Odd Man Out

August was in the books for the Marines of "Mike" Company, and had been a month of light casualties. No one had been killed in several weeks, and those wounded received only minor shrapnel wounds. The Asian sun had been up for less than an hour, and it was already very hot.

Corporal Mark Reilly was hungry and bone tired. He wanted something to eat, and some shade to grab a little sleep. Last night had been spent lying in ambush. Nothing had happened, which suited him fine, but he always felt drained after a night of lying awake, motionless . . . waiting. The heightened state of his senses and the adrenaline crash that followed always left him with a pounding headache.

Mark began rummaging through his pack, looking for a can of C-Ration peaches he’d been saving for a couple of days. He rubbed the sweat from his face with his towel and dropped it into his lap. He opened the peaches and took a bite. Their thick, sweet syrup had a tendency to stick to the tongue and the roof of the mouth. Even though they made him thirsty, they were among the few things available that tasted good any time of day. Since he didn’t smoke, he had a practice of trading his C-Rat cigarettes for canned fruit, so he always had something to eat that didn’t require cooking.

C-Rats came in limited varieties, such as meat with potatoes in sauce, canned tuna or boned chicken in oil (which could never be told apart) or ham and lima beans, affectionately known by all as "Ham and Mothers." Like most Marines, he got used to them, and some weren’t bad if he had the time and security to heat them. When he was humping the hills, like the past week, he ate in a hurry, which meant everything was eaten cold, straight from the can. Tabasco had a way of making them palatable.

The meals were short on taste and high on calories. Two per day could provide a Marine with several thousand calories, depending how much and which items he ate. Mark had lost a lot of weight carrying 80 pounds of gear every day in the extreme heat, but as tasteless as the food was, it kept him functioning. All in all, he’d have preferred a cheeseburger and a cold Coke from the soda fountain at Northside Pharmacy back in Atlanta. It would taste one helluva lot better than canned peaches. Even better, no one would shoot at him when he finished eating.

He’d get that chance soon. Sixty-five days and a wake-up, and he’d be out of Vietnam. The "Freedom Bird" would swoop him off the planet and fly him back home, as he’d sit back in that comfortable, air-conditioned airplane seat and stare at the long-legged stewardesses with the pretty smiles. He had saved nearly every dime of his pay since boot camp, and he was going to buy a GTO or a Vette when he got home. Then, he planned to drive all over town with the best looking girl he could find, riding with him in the front seat.

That was his favorite dream, and he tried to conjure it in his head every morning while he ate. He’d savor the thought for a few minutes each day, then quickly put it from his mind. Daydreaming in Vietnam got guys killed. He’d seen it happen too many times. That being true, he made his men stay focused on patrol, and he demanded no less of himself.

For the next two months plus five, he was in for a ton of heat, serious discomfort, and a whole bunch of locals who wanted to send him home in a box. Mark’s plan was different than his enemy’s. He planned to go home with two of everything he brought with him to Vietnam: two arms, two legs, two eyes, and a pair of intact balls. He was a little nervous about his time getting short. Lots of guys got killed in their last month of combat. They forgot where they were, and let their minds wander.

Mark was determined to stay focused. His thirteen-month tour of hell was nearly over. When he was safe at home, there’d be plenty of time for cheeseburgers, fast cars, and pretty blondes. Right now, he needed some sleep. For him, a couple of hours at a time usually did the trick. With his towel draped over his eyes, he dozed in the shade of a poncho suspended between two stacks of old ammo crates.

He’d been sleeping less than an hour when he woke abruptly to someone shouting, "Hit the deck, Marine!" accompanied by a hard kick to the sole of his boot. Only a new guy could be dumb enough to wake a man who’d been out on ambush all night. Snatching the towel from his eyes, Mark could only see the Marine from the waist down, standing there in faded camo trousers, capped by boots that had been in-country a long time. They had the dingy, off-white, salty look that boots get after lots of sweat, dirt, and exposure to the weather. Mark thought they’d better belong to an officer, or someone was going to get his ass kicked for waking him this way.

Crawling out of his makeshift hooch, he was about to rip the moron’s head off . . . until he saw his face. It was the mirror image of his own. He rubbed his eyes and stared for several seconds. Recognition swept over him as he processed his own reflection and realized what he was seeing. Standing before him was his 20-year-old brother, Matthew, his senior by all of three minutes. What really stunned him was how much older he looked. His face was weathered and tan, and his eyes were deeper in their sockets than they’d been before. These eyes had seen more than their fair share of death. Death that was up close . . . personal . . . and frequent. As he looked at his brother, Mark thought, if Matthew looks this awful, I must be a Godawful sight, too.

"Close your mouth," Matthew said, "or the mosquitoes’ll fly in."

They both broke into smiles and embraced each other with the bear hug reserved for a brother who’s been long away at war. Mark said, "It’s great to see you, Matt!" As he slapped his brother’s shoulder he added, "Where the hell have you been?"

"We’ve been workin’ out of DaNang for a while," Matt replied. "I met a couple of guys from your unit gettin’ patched up at the hospital. They said they were waitin’ on a resupply hop to take ‘em back to Khe Sanh. I thumbed a ride to come visit my little brother. The boss says I can stay 24 hours, then I need to head back. I break in a new partner next week."

"Take a load off and grab some shade," Mark said, inviting Matt to join him under the poncho. "You gotta’ tell me where you been, and what you’ve been doin’. Want somethin’ to eat?"

"No, thanks. I ate before the ride up," Matt said, leaning his rifle against the ammo crates. "You heard anything from Luke?"

"Nothing lately," Mark replied, "but Mom’s last letter said he’s doing fine. The little prick gets hot chow and clean sheets every night, then plays war for a few hours every day. Some guys have all the luck."

"Horsesh--," Matt barked. "He just picked smarter than we did." With a grin and a wink he added, "If you didn’t want to sleep in the dirt, you shoulda’ joined the Air Force, too."