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Woodbridge LIFE
Jake's Story As written by Ray Noble
Editor's Note: Phil Bookman gave his Creative Writing class participants an assignment. According to Ray Noble, "He [Phil] gave us the bones of a story and we were to put the flesh on it. You'd have to ask Phil exactly what those bones were, I've lost my notes. I do remember they purposely had no meat on them at all. I took each of those bones and composed a picture in my mind, then described what I saw. Being an artist helped." The following story is Ray Noble's creative account. This is a fictional story.
I
watched Jake as he stared in the mirror. Minutes passed as he took inventory; 5’10”, 280 lbs, BMI of 40.2 equaling morbidly obese, scarred flesh torn from bullet wounds, shrapnel and jagged parts of a disintegrating chopper; after 31 years, all of it evident and ugly.
It didn’t matter. There was nothing left to matter now. Roberta was gone. And he was hungry again. Just the act of eating made him hungry. It was the way he could handle the incessant pain of the headaches that scorched his brain. It had been so since the chopper crash, … no it was the crack of the .45-caliber slug rending the skull of the VC [Vietcong] soldier, and then those eyes that were no longer the windows of the soul.
Jake hated all of it; the war we were not allowed to win, the bloody cruelty of the killing with no plausible effect and the scorching of a beautiful country. When he was inducted, he decided not to carry arms, so his MOS was as a Medic. That way he could feel a clear conscience in saving rather taking lives. I listened as Jake mused and his mind drifted back these 31 years to that last mission. It was to be a normal if somewhat risky recovery of some wounded following a firefight, about 50 miles from their location. The chopper pilot, a seasoned veteran with but two months left to serve before going home performed a normal avoidance approach with a low sweep and an abrupt touch down. “We were expecting some incoming, but except for some distant gunfire there was none." Jake spoke barely above a whisper. “I leaped into the low brush but there were no GIs. The only wounded was a single VC retching in pain from a shattered knee wound. What a pitiful sight, like me, just another lost soul in this damned jungle. I picked him up and threw him aboard the chopper, to the disgust of Sargent Sam. He had always viewed my compassion as a character weakness. But small arms fire was increasing and getting closer so this was no time
to lecture me on the practical side of combat effectiveness. So the chopper lifted straight up, then moved to clear the meadow and on well above the jungle.” “Right then at about 900 feet, some random automatic fire hit one of our engine's electronic controls. The engines went immediately to 40% power, not nearly enough power for our load. Sam ordered us to throw anything loose overboard to lighten the load and halt the decent. But we continued to drop. Finally Sam ordered me to throw the VC out.” “I was shaking with fear and loathing the prospect of throwing a live being from the chopper. Sam barked the order again, but I could not move. In a single swift move Sam swept his .45 from his holster, popped the safety off and shot the VC in the forehead spattering the rear of his cranium against the aft bulkhead.” Jake explained he was horror driven as he saw what was occurring and nudged the VC out of the opening. He was momentarily frozen as the body fell away and grew smaller, and the jungle grew larger. Jake braced for the crash. Jake continued, “Our pilot, Joe was killed instantly when a broken piece of the rotor entered the cockpit and removed his face. Sam’s spine was severed,” and it was only moments before his eyes lost the sign of life with an unfocused stare that Jake had seen so many times before. Jake, apart from superficial lacerations was whole, but he could hear the rustle of VC in the thick jungle on their way here to claim whatever prize remained.
Photo courtesy of Bill Barnhart. Ray Noble is active in several WOA Groups including the Wheels of Woodbridge.
Now for the first time in the last hour, he could think clearly; he was the only survivor, if they didn’t kill him, life as a POW was worse. The only option; run, cover, observe, run, cover, observe. Repeat. As much as he hated guns he had taken Sam’s .45 and would use it on himself if necessary. But he did not need to. After two weeks of running, hiding, and eating dead things or their maggot parasites, Jake reached the safety of the friendlies, and in two more days was back in his unit hospital for R&R. He weighed a
Page 27 • February 2014 hundred pounds. As the story spread of his attempt to help a “Gook,” he became an object of ridicule and he was shunned. The isolation took its toll. There was some talk of a courtmartial for “Assisting the Enemy.” The brass however preferred to “Go Quiet” on the subject to avoid publicity. The unpopular war was winding down. They saw no advantage in raising attention on any controversial point. All that was 31 years ago. Jake drifted through life like a rudderless boat, taking odd jobs, attending several schools on the GI Bill, random relationships and places both abroad and at home. But finally home for Jake became Juneau, Alaska. He had worked the pipeline in Alaska and the state’s isolation suited him. His relations with people had not produced good results and no results with women. That was of course until he met Roberta. She was the only person on God’s green earth who understood who Jake was and could love him for it. But Jake's constant brooding and dark outlook had, after eleven years, proven to be too large a burden for even this dear lady. So she, without drama, but with quiet tears went South. Jake even more sullen than usual went to his rucksack and extracted the only souvenir he carried. It was Sam’s old .45 which he put in his mouth and pulled the trigger. I knew Jake. He was my brother. Ray Noble served in the United States Army from 1953 to 1955. He is a retired art teacher and member of the Woodbridge writers group that meets the third Tuesday of each month at 3 p.m. in the Club Room at the Lakeview Clubhouse. Residents are welcome to audit sessions led by former newspaper editor Phil Bookman.
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