Land

By LAWRENCE KLEPINGER

Under All is the Land

Owning land is the American Dream, defending it against those
who conspire to steal it from you, a nightmare.
In a compelling saga about a man who is determined to protect
what is rightfully hisat all coststhe uniquely American Spirit
of fighting insurmountable odds comes full circle, climaxing in an
ending that is totally unpredictable and emerging as what many
have called a modern day classic in the truest sense of the word.
From the action-packed first chapter, you will find yourself
engrossed in a tale that will keep you guessing, as to the final
outcome, until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466984851

LAWRENCE KLEPINGER

Lawrence Klepinger is an American writer, now living in Japan. He has written on a wide range of subjects: A novel entitled LAND, about a Vietnam Veteran's return to America and his desire to have a fish farm in Montana, a non-fiction expose of what is really going on in China, entitled CHINA HOUSE, two ESL educational textbooks, published by Barron's Educational Series, various newspaper articles and academic papers. His books can be accessed through most on-line retailers.

Book preview

PART I. ETS

"I HAVE NO APOLOGIES, NO REGRETS. I GAVE MY BEST EFFORTS.

I’VE BEEN HUNG IN EFFIGY. I’VE BEEN SPAT UPON.

YOU JUST HAVE TO LET THOSE THINGS BOUNCE OFF."

—General William Childs Westmoreland—

Commander of Military Assistance Command (MACV)

Republic of South Vietnam

CHAPTER 1

A s soon as Manion saw the dog he knew it was a goner. It wasn’t all that big—filthy and emaciated—like everything else in Vietnam. But the mottle-haired mutt was enough for a fair-sized meal, and that was all that counted.

A Vietnamese man clad in grimy shorts and torn T-shirt, racing through town in his dented, three-wheeled Vespa, spotted the dog, which had made it halfway across the dirt road, avoiding the ever-present, chaotic traffic. Drawing a straight bead, the driver headed for the doomed mongrel, plowing into it broadside, the front end smashing its back. The twitching animal lodged for an instant, then was jolted loose and run over again with the back wheels. The motorized tricycle slid to a stop. In haste, the driver half-stumbled, scrambling to the animal. He quickly grabbed the dog by its tail, flung it into the rear of the three-wheeler, and clamored back inside. Ripping the throttle wide open the road hunter sped away, a red cloud of dust veiling his hasty departure.

Did you see that? stammered Thompson, slapping the duce-and-a-half through a montage of beat up civilian cars and bicycles intermingled with U.S. military vehicles of all shapes and sizes. He took that sucker out on purpose.

His family’s going to eat good tonight, replied Manion.

I’d never eat dog, stated Thompson, curling his lips.

You’d be surprised what you’d eat if you were hungry enough.

But a dog? No way!

Shit, Thompson, said Manion with a bemused grin. You’ve probably eaten dog meat and didn’t even know it. Beef. Pork. Fish heads. Dog. No difference to the stomach, just the mind. Bet you even thought it was good.

The kid flashed an annoyed glance at Sergeant John Manion bouncing beside him. Soldiers always like to drive Army vehicles hell bent for leather and PFC Eddie Thompson was no exception to the rule. Not me, he declared, I’d rather die first.

You might have a chance to eat those words if you don’t get us wiped out first, said Manion. Slow this truck down. I didn’t come all this way to just to get killed in some stupid-ass accident.

This whole fucking war’s a stupid-ass accident, snapped Thompson. If I slow down we’re sitting ducks. Get blown away for sure.

In Cam Rahn Bay? No one ever gets killed here. Now cut this truck some slack.

The boy reluctantly eased up on the gas. What’s wrong with this country anyway, he continued, and why can’t these gooks get their own shit in order?

This isn’t a country, answered Manion. It’s just a place where people come to fight. And die.

Thompson was sullen. Barely 19 years old, and arriving in country only the month before, he wasn’t ready to hear that kind of talk. Two fire-fights had convinced him that Vietnam wasn’t the glorious undertaking he had been led to believe. I wish I was going with you, he said, finality molding his tone.

