The Eternal Soldier 7,200

A company of screwups in the Vietnam war.

Jumping down off the back of a deuce-and-a-half supply truck, I drop to my feet onto hard-packed red earth. Without a word, the driver waits, watching through a rearview mirror until I pull a duffel bag and suitcase off, then roars away, this being only one stop on his morning mission. 

Here I am, at my new post. A sign reads "'C' Company, 2nd Battalion, 35th Armored Division.” There is also a hand-lettered sign next to the entrance of a squad-tent, saying "Orderly Room."

I'm “Fresh Fish” as the term goes, the same as in those prison movies. Meaning that I smell and will continue to stink until I prove myself there. I also have another strike against me. Besides being new, I'm a former “REMF,” automatically suspect by all combat troops. REMF stands for Rear Echelon Mother-F****r. In my case it means that I've come from a cushy job back at Headquarters USARV (US Army, Republic of Vietnam) to this combat outfit. It also strongly implies that there has to be a reason for the change.

People in the rear don’t, ever, volunteer for combat duty. Nobody wakes up in a villa in Saigon, dresses in starched jungle fatigues, eats a good breakfast in an air-conditioned mess hall or restaurant. Then he asks to see the company commander with “I’d like to go out to the field, sir. I wanna get shot at and live in a hole in the ground like a rat. Please, may I, sir?” 

No. If a REMF gets assigned to a combat company, there is always a good reason -- and I'm no exception.

Sheridan tanks grumble and roar, narrowly missing various obstacles, forcing me to step aside and wait as three of the monsters edge between myself and the orderly-room tent. As they pass, clouds of red dust envelope everything. I don't know if it's iron ore in the ground or what causes it but that dust seems unique to Vietnam. 

There's still so much starch in my fatigues that even the sweat from 110 degree heat can’t get it all out. The cloth across my shoulders itches from the stuff, also my armpits and groin. If someone looks closely, as I'm sure they will, the smaller black PFC stripe on my collar conflicts with larger, still unfaded, spots on the sleeves where larger insignia have been taken off. The difference in size is apparent. I've thought about buying new clothing before coming out here to the boonies but know it would make no difference. In either case, word will soon get around. 

Dropping my bags outside, I walk into the tent and lay my 201 personnel file on the desk of a SP4 inside. He looks up from a manual typewriter to eye me casually. I can see him looking from face to sleeve.

“Kinda old for a PFC, ain’t ya?” he asks, picking up the file that contains records of eighteen years of service. I say nothing, ignoring him in favor of looking around the tent. Let’s get this s**t over with, is foremost on my mind.

The canvas encloses a space twenty-feet square and maybe nine-feet high at its peak. There is electricity, with several large floor-fans blowing heat around, occasionally rustling papers attached to a portable bulletin board. Two other, empty, desks complete the ensemble. 

“CO won’t be back today. First sergeant’s down at headquarters.” The clerk brings me back to Earth. “You can hang around for awhile or wait in the mess tent. I’m Simmons, the company clerk.” He reaches a hand up, not bothering to get to his feet. I shake it.

“Mike. Mike Edwards,” I tell him. “I’ll be in the mess hall.”  No need to ask which tent. It has a distinctive shape, with one section higher than the rest for ventilating stoves. 

The mess tent appears to be the largest in the small compound. I can see a makeshift counter made of stacked three-gallon insulated cans ( Mermite ) with wooden planks stretched between them. Behind the counter, nearer the front of the tent, there are several field-stoves with gasoline burners under them. Two cooks in fatigues, looking incongruous with white aprons worn over utility uniforms and paper hats, are busily doing whatever cooks do at a wooden picnic table near the stoves. 

Cleanliness isn’t much of an issue under these circumstances. You're surrounded by dust and expected to eat a few ounces of it in every meal. Mosquitoes and flies buzz around, unchallenged by torn and sporadic mosquito netting. All sides of the tent are propped up on poles to let a breeze through.

I see one of the insulated containers sitting on a square field-table in a corner. It has an open five-pound bag of sugar and a can of condensed milk sitting next to it, along with a stack of paper cups. Taking the hint, I dip out a cup of lukewarm coffee, probably left over from breakfast.

