The Horn Man: The October Killer

This is a work of fiction.

Warning: adult themes, graphic detail, smoking, alcohol use, substance abuse, violence

Monday, 13 October

03:40

Detective Sergeant Frank Sanders was slow to wake up. It seemed to him like the phone had been ringing for a while, but he didn’t know for sure; his sleep had been deep but troubled. Always with the fuckin nightmares, he thought. As the memory of this one already began to fade, the ringtone on his department cell phone, the music from The Munsters, grew louder. Wasn’t that part of waking from sleep paralysis? He didn’t know.

His supervisor, Lieutenant Timothy Cobb, had heard his ringtone in the squadroom last week and snapped that it wasn’t funny and that he should be a bit more sensitive; it didn’t do for a homicide detective to play such a thing because Herman represented a body put together by a grave robber.

“Fuck you, Tim,” Frank had retorted, making everyone else in the room smother laughter, turning away and holding both hands over their mouths. Frank Sanders was the only detective who got away with things like that, and no matter how jealous some were, two cadets working with the Robbery detail cringed as if Frank had just uttered a blasphemous thing that would land him in Hell the moment he died.

Lieutenant Timothy Cobb wasn’t even mad at him; he had learned long ago that Frank was irreverent, smart-assed and deeply cynical. But the veteran detective made him and the whole department look good: in his 30 years of service, over twenty of which had been spent as a detective, not once had he failed to solve a case, a miraculous feat.

Cobb was aware that now, at age fifty-two, grizzled, gray and a wreck of a man, Frank dreaded retirement. He by no means was compelled to retire, but he was deathly afraid of being retired by the department. Everyone knew he was an alcoholic, but only Cobb knew about the pain pills. Still, his body was wrecked. That was serious.

In such an expansive part of Georgia, there shouldn’t be a single man who had, in the line of duty, been shot, beaten half to death too many times to count, stabbed and slashed, and had taken over a thousand stitches, so many that the department’s insurance had paid for cosmetic surgery, and also, long ago, he had even been gored by a bull with a raging erection.

He’d lost his spleen to that bull, whose owner had, before Frank had even been wheeled into surgery, riddled the animal with bullets from his antique Thompson submachine gun. The dairy farmer would later tell Frank, “…that fuckin bull, even dyin he had a fuckin boner.”

But the dairy farmer had not stopped there; he had then shot every single cow sired by that old evil bull.

Lieutenant Cobb was positive that once retired, or confined to the office, Frank Sanders would die. And so were a lot of cops and people in the county. Frank had been around, and he had friends everywhere. Starting around the 18th of December, they would bring pumpkin pies, donuts, wrapped gifts, gift packs of Scotch, and someone inevitably would donate a Christmas tree to the department, which would stand in the lobby until the end of the holidays.

Cobb also dreaded the day he would lose his friend to retirement. He was an Eastern U.S. legend. And he got the job done.

Frank missed the call, but the iPhone hurt his eyes with the screen light, so he put it back down on the bed beside him.

He groaned. His back ached and he had to pee. He didn’t want to move, but if he didn’t —

Sure enough, he didn’t make it in time. He was already pissing before he got to the toilet. Then his head started to ache, and the hangover was on. He ignored the phone, turned on the shower, kicked his soaked briefs toward the hamper and fixed up a glass of Alka-Seltzer.

Fuck, it’s cold, he thought. The furnace should have kicked on, but when he looked, the thermostat and temperature matched, 71 degrees. He turned it up.

Shivering, he stepped into the shower, not caring about the water being too hot.

Barely audible, the phone rang on. In the middle of the night if his phone rang like that, someone had been killed. It could be a suspicious death, or something obvious. The iPhone made it seem like this was the obvious kind.

He let the water soak his pounding head, then he leaned forward to throw up. Nothing in there to throw up: a yellowish slime was all; he was killing himself by not eating and instead downing half a bottle of Cutty.

He let the water rinse down the shower tub, then gently, slowly, he soaped and rinsed. Once out, with a towel around his waist even though he lived alone, he answered the phone. “Tim, what the fuck? Did someone shoot the president in my county? Pin a plastic, gold-leaf toe tag on his limpy and UPS that sorry fucker to D.C.”

Without bothering to humor Frank, Cobb said, “You remember that abandoned truck stop down on I-

60? That spooky-ass fucker?”

“Of course I do.” Frank’s furnace was groaning like a living thing threatening to eat him. “What the hell would happen there? It’s surrounded by thickets and brambles and all kinda shit. Can’t get into the fuckin place. Don’t tell me someone out walkin their dog just happened to find a stiff!”

“No. But some boys, they cut a path, drive in and start looking round and they see an old cabover Brockway, and Sheriff Hardesty over in Merriweather County says it had air, which I didn’t know was possible, so they pulled on the air horn, it wouldn’t release, and some guy yells, “Stop it or I’ll shove that horn up your ass,” so they high-tail out of there, left their pickup and everything, cause once they saw the guy, he scared them to death. So there’s four guys, a four-seater Dodge, and a junked Brockway, and some crazy homeless guy that they never anticipated being there, except they make it back to the ramp to the highway and one of em is missing. So they go over to Hardesty’s office cause it’s closer and he says by the time they flagged down a ride, they heard him screaming back there. But they couldn’t call 911?

