It would be from utter and complete stupidity.
May 5, 1968
The moratorium has officially ended and so have the peace talks. The Viet Cong launched Mini-Tet, firing rockets and mortars at Saigon and more than a hundred other cities and military installations. We can hear the bombs going off and see the flashes of the explosions at night.
We’ve been told to expect to saddle up and go outside the wire on long-range reconnaissance patrols （LRRPs or “lurps”） for weeks at a time. “Vietnam is a war of nerves, each side waiting for the other to blink first,” Cruz said one night in our bunker. “The difference is, we’re all waiting to blink and go home. For Charlie, this is home. He can wait forever.”
I was in my bunker, throwing a blade at the wood post—I’ve become proficient; I can stick the blade just about every throw. In between, I was talking with Longhorn, whose DEROS had come up. He was preparing to ship out on the next Huey bringing supplies to our firebase. Longhorn’s real name is Jimmy Edelson. He’s from El Paso, Texas, and performs in the rodeo circuit—rides bulls, horses, the whole thing. Jimmy isn’t big, but he looks like a tough little shit.
“Got something for you, Shutter.” He handed me a Tiger Chewing Tobacco tin. “I kept my personal stuff in here—a picture of my girlfriend and my parents, and a medal.”
“What medal?” I asked, thinking it a military medal.
The medal was now around his neck. He held it out. “Saint Jude, the saint of desperate cases and lost causes.”
I laughed. “Sounds about right for Vietnam.”
“I’m not taking any part of the Nam home with me. I’m leaving it all here. That tin brought me good luck. I hope it does the same for you.”
I thanked him, though I’ve never been superstitious. I do wear the crucifix my mother gave me, and I pull it out and kiss it whenever I get the chance. Maybe say a little prayer. I figured the tin might come in handy though. I opened it and fit my journal and my pencil inside. That’ll do, I thought.
“I kept it in the pocket of my flak jacket. Right here,” Longhorn said, putting his hand over his heart. “One more thing Charlie had to penetrate before he killed me.”
I went back to throwing the knife. Cruz came in, and I nearly impaled him with the blade. Missed his shoulder by an inch. He didn’t even flinch.
“Tomorrow,” he said to me, “we’re heading outside the wire. Search and destroy.”
I nodded. I was uncertain how I felt. I’d thought I would be happy to have something to do, but now a million thoughts were running through my head. Like that night with Haybale. Shit just got real.
“We’re going after the NVA, try to disrupt whatever they think they’re going to start.”
The NVA. I recalled Cruz’s admonition—that they won’t run. They will stand and fight.
I noticed Longhorn never looked at Cruz. Never looked at me. For him, the war was over. For me, this was just the start. I looked at the tin. I’ll slip it into the pocket of my flak jacket. One more thing Charlie has to penetrate before he can kill me.
Chapter 12
July 12, 1979
I had progressed on the job and was handling the work well. Now that Mike was working in the insurance industry, Todd and William didn’t treat me like his kid brother. They treated me like an adult and expected me to handle myself like one. I figured that was because no one had treated them like kids at eighteen, far from it.
When I left the house that morning, I noticed the sky had clouded over, or maybe it was just my mood. I was nursing a wicked hangover despite downing a tall glass of water and four Tylenol before going to bed at two a.m. I was also dog tired, and my brain was addled. I’d been out late every night of the week. As the summer progressed, my friends and I tried to compress as much fun as possible into the time we had left.
By the time I reached the jobsite, the clouds had darkened. Tendrils resembling the barren, spindly branches of winter trees reached down from the sky. It did not rain during the Burlingame summer, not that I could ever recall, but it would rain today, and from the look of those angry clouds, this would not be a mist or a sprinkle.
William knew I was hungover the moment I stepped into the garage, but he had no sympathy for my plight. “Night is your time,” William liked to say. “Come morning, your ass belongs to Todd.”
His, too.
“Brought you something.” He handed me a tool belt, an older one he said he’d had at home. He said it was his first belt, and I sensed the belt meant something to him, though he downplayed it. I told him how much I appreciated it. I wore the belt proudly, and, like the jungle boots, it gave me attitude.