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writebill
Guest
Forward Firebase, somewhere in the Central Highlands of South Vietnam:
The supply helicopter dropped rapidly to the makeshift pad, a dozen men slogged hurriedly through the mud to grab the crates being shoved out the door and the chopper rose back up into the thick, low-hanging clouds. For the first time in nearly three weeks resupply of the base had been possible. A heavy canvas bag thrown off the helicopter contained long overdue mail for the ninety-seven men manning the position.
An hour later, Specialist First Class Mark Townsend walked away from mail call with the only letter he had received in the seven months he’d been in Vietnam. He shoved it into his fatigue jacket pocket to protect it from the drizzle, then slowly made his way along the trench, which formed a perimeter around their small outpost. Half-way back to his position, he could wait no longer. He stopped, pulled the letter from his pocket, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and stared at the handwriting, curious about who would be writing him. Finally, he realized the
writing was that of his half sister, Marlene. Mark wondered why she would write. They hadn’t gotten along too well since their mother died, some three years earlier. Having never known a real father, Mark had taken the death of his mother extremely hard. She was the foundation he knew would always be there, then suddenly, without warning, she was gone.
Mark’s father died when he was but a baby, and his mother married a near stranger, more to give him a father than any other reason. That had always weighed heavily on Mark’s conscience since the time he was old enough to realize why she had married the abusive fool. Jack had never treated his mother well and stayed around just long enough to get her pregnant. Marlene, the author of this letter, was the result of that pregnancy, and Mark had truly tried hard to get along with Marlene and like her. But somehow, she always seemed like an outsider, who should never have come into their lives. Yes, she was his mother’s daughter, but… well, it was hard.
He continued slowly along the trench, dug six feet into the soft ground, slipping and sliding from one mud wall to the other. God, how he hated it here. With each step, the mud tried to suck the boot off his foot, and the trench stank
strongly of urine. The trench walls caved in here and there, constantly needing to be shoveled out. Wooden steps made from packing crates were set into the wall, but it was easier to stay in the trench than to scale the slippery boards. Besides, the enemy was always out there, waiting for an opportune shot at anything that moved. And, the trench did offer some protection from the mortars. Every day, the enemy lobbed a half dozen mortars at their small camp, then hurriedly retreated into the jungle.
Mark and his companions were well forward of the battalion base camp and could easily be annihilated any time the enemy wanted to bring in reinforcements from surrounding areas. The enemy’s hit and run tactics were a game the VC played with the Americans. Never, could they get more than a couple hours sleep at one time, and never could they get relief from the stress and tension of knowing they might die at any moment. A large part of the peasant soldiers’ strategy was to keep them awake day and night, never knowing when they might be overrun or hit with another mortar barrage.
As Mark slipped and nearly fell in the muddy trench bottom, he cursed and was near tears. For perhaps the ten thousandth time, he whispered, “God, how I
hate it here.” It wasn’t fair to be sent to such a place as this to die at his age. Half his friends hid out and refused to be drafted to fight in this insane war. They were opposed to the war itself or were just plain afraid of dying. Either way, every day he remained here with this feeling he’d never make it home again, he wished he had joined them.
Yet… something wouldn’t let him. He supposed it was the father he never knew, but whom his mother spoke of with great affection and admiration. The father whose only presence in his life had been the two photos on the mantle - one in uniform, his cap cockily tilted to the side and a big grin on his face - the other, a young man standing beside his new bride in front of the church.
When Mark was fifteen, his mother sat him down to talk about staying out of trouble. As she spoke, she caressed something in her hands. Finally, with the words, “I know your father would want you to have this” she handed him the Bronze Star. Tears ran down her cheeks, as she told him it was awarded to his father for bravery. Later, when his friends tried to talk him into avoiding the draft, all he could see were the tears in his mother’s eyes, the medal and the picture on the mantle.
He had finally negotiated his way around half the firebase to his position and sat on a board dug into the trench side. Already filthy with mud, Mark was quickly becoming soaked, as the slight drizzle changed to rain. That was another miserable part of his life here. One never had the chance to dry out. In this part of Vietnam, it rained nearly every single damned day.
