CHAPTER SEVEN - PAUL MORGAN - 1968 - The Jungle

“The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you. He will never leave you or forsake you. Do not be afraid. Do not be discouraged.” Deu.31:8

It was still. Quiet. Unlike Louisiana, the humidity here had an airless quality, making it hard to breathe. Sgt. Paul Morgan kept his eyes focused on the black jungle. No green, no brown. It was totally black. It was amazing how dark the jungle could be without the lights of a city to reflect against the night clouds. Even the moon could not penetrate the thick foliage. 

Bryant had died a few hours ago. Gonzalez hadn’t said anything since sunset. Jersey lay under a blanket, moaning softly.

Paul’s eyes zeroed in on a movement in the dark. Dark moving on dark. It was a theme from art. A black painting. What was it that was moving out there? A leafy branch maybe? There was no breeze. A human hand had moved the branch. Paul’s finger tensed on the trigger of his M-16. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare breathe. Could they have heard Jersey moaning? Even the dead bodies around him seemed to make sounds. Parley had been sawed in half by a Claymore. Just before dark, he thought he saw Parley waving his arms. Paul knew that his imagination was on over time, but he swore to himself that he heard the dead muttering… “Get out…get out while there’s still time.”

How did he end up here? How did he end up halfway around the world in a burned out village waiting to die? Vietnam was everything people said it was. When he was back in the states, he watched the Vietnam War on TV. CBS News reported fatalities, but they never mentioned the fire ants. They were tormenting him under his shirt and on his legs. Paul tried to pinch the ants through his fatigues. A big movement could give their position away. A slight movement could do just the same. Not that it mattered. The enemy was creeping up around the perimeter of the village. Their position was probably already known. The Cong were biding their time.

If the last info he had from the radio was correct, there were other Marine units in the area. Captain Davenport had a platoon just north of the village. Paul’s unit was about to meet up with them when the shooting started.

Paul shifted his eyes over to the five men still able to fight. They too, were suffering the fire ants silently. What was the old saying? There are no atheists in foxholes? Boy, was that ever true. Paul had shunned organized religion, and he had a hazy vision of who or what God was. But he knew there was something up there. And he sent up a clumsy prayer as a rustling nearby sent a shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The ammunition was low. Sometime during the night, he’d taken Jersey and Bryant’s packs and grenades. Just before the firefight, when their radio still worked, they heard the frantic cries of the Eagle Company lieutenant.

“They’re over running us! We cannot hold our position! Repeat! We cannot hold our position!”

After that, there was a loud shriek from the radio. Then, silence. Their own radio had been knocked out along with the corpsman and Lt. Walls when Paul’s platoon crossed the ridge near the village. There was lots of noise and panic as they dug in and gave back what they were getting. Happy Tet, thought Paul. We should be back at base camp, sipping beer and feasting on barbecued water buffalo. He hoped they weren’t the only survivors. Surely there were pieces of the Marine unit scattered about.

The rustling leaves were getting louder, but Paul couldn’t see anything worth shooting at. Besides, he would give away his position. And he had to save ammunition. He’d give his soul for one more belt of ammo. A belt of ammo seemed like a king’s ransom. His mind made an inventory of the decimated platoon’s arsenal. That was a laugh. There was no arsenal. And who was there to use their limited ammunition? Slovinski, Brown, Bobby, Cline and me. It’s just us now. Jersey was no help. Earlier, about twenty feet to his left, he’d heard crying in the trench. Was that Watson? Maybe Daniels. It didn’t matter. The crying had stopped some time ago. He wondered if Watson/Daniels or whoever it was, still had a rifle? Was it worth a leap towards the trench?

According to his calculations, and from what he could remember from the last radio transmission, they were caught between two large NVA units. If that were true, their chances of survival were slim to none.

Paul had seen six firefights since he arrived in country nine months before. Nine months. He’d done a lot of growing up, both mentally and personally.

After eight weeks of basic training and nine months of jungle survival, his body had filled out and hardened. Paul gave another mental laugh. He thought he’d had a tough life before this. After joining up, he didn’t think it could get worse. How did I get here? He thought hopelessly. His life back home was a different world entirely. He remembered his roommate Allan, giving him a fond farewell in the school parking lot. It seemed like twenty years ago.

