wherever they went in the sane times.
He swung his legs off the bed and sat, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he got up and paced, taking slow, deep breaths and shaking the tension out of his arms and back.
Eventually, he stripped and remade the bed with the clean sheets heâd left neatly folded on the closet shelf. Then he dressed â making sure that he put on all the insulating layers he owned.
It was time to dance.
First, the sharp twists and blind turns up Beach Drive in Rock Creek Park and then a slash run back through the early morning traffic on Reno Road. That should work.
It was still a couple of hours until dawn. He could still be on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in time â right when the sun came up.
Rick moved quietly, so as not to disturb his housemates, and headed downstairs and out the back door.
His housemates heard the back door lock click and relaxed in their beds knowing that now they could finally sleep without sharing the tortured agony of Rickâs war.
CHAPTER 9
Â
Wednesday, December 20, 1972
After the battle in the Ia Drang Valley, after the long, painful journey through aid stations to MASH units to hospitals in Japan and, finally, VA centers in the United States â after he took off the uniform and folded it away in a box at his fatherâs house â Rick had gone to college.
He didnât wear his old GI jacket, didnât write letters to newspapers, didnât march in protests or counterprotests, didnât throw his medals away â in fact, he didnât look at them at all. His classmates knew he was older, quieter; he asked a lot of questions in class, but they were real questions, not opinions disguised as questions. He didnât make many choices, like a career or even a major. He just took whatever classes seemed appealing.
The image of a career â or marriage or a future of any kind â had been erased in the battle that had wiped out so many of his friends. He almost didnât graduate, but a professor whose son was never coming back from the war approved him for a general studies degree, saying with a note of sadness that Rick would have lots of time to figure out what he really wanted to do with his life.
He spent a year living in a dorm before he rented his own apartment. The young guys who lived on his hall learned not to make loud noises â his response to the idiot who had set off an M-80 firecracker right outside his window had been particularly impressive.
He had to explain to Andy, his roommate, why he should simply tell him that the dining hall was about to close. Shaking him awake triggered automatic battle reflexes. He had to buy the poor guy a nice tie to cover the finger-shaped bruises around his neck. Andy said everything was fine, but for the rest of the semester, Rick noticed that his roommate would only speak to him from the safety of the doorway. After that, he made sure to live in places where he could at least sleep alone.
He was adrift, looking for a new life where the sun shone and there were fewer terrors in the shadows. Living within the memories of Vietnam was too painful, so he tried desperately to be normal â much like his dad in 1946 â just someone trying to get on with an interrupted life. The people around him caught the request implicit in his silence and did not ask to share his thoughts or try to ease his burden.
Except Dina Scholten.
He was sitting alone at lunch one day, and she sat down with her tray, looked straight at him, and said, "Tell me about your war."
Rick had looked at her for a long moment. He saw a chubby girl with a severe haircut and brown eyes that were sharp but, as far as he could see, still open. Her mind wasnât already made up. It was just possible that she had meant what she said, that she wanted to know about his war â not to harangue him about the one she saw through a political lens.
So, he told her. Not all of it, and not the worst
He swung his legs off the bed and sat, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he got up and paced, taking slow, deep breaths and shaking the tension out of his arms and back.
Eventually, he stripped and remade the bed with the clean sheets heâd left neatly folded on the closet shelf. Then he dressed â making sure that he put on all the insulating layers he owned.
It was time to dance.
First, the sharp twists and blind turns up Beach Drive in Rock Creek Park and then a slash run back through the early morning traffic on Reno Road. That should work.
It was still a couple of hours until dawn. He could still be on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in time â right when the sun came up.
Rick moved quietly, so as not to disturb his housemates, and headed downstairs and out the back door.
His housemates heard the back door lock click and relaxed in their beds knowing that now they could finally sleep without sharing the tortured agony of Rickâs war.
CHAPTER 9
Â
Wednesday, December 20, 1972
After the battle in the Ia Drang Valley, after the long, painful journey through aid stations to MASH units to hospitals in Japan and, finally, VA centers in the United States â after he took off the uniform and folded it away in a box at his fatherâs house â Rick had gone to college.
He didnât wear his old GI jacket, didnât write letters to newspapers, didnât march in protests or counterprotests, didnât throw his medals away â in fact, he didnât look at them at all. His classmates knew he was older, quieter; he asked a lot of questions in class, but they were real questions, not opinions disguised as questions. He didnât make many choices, like a career or even a major. He just took whatever classes seemed appealing.
The image of a career â or marriage or a future of any kind â had been erased in the battle that had wiped out so many of his friends. He almost didnât graduate, but a professor whose son was never coming back from the war approved him for a general studies degree, saying with a note of sadness that Rick would have lots of time to figure out what he really wanted to do with his life.
He spent a year living in a dorm before he rented his own apartment. The young guys who lived on his hall learned not to make loud noises â his response to the idiot who had set off an M-80 firecracker right outside his window had been particularly impressive.
He had to explain to Andy, his roommate, why he should simply tell him that the dining hall was about to close. Shaking him awake triggered automatic battle reflexes. He had to buy the poor guy a nice tie to cover the finger-shaped bruises around his neck. Andy said everything was fine, but for the rest of the semester, Rick noticed that his roommate would only speak to him from the safety of the doorway. After that, he made sure to live in places where he could at least sleep alone.
He was adrift, looking for a new life where the sun shone and there were fewer terrors in the shadows. Living within the memories of Vietnam was too painful, so he tried desperately to be normal â much like his dad in 1946 â just someone trying to get on with an interrupted life. The people around him caught the request implicit in his silence and did not ask to share his thoughts or try to ease his burden.
Except Dina Scholten.
He was sitting alone at lunch one day, and she sat down with her tray, looked straight at him, and said, "Tell me about your war."
Rick had looked at her for a long moment. He saw a chubby girl with a severe haircut and brown eyes that were sharp but, as far as he could see, still open. Her mind wasnât already made up. It was just possible that she had meant what she said, that she wanted to know about his war â not to harangue him about the one she saw through a political lens.
So, he told her. Not all of it, and not the worst
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