As he ran a muddy finger along the envelope flap, his buddy said, “Hey, man, you finally got a letter. She good lookin’?”
“Yeah, she’s good lookin’. And, she’s my sister.”
“Man, you didn’t tell me you had a sister.”
“Half sister.” As quickly as he said it, Mark wished he hadn’t. Mark knew how it sounded and was sorry.
“What? You don’t get along with her so good?”
Mark stared blankly at him for a moment and suddenly realized how wrong he had been. Marlene was family - the only family he had. “We haven’t gotten along too well before, but if I get outa this shithole alive we’ll damned sure get along a lot better.” He gazed at the envelope and said, “Nothing like being in Nam to
make you realize how important family is. And… what a damned jerk you’ve been.”
“Hey, buddy, I’ll leave you alone so you can read your letter.”
When he removed the contents of the envelope, Mark found a short note from Marlene and an envelope faded to a dull yellow, addressed to him in a strange hand. Instead of a postage stamp, it said V-Mail in the upper right hand corner. After staring at the envelope for several minutes, wondering what it was, he finally read Marlene’s brief letter.
Dear Mark,
Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I really have no valid excuse, other than these two kids of mine keeping me busy about thirty hours a day. I do hope this finds you well and safe.
I finally sold the house, as we agreed to do before you left for Vietnam. While cleaning out the basement, I found a box filled with things mama saved. It took a week to go through everything. Lots of letters and stuff mama evidently treasured. I found it impossible to figure out what to save and what to throw away. I miss her so much, Mark. It’s really hard. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be her calling. It seems I will never get used to the idea that she’s gone forever.
Anyway, I came across this letter addressed to you. It seems quite old, and I have no idea what it might be, but thought perhaps I should send it along. Again, Mark, I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write. I love you, and want you to take care of yourself. We really miss you and look forward to you coming home safely. Please write back and let me know how you are.
All my love, your sister,
Marlene
Mark stared at the faded writing on the envelope for a full five minutes, trying to figure out what it might be and why he was afraid to open it. His feeling of fear puzzled him. Finally, he removed the small knife from his pocket, unfolded a blade and carefully slid it along the edge of the ancient paper. He withdrew the equally yellowed three pages and hunkered over them to keep the rain off. His hands inexplicably trembled, as he tried to wipe the rain and tears from his eyes.
Bastogne, December 24, 1944
Dear Son,
I know by the time you read this the war will be over, and you’ll be a young man. I left for the war just a week after you were born, and I cannot find words to convey how much I long to see you and your mother. It’s Christmas Eve, and I wish so that I could spend your first Christmas with you. If you are reading this letter and I’m no longer around, I want you to know how much I love you. I also want you to understand what a wonderful woman your mother is. More than anything, I wanted you to know your father as more than a photo of a young man in uniform. I’m not just a picture behind a piece of glass, but a real live flesh and blood human being.
We’re bogged down here in this terrible war. My infantry company has been surrounded for some time and can get no air support to break out of here due to the horrible weather. I only hope and pray this letter makes it out, somehow. The truth is, it doesn’t look too good at the moment. The Germans have us pinned down in a beautiful pine covered valley. It seems so strange that men must go out and kill one another, when there is such beauty all around us.
Up on the hillsides, soft tufts of snow cling precariously to the branches of the trees. The sun partially melts the snow during the day, but it refreezes to its tenuous perch the minute the sun goes behind the hills. The cold at night then eats to the very center of each of us. Then, once more, the sun comes up, begins melting the snow, and we slog around in ankle deep mud all day. Our rations are running extremely low, as is our ammunition. Each day, the Germans test our resolve by attacking from all sides. Then, they withdraw. I’m sure they are but toying with us, knowing they can overrun and kill all of us whenever they choose. Unfortunately, we are vastly outnumbered.
The truth is, Son, I am afraid of dying here in this foreign land without ever knowing the boy I have fathered. Without ever seeing your beautiful face again, and without again holding your mother in my arms. It isn’t so much the dying, as it is never having the chance to do all the things I would have liked to do with you and your mother.
