In fact, I barely recognized my own country anymore. So ’Nam was not that bad a place to be.
The war was winding down, at least for the Americans who were pulling out, but it would go on for another three terrible years for the poor bastards who had the misfortune of being born Vietnamese.
In fact, my second Vietnam tour lasted only six months before my MP company got orders to go home.
I hadn’t heard much from Patty in those six months, and what I did hear through her brief, but neatly written letters didn’t sound too positive. In fact, one letter said, “I’m sitting here listening to ‘I’m So Miserable Without You, It’s Like Havin’ You Here,’ which is how I’m feeling now.”
Some men returning unexpectedly from overseas call ahead, so that the loving wife can make preparations, or the unfaithful wife can get rid of the cigars in the ashtray. I called from San Francisco in June ’72, saying I’d be home in three days. This news was met with some ambivalence.
When I finally got out of the taxi that had taken me from Midland Airfield to Whispering Pines Trailer Park, I was somewhat ambivalent myself about what I wanted to find.
I threw my duffel bag on the ground and went to the door of the trailer. Coming home after a long absence in a war zone is a strange experience, like you just re-entered the earth’s atmosphere from outer space, and you know that things on earth have changed.
I tried the doorknob, and it was unlocked. I stepped inside my trailer and stood in the small living room. I knew she wasn’t there, so I didn’t even call out.
I went to the refrigerator for a beer and saw the note: Paul—I’m sorry, but it’s over. I filed for divorce. There’s no one else, but I just don’t want to be married no more. I guess I should say Welcome Home. Have a good life. Patty. P.S. I took Pal. Pal was the dog.
The grammatical error of the double negative annoyed me, and I could hear her drawl in the written words. The title of another country western song ran through my head—“Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone.”
I threw the note in the trash and found one beer left in the refrigerator, which wasn’t my brand, but it was cold.
I walked around the place that had been my home for a few years and saw that she’d taken all of her things, but she hadn’t taken the furniture because it belonged to the trailer and was mostly bolted down. She did, however, take all the linens, meaning a trip to the PX that evening. Actually, I didn’t even have a car because she didn’t take Greyhound; she took our ’68 Mustang, which I still miss. I also miss Pal. I had anticipated him knocking
me to the floor and licking my face, which I think he learned from Patty in the early days of our marriage.
This was not what homecomings were supposed to look like.
I spent a few days at Whispering Pines and Fort Hadley, getting my paperwork in order and all that, then I went back to Boston for my leave, where I was welcomed more warmly. My brother Benny was still in the service, so he wasn’t home—in fact, he was in Germany, holding the line against the Red Hordes on the Eastern Front. I’d like to think my second ’Nam tour kept him out of Southeast Asia.
My brother Davey was just eighteen, and had drawn a low number in the new lottery draft system and was looking forward to being called. He liked my uniform. The war really was coming to an end, so I didn’t try to talk him out of the army or into college, and he, too, served his country, mostly at Fort Hadley. When he got to Hadley, I tipped him off about the lint heads and told him to look up a strawberry blonde named Jenny, but he never ran into her.
Regarding my homecoming to South Boston, the neighborhood seemed different somehow, more so than the last time I’d returned. I realized my boyhood was over, and yes, you can’t go home again.
After my leave, I returned to Fort Hadley and Whispering Pines, and I discovered from a neighbor that
The war was winding down, at least for the Americans who were pulling out, but it would go on for another three terrible years for the poor bastards who had the misfortune of being born Vietnamese.
In fact, my second Vietnam tour lasted only six months before my MP company got orders to go home.
I hadn’t heard much from Patty in those six months, and what I did hear through her brief, but neatly written letters didn’t sound too positive. In fact, one letter said, “I’m sitting here listening to ‘I’m So Miserable Without You, It’s Like Havin’ You Here,’ which is how I’m feeling now.”
Some men returning unexpectedly from overseas call ahead, so that the loving wife can make preparations, or the unfaithful wife can get rid of the cigars in the ashtray. I called from San Francisco in June ’72, saying I’d be home in three days. This news was met with some ambivalence.
When I finally got out of the taxi that had taken me from Midland Airfield to Whispering Pines Trailer Park, I was somewhat ambivalent myself about what I wanted to find.
I threw my duffel bag on the ground and went to the door of the trailer. Coming home after a long absence in a war zone is a strange experience, like you just re-entered the earth’s atmosphere from outer space, and you know that things on earth have changed.
I tried the doorknob, and it was unlocked. I stepped inside my trailer and stood in the small living room. I knew she wasn’t there, so I didn’t even call out.
I went to the refrigerator for a beer and saw the note: Paul—I’m sorry, but it’s over. I filed for divorce. There’s no one else, but I just don’t want to be married no more. I guess I should say Welcome Home. Have a good life. Patty. P.S. I took Pal. Pal was the dog.
The grammatical error of the double negative annoyed me, and I could hear her drawl in the written words. The title of another country western song ran through my head—“Thank God and Greyhound She’s Gone.”
I threw the note in the trash and found one beer left in the refrigerator, which wasn’t my brand, but it was cold.
I walked around the place that had been my home for a few years and saw that she’d taken all of her things, but she hadn’t taken the furniture because it belonged to the trailer and was mostly bolted down. She did, however, take all the linens, meaning a trip to the PX that evening. Actually, I didn’t even have a car because she didn’t take Greyhound; she took our ’68 Mustang, which I still miss. I also miss Pal. I had anticipated him knocking
me to the floor and licking my face, which I think he learned from Patty in the early days of our marriage.
This was not what homecomings were supposed to look like.
I spent a few days at Whispering Pines and Fort Hadley, getting my paperwork in order and all that, then I went back to Boston for my leave, where I was welcomed more warmly. My brother Benny was still in the service, so he wasn’t home—in fact, he was in Germany, holding the line against the Red Hordes on the Eastern Front. I’d like to think my second ’Nam tour kept him out of Southeast Asia.
My brother Davey was just eighteen, and had drawn a low number in the new lottery draft system and was looking forward to being called. He liked my uniform. The war really was coming to an end, so I didn’t try to talk him out of the army or into college, and he, too, served his country, mostly at Fort Hadley. When he got to Hadley, I tipped him off about the lint heads and told him to look up a strawberry blonde named Jenny, but he never ran into her.
Regarding my homecoming to South Boston, the neighborhood seemed different somehow, more so than the last time I’d returned. I realized my boyhood was over, and yes, you can’t go home again.
After my leave, I returned to Fort Hadley and Whispering Pines, and I discovered from a neighbor that
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