“Anyway I’m heading there now but I asked Hardesty for backup. That truck stop scares me.”

“Don’t feel bad about it. That place is enough to scare Stephen King.”

“Not helping, Frank. He’s scared of everything. That’s how he writes all them books.”

“Well then it’s enough to scare the devil, how’s that?”

“Shut up, Frank. You got your socks on yet?”

“I will in a minute, you stop talkin long enough.”

He ended the call and finished toweling dry.

Skinner‘s 76 Truck Stop! It was more than scary. It had operated from 1960 through 1979 when Interstate 60 was closed east of it within two miles. Once a busy place to eat and refuel, get repairs or just get some sleep, it was obsolete by 1970, too small to handle the traffic its 80 foot neon sign attracted. The in-ground tanks only held ten thousand gallons between both, and the pumps would get shut down regularly. The restaurant didn’t have the room to sit, much less the staff to feed the truckers who were hungry, and the repair shop lost money because once drivers got sick of not getting what they needed, they detoured over to the US highway then the new interstate after five more miles. A newer and much bigger truck stop awaited ten miles from there, and by July of 1979, the restaurant had to close, sealing the fate of Skinner’s 76 Truck Stop. One day in June, only one customer had come in, and had coffee. One of two waitresses had quit by sundown and the last one did serve customers afterward but never received even a cent as a tip.

The state had, on finding that the entire place had been abandoned, issued a warrant for the owner’s arrest, but he was never found. There was still fuel in the ground, and the tanks slowly leaked, rendering the whole area contaminated.

A few hulks of trucks once awaiting repairs sat in the spacious shop, but strangely, there was no registration information on them. No plates, no tax decals, not even a company placard on the doors.

Eventually details like this made it into the local papers, and when the state finished pumping the diesel from the tanks and scrapping them once they were lifted out of the soil by a crane, Superfund refused to do anything because the contamination extent was so negligible.

This made Governor Atkinson so angry that he initiated a lawsuit, which didn’t get results. Here was prime real estate, ready for rezoning and homes and a state road to connect to closer towns, a new shopping mall, and Interstate 50. And it was useless!

Atkinson lost his bid for reelection. The site, including four acres around it, was fenced off with 12-foot chain link topped with barbed wire.

It was possible for someone to buy a house six miles away and never know the place was there nowadays. It was hidden by trees and bushes, wild and overgrown with weeds that blocked it off more efficiently than barbed wire ever could have.

Until now. Frank, dressed and ready to go, walked to his car and unlocked the door. He had no use for newer cars with key fobs. His 1989 Viper, custom ordered in a beautiful metallic dark green, still gleamed and ran perfectly. He used good money to keep it that way, and his mechanic still drooled every time she saw it.

He headed out, suddenly getting the feeling that he was going to regret not retiring.

Skinner’s 76 Truck Stop (abandoned)

04:17

Frank was confused. He couldn’t see anything. No police lights, flood lamps or anything. He called Cobb. “Where are you guys? I’m at your end of the exit ramp but I can’t see anything.”

“I see your lights. I’ll walk out to you. Just move forward about fifty feet and park it. Make sure you carry your flashlight and your weapon, but don’t shoot me.” He sounded grim. Frank had never heard Cobb sound like that. Like his mother had just died.

When they were facing each other, Frank asked, “What? What’s in there, Tim? The hell’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve been to some weird crime scenes in my time. But I’ll betcha a steak dinner even you never saw anything like this shit.“

“Cheapskate. Even if I win you ain’t going to do that. You shitting me?”

“Frank, after tonight, you’ll be a vegetarian.” He turned and led through a path cut to the dirt through tall grass and weeds and a freshly cut gap in the fence big enough to drive a Dodge Ram through. Up ahead the back of the truck was visible and beyond that were flashing lights, red and blue, of several county SUVs.

“We found the missing boy. The others are being held at Hardesty’s office. Once we found the kid, we kept them out of here. If they’re the killers, they’re really sick pups. The oldest one is nineteen, and the deceased is sixteen. Brace yourself Frank. This made the Merriweather boys puke.”

Again, Frank had the unmistakable feeling that he shouldn’t be here. He saw why when they stepped inside the shop. Portable floodlights connected to a small generator just outside the door glowed over the most grisly scene Frank’s eyes had ever beheld.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Told you,” Cobb said grimly.

His long light in one hand, Frank holstered his 1911 Colt. Rumors among the department had it that Frank had notched the grip with the number of kills he had made, but it wasn’t true; he had killed and wounded with it, but he certainly never wanted to think about that. Taking a life, any life, was serious business and every pull of the trigger was traumatic to him. He buried it as deep as he could and just did the job. He never had a shooting that was not justified, but that had never been any comfort.

