Near the banks of the Mekong Delta in a tangle of mangroves, Private Wyatt Turner and three other soldiers waited for the patrol boat.
During the four months he’d been in Vietnam, Wyatt learned more about Americans than in all his twenty years in Wyoming.
He’d never seen a black person before, except on TV, or been friends with a Mexican. The only city people he met were guests at Gary's Dude Ranch. He led them on horseback as he rode Buttercup along the foothills of the Grand Tetons. And his one experience with the tropics was in the window of Meeks Travel Agency in Jackson Hole. He always made a point of walking along the raised wooden boardwalk just to gaze at their travel poster of a curvy Hawaiian girl in a grass skirt with long black hair dancing the hula.
Private Aaron Franklin crushed an insect on his dark arm and flicked it away. “I’m outta spray.”
“Here,” Wyatt said, pitching Franklin the liquid Deet.
Aaron showered his arms. He came from Kentucky and worked as a groom. Wyatt and Aaron talked about everything from the best feed and hay to riding bareback and English saddles versus Western. Their friendship deepened over their love of horses.
Arron tossed the repellent back.
Drenched in sweat, Wyatt peeled off his shirt and lobbed it next to his M16. “This is brutal.” He sprayed the repellant on the back of his hands and over his arms. The mild citrus-smelling liquid was effective but made his skin sticky. He’d never felt such heat and humidity, not that he’d been anywhere south of Cheyenne.
“Man, what’s taking them?” Franklin said. “It’s been over two hours that I’ve been lookin’ at your ugly mugs.”
Headquarters in Long Binh sent Wyatt’s squad and four others to search an area of Cà Mua in the south-eastern area of the delta for Viet Cong. With the report of no sightings, all squads but Wyatt’s had been picked up. Now they waited their turn.
“The gooks aren’t around. I’d like a cigarette, Sarge,” Private Fernando Garcia said.
Wyatt felt the outline of the Zippo and pack of Marlboro’s in his cargo pants. “So would I.”
Garcia came from Gilroy, a small farming town in northern California. Wyatt and Fernando were raised by their grandmothers. They had exchanged letters in case one of them died, promising to let the other’s grandmother know of their death. They talked baseball, who would win the World Series, and both thought Roberto Clemente was the best player in either league.
“I’d like a smoke too,” Staff Sergeant Vince Colombo said. “It ain’t gonna happen.” He wiped his brow with a neckerchief. “We’ll be picked up.”
The Staff Sergeant came from Philadelphia, the only one in their squad from a big city and the oldest among them. Wyatt respected the cool and collected leader.
Not a month after he landed in Nam, he and his squad got ambushed in Bến Tre. It was Colombo’s commands, cool-headedness, and what Wyatt admired most, his ability to keep his team tight and cohesive that got them out alive.
Wyatt shot and killed a young Viet Cong in the surprise attack. He saw terror in the boy’s eyes as blood spurted from his neck. His small, skinny body fell among the coconut palms. But Wyatt didn’t feel the victory like others had when they killed. In fact, it haunted him. A mixed bag of patriotism, survival, and guilt plagued him. He crammed down feelings of shame and remorse because the president knew best—saving Americans from communism.
“Radio ‘em again, will ya, Sarge?” Franklin said.
Colombo turned on the switch of the KY-38 transceiver and lifted the receiver to his ear.
“What do you hear, Sarge?” Wyatt asked.
Colombo put down the handset. “It’s dead.”
“Damn. A wild goose chase.” Fernando ran the back of his arm over his forehead. “This humidity is killing me.”
“I’ll try in a half hour,” Colombo said. “Could be they’re out of range.”
“Or the fucking radio doesn’t work,” Franklin said.
They waited.
And waited.
Wyatt’s draft notice arrived in ’71 as Nixon began to pull troops out of Vietnam. Grams told him it was an honor to fight for his country. He agreed but hated leaving the ranch.
They’d watched the evening news together, saw war protests around the country, and heard interviews of ex-soldiers telling viewers Vietnam was an unwinnable war. Grams told him they’d been brainwashed to hate America.
When Wyatt looked out the window of the C7 that had transported him to Vietnam, he saw luscious dark green vegetation that looked like an emerald city. He’d never seen anything so beautiful. Then, after minutes of flying, Wyatt gasped at the jungles bombed into oblivion, people whose villages had been homes now gaping craters, and dense forests blackened by Agent Orange, and thought of those guys on TV. How many more bombs would it take to win the war? That was his first wrestle with doubt; the second came when he killed that boy.
