The War You've Always Wanted

HER SMILE WAS PERFECT

Dolan’s first weeks as an Army correspondent hit him hard. Not the work but the weirdness of it all. He kept thinking it was scripted somehow, as if Vietnam in ’72 were written as a parade of absurdities Rod Serling would love. Flashing him back to ironic situations he’d seen throughout his life.

The worst, he supposed, was the one about the plumber. Working late in a Boston fire station closed for renovations, the man threw away what he thought was a dead cigarette—then died in the fire.

Dolan was getting pulled into the works now. Not in a funny way but in the only way that mattered for a soldier. And his new posting guaranteed nothing. If anything, he was at greater risk than ever. Back at the firebase, there were only so many ways he could get taken out. Now he traveled routinely. He was halfway through his tour, and odds that had been chancy at best kept getting worse. He couldn’t dig a foxhole in a Huey.

But what else did he want? You volunteered. Suck on it.

In the end, he’d get home, on his feet or in a bag—and at any moment he might go from the first state to the second.

In the past, whenever he saw something that defied belief, he considered it briefly, then moved along. He never froze or scratched his head or turned into a slack-jawed cartoon character yelling, You ain’t gonna believe it!

To be fair, it was never arcane bullshit that stood out. He’d never seen a UFO nor met someone only to learn the man had been dead for years. And even if he did, he doubted his day would come to a grinding halt. He had seen enough illusions and magic tricks not to be paralyzed by them.

Pop took him to a carnival once when he was nine, and his strongest memory was of a gag faucet suspended midair. An endless stream of water pouring into a bottomless barrel. After studying it, he turned to Pop and asked if they could go on the roller coaster.

Now it was happening all the time. Finding himself in moments where two events that shouldn’t occur in the same place at the same . . . did. Some contrasts were so extreme he found no way to document them, let alone comprehend them—and once he started seeing them, he couldn’t stop.

There was the time he went out with an ARVN patrol. As one they had jumped from the road into a ditch as the artillery came in, tearing up the village ahead of them. The ditch was an open sewer. Redolent with mud and rotting vegetation and shit of every kind. A handy dumping ground for the locals, who were wise enough to place it down the road and downwind.

Dolan made out all right. He managed to keep the slop from filling his boots, but the kid next to him was less fortunate. He’d gone face down in the mire. He struggled back up, spluttering mud and manure. Amusing his friends no end.

When the incoming cleared, the village was nothing but flames. Back up on the road, the kid saw he’d cut his leg on something in the ditch. Their medic was the only one over twenty, and he looked closer to Pop’s age than Dolan’s. As he bent close for a look, the others giggled and pointed and poured water over the kid’s miserable face. Making jokes that Dolan, with his gradually improving Vietnamese, just about understood. He did his best not to laugh while the kid groaned, and the medic declared he would need a tetanus shot but no sutures.

With this tableau before him, Dolan reached for his camera—and froze.

The kid and the medic went on examining the wound while the squad watched them both. Backs turned to the burning village. Indifferent to the shrieks of a dog vanishing in the flames.

Priorities.

Then there was the time at Tan Son Nhut when Dolan witnessed a VNAF C-47 making a wobbly approach. Dolan had been driving in a jeep—alone, for once—when the plane came in. Pulling over, he jumped on the hood and raised his binoculars with the cracked lens, and as he got a clear look, his mouth fell open.

Half the plane’s rudder had been shot away, one stabilizer dangling like a thread. There was no sign of smoke or fire, and whoever was at the controls was a master. Wheels down, landing lights on, the plane shifted slightly to the left, then to the right. Barely clearing the fence, it gently touched the runway and rolled smoothly to the end.

As it stopped, a stairway truck drove past and up to a gleaming Pan Am passenger jet. A moment later the cabin door opened, and a blond stewardess appeared. A supernatural vision in blue. Garrison cap perfectly in place and gloves so white they glowed. The passengers emerged, and she nodded vigorously, waving and smiling for them all. Through his binoculars Dolan followed every detail.

Her smile was perfect.

