Other, Lesser Men

By G. A. Di Cintio and Lee Di Cintio

Martin Vanetti is a returning Vietnam War veteran. Haunted by the experience of combat and captured by a morose sense of loss, he feels apprehensive over an uncertain home coming. Thus, he returns only to find events that sent him off to war still exist and still fester. His return brings issues that had been smoldering beneath the surface to a dramatic head.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483540191

Book preview

9781483540191

One:

Martin could not catch his breath. No matter how much of the heavy, humid air he swallowed, it would not assuage his weariness. Sweat poured down from under his bouncing helmet, his open flak jacket and unfastened fatigue shirt slapped against his wet, bare chest. Yet, on he ran, to gain the cover of a wide, gnarled, deep-anchored tree trunk. Around him lay a gray mist fused within a green wall of trees, leaves and shrubs, which hindered easy movement but was critical for evasion.

He turned and fired his weapon back at his pursuers, not seeing them through the jungle foliage, but knowing they came on.

Martin gained the tree, hugging it. His chest heaved while his eyes betrayed his fear. Then, while resting his shoulder against the trunk, trying to gauge the proximity of his pursuers, he assessed his chances. Still breathing heavily under the weight of oppressive humidity, the fetid smell of the clammy ground and the stress burning in his stomach, he crouched and studied his surroundings in an anxious search for some opportunity: some open portal, some chance of escape. Fear clutched at his throat, making his arms and legs feel stone-like and immovable. Martin wanted to blend into the cracked, brown bark of the tree trunk; chameleon like, invisible and safe. His hands were holding a shaking weapon, his mind racing to find a way to hold his panic in check, to curb an invasion of faces, memories and regrets; trying to survive.

An unfortunate and fatal predicament had befallen him: how had he become separated from the others? There was no explanation but it would not matter, he knew he would be dead in moments; chased by a determined enemy, hunted like a loose, wild beast. He was alone and desperate. There was no escape and they would grant no quarter.

Martin left the tree, running hard, unsure of his direction, pushing the jungle away in front of him. He ran ever faster under a green canopy where light intruded through intermittent openings. A whizzing sound passed his right ear, cutting the heavy, hot air, tearing plant leaves and snapping branches ahead. The next two shots made a vip... vip sound on opposite sides of him; one grazed his cheek with a fiery sting that made his eyes tear, a taste of blood leaked into his mouth.

They were all around him; he heard their language, their laughter, their calls for him to show himself, their scornful epitaphs. Their pursuit would be relentless, for it could only end one way.

The land now opened with high waving grass to Martin’s left and a series of dried rice paddies ahead of him. His pursuers fired at him from the grass with another round tearing a path through the jacket and shirt at the top of his left shoulder. He turned and jumped into the nearest paddy. He could hear their footsteps in the brush while he rested his weapon upon the dusty dike and waited. There was no more need for stealth; they had him.

Martin knew any moment they would rush him. He was finished, finished! He was to die in a stench-ridden hole thousands of miles from home! Anger began to consume his fear when he saw them leave their cover to walk toward him. They grinned then laughed, firing their weapons straight on, mocking him in their alien language.

Martin finally gathered himself and stood up, resigned to take them with him to wherever oblivion carried him. He fired back while yelling and swearing at them,

"Com’on... com’on!"

His screams brought more of them out firing, until he fell back, bleeding from wounds. In another moment, they would be standing above him, ready to end it. He grasped a fragmentation grenade and loosed the pin as they fell upon him; he cursed then let it drop from his hand.

"Arrgh..."

Within a swirling fog came a clearing. She walked toward him, smiling in the dazzling light of a growing day; dressed in a flowing, white gown with satin folds holding the soft breeze. While she moved, she held out her arms to embrace the man she loved. Her movement was silent, wispy and mellifluous; dark hair fell across her flawless face in soft, brown streams, fluttering through the warm breeze. Like her appearance, she spoke words of affection in a barely perceptible whisper.

