Carry Me Home (93 page)

“Do you want to bury this asshole?” They were in the barn office. Carl Mariano was to the side filing receipts and bills. Tom Van Deusen was at the drawing table sketching a detail for the bid for the Fyodor job. Steve Hacken had been popping in and out, asking Van Deusen questions about trim details on the Maxwell job. Josh was at Bobby’s feet, asleep, twitching in his dog dreams, passing gas which could be cut with a knife. Sherrick was leaning over the desk, rereading the letter.

“I just want to do what’s right,” Bobby said.

“You want to get this asshole Rosenwald off your back though?”

“Yeah.”

“You have a copy of your grandfather’s will?”

“Gary, I just want to send him a letter explaining that I have, and will continue to, abide by the terms of the will.”

“Hey!” Gary was brusque. “You have to hit them with quad-fifties. You have to gain fire superiority. Otherwise this guy’s going to overrun your position.”

“He’s representing my mother, sister and brother,” Bobby said. “Not Hanoi.”

“You better wake up, Man. I know guys like this. I almost became one. He’s going to push you so hard you either fight or sell out. You’re not going to have a choice.”

“He can’t. I
am
abiding by the will.”

“Not the way they see it.”

“But I keep open books. They can go over them. You go over them. They’re—”

“I’d rip you apart in five seconds. You’re in my kill zone, Man. Stop thinking justice. Look at the landlines. Can you justify that cost? What about the bunkhouse? What about paying guys that don’t work? You can’t give away their money.”

“We’re turning a profit and I’m giving them their percentage. Actually, this year I paid them before I took out the capital expenses for the buildings.”

“But after the trucks, huh?”

“That’s strictly part of the business.”

“If you were their attorney, would you see it that way?”

“But that’s the way it is!”

“Damn!” Sherrick smacked his palm onto the desk. “Stop thinking ‘fair.’ These guys don’t care about fair. Think ‘adversary.’ Think ‘enemy.’ Fer God’s sake, Man. You were a company commander! No wonder we lost. You didn’t learn a damn thing about tactics.”

Bobby responded angrily, defensively, “They’re still my family.” He leaned back in the swivel chair. “We’ll try the open approach. If they come after us, we’ll do it your way.”

Sherrick snorted. “Suit yourself, Henry,” he said. “Give em a decent interval, huh? Suit yourself Henry da Kay.”

Despite the adversarial relationship between Gary Sherrick and most of the vets, Steve Hacken befriended him. On Saturday night half a dozen guys went to the White Pines Inn. The place was packed, the music loud, the air smoke-filled, smelling of stale beer and greasy steak sandwiches. Guys out-numbered gals five to one. Voices were loud, sharp. Drinks flowed like spring runoff.

Arguments, bickering, began in the van on the way down. “Don’t give me that crap about pride,” Sherrick accosted Mariano.

“I’m proud, too.” Art Brown backed Carl’s position.

“That’s because you’re stupid, Art,” Sherrick said. “You soul brothers were used. How many times do I—”

Wagner cut in. “Bullshit. We were there together.”

In numbers there is strength. Mariano, Wagner, Brown and Casper held to their position. Hacken felt divided. He had befriended Sherrick because Sherrick was bright, aloof. To Hacken, Gary held a personal power none of the others, except Wapinski, possessed.

Sherrick stood alone. “We raped, we pillaged, we murdered millions with indiscriminate bombings and H & I artillery and you’re proud!”

Inside the bar, angry with each other, they still clumped. Half the patrons were young men in their early twenties. When the vets had been that age they’d felt healthy, strong, invincible, immortal. But every one of them had seen young, strong, mortal bodies shredded, traumatically amputated, blown to pieces. Now in their late twenties to mid-thirties, though some days they felt strong, some days they felt all too mortal, especially when confronted by a younger, larger, more boisterous drinking crowd.

They ordered beers, commandeered a booth, sat where they had the visual advantage of the aisle, the door, the outside, and direct lines of sight to the crossed legs of two nearly identical barflies in black miniskirts perched on vinyl-covered stools.

The first beers went down quickly. The vets began to feel their oats. Except Sherrick. He sat inner-most on the bench. He was quiet. He stared at the mug before him, at the condensation, the water drops growing, reaching critical mass, dripping, miniature rivulets gathering weight, running to the bottom of the mug, forming a circular puddle.

Brown and Casper were in the outer seats: Mariano and Wagner in the center: Hacken sat across from Sherrick. Mariano nudged Brown as one of the barflies shifted, flashed them a crotch. The girl smiled coyly, slithered from the stool, wriggled her skirt down, strutted toward the ladies’ room. “Ooo! I’d like to poke that piece,” Mariano said. Brown giggled. Casper leaned from the booth, his head ass-high, leering at the girl’s back.

