He Died All Day Long

By Jon Wells

He Died All Day Long is a story of the Vietnam War and the soldiers who fought it - on both sides - from a street kid in Pittsburgh, to a country boy from Missouri, even a Vietnamese peasant who wants nothing more than to grow rice. Until the war comes to all of them.

Few Episodes in American History have ignited borader political and cultural con

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jon Wells Associates
• Release date: Jun 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9780615868752

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Peterman had ninety-two days to go. Hill had sixty-five. It was the way they measured time, counting backward. Days left in country. Brown had one hundred fifty-eight, but he’d extended. Harper was short. He only had ten. In a war that spanned decades, soldiers counted days.

Everyone started with the same: three hundred sixty-five. Some left early, in pieces or in a box. Some extended. When you got short, you gave yourself a break. Thirty days became twenty-nine and a wake-up. Fifteen became fourteen and a wake-up. You always knew exactly how many days you had left.

Or thought you did.

SECTION ONE

THE MISSION

Chapter One: Nine Days

September 15, 1967

California coast

A BRIGHT YELLOW-ORANGE STRIP quietly glowed behind the rolling hills of the eastern ridge. It would be another ten minutes before the sun broke the horizon, but already the steely sky was giving way to pale blue.

It was 6:35 in the morning and the air was filled with smells of seaweed, salt and the stench of exhaust from Tom Peterman’s 1960 Austin Healey Sprite. Peterman had been driving for a little over three hours, listening to nothing but the car’s overworked engine and his own thoughts. He pulled the collar up on his dark blue parka and snugged his knit watch cap lower over his ears. He thought for a moment about putting the top up, but he was just coming to the best part of the drive and didn’t want to spoil the view.

What was this? Day nine? Yes, nine.

As the rising sun pushed cold air and warm light over the hills, the dew on the tan grass sparkled in the rich, warm glow.

Peterman was hypnotized by the rhythmic twists and turns of Highway One as it ribboned its way over and around the fingers of land that formed the Pacific coast. Clutch in, rev, third gear, clutch out. Clutch in, rev, second gear, clutch out. Clutch in, third gear, clutch out. He pulled the Sprite into a tight right-hand turn, then glanced down at the ocean fifty feet below, where waves relentlessly pounded ancient, barnacle-covered rocks. The road crested a small hill, then turned to his left. He caught a glimpse of fog hovering over the redwoods that marched all the way to the cliffs overlooking the sea.

He hadn’t actually intended to come here. He was just driving. At a quarter past two last night—this morning, really—what was supposed to be his going-away party had ended. At least, for him. After a night of flat beer in every topless bar in North Beach, two of his friends had amazingly talked four of the dancers into an after-hours adventure in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco. Peterman had said he’d meet them, but instead got into his car and started driving home. Twenty minutes later, for reasons he hadn’t bothered to question, he’d found himself driving south instead of north. Now, as dawn broke, Big Sur lay just ahead.

The sky had turned a rich blue, embracing the tan hillsides, the deep brown-green roiling Pacific, and the billowing clouds that foretold a storm. Two seagulls caught an updraft at the cliffs and soared straight into the sun, then turned back towards the sea.

He wondered if this was actually the most beautiful day he’d ever seen or just the first one he’d seen as numbered.

The morning sun dappled the road with dots and dashes as he drove through the canopy of ancient redwoods, past the general store, past the Big Sur campground to which he’d return to sleep later, past the fancy Greek hotel where Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth had fucked their brains out, to a parking lot in front of a small, two-story building with board and batten sidings of unfinished gray redwood. It had white trim and a red door with a stained glass window. A woman in a faded pink top and a long paisley skirt opened the front door as he parked. Above the porch a sign read, Deetjen’s Big Sur Inn.

Peterman turned off the ignition but the car continued to run until he eased out the clutch and stalled the dieseling engine. He pulled the watch cap off and found his ears were ringing and his hands were stiff. He didn’t realize that his butt had gone to sleep until he tried to stand.

He pulled himself out of the car, walking in circles in the parking lot and taking in the sea air, glad that, at least for a while, he could breathe without the stench of his Sprite’s exhaust leak.

The woman on the porch watched him shake his legs and beat his arms around his body. Long drive? she asked.

Cold drive.

We’re not ready for customers. I just got here. A large ceramic amulet hung between her breasts on a leather thong, swaying as loosely as her breasts when she moved. He thought she was older than he was. Twenty-three? Maybe twenty-four? Her long, brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. She wore suede sandals and wool socks. It’ll be at least twenty minutes, she said.

Got any coffee? he asked.

There was a potbelly stove in one corner of the room. Tom found a table next to it and took a seat facing the front door. The floor creaked as he walked back to his table, and he could feel the boards move unevenly under his feet. The room smelled like wood and dirt and flowers and frying onions. A large bougainvillea spread over the north wall of the building gave the room a twilight glow. The walls were covered with fading photos of Big Sur in simple black frames. The wooden tables, pockmarked by the years, had thick tops and sturdy legs. A counter ran in front of the kitchen. It looked newly added, covered with a thick coat of Varathane. The bentwood chairs were a rainbow of colors.

The chill and dampness were beginning to leave his body. He’d downed three mugs of coffee by the time the woman brought his omelet. It was filled with a white cheese he’d never heard of and shiny chunks of black mushrooms with a rich, musky flavor, like a loamy forest.

It’s yesterday’s bread, said the woman, but it makes for pretty good toast. I don’t bake until after breakfast.

Peterman spread loganberry jam on another piece and stuffed it in his mouth. Tastes fine to me, he said with his mouth full. He chewed and swallowed hard, then took a sip of coffee. What’s your name?

Rhana.

Pretty name.

What’s yours?

Tom. Tom Peterman.

