I also can’t take back seeing Kenny dead. I’d never seen a dead man before, at least not one who was not already in a coffin and shit. My grandparents are alive. I’ve never lost an aunt or an uncle. Never lost a cousin. I’ve never lost a friend. Never really contemplated death. Never had to. I was going to live forever. Aren’t we all at eighteen?
Not Kenny.
Maybe not me. It sinks in, the reality. Maybe not me.
I didn’t know Kenny. We weren’t friends. They put us in the same foxhole. They put us together. I didn’t ask them to. I had no say in it. The blind leading the damn blind. Maybe that’s why Cruz is pissed, because he knows he fucked up and now it’s too late to do anything about it.
Cruz and the corpsman are matter-of-fact. It scares me how matter-of-fact they are about death, guys still in their early twenties. It scares me to know they’ve been through this enough to know the drill so well. To not even flinch. They went through Kenny’s pockets for things to send home. They removed one of his dog tags, bagged it, and taped it to his wrist for military records. We put Kenny in a green body bag and zipped it closed, then carried the bag to the LZ, and a helicopter carried Kenny off, along with the other two marines who died last night.
I didn’t even have the chance to get to know them.
And that was it. The helicopter lifted and Kenny was gone. And we were expected to get on with our day. “Do your jobs,” Cruz said.
Someone said Kenny was lucky, that if you had to go, better to go right away than live through this shit only to die at the end. I bet Kenny doesn’t feel the same.
He slept right beside me. I heard him snoring. The next moment, he was gone. It changes everything. I realize now, truly understand, that I could die here. I could be the guy they load in a green body bag, zip it closed, and put it on the helicopter. I wandered around the LZ taking photographs. It felt morbid, but that’s my job. Right? I’m supposed to snap photographs. That’s my job. Do your job. I find that looking through the camera lens somehow makes it seem less real. Makes it seem like maybe it’s just a movie I am shooting frame by frame—something that will be watched on a movie screen or television.
A somberness permeated the camp.
Cruz walked over to me. I lowered the camera. He said, “Growing old is a privilege, not a right, Shutter. You learn that quickly here in Nam, and the sooner the better. What happened today is over. You’re here. You still got a job to do. Comprende?”
“Comprende.”
“Take photographs. Do your job.”
The guys who’ve been here awhile called out to those of us who haven’t as we dragged our tired asses back in—I hadn’t slept a wink. I’m not sure anyone had, other than Kenny.
“You got that cherry popped now?” Bean sat on sandbags, smoking a cigarette. He had his shirt off, dog tags dangling between his pudgy breasts. I don’t know Bean’s real name. Everyone just calls him Jelly Bean or Bean. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yeah. You know I’m talking to you, Shutter.” He nodded to the camera in my hand. “A lot more real now, ain’t it? Yes, sir. A lot different than looking through that camera lens, when it’s up close and personal, ain’t it?” I wondered how he knows. Experience, I guess. “You’re a veteran now. A veteran of the Nam. No more FNG.”
I raised the camera, focused the lens, and snapped several pictures of Bean. He stared, like he was looking past me. The million-mile stare they call it. He didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He had no expression. He just existed.
I lowered the camera and Bean spoke: You give boys guns and vests,
throw them into general chaos and hope for the best.
Vietnam is Lord of the Flies, a brutal Neverland that doesn’t lie.
Outside both time and space;
a place where marines die without grace.
Real or unreal? I can’t tell.
So hot you think, this must be hell.
You don’t have time to grow up here.
You just grow old from all the fear.
Bean blew out cigarette smoke. I could see his poetry in his lifeless eyes. And I understood.
Chapter 7
June 6, 1979
Mike had call-back interviews with an insurance company, and a job in that industry seemed imminent. When Mike wasn’t on the remodel, I was number three in the crew. William called me down from my work on the second level and told me the building inspector had signed off on the foundations and Todd had scheduled a concrete pour that afternoon. He said we would have a long day and asked if I could work late; Todd couldn’t pay overtime but William said he’d appreciate the help. I thought it was a trick question. I figured more hours meant more money, regardless of if I got paid overtime, and I got the impression they would both appreciate my willingness to do what needed to be done to finish the job, so I said, “Yes.”