Allan shook his hand as Paul put his lone suitcase in the beat up Volkswagen Bug.

“Call me if you need anything brother.”

“Thanks Bigfoot. I’ll write.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

 Paul gave him a wry smile. “Don’t have much of a choice. Mom accumulated a lot of bills.  Selling the property took care of most of that.”

Allan shook his head sadly. He had hoped that God was providing a way for Paul to stay in school. Through the tragedy of his mother’s death, Paul inherited the property and the old shack on the bayou. At least he could sell it and have enough money to stay in school. Paul had thought the same thing until he met with the lawyer.

“Mr. Morgan, I realize you have been financially strapped for some time. I have some papers here that you need to sign. Maybe it will help.”

“What papers, Mr. Johnson?”

 The old lawyer handed over a short stack of documents. “Your property on the bayou covers two acres. It won’t bring much, but according to your father’s will, it’s all yours upon the death of your mother.”

Paul looked over the deed. Over the years, he and his mother had just enough to eat. It never occurred to him that his father had put any money he had into buying the land.

“I never really paid attention to family business,” said Paul. “This was something I did not expect.”

 Mr. Johnson folded his hands and squinted at him through thick bifocals. “The sale of this property will take care of my expenses and perhaps buy you the rest of your schooling. You’re a senior, right?”

“Yes sir,” Paul said quietly.

He could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A senior. He could start his senior year in the fall. Then he was brought back to earth sharply.

“Of course your mother owes a lot of money for medical bills,” said Johnson. “And there’s money she owes the Arcadian Loan Company.”

Paul looked out the window and saw his battered blue Volkswagen. It had been a Christmas present that his mother surprised him with two years before. He wondered how she’d been able to pay for it. Now he knew. The Arcadian Loan Company.

“How much does she owe, Mr. Johnson?”

It was a long list of medications, hospital stays and of course, the payments on the car. When all was said and done, Paul had a little over five hundred dollars in the bank. That was all. He’d hit a financial dead end. As soon as the business was taken care of, he walked over to West Street where the Marine recruiter was.

He drove back to Sparta to spend a week with Allan and the guys. Allan, who had half a semester before earning a Bible degree, had a pending mission assignment in Taiwan.

“If you go to Vietnam, we’ll almost be neighbors,” he joked. Paul stamped the cigarette out at Allan’s shoe. “Hey! These loafers cost me ten bucks at Shop-Mart.”

“Yeah, we’ll be neighbors, Bigfoot. Maybe we can switch places. My rifle for your Bible.”

“You’d make a good missionary Paul. You’re likable, you have a working knowledge of the Bible despite your agnosticism, and you have clean fingernails.” 

Paul chucked his pudgy friend on the arm. “Maybe I’ll get some R&R and visit you. Have Theresa set up an extra cot for me.”

Allan’s fiancée, Theresa, had applied for mission studies too. Paul thought they were an unbeatable team. Allan was peppy, energetic, full of optimism. Theresa was practical, smart and had a true love for God. She was a natural teacher and Paul knew that Allan was in good hands.

When Paul said his good-byes, Allan stopped him before he got to his Volkswagen. “Here’s the dollar I owe you.” Allan handed him a crisp, new bill.

“What’s this for?”

“You paid for Theresa’s burger and fries that time I was short.”

“Burgers don’t cost that much, even with a large drink and fries.”

“Interest,” explained Allan.

“Interest,” Paul laughed softly. Then he looked at Allan. “You’re so scared of going to hell, you wouldn’t lie about anything.”

“See ya, brother,” said Allan as he turned and trotted back towards the dorm. He didn’t want Paul to see his tears.

During basic training, Paul was buying cigarettes at the PX. He found the crisp dollar bill Allan had given him and was about to hand it to the lady at the counter. Then he saw the message written in blue ink across the “ONE” on the bill. “KEEP CHRIST NEAR YOU” was scribbled under the heading, “IN GOD WE TRUST”. He stuffed the bill in his boot. He planned on paying that dollar back to Allan in person after his tour of duty.

