Brothers bound, p.3
Brothers Bound, page 3
“Lots of writing, yes. But no experience with . . . sympathy letters.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll have more help than you want. And you’ll learn fast, right?”
“Fast, yes,” I said.
“Good,” he said as he stood. “Let’s go meet Captain Randall, our fearless leader,” he grinned. “And be on your best behavior,” he winked. “Just a tip, PFC.”
When we entered Captain Randall’s office at the back of the Casualty Branch room, he held up his hand for us to wait. He appeared to be writing a note. We waited for several minutes.
“Come in,” he finally said.
Sergeant Moretti saluted him. “Sir, I want to introduce you to our newest member of the Casualty Branch team, PFC Brian Kinder.”
I followed the sergeant’s lead, and his tip, and saluted the captain. “PFC Kinder reporting for duty, sir.”
Captain Randall slowly looked me up and down. “At ease, Private.” He waved the sergeant out of the office. “I want you to understand the important role the Casualty Branch plays in the war,” he said. “We don’t get involved much in combat here on the base unless we get hit. And sometimes we do. But what we do get involved with every day are injuries and deaths suffered by soldiers in our division. We deal with the aftermath of combat for soldiers in the 101st. who die in combat or accidents or are seriously injured. We’re the key link between them and their families back home.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Your specific role: write the letters to families to inform them their soldier died in combat or some other manner, maybe an accident or a suicide. We had one just last week—a kid who wouldn’t go up a hill anymore. Blew his brains out. Think about that, Private. You write the official military letter of death. It has to be perfect. No spelling errors, no wrong names. Not too much and not too little detail. Just enough. And then you go big on praise for his service, his courage and honor. Not too much but enough. Do you understand me, Private?
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Well, I’ll make sure you understand because I sign off on all your letters before they’re sent off. When you think your letter is done, you bring it to me. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if you’ve screwed up the letter in any way, I’ll let you know. Loud and clear. So, I hope you’re a damn good writer.”
“I am, sir.”
“I hope you weren’t a history major, or worse, some damn drama major in college.”
“No, sir. English major. Lots of writing and editing experience. Just not with letters about dead soldiers.”
The captain rose from his chair, came around his desk, and moved close until his face was no more than six inches from my own. His deep brown eyes were lit with disdain, while his thin lips framed a perfect sneer. I’d seen a few of those in the Army already.
“Just remember, Private, I’ll be watching you. I’ll be looking over your shoulder. At all times. I’ve got a minor in English, which is probably worth a lot more than your major from one of those weak directional schools. What was it? Western or Eastern Michigan?” he sneered.
“My writing skills are excellent, sir.”
“We’ll find out, Kinder. Just don’t mess with me. Now go meet your team and get to work. You’re dismissed.” He walked back to his desk, sat down, and picked up the phone.
I gave the captain a slow salute, turned, and left his office.
Sergeant Moretti met me outside the office door and walked out with me. When we were clear of the office, he whispered, “You managed that well. He’s the only real prick on our team.” He laughed and led me off to meet the others.
Eight men worked in the Casualty Branch, most of whom were college graduates or college students who’d been drafted. Carl was a farm boy with a degree in biology from the University of Iowa and a new wife working in the fields of his father’s farm. “Tiny” Jenson was a small man with big glasses and a bigger degree from MIT. Harry Weaver, who loved a joint or two each day, grew up in the “best fishing country in the world” near Eugene, Oregon. Monty Clarkson, the ever-nervous “married man” from Galveston, Texas, was drafted two months after his wedding. His wife announced she was pregnant two days before he flew to Vietnam.
Pierre Barrilleaux, a hulking blond with a broad smile and deep voice, possessed an accent so Cajunized he was virtually impossible to understand, even when he spoke slowly, which he seldom did. But if you asked him to repeat what he’d said, he’d just smile at you like you were a moron and flash you the middle finger. Virgil Rossi from Brooklyn, a tough kid on the streets, earned his marketing degree in night classes at CUNY. Norman Williams, a Black man from Chicago, was drafted after his junior year at Loyola University. He told everyone he was triple majoring in guitar, women, and marijuana. Wink, wink.
