Lennie D. an exception to every possible army rule.
“My friends call me Beau,” I said.
“Okay then,” Lieutenant Davis said, clapping me on the shoulder. “We’re all friends here. Beau it is. How’s that book going?”
“Slowly,” I said. “I’m not a fast reader.”
“Ever hear of Evelyn Wood?”
“Who?”
“It’s a class in speed reading. You might look into it sometime. But I’m glad you’re reading it. Like I told you yesterday, when you finish, you can give me a report.”
“You mean like an actual book report? In writing?”
He looked at me with that funny crooked grin of his. “Do I look like an English teacher to you? No, when you finish the book, bring it back to me and we’ll talk about it. Man to man.”
I wanted to ask if he always gave new arrivals reading assignments, but I didn’t. He stood up then and sauntered off to talk to someone else.
Other than our first meeting when I arrived at C Company, that was the only conversation I ever had with the man. A few days later things really started heating up in the highlands. By the end of July I had gone from being a green newbie to being an experienced fighter. I actually ended up using one of my aces, but mostly we were too busy staying alive to think about psychological warfare. I never got around to asking for a replacement.
On the morning of August second, A Company came through, hot on the trail of what they thought to be a vulnerable band of North Vietnamese. It turned out to be a well-laid trap. By the time their platoon leaders realized what was happening, it was too late. Within minutes, their lieutenant and their sergeant were both dead, and C Company was summoned to come to their rescue.
We went into the fight with Lieutenant Davis leading the way. I was in the thick of it when something hit me in the chest and knocked me on my butt. When I fell, I must have hit my head on something. By the time I got my wits back, all hell had broken loose. A corpsman found me and dragged me back to camp, where I spent two days in the hospital tent being treated for a concussion and a broken rib. When I came back around, I learned that Lennie D. was dead. He had been hit in the back by shrapnel from a mortar round while trying to drag two injured soldiers to safety.
Lieutenant Davis was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for his bravery that day, bravery that cost him his life, fighting a war the politicians were busy deciding not to win. He didn’t receive an award for saving my life, but he should have, because he did.
I remember something hitting me in the chest during the firefight. It hit me hard enough that it knocked the wind out of me and put me on the ground. I was unconscious for a while. I don’t remember the guy who picked me up and helped me back to camp, where the medics were amazed to discover that where there should have been a bloody, gaping wound on my chest there was nothing but some serious bruising. It wasn’t until they brought me back my stuff that I found out what had happened. I had been carrying The Rise and Fall inside my shirt, the same way Lennie D. had been carrying it when he handed it to me. The jagged pieces of metal that otherwise would have taken my life only made it as far as page 1,562. If William Shirer had taken forty fewer pages to tell his story, or if I had been a faster reader and had already finished the book and returned it, there’s no telling what would have happened, but I’m guessing there’s a good possibility that I wouldn’t be here today.
Once they let me out of the MASH unit, I tracked down Lieutenant Fowler to return his book. “Sorry about the damage,” I said.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he grabbed me and hugged me—hugged me for a long time. When he finally turned away, I caught sight of the tears in his eyes. Mine, too. I don’t have a doubt that wherever he is, Gary Fowler probably still has the book. As for me? What I have are the pieces of shrapnel
“My friends call me Beau,” I said.
“Okay then,” Lieutenant Davis said, clapping me on the shoulder. “We’re all friends here. Beau it is. How’s that book going?”
“Slowly,” I said. “I’m not a fast reader.”
“Ever hear of Evelyn Wood?”
“Who?”
“It’s a class in speed reading. You might look into it sometime. But I’m glad you’re reading it. Like I told you yesterday, when you finish, you can give me a report.”
“You mean like an actual book report? In writing?”
He looked at me with that funny crooked grin of his. “Do I look like an English teacher to you? No, when you finish the book, bring it back to me and we’ll talk about it. Man to man.”
I wanted to ask if he always gave new arrivals reading assignments, but I didn’t. He stood up then and sauntered off to talk to someone else.
Other than our first meeting when I arrived at C Company, that was the only conversation I ever had with the man. A few days later things really started heating up in the highlands. By the end of July I had gone from being a green newbie to being an experienced fighter. I actually ended up using one of my aces, but mostly we were too busy staying alive to think about psychological warfare. I never got around to asking for a replacement.
On the morning of August second, A Company came through, hot on the trail of what they thought to be a vulnerable band of North Vietnamese. It turned out to be a well-laid trap. By the time their platoon leaders realized what was happening, it was too late. Within minutes, their lieutenant and their sergeant were both dead, and C Company was summoned to come to their rescue.
We went into the fight with Lieutenant Davis leading the way. I was in the thick of it when something hit me in the chest and knocked me on my butt. When I fell, I must have hit my head on something. By the time I got my wits back, all hell had broken loose. A corpsman found me and dragged me back to camp, where I spent two days in the hospital tent being treated for a concussion and a broken rib. When I came back around, I learned that Lennie D. was dead. He had been hit in the back by shrapnel from a mortar round while trying to drag two injured soldiers to safety.
Lieutenant Davis was awarded a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for his bravery that day, bravery that cost him his life, fighting a war the politicians were busy deciding not to win. He didn’t receive an award for saving my life, but he should have, because he did.
I remember something hitting me in the chest during the firefight. It hit me hard enough that it knocked the wind out of me and put me on the ground. I was unconscious for a while. I don’t remember the guy who picked me up and helped me back to camp, where the medics were amazed to discover that where there should have been a bloody, gaping wound on my chest there was nothing but some serious bruising. It wasn’t until they brought me back my stuff that I found out what had happened. I had been carrying The Rise and Fall inside my shirt, the same way Lennie D. had been carrying it when he handed it to me. The jagged pieces of metal that otherwise would have taken my life only made it as far as page 1,562. If William Shirer had taken forty fewer pages to tell his story, or if I had been a faster reader and had already finished the book and returned it, there’s no telling what would have happened, but I’m guessing there’s a good possibility that I wouldn’t be here today.
Once they let me out of the MASH unit, I tracked down Lieutenant Fowler to return his book. “Sorry about the damage,” I said.
He didn’t say a word. Instead, he grabbed me and hugged me—hugged me for a long time. When he finally turned away, I caught sight of the tears in his eyes. Mine, too. I don’t have a doubt that wherever he is, Gary Fowler probably still has the book. As for me? What I have are the pieces of shrapnel
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