Now, in the night with an unseen enemy slowly creeping towards him, Paul thought about that dollar bill and the message on it. It was still stuffed in his boot. Keep Christ Near You, he thought. With all of the Bible courses he’d been forced to take, with all the mandatory chapel services he’d endured, Paul Morgan still couldn’t accept Jesus as his savior. To him, God existed, but in what form? Exactly how did God work through His human creations?

The answers did not come. He could only sit there in the dark little village, waiting for the onslaught.

Even though it wasn’t unexpected, Paul’s heart was in his throat when the flare lit up the night.

“In coming!” screamed a voice to his right. It was Slovinksi. There were bursts of gunfire coming from the dense jungle. I can hear them, he thought, but I’ll never see it coming. As the flare lit up the sky, Slovinski screamed, “Over there!”

Straight ahead were about twenty of the enemy charging their position. Paul held in the panic and carefully aimed at a black clad figure. Make every shot count.

With each recoil of his M-16, he tried to breathe and stay in a cadence. One down, two down, they were coming fast!

“I’m out!” cried Bobby. A chill ran down Paul’s back. Bobby was out of ammo.

“Me too!” echoed Cline.

Just as the flare died, Paul thought he spotted two dead bodies on the other side of the crumbling wall that protected him. They were from his platoon and had ammo on them. Paul tossed his ammo belt to Bobby. “Cover me!” Without waiting, Bobby sprayed the area while Paul scrambled over the wall.

Now that he was exposed, Paul worked quickly, grabbing bandoleers and grenades off the dead. He heard a couple of bullets thump into the body he was working on.

“Heads up!”  Brown and Slovinsky yelled simultaneously. Paul looked up and saw a figure rushing up to him. He frantically reached for a grenade and pivoted to the right. The Viet Cong soldier stumbled and Paul whacked him on the back of the neck with the grenade. A knife slashed back at him, catching him on the brow. The Asian’s face was young and full of hatred as he jabbed the crude knife at Paul’s stomach. Then the enemy combatant’s head exploded.

“Got him!” yelled Bobby. 

Paul skittered back to the wall. He couldn’t feel the cut on his brow, but blood was blinding his right eye. He tossed a pack to Cline.

“We’ve got to hold them off!” 

Another flare went up. Paul felt like he was in a fish bowl. Another torrent of chills ran down his back when he saw about a hundred VC charging towards the wall.

There was a bone-shattering roar. A bullet knocked Paul on his back. He felt a hot poker jabbing deep into his shoulder. He looked up at the moon. He felt he could reach up and touch it.

Everything went white and Paul felt two iron spikes behind his eyeballs, stabbing to get out.

The medical unit was a disaster scene. Every able-bodied man was moving gurneys in and out, depending on the state of the victim. Among the screaming and moaning, nurses and other personnel tried to cope with the onslaught of the wounded and dying. The smell of blood was everywhere.

Over in the corner was a young Marine with blood coming out of his ear. A grenade had exploded near him, sending his body into a tree. The brain damage had regressed him to another time and place as he cried out, “Momma!”

Paul Morgan lay on a cot, his body riddled with shrapnel. A shard of wood from a Banyan tree protruded out of his stomach. A bullet was buried in his shoulder. His uniform was soaked in blood. His skin was seared and blackened by a large dose of napalm.

The medics had not gotten to him yet. They were working double time to stop the blood spurting out of a soldier’s chest. On a cot next to him, a priest stood over Bobby, administering last rites.

“We need more morphine over here!” someone shouted.

“I’ve got a chest wound, I need a hand here!” shouted someone else.

The Captain with his arm in a sling entered the tent, shaking his head. “What a mess. This is insanity.” 

A lieutenant followed him into the tent. “We have heavy casualties sir.”

“Any word on who gave the order?”

“No sir. When they called it in, they didn’t know we had friendlies in the area.” 

The Captain gave a bitter laugh. “Probably saved some lives in the bargain. They should probably give the stupid fool a medal.” He gave the lieutenant a look between humor and anguish. “Full of irony in a lot of napalm.” The lieutenant nodded, not taking his eyes off the chaos in the tent. The Captain motioned with his good arm.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Let the doctors do their job.” They left.

