Orphans Of The Mourning

Orphans Of The Mourning

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Copyright 2007

Robert Alan Chapin

Smashwords Edition

This book is not intended as a literal account or an exact portrayal of any persons living or dead. Obviously, it has been important to the author to protect the identity of some of the characters in this story, and for that purpose, names and descriptions have been changed.

The saddest part about war is that most young men die with their greatest symphonies still in them.

Beethoven

This book is dedicated to my wife Maureen who is the greatest source of joy in my life. Not only are you my companion, but you are my best friend.

With all my love

Vietnam Casualties

41,331 Enlisted Men Killed In Combat

5,741 Officers Killed In Combat

8 Women Killed In Action

313,616 Wounded In Combat

10,000 Servicemen Lost One Limb

771 Americans Captured (113 Died In Captivity)

One Out Of Every Ten Who served In Vietnam Were Killed Or Wounded

2,110 Soldiers Remain Missing

Prologue

A Trophy For Arvie

West Brookfield, Massachusetts - June 1989

Preston Cunningham drove into the picturesque New England town of West Brookfield, Massachusetts bound for the charming ‘town common’. It was here thirty years earlier, where he and Arvie were to take part in an key race. They were the best of friends, and it was the best of times in 1959. Arvie’s dad was their scoutmaster and it was Mr. Silverberg, who instituted many of the social and ethical principles Preston would later on incorporate into his life.

As with most teenagers, his viewpoint was set on the great inquisitiveness the world had to offer. In 1959, the town had not quite enough industry with which to provide for its residents.

There was the Fleishman Yeast Factory, a wire manufacturing plant and charming Lake Wicquaboag (Wick-a-bog), a preferred vacation destination for the prosperous from Boston to the Berkshires.

Even with the need for more business, the three hundred year old town was rich in colonial custom with its church suppers and lawn parties. Special character that made New England unique.

The windshield wipers were stressed to their maximum; melodiously flip flopping to remove the sheets of rain from a surprising early spring rainstorm. Preston could hardly make out the old mesh backstop to the baseball diamond as his mind flashed back in time to the day of the race.

Lex Carroll, the local Chevrolet dealer, a most generous man was the sponsor for the race. In addition to providing the pace car - a white exterior with red leather interior 1959 Chevy convertible full of options. Mr. Carroll also supplied the trophies. The youth of their town were so often the recipient of Mr. Carroll’s charity.

Several days prior to the race Preston and Arvie were placed into the proper age group, and assigned numbers to be pinned to their shirts. The path of the race would take them on a three mile trip - which, on purpose was a total of three laps around the town common. In the Colonial period, the area of land in the center of town served as a ‘common’ meeting place - thus the term town common.

On the day of the race, a modest crowd assembled at the starting line (which would also serve as the finishing point). The pace car was proceed by the town’s only police cruiser. A woof of the bullet shaped chrome siren on the roof of the cruiser, a wave from the flagman and the contestants were in motion.

The adrenalin raced through Preston’s body as two dozen young men were about to reveal their marathon skills. Arvie and Preston were approaching the end of the first lap when this scrawny skinny kid raced from behind won the first trophy. Another was just as quick to pick up the second trophy.

Preston and Arvie managed to take a quick look at each other laboring to catch their breath between steps. It was at this critical moment when they decided to end the third and final lap on the same foot - and at the same time! The thought never appeared to either of them that in the event of a tie they might be asked to run a fourth and final lap to decide the winner.

They extended their hands to shake on their promise. The muscles in Preston’s legs began to tighten and he could see that Arvie was also in pain.

Don’t lose your stride! Arvie shouted, gasping for breath.

They were certain of the win! Along the route there were shouts of encouragement and support.

Lex Carroll actively thrust the last trophy above his head. For a moment, thirst overwhelmed any desire to finish the race as agreed. Preston was anxious for a drink of water. It was an effort just to breathe. They made eye contact one last time and, but extended their hands in anticipation of a mission well done. Success for this pair was definite. They were now only fifteen feet from the finish line.

Then, unexpectedly Preston tripped falling to the ground! Arvie crossed the finish line, and Preston had experienced the agony of defeat - and a bruised knee. Arvie sprinted back to ask if Preston was OK, but all Preston wanted was water!

Although proud of his triumph, Arvie was eager they both share in the trophy - and refused to take no for an answer. Not only was Arvie humble as he displayed the true meaning of friendship, but more significant, he demonstrated the pride that comes with doing your best.

* * *

Preston Cunningham was drafted in March of 1968 making certain of a an assignment in Vietnam.

