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“So how many babies did you kill over there?”
That was the second question in the exchange between Dewitt College linebacker Elston “Hoss” McNabb and 27-year old freshman, late of the US Army, Robert T. “Bobby” Kinsey.
The first question Hoss had asked Bobby was, “You were in Vietnam, huh?” Everybody on campus knew Bobby had been in Vietnam. It was 1967, and Vietnam was the subject of interest to everyone. Bobby was here now on the GI Bill and, because of his age, stood out like Shaquille O’Neal in the jockeys dressing room. Bobby had respectfully answered, “Yes,” to the first question. The second question didn’t call for a respectful answer, but it demanded an answer nonetheless. “Oh, I guess the number is somewhere around your IQ,” said Bobby. “Zero.”
The answer confused Hoss for a second. He had been having fun picking on the freshman, showing off for his teammates on the practice field. When Bobby’s answer finally soaked in, suddenly it wasn’t as much fun anymore. “Hey, you’re kind of small to be talking so big,” he said.
Bobby didn’t think he was so small. He reached six feet tall, a mark of some distinction in his family, and he weighed around 175. Of course, compared to Hoss, that was small. Compared to Hoss, most guys were small. On the team directory he was listed as 6’ 4” and 285 pounds, but those things always lied. Looking at Hoss now, Bobby couldn’t figure out whether they were trying to make Hoss smaller than he was - or larger. He looked larger to Bobby. Well, if we’re going to have a thing here, he thought, let’s get on with it. Out loud he said, “Yeah, and you’re kind of big to be talking so dumb.”
It took that a second to soak in, too. Hoss was not used to guys standing up to him, much less a little guy like this. But then it dawned on him that this little guy had actually insulted him - for the second time. He didn’t know exactly how to react, so he called on his instincts to bail him out. He swung his huge right fist at the little man’s head.
Bobby flicked his head back, and Hoss’ fist missed by a fraction of an inch. Damn, Bobby thought, that was close. I must be slowing down. With his right hand, he caught Hoss’ hand as it passed his nose. He twisted the hand to the point that Hoss’ wrist was at a painful angle and he dropped to his knees. When Hoss attempted to break loose, Bobby increased the pressure a little. When Hoss tried to reach back for Bobby with his other hand, Bobby increased the pressure a little.
Three of Hoss’ teammates, his size or a little bigger, starting moving toward Bobby. “Hold on a minute, Gentlemen,” Bobby said, holding up his free hand. They stopped. “If you want to get involved in this, I’ll have only one choice. I’ll have to break Hoss’ wrist to get him out of the way so I can concentrate on you. Do you really want a linebacker with a broken wrist?”
“I don’t want a linebacker with a broken wrist,” said a voice from Bobby’s right. “Let him go.”
Bobby looked around. It was Coach Thompson. “I’ll let him go, Coach, if you’ll tell him not to take another swing at me. And back off those other guys, too.”
“You heard him, Hoss,” said the coach, and to Bobby, “Now let him go,” and to the group at large, “You ladies go on to the showers before this little guy hurts you.”
Bobby released his grip on Hoss and stepped back. Hoss looked up at him with intense hatred and got up slowly and followed his teammates toward the gym.
Coach Thompson asked Bobby, “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Special Forces,” said Bobby.
“Well, it was impressive,” said the coach, “but this ain’t no B movie where you win the respect and admiration of the guys by showing your guts. Those guys are going to be out to get you. You’d better stay away from them. We probably play by different rules than you’re used to. So even if they started this thing today, I’m telling you point blank, you can only lose. You’d better stay completely away from my football players. They’re a lot more valuable to this institution than any ex-Special Forces soldier.” He turned away and headed for the gym, too.
