by Tim Brown
The plywood crate arrived at his home a week and three days after he returned from Vietnam. It held a year’s worth of Albert’s wartime belongings.
He signed for its delivery, dragged it across the driveway into the garage and shut the door. He turned off the light as he stepped from the garage into the kitchen and heard his grandmother’s voice.
“Who was at the door?” she asked
“It was a delivery guy. Brought my hold baggage.”
“Hold baggage?”
“Army stuff I couldn’t bring on the plane with me.”
“Oh, yes. You told me that’d be coming. Bet that’s a relief,” she said as she rounded the corner into the kitchen from the other direction.
“Yeah,” he said, knowing it was the answer she expected.
“Good,” she said behind a calm smile.
“I’ll crack it open tomorrow. Don’t feel like it tonight.”
“No hurry.”
Albert agreed. He was in no hurry to revisit the war, but Grandma Bert’s gift was at the bottom of the box. He’d dig it out in the morning.
His grandmother had raised him after his parents died in a car accident one year after his birth. His mother’s parents made a half-hearted offer to take him. Grandma Bert was delighted with their reticence. His name was Rogers and he’d be raised as a Rogers. She would gladly raise him, even though she’d been widowed by a heart attack five years earlier. Albert and his grandmother held a deep-seated affection for one another, and he was very particular about their names. He was Albert. Bert was reserved for her, Alberta Louise Rogers, the best seamstress and Sunday School teacher in Licking, Missouri.
The next morning, he entered the garage and grabbed a claw hammer from the workbench. As he approached the box, he recognized the stenciled label which he’d prepared alongside his friend Luca. SP5 Albert Rogers and SP5 Richard DeLuca had packed their hold baggage side by side. In fact, they had done most things together after being assigned to the same infantry unit in Vietnam a year earlier.
Luca was a lanky six-footer from Newark, New Jersey. Albert was a compact five-foot-eight linebacker from a town of just over a thousand people. On the surface, they seemed to have little in common. Luca grinned with big-city savvy. Albert smiled with small town friendliness. However, given the job at hand, they were very much alike. They were men people knew they could count on.
Claw hammer leverage cracked the seal. A two-handed tug tore back the top and exposed the sweltering intensity of the past twelve months. It was all there with the familiar nip of mildew: worn-out boots and faded fatigues, olive-drab socks and underwear, pictures, service medals, a camera, a tape player and Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn tapes, his Bible, paperback copies of Godfather and Portnoy’s Complaint, a deck of cards, banded letters and devotional booklets from Grandma Bert, and a miniature crossbow purchased in Thailand while on R&R. Luca thought it was a stupid souvenir. Luca’s presence seemed to hover behind the crossbow and across the faded fatigues.
He dug to the bottom, retrieved Grandma Bert’s gift and a sock stuffed with undeveloped film and slammed the lid shut.
He found Grandma Bert at her sewing machine. “This is for you,” Albert said as he handed her the bamboo tube, which held three Thai temple rubbings. She removed her foot from the pedal, and the needle completed two stitches, then stopped.
“Albert, you sweetheart. What a nice thing to do,” she said. She unrolled the delicate rice-paper images of traditional Thai dancers and placed them on the table beside her, smoothing their tubed curl with her right hand. “They are beautiful.” A tear pooled and rolled as she smiled at him. “Thank you.”
“I hoped you’d like them. I got them in Thailand on R&R.” The only other time he’d seen her cry was when he announced he’d joined the Army. And, like this time, it was only one quiet, tear.
The film-stuffed army sock, which dangled from his left hand, gave him a place to take cover. He cleared his throat, held up the sock, and said, “Say, does Grafton’s Pharmacy still develop film?”
“Yes,” She squeegeed her cheek with her finger. “They send it in somewhere. Doesn’t take long.”
“Great. I think I’ll run down there. I’ve got six rolls to get developed.”
“Tell Roger Grafton to put them on my account.”
