With a last minute essay due, Taylor wants to know the origin of how he got his name. As the story is told, fate reveals that all of our lives are not just connected, but intertwined by destiny. *This is a pre-CaReese story about their fathers meeting in Vietnam.*
This story is dedicated to every Vietnam veteran. Your service was unappreciated at the time, but now it's appreciated more than you'll ever know. God bless you all. 'Thank you' can never be said enough.
Song prompt: "American Soldier" by Toby Keith
American Soldier
January 2006
The house was closed down for the night, her son put to bed, and Joss Carter was taking the remainder of the evening for herself. Curled up on the couch, she sat under the corner light and soaked up the latest thriller from the mind of Vince Flynn. Taken far, far away to the world of spying and espionage, she didn't hear the patter of feet coming down the stairs.
Turning the page, she held her breath for the final revelation…until her sixth sense went off.
"Taylor," she called out.
"Yes, Mom?" came the youngster's reluctant answer.
"What are you doing up?"
No answer came.
Putting a marker in the book, she closed it and set it on the coffee table. "I thought you were supposed to be in bed."
"I couldn't sleep."
"Come here."
Taylor's head poked around the corner of the wall. "I…"
"Come here. Now."
With heavy feet, the nine year old walked across the hardwood floor. His head hung in defeat at being caught breaking the rules.
"I thought you were supposed to be asleep," Joss repeated.
"I…I need your help."
Her face softened at the plea. Joss sat up. "What's wrong, T?"
"A school project."
"Did you forget?"
Taylor shook his head vigorously. "No." He held up his hand. "I promise."
"Then what is it?"
"We have to write an essay on where our name came from."
"What do you mean?"
"My name. Nobody in our family is named 'Taylor', so I don't know what to write."
"I got your name from my dad."
Taylor frowned. "His name was Christopher."
Joss opened her arms. "Come here," she invited him to sit in her lap.
"Why?"
"Because I want to hold you," she teased. "And I have a very special story to tell you." She waited for her son to get settled. "A long time ago…"
"Is this going to be a fairy tale?" Taylor groaned dramatically.
"Fairy tale?"
"Yeah. All fairy tales start with 'A long time ago' or 'Once upon a time'."
Joss wrapped her arms around Taylor and hugged him tight. "You are silly. No, this is a very true story. In fact, it's a war story. As you know, Grandpa was in Vietnam."
"When you were a baby," he added.
"Yes, when I was a baby," Joss affirmed. "He was a soldier in the Army. But one night, the bad guys surprised his platoon, and there was a gun fight."
"Oh!" Taylor's eyes went wide. "Did he get hurt?"
Joss nodded. "He did."
"Was it bad? How did he get away?"
Joss took a deep breath. "I'll tell you. A long time ago on one night in January 1973, deep in the jungle of Vietnam…"
****
Corporal Christopher Kelly tried to draw in a breath, but his ribs protested. All around him the sound of gunfire and bombs filled the air, but his mind was on something else: Survival.
His platoon had come under attack in the middle of the night by the Vietcong and the massacre on both sides had been brutal. Wounded and lost in the dark, he had attempted to escape being captured, but fate had another plan for him. And adding insult to injury, he had fallen into a trap set by the enemy.
Now he wasn't only bleeding out, but he was sure his leg was severely broken. Even if he could climb out, he wouldn't be able to go for help, nor could he signal for anyone to rescue him. Basically, he was, in a nutshell, screwed…and just when his tour was almost done.
Closing his eyes, he thought about how the last time he had been home he had bragged about his string of luck and being able to leave Vietnam without a Purple Heart. All he wanted to do was complete his time for Uncle Sam and then head home to be with his newborn daughter.
He had a daughter. He smiled at the thought of his precious little angel waiting at home for him. There were a million things he wanted to teach her about life - things he had learned the hard way - but most of all he wanted to be there for her. He had grown up without a father in his life, and he swore that no matter what happened - come hell or high water - he was going to be there for his family. Okay, so he joined the Army, but there was a method to his madness: Get a skill and get the GI Bill. He had one, but he wasn't sure about the other…not unless he could get out of this hole.
The sound of approaching feet made him hold his breath. They spoke loudly to one another in a mixture of Vietnamese and French. He wasn't sure about the first, but he could make out a few words of the latter. They were looking for wounded Americans to capture.
