When Reason Fails

By Matthew Victor Schofield, Jr.

20 year old Jimmy Cramer returns home from a tour of duty in Viet Nam a bitter and disillusioned young man. He is surprised to find he still has feelings for his old girlfriend but she is having an affair with a married man, a Highway Patrolman. This takes his thoughts back to Viet Nam and how he handled personal conflicts there. But South Dakota isn't like Viet Nam, or is it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Victor Schofield, Jr.
• Release date: Jan 3, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452320977

Book preview

When Reason Fails

Matthew V. Schofield, Jr.

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2009 Matthew V. Schofield, Jr.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

AUTHOR’S FOREWARD

Greetings from the town with no stoplights: Philip, SD.

Please note that this fictional novel, When Reason Fails, is the first of two books dealing with my young South Dakota Viet Nam veteran protagonist, Jimmy Cramer. If you are reading this one first, that is good. My second novel, The Protest, is basically a continuation of When Reason Fails, but you are under no obligation, other than titillating reader enjoyment, to purchase both, nor do you have to read this book to understand and enjoy the second. When Reason Fails was published in hardcover in 1983 by Vantage Press in New York when I was 34, The Protest when I am 60. (Yes, 26 years for the sequel. Hey, I was busy.) But I hope you choose to enjoy them both. You will find them both on this site. This book is fiction. Any similarity to anybody or anything may or may not be intentional. So there.

DEDICATION

My sincerest and heartfelt gratitude to the people who helped make the publication of this original 1983 book possible: Les Ravellette, Bob Patterson, Steve Reckling, Randy Reckling, W. E. Woodall, Arthur Kroetch, Tom and Nancy Russell, Hank and Pauline Schofield, Vincent Schofield, and David Schofield. My deepest appreciation also to Charles L. Dorothy and James O. Aplan, whose acquaintance has lent new credence to the meaning of the word friendship. To my wife Carol: Thank you for your patience and love.

Preface

While Tom and Edna Cramer anxiously await the arrival of their son Jimmy at the airport, their only thoughts are of gladness and relief to finally see him home at last, back safe and sound from his tour of duty in the swamps of Viet Nam. When Reason Fails, by Matthew V. Schofield, Jr., is the story of James Marcellus Cramer, an impressionable young man sent off to the controversial war in Viet Nam.

Though he is, upon his return two years later, alive and seemingly unscathed, is he in fact the same young man he was before he left?

To his younger brother, Billy; his parents; his best friend Larry; and his girl friend Sandra; he returns a hero. But does he ever willingly talk about how, or why, he was honored? What is the inner conflict that rages through his otherwise peaceful thoughts?

He couldn’t return as the same person, though everyone who knew him and was close to him hoped and assumed he would; he struggles to pick up the pieces of his life that the war interrupted.

In this touching and often compelling novel of war, American youth, love, and compassion, we follow the plight of the reticent twenty-year-old war hero, hoping that the tragedy of war will not be compounded by the tragedy of another ruined young life.

Well, as the grunts in Viet Nam used to say, There it is. I thank you for your interest in When Reason Fails and The Protest. I hope your interest is sustained long enough to read both literary creations. When Reason Fails begins with this to-the-point quote from Rudyard Kipling, circa 1892:

Now it is not good for the Christian’s health

To hustle the Aryan brown,

For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles

And he weareth the Christian down;

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white

With the name of the late deceased,

And the epitaph drear: "A fool lies here

Who tried to hustle the East."

Chapter 1

August 1970

The truth of it was that he had planned the extermination of

Sergeant Rolston and planned it remarkably well.

Billy Cramer was the first to see it, a tiny, isolated speck barely visible against the vast blueness of sky above the Capitol City Airport. Within minutes it came in low, like an enormous silver-gray hunting bird, gracefully lowering its huge rubber claws for the kill. The high-pitched whining of the giant aircraft engines gradually died away as it taxied across the blue asphalt runway and came to a stop in front of the terminal building.

Looking through the spotless window of the plane, recently discharged SP-4 James Marcellus Cramer, of the second Platoon of Bravo Company of the First Cavalry Division (Airmobile), could see his mother, his father, and his sixteen-year-old brother Billy waiting for him in the small, restless throng of people in the airport waiting area outside. They stood close to the gate behind a high, galvanized fence, their faces expectant and impatient. His father, tall, towering, and unusually handsome, dressed in clothes seldom worn except in church or at funerals, stood in soldierly fashion beside his wife who was obviously crying.

Jimmy Cramer smiled to himself, as if realizing for the first time the discrepancy in size between his parents. Tom Cramer was a large man, approaching six and a half feet in height, with wide, sloping shoulders and long, powerful arms. His stomach had begun to protrude more in recent years, but for a man in his mid-forties, he still appeared remarkably fit. Wearing his good Stetson hat, his eyes trained on the plane, and drawing casually on his ever-present pipe, he stood now beside his wife, one huge arm encircled protectively around her shoulders.

