Harmony Church

Vietnam 1968

The heat was heavy and wet, stifling, and persistent. A 23-year-old from Oklahoma walked point. Members from his squad called him Okie or Indian. He was somewhere between a quarter and a half Chickasaw, his skinned deeply tanned by an unremitting tropical sun. Six months in the bush had sculptured his physique down to the bare necessities. His dark arms were lithe and defined and always glistening with a mixed sheen of sweat and moisture. Rain came sporadically, in impulsive erratic deluges, much like the enemy that he was drafted to kill. The politicians that drafted him had the luxury of negotiating from a distance. Dressed in suits and ties, the only thing they were going to kill was time. In Vietnam it was different. There was no negotiating. It was a zero-sum game and he had learned quickly to kill or be killed. It was that simple.

Just a few months earlier he was making good money painting water towers somewhere in Illinois. Granted, he was spending it as fast as he could on women and alcohol, but at 23 years of age and no focused direction, he was spending the currency of youth on the commodities of lust and addiction. His handsome features belied his shyness, but once the alcohol hit his veins he was transformed into a charismatic extrovert and there wasn’t a woman he couldn’t dazzle. His lust for women was rivaled only by his lust for alcohol. He had left a pretty wife and small son in Oklahoma where she had filed for and been granted a divorce.

They were classmates in high school and had eloped shortly after their senior year. They were a contrast in appearances, he the dark skinned handsome Indian, and she the pale skinned redheaded beauty. They both shared a passion for living that bordered on madness, and there was never any middle ground between them. They were either passionately loving, or violently fighting and at times both at the same time. Their combustible union had produced a son, and like a fertile soil absorbs the rain, their child would spend the first 3 years of his life absorbing the fallout from their explosive personalities.

After a particularly hard night of drinking, he rolls out of bed sometime around noon leaving behind disheveled sheets along with the disheveled woman sleeping beneath them. He stumbles into the kitchen for something to drink and opens the refrigerator door while shielding his hungover eyes from the glow within. Retrieving a glass bottle of coke, he fumbled trough a drawer looking for an opener when he noticed an official looking envelope addressed to Terry Q. Wendell. That was definitely him. He pried the lid on the bottle open letting it fall freely from counter to floor where it spun momentarily like a top before settling next to a cigarette butt. He sat the fizzing coke aside to open his mail. Through puffy bloodshot eyes he read, “Greeting: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States and to report at, 301 N.W. 6th Street Oklahoma City, Oklahoma…Suddenly, he was wide awake, and his hangover instantly cured.

Coming from a family that wasn’t connected politically or financially, he knew there would be no deferments or cushy stints in some benign National Guard Unit. His father wasn’t a congressman or successful businessman, but a German oilfield worker that worked as hard as he drank, and both were considerable. His mother was a petite olive-skinned half-breed Chickasaw Indian. It was said that his father had some Indian heritage as well but standing over 6 feet tall, hands the size of a baseball mitt, and with fierce blue eyes, it was the German ancestry that you noticed. And his parents weren’t in close proximity to Washington D.C or the Ivy League Schools where the living was easy. On the wind-swept plains of Oklahoma, it was different. They lived in a secluded, small, shot gun house where you farmed, worked in the oil field, or you starved. It was that simple.

“Okie, the Lt. wants to see you,” said a freckled faced farm boy from Iowa while tapping his shoulder. “I’ll take point so you can fall back.” They had been walking for hours and Okie’s thoughts were focused only on what may be in the next clearing or over the next ridge. At times he had to hack through thick underbrush and obstinate vines with a machete. The wooden handle had at first created painful blisters between his thumb and index finger, but those had long calloused over and he felt nothing. He often wished that his nervous system would callous over as well but in Vietnam as soon as you felt at ease, all hell would break lose. He had only been in country for a few months when he realized that life here consisted of long periods of mundane plodding through thick vines and oppressive heat, marked by intense burst of chaos, flooding adrenalin, and death. So far, he had experienced the first two and prayed daily he wouldn’t hit the trifecta.

