Up Country Part 5

My father wanted to wait, but it looked like most of the families had left, so I talked him out of it. He took my hand and said, "Come home, son."

For a moment, I thought he was ordering me to leave with him and forget this idiocy. Then I realized he meant come home alive. I looked him in the eye and said, "I will. Take care of Mom."

"Yup. Good luck, Paul." And he was gone. A few minutes later, I caught a glimpse of him through the gla.s.s doors, watching me. We made eye contact, he turned, and was again gone.

I checked in at the ticket counter and went to the gate, where I discovered that this was where most of the families had disappeared to. You could go right to the gate in those days to see people off. I thought maybe my father might re-appear, or even my girlfriend, Peggy, who I insisted not come to the airport. I realized that I really wanted to see her one more time.

Despite the large number of guys my own age from the Boston area, I didn't see anyone I knew. This was to be the beginning of my year of looking for familiar faces, and imagining them on other people.

So, I stood there by myself while people around me stood quietly, or talked or cried softly. I've never seen so many people make so little noise.

A few MPs stood at the edge of the crowd, looking for signs of problems among the young men who were about to leave for ports of embarkation and war.

In retrospect, this whole scene had made me uncomfortable: the MPs, the mostly unwilling soldiers, the quiet families; the sum total of which was this very un-American feeling of government control and coercion. But it was wartime-though not my father's war, which was about as popular as any war could get-and in wartime, even the most benevolent governments get a little pushy.

This was November 1967, and the anti-war movement wasn't yet in full swing, and thus there were no protesters or demonstrators at Logan, though there were a bunch of them around when I landed in San Francisco, and a lot of them a few days later at Oakland Army Base, urging the soldiers not to go, or better yet, to make love, not war.

On that subject, my high school girlfriend, Peggy Walsh, was a pretty but rather repressed young lady, who went to confession on Sat.u.r.day and took communion on Sunday. At a confraternity dance in St. Brigid's High School gym, we were all made to raise our right hands while Father Bennett led us in renouncing Satan, temptation, and the sins of the flesh.

The chance of Peggy and me having s.e.x in peacetime were about as good as my father's chances of winning the Irish Sweepstakes.

I smiled at that thought and came back to the present. The taxi was making good time, just as my father had done so many years before. I remember thinking then, When you're going to war, what's the hurry? When you're going to war, what's the hurry?

I closed my eyes and let my mind drift back to the months before I was waiting to board that airplane at Logan.

I'd gone into the army a virgin, but during advanced infantry training at Fort Hadley, I and some adventurous barracks mates discovered the young ladies of the cotton mills-lint heads, we called them, because they had cotton fibers in their hair from working in these h.e.l.lish mills, doing whatever they did. The hourly pay was bad, but there were plenty of hours available because of the war. There was, however, a better way to make more money for less work. These girls were not prost.i.tutes, and they'd make sure you understood that; they were mill workers, patriotic young women, and they charged twenty bucks. I was making about eighty-five dollars a month, so this was not as good a deal as it sounds.

In any case, I spent all my off-duty Sunday afternoons in a cheap motel, drinking cheap wine, and picking lint out of the hair of a girl named Jenny, who told her parents she had a double shift in the mill. She also had a boyfriend, a local guy, who sounded like a total loser.

Predictably, I fell in love with Jenny, but we had a few things going against the relationship, like my eighty-hour training week, her sixty-hour workweek, our bad-paying jobs, and me always being broke (because I paid her twenty bucks a pop), her other dates, which caused me some jealousy, my impending orders to Vietnam, and last but not least, her strong dislike of Yankees and her love for her loser boyfriend.

Other than those things, I think we could have made a go of it.

Also, there was Peggy, who insisted that our love remain pure. In other words, I wasn't getting laid. Having discovered the forbidden pleasures of the flesh, however, I was obsessed with the idea of showing Peggy what Jenny had taught me.

So, after infantry training and airborne training, back in Boston for my thirty-day pre-Vietnam leave, I worked on poor Peggy day and night.

Bottom line here, my infantry training had taught me how to storm a fortified hill, but storming the defenses of Peggy Walsh's virginity was more difficult.

In a stupid moment of honesty, I told her about Jenny. Peggy was really p.i.s.sed, but it also got her hormones going, so instead of giving me the heave-ho, she gave me absolution, along with a punch in the face.