Going with me? Hell, you just got here.

I know and that’s what pisses me off.

Pull up here, Manion said, motioning to a small cluster of roadside shanties. They were a familiar sight, nothing more than sheets of cardboard tacked to termite-infested wood, wired onto rusted corrugated metal. Yet, these huts had always intrigued him, conjuring up glimpses of his childhood when he used to build forts in his backyard. But people actually lived in them. How they managed to hold together was anybody’s guess.

What do you want to stop for? asked Eddie. I thought you were in a hurry to ETS.

I want to buy you a beer.

Thompson eased the truck off the road, bucking to a halt.

Hey, GI, you want short-time? yelled a small Vietnamese boy, skipping toward the truck.

No thanks, said Manion as he climbed down. It was the monsoon season, the air stagnant with a constant sewer smell, an invisible wet blanket that you could never get out from under. He tried to adjust his sticky, summer dress fatigues but it didn’t help.

Come on, GI, persisted the boy. She my sister. Only 13. Clean, too. For you, only three dollar, MPC.

Is she a virgin? joked Manion.

No, but almost, answered the boy with a toothy grin.

How about a couple of Balm de Balms?

Only beer? the boy said in disbelief, tagging along behind Manion toward the small group of shanties. A rat, the size of a full-grown feline, scurried underneath the makeshift wooden pallet foundation, eyeing them both suspiciously. A young girl poked her head out between ragged curtains. Wearing a dingy, see-through blouse, dark-brown nipples beginning to protrude, she smiled an automatic money smile. The boy waved her back inside, as she frowned her displeasure in retreat.

Two beers, demanded the kid to the old mama-san squatting behind an open Coca-Cola ice cooler.

She reached into the lukewarm water, retrieved two bottles of beer, setting them on a rickety, three-legged table. The boy signaled her to open them. She flashed a wide betel nut smile, the color of deep ochre, as she quickly complied. The youngster took the bottles, handing one to Manion.

Fifty cent, MPC, he said, holding out his hand, palm up.

That’s kind of cheap.

Each, clarified the boy. I take this to friend in truck. Always collect myself. That way get money.

Capitalism with a capital C, thought Manion. You’d better let me pay for them both then, he said. It’s my treat.

OK, GI. You pay. I deliver. Fifty cent more.

Manion handed him the extra money. Smart kid you got here, he said to the old mama-san.

The lady smiled again.

She no speak English. Just dumb old woman, called the boy over his shoulder, running toward the truck, beer foaming from the bottleneck.

Manion shook his head. He never could understand why Asian women took so much abuse from their men. Then again, there were a lot of things about the Orient he still didn’t understand. Probably never would.

He’s not a bad child, whispered the old lady in perfect English.

The statement caught Manion off guard. I thought you couldn’t speak English.

That’s what he thinks, too, she chuckled. When we were under French control I spoke French. Now you Americans are here, so I speak English. But he doesn’t know. That way it gives him a sense of pride. He needs that. He’s the only man we have left.

I’m sorry, Manion offered in apology, not quite knowing why.

She looked down, curtailing further conversation.

You go home? asked the boy, returning from the truck.

How did you know?

Wearing khakis. No gun.

Manion felt foolish for asking the obvious.

Better hurry or you miss plane. The boy turned to the woman, saying something in rapid fire Vietnamese.

The old lady held up two fingers signifying a V for victory and said in halting English, American… GI, numbah one. VC, numbah fucking ten.

Manion looked at her sad, brown eyes, fully aware of the fact that if it weren’t for the women of South Vietnam the whole damn place would have gone to hell in a hand basket long ago. The mama-san, aged and bent, but by no means broken, was a living testament to their courage and durability. Thank you for the beer, Ma’am, he said.

She bowed, knowing her secret was secure.

Manion headed in the direction of the truck, the little boy quickly scampering by his side. Where did you learn to speak English? John asked.

From all GI. I be interpreter.

Why an interpreter?

Because when Charlie win war I show I speak good English. Go to college. Be rich like American. Buy grandmother and sister real house. BIG LAND!

