Vox Fortuna

A Story by sako395

A tale of friendship, death, and self-conflict.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell.

Lord Byron

Hammond, Indiana

U.S. of A.

May 3, 1989

I whacked my forehead with the top of my fist to derail the repetitive train of intrusive thoughts. Blood coursed through my vessels, pushed by an overtaxed pump. A sheen of cold sweat covered my body, giving rise to hills of goose bumps.

On a dinged end table sat a lamp without a shade. A small bulb glowed dimly, leaving the rest of the dingy one-room apartment in gloom. Strips of wilted wallpaper hung like tongues from the mouths of overheated hounds. And fist-sized holes, remnants of angry outbursts, randomly decorated the walls in miniature bomb craters. Tattered scatter rugs with psychedelic patterns covered the scuffed floor. The armchair in which I hunkered was threadbare, the wood structure fractured, and springs seeking relief from tension pushed against the cloth. The air around me was musty, and hung like swamp gas.

Reaching down, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey and looked into the nut-brown liquid, searching for the answers that were never there. The memories overwhelmed me again and I chug-a-lugged till I got dizzy, then closed my eyes�"willing myself not to envision the handgun that lay on the kitchen table amid the crumpled remains of McDonald's wrappers.

The Demilitarized Zone

Republic of South Vietnam

May 3, 1969

The helicopter banked left and a cool wind blew in from the open portholes causing me to shudder. After sixteen months in the Nam, I figured I'd seen everything, but the task that waited below gave me a sense of foreboding.

Through the window I gazed at the heavily wooded mountain spread below. Locating where the bird had hit, I then followed the path it had cleaved as it tumbled through the dense forest. Further down lie the smoking wreckage; half-shrouded by the canopy.

The chopper sat down heavily in a clearing on the mountaintop, and the squad and I spilled out the back. Dirt and leaves swirled in tiny cyclones as the aircraft quickly lifted off. After wiping the grit from my eyes I cautiously led the way, rifle clutched at the ready, looking and listening for the enemy. The steep ground wanted to hurl me headfirst, and I fought against the momentum. I concentrated on sounds; trying to read the language of the forest. The fluttering wings of birds taking flight caused me to glance up, and I half-expected to see snipers perched on limbs like droopy-eyed vultures.

When we reached the impact area there was nothing but felled trees, charred trunks, and dismembered branches. As I walked in the furrow the bird had left, I came upon chopper debris. Miscellaneous aircraft parts scattered willy-nilly.

Further down, the human destruction began.

I spotted first, an arm, fist clenched, and stuffed it in a body bag. Ambled forward and found a leg, still clad in trouser but weirdly . . . boot and sock gone from foot. I scratched my head in amazement, and then crammed it in. As I parceled human parts, I escaped reality by daydreaming that I was a teenager again, working at the golf course picking up windblown trash as part of my duties as a caddy.

But the sight at the wreckage forced me out of my fantasy.

Back at the LZ, I had watched as twelve marines loaded into the helicopter. All headed home, their tours of duties complete. With the four helicopter crewmen, it added to sixteen men�"intact.

Here, it looked as if a maniac ran rampant with a chain saw. Torsos lay like unfinished sculptures. Extremities littered the side of the mountain. Decapitated heads stared into the hereafter.

I forced myself to continue the gruesome work, trying to look anywhere other than the havoc at my feet. I came upon the rear portion of the fuselage that jutted into the sky, walked around it, and stopped in mid-step when an inner voice whispered:

Look . . . up

He hung in crucifixion, stuck to the hull of the rotor casing, burnt crisp from head to toe. I glanced over my shoulder at the others, wanting to skulk away and pretend I hadn't seen him.

To let someone else have to do it.

Without a conscious decision, I found myself scaling the side of the still warm metal. The going was slow as the hand and footholds were hard to find. Finally, face to face, I stared into his eyes. But they had melted away, leaving only blackened sockets. Hung there, trying not to breathe the odor of char-broiled human, I steeled my balls and grabbed his bare shoulder. As I pulled ash wafted in the air. Disengaging him from the metal sounded like sealing tape ripped from a cardboard box.

Realizing that I couldn't bear his weight with one arm, I gently pressed him back into position and shouted, "Yo . . . a little help over here!"

The company medic, a kit bag slung over his shoulder and a .45 pistol on his hip, jogged into view and glanced around.

"Doc," I said simply.

He looked up with a start, almost losing his helmet. "Jeez... zus," he exclaimed, his voice hoarse, his eyes wide. "Who is that?"

"What the f**k . . . I dunno. Just get your a*s in gear before I lose him."