The cooks ignore me, busily chopping, stirring and measuring for the noon meal. I sit on a folding chair next to another large picnic table. The tables are fragile folding types, maybe four-feet wide by nine-feet long. There are about a dozen of them in that end of the tent. It's only slightly cooler inside, despite more of those floor fans.

I can see no reading material lying around. Although I have a pocket novel or two in my bag at the orderly room, I shrug and settle for watching activity outside the tent. From what I can see, the base is a temporary setup. It's a few-hundred feet square with concertina wire hastily strewn around the perimeter. From my viewpoint, I see a couple of makeshift sandbagged bunkers, so I assume there will be four of them, one at each corner. It doesn't appear very secure but then we aren’t in a very dangerous location. There are other larger and more fortified compounds all around us, with only narrow lanes, barely wide enough for a vehicle, between.

It's a tank company. I see a half-dozen of the small Sheridan jobs. One engine cowling is up with two guys working on something inside. Most of the soldiers I see are sitting around, shirtless in what little shade they can find. 

It has been a long time since I've been inside a tank. The last occasion was way back in Korea, in a long-gone war. That posting was still in my files, which is why I'm sitting here instead of in an infantry compound. With no love lost between us, my former CO wanted to put me in the worse scenario he could get away with.... 

***

It had been hate at first sight. Well, actually, more like intense dislike. At the time, I'd been Master Sergeant Michael Malchus Edwards, a highly decorated Special Operations sergeant with a half-dozen rows of medals on my class “A” uniform. I found myself standing at attention at USARV Headquarters, braced up in front of a Colonel Transki’s desk.  He was the head of personnel for the area and didn’t know what to make of me. And I couldn’t blame him.

“What kind of s**t is this, sergeant? Most of your DD4 is blank, or referred for explanation to General Arnold at the Pentagon. It doesn’t even say what your Military Occupational Specialty (MOS) is. Almost nothing after basic training, except for postings in Korea and Washington, DC.” 

He was flustered.  Colonel Transki loved order and routine. Here he had a high-ranking Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) with no defined skills. None that weren’t, in any case, highly secret. 

“And General Arnold died last month under suspicious circumstances.”  He looked me in the eye. "Word is he was under investigation at the time. You know anything about that?"

I stood silent, not venturing an explanation, which made him even more angry.

“Just what the hell am I expected to do with you?” he blustered. “Do you know anything about vehicles? I could use another transportation sergeant?”

“No, sir. I can drive a truck but that’s about all.”

“I don’t need no E-8 truck drivers. Can you type?”

“Not very well, sir.”

“Cook?”

“Not really.”

“Ever been in the infantry? Been trained in advanced infantry tactics?”

“No, sir.”

“You ever shoot at a man in your f*****g life?”

“Can’t say I have, sir," I lied. Well, not a complete lie, since I've never really trusted firearms, preferring bare hands, cutting weapons, or clubs.

“Well, then just what the hell are you good for, to draw that exalted pay?”

“You’d have to ask General Arnold, sir. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, sir.”

“The general’s dead.”

I didn’t answer, only looked over his head at the wall behind his desk. 

“Jesus Christ,” his voice fell to a loud whisper. I could sense anger. “Well, until I get an answer back from Washington, you can supervise building shithouses around the base. See Captain Thompson in the engineering detachment.  He can use you for something. Dismissed, sergeant.”

I have no way of knowing what transpired but it took two months to get an answer back. It must not have pleased the colonel because I now find myself in armored.  There had been a vague reference in my files about being stationed in such a unit in Korea. 

True, I'd been a tank driver when I acquired my real specialty. After that, further training and projects were so secret as to be known to only four people, the President, General Arnold, my trainer and myself. Since then, I've killed two of the four. 

Although suspected of the killings, there is no real proof. Somehow feeling I'm a danger, the President has seen that I received a quick set of orders and been sent to Vietnam -- no doubt to get me out of Washington and away from himself. He's not one of the bravest presidents we've had.