The Lt. was walking towards the rear of Okie’s squad with his radio man close by. The radioman was sweating profusely and humping a PRC 77. “Okie, we’re going to run through a village in about 2 clicks. It’s supposed to be friendly, but you know that’s never something to bet on. Keep your squad tight and make sure everyone is ready to go if things get crazy.” Okie’s black eyebrows furrowed, and his dark eyes crinkled at the edges as he squinted and replied with a half grin, “Alright sir.” This was the platoon’s third Lt in about 3 months and this one was particularly jumpy. Okie made his way back to the front to assume walking point again. Maybe it was an ancestral thing coming from his mother’s strong Chickasaw roots, but whatever its source, he was a natural in the bush. He felt things that were later confirmed by a map and could find passages through the thickest of foliage. Okie could also sense when the Viet Cong were close by. The hairs on his neck bristled like the hair on a dog’s back when agitated, and his stomach filled with flutters and tightened. If he wasn’t in the jungle of a hostile enemy, the source may have been an attractive woman or a thrilling roller coaster. Here, it was never a welcomed feeling, and he had grown to dread it.

They were descending down a small trail that twisted and turned like a lazy snake underneath a canopy of jungle vines and trees. Okie was the first to emerge from the jungle. He wore only a flack vest and a chain hung from his neck that had a cross, a Star of David, and a tribal talisman. He’s was in a situation where he couldn’t afford to piss off anyone’s god, so he was covering all the deity’s bases.

The strap around the camouflage on his helmet held a bottle of oil that he poured liberally on the bolt in his weapon to keep it from jamming. Jamming with a rock band in a garage stateside was good. Jamming in the jungles of Vietnam with your M-16 was bad. There were times when he was in the thick of a fire fight and the oil would splatter onto his face and shoulders. It was so hot that it would create small blisters, but that was a small price to pay to ensure that his weapon wouldn’t lock up at the gates of hell. In his six months in country he had seen a few men lock up, but never his weapon. His olive drab trousers had absorbed so much sweat and rain that they were fading to black and wilting over the canvas of his jungle boots. He trudged on towards the village as the rest of his squad appeared slowly in his wake like phantoms from a green mist.

The village Okie’s squad entered was nothing more than hovels made of grass, dirt, and bamboo. They appeared as if the slightest wind could blow them to the ground, but appearances are often misleading. The Vietnamese huts were resilient and strong just like those that had built them. Most of the Vietnamese were semi-literate farmers, peasants, caught up in a civil war that they had no stake in. Regardless of the victor, their plight would most likely stay the same. Ironically, many fighting against them would return and find that their plights would remain much the same too.

Smoke drifted lazily in parts of the village as the villagers mulled around fires carrying bamboo and containers of water. They observed the soldiers approaching like a foreboding storm cloud. Small children rushed to their mother’s side and the older ones went inside their humble abodes. Okie’s squad had no issues with anyone in the village. They just happened to be in the path of a search and destroy mission passing through on the way to their objective. Okie’s squad leader caught up with him just before they entered the village.

“Okie, listen up. We’re breaking the squad into two teams and sweeping through in two groups.” Staff Sergeant Bermeister stood six feet two and was muscular. Okie looked up from his wiry five eight frame and nodded while winking. There was an unspoken playfulness between them. In the bush it was time to work and both were all business, but the military formalities cloaked the deep friendship that had developed between them over the past few months. When he was drafted, Okie was painting a water tower in a town in Illinois that Bermeister was actually from. That was the ice breaker in their friendship that had developed quickly and deeply. They trusted each other in the bush, and both knew the other would always have his back, not just with theories and platitudes, but with resolve and action.

When they were at base camp, they shared cigarettes and exchanged stories of sexual conquest, and ass kicking’s. Fucking and fighting were two subjects they both knew well. Both were honest enough, that they didn’t always make themselves the hero of their stories. Sometimes in their narratives, it was them that took the ass whipping and lost the girl. They appreciated the others willingness to be honest and self-effacing. Nothing’s more grating in a platoon than a pretentious prick that takes himself too seriously and remains the hero in every story, even when he has to lie about it. Those types never fare well in an infantry unit, but surprisingly do quite well as politicians.

“Bermeister, I had this fat ass cousin named Wally. He was a big ole country boy that we always called Big Wall. He was a few years older than me in school and we saw his car one night down in a pasture close to our house.” They were in a tent sitting on army cots facing each other. Both of their tongues were limber from more than a few beers. They shared stories back and forth through the smoke that floated hazily in the air between them. Their cigarettes dangled lifelessly from the corners of their mouths and became animated every time one of them talked.