Phen Ho was an intern in Long Binh. His own heart problems had kept him out of the South Vietnamese Army, but as a patriot, he wanted to serve. He was glad he didn’t have to kill men, and working in the field to save lives was “right up his alley” as the American doctor told him.

The short, pudgy Phen walked up to the cot that held Sgt. Paul Morgan. The soldier had deep punctures through his body. A bullet wound seeped from his shoulder. Half his face had been burnt to a crisp.  Paul’s’eyelids were trying to flutter open.

“Ah, this one’s still alive,” he said to no one in particular. It’s not likely that anyone who heard him would have understood him. The young intern’s French was far superior to his English. In flowing Vietnamese, he ordered a medic over for an IV set up. When the Asian medic saw Paul, he shook his head. In equal fluid Vietnamese, he spoke to Phen.

“We’ll waste precious drugs on this one. He’ll die soon.”

“He’s waking up. I need morphine now. He’s going to be in great pain.” The medic reluctantly handed Phen some morphine and started setting up an IV unit. “We must relieve all of the suffering that we can.” A corporal was brought in with a bullet next to his spine. He was screaming God’s name, but it was lost among the frantic voices of medics and victims alike in the noisy tent.

Phen touched Paul’s forehead. He continued to speak in Vietnamese. “Be still my friend. Be at peace.” There was a low hum in the darkness. Paul could hear voices that seemed far away. Where was he?

A cool hand was touching his brow. While he knew a few words in Vietnamese, Paul couldn’t speak it or understand it. Yet, the words came to him as clear as water.

“Be at peace.”

Like a train coming out of a tunnel toward the light, Paul opened his eyes. There was movement in his blurred vision.

Phen stood over the dying soldier. He continued to speak to him softly in Vietnamese.

“I’ve administered morphine. You will feel no pain.” As Phen spoke, Paul was hearing a different voice, speaking to him in English. “Don’t be afraid, Paul. I am near.” Paul’s eyes focused on the figure standing over him as the blur melted away. The face he saw wasn’t Phen Ho. It was…

“Save me,” Paul whispered. 

Phen motioned to the medic with the IV. He put a stethoscope on Paul’s chest and listened.

“I can save him,” said Phen.

Paul was not aware of the medical attention he was getting. He didn’t feel the IV or the fire balm being applied. He didn’t realize that skillful hands now used a scalpel to cut the shrapnel embedded in his body. All he saw was the face of Jesus. All he heard was the voice that seemed to come from a deep well in the sky.

“Be at peace, Paul. I am here. I am always with you.”

Instantly, the face of Christ disappeared and the low hum exploded into the wailing in the tent and the doctor standing over him, shouting instructions in Vietnamese to the nurse.

“He’s going to live! Yes, we’re going to save a life today! Phen was jubilant. As he worked quietly on the soldier on the cot, part of him was speaking to God…Thank you Lord, for giving me the skills and working through my hands to save this life.

Phen, a former Buddhist, had accepted Jesus two years before when his sister took him to her missionary friends. Phen’s sister taught Sunday school at a church in Saigon and he was grateful that she had led him to God. This was one of those defining moments for him. He felt a connection to this bleeding Marine. It was like a voice was somewhere behind him saying, “Save him, save him.” And Phen’s skillful hands were doing just that.

CHAPTER SIX - JOSH SMYTHE 1970

Juan Ramone Garcia ran a hand through his short, salt and pepper hair. His eyes were dark and intense as he relayed the story to Josh. “I didn’t have a choice. I had to throw the baby to the firemen below and go back in for the mother. That building was going to collapse at any moment.”

“What about a net?” Josh asked quietly.

“There was no time for a net. And I was going on instinct when I went back into the smoke.”

Juan leaned back in the canvass chair, his mind’s eye seeing the apartment fire twenty years before.

“I found her huddled in the kitchen with their dog. The smoke had overcome the dog. Although the fire hadn’t reached her, the heat had burned her upper arm.” Juan gave Josh a warning look. “Don’t believe what you see in the movies, when the guy runs through the burning building to save the heroine. The heat and smoke is enough to kill you before the flames hit.” 

