Story Summary: Winter, 1966/1967.  By year's end, U.S. troop levels reach 463,000 with 16,000 combat deaths to date. By this time, over a million American soldiers have rotated through Vietnam.  The capital city of Saigon is under fire, and the VC's Tet Offensive will turn the tide of the entire war.

In Vietnam, Chandler has been left to fend for himself, after getting a severely injured Joey to safety, and Ross has found two new vices in Saigon.  In San Francisco, the house the girls were staying in was firebombed, and Monica has a baby boy.

The Age of Aquarius

Chapter Fifteen: Beyond the Sea, part II

"Oh still, I still believe…you will return…I know you will."

--Boubil/Maltby, Jr.

The low, indecipherable whispering seemed miles away, but the more he was pulled into consciousness, the closer the whispering seemed.  Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes, and struggled to focus.  His head was throbbing, and his eyes were burning.  He blinked a few times, and let out a low groan.  When he opened his eyes, he saw two Vietnamese women looking down at him, concern and confusion lining their eyes.

Where was he?  Who were these women?  He turned his head slightly, and noted that he was lying on the floor of a small thatched hut; similar to the kind he and Joey had been kept in when the Viet Cong had captured them.

Had he been captured again?

One of the women approached him hesitantly.  She seemed somewhat afraid of him, as she slowly reached forward and placed a shaky hand on his forehead. 

He tensed slightly, but it soon became clear that the women meant him no harm.  He struggled to sit up, but his head began throbbing more.  He groaned, and felt a gentle hand coaxing him back down.  He didn't resist, and in moments, he lost consciousness once more.

A haunting orange glow dusted the horizon, when he opened his eyes again.  He tried to focus on the light, as he pulled himself up slowly.  Still unsure of his surroundings, he nervously scanned the area, his weary eyes immediately darting toward the slightest movement. 

A slim, frail woman entered the hut; she carried a small tray, and kept her eyes glued to it, as she crossed the small space.  Chandler watched her warily, relaxing slightly as he noted that the tray held nothing more than a small cup of tea, and some sort of bread.  The woman looked up at him hopefully, and he smiled gratefully, and stuttered out his best Vietnamese thank you.  The woman grinned, clearly amused at the soldier's butchering of her native language.  She settled onto her knees, and watched the man curiously as he ate his bread.

He was still very bruised, and very weak.  But, she thought to herself, the G.I. looked much better than he had only days earlier, when she and her sister had stumbled upon him not far from their village.  They were frightened at first, but it soon became clear that the man they had found was of no threat to them in his current state; he was clearly on the verge of death, and for a moment, they had considered leaving him to this fate.

But in their hearts, they knew that this was not the honorable thing to do.  The man was helpless, and their father had always taught them that taking advantage of the weak was a coward's way.

She had stayed behind with the man, as her sister ran back to the village for help.  The others were not happy that a U.S. soldier was in their midst, and had decided that the man was completely her and her sister's responsibility.

The man had slept for days, and there were moments when the family was certain he would die, but he had held on, and earlier that day he had opened his eyes for the first time.

His eyes had fascinated her—she had never seen such a sea of blue before.  The heavy, charcoal bags that lined his tired features only served to enhance the sharp cerulean that had stared up at her with an odd combination of fear and compassion.  But in an instant, the azure orbs were gone—concealed by heavy lids—as the G.I. slipped into unconsciousness once more.  He slept most of the day away, waking yet again only moments ago.

She pulled herself from her reverie, when she noticed that he was looking at her.  She shifted uncomfortably, and fumbled for the tray.  She stood quickly, and picked up the tray.  He mumbled another thank you, and she shuffled out of the hut.

One Week Later

Chandler had gathered enough strength to venture out of the hut, and help the family with their daily chores, but he was still too weak to try and venture the jungles again.  He tired quickly, and would sometimes suffer from immobilizing headaches.  The family had insisted that he stay until he was fully recovered.

Ten days after his rescue, Chandler was walking with one of the sisters toward a nearby stream, when they heard a distant explosion.  The sister tensed, and shot Chandler a frightened glance. 

Chandler scanned the trees worriedly; he honestly had no idea where he was—for all he knew, he could be in the middle of enemy territory—a sitting duck for the Viet Cong—or for Friendly's who had no idea he was here.

Another, closer explosion sent the girl running back toward the village.  Chandler reached for his sidearm, and then remembered that the villagers had confiscated his weapons when they had rescued him.  He scanned the trees again, before turning and making his way back to the village.

As he approached the village, he noticed that it had become deathly quiet.  The villagers had disappeared into their homes, no doubt terrified by the threat of attack.  He felt a large lump form in his throat—this was their reality, this was what these people—the same people who had saved his life days ago—were forced to live with every day: the constant threat of attack; the uncertainty of what each day held.  They could die at a moments notice, should an enemy plane decide to napalm the area.  And while he too lived with this constant threat, he knew that it was not the same—and that he would never truly understand their struggle to survive.