“Hey, Aaron!” Wagner called. “How about another pitcher and six cheese steaks with extra peppers.”

“One without peppers,” Sherrick called.

The girl who’d left rejoined her friend. The noise level was rising. They ordered another pitcher. Then another. Sherrick’s beer was going flat.

“If we could get the mortars set up,” Norm Casper said loudly, “the whole town’d be ours.”

“Mortars?” Sherrick leaned over the table. “What mortars?”

Wagner elbowed him. “I got the crates in yesterday.” His voice, too, was loud. “I didn’t think they’d of let me in the depot but Wapinski knew the manager.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Sherrick asked.

Again Wagner elbowed him. He sensed that one of the girls at the bar had heard. “Look guys,” Mariano said matter-of-factly, yet strong, as if he needed to be heard over the jukebox and chatter, “somebody’s got to stay sober enough to remember the password. I don’t want to be shot by the sentries.”

Sherrick still didn’t get it. Hacken leaned over, whispered to him. His eyes turned to the barflies, then back.

Brown joined the other three with loud talk about their armed camp. “... armed to the teeth ...” “... booby traps ...” “... pigs mess with us again they’ll be sorry ...” “... mechanical ambushes ...” “... more tunnels than Cu Chi ...” “... C-4 ...” “... phu-gas ...” “... Hartley’s a pig ...”

Around the table they went bragging, boasting, b.s.ing, except for Sherrick, entertaining themselves and people close by. Then the barflies left with guys who’d talked with them. Around the table of vets the mood fell as flat as Sherrick’s untouched beer.

Sherrick leaned back, snickered. “Idiots,” he muttered. He reached out, grabbed his warm mug.

“Don’t!” Mariano was curt.

Sherrick eyed him. “Who’s going to stop me?”

The others didn’t know what was going on, but Carl had been working in the barn office when Sherrick discussed his drinking problem with Wapinski. Even before they’d entered the White Pines, he decided, not altruistically, nor paternalistically, but out of resentment and brotherhood, that he would not let Gary drink. Mariano’s head came down, his eyes squinted, his jaw jutted, tightened. “Me. Order a Coke.”

Sherrick snorted. He still held the mug. “Watch this,” he said. He began to lift the beer.

Mariano growled. “You touch it, I’ll break your face.”

“Hey,” Casper said, “this is too much for me.” He got up, went to the men’s room. Wagner slid away from Sherrick.

“Me too,” Art Brown said. He stood, went to the bar, ordered another pitcher.

“You touch me,” Sherrick snickered, “you’ll be in jail. I’ll sue you, this place, Wapinski ...”

“Don’t drink it.” Mariano had his hands and forearms on the table, had pulled his bad leg up onto the bench seat, was ready to pounce.

“Go ahead, Gimp! Hit me.” Sherrick’s posture showed nothing but disdain.

“Hey guys ...” Hacken tried to interrupt.

“That touches your lip,” Mariano sneered, “and I’m on you like a mad dog.”

Sherrick winked at Hacken. Defiantly he raised the mug up to his mouth. Over it he said, “I’ll visit you in your cell.”

“You don’t understand, Man.” Mariano was higher. “I’d rather smash your ugly fuckin head and be in the clink than not smash your face and watch you drink.”

Sherrick smiled. His eyes were locked on Mariano. He leaned back, pulled the drink up, tilted his head back, brought the mug to his mouth, began to tilt it.

“Hey!” Wagner’s hand shot out, grabbed Sherrick’s beer. “Hey! Hey Art! Aaron!” he yelled. “Make the last round Pepsis. And get us new glasses.”

Sherrick was afraid. He knew most of the vets didn’t like him. He’d been getting over on them, he’d been abusive, contemptuous. He’d stomped out of seven straight discovery exercises. “Discipline to act, my ass!” he’d glared at Wapinski. “This is a bunch of old ladies grumbling unfounded opinions. Idiots!”

But now Wapinski was gone. With Sara and the boys, he’d flown to California following the death of Sara’s grandparents. In his absence, Mariano, the Gimp, had slide-tackled Sherrick during the last soccer game and nearly broken Sherrick’s back. Bechtel and Thorpe had piled on. Gallagher, who was supposed to be refereeing, who’d called Sherrick for every minor shove, elbow, or high kick, had “missed” it. “Screw this crap about pride, eh!” Mariano had hissed the second time he’d taken Gary down.

