Red Dirt

By Joel Cochran

The characters and events in this novel are fictional, although there are references to actual persons, places, and events. Visiting family in the deep south, a small white boy finds a friend during a time of racial intolerance. Warned against associating with "the coloreds" and despite an environment of prejudice he persists, and a deep and abiding friendship between two boys develops. As a young man searching for his place in the world, he and his friend join the Navy and find themselves in the middle of the war in Vietnam. Volunteering for special forces thrusts them into a world of uncertainty and death – and profound loss. Questioning the meaning of good and evil one young man is forever changed by his dark experiences in the black underbelly of our country's covert missions; and by the price of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667897745

Book preview

Prologue

The characters and events in this novel are fictional, although there are references to actual persons, places, and events. Visiting family in the deep south, a small white boy finds a friend during a time of racial intolerance. Warned against associating with the coloreds and despite an environment of prejudice he persists, and a deep and abiding friendship between two boys develops. As a young man searching for his place in the world, he and his friend join the Navy and find themselves in the middle of the war in Viet Nam. Volunteering for special forces thrusts them into a world of uncertainty and death—and profound loss. Questioning the meaning of good and evil one young man is forever changed by his dark experiences in the black underbelly of our country’s covert missions; and by the price of love.

Chapter One

A Better Place and Time

I was 11 years old and my sister Jane was 13 In the summer of 1961. Our yearly pilgrimage from Indiana to Alabama was almost over. Granny’s house was just down the road. I held my arm out of the rear window, cupped my hand, and pretended that I was flying.

Things in the south never seemed to me to change much. It was always just like I left it. As I hung on the back of daddy’s seat in the car I asked, Daddy, why is all the dirt in Alabama red? Our dirt on the farm is black.

Daddy glanced in the rear-view mirror and said, I don’t really know. Ask your granddad when you see him. I’m sure he has a good story to tell you about that.

Alabama, however different from where I lived, was my mom and dad’s home. Both sides of my family—my aunts, uncles, cousins, Granny, and Granddaddy—were born and raised in this small southern Alabama town of Sylacauga. For generations, most had worked in the local cotton mills or in the paper mill in Childersburg, 20 miles to the north. That was about as far north as any of our people were willing to venture. They thought even Birmingham was too close to the Yankees.

My Dad was the exception. He married my mom, left home and joined the Navy, traveled, and finally settled in northern Indiana on a large farm.

Red dust swirled like a tornado behind our car. Dad was piloting our black, 1955 four-door, Chevy sedan toward its destination. My sister beside me was reading her latest book. At 13, she was always gazing off into space, lost in her own thoughts. I loved my sister, but I would never tell her that. Jane was a beautiful girl with long blond hair and a fair complexion. Her clothes are always neat and pressed like she was going to a party. I, on the other hand, was a rag bag with white fluffy hair, blue eyes and a red, often sunburned face. I was always playing in the dirt and getting into trouble for, well, just about everything.

Daddy used mostly two-lane roads. I-65 was in its infancy, so we took Highway 31, making the trip three days long. The sides of the roads in Alabama were always in pristine condition, kept that way by groups of men in chains.

Daddy, who are those men and why are they in chains like that?

My mom looked over at me and said, Those are the boys that broke the law and now they are getting punished. They put them in chains so they won’t run away like you do when you get in trouble. Now sit your ass back in that seat and shut up.

Daddy saw a roadside park coming up, he put on his turn signal and pulled off. Mom said, I don’t think we should stop. Those men are right back there. Keep going. It isn’t safe here.

My Daddy paid her little mind. Changing the conversation, he said, Are you kids about ready to stop and get a bite to eat?

The food and drink came from a cooler Daddy kept in the trunk of the car. We didn’t have the money to stop at restaurants much. What few stops we did make along the way were at gas stations and roadside parks. Most gas stations and restaurants had signs I didn’t understand, saying NO NIGGERS SERVED HERE.

