A Warrior’s Promise

By Bill Fischer

The tumultuous Vietnam era brought many cultural and social changes to America. Jimbo, like other Americans of that time must learn to adapt and cope with the tests of their character during one of the dark passages of America’s history. The story and characters are fictional; their predicaments are not.

Jimbo is a young Marine who has been wounded in battle in Vietnam. The corpsman who saved his life has been mortally wounded. In his dying moment, the corpsman asks Jimbo to promise he will return his religious scapular to “Miss Emma” and his sister, and to tell them he loves them. Although Roof dies before Jimbo can affirm the unsolicited promise, he feels committed to it.

Not only is Jimbo faced with the challenge of recovery from his wounds, he also struggles with the loss of the affection of the girlfriend he once hoped to marry. Kathy, for whom he has a deep attachment, rejects him. She tells him she cannot love someone who supports the war in Vietnam. She has met someone else who isn’t guided by his patriotic fervor.

Although Jimbo later finds an accomplished and affectionate woman he cares for, he is unable to suppress the lingering feelings he has for Kathy. He is unable to understand how the memory of her maintains the grip on his thoughts, and wonders if he will carry those feelings to his grave.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669834755

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Copyright © 2022 by Bill Fischer.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/20/2022

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CONTENTS

1 Greater Love . . .

2 Yokuska

3 Balboa Hospital

4 Going Home!

5 Kathy’s Secret

6 Looking Back

7 Ebenezer Cemetery

8 Miss Emma

9 The Visit

10 A Date with Kathy

11 Hattie

12 Perplexity

13 Sheila

14 Return to Duty

15 Jimbo’s Chevelle

16 Christmas in Alabama

17 A Big Decision

18 The Hippie

19 The Odyssey

20 The Gazette

21 Mardi Gras

22 Consequences

23 The Wedding

24 Honeymoon Duplicity

25 Confrontation

26 Upheaval

27 Assignment in Paris

28 The Scapular

dedicated to

Just Someone I Used to Know

from the song

written by Jack Clement

performed by

George Jones and Tammy Wynette

Although reference to historical events is made in this story, the development of characters around those events is strictly fictional. Events and characters depicted in this novel should not be associated with the actual historical events. Any similarity of the characters to an actual person, past or present, is purely coincidental.

1

Greater Love . . .

The trademark and unmistakable pop-pop-pop-pop of an AK-47 could be heard coming from near the front of the column as Marines of 3rd Platoon, Delta Company, crept stealthily through the underbrush of the coastal jungle. Rudely interrupted, normally peaceful sounds of the semitropical growth were now muted by the sound of more pop-pop-pop-pops. Perversely symphonic to the operator of the weapon, the rhythmic cacophony of an AK-47 strikes terror in the vulnerable quarry finding themselves suddenly exposed within its killing zone.

Jimbo felt the instinctive urge to turn and find an escape from the wrathful sound. The thought of appearing to be controlled by fear by his fellow Marines, rather than being in control of it, was greater than that of facing probable death, forcing him to stand his ground. Bound by an unwritten dogma, the bond forged from the hellfire of boot camp makes all Marines accept the credo, Death Before Dishonor. A Marine would rather give his life in battle than lose the trust and respect that one Marine expects from another. It is a sacred tenet that binds them, making them tower above normal men.

The pop-pop-pop-pops were soon followed by pfhwuump, pfhwuump, pfhwuump, the sound of small caliber mortars as the rounds left their tubes in search of mortal prey. Jimbo’s squad was caught in an ambush!

Fall back! Fall back! yelled the squad leader as the mortars began registering their position. Although hidden from view by the foliage of the jungle, there was little protection from the shrapnel from the mortar rounds. It penetrated human flesh as effortlessly as it did the thick vegetation.

The machine-gunner dropped, hit by shrapnel. Without his gun in action, they would all almost certainly be doomed to the combined firepower of the AK-47s and mortars. Hesitating for only a heartbeat and acting with the response so carefully crafted and expected of him, Jimbo picked up the weapon and a belt of ammo. He quickly moved toward the point. With rounds whistling dull zzzzzzuuuhhh’s as they passed their intended target, he made it to a slight opening where the point-man lay bleeding, caught by surprise in the first burst. Suddenly, as he paused to assess how to get Gardner, the point man, out, a round from the assault rifle caught him in the upper right leg, knocking him from his feet.

