Brothers bound, p.1
Brothers Bound, page 1
PRAISE FOR
— BROTHERS BOUND —
“Brothers Bound is a poignant, deeply moving account that stirs a mixture of sorrow for Buck’s losses and awe at his resilience and capacity to impart profound life lessons derived from his harrowing experiences. The story presents an emotionally rich and transformative journey of a Vietnam vet who grapples with the psychological and physical scars of war. This story not only sheds light on the often-overlooked aspects of military operations but also delves deep into the human element, exploring themes of duty, brotherhood, and the indelible mark of war on the human soul. Through the physical imagery of scars and the psychological depths of memory rooms and emotional breakdowns, the story touches on themes of survival, the enduring human spirit, and the redemptive power of love and hope. Brothers Bound is a must-read for anyone who would understand the emotional trauma of war and resilience of love.”
—Charles Templeton, author of Boot: A Sorta Novel of Vietnam
“Bruce Berger’s novel places two American soldiers inside small cages in a brutal Vietnamese prisoner of war camp and seems to throw away all hope of rescue or escape. But that’s not how the story ends, it’s only the beginning. These two men will stretch the bonds of brotherhood and share a combined spiritual strength that will not allow either to give up as long as they still have life inside them. Bruce Berger has given us, in this work of human survival, a truly unforgettable love story.”
—Bill McCloud, author of What Should We Tell our Children About Vietnam? and The Smell of the Light: Vietnam, 1968–1969
“Brothers Bound is a short, terse, and remarkably rich, precise story of human survival. The irony of going from the Casualty Branch to Graves Registration, (both jobs few readers can imagine or have even given any thought to) is an astounding focus in itself, but then for it to morph into an epic fourteen-month prisoner of war struggle is a superb exercise in the finest imagining of what human survival can reduce to. The critic James Wood once wrote that his grandmother, nearing her death, fell into a condition of ‘bewildered silence.’ Closing the final pages of Brothers Bound leaves this reader in a similar condition. It’s a remarkable piece of work.”
—Joseph Heywood, author and Air Force navigator in the Vietnam theater
“Every so often a narrative arrives that allows us to understand—in the most vivid, visceral way—how war is experienced on frozen battlefields, coral islands, or in this case, a POW camp and a desperate escape through the steaming jungles of Vietnam. Bruce Berger delivers a triumph of storytelling about war, the bonds between soldiers, and the human spirit, with a brilliant twist in the conclusion.”
—Mark Harris, former VP of Comms, IBM
“I thought I knew a lot about the Vietnam War, but Bruce Berger’s writing brings into sharp focus the horrific world of captivity, the brotherly love of two men for one another, and their indomitable will to survive.”
—Don Tyler, author of Tough Guy and Other Poems
“This is a rich book of inspiration, courage, survival, and brotherhood. As a proud Vietnam veteran of the 101st Airborne Division from the year 1970, I find this to be a must read for all.”
—Jim Thompson, veteran
“Bruce Berger tells an essential part of the Vietnam story––the business of death as American forces worked to send soldiers’ remains home and notify their families. Berger’s brilliant descriptions force the reader to experience every feeling, sight, sound, and smell his heroes encountered when trapped in a brutal POW camp. Just as his character, Hues, was ‘everyman, Berger infuses his characters with the DNA of a multitude of soldiers in Vietnam, generating compassion and empathy for our soldiers in a winless war.”
—J. Suzanne Horsley, PhD, professor, author, and widow of a veteran
“Bruce Berger gives readers a vivid idea of the costs of war as he develops the bond between Buck and Hues. Brothers Bound is worth the read for the POW story of war. But Berger’s writing offers readers a much larger experience. He is using the fifty-plus years since Vietnam to help unpack lessons of war. This is not a book just for Vietnam vets; it is wisdom that can help most of us as we negotiate the jungles of today. And I believe many readers will feel those lessons in the poetry of the psalms attributed to Hues. This is a book that can move you.”
—Richard Puffer, US Marine infantry platoon commander in Vietnam 1969–70
“Bruce Berger turns the clock back more than fifty years and reminds us of the horrors and sacrifices endured by our Vietnam vets. The redeeming outcome of this tragic conflict is the binding brotherhood of Hues and Buck—two guys who meet in a bar minutes before their tour of service begin. What follows is an intense friendship and the two become each other’s family, brothers that put their lives on the line for each other . . . and more. They are indeed Brothers Bound. Sometimes heart wrenching, sometimes joyful. Always difficult to put down.”
—Sue Neumann, retired corporate communications leader
“Bruce Berger’s storytelling of Buck and Hues’s bond amid the brutalities of war is profoundly moving, showcasing the indomitable resilience of the human spirit. Their unbreakable brotherhood, forged in the crucible of adversity and forged through daring escapes, serves as a testament to the transformative power of friendship in the face of overwhelming challenges. This book is an absolute must-read for anyone seeking inspiration and a reminder of the profound strength found in unwavering dedication, especially during life’s most trying moments.”