Well, slow down, Tom Peterman, she said with a smile. Enjoy your breakfast. She turned and walked back into the kitchen.

Peterman picked up his empty coffee mug, tried to get Rhana’s attention, then walked over to the coffee pot and poured himself a refill. He held the steaming mug in both hands, smelling the rich aroma and feeling the warmth flow through his hands. He took a sip. He heard the front door open and a highway patrolman with gray hair and a thick belly walked in. He walked up to the coffee pot and started filling a thermos. Without looking up, he announced that a truck had turned over twenty miles south. Rhana came out of the kitchen with a tray of small cream pitchers. Could be a slow morning, she said.

A short man in a black Greek fishing cap and a stained, once-white, cable-knit sweater came in and, without a word, sat at the counter. He had a gray beard that grew around his chin, but not on his upper lip. He sat with his hands folded, waiting for his coffee.

Peterman scooped up the last bit of omelet, chewed slowly, then pushed the plate away. He picked up his coffee, took a sip, and leaned back, satisfied. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been.

He heard the door open. A woman walked in, shaking herself against the cold. She was tall and wore jeans and an oversized sweater, thick wool, mostly dark burgundy with flecks of tan and bright orange. When she pulled her knit cap off, her dark, wavy hair fell out to her shoulders, framing her face. She scanned the room and took a table not far from Peterman.

Rhana came out of the kitchen. Aren’t you up early?

Too early for civilized people, she replied. Tea, please.

Peterman couldn’t take his eyes off her. And did she really have an English accent? She rubbed her palms together and blew into them. She crossed her arms in front of her, jamming her hands under her armpits. Rhana brought out a tray with a mug, a tiny pitcher and a ceramic teapot.

Thanks, love, the woman said.

Anything to eat? Rhana asked.

Not yet, thanks. Maybe in a minute.

The woman picked up the pitcher and poured a small bit of milk into the mug. She tilted up the lid on the pot, leaned over, and smelled the brewing tea.

Peterman tried to watch her without watching her. She put her hands around the teapot. Just the way she did it was beautiful. He looked out the window. The tall grass and trees shook with a sudden force and then, just as quickly, stopped. A squirrel, ignoring the gust, buried an acorn at the base of the bougainvillea. Peterman felt like he was more than just miles from home. He was a world away. From protesters, riots, cops, and a war that was broadcast nightly on three networks. He was here, and there was a beautiful woman with an English accent who drank tea and warmed her hands around the teapot.

Maybe he could just walk over and tell her that he’d made a huge mistake, and maybe there was a place the two of them could talk, with a bed maybe, and they could just crawl in and never leave. Maybe Big Sur was different, so different you could just be there and nobody outside would know. It would just swallow you up with its trees and sky and cozy restaurants, with floors that creaked, and every day you could get an omelet with loamy smelling mushrooms and white cheese that pulled apart slowly. Maybe there was no paper in Big Sur, no paper with your name on it that said where you had to be, and what would happen if you didn’t go.

Maybe Big Sur was just so different they didn’t have the war.

Her hands were cold. He could see that. He could hold them. That was definitely something he could do. And she’d be warm and grateful, and they could just talk. And maybe they’d kiss or make love, or maybe not. That didn’t matter. Mostly, he just wanted to talk.

She looked up, saw him staring, and quickly the teapot took her attention. Maybe it was the color of the tea, or the teabag or the inside of the pot—she studied something about it intently until the front door creaked open again. She looked up, smiled and waved, and said something like here, love and the man said something like been waiting long and she said something like just got here, and Peterman picked up his mug and took a long sip of cold coffee.

The man leaned over and kissed the woman—somewhere between good morning and wasn’t-that-fabulous-sex-we-just-had —and sat down. She put her hand around his arm, pulled him close, and whispered something.

The man was short, five seven, maybe five eight. His long, very straight, blonde hair reached just below his shoulder blades. On the outside of his right leg, below his green cut-off trousers, there was a random line of small gray spots like someone had broken off a dozen pencil points just beneath the skin. When he hung his pea coat on the back of his chair, Peterman saw that half of his right hand was missing—two fingers and part of his palm replaced by a dimpled scar of pink and purple.

The man turned his head and caught Peterman’s eyes. They looked at each other for a moment so long that time itself seemed to slow—yet it passed so quickly that it could only exist as a transgression of time. The man gave Peterman a small nod before turning and saying something to the woman with her hands around the teapot.

Peterman felt sick. The room began to sway like the shadows of the bougainvillea through the window. He needed to get outside. Now.

He stood up, reached into his pocket and threw a five on the table. Pushing fists and arms into the sleeves of his parka, he squeaked open the door and stood on the front porch. He sucked in deep breaths of cold, damp air as he crossed Highway One and walked towards the cliffs overlooking the Pacific.

He stopped, put his hands on his knees, and vomited.

Until just six weeks ago, Tom Peterman had been a junior at San Francisco State, a philosophy major. His life changed one ­afternoon—although he didn’t realize it at the time—in a comparative religion class when the professor, in a droning voice sprinkled with arrogance and boredom, asserted that Spinoza had clearly been overly influenced by Talmudic teachings and could not have been a true philosopher. Peterman asked him how that could be, since Spinoza had been essentially excommunicated by the rabbis of his time. We don’t know that that’s the case, the professor had said.

Does history count? Peterman asked.

History is written by the victors.

Peterman walked out and never returned.

Six months later he got a letter saying that his status had been changed to 1-A, ready for induction. When he called the draft board, the secretary told him that since he’d only carried nine units in his last semester, he was no longer a full-time student.

A month later, the postman delivered his draft notice. He read it and showed it to his father, who read it, refolded it and went back to his breakfast.

You’re lucky I know some people, he said.

What do you mean, you ‘know some people’?