My new buddies in the Casualty Branch told me Sergeant Moretti had more than twenty years of service. They said he was a tough but good man with a laugh he was unable to stop once he got started. So, they all worked hard to make him laugh at least once an hour.
On the other hand, they all rolled their eyes when they talked about the captain. Tiny described him as “a preening non-smiler with an empire-state-building-sized ego that toppled on at least one of us daily.” Several months earlier, Tiny had set up a betting pool early each morning to determine which soldier the captain would shit on first that day. The winnings were split between the predictor and the dumped-on-soldier.
The walls of the Casualty Branch office were marked by a montage of unusual, eye-catching images in addition to the standard calendars and family pictures. One large map depicted several dozen firebases in the Ashau Valley, the locations of the 101st Division units, and soldier populations at each firebase.
Another large chart provided a sobering scorecard of the number of American soldiers in the 101st who’d been killed in action (KIA), wounded in action (WIA), missing in action (MIA), non-battle deaths (NBDs), and so forth.
A smaller scorecard listed DEROS rankings (date of estimated return from overseas) of men in the Casualty Branch. Pierre was the short-timer with only thirty-four days left in Vietnam. He happily informed me I was now at the bottom of the list—nearly one year to go.
“Probably won’t make it,” Pierre said. He winked and gave me the middle finger.
Most striking of all was a roughly six-foot-by-six-foot square, crude but colorful painting depicting a mountaintop covered with snow that was lit by a pink full moon in a dark blue night sky filled with hundreds of jagged silver stars. Stark. Vivid. Haunting.
Harry told me he painted it one weekend when he pulled a forty-eight-hour weekend shift as penalty for smoking a joint in the office.
“It’s my gift,” he said. “My gift to all our living and dying brothers in the jungle heat in this country, man. It’s an icy cold mountain top under a pink neon moonlight that leads up to heaven, and it cools you the hell off on the ride there. It’s the high road to heaven, man, if you get my meaning.”
“Ask him how many joints it took,” Tiny said.
“Five,” Harry said. “Or maybe more than five. I wasn’t really counting, you know? All I do know—it was sure as hell a huge high for me!”
“Where in the world did you get paint for it?” I asked.
“There’s an old, old one-legged Vietnamese man who lives in the space beneath the little barbershop,” Harry said. “If you got cash, he can get about anything you need or want. Except an early flight home.”
“And the captain approved it?” I asked.
Tiny giggled. “It was done before he got here,” he said. “For whatever reason, Sgt. Moretti loved it. He told the captain ‘hands off’ because higher-ups on the base approved it.”
My primary task was to receive the killed-in-action (KIA) reports via phone, gather relevant personnel information and records, and then write personalized sympathy letters to their families back home. Tiny led me through the process the next morning when our phone rang about 0730. He picked up the phone, which was in the middle of a big desk: I sat on one side, and Tiny on the other. An old Remington typewriter sat in front of each of us. As Tiny picked up the phone he whispered to me: “Listen closely and make some notes. Write exactly what I say.” Then he began the conversation.
“Casualty Branch, 101st Airborne Division Airmobile. Specialist Jenson speaking. May I help you, sir?” He listened for a moment then repeated what the other party was saying. “Okay, you’re reporting from the bush not far from Firebase Henderson. You have two Ethers and three Friars to report.” Granny wrote it down and whispered to me, “Ethers are killed in action; Friers are wounded in action.”
“Got it,” Tiny said on the phone. “Please name and spell the Ethers . . . okay . . . William H. Bentley, B-e-n-t-l-e-y, a private. Correct? Okay. And the second Ether is . . . Richard M. Washington. That’s W-a-s-h-i-n-g-t-o-n, a corporal. Correct?
