Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

  Maybe the most annoying of Nam’s creatures were the leeches. One morning one of my men woke with a leech on his eyelid. By the time we got it off, his eye was pretty messed up. We wore leech garters to keep them from climbing up to the soft tissue of our crotches.

  IV

  Coming Home

  I had been in the jungle for nearly ten months when our platoon was engaged in our largest firefight. Twenty-two of my thirty men were injured and had to be medevaced out. With most of my men out of commission, I was brought back with them to Long Binh. I assumed I would be given a new platoon, something I wasn’t happy about.

  While waiting for my orders in Long Binh, I was informed by my commander that my request for an early release to attend college had been granted. I was done. The war was over for me. Two days later it was me walking on the other side of the fence watching as frightened newbies lined up to take their assignments. As the plane lifted, everyone on board spontaneously broke into applause.

  We flew into the Oakland airport, and I kissed the tarmac as I got off. We were taken to a big hangar to be processed out. It took three days for me to be released.

  I was still in my uniform as I flew from Oakland to Denver. I didn’t see what some returning Vietnam veterans reported—angry, jeering crowds calling us “baby killers” or spitting on us. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, it just didn’t happen to me. My mother met me at the airport. It had been only eleven months since she’d sent me off from Fort Carson, but it felt like a lifetime. She had changed a lot since I’d seen her last. She had aged. Her hair was completely gray, and she seemed weary.

  Just two weeks later I was a student at the University of Colorado in Boulder, wearing bell-bottom jeans and a polyester disco shirt. Reentry into civilian life had its challenges, but having been in Vietnam gave my life context. I remember talking to a fellow student who was upset about our upcoming final. He said to me, “Why are you so calm? It’s half our grade!” I replied, “Because even if we fail, we’ll still be alive in the morning.”

  Vietnam was the most controversial of conflicts, and even with my rank and decorations, I wondered if my father would have been proud of me. I discovered that there was a smugness to many of the older vets. Some of them seemed to believe that what they had done mattered and what we had done didn’t. No matter the rightness of the cause, we, like them, answered the call of our country. We felt the same fear, the same pain, and faced the same risks. But, unlike them, we came back not to ticker tape parades and celebrations but to a largely indifferent and ungrateful nation.

  We had put our lives on the line for a war that had initially been popularly ratified by both the politicians and the people. We had risked our lives for their decisions, not ours, yet they hated us for it. But no matter the country’s schizophrenia, to me the war was more than a news story. It was a part of my life. And though it all seemed to have passed by like a dream, sometimes, in those dreams, I would still see the pregnant Vietnamese woman, her neck and forehead pierced, her dark eyes open, staring at me. And each time she would ask, “Why?”

  CHAPTER

  Thirteen

  Wandering through just one paragraph of my father’s history has changed Key West for me more than walking a few thousand miles.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Why didn’t I know any of this about my father?

  It was past midnight when I set down the book. I suppose we as children are selfish by nature, judging our parents in the context not of their worlds and challenges but of our worlds and how they meet our needs. Even as we mature we rarely think of them as having been young like us.

  Reading about my father, more than a decade younger than I was right now, leading a group of men through a murderous jungle, cast him in a different light. He was stronger and more courageous than I had ever given him credit for. He was better than me.

  Of course I knew that my father had served in the war, but I’d never given it much thought. I certainly had never understood it from his perspective. The only time we had spoken about Vietnam was when my eighth-grade history class was studying the war and I asked my father if he knew anything about it—which was like asking the pope if he knew anything about Catholicism. Outside of that discussion, he never spoke of it. I didn’t think he was traumatized by the experience, but rather that he had moved past it, and chose not to be defined by it any more than any other experience in his life. Perhaps it had made him more serious, but, considering his father, I think he would have been a serious person whether he served in the war or not.

  I think the war might have affected him in another profound way. It taught him the true and temporary nature of all things—that nothing remains the same forever. Perhaps that’s what got him through my mother’s death.

  I arrived at the hospital the next morning eager to talk to my father about what I had read, but he was asleep when I got there. I sat there for nearly an hour, reading, before he woke.

  “What time is it?” he asked.

  His voice startled me. “It’s nearly ten.”

  “I slept in,” he said in a deep voice. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you want some breakfast?”

  He didn’t answer immediately, but looked around the room. “Maybe in a little while.”

  “I read pretty late last night,” I said.

  “What did you read about?”

  “You. Your childhood. Vietnam.”

  “Nam,” he said, as if he were speaking of a person. “That was an interesting time.”

  “Interesting or terrifying?”

  “Both,” he said. Then, surprisingly, he suddenly grinned.

  “What’s that for?” I asked.

  He looked back up at me. “I just remembered something funny.”

  “In Vietnam?”

