Not for the first time, he wondered if he was destined to become just another aimless, wounded war “hero” in an era when wars and heroes were no longer in fashion.


"What’s dat stuff on your face? What is it?"

Mark Cahill tried to pretend he was still asleep but the high-pitched young voice was penetrating and persistent. He had already endured two rough connecting flights and even rougher landings. Now this, and it wasn’t even noon. Still, he could recognize defeat. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and looked over toward the voice.

Next to his seat stood a short, blurry figure. It waited patiently while Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pair of thick-lensed eyeglasses. Once they were in place, he looked back and inspected the figure. It was a redheaded kid, a boy, maybe three years old, wearing sneakers, overalls, and a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. His ruddy, freckled face held an innocent, curious expression.

While this type of questioning didn't happen every day, it occurred so often, Mark had long since developed a stock response. Since he faced another hour on the cramped DC-9 before reaching New York, there was plenty of time to give this kid the full treatment.

“Well Hoss, let me tell you, it’s like this,” began Mark. The kid gave him a big grin. "That stuff is powder burns. I got them when a big firecracker went off near my face."

Then he tried to explain how an explosion near your face could cause, not just the small, black dots that were the aftermath of powder burns, but cataracts and even blindness. He finished with the standard safety lesson. "So don’t ever hold firecrackers when you light the fuse. If you do, you might get stuff in your face and have to wear thick glasses like I do."

"Andy. Andy Briggs, you get over here and quit bothering the man.” The unexpected commands came from a harried-looking woman who had just shifted her attention away from the young girl sitting next to her in the window seat.

Mark watched without seeing as Andy cheerfully switched places with his disgusted sister. A new coloring book soon had her reconciled to the aisle seat. With her children settled, the woman looked back over at Mark. "I'm sorry about Andy. He's always asking questions. I hope he didn't bother you."

The reply came in a flat, automatic voice. "No, ma'am, no bother at all. He's not the first to ask about my face and he probably won't be the last."

"Well, if you don't mind my asking, what you were telling him, did that really happen? I mean, maybe it’s just the suit and tie, but you look more like a businessman than someone who goes around playing with firecrackers."

"You’re right. It’s been awhile since I’ve set off any firecrackers. That story, it’s just a good one to tell kids."

Taking off his glasses, he pointed at the small, black marks below his eyes. "Like I told him, these things really are powder burns. But the firecracker was actually an exploding booby-trap. The man in front of me stepped on it, in Viet Nam.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. Was he badly hurt?”

“He died before I could get to him.”

She nodded her head. “What about you?”

“I got pretty banged up, lost one eye, and couldn’t see a thing out of the other for about a year. Now I’ve gotten some sight back, but the doctors had to remove a cataract. That’s why I wear these things." He motioned with the heavy glasses while rubbing the red spots on each side of the bridge of his nose.

After taking a moment to clean the glasses, he put them back on and looked over towards Andy’s mother. She was staring at the floor, slowly shaking her head, and talking to herself. Although she spoke softly, he had no trouble making out her words. "Oh, that damn war," she kept mumbling. "Oh, that damn war."

Like most vets, he seldom spoke about his combat experience, especially to strangers. When kids asked questions, he’d rely on some variation of the firecracker yarn. But if an adult asked, they usually got the real story. Since their taxes paid for his trip to Viet Nam, he reasoned these curious citizens deserved the truth. But the way this woman reacted, that bothered him.

Of course, he hadn’t meant to upset her. There’d just been too many emotions hitting him too quickly. The kid's question was no problem, although it reminded him of all he lost in Viet Nam. Even when the kid turned out to be a freckle-face, redhead with a big grin, things were okay. But then his mother called him Andy. Hearing that name, it all came crashing back.

An ear-splitting explosion sent everyone diving for cover. Moments later, the shouts began. "What the hell was that? Where'd it come from? Is everybody all right?"

The plan had been for the recon platoon to leave the shelter of the wood line and cross an expanse of dry rice paddies until they reached a village suspected of being a Viet Cong staging area. If everything went slick, the infantry company and the troop of armored personnel carriers left back in the safety of the wood line would then move out and join them.

For the officer in charge of the operation, the plan was fool proof. He could complete the mission while protecting his own company and the A.P.C.’s under his command. In case of trouble, the recon unit would be the one getting shot up and its casualties wouldn’t be figured against his body count.

The men of recon knew the scheme all too well. They were the eyes and ears of the battalion and experts at operating alone on intelligence gathering operations. Ambushes, snatches, tracking, manning listening posts at night and observation posts during the day, these were all considered good missions.

No one thought today's assignment, serving as scouts for a regular infantry company, qualified as a good mission. They were now under the direct control of another unit's commanding officer. Whenever that happened, they were expendable.

Halfway to the village, the explosions started. The first one sent everyone diving for what little cover they could find behind the low rice paddy dikes. The problem was no one could tell where the fire had come from.

A second explosion was followed by a burst of small arms fire directed their way from the village. From his position near the platoon leader, Mark pulled the bulky radio off his back then forced himself to lift his head and search for the enemy.