Okie told his story with exaggerated gestures and contorted facial expressions, “Me and a couple of neighbor boys low crawled through the weeds to get close to Big Wall’s car. We knew he was up to somethin down in that pasture and we planned on findin out what it was. It was summer and when we got close, his windows was rolled down. We heard the damndest huffin and puffin you ever heard. Sounded like a goddamned bull. Come to find out, Big Wall was ah fuckin this ole girl everyone called Sneeter. That had to be her nick name because who the hell would name a girl Sneeter?! Ole Wally was just ah going to town but Sneeter wasn’t movin. We heard him say, ‘Hunch Sneeter, Hunch!’ and she said, ‘I can’t move Wally, you’re too big!’ and big Wall said, ‘Well just try and get up then!’ Both of their heads went back, and they laughed from their stomachs in unison. Okie leaned over and slapped Bermeister’s thigh, “My buddies and me jumped up and pulled a bunch of grass up by the roots and went ta stickin em in Wally’s fat ass!” Laughter erupted once again.

Stories were exchanged between them, each trying to out story the other. Plans were made in between stories well into the night until both of their tongues were thick with alcohol and their eyelids closed defiantly over bloodshot eyes irritated by too much smoke. It was settled. Okie would visit Bermeister’s family in Illinois and then Bermeister would visit Okie’s in Oklahoma. There’s a saying that goes, ‘There’s one that sticks closer than a brother’ and that couldn’t be truer for those that have shared the terrors and challenges of combat. Those bonds last a lifetime severed only in death.

*****

Okie’s squad was halfway through the village and it felt like they were walking through a pasture of docile cows. Everyone in the village did their best to ignore them and act like nothing was happening. The light infantry squad moved through as if they were saying, “Don’t mind us, we’re just passing through.” Bermeister had checked on Alpha Team and was now shoulder to shoulder with Okie moving with Bravo Team. Suddenly an old woman in black pajamas burst out of a grass hovel carrying a big burlap sack draped over a shoulder. She was in a full out sprint. Bermeister slapped Okie’s shoulder, “Hey, I bet that bitch has the VC payroll! You go that way and I will try to steer her in your direction!” Okie took off running in the direction Bermeister pointed out. The cross, Star of David, and tribal talisman flailed wildly at the end of his chain. Suddenly, the earth moved beneath his feet like a rolling sea and it felt like a wave had lifted him high and slammed him violently onto a sandy beach.

Okie was face down in the dirt and his ears filled with a high-pitched screech like a wailing siren. Smoke was everywhere. “What the fuck just happened and where is all that goddamned smoke coming from!?” Okie’s mind was grasping to make sense of the sudden explosion. Villagers scattered like geese off a pond. “Okie, you okay?! hey man! You good?!” It was a member of Bravo Team kneeling next to him. “What the fuck was that?” Okie said rolling up on his side, “And where is all that damned smoke coming from?” “Sergeant Bermeister stepped on a Bouncing Betty and it set off all the smoke grenades on his LCE!” “Did it kill him?” Okie asked in a dead pan voice. “No, but he’s dying. It blew off his arms one of his legs and half of his face. Do you want to see him before he dies?” “Fuck no!” Okie exploded. “Do you think I want to see him like that?!”

Okie had recovered and was standing at the edge of the village while a medic looked him over. He could hear the Lt standing over by Bermeister’s body talking on the radio, “We’re going to need a medivac ASAP! We have one KIA and one wounded.” A numbness washed over Okie’s body. He felt the fatigue that comes not from physical activity, but from a deep loss. The kind that settles deeply in your muscles and lodges in your bones.

Later that evening Okie’s platoon had set up camp overlooking a small stream. Their perimeter secured, he was now leaning back against a tree and looking toward the western horizon. The sun was handing off his watch over the skies to lady moon. Okie had never noticed so many colors in a sunset. The deepest of blues mixed with brilliant oranges, angry reds, and timid pinks. He thought of the sunsets back home on the Oklahoma plains and the tabletop mountains which were more like flat hills jutting up from the horizon. He thought of a bible verse from his youth, ‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.’ He thought of his son and ex-wife. The sky was blue like his son’s eyes and the angry clouds like her fiery red hair. He longed for his friend Bermeister, but most of all, he longed for home.