I’ll send this letter to your mother for her to give to you at an appropriate time. Perhaps when you’re fifteen or so. Son, I pray every day that I will still, somehow, come out of this to be with you. I also pray that the world will learn to live in peace and you will never have to face the realities of war that your father faced. I pray you will be able to be with your family as they grow, and that neither you nor your children will ever have to go to war.
Take care of your mother for me, Mark. You and she are all I have in the world that is important. The two of you are the greatest treasures a man could have. If nothing else, war teaches one what doing battle with the enemy deprives one of… the loving arms of those who matter most. Those who are precious to you.
Finally, Mark, I want to tell you, even though we have never met, I love you more than you could imagine - with all my heart. Think of me as a real person, and may God bless you with peace and happiness all your life.
Your loving father
Tears filled his eyes, his hands trembled even more and he sobbed, as he read the letter over and over. He ran his finger back and forth across the tired, barely legible inked words, “Your loving father,” as tears left little trails in the mud on his face. Finally, with his head hung down, the pain in his heart a real, physical thing, between sobs, he whispered, “I love you too, Dad. Oh, God, Dad, I love you so much.”
His buddy asked, “What’d you say, man? Uh … hey, I’m sorry. Bad news?”
Mark moved his head slowly from side to side and, in a soft, trembling voice, said, “Things just never change, man. Things just never change.” He buried his face in the letter and wept unashamedly.
***
Banja Luka, Bosnia - December 25, 2000
Mark Townsend sat with his arms wrapped around himself, next to the fire at their remote spotters’ position atop a mountain. Dammit, it was cold. He had all the time in the world to think about what he’d do, if he ever got out of this Godforsaken place alive. Snipers had killed ten men in his unit in the last two months. They were killed by the Serbs, or Croats, or some damned body. Everyone in this place hated the Americans, and the Americans had come to save their stupid asses from slaughtering one another. What a hell of a way to be repaid! Mark was scared to death he’d be next.
Being in this situation turned his thoughts to his father, and he wondered how he died. All he knew about him was a picture taken at high school graduation and what his mother told him. Mark knew his dad died in that damnable war in Vietnam, and wondered what he was like. His grandfather had died in combat in World War Two. His mother told him how she and his dad had broken off their engagement just before he went to Vietnam. He hadn’t known she was expecting his son. That young man in the graduation picture never knew he had a son.
“Hey, Mark, you’re awful quiet, buddy.”
Mark looked over at Bojo with eyes that wished they could be home with his wife and son for Christmas instead of being stuck here in a place Mark was sure was a mistake God made, then forgot to correct. “Hell, Bojo, it’s Christmas, man. What the hell we doin’ here? Can you tell me that? Can anybody tell me that? The Goddamned place ain’t worth savin’, man. Did I tell you my boy turned a year old yesterday?”
“Yeah, man, you sure did. Sure wish you could be home with them, buddy. Me, well, hell, I ain’t got nobody gives a damned about me. Guys like you, family and all, hell, you shouldn’t be here at all.”
Mark slowly moved his head from side to side, as he stared out at the gray fog slowly filling the valley below. “You know, Bojo, my dad and grandfather both died in combat. My grandfather over in France some damned place, I think, and my dad in Vietnam. Both of ‘em died fightin’ for some stupid ****in’ thing I’ll bet they never understood. Ain’t it ever gonna change, Bo?”
Mark didn’t see or hear his executioner. He was talking to his best friend and, a split second later, Mark Townsend, The Third, no longer existed. And, Mark had spent many, many hours thinking about how to stop the madness. Wondered what he could do to make people see the futility of all the killing. But, now, he was nothing. Only another body that would freeze or rot before being buried. He’d never have the chance to hold his wife or son in his arms again. Never have the chance to do what every young man dreams of doing with his son. Mark Townsend, The Third, would never fight another war. Next war, it would be up to Mark Townsend, The Fourth, to sacrifice himself for some worthless cause to save the world. A world he would probably not think worth saving. No, things never do change, Mark, Mark and Mark … and … perhaps … Mark.