“Okay, and the Friars are . . . Thomas Murray, M-u-r-r-a-y, a sergeant E-5, correct? And then Miguel Santiago, S-a-n-t-i-a-g-o, a private. And the third Frier is Gerald, with a G, Arnold, A-r-n-o-l-d, a corporal, right? And the estimated times of death and injuries? Okay, between 0600 and 0700. Got it. Anything else? Okay, take care.”
Tiny hung up the phone and looked at me. “That’s your first report,” he said. “It’s a perfect day when we have no casualty calls.”
“How often does that happen?” I asked.
“Not often enough. Maybe three, four times in the eight months I’ve been here. Okay, read the report back to me.”
I did so, then asked, “Ethers are killed in action, and Friars are wounded in action?”
He nodded. “You’re wondering why the code names?”
“Yes.”
“We do it because others like the enemy might listen in on our calls. Doesn’t happen often, but it can. So, we use those codes and others for missing in action (MIA), non-battle injuries (NBI), non-battle deaths (NBD), etc. We don’t want the enemy to nail down our locations or anything else.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Now, the next step is to get personnel files on the five men,” he said. “We’ll do that at the records office at the other end of the building.”
We rose and Tiny led the way to the records office, where we waited a bit to obtain the five files. Once we had them, we double-checked the names and ranks again before we returned to the Casualty Branch. Tiny then opened a file drawer containing labeled cover sheets for the files. He taped ETHER cover sheets on files for Bentley and Washington and FRIAR cover sheets on those for Murray, Santiago, and Arnold. He handed the two ETHER files to me and kept the three FRIAR files.
“I work on the Friars; you work on the Ethers. I’m sure you were told you’re the next-of-kin editor,” Tiny said.
I nodded.
“We do them a bit differently, but no need to discuss it right now. I’ll get you some copies of recent next-of-kin letters and show you where they are. First thing, take a long look at each file. Double-check everything. Again. Then review the previous letters. They’ll help guide your first drafts. And here’s my personal summary of do’s and don’ts for the letters,” he said as he handed me a thin file. “They can help guide you too. I’ll review your drafts before they go to his highness.” He grinned. “Any questions, Brian?”
I grinned back. “Not yet. Thanks for your help, Tiny. Oh, and you can call me ‘Buck,’ if you want to. Most of my buddies do.”
“Buck. I like it.” He nodded and we went to work.
Tiny’s summary directions were simple and clear: write brief, clean letters. Provide a few details about where (generally), when, and (very, very rarely) how the soldier died. Laud the soldier for his service to the nation. And especially, ensure the letter sounds sincere and is mistake free. If you make a typing error, you can’t erase it. You start over. Letters must be error and erasure free.
I understood. This was the official Army letter to the family confirming the death of their loved one, so it had to be done right and promptly. Later in the day, I learned that sometimes when fighting was intense and casualties in the field mounted, I or others from the Casualty Branch team would join the Graves Registration (GR) team to gather bodies of soldiers killed in the field.
That’s where Hues was assigned: the GR team at Phu Bai. He briefed me on his role and team when we met up after our first two weeks at the camp. We were housed in sandbagged hooches about a mile apart on the big base, but we stayed in touch via phone and tried to meet once a week at one of the chow halls in the camp. Sometimes we’d meet for drinks at a small Air Force bar, which was open to all military members. We always talked about our shared memories and discussed the oppressive weather, the letters I wrote, and the bodies he evacuated.
As Hues described it, he was one of seven men in their team, most of whom were graduates of the Army’s medical specialist training program. They were led by Captain Fowler, a quiet man of strong convictions, and Sergeant Williams, a longtime soldier who’d “seen too much to resign and die,” he told others convincingly. They were a diverse group in every respect, but they were all touched and sobered by their work, which was vital, nightmarish, and spirit-numbing. It was so likely to produce posttraumatic stress disorder for years that the unit was the only one in the Army where soldiers could step away to another military occupational specialty (MOS) if they wished, Hues told me.
At least that was the rumor. One of many rumors in the Army. Just like elsewhere.