 Josh shook his head in awe. “What did you do?” 

Juan was deep in thought. It was like he was choosing his words carefully. “I immediately picked her up. She was in shock.” Suddenly Juan laughed. “She wouldn’t let go of that dog, so I carried them both to the open window.”

“That must have been real scary.” 

Juan furrowed his brow, remembering what had happened. “I prayed to God to give me strength. A fireman does a lot of praying. I think sometimes, that firemen are closer to God than preachers.”

“Oh, that’s good,” said Josh as he scribbled that last line on a piece of paper. “I can use that in the scene where I comfort the little girl.” Josh looked up from his notes. “So you saved the woman and the dog?” 

Juan shook his head. “I held them at the open window. By now, they had the net out. Just as I jumped, a gas line exploded. I was knocked off the window and hit the ledge that was two stories down. It broke my arm and punctured a lung.

“That’s terrible,” Josh sympathized.

“The mother was not so lucky. She hit her head on the ledge and was killed instantly.” Josh kept his eyes on his notepad. Juan ran a hand through his hair again. “We did revive the dog.”

“That was some story Mr. Garcia.”

“Just one of many,” Juan said quietly.

They were on the set of “Motor City Fireman”. It was Juan Garcia’s story of his years with the Detroit Fire Department. Josh’s long, black hair was now a short crew cut like Juan’s. He looked trim and fit in the khaki fireman’s uniform. He was playing the role of Juan and had spent the last three weeks with the retired fire captain.

In the last four years, Josh’s movie career had been a skyrocket. Nominated for two Oscars, he’d gained the reputation as a solid character actor, not just a pretty face. For the role of Juan, he had the make up person duplicate on his cheek and above his eyes, the ugly scars that were on Juan’s face.

His lack of vanity had earned respect in the Hollywood acting community. When he played a real life supreme court justice in the film, “Halls of Justice”, he gained forty pounds and had age makeup add jowls under his well sculptured cheeks and bags under his eyes. He adopted the deep, gravely voice of the judge.

When he was cast as Juan Garcia in “Motor City Fireman”, Josh started lifting weights and added five more miles to his jogging regimen. He laid off the cocaine and watched his diet. Scouring old pictures of Juan, he had his hair cut to the short crew cut and studied the scars on his face.

Josh enrolled in a training program with rookie firemen. He insisted that there would be no star treatment, and he learned a lot about fire fighting techniques and the equipment they used.

The only experience he couldn’t participate in was fighting a real fire. Josh argued this point with Lyle Cox, the producer. They were having lunch at a trendy eatery on Wilshire.

“Come on, Lyle. I’m in better shape than half of those old geezers on the ladder truck. And in my tests, I scored as high as most of the rookies.”

 Lyle munched thoughtfully on his chicken salad. “No Josh. We couldn’t get insurance on you for such a stunt. I don’t want you near any real fires.”

 Josh folded his arms and gave the pouty look of a child. “I’ve worked very hard for this Lyle.”

“For what? To burn into a crisp, because you have this macho thing going?” 

It was true. Spending time with the firemen, Josh had developed a lot of confidence and the tough mindset of a fire fighter. These men were like military. They were proud, hard headed, had big egos, didn’t compromise on arguments and had a healthy dose of self-sacrifice. They were solid men. Men people could depend on. All of this was absorbed into Josh’s acting psyche.

“I really think it would add a touch of realism if I went into a building and met the fire face to face,” argued Josh.

“You would die, Josh,” Lyle replied. “Don’t pull this hero stuff on me.”  Lyle held up his glass at a waiter, who dutifully strode over and re-filled it.

“Could I talk to Solomon about it?”

“Sure. Solomon will tell you the same thing. His job is to keep you alive. You get burned and put into the hospital, the studio loses millions. That’s what Solomon knows. But you can talk to him.”