Edna Cramer was a delicate, almost frail woman, a startling contrast to the mountain of flesh beside her. Though almost a foot shorter than her husband, her size was not an accurate indication of her temperament. Though usually quiet and soft-spoken, Edna Cramer possessed a determination that belied her attractive, calm exterior. There were four things in her life that took precedence over everything else: her husband, her two sons, and God, and not necessarily in that order, for without God the other three would not have been possible. Dwarfed by her husband, she stood tearfully next to him, clutching her purse and periodically resting her head against his chest. Jimmy Cramer’s military servitude had been a long and lonely ordeal for her. When the older of her two sons had received his draft notice and was sent to Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, she accepted it with a calm fatalism, but when his letter came stating that he was being sent to Viet Nam, it was almost more than she could bear. She had suffered and so had her family. Since his departure, she had prayed faithfully each day that God would protect her son and bring him back safely. Now, her faith in God renewed, she fought back tears, stared at the huge motionless plane and waited for a glimpse of her son.

Billy Cramer stood beside her, both hands gripping the high fence. Even from his seat on the plane, Jimmy Cramer could see that his younger brother had grown taller and heavier but that the face had changed little. It was still the simple, unassuming face, the visage of a half-man, smooth and deeply tanned like their father’s, the jaw perhaps a bit too square, like his own, and the eyes a deep, clear blue, presently full of boyish excitement as he waited for his brother to appear in the doorway of the plane.

Watching them through the window, Jimmy Cramer felt a pleasant tingling along his spine, and a smile spread slowly across his face. Suddenly he wanted to hurry and see them, talk to them, touch them. They were his family, not wealthy or influential, but his family all the same, and it made him proud.

He had made it; he was going home. No more saluting superiors that were not superior, no more suffocating heat and stinking jungle slime, no more Yes, sirs! or No, sirs! No more sleeping on the ground, no more search-and-destroy missions, no more humping the hills for gooks, no more burial details, no more killing. He was going home, home to his mother and father and Billy and Shep, the old collie, his house, his room.

At last he rose and fell in behind the line of slow-moving passengers, aware that his hands were sweating as he clutched the cord of his green duffel bag. Finally reaching the door of the plane, he shook hands with an attractive stewardess and stepped outside onto the ramp into the bright South Dakota sunshine. With the duffel bag slung over his shoulder, he moved down the steps, squinting to see his family through the crowd of visiting, embracing people.

There he is! said Edna Cramer excitedly, pointing toward the plane. There he is! Maybe he doesn’t see us! Wave! Wave! All three of them raised their hands and waved at the young former soldier moving down the steps.

Jimmy Cramer smiled broadly and raised his hand in acknowledgement.

He sees us! He sees us! shouted Edna Cramer. Let’s go!

Billy tried to appear unaffected by it all. Geez! Take it easy, mom, will yuh? urged younger brother Billy.

I will not take it easy. Let’s go meet him, his mother replied.

Don’t smother him now, said Tom Cramer, holding on to his wife’s arm as she made her way through the crowd. Give him a chance to get his bearings. His feet haven’t even hit the ground yet.

Edna Cramer did not reply but continued her determined course.

Jimmy Cramer saw them coming through the gate, all three striding briskly, trying not to run. Billy was easily in the lead, his mother practically dragging his father. Still smiling, he strode toward them, struggling to contain the emotions threatening to erupt inside him. Drawing closer, he dropped his duffel bag onto the asphalt and ran toward them, fighting back tears he hoped would not come. He pumped Billy’s hand for a second, hugged him soundly, then grabbed his mother in a sweeping bear hug and lifted her off the ground, turning her around and around. Tom Cramer, pipe in hand, grinning from ear to ear, slapped his son on the back with each revolution. He released his speechless mother, hugged her again, and turned to his father.

Hello, dad, he said, still grinning uncontrollably while firmly shaking his father’s proffered hand. I made it. I told you I would. Didn’t I tell you I would?

By God you did, soldier. How about that! Tom Cramer was still smiling, too, and there was a hint of pride in his voice.

Hey, little brother! Jimmy said, turning and grabbing Billy and hugging him again. Man, you’re really filling out! You play football last year?"

Yah. We lost’em all. Hey. Come on! People will think we’re queer!

Jimmy laughed and released him. Who cares?

Get his bag, Billy, said Tom Cramer. Billy ran to pick up the duffel bag as the others started for the parking lot. Got all your stuff? his father asked.

That’s it, Jimmy said, laughing and putting an arm around his mother. Hey! he said, what are you crying about? You’re supposed to be happy!

I am happy, Mrs. Cramer said, sniffing and wiping her nose.

Tom Cramer laughed. She always cries when she’s happy. Right, mother?

Billy trotted from behind and caught up with them. Hey, you guys! Wait up! Geez. What you got in this thing? Hand grenades? It weighs a ton. With an effort, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder.

Just garbage, Jimmy said. Army garbage. How’ve you been, kid? Huh? You look pretty good.

A bit embarrassed by Jimmy’s obvious sincerity, Billy could only smile. I’ve been okay. Been doing your share of the work around home for a year or so, so I figure I got a year’s vacation coming. Thought I’d start right away. It’s only fair.

Jimmy laughed along with the others. Fair, my ass. You haven’t done a day’s work in your life. How can you go on vacation when you’re already on one?

Sure, Billy said. Just wait till we get home. We’ve got hay to mow and rake and stack yet, more to buck up. We’ll see who’s been on vacation.

