Over two and a half million Americans served in the Vietnam War. Of those who served, 58,148 gave their lives. Tyler Taylor is a complex and angry young man who drops out of college after he is kicked off the USC football team. His life is falling apart, his parents are separated, and he is in pain and has lost interest in nearly everything. Almost immediately, though, he is drafted into the army. Once in the army, he begins to see his life in a new light, particularly after experiencing the horrors of combat in the Vietnam War. Tyler and his two friends, John Raab and Mike Petrov, go from basic training to medical studies and into the airborne. Each of them comes from a different background, but they form a friendship that is united by their shared experience of war. They quickly learn how to be soldiers and in the process discover their own identities. His transformation from a troubled, angry youth continues when he meets Maggie in Australia while on R&R. Now all he has to do survive the jungles of the Vietnam War, so that he can return to the love that he has been missing in his life.

TRY TO REMEMBER ... VIETNAM

By John R. Hodgson

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 John R. Hodgson
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-3615-7

Chapter One

Tyler Taylor sat at the back of the bus surveying the 40 or so men spread out in the seats in front of him. Maybe this is where I belong, he thought, the back of the bus. He definitely didn't want to be sitting up front. Whatever was coming, he was in no hurry to get there. Why he was going - that he knew only too well. He closed his eyes and thought of his parents and their divorce and how that had plunged him into further depression. He however, didn't kid himself. He was well on the way to this trip right out of high school. He just didn't know it. What looked so promising then had all fallen apart by his sophomore year at USC. He had been kicked off the football team after numerous warnings from the coach. There was just so much he could overlook. His grades were dismal and without the football scholarship, he stopped going to class. By the end of the fall semester he received his draft notice. So much for being an architect, he thought.

"Hey man, do you think we'll end up in Nam?" The guy sitting next to Tyler asked as they drove further north towards Fort Ord.

Tyler had hardly noticed the short, boyish looking Mexican who was now staring at him. "Probably." Tyler replied. He didn't feel like talking.

"I signed up" the Mexican replied. "I want to be in the infantry and kill some Cong." Tyler just nodded. "Why do I have to sit next to the idiot on the bus?" he wondered. Looking around at the group traveling with him, he figured there were more.

Maybe he should have listened to his dad's advice about modeling himself after his best friend. Tim Rowe was in his sophomore year at Yale. He was the starting free safety on the football team and as usual getting good grades. Tyler had last seen him at Christmas break just after he had been kicked off the team. They had kind of drifted apart since then. Tim had a future; Tyler did too ... in the Army.

As the bus made its slow progress up the northern coast, Tyler looked out at the beautiful scenery of the Monterey Bay Peninsula. The long white beaches and groves of oak trees. He had looked up information about Fort Ord when he got his draft notice. It was over 28,000 acres and had been purchased by the Army in 1917 as an artillery range. Years before he had driven by it a couple times on trips to San Francisco with his parents. He just hadn't paid much attention to the Army base that would be home for the time being. The beauty of the area was lost to him after their arrival.

"All right, you Momma's boys, get your asses off the bus and line up in front of me."

Tyler moved off the bus and avoided eye contact with the drill instructor. Too much eye contact in the past usually resulted in a fight. Drinking and fighting had caused him to lose his scholarship. While he hated people at him, he had decided he would have to get used to it or end up in the brig. He took his place at the end of the quickly assembled line of men and placed his small athletic bag in front of him. It had the a USC graphic stenciled on the side. He had packed light, figuring the Army would give him what he needed. The DIs walked up and down the lines, stopping at times to harass some poor son-of-a-bitch. One stopped in front of Tyler and stared at his bag.

"What have we got here?" he asked, staring first at the bag, then at Tyler. "A big college boy. Were you at college, asshole?"

Tyler looked straight ahead and answered "Yes." The DI's eyes locked on Tyler's. "Yes what, asshole?" He roared.

"Yes, sir," answered Tyler.

"Yes, sir? Yes, sir?" screamed the DI into Tyler's face. "Do I look like I don't work for a living? Do I?"

Tyler's face flushed red. "No sir," he answered

"What is your name asshole?" The sergeant yelled.

"Private Taylor." Tyler yelled, staring directly into the DI's eyes.

"And you went to college, boy. What a sad commentary on our educational system," he yelled, walking a little up the line from Tyler. He then turned around ,ran back and got into Tyler's face again. "You will address me as sergeant. Have you got that, you college reject?"

Tyler had yet to even be sworn into the Army and was already losing his temper. When it came to "flight or fight", Tyler was always ready for the latter. This time, though, he bit his tongue.

"Yes, sergeant."

The DI stayed right in his face. "The rest of you worthless assholes will address us only when spoken to. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sergeant," the group replied in unison.

The sergeant walked slowly away from Tyler. "I'll remember you, Taylor", he said over his shoulder.

It wasn't what Tyler wanted, the asshole to remember him . The smart thing was to blend into the background and stay there.

