On the other side of the tent, Messner had just started unpacking his stuff when suddenly just stopped and stared in front of him as though he’d seen something.
Johnny – he thought to himself.
We really did lose Johnny and Jorgenson.
The team Doctor stood stock-still, with his hands in mid-air and staring into the dim light in front of him.
His hands were trembling.
Malnutrition – he thought to himself.
Just a bit malnourished.
Take it easy, it’s nothing.
He thought back to Ortega and his injury again.
His medical opinion was that Ortega would probably get over it of course, but one could never be sure.
The bullet had exploded as it passed through his arm before reaching his chest and therefore couldn’t have gone deep. What's more, it hadn’t been hit any vital organs, or at least he hadn’t shown any signs on the trip back that it had. At that point, there were signs of severe blood loss (including bags around the eyes and cold, pale skin), but not more than that. So after due consideration it was likely that Ortega would be just fine.
That was unless he died under the knife while they were taking out the bullet of course.
That was always a possibility.
As Messner pondered over Ortega's situation, memories of the moments they’d all spent together continued to go through his thought.
Laughs, booze, meaningless discussions... It was good to see Johnny have a laugh.
This was especially true because he almost never used to laugh.
Jesus, what’s with all the memories? - Messner asked himself.
Johnny's voice, the look he used to give him when they talked to each other.
Rambo and Jorgenson aren't dead.
Not yet.
We can’t consider them dead until we know for sure.
That's how it works when you’re at war.
Nevertheless, Messner thought back to other past memories, and recalled what Rambo had done for them during Black Spot. That thing he made out of explosives, as he tried to save them all.
Rambo had definitely deserved being recommended for a Medal of Honour that day.
That’s because Rambo was an altruistic health enthusiast.
He was the kind of guy that hardly drank, barely smoked and lived for the good of others.
Rambo was different from the rest of them.
Everybody needs something fun in life, all of us do. Things like drinking, fucking, fighting, getting stoned and so on.
Rambo didn’t.
Rambo thought of one thing and one thing only and that was being at the ready, no matter what.
Well, being at the ready along with helping his friends, of course.
Fuck, it's like Rambo lives to make things right or protecting the people around him.
On several occasions, Messner had seen Rambo take a step back or stand on his own while everybody else was having fun.
Often times when all of his friends were high or stoned, he’d stand there, almost on guard, the way he'd on duty or something. He’d even stand in the more tactically favourable areas to do it. He was their fucking guard, a bouncer, a pimp, just overseeing everything.
Rambo may have thought no one had noticed, but Messner definitely had!
In Lau Su, the Baker Team had a tent assigned to them for their entire stay there. That evening, when Messner and the rest of the Baker Team were in their tent, Messner, at one point had caught himself just staring ahead at nothing for at least five minutes. When he finally came to his senses and snapped out of it, he shot a quick look around to make sure no one had seen him do it. Luckily, they hadn’t. Krakauer and Danforth were already sleeping and hadn’t even bothered to take their dirty clothes off before going to bed. Coletta was still concentrated on unpacking his stuff while Berry was getting his stuff ready to go and take a shower.
Messner glanced down at his dirty rucksack again. The thought of having to work over his equipment was enough to make him sick.
He fucking needed a cigarette, so he decided to despite it being his first in almost three weeks. Christ, over three weeks ago.
Boy was that ever going to be wicked.
Back in Dak To, Messner remembered asking one of the nurses for a smoke. Instead of doing the expected, she handed over her half pack instead, on the condition that he wouldn’t smoke in the hospital.
That was about a month ago, and it explained why his mouth was watering just thinking about it.
He dug into his rucksack and pulled his zippo out.
That’s when he thought of Linda.
His Linda.
Messner couldn’t help thinking about her as well as the morphine too.
If he'd felt like it, he could have easy taken a shot and no one would have been the wiser.
It was kind of funny that the two things he loved the most, Linda and morphine that is, had both popped into his head at the same time.