Watch out for him, said Tom Cramer. He’s been running the stacker. Thinks he’s got the world by the tail. Damn near knocked me off the stack yesterday.

I did not, Billy said defensively. The clutch just slipped a little.

Jimmy laughed, imagining his father fifteen feet in the air, standing dangerously close to the edge of the stack, and Billy nudging him slightly with a bucker pile of hay. The air must have turned blue with words. If he’s running the Farmhand, I think I’ll mow. It’s safer.

Lord knows there’s plenty left to mow, Tom Cramer said. We’re a little behind again this year. Got a lot of rain this spring. I hate to say it, but almost more than we needed.

In South Dakota you never get more rain than you need, Jimmy said. Said so once yourself.

Did I say that? his father asked.

Yup. Many moons ago, Jimmy replied.

Humm. Must have been during a drought, his father retorted.

Jimmy laughed. I think it was.

You’re the one who’s been on vacation, Billy interjected. You took a trip overseas.

Yah, some trip, Jimmy said, still walking with an arm draped over his mother’s shoulders. A regular paid vacation.

"Can’t you boys wait until we get home before you start arguing? asked Edna Cramer.

She’s right, said Tom Cramer, we’re not even out of the parking lot yet. At least wait until we get home. It’ll make things seem like you’ve never been gone.

It was a good-natured exaggeration. He and Billy seldom argued or fought, and when they did, it was almost always over something of minor consequence. Most of their battles were verbal, without malice, a jockeying to see who could get the last word.

Jimmy strode briskly, almost dragging his mother along with him. Jesus. I don’t believe it, he said, looking up at the sky, then in all directions. Sweet Jesus, I made it back to civilization. Know what I missed most? Huh? When no one answered, he continued. Home cooking. Meat loaf. Pork chops. Roasts. Mashed potatoes and gravy. All of that. I don’t know how many times I thought about it. Does that sound corny? How’s Shep? Is he still alive?

Billy laughed, switching the duffel bag to his other shoulder. He’s still alive, but he’s not getting any smarter. What was it? A couple of weeks ago, he ran into a porcupine and got a bunch of quills in his nose. I had to hold him while dad pulled them out with the pliers. Next time he sees a porcupine he’ll leave it alone.

Well, here we are, said Tom Cramer, nodding in the direction of a dirty, somewhat out-of-place looking Chevrolet. We were going to wash her up some, but we ran a little behind schedule. You know how slow your mother is.

Hah! Mrs. Cramer shot back. I was dressed and ready to leave before these two even got in from the field. I told them what time we had to leave.

That’s true enough, laughed Tom Cramer. She’s been champing at the bit for the last two days. She was in such a hurry, Billy had to put on his boots in the car. You want to drive? he asked Jimmy.

No. Go ahead. I’m so psyched, I’d probably roll it. I’ll sit in the back with Billy and admire the scenery. All of us queers like the back seat. Right, Billy-woo?

I’m getting in front, Billy said, tossing the duffel bag on the back seat. Keep your hands where I can see them.

Jimmy laughed and climbed into the back seat. You know something precious? he asked Billy. This uniform used to be lavender but I dyed it green. Giggling, he held out a limp wrist.

Geez. Let me out, said Billy. You sure you don’t want to drive?

I’m sure.

That’s too bad. Going through town dad set a new record for scaring pedestrians.

Jimmy had to laugh, knowing his father’s distaste for city driving. I see. Sort of a demolition derby, only they didn’t have cars.

Shut up and get in, said Tom Cramer. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

With some reluctance, the gray 1964 Chevrolet sparked to life. With characteristic caution, Tom Cramer maneuvered his way out of the parking lot and into the city traffic. Driving in silence, except for an occasional muted obscenity, he fought the heavy traffic he abhorred so much. In twenty minutes they were on a two-lane highway heading for their farm located north of Dulten, some ninety miles distant.

Well, sighed Tom Cramer with obvious relief, we made it.

This is nothing, Jimmy said. You should try downtown Saigon or Danang sometime. The cars and motorcycles are so thick there that a blue fog just hangs over the city.

Tom Cramer checked his rear-view mirror. No thanks. This is bad enough. I have enough trouble just navigating my own car without watching out for all those others. I don’t know why in the hell everybody has to be in such a big hurry. They drive like they’re crazy. Dulten or Fargot is plenty big enough for me.

Billy tapped his brother on the leg. Jimmy, you should see mom. Soon as dad hits the city limits in this town she braces both feet against the dash and talks real nice to St. Christopher.

Jimmy had to laugh. Is that right, mother?

No, that not right. He’s a good driver, never had an accident, which is more than I can say about some people. Sometimes we just have to be a little patient with his driving.

And his language, added Billy.

You want to ride in the trunk? asked Tom Cramer.

No, said Billy, struggling to keep from laughing.

Then be quiet or you will.

There wouldn’t be room for all of him back there, said Jimmy; you’d have to leave his mouth in the back seat.

Where’d you get that uniform? Billy asked. You look a little like G. I. Joe.

