ALEX
Vietnam, 1972
Alex read the letter a second time, before he showed it to his mother. Elena wept, because she knew exactly what her son would do.
“If only we’d gone to England, this would never have happened,” she said, and couldn’t help thinking they’d climbed into the wrong crate.
Many young men who were reading the same letter that morning would already be on the phone to their fathers’ lawyers, or paying a visit to the family doctor, while others would simply tear up the draft, hoping the problem would go away. But not Alex.
Elena wasn’t the only person who cried. Addie begged him to at least try and get a deferral, pointing out that as he was in his final year at NYU, they would surely allow him to complete his degree. Although she cried all night, Alex wasn’t persuaded.
He still had one pressing problem that needed to be solved before he could pack his bags and leave home. His eleven stalls were now making a handsome profit, and he certainly didn’t want to sell any of them. But who could run his burgeoning empire while he was away? To his surprise, it was his mother who came up with the solution.
“I’ll give up my job at Mario’s, and Dimitri and I will take them over until you come back.”
No one raised the subject of what would happen if he didn’t return.
Alex happily accepted their offer, and on February 11, 1972, he boarded a train for Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to begin an eight-week course of basic training, before being shipped out to Vietnam.
* * *
The lights went on. “Up, up, up!” shouted a staff sergeant at the top of his voice as he marched down the corridor between the sleeping recruits, his baton striking the end of every bunk. One by one the young men were rudely awakened, and, unaccustomed to the hour, blinked and rubbed their eyes, with one exception. By four in the morning, Alex would already have been on his way to the market.
“The Vietcong are charging toward you,” yelled their instructor, “and they’ll kill the last man who puts his feet on the ground!”
Alex was already heading toward the showers, towel in hand. He turned on a tap that offered no choice between cold and cold.
“Anyone who hasn’t showered, shaved, and dressed in fifteen minutes, won’t be fed before lunch.” Suddenly bodies were racing toward the showers.
Alex was the first to be seated on one of the long wooden benches in the mess hall. He had quickly become aware how his mother had spoiled him over the years. It wasn’t until the third morning, by which time he’d become so desperate, that he accepted a breakfast of lumpy porridge, greasy bacon, burned toast, and a hot black liquid the army called coffee.
When he was introduced to the parade ground, followed by the gym, route marches, and wading across a freezing river holding a rifle above his head, he quickly discovered he wasn’t quite as fit as he’d imagined. However, he did manage to stay a yard or two ahead of most of his fellow recruits, who until then had considered Saturday evenings were for drinking and Sunday mornings for sleeping it off. The staff sergeant gently reminded them that the Vietcong didn’t take the weekends off.
While Alex continued to hold his own in the gym, on the shooting range, and in the hills during night operations, he excelled in the classroom, where the education officer attempted to explain why America had become embroiled in a war in the Far East.
Alex became fascinated by the history of Vietnam, and how the north and south had been united since AD 939, but were now at each other’s throats.
“But why are we sacrificing our soldiers’ lives for a small country on the other side of the world?” asked Alex.
“Because if the communists in the north took control of the whole of Vietnam, who would fall next?” replied the education officer. “Laos? Cambodia? And would the enemy even stop when they reached Australia? It’s the domino effect. Allow one to topple, and others will follow.”
“But Vietnam is still on the other side of the world,” said Alex.
“You can’t be sure of that,” said the EO. “With Cuba in the hands of Fidel Castro, the communists are only a stone’s throw from the US coast, and if they were to get their hands on anything other than bows and arrows, Florida could be next in line.”
Alex didn’t ask any more questions, as he was well aware of how the Red Army had occupied the whole of Eastern Europe while the Allies sat and watched.
Alex quickly made friends among his fellow recruits, some of whom were, like him, first-generation immigrants. He helped them write letters to their families and girlfriends, fill in forms, and even taught one of them how to tie his shoelaces. However, there was one—there’s always one—who took against Alex from the first bugle call.
Big Sam, also known as the Tank, was 6 foot 4, and the scales didn’t stop until they’d reached 226 pounds, most of it taut muscle. He certainly didn’t consider Private Karpenko the unit’s natural leader. Most of the other recruits avoided Big Sam, and even one or two of the staff sergeants were wary of him. Alex also kept his distance, but he couldn’t avoid Big Sam when, during one gym session, the two of them were ordered into the boxing ring for a friendly bout. Big Sam didn’t do friendly. All the other recruits crowded around to witness the inevitable slaughter.
“I am the greatest,” Alex whispered without conviction as he climbed through the ropes, hoping the words of Cassius Clay would inspire him, and he might at least survive the three three-minute rounds.
For the first round, Alex danced nervously around the ring while his opponent threw punch after punch, none of them hitting the target. Alex somehow made it to the end of the second round, even hitting Big Sam a couple of times, not that he noticed. But Alex’s legs were quickly turning to lead. This wasn’t a slow waltz at a local dance hall with a young lady as your partner.
About halfway through the third round Sam managed to land a glancing blow on the side of Alex’s head. Alex wobbled long enough for Sam to hit him a second time, on the chin, when he collapsed in a heap onto the canvas. A wiser man might have stayed put. But not Alex. He attempted to haul himself to his feet as the referee counted, “Five, six, seven…” He was still only resting on one knee when the next punch landed squarely on his nose. All he could see in front of his eyes were stars and
stripes, and far more than fifty. Big Sam would have been disqualified if it had been a championship bout but, as the staff sergeant pointed out, no one would have time to explain the Queensberry Rules to the Vietcong.