Then there was that Air Force officer from Kentucky. The one who sounded like Yosemite Sam. Explaining in minute detail to a dozen South Vietnamese pilots the components of the latest cluster bomb unit. If serviced via the right pattern, the bombs could take out a whole company of mechanized infantry. With a regretful sigh, he added that such opportunities were rare, given the North Vietnamese habit of maneuvering under forest cover, with vast gaps between vehicles.

Dolan spoke briefly with him afterward, taking a last look around the base. Everything was smooth and clean and looked so utterly real. In every direction the sky was a vault of perfect blue. He said as much, adding that it seemed like a realm worth exploring. Realizing how fanciful that sounded, he immediately regretted saying it.

To his surprise, the man agreed, saying he had minored in English lit at Rutgers. As proof, he reached into his flight suit and pulled out a beat-up paperback, one clearly read many times. Utopia by Thomas More.

And there was that after-hours discussion in the officers’ club with that major. Lean and easygoing, born and raised in Seattle, talking plainly and very off the record. The bartender scowling at Dolan’s stripes. The major telling him to pour the damn drinks and leave them alone. Dolan absorbing the reflections of a man who at nineteen had followed Patton almost all the way to Berlin. Lamenting how the enemy was finally coming in force. No more guys in black pajamas sneaking through the bush now. At long, long last, they were going full convent and going heavy.

It’s the war you’ve always wanted, he sighed. And now we’re nearly gone.

But the last one took the prize.

A Green Beret lieutenant made it to an ARVN field hospital after a fourteen-mile hike, most of it in the dark. The North Vietnamese had razed a village from which he’d been ordered to flee two nights before. From a force of two hundred, only three had made it out.

Three survivors. Himself and two boys barely in their teens. All that remained of a four-man American advisory team and six Montagnard clans. Four generations of Jarai people now dead or wounded, scattered or enslaved. And even with decades of hatred for the communists, they remained third-class citizens to the coastal Vietnamese, North and South.

There may have been more survivors, but it was impossible to know. It was dark and everything was falling apart when the order came to get out. To head south to a rendezvous point, but they couldn’t, and then their radio quit and . . .

At twenty-four, the lieutenant felt like an old, old man. He hadn’t slept in days. He’d been in Special Forces for four years. For the last two, he’d lived with Jarai tribes along the Cambodian border. Learning their customs and their language. He had gotten drunk with them countless times on their outrageous hooch. Predictably, he suffered for it, yet he always kept it together. Never doing any horseshit that would offend them, and he absolutely did not screw any of their women. He respected them and in return had earned their esteem.

Near the end, most of the Vietnamese had left, and the rest were gearing up to follow. Shouting all kinds of shit as they went. That the Montagnards deserved what was coming to them. Among those enduring this was a tribal elder. Fit and lean at sixty, the man had been fighting communists for years. His scarred face was a mask of serenity as the true Vietnamese departed.

The lieutenant had tripped the night before during his brutal trek and came down hard, breaking the fall with his right hand but violently jamming his elbow. It hurt like a bastard, and he could barely bend it now. It hung ramrod straight at his side.

Crushed with despair, he shed tears faster than he could wipe them away.

Dolan respectfully stepped away as the ARVN doctor spoke soothing words to the man. The wounded giant near collapse, leaning against a troop carrier. The older and slighter man reaching up to him, placing an assuring hand on the giant’s shoulder. The giant nearly choking with sobs now. Trying to regain himself, not quite managing it. Staring at his boots and shaking his head as the doctor applied a splint to his arm.

The doctor continued to speak quietly and gently, like a father telling his son it was all right. Yes, it had been difficult, but it was going to be just fine now. The son nodding, adrift and speechless.

Dolan took a single photo—but then stopped. This was their moment, not his. He lowered the camera and kept his mouth shut.

More kind words. The father praising his son for his courage and his service to both nations. Adding that his arm would heal quickly, and afterward he must take a long rest. That he had earned it. The son nodding slowly, neither agreeing nor denying.

The doctor brought out cigarettes. Gauloises. Saying it was one thing the French got right, then lighting for both of them. The young giant nodded again, grateful. Drawing in the smoke. Still staring at his boots and wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

The doctor said something else, but Dolan couldn’t make it out. The lieutenant froze. The doctor hesitated as the giant glared down at him. Eyes burning into the man. Cutting him in half. Muscles straining in his face. Jaw clenched. Holding back a demon.