The little roadside parks always had picnic tables with names and initials carved into their weathered wood tops. Overflowing trash cans were full of rejected remnants of fellow travelers long forgotten. The parks, however, were perfect for a small 11-year-old explorer. To me, running and playing after such a long incarceration in the back seat of the car was nothing less than true freedom. With my Johnny Rebel hat that dad bought for me pulled low on my brow, I kept my Kentucky long rifle, made from a dead tree limb, at the ready, I searched the nearby woods for those yeller-belly yanks.

Y’all get over here and make yourself a sandwich, Mom yelled. We need to get out of here before those men back there catch up to us.

After we finished, we drove away. I always hung on the back of the front seat at my daddy’s shoulder.

Daddy what do those signs mean in the windows of the gas station?

Again, looking at me in the rear view, he said, Well son, you are getting old enough to know the colored people down here are called niggers. Most of the white people down here don’t like the coloreds.

At long last our car rolled to a stop in front of Granny’s house. The large red dust cloud that had tried so hard to catch us, finally consumed the car. The once shiny black car was now a dull red, dust-covered heap of steaming metal.

As we approached the house, I saw Granddaddy sitting on the front porch in his lime green metal lawn chair. That was the exact same place he was when I left last year. Granddaddy never had much to say. He just sat in his chair and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made with Prince Albert tobacco. He kept it in a small red can in the front pocket of his faded bibbed overalls.

I ran up on the porch and hugged my Grandaddy. He had a big smile and a twinkle in his eye. He rubbed the top of my head with his large, callused hand, then gave me a hug. That was all the affection granddaddy ever showed, but it was enough. I knew he loved me.

The rusty screen door opened with a mournful squeak as the spring used to keep the door closed was stretched to its limit. There she stood: Granny, with her rosy face, bright eyes and an apron around her bulging waist that was covered with remnants of flour from fresh golden-brown biscuits. I think Granny’s love in life was feeding people. I ran and gave her the biggest hug of all. Granny smelled like fresh baked bread and cookies. There was nothing better. Granny pulled me in tight with a bone-crushing hug and held on like she was afraid I was going to fall down.

Y’all come on in here and get’cha somethin’ to eat now, you hear.

With that, she turned and walked back into the kitchen, half dragging me with her. Granny bent over, giving me a big kiss on the cheek, and forcefully placed me in a waiting chair. You young’ens must be starve’n to death after such a long trip.

Granny wasn’t wrong. After three days of bologna sandwiches, I was ready for one of Granny’s gargantuan breakfasts. She placed a fresh biscuit in front of me and slid an opened Mason pint jar of homemade blackberry jam across the table.

My sister Jane made her way into the kitchen. She was standing in the doorway as Granny turned, stopped, and looked at her. A smile filled Granny’s face, making her eyes almost disappear.

You come over here and give your old Granny a kiss. My, oh my, you’re gett’en so big. Just look at ya, you’re as pretty as an Alabama sunset. Set yourself down and get ya somth’en to eat.

There were eggs, bacon, fresh sliced tomatoes all covered in hot bacon grease, fresh, right-out-of-the-oven biscuits drowned in homemade butter. I loved the grits swimming in butter. All of it made for a meal like no other.

Everyone always seemed to eat in shifts at Granny’s house. Dad was still getting the car unloaded as mom made her way through the front of the house to the kitchen. Granny’s face changed when mom walked in. Her smile was gone, her eyes no longer sparkled. With a low, unemotional tone, Granny nodded her head and said, Virginia.

That was all Granny said as she turned her back to mom and retrieved the pot of hot steaming coffee. Mom stepped into the kitchen, pulled out a chair and sat down. Granny placed a cup of hot coffee in front of her.

How have you been Mary? asked Mom

Tolerable, Granny answered, never making eye contact.

I always knew that my Granny would not put up with anyone hurting me or my sister. Even my mom. Anytime I was at my Granny’s house I was safe. My mom’s fits of anger always seemed to be held at bay when we were at Granny’s house. It was a welcome relief for my sister and me, and my Daddy.

