem Menthols.

The Golden Lotus was small. Bar in front to the right as you entered. Foul odor of sewage and stale beer assaulted the olfactory as you entered. Like most of the drinking establishments, it was a shabby dirty shack. Duong occupied a makeshift booth in the back corner of the dump, next to a doorway covered by a beaded curtain that led to the restroom. Restroom was a misnomer—a coffin-sized box with a flimsy door that stood on its end. Inside the box was a hole in the floor that sat directly over a sewer.

I approached the booth, deposited the carton of smokes on the table. Duong indicated with a nod to take a seat. His grin was oily, his teeth a diaster. I wanted to make this meeting quick.

“I wanna get someone out of the country,” I said.

“Where do you like this someone to go?”

“Don’t care, just out of this… Vietnam, out of Vietnam.”

“Anything can be arranged for a price.”

“How much?”

“Maybe four million. Maybe a little more.”

Four million Piasters, that would be somewhere around nine thousand American.

“What if I pay in greenbacks?”

“Same, same."

The conversation went on for another five minutes. He was a smuggler. Smuggling merchandise in and out of the country—people, supplies, drugs, weapons, whatever was profitable on the black market. There were no guarantee that once Mr. Duong had his money he'd follow through. We've all heard stories of smugglers ethics. Don't have any. They’ll slit your throat for a pack of smokes.

On my way back to the compound, I decided to revisit Plan A.

Dear Mom and Dad: Heading home. Looking forward to seeing you. Can’t wait for you to meet your new daughter-in-law.

That should go over well with the folks.

I obtained a DD-1172 and filled out what I could. I'd need to get more information from Anne Marie, but at least I got the ball rolling. I rehearsed my pitch to the Colonel with Smitty. We both felt Colonel “Flash” was approachable. I’d hit him up for a meeting in the morning.

I had a long conversation with Colonel Fleishman the next evening after dinner. I laid it all on the line, no BS: emotionally attached to this woman that I had known for nearly seven months; felt compelled to do something to see to her well-being; the writing was on the wall; Marvin the ARVIN would turn tail and run once we were gone.

“What does she think about this?” Fleishman said.

“Don’t know yet, sir. I wanted to have a solution… or something… not just some crazy idea."

“Her family may not approve.”

“She’s twenty-two years old, sir,” I said.

“This is a different country son. That won’t matter.”

“With your permission, sir, I’d like to at least try.”

The Colonel sat back in his chair, his chin cocked to one side. This was it. Without his approval I was done.

“I’ll sign off on this,” he said finally. “Have the paperwork on my desk in the morning. You’ll have to schedule counseling, don’t forget.”

A huge weight lifted instantly. I nearly jumped out of my seat. I wanted to throw my arms in the air. “Thank you, sir,” I said as I rose shaking. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

Sunday afternoon I went to town. Met Anne Marie at the fruit stand. We went to our favorite café for lunch, talked about the usual things. I expressed my worry over the U.S. withdrawal.

“I have an idea,” I said. “It'll solve our problem.”

“Problem?” she said.

Her face expressed confusion.

“Let’s go back to your place, where we can talk in private.”

We walked back to her apartment in silence, hand in hand. I felt all wound-up inside, questioning my decision the entire way. When we entered her apartment, nausea in full effect, had me off-balance and lightheaded. We sat on the couch holding hands.

“What’s wrong?” she said, squeezing my hand.

“I have this paperwork,” I said, reaching into my pants pouch packet. “It’s an application. I need you to fill out your portion so we can go to the States and… and get married.”

I got the words out without vomiting. My head started to clear.

“I love you,” I said.

She looked at me, expressionless.

“I only have a couple of months left then I’ll be goin’ home. You'll follow as soon as we can get through all the red tape.”

“Red tape?”

“It’s an expression,” I said. “Means a bunch of bullshit paperwork.”

She sat there and looked at me. Her expression never changed. Minutes passed with nothing said. Her eyes searched my face.

“If you’re concerned about being married, once we’re in the States we don’t have to stay married or anything. I mean if you don’t really love me. At least I can get you out of here, that’s how much I care about you.”

“Kiss me,” she said.

I gave her a kiss on the lips.

“Really kiss me,” she said. “Like you mean it.”

We kissed deep and long. We separated. I’d gotten over the hump. We could start making real plans. I’d probably tell the parents about my impending marriage after I returned home. They deserved a full explanation.

“What of my mother? I have two younger sisters.”

“I can’t do anything about that, this is our only option,” I said holding up the papers.

“Not so!”

“What do you mean,” I said.

That’s when she threw the hay-maker. Never saw it coming and I went down like a bag of cement.

“You can stay here. We can go to the mountains and live on my family farm.”

“That’s crazy!” I said.

“It you really loved me as much as you say, it would not be crazy.”

“I could never do that.”

“And I could never leave my family. They need me. Not everyone in the world wish to come to America. Your people may not accept me.”

It went on like that for another twenty minutes. Anne Marie believed it wouldn’t matter much who was in power. Amongst the mountain farmers, nothing would really change. In the end, we agreed to explore other options. There was still the possibility of “purchasing” some visas. Corrupt officials were in ample supply.

The following week plodded along.