Goddamnit! he exclaimed as he went to the ground, instinctively using the butt of the weapon to break his fall.

The squad leader, who had also gone forward to rescue the point, yelled, God damn it, Fowler! I told you to fall back. We’re out-gunned! Now move!

I can’t, Sarge, I’m hit, and I’m afraid I can’t run, Jimbo responded.

Immediately he felt the presence of someone else beside him. It was their corpsman, Roof, who shouted, Let me see that leg, and in spite of the heavy fire and chaos, calmly began tying a tourniquet above the wound.

Jimbo said to both of them, Just toss me that other box of ammo and clear out. I can hold them.

Roof replied, I ain’t leavin’ you, man. You are bleeding too bad.

The squad leader responded, I’m not leaving either, I’ve got a man down out there. He handed the box of ammo to Jimbo, and said, Lay down cover fire, Fowler, I’m getting Gardner out.

Before he could move, he too went down, stitched across the chest by a deadly burst from an AK. Sensing a quick victory, the attacking force stepped up the tempo, hoping to overrun the only American weapon still firing, the machine gun Jimbo was manning.

Pushing the corpsman away, Jimbo returned fire again, yelling, I’m okay! I’m okay! Take care of him first, then loaded another belt of rounds.

Roof responded, The good Lord is going to have to take care of him now. He’s past any help I can give. My job right now is to take care of your leg before you bleed to death.

Jimbo rolled slightly to allow the doc to patch his hemorrhaging leg, at the same time turning the M-60 toward more of the heavily camouflaged figures that kept popping up on the trail, dropping several of them with one sustained burst of gunfire. Roof had finished tying the tourniquet, and was now quiet, somewhere behind him. Jimbo continued bringing the attacking forces under fire, adrenalin now blocking everything but the primal thought of killing as many of the enemy as he could before they got him.

From behind and to the left came Pfhrump! Pfhrump! the deeper throated, welcome sound of friendly 81mm mortar rounds clearing their tubes. Reinforcements were moving up in a counter attack! The rounds impacted just yards in front of him, striking almost directly on the remaining NVA troops assaulting them. The ambush now turned to disarray with the additional firepower. The NVA began retreating into the cover of the jungle, leaving their dead and wounded in their haste. The barrel of the M-60 by this time was turning a cherry red, with wisps of smoke spiraling from the overheated metal. Jimbo continued firing into their position even after he could no longer see them. When the targets had completely disappeared from view and the sound of the AK-47s stopped, Jimbo ceased fire and turned to Roof saying, We stopped them, they’re pulling back!"

Roof lay on the ground, moaning slightly between forced breaths, his right arm nearly severed above the elbow, his chest heaving, his breath punctuated by the sucking sound of a ruptured lung.

Roof! Roof! Don’t die on me man! Don’t die on me, you saved my life!

Roof grabbed Jimbo’s arm with his left hand and with labored gasps begged him, Please tell Miss Emma and my baby sister I love them. Give them this scapular for me. Promise me, please.

Before Jimbo could answer, the fingers released the tight grip. There was a deep sigh as the labored breathing stopped and the final breath left the corpsman. Jimbo fell over him, pleading, Roof, come back, hold on, you can’t go!

By now, the rest of 3rd Platoon had reached them from their flank and another corpsman quickly checked the lifeless bodies of Gardner, the squad leader, and Roof, then turned to check the tourniquet on Jimbo. Man, we’re going to get you out of here, just hold on. You’re going to make it.

Is Roof dead? Jimbo asked, hoping what happened so quickly wasn’t real and the corpsman could find a spark of life to bring him back.

Yeah, replied the corpsman with the subdued emotion of someone who had become too familiar with death. He’s gone. Take it easy. We’ve got to get you on a helo.

The platoon commander of 3rd Platoon, Lt. Crawford, came up to survey the situation, finding over a dozen enemy bodies lying dead in the area in front of Jimbo’s position. I’m putting you in for a medal, Marine. Holding them kept the rest of your platoon from being overrun. Just hang on, the med-evac chopper will be here as soon as we can blow an LZ in the brush.