The old screen door opened with such velocity that the spring didn’t even have time to make its characteristic squeak. My two closest cousins, Allison and Michelle had arrived. The screen door slammed behind them as they made their way to the kitchen, yelling at the top of their voices.

Jimmy, Jimmy, at last y’all are here.

Breakfast for me was now over, with a fast huddle of kisses hugs and Granny yelling, You kids get out of here and go play.

Michelle and I made a fast exit through the back door. Granny used the dish towel she carried over her shoulder as a whip to pop our back sides on the way out.

Allison was 10 years old. She always had a smile on her face and rosy cheeks. I loved to hear her talk with that soft southern drawl. Allison, like my sister Jane, was neat and well groomed, too much like a girl to be very much fun to play with. Jane and Allison walked off arm-in-arm talking softly and giggling, mostly about boys. They were so boring. Michelle, however, was a tomboy, and my best friend in the entire world. Small in stature and the youngest of us all, she was amazingly strong. She could play ball, climb trees, and wrestle with the best of any boy I knew.

In Granny’s back yard was the biggest pecan tree I had ever seen. With its mammoth branches, thick foliage, an old tire swing and the remnants of a tree house way up high, this was our place to play. You could spend a lifetime in that old tree just thinking up ways to get in trouble. One day during that trip I watched a water balloon fall 15 feet, hit the top of my sister’s perfectly combed head of hair, and burst just right, thoroughly soaking her entire head. It is a glorious thing for an 11-year-old brother to see.

But this day’s mischievous deeds paled in comparison to anything I had ever done. Michelle and I were about as high as we could go in the old tree. Sitting on the floor of the old tree house I said, Michelle can you see that big tree limb? If it ever fell it would hit Granny’s roof. If we would cut it off right about there, we would be the heroes of the family.

I decided that this one particular tree limb needed to be trimmed from that old pecan tree. So, off we went to the woodshed to borrow Granddaddy’s tree saw. Little did we know that we’d be returning to the woodshed within the day. We spent the best part of the afternoon sawing off the limb. We were sure that Granny would be so happy to have that limb gone. Dusk was just beginning to fade to dark, and the lights from the little kitchen window cast small shadows on the yard. The smell of supper was drifting through the neighborhood and making us weak with hunger. But nothing, not even hunger, would deter us from finishing our task.

Jimmy, Michelle, supper’s on. Mom’s voice rang out the back door, just as the huge tree limb gave in to the saw cuts we had worked on all afternoon. With a thunderous crash, the limb fell. It shook the entire tree, sheared off some lower twigs, and, on its way to earth, severed the power lines. The entire neighborhood was abruptly plunged into blackness.

My breathing stopped all on its own; my blood ran cold. I wished I could have been invisible. Everything seemed to be in slow motion as the dust settled. People from every home in the neighborhood came running from their houses. Granny, Mom, Dad—everyone was yelling:

What happened?

Where are the kids?

Is everyone Ok?

It only took a few minutes for the flashlights to come out and the adults to figure out what had happened. To Michelle and me, sitting motionless in the tree, it seemed like hours.

Coon, I muttered. Back home, I’d spent many nights coon hunting with my buddies and camping out on the banks of the Wabash River. We would sit around a campfire on a crisp fall night listening to the dogs trailing an old coon. When they’d treed one, the dogs would stand at the bottom of the tree, howling, snarling, and growling until we came and shot the coon. Until that night in the tree I had never given much thought about how that coon felt waiting for its inevitable end. As I sat looking down at all those people, yelling, snarling, and growling at us, I knew. With fear in my heart and tears running down my face, I took Michelle’s hand, looked into her eyes and said, Think they’re going to shoot us?

Dad got us down from the tree and marched us silently to the wood shed. We were also told to stay on the front porch and watch how hard everyone had to work to fix what we had broken. I thought this second punishment was far less painful than the wood shed one. In fact, it was interesting and downright entertaining at times.

The rusty chains on the front porch swing creaked and popped under the weight of us four kids at play. Michelle and I barely noticed how hot it was. Granny’s frequent visits to the porch kept the unbearable Alabama summer heat at bay.

