The Baker Team tent wasn’t far from the shower room located near the main hall. As Trautman proceeded in that direction, he glanced over at the showers, where he noticed a figure sitting alone, without moving.
It was Jorgenson.
He was in the shower-room sitting on a change-room bench, as stock-still as a statue.
Trautman looked at him carefully.
The soldier still had the same t-shirt, pants and gun belt on from his last mission.
He was completely covered in mud of course, with the only exception being the area his gear had covered which was now, easily distinguishable down his back.
Far more importantly however, was the 1911 ordinance that was dangling like a dead weight from his right hand. The second he came to terms with what he was witnessing, Trautman stopped dead in his tracks.
Something was wrong. It was then that Jorgenson happened to turn towards him, but he seemed to look through Colonel.
That’s when the Colonel really moved closer to get a better look.
He could clearly see the hammer was up, which meant the gun was loaded and had a bullet in the chamber.
The weapon Jorgenson was holding was ready to fire.
“Grizzly,” Trautman found himself calling out, but Jorgenson was too far to hear. Jorgenson was in another world.
His eyes on the other hand began to move rapidly past the Colonel apparently following something that only he could see.
One got the impression he was daydreaming.
“Carl,” Trautman said again in a low voice.
Perhaps that had done it, but Jorgenson seemed to snap out of his dream, turning towards Trautman while he did.
His eyes were forlorn and distant. Perhaps he had actually heard the Colonel, but his attention was clearly somewhere else and the Colonel was only a distraction.
“Carl.”
“Sir... “
Trautman didn’t move.
An interlude silence ensued between them, but at long last, Jorgenson was the one to break it.
“Could you make it look like I died in combat?” he asked him.
Trautman swallowed.
There was suddenly a heavy weight on his chest making it impossible to breathe.
The loaded handgun, the look on his face...
Trautman was even afraid to make the slightest move. He was frozen.
He didn’t know what to say or do.
He wanted to cry out for help, but that probably would have been a mistake too, so he remained stock-still for what felt lasted an eternity.
Trautman wanted to say something, anything actually, in order to buy time. Sooner or later, he was sure someone would have walked by, wouldn't they? He wished he could make him see reason, yet somehow…
He simply couldn't.
He couldn’t even try.
He had the feeling that whatever he eventually said to Jorgenson, it would end with him pointing the gun anyway, and the Colonel wouldn't have been able to stop him.
The truth of the matter was that there was no way for the Colonel to reach out. It was impossible because he had little more than a few seconds to answer Jorgenson’s question, when he finally did. Not having time to think, Trautman replied, in the heat of the moment, saying the only thing that came to mind, which was the truth.
Could you make it look like I died in combat?
“Yes, Carl. I think I could.”Once he’d heard himself say it however, Trautman realized he had sentenced the young man to his death.
In fact, Jorgenson lifted the gun and put it up against his head
As Trautman heard him take a deep breath, his eyes burned like fire.
Think – Trautman said to himself.
Think.
Yet, he couldn't.
Jorgenson saluted in military fashion, using his gun rather than his hand.
His eyes were jerking back and forth struggling to follow what wasn’t actually there.
Trautman wanted to pull the gun out of his hand.
He wanted to jump on him and do whatever it took to disarm him but he was well aware it wouldn’t have worked under those circumstances, nor from that distance.
Nothing in the world could have made a difference at that moment.
Jorgenson froze for a split second, pointing the pistol at his temple in military salute, until he eventually said:
“Permission to be dismissed, Sir.”
Trautman took a deep breath and looked up.
He could hardly breathe. There were tears in his eyes.
Jorgenson on the contrary, stared blankly into space, waiting for permission, and when finally turned, the Colonel saw his finger gently pull on the trigger.
“Wait!” cried Trautman.
At the end of hallway, some personnel had finally noticed there was something terribly wrong and moved closer to check for themselves.
When someone was actually at the door, Trautman quickly glanced towards him, begging with his eyes. He was concerned that Jorgenson would see him do it and he’d react. Fortunately, he hadn’t.
Turning his attention back to Jorgenson, Trautman sensed that something had changed.
When their eyes met, Trautman could feel how absent he was.
Jorgenson's eyes seemed infinite in depth, demonstrating the dark, bottomless well that his soul had become. They looked so dark it almost scared the Colonel and he didn't dare cross them. The sensation was so real he could practically touch it.
It was like falling into the abyss. A forge made of darkness, death, and dead bodies. It represented the kind of pain Trautman couldn’t bring himself to deal with.