Pisano was supposed to take charge in Wapinski’s absence but there was no unity of command with regard to Sherrick. And Pisano had no intention of spending two weeks away from his wife and kids. Thorpe, Gallagher and Van Deusen were next in line, and Mike Treetop below Thorpe on farm matters, and Wagner was moving into second spot on the fire circle–Pennamite Camp truth-stick sessions. Another half-dozen vets had come. Two in Wapinski’s absence, checked in by Mariano. Only Hull, the strawberry man, had left. The bunkhouse was overcrowded. Sherrick was more than afraid.

By the discovery exercise of 6 July, Gary Sherrick was a nervous wreck. All week he’d been snapping his head, looking over his shoulder, sure he was being stalked. He’d tried to talk to Steve Hacken but Hacken had been busy, days, on installations of collector arrays, and evenings, beginning study for an electrician’s license. Sherrick had approached some of the new guys: Wilson, Rooker, Cannello, Murray, Koch and Bixler. They’d all been warned off. He tried Brown but Brown had taken a Fourth of July leave. He tried Carl Mariano.

“Talk to the mirror,” Carl said sternly.

“Yeah, right! Thanks.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Sherrick’s head drooped. He felt he might just as well let them jump him, get it over with.

“I’m not kidding,” Mariano repeated. “Wapinski taught me. Just like he tried to teach you.”

“Teach me what?”

“Go ahead. Look in a mirror. Look at that sneer you’ve always got. See it. Feel it. Know how it feels?”

Sherrick didn’t answer.

Mariano’s voice lightened, he stood straighter, prouder. “Look at yourself, Gary. Take a look at the message your face is sending your brain. Take a look at the message you’re sending others. Wapinski made me do it in a mirror. You try it.”

The vets didn’t let up. Under the silent treatment, Sherrick’s paranoia spiked. On Friday the 7th, Wagner grabbed him. Sherrick nearly pissed his pants. “I’m taking three guys out to the fire circle,” Wagner said. “Across the gap. Why don’t you come? You haven’t been.”

Sherrick began to shake. He hadn’t seen the Indian ladder but he’d heard, he knew. This was it. They’d push him. Say he’d slipped.

“One chance,” Wagner said. “Decide. Go or no go.”

“Naw. Naw, Man. I—I’m going to be reading. Wapinski had some documents he wanted me to read.”

Sherrick did read. He skimmed Frank Snepp’s book,
Decent Interval
:
An Insider’s Account of Saigon’s Indecent End Told by the CIA’s Chief Strategy Analyst in Vietnam
. “It is not too much to say that in terms of squandered lives, blown secrets and the betrayal of agents, friends and collaborators, our handling of the evacuation was an institutional disgrace,” Snepp had written.

The entire war was a disgrace, Sherrick thought. He heard something, lurched, settled back. His concentration was broken by every real or imagined footfall. Sherrick did pull from the reading some ideas, some conclusions. In the margin on one page Wapinski had written, “But Frank! ARVN intelligence correctly identified NVA’s ’75 attack points! You, CIA chief strategist, from your own writings, incorrectly interpreted NVA moves and overrode ARVN command, forced them to improper shifting of their forces! Your mistake led to immediate NVA successes which precipitated Saigon panic, led to loss of Central Highlands, led to final collapse!”

Sherrick added under Wapinski’s note, “What led to Snepp being there in the first place? Would correct disposition of forces have made, ultimately, any difference?”

Ignored, alone, even at mealtime when everyone pitched in, a family, a brotherhood, Sherrick stayed aside, not spoken to, not acknowledged. By the time Wapinski returned in mid-July Sherrick was sullen, haggard, on the verge of a complete breakdown.

In contrast Bobby Wapinski looked great. He looked healthy, relaxed. His nose was dry. He’d gained ten pounds. Sara too looked great. Her dark eyes danced. Their normal somberness, the weight of responsibilities they’d elected to shoulder, had evaporated in the California sunshine. Although there was a sadness over the death of her grandparents and especially that they had never met Paul Anthony (who’d begun to walk the day of the wakes) there was a happy recognition of the fullness of their lives.

Two days passed. Bobby settled in. Sherrick kept his distance. Bobby didn’t notice. Sherrick’s twitching became worse. Everyone held back, waiting, feeling that Sherrick needed to make the first concession. It came on Sunday, July 23d.

“I quit.” Sherrick cornered Bobby, alone, in the tractor garage.

Wapinski glanced up. He’d been cleaning and checking the forge. “Go ahead,” Wap said. “Won’t be your first time. Won’t be your last.”