One Never Knows
On the Tuesday afternoon before Thanksgiving, 1969, nineteen-year-old Specialist 4th Class Brandon A. Hicks, sat at a little circular table next to the bed in a rundown motel room and polish his boots. Each boot already shined like a mirror. The shine had to be constantly maintained. The boot-shining routine was therapeutic, gave him something to do while he waited to board the plane to the war zone.
He stopped to light a cigarette and inspect his work. The black Kiwi shoe polish and a little water repeatedly applied in a circular manner resulted in highly shined boots.
The muffled scream of a climbing passenger jetliner overpowered a Del Shannon song playing on his portable AM radio on the dresser at the foot of the bed. Between the outbound jets from LAX, cars and buses hissed past his undraped window across the motor court as he enjoyed the quirky melody of Runaway.
On the nightstand next to the bed were his orders and a Pan American ticket to an exotic sounding place called Tan Son Nhut Air Base. He had heard Ton Son Nhut spoken of by returning soldiers and knew he’d stop there, but the ultimate destination lay elsewhere.
.He was a soldier with an occupational skill designation: eleven bravo twenty, infantry. Sitting around a motel room on his way to his first combat tour, he tried not to overthink it. He was anxious to get moving and hated sitting around, but he was in transit on a layover with nothing to do but sit and listen to music and shine his prized Corcoran jump boots.
They gleamed on the circular table next to his bed. Esprit de corps demanded that the special boots be spit-shined, especially when walking through an airport in uniform. He was proud to wear them. Being in the airborne, he was authorized to wear his boots bloused in class A and B uniform.
He was elite.
His crisply starched khaki garment draped over a chair displayed the accouterment of an US Army infantryman: the light blue cord around the right shoulder of his short-sleeved shirt, the National Defense Service and Good Conduct ribbons on the left chest below his jump wings, and the brass infantry insignia on his collar.
Skilled and tough, had thrived during training, and was proud to be a soldier in the US Army. Though a little nervous, he was eager to become a combat infantryman, he wanted to wear the badge—the Combat Infantryman Badge. He planned to make the Army a career. Even considered becoming an officer after his tour.
Brandon picked up his orders on the nightstand and scanned them for the hundredth time. The orders commanded him to report to a replacement battalion at Long Binh, South Vietnam, by Thanksgiving. He had a couple of days to get there.
Time slowly ticked away. He lit another cigarette, and involuntarily glanced at his watch again.
He thought about the war and his determination to do his duty. He had come a long way in his transformation from civilian to soldier. Brandon wasn’t drafted, he volunteered. Tradition made him choose the Army. His dad had parachuted into New Guinea in 1943 with the 11th Airborne Division during the Second World War. Now they both would be combat tested airborne infantry.
His trek had begun with basic training at Fort Dix, New Jersey, followed by jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia. His jungle fighting skill was honed at Fort Polk, Louisiana in a difficult course called Tigerland, on temporary duty from the 82nd Airborne Division.
The course specifically trained Brandon for Vietnam. Brandon believed in what he was doing, had shown the Army he was an exceptional soldier. He advanced rapidly, and the Army was grooming him to be a noncommissioned officer.
Now he was on his way. His transformation was complete. Outwardly, he was confident he would live through it. Yet, deep down, he wondered if he had wagered too much in the big game, if his request for an assignment to Vietnam would backfire. His chips were all in.
He was eager to prove himself in action. His patriotism compelled him to fight against hostile powers that threatened the nation’s spheres of influence. The Communists wanted to cross borders and needed to be stopped in Vietnam, like in Korea.
He looked at his watch.
He called home and talked with his parents and sister. It was like saying goodbye for the last time, forever. Only his iron will prevented him from weeping when his mother and little sister began to cry. They were scared. He comforted them as best he could, saying he’d be back, assuring them he would see them again.
He and his dad had an understanding, but Brandon could hear worry in his voice too.
Runaway ended, and after many commercials, an animated disc jockey introduced In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida. The unfamiliar music was one of those weirdo, long-hair songs.
Brandon got up, walked to the window and looked out to the parking lot and traffic. Unkempt individuals going about their nefarious business constantly walked about. Not a good neighborhood. He noted there were no children. The Jetway Inn was not family oriented.
He had chosen the place for its proximity to the airport and its economy, not for its luxury.
He turned from the window to look at the few possessions of a soldier in transit. Leaning against the dresser was his duffle-bag, still neatly stuffed with gear and topped with his overseas cap. An AWOL bag with toiletries and skivvies sat on the dresser. His beat-up suitcase was on the bed.