She informed me that she understood that men couldn't control their animal urges, and acknowledged the fact that I was about to ship out for Vietnam, and there was the possibility that I'd never return, or might get my d.i.c.k shot off, or something.

And so the last seven days of my leave were spent in intimate hours with Peggy in her bedroom while her parents were at work. I was surprised-shocked, actually-to discover that Peggy Walsh was about ten times hotter than Jenny, whose last name I never knew. Better yet, I didn't have to pick lint out of Peggy's hair.

Back to the present, I noticed my cabdriver looking at me in the rearview mirror. He asked me, "What airline?"

I looked out the window and saw we were at Dulles. I replied, "Asiana."

"Where you heading?"

"Vietnam."

"Yeah? Thought you were heading for someplace nice. Saw you smiling."

"I just came back from someplace nice."

As per my e-mail instructions from Herr h.e.l.lmann, I went directly to the Asiana Airlines lounge, known as the Morning Calm Club.

I was buzzed in, and as instructed, showed my pa.s.sport to the pretty East Asian lady behind the desk, whose nametag said Rita Chang. Normally, you need to be a club member, or need to show First or Business Cla.s.s tickets to use an airline lounge, but Ms. Chang looked at my pa.s.sport and said, "Ah, yes, Mr. Brenner. Conference Room B."

I went into the cloak room and left my suitcase there, then checked myself out in a full-length mirror and combed my hair. I was wearing khaki trousers, a blue b.u.t.ton-down shirt with no tie, a blue blazer, and loafers; suitable travel attire for Business Cla.s.s, and for the check-in at the Rex Hotel in Saigon, according to Karl.

I took my overnight bag, went into the lounge, and got myself a coffee. There was a breakfast buffet that included rice, octopus, seaweed, and salted fish, but no chili. I took three bags of salted peanuts and put them in my pocket.

I went to Conference Room B, which was a small, paneled room with a round table and chairs. The room was empty.

I put down my overnight bag, sat, and sipped my black coffee. I opened a bag of nuts and popped a few in my mouth, waiting for whomever.

I'd obviously come up in life since my last departure to Vietnam, but what I was feeling in my gut wasn't much different.

I thought again of Peggy Walsh.

She had insisted that we go to confession before I left for Vietnam. Well, I'd rather get a punch in the jaw from Peggy Walsh than face Father Bennett's wrath when he listened to me telling him I'd been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his second favorite virgin.

But what the h.e.l.l-I needed absolution, so I went with Peggy to Sat.u.r.day confession at St. Brigid's. Thank G.o.d Father Bennett wasn't one of the priests hearing confession that day. Peggy went to one confessional booth, and I went to another. I can't remember the priest's name, and I didn't know him, but he sounded young behind the black screen. Anyway, I started off easy, with stuff like lying and swearing, then got down to the big one. He didn't totally freak out, but he wasn't real happy with me. He asked me who the young lady was, and I told him it was Sheila O'Connor, who I always wanted to screw, but never did. Sheila had a wild reputation anyway, so I didn't feel too bad about subst.i.tuting her for Peggy. I'm a real gentleman.

This priest was probably going to hand me about a million Hail Marys and Our Fathers, but I said to him, "Father, I'm leaving for Vietnam in two days."

There was a long silence, then he said, "Say a Hail Mary and an Our Father for penance. Good luck, my son, and G.o.d bless you. I'll pray for you."

I went to the communion rail, happy that I'd gotten off easy, but halfway through my Hail Mary, I realized that saying you were going to Vietnam was like saying "Father, have mercy on me," and a cold chill ran down my spine.

Poor Peggy spent about an hour on her knees reciting the rosary while I pa.s.sed around a football with some guys at St. Brigid's High School playing field.

Afterward, we'd both sworn to be s.e.xually faithful for the year I was gone. There were probably about a half-million such vows made that year between parting couples, and maybe some of those promises were kept.

Peggy and I talked about getting married before I shipped out, but she'd defended her virtue for so long that by the time I discovered she was a hottie, it was too late to get the marriage license.

In any case, we were unofficially engaged, and I hoped officially not pregnant.

This story could have had a happy ending, I think, because we wrote to each other regularly, and she continued living at home and working at her father's little hardware store where her mother also worked. More important, she didn't go weird like most of the country did in '68, and her letters were filled with patriotic and positive feelings about the war, which I myself did not share.

I came home, in one piece, ready to pick up where I left off. I had a thirty-day leave, and I was looking forward to every minute of it.