Edna Cramer turned around in the seat. "It looks very nice. Looks like a genuine soldier, a genuine retired soldier. Thank God he won’t have any more use for it after today." She spoke with a degree of finality. As of now, her son was no longer the property of the U. S. Government. He was coming home, where he belonged, where he should have been all along. The loan date had expired. She had regained control of herself once again. She was through crying and sniffling. It was time for things to return to normal, that being the way things were before her son was drafted and crated off to Viet Nam.

What’s wrong with his uniform? asked Tom Cramer, seemingly unamused by Billy’s kidding.

Jimmy replied, not without sarcasm, It’s the color I like. Sort of an early spring cow manure. A guy could lie down in a pasture and go completely unnoticed.

Laughing, Billy said, I still think you look like G. I. Joe.

You should have seen our fatigues if you think this is bad. Made me feel like I was running around in pajamas. Be good to get into some decent clothes for a change. I feel like a tree, Jimmy said.

Tom Cramer kept his eyes on the road while attempting to repack his pipe. He spoke with a touch of annoyance. I was kind of proud of my uniform when I was discharged.

To each his own, said Jimmy.

The army must be a little different these days, huh? asked his father, tossing his tobacco pouch on the dash. I see your hair’s not exactly regulation, at least not what regulation used to be.

Jimmy was not unprepared for his father’s comment. I figured you might say something about that, he said. Compared to half the grunts over there, I’m a regular skinhead. They don’t get too excited about hair anymore, not even the officers. I guess they figure a guy with long hair can kill gooks just as good as a guy with short hair. Even some officers have long hair.

Tom Cramer drew on his pipe and shook his head. "It wasn’t so awful long ago when I was in the army and everybody had to have haircuts. And I mean everybody, including officers. Especially officers."

Times change, said Mrs. Cramer. I don’t think it looks so bad, not yet anyway.

Jimmy smiled, momentarily grateful for his mother’s support, but he knew that it wouldn’t be long before she would be after him to get it cut. It didn’t matter. Long ago in Viet Nam, he had decided that if he made it back he would let it grow a little, not into the look-at-me-I’m-a-freak category, but – well – longer. He was tired of looking like a taxicab with both doors open. By no stretch of the imagination could his hair be labeled as long, and it irked him slightly that his father would think it so. It was his hair, growing on his head. He was going to let it grow a little. Goddamn, he thought, what a rebel.

It’s a pretty hairy subject all right, said Billy. Now take a gorilla. That’s a hairy subject.

King Kong, Jimmy said, would really be a hairy subject.

Their parents were not amused.

King Kong wearing a mohair sweater would be even hairier, said Billy.

Let’s face it, Jimmy said seriously. King Kong is one hairy subject.

Billy cracked up, his laughter proving infectious as Jimmy began laughing along with him.

I think there’s a couple of pretty hairy subjects in the back seat, said Tom Cramer.

What’s the big deal about hair anyway? asked Jimmy, regaining control of himself. People are in such a hurry to classify everybody all the time."

How do you mean? asked his father, not taking his eyes from the road.

Jimmy shrugged. People are lazy. When it comes to judging people, and let’s face it, we do it all the time, whether we say a word to them or not, people are lazy. We have labels and stereotypes that have carried over ever since this country was a country. Take Negroes for example: They’re automatically inferior because their skin is black, they can’t exist unless they eat a small slice of watermelon once a day, they’re all excellent dancers, and they all go crazy with gratitude on Lincoln’s birthday. And Jews: Every Jew is less than five-feet-six-inches tall, they all wear horn-rimmed glasses, and they’re all so tight you couldn’t drive a Texas cedar post up their ass with a twenty-pound hammer. How about the Swedes? Big, dumb people who hate trees. The Irish? Big, dumb people who drink a lot and have nothing against trees one way or the other. And how about Indians, right here is South Dakota? They’re all stupid, lazy drunks and entirely without a culture. Right? Mexicans? All they do is sit around jabbering like magpies, stuffing their faces with refried beans and hot tamales. Right?

How about Eskimos? asked Billy, enjoying Jimmy’s obvious redneck dissertation immensely.

All Eskimos sunburn easily, take their lemonade without ice, and are able to relieve themselves outside under extremely cold temperatures without any visible side effects. They all love raw meat.

How about the Vietnamese? Billy asked.

Every gook in the world is less than five-feet-three-inches tall, they all eat with their fingers, and if they eat anything but rice, a severe bowel movement occurs and they die immediately. Prejudice is all it is.

I can agree with that, said Tom Cramer, but what does all that have to do with hair?

It’s simple. We have two male classes of people in this country: males with short hair and males with long hair. Now, people look at shorthairs and say: ‘Ahh. There’s a fine young man. He’s clean and reverent and he has good posture, hard-working and honest, too.’ But, if people see a longhair it’s: ‘Oh, God! Look at that filthy moronic slob. I’ll bet he just lies around the house all day drawing unemployment, smoking marijuana cigarettes, and boning up on the theories of Karl Marx. Ugh! He’s not a nice person.’ A pretty simple theory, I’ll admit, but generally true. And South Dakota is as bad as anyplace. I’ll bet this state has more rednecks per capita than any state in the country.

If not the highest, said Billy, it’s gotta be close. The cowboys at school are always talking about throwing down the longhairs and giving them a haircut.

I believe it, Jimmy said. I’m not saying you’re a redneck, dad. I’ve got a few years left.

