500 More Words About Gregory

When Gregory was in high school, U.S. History class was the last of the day. Being one who rose with the early tide, Gregory's reserves of mental energy were always well and truly depleted by 2 p.m. As a result, he snoozed his way through the Civil War and missed William Tecumseh Sherman's quote, "War is hell."

Not that knowing the quote would have helped Gregory any when he came to his own realization: war was indeed hell.

Gregory had grown up in the desert - hot and dry. He was completely unprepared for the oppressive humidity laying over the Vietnamese jungle, like a blanket so thick Gregory thought he might drown just from breathing. Mosquitoes and blood flies buzzed throughout the base, achieving levels of infiltration and irritation the Viet Cong could only dream of.

Gregory hated every moment. Either he was bored to death or scared to death, there was no in-between. The only thing he learned of any value was not to play poker, he always lost.

Halfway done with his tour, the sergeant 'volunteered' Gregory for a night mission through the jungle. Gregory didn't really want to go, but he didn't really want to do anything, anyway. The night mission was just a different kind of misery as far as he was concerned.

Tramping through the jungle, lugging a radio and trying not to trip on tree roots, Gregory could barely see three feet in front of him.

And then, he could see everything. For several awful instants, he could see as clearly as if it were afternoon. Then the screaming started, drowned out a heartbeat later by machine gun fire. Gregory didn't think, he just dove for the ground, for the shelter of the thick jungle brush. Bullets whizzed above him and around him, but none hit. Though he had bitched when assigned the radio, he was now grateful for a shield.

After an eternity, the gunfire stopped. The only sound in the jungle was the heavy pounding of Gregory's heart, the low moans of wounded comrades. After a second eternity of silence, Gregory crawled out of the brush, expecting to die the very next second. There was no way to see except by the weak light of a half moon. Everything was grey and fuzzy in Gregory's sight. He bent over each fallen soldier. Two had died when the point man stepped on a mine. Half the remainder died under the resulting gunfire. The rest were moaning, alive but beyond mortal help. Gregory did what he could, knowing it was not enough.

Near the rear, he saw a second figure bent over the body of a solider. He wasn't dressed like a G.I., and anyone in the jungle not wearing American camo could be safely presumed to be Charlie. Slowly, trying not to make any noise, Gregory slid his gun up and drew the sights. He thought he'd been perfectly silent, but some small noise nevertheless alerted the figure.

His head snapped up, his eyes locked onto Gregory's. His finger halfway to the trigger, Gregory froze. The man wasn't Vietnamese, not with his wide, round eyes and aquiline nose.

"Bonjour" he said to Gregory.

500 Words About Gregory

Gregory is a minor character in the novel I'm currently working on. But even minor characters have their stories. Here's the first part of Gregory's.

Gregory never wanted to go fight in Vietnam. All he ever wanted to do was surf.

He had grown up in a sun-drenched paradise called San Diego, never more than a ten minute walk from the beach. He had learned how to swim before he'd learnt to read, and considered the former to be a far more valuable skill. He got a paper route when he was thirteen, and saved his nickels until he had enough to buy a secondhand surfboard. From then on, he'd be on the beach every morning except Christmas and Easter.

By the time he was eighteen, he'd gotten good enough so that he could teach youngsters and tourists the rudiments of surfing. He had a couple spare boards he'd rent out and then give lessons for three dollars an hour. His girlfriend made lemonade and fish tacos she'd sell to the same tourists for a quarter apiece. At night, they'd go back to their little lanai, smoke weed and make love. They were never going to be rich, but just maybe, they could have been happy.

And then The Letter came, requesting him to serve his country in a far off place he had never heard of, much less cared about. Many of his friends and peers were getting similar letters. Some responded with a fatalistic patriotism. Others fled to far-off Canada; some made for the much closer Mexico. The surfing was awful in Canada, so Gregory started packing for Mexico and trying to teach himself Spanish by listening to Mexican radio stations.

His sister stopped him. Coming to his little lanai the night before he was supposed to leave, two nights before he was supposed to report for duty, she shamed him into service.

So Gregory, with tears in his eyes, hung up his surfboard and packed for boot camp instead.

For a beach bohemian like Gregory, boot camp was a special level of hell. Thousands of miles from the sea, his girlfriend or anyone who gave two shits about him, he was worked hard and insulted harder in an effort to inculcate him with the ability to kill another human being. Graduation was a dreadful relief. While he would be freed from this level of hell, it only meant it was time for Gregory to descend to a far different part of the Underworld, the part called Da Nang. Finally, Gregory got to see the ocean - but it only made him sadder, for it was wholly unlike the inviting beaches of home. The waves were terrible for surfing and he didn't have a board. Even if he'd managed to come across one, there were far too many mines in the water.

He knew about Charlie and the Viet Cong. He knew to be afraid of Russians.

What Gregory didn't know, though, was that the jungle held more than one kind of predator.

No one ever told him about the vampires.