I must have lost my official appeal while I waited, because Colonel Transki also informed me that I had been reduced to PFC (E-3). As to the rank reduction, I can only imagine the confusion in Washington. General Arnold had kept my records himself, hidden somewhere in his personal files. All the Department of the Army would probably know was that I'm, indeed, in the army and for how long. Not knowing what to do and since there was no record of promotions, some clerk had no doubt taken it upon himself to bounce me back to my former rank of private. I should have gotten out at that point but I only have four years until retirement. I figure I can wing it until then.

***

Now, I find myself waiting for yet another commanding officer, this one a mere captain talking to a private. Meanwhile, I sit on a hard folding chair, a cup of coffee -- barely warmer than the 110 degree heat -- in my hand. It's quiet time, me watching equally inattentive soldiers -- some sitting in the shade of their vehicles and looking back at me. A peaceful scene.

I'm brought out of it by the sound of a heavy coffee mug hitting the already shaky table. Looking over, I see a large man wearing a dirty uniform in the process of sitting down across from me. He has at least a week’s growth of beard, arms like small trees and dirty blond hair down to his a*s -- or so it seems. He's also wearing first sergeant stripes on his collar. The stripes are painted black, not glinting with a silvery shine like they would have been in the rear area. Since shiny stripes and bars signify rank, we would all prefer equality in a sniper's sights, hence unobtrusive rank insignia.

“So you’re the busted noncom, uh?” Turning to face me, the guy shoves a craggy face right at me and glares silently.  

Hell. I’ve been in long enough to learn the tricks myself. He wants to get in my face to see my reaction -- whether I'm combat material. It had been the same in Korea and I expect many tests of the sort. I can’t blame them. You want to know whether a new man will crack in combat. That knowledge might well save your own a*s. If I flinch or look away, he'll still have his doubts. I don’t flinch, only look back at him. No, not a staring contest. He's the boss, so I look him in the eye for long seconds, then smile and let my gaze slowly lower to his coffee mug. It's a private one, not army issue. "Daddy" is printed on the side in green letters.

“That I am, top,” I say, straightening my back.

“I've been warned about you. You know that, Edwards?” 

I sit silently. It's his conversation, his test.

“I heard you were one of those spy types? Won’t even say what the hell you did,” he tells me. “Even prefer getting busted way the f**k down to private than say.” He growls, again glaring at me like a kid playing King of the Hill when you have hold of his leg. Is he afraid I'll topple him?

“You must have fucked up good to get here. Someone in Washington has your a*s on a string.”

What can I say?

“First Sergeant Joe Allison.” He suddenly grins, rising a bit to reach one hand across the table to pat me on the shoulder. “We’re all fuckups here. You ought’a fit right in.”

The first sergeant goes on to fill me in. The commanding officer, Captain Thompson, had screwed up as an aide to a high ranking general by flatly refusing to pick up girls from Saigon streets for his boss. Captain Thompson is extremely religious and used the Higher Authority as an excuse. But that hadn’t satisfied the general as to why the captain had also reported him to Washington for asking. The captain ended up here, the general also transferred some f*****g where.

First Sergeant Allison had screwed up by getting angry one day and cussing out that same general over another matter. Both had ended up in "G" Company. 

The general had decided to form the unit from scratch, also asking for volunteers from similar units. That procedure had guaranteed that the rest of the company was also foul-ups. After all, no self-respecting company commander would “volunteer” his best men. "G" Company received the dregs of the division.

***

The colonel in charge of the battalion doesn’t trust any of them. He's afraid that if he sends "G" Company into combat they'll not only get themselves killed but make him look bad. So all "G" Company does is sit around one temporary encampment after another, rarely associating with real soldiers. The colonel hates to turn in heavy casualty figures to his own bosses.

Of course, it follows that their equipment is also the worst. That same colonel reserves the good vehicles and other supplies for his best, combat ready, troops. 

***

To me, that explains the flimsy perimeter defenses. Nobody here really gives a damn. I also learn later, from gossipy soldiers, that the captain is rarely around the company area. He has an amateur church project going in a nearby town and mostly hangs out there with his native girlfriend. 

He comes in to sign paperwork every few days, then goes back to the village. Sometimes the girl even comes in alone. She’s mastered the captain's signature and, when he’s busy preaching, signs the papers for him.

“Since you won’t say what you’re good at, I’ll give you a choice of,” First Sergeant Allison tells me, “either a mechanic trainee, or a cook. We’re currently short one of each. Take your pick?”