Martin gazed upon her with swelling pride, a building sense of anticipation while gliding toward her, his arms advancing his body, his mind racing further.

The blue sea beside them was calm, and a clear sky beckoned. The sun glowed in a golden rain around them. The gentle day was a wondrous back drop for an unfulfilled love, now at last to be consummated.

Closer she came, closer to her love, her hands finding him, her eyes welcoming, her mouth yielding, sensuous and wanting.

Martin stared into his future, his life.

She stopped, falling away from him, shrinking, her face now a mask of accusation. Martin pleaded, dropping to his knees, calling her.

The scene dissolved again, a murky door slammed and with it a sudden eruption of boiling orange flame and black smoke climbed into the sky above shattered, twisted trees. It marked a place of destruction, when with a great thud and blinding flash, the mortar shell struck. Muffled cries of combatants mixed with the quick staccato of machine gun fire and continual mortar blasts that conspired to create a cacophony of confusion and death.

In an instant, bodies piled into a mountain so high Martin could not see the sky. The blood of a multitude ran into the paddy from a thousand rivulets, filling the hole he still lay in. Up it came, so heavy, so swift that he could not move. When he tried to climb, he would sink into the soaked dirt and fall back into the growing, crimson pool. Cold fear gripped the paralyzed soldier while he sank deeper into the red morass. Unable to climb out, he screamed and reached for the shrinking light, slipping once more, knowing he would never get out; no, no!

"Arrgh..."

The rhythmic hum of road surface under wide rolling wheels replaced dreams of war. One weary figure among many aboard a darkened, filled bus had moaned and jumped in his seat.

The other passengers, who watched a more familiar scene through grime-encrusted windows, were startled for a moment. Some were now staring at Martin. He looked around him in an embarrassed, sluggish silence, then turned to again look out into the night.

A full, silver moon shined where the slightest streaks of reflected gray clouds fingered their way across a black sky. The river below sparkled with a hoary brilliance and carried itself on with a steady, soothing current. He now saw a young couple wandering along the riverbank path, hand in hand, bordered to their right by an endless, black iron railing. On the river, lighted boats moved lazily, almost purposelessly. He shook his head and at last recognized the glittering, spiked city skyline.

Martin Vanetti was calmer now, his eyes adjusted, his thoughts no longer drifting. Like the river flowing by the window next to him, the bus continued its long, slow journey toward the heart of the city.

The driver called out, his deep voice slicing the still darkness.

Okay folks, here we are, end of the line! Get your stuff together, please don’t leave nothin’ behind. We’re comin’ in to the depot real soon.

The dusty, silver striped bus pulled off the city street onto a long, narrow ramp leading to the terminal. It followed that winding slope around the back of the low-set building, turning sharp onto another, smaller access ramp leading down underneath the structure itself. The bright, diverse night-lights of the city were now replaced with long, drab, fluorescent tubes that cast a somber glaze ahead in spaced rows of mundane uniformity.

Under the bus terminal, the enclosed garage was steamy, smoky and barren of life. The roar of the bus violated the silence. Soiled and discarded articles of trash littered the concrete expanse of the entrance, a sole affidavit to recent human presence.

The last bus of the night rolled into a numbered parking spot next to the double glass doors leading to the main building. It came to its final halt with a long squeak of its worn brakes. It seemed to be paused for a moment, then, a soft whoosh sounded when the bus door opened in a slow, controlled speed.

The foul air in the arrivals garage smelled of spent oil and gasoline exhaust fumes. It was mixed with the stale fragrance of cheap cologne and fried food. The summer heat made the stuffiness of the underground garage almost unbearable.

Weary passengers disembarked from the bus. An equally fatigued driver watched them all step down from the vehicle with an abated look on his face. The thin, sleepy eyed black man wiped his brow with a large, white handkerchief.

Two disinterested, sweating workers appeared from the building as hot, tired passengers filed out one by one, sensing the rank air. They grabbed their luggage when it was removed from the compartments by attendants and quickened their steps to escape the malodor in the garage.

