Taste of Tenderloin Read Free Page A

at night.
     
    On the way back out of the mountains, the jumpy patrol bunched up too
tightly on a narrow, steep trail. Every man froze as one when they
heard the first metallic plunk —the characteristic echoing
sound of a mortar round being dropped into a firing
tube.
    Plunk …
    Before the second echo
finished, the experienced members of the squad had hit the ground
and were digging in, jacking rounds into chambers and preparing to
return fire.
    Shane remained standing in
place, even after the third plunk died away, finishing the unseen enemies’ first
triangulation of mortar fire. Charlie was trying to zero in on
them.
    Tex finally managed to pull
Shane to the ground, a moment before the wet floor all around them
began to explode, mud and jungle debris raining down on the whole
bunched-up squad.
    Ear-shattering chaos broke
loose on the patrol—more mortar rounds plunking and booming,
accompanied by small arms fire chattering away and the pinging of grenades being armed. The latter arced
through the air and exploded with sizzling streams of white
phosphorus, audible even over the rhythmic tat-tat-tat of heavy machine
guns.
    Dumbstruck and disoriented,
Shane’s consciousness registered none of these dangerous sounds. He
didn’t even try to return fire. Instead, he clutched his helmet and
curled into a fetal ball in the jungle mud. The cries, moaning,
death rattles, and airborne body parts made only a passing
impression on his conscious mind. Moments later, with his heart
thumping wildly, Shane felt a sharp burning sensation along his
neck, below his ear. His right shoulder simultaneously went numb,
and then a feeling like being drowned overwhelmed what was left of
his dulled sensibilities.
    Blackness.
     
    Days later, PFC Shane
McConnell regained a drug-addled
consciousness in a receiving hospital back in California at Travis
AFB. The deep shrapnel wounds in his neck, shoulder, and back were
operated on before he was eventually transferred to the VA hospital
in the North Bay at Martinez. They did an excellent job on his
physical wounds, but not so well on his head. He experienced
horrible recurring flashback nightmares, images of disembodied
bloody heads, arms, and legs swirling about in the air around him
in the jungle. The meds and talking to doctors did nothing at all
for his permanently damaged soul.
    Medically discharged from
the USMC with a small monthly disability check, Shane soon found
himself living in San Francisco’s Tenderloin, mostly involved in a
24/7 drinking contest with himself. When his funds ran out each
month he panhandled, but could never make ends meet. Finally, he
became homeless, unable to support his escalating alcohol and drug
habits and the residential hotel rent. Life on the street was
tough, and during the wet winter following his discharge, he went
back and forth three times to Martinez, diagnosed each time with
recurring bouts of pneumonia. The final time, the doctors warned
him of the high risk of his self-destructive lifestyle.
    Shane ignored them and
returned to the ‘loin’s shuffling Legion of the Forgotten and Never
Remembered.
     
    The sudden silence
startles you awake. Sweaty and gasping for breath, you sit up, your hand tightly
clutching the silver medallion hanging from your neck. Something is
wrong. A sickly sweet stench assaults your nostrils, making them
itch. With an effort of will, you stand and force yourself to step
outside the tent.
    Heavy fog is trapped under
the canopy, the jungle absolutely quiet.
    You wait and watch,
resigned, knowing they are there, just out of view.
    Finally, figures begin to
coalesce in the mist…ghostly figures, faces pale, eyes sunken,
their clothes torn and tattered—
    You recoil with
surprise.
    Because you recognize the
closest figure, despite his gaunt features and deeply sunken
eyes.
    It’s Sergeant
Owens.
    And right behind him, in
the mist at the jungle’s edge, appears Tex…and then
    Psycho, and all the others
from Second