For All Their Lives (24 page)

Lily grinned. “That's more like it.”

 

T
HE BLAZING SUN
was so brutal, Mac removed his helmet. He ordered his men to do the same. He had no desire to fry his brain in this godforsaken country. The sky was bluer than he'd ever seen it. His men were tired after two firefights in a row, and he felt as if he might collapse any second. He popped two salt tablets and watched his men do the same. He had a good perimeter now. “Kick back, men, get some rest.” He knew it was a joke, but it sounded good even to his ears.

Overhead a squadron of Phantom jets streaked by, followed by a second set. B-52's would follow soon, based on his orders. Today would be no more than mop-up, a welcome release for himself as well as his men. He wanted to relax, to reread the last letter from Casey, but he couldn't—not until his wounded were safely aboard the medevac choppers. And, God willing, there might be another letter from Casey. At least he hoped so; he hadn't heard from her for over two weeks.

“What's taking them so long, Captain?” the medic asked, his hands tight on a pressure bandage. “This ain't exactly a hot LZ,” he grumbled.

“Freeze, what's the problem?” Mac shouted, not liking the looks of the medic's patient. He felt his heart thud when he looked down at the young kid, a boy from Nebraska.

“Mortars, sir. The first chopper got hit. There's one on the way. The pilot is that guy Rick. If anyone can get through, it's him.”

The relief Mac felt at his radioman's words was so intense; he felt himself momentarily start to black out. Rick had a guardian angel on his shoulder—every foot soldier, every grunt, every officer said so. He himself was a believer. He'd seen the chopper pilot land in LZ's so hot with enemy bullets, the ground smoldered. The guy had some kind of help from on high.

It took eighteen minutes for the chopper to get there. It swirled up such a thick dust cloud when it landed that Mac had to drop to his knees.

Mac swiped at the dust settling over his body as the helicopter took off. His face was black with dirt. He waved, knowing Rick couldn't see him. What the hell would they do without men like Rick? His shoulders slumped. He'd been given a message that the two men didn't make it. He'd known they wouldn't but hearing it confirmed made him so angry, he slammed his helmet on the ground. “Son of a bitch!”

“Easy, Major,” Phil Pender said, coming up behind him. “Here, have a smoke.”

Mac turned. This was a new Phil Pender, one he'd actually come to like and respect. He was lean now, hard and tough, a man fighting for his life along with the rest of the company. It hadn't happened overnight; in fact it had taken six months before the snappy lieutenant got his act together. When he realized he was on the trail for good, he'd buckled down. Next to Stevens and himself, Pender had the most kills in the outfit. He'd even managed to take two prisoners, a feat headquarters recognized and rewarded. Pender was a captain now, and he himself was a major.

“The perimeter is as tight as a duck's ass, Major. There's a stream over there in case you want to cool off. Stevens found it by accident. Well, actually, the truth is, it's little more than a puddle, but it sure as hell is wet.”

“Thanks, Pender.” There was no need to give Pender orders. He seemed to know instinctively what was required in his C.O.'s absence.

Mac laughed when he saw the water Pender referred to. He almost hated to disturb the little puddle. He dropped to his haunches. He was about to dip his hands when he noticed, because he was so low to the ground, that the vines and greenery were trampled on the opposite side of the puddle. He'd come down a path that had been hacked by his men. The fine hairs on the back of his neck moved. He found himself looking overhead, sensing danger. He listened, his eyes watchful. It was so still, so quiet, he could hear his own heartbeat. He looked at the puddle again. He had only an instant, which he used to drop to the ground. He rolled back into the thick greenery, whistling shrilly at the same time he opened fire, spraying the perimeter of the puddle. He heard a grunt, a curse, and gunfire. He rolled again before he opened fire a second time, followed by return fire.

When the jungle was silent again, Mac thrashed through, his eyes murderous. “Pender, I'm going to string your ass from the nearest tree! Didn't you check?”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Pender grated.

“How many were there?”

“Seven, sir,” Sergeant Stevens said. “You got them all. Do we leave them?”

“The VC come back for their dead. Drag them out of here and set up an ambush. Pender, you jackass, this is your detail.”