From where we sit, I look around the company area. The only people doing any work are just those people, the cooks and the mechanics. The rest of the troops lie around doing nothing. Of the two jobs, the cooks look slightly cleaner, white aprons and such. From what I recall, tank maintenance is heavy dirty labor. Watching a cook open a large #10 can with an electric can-opener convinces me. It doesn’t seem to be all that bad a job -- an open cans and fry eggs type of thing.

“I’ll take cook,” I tell him.

***

So that’s how I become a cook. It's as easy as I figured. We have a cookbook but usually don’t have the ingredients it calls for, so we simply throw things together, experimenting with this and that. If the leftovers pile up, throw them together to make stew. 

Half the time we’re issued combat rations, which take no labor whatsoever. They’re canned "C" rations. You fill a pot with water, dump in unopened cans of rations, heat the pot over a burner and you’re done. The troops have individual (P-38) can-openers to open their own meals.

Like everything else, the combat-ready troops get the good stuff. By the time it gets down to us, the lowest priority, we’re issued the dregs. Damned but I have it soft, I figure. A few more years and I’ll look for another army. Maybe a navy or air force this time? I haven’t been in an air force since WWI. That time with the Germans.

A civilian lunch wagon even comes here twice a day from a much larger base near us and carries on a booming business.

***

All goes well until "Tet" of 1968. Tet is a Vietnamese holiday. Technically, it's also a brief cease-fire. Neither side is supposed to be aggressive during holidays, including both US and Vietnamese ones. I think it's kinda silly, since we all pretty much ignore it.

During this particular Tet holiday, the enemy makes a point to attack every base we have in-country, including ours. They even try to take over the US Embassy in Saigon.

The night of Tet starts out with flashes of gunfire all around us, our small camp being a sea of relative quiet. That does give time for our guards to wake and act alert. The distant firing goes on and on, far into the night. Helicopters buzz over us constantly, tanks rumble back and forth, up and down the lanes between our close-together compounds. Of course, Captain Thompson is nowhere around, leaving the decisions up to First Sergeant Allison. 

Me, I stay in the cook tent. My KPs have all left for their defensive positions and the pots and pans still have to be scrubbed. The other cooks and mess sergeant leave to watch the fight or get under cover. I'm not worried about myself.

As the enemy eventually deigns to notice us, an occasional bullet zips through the tent. When one finally hits and busts the kerosene lantern I'm using to peel potatoes I go out to watch.

By then I'm friendly with Sergeant Allison -- both of us being longtime soldiers. We've had many of the same types of experiences and spend time together drinking. I keep my cool until I see him shot down. 

Rushing over, I raise his head, what remains of it. The left side, from the bridge of his nose over, is gone. Looking up, I see a night sky filled with tracer rounds as choppers fire down at a distance. Both red and green tracer streams shoot out from and into our small camp. An explosion rips through a squad tent near me.

Then that a rage builds up inside me. Feeling it coming on, I take off my apron and white hat before heading for the perimeter. 

It's then that the all-familiar anger rises from nowhere to surge through an unwilling body. I can't fight it. I simply can't fight it. 

By chance, I pick a back gate -- the nearest one to the village. Ignoring calls from guards, I raise a stout wooden bar locking the gate, shove it aside, and go outside. As it slams shut behind me, I search for someone, anyone, to vent myself on. Hearing yelling nearby, I run into the bushes -- toward them. 

I come upon a jeep, on its side in a ditch and surrounded by Victor Charlie (VC). They're foolish enough to rush at me, even as I run at them -- weaponless. As I tear into them, I take two out of action. Of course, I've had plenty of martial arts training over the endless years, though I still prefer rougher tactics, to tear flesh and spray blood. Those small men give me little cause for concern. What can they do, shoot or stab me? No big f*****g deal. I rip into them like a coyote into a pride of rabbits. 

Those that can, break and run. Several of their companions are left behind to be stomped and torn as I finish venting an inhuman anger.

I find Captain Thompson, apparently wounded but conscious, looking up at me in fear. He must have seen the entire fight -- if you could call it that.

"Are you all right, sir?" I ask as I help him to sit up. He nods, motioning that he wants to get to his feet.