Y’all get over here and wipe your faces.

Granny’s cool wash cloth mopped away the heat, along with those little red sweat rings on our neck. It only lasted a little while, but it was so refreshing. But, in only minutes the red Alabama dust and summer sweat made new rings around our necks.

Granddaddy, I asked on the first afternoon of ‘porch prison’, Why is the dirt in Alabama red? Back home on our farm we have black dirt

Granddaddy looked over at me from the other side of the porch, smiled with that little gleam in his eye and said, Well, son, back during the Civil War, all them northerners came down here and tried to tell our ancestors how to live and what to do. As you might imagine, they didn’t take to kindly to that. For a few years, they had to shoot them yanks and send ‘em packin’. Wouldn’t you know it, they just sent more of the yanks so we would shoot them too. They’d just keep com’n and we’d just keep shoot’n ‘em. One day there was so much blood on the Alabama dirt, hit just turned red, and, well, hit’s been red ever since.

The porch swing had slowed to a stop as I listened to the story. My mouth was hanging open and my eyes were fixed on Grandaddy. He smiled and leaned back in his chair, took out the little red can of tobacco, and rolled a cigarette.

In my 11-year-old mind, the story was so very vivid. I knew about the Civil War from school, but it had never been explained that way.

The men in the bright yellow Alabama Power and Light truck had been working all morning to repair the downed power lines. Michelle and I watched the men strap on their climbing cleats, put a large leather strap around the power pole, and climb to the top. I looked at Michelle and said, Boy I wish we had us some of those climbing things. We could climb all the way to the top of that old tree.

Michelle looked at me and smiled, You bet your ass we could.

That afternoon I spent watching new wires being put into place, chain saws cutting up the huge tree limb, and the pieces being stacked in neat little piles. Jane and Allison went to the small local grocery store two blocks away and bought ice cream. Michelle and I weren’t allowed to have any.

My Uncle Danny worked in the small local grocery store. He’d lived with Granny all his life and had never been married. Danny was a very tall, thin man with bushy brown hair, and he always wore a big smile on his face. He seemed more at home playing with Michelle and me than around the other adults. Michelle and I loved spending time with Uncle Danny.

Whenever we got in trouble, Uncle Danny always made it better. He seemed to know what we were going through. I think he had been in trouble a lot in his life. He came home for lunch that day with smuggled candy in his hand. He walked up on the porch, bent over, and gave us a big hug. Sliding candy into our hands, he whispered, This is for the prisoners. Don’t let the screw boss see it.

I didn’t know what a screw boss was, but I thought maybe he was talking about Mom. Michelle and I hide the rolls of Life Savers in our pockets and never let on to the ‘screw boss’ our little secret.

That evening Granny brought us each a plate of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green peas covered in thick white gravy, a large slice of corn bread, and fresh ice-cold milk. The smells of good, down-home cooking drifted through the streets and into the back yards of Granny’s neighborhood. It had only been 24 hours since the large tree limb had taken out all the power, but it seemed so long ago. Everything had been repaired and cleaned up as though nothing had happened.

Michelle and I sat on the edge of the porch watching families take their after-dinner walks to enjoy the cool of the evening. As they passed on the sidewalk in front of the house, they would point at Michelle and me and whisper or turn their noses up. The kids would laugh and make faces at us.

Michelle gave her mad look and said, I don’t like it when people laugh at me Jimmy.

I don’t either Michelle. The next one that laughs gets it.

We ate the chicken and mashed potatoes as we talked and laughed. A fat boy with chubby red cheeks came waddling down the sidewalk with his mom and dad. He was about five feet behind his parents and was making faces at us, sticking his thumbs in his ears, and wiggling his fingers. Michelle gave that boy her mad look. Her gleaming eyes, wrinkled nose, and tight jaw said it all. As she stared him down, I put one perfect round green pea in my spoon, pulled it back like a sling shot, and let it go. The pea shot out like a bullet and smacked the red-faced boy right behind his left ear. The boy yelped like a puppy getting his tail stepped on. His pace quickened as he scuttled down the sidewalk. Michelle and I took a quick look in Granddaddy’s direction. He was the only other person on the porch. He didn’t make eye contact with me, but I knew he saw the whole thing. Granddaddy just looked off into the distance and smiled.