Tom Cramer had listened patiently to his son’s oversimplified discourse. Some of his points were valid; of course people had prejudices, always had, always would. But his ideas about the two classes – well – it was too simple.

He drove in silence for a moment, and then replied. I can understand the prejudice part of it. I’m guilty of that kind of thinking myself, a lot of people probably are. But I know what I like and what I don’t like, and I don’t like grown men with their hair hanging down to their shoulders. Any more you almost have to wait and see which bathroom they go into in order to tell if it’s a boy or a girl. Like that kid who works in the grocery store at Fargot. I don’t know how he can see what he’s doing. Spends all his time tossing that mane out of his eyes.

Jimmy laughed. I’d never let my hair grow down to my shoulders. It would cover up my tattoo.

In mild surprise, Tom Cramer’s eyes raised to the rear-view mirror as his wife turned deliberately in her seat. What tattoo? she asked.

The tattoo on the back of my neck, of course, he said straight-faced.

You had a tattoo put on your neck? asked Billy with mock amazement. Jimmy was setting them up for something and, as he did so well, he’d help him by playing the straight man. A real tattoo? They don’t ever come off! What’s it say?

Yes, prompted Mrs. Cramer, a slight frown creasing her brow, tell us, by all means. What does it say?

He shrugged, attempting to appear humble. It’s a short, simple cowboy saying, one that reflects the mood and culture of this great state, a universally accepted quotation that applies, without question, to all men and women of all creeds and nationalities, a concise, yet meaningful quotation that makes all people realize, truly realize, that we are all one people, all one brotherhood, all one –

For Christ’s sake, interrupted Tom Cramer impatiently, what does it say?

You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t wipe your friends off on the saddle.

There was silence in the front seat for a moment, and then Tom Cramer took his pipe from his mouth as his huge shoulders began to shake. Soon he was chuckling to himself. Glancing at his wife, he began to laugh heartily, with humor and relief. Edna Cramer looked back at Jimmy, and then at her husband, realized they had been taken, and began laughing, too.

Beautiful, Billy said, wiping his eyes. You haven’t lost your touch.

I never will, kid, smiled Jimmy. I never will.

The tension eased and Jimmy Cramer turned his attention to the gently rolling grassland outside the car window. The neatly mowed grass along the shoulder of the highway still held a tinge of green and was fairly thick, an indication that the rains had been at least adequate. Beyond the barbed-wire fences that ran parallel with the highway, the prairie grass still held the same dull, friendly coloring, an entwining mixture of tan, burnt gold, and some green. Even if moisture fell in abundance, by August the grasses that grew on the tough prairie sod would always have that same dull color. Along a winding creek lined with large cottonwood trees and a few willows, a small herd of Hereford and Black Angus cattle grazed contentedly under the hot sun. A large Hereford bull stood next to the wire fence, reaching beneath the bottom wire where the grass was greener and sweeter. It was, for the most part, a boring land, with its mile after mile of rolling plains, fields, barbed-wire fences, and tree-lined creeks, most of them running water only after the snow melted in early spring. But the air was clear and breathable, and there were no traffic jams, tollbooths, or mind-boggling cities and subway trains.

Staring at the vast openness beyond the car window, he recalled, with considerable contempt, a picture he had once seen in a magazine: a picture of a commuter train car jammed full with wall-to-wall people. A uniformed official was just outside the door of the car, each hand clutching a rail, one foot planted squarely on the posterior of an obese passenger struggling desperately to get inside the already overflowing car. Ants. That was how the city dweller lived: like ants, hundreds of thousands of them swarming this way and that, little red ants hustling and bustling, going in all directions, falling over and running into each other in their regular, frenzied routine.

Recalling the picture, he reaffirmed his faith in the rural simplicity of his native state of South Dakota. It was not a utopia by any means; the politicians were just as long-winded and stupid as politicians from other states, the taxes too high; the weather far less than ideal; but it had an appeal all its own. If he had to put it in a word or two, it would be elbow room, room to breathe and grow. He could stop the car right now, get out and urinate, and be on his way again before another car came by. If not elbow room, then penis room. Here there were not millions and millions of people sardined into a single city, no eye-reddening, lung-clogging pollution, no subways jammed with fat, sweaty people. Pollution index was a foreign word. Of course there were automobiles, but not one after the other, three feet apart, stretching on for miles and miles. There were houses and apartments, but not block after block of them, all built and painted precisely alike, right down to the trim on the windows. People. The cities just had too many people. Here was a good place to live: quiet, open, warm, sometimes scorching summers, decent neighbors helping each other during branding and harvest. That was the way he liked it, at least for now. Maybe later he would feel differently. A relatively simple land and a relatively simple life was what it was. A man had time to think and appreciate being alive. Especially now.

Whaddya thinking about? his brother asked.

He looked at Billy. South Dakota, Jimmy Cramer replied.

Good or bad?

Both.

Laughing, Billy asked, What’s good about it?

I don’t know. A lot of things.

You gonna stay?

Where?

At the place. With us. Where else?

I guess so. For a while anyway.

Billy looked relieved. Then what?

I don’t know. I’d kind of like to go to California for a while. A guy in my outfit was from California.

What’s so hot about California?