He immediately wished he’d asked her to drop off the film. He didn’t want to talk to Roger Grafton or anybody else. He dreaded uninvited quizzing about the war. But Roger Grafton was a gentleman. Maybe he wouldn’t ask any thoughtless questions.
“Thank you. After that, I’m going to the Current.”
“Good, bring a couple home. I’m hungry for trout.”
“Not this time. Not even taking my rod.” Albert was an avid fly fisherman, but he didn’t feel like fishing. It was too soon. He simply wanted to watch the river.
And there it was – the river of his youth. He’d walked over half a mile from his pickup to reach a spot where he could enjoy the Current River alone.
The spring-fed stream flowed smoothly past a forty-foot-high rock wall. The water closest to the wall was deep and interrupted by three alluring green bulges. Over time, large rocks had fallen from the wall. Above the water the rough edges of the boulders were smoothed by vegetation. Beneath the water, the rocks served as resting places for hungry trout, which hid in the protected water and then shot into the open stream to ambush breakfast.
He’d caught a two-pound rainbow at that very spot. He walked from the grassy high ground to the water’s edge and squatted. Eventually he sat, took off his shoes and socks and placed his feet in the cold water. He laid back with his hands behind his head, letting damp mother earth cool his back. He’d been close to her moist embrace once before.
***
He was pinned down by enemy fire on dank Vietnamese soil for nearly twelve hours during Operation Goodyear, so named because it was close to a rubber-tree planation. Luca and a soldier nicknamed Butch lay beside him. Butch was short for butcher. At first, it was a behind-his-back moniker. After he heard it and liked it, it stuck. He loved war. He loved killing so much he’d volunteered for a second tour in Vietnam. Albert was fascinated by him. Luca thought he was dangerously deranged. It was Luca who’d given him the nickname.
Their Huey was the lead chopper in a trailing group of five, which approached a clearing skirted by jungle on one side and rubber trees on the other. The craft hovered in cautious descent ten feet from the ground when the jungled edge of the clearing erupted. A barrage of rifle and machine gun fire raked across the fuselage and the Huey’s open door, killing the door gunner immediately. Butch didn’t hesitate. “Jump!” he screamed. “Jump!
They jumped seconds before a rocket propelled grenade broadsided the craft. The burning Huey provided enough billowing smoke to cover their head-long run to a stand of tall grass between the chopper and the enemy-infested tree line. They lay ten feet from each other with overhead machine gun fire glueing them to mother earth. Albert was furthest right, the Butcher was in the middle, and Luca was on the left. They breathed hard but tried not to because of the smoke.
“You both got a full canteen?” Butch asked. His voice was strong and unexcited. Both men said yes.
“Good. Stay down. We’re going to be here a while.
“I’m comin’ your way, Luca,” Butch said. “Keep your skinny ass still.” He crawled past Luca and ten feet beyond. He raised his head for a quick look at the tree line, ducked down, and immediately crawled another ten feet to his left. Machine gun fire ripped the ground where he’d been seconds before.
“Holy shit!” Butch shouted. “That’s a bitch on that gun. A goddamned woman!”
“Shut up and let her think she got ya!” Luca yelled.
“You guys stay put. I’ve got an idea,” Butch answered. He peeked again though the wispy tips of grass for one more look at the female fighter. He was met by a 51-caliber round, which ripped through his face. He went down without a sound, dead.
Their emptiness was immediate.
***
Albert’s feet were numb. He’d forgotten how cold a spring-fed stream could be without waders. He stood, collected his shoes and socks and looked for a dry spot to put them on. A fallen log near the base of the grassy rise served the purpose. As he brushed the sand from his feet, he decided he’d return the next day properly equipped. Such perfect water could only be fully appreciated with a fly rod in hand.
“Is that you, Albert?” Grandma Bert asked as he entered the front door. She was still at her sewing machine.
“It’s me.” He entered her sewing room. “Are you still working? Time to take a break.”
“Oh, I know.” She stopped sewing, cut the thread and leaned back in her chair. “Altering a dress for the pastor’s wife. She is one particular lady. She asked about you though. I told her you were fine, and glad to be home.”
“That’s all true.”