But something had changed in my absence. The country had changed, my friends were either in the military, or were in college, or were not interested in talking to returning soldiers. Even South Boston, bastion of working-cla.s.s patriotism, was divided like the rest of the country.

In truth, the biggest change was within me, and I couldn't get my head together during that long leave.

Peggy had somehow regained her virginity and refused to have s.e.x until after we were married. This at a time when people were f.u.c.king their brains out with total strangers.

Peggy Walsh was as pretty and sweet as ever, but Paul Brenner had become cold, distant, and distracted. I knew that, and she knew that. In fact, she said something to me that I've never forgotten. She said, "You've become like the others who have come back." Translation: You're dead. Why are you still walking? You're dead. Why are you still walking?

I told her I just needed some time, and we decided to give it another half year until I was out of the army. She wrote to me at Fort Hadley, but I never wrote back, and her letters stopped.

When my time in the army was up, I made the fateful decision to re-enlist for three years, which eventually became almost thirty years. I have no regrets, but I often wonder what my life would have been like if there was no war, and if I'd married Peggy Walsh.

Peggy and I never saw each other again, and I learned from friends that she'd married a local guy who had a football scholarship to Iowa State. They settled there for some reason, two Boston kids in the middle of nowhere, and I hope they've had a good life. Obviously, I still think about her now and then. Especially now, as I was about to return to the place that had separated us, and changed our lives.

My contact still hadn't shown up, and I was finished with my coffee and two bags of peanuts. The clock on the wall said ten after eight. I considered doing this time what I should have done last time-getting the h.e.l.l out of that airport and going home.

But I sat there and thought about this and that: Vietnam, Peggy Walsh, Vietnam, Cynthia Sunhill.

I took my e-mail to Cynthia out of my overnight bag and read: Dear Cynthia, As Karl has told you, I've taken an a.s.signment in Southeast Asia. I should return in about two or three weeks. Of course, there's the possibility that I may run into some problems. If I do, it's important for you to know that it was my decision to take this a.s.signment, and it had nothing to do with you; it has to do with me. As for us, this has been what's called a stormy relationship from day one in Brussels. In fact, fate, jobs, and life have conspired to keep us apart and keep us from really knowing each other. As for us, this has been what's called a stormy relationship from day one in Brussels. In fact, fate, jobs, and life have conspired to keep us apart and keep us from really knowing each other. Here's a plan to get us together, to meet each other halfway, literally and figuratively: During the war, the single guys would take their one-week R&R in exotic places where they could loosen up a little. The married guys, and the guys in serious relationships, would meet their ladies in Honolulu. So, meet me in Honolulu twenty-one days from today, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, reservations under both our names. Plan on a two-week R&R in one of the remote islands. Here's a plan to get us together, to meet each other halfway, literally and figuratively: During the war, the single guys would take their one-week R&R in exotic places where they could loosen up a little. The married guys, and the guys in serious relationships, would meet their ladies in Honolulu. So, meet me in Honolulu twenty-one days from today, the Royal Hawaiian Hotel, reservations under both our names. Plan on a two-week R&R in one of the remote islands. If you decide not to come, I understand, and I know you've made your decision. Please don't reply to this, just come or don't come. If you decide not to come, I understand, and I know you've made your decision. Please don't reply to this, just come or don't come. Love, Paul Love, Paul Well, that wasn't too embarra.s.singly sloppy and sentimental, and I didn't regret sending it. Everything was spelled right, rare for an e-mail.

As of this morning, as I said, there was no reply, which could mean she hadn't opened her e-mail, or she took me at my word when I said, Please don't reply to this Please don't reply to this, as Peggy Walsh had taken me at my word when I told her not to come to the airport.

The door opened, and a well-dressed man about my age entered, carrying two cups of coffee and a plastic gift store bag. He put the bag and the coffees on the table, then put out his hand and said, "Hi, I'm Doug Conway. Sorry I'm late."

"I'm sorry you're here at all."

Doug Conway smiled and sat opposite me. "Here, this coffee's for you. Black, correct?"

"Thanks. You want peanuts?"

"I've had breakfast. First, I've been instructed to thank you for taking this a.s.signment."

"Who's thanking me?"

"Everybody. Don't worry about that."

I sipped the coffee and studied Mr. Conway. He looked pretty bright and sounded pretty sharp so far. He was wearing a dark blue suit, subdued blue tie, and looked sort of honest, so he wasn't CIA. Also, I can spot CID a mile away, and he wasn't that either, so I asked, "FBI?"