The supply helicopter dropped rapidly to the makeshift pad, a dozen men slogged hurriedly through the mud to grab the crates being shoved out the door and the chopper rose back up into the thick, low-hanging clouds. For the first time in nearly three weeks resupply of the base had been possible. A heavy canvas bag thrown off the helicopter contained long overdue mail for the ninety-seven men manning the position.
An hour later, Specialist First Class Mark Townsend walked away from mail call with the only letter he had received in the seven months he’d been in Vietnam. He shoved it into his fatigue jacket pocket to protect it from the drizzle, then slowly made his way along the trench, which formed a perimeter around their small outpost. Half-way back to his position, he could wait no longer. He stopped, pulled the letter from his pocket, wiped at his eyes with his sleeve and stared at the handwriting, curious about who would be writing him. Finally, he realized the
writing was that of his half sister, Marlene. Mark wondered why she would write. They hadn’t gotten along too well since their mother died, some three years earlier. Having never known a real father, Mark had taken the death of his mother extremely hard. She was the foundation he knew would always be there, then suddenly, without warning, she was gone.
Mark’s father died when he was but a baby, and his mother married a near stranger, more to give him a father than any other reason. That had always weighed heavily on Mark’s conscience since the time he was old enough to realize why she had married the abusive fool. Jack had never treated his mother well and stayed around just long enough to get her pregnant. Marlene, the author of this letter, was the result of that pregnancy, and Mark had truly tried hard to get along with Marlene and like her. But somehow, she always seemed like an outsider, who should never have come into their lives. Yes, she was his mother’s daughter, but… well, it was hard.
He continued slowly along the trench, dug six feet into the soft ground, slipping and sliding from one mud wall to the other. God, how he hated it here. With each step, the mud tried to suck the boot off his foot, and the trench stank
strongly of urine. The trench walls caved in here and there, constantly needing to be shoveled out. Wooden steps made from packing crates were set into the wall, but it was easier to stay in the trench than to scale the slippery boards. Besides, the enemy was always out there, waiting for an opportune shot at anything that moved. And, the trench did offer some protection from the mortars. Every day, the enemy lobbed a half dozen mortars at their small camp, then hurriedly retreated into the jungle.
Mark and his companions were well forward of the battalion base camp and could easily be annihilated any time the enemy wanted to bring in reinforcements from surrounding areas. The enemy’s hit and run tactics were a game the VC played with the Americans. Never, could they get more than a couple hours sleep at one time, and never could they get relief from the stress and tension of knowing they might die at any moment. A large part of the peasant soldiers’ strategy was to keep them awake day and night, never knowing when they might be overrun or hit with another mortar barrage.
As Mark slipped and nearly fell in the muddy trench bottom, he cursed and was near tears. For perhaps the ten thousandth time, he whispered, “God, how I
hate it here.” It wasn’t fair to be sent to such a place as this to die at his age. Half his friends hid out and refused to be drafted to fight in this insane war. They were opposed to the war itself or were just plain afraid of dying. Either way, every day he remained here with this feeling he’d never make it home again, he wished he had joined them.
Yet… something wouldn’t let him. He supposed it was the father he never knew, but whom his mother spoke of with great affection and admiration. The father whose only presence in his life had been the two photos on the mantle - one in uniform, his cap cockily tilted to the side and a big grin on his face - the other, a young man standing beside his new bride in front of the church.
When Mark was fifteen, his mother sat him down to talk about staying out of trouble. As she spoke, she caressed something in her hands. Finally, with the words, “I know your father would want you to have this” she handed him the Bronze Star. Tears ran down her cheeks, as she told him it was awarded to his father for bravery. Later, when his friends tried to talk him into avoiding the draft, all he could see were the tears in his mother’s eyes, the medal and the picture on the mantle.
He had finally negotiated his way around half the firebase to his position and sat on a board dug into the trench side. Already filthy with mud, Mark was quickly becoming soaked, as the slight drizzle changed to rain. That was another miserable part of his life here. One never had the chance to dry out. In this part of Vietnam, it rained nearly every single damned day.
