Duty and Dishonor Page 5

  At Julia’s derisive snort, Claire’s smile softened, deepened. Her face took on the luminous, Madonna-like beauty it often did when talking about Gabe.

  “He’s been kind to me,” she said gently. “He saw how...how overwhelmed I was when I first arrived. You know, being one of just a few round-eyes on base. So many men hit on me, and Gabe sort of set himself up as my protector. Those careless kisses of his have kept the worst of the hounds away.”

  Those careless kisses, Julia thought indignantly, had staked Hunter’s public claim to the lush, well-rounded Intelligence officer.

  “It started as a sort of a joke between us,” Claire confessed, hugging her knees. “But now it’s more. A lot more.”

  “Is it?”

  “For me, it is. For him...” The brunette’s shoulders lifted under her khaki T-shirt. “I’ve become a habit. I’m comfortable, and always there for him.”

  Julia tossed the brush down, as irritated by her friend’s passive role as by Gabe Hunter’s all-too-casual acceptance of that role. Planting both hands on her hips, she glowered at Claire.

  “This is the 70’s, you know. Women don’t have to be ‘comfortable’ anymore. Haven’t you heard about the National Organization for Women? Or the Equal Rights Amendment?”

  “I’m not about to burn my bra,” Claire replied with a bubble of laughter. “As top heavy as I am, I’d fall flat on my face without it.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

  Sighing, Claire rested her chin on her knees. “I know. I’m not stupid, Jules, but... Well..."

  "Well what?"

  "Gabe grew up the youngest of four brothers. They all thought they had to toughen him, Detroit style. He still feels he has to prove he’s tougher, and faster, and better than anyone else. He’s just beginning to understand that he doesn’t have to prove anything with me.”

  The love shimmering in her friend’s brown eyes made Julia acutely uncomfortable. She had her own opinion of Gabe Hunter. It hadn’t changed since he’d swept her up in his arms. In the face of Claire’s love, though, she’d kept her opinion to herself these past weeks. Mentally biting her tongue, she rooted around in her metal wall locker for a pair of black socks.

  The locker, the bed, and the pint-sized refrigerator she’d purchased, sight unseen, from the previous occupant of the room, constituted the only furnishings in her quarters. She couldn’t have jammed in anything else. She could barely turn around in the cramped space as it was.

  She hadn’t been lucky enough to snag an air conditioner yet, but with the continuing drawdown of US troops Julia had hopes of buying one of the ancient hand-me-downs that passed from officer to officer with each rotation. In the meantime, she relied on the fan perched atop the fridge to stir the humid air enough to let her sleep at night. As Spartan as her quarters were, though, it didn’t occur to her to complain. The 50’s-era wooden barracks buildings occupied by the women officers and aircrews were palaces compared to the living conditions of the grunts in the field.

  When Julia turned away from the locker, socks in hand, Claire took up her argument again.

  “You’d like Gabe if you just let yourself get to know him.”

  “I don’t have to like him. You do. That’s all that matters.”

  Julia tugged on a sock, ignoring Claire’s troubled expression. She knew the antagonism that crackled whenever she and Gabe got within a few yards of each other disturbed her friend. Despite Julia’s growing closeness with the other woman, or perhaps because of it, she couldn’t bring herself to unbend around Hunter.

  Nor could she shake her inexplicable, irritating, annoying attraction for the man.

  She’d tried to avoid him these past weeks. God knows, she’d been busy enough. Like most other headquarters personnel, she worked twelve to fourteen-hour days. Her job required her to draft responses to the continuous requests for information from the media of all nations and analyze their coverage of the war, line-by-line, broadcast minute-by-broadcast minute.

  At first, she’d been intimidated by the constant demands for information coming into her section in MACV’s Public Information Division. She’d done her best to respond promptly, earning some points with the media still in-country. She wasn’t entirely comfortable releasing battle statistics without authorization from her boss, but she was learning the ropes. Fast!