The victim was not in one piece. He lay face down on a floor covered in grass and weeds that had grown through cracks in the concrete or on top of soil blown in over the years. It was hard to tell which pieces had already been removed and dragged about by the enormous rats that darted about and which ones had been taken apart by his killer.

Blood was everywhere, even ten feet away, indicating arterial cuts while the boy was still alive. He must have died slowly though, because there was just too much of it, and after death, blood settles in the lowest part of the body. He’d bled out in agony or had gone unconscious, but this was a horrible way to go. The worst thing he had ever seen.

Frank didn’t get closer. He couldn’t move. He stared. What kind of monster could do a thing like this?

“Motherfucker,” he whispered. This person, he decided, would never be arrested. If he found the fucking animal, he was going to kill on sight, and it would not matter if there were witnesses. The person, or persons, who did this were already tried, found guilty, and sentenced to capital punishment. There could be no other outcome.

However it had been done, Emory Samuel Phillips the Third was a testament to the existence of the Devil in Hell himself. No human could have done such savagery to his body without help.

The body had been hacked open from the gluteal section to the shoulder blades, right between them, turning the spine into gravel. Vertebrae stuck out like pebbles covered in ketchup. The stench of the opened entrails made them all sick, nothing else smelled like that. But what had been done to the intestines was just weird. A truck’s air horn had been torched into pieces and shoved inside. Finally, gloved and masked with Vick’s inside the mask, Frank knelt beside the boy. “Tim, this was done or at least started while the boy was conscious. Look at the initial hemorrhaging. I’d say he immediately passed out and never regained consciousness even when he hadn’t bled much yet. Whoever did this is still here. Have everyone pair up, no more than twenty feet apart, and start a search. He’s armed with a heavy blade, looks like a vintage machete. Could even be a small chain saw. Everyone has swords these days so watch for that too, probably a medieval long sword. If anyone gets hurt, I will personally deal with them. Nobody else dies today. Nobody even gets a paper cut.”

Cobb, always wise enough to follow Frank’s orders, could see that his friend was on the hunt. That was normal.

What wasn’t normal was everything else. This case was bad, and it was going to get worse.

“Get the K-9s out here. He’s still close. I want a chopper too. Bag the body. He needs to be transported.”

The coroner had already been notified and was standing by. Frank prepared himself to face the parents.

“The Insanity Syndrome” Part Three (Conclusion)

Caution: adult themes, sexual references, adult language, violence, fear, smoking, racist language, triggers. Read with caution and enjoy the story. As always, thanks for stopping by!

“Insane”

Cara Nguyen was her name. She was the child of Vietnamese parents, but also a French grandfather, so there was some real history there. History can be pathetic, and she told me that she had no place. The French had abandoned the fight, the country and its people because the colonial period, profitable as it was, had ended. The Battle of Dien Bien Phu had lasted almost two months, and the French had their asses handed to them. Bad thing being that, for less than a century the French had colonized Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. The 3 made up “Indochina”, known officially or politically as French Indochina, and I remember hearing that name in some fuckin geography class. World War Two wasn’t very nice to the French, who lost control of the region to Japan, which, after it was defeated, ended up leaving a vacuum. When the French, who couldn’t even keep their own country safe from the Nazis, tried to get their former Eastern territories back, they found someone waiting for their ass. The Viet Minh, and they was vicious mothers. They could fight any which way they thought up, from guerrilla to more modern-equipped style once the Communist Chinese and Soviets found them so fascinating. The end of the “First Indochina War” resulted in the geographic line across a map, North and South Vietnam. And the United States had walked right into the second war, because no other fuckin reason than hysteria over communism. Now I look back and can’t see why it happened. Back then, I was sold on the fuckin Domino Effect, like if Vietnam went full-commie, next would come all of the South Pacific, on up to India and from there, instructors who gave lectures said, the whole world. That was to keep the troops gung-ho.

I didn’t know any of that shit. All I knew was that it didn’t matter. North or South, the gooks hated us. Didn’t want us there. But like Cara, some were stuck. She had no choice but to aid the South and American and allied troops. Others truly hated the government in the North, having lost family and friends to their indoctrination or just plain bad luck. Or death. Ain’t nothin like death to make you fear something.

I loved Cara. Our first kiss came one night when she was off-duty but in her office, having coffee and a cigarette. She looked at me, leaning against her doorframe, and said, “You visit me and every time you leave I get more frightened that it will be the last time I see you. You come for stitches, bites, burns and dehydration, we talk while I fix you, but I know it is I that you come for. You can get minor wounds treated anywhere, but you come here. I know that you love me, and I believe that you know how much I’ve loved you. But you are afraid to say it. So was I at first. I do love you, Lee. I always will. I do not want you to say it back if it scares you. I know anyway. You made a promise to me. You will keep it, yes?”