Yet, with less than two weeks before deployment to the war zone as a draftee, Preston chose the Army’s new four year enlistment program. He was given the opportunity to decide on Spain, Italy or Germany for his entire forty eight month enlistment as a result - avoiding Vietnam.

Following a brief 16 months of civilian status in Germany and a lack of personnel in his occupation (top secret cryptography), Uncle Sam acted in disregard of his contract and Preston was assigned to the jungles of Vietnam.

Orphans Of The Mourning

Chapter One

Nineteen Going On Thirty Something!

South Vietnam May 13, 1968

Gentlemen! At this time, we will interrupt electrical service to the cabin, a safety measure when flying over hostile territory. Please put out all cigarettes! The surprising message startled Corporal Preston Cunningham from a restless sleep. his head uncomfortably slumped between his lapel and the window.

Our approach to Cam Rahn Bay will take approximately fifteen minutes. On behalf of Pan Am and our entire flight crew, we hope for your safe return to American soil. It is 8:30 P.M., Vietnam time, and the temperature - 105 degrees. a collective moan moved through the aircraft.

Hello Vietnam - and thank you uncle goddamned Sam! Preston grumbled, looking intently through the window at the cushion of white marshmallow clouds.

One hundred twenty five men, the majority eighteen years old and scarcely out of high school or the ghetto, sat in total silence on their decline to the runway. In preparation for the landing, Preston supported his body at that moment just prior to touching town when all mechanical noise is subdued.

White smoke drifted beyond the window as the tires chirpped into the runway. The abrupt reversal of engines forced him forward in his seat.

The crew was to wait in Cam Rahn Bay just long enough to refuel and board with G.I’s returning stateside. When Preston stepped into the aisle, a stewardess hugged and whispered good luck!

Upon departure, the comfort of the air conditioned cabin was little reward from the blast of tropical heat gripping at Preston’s chest and legs like the tentacles of an angry octopus attacking its victim.

In the time it had taken to descend the steps of the plane to the tarmac, chilled and moderately cool uniforms were misshapen into an accumulation of clammy perspiration and dust. Commercial airliners were preparing to depart with military personnel returning from their tour of duty in Vietnam, or individuals traveling on R & R.

The whine of the jet engines and odor of aviation fuel combined with the flourishing movement of men and military machines implied there was a reason in his being there.

Another plane taxied from the boarding area revealing a stack of grey metal containers. Forklifts relocated them from the pile to the plane. They were coffins, each containing a distorted, twisted body, and the irony at this point in the procedure - a mother was unaware that her son was a casualty. Fear overwhelmed Preston. Could this happen to me? he thought. He was to return home in twelve months. But now, there was the probability he might become one of them.

His attention was drawn to a tractor transporting an solitary coffin reminiscent of that night in Dallas when President Kennedy’s flag draped casket was raised without formal procedure into the cargo bay of Air Force One.

The sight of that solitary casket and the lack of concern with which it was handled will linger camouflaged deep in his mind forever.

A chain link fence divided the new recruits from those returning stateside. Wearing soiled combat fatigues, their faces visible with the appearance of having been frozen in time. Their haunting eyes sent unspoken messages that these replacements may also endure a horrendous fate in this escalating war. They didn’t bear a resemblance to any of the new arrivals. Preston Cunningham had his youth! Theirs was nowhere to be found. They were nineteen years old going on thirty-something!

Cam Rahn Bay, South Vietnam was somewhat secure, but any effort at sleeping was easier said than done. The persistent sound of artillery was terrifying! It was impossible to make a distinction between that of a discharging friendly round from that of an incoming enemy rocket.

Soldiers and marines who re-enlisted for an extra tour of duty in Vietnam were referred to as lifers. For new recruits, there was encouragement that all would be OK - for the time being.

Following a seven thousand mile flight from Germany and the understanding that he was now in an unwelcome environment, Preston Cunningham could not convince himself that he would even live to tell the tale!

With each echoing boom he rolled out of bed. He was not quite asleep when shocked from his bunk by the sudden wail of an air raid siren followed by a number of loud explosions in rapid succession. Get into the goddamned bunkers! Move it! Get your asses into the bunkers! a voice shouted.

What bunkers? No one told me about any bunkers - not this soon! the thought raced through his mind. Tripping over arms, legs, and steel, he found himself on the floor, and dragged to the front of the building - and down into a ditch and finally into the safety of a metal culvert six feet below the earth. Six feet! How ironic! How terrifying! How ominous!

Once in a while Charlie gets brave enough to hurl a rocket into the compound. Choppers will blow the bastard’s away! an nameless voice reassured everyone.

Shortly after that, the whine of jet engines and whapping of rotor blades produced a thrilling cheer as choppers geared up for a search of