He had no interest in college, or joining the Coast Guard to stay out of Nam or escaping to Canada. He was just a simple cowboy, not thinking beyond his own life.
Wyatt took his canteen from his rucksack and gulped water.
Damn, he wanted a smoke—take the edge off of waiting and the suffocating heat. At least they weren’t further north in the jungles, or tramping through rivers getting trench foot, though the delta had its own peculiar hell. Snakes. Leeches. Blood sucking flies. The monsoons.
He daydreamed of life on the dude ranch. How Buttercup whinnied whenever she saw him, how he always had a carrot or apple to give her. Of all the horses on the ranch, the palomino had the smoothest gait, responded quick to his commands. He imagined her stall and the smell of straw, hay, and feed. He even enjoyed mucking it out. Sometimes he bathed her. Best of all were their times in the early morning hours when they cantered along the Snake River. Elk and mule deer drank from the pristine water. From treetops, bald eagles fished for breakfast. Once he saw a grizzly bear drinking from the river. Wyatt pulled Buttercup’s reins and guided the horse away from the bear.
One of his favorite times on the ranch was when he’d ride with the girls who were visiting. They always managed to get ahead of their parents and ride beside him.
He received letters from girlfriends back home telling him news of the world. Some reports he already knew from the AFVN. William Calley was found guilty in the My Lai massacre. Patton won best picture at the Academy Awards. Jim Morrison died in Paris. The 26th Amendment lowered the voting age to 18-year-olds and that the Harris Poll claimed 60% of Americans were against the war. But what he really liked was the personal stuff. Lisa—who addressed all of her letters to him as “Paul” because she thought he looked like Paul Newman—wrote that she was ready to sleep with him so hurry home. Mary scrawled in her large curlicue script that he was the best kisser of all the boys, but admitted to testing a few other guys while he was away.
The morning he left for bootcamp, Grams made him swear to write often, stay away from loose women, never do drugs, and above all, to say his prayers and to follow the Ten Commandments. “But Grams, I’m going off to kill. Isn’t that one of them?” “God doesn’t count fighting for your country.”
“Man.” Aaron’s deep voice snapped him back to reality. “I’d kill for a Big Mac.”
“We’re going on three hours, Sarge.” Garcia yawned. “Mind if I play solitaire, Sarge?”
“You know the answer,” Colombo said.
“Gotta take a dump,” Wyatt said.
“Stay close.”
“What for? No one’s around, Sarge.”
“It’s an order.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Wyatt said.
“Face upwind, will ya man,” Arron said. “Don’t wanna be smelling your shit.”
“I’ll bring you back a meat patty.”
Aaron chuckled.
Wyatt crawled, using his arms to slip between a thicket of tangled tree limbs, foliage, and palm fronds. He found a spot a few feet from the squad, pulled down his pants, and squatted. On his knees, he zipped up his pants when a flock of birds flew out of the forest startling him.
Bang! Boom! Bullets whizzed past his ears. The explosive sound of gunfire reverberated around him.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Gunfire, screams, explosions, shouts in Vietnamese and English pierced through the trees and shrubs along with the smell of smoke, metal, and gunpowder.
He left behind his buddies, M16, rucksack, and helmet a “Fucking New Guy” who should have taken his rifle. Now his only defense, his knife.
The enemy was no more than a few feet away—voices rapid, commanding.
Shaking, he heard tree branches snap, boots trampling over leaves, foliage thrashed—his muscles tensed from the threat of capture.
He recognized Aaron’s moans, heard him cry.
One shot. Two. Three.
Those fuckers!
They'd see his M16 and rucksack and would search for him.
Wyatt could do nothing about his friends but he’d try to save himself. He held his breath, the enemy close enough to hear them breathe between words. Wyatt hoped they couldn’t hear his heart booming or his sweat dripping onto the leaves. For a few seconds, he heard nothing. He saw a hollow, hoping to hide in it. Then, when the Cong started to talk, he gently moved his arms into the concave. He Stopped. Listened. As deftly and as quietly as he could, he parted the earth like a swimmer diving into water, and disappeared into a hole. But it wasn’t a hole; it was the entrance to a tunnel. He knew the V-C and North Vietnamese made hundreds of tunnels, using them as routes and hideouts.