I don’t want a God-damn medal, snapped Jimbo as he clutched the small cloth necklace Roof had passed to him. I want Roof’s life back. He saved mine, he is the one who should get a medal. All I did was waste a bunch of gooks who were trying to blow us away."

By the time the LZ was cleared and the helo was on the ground, the initial numbness of the wound from the adrenalin rush was gone, and hard pain had set in. The corpsman gave Jimbo a dose of morphine and tagged him before putting him on the chopper with the other casualties. There was little room left, but they loaded a body bag with one of the KIAs on the deck of the aircraft, next to the stretcher Jimbo was strapped to. It was Roof. It had to be. Roof was still talking to him. He could hear his words. With his mind dulled by the morphine, Jimbo could still hear Roof saying, Tell Miss Emma and my baby sister I love them, he repeated. Promise me.

Safely aboard the chopper, Jimbo tried to reason out what had happened in the last minutes, an eternity, something that would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life. He could still hear Roof’s voice repeating his final words. Even the noise of the helicopter engine and blades couldn’t drown it out. His thinking was confused by his conflicting emotions; fear and duty, confusion and peace of mind, weakness and strength, remorse and gratitude, hate and love for his fellow man; things that no man should ever have to experience in the same breath. Why had Roof, who barely knew him, given his life to save him, when no one would have thought worse of him if he had fallen back to a safer area when the squad leader had ordered them to?

With their lives in immediate danger and their injuries needing specialized treatment, the wounded on this flight were flown directly to The Angle of the Orient, the U.S.S. Repose, a hospital ship sitting off the coast near DaNang, rather than taking them to the Battalion Aid Station or the Naval Hospital at China Beach. For some it would be too late, but Roof’s quick action in applying the tourniquet had, no doubt, saved Jimbo’s life.

As the ship’s deck crew was removing the wounded Marines from the helicopter, the medical staff was already assessing their injuries. With concern as much about Jimbo losing his leg as his life from the loss of blood, the triage station moved him directly to the operating room where his bloody clothes, filthy from days in the fetid rice paddies and jungle, were cut off and he was prepared for surgery. The surgeon shook his head. It was a bad wound. He wasn’t optimistic, but they didn’t speak about the gravity of their wounds in front of patients. Even though Roof had gotten the tourniquet on immediately, the femoral artery had been severed. Jimbo had already lost a lot of blood. He spent nearly four hours in surgery aboard the Repose. The wound was from a 7.62mm round from an AK, fortunately not the jagged shrapnel from the mortars. That was the good part. It had passed completely through the leg, clipping the thigh bone at an angle, splintering it, and tearing surrounding muscle and other soft tissue. Shards from the bone were still in the leg and had to be removed to prevent infection, and the artery, other blood vessels, and muscle had to be repaired.

Hours later, when the anesthesia began to wear off, the surgeon came to give him an assessment of his condition and assure him the outlook was positive. The outlook was always positive; otherwise the haggard surgeons would never be able to face their next casualty.

You are going to make it, Marine, but I am afraid it is going to be a long road to recovery. There is still a good possibility you could lose your leg if we don’t get you to a facility that is better equipped to handle the type of wound you have. The biggest threat at the moment is from infection. We are sending you to the Naval Hospital in Yokosuka, Japan, where they are better staffed for long-term care. After some healing time there, you will be going home to a hospital in the States to complete your recovery. The war is over for you, son.

A million-dollar wound they called it.

Call it what you like, lying there completely helpless and barely coherent didn’t feel like a million dollars, but the thought of going home helped to boost his spirits momentarily. He had taken a six thousand mile journey across the Pacific on a Navy ship with a thousand other men. He had hopes of seeing some of the Far East, especially Japan, during his tour. The battalion had only been in Okinawa a couple of weeks before boarding ships for Vietnam, and spent most of that time in the field, training and preparing for their assignment. There wasn’t much free time. The only thing he had seen besides Camp Schwab and NTA, the Northern Training Area, were the strip clubs in Henoko, nothing too exotic. Except for the vegetation, the Rock wasn’t much different from Oceanside and Camp Margarita. The girls in the bars were just shorter, with almond-shaped eyes, and dressed in trimmed-down kimonos, which showed a lot of leg. Their conversation was generally limited to Hey GI, you want buy me drink for lucky?