Martin was the last person to exit the bus still, shaking weariness from his head. Unaware of the fumes, he retrieved his bags without effort and strolled through the double doors of the terminal. He did not take note of the emptiness of his surroundings. His disoriented mind was still reeling from the effects of a cross-country bus ride coupled with a troubled sleep.

Inside, a lone porter was sweeping the floor while a ragged derelict slept across a wooden bench in the waiting area, still clutching his brown-bagged prize. It was a lonely hour of the night, when few people but the restless would be about on the street. Nevertheless, Martin paid no attention and was detached in his thoughts and expectations. To him, it was an appropriate time and place for his return to the city.

He found the men’s room in the terminal and set his bags down on a dirty floor below a rust-stained wash sink where the hot water faucet had been removed. The cold one feebly sprinkled cloudy water. The soap container had been ripped from its moorings on the wall. After washing his face and hands in the cool water, he now noticed the missing towel box. Undaunted, he found a lavatory stall to fetch some paper to dry his hands; the stall was bare, the toilet clogged. Martin then turned to face the sink again, wiping his hands on his pants, only to find a man standing before him brandishing a knife.

Give it up, man! I mean it, give it up! ordered the shabby figure.

The derelict that had been asleep on the bench now demanded Martin’s money.

The young soldier smiled, for he knew this would be easy. The man looked gaunt, nervous and in need of a meal, but it was not food money he was after. His hands shook and the rusty knife wobbled in his fist. Martin summoned him with a wave of his hand.

No. You come n’ get it, he said in a slow, confident manner.

The man looked around him, unsure, and then made a sudden but poor attempt at lunging for his prey. Martin side-stepped the man with ease and struck him hard in the knee with his left foot. Now from behind, he wrenched the man’s wrist back, causing the vagabond to cry out in pain before dropping the knife. Martin now punched him hard in his stomach twice. The man dropped to his knees, holding his stomach, withering in pain.

I told you to come n’ get it, drunk! said Martin, smiling.

He dragged the vagrant into the stall and forced his head into the toilet; the man squealed and pulled back his soiled head, crying.

You didn’t hav’ta do that! Prick!

Martin did not look back. He gathered his bags and walked out of the room.

The young man now stepped outside the bus terminal to find the parched night air of the city quite familiar. It all came back to him as if just a moment had passed, a laugh finished, a look, smell or taste remembered. Everything looked the same. He saw the tall, half-illuminated buildings, billows of white steam escaping from manhole covers, and the lights over the wide, littered roadways suggesting life. It was a sight he understood; the debris of humanity rolling down the gutter curbs with the hot breeze, the sights and sounds of a city in constant struggle, unable to find peace. The anguish of it all impressed him. Martin smiled, admitting to himself that it did lift his spirits, foul as it was.

He had already put aside his troubled sleep on the bus and the incident with the derelict without attaching any more emotion to them. The man got what he deserved, thought Martin, and the dream... inevitable.

It had been three years since Martin left the city of his birth; three long and eventful years that had changed him from a pondering, searching, self-centered boy into a morose, wounded and caustic man.

Although the sight of the old town again made him glad, he viewed his arrival home with a cautious sense of relief, for much had changed.

The other passengers on the bus had not spoken to him a great deal during the long trip from San Francisco. Even at the many roadside stops, he kept to himself. They studied him but avoided physical contact, as if it would cause them contamination to engage him in conversation other than the standard inquiry. They satisfied their initial curiosity, but wished not to seem interested, so their query remained limited.

Martin was used to it. He did not question the phenomenon any longer, but accepted it as fact; a fact of life, a fact of war.

Martin looked at his reflection in the shop windows that he passed, and smiled. He did not look diseased, nevertheless, there was something there: something seen as malevolent by the others. It was not the outward body motion or the stare of a dubious fellow in the eyes of others that distanced them. Nor a sense of individual distrust or wickedness they felt. No, it was elemental, easily detected and as branding as the mark of Cain.