He slid the lower half of his body into the hole. The tunnels were built for the smaller Vietnamese. Wyatt had to twist and squeeze to get his 6’2’’ body all the way in.
Once inside, he bent over and snapped open the side pocket of his cargo pants, took out his Zippo, flipped it open, and slid his thumb downward. The wheel struck the flint, and the wick caught the flame. It wasn’t a tunnel. He was inside a cave. Vietnam had lots of them too. This one appeared cramped, with a narrow path between the stony walls.
He could be trapped, but there was no other choice.
Wyatt gagged from the stink of bat shit and urine. Stooping, and holding the flame in front of him, he headed along the cramped passageway. It led to an opening with dagger-like stalactites hanging from the ceiling like spearheads. The roof varied in height and width. Rock formations jutted out from the walls. The narrow corridor had large boulders on either side, some he’d have to scale.
He flipped off the Zippo and put it in his pocket.
Blind, he felt his way deeper into the grotto. Hunched low, his fingers became his eyes. Damp air and mold replaced the stink of bat shit and urine.
If the cave didn’t have an exit, he’d be a goner.
His hands constantly touched, grasped—to the roof, the ground. His boots tread along the tight path.
Covered in sweat, he navigated further into the cave.
Spiderwebs brushed his face. He swiped them. Insects bit his neck and arms. He smacked them. Squeaking rats freaked him out.
A sudden downpour pounded overhead.
He moved fast, scraping his back against the roof. His T-shirt tore.
He stopped.
Listened.
Heard water rushing and took out the Zippo. With the flame cupped in his hands, he glanced back. Water streamed toward him. It trickled down the cave’s walls.
He put the lighter in his pocket.
His boots splashed through a rising stream. Wyatt stretched his fingers and groped his way along the gushing current.
He’d been in several monsoons since he arrived, one where it rained nonstop for weeks. Another time, a pelting rain battered, then minutes later the sky opened and the sun shone. Of all the ways to die here, he never considered drowning.
Stay calm, he told himself.
Wyatt peered into darkness, his eyes straining for light. He wanted to take out the Zippo, but didn’t. After all, the cave could be miles long, and he had to save the butane.
Blind, his sense of hearing amplified as he sloshed through water and prayed for an exit.
The shock of losing his friends overwhelmed him—he too could die today, September 30th, 1971.
His dog tags stuck to his chest.
The letter Fernando carried for Grams was lost forever. And since Wyatt left without his rucksack, Fernando’s letter to his grandmother lost too. MIA. That’s what he’d become. He touched the knife’s sheath that was attached to his belt.
Heart galloping, water now to his knees, he slogged forward, twisting his hips, hoping for light.
The water kept rising.
Wyatt took out the Zippo. He followed the slim path, “Jesus!” he whispered as he nearly stepped into a drop-off. How deep was it?
Holding the lighter, there was no way to go around it. He lowered the Zippo into the cavity. He could manage the drop.
He flicked off the lighter, and put it in his top cargo pocket.
Wyatt slid down the slope. Like a waterslide, it carried him down as his arms slammed against rocks. When he stood, the stream rose to his thighs.
He seized the Zippo. On the second try, it blazed.
Ahead, the cave’s trail forked into two paths. On the right, a sandal, and a black-and-white neckerchief rushed past in the current. Wyatt put the lighter in his pants. That trail would lead to the V-C. The other might be a dead end.
He heard voices coming from the right. Water splashed.
Terrified, adrenaline soaring, Wyatt turned left and plunged underwater. The current propelled him forward like a bullet until he smacked into rocks. Tumbling, his body crashed and reeled. His strength was no match against the roaring tide. Wyatt panicked. The chain holding his dog tags snapped. He came up for air. Cut his head on a stalactite. Ducked below. Came up. Gasped.
He tried to tread water as it rose to his neck. God help me, he cried over and over.
Arms outstretched, he felt the walls taper.
When he broke the surface, what he saw sent his heart racing.
Light!
God willing, he would make it out alive.
The water receded.
Wyatt unsnapped the sheath and took out the knife. He'd heard horror stories of beatings, starvation—and of spending months, years in solitary confinement.
Holding the weapon in his right hand, he kept his back to the wall while he edged closer to the exit.
Wyatt gripped his knife and moved like a barn cat ready to pounce.