The heat was oppressive. The humidity hung over him, pressed down on him making him feel sticky and forcing his lungs to work a little harder seeking oxygen. Sweat coursed down his brow into his eyes, stinging and making him blink. He feared one of those blinks would steal away his tactical advantage, make him miss something he needed to see. That made him blink more rapidly, trying to clear his vision, straining to see into the darkness. He peered into the stark blackness of the jungle before him, cradling, caressing his M-16, breathing deeply, wishing silently that the Viet Cong would come on, show themselves, even rush his position - just get it over with.
He sprang awake. He was soaked and sweat continued to pour off his head and body. For an instant, he thought he had fallen asleep at his guard post. Then he realized he was in his Dewitt dorm room; and in spite of the sweat covering his body, the room was chilly. He began to shiver. He got up from his bed and draped a towel over his head and shoulders to soak up the sweat. Then he pulled a US Army sweatshirt over that and sat down in the straight chair by the window that looked down on the student square. There was nobody there. He glanced at his watch, 3 am, oh three hundred, he thought, and leaned back to wait for daylight.
He hadn’t killed any babies in Vietnam. He didn’t know anybody who had killed any babies in Vietnam. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t seen any babies killed. He had seen whole villages wiped out, villages where the men were all away fighting for one side or the other, wiped out by the indiscriminate firing of the enemy hoping to kill a few patrolling Americans among the women and children left in the village.
Bobby dozed in his chair. When he began to see shadowy figures in black pajamas darting between the buildings on the square, he got up and got dressed for class.
“So, now I’ve got to avoid the whole football team,” Bobby said to Connie Calder. Connie was a veteran, too, and also an older freshman at Dewitt on the GI Bill. Bobby had met her at registration. The two of them stood out as senior citizens among the incoming rosy-cheeked high school graduates. They were naturally drawn to each other. When they learned that they were both also veterans, they bonded even stronger. But comparing military assignments and experiences went only so far. Connie had not been in Vietnam, and Bobby’s military career was dominated by Vietnam. But the military culture had shaped them both and drew them together now.
“I guess the rah, rah, rah stuff is out for me from now on,” Bobby continued.
“You mean you can’t even go to the football games?” asked Connie. “That’s a big part of the college experience. You’ll be missing a lot.”
They were sitting in the student union sharing a coke between classes on the day after Bobby’s encounter with Hoss McNabb. That story had already spread all over campus, and the other students in the union were staring at Bobby and whispering even now.
“I don’t know how much I’d be missing,” said Bobby, “but I get the impression looking around here that I’d be better off missing some of it. I don’t think these folks would miss me very much if I didn’t turn out to root for the home team. Without their athletic scholarships, most of those guys would have been drafted into the Army anyway. I’m not all that fired up to watch a bunch of draft dodgers pound on one another. They ought to be over there pounding on the VC.”
“Come on,” said Connie, “you can’t mean that. You ought to just try to smooth it over, so you can go to the games - so we can go to the games together.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” said Bobby. “Those guys struck a nerve that I didn’t even know was still exposed. I can’t back away from that like it didn’t mean anything or like I was wrong.”
“You know, you were in a way,” said Connie, “wrong, I mean. You let them get to you. You overreacted. You’re on their turf now. They play by different rules than you’re used to. You’ve got to learn to play by their rules.”
“You’re right about the rules being different,” said Bobby. “I don’t even understand their rules. I’m damned sure I can’t learn to play by them. And I’m pretty damned sure I don’t want to play by them.”
“That’s too bad, Bobby,” said Connie softly. “I really like you. We’ve got a lot in common, but I’m trying to move on with my life. I’m trying to fit in here. I want to learn their rules and play by them. And I’m damned sure I want to go to the football games.” She paused a moment and seemed to consider what she was about to say. Then she said softly, “I guess it would probably be better all around if we didn’t see as much of each other.” She got up and turned to leave. “If things change, if you learn to fit in, maybe we can get together again later,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s going to happen, Connie,” Bobby said. “You probably should just start looking for a jock who likes older women.”
She shook her head sadly, turned, and walked away.