Back inside the perimeter, Mac sat down. He'd lost his cool, something no good officer was supposed to do. For a few brief minutes he'd stared at his own mortality, and he'd reacted. Jesus Christ, was he ever going to get it down to a science? Sloppy leadership, every officer's nightmare. Shit! He had to remember Pender was as green as he was. Still, a puddle in the middle of the jungle should have been suspect, even to Pender. He couldn't blame Pender for the band of VC. The little weasels were everywhere—under bushes, in the trees, in caves and holes. Just because an area looked clean didn't mean it was. This wasn't his turf. He couldn't ever lose sight of that fact.

The idea of going into politics was starting to look better and better. “Bull
shit
!” he exploded, thumping the ground next to him. A snake, whose sleep was disturbed, slithered into the open, rearing its obscene-looking head, poised to strike.

“I got 'im, Captain. Don't even breathe,” Pender hissed. A second later the snake's head was airborne, the main body twitching at Mac's feet.

“Good work, Pender,” Mac said gruffly.

“Just trying to do my job, sir,” Pender said quietly.

Mac moved into the open, but not before he kicked the snake's remains into the jungle, cursing as he did. Twice within an hour's time he'd stared at death. He felt himself shudder. Jesus, did it mean his time was coming close? He was beginning to feel as if he was only one step ahead of the Grim Reaper. If he wasn't careful, he was going to spook his men. He had to get himself together.

“Sir,” Freeze said, “an order to stand by for cover fire just came in. Supplies. And some mail.”

Mac gave the order to take cover as a Huey gunship perforated humid air. He watched as it circled overhead, then banked, hoping to draw enemy fire. Seconds later, a second ship sizzled in, dropped supplies and lifted off, all within five minutes.

“Stevens, distribute the ammo; Freeze, dole out the C-rations; Pender, sort the mail.”

The mood of the men lifted when they heard the word mail. Word from home. How bright and hopeful their faces were. Mac felt a lump rise in his throat. For a little while, until they started on their trek up the mountainous terrain, things would be okay. Letters from home, the cure-all for just about anything.

Pender handed three letters to Mac: one from his father, one from Benny, and one from Alice. He read his father's one-page, large scrawled note first, just to get it out of the way.

The letter was signed Justice Marcus Carlin, after which his father penned in his initials. Mac snorted. “You know what you can do with all your grand plans, Pop,” he muttered.

He ripped at the envelope from Alice written weeks before. A picture of baby Jenny fluttered to the ground. He picked it up, stared at it with clinical interest, and wondered why he didn't feel paternal. He read the short note.

The letter was signed, Your wife, Alice.

Mac looked at the picture of the baby again. She looked like Alice. She was chubby with a full head of hair. He supposed she was a pretty child, but her face was screwed up in a grimace. He imagined she was wearing a dirty diaper, which Alice was too lazy to change. He slid the picture back into the envelope and ripped at Benny's letter, which was as normal as apple pie and hot dogs.

Mac wiped at his eyes. Goddamn sweat, a man could hardly see straight. The letters went in his field pack.

His fingers were careful, cautious, as he undid the flap of a fourth letter. Rick had dropped it off along with the information about his men. Before Mac unfolded the single piece of paper, he held it to his nose, his eyes closing as he brought Casey's image to the forefront of his mind.

The moment he finished it, Mac pushed his helmet back on his head. “I'll be damned,” he muttered. He felt like standing up and shouting “Hooray!” for the whole damn United States Army to hear. She wanted to go back to Pleiku where she was needed, but not until after the Fourth of July picnic. “Please understand, Mac,” she'd written, “I came here to do what I'm trained to do, just as you are doing. What kind of person would I be if I sat here on the beach reading novels when I could be helping some dedicated doctor save one of
your
men?”

She was right and he was wrong. Jesus, was he ever going to do anything right? The nurses and doctors were as vital to this war as the men who fought it. He laughed then, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. His men smiled tiredly. It was good to hear someone laugh in this hellhole. The problem was, how was he going to rectify his mistake? By taking precious time from his visit to Da Nang for the famous picnic all of Vietnam knew about. He'd go to Saigon on foot, if necessary, or maybe he could manage to get a call patched through from Da Nang. Whatever it took, he would do. “She's a winner,” he told himself over and over. He read the letter again and again. When he was confident he knew the contents by heart, it too went into his field pack.