He was outside the cave in a jungle of banana trees and tall grasses.
He heard no helicopters, no planes, just birds chirping. Strange. The rain stopped. The sun beamed down with blazing heat.
Wet clothes clung to his skin. His body ached from cuts and bruises, and the top of his head throbbed. Blood seeped into his hair and dribbled down the side of his face. He crouched in the lush vegetation. Through the fronds, he caught glimpses of gold and green—the Mekong Delta. The rice paddies had been destroyed by Agent Blue. How did they recover so soon?
Crawling through the vegetation, he searched the delta for the patrol boat. Where the hell were they? Hard to tell how long he’d been in the cave. Did he miss them? He wanted to blame them for the death of his buddies, blame himself for taking a shit. But in war, he learned all faults lie with the enemy.
By jeep, Saigon was several hours north. To make it on foot would be suicidal. The only survivor of the attack, it was up to him to let headquarters know of the death of Staff Sergeant Colombo and Privates Franklin and Garcia.
Wyatt crept closer to the water and scanned the delta, a battleship sailed north.
He looked up and down the estuary, listened as birds sang to each other, searched the clouds colliding overhead.
The large vessel continued up the Mekong. Wyatt questioned its several decks. Freaky. He’d never seen anything like it.
The faint sound of rock music played by twangy string instruments drifted from the ship. What the fuck?
A couple of miles off shore, he squinted for a closer look. Why were sailors in different colors? Weird.
He shaded his eyes with his hand and stared. Most of the crew held out small objects that glittered in the sun.
Some aimed them at him.
Wyatt ducked. Nothing exploded.
Who were those fools? Didn’t they know a war was going on?
Maybe when he cut his head on the stalactite, it messed with his brain.
As the vessel neared, he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them. Women? Onboard? And what’s with those rectangle gadgets? Some kind of new V-C weapon? A Viet Cong mind-fuck?
It was definitely not a battleship, and those people were not sailors.
“A war’s going on you fools,” he said under his breath. With a sweeping glance, he clutched the butt of his knife. He was not going to let anyone else die today.
He hobbled to the shore, waving his arm, “Go back!” he shouted. “Go back!”
People on board the vessel waved at him.
What the hell was going on! Was he hallucinating?
“Hey. You’re off trail.”
Wyatt whipped around. He looked into the face of a young Vietnamese man.
“Are you with Local Tours Reenactment?” said the unarmed youth who spoke English. A group of white and Asian people stood behind him. “You’re really hurt.”
Stunned. Something was seriously off. Had he died?
“I’ll call, if you’re lost.” The young man stepped down the incline.
Wyatt flinched.
“My name’s Tung.” He held out a card with bold letters that hung from a ribbon around his neck.
Wyatt saw Tung’s name, his photograph, and next to that, 30-9-23.
“You’re bleeding.” Tung turned to another youth. “Tai, call for help.” Assessing Wyatt, Tung said, “Let me bandage your head.”
“No,”Wyatt yelled.
“What’s your name?” Tung asked.
This was Twilight Zone weird.
“Maybe he has amnesia,” said a gray haired woman with an English accent.
“Who are you people?” Wyatt shouted. Retreating, he kept his eyes on the group as his boots sank into sand. The men had short hair. Everyone dressed in T-shirts and shorts. They all carried backpacks.
“For God’s sake,” said a man in a red and white ball cap. “I’m hot and I have dinner reservations in Ho Chi Minh City.”
Ho Chi Minh City—where was that? In the North? If so, the man was crazy to want to go there.
“Tai, take them ahead,” Tung said. “I’ll catch up.”
Wyatt put away his knife.
At the sound of splashing water, he reeled.
Tung grabbed him before he fell into the river. “It’s a rescue raft,” Tung said. “Luxury Liners has a sick bay onboard.”
“What kind of ship?” Wyatt asked.
“It’s a boat for river cruises,” Tung said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s for old people who take vacations.”
Wyatt touched his forehead and wiped away blood. Maybe he had a seizure.
The pilot jumped into the water, holding an orange life jacket.
“Thanks for coming,” Tung said.
“No problem.” The man in white shorts and dark blazer with yellow rings around the cuff spoke English with a foreign accent. He looked at Wyatt. “I’m Luxury Liners boat supervisor, Emil Olsen. You’re really banged up. What’s your name?”
Wyatt stared.