That evening, Bobby went downtown to an off-campus student hangout. The football team didn’t go here though. It was too far out of the way, too low key for them. It was a small bar with a juke box, eight or ten tables, and a couple of pool tables. Bobby was drinking a beer and hitting a few balls waiting to see if a game would develop. He wasn’t exactly a hustler, but he was a better pool player than most of the Dewitt students. Once in a while he was able to supplement his GI Bill with side bets. There weren’t very many people in the place tonight though, maybe 12 or so students scattered among the tables, drinking beer and lying to one another.
As Bobby lined up the pool balls for a trick shot where he made six balls in six pockets, an older man shuffled past him heading toward the tables where the students were sitting. Bobby tried his shot. Four of the six balls went in, but so did the cue ball. Fact was, he usually missed the shot; but on those rare occasions when he made all six balls, it was a real kick. As he rounded up the balls again, he glanced back toward the tables. Two of the students were pushing the old guy away from them back toward the door. “Get the hell out of here, you fucking wino. You know it’s against the rules for you to be in here,” screamed one of them. The old man stood uncertainly as if he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. The two students started toward him.
“Wait a minute,” said Bobby moving toward the old man. The students stopped in mid-step, another sign that news of Bobby’s incident with Hoss had gotten around. “He’s just an old man, probably homeless,” said Bobby. “You don’t need to hurt him.”
“He’s begging beers, Kinsey,” said one of the students, a wiseass named Doerr that Bobby recognized from his English 101 class. “He’s not supposed to be doing that. He’s not even supposed to be in here. It’s against the rules.”
“You folks sure got a lot of rules to control other people, don’t you?” said Bobby. “What if I make a rule right now that he can stay.”
“That’s okay with me, but that makes you responsible for him,” said Doerr. “Hell, he’s one of your people anyway. He’s a veteran.”
Bobby took the old man by the arm and led him to the table farthest from the students. “You want a beer?” he asked. The old man nodded and Bobby went to the bar and got a couple of beers. When he got back to the table, he asked the old man, “Is it true what Doerr said, are you really a veteran?”
“Yeah,” said the old man guzzling his beer as he spoke. “I was in Korea, almost got killed. I did get captured, spent a year in a POW camp, almost died there, too.” He shook his head slowly and smiled wryly at the recollection. “When I got back to the states,” he said, “I was all screwed up, couldn’t think, couldn’t work, couldn’t take care of myself. I thought I was going to die then, too.”
Bobby nodded as the old guy talked, thinking that Korea was about 15 years ago. That made this guy probably 40 or so. He looked at least 20 years older than that. “But you made it through okay?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah, I’m okay now,” said the old guy. “Sometimes it’s a little rough getting by day to day, but I’m okay. Think I could have another beer?”
“Sure, you can,” said Bobby and got them a couple more beers. When he was seated again, he asked, “But these young guys messing with you like before has got to be a pain in the tail, isn’t it?”
“Naw, it ain’t so bad,” said the old guy, a little beer trickling down his chin. “I’m kind of used to it. They just don’t understand. They got their own rules.”
“Yeah,” said Bobby, “they got their own rules.”
He bought the old guy a couple more beers and listened to him ramble on about his time in Korea. There was a lot that Bobby could relate to - maybe too much, he thought.
The next day dawned chilly and gloomy. Bobby looked up at the sky and thought This is the perfect day for it as he waited on the sidewalk in front of the Army Recruiting Office. It was six o’clock, a couple of hours before the office was scheduled to open. Bobby had left his dorm room overlooking the black pajamaed figures on the student square to wait here. He scanned the street to make sure none of them had followed him. He paced back and forth and swung his arms to keep warm as the minutes passed. Finally, the Recruiting NCO showed up, right on time at eight o‘clock, looking all spit shined and sharp. Bobby glanced at the nametag pinned to his uniform and said, “Sgt Jones, I’ve got a problem. Everybody I’ve run into out here is playing by different rules. I need to get back to someplace where I understand the rules. In other words, I need to reenlist.”
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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