He lit another cigarette and closed his Zippo with a clack. He looked at his watch again. Eighteen hundred hours. Twenty-four hours until his flight. He re-read the orders from the Department of the Army. The words were impersonal, clerical, uncaring.
As government issue, he was being sent where the Army needed him. He wondered which unit he’d be assigned to. As a paratrooper, he hoped to snag an assignment with the 101st. They were seeing action in an area called the A Shau valley. The 82nd was leaving Vietnam.
He thought about Gary Nelson from high school. Gary was two years ahead of him when he was drafted. He was in Vietnam when Brandon was a junior. He was killed in Vietnam near some place called An Loc when the tank he was driving ran over a land mine. Gary wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last from his high school to be killed in Vietnam.
Brando somehow knew he wouldn’t be killed in action.
The word of Nelson’s death had spread fast through the student body. The news was frightening to a lot of young men getting ready to graduate who weren’t going to college.
But Brandon was a determined young man. It wouldn’t happen to him.
Exhaling the last of his cigarette, he crushed it out. “Might as well get dressed and go get something to eat,” he said to no one.
He opened his small, well-traveled suitcase and pulled out a short-sleeved shirt, sweater, slacks, and shoes. He dressed and picked at himself in the mirror. Satisfied with his appearance he grabbed the room key and headed out the door.
Outside, a blast of pollution and the scream of an outbound jet assaulted his senses. The pollution was almost overwhelming. He locked the door behind him and walked the short distance to the restaurant next door. It looked greasy and rundown, matching the condition of his room, but the aroma of the restaurant was enticing.
Tom T. Hall’s Homecoming played over the restaurant speakers. A cute waitress in a dingy pink uniform hidden by a dirty white apron greeted him. A pencil was stuck in her blonde, beehive hairdo.
When she led him to a booth; he couldn’t help but notice her figure as he followed behind her. He sat down facing the front as he always did and watched her walk away.
She returned with a glass of water, producing an order pad and retrieving her pencil from her mass of hair.
“Hi! What’s your name?” Brandon asked a little too flirtatiously.
“My name is Betty. What can I get for you, honey?”
“Cheeseburger, fries, and a Coca Cola, please, Betty.” He ordered without looking at the menu. The Jetway Cafe looked like the place where very good cheeseburgers could be had.
“Be right out.” She responded with a smile and a turn. He eyed her as she walked away. Nice.
He looked out of the window and watched the traffic and activity of a busy street corner. Another passenger jet screamed overhead, its black exhaust adding to the pollution in the air.
Scanning the café’s other patrons, he saw two other young men his age with regulation haircuts sitting in the same direction. They looked to be in transit too. They looked subdued, almost sullen. Brandon suspected he gave the same impression.
After several minutes, Betty returned with his food and lightly set it down before him. She tallied his bill, then looked at him for a second, mentally debating whether to intrude. Finally, she asked, “Are you headed to Vietnam?”
“Yeah, I guess it shows,” he said with feigned humility. He was eager to go there, disguising his enthusiasm.
He glanced at the other guys in the restaurant. They were close enough to hear their conversation but appeared disinterested.
“My husband is in Vietnam,” she said with pride. “He’s a Marine. What branch are you?”
“Army,” He took a bite of his cheeseburger and said as he chewed and swallowed “Leaving tomorrow night.”
“Well, good luck to you. And let me know if there’s anything else on the menu you’d like to order.” She smiled sympathetically and walked to the next table.
He finished his dinner and pulled out five one-dollar bills, leaving an adequate tip. Replacing his wallet in his back pocket and finished his Coke, got up and left the café. He took a parting glance at Betty. She was talking to another customer at a booth as Brandon opened the front door and felt sorry for her working in such a place.
He walked to the curb and stopped, produced a cigarette, lit it, and clacked his lighter closed. He exhaled and looked up to see another jet.
This one was low, very low, and it was headed straight for him. Frozen in place and watching the jet get closer while struggling to maintain altitude, he checked to his left and right to see if anyone else saw the jet. No one seemed aware of the impending doom.
Brandon coolly took another drag from his cigarette and stepped forward, foot by foot, watching the jet with growing concern. He was about to be killed right here on the street by a crashing jet liner, with nothing to do about it except watch it happen.
As if in a trance, he continued to walk towards the street at the plane as it got closer, focused on its approach, praying for the smallest change in altitude. It seemed to be holding but was still very low.
He took a dozen or more steps past the curb, praying. “Please God, don’t let me go this way.”
The bus driver didn’t see Brandon until it was too late. He, too, had been watching the jet struggle to gain altitude.
Brandon he was dead, hit by a bus.