Clay never loved his brother. He always had to share everything with him: a birthday, a name, a mother. Clay never wanted a twin, never thought that his life needed to be split in two, and never thought his mother loved them the same. She had always favored Robert, who had always favored himself, Clay wasn’t anywhere in this equation. When Clay heard the news that Robert had been killed in battle, his exact words were: “Shit… Bastard should have kept his head down.” No tears were shed, no funerals were attended, and no remorse was felt. Would he have been the same as Robert, if he were loved, or would he have done it differently? He liked to think he would have welcomed the unloved Robert with open arms and they could have a wonderful life together, but Clay knew otherwise. It wasn’t just that he was loved more, it was this sense that Robert was his better half and Clay couldn’t stand it.
Three years later, Clay received a draft notice. He didn’t want to follow in Robert’s footsteps. Not the dying; Clay wasn’t scared of death, but the façade of a hero fighting a hopeless cause. Robert celebrated when he was scheduled to ship out. Robert volunteered, and Clay hated him for that too. Eventually Clay got tired of running and joined the forces in Vietnam. Clay remembers liking helicopter rides. Clay remembers loving the feeling of brothers in the field. Clay remembers loving the excitement everyone felt when the mail came, though he never got anything himself. Clay remembers his first Christmas in Vietnam and the letter he received. Clay’s happiness was tangible, until he saw it was not from his mommy dearest. The return address was labeled: “Saint Peter’s Mortuary of Passing.” Clay remembers the dropping sensation he felt all the way from his throat past and piercing his heart and sinking in his stomach. The words ricocheted in his mind: “Self-inflicted gunshot wound, Left temple.” There was no more mommy dearest, no more family, no more people to come home to. Just Clay. Just Clay and his brothers in the field.
He finished his first tour, receiving medals for valor, honor, and more unimportant things. He completed his second tour, Like the blink of an eye, Clay thought. Clay was about to finish his third tour, five months in to a six month ride. There was no more excitement for mail, no more laughing in helicopters, no more love between Clay and his brothers in the field. It was just him. Just Clay and his mind. And although Clay hated tattoos, all that was left of mommy dearest was inked on Clay’s left bicep that consisted of a heart and a banner that read:
“Mom
1924 to 1967”
“This is idiocy!” Clay had yelled at his platoon, all lounging in their foxholes smoking their cigarettes and their dope, “You are all worthless! Sam, you are supposed to be on guard, and I prefer you sober when you are guarding us. Men, There’s a lesson in this, just as there is in everything. Today’s lesson: don’t be a damn dumbass and you won’t die!”
“Sir, what if its not your fault when you get shot?”
Clay was already walking away, head up high in the middle of an uneventful scouting party. “It’s alway your fault soldier, and soon you will realize that.” Silently, Clay sat in his foxhole and touched his left arm, as though it brought him closer to his mother, and he thought, still silently even in his own mind, of how he hated that he would never see his mother again. Not in heaven and not in hell, That religious bullshit is just meant to keep the masses calm, Clay thought, his mind feeling empty and hollow, Keeps the streets clean it does, clean as dirt. With that, Clay drifted into a dreamless sleep.
“Sir we believe we have spotted a Charlie village up north a few klicks, should we leave now or gather more information?”
With a start, Clay came to his senses, stood, and began shouting orders, yet still quite enough to keep to themselves. Clay firmly believed that the skill was gained through his many tours in Vietnam. The others thought it was just Clay.
“I’ll take the flank and Sam, you lead us there, you’re the one that spotted it after all!”
“Yes, sir!” the platoon chorused.
After rapidly gathering their things, the group set out, a few were smoking cigarettes, but all of them were alert and focused. “Sir,” Sam yelled back, a couple minutes in, “looks like they have a bit of fortifications! Do we still want to-” a shot rang out in the field and Sam went down hard, a bullet right into his chest, shredding whatever gear was in the way.
“Sniper!” one of the men yelled. The platoon dropped, hiding in the grass and whatever else they could find, but Clay kept his eyes on Sam, crawling closer to the boy. He was like a brother to Clay, not the brother in arms, but a brother as if Clay had actually loved Robert.
“Sam…”
“S-Sir,” Sam was pale, spitting blood in every shallow breath, “Cl-Clay…” he fumbled a small, folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket, “Please t-t-take this t-to my girl i-i-in New Y-Y-York, sh-she’s h-havin’ my d-daughter...” Sam went limp in Clay’s arms.
“No… no!” Clay screamed at the sky, on the off chance he would be heard. “He had so much to go back to!” Clay watched as his platoon was torn to pieces, wasted away in foreign turf.
With a start, Clay came to his senses, looking around at his men.
“Sir? Do we have marching orders?”
Clay looked around. Clay looked at Sam, standing tall and proud, not a scrape on him. On the inside Clay smiled and thanked God. A miracle, this, He thought, “Yes, Sam, you take the flank, I’ll lead us in.”