Messner had re-enlisted to forget the first and have the second at his disposal.
That’s fucked up.
Did he really end up in that inferno, just to forget some broad?
Fucking hell – he thought, as every muscle in his body ached after that last damn mission.
If he’d known what it really took to get missions like theirs done, he probably wouldn’t have re-enlisted for the Special Forces.
Are you serious?
Your first op. across enemy lines and you’re already falling to pieces.
Messner realized that he was thinking and talking nonsense because his brain was fried. It was time to call it a night. That was definitely an understatement.
That night he’d have given anything to get a litre of that shit shot up his arm but only God knew why. He’d never considered using it on himself while he was with the team. Not even when they spent the whole night resting in the jungle in one place. Doing it when you’re as tired and malnourished as he was at the time, would have probably have ruined it anyways. He’d have fallen asleep and then suffered like a dog the day after without even having enjoyed it in the least.
This was the first time he’d felt this tempted in a while but he knew his life was a lot better without it.
His cigarette dangled from his lips, waiting patiently for a light but he was perplexed about whether to smoke it or not.
Lighting a cigarette had never been such a Goddamn issue before.
Fuck am I really out of it tonight – he thought, as he brought his zippo to his lips and finally lit the cigarette.
The first drag was a little rough going in despite its soothing effect.
The time had come to get his zippo engraved the same way practically everybody else did after they’d been sent to 'Nam. Yeah. He’d get someone to carve the SOG logo on it. Otherwise, he’d get the Baker Team logo instead. He hadn't decided yet, but he was going to give one of them a go soon.
Messner laid down on his bunk to have his smoke without bothering to undress.
He knew there was the chance he’d fall asleep in that position, but he didn’t care.
He felt too shitty to get undressed.
Now a blow job, well, that on the other hand, that’s different.
A blowie would definitely do the trick at a time like that. Well, then again, maybe not.
He was probably too fucking tired to even enjoy it.
Okay, okay.
He’d fucked around long enough.
It was time to think about the things that really mattered.
Handing in a sketch of the enemy base he’d made for Trautman for instance, was definitely in that category. Sure, there was a lot of stuff he could post-pone doing until tomorrow but he was worried about forgetting important bits if he did. So, he decided it was best to pull the sketch out of the rucksack now. That way, the next morning it would be in plain sight and there was no way he’d forget to take it with him. Satisfied with his line of reasoning, Messner got up again and started rummaging through his stuff which was still all dirty and sweaty from the thirty days he’d just spent in the jungle.
He had to dig in his backpack a while before finally pulling out his map-holder.
It was still mud drenched and barely legible.
Look at this fucking mess.
As he moved his fingers along it, he noticed an unexpected bulge.
What the hell is that?
He undid the clasps, flipped it over and to his surprise, a dog tag fell onto the floor clanging as it did.
Robertson – recalled Messner.
He’d suddenly seen a ghost.
As the adrenalin rush shot through him it all came back suddenly. The dark cellar, the guy’s fractured skull and the shot of morphine he’d shot him up with. He may have died with dignity but he was dead nevertheless, and the war raged on in the meantime right outside. War didn’t give a shit about what you’ were going through. It didn’t give a flying fuck whether you were the one dying or if you were helping someone else do it. It cared fuck all about any of that or anything else for that matter. Then, without any warning, Messner was there, in that cellar once again, on that mission. Luckily, it didn’t last long.
In fact, not even a second later, that feeling had disappeared. Messner was back on his bunk, sitting quietly in the dark. He was no calmer or less exhausted than before.
He could hear some of his team members, the ones who were fortunate enough to be sound asleep, snoring blissfully while the others either continued to unpack or were lost in their own thoughts.
This time however, back where he was, there in the tent and nowhere near the cellar, this time the difference was, the lump that had formed in his throat.
He’d actually had to assist a combat-euthanasia, for Christ’s sake.
