Forbidden Son (15 page)

Chapter
Twenty-Three

Two
days later, Tripp sat in his office, his mind no longer on the impending trial.
He stared at the letter in his hand and wondered what travesties he’d committed
to cause the laws of nature to turn his once perfect life upside down.

All
during his childhood his mother had told him things happened in threes. He’d
never really believed her—until now.

Married
less than two months, he’d mourned the death of a child and seen his wife pack
her bags with the declaration that she was leaving. While Kathryn had agreed,
for the sake of her father’s political reputation, to not file for a divorce,
she’d announced her move to Illinois was permanent.

This
morning’s mail had delivered circumstance number three.

A
rap on the door caused Tripp to glance up from the letter in his hand. He
motioned his Uncle Jake inside.

“You
have the Bradshaw briefs ready?”

Tripp
scrubbed a hand through his hair. He heaved a sigh. “Almost.”

“I’m
sorry about...everything.”

“Yeah.”

“I
wish I could say life gets easier.”

“Seems
it’s about to get a lot tougher.” Tripp handed the letter to his uncle, the
senior partner in the law firm.

Jake
Hartwell released a low whistle. He read the letter aloud. “This is to inform
you that the United States Selective Service Board has selected your lottery
number. Your report date is...”

His
uncle thumped the letter. “I can call in favors—pull a few strings.”

Tripp’s
mind shuffled through a list of reasons why he should accept his uncle’s offer.
He frowned, trying to make sense of the irrational notion his brain was
screaming at him.

“Mother
has always been proud of the family’s long military history. I think I’ll add
my name to the list.”

“Vietnam
is a long ways from South Carolina. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

“I
need a change, Uncle Jake. Southeast Asia is as good a place as any to start.”

Five
weeks later, Tripp Harlan Hartwell the Third found himself at South Carolina’s
Fort Jackson, in boot camp. And then, assigned to 1st Battalion 212
^th
Aviation Regiment, he was transferred to Alabama’s Fort Rucker, where he
trained to fly Huey UH-1 helicopters.

****

Tripp
admitted he was more than a little nervous about being summoned to the top
brass’s office. He drew a deep breath, blew it out slowly, then rapped on the
office door.

“Enter.”

Tripp
stepped into the dimly lit room. He snapped to attention with a salute.

“At
ease, Captain.”

Though
his stance was legs apart and hands behind his back, Tripp felt anything but
relaxed. He waited, wondering if the document the post commander held was
deployment orders.

Major
Jankowski seemed to scowl as he lifted stern eyes to stare at him. Tripp noted
the sarcasm as his superior officer spoke. “Captain Hartwell, what I have here
is a letter from your father requesting I grant you special leave so that you
may stand next to him when the votes are counted next week. Is he that sure he
will win a second term for South Carolina governor’s seat?”

Tripp
swallowed the knot of agitation in his throat. And while he felt heat growing
under his collar, he hoped his face remained stolid. “My father does place
great confidence in the voting public, sir.”

“What
is your position on being granted early leave from aviation training, Captain
Hartwell?”

“I
wish no special favors, sir.”

“I
see.”

Tripp
was surprised that he was even engaging in this conversation with a member of
the senior staff. He found himself annoyingly irritated that his father would
use rank and position to wheedle special favors—especially without consulting
him first.

“I
can sign off on this with the condition you forfeit your two-week Christmas
leave.”

“May
I speak freely, sir?”

The
Major nodded his consent.

“I
cannot gain the respect of the men assigned to my command if I allow my father
to use his political position to get me particular favors. Christmas has always
been a special time for my mother. She isn’t in the best health, sir. Since
I’ll deploy in February, I’d like to make this holiday exceptional for her.” In
truth, Tripp wasn’t sure how many Christmases he’d miss once he landed in
Vietnam.

“Spoken
like a true solider, Captain, a gentleman and a caring son. I’ll notify your
father his request is denied.”