“He might have amnesia,” Tung said.
“I need to go to Saigon.” Maybe there he’d find answers.
“You’re lucky. We're on our way to Ho Chi Minh City,” Olsen said. “We’ll take care of your wounds in the meantime.”
Saigon? Ho Chi Minh City? The same place? Insanity.
Thirsty, Wyatt crouched and scooped a handful of water.
“No, it’ll kill you,” Tung said.
“Kill me?” Wyatt asked.
“The delta’s full of plastic.”
“I have water on the raft,” Olsen said, holding out the lifejacket. “Put this on.”
He had no choice but to trust these strangers. And he still had his knife. They were nice to him, which made it all the more confusing. Grimacing, he put on the vest and Velcro'd the straps over his bruised chest.
Tung helped Wyatt into the raft.
“Here.” Olsen passed Wyatt a water bottle.
He drained it.
Wyatt relived the moment he went into the cave, almost drowned, and heard the VC. When he escaped outside, the war he’d been fighting disappeared.
Searching for the patrol boat, Wyatt scanned the peaceful coastline with its sandy beaches and long, bending palm trees.
As they neared the ship, he heard a thumping bass and saw Luxury Liners written across the hull. People hung over the rails watching. Some pointed those odd rectangles at him.
Olsen attached both ends of the raft to a davit, and it lifted.
“Make room,” said a steward in a white uniform.
Two assistants helped Wyatt take off the lifejacket and guided him into a wheelchair.
Olsen led the way.
They passed a lounge with a band. Old people Grams’s age and older danced to “Proud Mary”—Odd, Grams’ generation hated rock and roll. Next to the lounge was a casino. He covered his ears from the loud dings of the slot machines.
The steward pushed Wyatt past white and Asian crew members carrying trays and linen.
Olsen opened a door. The steward wheeled Wyatt into a room and left.
Near the porthole, an old man with a tan and deep lines on his face sat upright on the bed.
A futuristic, flat TV stuck to the wall like a painting. There was a board with a name, arrival time, and a date.
Wyatt rose from the chair.
“Take it easy,” Olsen said.
A middle-aged woman entered the room, followed by a young man who shut the door.
On the back of the door was a calendar. September 2023.
Wyatt flashed back to the card hanging from Tung’s neck, 30-9-23.
Holy Fuck! He blacked out, falling against the wheelchair and crashed to the floor.
Feet scuttled. Hands grasped. Muffled voices . Sweating, trembling—Wyatt roused, staring wide-eyed at four strangers looking down at him.
He curled into a ball and screamed, “Grams! Grams!”
From inside a tunnel a woman’s voice echoed, “I won’t hurt you but I need to stop the bleeding.”
“Wake me,” Wyatt shouted. Flailing, he cried, “Get the fuck off me!” Strong hands held him down. He was trying to reach for his knife when he felt a jab in his arm. The next thing he knew he was sitting in the wheel chair.
“My name’s Nurse Campbell. I gave you something to calm you. Duy is going to assist me.”
“The tour guide thought he might have amnesia,” Olsen said. “Buzz if you need me. Good luck, young man.”
“I need to look at the cut,” the nurse said. “Can you tell me what happened?” Wyatt was as lost as he was in the cave. “I’m going to part your hair. Will you let me do that?”
Impossible. How could it be? It was like those time-travel episodes from Outer Limits. That was fantasy—this was real.
Blood had clotted down the right side of his face. He nodded. “It—” he lowered his head, “stalactite.”
“You were in a cave?”
“Yeah.” Whatever she gave him mellowed him out.
“It doesn’t look serious,” the nurse said, “but you should see a doctor. Duy, call Gia Dinh. Tell them to have an ambulance when we dock at Phu My. But first, I’ll need soap and a bowl of water. Also, petroleum jelly. Then, get him out of the damp clothes, bathe him, and dress his wounds.”
She grabbed a square object on the counter and tapped on it. “Your name?”
2023. He pressed his fists on either side of his head trying to squeeze himself back to 1971.
“I’m sorry but I need to ask,” Nurse Campbell said in a soft voice. “Is there anyone we can contact?”
He thought of his three buddies and wished he had died with them. Then he thought of Grams and started to shake.
Wyatt woke up in a hospital gown. He'd been given medicine for his head, but it still throbbed just not as intense.
“We’ll clean your clothes and dry your boots,” Nurse Campbell said. “I’ll check on you later.”