Big land, huh? And what happens if Charlie doesn’t win?

He win, assured the boy, fully confident of his statement. America too nice. If VC had your plane and gun he use them. But he beat you with bamboo. Give him time. You see.

Got it all figured out, Manion said. He hauled himself back inside the truck shaking his head.

Sure do, said the kid. And one more thing.

What’s that?

American trust everybody. Charlie doesn’t trust nobody.

Anybody, said Manion, playfully correcting the budding entrepreneur’s English.

That what I said.

I suppose it was.

A jeep full of soldiers, eager to spend their money, pulled up from behind and piled out.

More customers, proclaimed the boy happily. He waved goodbye and ran to the jeep, yelling, Hey, GI, you want short-time?

What was that all about? Thompson asked, edging the truck back onto the road.

You got me, admitted Manion.

Thompson took a swig of beer and cringed. I’ll never get used to this shit. You know it’s got formaldehyde in it?

I know.

Well, the next time you offer to buy, remind me not to stop.

Hell, I paid for it, didn’t I? Quit your bitching.

My dying ass, retorted Thompson. I’m the one who gave that little shithead fifty cents.

Sergeant Manion looked out the window and laughed. Yep, real smart kid.

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That’s it, Manion said, pointing to a long gray Quonset hut. He read the sign, Out Processing, and smiled. Those sure are sweet words.

You got that right, agreed Thompson.

Drop me off where those guys are standing, said John, pointing to a group of soldiers milling about.

Thompson nodded, winding the truck through the maze of soldiers. Here you are, he said, stopping in front of the out-processing building.

Before Manion climbed down he looked at Thompson, then shook his hand. Take it easy, Eddie. And remember, when you get back in the bush, keep your head down.

You won’t forget to call my mom and dad when you get home, will you?

No sweat GI, assured Manion. Telephone number’s in my wallet. He got out of the truck, went around to the rear, retrieved his duffel bag, then walked back to where Eddie was sitting.

If you’d tell them there’s nothing to worry about, I’d appreciate it, said Thompson.

I’ll do that, Manion promised, slamming the passenger door closed. He started to walk away when something prompted him to turn around. When he did, he saw PFC Eddie Thompson staring back at him. He was struck by how young the boy looked, almost as if he were a small child sitting behind the steering wheel pretending to be old enough to drive. Manion smiled one last time and waved. Thompson ground the truck into first gear and roared off.

How do I get out of here? asked Manion, facing one of the soldiers.

Step inside and yell, SHORT! They’ll take care of you, said a man with a thick southern drawl. Then all you have to do is hurry up and wait.

Take very long?

About eight hours but we just got our orders and we’ve been manifested for the next flight out. We are what you’d call mighty short.

Hell, I’m so short I got to look down to see up, proclaimed another trooper nearby. They all laughed.

Manion thanked them, wished them good luck and stepped inside.

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Are you coming or going? asked a gruff-voiced master sergeant, sweat rippling off his frowning forehead.

Going, Manion said.

Get a lot of guys who can’t read the sign, snorted the sergeant. OK, give that man your orders and 201 file. He gestured to a young kid furiously hammering away at a typewriter, wind from a big fan behind him rippling the papers on his desk. Then go to the finance section, change your MPCs and Ps into greenbacks. When you’re done go outside and wait until your name is called. And don’t go—I repeat—don’t go walking all over the area. Nobody fucks up my program. You got that, trooper?

Manion wondered why lifers, especially the ones in the rear, always tried to act like such hard-asses. Yes, sergeant, he replied.

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Back outside, Manion found the mood somewhat strange, almost festive, yet oddly subdued. Locating an empty bench, he sat down. Two soldiers were talking behind him.

I can hardly wait, said one.

Yeah, man, returned the other, Stateside and round eyes.

You got it, said the first GI, "and I bet they’ll be playing, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again."

Manion smiled inwardly. He was just as anxious to get back, see the cheering crowds, flags waving, arms clamoring to give a hug and a hearty welcome home.

