Season 3
Ch. 2 Et Vobis, Fratres, ópere et omissióne, orare pro me
The sheets of folded paper and ink, were the only things that kept Clay in touch with home. The words written on them, letting him know he was still who he was before all this, that there was something to return to. Clay folded the pages and slipped the picture of JT's old bike back into the envelope and tucked it into the top pocket of his jacket. He heard the command to mount up and fall in line to board the plane, making this the last friendly flight he would be taking for a while.
Sitting in the living room at the farm, Poppy read aloud Clay's last letter to everyone and knew that on that day, he would be committing himself to risking his life every day. He was twenty five hundred miles away now and going another sixty four hundred, before he would enter into a conflict that had escalated into a full blown war, with America taking the stand to throw more at the North Vietnamese than they could handle. Their tactics were proving futile, but no one paid attention to that fact and stayed the course.
Flag draped boxes held the results on the tarmac, as row upon row were laid out after their final return flight. The hardest part for most to accept, was the average age of nineteen. Young men who had only just begun their lives, were given a uniform and a gun and told to be a soldier. Childhood games of playing war, had no bearing on preparing them for the reality of Vietnam. Too many faces held the shock of their death on them, never imagining a reality like the one they were in.
A group wish was given to Fate, the hopes it would be added into the scheme of things and bring their friend home again. No more could be done other than that, ending the circle and that part of the day. Bodies were back outside and into the fields, tending to the new shoots and weeding around them. Tinkerbell wandered freely about the grounds, happy to be around everyone. The chickens were producing more than enough eggs to keep everyone happy with their fill, as well as the ones that made a tasty dinner.
Walter and Golden pulled through the new gate and gave the horn a blow. Heads turned to them, as they got out and waved everyone over. There in the back of the bed, were a mating pair of geese and a family of ducks.
"Thought you might like a little crackling duck, or goose for Thanksgiving, this year."
The girls saw the ducklings and instantly loved on them. Walter shook his head and smirked at them.
"Don't get all attached to them, you'll be calling them dinner soon enough."
"No, Walter, they're so cute."
"They turn into big ones like the parents and make a good meal. You'll need three or four to feed the lot of you."
"No way, Walter. That's so cruel."
"Girlie, you got to eat, to live. You don't want them, I'll be serving them up come thanksgiving myself. My missus might have left, but her recipes didn't. I know my way around a kitchen still."
"Don't sweat it girls, we'll take care of them and do the deed at Walter's, so you don't see it. Funny, haven't heard one of you complain about eating chicken."
That made them stop and think about that thought, about the difference, or lack of it, between the two. They looked at the chickens pecking away lazily, content in their lives to exist that way, then looked at the baby ducks again. Attachments to familiar feelings, had to be severed, replaced with a primal need to exist, to look at the ducklings and think of food. Lenny and Otto grabbed the cage with the geese, while Tom and Wally took the ducks and headed to the barn.
A bale of chicken wire was brought out, along with wire staples and they began fencing in an area for the new arrivals to live in. Walter knew all the tricks to making it go as easy as possible and in less than half an hour, they had two areas fenced in and they brought the cages out and opened them, letting the animals get to know where home was now.
Half a world away, the hot, humid stench of Vietnam, assaulted the noses of the new arrivals. Gear was unloaded and picked up off the tarmac, as S. Sgt. Greeley continued lining them up when they were ready. They boarded the troop carrier and took a short ride across base to their camp, a place they would call home for a long time to come. The carrier pulled to a stop, rocking everyone in the back enough to bang heads. Clay chuckled and rapped his knuckles on his helmet, as he looked at the guy beside him rubbing his head.
"They told us to wear them at all times out in the field."
Gilmore put his helmet on and looked at Clay with derision, not all that happy with the explanation for the lump on his head. They dismounted and were shown to their quarters, picking out bunks of their own. They unloaded their duffel bags into their footlockers, stowing away their gear and the last remnants of home. Clay had his pictures pinned to the wall at the head of the bed, using the pins left behind by the soldier before him. It was ironic, in a cosmic sort of way that, while Clay was landing and settling in on the bunk with his guns, the soldier who occupied his bunk before, was settling in for his first night back in the states, as his star spangled coffin was placed on the stand, making him number 317 on the list of the dead to line the hanger.
"Attention!"
Greeley's booming voice brought bodies to their feet and lined up at the end of their bunks, ramrod straight and eyes forward. Captain MacAfee walked in and took a short stroll down the line, looking at the men and what they were occupied with doing, before he came in. He stopped at Clay's bunk, noticing all his weapons on the bed and his pistol disassembled, obviously in the process of going back together.
"What's your name, soldier?"
"Private Morrow, sir."
"Why is it, you're the only one cleaning your weapons?"
"Sir, if my guns won't fire, I'm a dead soldier, sir."
"Did the rest of you hear that? He's a dead soldier if his guns won't fire. Remember that every time you're assigned to go on a mission. You're nothing but target practice for the Cong, if you can't fire back. Good work, Morrow, you'll make a good soldier."
"Thank you, sir. I'll always do my best."
Clay snapped a salute to the captain and received a quick one in return. The captain walked to the end and looked in the faces of each man, judging them against Clay and what his command would be like. No sooner did authority leave, when disgruntled faces looked at Clay. He stared them back down, showing his own strength of character, pointing at them as he spoke.
"Hey, I'm here to hunt, I don't know about you guys. All I know is, daddy said keep your gun clean and ready to fire, if you want to be eating dinner. I ain't here to make friends, I'm here to kill gooks, period. I got friends back home, good friends, ones I know will still be alive at the end of the month. You want to sit around getting all friendly and shit, go ahead, but I intend on coming back after every mission and I don't give a shit if you don't, got it?"
No one wanted to challenge Clay on his take on things, most of it making complete sense to them. Despite the awareness to the reality of where they were, Clay wasn't making inroads to being an accepted member of the unit. He sat on his bed and had the pistol back together and cocked in thirty seconds. He laid it down and took his rifle up, dismantling it in about the same time, then began cleaning and oiling each part carefully. Clay wasn't completely despised, the knowledge of their weapons being the only protection they had to make it home again, had kits coming out and the tedious task of weapons maintenance was put to task.
Greeley's form darkened the door way a moment later.
"Briefing in ten minutes, look sharp, be sharp."