“Do you need help getting up?” Duy asked.
Wyatt shook his head and lifted himself off the wheelchair. “I’ll clean myself.”
Duy opened the door to a bathroom with a step-in shower and a plastic stool. He turned on the faucet and tested the water. “There’s a buzzer on the wall if you need me.”
Wyatt took off the gown.
The water struck him like needles, stinging the bruises and cuts on the back of his arms and legs he hadn’t even known were there.
He soaped himself, watched the dirt swirl down the drain. Although there were handrails, there was nothing left of his life to hold onto.
He’d find the cave. The Viet Cong would be waiting for him. Kill him. Even if he escaped, would he get back to 1971? “Oh Grams,” he whispered. They would tell her he was MIA or killed. “I’m so sorry, Grams.” He lifted his face to the nozzle and let the water wash with his tears.
He was a different kind of dead—dead to Buttercup, Lisa and Mary, his friends, the Grand Tetons, his life as a cowboy.
Don’t feel sorry for yourself, he heard Grams scold. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps.
Just like in the cave, when he had to go left, he had no choice but to stay in this strange new world.
Wyatt rinsed himself. Fifty-two years, he’d be seventy-two, and didn’t know a damn thing about those missing years.
Once outside the shower, he dried himself and ran his hand across the foggy mirror.
Shell shock. That’s what he saw in his light-blue eyes. He tried to get a grip by focusing on the cuts across his cheeks, the bruise on his chin, when an image of Lisa kissing him, stroking his light-brown hair, telling him good-bye, streaked across his mind.
He pressed the buzzer.
Duy opened the door and gave Wyatt a clean hospital gown.
“I’ll dress your wounds.”
Wyatt sat on top of the bed staring at the TV. The Zippo lay on the tray beside him along with his soggy pack of Marlboros but the knife and sheath were missing. God, how he wanted to smoke.
“Feeling better, mate?” said the old man in the next bed. “Want to pull that divider?”
Wyatt drew the partition and sat back down.
“Name’s Logan Hewitt, from Bow Park, Queensland. Noticed your cargo pants and knife. Reckon you’re military or playing. Glad to see you’re feeling better. Scared us.
“Where’s my knife, sir?”
“The nurse took it.”
“Bum a cigarette, sir?”
“You can’t smoke.”
“Why not, sir?”
“It’s against the law. Call me Logan.”
Smoking against the law?
A young Asian woman brought in a tray of food.
Starving, Wyatt scarfed down the pudding, then burrowed into the mashed potatoes and wolfed up the applesauce.
“Come to Vietnam,” said a pretty Vietnamese woman on the TV screen. “Visit Hang Sơn Đoòng, the world’s largest cave.” Wyatt shoved aside the tray and limped to the TV. A film showed the inside of a majestic cave with a waterfall, running stream, and trees where parts of the cave collapsed. Wyatt touched the screen, blown away by the reality.
“Spend time at the War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City.” Pictures of anti-war drawings by Vietnamese children streamed across the screen. “Visit the exhibit of Japanese photojournalist Bun’yō Ishikawa’s war photographs.” Wyatt saw American tanks, villages in rubble, and Vietnamese lying dead in the streets.
“Cruise the Mekong Delta and shop at the floating markets.” Boats filled with vegetables and fruit beamed across the TV.
The narration continued, “Come see Hanoi, our beautiful capital with historic temples—” The picture froze.
The people looked happy, the country prosperous. We must have won the war and occupied it.
The picture came back on and the woman continued, “Stay at the elegant 5 star Au Lac Charner Hotel in Ho Chi Minh City.” A film of inside and outside the hotel appeared. “They have exquisite dining, a swimming pool, and a discount—” The picture broke into pieces.
“Lousy reception,” Logan said, turning it off. “Can’t believe the changes. Prue wanted me to come back. Said it would heal my wounds. She was right.”
“When were you here?”
“Back in ’68, ’69. I was in the battle of Hat Dich. First Australian Task Force. Horrible. Can’t believe it’s been fifty-five years.”
Jesus, this old man could be him. “You lost friends?” Wyatt asked.
“That was the worst.” Logan tossed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. “Seeing your buddies killed. Watching them die. You keep asking yourself, why me? Why didn’t I die?” Logan shook his head. “From the beginning that war was a lost cause.”