On
the night of the election, Tripp sat in his quarters watching the returns on a
small portable television. Cameramen focused on his father at the Judge’s
campaign headquarters. Among the throng of people, he spotted his Uncle Jake
and searched for his mother but knew, of course, her state of mind was much too
fragile and his father didn’t need the paparazzi homing in on her.

The
moment the count was over and his father had been declared the official winner
as a second-term governor of South Carolina, Tripp picked up the telephone and
dialed.

“Congratulations,
Father. I’m certain the people of South Carolina made the right choice.”

“Damn
right they did. Wish you were here sharing the victory. I should get that Major
Jankowski busted down to buck private for not letting you leave the base.”

Tripp
chuckled. “I’ll be home December twenty-third. In time to help Mother put the
angel on the tree. How is she?”

He
heard the hesitancy in his father’s voice. “We’ll discuss it later, son.”

“Reporters?”

“Like
bees after honey.”

“I
understand. Tell Mother I’ll be home in a few weeks.”

****

The
crisp December night invigorated Tripp as he switched off the engine of the
BMW. He lifted the box, wrapped in red foil paper and sporting a large green
bow, from the passenger seat. A picture of him in his uniform would delight his
mother.

The
sound of sirens caught his attention. His heart lurched as he watched the red
bubble lights flashing up the driveway. He tossed the package back to the seat
and sprinted toward the front door of the house.

Once
inside, he shouted, “Father? Pearlie Mae?”

The
maid came to the top of the stairs. She held the apron to the corner of her
eye. “Oh, Mr. Tripp, praise be, you’re home.”

“Who
is it, Pearlie Mae?” A ball of white heat seared Tripp’s stomach. Sprinting up
the stairs, he wrapped Pearlie Mae in his arms as she wept.

“It’s
your dear mama. I called the Judge, but he ain’t got here yet.”

“How
bad is she?”

“Barely
hanging on by a thread.”

“And
you called the ambulance?”

“I
was too scared not to, Mr. Tripp. Did I do right?” She wiped her eyes again.

“You’ve
always taken care of us, Pearlie Mae. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”
He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Go let the emergency team in.”

A
table lamp cast a shadowy light over his mother’s face. She reminded him of a
small child lying there in the massive fourposter bed that had once belonged to
her mother. It pierced his heart to see how much she’d withered in the few
months he’d been at training camp.

He
wasn’t familiar with death. Yet he knew by the ashen pallor masking his
mother’s face there was no need to check her pulse. Somehow it seemed
appropriate that the woman he loved most in the world should die in the same
bed in which she’d been born.

On
Christmas Day, instead of helping his mother place the angel on top of the
festively decorated tree, he laid the delicate ornament to rest between her
hands. He leaned into the casket and placed a kiss on her cheek. “I wish you
could have hung on a little longer, Mother.”

Chapter
Twenty-Four

Sounds
from the creatures of the night reverberated through LZ-Albany’s moonlit
encampment. Tripp stepped to the doorway of his quarters and flicked the spent
cigarette. Unease crept over him. It was quiet. Too damned quiet.

A
voice said, “Eerie, ain’t it, Cap’n?”

Tripp
squinted through the dark. “That you, Private Wilson?”

“Yah,
sir. Good night for them VC vermin to creep up on us.”

“We’ve
doubled the guards, and the dogs are out. All the same, stay alert, Private.”

“Yah,
sir, Cap’n.”

Even
though it was February, the night air was thick with heat that seemed to boil
down daily from the sun and swell up from the earth in a shroud of humidity.

Sweat
moistened Tripp’s face and saturated his underarms. He propped a shoulder
against the door frame. His thoughts drifted to the unopened packet that lay on
his desk.

“Begging
your pardon, Cap’n, don’t mean to break any protocol ’tween ranks, but I’m
bustin’ at the seams to tell somebody.”

“Speak
freely, Private Wilson.”