As he ran a muddy finger along the envelope flap, his buddy said, “Hey, man, you finally got a letter. She good lookin’?”
“Yeah, she’s good lookin’. And, she’s my sister.”
“Man, you didn’t tell me you had a sister.”
“Half sister.” As quickly as he said it, Mark wished he hadn’t. Mark knew how it sounded and was sorry.
“What? You don’t get along with her so good?”
Mark stared blankly at him for a moment and suddenly realized how wrong he had been. Marlene was family - the only family he had. “We haven’t gotten along too well before, but if I get outa this shithole alive we’ll damned sure get along a lot better.” He gazed at the envelope and said, “Nothing like being in Nam to
make you realize how important family is. And… what a damned jerk you’ve been.”
“Hey, buddy, I’ll leave you alone so you can read your letter.”
When he removed the contents of the envelope, Mark found a short note from Marlene and an envelope faded to a dull yellow, addressed to him in a strange hand. Instead of a postage stamp, it said V-Mail in the upper right hand corner. After staring at the envelope for several minutes, wondering what it was, he finally read Marlene’s brief letter.
Dear Mark,
Please forgive me for not writing sooner. I really have no valid excuse, other than these two kids of mine keeping me busy about thirty hours a day. I do hope this finds you well and safe.
I finally sold the house, as we agreed to do before you left for Vietnam. While cleaning out the basement, I found a box filled with things mama saved. It took a week to go through everything. Lots of letters and stuff mama evidently treasured. I found it impossible to figure out what to save and what to throw away. I miss her so much, Mark. It’s really hard. Every time the phone rings, I expect it to be her calling. It seems I will never get used to the idea that she’s gone forever.
Anyway, I came across this letter addressed to you. It seems quite old, and I have no idea what it might be, but thought perhaps I should send it along. Again, Mark, I’m sorry it has taken me so long to write. I love you, and want you to take care of yourself. We really miss you and look forward to you coming home safely. Please write back and let me know how you are.
All my love, your sister,
Marlene
Mark stared at the faded writing on the envelope for a full five minutes, trying to figure out what it might be and why he was afraid to open it. His feeling of fear puzzled him. Finally, he removed the small knife from his pocket, unfolded a blade and carefully slid it along the edge of the ancient paper. He withdrew the equally yellowed three pages and hunkered over them to keep the rain off. His hands inexplicably trembled, as he tried to wipe the rain and tears from his eyes.
Bastogne, December 24, 1944
Dear Son,
I know by the time you read this the war will be over, and you’ll be a young man. I left for the war just a week after you were born, and I cannot find words to convey how much I long to see you and your mother. It’s Christmas Eve, and I wish so that I could spend your first Christmas with you. If you are reading this letter and I’m no longer around, I want you to know how much I love you. I also want you to understand what a wonderful woman your mother is. More than anything, I wanted you to know your father as more than a photo of a young man in uniform. I’m not just a picture behind a piece of glass, but a real live flesh and blood human being.
We’re bogged down here in this terrible war. My infantry company has been surrounded for some time and can get no air support to break out of here due to the horrible weather. I only hope and pray this letter makes it out, somehow. The truth is, it doesn’t look too good at the moment. The Germans have us pinned down in a beautiful pine covered valley. It seems so strange that men must go out and kill one another, when there is such beauty all around us.
Up on the hillsides, soft tufts of snow cling precariously to the branches of the trees. The sun partially melts the snow during the day, but it refreezes to its tenuous perch the minute the sun goes behind the hills. The cold at night then eats to the very center of each of us. Then, once more, the sun comes up, begins melting the snow, and we slog around in ankle deep mud all day. Our rations are running extremely low, as is our ammunition. Each day, the Germans test our resolve by attacking from all sides. Then, they withdraw. I’m sure they are but toying with us, knowing they can overrun and kill all of us whenever they choose. Unfortunately, we are vastly outnumbered.
The truth is, Son, I am afraid of dying here in this foreign land without ever knowing the boy I have fathered. Without ever seeing your beautiful face again, and without again holding your mother in my arms. It isn’t so much the dying, as it is never having the chance to do all the things I would have liked to do with you and your mother.