“Lots of people are asking about you. Have you seen many folks?”
“I saw Wayne Williams down at the Shell station.”
“Oh, how’s he doin’?”
“Well, I didn’t really talk to him.”
She hesitated. “You didn’t?”
“Nah. Just waved as I drove by. I haven’t talked to anybody.”
“How about church next Sunday? Be a good way to get back in the swing of things.”
“Not ready for that, Grandma.”
She swiveled her chair to face him. “Do you need new shoes, a new shirt? We can zip up to Rolla this afternoon and get some new things.”
“That’s not what I meant, Grandma.”
She was silent through a lingering blink. “You haven’t lost your faith, have you?”
“No, I’d just rather not talk to people.”
“Really. Seems like you’d want to talk to somebody besides me. How about your New Jersey buddy? What’s his name?
“Luca.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Nope.”
Her curious gaze softened and dropped to purposeful focus on her sewing table. She picked up stray bits of thread and smoothed the material still trapped in the machine, then stood and stepped toward the doorway, inviting Albert to leave her workroom ahead of her.
“Oh, almost forgot,” she said as they walked toward the kitchen. “Roger Grafton called. He put a rush on your print order at no extra charge. They should be here tomorrow morning sometime after nine.”
“Great. I’ll pick them up tomorrow on my way to the river. This time I’m taking my rod.”
“Well, good.”
Before Albert turned in, he gathered his fishing gear. His waders, rod, vest, and net were in the mudroom closet just where he’d left them. He tied on a new leader and popped open his fly box to consider his options. He’d wait until he was on the stream to choose his ammunition. He put on the vest, taking inventory of its familiar contents by patting the pockets. It was much lighter than his flak jacket.
He lay his head on his pillow pondering the morning’s first cast. But soon after he nodded off, he was cast into the aftermath of Operation Goodyear.
The Huey behind them had also gone down, though it hadn’t burned. The other three took fire but kept flying. Seven American soldiers died that day. Albert and Luca watched as they rolled Butch onto a poncho. Two men picked him up, one on each side of the olive-drab hammock. Butch lay face down. They saw nothing but his feet, which bounced along as he was carried away to be bagged and sent home.
The boots of the dead soldier continued to bounce, but they were toes-up … and they weren’t Butch’s. They were Luca’s. He sat up and waved. His lanky body extended well above the poncho’s edge. He did his best to force a New Jersey smile into his ravaged face and waved mightily with his right hand.
Albert awoke after falling out of bed.
“Everything alright? Grandma Bert asked. “I heard you banging around in there last night.” She and Albert sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and eating homemade cinnamon rolls. Morning light sifted through and around the flowered curtains.
“Yeah, I’m okay, but I had a stupid dream. Darned if I didn’t fall out of bed.”
Grandma Bert’s lips parted, then closed into a patient smile.
Albert licked his sticky fingertips and wiped them on his napkin. “You know what? I’m going to load my stuff and go to Grafton’s so I can get the pictures first thing and then head for the Current.”
“I can pick up your pictures if you want to go to the river now,” she said.
“Nah. Thanks, I’ll get ‘em. I’ll be home by suppertime.”
Albert parked diagonally in front of Grafton’s Pharmacy at exactly nine o’clock. Luckily, the clerk was unfamiliar, so he encountered no welcome-home pleasantries. He sat in his pickup and ripped open the large package. Inside, each of the six rolls of film had its own fat envelope with photos and negatives enclosed.
Butch’s picture topped the stack of the first batch. It was taken after an uneventful patrol through rice paddies and a large village suspected of being a VC sanctuary. There was no enemy contact. Butch sat smiling, helmetless, and sweat-stained on the sandbagged edge of his hooch, smoking a cigarette. Luca was there when he’d snapped the photo. “Fucker’s disappointed,” had been his loud whisper.
Albert closed the envelope. Placed it with the others on the passenger’s seat and drove straight home. He entered the garage, reopened the crate, and tossed the photos into the mildewy hold baggage. Then he went fishing.