She got up and walked to me, and she looked into my eyes and said, “Sometimes people are hurt. They carry their wounds, the ones no one ever sees, but I see yours, and you see mine. We don’t know what is in each of our pasts, but it is what makes our love so special.”

And she kissed me, and I held her, and kissed her back, and she held me back. Soon, breathless, we kept kissing then stopping to look at each other, and we both had tears running down our faces. That just made the moments stretch into a place where time had no meaning, where we could go back any time we wanted. Back then I didn’t even know such things were possible. I left that night after we had been in each other’s arms and talked until 04:30. Her shift was starting soon and she wanted to bathe and get changed. If I had known then what was in store for me, how long it would be before I saw her, or even if I would see her again, I wouldn’t have left.

The Last of the Ghost

I got a mission relay from a courier, a lieutenant who called me “sir”. I didn’t like the reason he did that when I read it, when I sat at a Cafe from the French days, where I could get real coffee, a real breakfast like back home, and even shower in the back room while my uniform was cleaned.

I opened the thick manila envelope and first took out the papers. Oh, the news just kept getting worse. By now I thought I’d seen everything. I’d been through Tet 1 and 2, had slit the carotid arteries of countless men, held their mouths shut while they bled to death, shot hundreds, assassinated officers, taken on entire platoon-size NVA groups with nothing but what I could carry with me, and been shot, stabbed, burned by friendly fire (some wahoo who panicked and tossed a Willie Pete too close and while I was screaming and burning, I broke his neck) and I’d had malaria, jungle rot, lice, rat bites, and whatever one it was that made you shit pretty much always. I’d been hit with frags from grenades, had an eardrum rupture, several bones broken. Cara didn’t worry for no reason.

She leaned over me and kissed me, and her tears fell on my face.

But this time I had one truly fucked-up mission. The General knew this. He began his brief with an apology and he was no bleeding heart type. It read:

I’m sorry, Sergeant Geldmacher, I know this isn’t what you want. I hereby promote you to the rank of bird Colonel. You will receive the official commission when you return, but the subdued rank insignia you will immediately use. This is necessary to complete your mission and, I hope, to live long enough for me to see your face again. See next page for mission brief. Good luck, Colonel.
The General

That shook me. I ordered fresh coffee from Yvette, and I would need Charles to alter my uniform. He was on his way, she said, and delivered eggs easy with bacon and French bread, lightly toasted. “How do you need alterations, Lee?” I dumped the rank insignia and subdued patches onto the table. She chastised me in French and English, asking me not to do that lest I attract a VC bullet. I apologized but did say, “I’m scared, Yvette. First time since I got here, I’m scared to death.”

“Should moi not congratulate my good friend? This is big, non?”

“Christ, don’t congratulate me,” I said. “This has a price tag I don’t know if I can pay. They’re sending me straight to the dragon.”

“Mon dieu! Surely not!”

“Yes. Yvette, I’ve known you and Charles for how long now?”

She said, “Eat, mon ami. Even a ghost needs strength, non?”

“Seriously, how long?”

“You came here after you were wounded. That was Tet, non? Now it is Summer of 1971. Too long to fight, even for ghosts. But never have I seen my ghost like this. Do not let Charles see you thus, for you are his hero. Long have we been here, too much has been seen. My husband needs a hero. I beg you, Colonel, do not take away what sustains him. I will get fresh camo uniform your size, startch and iron like a colonel should be. Charles will be very happy to place patches and remove tags. My husband is sentimental. It will be proud moment. You will see. As for dragon, beware. You losing focus like this is no good. All that I know is, le dragon is real. As you are now, he will eat you.”

She leaned close and said, “After Kent State many soldiers were hurt in their heart. You know this, non? There are many who go about on false missions and do nothing but protect in sand bags and call air strike. Like doing something, yes? They are betrayed. They want to go home. These soldiers are in trouble. My sources have all of their positions known by NVA who will kill them all. Then they will use propaganda to show American people how cowardly their soldiers are. Your country is divided. Your president is madman. The North knows this. Knows that it will win. They know about Kent State shooting. They shall never let it go as a political tool. If you go to dragon, you must eat and take water and be in focus, mon ami. Otherwise you never come back. Charles has map. You look at your derelict platoons. You go get them and kick asses to go with you. Alone, you will die.”

I had forgotten that Charles and Yvette were great sources of intelligence. They knew things military intelligence never did.

“The Dragon” referred to a group of villages by the Ho Chi Minh trail on the Cambodian border. I had permission to cross that border but Nixon had been bombing both Laos and Cambodia off and on anyway, and we did have troops in both doing some really dirty shit, but the goals weren’t clear and the losses too high. Those were winding down as pressure at home forced him to back off. I never thought much about Johnson as a CiC, but Nixon was a fuckup. I hated everything he said and did. This war had indeed been unwinnable from Day One, just like the General had told me.

Seemed like a lifetime ago now.