Josh scooped up some caviar and stuffed it in his mouth. Lyle was right. Solomon Branch, the stunt coordinator, wouldn’t help him. His assistant, Judd Wagner wouldn’t help either. Maybe he could offer Simon, who was his stunt double twenty-five thousand dollars to trade places when they shoot the climatic warehouse fire. Who knew the difference between Josh Smythe and an anonymous stuntman once you put on all of that gear and gas masks? Of course Josh would somehow get his face seen so people would know it was him.

“And Judd, C.J., Simon and all the others will tell you the same thing as Solomon,” said Lyle, reading Josh’s thoughts. “Safety first.”

 Josh held up his hands. “Okay, okay, but think of the millions of dollars of publicity the studio would get if people knew I’d fought a real fire.”

The men ate in silence. Josh had stretched the role of Juan Garcia as far as he could. He was already committed to his next picture, “Rodeo Clown”. Maybe the producer on that one would let him actually distract a charging bull, threatening a fallen rider?

When he got to his Malibu beach house, all Josh wanted was a hot soak in the spa. “Motor City Fireman” had been grueling, but he was proud of the work. There was just two scenes left to shoot and before “Rodeo Clown”, he was going to take six weeks off.

Before he could get to his spa, Josh noticed the pungent smell of marijuana coming from the bedroom. Cynthia had gotten into his stash.

“Cynthia!”

At the top of the staircase, a door opened. “You’re home early,” came a groggy voice from the bedroom. Josh trotted up the stairs. Cynthia’s haggard face peeked at him through the crack in the bedroom door. How could he ever have thought she was pretty?

“What’s going on? You’re not supposed to smoke my stuff, Cynthia.” Her eyes had the drugged glaze he had seen so many times before.

“I just needed a little hit.” She walked away from the door and Josh entered the room. Cynthia flopped on the bed and pulled the covers over her. At the foot of the bed was a short table. On the table was a razor blade and a couple of lines of cocaine.

“You got into my coke?” Josh felt his temper rise. Cocaine wasn’t just expensive; this had been the best stuff he’d ever snorted. “What are you doing?! You know you’re not supposed to touch my supply.” 

She lazily gestured to the master bathroom. “It’s not yours. I got it from Johnny.”

A young man came out of the bathroom, buttoning his shirt. He looked like he was high. Johnny gave Josh a bright smile.

“Hey man, I’ve seen you in the movies. You’re a famous dude.” Johnny staggered over to Cynthia. “Hey baby, you didn’t tell me you were shacking up with a movie star. That is far out.”

 Josh’s eyes were burning holes through Cynthia. “Where did you get the money?”

 Johnny backed up against the bathroom door. “Hey man, it’s cool. I brought the stuff over.”

Unconscious of the “Juan” gesture he’d fostered, Josh ran a hand over his crew cut. He glared at Cynthia. “Get out Cynthia. And take Juicy Fruit with you.”

Josh stalked out of the room. He wasn’t surprised about Cynthia. She was just like the others. He had played this scene before with Monique, Carmen and Amy.

The hot tub was forgotten. Josh pulled on some trunks and jumped into the pool. He swam five, vigorous laps, working off the anger. It seemed like all those gorgeous women in his life wanted to use him. They were all so selfish.

He had a successful career. He was admired all around the world. Why did he have so much trouble with women? They were shallow for one thing. And they didn’t understand him.

He hoisted himself out of the pool and dripped over to the cabana bar. Having sworn off drugs and drinking for the duration of the film, he poured an orange juice. Then he added some vodka. Why not? The filming of “Motor City Fireman” was almost over.

Josh plopped down on the lounge chair and watched the sun sink into the west, over the Pacific. He heard Johnny leave and waited for Cynthia. After a half-hour, he went back upstairs to check on her. Johnny had scooped up the cocaine off the table. Josh looked at the lump under the covers with disgust.

“Okay Cynthia, let’s go.” The lump didn’t move. He pulled the covers back. “Out Cynthia!  Now!” Her eyes were closed and she was in a fetal position. Josh felt her pulse. It was weak. He cursed. This was all he needed. 

“Thanks a lot,” he said to the comatose girl. 

He wearily ambled over to the telephone to call an ambulance. It was too bad she was still breathing. He could have used the CPR technique he’d learned at the fire academy.