We got the poor son of a b***h on the ground. As I tried to rub away the charcoal-like stains on my hands, the corpsman peered closely at the corpse's face. "Holy s**t, it's f****n' Hamilton," he said. He then checked for a pulse. He rose sluggishly, as if drained of life force, and sighed. "He's had it. Let's git ‘im inna bag."

When I grabbed Hamilton under his arms, his flesh seemed to separate from his body; like skin sliding off deep-fried chicken. Once encased, we lumbered him over to the heap of death and stacked him on top.

For a moment, I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed them hard with the palms of my hands, wanting to obliterate images. Forcing them open, I continued the ghastly mop-up operation, walking without direction, collecting. On one occasion, I laid a body bag on the ground, and then gently nudged a severed head into it with my boot.

Spotting a lump lying in a knot of scrubs, I trudged over there. Parting the foliage, I found Tommy Simkovich, my friend, my buddy . . . my man! He lay half-hidden in the brush, his upper torso showing no wounds . . . his eyes closed; a peaceful smile on his face.

Dropping down to my knees, I spread the undergrowth looking for wounds to his lower torso. But there were no injuries apparent . . . as there were no extremities apparent. I searched anew. No dice. I searched once again, now in a mild alarm. Starting to giggle like a lovesick teenager, I mumbled to myself, "Come on, Bro. Quit dickin' around, you're going home."

I stopped the hunt and shook myself like a wet dog; then I grabbed his shoulders and tried to shake him awake. I opened his lids and peered inside; searching for the dance that was always there. But it was gone. In a full-blown panic, I reached down and felt his neck; and sure as s**t there was a fluttering beat. Faint as the wings of a butterfly. I sprung to my feet, blood roaring in my ears. "DOC WILSON," I screamed shrilly, "CORPSMAN UP."

The medic reappeared, a "what now" expression on his kisser

Staring at him wide-eyed, I said hoarsely, "He's got a pulse."

Surveying the half-severed body, the corpsman dropped to one knee and put a soiled hand over Tommy's mouth, "He's alive. Goddamnit all to hell he's still f****n' breathin’."

I looked up at the towering trees and the heavy canopy. "S**t! No way to get a chopper in here." Then I looked at the steep haul to the top of the mountain. "Quick Doc, I'll get a litter and you can help me carry him up. Then I'll radio for a dust-off."

The medic stood and looked me square in the eyeballs. "We can't."

"Say what?"

He looked toward Tommy, shaking his head. "The fire melted his flesh and sealed the amputations, and if you lug him up this here hill he'll open and bleed to death in seconds. He can't be moved."

"Whadda mean he can't be moved? What the f**k am I supposed to do to help him?" I said, screaming like a madman.

Doc Wilson was silent.

I caught a hold of myself. "Wait, I know, I'll tie him off then carry him up."

He shook his head negatively. "There's no place for a tourniquet. He's all stumps."

"But he'll die here if I don't get him to an aid station," I said in a child’s whine.

Doc Wilson knelt again and searched his kit bag. "Beat it, dude."

"Whaddaya mean? Whaddaya gonna do?"

The corpsman, holding a handful of morphine syrettes, gazed stoically up at me, "The only humane thing to do. I'm gonna put him out of his misery."

"NO!"

"What if he regains consciousness for Christ sake?" Now, the corpsman look changed to compassion. "Would you want to see yourself like that? Think about it, dude."

“No.” Barely a whisper..

Then his face went hard. "And I don't want any witnesses. Can you dig it?"

"Waitaminute Wilson, wait!" I said, wringing my hands. "I . . .I gotta think. This cat saved my a*s more than once. We were tight." I looked around wildly. "Maybe I can find the rest of his body."

"And then what, sarge? Band-Aid him together?" He sighed deeply, then replied, "Look man, there . . . is . . . no . . . other . . . way."

I stuck the muzzle of my M16 right smack dab in the middle of his f*****g hairline; then flicked the selector switch from safe to rock-n-roll.

He stared at me, unblinking. "Okay dude. Now what?"

I lowered the barrel and turned my back. As I walked away, Tommy's silly laugh echoed in my head . . . .

-oOo-

. . . I opened my eyes. The bottle in my hand was empty, so I let it clunk to the floor. I stood swaying, intent on getting another one from the case I bought yesterday. Purchased in anticipation of the flashbacks I experienced without fail on the anniversary of his death.

"Death? Shee'it! Smurder."

The room spun violently and I fell back into the chair; gripping the arms to counteract the centripetal force that wanted to suck me into a black abyss. Reacting to a churning in my gut, I stuck my head between my knees and vomited black bile flecked with bright red blood. Sitting back, my blurred gaze drifted slowly toward the forty-five. Its chrome plating shined like a beacon in a fog, directing me to safe harbor. The room stopped revolving and tears filled my eyes . . .