As it turns out, his injury is mostly to his pride, that and minor injuries from when the jeep rolled.

"Help me inside, Edwards," he orders. 

The guards see us walking toward the base and let us in. The attack only lasts another fifteen minutes as the firing peters off into quiet except for an occasional burst of gunfire in the distance. We all sit, on alert, until morning and sunrise.

I sleep in that morning, worn out from the burst of activity and not scheduled until the noon meal. That action also, as it often does, brings on a flashback. This time, from a long-gone war in Korea....

***

It was colder'n hell -- far below zero. I was driving a Sherman tank across a frozen landscape, looking out three small view-ports. They were slim slits in the armor, enclosed in thick glass. I had to constantly wipe condensation, both from them as well as sweat from both hands in order to grip steering-levers. Springs were nonexistent on the vehicle. Simply staying in the seat was enough of a chore. 

In the worse terrain, I would brace a steel-helmeted head against an escape hatch above my seat. Although hard on my neck, it was better than having my head bounced against the metal. The noise in that military vehicle was deafening. Although wearing earphones, it was still hard to hear orders from the tank commander in a turret section behind and above me. 

Smells of hot oil and exhaust fumes filled my compartment, along with the feel of frigid air. I had a heater under my seat but there was no way to avoid currents of freezing air from outside. Those vehicles weren't very air-tight but still better than walking through the snow and ice of South Korea.

There were five of us inside, with me being the newest and oldest. Behind and above me was the the tank commander, a sergeant; Mike, the gunner; Harry, loader for the main gun; Joe, machine-gunner; and a communications specialist -- I don't remember his name.

That's common with me. The human mind has only so much space for memories. Eventually, it drops some in order to store newer ones. At my age, my memory is selective, as about that moment in Korea. It was a time to retrieve very, very old memories.

Anyway, I was driving. Ours was the only tank, along with a squad of infantry. For some reason unknown to myself the colonel was along with us, riding in his jeep. My best pal, Tim Evans, was driving him. As a private, nobody bothered to tell me what we were doing out there in enemy territory.

I was tired, trying to steer through huge potholes and over obstacles, hold myself steady, wipe view-ports and follow orders from the sergeant. He must have had his head sticking outside through the top hatch, because I couldn't see for s**t.

Taking one hand off a steering-lever, I swiped at a view-port. During the few seconds it was clear, I saw a ball of flame up ahead, heading right at me. As it flashed over my head, I had barely enough time to feel the heavy vehicle jump upward and to the side before my world was encompassed by heat and light. I passed out.

*** 

It was a strange feeling though somehow familiar -- something between pain and a strong itch. Long buried memories told me that it was my body healing, a feeling of deja vu. First, one eye opened ... then the other. I could feel heat, intense heat, and smell the distinctive odor of burning human flesh. Looking down with newly repaired eyes I could also see a skeletal hand. Even as I watched, it grew flesh and acquired feeling as I flexed new fingers.

My regeneration took time -- though the concept of time had no meaning as my body healed. It did bring back even older, repressed, memories. Those were thousands of years old, back to the time of Jesus Christ.

Eventually I raised my arms, feeling more pain as they reached up and unlatched the hatch over a now helmet-less head. As I stood on a mostly-melted driver's seat and reached upward, I could see my hands burning again -- new flesh dripping. I managed to crawl out, dropping into a puddle of melting ice and snow alongside the remains of the vehicle.

Then came a new period of healing, while I looked up at the misshapen bulk of my former steed. The turret was half-off, blasted by the Chicom shell or rocket that had almost killed me. Almost, since I am doomed to near eternal life. Although many memories were gone, I knew that much. And that I'd come close to death many times before.

Feeling intense pain amid cold from wind and snow, as well as heat from the smoldering hulk, my body healed.

Minutes or hours later, I managed to rise, bare-a*s naked in the cold of a Korean winter. I staggered away while kicking shreds of burnt leather from my left foot �" looking for my compatriots. Somehow -- not unexpectedly -- I grew stronger, even as I walked through snow and ice.

There were a few bodies around me, American soldiers. They were unlucky, or lucky -- according to how you look at it -- to stay dead.

