Fatal Light by Richard Currey Page A

week. Mr. Hope was coming to cheer us up, he said. The aide read prepared copy typed onto an index card. We would all be expected to attend the performance. He read on about classic humor, beautiful girls, and a special musical guest. Then he turned and was gone.
    All of us, all of us who could, watched the doorway in a lengthening silence; all of us, bandaged, minus limbs, minus eyes, in traction, in body casts, in wheelchairs, on crutches, we watched the vacant doorway. The soldier with the Silver Star continued to stare into the same square of empty space. His medal glinted in its case, with a copy of the citation on the bedside table.
    I heaved up to my cot and lay down and looked at the water-stained ceiling, listening to helicopters coming and going, smelling the mud and sweat. My mind seemed useless to me, an old engine riding into a backwash, lost in the world I had called home. I sat on the side of the bed to reach for some stale C-ration chocolate I had saved, and I was unable to cry, or speak, or move.

7
    A chaplain made rounds while I was on convalescent status. Usually he only nodded; now he was pulling a folding chair to my bedside, pointing to the book I was reading. A paperback mystery from the hospital library. A black stamp defaced the worn cover: DONATED BY AMERICAN RED CROSS.
    â€œGood book?”
    â€œWonderful,” I said. “All about murder and deception.”
    â€œI see,” the chaplain said, sitting down.
    There was uneasy silence between us. I put the book aside. “Something I can do for you, Father?”
    The chaplain pursed his lips before he spoke. “Your doctor mentioned you might be in the market for somebody to talk to. He thinks your recovery’s been a lonely one.”
    â€œHell, no,” I said. “A veritable party.”
    The chaplain crossed his legs, patted one hand on his knee three times, looked away.
    I said, “I’m not really in the market for much of anything just now, Father. No offense.”
    â€œNone taken.”
    I nodded.

    â€œThey have you doped up?”
    I smiled, closed my eyes. “Haven’t had a thing today,” I said.
    The chaplain told me he imagined it was hard for a man to say what was on his mind, things being what they were. He was as crisp as his uniform, thin black hair falling away from a receding hairline.
    I opened my eyes. “Things being what they are,” I said.
    â€œThat tremor,” the chaplain said. “Your doctor mentioned that. What’s that about?”
    I reached a pack of cigarettes from under my pillow, offered one to the chaplain.
    He declined. “It’s no smoking in here,” he said.
    I swung my casted leg over the bedside, sat up, lit the cigarette.
    â€œSo what about that tremor,” the chaplain said.
    â€œAnger,” I said.
    â€œAnger?”
    â€œPure and simple.”
    The chaplain looked confused.
    â€œTerrible anger,” I said quietly. “Rage.”
    â€œDon’t you mean fear? I mean, why should you be angry?”
    I stared at him.
    â€œReally,” he went on. “Your platoon commander tells me you’re a remarkable young man. Courageous. Intelligent. Tough. Your platoon looks up to you. He said they all consider you a good-luck charm.”
    â€œSoldiers are superstitious,” I said.
    â€œIn fact,” the chaplain said, “and maybe I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you’re being recommended for a very high decoration. For how you handled that situation out near Cu Chi.”
    I blew smoke, extinguishing the cigarette on the inner wall of a Styrofoam cup. “Father,” I said, “I didn’t even know what I was doing. I didn’t even know who I was shooting at.”
    The chaplain uncrossed his legs. His shoulder insignia sparkled under the fluorescent bulbs.

    â€œI didn’t even see the face of the man I killed,” I said. “I was just a terrified guy with a