He got to his feet and stomped on an army of red ants that were as big and fat as his pinky finger. He winced at the sound his boot made when he crushed them. They left a vicious sting that made a person's eyes water. He could see the men swatting at them as they chewed through their fatigues.

Red ants, bamboo vipers, blistering skies, and VC—all treasures of Southeast Asia.

“Saddle up! Move out!”

Day 487 on the Ho Chi Minh trail.

W
HILE THE SOLDIERS
and nurses, along with Red Cross volunteers, prepared the momentous Fourth of July picnic, hoping it would take the brutal edge off the horror of the war, the American populace was attending a free Barbara Streisand concert in New York, and Elvis Presley was tying the knot with Priscilla Beaulieu. Titillation turned to sorrow when Spencer Tracy took his last curtain call at Katharine Hepburn's kitchen table, followed by Jayne Mansfield's tragic death in an auto accident.

Who could blame the Americans for wanting a pleasant memory to take home from Vietnam? Certainly not General Westmoreland, often referred to as Westy by his peers. It was rumored that 446,000 Americans were in Vietnam, and that Westy was asking Defense Secretary Robert McNamara for an additional hundred thousand men, saying, “We're winning slowly and steadily.” On hearing the news, those attending the picnic sent up a shout of victory that was short-lived.

“Let's paint this place red, white, and blue and drink to old Westy,” a grunt shouted as he wielded a paint brush, intent on painting anything that wasn't moving.

The war wasn't exactly put on hold, but it came damn close when the chopper pilots and the Bird Dog pilots dropped leaflets all over the country announcing the picnic on China Beach. There was no wording on the clever leaflets, simply pictures of men and women reclining on beach chairs with drinks, topped by colorful parasols alongside a beach with a china plate for identification. Word spread faster than a brushfire.

Later, by general consensus, it was decided the Fourth of July picnic at China Beach was the highlight of the Vietnam War.

Choppers started to arrive an hour past dawn. On the ground hundreds of hands lifted down crates of corn, and cartons of hot dogs and hamburger patties packed in dry ice. Condiments were whisked into tents along with barrels of Budweiser beer and Coca-Cola. Buns, five hundred to the bag, were left sealed to ensure their freshness. The ice cream, which turned out to be chocolate and cherry-vanilla, was still frozen solid, thanks to the Sealtest Company, which packed it in special shipping freezers for the long trip. There was even a sheet cake cut into sections, decorated like Old Glory, along with enough candles to set the beach on fire. Tens of thousands of marshmallows were wrapped in identical bun bags. When the fifth chopper landed, a shout went up from the eager soldiers unloading the plane. “Watermelons! Real goddamn watermelons!”

The sixth chopper was full of entertainers, singers in miniskirts and comics of every description. A small band in glittering, sequined outfits chorused, “Hi, guys, what's new!”

The fifth chopper pilot, his rotors still at high speed, leaned out, waving a clipboard. “I need Carlin's signature on this before I can return to the base.”

Mac, in a flowered shirt, straw hat, and canary-yellow shorts, strode over to the pilot. He scribbled his name, a slash that was little more than a scrawl and completely illegible.

“I don't know how you pulled this off, Major, but I'd sure as hell put you up for a commendation. Don't tell me, I don't want to know. Just make sure you get me out of the stockade if some smart-ass general gets downwind of this. There's not a man in this country who will rat on you, Major, so rest easy and save me a hot dog. I'll be back later in the day for some ice cream and corn and whatever the hell else you have.”

“You got it,” Mac chortled happily.

How
had
he pulled it off? He was grinning from ear to ear when he thought about it. With the help of friends, that's how. If there was one thing Benny liked, it was a challenge. He looked down at the paper he was holding. On the back were two notes, one from Sadie and one from Benny.

Benny's read, “I hope you get gas from all of this! I'll be thinking about you when those fireworks go off. It was my pleasure, Mac.”

Sadie's read, “Mac, honey, I had a ball helping Benny with this. Don't eat too much—you'll get sick. We had help from some of the White House personnel. All I had to promise was that I'd put their pictures on the wall. The camera is in the middle of the marshmallows, along with twenty rolls of film. Send them on and we'll make you copies. I have a new board in the bar, just for you and the wonderful people you're serving with.”

