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Copyrights reserved by the author. If in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' for details. A World Apart continued "Throw the baby over there. Maggie listen to me! Do it now!" "Yes, Sir, but---," I didn't understand. It was crazy, lunatic: not Christian. How could I kill a child? I froze, undecided. "Maggie!" Captain Collins called again, his voice demanding; this time, more immediate. "Throw that kid, Lieutenant! Do it! NOW! That's an order!" I heard nothing, neither the pounding of the rain, nor my heartbeat, or the screams of the baby in my arms. I looked at the tiny, round face with black eyes and without really understanding why, threw the infant as far to my right as I could, in the direction of the sandpit. Within moments, I was thrown into a muddy trench, as a triggered bomb exploded, sending body-parts, of a tiny, innocent Vietnamese baby, all over the compound. Captain Collins simply said: "The old mamasans tape bombs to the inside of the kid's legs because they know that when they wake up and move, they'll blow you and the whole compound clear to Jesus. One less gook to worry about, anyway! Want a beer, kid?" I heard him mumble under his breath, as he walked away from me, still stunned and curled in the mud: "Stupid broad." "Hard ass, ain't he?" One of the other officers remarked, as he helped me to my feet. Another corpsman just walked off, into the downpour, shaking his head: "Don't mean nothin', just don't mean a damn thing." After a few moments, I walked toward the huts, monsoon rains still pouring down, this time mixed with the smell of sulfur, smoke and blood, rippling in the water pools. For almost two hours I searched the compound for the delicate body parts of the exploded infant, as my sense of human decency directed me to do the right thing. It's funny what goes through one's mind at a time like this. I remember kneeling on the ground, thinking if I should dig one large hole, or several, to bury this child. In the end, I dug only one large burial plot, with my hands, and carefully placed the severed baby-parts, some still missing into their final resting-place, and marked the grave, with a piece of bamboo laying nearby. Then, I did something I had not done since I was a child. I covered my face with my hands in shame, and cried for a very long time. I think I knew, at that moment, I would never love, or laugh again, or enjoy a cool breeze or sunset at the ocean villa. I would never have a baby of my own, or fall in love, not even have a husband. For weeks, I remained, sullen on my bunk, not eating, or caring, not working, until the CO finally gave in, and cut orders sending me home with a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I didn't care: I wasn't a person anymore. As the motors of the airplane grew louder and carried me home across the Pacific, thirty years to the present, I kept reliving a dream-like scene over and over in my mind, it's message subtle, deepening, engraving, its mark on my heart. In my mind, I saw the small procession of mourners, as they followed a small child's casket, covered with an American flag, bathed with multi-colored flowers from the countryside of Vietnam. It sat on top of a small flatbed with wooden wheels, drawn by the yoked oxen from the field. I was there too, observing, unrecognized, a stranger among the people. From somewhere in the distance, a bell rang out, a salute, a walking tempo for the procession, which stopped to listen to the harmonic eulogy. Suddenly, appearing from the crowd, a young woman, clothed in black, her face covered with a transparent veil, asked to no one in particular: "For Whom Does this Bell Ring?" and, without warning, a faceless figure touches me on my shoulder, ever so lightly, and replies: "It tolls for thee, Maggie&ldots;it tolls for thee." Morning colors of sunrise appeared on the horizon, heralding a new day of light blues, crimson reds and faded pinks. While tiny stars still adorned their beauty, high tide threw waves of blue and white crashing to shore, breaking the silence of the earlier calm and serenity of the coast. The old kerosene light flickered to and fro on the windows of the widow's peak, bringing me to reality, having dreamt of my days in Vietnam. I had been happiest as a child, here, in this old villa, filled with history and interesting things. Although my grandfather died while I was in Nam, the happiness he gave me, with fishing memories from this coastal refuge, lured me to end my life, as it had it's root in the beginning. It is indeed fitting that I should return to the place where some glimpse of happiness had not deserted me. Over the years the memories of my tour in Viet Nam did not dim with age, but remained an immortal sin, unforgiving and eternal. As the years passed, my homecoming to a despising nation only reinforced my beliefs about myself, for I despised me too, and of course, they were right to call me a 'baby killer,' even in their ignornace of how significant that specific title was for me. They didn't know how right they were. It was time to stop the pain and accept my penance, if there was to be any salvation at all. Raising the pistol, I quickly removed the safety lock and carefully pointed the barrel toward my temple. The cool steel against my head seemed reassuring, and I felt a little surprised that this was going to be easier than I thought it would be. But for the mirror of my deed, I might have pulled the trigger and ended my pain, but from the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of my desperate reflection in the window, and felt compelled to turn. It was then that the crumpled pieces of parchment caught my attention, only slightly visible, unobtrusively tucked between the old faded barn-boards of the walls. I heard a small and gentle voice within me say "Wait! Wait!." Oddly drawn to the ill-placed and carefully hidden parchments, I placed the gun on the wicker table near the lamp, and carefully pulled the wooden planks away from the wall, retrieving the stained and yellowed letters. One in particular caught my attention, and raising the light slightly, I began to read the last letter of Captain Gordon Albright to his wife, Sarah. It read:
I sat quietly for a moment, hands holding the aged parchment, pondering the words of Sarah's husband, and the gentle and loving reassurance that he gave to his dying wife. |