My book bag sits on the floor nearby, and I remember the surprise I brought with me. “I have something for you.”
“If it’s a cheeseburger, medium-rare with grilled onions, I’ll love you forever.”
I shake my head. “You’re not tricking me again. Nurse Espinoza yelled at me the last time.”
He grins shamelessly. “Yeah, that was the best part.”
I stick my tongue out at him and give him the package. George loves presents, no matter how small or lame they are. I could bring him a bottle cap and he’d love it. He’s like an overgrown kid ripping the small box open with more enthusiasm than care. He pulls the tissue paper aside and pauses, his hand hovering over the gift. It only measures about seven inches by two inches. The frame is a silly one I made from heavy cardboard I’d found at the craft store and painted with red, white, and blue stripes. An old cut-up army-green canvas bag of my dad’s serves as the matte for the rubbing I did of Charlie Deacon’s name.
I thought George would smile and chuck me under the chin with thanks, but he doesn’t. Instead, he traces the diamond after Charlie’s name. He knows what that symbol means. His entire body wilts with an old, remembered sadness. Then tears begin a silent slide down his cheeks.
I’ve never seen George cry.
George camouflages his vulnerability in irritability. If I try to help him too much, he snarls at me. Leave him alone, and I’ll feel like a crappy friend for deserting him. What to do? Stay or go? I think about the times I’ve cried, and the way he’d awkwardly patted my hand.
I pull a chair beside him and wait.
He studies the rubbing for a long time.
“Charlie,” he says finally, his voice ragged. “Man, I hated Charlie Deacon.”
He sees how shocked I am and laughs. “You should’ve seen this guy. Six-foot-four, red-headed, and the biggest redneck I’ve ever met. He picked fights with the wind if it turned the wrong direction.”
George sinks back against his chair to gaze at the ceiling’s acoustic tiles.
When George doesn’t continue, I say, “I thought he was your friend.”
He’s quick to answer. “Hell no. I hated that big bastard. His temper got me and the guys into more brawls . . . One time,” he says, his tone a weird cross between anger and amusement, “one time he bet this jarhead he could stitch up a knife wound faster than a medic. Damned if he didn’t slice his own leg open and sew it closed without anesthesia to win that bet.”
George snorts and adds, “I thought I’d be lucky to make it out of ’Nam alive with Charlie at my back.” He absently rubs his leg.
A crash cart rolls by, and we watch in silence as a white coat rushes behind it. Urgent voices blaze down the hall. Funny enough, I don’t know many of the patients on George’s floor. We spend most of our time outside or in common areas. I think George considers the floor a cancer, an outgrowth of the one inside him. He hates to be reminded of death.
“So what happened?” I ask.
He sets the gift box on the table. “Well, now, we were stationed at this airfield at Cu Chi. Not bad as far as base camps go. But this one night, the enemy sneaks on base. Before we can even think about getting to our weapons, they’re firing RPGs and bullets are spitting at everything that moves. One guy’s on his way to take a shower when he’s killed.”
George continues, “Me and Charlie, we huddled down behind sandbags in front of our hootch with our forty-fives. Later on we found out they were out to destroy our Chinooks—helicopters—and they got nine of them. Along with fourteen men.”
I’ve heard others at the VA talk about their war experiences, but George hasn’t said much. He mostly listens and asks questions. Sometimes he offers comfort. I try to picture him as a young man, scared of dying. He couldn’t have been much older than Carey when he fought.
“Anyway,” he says. “I get this bright idea to run toward the helos, thinking maybe I can take a couple of these guys out. I was such a dumb-ass wanting to be a hero, and I knew some of my buddies were out there. Damned if I didn’t run into a sapper the first corner I rounded. He had me dead to rights, and I thought, ‘This is it. I can kiss my ass good-bye.’ The gun went off, and guess who showed up in the nick of time?”
He gestures toward the frame. “Charlie Deacon took a round to the head saving my life.”
What makes one person do that for another? How do you decide to sacrifice your life for someone who doesn’t even like you? It makes no sense.
“Maybe he thought you were a friend,” I suggest.
“Hell no,” George says with another laugh. “Charlie hated me as much as I hated him.”
He stares, the unseeing kind of stare that looks inward.
“Why would he do that?”
A half-smile forms on his face and he shrugs. “That’s war, kid. You can hate the guy next to you, but he’s always got your back.”
The look on George’s face is too intense, too private, and I look away. Charlie, a red-headed redneck, died a hero. The reason? Soldiers die for their brothers. Carey would do the same for the men in his battalion. I know he would. The boy who let a drunk pound him into a diner’s floor to save a girl grew into a man who would risk everything to help others.
But where do I rate? Somewhere between Carey’s brothers and the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Isn’t he letting me take the bullet for him? How could he sacrifice me like that? I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I know better. My own father chose country and brotherhood over our family.