  For the first week or two, she’d returned from work and flopped into her bunk in total exhaustion, as drained by the muggy heat as by her demanding job. Only recently had she begun to venture out in the evenings. With coworkers, she’d dined at both the USAF and the VNAF Officers’ Clubs on base. A stringer for AP had invited her to dinner at the terrace restaurant of the Continental Palace, which so many of the journalists made their unofficial headquarters. A couple of times, she’d joined the other women and their assorted companions gathered around the rickety picnic tables between their wooden buildings to share cold beer and hot war stories.

  Despite Julia’s long days at work and her best efforts to avoid him, however, Gabe Hunter kept invading her space. He’d strolled over that night at the VNAF Officers’ Club and accepted her coworkers’ offer to share a table. Doubling up at the jam-packed club was a standard courtesy, but the brush of Hunter’s thigh against hers destroyed her enjoyment of the Vietnamese chef’s valiant attempt at a Mexican buffet.

  A week later, he’d stopped by her office to introduce a buddy who’d flown in her father’s squadron at a previous base. Julia shared a cup of coffee with the aviator and gratefully added his reminiscences to her treasure house of memories. All through their conversation, however, she’d remained aware of Gabe Hunter sitting just outside the periphery of her vision, his black boot planted on an open desk drawer.

  More than once, she’d caught sight of him among the group gathered around the picnic table downstairs. She’d opted not to join the convivial group those nights, pleading fatigue or work or the need to write letters.

  What she couldn’t escape, though, was Claire’s devotion to Hunter. Often, Julia knew, the Intel Officer spent her nights at the hootch Hunter shared with other fliers. The parties at the Zoo were the best on Tan Son Nhut, or so knowledgeable sources had informed her. Julia had declined several invitations to experience them herself. She didn’t want to put herself within Hunter’s reach again.

  For the same reasons she’d agreed to pull Duty Officer instead of attending tonight’s Halloween bash. She had no desire to see the slavish adoration in Claire’s face when Hunter condescended to remember her presence. Nor did she care to watch him casually pull the brunette into his embrace.

  Irritated anew on her friend’s behalf, Julia reached for the dark blue slacks that, along with a short-sleeved, light blue cotton blouse, constituted the USAF female utility uniform. She hadn’t yet reached the point of wearing green men’s fatigues, as most of the women did, Claire included. Although the heat and humidity made the tucked-in blue blouse uncomfortable, the “greenies” still looked sloppy to her. She suspected that they’d grow on her, though, with the coming of the hot season.

  She slipped the St. Christopher medal Claire had given her inside the neckline of the blue shirt. Cool and smooth, the silver medallion joined the dog tags nestled in the cleft between her breasts, safely out of sight. Uniform regulations prohibited the display of any jewelry except a watch or an ID bracelet, although Julia had noticed that she appeared to be one of the few who adhered to rules. Many of the women wore earrings or gold chains even with their fatigues, while a surprising number of troops sported peace symbols or braided black power bracelets.

  Her father, Julia thought as she grabbed her black leather purse, wouldn't have approved of the modern Air Force. But he hadn’t lived to see the race riots that swept the country in ‘68, she reminded herself, or the emerging women’s movement.

  “I guess I’d better go help with the party decorations,” Claire said, pushing herself off the bed. “You sure you can’t get someone to cover for you
a while tonight? I’m told the guys from Red Horse have come up with some really gruesome costumes.”

  “I can imagine. The combat engineers are nothing if not resourceful. I’ll pass on this one, though. I’ve got the first draft of the monthly battle stats to pull together for public release tomorrow.”

  “Okay. See you, Jules.”

  With Claire’s departure, Julia shoved her wallet, a compact, and a lipstick into her black leather purse, then checked the zippered pocket that held her father’s Smith & Wesson.

  Julia was one of the few of the rear-area support troops who carried a weapon. Most of the M-16s and service-issued side arms remained under lock and key in locked metal storage containers at various duty sections to prevent loss or the occasional drunken duel. No wonder the grunts in the field had a host of names for headquarters personnel, Julia thought sardonically. The kindest of the nicknames included typewriter commandos, PX cowboys, and RATs--short for rear area types, or rearies.