The doctor looked nervous. The giant leaned closer and spoke very quietly. Definitive and cold. Defeated, the doctor turned and trudged away.

The giant glowered at the man until he was gone from sight.

Carefully shifting his arm, he headed toward Dolan.

Our partners in freedom, he muttered, his voice nearly a whisper.

What did he say? Dolan asked with surreal calm.

Laughing darkly, the man gave the question careful thought.

The son of a bitch said he was glad I’d made it. He said he didn’t give a shit about the Jarai. The ‘decrepit hill people.’ He said the communists had done everyone a favor by killing them.

From bitter experience, Dolan knew there was no right thing to say, so he didn’t try.

What did you tell him?

The giant looked past Dolan as a jeep pulled up behind them.

Oh, I told him to go fuck himself. I said I’d gladly trade him and his whole family if I could’ve brought just one more of those people back with us.

He paused, gave a weak laugh.

Then I thanked him for the smoke.

After a last drag, he dropped the cigarette and crushed it. Grinding his boot into it as he would with a snake. Making sure it died.

It’s a joke, he muttered. The whole damn thing.

MAYBE NEXT TIME, PAT

The man said his souvenirs were in a box somewhere. He had kept it handy for a while. Had seen it all the time for years but kept putting it away. In a desk, or maybe up in the attic, but he couldn’t be sure.

Just pictures, he said. Some ribbons, too, but he had only worn them once or twice. Nothing much, really.

Pat was nine years old. Mass had just ended, and he was with Pop outside, thanking Father Galloway for the service and moving along to chat with Mr. Spinelli, the electrician who sometimes came to the house.

President Kennedy had been on TV again, talking about some place called the Bay of Pigs. Pat thought it was a stupid name, and as the men talked, his mind wandered off. It came back immediately when Mr. Spinelli mentioned a few objects he had kept from the war. He had been a gunner in a Navy dive-bomber.

Excited, Pat asked how many times he had bombed ships. The man said he didn’t remember. When the boy asked if it was fun, the man shook his head.

It scared me to death every time, he said simply. Like falling backwards off a cliff.

Pop changed the subject, and Pat was disappointed. World War II sounded amazing. A great adventure. The greatest ever. Filled with all kinds of fantastic stuff—fighter planes and machine guns and battleships.

Pat asked if he could see the box, but then Jimmy was looking down at him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and saying that was enough. Firm but loving. They only had each other, after all.

Mr. Spinelli smiled and said he’d find it eventually. He kept meaning to clear out that attic. Said there was a ton of dusty crap up there. Maybe a few bird’s nests. He laughed, weighing the boy’s question, but his tone changed.

Maybe next time, Pat.

He said it whenever they met, and Pat learned to stop asking. But the idea wouldn’t let him go. It captivated him, like Jim Hawkins seeing the treasure chest at last. Like the children pushing through the wardrobe to Narnia.

Magic, he thought. Every bit of it.

Jimmy Dolan had a box. An old wooden one that once held cigars. Brown as the earth with little brass hinges and a clasp. On the top a cowboy waved from under a palm tree. The words over the tree were in Spanish. Pat wondered what they meant but never asked. It was what was in the box that mattered.

His father kept it on a shelf in the back of his bedroom closet. Occasionally he’d bring it down, and his son would study it with wonder. In it were snapshots. Black and white mostly, but a few in captivating color. Pictures of Pop and his friends when they were crazy young. Looking even younger than the big kids in the neighborhood did now.

None of the pictures showed action, which was disappointing. None of Pop making heroic charges. None of him throwing a grenade or shooting a bazooka or leaning bravely forward as his boat raced toward Omaha Beach.

The boys in the pictures were always happy. Grinning as they leaned against trucks. Grinning as they smoked cigarettes and played cards. Grinning as they sat outside a café with French girls on their laps.

Sometimes they were bareheaded and shirtless. Boys at ease. Smiling like they had heard a great joke right when the camera clicked.

When Pat asked why this was, his father didn’t answer right away. Jimmy Dolan was a thoughtful man, wise enough to think before he spoke. But this time was different, as though he hadn’t understood the question.

