Family Tree

This story contains depictions of physically and emotionally traumatic events, as well as suicide ideation.

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Paul Baker was drafted into the Army at 19, and turned 21 in the Vietnam jungle. His birthday present to himself was a six-pack of Miller he stole from underneath his lieutenant's cot. Neither was permitted to have booze in their hooch, but everyone knew the brigade commander tended to look the other way when it came to rules he too despised. Paul was caught red-handed as young, careless privates often are. His informal punishment? Return the loot, and a month of latrine duty, which consisted of using a short, folding shovel to fill an old, rusty bucket that was dumped at the bottom of the slope.

In between patrols, the troops had a little downtime that was usually spent tending to the FOB. They would dry out their clothes and sleeping bags, doctor their feet, fortify positions, take turns on fire watch, and restock supplies delivered in the latest drop. In the middle of their forward rotation, Paul’s company received a pleasant interruption to their laborious routine: their first mail call. The company commander, Captain Smith–who was never one to miss a chance to look like the hero–personally handed out the letters and packages. “Drake.” “Benson.” “Davis.” “Solomon.” He called from atop a wooden ammo box.

There was a girl Paul wrote to. He wrote her from his bunk aboard USNS General LeRoy Eltinge, and he wrote her while in staging at Long Binh Post before being rotated into the jungle. He wrote her a dozen times. He had desperately hoped to hear back, but never did. A few nights before General Leroy departed the states, she ended their romance. “Wait for me?” He had asked. “I can’t handle the uncertainty.” She replied. With his last letter, written the night before climbing into the Chinook that would deliver him into the belly of the beast, he told her he was letting go. Stuffing away his broken heart and bitterness, he told himself that he no longer cared if he ever saw her again. She was now in Paul's mind what pilots call a non-factor; She existed, but had no impact on Paul’s course.

“Baker.” The CO shouted. Doing his best to avoid putting pressure on his blisters, Paul waddled up to Captain Smith and retrieved his letter. When he looked at the return address, his heart skipped a beat. He must be delirious, drunk, or dreaming. But no, there was her name, Melinda Sullivan. The boys tried to convince Paul to burn it. “F*** that b****.” The expletives rolled. “She’s stringing you along.” Paul couldn’t burn it, but he didn’t read it either. He slid it into the chest pocket of his top.

Patrols went out for three or four days at a time. Each man would carry two holstered canteens, a change of socks, ammo for two or three fire fights (plus a little margin), a small survival kit, and only the number of c-rations divisional planners predetermined were needed for each day. No extra. Paul’s company drew the short straw of scouting a particularly rocky section of the jungle that included Hill 291. On the eastern side of this jagged slope stood a vertical cliff that plunged two hundred feet into the river below. It was only a few hours after Paul’s platoon reached the top that Corporal Solomon stepped on a landmine. The blast triggered an ambush, and also knocked Paul unconscious and tossed him toward the edge of the cliff. When his limp body hit the ground, his momentum carried him over the side.

When he regained consciousness, he found himself hanging upside down from a tree growing out from the face of the rock, his lower left leg caught in a fork of the trunk. It was maybe ten or fifteen feet from the top. He pulled himself up, and took a teetering seat. His platoon, he assumed, had been wiped out, or had followed their training and fled the kill zone, down the hill. Either way, he was alone.

Once the adrenaline wore off, Paul was in immense pain. He looked down to see a piece of steel jutting out from his stomach. Gut wounds are some of the deadliest because they bleed a lot and are difficult to bandage. Paul gritted his teeth, knowing what he had to do. Keeping his balance, he unsnapped one of his canteen holsters, removed one of two flares from his survival kit, bit down on the handle of his knife, and pulled out the shrapnel. He then rinsed the gash, lit the flare, held the knife in front of the blinding flame, and cauterized the wound. To account for the possibility of internal bleeding, he inserted the hot tip of the blade inside the wound before sealing the outside.

When the searing pain subsided, he moved onto another injury: his dislocated knee. He carefully scooted down the trunk of the tree, inch by inch. Because of the dislocation, he couldn’t extend his leg into a straight position. With no other choice, he removed his belt, looped it around his boot, pulled his foot up to align the joint, and drove his heel into the rock. The pop was drowned out by Paul’s shrieks, which echoed through the trees.

He ran out of rations on the third day and water on the fourth. He pushed past the bitter taste of his own concentrated urine. He never slept for fear of falling. The hallucinations brought all sorts of companions, including his mother, who said "you need to get some rest.” There were nights when he considered his mother’s advice. Would it be so bad not to wake up?

On the seventh day, Paul relented. Through bloodshot, teary eyes, he said his final prayers. He planned to let a breeze take him so that he had plausible deniability of suicide at the Pearly Gates. He called out to his mother. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.” He closed his eyes, and just as he decided to let go, he remembered the letter. It was still in his chest pocket, waiting, now burning. What a strange thing, the power of curiosity. There was no way in hell he could die without reading it. It was the last thing he had to live for and his only remaining connection to home. He took it out and held it. He smelled it. Then, he opened it.

"Dear Paul,

I’m sorry I haven’t written to you sooner. I’ve received and read all of your letters, but I didn’t know if replying would be right. However, circumstances have changed.

Accompanying this letter is a picture of my darling little Anna. She is your daughter. I would like for her to meet you someday, so please, be safe.

Melinda"

Paul frantically looked into the envelope and saw it: a small, two by two color photo of a little baby girl, not two weeks old, wearing a purple dress. He took it out and held it up for a clearer look. She had a full head of dark hair, big, brown eyes, and a button nose that sat in the middle of a perfectly symmetrical face. Shock is too weak a word for the feeling that overcame Paul. A combination of surprise, guilt, happiness, grief, and yearning nearly knocked him off the tree. He felt as if he already knew the little girl, and he now wanted nothing more than to hold her, to comfort her, to smell her baby smell, to hear her coos, and to feel her soft skin. Tormented by hindsight and gripping the photo, Paul wept. The thought of Anna growing up without a father made him hopelessly sad. “How could you quit?” He shamed himself.

With a renewed conviction, Paul put the photo and letter back into his chest pocket, and gripped the tree. “I have to be there. I have to be there. I have to be there.” He said to himself. He felt as though he had a second chance at life, and he was desperate to keep from wasting it. He made small cuts on his arm, bit his tongue, chewed on sticks and leaves of the tree, and sniffed his own excrement to stay awake. He would either survive until he was rescued, or until his body involuntarily shut down.

As if by divine intervention, a few hours later he heard the faint chopping of a helicopter just out of view. He fumbled for his last flare, nearly dropping it, and as soon as he saw an Army-green fuselage appear around the hill, he pulled the cord. Even as the helicopter circled, Paul struggled to stay awake, and as soon as the crew chief laid hands on him, he passed out. The medical staff on base had one hell of a time treating Paul’s hands, which were rubbed raw by the tree bark. He couldn’t open them.

The second his palms were healed, Paul made his way down to the Long Binh Post Exchange and bought a pen, paper, a stamp, and an envelope. He walked back to his bunk, took a seat on the edge of the bed, and started writing.

“Dear Melinda…”