—Eyun-Jung Ki, PhD, professor, author, and past president of the Korean American Communication Association
BROTHERS BOUND
Brothers Bound
by Bruce K. Berger
© Copyright 2024 Bruce K. Berger
ISBN 979-8-88824-341-1
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Published by
3705 Shore Drive
Virginia Beach, VA 23455
800-435-4811
www.koehlerbooks.com
Dedicated to all brothers and sisters who serve or have served in the US military and placed their lives on the line for our nation and each other. A special salute is given to those who were prisoners of war and suffered severely yet survived courageously in a deeper, darker layer of hell in life on earth.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is semiautobiographical fiction. I was not a prisoner of war (POW) in Vietnam, but I served there in 1970 with the Casualty Branch of the 101st Airborne Division at Phu Bai. I was the next-of-kin editor who wrote hundreds of sympathy letters to grieving families back home about the death of their soldier. Sometimes I joined a Graves Registration team to gather fallen soldiers and help them begin their final journeys home.
I experienced little combat in the field, but I was immersed daily in the words, images, weight, and limitless reach of its aftermath—the injured and dead. I also was deeply moved by the power of good memories, the incredible depth of brotherhood love, and the presence of human spirits. In many conversations with soldiers in Vietnam, and more after the war, they said good memories helped them survive—took the edge off their pain and fear, gave them hope.
Brotherhood among soldiers is neither new nor surprising. Soldiers are trained and organized in squads, platoons, companies, and other “family” units. They depend on each other for physical and mental support, protection, medical help, and so much more. Soldiers may argue, disagree, curse, and sometimes even fight. But when the shit hits the fan, they’ve got each other’s back. They’d give their life in an instant for a fellow soldier, and they don’t leave brothers or sisters behind.
And then there’s the power of spirits. Have you ever felt the spirit of another? Maybe someone alive but not with you in person? Or someone who died but still lives in your mind and heart? Or the spirit of a higher power? Some soldiers spoke of their brothers’ spirits that lived on after their death. Others said the spirit of Christ, or the light of the Lord was with them every step. Several said the spirit of a family member or close friend was with them every day. As one seriously injured soldier told me, “Mom is with me; I feel her hugs. Her spirit is always with me, though she died three years ago.”
Think of the pilgrimage of Buck and Hues, the two central characters, as a symbolic journey we all undertake in life—when we live with pain, fear, grief, uncertainty, depression, constant anger, or believe the end is near. We may reach the end of our journey abruptly.
Or, like Buck and Hues, we may hang on during those difficult journeys and discover the hope and power of memories. The rich embrace of another’s light and spirit. The incredible love and strength of a brother or sister who is there for you. Ready to carry you every step of the way.
The names of all characters in this book are fictitious.
PART ONE
— 14 MONTHS IN THE CAGE —
CHAPTER 1
— THE BROTHERS —
Hues and I met after a nasty fight in a bar. We were both drafted into the Army on the same day, December 3, 1968—our shared Christmas
That night, at a run-down bar on the edge of Armory, a small town ten miles from the Army base, I saw Hues get drawn into a fight. He was one of only three Black people I saw in the place. The bar was packed with country music lovers dressed in cowboy hats, vests, and neckerchiefs. Thin wood planks covered the walls and ceiling, creating a rustic look and feel. Small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and dozens of deer antlers and horseshoes decorated the walls above the booths and tables. The dance floor was painted black and layered with sawdust.
Shuffling boots on the floor, clinking glasses, and loud laughter and singing voices blended into a noisy bin of life. A giant Victrola jukebox flashing red, blue, and yellow dominated the room, sitting atop a low platform at one end of the floor. It sat blaring out music from the 1960s—“Stand by Your Man,” “Okie from Muskogee,” “Tiger by the Tail,” and Roger Miller’s “Chug-a-lug” when the fight broke out.
Hues had just stepped away from the crowded bar with a mug of beer in his hand, not twenty feet from where I stood drinking. He stumbled when he turned, nearly fell, and splashed most of his beer on a heavyset man who sported patched work jeans, a sweat-soaked green T-shirt, and a black hat that read in big white letters, White Chicks Only!
“Man, I’m sorry,” Hues yelled above the noise, trying to apologize. “Wanted to drink that beer, not spill it on you. Sorry ’bout that. I’ll buy you another beer. Make up for it.”
The big man sneered and threw his beer in Hues’s face. “Drink this,” he yelled. He then punched Hues hard on the cheekbone, knocking him to the floor. “Get the hell out of here, asshole,” he bellowed. He loomed over Hues while his three buddies circled them and waved other customers back from the men.
Hues pushed himself up, shaking his head. “Man, the Lord works in mysterious ways, don’t he?” Hues asked loudly. “Here we are meeting like this. Two strangers: one Black, one White. Same place but two totally different worlds.” He smiled, shook his head slowly from side to side, then pointed at the man’s hat: “May I ask, did you learn to read in the local KKK school? Or are you really just a big dumb fat ass?”
