Only Fools Rush In [to be edited]

Promoted

June 4, 1967

I've settled at my base here in Vietnam at 2200. A lot has happened while I was gone, a lot that I was thankful to have missed. One of my partners died just last night from a severe puncture in his lung. I'm glad I wasn't there—being there would've given him hope and another day of suffering. Nothing's really different, same atmosphere. Same thick fog of depression and mixed feelings of hope and angst. Corporal Hickam has been wounded from what I heard was an accident with the chopper—his right leg had to be amputated. No one will tell me the full story.

It's strange being back. Sitting on this nasty canvas cot and chewing on an old cigarette butt. A few of the privates are somewhat happy to see me, and Sergeant Chevoski welcomed me with a firm handshake.  Our camaraderie here is based on toughness and brains – both I feel I have none. I know my limits, especially as a PFC. So many of the boys are talking about being promoted and moving up, in all honesty, I'm comfortable being where I am. When I'm comfortable, I'm confident and can get a duty done without confusing myself with new regulations. Though, after my girl turned me down, I wouldn't mind putting my mind to a new challenge. It might be good for me, even if it's in the army.

-        Shi Brennan, Private First Class of 1st Battalion, 5th Field Artillery

"Private Brennan," came a strong voice from the entrance of the hut. Another private stood with the flap resting over half of his shoulder and his head peeking in.

Brennan slapped his journal shut and looked up at the younger man. "Private Hughs?"

"Corporal Hickam is dead. I was sent here to tell you you've been promoted. Sergeant Chevoski would like to see you within the hour." With that, the private nodded and retired to his previous post. Brennan remained seated, believing the news was just a fantasy. He moistened his lips and tucked the journal back in his satchel. Standing up straight and tugging the wrinkles out of his uniform, he made his way slowly to the corporal's hut across from him. He saw soldiers ahead exiting with their military caps to their chests and their heads bowed.

The corporal was a respectful man with unbeatable knowledge that Brennan couldn't even imagine living up to. He was only Private First Class for six months and three weeks—being promoted so quickly and with such short notice was close enough to be considered a joke. Brennan chuckled to himself and shook his head at the absurd idea. Of all the PFCs on the base, why would he be chosen? Especially after being out for several months. Brennan knew his military history and his personality—being a corporal would not only demand intense artillery knowledge, but leadership. Something he'd rather be under than own.

Upon entering the deceased corporal's hut, his sergeant handed him a crinkled piece of paper and said gruffly, "His last journal entry. It might boost you some confidence. We're leaving 01:00. Be sure you've got his squad together." The sergeant made to leave before noticing the controlled panic on the newly promoted corporal's face. "You all right, Private?"

"Sir, sorry, sir. Yes, sir." Brennan cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. He saluted Sergeant Chevoski and didn't break eye contact until his superior left. When it was just Brennan and Corporal Hickam, the young corporal knelt beside the cot and stared at the pale faced man. Swallowing, Brennan opened the entry and read it silently.

"June 4, 1967.

It's the end for me. My body is too tired. Dammit. Hell with it, make PFC Brennan the next corporal. He'll finish what's needed to be finished."

Brennan closed the letter with a shuddering sigh. He stood up, studied the man who seemed to be the only one who ever had faith in him, and saluted. His heels touched and he made a sharp left turn towards the exit. Before he left, he remembered something. Looking over his shoulder and running a hand through his shortly cropped hair, he went over to a nearby wooden block and picked up the corporal's uniform. Holding the shirt in his clammy hands, Brennan felt warm water droplets dripping off his face. Slowly, he shrugged his old uniform jacket off and pulled on the corporal's.

When the new attire settled over his small frame, Brennan felt everything but suited for the new responsibility. He stared at the new insignia; the two golden wings instead of two wings separated by a navy blue triangle sent an icy tingle down his spine. And then, what no man on any base would dare think about, or at least share with the man beside him, Brennan unclipped the name tag and placed his in its place. Taking in a deep breath, he exited the hut and made straight for his. On his way, the sergeant shouldered him into a stop. Brennan didn't need to look up to know who he was.

"You don't deserve it, Corporal," Sergeant Monaghan sneered.

"I didn't ask for it," Brennan replied in a lowered voice. He lifted his eyes and locked them on Sarge. Major Monaghan's ocean green ones. They stared at each other, a strange hate cultivating between them that would've created its own flame if Brennan didn't bring a hand up to salute. "Sir."

Sarge. Major Monaghan "Dismissed."

Brennan stayed where he was, trying to erase the images that were digging their way up from his past. Monaghan had been his best friend in high school, and then when the war began, Brennan enlisted. And upon his enlisting, Monaghan felt it his responsibility to join him, thinking they wouldn't be in the army for long. But after a horrible ambush, costing Monaghan to lose sight in his left eye, he needed someone to blame. Brennan was the closest to burden his hate towards the war.

Once Brennan entered his hut, he packed his things and thanked the squad he was in for their support. They sent him off with a warm appreciation, knowing he wasn't going to leave them forever. Brennan returned to the corporal's tent and settled in while the medics carried the body away. Brennan, while shoving his bag under the cot, caught a glimpse of the sheeted corporal on the stretcher. His heart stopped briefly, reminding him that he was now a corporal. The privates he was once a part of, now relied on him more than ever. He knew his duty was in charge of the arsenal, but he took every position and rank seriously. He believed in dedication and knew one slack in his awareness could cost him someone's life.

Wiping his arm across his forehead, he laughed softly at himself. Maybe Sergeant Monaghan was right. Maybe he didn't deserve the position. Being a private was easy. Indeed, he still was under someone; he still heeded orders. But he was in the position now to give orders; to contribute to a plan; to use his decisions to guide other lives during combat. Did he know all this before? To be honest with himself, Brennan knew war life only from a private's eye. He, of course, heard and listened and watched his superiors work their skills, but he had told himself deep down that he would never be like them.

Now, wearing the corporal's uniform, he wished he hadn't convinced himself of his incapability of leading men. He knew it would be hard to break out of the box he had put himself in, but if a man such as Corporal Hickam believed he could do it, then, somewhere, underneath this frightened boy, was someone close to a hero.