“The United States lost?”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate. They didn’t teach you that in school?” Logan grimaced. “Head wound, they can be tricky, sorry son.”
This was a new kind of minefield, and Wyatt had to be careful what to say. “Were you here? In the delta?” he asked, staggering to the edge of the bed and sitting across from Logan.
Logan nodded. “I helped train the Vietnamese at Đồng Tâm, in ’71. After that, I was done. It’s always the same—old men sending boys into battle. They should fight their own bloody wars. I learned that too late.” He leaned into Wyatt. “I’ll tell you something. This trip made me see, oh, what’s the word Prue used? Gracious. The Vietnamese have been kind to us veterans, most of them anyway.” Logan’s eyes moistened. “If they can forgive me, I can forgive myself.” Logan brushed away a tear. “It’s a horrible thing, taking a man’s life. Even in war.”
Wyatt thought of the young soldier he killed.
“Did you go into any caves?”
“God, never. We Aussies knew to keep clear of them. The Viet Cong used them for hiding. Americans got trapped and killed.” Logan reached over and pat Wyatt on the knee. “Feeling better?”
Wyatt shrugged.
“What’s your name?”
“Wyatt.”
“You’re a good listener, mate. Where’re you from?”
It would be easier to stick to the truth—as much as possible. “Wyoming.”
“Ah, cowboy country. You a cowboy?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a grazier on my own station—what you Yanks call a ranch. I’m semi-retired. Mostly my son and grandson. Here,” he said, reaching over and giving Wyatt the rectangle gizmo. “Take a look.”
“What is this?”
“You been hiding under a rock?” Logan winced. “Did it again. Sorry son.” His creased brown face broke into a lopsided smile. “It’s an iPhone. You make calls, take pictures, get on the internet.”
“Internet?” Wyatt turned the sleek device over in his hand. It was like 007—far out.
“It’s where you look things up. Connect with other people. Get emails.”
“What’s emails?”
“Electronic mail you get over the internet,” Logan said.
Fascinated by the technology, Wyatt looked at the photograph and choked up. It reminded him of home with horses and cattle grazing. He handed it back to Logan.
Duy brought in Wyatt’s clothes and boots. “There’s a Luxury Liner T-shirt. Yours was ripped. Need help dressing?”
“No thanks.”
Duy pulled the divider.
Wyatt changed and tossed the waterlogged pack of Marlboros into the trash can.
Clutching his Zippo, he pulled back the partition. “Excuse me, sir. I’m going on deck.”
“Thank you for letting this old soldier blab. Sometimes it’s easier talking to people you don’t know. Especially the hard stuff.” Logan handed Wyatt a card. “If you’re ever in Australia, look me up. We can always use a big strong cowboy. In the meantime, get well.”
Wyatt opened the door and walked into a humid, hot late afternoon. He had no home to go to. He was pissed-off at the U.S. government. Nixon lied. Kissinger lied, Westmoreland, all of them. The protesters were right.
He leaned his bandaged arms on the railing and wondered what had Aaron, Fernando, and Vince died for? What had he killed for? What had he died for? And why was he here now?
Most of all, he was angry at himself. Never again would he go blindly into war.
He thought about Logan and his need to heal. He needed that too.
Mesmerized by the lush coastline, he could honor his dead buddies by helping veterans—listen to their stories, let them talk. Aaron’s words came back to him—North Vietnam had horses, descendants from Mongolian stock. Maybe do something with that. Or, go to Australia and hook up with Logan.
Insane as it sounded, he’d been given a second chance at life. Could he ever be able to tell the mind-blowing truth? Would they believe his story that he leapfrogged into peace when only hours before he’d been fighting in the Vietnam War?
He pictured Grams in her yellow apron telling him, “God works in mysterious ways.”
No shit.
Wyatt opened his palm. The Zippo lay there like a relic. It saved him in the cave. Maybe like an amulet, it would protect him as he figured out how to live in a world of iPhones and internets and grandparents dancing to Creedence Clearwater Revival.
-- DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story, and flash fiction author with hundreds of stories published internationally in print, online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: Amazing Stories, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, Broadkill Review, Zoetic Press, and others. DC has two published collections of short stories: Stepping Up and Captured Up Close (20th Century Short-Short Stories). She was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and three times for Best of the Net Anthology. She lives on the California coast with her wife and animals. This story was originally published in a print anthology by Apus.