Finally, he said it was because those were the only times they could take pictures. Because they were in action. Because the rest of the time they were on the move. Trying to grab sleep or stay warm or stay dry.

The box held other things, too. His father’s corporal’s stripes and a clip from his rifle. His Purple Heart. A wooden beer coaster that had German words on it. A fifty-caliber round with the powder removed, or so Pop had said. The boy often wondered what would happen if he hit it with a hammer.

If he waited long enough before asking again, the father would bring out the box. Usually, but not always. When he did, though, he treated the box like it still only held cigars. Nothing special. But the son would have none of it, and together they would study its contents once more.

And after a few minutes, Pop would put it away again. Time for dinner, he might say, or for bed. Or they had to wash dishes, or the game was on.

Pop was the kindest, most even-tempered man in the world. He never shouted at his son. He never so much as scowled at him or even punished him—and he never ever hit him. Pat knew kids who weren’t so lucky, and for this he loved his father all the more. But there were exceptions. Sometimes his father’s face would go blank, seeing something no one else could. Or his voice would change, from mild to brisk, as though they were running late.

Once, he stood up fast, saying that was enough, and slammed the box shut. Other times he didn’t speak at all. Pat would ask something more about the war, and the room would grow darker, the air colder. The effect was haunting. When his father got that faraway look, Pat knew to be quiet or change the subject.

Sometimes Pat would leave the room for a while, or even the house. To take out the trash or leave the note for the milkman. To bring the clean clothes upstairs or do his homework or something else, anything else, and once again, he would vow to keep quiet.

For a while, anyway.

The following Sunday, they saw Mrs. Kelly and her son Bill, who was in Pat’s fourth-grade class. Mrs. Kelly said her husband wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t come to church that morning. Mr. Kelly had been in the Navy, so Pat asked if he was seasick because he had heard him talk about it once. Bill looked away, embarrassed, and his mother laughed a little too hard.

Walking home, Pop said not to ask about Mr. Kelly if he wasn’t there next time.

Why? asked Pat. Does he get seasick a lot?

Jimmy shook his head. It’s not from seasickness, Patrick. It’s from drinking.

You drink beer every night, Pop.

I drink enough, son.

And Mr. Kelly?

His father sighed. "Mr. Kelly drinks more than enough."

They walked in silence, and when his father spoke again, his words were gentle.

A lot of bad people were trying to sink his ship. They were trying to kill him. Trying very hard.

Pat thought he got it. That’s what you did in war, certainly. But since America had won, that was all that mattered. Right?

On another Sunday, they talked with Mr. Pelachek, who lived only two blocks away. In the Coast Guard, he had helped rescue sailors from torpedoed ships. Pat thought that was great, but the man only said they had done what they could. It was hard and dangerous and freezing cold most of the time.

Did you sink any U-boats? the boy asked.

The man laughed quietly. No, son, I didn’t.

Not now, Pat, said his father. Sorry, Ed. This fella here is doing great in history. Drives his teacher crazy, yelling answers faster than she asks the questions.

Pat’s cheeks burned. It wasn’t true, but he knew to stay quiet.

Good for you, Patrick, the man replied. Keep it up.

The boy only nodded.

Mr. Trebenko’s son Alex was on Pat’s Little League team. One Saturday, while waiting their turns at bat, Alex mentioned his dad hated carnival rides.

That’s crazy, said Pat.

Yeah, but he hates ’em all—except merry-go-rounds.

Why those?

The horses never leave the ground.

Those are so boring, Pat declared. How come?

He was in the Air Force.

A pilot?

Radio operator.

"Jeez, anyone can do that."

On a Flying Fortress.

Wow.

Alex shrugged, but Pat pressed on. Does your dad have stuff from the war? Stuff he keeps in a box?

Not a box, said Alex. Just this big envelope. It’s brown and got a lot of tape on it. Some pictures, I guess. Maps, too, and letters from my grandma. I only saw it once.

Don’t you ask to see it more?

Sometimes, but he keeps saying no. Next time.

Next time, Pat thought resentfully. Always next time.

On Pat’s birthday, he and Pop took the train out to Winthrop. His parents