I was fed up with the war—the Vietnamese—the Army—the food, just about everything. I was sick of it. Chow lines got shorter, hooches emptied and perimeter duty assignments increased. Depending on the situation, you could pull duty twice in one week. I was on my second tower watch in ten days, the only thing I had to look forward to was seeing Anne Marie. I'd socked away a portion of my pay in the Army authorized bank. It paid a nice dividend. I’d use that money to help Anne and her family. I’d tell her about it tomorrow. Grab a little shut-eye after duty, head into town and be back in camp by lunch. I pulled the last watch on the south tower. I watched as the sky started to glow a golden color a few minutes passed six. When the sun cleared the east peak, I grabbed by gear and climbed down the ladder. I waved good morning to Smitty on his way to chow. Two minutes later, I was stripped down to my skivvies and in my bunk. Exhausted, I dropped off immediately.

Twenty minutes passed, I found myself on a street corner in my hometown. A firetruck, siren screaming, raced through the intersection. It was the swoosh and BOOM, that brought me back to reality. The siren was the call to battle stations.

“The hell with that. I’m sick of this shit,” I thought.

I clamped the pillow over my head to muffle the noise. Two more swooshes went over the barrack. The booms were a half-mile away. I’d sit this one out. I didn’t hear the next swoosh. The 122 Rocket hit about twenty feet from the barrack’s front door. It felt like the bunk raised two-feet off the ground and dropped down. The door flew open, smoke, dust and sunlight poured into the room. I sat up in my bunk. The next rocket hit thirty-feet away, they had the compound zeroed in.

I clambered out of bed. Jumped into my pants and slipped on boots. Helmet on head I slipped on flack-jacket, scooped up ammo belt and weapon, charging for the door at full speed. The next 122 landed just over the barrack. The vibration in the ground made me stumble. As I darted for the bunker, through smoke and dust, debris fell to the earth, bouncing off my helmet like raindrops. One more swoosh, followed by a BOOM and a head-first dive into the entrance of the bunker left my right boot on the top step of the entrance. I crawled up to retrieve it.

“SonsaBITCHES!” I yelled.

Pieces of shrapnel were nestled in the collar of my flack-jacket, irritating my neck. I reached back and attempted to brush the shards away, only scratching my skin. My fingertips had traces of blood.

“MOTHER FAaa—” I started to yell as the corner of my eye caught the images of two nuns in full habits huddled in the corner of the bunker.

From the darkness moved two men, one a grey-haired priest, the other a younger man in civilian clothes.

“We were brought here by another soldier then he left!” said the man.

“Just sit tight. This should be over soon!” I said not believing one word. “They speak English?”

“Oh yes, very well,” said the priest.

“That’s…great.”

“We are from the orphanage. Daughters of Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal,” the priest continued.

I hitched up my pants and tried to make myself a bit more presentable. “We’ll be okay, father…"

“Father Francisco. Frank.”

“Father Frank,” I said as I cranked the field phone.

I relayed the information I got from Operations. A Cavalry unit had been called in and deployed. We were to stay put until HQ sent someone to pick up our guests. It was 0945 before we got the all clear. I headed over to the office. A 122 had taken out a storage building. The fire was nearly out. As I turned the corner toward the IG hut, I stopped dead in my tracks. A huge gaping hole was torn out of the left side by the entrance where Smitty and I once had desks. I rushed into the building and found Smitty sweeping up debris.

“Smitty! Thank God you’re okay.”

“I was gassin’ up the jeep when it hit. Colonel's been taken to the EVAC.”

“Shit!”

“Cut up somethin’ bad,” Smitty said. He looked like he wanted to say more—but might cry.

“Gimme the keys.”

Smitty threw me the keys, I drove to the hospital.

Colonel Fleishman was sitting up on a gurney when I arrived. Bandaged from his shoulder to his elbow on his right arm, the doctor was just about finished taping the wounds.

“Jesus Christ, sir!”

“It’s not as bad as it looks. Doc took out a coupla’ pounds of metal.”

In a stainless steel bowl sat a collection of bloody gauzes and rusty, jagged, very sharp chunks of metal. How they'd gain entry to Fleishman's body had not been a polite process.

“Gonna’ have a bunch of little scars when it’s all healed.”

I waited for the Colonel to get the okay from the doctor and drove him back to the compound. He had some painkillers with him with orders to take the next two days off.

I met up with some of the boys later in the afternoon. Not much to do at the office, the 122 snapped the utility pole providing electricity and phones into the hut. I wasn’t ready for another haymaker, but such is life.

“Brooksie got it,” Tommy said as I took a seat on the stool next to him.

“What?”

“Never knew what hit him.”

“Jesus!”

Another punch in the gut. Brooks was a pain in the ass. Never warmed to him—his belligerence and rudeness a put off. We all have our way to cope with fear and anxiety. He was scared just like the rest of us and blowhard bravado was his coping mechanism. He didn’t deserve it. Sixteen days left to his tour. He was goin’ home early.

Sunday morning I went to Chapel.

Father Frank conducted the service.

****

James Donzella lives in Northern California. He is an active member of the UCLA Wordcommandos Creative Writing Workshop for Military Veterans and currently building his first collection of short stories. He’s worked as an ad copywriter, actor and screenwriter.