"Yes. This case, if it has any resolution, will be a domestic matter. No CIA involved, no military intelligence, no State Department intelligence. Just FBI and army CID. It sounds like a murder, so we'll handle it like a murder."

Well, he did look look honest, but he wasn't. I asked him, "Will anyone in the Hanoi emba.s.sy know of my presence there?" honest, but he wasn't. I asked him, "Will anyone in the Hanoi emba.s.sy know of my presence there?"

"We've decided to limit this information."

"To whom?"

"To those who need to know, which is practically n.o.body. The emba.s.sy and consulate people are about as useful as t.i.ts on a bull. I didn't say that. But fortunately, we've got an FBI guy in the Hanoi emba.s.sy, who's on a.s.signment to give cla.s.ses to the Vietnamese police on the drug trade. His name is John Eagan, and he's been briefed on your trip. He's your guy if you're in trouble and need to contact the U.S. emba.s.sy."

"Why doesn't John Eagan go find this guy I'm supposed to find?"

"He's busy giving cla.s.ses. Also, he has less ability to travel around than does a tourist."

"Also, you don't want any direct U.S. government involvement in this case. Correct?"

Mr. Conway, of course, did not reply. He said instead, "Do you have any threshold questions to ask before I begin my briefing?"

"I thought I just asked one."

"All right, then I'll begin. First, your mission is clear, but not simple. You have to locate a Vietnamese national named Tran Van Vinh-you know that. He is an eyewitness in a possible murder case."

Mr. Conway went on a while, doing the FBI thing, as though this was just another murder that needed to be worked and packaged up for a U.S. attorney general. I sipped my coffee and opened my last bag of peanuts.

I interrupted his legal spiel and said, "All right. So if I find Tran Van Vinh, I tell him he's won an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C. Right?"

"Well... I don't know."

"Well, neither do I. What do you want me to do with this guy if I find him alive?"

"We're not sure yet. In the meantime, we're trying to come up with some possible suspects, and/or the possible murder victim. If we do, we'll get photos to you of these guys from when they were in the army. If that happens, and if you find Tran, you'll show him a series of photos-just like in any criminal case, and see if he can ID the suspected murderer and/or the victim."

"Yeah. I think I've done that a few thousand times. But my Vietnamese is a little rusty."

"You can hire an interpreter anywhere."

"Okay. Why don't I take a video camera or tape recorder with me?"

"We thought about that. But that sometimes causes problems at Customs. We might have your contact in Saigon give you a video camera or tape recorder. Did you bring a regular camera?"

"Yes, as instructed. I'm a tourist. How about an international cell phone?"

"Same problem. They're very paranoid at the airport, and if they search your luggage and find things like that, they get nosy. Visa or no visa, they can turn you around and boot you out for almost no reason. We need you in in the country." the country."

"Okay."

"But we may get you a cell phone in Saigon. Be advised, however, that their cell phone system is very primitive, and they have more dead zones than a cemetery."

"Okay, so if you decide you want this guy in Washington, then what?"

"Then we might go to the Vietnamese government and explain the situation. They'll cooperate."

"If you don't want their cooperation now in finding this guy, why do you think they're going to cooperate after you tell them you've been snooping around their little police state and found one of their citizens who you need for a murder trial?"

Doug Conway looked at me a moment and said, "Karl was right about you."

"Karl is right about everything. Please, answer my question."

Conway stirred his coffee a few seconds and said, "Okay, Mr. Brenner, here's the answer to your questions, past, present, and future. The answer is, We are bulls.h.i.tting you. You know that, we know that. Every time we bulls.h.i.t you, you find little inconsistencies, so you ask another question. Then we give you more bulls.h.i.t, and you have more questions on the new bulls.h.i.t. This is really annoying and time consuming. So, I'll tell you a few things right now that aren't bulls.h.i.t. Ready?"

I nodded.

"One, there is more to this than a thirty-year-old murder, but you know that. Two, it's in your best interest that you don't know what this is about. Three, it's really very important to our country. Four, we need you because you're good, but also because if you get in trouble, you're not working for the government. And if you get busted over there, you don't know anything, and that's what you tell them because it's true. Just stick to your story-you're on a nostalgia trip to 'Nam. Okay? You still want to go?"

"I never wanted to go."