If that was what the young man had desperately tried to overcome, Trautman certainly couldn’t deny him the right to free himself from it. No, he couldn't be that cruel to one of his own men.
Permission to be dismissed, Sir.
It was his right. As his commander, Trautman had no choice but to grant it.
Yet, he struggled.
He had sentenced many to death in his lifetime. He’d given orders to do horrible things and now, he was paying the price for every single one of them. Not once but thousands of times, and would continue paying for the rest of his life, of course.
He’d sent entire teams to their deaths or missions where they were lost in Godforsaken places.
He’d had Southern Vietnamese civilians and military killed, guilty some of the time but innocent the rest. That conflict had escalated into an all-out, full-blown war for a very long inside him, but accepted orders to fight it, using any and every mean necessary.
Getting his hands bloody was part of the job and he’d been doing it now for years. Yet, for some odd reason, at that moment, he just couldn’t let go of the only soldier who, of all people, really wanted “to go.”
One who was actually asking for permission to do so. At least that’s what the Colonel thought until those damn words finally came out of his mouth, on their own accord. That was how, without thinking, Trautman was able to answer Jorgenson eventually.
“Permission granted, soldier,” he said to him in the end.
Silence ensued. Jorgenson took his last deep breath.
Bang.
There was a loud noise when the bullet whizzed through the tent after passing through the back of Jorgenson's head.
Bits of skull had flown onto the tent floor, along with blood, hair and a greasy, grey substance. An entire portion of his head had literally exploded into thin air.
The pistol had dropped out of the soldier’s hand and fallen to the floor with a loud thud.
Jorgenson slowly tipped to one side before collapsing onto the bench completely and his nose was bleeding so hard there was a puddle forming on the floor. The dead soldier’s arm crossed his chest in a childlike position seemingly alive.
Jesus fucking Christ – gasped Trautman.
It was likely to be nothing more than a reflex. It couldn't have been more than a muscle spasm because the idea that Jorgenson was still alive in those agonizing last seconds was too hard to fathom even for someone like Trautman.
During the course of the incident, the Colonel had decided to stay still and right in his place. Actually, he’d managed despite the horrific show to keep still from its start to its bitter end.
His concern was that someone might have tried to help Jorgenson, in which case he’d be there to prevent it. Trying to help Jorgenson would have not only been harrowing but useless as well.
That night, Trautman chose to stay on site because soldiers did that kind of thing quite often. He was aware it happened more frequently when it involved friends. One always helps a friend, even when he’s already dead and for good. Initially, one can’t accept it has happened for real. Therefore, even in the case that there's nothing further to be done, we try.
Trautman had seen it all before in Korea and the notion someone could act the same way terrified him. Anyone attempting to touch Jorgenson right in front of him was unbearable.
The first to stand behind the Colonel was the man who had witnessed the whole thing standing at the hall door. Not long after, Rambo showed up too.
“JORGENSON!” he cried out.
Trautman watched a few other men from his staff come onto the scene, including Garner, and that’s when Jorgenson's death truly hit him. The Colonel looked sadly back at Jorgenson.
He looked at his soldier, his man, almost a son, and then looked at what the hell he had just done to himself. Trautman knew exactly what the young man had battled against, all inside of him. He knew it was his entire fault too.
Suddenly Trautman found himself having to use force to block Rambo with his arm, from charging to Jorgenson's lifeless body.
Well, well, look who’s here – he thought to himself.
Here’s the absolute lunatic of a first responder to the rescue. It was all developing as Trautman had predicted out would.
He should have known that someone from the Baker Team would have been the one doing the job too. After all, it was customary for regular soldiers to become friends with time, but when it came to Special Forces members, they went a step further and became family.
“JORGENSOOOON!” Rambo bellowed with all his might for the second time.
“Jorgenson, NOOO!”He had lost all self-control almost to the point of seeming out of his mind.
-
Like scenes from a film, Rambo watched as the images flashed right before his eyes. There they were, only the two of them as plain as day in front of him. He watched while they plunged into filthy water in an effort to remain unseen by the Vietcong on their Point Of No Return mission. Unable to look away he stared passively while the dirty brown-coloured water just around them, was transforming into a darker murky red because of Jorgenson being shot in the neck.
Jorgenson had got nasty on that mission.