-oOo-

. . . That afternoon, the crash team arrived to salvage what was still workable in the wreckage, and to destroy anything too large to carry. They didn't want anything valuable to fall into the hands of the slopes. They took care of business quickly and started the climb back up to a waiting helicopter. I intercepted the team leader and pointed to the wreckage. "What brought 'er down?"

"Some Army Huey lifted off from somewhere, gaining altitude. The pilot didn't see the other chopper above him and rammed it underneath." He shrugged. "End of story."

My mouth dropped. "You mean it was just a f**k-up? No hostile fire?"

"Yep. Just a one in a million accident. A real waste of lives.” He shrugged once again. “Fate, I guess." The team leader had nothing more to add, so he shrugged one last time then walked away.

I looked around to the pyramid of body bags and asked quietly. "What about the other chopper?"

His voice echoed in the forest behind me, "It auto-rotated to a safe landing. All the dogfaces made it."

I regretted that I even asked.

The rest of the afternoon I and the others doggedly hauled body bags up the mountain, having to drag them on the ground because of the steep incline. I felt that I had violated the dead. By early evening, all of the remains sat on top of the mountain. I radioed back to the company reporting "mission completed," listened to the reply; then flung the handset into the dirt startling the guy sitting next to me.

"What's up, sarge?"

"We can't get a bird till morning," I told him, disgusted and irritated.

"You mean we gotta stay here all night?" he complained. "In the rush to get over here nobody brought any C's. Or sleeping bags."

"There it is."

He frowned. "Screw this, man. Seven of us," he pointed toward the north, "and shitloads of NVA sitting safe on the other side of the DMZ just checking us out all day. And you know they're partying down�"right f*****g now�"waiting for dark. Blowin' weed and getting psychoed up enough to trip over here and kick... our... a*s!"

I distanced myself from his bitching, wishing that I could fly off the top of the mountain and disappear into the ether. Forever.

Later, I watched as the sun slid below the horizon. I was exhausted. My stomach rumbled. My body shivered from the chill air. My brain ran continuous reels of the day's events.

And from the pile of body bags, the faint smell of cooked meat hung in the air.

-oOo-

Through a damp night, I sat in a foxhole protecting the dead.

I thought about the other times I had felt miserable in this war. Like upon arrival, realizing I had 395 days left to go and I was in a place where strangers wanted to kill me. And my first Christmas 10,000 miles away from home, enduring a bone-bruising loneliness, aching for my family. And the day I voluntarily extended my tour an additional six months; not really understanding why. Something inside compelling me to do so.

But those were cakewalks compared to this.

I thought about the KIA's behind me; the guys headed home. Their families anticipating their arrival at this very moment, not knowing that the doorway would remain empty. Except for the day some grim- faced officer stood holding an impersonal cable from the Defense Department. A messenger of misery, and a giver of grief.

I thought about Tommy Simkovich and our long friendship through easy and hard times. How he bragged about his high school sweetheart and future wife. He had their life planned. He wanted kids, a ranch, and horses.

And how he had taught my cherry-a*s when I was new "in-country." And how he showed me how to survive.

And how he had saved my life.

And how a man could not ask for more than that from another man!

These reflections broke me and, for the first time since childhood, I cried. Tears cut a swath through the grime on my face and formed in droplets on my chin. I held my breath so as not to sob aloud.

In my mind's eye, I saw everyone in their seats before the collision. Their eyes closed, smiles on their faces, thinking about home. Memories of moms and dads and wives or girlfriends. Images of children born. Pets.

Then there was the sound of speeding metal colliding with speeding metal; ripping and tearing! The noise was unearthly! Their eyes popped open! The bird plummeted! The wind howled through the portholes like a thousand ghosts! Everyone was plastered to the overhead, weightless, mouths agape with silent screams! Then there was a microsecond awareness of what was happening.

And a mocking, recriminating inner-voice in every head:

"DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU WERE GOING TO GET AWAY WITH IT? TO GET OUT OF THIS PLACE ALIVE?"

Then it's all over with the killer impact, the exploding jet fuel, and the saw-toothed shrapnel cutting through skin and bone . . .

-oOo-

. . . The widow-maker was in my hand, cool to the touch. I didn't remember getting it. I wiped the tears from my eyes, and felt a great relief. All pain would soon be anesthetized. All guilt would soon be assuaged. All sins would soon be forgiven. After two decades, I would finally find peace in my life.

“I'm not scared of dying,

And I don't really care.

If it's peace you find in dying,

Well then let the time be near.

If it's peace you find in dying,

And if dying time is here,

Just bundle up my coffin

'Cause it's cold way down there.

I hear that its cold way down there.

Yeah, crazy cold way down there.”

I jerked the slide back, jacked in a round, and flicked off the safety.

Then stuck the barrel right smack dab in the middle of my f*****g hairline.