Their tasks included gathering dead American soldiers at fire bases or other battlegrounds during or postcombat (and sometimes seriously injured soldiers too), wrapping the bodies gently into zippered black body bags, carrying them carefully but quickly onto the helicopter (a big target for the enemy), then transporting them to the GR Center at Phu Bai. From there helicopters or other aircraft would take them to two large American mortuaries in Vietnam—one in nearby Danang and the other in the south near Saigon at Tan Son Nhut.
Medical specialists at the mortuaries confirmed identity through dog tags, wallets, fingerprints, medical records, or written confirmations from fellow soldiers. Once done, the next-of-kin were notified of their soldier’s death. Personal effects were also inventoried—watches, photos, rings, letters, and other items—then shipped to the Quartermaster Department in the US, where they were cleaned and sent on to next of kin. The bodies were cleaned and embalmed. Fully prepped, the soldiers began their long journeys home to grieving families.
“Our goals never change,” Hues told me. “We recover bodies as quickly as we can. We positively ID them. We prepare and ship them home as soon as possible. And we do everything, everything with respect. We treat them like they are our real brothers. Period. So damn simple, Buck. And so damn sad and difficult.”
I nodded. “We meet the same dead soldiers but in separate ways. You do it with your hands and heart, me with my words and images. Apart from being a combat soldier or pilot in the field, Hues, you got the toughest job. You’re living every day with the dead in your arms.”
“Maybe. But those dead brothers, they live in both our heads,” he said. “Forever.”
The days were long at Phu Bai, though we felt blessed every morning we weren’t soldiers out fighting in the jungle. They were up for death every minute of every day. They were our real heroes in the war. We prayed for them.
Our twelve-hour days were sometimes followed by twelve hours of night guard duty on the big perimeter of the base. Occasional rocket or mortar attacks happened, which killed several soldiers. But the enemy launched no massive attacks on the big base while we were there.
I spent long days with KIA reports that summer, as there was a great deal of fighting in the northern area. I felt compelled to learn as much as I could about each dead soldier before writing his letter. I first read every word in his personnel file. His height and weight. The color of his hair and eyes. I’d stare at his picture, a formal Army portrait often taken during basic training, heads and faces clean-shaven.
Every face was different, yet too many were much the same: too young to die too young for the grave. Barely a young man, really just an older boy, now no more. Dead. Soon flown home to trigger forever grief in his family. His bones were likely planted in a cemetery in his hometown. Watered with tears and showers of memories. He’d gotten in the way of a bullet, a grenade, a mortar, a booby trap. Or he’d died an accidental death. Or was the victim of a rare suicide or homicide. Didn’t matter. In the end he was dead. His grave became part of their lives.
I checked his hometown address, phone number, mother and father, or perhaps his wife—their next of kin. Sometimes it was someone else, a son or a daughter, a brother or sister. So many people would be devastated, left empty for the eternity of their lives. Their young man had died thousands of miles away in the jungle in a country they knew only through loud TV news reports or local protest marches.
Their young man utterly wasted.
The reach of death, limitless.
I wrote each letter carefully. Briefly described when the young man died, possibly a general “where” he died, or a general “what time” he died, and, sometimes how he passed, especially if he died trying to save the life of a brother.
I tried to incorporate something specific in each letter to make it less impersonal. Pay honor with some words. After all, he was a brother, though known only in death. Finish the letter and proofread it closely. Had to be perfect.
I then gave the letter to the captain, who’d read it closely and often attack or nitpick a word or phrase I’d used. As an English major in college, I demonstrated to the ever-sneering captain I well understood writing, word choice, and grammar. Better than he did. I was always respectful but rarely buckled under the captain’s withering, glaring challenge. What was the captain going to do, send me to Vietnam?
The letter was then forwarded for signature to the soldier’s relevant field officer, who signed it and sent it home. I placed a copy of the final letter in the KIA folder, which thickened daily. My last step was to stand and give a long, slow, solemn salute to every new KIA letter before I placed it in the folder. It was my simple way of saying, “Thank you, brother, for giving your life to the service of our nation. Bless you and your family.”