“If it’s a cheeseburger, medium-rare with grilled onions, I’ll love you forever.”
I shake my head. “You’re not tricking me again. Nurse Espinoza yelled at me the last time.”
He grins shamelessly. “Yeah, that was the best part.”
I stick my tongue out at him and give him the package. George loves presents, no matter how small or lame they are. I could bring him a bottle cap and he’d love it. He’s like an overgrown kid ripping the small box open with more enthusiasm than care. He pulls the tissue paper aside and pauses, his hand hovering over the gift. It only measures about seven inches by two inches. The frame is a silly one I made from heavy cardboard I’d found at the craft store and painted with red, white, and blue stripes. An old cut-up army-green canvas bag of my dad’s serves as the matte for the rubbing I did of Charlie Deacon’s name.
I thought George would smile and chuck me under the chin with thanks, but he doesn’t. Instead, he traces the diamond after Charlie’s name. He knows what that symbol means. His entire body wilts with an old, remembered sadness. Then tears begin a silent slide down his cheeks.
I’ve never seen George cry.
George camouflages his vulnerability in irritability. If I try to help him too much, he snarls at me. Leave him alone, and I’ll feel like a crappy friend for deserting him. What to do? Stay or go? I think about the times I’ve cried, and the way he’d awkwardly patted my hand.
I pull a chair beside him and wait.
He studies the rubbing for a long time.
“Charlie,” he says finally, his voice ragged. “Man, I hated Charlie Deacon.”
He sees how shocked I am and laughs. “You should’ve seen this guy. Six-foot-four, red-headed, and the biggest redneck I’ve ever met. He picked fights with the wind if it turned the wrong direction.”
George sinks back against his chair to gaze at the ceiling’s acoustic tiles.
When George doesn’t continue, I say, “I thought he was your friend.”
He’s quick to answer. “Hell no. I hated that big bastard. His temper got me and the guys into more brawls . . . One time,” he says, his tone a weird cross between anger and amusement, “one time he bet this jarhead he could stitch up a knife wound faster than a medic. Damned if he didn’t slice his own leg open and sew it closed without anesthesia to win that bet.”
George snorts and adds, “I thought I’d be lucky to make it out of ’Nam alive with Charlie at my back.” He absently rubs his leg.
A crash cart rolls by, and we watch in silence as a white coat rushes behind it. Urgent voices blaze down the hall. Funny enough, I don’t know many of the patients on George’s floor. We spend most of our time outside or in common areas. I think George considers the floor a cancer, an outgrowth of the one inside him. He hates to be reminded of death.
“So what happened?” I ask.
He sets the gift box on the table. “Well, now, we were stationed at this airfield at Cu Chi. Not bad as far as base camps go. But this one night, the enemy sneaks on base. Before we can even think about getting to our weapons, they’re firing RPGs and bullets are spitting at everything that moves. One guy’s on his way to take a shower when he’s killed.”
George continues, “Me and Charlie, we huddled down behind sandbags in front of our hootch with our forty-fives. Later on we found out they were out to destroy our Chinooks—helicopters—and they got nine of them. Along with fourteen men.”
I’ve heard others at the VA talk about their war experiences, but George hasn’t said much. He mostly listens and asks questions. Sometimes he offers comfort. I try to picture him as a young man, scared of dying. He couldn’t have been much older than Carey when he fought.
“Anyway,” he says. “I get this bright idea to run toward the helos, thinking maybe I can take a couple of these guys out. I was such a dumb-ass wanting to be a hero, and I knew some of my buddies were out there. Damned if I didn’t run into a sapper the first corner I rounded. He had me dead to rights, and I thought, ‘This is it. I can kiss my ass good-bye.’ The gun went off, and guess who showed up in the nick of time?”
He gestures toward the frame. “Charlie Deacon took a round to the head saving my life.”
What makes one person do that for another? How do you decide to sacrifice your life for someone who doesn’t even like you? It makes no sense.
“Maybe he thought you were a friend,” I suggest.
“Hell no,” George says with another laugh. “Charlie hated me as much as I hated him.”
He stares, the unseeing kind of stare that looks inward.
“Why would he do that?”
A half-smile forms on his face and he shrugs. “That’s war, kid. You can hate the guy next to you, but he’s always got your back.”
The look on George’s face is too intense, too private, and I look away. Charlie, a red-headed redneck, died a hero. The reason? Soldiers die for their brothers. Carey would do the same for the men in his battalion. I know he would. The boy who let a drunk pound him into a diner’s floor to save a girl grew into a man who would risk everything to help others.
But where do I rate? Somewhere between Carey’s brothers and the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Isn’t he letting me take the bullet for him? How could he sacrifice me like that? I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I know better. My own father chose country and brotherhood over our family.