He stopped and removed the flat cap from his head to observe the face in a store window. His thick, straight, brown hair fell to one side of his forehead. A small aquiline nose supported the face, giving it balance. His blue eyes were large and expressive, but the mouth held its fear tight within. It was a mouth that although guarded in life, could speak in frank terms about war and terror and death.

But no, he thought, it was not a bad face, nor very handsome... but seasoned, hardened. Martin well knew what it was that kept others at arm’s length. It was the uniform, and anyone who donned it warranted scorn, for it not only connected them to war; it was the wrong war.

Indeed, the young soldier had gotten the cold shoulder more than once since arriving in California and being separated from the Army. Once the uniform came off, he said to himself, it would be off forever. He would then just be another guy, an ordinary guy, a happy-go-lucky guy, at least on the outside.

The brown-strapped watch on Martin’s wrist glowed three o’clock. He would be facing almost an hour's ride by subway to Brooklyn, he thought, when he saw a parked cab with its light on. He approached the cab, peering in the passenger side window at a dour looking driver who was deep in his examination of the Racing Form.

"Yeah, where to, bud?" he said without looking up.

Brooklyn?

"Brooklyn, Brooklyn?" said the cabbie, and a look of displeasure came over his face.

That’s what I said, confirmed Martin.

"Naw, sorry, no Brooklyn. Take the subway!"

Listen, I’ll give ya a couple of extra bucks for your trouble. I’ve been gone a long time, been on a bus a coupla days and I wanna get home.

So who am I? he said without looking up, your fairy Godmother or somethin’? Think this is a magic carpet? Don’t bother me. I only take Manhattan fares!

Martin smirked, shaking his head.

"Yeah, I can see that the streets are packed with people just waitin’ for a taxi!"

Listen pal, ain’t goin’ to Brooklyn, okay?

"Thanks for nothin’, sport!"

Martin started to walk away, when the cabbie, with a pensive glance at his meter, called out to him.

"Alright, alright, I’ll do ya a solid! You sure you got the money? I don’t wanna get stiffed!"

Sure I got the money! Why would I ask if I didn’t? said Martin, climbing into the cab.

These days, a guy’s gotta be careful. People are strange today. You hear a lot of things, know what I mean?

Like what? wondered Martin out loud.

"Like people are goin’ crazy today, that’s what! Cabbies have more trouble than they ever did before with passengers! Ain’t like years ago, nobody bothered you n’ you didn’t get stiffed. Bein’ robbed by fuckin’ niggers and spics now. Never had to worry about that before. And never had to worry about takin’ guys who ain’t right in the head because of this n’ that, know what I mean?"

"I really don’t know what ya mean, he shrugged, but I think it’s about guys who come back from Vietnam, right?"

Yeah well, I didn’t wanna hav’ta come out with it, but a guy’s gotta be careful.

How do you know I just got back from over there?

Besides the uniform, you got that look. Seen it before.

Martin shook his head, sat back in the cab, and gave the driver his home address.

"Not that I have anything personal against youse, but I hear stories. Mind you, I don’t believe everything I hear, but I hear it a lot. I know some of it’s gotta be true."

I’ll bet you do, said Martin, noting the familiar theme in the dialogue.

It was always the same, thought Martin. An innocuous opening inquiry accompanied by a quick apology, then about how they all heard stories. Then, the phony denial would follow; how they really did not believe it all. The conversation would thereafter be locked in. He had heard it in pieces across the country. There was no escape. However, serious but clumsy questions soon follow about how accurate the rumors were of those wanton, brutal, drug-polluted and crazed killers; if what they heard was true.

The cabbie continued.

"Really, I mean you were there, right? You tell me, is it as bad as they say?"

War ain’t the most wonderful thing a guy can go through.

I don’t mean that! I’m talkin’ about the things I hear about drugs and killin’ little kids and not takin’ orders like you’re supposed ta.

I guess anything can happen in a war. Didn’t see too much of that myself. Guess I was wrapped up with stayin’ alive.

Martin’s answer did not satisfy the cabbie, who shook his head in disbelief.