“My
wife sent me a picture of our new baby boy. Duane Wilson, Jr. Sure wish I
coulda been there to witness his birth.” The sentry went quiet for a moment.
“Sometimes I’m afraid I might never get back home to Mississippi.”

“How
old are you, Private?”

“Nineteen,
sir. Be twenty next week.”

Having
reached his twenty-eighth birthday, Tripp felt like an old man compared to
Private Wilson’s youth. He understood the lad’s homesickness. He, too, longed
for home, the lemony tang aroma of South Carolina’s magnolias, sweet iced tea,
and Pearlie Mae’s home cooking. He allowed his dreams of home and family to
dissolve in the hot night air.

“Thoughts
like that will get you killed, Private. Keep the picture of your wife and son
close and you’ll be okay.”

“Yah,
sir. Thank you, Cap’n.”

Turning,
Tripp stepped away from the door and returned to his desk. He picked up the
large brown envelope and crossed the small space. He tossed the thick package
on the cot, unstrapped his service revolver, and tucked it behind his pillow.
Sitting on the edge of the small bed, he tugged off his brogans and set them within
easy reach. The bed springs squeaked as he propped against the wall, his right
knee crooked to a comfortable position.

Mail
from the States was rare. An occasional note from his father with newspaper
clippings regaling his position as governor, sporadic notes from his Uncle
Jake, and Christmas cards from Pearlie Mae that arrived long after the holiday
had come and gone. Three years and never any letters from Kathryn—not even a
greeting card. Until now.

From
the postmark, it had taken six months for the envelope to arrive. He slid his
finger under the flap, reached in, withdrew a packet of paper-clipped
documents.

Tripp
felt his middle drop to somewhere below his knees. Why did he feel so
disappointed? Why was he even surprised? It wasn’t as if he and Kathryn had
spent much time together as husband and wife. Six weeks, to be exact. Other
than sex, there had been no real connection between them. Their marriage had
all been the creation of Kathryn’s overly fanciful desire for a fairy tale
wedding.

He
closed his eyes, feeling dejected and pitiful. He felt older than the majestic
oaks that lined the driveway up to the antebellum home that had survived the
Civil War and still stood strong back in South Carolina.

His
first inclination was to rip the divorce papers into shreds. Kathryn’s letter
explained how she hated Dear John letters, but she had met her true love. She
hoped sending the divorce papers wouldn’t unduly upset Tripp.

Upset
him? Hell. His mood turned black. His stress level peaked. He felt angry, reckless
even. It’d serve her right if he didn’t sign the damned papers. Who was to know
any different than that the documents had never reached him? Plei Me was a
remote Vietnamese outpost, after all.

His
stomach soured as he tromped from the cot to the table that served as his desk.
Flipping through the maze of legal documents and decoding the finer
implications gave him no satisfaction. Not tonight. Tonight his mind was
pricked by anger. He gripped the pen and scrawled his signature on each line
marked with an X.

“How
generous of you, dear Kathryn, to included a return envelope,” he muttered
aloud as he jammed the signed documents inside the large, brown,
self-addressed, stamped package. He licked the glue and sealed it shut by
slamming his fist down on the flap.

****

The
rains came, hot and humid weather with monsoon-like downpours. Tripp recorded
in his journal:
June, 1969, VC sappers have attacked our camp every night
for a month. Our lines are holding. The Hueys are the main target. The VC’s
objective—to keep our birds grounded so we can’t give air support to our guys
pinned down on some Godforsaken hill. Every night, Hanoi Hanna announces over
the radio that a regiment of NVA troops are going to annihilate our camp.
Hasn’t happened, yet. Several of the men are sick from the heat. Private Duane
Wilson, KIA. I hate writing letters to the families of these boys dying for a
meaningless cause.

He
scrubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes. Three years ago when he had
enlisted in the Army he’d felt a sense of adventure. Now, three years seemed
like a lifetime. When he’d arrived in Nam, he knew he’d have to always be on
guard. The watchword was—
Be alert or be dead.