  She’d been required to obtain special authorization to bring the weapon in-country. Doggedly, she’d filed the repetitious forms. She’d been determined to carry her father’s pistol back to his war. Its heavy weight felt familiar and comforting as she slung her purse strap over her shoulder and left her room.

  Without the cooling stream of air from the fan, her skin dewed with a now familiar dampness. By the time she’d taken a few steps along the upper balcony, her freshly washed hair had gone limp. Waving to the crowd in the patio below, Julia made her way to the stairs that led to the street. A five-minute hop-tac ride took her from the laughter and pre-party revelry to the grim realities of war as recapped by the monthly battle stats.

  The war didn’t stand down on Sunday, nor did the Military Advisory Command, Vietnam. With the decreased level of U.S. activity in-country, however, the MACV staff had gone to reduced manning in most sections on Sunday evenings. Julia had worked a short shift this morning, gone back to her quarters to shower and grab a few hours of sleep, and would now cover the Public Information Directorate until eight in the morning.

  After the muggy heat outside, the air-conditioned chill of the headquarters raised goose bumps all over her body. Shivering, she took a brief situation report from the officer she was relieving, then checked the dailies...the teletyped reprints of articles from US and international publications.

  Prisoner release assailed as a farce, the headlines proclaimed. The North Vietnamese and Viet Cong delegations to the 134th session of the Paris peace talks decried the release of more than three thousand Communist captives as a “perditious maneuver.” In contrast, the Chief U.S. Delegate to the talks, William J. Porter, earnestly hoped that the general amnesty in honor of the re-inauguration of South Vietnam’s President Thieu would lead to future releases on both sides.

  Julia thumbed through the stack of articles. Of late, the media’s focus was shifting more and more from Saigon to Paris. Given the pullout of U.S. combat troops and Vietnamization of the war, the shift was understandable from a newsman’s perspective. As her friend from AP put it so succinctly, Asians killing Asians didn’t play on the nightly news in Podunksville, USA.

  From a participant’s perspective, however, the war remained very real and very immediate. U.S. servicemen still went home in body bags. New troops still arrived in-country as replacements, scared and confused and determined not to be the last American GI killed in Vietnam.

  Frowning over the thrust of the headlines, Julia made her way to the partitioned room that housed the MACV Media Relations branch. The duty NCO was already at his desk.

  “How’s it going, Sergeant Malinski?”

  “Good, lieutenant. Damn good. Four more hours, and I cross off another one.”

  The beefy public affairs specialist hooked a thumb at the twelve-month calendar cascading down the wall behind his desk. A sea of red x’s obliterated most of the days leading to November 11th.

  “I’m so short now, I can walk under the door instead of through it,” the Army sergeant said smugly. “Ten days and a wake up, then it’s good-bye Vietnam, adios body counts, sayanora red-assed, left-wing liberals disguised as reporters and hello...”

  Julia flashed him a warning look. She’d made it clear her first days on the job that she wouldn’t allow the wholesale media bashing her predecessor had evidently permitted.

  “Sorry,” Malinski mumbled.

  Slinging her purse over the back of a chair, she raked a hand through her limp hair. “Have we got the preliminary weekly stats?”

  “We do, and you’re not going to believe the numbers.”

  She stiffened. “Bad?”

  “Good. Incredibly good.” Malinski waved a typed sheet in a ham-like fist. “Five U.S. KIA’s for this week. Only five! That’s the lowest weekly toll in six years. If things don’t heat up too much tonight, we’ll hit a new monthly low, too.”

  Only five U.S. KIA’s.

  The dull ache Julia had carried in her heart for the past four years sharpened to a blade of pain. Only five families would have to deal with a devastating loss. Only five women would have to clutch a folded flag to their breasts as they watched their husband or son lowered into a freshly dug grave.