  “I’m sure even hell has its occasional humor,” he said. “This one time after we’d been in the bush for six weeks they flew us to Long Binh for some R and R. When we landed I was told that we were going to be inspected by a new general, and I wasn’t real happy about that. After fighting in the jungle for more than a month, the last thing I wanted was some starched stateside general casting judgment on us.

  “As he looked us over he focused his attention on this one guy, Private Forkey, who was standing kind of slumped. Forkey was regular military. He’d been in the army for eighteen years and was still a private. He’d been promoted to sergeant twice before, but both times was busted back down for insubordination.” My father grinned at me. “Forkey had trouble with authority. The general shouted, ‘Soldier, stand up straight and show some respect.’ Forkey looked the general in the eye and said, ‘What are you going to do? Send me to Vietnam?’

  “Even though we tried to keep straight faces, we all burst out laughing. Fortunately, it turned out the general was a regular guy after all, and he said, ‘I guess you have a point there.’ ” My father shook his head. “It was a crazy time. I had these two kids in my platoon from South Chicago. We called them the Polaski brothers, which was funny because they weren’t named Polaski and they weren’t brothers. They were both Polish and had come over together. Those boys were fearless. They had belonged to a gang on the tough Chicago streets and were what we called ‘two or ten.’ That means they’d been arrested and the judge gave them an option, two years in Vietnam or ten years in prison.” My father smiled. “Most of their conversations were about how they would get a mortar back to South Chicago. They eventually devised a plan to bring one over piece by piece.”

  “Did they ever do it?” I asked.

  “Probably not,” he said. “You would have heard about it on the news if they did. I think it was just an idea to keep their minds occupied.” His eyes grew serious. “In moments of crisis, you do what you need to do to survive. Mentally and physically. You’d be surprised what the mind is capable of.”

  “You’re a strong man,” I said.

  “So are you,” he replied. He settled back
a little in his bed. “So you and Nicole had a talk yesterday.”

  “She told you?”

  He nodded. “Breaks my heart. She’s a sweet girl. You’re sure you’re not in love with her?”

  “It would be convenient.”

  “Love is rarely convenient,” he replied. “You still haven’t called Falene?”

  “No. Not yet.” Before he could ask why, I changed the subject. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “That depends on which alternative destination you’re thinking of,” he replied.

  “Want to play some chess?”

  He breathed out slowly. “No. Not today. Maybe I’ll read.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “I could use one of the newsmagazines. I feel like I’ve lost touch with the world.”

  “I’ll find you one,” I said.

  I went downstairs to the gift shop and purchased copies of both Newsweek and Time. When I returned to my father’s room he was asleep again. I read the magazines while I waited for him to wake, but after an hour he was still snoring.

  I left the magazines next to his bed and went out to the nurses’ station to see if Dr. Witt was in. A nurse told me that he would be in around one. I checked on my father again, then went out and got some lunch, then went to a bookstore and picked up a couple of thriller novels, then went back to the hospital. When I walked into the room my father was sitting up and reading Time. “Thanks for getting these.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Have you heard from Nicole?”

  “She said she’d be here around three.”

  “Maybe I’ll leave before she gets here.”

  “That might be better,” he said.

  It was already a few minutes past two, so I said goodbye and went out to find Dr. Witt. He was in the hall, and he looked up at me as I approached. “Alan, right?”

  I was surprised that he remembered my name. “Yes. I wanted to ask how my father’s doing.”

  We stepped to the side of the hall. “He’s stable, but I’m not seeing the progress I had hoped for. His heart still isn’t pumping effectively on its own, so he still requires medication and close monitoring.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Just what we’re doing. Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Change.”

  I was feeling restless, so on the way home I stopped by a gym where I purchased a temporary membership along with some gym shorts and a T-shirt. I lifted weights and rode a stationary bike until I was soaked with sweat. Then I went back to the house and showered.

  After working out I wasn’t very hungry, so I had just a bowl of Cheerios, then went to my room and went back to reading.

  V

  Kate

  I went to the University of Colorado for three reasons: First, tuition was, at the time, relatively cheap; second, there was work available in the area; and third, they had a decent accounting program.

  One October evening I was having a beer with some classmates at a restaurant-bar called The Sink when a beautiful young woman walked in. One of my buddies stood to talk to her, and I realized she was Kate Mitchell, my high school sweetheart who had moved to Phoenix. Kate seemed as happy to see me as I was her, and we spent the rest of the evening catching up on our lives since we’d last seen each other. That evening I walked her back to her dorm and we ended up talking until the sun came up. I was smitten. Or re-smitten. After that we spent every possible moment together.