****

Four
months later, dawn came with a crispness that gave new life to the wet misery
of the soldiers, and it brought the news that during the night a battalion of
infantry had crossed into the La Drang Valley, seventeen kilometers from Plei
Me.

Tripp
dodged mud puddles as he sprinted across the encampment yard in response to the
summons from Major Armstead.

He
stepped inside the office. “You sent for me, sir?” Tripp snapped off a salute.

“We
have a situation, Captain.” Tripp listened intently while the major outlined
the details. “Four hundred fifty men from Black Horse Company are pinned down
here.” He pointed to the location on a large wall map. “Last word is they’re
surrounded by two thousand NVA and taking on heavy casualties.”

“My
squad is ready, sir. We’ll give fire support so the medevac teams can get in
and out.” Tripp’s muscles jumped. An eagerness was upon him like a pit viper
uncoiled from sleep and ready to strike.

An
awkward silence descended the quarters.

Major
Armstead scowled. “Enemy fire around the LZ is too heavy. Major Blessing is
refusing to allow his medical evacuation helicopters to fly into the landing
zone.”

Tripp’s
gut clenched. “Give me a pilot of my choice, sir. There’s no way in hell we can
let our guys die without giving it our best to get them out.”

“You’re
volunteering, knowing the dire consequences?”

“I
am, sir.”

“You’ll
be unarmed. Go in light and tight, get in, and get the hell out fast.” Major
Armstead snapped to and saluted Tripp. “Can’t expect a man to do what I
wouldn’t myself. I’ll ride shotgun.”

Tripp’s
lips lifted in a half-smile as he returned the salute. “Can’t think of a better
man to have guarding my tail, sir.”

“Good
luck to us both, Captain Hartwell.”

“How
soon do we leave, Major?”

“Soon
as your bird is ready.”

Tripp
shook hands with his superior officer. “She’s ready now, sir. Saddle up. Time
to lock and load.”

Tripp
and his commander had volunteered to fly the unarmed, lightly armored UH-1 Huey
in support of the embattled troops. The terrain over La Drang Valley was
deceiving. Ringed by sparse scrub brush, with occasional trees ranging upward
to a hundred feet, the landing zone was covered with hazel-colored, willowy
elephant grass as high as five feet.

To
the west and northeast, the area was inundated with thick jungle growth, and a
dry creek bed ran along the western edge of the valley.

Tripp
spoke through his mouthpiece. “Looks like a bunch of sun-baked termite hills,
sir.”

The
major responded, “From my view, some look as tall as a man.”

Tripp
blinked. He adjusted his goggles. “Is it my imagination, Major, or are those
termite hills moving?”

“Hellfire
and damnation. Go in low, Captain. Let’s see if I can pop a few tops with this
M67.”

Tripp
flew a total of fourteen trips to the battlefield, bringing water and
ammunition and taking out wounded soldiers. Regretting that he couldn’t get
them all out, he watched American soldiers die around him.

By
the time he grounded his bullet-riddled Huey, Tripp had been wounded four times
by enemy fire. Major Armstead, KIA.

Airlifted
to a nearby MASH unit, and in guarded condition, Tripp imagined he saw Honey
Belle watching over him. He tried to reach out and touch her. He thought he
spoke her name.

He
was sent home from Vietnam, and a year later he was separated from the United
States Army with an honorable discharge.

During
a ceremony with full military honors, his father, Governor T. Harlan Hartwell,
pinned the Medal of Honor and the Distinguished Flying Cross on Tripp’s
uniform.

“You’re
a hero, son.”

Tripp
closed his eyes and heard the womp-womp-womping of a Huey’s giant chopper
blades inside his head. He could still smell the acrid smoke from mortar
rounds. “No, Father, the real heroes are the men who didn’t make it home.”

Inside
the war zone, Tripp had experienced the roar of battle and adrenaline and fear
and hope all rolled into one. A prosthetic leg was his permanent reminder that
getting home had been the longest journey of his life.