And the Dragon was a cult. A real one. The word was they was cannibals, worshipped some ancient diety, a dragon no less, killed anyone who came within 50 kilometers of them. That was the extent of their reach because the jungle surrounding them was pristine, primary growth and had triple canopy. Not even Sopwith Camels (what we called single engine recon planes) had found its exact location. A special forces unit had.

Of a ten man unit, two came back alive. But they weren’t close to being sane. They were already back in the World.

But Army Intel knew little about it. And it was so remote that I wondered why I or any unit had ever been sent there. It would turn out that American POWs were suspected of being held there. I knew already that no American or other friendlies could be alive in a place like that.

There was only one way in, according to the Green Beret survivors: on foot, you were a dead man. Air drops were impossible because of the canopy, choppers could get you no closer than 400 klicks, and you’d still be going in on foot.

But a Navy PBR could put me within one klick if they muffled the Detroit engines. Some boats could not. If mine couldn’t, everyone on board would die.

That fear was put to rest when the boat captain welcomed me aboard. He was a brute, skin cracked and dark from too much sun, muscles huge and everywhere and a rough voice that couldn’t make me believe he was so smart. He said, “I know where that is, Colonel. And I can get you close, but it’s between Saigon and Phnom Penh. The jungle by the river goes north and west and it’s thicker ‘n’ the hair between a mama-san’s legs. But you get out where I say, go the path I’ll draw on your map, you’ll get the drop on em. Whatcha packin, anyways?”

I had my -16, the grenade launcher, making it heavy. It was really M-209. I really couldn’t pack much with all the ammo it would need. I had two canteens, a machete, some frags, 2 C-rations and insect repellent. And my fuckin uniform that stayed soaked the whole time. He said, “Hell. Hell. They gave you the wrong load out. Hell, you go in there with that, they’ll play with you like a cat with a chipmunk.” Not only that but it’s too heavy. You won’t never make it. Hell. Colonel, they done sent you on a suicide mission. I’ve heard of a place. They say part of it’s in a huge tree. They got tunnels, and rope bridges up in the air. You’ll be dead before you get close. We’re probably bein watched now because this part of the river’s their outer territory. They won’t fire on us because they want to stay hidden. But Colonel, you’re already a dead man.”

He begged me, “Colonel, let me take you back. Okay? You can say anything you want. Tell em you got lost or something. I can drop you near Saigon and you walk in, hell, you already look like shit. Tell em you couldn’t get close.”

I didn’t say anything but my mouth had gone dry. The guy on the left sixty had a bottle. I asked for it. He grinned and passed me the bourbon. Not being used to liquor, I coughed and he grinned wider. But as soon as it started getting into my bloodstream, I was taking gulps. “Easy, Colonel,” the gunner said. “I got more, but you’ll dehydrate you drink any more. The headache won’t help you think clear, either.” He handed me some aspirin in a small tin. Anacin. I took two and he said, “Keep it. You’re gonna need it.”

On my map, which was covered in bullshit symbols from some REMF (rear echelon motherfucker) dick head.

The captain drew the approximate position of the tree camp. He marked where others had told him were minefields, and said the tunnel network went clean under the mines. He had escorted some half-assed special forces unit and waited on the other side of the river. One guy made it back. He said where the mines were but the booby traps, tunnel outlets, and gun nests he never saw. He did not see the camp but at least one of his men had, he could hear the guy screaming as they tortured him.

“What the fuck do I do now?” I asked. The captain said, “Look at it this way, Colonel. You’re supposed to die in there. You’re packing too heavy but not one single rocket, no field dressins or scoped rifle, not even a Springfield with a starlight scope? Colonel, you gotta be a bad mother to draw a mission like this, but you should know better than this bullshit. I ain’t tryin to fuck with you, sir. I just don’t wanna see another fuckin suicide mission, I seen too many, and that’s what you have yourself here. Sometimes they do that. Back home it is a really big deal and they all fighting. Even the fuckin hippies. Veterans throwed all their medals over some fence I heard. Even they protestin. So Nixon is gonna step up the pull-out. Even you can go home soon. All you gotta do is not do this mission. Think of it, sir. You never have to worry bout nothin again. Take a desk job. Retire a full colonel. Then you mow your lawn on Saturday, watch the game on Sunday, sleep all day Monday, and the rest a the week sit around the park starin at hippie bitches.”

Then I got an idea. There were rumors of guys who had no fight left in them who would go out on search-and-destroy missions but only go so far, dig in and call air strikes on fake targets. Yvette had said it was a fact. They would expend ammo themselves too, coming back in without their frags even. I asked, “Captain, can you expand these coordinates a bit for me, to where you think this place extends? Allowing for a spread wider than anyone could of seen?”

He smiled wider than I ever saw anyone smile over there. “Colonel, that guy who made it out? He was insane. I’m not sure if any of this is exactly right. And I can guess but you’re still gonna have to get to your first marker just to spot. I’d rather ya didn’t do that.”

“I ain’t stepping one stink ass boot on that beach. And I think it’s out of range for Arty. Hell, I’m calling in the 52s for this. Wanna watch a real show?”