A closer explosion sent Chandler to the ground, and as he moved to stand, he saw one of the sisters, huddled in the doorway of her hut.  She motioned to him, and he slowly made his way toward her.  When he reached the hut, the woman shoved his firearm into his hand, and closed the door in his face.  He looked at the gun for a moment, then scanned the silent village.  He didn't understand.  Did the villagers expect him to fight off this invisible invasion?  He had no idea what he was up against, and all he had was his .45.  Taking a deep breath, Chandler checked his weapon, and lifted it in front of him slowly, as he scanned the now quiet area.  If he was going to die, he may as well die fighting…

*

San Francisco

Monica moaned, and turned over, her head throbbing with exhaustion.  Jakob was crying.

Again.

She rolled out of bed slowly, and fumbled toward the bassinet that sat in the far corner of her room.

"Shhh, baby, you're gonna wake the whole house," Monica picked up the infant, cradled him in her arms, and began rocking him back and forth.

The girls were all staying in a small, cramped commune in the Upper Haight, until the damage to the house could be assessed and repaired.  The police had given up any hope of finding the fire bombers, and while Chris was convinced that it was the work of a racist organization, Phoebe thought it was more likely to be a group of kids who didn't like the idea of a white woman dating a black man.

Monica, meanwhile was struggling with her conflicting emotions following Jakob's arrival; she knew that both Rachel and Phoebe were happy here in San Francisco, but Monica was miserable.  She longed to be back in New York.  She wanted to attempt to reconcile with her parents—and it was becoming clear that she was not capable of raising a baby on her own.

Deep down, Monica was hoping that Chandler was back from Vietnam, and that he would be eager to see her.  She missed him more every day, especially with Jakob around.  He looked so much like his father, and Monica wanted nothing more than for the two to meet.

Jakob whimpered, pulling Monica from her thoughts.  She looked down at the baby, who was now drifting back to sleep, and felt her own eyes drooping.  Slowly, quietly, she set the baby back in his bed, and crawled into her own.

Thirty minutes later, Jakob was crying again; this time, Monica cried with him.

*

Vietnam

He spun his gun toward the rustling in the bushes to the north.  Moments later, a young boy, no older than nine or ten, emerged from the jungles that surrounded the village.  Chandler lowered his weapon, and studied the boy curiously.  Where had he come from?  The boy wasn't from the village, or if he was, Chandler had never seen him before.  He began to approach the boy, but stopped abruptly, as the boy's torso came into view.

The boy was strapped to a bomb.

Chandler raised his weapon again, and ordered the boy to stop walking toward the village, in both Vietnamese and English.  The boy continued walking, and as he approached, he began muttering something that Chandler couldn't understand.  Chandler pointed his weapon at the boy sharply, and ordered him to stop again.  The boy ignored him, and continued to walk toward the center of the small village.  Chandler watched in horror, as the boy walked straight past him, as though he had never even seen the American.  He looked up at the hut that housed his host family, and saw the sisters, staring at the boy, terror lining their eyes.

Chandler ran toward the boy-bomb, and grabbed him by the collar of his threadbare shirt.  He dragged the boy to the perimeter of the village, and fumbled for the straps of the bomb.  The boy struggled from Chandler's grasp, and pulled a small knife from his boot.  The boy lunged at the G.I., sinking the knife into Chandler's shoulder.  Chandler growled in pain, but ignored the knife in an attempt to stop the boy again.  The boy turned to smirk at Chandler, and the latter realized that the bomb was set to go off at any moment.  He backed up toward the jungle, then aimed his gun at the child's head.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion.  He saw the boy, turning toward the village again, intent on destroying all that he could.  He felt his finger, pulling the trigger of the gun.  He saw the boy, contracting as the bullet hit the back of his tiny head, killing him on impact.  He saw the boy careening toward the ground, and he vaguely heard the screams of the villagers, as the scrambled out of harm's way.

He huddled behind a tree, several yards from the child.  The bomb went off seconds later, igniting a nearby hut, but killing no one in the village.

Chandler opened his eyes, his hands shaking wildly.  He looked down, and saw the knife, still protruding from his left shoulder.

Oddly, he felt no pain from the wound.

His heart was pounding furiously, and his stomach was turning.  He sat up slowly, and the images of the past several seconds filled his head.

He leaned against the tree, and vomited.

Several villagers appeared moments later, each of them talking quickly and cheerfully.  Though he couldn't understand them, Chandler knew that the villagers were congratulating him, and thanking him for saving their village.

He didn't feel much like a hero.

The villagers helped him to his feet, each of them still rambling excitedly.  Chandler shuffled back to the village stoically.  He turned, and saw the charred remains of the bamboo hut, and of the boy who had destroyed it.

In his head, he knew that he had saved lives.

He knew that the boy could have destroyed much more, given the opportunity.

He knew that the villagers had saved his life, and that he had owed them.

He knew all of this—but it didn't change the fact that he had just killed a child.

As the sun set on the saved village, the soldier who had rescued it broke down and cried.

It's far beyond a star,

It's near beyond the moon

I know beyond a doubt

My heart will lead me there soon

We'll meet beyond the shore

We'll kiss just like before

Happy we'll be beyond the sea

And never again I'll go sailing

(Beyond the Sea, by Bobby Darin)