The wind shifted, sending the stench of a shit-burning detail further putrefying the already foul, tepid air. Opening his duffel bag Manion pulled out a fifth of Jim Beam. He’d planned on saving it until boarding the plane but decided that a little taste wouldn’t do any harm. He drank almost half the bottle, curled up with his duffel bag as a pillow and fell asleep.

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The blaring loudspeaker pried Sergeant Manion back to reality. It seemed like he had drifted off only a short while, but in fact had been out for nearly five hours. The 18:00 manifest was in full swing. He pulled himself up, listening as names reeled off.

SP4 Chavez, Larry Avila, SP5 Abbott, Ronald. The list went on and on but his name wasn’t called. Every once in a while a soldier would let out a whoop when his name came up. Manion waited and listened. Staff Sergeant Montgomery, Oscar.

Oscar Montgomery, repeated Manion in disbelief. He started to scan the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Soldiers were gathering at the out-processing window to receive their DD 201 files and the long-awaited orders sending them back to CONUS. Manion didn’t see anyone he knew.

The whole place was now a mass of semi-controlled confusion as returning soldiers crowded the window to secure their papers and load their belongings onto the waiting buses that would take them to the airfield.

SP4 Hernandez, Ricardo, Sergeant Manion, Jonathan, continued the roll call. More names rattled off before it struck Manion that his name had been announced. He flipped his duffel bag closed, stuffed the whiskey bottle under his belt and tucked his shirt in. Readjusting his green beret he stood up and looked around once again.

Hey, Manion, what’s happening? came a voice from behind. He turned to see Staff Sergeant Oscar Montgomery strolling toward him.

Sarge! yelled Manion, I heard your name called. I was looking for you.

I was in the latrine, said Montgomery with a broad smile. Bad case of the GIs. They shook hands and laughed.

We made it, said Montgomery.

Almost, replied Manion.

Uh, huh. Almost.

Getting out? Manion asked in disbelief.

Think so, replied Montgomery, only half convinced that he had made the right decision to leave the Army.

I ETS the day I get back, said Manion. Let’s sit together on the plane.

Without saying anything further they collected their 201 files and boarded the lead bus.

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Riding out was eerily quiet, as if everyone was recalling all the things that had gone down during their tour of duty. For John Manion, the war had been a kaleidoscope of unrelated events, totally confusing, yet still oddly interwoven into his very being. He didn’t have an inkling as to how much he had changed.

After being wounded during the Tet Offensive, he had been evacuated to Tripler Hospital in Hawaii. When sufficiently recovered, he was informed that he would be sent to Fort MacArthur, about 10 miles from where his mother was living in Torrance, California. Not wanting to serve Stateside duty while the war was still going on, John had requested for his third extension in Vietnam.

He had been assigned a position at Headquarters Company with the Staff Judge Advocate, a job he soon grew to despise. It was in the rear that Manion had gotten a view of the war from a totally different perspective, and what he saw disgusted him to the point of not even considering re-enlistment. He slowly began to alter his plans as he observed first hand the graft and corruption so prevalent in the rear echelon.

Manion received the Purple Heart, CIB, and VN Jump Wings for what he did in the field and the Army Commendation Medal for the job performed at Headquarters. But what he had done was miniscule compared to his friend sitting next to him.

Staff Sergeant Oscar Montgomery had over 40 missions, some of which entailed going over the fence into Laos and Cambodia. Besides being an explosives expert he was also well versed in light weapons and better than average in martial arts.

As with most heroes, they just happen to be in the right place at the wrong time and either rise to the occasion or don’t. Montgomery had risen.

Having just completed an eight-day mission into Laos he was taking a short rest before returning to his unit when the first barrage of mortars hit the Special Forces Command and Control Detachment on the outskirts of Da Nang. Montgomery instinctively grabbed his weapon and ran outside to assess the damage. The officer’s barracks had taken a direct hit and was on fire. There were close to 30 Americans and ARVN troops in the compound when everything came down, but the element of surprise had worked against them.