“Smartest goddamn officer I ever met,” he laughed. “You’re gonna fuck a lotta shit up. Roads, the Trail, lots a shit. Sir, that place ain’t no hamlet. It’s a goddamn kingdom. Tell em drop HE, nape and willie Pete. Burn the fucking jungle down.”

“Let’s see that happen, shall we?”

The -60 gunner was in awe. “Two officers…”

I chuckled. On the radio I gave my codename, “Kingpin calling Bowler,” and got an immediate response, “Kingpin, this is Bowler Actual, read you.”

“Bowler, mission aborted, repeat, mission aborted. Am back at the transport, enemy strength and location as follows: two to four divisions, possibly more, coordinates exact unknown, but no village, repeat, no village. Underground bunkers, troops bivouac in trees and under thatch, mine fields surrounding perimeter to three klicks, tunnels beyond, gun positions include long range heavy artillery, heavy machine gun nests, mortar crews, infantry deployed inside perimeter. Snipers for certain. Recommended action as follows: carpet bomb entire region With Whiskey Papa, Napalm, Hotel Echo. Recommend fighter escort to accompany as there is high confidence for Sierra Alpha Mike emplacement under thick canopy. Repeat if you read, Bowler Actual.”

They had it perfect, everything down to their expanded and fuckin huge area of attack the way they read off coordinates. “Bowler Actual, be advised I am hit. Repeat, I am wounded. Will come home when safe. This is Kingpin signing off.”

“Fuckin crazy, man? Wounded? Why?” The captain asked.

“To keep you fuckin heroes who saved my ass from bein’ asked questions. I owe ya that much.”

The captain was silent. The sun was setting. “I gotta rig the blankets for blackout,” he said. “I got a Russian pistol off a NVA in a sampan. Hell. Got a full magazine, too. Was gonna keep it as a — never mind. Doc! Get back here and bring your supplies for a Foxtrot Oscar.”

The medical corpsman was their forward dual 50 cal gunner. Never made sense to me, until one day I thought, well, fuck, the whole boat ain’t but thirty by ten, ain’t no place safe!

“Problem, Skipper?”

“Nah. Son, I want you to take my commie gun and shoot the Colonel with it. Not fatally, you crazy fuck.”

“Sure thing, Skipper. Good timing too, just got some morphine last resupply.”

“THAT WON’T BE NECESSARY!” I screamed.

“I get it, sir, but that ain’t all I’m gonna do. You want it should look like the real thing, right?”

I nodded.

“Smart man. Best you start with these. He was holding dried plant stems with short thorns. “Close your eyes sir.” And he whipped them all up and down and side to side over my face, neck and the backs of my hands. “Not bad,” he said. “Drew blood, some nice deep ones. Like you had to beat it outta some hot zone. Next, you got snake bit.” He dug into an OD green satchel and I swear, he pulled out the biggest snake head I’ve seen. “It’s okay, sir. All bleached, sterilized and clean. Sink this job in and they gonna wonder how ya lived.” He got me right through the right arm of the uniform and damn near the place a Willie Pete had burned into me. To this day, that shit hurt me worse than anything I had ever fuckin been hurt by. No bullets, burns, broken bones or my old man’s bullwhip hurt like white phosphorus did. Then the Doc said, “now roll up the sleeve. I gotta make the X cuts with your machete. It’ll hurt.”

That didn’t bother me.

“Now the bullet. We gotta be quick so they don’t see the flare.”

The bullet resistant blankets had been rigged. But we needed distance. “Too close and there’s gonna be powder burns. But also we don’t want the bullet to go through. Surgeon gotta see that it’s a Commie round.” He thought for a minute, had me up in the bow, while he stood where I couldn’t even see him. Then came the zing of the bullet. It came before I heard the shot.

I collapsed. He had taken careful aim but we were on the water. The boat took a small wave, from what I never knew. I passed out.

The boat wasn’t moving when I woke up. “Colonel, I had to use the morphine.” Doc said. I was below, and I felt like I was in hell, it was so fuckin hot. My face burned from the scratches, the fang marks and cuts burned, and the pain of the gunshot was screaming somewhere in my gut. He held a canteen to my mouth and I drank, but got dizzy. “I got you kinda stable Colonel, but you’re in trouble. I hit something by mistake and I hope to God it ain’t yer liver. You got a fever so I can only give you a bit more morphine so when ya need it, nod. I’m gonna stay with ya, okay? In a minute we get under way. Captain disposed of the gun but had trouble restarting the motors. By the way, that jungle is a hell. The bombers keep coming. It’s the Phantoms and Skyhawks that drop the Willie Pete and most Nape, but the 52s come with incendiary and high explosive bombs. Those you can feel clean out here. I want ya stay awake so I can keep a eye on ya. Stay wake now. I got plasma and penicillin goin into ya but I’ve see yer dropping BP and that ain’t good. Keep drinking water. Ready for more?”

