The following story was inspired by a comment I saw on a music video. The story is set in the 1960s and I did my best to remain true to the slang and the technology of the time, even looked up the wages for the time, but I'm sure the history wonks may find an error here or there. That's okay, it's just a story.
As always, constructive comments are welcome and appreciated. Please remember this is a work of fiction...
"Some may be from showing up
Others are from growing up
Sometimes I was so messed up and didn't have a clue
I ain't winning no one over I wear it just for you
I've got your name written here
In a rose tattoo..."
"Rose Tattoo" -- Dropkick Murphys
The aging man sat in the chair as the tattoo artist did his magic. He looked at the woman sitting in the chair nearby -- the woman who had spent the last 50 years fulfilling her promise to heal his heart. This tattoo would only be the second, and the last he would ever get, and it was for her. He thought back half a century to the events that eventually saw him in that chair.
John Harkness was damn good at what he did. He was a damn good mechanic in civilian life and as a combat Marine, he was damn good at killing the enemy. He was one of the handful of reservists who actually volunteered to go to Vietnam, feeling that it was wrong to let the regulars shoulder all the effort. In those days, reserve units weren't called up due to the sheer number of conscripts drafted into the service.
He discussed his intentions with his wife, Julie, in March 1967. They had been married for just three years and had bought a small house in anticipation of having children. She worked as a paralegal in a local law firm and they did well between the two of them. John knew that with her job and the money he would send home, they could easily manage the bills. They also had a good amount sitting in savings that could be used in the event of an emergency.
Julie cried, but seemed to understand. John's sense of right and wrong was not something that could be changed.
John was a big man, around 6 foot 6, strong and muscular. He had a well-deserved reputation as a brawler, but marrying his high school sweetheart two years after enlisting in the Reserves seemed to take the edge off of him. He could -- and would -- still fight if the need arose, but he no longer started fights like he used to.
They said their goodbyes and engaged in a hearty romp in the bedroom the night before he left.
"You'd better come back to me in one piece," she said. "And you'd better not chase after any women. This is mine -- only mine," she added, grabbing his crotch.
"Don't worry, sweetie," he said. "I'll take good care of myself. And you'd better be a good girl while I'm gone. I know how those rich lawyers operate."
"No problem, sweetie," she said. "I promise to be good."
Before leaving the States, John updated his will and set up an allotment from his military pay to make the mortgage. That took up about half of the paltry $240.60 he made each month as an E-4 with more than four years of service. He also arranged to place a quarter of what was left over in their bank account so Julie could make the utility payments. He figured he wouldn't need much anyway and he knew he would get some for hazardous duty pay.
He did, however, splurge on a tattoo on his upper right arm, a knife with a scroll that read, "Death Before Dishonor." He saw another tattoo that grabbed his attention -- a rose with space for a name. He remembered his Dad's advise and stayed away from that, but he admired the artwork anyway.
After arriving in-country, he was assigned to a regular Marine battalion and as a Corporal, was made a fire team leader. It took a while for the regular Marines to accept John as one of their own, since he was a reservist, but he earned their respect after a few firefights.
Unlike many of the other Marines, John refused to engage in "short-times" with the local girls. Not only was he a happily married man in love who took his vows seriously, he was scared to death of what they might be carrying and he had heard horror stories of Vietnamese girls who allegedly inserted razor blades in their pussies to injure unsuspecting and horny American troops. He didn't know if the stories were true, but he wasn't about to find out.
"Come on, man, lighten up. This is Viet-Fucking-Nam," said Harker, a black Lance Corporal who hailed from the Bronx. John would pull out a picture of his Julie and show it to Harker.
"Not with this waiting back home," John said.
"Man, that's a damn good lookin' woman, but you know Jodie's already all up in that shit," Harker said. "Jodie" was Marine slang for the guys who would seduce military wives whose husbands were deployed. "Jodie" was probably hated every bit as much as "Charlie" -- one of the nicknames given to the enemy -- was. John shook his head.
"No fucking way. My Julie would never do that," he said.
"Yeah, right," Harker said. "And I'm the King of the fuckin' Bronx. With a bridge to sell."
John wrote Julie every chance he got and treasured the letters he would get from her, sometimes reading them several times. At first, he would hear from her about every two weeks. After a few months, however, the letters slowed down. He didn't think too much of it, considering that his unit was always on the move, but thought it a bit odd that he heard from his parents more often than he heard from her. He once received some pictures of her in a bathing suit he had never seen before and wondered who took them.
He didn't dwell on it too much, though, and continued doing his job, believing that his wife was still faithful.
That Christmas, he received a card and a letter from his parents but didn't hear from Julie. Now, he was getting a bit worried, but didn't make a big deal of it -- Vietnam was no place to let crap like that cloud your head.
In mid-January 1968, his unit found itself outside a place called Da Nang. Rumors had been floating around that "Charlie" would be launching a major offensive sometime around the Vietnamese lunar new year, known as Tet.
He and his Marines went about their business and sure enough, at the end of the month, all hell broke loose.
John's position was hit hard early that fateful morning, and they fought like banshees. They held the enemy off but most of John's team, including Harker, had been killed in the brutal fighting. John had also been wounded, one bullet tearing through his left leg and another that pierced his side just below his body armor. Shrapnel from a mortar round that hit nearby also took off part of his right ear and gashed his cheek.
He and the other wounded Marines were evacuated to the Naval Support Activity Station Hospital in Da Nang and was later shipped back to a military hospital in San Francisco. Fortunately, doctors were able to save his leg, but he faced a long stint of physical therapy to learn how to walk again. He also lucked out in that the bullet that pierced his side missed any vital organs.