I heard the noise of warfare over to my right and knew it was where I would find more Americans. Gaining strength with every stride, I walked in that direction.  I could feel pain and cold, though both within limits. Both were uncomfortable, though not excessive. Although memories were coming back, I fought them off. I had to find my buddies; that was all-important.
 
I didn't want those memories, didn't want to review past mistakes and miseries. I, somehow, knew they would eventually fade away, down into the recesses of my brain. They have faded and gone away many times in the past. Although craving peace, my long life has been fraught with many periods of such violence. I have, through the ages, learned to control memories -- letting them rest in peace. Most of the time.

Cresting a small rise in the landscape, I saw fighting ahead. Closest to me, there were a dozen North Korean soldiers, firing in the opposite direction. Farther away, I saw flashes as a sprinkling of Americans shot at them. It looked like four or five Americans, at the most. Feeling that familiar rage building, I rushed at the enemy. As my naked form ran and slid at them, they were too busy to look back to see me.

Reaching a gray-clad soldier, I grabbed him from behind, around the neck. A twist and he was down. Disdaining his fallen weapon, I was soon on a second, also twisting his head until it snapped completely off. A third saw me and, aiming a Chinese SKS rifle, fired point blank. It was one of the newer, automatic, rifles. As I ran at him, bullets hit me in the chest, passing through. The force of the rounds almost stopped me in my tracks -- but I kept going. I could feel an itching sensation as the wounds healed. His didn't, as I grabbed his arm, punching the frightened face into pulp. I could see panic and fear in his eyes before they clouded and were forever sightless.

Somehow during that activity, all firing stopped. I could sense eyes were on me as I dropped the third body, looking around for a fourth. As I spread bloody arms and ran at another enemy soldier, they turned tail and skedaddled.

I walked, slowly, to the American position. Nobody greeted me as I approached, then entered, the perimeter. I could see them standing or lying behind bushes or in depressions as I passed through their ranks. Most of their eyes were wide with fear, but nobody greeted me. Nobody. Looking back at it, I must have been a sight. There I was, standing bare-a*s naked in sub-zero weather, bloody and with a look of intense rage on my face.

Finally, I could see Colonel Arnold's jeep coming toward me. Adams was driving. I saw three more Americans approaching us, their weapons centered on my chest, and no other vehicles. The colonel stopped to talk to one of the soldiers. After that, the three returned to foxholes.  Then the jeep came over to where I was standing, finally starting to come down from my high.

"Get in," he ordered. 

Still in a sort of daze, I obeyed, crawling into the back seat to sit beside a huge Prick-10 (AN/PRC-10) field radio.

"I don't know what the hell's going on, soldier, but you saved our asses," he told me, turning around in his seat. "Adams, stop over by that body, that one over there," he ordered, pointing, "and get the uniform and boots off it."

While Adams stripped the dead American, Colonel Arnold studied me, his brows scrunched up as though deep in thought. Adams returned and I put on the already stiffening uniform while the colonel watched.

As I was bent down, lacing my boots, I heard a pistol shot, then another. Jerking my head up, I saw Colonel Arnold, weapon in hand. It was smoking in the frigid air. Looking around and seeing no enemy, I noticed private Adams lying in bloody snow. The colonel lifted his a*s from the passenger seat, stepping over the gearshift lever to settle behind the wheel.

"Sniper. I think I stopped him. Get in front," he ordered me. As he turned the jeep to head back to Headquarters Company, I again saw Adams lying dead in the snow. We rode silently until well inside our perimeter and approaching headquarters before Colonel Arnold turned to me.

"Edwards," he told me, "I don't expect you to understand me, no more than I understand you. But I'm giving you a direct order. You will not tell anyone anything about what happened today. I'll have your gear sent over here and you will be directly under me. No one, and I mean no one, will give you orders but myself. You will not be on any duty roster, nor answer to any officer except me. If they argue, tell them to see me and I'll set them straight." He gave me a silly-looking grin. "You ... we, are going far, Edwards."

I did nothing but lie around in my own tent for the rest of my time in Korea. The time was spent in playing cards in the dayroom. Also, I read a lot of books. I had no more military duties. When the colonel left Korea, I went with him and stayed with him up until his death. 