I don’t know what happened next. I was out for six months, deep in a coma. I weighed 80 pounds when I came back. I couldn’t even talk. In a display on a table next to my bed were ten Purple Heart medals, two Silver Stars, and a Medal of Honor. I had new rank insignia too. A single star: Brigadier General. How the fuck did that happen?

Because nobody enlists, starts out as a E-nothing, and gets to a one-star general without years at West Point.

Four months. Retraining the body, baby steps. I felt silly and I felt weak. Then one day I suddenly had the mental clarity to ask where I was. I was shocked and heartbroken at the answer. Walter Reed Army Hospital. I was long outta Vietnam. Cara, I thought. I wondered where she was, if she was alive. She must hate me. I didn’t keep my promise.

Never before did I feel anything like the pain in my chest. I cried in my private room. All the time. Two nurses saw it. They both worked different shifts, and they both wrote extensively on my chart.

It was already 1972. Nixon was running for reelection, but the protests continued. The NOW movement was added to the antiwar demonstrations. Bra burning was becoming a big thing. I watched Cronkite and wondered what had happened while I was gone. I’d missed the moon landings. I’d missed so much. Good things had been done but the country was oblivious. There was too much hurt, too much anger. I knew one thing.

I would never return to Oklahoma. Too much pain lay back there in that fuckin place, where it all began.

A general? Shit. They had plans for me. A ghost must be kept busy, under supervision. Never allowed the latitude to talk. I wondered why I had gone through so much when my own country hated me so much for doing it. The General had told me I’d be saving lives. I did, too. But the cost was what was left of my sanity. I wound up calling in bombers because I was sent on a suicide mission. The first base I had ever been to had been halfway destroyed by sappers and mortars. What had I–what had we — accomplished?

I had arrived in country an enraged animal ready to kill anything that moved. My old man had initiated my insanity. The war had finished the process.

One day a supervising doctor stopped by. It was time I knew. He sat down on a wooden chair, crossed his legs, put on glasses and opened a thick file. My medical records, the complete edition. “General Geldmacher, you have some significant scars from before the war. I have your records here. You never sought treatment. Why?”

“Cause one day I wanted to kill my father. I did try.”

“Yes, I see. That’s part of what got you to Vietnam. But the injuries since are what concern me. White phosphorus. Fragmentation grenades. Gunshot wounds. So many we can’t count them. Snake bites. A medium range gunshot from a Russian Makarov. That nearly did you in. We had reports of initial treatment on a Navy PBR, followed by a two-day stay in Saigon, then to Okinawa, then Germany. You were deep in a coma and although we were finally able to fix the problem, a simple procedure known as a bowel resection, you took lots of blood. You had an active bleeder that the first surgeons couldn’t find. That means that your brain was not getting the blood it needed, and my biggest worry right now is whether it left damage behind. I am calling in our finest neurologist and neurological team. You’re having visible trouble with basic light exercises and you seem to cry often. While I know some of what you went through out there, I can’t know what it was like, what the aftereffects are. So your malnutrition and lack of will to participate in rehabilitation I do understand to a point. General, you were a great soldier. I wager you have become a great man. My job is to watch you walk out of here healthy, whole and with renewed life. I will not give up on you. Is that clear, Sir?”

A week passed. I went to 78 pounds. I guess I was giving up.

The one thing I cared about in my whole life was lost to me forever. Why the fuck would I want to live? I didn’t even want to kill anymore. Every good reason to live and every bad reason to live, all were nullified. I wanted to fuckin die right in that bed.

I went to critical care when I fell unconscious. They couldn’t bring me back. I flatlined for five minutes before they got me breathing.

Then I awoke in a recovery room. A tube kept me breathing. I winked in and out for quick times of hearing nurses talking, then blackness again.

I don’t know how long it took. Long, I can say, but how long, I have no clue. I registered sunlight coming in through steel venetian blinds. A flower in a vase beside me on a table. A red rose. A get well card from someone. I was very alert, very clear-headed, and monster hunger begged for a hamburger. I’d had more than my share of Beans and Motherfuckers. It occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten since before I was shot.

Now it was 1973. The war was over. I was down, a nurse said, to 50 pounds. Any more and I would die. I asked for hamburgers and she was ecstatic, but said no solids yet. I could have soup, broth, pudding, ice cream. Stuff like that.

That night my neurologist came in. The lights were low, and she wasn’t really visible. She said, “You did not keep your promise, so I will keep it for you. But I’m surprised to find such a great man like this. You are lucky they finally called me.”

“Cara!” I cried. “Is it really you? Tell me it’s not a dream!”

She came closer, hands in her lab coat pockets. I saw tears glistening on her face even in the low lighting.

“No dream, Lee. I’m a U.S. Army surgeon now. Also citizen. And Lee, I looked and looked for you. Now I find you here like this. Tell me my love: for whom do you cry at night? I have seen your full record. You cry. Why?”

“For us. I thought you might be dead and I was broken. My heart and my soul.”

