Nam-A-Rama by Phillip Jennings

Author:Phillip Jennings
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-03-14T04:00:00+00:00

My co-pilot, Lieutenant Brown, turned in his wings the next day. I had not realized that the mission was his very first in Vietnam. It was just too much for him, he said. Strangely, no one razzed him. I felt bad for him, knowing that I should have communicated more with him in the cockpit, given him something to do.

The gunny spent the morning washing the blood out of the cabin, even though his rank would have excused him from that chore. I hung around the aircraft for a while also, having trouble letting go.

Gearheardt came back from the hospital ship the next afternoon. I expected him to have lurid tales to tell. But he didn’t tell them.

“Not a lot of sex available there, Jack Couple of cute corpsmen, but the women docs were bitches. They had locked up the nurses before I landed.” He smiled, and I wasn’t sure which parts of the story to believe. He went on. “So I went to the radio room and called the Prez.”

“About our mission?”

“Naw, just to shoot the shit about football. Of course it was about the mission, Jack. That damn Brit didn’t clear up anything, and the squadron keeps getting more suspicious. We need to move things along.”

“And there are those nights like—”

“Yeah, I knew you’d say that, Jack. We gotta stop this shit or we’re going to get creamed.”

That evening I faced what all of the officers dreaded, and usually passed off to someone in the squadron administration—the letter to the parents or wife, the next of kin. The NOK on the form that we all filled out.

I couldn’t help but think about Barker’s letters, the idiot, and knew that I could craft decent, helpful, compassionate letters to grieving NOK. I thought about the letters that I had written about kids that I didn’t know. Now that seemed immeasurably easier.

I sat with the pad and pencil and couldn’t. There was no way to start. I fiddled with the pencil, tapping it on the paper until Gearheardt loudly cleared his throat. We were in the hooch, Gearheardt’s cot directly across from the foot of mine. I was supposed to write the letter in the admin office so I could use the typewriter. But I didn’t like being in there.

I couldn’t get beyond the salutation. Maybe we did need brainless idiots to write these letters.

“Jack,” Gearheardt said, “maybe you’re putting too much emphasis on just the dead son and NOK’s part. Whatever you say, they’ll still be whining and moping around the house, forgetting to feed the dog. And the kid will still be dead.”

When I didn’t look up and encourage the asshole, he went on.

“In fact why don’t you send the Next of Kin a bill? For the shipping charges. Your son shows up C.O.D., and that gives you something to think about, Jack. I think the NOKs would appreciate having something to take their minds off of the loss of the kid. Maybe the cost of his uniforms and guns and things, too.

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