  Ignoring the lancing hurt, Julia forced herself to concentrate on her professional responsibilities. With a swift competency mastered in the past three weeks, she used the composite weekly statistics to draft the standard monthly report for release tomorrow afternoon. Her fingers flew over the keys of the blue IBM Selectric.

  U.S. MILITARY CASUALTIES

  MACV PUBLIC INFORMATION DIVISION, 1 November 1971

  U.S. military losses for the month of October, 1971, include 108 killed and 694 wounded in action. In accordance with President Nixon’s Vietnamization policy, phased withdrawals of U.S. military personnel continue. U.S. troop strength dropped below 200,000 effective this date. This constitutes the lowest number of U.S. personnel in South Vietnam since December 1965.

  Julia paused, staring at the date she’d just typed. Vietnam had been just a word to her in 1965. A place where America had vowed to halt the spread of Communism. Several of her father’s peers had served as advisors in the distant country. They’d talked about guerrilla-style tactics and a slowly escalating American commitment in men and equipment, but Julia been too involved in her school activities and too caught up in the throes of her first real love to appreciate the snippets of conversation exchanged among her parents and their friends. Two years later, Vietnam had claimed her father.

  Now, the Americans were pulling out. The war was over -- or almost over -- according to the statistics and the public policy statements emanating from the White House. But despite the numbers, despite those statements, men were still dying in Vietnam.

  Julia’s fingers curled over the keys. Dammit, she didn’t come over here to type numbers. Spinning around, she rapped out a quick order. “Get me the names, ranks, and units of the five men killed in action this week. And any personal information you can find out about them.”

  The sergeant stared at her in surprise. “We don’t include that kind of data in the monthly statistical summary, lieutenant.”

  “This time, we will. I want to make this release more human.”

  The NCO’s brow creased. “The last guidance from the public affairs office at the Embassy is to downplay the American role over here. You know, de-personalize it.”

  “I know what the guidance is, Sergeant. Just get the information, will you?”

  Her tone was mild enough, but the overweight public affairs specialist didn’t miss the determination behind the request.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll see what Casualty Reporting can come up with.”

  With Malinski’s absence, the partitioned room settled into a quiet broken only by the murmur of audio-visual specialists reviewing combat footage in the small theater across the hall and an occasional clatter from the bank of teletype machines. Swiftly, Julia completed the standard release, which included brief summaries of ground action and
air strikes U.S. personnel had participated in during the month that would end in just a few hours. She’d update the draft report with the final stats as reported by the four military services tomorrow.

  Sergeant Malinski returned some time later with the bare facts he’d been able to glean from the Casual Reporting System: Name. Branch of service. Rank. Date of Birth. Home of record. Next of kin. Number of dependents. Date of death.

  Julia skimmed the information before sending the reluctant sergeant upstairs to pump the G-1 duty officer for more details from personnel records.

  In Malinski’s absence, she pawed through the daily “activity” reports forwarded up the chain of command from the public affairs officers in the field. It took a while, but finally she found the specific incidents that resulted in the five deaths. With those reports in front of her, Julia began to sew the seeds of a story in the dry, infertile grounds of the monthly battle summary. Her fingers hit the typewriter keys again.

  During the week of 31 October, U.S. forces in South Vietnam sustained the lowest casualty figures since Marines in full battle gear splashed ashore at DaNang in 1965. Five U.S. servicemen died during this week. Two Army. Two Air Force. One Marine. The youngest was nineteen, the oldest, thirty-four. They came from across America, these five men. From New Jersey. Alabama. Texas. South Dakota. California. Two were single, three married. One was the father of four.

  Her fingers flew over the keys. In short, succinct phrases, she emphasized the diversity these five men had brought to the common crucible of Vietnam.

  “Hey, Endicott.”

  Julia jumped. Her fingers skidded on the keys, leaving a line of r’s across the page. Still caught up in the intensity of her thoughts, she scowled at the unexpected and unwanted visitor.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Hunter strolled into her office, undaunted by her less than enthusiastic greeting. Glass clinked as he plopped a paper bag on top of the scattered papers and took possession of one end of her desk.