Chickenhawk: Back in the World - Life After Vietnam

He shook his head. “Damn.”

“Hey,” I said. “I don’t mind. The fact that so many people tried to help is enough for me. Most of these guys have no friends anymore. A lot of them have lost their wives. I’m lucky.”

“It’s really a crock,” Jerry said. “I read about a guy in California who murdered two people, getting five years. I think they should’ve factored in what you did for your country, you know?”

I nodded. I disagreed, but I didn’t say so. I didn’t do anything for my country. I flew for the troops. We were all victims of that bullshit war started by idiots; the least I could do was help the victims. Between us, Jerry and I saved hundreds of lives. “They did, Jerry. They put me here instead of a real prison.”

Jerry nodded. “I guess that’s something.”

“It’s a lot. I think being in a penitentiary would’ve broken me. This is bad enough.”

“Hey,” Jerry said, “I almost forgot. Congratulations on being a bestselling author. Imagine, my friend the big deal!”

“Thanks, but I’m no big deal.”

“You’re telling me? I know that, but it’s got to make you feel proud, right? I fly all over the country, and I check all the bookstores. Chickenhawk is everywhere. When my friends found out I’m the Resler in the book, they had me sign their copies.”

“What you sign as? Resler or Towler?”

“Resler.”

I smiled. “I wish I’d known where you were; I could’ve used your real name.”

“Yeah, and I could’ve corrected all the mistakes you made about me!”

I laughed. “Like what?”

“That story you told about me spending the night in a whorehouse made me real popular with Martie,” Jerry said, grinning. He and Martie were married after the war. “You got it wrong.”

“Wrong? I remember you telling us all about it. You and twenty nubiles trapped all night—”

“Yeah, I told that story because the truth was too embarrassing.”

“You’re serious? You weren’t in the whorehouse?”

“Naw. You know how I used to get drunk on one beer? Well, I had about six that night in Pleiku. When I saw I was five minutes from curfew, I panicked and tried to find my way out of town. I was so messed up, I ended up in some dark neighborhood on the outskirts of town. I knocked on a door and asked the mamasan if I could stay there. I can’t believe I did that. I probably slept in a Viet Cong’s house. Anyway, I spent the night there, and when I got back to our camp, I made up that whorehouse story so nobody’d know how stupid I was.”

I laughed a long while. “That’s a much better story. Teach you to lie.”

“Well, who would’ve thought that the guy you’re telling a story to twenty years ago is going to put it in a book?”

We talked all day, going over the past, projecting our futures. Jerry is one of the few guys with whom I can freely share my fears and dreams. Jerry understands about waking up in sweaty panics. He understands that it is normal to check for snipers, even in a park. He understands what it feels like to face death in combat. He seemed totally unimpressed that I was a convict. We tried to figure out where the guys in our old company were. Maybe we’d have a reunion one day. For a while I forgot where I was.

At three the hacks announced visiting was over. I walked Jerry to the door. While wives and children filed past us out to the real world, Jerry said, “You’ll be out of here before you know it. I want you to come visit us. Stay as long as you like. Martie says to leave your spiders at home, though.”

He smiled that goofy smile of his. He kind of looks like Stan Laurel when he tries to look happy. I nodded and we hugged. As I walked to the back of the visiting room, I suppressed tears. This prison life was turning me into a whimpering fool. I missed Patience and Jack.

I missed Jerry. I even missed my damn spiders.

I stood in the line of inmates waiting to leave. We had to be checked off the roster and then pat-searched in the hallway before we left. I looked back at the door to the world, and Jerry was gone. When I got into the small hallway with two other inmates, a hack said I was going to be strip-searched. They strip-searched inmates at random, and this was my turn. I went into a closet-sized room with a hack and took off all my clothes.

The hack said “You have a nice visit?” while he checked the seams of my pants for whatever you can hide in the seams of pants.

“Yeah. My buddy from Vietnam.”

The hack nodded while he pulled out my pockets to check for the forbidden holes. “You have a Vietnamese friend?”

“No. He and I flew a helicopter together in the Army.” The hack was now checking my running shoes, to see if I’d stashed anything under the insoles.

“That’s great that you and your buddy are still in contact,” the hack said.

“Yeah,” I said. “We didn’t see each other for sixteen years.”

“Wow, sixteen years,” the hack said, after checking my clothes. “Okay. Hold up your penis, please.”

I reached down and held up my penis. This is standard procedure. A crook can supposedly hide stuff there. He nodded, “Fine. Now turn around and bend over.”

I nodded and did.