“So tell me, broken general, will you fight back and will you still marry me?”

“When I get out of here.”

“Then,” she said, “you must work harder. I will see you every day for your therapy update. I’m head of neurology here. I look to be a major soon. We were meant to find each other again and God gets his way. You were tough, Ghost. Now maybe you can be tough again for me. I love you. I never stopped loving you. I was so happy even though to see you like this on my operating table made me cry. I did good work to save you. Now I need you to save me. You were not alone in your sadness.”

That’s when I knew I was going to live.

Healing

The years went by so fast. Cara is still with me, but I’m retired. She’s still a doc, still at Walter Reed. Papers have been written about her and she’s written a few herself. We never had kids because of our careers, but more because of my violent life. I just didn’t want children. Mental illness obviously ran in my family, giving Cara the idea to write a case history on my family. She titled it “The Insanity Syndrome” and addressed DNA and hereditary mental disorders.

She has not aged. Still willowy, delicate, her long black hair without a streak of gray while mine has turned into a shock of snowy white. But our love, our passion for each other never faded. We still get into sweaty, moaning tangles, and hold hands in the park, give each other gifts for birthdays, Christmas, Easter, and Valentine’s Day. She loves to grow flowers, spend time in the garden, listen to 70s rock, dance in the living room. So full of sunshine and love. I never thought, back then, that I could be happy. But I am.

I told her once that I didn’t deserve her. She said it was the other way around. I was a “virgin” until our wedding night and she was hardly that. It was nothing to me. I just plain loved her at first sight.

I told her sex had nothing to do with it. I was insane for the longest time, bloodthirsty and evil. She was everything good that humanity could create. I’d loved the kill. Feeling a heart stop beating against the point of my bayonet or that cursed knife. The blade I bought for killing. I guess I lost it when I was hauled out of that PBR. Everything had been left behind. I told Cara how much I had loved it. I said, “I was an animal.“

“You are still the man I fell in love with. The animal is always inside us all. What matters is not how we have lived before, it is how we learn from it, who we become. You are no longer a ghost. You are a good man who has had the world thrown onto his shoulders and lived to tell the story. You think yourself unworthy. You are the strongest and wisest man I could ever have hoped to marry. I never felt loved until I met you. I knew we would be together forever. You alone never cared about my past. What I had to do to go to France and medical school. Never asked a question. Never became insecure. No other man could I ever love. We do deserve our happiness.”

Yesterday we went to the Vietnam War Memorial wall. As always, I wore my uniform. I’ve seen names on it, every year, that made me cry. Every year, I spot names of guys I knew, although for very short times as I moved around. And I remember. They were just guys who did the best they could under conditions that drove some to desperation. There were suicides. Self-inflicted wounds. Some guys went away forever. Over 58,000 of them. Yesterday was Memorial Day. There was a good turnout there. There are, it seems, still patriots. Cara stayed behind me. I broke down crying. The PBR captain’s name was up there. Cara was beside me in an instant, supporting me and hugging me. I forced myself to stand steady, at attention, and rendered the man who had saved me from certain death a lingering salute. Then I sobbed, “Why? Such a brave, good man. Why?”

Cara did a rubbing for me. I sobbed softly until a black woman my age said, “Excuse me, General. How did you know my husband?”

I couldn’t hide the tears, didn’t even want to. With her were two grown men, also not young. Their sons. I told her, “He saved my life. I’ll always be grateful. I never forget him. Never. He was a great, brave, wise man. I loved him even though the mission was short. I almost died that time.” Then I shook, uncontrolled, a prisoner of tears. And she hugged me, that kind lady, and she said, whispering in my ear, “You’re the ghost he wrote about. He said the whole crew worried about you and how he hoped and prayed that you would make it. He said if you lived, then that mission was his best and proudest of the war. Now you can cry today, because you found him where you didn’t want to, and that makes you a good man. You can’t cry for someone you didn’t love, not how you’re crying now. I believe he knows you made it home. I believe the good lord let him see you and your…”

“Wife, Cara. She refuses to age but we met over there.” I understood her caution. She didn’t know if Cara was my wife or daughter.

“Well she is a lovely lady. You’re blessed. Now I’m going to give you my number. Every year we will meet right here. He wouldn’t want you to grieve. Next time we praise God for him giving me such wonderful boys, and giving you the chance to live. Are you alright, now?”

“Yes. Ma’am. And thank you,” I whispered back.

“Honey, I know my husband hated that war. But he did some good when he was there. And that’s what made him keep going. And maybe you’ll be thinking it’s unfair, he didn’t come home to us. But don’t forget what I said. Saving you would be his proudest thing. You take care, General. Live your life. Be good. Be happy. Do it for you, for your wife, and do it for us.”

She touched me deeply. But both troubled and inspired, I’ll never forget that visit.

I stopped using names like “gook” and “spook” years ago. Hell, decades ago. But then, I was destined to lose my anger anyway. That’s why the judge sent me to the fuckin Nam. He knew. Somehow, he just knew.