He hadn’t been in country in Vietnam long enough to rate an R&R. Like all young warriors who believe bullets bounce off their chest, he certainly hadn’t planned to experience things as a casualty. He had travelled half way around the world just to be shot. It wasn’t fair. Realizing he wasn’t going to be able to walk, at least for a while, and would probably miss the opportunity for any sight-seeing, quickly brought on a bout of depression.

His thoughts, however, returned to Roof and the others killed in the ambush. What am I thinking? At least I’m alive. Those guy’s bodies have been prepared somewhere for a flight home in a flag-draped steel coffin. Why am I feeling sorry for myself? I wonder if their families have been notified. He saved my life and I don’t even know where Roof was from. In fact, I know almost nothing about him or the others. I wonder if my parents have been notified. Do they know I am okay? Does Kathy know I’ve been wounded? Damn it, why hasn’t she written to me?

His mind was rambling, he realized. Must be the morphine, he thought just before he lapsed back into the relative comfort of unconsciousness.

2

Yokuska

He couldn’t remember much about how he got where he was. One of the orderlies told him he was in the Naval Hospital in Yokosuka, Japan. He had no idea where that was, but remembered movement and flashes of light and people talking. He didn’t know what they were saying. Were they people or ghosts? He thought he might be dead and they were angels who had come for him, . . . or worse. He didn’t know if the sun had been coming up or going down. He knew he must be drugged, but couldn’t remember why. He had dreamed about Kathy, the way she moved, the way she laughed when he was teasing her. He reached out and tried to touch her, but she was always laughing, teasing, taunting, just out of reach.

Why is she playing this game with me? She seemed to be telling him something, but he couldn’t understand what it was. He dreamed about Roof, someone he barely knew, lying somewhere in a jungle saying to him, Tell Miss Emma and my baby sister I love them. Promise me.

Yokosuka wasn’t a pleasant place for a Marine who had been seriously wounded in battle. Now that he was becoming lucid, he knew there were a lot of pretty round-eye Navy nurses who came around every few hours to mess with his drip, give him a pill, take his temperature, clean his wound, and bathe him, even his private parts, an act that robbed him of his basic dignity and caused him considerable embarrassment rather than pleasure. He felt weak, vulnerable. Because he was not ambulatory, the only thing he could do was lie there, stare at the ceiling, and be at their mercy. He didn’t feel like a man anymore, much less a combat-hardened Marine. He had never felt so helpless.

The second day at Yokosuka, the Marine captain who was in charge of the casualty section pinned Purple Hearts on the newly arrived wounded. It had become a daily ritual. He paused at Jimbo’s bed. L/Cpl Fowler, I hear you have been nominated for a Silver Star. Good work, Marine. Congratulations."

Silver Star? Good work? Congratulations? It had all happened so fast he couldn’t remember clearly what had happened. Maybe it was a dream or a John Wayne movie he had watched. He was walking through the jungle and his whole life changed forever in those few short minutes. He hadn’t planned to do anything heroic, it just happened. All he wanted, or so he had convinced himself, was to stop Communist expansion in Asia, see some of the Far East, finish his tour, and go home to Alabama. Hopefully he could get back together with Kathy, the girl he loved. He hadn’t heard from her in months. Where was she? His thoughts rambled. It was his damn Marine training that had made him pick up that machine gun and take on the NVA by himself. There wasn’t any heroism involved in it. It was survival instinct. Any Marine worth his salt, given the situation, would do the same thing. He did what he had to do. Kill or be killed. That was what thirteen weeks of Marine Corps boot camp had instilled in him. Someone else had died saving his life. What sense did any of it make?

Thank you, sir, he mumbled.

On the third day, they wheeled him back into surgery. The wound had become infected. They needed to remove the inflamed tissue to prevent gangrene. He could still lose his leg.

When he came out of surgery this time, the surgeon told him optimistically they believed the wound was going to begin healing. We’re going to have to keep you on antibiotics for some time, until we are sure we have killed any infection. There are some really nasty critters growing in the Vietnamese soil. You will also have to be on painkillers for a while, but we want to wean you off them as soon as possible. We want you to be comfortable until you heal, but we don’t want you to become dependent on painkillers. If you need anything, let the ward nurse know.