***
His rod was strung, his net rested on his back, and his vest carried a ham sandwich, a water bottle, and three boxes of handtied flies. He’d chosen an Elk-hair Caddis, which was one of his favorite dry flies. It’s elk-hair wings made it extremely buoyant, so it was easy to see as it floated an almost wakeless arc across glassy water.
He waded in knee-high and made the first cast he’d made in more than two years. The fly landed five feet in front of the first rock. He knew he could do better. He stripped out more line, made a false cast to dry the fly, and tried again. He smiled as the caddis landed inches from the foliage-covered rock. The fly sat high in the faster water encircling the boulder, then skated around the rock until it broke free of the swifter current and floated slowly into the smooth water between the two rocks. The trout took the fly without warning. Albert set the hook. He held the bending rod high as he reeled. He stopped reeling when the fish ran. His drag buzzed, then quieted to a fast click. He reeled again. The trout ran again. He didn’t reel but yanked out line and held it tight with his left hand, letting it slip through his fingers when the pressure seemed to reach a breaking point. Which it did. The fish and his fly were gone. But it was a good sign. They were hungry for caddis, and he’d do better the next time.
Albert left the stream to replace his fly. He stood in the shallow water, rod held tight against his side beneath his right arm pit. Before digging out his fly box, he studied the water and the rock wall. The river’s determined course around the rocks was the same as it always had been. The marbling on the rock wall was frozen in time, and if he stared at it long enough it revealed an imaginary image. The four-goose formation still flew across the wall just above the third flora-topped rock. His fishing buddies could never see it, but he could.
Albert caught and released five more rainbow trout that day, each time careful to wet his hand before he took them from the net so he wouldn’t disturb their protective coating. As they left his gentle grasp and slid into the chilled water, they seemed suspended in a moment of indecision until they recognized their freedom, thrust their powerful tails, and swam away.
***
When he got home, he strode toward the box and ripped off the lid. He would empty it one item at a time. His photos were on top. He set them aside to sort later. The socks, underwear, fatigues, and boots would be trashed. The camera, books, Bible, and tapes would be saved. He’d keep his service medals, and his tape player. Everything else would be tossed, including the miniature crossbow, which Luca thought was a stupid souvenir.
He wondered how Luca was doing. He remembered their long, relaxed flight from Vietnam to Seattle. They’d talked about everything from Butch’s appetite for combat to Rebecca’s hearty laugh. She was Luca’s girlfriend, and Albert had overheard her taped messages so often he felt like he knew her.
He remembered Luca gently kicking his foot to wake him at the Seattle airport on the final leg of their trip. Luca stood before him, bag over his shoulder, smiling. He’d placed a kind hand on Albert’s shoulder so he wouldn’t stand. “I’ve got to go buddy. My flight to Newark is boarding. I’ll see ya when I see ya. Call me,” he’d said. Then he turned and walked down the corridor without looking back.
A few strategically placed blows with the claw hammer totally disassembled the hold baggage box.
***
Albert waited for Grandma Bert to say grace before he curled his fork into the spaghetti. “Emptied and tore down my box.” he said before he took a bite.
“I noticed. Thank you,” Grandma Bert said as she passed the basket of garlic bread. “What’d you do with the stuff that was in it.”
“Kept some of it. Tossed the rest.”
“Kind of the way of things, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” Albert asked.
“Well, you know. We all must decide what’s important to hang onto.”
“I suppose. You know, I been thinking about calling Luca. That’s a long-distance call. Is that okay?
A joyful grin preceded her answer. “That’d be fine. Absolutely fine.”
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Tim Brown took his journalism degree to war. He served as an Army journalist covering military operations in the central highlands in South Vietnam. Dozens of interviews and published stories later, he and his hold baggage arrived at home in 1970. Corporate America called, and he began his career as an advertising copywriter and creative director. Eventually, he tried his hand at fiction and it’s become his favorite niche. Several published short stories and a published novella later, he continues to write and learn. Though he insists he’s found no set formula, he does enjoy juxtaposing down-home simplicity against emotional complexity.
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