Chapter 18, Gabe’s Lament
Kellan and Jack turned in about midnight. Gabe stayed up for another hour poking at the fire, gazing at the stars, and remembering a friend who had died in Vietnam. Bill Poulan had been killed in Pleiku Province, and it was Gabe’s fault, or at least he thought it was.
It was 1968 near the Song Xan River. Gabe was leading a night patrol through the jungle, one of the things that he loved doing. In a way, it reminded him of exploring the woods back home in southern Minnesota, only here, his life was in danger every minute, and the feeling enthralled him.
Bill was the Shakespeare quoting buddy who Gabe took an immediate liking to. Gabe was two years younger, but ostensibly, wiser in the ways of killing because he had already been in Vietnam for two and a half years.
Bill had joined the marines after graduating Summa cum laude from the University of Iowa. He could have gone to officer school but insisted upon being a grunt and earning his way. Gabe always liked him for that, in fact, he loved him in a way that only brothers could. Most of their free time was spent together, Bill quoting Shakespeare, non-threateningly displaying his knowledge, and telling about his college conquests; Gabe, teaching poker games and bragging about his high school adventures. They became brothers in every sense of the word, maybe even more.
The jungle was hushed that night and everyone just had a feeling nothing was going to happen. The boys were a little carefree and made more noise than Gabe was comfortable with. He was using more hand signals and verbals than usual to rein the men in as they patrolled their sector.
As always, Gabe never relaxed when he was in charge. The strange, delightful mixture of danger and the unknown kept him on point. The men in the unit, including Bill, relied upon Gabe to crack down and get serious when it was necessary, but tonight seemed almost otherworldly. Everyone just sensed this was a worthless patrol so their M16s were held loosely at their sides and they strolled, rather than sneaked, over the pathways of the jungle.
Bill joined him in the lead, speaking low, but casually, as Gabe tried to remain alert to any movements ahead. Normally, strict silence was observed as they stole through the moonlit pathways. Charlie was always near they were told, and most of the time they believed it.
As Bill and Gabe prowled ahead, they whispered, Gabe’s eyes constantly straining to see any movement in advance of their continually changing position. A snapped twig, a brush of leaves, the sound of a small animal parting the grasses as it escaped from the patrol’s onslaught, fed Gabe and Bill’s imagination.
Leading a patrol was always the most dangerous position, because of the Vietcong’s penchant for laying booby traps. Gabe always figured he couldn’t risk other men’s lives with a duty he himself should perform, so he always placed himself in the lead. Bill often joined him. Gabe appreciated the fact that Bill thought enough of him to share the burden, duty, and the fear that accompanied the lead.
Tonight, mostly Bill and Gabe seemed to be aware of the possible dangers, mainly because they were taking most of the risks. As they approached an opening in the jungle, back home Gabe would refer to it as a meadow, he held his arm up, signaling the patrol to halt. The boys milled about, although they were as noiseless as a nonchalant group of young men sensing no danger could be, the dull commotion of their movements alerted a small group of Vietcong.
They were thirteen and fourteen year old boys with AK47’s, dressed in pajamas; farmer’s children by day, guerrilla warriors by night. Alerted by the unusual night sounds, the Vietcong tensed as they struggled to see what they assumed was an American patrol.
Gabe hurried back to his boys, warning them of what possibly lay ahead. While he did, Bill Poulan stealthily crept forward to the mouth of the meadow, carelessly exposing himself to the antsy group of teenaged Vietcong.
The sons of farmers by day were without an older member of their Vietcong unit tonight, placing a virginal amount of stress upon them. Usually, at least one member of the unit was an older, experienced veteran of guerrilla warfare. There was no such luck for them tonight.
Bill Poulan’s last moments of life were painful and chaotic as he was nearly torn in half by the automatic fire from a frightened thirteen year old kid. Gabe found himself screaming epithets as he and all his boys slammed themselves flat on the ground and began returning fire in every direction. He knew it was too late for Bill, who had been in the lead. The only truth he didn’t know was how badly he had been injured. In a few minutes, as the automatic fire lessened and then ceased completely, he found Bill still alive, but obviously dying, nearly sliced in half by the AK47 slugs that had invaded his body.
Propping his head on his elbow, Gabe stroked Bill’s short hair, feeling his own tears tumble over his eyelids and alight upon Bill’s reddened cheeks.
Two soldiers died that evening; one, who’s physical, emotional, and mental being was completely destroyed, and Gabe who left his emotional well-being in a jungle, in the depths of Vietnam.
Gabe completed his tour in another few months in a different capacity. It was clear to his commanding officer that he would not, or should not resume his regular combat duties. He spent the few remaining months of his deployment in Saigon, procuring and filling orders for fighting units.
When he returned to the states, he tried to be the same old Gabe, and he succeeded for more than two decades, until it all slithered back into his life, unwillingly and unwanted. His descent into a netherworld was total and unrelenting.
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