Maybe in the next two years, Tyler thought, he would find out what it was that he wanted for the rest of his life. Either that or he wouldn't have to think about it. He thought about the television coverage he had started watching on the war. It wasn't pretty.

A flurry of activity followed. Tyler and the others got haircuts, were issued uniforms and assigned temporary housing for the night. He found himself staring at the ceiling from the top of the bunk he shared with a black kid from Watts. His name was Jimmy Johnson. Watts was only about 40 miles from Newport Beach; but it was a world away.

"Hey Taylor, what MOS are you looking to get into? Me, I want to be a military policeman. Instead of being pushed around by the pigs, I am going to be one," Johnson proclaimed from the bottom bunk.

The most knowledgeable of the new recruits had been talking about "MOS" - or military occupation specialty - since their arrival on base. Tyler also discovered that nobody thought they would be in the infantry. Fat chance of that, thought Tyler.

"I don't know, Johnson. Maybe I'll apply for nuclear scientist or maybe a cook."

"What?" Johnson replied.

Tyler figured it didn't matter one way or another. The Army would put him where they wanted him. Right now he was freezing because all the windows were open in the barracks. One DI told them they were at risk of spinal meningitis, which evidently had spread throughout the base. So the windows would be open and once they reached their training barracks they would be restricted to it for their eight weeks of basic combat training. Great, thought Tyler, maybe I'll die of disease instead of being shot or blown up. After tossing around on the small bunk for a couple hours, he fell asleep.

Chapter Two

B-2-3. That was the name of his training barracks, lots of class - a letter and a couple of numbers. No fancy names like the dorms Tyler had stayed in at USC. This was a drab gray building sitting on the top of a hill that overlooked a training field. A no frills hotel, he thought. There was a mess hall at the end of the long building. It looked like there were three or four sections that comprised the remainder of the building that groups of about 40 men stood in front of. He was in the first group of men who now moved into their new home.... If you could call it that.

Finally staying at the back of the line paid off. While the majority of guys were in one large barracks, the last six stragglers were assigned a separate room. He joined them. Most were draftees, but a couple were RA or regular army. After a while, those who had been drafted changed RA to mean real assholes. That came later, however. The first task was to unpack, make your bed the military way and fall out to the front of the barracks - all in a couple minutes.

A DI stood in front of each of the four platoons that made up the company. At the top of steps, overlooking the company, stood a single DI. He surveyed the men who stood at attention below his gaze. He waited a full minute before speaking.

"Men, my name is Sergeant Crooker and you'd better remember that."

Crooker began walking in front of each platoon, surveying the men who were standing at attention. Tyler managed a quick glimpse at the DI standing in front of his platoon. He looked hard and in very good shape, thought Tyler. He had the look of his old linebacker coach at USC. The sergeant strutted toward the next platoon. His booming voice could be heard from the end of the farthest formation. If a bulldog could talk, this is what he would sound like, Tyler thought.

"You will listen and react to every order you are given by your drill instructor and any other cadre you may come in contact with. Is that understood?"

The company answered in unison, a resounding "Yes, sergeant."

Crooker, who had turned his back to the company spun around quickly with a look of disgust on his face.

"What did you pussies say? I can't hear you. Do you have any balls?"

Again the company tried to appease the square-jawed sergeant. "Yes, sergeant," they all screamed.

Tyler was getting bored by the psychological play. He knew the harassment was going to feel like hell week in football, except this lasted eight weeks. He moaned silently. At least the physical training wouldn't be too bad. He had stayed in shape after football ended in spite of all the partying and drinking. He was 6 foot 2, weighed 220 pounds and had been lifting weights since high school. Most of the guys around him looked out of shape. Crooker walked away into the barracks. The DI who was standing in front of his assigned platoon turned to address them.

"I am Sergeant Merelli and I will lead you for the next eight weeks of training. At the end of your training we will be the best platoon in this company. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Sergeant!" the men replied, almost in unison.

Merelli paced the front line, eyeing every soldier as he walked by. All of a sudden he ran up to an unlucky draftee in the second row and read the soldier's name at the top of his breast pocket. "Patterson, what is a retard like you doing in this man's army? Why isn't your shirt tucked in?

Patterson said nothing, probably not sure of which question to answer first, Tyler thought.

"Drop down and give me 20 push-ups." Merelli yelled. Patterson fell to the ground and started doing his push-ups.

"You will count them out as you do them Private Patterson. Start over."

As Patterson yelled out the numbers of his punishment, Merelli continued walking among the soldiers, who desperately tried to avoid looking him in the eye. Tyler thought he looked pretty wimpy for a drill instructor. Unlike Crooker, Merelli was short, maybe 5 foot 7, and maybe weighed 150 pounds soaking wet. He had a hawkish nose, short black hair and wore thick black plastic glasses with coke bottle lenses. He must have evidently let a smile creep onto his lips, because Merelli suddenly turned and barked at him.