Montgomery, assuming command, set up a perimeter of defense and started concentrated fire at the advancing NVA who were staging a simultaneous three-pronged attack. He directed machine gun and mortar fire on the ground, calling in artillery from a dead radioman’s equipment pack.

Montgomery received his first of three wounds, an AK-47 round in the right arm. As the battle ensued, he was hit two more times but never stopped fighting or directing fire. When the supply sergeant for the detachment went down in the open, Montgomery ran to help him back to cover, saving his life. After fifteen minutes it was all over. Twenty-one American and South Vietnamese troops dead. The remaining soldiers, including Montgomery, wounded. Six North Vietnamese killed.

Montgomery was put in for the Distinguished Service Cross by a major who had been injured in the initial mortar blast and had witnessed what he had done, but for some reason the award was later downgraded. There was never any concrete explanation, and if Montgomery had any reservations he kept them to himself.

He had also been evacuated to Tripler Hospital in Hawaii and was awarded the Purple Heart and the Silver Star in a brief, bedside ceremony. A few pictures were taken and that was the extent of it.

After rehabilitation Montgomery was given his choice of assignments. He went back to his old unit in Pleiku, much to the surprise of everyone—except those who knew him. He was assigned as an instructor training South Vietnamese and Montagnard troops in the proper use of explosives and light weapons. During his last six months, he had seriously been thinking about returning to the United States to re-enlist and become a drill sergeant. Somewhere along the line he abruptly changed his mind, deciding to get out altogether—a decision that would continually haunt him.

CHAPTER 2

T his is it, shouted the driver. The bus groaned to a halt and the door banged open. Everyone filed out onto the open tarmac, bags in hand.

Line up here, yelled the Spec 4 in charge. Plane’s due in five minutes.

Even in the waning daylight hours, it was still exceptionally clear. With everyone waiting, Manion and Montgomery combed the horizon for any sign of the jet. Manion was the first to spot it. There it is, Sarge. He pointed straight out to a shiny silver dot, glinting off the setting sun, black smoke streaming lazily behind.

The Big Iron Bird, Sarge said softly. Manion, I believe we are going back to the world.

They watched the aircraft nosedive toward the runway, land and taxi to where they were waiting. The fuselage entrance popped open releasing its cargo of replacements, straight from training in their new uniforms, bedecked with a solitary service medal and lone marksman’s badge. They looked like freshly scrubbed babies—many destined to be tomorrow’s casualties—totally oblivious as to what they were getting themselves into. Even the lifers, with their rows of ribbons from previous campaigns, looked perplexed, disembarking the jet.

Give Charlie hell, yelled one of the returning soldiers.

Kick ass and take names, sounded another.

Finally, with the last, Short, motherfucker, to greet the incoming replacements, the homebound troops quickly scampered aboard. Once inside Manion and Montgomery found two seats, plopped down, and readied for takeoff.

Welcome to Braniff Airlines, flight number 329, said the stewardess over the intercom. Please make sure your seats are in the upright position and your seat belts are securely fastened.

Pressure mounted as everyone waited for the ground crew to finish loading the baggage. When they gave the thumbs up, the pilot gunned the engines and the plane began lumbering toward the end of the runway. Once there, it made a quick left turn, not bothering to stop. With full throttle acceleration down the bumpy concrete, the wings flapping every time the jet hit a rut, like a ruptured duck trying to get off a pond, the plane jerked its nose upward, banking hard to the right. When the aircraft started to gain altitude a man’s voice sounded via the speakers. This is your captain speaking. Welcome to Braniff Airlines. Thank you for a job well done. We’ll be stopping in Hawaii to refuel and then it’s a straight shot to Seattle, Washington, United States of America. Welcome home.

As if on cue from an orchestra conductor, the plane burst into a mass of triumphant jubilation, soldiers shaking hands, slapping backs, congratulating each other for making it through.

Montgomery looked at Manion, sitting next to the window, and said, We made it.

Airborne Sergeant, replied Manion with a grin. They shook hands vigorously, shrieking for joy themselves.