Jorgenson had acted maliciously towards Rambo, and since then, Rambo had felt there was unfinished business between them. He had the impression that Jorgenson presently seemed interested in settling that business, then and there. In reality, he wanted to take the very same life Rambo had made gruelling sacrifices to save. He thought back to the time when they were in Laos together, at the time he didn’t particularly want to survive there either. Rambo had forced him into surviving, against his own will. In hindsight of his suicide, Rambo began piecing events and behaviours together and eventually understood.
Jorgenson had never wanted to come back alive from that mission.
He’d wanted to stay there and die a hero, but Rambo had stopped him from doing so.
Now, as a direct consequence of that, he had taken his own life.
-
“NO, NO, NO.” Rambo continued to cry aloud Rambo while Trautman struggled to hold him back, using all his brute strength as he did.
“NO, NO, NOOOOOOO!”
The young man was strong, extremely strong.
He could have got away from the Colonel easily had he genuinely wanted, but a part of him had started to accept the reality that trying to help Jorgenson was, in all actuality, futile.
Trautman kept his arms locked tight around Rambo, until he finally gave up, and stopped shaking for good.
Only seconds later, tears fell from his eyes, as he leaned up against Trautman.
-
Messner was next to witness the scene.
Contrary to what the others had done however, he kept himself from getting to close almost as though something worried him, almost afraid in a sense that what had happened to his friend could somehow have happened to him too. It may have been contagious, or a disease of some kind.
Consequently, he stopped once he’d reached the halfway point. Even at that distance, there were bloodstains and bits of brain and skull. He may have been a doctor, but in that situation, it didn't seem to make any kind of difference.
The feeling inside him made him sick, it was so disgusting and kept him from thinking straight.
There was a mixture of repulsion, horror and nausea inside of him, none of which he had felt for a long time. At least since when he’d been a medical student performing his first autopsy. In this case, only the smell was different.
There was fucking something about Vietnam. It could even make him regress at times. It never failed, just when he thought to have hit rock bottom, there was always a rockier bottom, ready to replace it. Much deeper and a lot rockier.
There was always something worse in that fucking war.
-
When Ortega walked into the corridor leading to the showers, he couldn't help but notice a small group of people that had gathered around its entrance. It didn't take more than the look on their faces for him to understand the nature of the shot he’d just heard and put together the whole picture. Once he overcame some initial reservations, Ortega continued down the corridor and towards the group of people still gathered at the door.
He needed to know. He really needed to know!
Eventually he found himself standing at the shower door entrance.
At first, he couldn't see anything past the people in front of him except for blood. As he slowly moved past them, he realized there was an arm dangling off the bench but that was it because Berry blocked him from going any further before he could get any closer. Once what he’s seen had sunk in, the very thought was enough to make him start shaking.
“Grizzly,” was all Berry said into his ear, still holding him back.
“It's Grizzly.”
Not seeing was far worse for Ortega however, because it allowed his worst fears to prevail, as if the idea that Jorgenson could still be alive somewhere and there was no one there to help him. Thus, in the end Berry loosened his grip on Ortega just enough for him to get a glance. That glance made Ortega weak at the knees, and he wasn’t sure how he managed to keep on standing.
-
Still holding Rambo, Trautman had the good sense to stretch out his arm and pull the tent door closed. At least that hid most of the scene from the crowd now gathering around the doorstep.
“You alright?” asked Trautman shortly after.
“Yes,” replied Rambo.
“You sure?”
“I said yes,” answered Rambo brusquely as he wiped tears from his eyes and stopped fighting Trautman.
“Okay, fine,” said the Colonel, letting Rambo go.
Then he turned towards the crowd and said:
“That man died fighting,” he said.
Then he added:
“And there's no need for me to tell you why. Am I clear?”
Everyone nodded, whether they belonged to the Baker Team or not.
“Very well,” the Colonel said in closing.
He was referring to whether Jorgenson would receive a pension or not, of course.
Had the soldier’s suicide gone public, the army wouldn’t have issued his pension to family members. That explained why Trautman not only used the tone he had, but also why he examined all their faces so carefully. When he finished, he'd the impression that he wasn’t going to have any problems in the future because of them. That in itself was positive for it would have made things a whole lot easier.
“Fine,” Trautman added, but his voice broke with tears and it surprised him. He closed his eyes however, took a deep breath and pulled himself back together again.
He had to find a way to live in harmony with what he had done.
He had to take full responsibility for it. From that day and on, Trautman wouldn't have to just live with what he’d said (permission granted, soldier) but especially, he would have to live the rest of his life accepting what he’d done to Jorgenson before that.
Yes. Deep inside, Trautman knew it was his fault.