"Do you think this is funny Private Taylor?"

Tyler looked straight ahead over the DI's hat. He still had a little smirk on his face. "No, Sergeant. I am just a happy person." Tyler said sarcastically. What the hell, he thought, might as well have some fun.

"Is that right, Taylor?" Merelli said, looking at some of the other recruits.

"Anybody else happy here?" When no one answered, Merelli again addressed Tyler.

"Well Taylor you may be the only happy son-of-a-bitch in this platoon and that makes me sad. Private Taylor, you can return to the barracks. The rest of you unhappy assholes drop and give me 50."

Taylor stood there at first staring at the sergeant. "I told you to get out of here wiseass. Now move." Merelli barked at him.

Tyler ran back to the barracks thinking that he had managed to get attention he didn't want. He also thought- I can kick this guy's ass.

Ten minutes later the rest of his platoon returned to the barracks on the run. One of them yelled at him.

"Hey Taylor, Merelli is inspecting the barracks in five minutes."

The rest of his roommates ran in and started putting away their equipment and clothing. Tyler jumped up from his bunk and tried to neatly store his stuff. He didn't need to be noticed again.

Chapter Three

What the hell am I doing here? Tyler was at the back of his platoon, pushing an overweight recruit along as they jogged out to the rifle range at Fort Ord. The guy, whom Tyler didn't really know very well, was having a very bad time trying to keep up. Sgt. Merelli' s idea of fun was to turn around the whole platoon and double back to pick up the stragglers so he had decided to help out.

"What's the matter, Harwood, did you drink too much beer at college this last semester?" Merelli yelled at the guy Tyler was pushing.

"Harwood, you miserable fuck, you carry your own rifle," he screamed after noticing that Tyler was carrying both his and Harwood's M-14s. "Never put down your rifle. Do you hear me?" Merelli was now running along beside Harwood as Tyler continued to push him from behind.

"Give him his rifle Taylor." Merelli yelled at Tyler.

Harwood evidently got scared and picked up the pace on his own. As Merelli continued to berate him about being fat and out of shape, Harwood moved towards Tyler for his rifle. As he reached for it, he tripped and stumbled to the ground. Tyler was able to jump over the fallen soldier as the rifle fell to the ground. He looked back in time to see Harwood vomit on Merelli's highly polished boots. Tyler smirked, but knew this would not be good for any of them.

"Platoon, halt."

Merelli barked out the order just as the platoon neared a rifle range along the beach. Tyler glanced back to see Merelli pull the 250 pound Harwood across the vomit that covered his boots. Tyler was impressed with the strength of the skinny DI.

"Platoon, attention! About face." Merelli yelled at the men, who turned to face him almost in unison, except for the fallen Harwood, who had made no move to stand.

"What we have here people is an out of shape puke who in combat will get you killed. Why you might ask? Because you have to wait for him, you have to care for him and his equipment instead of caring for yourself and your mission. But you know what? The U.S. Army doesn't leave people behind. So you get to carry him."

Merelli assigned two other guys to carry Harwood. Tyler joined his squad and they marched to the rifle range. Tyler looked out at what was the beauty of the Fort Ord coastline, the ice plant was blooming in the sand, gulls were flying overhead and he could smell the ocean. From where they were he could barely see the shoreline and wondered if the surfing was any good here. Right now it looked flat, but he would still love to be in the water.

For some reason he started thinking of Patty Olsen. She had been his girlfriend and surfing companion in high school. Since then she had become another causality of poor decisions he had made. She frequently crept into his thoughts unexpectedly. She was married now and belonged to someone else. He hadn't seen her since his freshman year of college, but he knew she would always be buried in his heart. Patty Olsen, except it wasn't Olsen anymore. Now it was Bedford. She had married a guy named Sam Bedford who she had met at Orange Coast Community College after their final breakup. She was the only girlfriend he had who really understood him, but their romance just seemed to evaporate when he went to USC. He barely saw her with football, studies and all the parties. He didn't even blame her when she finally called to tell him it was over. At the time it didn't seem to matter.

He was having a ball, even if he wasn't starting for the Trojans yet. He had been recruited by John McKay at the end of his senior year at Newport Beach High. His team had won the 3A California Interscholastic Federation's championship and he had made first team All-CIF at linebacker. There were plenty of girls at SC for him. It wasn't until things starting going bad that he thought about losing her.

Your mind and heart are funny things he thought. One, you can occasionally lie to and get away with it. The other just won't let you forget when you fuck up. He realized that thinking about the ocean had opened the door to thoughts of Patty. She started out as his surfing buddy. Patty was the only girl in high school who could keep up with the guys and most of the time-she could show them how it was done. She was a jock, but a very cute one. While they dated on occasion during his sophomore and junior year, it wasn't until their senior year when they really got serious.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from TRY TO REMEMBER ... VIETNAMby John R. Hodgson Copyright © 2010 by John R. Hodgson. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.