***

After Korea, Arnold and I ended up in Washington, DC. We were into top-secret projects. Arnold made general and I rapidly advanced to the rank of master sergeant -- the highest enlisted rank in the US Army at that time. General Arnold and myself were quickly transferred to Army Intelligence and given an expansive office in the Pentagon, itself. I enjoyed a nice apartment off base, paid for by the general through secret funding. 

My invulnerability was, on occasion, put to the test. Actually, my function wasn't exactly like a spy. I'm not the intelligence or intelligent type. Although having developed many simple skills over the ages, I'm still not the brightest kid on the block. Rather, I was kept for those special occasions where a spurt of violence and a dash of invulnerability came in handy. When one of our spies was caught, I could be dropped into the equation, causing havoc and rescuing him. If you wanted a man killed in a brutal way and they were well guarded, call on Mike Edwards.

Don't ask me what, or how, he dealt with my records. I only know that he had -- by his official position -- access to my files. I guess he thought he would, like me, live forever. That was how we stood until well into the Vietnam war....

***

One day we sat in his office -- drinking and talking. By we, I mean General Arnold, my trainer -- a spook named Thomas -- and myself.

All of us were drunk. Thomas happened to ask the General about how he had found me. While Arnold iterated the familiar story to Thomas, I idly walked around the room, pouring myself a fresh drink from his bottle of Chivas Regal whiskey.

"So," I heard the General say, "when I saw Mike in action in Korea, I ordered Sergeant Nickolaus to hold the line, him and eight other men, while I went to the rear for replacements." The General laughed, then sipped on his drink.

Me, I was also sweating as I listened and recalled how the platoon had been decimated, giving their lives for us to get away. As far as I knew, none of them -- all in my company and friends at the time -- had made it back.

"Well," General Arnold continued, "of course I had no intention of sending them help. I wanted to keep Mike and his powers a secret from the army and the world."

Anticipating the further conversation, I felt a drunken rage building, as though my mind was going out of control. I had killed many men, most under the general's orders, but no Americans -- and none I could call friends.

"By then I had it all thought out," the general continued. "Get rid of any witnesses, take him back and use him to quickstep up the ladder. With Mike under my control, making general was a breeze."

"And what about your driver?" Thomas asked with a drunken giggle. 

By then we both knew the answer.

"I simply shot him in the head and left his body by the side of the road." Both of them thought the betrayal of my best friend, one that had -- at least apparently -- saved my own life on two occasions, hilarious.

That laugh at killing Tim Adams -- a man I had known since basic training. A man I had shared many experiences with, even met his family -- drove me over the edge.

Almost unconsciously, certainly unplanned in my whiskey-sodden rage, my fist struck General Arnold across the left side of his face, slamming him and his chair over onto the floor.

Thomas, drunkenly, tried to fight back, me ending the fight by grabbing him by the neck in what had come to be my favorite hold. A twist and he was dead. Meanwhile, I took time to kick the general in the balls. After that, my rage took over -- again. By the time I finished the general had separated into several large and small pieces. 

Washing up in the bathroom, I changed into spare civvies and, taking my bloody clothing along in a plastic trash bag, went home.

Nobody had seen me and I told investigators I'd been home asleep. The investigation took months. I wasn't the only suspect. It turned out that the General had many irons in the fire, so to speak -- some illegal. He had quite a few enemies. Why suspect his friends?

Eventually, without the protection of the General and with the aid of a cowardly President I was sent to Vietnam....

***

I expect at least a formal thanks from Captain Thompson but only get a smile and a nod while at work in the mess tent. The new first sergeant tells me that the captain can't put me in for any medal because he should have been on the base -- not outside to get caught by the enemy.

No big thing, I think, returning to work. If I had a dollar for every commendation I've gotten in my life I'd be rich by now.

The months pass. I'm not really unhappy with my lot. I've gained a ton of respect from the other soldiers. After saving the captain, they've gotten friendlier. Eventually, though, all things must pass. My enlistment comes to an end. Before I can leave, the captain calls me into his office.

"Mike," he says, smiling, "I want you to reenlist. I have a cushy job coming up when I return. Someone in Washington wants me there, in Intelligence. It's a dream come true. They'll send me to Command College and I get an automatic promotion to major. I was told that in a few years I might even make general."

