Carry Me Home by John M. Del Vecchio Page A

He did his best to sound professional, sincere, to hide his drunkenness. “We were a pretty tight unit.”
    “Did you see much action?” the professor prodded.
    “I saw some,” Wapinski answered warily.
    “An awful lot of American boys are being maimed and killed over there for some rather vague reasons. Is it true that battle casualties are five times higher than what’s being reported?”
    “I don’t think so. You know what—”
    “I’ve seen the figures of the number of men hospitalized and matched them against the reported wounded and killed. It’s five times higher, Mr. Wapinski.”
    “Of course it is, Professor Tilden,” Wapinski said. He drew himself up to his full height. The condescending tone of the professor grated like an awl being dragged down his spine, but he knew he was on solid ground here. He knew the figures inside and out. “Our battle casualties account for a little less than one-fifth of our hospitalizations,” he said simply. “What really drains manpower from operations are infections, like those caused by insect or leech bites, or just grass cuts. Those, malaria, diarrhea, funguses—”
    “Fungi,” Tilden corrected.
    “Fungi,” Wapinski repeated, not knowing that either was correct.
    “You know a lot about the war?” Tilden asked rhetorically. Wapinski didn’t answer. He sipped his beer, tried to hide his anger, his disgust at what seemed to be a setup. “It’s something we can’t win, you know,” Tilden said.
    “Why, Professor, can’t we win?”
    “That nation is historically predestined to be reunited. We can’t win. The people will rise up and kill every American.”
    “What people?” The statement was so distant from Wapinski’s experiences that he felt bewildered. “The South Viet Namese?! If they wanted to rise up they would have during the Tet offensive last year.”
    “Maybe our bombers were too much for them.”
    “No. No. You don’t understand. Two years ago the fighting was in and around the cities and the villages but the invading army and the guerillas were pushed back. Last year they staged one major coordinated assault at Tet and they were trounced. Now most of the fighting’s in the border regions.”
    “And you can take responsibility for that?”
    “Mr. Tilden, I took responsibility for myself and my men. And I’m proud of what we accomplished. I’m proud—”
    “Tell me about that responsibility. Pushing conscripted men up foreign hills to their deaths while you stay behind the lines—”
    “Wait. Wait. It’s ... I can’t tell you how tremendous the responsibility of being an officer is. That’s almost impossible to describe.” Wapinski lowered his shoulders and head, paused for a moment, calmly said, “When you command a platoon or a company in combat, you’re responsible for every man’s life. Very few of my men were drafted. Very few. Most were volunteers. Almost a third were on their second tours. When you’re in charge of a man in combat, it’s not like in business or something. We’re not talking about his job or his grade. I’m talking about his life. Do you know what that means? If you hiccough wrong you might get that guy killed. When I got there I was twenty-two years old. I thought I’d get a platoon of old-timers and I’d be the kid. Half of my platoon was nineteen. Sir, after one fight, I knew what responsibility was. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have one of your men killed? Not flunked, Professor. Killed. Not even killed from somebody making a mistake. Not from bad tactics. From combat. It eats at you.”
    “Exactly,” Tilden said condescendingly. Several of the students laughed. Wapinski felt humiliated, angry. “It should eat at you because you caused it. What it is really all about, Mr. Wapinski, and I’m sure you must agree, is the institutional rot and corruption of the Army’s officer corps that allowed men like yourself to win promotions using conventional tactics to claim imaginary