  A week before Christmas break, William Guest, one of my comrades from Nam (aka Willy-boy), called to say he was getting married on December 18 and asked me to be his best man. He lived south of Miami in Florida City. I invited Kate to accompany me to Florida and she accepted. We flew into Miami, and William and his soon-to-be bride, Sally, picked us up at the airport. We stayed at William’s parents’ house. The morning after the wedding we borrowed Sally’s car and drove two and a half hours south to Key West for the day.

  It was a beautiful day, a far cry from Denver’s snow and subfreezing temperatures. We ate conch fritters and key lime pie and visited some of Ernest Hemingway’s haunts, like Sloppy Joe’s Bar and his home on Whitehead Street, which had been turned into a bookstore.

  At sunset we sat on a small strip of beach near the southernmost tip of the island. I rolled up my pant legs, walked out into the water, and found a shell. I brought it back and gave it to Kate and asked her to marry me. I don’t know if she was completely sure I was serious, but she said yes. She might be the first girl ever to be proposed to with a seashell.

  Later that night, we called our parents and told them our news. Kate’s parents were happy. So was my mother, who had always liked Kate. When we got back to Denver I bought Kate a real ring and we picked a date in June to get married.

  We spent Christmas Eve and morning in Denver with my mother, then flew to Phoenix and stayed with Kate’s family until New Year’s Day. Her family treated me really well, even though Kate’s father was recovering from surgery. He suffered from severe diabetes, and the surgeons had just amputated most of his toes. I wondered if it might be his last Christmas, which, unfortunately, it was. He lived to see us married, though. We were married on June 28 at the Brotherhood of Man Desert Chapel in Scottsdale, Arizona.

  I graduated with my BS on December 13, 1976, with a major in accounting. It was my great fortune that I graduated with a job. Twelve weeks before graduation I went to an on-campus interview with Peat Marwick of Denver, one of the big eight accounting firms. Back then you didn’t need to complete a master’s program to be a CPA, and I was hired on the spot as a staff monitor.

  After graduation, Kate and I moved to Thornton, Colorado, a pleasant, growing suburb just ten miles northeast of Denver. The next week I reported for work in the auditing division on the twenty-first floor of the Peat Marwick building in downtown Denver.

  I was given eighteen months to get my accounting certificate. I took my CPA exam and passed four of the five sections on my first attempt. I went back three months later and finished. I received my certificate after I’d been there for six months. Unfortunately there wasn’t much time for celebrating. Kate’s father died two days later.

  I lay back in bed, my head swimming with these revelations. Not only had my parents been to Key West but they were engaged there. Why hadn’t my father told me? How could he have kept something that important from me?

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  What I read in my father’s book tonight was difficult. It was like watching a rerun of a show I hated the first time.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The next morning my father was eating breakfast as I walked into his room. I was less than subtle. “Why didn’t you tell me that Key West was such a significant place for you? You didn’t even tell me that you’d been there.”

  He looked up at me for a moment, then said, “You didn’t ask.”

  I shook my head. “No, that’s not a good enough answer.”

  He saw how upset I was and set down his fork. “No. You’re right.” He looked at me, waiting for me to calm a little. “When I heard you were walking to Key West, I wanted to say something. But I knew I shouldn’t. It was a difficult time for you, and this was your journey, not mine. Key West means something entirely different to you than it does to me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s not even the same place. That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  My anger dissipated. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  “There’s more,” he said. “I had planned on being in Key West when you arrived. But seeing how things have gone south for me, I’m not sure that’s going to happen.” He must have read the concern in my face because he quickly added, “I’m not saying I won’t be there, but just in case I’m not, I want you to do something for me.”

  “What?”

  “In the nightstand next to my bed there’s a yellow envelope with your name o
n it. I want you to take it with you to Key West. Will you do that for me?”

  “What’s in the envelope?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.” He looked me in the eye. “You’ll do it?”

  “Of course, but only if you’re not there.”

  He forced a smile. “I hope I’ll be there.”

  I sat down next to him. “I’m sorry I came blustering in here like that.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “You’re entitled to your feelings.”

  “How are you feeling today?”

  “Same old.”

  “Have you talked to Dr. Witt lately?”

  He frowned. “Yes. I don’t think things are going the way he was hoping they would.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I asked him when I could go home. He said it might be a while. Either that or he’s trying to keep Nicole around.”

  “Nicole?”

  “He’s got his eye on her. He’s asked me about her a few times. And he lights up like a Christmas tree whenever she’s around.”

  This was news. “Really? Has Nicole noticed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt funny about it.

  My dad’s eyebrows fell. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have a right to be,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Besides, it’s a good thing.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I get more attention from the doctor this way.”

  I saw Nicole briefly that afternoon. Changing of the guard. She didn’t look as upset as she had the last time I’d seen her. “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m okay,” she said softly. She touched my arm. “Thank you for being so sweet to me the other day. I know it’s hard for you too.”