"Good for you, sir," I tell him, "but what does it have to do with me?"

"Well, it's on the condition that I bring you with me. For that, you have to reenlist. I know you can retire before long, but hope you’ll stay in to help me.” He's almost begging.

"Let me think it over, sir. I'll get back to you."

I salute and go back to my tent. Thinking it over, I figure why not? I can quit and receive that longed-for retirement pay, but only for maybe another ten or twenty years before I have to find another identity. Before someone in authority notices how young I look at seventy or eighty.

I go back and tell Captain Thompson I'll reenlist to join him in Washington. Hell, some of my friends will still be there.

That makes the captain very happy.

A month later, we both get our orders for duty at the Pentagon. 

I find myself sitting in the orderly room, waiting for the captain to finish some final paperwork so we can be driven to Tan Son Nhut airbase to catch a plane on our way to DC. As I watch him, sitting at his desk and shuffling paperwork my mind goes back to another memory....

It's one of my oldest -- over 2000 years old. At that time, I'd owned a sandal shop in Jerusalem. I was a Jew but most of my customers were Romans. You can imagine which side I was on, politically.

I'd heard that a maverick preacher named Jesus was raising hell among the populace but, it being none of my business, ignored the talk. I'd even heard the man had been captured and sentenced to be crucified. Still, that meant less than nothing to me.

One fateful day, I heard a commotion outside my shop. My employees rushed for the front of the room.

"Back to work, you lazy b******s," I ordered them, chasing the three back to their cobbling benches.

There were also two Roman soldiers in the front of the shop waiting for repairs. I asked my clerk, "What's going on out there? They stoning someone?"

"Na. There's some sort of a parade," one of the customers told me. "That Jesus guy's coming past on his way to the hill."

"Yeah?" I said, going outside to watch.

There was a crowd along the street, some cheering, others booing. Even a few fistfights seemed to be breaking out. Eventually, I saw a guy staggering down the street accompanied by soldiers, the end of a thick wooden cross apparent on his shoulder.

As he came even with my shop, a stone hit him on the back of the neck and he collapsed in front of me. The two soldiers came running out of my place.

"Get this guy out of here," I yelled at them. My thoughts were of my reputation, the guy collapsing in front of my business. The word would be all over town.

I knelt in front of the fallen man, grabbing a shoulder and arm to help a soldier drag him to his feet. He grinned as though thanking me for aid, which only made me angrier.

"On your feet, you bum. Quickly, quickly. Be on your way. Why do you loiter here?" I asked him. "There is no rest for you here."

I saw the look in his eyes change as he replied in a whisper, "I am going -- and you shall wait here until I return, if it be the best part of forever."

I laughed at his audacity and seriousness and watched as the soldiers hurried him down the street, whipping at his legs to hurry him. I shook my head and went back in to work. Oddly, I couldn't seem to get his words out of my head; they echoed between my ears. It wasn’t every day that I was threatened.

Also, it wasn't until much later, when I saw my wife and children age, then die while I still seemed to be in my late thirties that I recalled what must have been a curse. More years went by. With the exit of the Romans, my business eventually failed. I still didn't seem to have aged. 

Thousands of years went by, still without my aging.

After a dozen or so wives, I gave up on marriage, preferring a single existence. I became tired of the heartache of watching families die out from under me and pass into the void -- while I lived.

I've tried many occupations. In general, I've found I'm happier in manual labor than in jobs where I have to use my mind. I can tell you, for a fact, that immortality does not bring wisdom. I'm the same dumb-a*s I've always been. 

Of all the work I've tried, soldiering seems to suit me the best. Armies are basically the same, in every country and every age. A soldier may have different equipment but for your common soldier day-to-day life remains the same. After you kill a certain number of men, it becomes boring labor and most of the time the job is simply the comfortable routine of camp life.

I get into the jeep with Captain Thompson, that same deja vu feeling coming back. Like with General Arnold, I figure I'm due for other special projects. This time it's for Thompson. It makes no real difference to me. I am Malchus, the “Wandering Jew," doomed to walk the Earth until He returns.

The End. 
Charlie - hvysmker