Jesus. What is this? Twenty questions? I don’t know what’s so hot about it. That’s what I’d like to find out.

Billy was quiet for a moment. You’re going to like how we fixed up your room. All of us did it. Dad bought the paint and me and mom painted it. I’m not one to brag, but if I must say so, it looks pretty sharp.

He found it difficult to comprehend the boyish pride in the mischievous blue-green eyes, the eyes of a child, it seemed. So they painted my room. Big deal, he thought to himself.

Yah? Jimmy began, trying to sound enthused. It needed painting before I left. If you guys did it, it probably looks pretty good. What color?

Billy wrinkled his nose slightly and tried to appear humble. Kind of a blue. A light blue.

Yah, he said. That’s all right. I don’t care if you painted it polka dot, it’s going to look damned good.

Listening attentively in the front seat, Edna Cramer smiled to herself.

You glad to be home? Billy asked, smiling.

Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?

Billy shrugged. You don’t look that happy.

Believe me, he said. I’m happy.

Billy seemed satisfied, so he let their conversation drop and turned his attention once again to the fence posts and telephone poles and road signs flying by outside the car window. His parents talked casually in the front seat about a farm sale that was coming up somewhere near Fargot. Before he could stop it, his mind drifted back to the long months before his discharge.

He realized, not for the first time, that he was unusually calm about some of the things he had done and seen in Viet Nam. The killing had been difficult enough at first. In the beginning, the very thought of aiming his weapon at another human being and killing him struck him as just plain funny. He would not, he could not, do it, or so he had told himself in boot camp. The others, those other mindless slobs, could do it if they wanted. They could play soldier. They could have blood on their hands and consciences, but not him. Viet Nam was a dinky, stinking little country clear across the ocean, no place for American soldiers, and no place for him. Besides, reports from the Pentagon and heads of state repeatedly told of American and ARVN successes; the newspapers said the U. S. was winning. He was in Ft. Leonard Wood, Missouri, behaving himself, marching around in circles, saluting anybody who looked important, and keeping his bunk neat; there was no need to send him there to fight in that distant, ecocidal war. But he was wrong. A few months later, before he really grasped what was taking place, the army had transformed him into another mindless slob.

How come you never wrote to us? Billy asked suddenly.

Billy, interrupted Mrs. Cramer sternly. Don’t bother him. It doesn’t matter.

Jimmy looked at them. Bother me about what?

Not writing, said Billy, ignoring his mother’s command.

I did write, Jimmy said defensively. I wrote.

Yah. But not very often, Billy said.

Well, Jesus. What did you expect? A letter a day?

Billy’s voice was almost scolding. Come on. You know what I mean.

No, I don’t. What do you mean? He found himself becoming a bit irritated by his brother’s lofty manner.

Sure. I never saw a guy who could write so often, like once every six months.

So I’m not much of a letter writer.

Another thing, too, Billy began again, how come you never came home when you got out of boot camp? One of your millions of letters said you had a leave before they shipped you out to Viet Nam. But did you come home? No. Where’d you go? What’d you do all that time?

So that was it. For a moment he felt the urge to tell Billy to shut his mouth and mind his own business, but he didn’t. Maybe he did owe them an explanation. Maybe he did. He didn’t think so then. It’s a long story. You wouldn’t understand anyway, he finally answered.

His mother turned in the seat. Try us, she said. We really would like to know. For a while we thought we had done something – something that made you mad. We hoped not, but we never heard from you. Not even a letter until you were already in Viet Nam, thousands of miles away. We didn’t know what to think, she concluded.

His father drove in silence.

Her eyes still held a tinge of red from crying at the airport, and he realized for the first time that she did look older. Her skin still looked soft and touchable and her hair was still combed to one side in the style he had always remembered. But little, barely noticeable lines had etched themselves at the corners of her eyes and mouth and a few thin streaks of gray had invaded her dark brown hair. She looked at him intently, waiting for an answer."

Well, naturally, I did have it in mind to come home at first; I really did. But after listening to some of the guys talking about Nam and all the things that went on over there, I changed my mind. I didn’t know what to do for a while. I mean they were telling things like how gooks would booby-trap babies . . .

Booby-trap their babies? asked Mrs. Cramer, frowning.

Yah. They’d set their kid out in a paddy somewhere ahead of a patrol, booby-trap him, and take off. The crying would attract a soldier or two, so they’d check it out. All they’d see would be a baby bawling in a paddy, so being humane and sympathetic they’d pick him up and that would trip the exploding device – and bang, there’s two dead soldiers.

His mother was skeptical. I don’t believe that.

Believe what you like; it’s true. The Viet Cong do anything to kill soldiers, anything that works. But anyway, after hearing a few stories like that I wasn’t so sure I wanted to go over there at all. Me and this buddy of mine, Dean Webster, he was a black guy, spent many an hour debating about it and even decided once to desert but changed our minds, figuring that wouldn’t be right either. And besides, we didn’t have any place to go, only home, and God knows I couldn’t do that. He paused and cleared his throat, wondering if he was making any sense at all. No one spoke. Well, so me and Dean took our leave, went to Kansas City for a while, chased girls, caught some, got drunk a lot, got in a couple of fights, spent one night in jail, and just generally raised hell. Naturally it wasn’t long before we ran out of money. Not having any place to go, we went back to Ft. Leonard Wood, and a week or so later they shipped us out. And that’s it. He read the disappointment on his mother’s face, felt it from his father. Billy turned and looked out the window.

