“But the Army needs you in artillery. Here are your deployment papers. They’re waiting for you in Tan Son Nhut, where you’ll get advanced training. Good luck.”

October 1964

Midafternoon in the Haight. Among the beatniks, hippies, and mods; among the flower children and potheads; among the bell-bottom pants and tie-dyed shirts, walked two men. One was clean-shaven, wearing a well cut dark-gray suit with a matching tie, a disapproving fedora sitting stiffly on his head: clearly, in the parlance of the street, a fuddy-duddy. The other was a bit more interesting. Clad in the boring suit of an older generation, he sported a large, black silk beanie on his head that set him apart from the squares, from the establishment that the neighborhood had turned its much-tattooed back on.

Reb Yeruchum Freed and Mr. Fred Burton walked through the crowded streets, Burton nervously grasping a postcard in his sweaty hand like some kind of talisman.

Maybe it was just fatigue. After all, Marjorie had slept perhaps five hours in the last 36, subsisting on Danny’s sandwiches and endless packages of chips. Whatever the reason, this off-the-wall optimism that something would work out, that she’d somehow find the way to wherever it was she wanted to be, wrapped her in a misty and yet warm cloud of hope as the Mustang roared its psychedelic way back to the Haight.

IT was quiet today on the base hospital, with just the usual background noises: the growl of the generator, three nurses chatting while taking a break, the occasional groan from a soldier whose bandages were being changed. From outside came faint noises of soldiers throwing a ball around in a pickup football game and the even fainter pop-pop sound from a nearby shooting range.

The wail of a siren broke the peace. Three short blasts — like shevarim, Mutty thought as he watched the hospital staff race to their assigned positions. Some grabbed stretchers and equipment and disappeared outside, while others rushed into the operating theater and began sterilization procedures.

Feeling useless, Mutty followed the staff who’d gone outside and were now anxiously scanning the skies.

With nothing going on, Mutty found the courage to speak to a corpsman who’d been friendly to him.

“What’s happening?”

“Dust off.”

“Huh?”

The corpsman rolled his eyes. “Dust off. Medical evacuation of wounded personnel after combat. And,” he added, looking at his watch, “if they’re not here in four minutes, it means the enemy is holding the choppers back with anti-aircraft.”

“And that means?”

“It means more guys dying, while the choppers try to get through.”

But the NVA’s guns had apparently not been targeting the skies, and two minutes later the air above seemed to tremble under the shriek and roar of three “air ambulances” landing in front of the base. Five victims in all, with injuries ranging from head and neck wounds to mangled legs to shrapnel in an abdomen, and, in one unconscious soldier, a serious spinal injury.

Triage was quick and professional. Mutty watched as IVs were attached, fractures splinted, tourniquets applied, and the most badly wounded man prepped for surgery. The chopper pilots, their mission completed, waved a quick goodbye to the staff and jumped back into their Hueys; soon, their rotors were slicing through the steamy air.

Mutty glanced at his watch. His shift in Supply would begin in half an hour, but he’d been told to report to the CO’s office first. With his adrenaline pumping, he walked swiftly to his appointment.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s about a transfer to corpsman training.

The CO returned Mutty’s sharp salute with a weary gesture. “So Levine, I hear you’re getting a personal tour of our hospital.”

“Yes sir, and—”

“And I’m sure you would make a fine corpsman.”

A wave of hope. Maybe....

“But the Army needs you in artillery. Here are your deployment papers. They’re waiting for you in Tan Son Nhut, where you’ll get advanced training. Good luck.”

And with that, Mutty’s dream exploded with the force of a four-ton howitzer.