I’ll send this letter to your mother for her to give to you at an appropriate time. Perhaps when you’re fifteen or so. Son, I pray every day that I will still, somehow, come out of this to be with you. I also pray that the world will learn to live in peace and you will never have to face the realities of war that your father faced. I pray you will be able to be with your family as they grow, and that neither you nor your children will ever have to go to war.
Take care of your mother for me, Mark. You and she are all I have in the world that is important. The two of you are the greatest treasures a man could have. If nothing else, war teaches one what doing battle with the enemy deprives one of… the loving arms of those who matter most. Those who are precious to you.
Finally, Mark, I want to tell you, even though we have never met, I love you more than you could imagine - with all my heart. Think of me as a real person, and may God bless you with peace and happiness all your life.
Your loving father
Tears filled his eyes, his hands trembled even more and he sobbed, as he read the letter over and over. He ran his finger back and forth across the tired, barely legible inked words, “Your loving father,” as tears left little trails in the mud on his face. Finally, with his head hung down, the pain in his heart a real, physical thing, between sobs, he whispered, “I love you too, Dad. Oh, God, Dad, I love you so much.”
His buddy asked, “What’d you say, man? Uh … hey, I’m sorry. Bad news?”
Mark moved his head slowly from side to side and, in a soft, trembling voice, said, “Things just never change, man. Things just never change.” He buried his face in the letter and wept unashamedly.
***
Banja Luka, Bosnia - December 25, 2000
Mark Townsend sat with his arms wrapped around himself, next to the fire at their remote spotters’ position atop a mountain. Dammit, it was cold. He had all the time in the world to think about what he’d do, if he ever got out of this Godforsaken place alive. Snipers had killed ten men in his unit in the last two months. They were killed by the Serbs, or Croats, or some damned body. Everyone in this place hated the Americans, and the Americans had come to save their stupid asses from slaughtering one another. What a hell of a way to be repaid! Mark was scared to death he’d be next.
Being in this situation turned his thoughts to his father, and he wondered how he died. All he knew about him was a picture taken at high school graduation and what his mother told him. Mark knew his dad died in that damnable war in Vietnam, and wondered what he was like. His grandfather had died in combat in World War Two. His mother told him how she and his dad had broken off their engagement just before he went to Vietnam. He hadn’t known she was expecting his son. That young man in the graduation picture never knew he had a son.
“Hey, Mark, you’re awful quiet, buddy.”
Mark looked over at Bojo with eyes that wished they could be home with his wife and son for Christmas instead of being stuck here in a place Mark was sure was a mistake God made, then forgot to correct. “Hell, Bojo, it’s Christmas, man. What the hell we doin’ here? Can you tell me that? Can anybody tell me that? The Goddamned place ain’t worth savin’, man. Did I tell you my boy turned a year old yesterday?”
“Yeah, man, you sure did. Sure wish you could be home with them, buddy. Me, well, hell, I ain’t got nobody gives a damned about me. Guys like you, family and all, hell, you shouldn’t be here at all.”
Mark slowly moved his head from side to side, as he stared out at the gray fog slowly filling the valley below. “You know, Bojo, my dad and grandfather both died in combat. My grandfather over in France some damned place, I think, and my dad in Vietnam. Both of ‘em died fightin’ for some stupid ****in’ thing I’ll bet they never understood. Ain’t it ever gonna change, Bo?”
Mark didn’t see or hear his executioner. He was talking to his best friend and, a split second later, Mark Townsend, The Third, no longer existed. And, Mark had spent many, many hours thinking about how to stop the madness. Wondered what he could do to make people see the futility of all the killing. But, now, he was nothing. Only another body that would freeze or rot before being buried. He’d never have the chance to hold his wife or son in his arms again. Never have the chance to do what every young man dreams of doing with his son. Mark Townsend, The Third, would never fight another war. Next war, it would be up to Mark Townsend, The Fourth, to sacrifice himself for some worthless cause to save the world. A world he would probably not think worth saving. No, things never do change, Mark, Mark and Mark … and … perhaps … Mark.