"Lieutenant, that thing's gotta be a goddamn recoilless rifle.” The information came from "Hardcore" Harding, the unit's veteran platoon sergeant.

"Roger that,” said Lieutenant Lester who continued to methodically scan the surrounding terrain. “You got any idea where the hell it's firing from?”

"Can't be sure, sir. But they've probably got it set up on that big hill over on our right flank."

Mark watched as Dale Lester stared at the hill. The platoon, a group he and Hardcore had carefully molded into a first class Recon unit, was pinned down in the middle of a bunch of dried up rice paddies. Meanwhile, Delta Company and the supporting armored personnel carriers were back in the trees and didn't seem anxious to risk exposing themselves by providing fire support.

"It's time for a command decision, Bull," said Lester, speaking to the man he'd pulled from second squad that morning to act as his radio operator. Mark, whose size had earned him the nickname, nodded in silent agreement.

"If we stay put and radio for help, that recoilless rifle will pick us all off," said Lester, speaking more to himself than to Mark. "Heading toward that automatic weapons fire is out of the question. So that leaves only...”

"Don't sweat trying to spot it," Lester yelled at Hardcore. "Let's just get our butts back to the wood line."

Always open to sound military advice, Hardcore got to his feet and yelled for first squad to provide covering fire while the rest of the platoon began moving back to the trees. Dale Lester and his new radio operator rose into a crouch and looked around.

First squad stayed in place and fired into the village. The rest of the platoon started getting up. Then the sound of another incoming round sent everyone sprawling. It exploded along the base of the dike being used by second squad, Mark's squad, the squad of Sergeant Phillip Andrews.

Red headed, freckle-faced Andy Andrews, Mark's friend and squad leader, son of Mr. and Mrs. Carl P. Andrews, brother of Paul and Joyce, Kim Irving Andrew's husband, and father of their three month old daughter Kacey, was killed instantly when the NVA recoilless rifle scored a direct hit on his position.

After that day, it seemed like everyone started getting killed or wounded. Guys who were closer to you than brothers, suddenly departed from your life. Fred "Hassle" Castle, a quiet brother from Mississippi, became the next KIA. Back during Mark's first day in the field, the unit ran into a sniper. While expertly firing his M-79 grenade launcher, Hassle casually yanked the new guy out of the line of fire. After that, they were tight.

The day Hassle died, the platoon had captured a man who appeared to be a Viet Cong. The helicopters, which were supposed to return the unit to base, never arrived. Therefore everyone, including the prisoner, was on foot, "humping," back.

Moving across a small, open area, Hassle stepped on a thin trip-wire. There was a small, muffled explosion. A can filled with tiny steel pellets shot into the air, then exploded at chest height. It was hard to believe how many holes that "Bouncing Betty" drilled into Hassle's dark, wiry, young body.

The casualties mounted over the next few weeks. "Hump" the unit's point man, caught a grenade fragment in the gut. "Fearless" Frank stepped on a punji stake. Lt. Lester got a leg chewed up during a mortar attack. Then Tony, the new guy, stepped on that booby trap and it became Mark’s turn.

A pop in his ears brought Mark back to the present. When the stewardess announced the plane’s initial approach into New York, he obediently returned his seat back and tray table to their original, upright, and locked positions, and checked his seat belt. Looking out at the tops of the thick, cumulus clouds, he wondered if he was in for his third rough landing of the day.

It don't mean nothing, he thought, repeating the mantra of the “grunts”, the soldiers who did the actual fighting in Viet Nam. After all, nothing could be rougher than this last year, unless you counted packing an M-16 in the ‘Nam.

Well, it hadn't been easy, he thought, and it sure as hell hadn't been fun. Still, for the time being at least, he was one up on both the VC who blinded him and the Army doctors who said he’d never see again.

He couldn’t suppress a grim smile of triumph. Any feelings of victory, however, were muted. A year after being wounded he was still flying to hospitals and the outlook for keeping some sight in his one remaining eye was uncertain. No longer having to fly while blind was a major, but still tenuous, achievement.

Sometimes he wondered if the rest of his life would be spent flying to hospitals. Before Viet Nam, he had cared about people and about making a difference. Back then, he wanted to become a lawyer then go into politics and fight the good fight.

Now, nothing seemed to matter, nothing seemed good or important. Even sex, sports, and having a good time held little more than a casual appeal. His only real goal was to finish the seemingly unending medical work on his eye.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he was destined to become just another aimless, wounded war “hero” in an era when wars and heroes were no longer in fashion. It wasn’t an appealing prospect but then, it didn’t mean nothing.

Using his rebuilt, if still imperfect right eye, he watched the waters of Long Island Sound rushing up to meet his plane. Instead of a cot in an Army tent in Da Nang, his destination today was New York City and a bed at the Manhattan VA Hospital. It wasn't what he wanted to be doing, of course. But it was one hell of an improvement over last year.

A moment after the runway appeared, the plane touched down with an almost imperceptible bump. One good landing out of three's not that bad, he decided. Maybe things are finally starting to go my way, even if my way today just leads to a VA hospital in New York.