Mrs. Cramer said, You still didn’t answer Billy’s question.

What question?

Why you didn’t come home instead of raising Cain in Kansas City.

Because, he said, because if I had, I wouldn’t have gone back. I would have stayed home. That would have made me a deserter, and you know what happens to deserters. You go AWOL, they find you, and they throw your ass in jail. Now wouldn’t that have made you proud? Your fine, upstanding young son doing time for being a coward. I even had a dream once about two MP’s knocking at the door of our house and dragging me away from the dinner table, kicking and screaming, hauling me off to jail. He laughed a hollow, humorless laugh. Crazy, huh?

Why, asked Mrs. Cramer, would you have stayed home instead of going back? She thought she knew why, but wanted to hear him say it.

Because I like Dulten better than Vietnam, and because I didn’t want to kill anybody.

She smiled weakly. I see. We didn’t mean to make it sound like it was some sort of criminal act. We just wondered, that’s all. With a meager, understanding smile she turned away, thinking that if not for the army, the past year or so would have been a lot easier on them all. She thought of his last statement: I didn’t want to kill anybody. My God: Thou shalt not kill. Had he? His letters never said, he didn’t say he had, at least not yet. Could there be anything in the world worse than killing another human being? If there was, she could not think of it. But if he had, he did so because of necessity. God would forgive because a war is different. In wars, one has to kill; it is not the same as murder. Jimmy would be all right; he would be just fine. A couple of weeks at home and things would be back to normal, just as if the family had never been separated. They would forget all this talk of Vietnam and killing.

Jimmy Cramer hadn’t lied. He knew it then and he knew it now. If he had gone home after boot camp he never would have gone back, never in a million years. At basic training, except for the companionship of a few close friends, he only had contempt for the place. The nervousness, the feeling of being completely and totally alone, the sense of being just another face and body, all of this complete with a strong, lingering feeling of homesickness never left him until the day he was shipped out. Then, once in Vietnam, the same feelings and fears began again. But that was all behind him now. He could only hope that his family would understand. It was like his father had always said: You do what you have to do.

Leaning his head back against the seat, he stared at the ceiling of the car. For the millionth time he thought back to the death of Sergeant Rolston a few short months ago and decided that, yes, he, SP-4 James Cramer had been, and was, unusually calm about what he had done. He supposed it was murder. Well, there was no supposing to it, it was murder, premeditated and in the first degree, but at least it was an unsolved one. Inexplicably, thinking of it sometimes gave him great comfort. Sergeant Rolston was dead and covered with dirt somewhere, and he, Jimmy Cramer, was riding home in a car.

In June of 1970, the Second Platoon of Bravo Company had been moved northward to Quang Tri province near the DMA in Military Region I. Reconnaissance photos confirmed suspicions that major communist infiltration routes into South Vietnam were located within twenty or thirty miles of where they were stationed. It was no secret why they had been moved to Quang Tri. SP-4 Jimmy Cramer and all the other men knew that someone had to pinpoint the infiltration routes, hopefully at a time when a major transfer of arms, artillery, and provisions was taking place, call in the location and wait for the devastating firepower of U. S. planes to come and knock them out. Everyone knew also that soldiers of Bravo Company would be sent to find the infiltration trails, but each hoped it would be someone else, especially Jimmy Cramer. At the time his company was moved to Quang Tri, he had exactly sixty-six days remaining in his tour of duty, sixty-six days before he could go home. It was not his intention to spoil it by dying.

It was three weeks before a headquarters was established, complete with communications, a defense perimeter, mortar batteries, supply dump and even a makeshift hospital. A few days later, while on guard duty, he was informed by Sergeant Rolston that he would be going on the operation. His reaction had been something less than enthusiastic.

Aren’t too happy about it, huh, Cramer? Sergeant Rolston had said, stained teeth visible behind a stream of tobacco juice.

No, sir, Jimmy said. I’m not. I’ve got less than three months left over here. I don’t want to go home in a box. I’m not happy at all.

Didn’t think you would be. Sergeant Rolston, hands on hips, looked out across the man-made barrenness of the defense perimeter and smiled, as if he enjoyed being the envoy of bad news. You know something, Cramer? I’ve had a lot of soldiers under me in my time and you just don’t strike me as having what it takes to be a real soldier.

I’m not a real soldier, Jimmy said, I’m a farmer. Killing gooks is only a hobby.

Sergeant Rolston laughed heartily, his squat, compact frame rocking back and forth. With his square-jawed, smooth-shaven face, crew-cut hair, and one bulging cheek stuffed with chewing tobacco, he looked every inch a lifer. To Jimmy Cramer’s way of thinking, lifers were crazy. Anybody that would make a career of killing people, or preparing people to kill people, was crazy.

So you’re not a soldier, huh, Cramer? You didn’t have to tell me that.

So why am I going on the operation then?