Lightning quick, Hues kicked the big man in the balls, who screamed and bent over. Hues then kicked him hard in the head. The man dropped heavily to the floor. The fight was then on between Hues and the big man’s equally large friends. Hues held his own up to a point, but he was backed against the bar with little room to maneuver. The three men kept crowding, hitting, and kicking him, closing in for a nasty takedown.
I imagined the Black man was probably an Army man, given his clothing and shaved head. And a Black man fighting a White man in a room full of White folks—the odds were pretty damn long. I admired his courage and cool. What the hell, I thought, we might end up together in Vietnam. Who knows?
I stepped up near the fight and grabbed one of the attackers. The man’s arm in my grasp, I spun him around and twisted it sharply, flipping him into the air. He crashed to the floor, and I lined up a kick straight to his ribs.
“Enough!” I bellowed above the music. “Leave my Army brother alone!”
One of the other men cursed loudly and swung at me. I ducked under his swing, spun again, rolled down on the floor, snapped my leg back, and kicked the man’s knee from the side. He collapsed in pain on the floor. Then I spun again. Jumped up. Twisted in a blur and smashed my right elbow into the third man’s nose, breaking it and effectively ending the fight.
I slowly circled the floor, eyeing all others with what I hoped was a tough, fearless smile because I sure as hell wasn’t fearless in my mind. I was praying no one would step up to fight because the odds would then be long for both of us. Fortunately, no one moved. No one said anything. Only the loud music spoke in the room—Johnny Cash was singing about a ring of fire.
I touched the soldier’s arm and smiled. “Let’s find a quieter place for a drink,” I said. I put my right arm loosely around his shoulder and walked him outdoors into the cooler night.
“Man, I owe you,” he said. “Thank you. How’d you know I was an Army brother?”
“No big mystery,” I said. “We both got shaved heads, right? And wearing black Army dress shoes and an Army belt? In a bar? Near an Army base? Simple deduction, right?”
He smiled, “Right!” He held out his hand. “I’m Jameis Jones, but call me JJ—or better, Hues. That’s H-u-e-s. My family blood is black, brown, white, and yellow. I’m every color, every hue. I’m everyman. Know what I mean?”
“Sure, Hues,” I said and smiled. “Sounds good to me. I always wanted to meet every man. I’m Brian Charles Kinder. Most call me ‘Buck,’ an abbreviation for my full name. You can too, if you want. You headed to Ft. Polk tomorrow too?”
“Yeah, Buck,” he said. “Ft. Polk for a couple months, then probably the big bird flies us to Nam, right?” We smiled at each other and firmly shook hands.
That was the beginning of our friendship, which grew stronger every day after we were assigned to the same training unit and barracks at Ft Polk. We also flew together in the big plane that transported us and several hundred other soldiers to Vietnam in late May 1969.
As we grew to know each other, we learned we were different young men who’d grown up in strikingly different circumstances. Yet, we felt a strong bond with each other. We felt like old friends. Family members. Brothers.
I knew others with similar experiences. You know, you meet someone for the first time, begin talking, and suddenly feel like old friends who’ve known each other for years? There’s a sense of physical familiarity and a kind of shared mental wavelength. It’s like you just picked up from wherever you left off in your last conversation some hours, days, months, or years ago, even though you’ve never met before.
We also learned we shared some things in common. Like intelligence. Growing up in Michigan. Loving loud music and moving poetry. And feeling strongly about religion, though on different sides. I was a religious cynic who’d lost my faith at age fourteen when my married preacher, a man I greatly admired, ran off with another man’s young wife. Left his four little kids and lovely wife behind. Hues, on the other hand, became a true believer at about the same age when his father was shot to death before his eyes. From that point on, he devoted himself to becoming what he called “a full-time street preacher” in Detroit. That sounded weird as hell at first, but Hues seemed totally sincere.
Overall, we sensed something in each other that linked us. Hues eventually summed it up this way: “I don’t really understand it, Buck, but it’s like you somehow complete me, you know? When you’re around me, I just feel bigger, better. I feel a little more peace with things. You on the same page?”
I nodded. “Yeah, Hues. Like we’ve been brothers forever, though we just met. And I’m glad. I’m glad we got each other’s back. We really gonna need each other in Nam, man.”
“Sure as hell,” Hues said. “Got your back, brother.”
“And I got yours.”
We dapped fists.
HUES
He was twenty years old and a junior college student with an unusual ambition: he wanted to become a minister, specifically a street minister who interacted daily with homeless street people. That ambition grew out of a challenging life growing up on the tough streets of River Rouge, Michigan, on the southwestern edge of Detroit. River Rouge was a small city jungle of concrete and brick buildings, boarded-up homes, and blackened streetlights. It was home to a blend of angry, uneasy, and frightened people, many Black—both criminals and victims—walking the streets. According to Hues, the most common possessions of Black folks living in that racially charged city in the late 1960s were stunted dreams and hopes. “If stars in the heaven are hopes, their nights are pretty damn dark,” he said.