"You were there in combat and never saw stuff like that? You kiddin’ me or what?"

Martin frowned, wishing to end this conversation.

I don’t know what you want me to tell ya, but if it went on, there wasn’t a whole lot of it that I saw.

"You saw action, you say, and didn’t know about it? Then why would they say it on the television every night? You think they’re lyin’ to us?"

I don’t know what they say on T. V., it’s been a while since I watched it.

"Well, I guess you don’t know then. They probably kept it from you too. You didn’t see the real thing probably."

What real thing?

"The real war, what else?"

There ain’t no such animal as a fake war, pal.

The cabbie again turned apologetic.

"Don’t get me wrong, you did your part. It’s a bad thing. Well anyway, you’re out of it now. You can forget it and do somethin’ better with your life. You came back with all your parts and everything, right?"

"All my parts are with me."

How ‘bout your head? Everything’s workin’ all right up there, too?

I’d say so.

You’re lucky then. I heard about a few guys from my neighborhood that came back all messed up. On drugs, can’t get jobs, the girls want nothin’ to do with ‘em. Bad business.

That’s too bad.

"Heh, didn’t hav’ ta go. The guys with the real balls took off to Canada, if ya ask me!" laughed the cabbie.

What’re they gonna do when the war ends? wondered Martin again out loud.

They’re gonna come back, what’d’ya think? he laughed. nobody’s’ gonna jail ‘em. Turns out that they were right and guys like you were wrong!

"That’s what they think, eh?"

"Sure, you’re the guys that’re left out on the limb. Jobs won’t be easy to find, pal. They don’t wanna hire you guys. People changed around here, you’re gonna see it, but you look like a guy with a head on his shoulders. You’ll just hav ’ta adjust."

Yeah, I guess I just hav’ta adjust again, said Martin, glancing out of the window into the night.

Riding over the Brooklyn Bridge and seeing the array of lights shimmer on both sides of the East River was comforting to Martin. The high, full moon again shone on the river, making the water appear silver. On the outside, the old town seemed unchanged, but like the cabbie said, the people had changed; the people had changed everywhere. The rest of the ride remained silent.

Martin continued to unconsciously visualize the sights he passed in the darkness as they would appear during the day. His mind wandered when he remembered the past, remembered the places and people who dwelled there. When the cab drew closer to his own neighborhood, he could picture each place he passed with a distinct event in his mind, some going back to his childhood. Martin saw the pizza place, the candy store and the school, and he smiled. Then, he passed the street where she used to live.

Pattie Matterson: his teenaged girlfriend, a pretty, dark-haired and well-figured girl for seventeen invaded his thoughts. This vision and memories of her ran unbridled through his mind and dreams. Martin remembered the feel of her next to him, in his arms and lying on him. He remembered the smell of her hair and the musk of her body when they stole away to be alone. The private nights in the park, and the one night they went all the way.

Martin did not realize then just how much trouble he'd caused himself. But Pattie had pressed Martin to make love to her. Although at first unwilling, he felt weak, ill-equipped and awkward, finding the passion rising inside him impossible to turn away from.

Oh baby, let’s do it! she whispered soft with breathless urgency, "Please baby, please, let’s do it! I want it to be you, Marty, you!" she told him over and over again.

Pattie! Pattie!

"Marty honey, I love you, only you!"

The thoughts of that night rushed through Martin’s mind like the fast-flowing, swirling East River they had crossed to get to his home. However, that was another time, and he shook his head to help compartmentalize the event, continuing to look out of the taxi window into the darkness.

Other memories jumped into Martin’s mind: the day he went down to the Fort for his draft physical, standing in long lines with many other young men, most destined for the Army. Martin was resigned to his fate. The rumor was that they would be drafted right after graduation, just a matter of weeks. Then, the next night, two plainclothes policemen in a slow-moving, dark green car followed him down Pattie’s block. When he turned to face them, they jumped out of the car and pushed him against a wrought iron, spiked fence. His mouth was cut against the edge of a black painted bar. The taste of metal, paint and blood mixed