He saw Casey then, a vision in pink, complete with a cherry-red visored cap and dark sunglasses. Next to her was Lily in white shorts and halter, every bit as pretty. When Casey spotted him, she ran straight into his arms. He hugged her, a devilish grin on his face. A minute after she was introduced, Lily excused herself.

“I missed you,” Casey whispered. “Please, you have to tell me you aren't angry with my decision to go back to Pleiku. Tell me you understand.”

“Of course I understand. By tomorrow morning it will be taken care of,” Mac said, hugging her.

As they walked along they could hear hushed tones, fingers pointing in Mac's direction. “That's the guy. Hebrew National hot dogs. In Vietnam, yet!” Hundreds of times they stopped so Mac could shake hands or get clapped on the back. Rank was left back on the trail. Here, he was one of the guys. Casey loved every minute of it.

Every fifty feet there was a small fire and a phonograph. The Beatles sang “When I'm Sixty-Four” and “Lovely Rita,” while further down the beach the Rolling Stones sang “Ruby Tuesday.” From somewhere off in the distance a third phonograph was playing the “Star Spangled Banner” over and over.

Laughter, good-natured teasing, frolicking in the water, and gorging on food were the orders of the day. There was no drunkenness, no brawling, no anger of any kind. This picnic was too important to everyone attending. Choppers set down and then lifted off, delivering men who shouted happily as they shed their combat boots and field packs to plunge into the sparkling blue water before accepting beer and hot dogs. Men straggled in from the jungle while others came in jeeps. At one point Mac, who felt like an indulgent father, estimated the body count on the beach to be around a thousand. Some of the guests stayed no longer than thirty minutes, just time enough to have their pictures taken alongside a pretty entertainer and to get something to eat. It was the nurses, dressed in skimpy bathing suits, who arranged the relay races with scoops of ice cream for prizes. They worked in shifts so they too could take advantage of the cool, beautiful beach. Mac and Casey took their turns cooking and pumping beer and snapping pictures. Several times during the day, Mac announced over one of the gerry-built loudspeakers that copies of the pictures would be available at Saigon headquarters in about a month, or as soon as Sadie could send them.

It was a day neither of them would ever forget.

The sun was setting, and the USO show was over, when Casey and Mac handed over their fire tongs to the next shift. Hand in hand they walked down to the water's edge. Off in the distance the sounds of war, which, up till now, had been subdued, with nothing more than an occasional mortar burst from the south, grew more fierce. They looked at one another, and by silent, mutual consent they headed back to Casey's small hooch. She waved airily to Lily, who was about to start off on the one-legged sack race.

“I love you,” Mac whispered huskily. “I have to tell you this now, because I don't know when we'll see each other again. I also want to make some kind of plan in case I get sent out of here before you do.” The crazy urge to tell her about baby Jenny almost choked him. He bit down on his lower lip, tasting his own blood. If he talked about it to Casey, she probably could figure out why he felt the way he did, but then she would know he was married, and he wasn't ready to divulge that fact just yet.

“I love you very much too,” Casey said. “That first day when we met and chased the fog, I knew then. I . . . I thought I was never going to see you again. And now this. Our time over here, even though we haven't seen much of one another, has allowed me to love you even more. Our letters are all that have kept me going. But I am so fearful that one day I'll be staring down at my patient and it will be you. I live with that fear, Mac.”

He'd thought the same thing, wondering how she would react if it did happen.

“Hey, look at me,” he said, tilting her chin up. “That isn't going to happen.” He said it with more confidence than he felt. “Tell the truth,” he teased, “I'm invincible. I pulled this off, didn't I?”

“You certainly did. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop worrying.”

Mac laughed. “This is probably the first time in my life anyone has really worried about me.” Sadie didn't count. Sadie worried when it rained and he didn't have his fishing boots on. Alice didn't count at all. She hadn't appeared even once the time he'd been hospitalized after a car crash, giving the excuse hospitals made her sick.

“Okay, you can worry about me. So, this is where you live, huh?”

“For another day at least. The bed is soft and dry,” she teased.

