Trautman walked out of the showers where the incident had taken place and headed quickly towards to his accommodations. After only a few steps, the whole world seemed to be coming down on him and he couldn’t breathe.
Trautman shut his eyes tight and then reopened them again.
He inhaled deeply and tried to steady his walk.
Nevertheless, his eyes were burning because, truth be told, it was his fault.
It was entirely his fault. No doubt about it. He was aware of the mental illness Jorgenson had had.
What made matters worse however was just how long he’d known it.
Trautman leaned against one of the poles outside his tent.
A feeling of anguish was growing inside him, almost painful.
Jorgenson had suffered brain damage on Mission Black Spot.
There was no doubt about it.
The problem was that his will to stay on the team was so strong that Trautman had decided to give him the chance despite this and Ortega had agreed. To grant him that chance however, Trautman had to ignore all the medical advice they’d received. At the time, he didn't have any other choice because had anyone heard what 'strange pattern of behaviour' came with 'severe cranial concussion', they would have considered Jorgenson nothing but an idiot 'an idiot', and he wouldn't have been allowed into the Army. That's how the Army used to work back then and there were no 'ifs' or 'buts' about it. In the sixties, the brain was still something completely unexplored and had anyone demonstrated behaviour that was believed to be unstable, they were immediately rejected because of medical reasons.
Nevertheless, men that used to drink, take drugs and mad were plentiful during that war, and very few of them were so, due to a concussion. Therefore, rather than making Jorgenson undergo a series of medical exams, the kind Rambo had recommended Trautman do after Point Of No Return, the Colonel rather let Ortega decide whether to keep the guy or not. It was a decision based on the kind of performance Jorgenson had given. What this all meant was putting him to the test, of course. Jorgenson had received orders to take a long leave after Black Spot. When he started back up again he had had to work out much more that the others and right from the get go in order to put himself back in shape. Ortega had therefore put him under an intense workout program that, should have served as the perfect circumstances for such a test. It would have been just like the type of test they used to do back in the good old days in Fort Bragg. That would have provided a real no-bullshit-assessment with regards to the soldier's performance. Ultimately, Jorgenson had done it. He’d passed every one of the tests. As Ortega had put it:
“He is not the same man he used to be. Regardless of his current condition, he’s still far better than anyone else from the Fifth. This therefore could only imply that despite his condition, every other man, compared to him would still be a far worse choice.’
Fact of the matter was that it was true. Every word of it rang true. The problem was that Jorgenson had passed all the tests that Ortega had assigned because he was the kind of man who wouldn't give up. He hadn't passed because there was no brain damage. Hence, while on his Point of no Return Mission, those problems had come to the surface. They proved to be so evident indeed that Rambo, who knew nothing about the issue at the time, had actually suggested Jorgenson be visited by an expert upon their return from 'Point of No Return'.Once again, Trautman preferred to give Jorgenson the benefit of the doubt. In the end, the idea of making that kind of decision based on field test performance both times was his, not Ortega's nor anybody else's. He believed it was the right decision as was the decision to go along with Jorgenson's last wish.
One last mission – thought Trautman after the messy outcome of Point Of No Return but before sending him to The Devil's Den. Only one more mission is needed to understand whether he is still fit to fight or not.
It was necessary to remove any doubts that could actually ruin his career without reason or based on brain damage that may not have actually occurred.
A calculated risk worth taking, or at least that’s what he’d thought till then.
What a big mistake...
What a stupid mistake he’d made with him!
Trautman was more than surprised; it was shock once he ascertained the true gravity of what he’d done. Once he comprehended the severity of his actions, he had to cover his mouth in an effort to hold in his sobs. He was worried someone would hear him.
How many people have lost their lives because of wrong decisions he’d made?
How many in total?
How many in Korea?
How many in Vietnam?
Less than fifty maybe? Almost a hundred? Over a hundred perhaps?
Had his decisions made any kind of difference on the outcome of The Korean war itself?What about with regards the Vietnam War and its outcome?
How much blood did he have on his hands?Thousands of lives?
Was the number closer to the figures sustained by Westmorland had caused so in the tens of thousands. Could it be even more than that?
He felt queasy all of a sudden..
He was going to puke.
I can't afford it – he thought to himself.
I can't let myself go.
I can't let it go.
I have to be strong.
I have to be tough for my men
I’ve made many mistakes in my life, too many one could easily argue. Despite the mistakes however, no one else out there cared about those men the way I did. I would do anything for them.
There isn't anybody, anywhere who could do what I'm doing, or as well as I'm doing it.
This brought back a string of memories. Images started flashing before his eyes of his childhood, his friends, and his dog. He can remember playing cowboys and Indians almost the same way he was doing now. The only difference was that now they were adults and some of them were even generals of the US Army.
There was a knot in his throat again.
He knew that feeling all too well and he knew what that meant. There was no mistaking it.
He’d already felt the exact same way in Korea, but so many years had passed since then.
He was getting old.
He was getting soft, having too many doubts far too many flashbacks and always full of sadness and desperation. Only year ago, he’d have given his life no questions asked to keep South Vietnam from being wiped off the face of the map. If someone asked him the very same question now however, he wasn’t sure if he’d be willing to die for them anymore.
He was giving up. He couldn't handle it anymore, even if a lifetime had passed since he'd too the last time. He wasn’t used to fighting that kind of feeling at all.
Jorgenson, Jorgenson, Jorgenson...
Despite the desperation, it didn't take him long at all to calm himself down again. He looked up with tearful eyes and suddenly those feelings just seemed to stop.
The Colonel stood back up, straightened his jacket and adjusted his green beret. The look in his eyes was different now, full of confidence and distant, the way it did when he engaged distant targets even if his eyes were still swollen and his cheeks tears stained.
Jorgenson – he thought for the last time, but it was nothing more than an echo in his head and he was finally got out and in the open.
The Colonel found himself staring into the darkness right in front of him and then up at the dark mountain peaks which dominated from above.
He would have won that war without a doubt, and
he'd win it in the name of Jorgenson and Krakauer.
Moreover, for Ward, Torrance, Perez... - he thought as began walking again.
Those were such painful memories and there were so many of them too.
The reality of this hit him suddenly and the more he saw, the more he saw it to be true. There were just so many he could remember them all, each and every one of them. Even those from a long time ago.
Wood,
Diaz,
Colin,
Kirby...
They were dozens of faces and names all tangled up together. Some were clearer than others, while some were nearly invisible, almost lost in that haze of memories, phantom-like.
Some of them didn’t exist inside him anymore, but this did not keep them from adding to the weight that was building up on his chest. It made breathing almost impossible filling him with rage at the same time. Uncontrollable rage. It couldn’t and wasn't going to end this way.
Not a chance.
Nothing was over.
Nothing is over – he thought to himself wiping his eyes dry.