A real, Goddamn combat-euthanasia, and he’d fucking done it on an American POW.
With all the other shit that had happened since then, he’d essentially forgotten about both.
Shit – he thought.
Shit, shit, shit.
He’d promised Robertson that he’d bring the dog tag back to his wife and that’s what he was going to do even if that absolutely wasn’t the standard procedure.
Technically, protocol required that Messner give the dog tag back to the authorities as evidence of Robertson's death. Needless to say the idea of violating protocol just didn’t go down well with him.
They’re all fucking excuses – he said to himself.
You’re just trying to get out of bringing that fucking dog tag back to his wife.
The fact that it was the guy’s last wish was the real fucking problem. He had to keep his word. He didn’t have much of a choice.
Fucking hell.
Besides, he wasn’t giving her any old dog tag, he was giving her a dog tag with four mysterious letters scratched into the back of it. it was anything but your average tag. Those four letters were actually a message for his wife.
A message that Messner had promised to deliver.
Just calm down – he said to himself.
You only promised to give it to his wife back home. You didn't even say when you’d do it. Come on, get serious.
It shouldn't be that hard.
Sure, he may have been the only one who knew it actually existed, but he didn’t consider himself to be a fucking asshole. I mean, he’d been an asshole plenty of other times in the past for Christ’s sake, but never to that fucking extent.
Not even remotely close, actually.
He’d just have to keep his word then.
Attacking the base was a decision they’d made on their own. A decision which, had cost two American POWs their lives, along with ten or so Laotian civilians, and Johnny and Jorgenson to boot.
I don't know... I mean, Trautman & Co. are breaking out the champagne as we speak.
What I’m saying is that if despite everything, that mission was what they’d call a huge success...
then who fucking knew what the unsuccessful ones would be like.
No fucking way, come on.
Messner clenched the dog tag in his hand.
He’d keep his word.
Yeah, he sure would.
He examined it closely, and realized he had to find a way to get her that Goddamn tag and its four letter message, even if it was the last thing he’d ever do.
WMLW
He looked down once more at the four awkwardly scratched letters on the back of that tag.
Robertson had probably scratched the letters on while he was in captivity, using some kind of pointy object. It could have been a nail maybe, a rock or something like that. In the end, whatever he'd actually used didn’t really matter since they were both pretty dangerous objects for a POW in a prison camp to have. The guards could have considered them to be potential weapons.
Still, it was a risk Robertson had been willing to take, as long as the message would eventually reach his wife in the case he didn't make it.
He had to admit, he was curious about what the letters actually meant.
If he really wanted to know however, that curio would take up his entire discharge the next time was back in the US however, and he sure hoped to get one after a doing that Goddamn mission.
Then again, what else was there to do in the US if he had to go back?
Not a fucking thing.
He definitely wasn't going to meet Linda, that was for sure.
If he wasn’t going back for her, there sure wasn’t anybody else he was going back for either.
Messner put the dog tag in a safe place and laid back down on his bed to smoke the other half of his cigarette.
It was nice to smoke just lying there in the dark, but as soon as his head hit the pillow he started to see things.
He was so tired he was having delusions.
It had only happened to him once before, at boot camp, but never to that extent. No way.
He’d never felt that tired in his whole life.
What’s worse is that Johnny and Jorgenson are still out there and fighting some place.
Here you are trying to sleep, all cosy in your warm tent while they’re still out there somewhere.
As Messner swallowed the cigarette dropped off his lip, and the cherry landed on his finger long enough to burn it before he shook it off to the ground.
He thought of Linda for some reason and a vivid picture of her popped into his head. Her lovely blue eyes and her red lipstick the one she always used to wear, made her out to be a work of art.
And she was... fuck was she ever!
A true work of art.
Messner wasn't day dreaming now. He was watching the film that was playing in his head, and this time he wasn’t afraid.
Actually, it was quite the contrary.
It all seemed perfectly natural.
Only seconds later, it was gone.