“Uh-huh,” Mac said, the ring of heat around his neck expanding. His ears felt incredibly warm. He felt himself stiffen, a condition he'd been experiencing all day long. It was so unbearable, it was difficult to walk.

They were inside Casey's hooch, each shedding their clothing as if by some silent command. Eyes as blue and hot as the Asian sun stared directly into his own, and what he read there sent his pulses throbbing, echoing through him. A sound escaped his lips, a groan, a plea, as he brought her close against him, crushing his mouth to hers, tasting her, feeling her lips yield to his. When he broke away, he saw the flush in her cheeks, the way her lips parted, lifting once again for his kiss.

Mac brought her closer, aware of the sea's scent in her hair. Her skin smelled like a sunshiny day, and the delicious womanly scent that was hers alone. He felt her arms wrap around his neck, tighter, pulling him down with her to the bed. She was seducing
him.
He thought he would choke on his own desire. A rich sound of pleasure bubbled from his mouth.

Something inside him wanted to rebel, some part of his manhood and his pride.
He
wanted to be the aggressor,
he
wanted to be the one to show her how it could be between a man and a woman.

She lay in his arms, fragile as the first flower of spring. He buried his face in her hair, reveling in the softness and the feeling it evoked in him. He drew back, gazing at her in the dim light of the room. All of his pent-up yearnings, feelings he hadn't realized existed until this day, rose to the surface as he slid down beside her. Her skin was golden as honey, soft as satin. Exhilaration coursed through him.

Once again his lips clung to hers, and Casey's head spun as she felt her body come to life beneath his touch. He was gentle, his hands unhurried, as he intimately explored her. His mouth moved against hers, and her senses reeled as she strained against him, trying to be closer to him, trying to make them one.

With infinite tenderness Mac loved her. He put a guarded check on his growing feverishness, waiting for her, patiently arousing her until her passion was as demanding and as greedy as his own.

His hands seared her flesh as they traveled the length of her, stopping to caress a taut breast, a yielding, welcoming thigh.

His lips left the sweet moistness of her mouth to find the tender place where her throat pulsed and curved into her shoulder. Down, down, his mouth traveled, turning her in his arms, finding and teasing places that brought consummate pleasure and sent waves of desire through her veins. The tawny luster of her breasts beckoned him, their pink, rosy crests standing erect and tempting. Her slim waist was a perfect fit for his hands, her firm haunches accommodating the pleasure of his thigh. He placed a long, sensual kiss on the golden triangle her nudity offered, and Casey gave herself in panting surrender.

The strains of “When I'm Sixty-Four” drifted through the hooch as Mac's lips touched her everywhere, satisfying his thirst for her, a thirst that was deep and raw. The intricate details of her body intoxicated him with their perfection. The supple curve of her thigh, the flatness of her belly, the dimples in her haunches, the lightly muscled length of her legs. But it was always to the warm shadows between her breasts that he returned, imagining that they beckoned him in silent, provocative appeal.

Casey's body cried out to him. She offered herself completely to his seeking hands and lips. And Mac, sensing her passion, furthered her advances, hungry for those secret places that held such fascination for him. He indulged in her lusty passion, which met and equaled his own.

Beneath his touch her skin glistened with a sheen of desire. She slid her hands down the flat of his belly, eager to know him and satisfy her yearning need. She strove to learn every detail of his flesh, touching his rippling, muscular smoothness, feeling the strength beneath. She kissed the hollow near the base of his throat, tasting the saltiness left by the China Sea. And when she cried his name, it tore from her throat, painful and husky, demanding he put an end to her torment and satisfy the craving he had instilled in her.

As if on cue, the galaxy of early stars overhead became one world, fused together by the white-hot heat they created. Together they spun out beyond the moon, reveling in the beauty each brought the other, seeing in each other a small part of themselves. One golden-haired spirit, one dark, came together in their passion, creating an aura of sunlight in the dark, endless night.

They slept to the strains of “When I'm Sixty-Four” and woke an hour later to the same strains. They smiled at one another. “Oh, Mac, I love you so,” Casey whispered.

Mac tickled her chin. “I love you more,” he said huskily. Once again he buried his face in her hair when a picture of a pink-cheeked, dark-haired cherub invaded his vision. He squeezed his eyes shut so the vision would vanish.