Sergeant Rolston smiled, a cruel, little, condescending smile. Couple of reasons. In the first place because I say so. In the second place you’re good with that piece there. He nodded in the direction of the M-60 machine gun Jimmy cradled across his arms. Also you’ve got some combat experience. Some of the grunts going out with us are green.

Great, Jimmy said, looking out across the rolls of barbed wire strung across the defense perimeter, green grunts. Rolston missed his attempt at alliterative humor.

Don’t worry, Sergeant Rolston said, shooting out another stream of tobacco juice. I don’t expect any action. This is just a looker operation. A piece of cake.

What the hell is a ‘looker operation’? It sounds like exploratory surgery.

Rolston laughed again, and for a second Jimmy had the feeling that the sergeant liked him, certainly not for his attitude toward the military, but for his wit. We gotta find us a trail, Cramer, or a road, or whatever it is. Somewhere out there those gooks are hauling tons of supplies and ammo across the DMZ and handing it to Charley. Right under our noses. All we have to do is find the trail and call the flyboys. They’ll finish it.

It won’t do any good, Jimmy said.

Rolston looked at him and smirked. It won’t do any good, you say? Now, why do you say that?

We can find the trail and blow it all to hell, but it won’t do any good because they’ll just find another trail.

Then we’ll bomb that one, too.

Jimmy looked away. And on and on into eternity.

That’s right, Cramer, if we have to.

The next morning, following a short briefing, fifty men dressed in full combat gear boarded two huge twin-rotored Chinook helicopters and lifted off, heading for the drop zone some twenty miles distant. Jimmy Cramer sat between Morrey Patterson, his ammo bearer, and Jonathan Ritger, talking quietly about the operation.

No air support on this one, huh? Patterson said a little nervously.

Shit, Ritger said with disgust. They’ll probably drop us right in the middle of a gook campfire. Christ, look at these guys, seasoned veterans all. He laughed. Some of’em look airsick.

Ritger’s sarcasm did not go unnoticed. Of the fifty men going on the operation, roughly thirty would see action for the first time, figures that Jimmy did not like. If they did run into Charley and came under attack, their immediate response could very well resemble a Chinese fire drill. He was concerned about the drop, too. It was customary to pound the landing zone with artillery, fixed-wing planes, and gun ships, riddling it with rockets and machine-gun fire prior to a drop to make sure there was no reception committee waiting for them once they landed. But not this time.

The Chinooks touched down, the doors slid open, and a green stream of men emerged running, ducking their heads against the storm of dust thrown up by the huge rotors. Seconds later the choppers lifted and were gone.

Immediately they regrouped, then spread out, heading in a northerly direction, a soldier he knew only as Halsey at the point, carrying the rapid-firing M-16 rifle. Behind him was patrol leader Sergeant Rolston.

Early in the morning of the second day his worst fears were realized. They met Charley, and he took them by complete surprise. He had seen the opening up ahead; a small, less-dense clearing that topped a small rise. Halsey paused a moment, then turned to Sergeant Rolston. For a short time they spoke, and then Sergeant Rolston motioned to go forward. The rest of the lambs followed.

Jimmy felt strangely tense. Sergeant Rolston was violating a cardinal rule: Avoid all clearings. Charley waited until the bulk of the soldiers had spread into the clearing and then opened fire. Instinctively, Jimmy and a few others began firing at their invisible targets, spraying the dense foliage in an effort to buy time and retreat to cover, but the enemy had set its ambush perfectly, putting a neat semicircle around the small clearing.

On the point, he saw Halsey spin sideways, stagger a step, and pitch forward without getting off a shot. Men were dropping in front of him and beside him. Above the chatter of his machine gun he could vaguely hear Sergeant Rolston shouting orders. More men fell. One soldier fumbled with his rifle, brought it to his shoulder, and fell forward awkwardly across his rifle with his legs drawn under him, like an unworthy subject prostrating himself before a king. Jimmy grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and began dragging him toward cover, firing his machine gun with one hand. The radio man screamed and went down. Sergeant Rolston was cussing and hollering orders as he dragged the wounded soldier and the precious radio toward cover. Some of the soldiers simply fell to the ground, their hands over their helmets; some panicked, turned, and ran.

Get back! Get back! Jimmy kept hollering at the soldiers around him. Find some cover! Most of them did; others were too scared to move, choosing instead to lie prostrate, hands over their heads. You’re gonna die! he shouted at them. You wanna die? Get your asses for cover!

Some took his advice, recovered, and ran for the trees and dense underbrush behind them. Through the lingering dust and prominent odor of gunpowder, he could see men retreating, pausing now and then to fire at invisible targets somewhere in the trees, and bodies strewn across the width of the clearing. Finally they had reached safety in the trees where Rolston worked frantically with the radio. Not bothering to remove it from the dead man’s back, he simply rolled him over on his stomach. Again and again he called in their position, each time with a louder voice, almost as if by talking louder he could simply shout out his message back to base camp.

Jimmy put two fingers to the throat of the man he had been dragging. There was no pulse. A small, humorless laugh escaped his lips as he sat down beside him. Without realizing it, the dead man he had been dragging was Morrey Patterson, his ammo bearer.

Cramer! Rolston screamed at him. Cramer!

Jimmy looked at him.

Goddammit! See what we got left! How many! Get’em over here!

Methodically, Jimmy