Sarge, you care for a little touch? asked Manion, simulating a glass in his hands.

Don’t mind if I do.

Manion pulled the whiskey bottle from under his shirt.

What are you doing with a half-empty bottle? asked Montgomery.

It all depends on how you look at it, replied Manion. I feel like it’s half full.

That’s what I’ve always liked about you, positive thinking. But now is the time to break the label, announced Montgomery. He reached under his own shirt, producing a brand new bottle of Johnny Walker Black.

Where did you get that?

Just got to know where to look.

What are we going to drink to, Sarge?

Montgomery thought for a moment. Let’s drink to America—and to the guys that aren’t coming back.

To the Vietnam vets, said Manion.

To all the vets, repeated Montgomery.

Sharing the bottle of Scotch, they made toast after toast until it was nearly gone, then dozed off.

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If you care to look directly below, you’ll see the Hawaiian Islands, announced the captain. We’ll be landing in about twenty minutes.

Oscar elbowed John from his slumber. Take a look at that, he said, leaning over to get a better view. Hawaii, remember?

Uh, huh, said Manion, stifling a yawn. How long were you there? he asked, rubbing his eyes.

Almost five months. What about you?

Forty nine days. How did we get here so fast, anyway?

Can’t remember, Montgomery admitted. You don’t think this had anything to do with it, do you? he said, holding up the almost drained bottle.

No, not at all, said Manion in mock sarcasm. He brushed his eyes again. Hey, Sarge, since we’re coming back from the war do you think they’ll put a lei around our neck and all that stuff?

Beats the hell out of me. Either that or have some sort of band playing, speculated Montgomery.

Well, what ever they got in store, I’m ready.

Upon exiting the plane, the morning sun greeted them so enthusiastically they squinted, shielding their eyes as they proceeded down the stairs. Stepping onto the concrete they looked around for the girls that would welcome them home with flowers and a kiss. They searched for the band that was to be playing. There was nothing.

What do you think happened? asked Manion, entering the terminal.

Maybe it’s too early.

The sun’s out, isn’t it, retorted Manion, somewhat dejectedly.

Well, don’t sweat it none, Montgomery said. They’re probably saving the whole works for the mainland. Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.

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Once the aircraft leveled out, Manion and Montgomery settled in for the last leg of the flight.

Thanks again for the chow, said Manion. Sure hit the spot.

My pleasure. You can buy me a couple of beers Stateside.

They had traded seats and Montgomery was now staring out at the vast expanse of blue Pacific. Manion felt like talking but decided against it. Instead, he found himself slipping into the past.

The first time they met was at the Special Forces Training Center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Montgomery had been designated platoon leader and was given the temporary rank of Sergeant E-5. Consequently, Manion had always referred to Montgomery simply as, Sarge.

Since Montgomery had been in command, he had always referred to Manion by his last name, even though he was now a sergeant himself. The habit had continued out of mutual respect—neither one really concerned with rank.

Oddly enough, their common tendency to be loners was what eventually drew them together. One weekend, when everybody else had gone to nearby Fayetteville on pass, they struck up a conversation. Small talk slowly gave way to things more substantial and from that point on they had grown to like each other.

In physical appearance, Oscar Montgomery was a little over six feet tall, fairly well built, and black. In contrast, Manion was slightly shorter, more slender, and white. The color difference presented problems, but not between them.

The Army, even though segregation had been officially banned many years before, still had its fair share of overt racism.

The thing Manion respected most about Montgomery was that he was no Stepin Fetchit. Nobody’s boy. Yet Montgomery wasn’t the hand-slapping, jive-talking type either. Manion saw it as natural dignity. Their confidence in each other was without question.

Well, Manion, what do you think? inquired Sarge, ungluing himself from the window.

What’s that? Manion mumbled, returning to the present.

What are you going to do when you get back?

Guess I’ll go see my old girlfriend and get reacquainted. Then Manion laughed.

What’s so funny?

Nothing.

Ah, come on, you can tell me, said Montgomery.