Christopher let out his breath as silently as he could and hoped it was covered by the sound of bushes and branches being disturbed. Then the footsteps stopped. He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe. Mentally he said a prayer to every Saint that he could think of - and even some he wasn't sure of. And time ticked by slowly.
After what seemed like an eternity, the pair moved on. Maybe they hadn't seen the hole in the ground, or maybe they had and they were going for help. Either way, he had dodged a bullet. But he still had to get the hell out of the hole.
"Send me someone, Lord," he prayed under his breath. "Please."
The sound of footsteps caused a cold shiver to go down his spine. His mouth went dry and he knew for sure his heart had stopped. But he had no choice but to risk everything - not if he wanted to see his daughter.
"Help," he croaked out. His throat was dry and his energy was running low, but he gave it his all. "Help!"
"Who's there?" a voice asked low enough to be heard but not loud enough to carry.
"I'm an American soldier," Christopher called out. "I'm hurt and I need medical attention."
"Where are you, soldier?"
"In a hole. I fell in after being shot."
A minute later a light flashed down to where he lay to blind him. Christopher weakly held his hand up to block it.
"You said you're hurt?" the man asked.
"I got shot and I busted my leg." The light moved over Christopher's body to his legs.
"Looks bad, son."
"I guessed as much."
"I can go for help…"
"No," Christopher cautioned. "They're coming back, I think."
"You heard that?"
"I know a little French."
The soldier released his breath in a long stream. "Then I'm going to have to figure out how to get you out of there. Can you stand?"
"I don't think so."
"You might have to try."
"Yes, sir."
"That's 'Sergeant' to you. I'm no pencil pushing desk jockey," the voice reprimanded. "I work for a living."
"I'm Corporal Kelly."
"Sergeant Taylor. Nice to meet you. I'm going to rig something to get you out of there, just hold on."
"I'm not going anywhere," Christopher joked.
The sound of rustling seemed to bring comfort as Christopher forced himself to sit up. If his rescuer could risk his life to help him, the least he could do was lend a hand. With everything he had, he pushed himself up. Pain shot thru him, but he tried to focus on the moon above.
"Where are you from, Corporal?"
"Washington, D.C."
"I've visited there - once." The tone of the Sergeant's voice didn't indicate if he liked or hated his experience.
"After I get out, I'm probably moving to New York."
"A job offer?"
"College. I applied to Columbia and NYU."
"Good schools." Sergeant Taylor looked for a large, thick vine. Finding what he was looking for, he pulled on it until he had enough length. Then with his knife, he sawed it off.
"You still there, Sergeant?" Christopher called out.
"Yes."
"Okay. How's the leg?"
"Hurts like hell."
"That's a good sign, Corporal."
"Christopher," he corrected.
"Excuse me?"
"Call me Christopher."
"Then you can call me Conrad."
"Where are you from?" It was a pretty lame question, but Christopher needed to do something to stay awake.
"Colorado. I'm stationed with the platoon out of Fort Carson."
"Never been to Colorado."
"It's nice. But I'm thinking about moving back to Washington when I get out. My family has a farm...and I'm thinking about trying my hand at growing something." Conrad dragged the vine over. "I think I may have found a way to get you out." He lowered the vine down.
Christopher looked at it with a wary eye. "No disrespect, Sergeant, but I don't think this is going to work."
"You won't know unless you try, son."
"Aye aye."
"You're in the Army," Conrad reprimanded.
"My dad was in the Navy. I guess he rubbed off on me." Christopher grabbed the vine with one hand and used his other one to brace against the wall. Then with everything he had, he forced himself to stand up.
He screamed. He knew he screamed. Like a little girl. Like the rabbit he once shot when he went hunting with his uncle down in Tennessee way back when. Leaning against the wall, he squeezed his eyes tight and tried to redirect the white lightning pain. He wanted to throw up, but there was nothing left.
"You okay, Christopher?"
"Y-yeah. It hurts."
"I know. But the sooner we get you out of there, the faster we can get you fixed up. Now grab the vine and I'll try to pull you up."
"I can do this," Christopher whispered.
"Focus on something," Conrad encouraged.
"Like what?" His mind was blank as a slate.