On the fourth day, with depression taking another hold on him, he refused to eat. The young head nurse on his ward, LTJG Guillot, tried to coax him, but he told her, Nothing matters any more. I don’t have anything to live for.

On the fifth day, LtCdr. Stone, the chief nurse (the ward called her Old Stone-face although she was neither old nor unattractive and outside the hospital environment actually looked alluring in her crisp Navy uniform), came with the young officer and said, L/Cpl Fowler, I want you to sit up and eat. We don’t have the personnel to bottle-feed every Marine who comes to spend time with us, but if necessary, I will sit on you and do it personally.

He told her the same thing, I screwed up and somebody was killed trying to save me, I might lose my leg, and I don’t give a damn anymore if I live or die. Just leave me alone.

We heard about your firefight. From what they said, you didn’t screw up, you saved the lives of a lot of other Marines by risking your own. And what about the man who died saving you? she asked. How do you think he would feel knowing the Marine he died to save is a quitter.

Old Stone-face knew how to make her young charges want to fight. The word quitter struck that raw nerve that drives Marines to do the impossible, a nerve deeper and more sensitive than the physical ones in his wounded leg. No Marine wants to be branded as being a non-hacker. Quitters are weeded out in boot camp.

I am not a God-damn quitter, ma’am! he yelled.

Good! Then act like it. Look around. There are a lot of good men around you in the same or worse condition than you, and they haven’t quit. Sit up and eat, Marine! she said, and turned to leave, followed by the young nurse.

As they left the ward, Lt. Guillot asked, Ma’am, how can you be so harsh with him? I don’t think I can talk to them that way.

To which Old Stone-face replied, These are young Marines. They have been indoctrinated with visions of the glory of war, and now they have been rewarded with the reality of what combat brings. Their situation is stressful for the hospital staff too. You have to be tougher than they are, otherwise many of them give up because of what they have experienced. If you aren’t, you will never make any progress with their recovery. This is the hardest battle any of them will ever fight. Treat them nicely and with respect, but don’t coddle them. Our job here is to get them whole again. Have one of your nurses take him a tray and make sure he eats.

Yes ma’am.

Lt. Guillot?

Yes ma’am?

Don’t get too close to him.

Yes ma’am.

On the sixth day, he was feeding himself again.

Lt. Guillot, in her duties, continued to encourage him and monitor his progress. He reminded her, a lot, of her fiancé, Bud. In spite of what Old Stone-Face had advised, when she found out he liked to read, she was compelled to read to him, and sit and talk when she was off duty.

The Armed Forces, especially the Naval Forces, historically frowned upon the fraternization of enlisted men with the officer ranks. It was inappropriate for an enlisted man to converse with an officer using their first name. You can call me Eileen, she whispered, when we aren’t talking business.

Her personal touch gained his trust, encouraging Jimbo to open up and confide in her. His outlook, in turn, began to be more positive.

You are an angel, Eileen. I have been curious where you are from. You have an accent that isn’t familiar to me.

I have an accent? She laughed. Jimbo, no one has an accent like you.

Really, ya’ll don’t mean that, he said, exaggerating his Alabama drawl.

They both laughed.

I was born near Montreal, she continued. My family is French-Canadian, but I went to nursing college in Chicago. While I was there, the Navy came to interview graduating nurses to serve with the Navy. I thought it would be a good opportunity to travel while I continued to learn nursing. Even though I was not a U.S. citizen, I had lived in Chicago on a student visa for four years. With the war expanding, they needed qualified nurses, so they were able to expedite the naturalization process. So, how about you? Do you have someone waiting for you back home?

"I have a girlfriend, at least I thought I had one. Her name is Kathy. I always thought we would get married when I got home. She stopped writing when I left Camp Pendleton, and I don’t know if I said something wrong, she found someone else, or she didn’t really love me. Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. They let me make a MARS call to my parents the other day to let them know I was in Japan and okay. I don’t think they believed me. I asked them about Kathy, and the only thing they knew was they thought she was still going to school in California. I have written to her from here, but it takes a long time for a letter to get there and for someone to take the time to answer it. I really miss reading her letters. I kept them, and read them until they were tattered and the ink had smeared, but my stuff hasn’t been sent