The quiet of the night was broken by the rumble of a Chevy V-8 with straight pipes.

Steve is here. Michelle said.

Forgetting all about staying on the front porch, Michelle and I went running to the drive. The aqua blue and white, two-tone 1957 Chevy two-door with white side-wall tires slid into the drive with Hank Williams playing for all to hear. Out stepped Dad’s youngest brother, Steve. He was tall, muscular and tan, with wavy hair. He wore his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his torso. His short sleeves were rolled up to show off his biceps and to hold a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Steve took Michelle and me one under each arm and swung us around like we were nothing. He seemed to just float as he carried us to the porch and set us down. He turned to Granddaddy and said, Hey daddy you doin’ ok? I got you a cool one in the trunk.

Granny came to the screen, looked out and said, I should-a known it was you with all that racket. Come give your mama a kiss.

Hey mama Steve said.

He flashed Granny one of his handsome smiles, opened the screen door, picked her up and gave her a big kiss.

Put me down, you silly boy! Granny beamed with delight and smacked Steve with her ever-ready dish towel.

I held onto his arm and asked, Steve, where is your girlfriend at? You always have a girlfriend

He rubbed the top of my head, bent down, and whispered, Well, sometimes you just need to giv’em a little break or they get thinking you belong to ‘em.

Dad, Mom, Jane, Allison and even Uncle Danny took turns getting their hugs and kisses from Steve. Everyone stayed on the front porch for a long time talking and catching up. One by one, they began to drift in different directions. The women went back in the house, and the men all went to the back of Steve’s car to smoke and drink beer.

Alcohol was not allowed in Granny’s house. I had heard stories about Granddaddy in his younger years drinking all night with the men from the mill. On more than one occasion, the police had to be called because Granddaddy would get mean when he drank a lot. In those days I was told. people just didn’t get divorced, so Granny laid down the law. She told Granddaddy’s buddies: No more drinking in my house. And she told Granddaddy, If you want to drink. don’t bring your drunken ass home, or you will be sorry.

Granddaddy didn’t heed Granny’s warning. The next time he came home drunk, he passed out on the bed and Granny rolled him up in a bedspread, beat him with a 2x4, called the cops, and had him taken to jail—or at least that’s what I was told. Granddaddy had never been drunk since, although he would drink a beer once in a while. Just not in Granny’s house.

The smell of breakfast cooking in Granny’s kitchen was the best alarm clock ever. Bacon frying in a cast-iron skillet could wake the dead. Granny was the matriarch of the family. Her long silver-gray hair was always pulled back into a ponytail or a bun. She was a strong woman. Her face showed the years of hard work in the cotton mills, raising her family and shouldering the brunt of responsibility. Although her outside looked tough, the inside was as soft as the fresh biscuits she so lovingly made day after day.

Being recently paroled from the front porch, Michelle and I made short work of breakfast. By the time we went outside, the heat of the Alabama morning had already made its presence known.

Granny can we go to the park? I yelled through the screen door on the back porch. Granny stepped around the corner of the kitchen wall, shook her head, and said, I just don’t know. Do you two think you can behave yourself and not get into mischief?

Michelle and I both said at the same time, as if it was rehearsed. We’ll be good Granny; please let us go!

O. K., you can go, but if you two get in any mischief, you will be going to the woodshed again, and will spend the rest of your life on the front porch.

We’ll be good. We promise.

Granny reached into a small pocket of her apron and produced two quarters.

Here you two, stop by and see your uncle Danny and get you a Coca Cola.

Granny put the quarters in our hands, turned to walk away, and said, Now get yourself out of here, I got work to do.

My feet barely touched the ground as I ran to