Well, after I enlisted, he began, we kept pretty much in touch until about three months ago. Guess she got so excited about me coming home that she didn’t have time to write, too busy getting ready for the homecoming and all. I guess we’ll get married after I find a job, a slight note of apprehension tingeing his voice.

All right! said Montgomery. You going to invite me to the wedding?

Stick around and you can be my best man.

You mean that?

Sure do.

Then you got yourself a deal.

Can I get you fellas something? asked an attractive stewardess who had been tending to the other soldiers.

Could we have two cups with a little ice, please? Manion asked. We want to finish this up in style, he said, pointing to the almost empty bottle of Scotch.

She handed them two paper cups overflowing with ice. Enjoy yourselves, she said, moving on down the aisle.

Montgomery divided what he had left and they took a drink.

Is your mother getting any better? inquired Manion, without looking at Montgomery. She had been very sick just before he was sent to Vietnam, being hospitalized for a time.

Montgomery sucked in air. She’s hanging in there, he said exhaling, but I don’t know for how long. The last letter I got from my auntie said that she weighed ninety pounds. Two years ago she was a hundred seventy-five.

I’m glad she’s still alive. You hadn’t said anything so I thought maybe…

It’s just a matter of time, said Montgomery, slicing down his Scotch. Ever since my father got killed in a coal mining accident she’s never been the same. My going to Vietnam didn’t help matters any. When I got drafted I could have gotten out on a hardship, but my mama said, ‘Your daddy served when his country called and he’d expect you to do the same.’ Montgomery paused for a moment, then added, According to my auntie, she was holding her own until she found out I got wounded.

But now that you’re coming home she’ll probably get better.

That’s what I’m hoping for, but I just don’t know.

Montgomery turned his attention toward the window again. What about your folks? Things ever work out between them? he asked, gazing at the white, billowing clouds meandering below.

No, said Manion flatly. About six months after I went overseas I got a letter from my mom telling me they’d gotten divorced. She moved out to Torrance, outside of LA. My sister took off on her own, up to Northern California, Santa Cruz, I think. I’m not quite sure where my dad went. Guess I’ll find out when I get back. Manion looked at his friend, then poked him with his elbow. Hey, Sarge, fuck this crap. We’re going home. Let’s celebrate!

Montgomery disassociated himself from the window, smiling at Manion. Who’s buying, you or me?

Think it’s my turn, answered Manion, producing the remnants of his whiskey bottle. How does this look now?

Half full.

That’s where it’s at, Sarge.

The elation came back as the alcohol began to take hold. Manion flipped on the service light. In no time the same stewardess reappeared.

Can I help you gentlemen? she asked.

Is it OK if we have two more cups of ice? inquired Manion.

Two more? reiterated the stewardess, somewhat amused.

Two more, confirmed Montgomery, smiling.

Coming right up. The stewardess returned with four cups filled with ice and handed everything to them.

"Two each. Now that’s service," said Montgomery.

Just wanted to see if you could still count, she said. I tried to wake you guys on our way into Hawaii, but you were completely out.

Manion and Montgomery looked sheepishly at the stewardess.

Without thinking, Manion blurted, You sure are pretty. Realizing what he had said, he muddled through a lame apology.

Don’t worry about it, she reassured him. If you need anything else let me know.

Just one more thing, said Manion cautiously.

Yes, replied the woman, as if she already knew what he was going to say.

Do you mind if I ask your name?

Angela.

Maybe even your phone number?

Wish I could but our company frowns on that sort of thing.

Just thought I’d ask, said Manion, somewhat disappointed. Thanks anyway.

She smiled with experienced understanding, then proceeded to answer another service light.

Montgomery was grinning from ear to ear. Manion, you’re as graceful as a catfish out of water.

At least I tried.

And just a little while ago you were telling me how you were planning on getting married.

I just asked what her name was. Cut me some slack.

I know, said Montgomery, an impish tingle tweaking his voice. But wouldn’t you like to touch that, just a little?

Manion ignored the comment.

Hey, Romeo, said a soldier, leaning across the aisle to get closer to Manion, obviously sipping on private stock of his own.