"Do you have any kids?"
"A daughter. She was born last week. Her mother named her 'Jocelyn'. "
"Congratulations. Is she your first?"
"How can you tell?"
"I've been there. I have a son. He's five. Named him 'John'. He told me that he wants to be a soldier someday."
"Crap!"
"My sentiments exactly." Conrad felt a tug on the vine. "You ready?"
"Yeah."
"When I pull, try to go with it, okay?"
"Aye aye."
"No wonder why you're getting out, soldier," Conrad chided. "I bet you even cheer for the squids when they play against the Army."
"The hell I do!"
"Could have fooled me. I bet you even mop like a squid."
"I take offense to that."
"You do?" Conrad grunted as he used every bit of his strength to hoist his fellow brother-in-arms to the top of his prison. "Well, you get yourself out of that hole, and I'll let you try to kick my ass. Deal?"
"You may regret that offer."
"Maybe. I haven't seen anything to the contrary." Sweat was breaking out on his forehead from the exertion and running into his eyes, but Conrad didn't care; time was slipping by fast and they didn't have a moment to lose.
He saw the top of Christopher's head. They had made it. Leaning down, he extended his hands. "Here." Planting his feet, he pulled harder than he ever had before in his life. Finally, his friend was above ground.
"Where were you shot?"
"My thigh."
"I'll get a tourniquet on it, but I'm afraid I can't do much for your leg," Conrad apologized. If he could just stem the blood flow, he could let the Medics do the rest. Using his knife, he cut a few strips of his Army issued t-shirt to use as bondage. A couple of quick tie offs, and they were ready to go.
"Ready?" Conrad asked.
"What are you going to do?" Christopher panted. "Carry me out of here?"
"Got any other options?"
Christopher shook his head. "None come to mind." Holding on to Conrad's arms, he stood up. The pain seemed less than before, or maybe it was because he was lightheaded from blood loss and shock.
"Hold on," Conrad warned. "It's going to be a bumpy ride." Bending down, he slung the wounded man over his shoulders.
Five Days later…
"Well…look who's going to live," Conrad greeted to the man lying in the medical gurney that was readied for transport..
Christopher opened his eyes. "Thanks to you. I owe you my life."
"You just go home and take care of that baby girl of yours," Conrad instructed. "She needs her daddy."
"At least I get to go home early. I'm going to miss the pull out."
"Yeah. Rumour mill has it that the peace accord should be signed by the end of the month. I'll believe it when I see it."
"Anything can happen. Hell, you pulled me out of a hole and carried me 5 kilometers."
"Only because I'm hoping for an invite to your graduation," Conrad winked.
"Deal. Promise me you'll take care of the son of yours. Who knows…" Christopher slurred, his eyelids grew heavy as the pain medication kicked in. "…maybe John and Jocelyn can be friends."
Conrad held tight to his friend's hand. "Why not?" Tears brimmed and threatened to fall. "Their dads are."
"We're brothers," Christopher whispered before drifting off.
"Always."
****
"That's how I got my name?" Taylor asked finally breaking the silence that filled the room after Joss finished her story.
"Yep."
"I was named after a hero." Taylor's eyes shone with pride. "Wow! I can't wait to write all about Grandpa and his friend."
Joss kissed his cheek. "First, you have to go to bed, little man. Give me some sugar."
Taylor kissed her and slid down from her lap. "Did you ever get to meet him?"
"No. No, I didn't."
"Whatever happened to Sergeant Taylor?"
Joss shook her head. "I don't know. Grandpa sent him an invite, but it got returned to sender."
"And his son? What do you think happened to him?"
"I don't know."
"Maybe you can get on line and find out."
"Maybe I can," Joss agreed.
"Maybe they moved to that farm in Washington."
"Yeah."
"And who knows, Mom. Maybe someday your paths will cross and you can thank him."
"Maybe. Now go to bed." She waited for the patter of feet to disappear down the hall, then picked up her book. But she didn't read. Her mind was elsewhere. It had been years since she thought of the man who had saved her dad. Now she wondered what happened to him and his family. She hoped everything had turned out alright for them.
And someday, maybe, if Fate thought it best, she and Conrad's son would cross paths. And she could thank him. Because she could never return the favour in kind.
The End.