Maybe It’s Time To Start Praying

They christened me North, by virtue of being Canadian. It was Preacher who settled on the name, after Collins opted for Canuck, and West, for Hockey Puck. North seemed fitting. He told me it was a cross to bear. And that like a shadow, it would follow me wherever I should roam. I said, “North, it is, Preach.” He smiled and said, “There it is. There it is.”

Preacher was from Baton Rouge, Louisiana. Born the son of a preacher man, like the song by Dusty Springfield, he said as he rolled a homemade cigarette. “Being a poor black man, I made my peace with God that they’d send me here. Acceptance is a hard thing to let into your soul. But once you do, you become indestructible.” I told him that was a nice way to look at things, but that I didn’t believe that kind of acceptance would ever find me. And then he asked me what the hell was rattling around inside my head when I made the choice to hop the border and enlist? I laughed and told him, “in my town, your future is written in stone. So, I decided to grab that stone and throw it in the fucking river.” He laughed, and said, “Boy, you’re batshit.” And I joined him. During boot camp, I spent many nights looking up at the springs of the cot above me, thinking that I’d never laugh again. I’d never smile again. I’d never experience another moment of joy. But somewhere a few miles north of Chu Lai, in a hole in the ground, my gut hurt from laughing with Preach.

On another evening in late March, I spoke with Preacher again. This time, though, the air was filled with solemnity, regret, questions of morality, and of retribution. He was flicking through his tiny black Bible and jotting down a verse on his helmet that he found particularly profound. This one he told me was Jeremiah 51:20: “You are my hammer and weapon of war: with you I break nations in pieces; with you I destroy kingdoms.”

“Can I ask you a question, Preach?” I asked. Without looking, he said, “Shoot, North.” And I asked about The Bible. About life and death. And what he figured his God would think about what we were doing here?”

He said, “When I was a boy, no older than six years old. I was sitting in my daddy’s church listening to him talk about love for your fellow man. All he did was preach about love and understanding, and I’d look around at the congregation and see hope in all their eyes. You know? But one day during mass some white folks from the other side of town decided to throw a molotov cocktail through the window. It killed a couple folks, hurt some more, and the church had to be torn down. We eventually rebuilt it, but that night, I laid in bed and asked my daddy how God could let that happen to us in a place of worship? And you know what he told me?”

I shook my head.

“That it wasn’t for us to understand. That no matter how many times you preached, and you prayed, bad things were still going to happen. But that He had a plan, and what you can’t do is turn your back on Him. And when I got drafted, I prayed for weeks and weeks. And I said, Now after all I’ve been through, I never turned my back, and I’m about to do some bad things. But I believe in my heart that these things need to be done. And I’m praying now that you don’t turn your back on me.”

“Do you think He’s turned his back on you?” I asked.

He shook his head and smiled, picking his teeth with a toothpick, and said, “No, North. He ain’t turned his back on me. But if I’m being honest, I don’t know if He’s even here. I think war is something He leaves to the animals, because even He knows it’s the nature of the beast.”

“Well, He made us in his image, right? He must be a master of war Himself.”

“Oh, he’s vengeful, North. He’s vengeful. That’s why it pays to be on His side.”

He took a drink of water from his canteen and threw it over to me. “Look, North. You ain’t the first soldier to question your role in all this shit, ya know? But you’re here, brother. And the law of the jungle is kill or be killed. There ain’t no other way out.”

I nodded.

“Remember the Laotian border?” I asked more as a rhetorical question, because I knew there was no way in hell we’d ever forget that place.

“Yeah, sure do.”

“I remember being so goddamned scared, Preach. Scared, like I’d never been scared before. Because I knew we were flying right into the shit. Right by the DMZ, entire platoons were getting decimated. There was no reason our trip was going to be any different.”

“I hear that.”

“And I remember you were praying, Preach. Calm as a fucking cucumber, rubbing your rosary and praying. And all I could think about was how much I wished I believed in something after this. What was it you were praying about?”

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.”

Then I started to laugh, and Preach asked me what the hell I thought was so funny.

“Sorry. Sorry. I just remember listening to you and from behind Gaffy singing the Stones. I see a yellow Gook, and I want to paint him red.”

“Gaffy. That was one sorry ass.” Then Preach started laughing.

“But man, there must have been a hundred, Christ, maybe more. I remember firing blindly. Just firing and screaming. I couldn’t even think. I would have shot up a baby, an old woman. Jesus, I would have shot you up, Preach, if you would have been in my line of fire. Scared the hell outta me. Then after the reckon by fire, we went to see who we hit, and I looked at this kid. He might have been 14, man. He was looking at me with such hatred. A hatred I’ve never seen before made my blood run cold. And then Preach, he started to pray, ya know? I mean, I couldn’t understand a word of it. But it seemed like he was praying. And I thought, to him, we’re the villains, ya know? Then I wondered, is God American?”

Then Preach smiled and shook his head. “Well, if He is, it ain’t gonna do you no good, North. You crazy canuck. You could be laying in bed with that sweet little blonde that writes you all them letters, and instead you’re sitting in a foxhole with the son of a preacher man from Louisiana, talking bout morality and God.”

“Ah, Preach. I’d be underground, working in the mines like the old man. It’s still death, just slower is all.”

“165 days till I’m home.”

“190 for me, Preach.”

“Why don’t you get some shuteye, North? I’ll take first watch.”

“Thanks.”

Preach walked out, and I stared at the sky. 190 days until my DERO. Christ, if I wanted to make it through that, maybe it was time to start praying.