Midnight Runner

‘There’s nothing we can do. He’s dead, he’s got to be dead. You heard all that shooting and the grenade exploding. He took on all those bastards single-handed.’ The tears poured down his cheeks.

‘What was his name?’

‘Quinn, Daniel Quinn.’ Jackson moaned in agony. ‘Christ, but it hurts, Sister,’ and then he passed out.

But Quinn was still in one piece, mainly because the enemy had assumed he’d escaped in the Huey. He made it to the river as darkness fell, thought about it, then decided that if he was to stand a chance he needed to be on the other side. He approached Bo Din cautiously, aware of the sound of voices, the light of the cooking fires. He slung his M16 around his neck, waded into the water, and with his combat knife sliced the line holding one of the flat-bottomed boats. The boat drifted out with the current, and he held on and kicked, Bo Din fading into the darkness. He made the other side in ten minutes, moved into the jungle and sat under a tree, enduring the heavy rain.

At first light, he moved out, opening a can of field rations, eating as he went. He hoped for a gunboat on the river, but there was no such luck, so he kept on walking through the bush, and four days later, as if returning from the dead, he arrived at Camp Four on his own two feet.

Back in Saigon, the general attitude was disbelief. His unit commander, Colonel Harker, grinned when Quinn, checked out by the medics and freshly uniformed, reported as ordered.

‘Sergeant, I’m at a loss for words. I don’t know which is more extraordinary – your heroism in the field or the fact that you made it back alive.’

‘That’s very kind, sir. May I ask about Jackson?’

‘He’s in one piece, though he nearly lost a lung. He’s at the old French Mercy Hospital. The Army runs it now.’

‘He behaved admirably, sir, and with total disregard for his own safety.’

‘We know that. I’ve recommended him for the Distinguished Service Cross.’

‘That’s wonderful, sir. And Sister Sarah Palmer?’

‘She’s helping out at the Mercy. She’s fine and so are all the kids.’ Harker held out his hand. ‘It’s been a privilege, son. General Lee will see you at headquarters at noon.’

‘May I ask why, sir?’

‘That’s for the General to tell you.’

Later, at Mercy, he visited Jackson, and found him in a light, airy ward with Sister Sarah sitting beside him. She came round the bed and kissed him on the cheek.

‘It’s a miracle.’ She appraised him quickly. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t recommend doing it the way I did. How’s our boy?’

‘His left lung was badly injured by that bayonet, but it will heal in time. No more Vietnam, though. He’s going home,’ and she patted Jackson’s head.

He was overjoyed to see Quinn. ‘Jesus, I thought you were long gone, Sergeant.’

‘Daniel,’ Quinn told him. ‘Always call me Daniel, and if there’s ever anything I can do for you back in the States, just call me. You hear? And congratulations on your Distinguished Service Cross.’

‘My what?’ Jackson was incredulous.

‘Colonel Harker’s put you up for it. It’ll go through.’

Sister Sarah kissed Jackson on the forehead. ‘My hero.’

‘This is the hero, Daniel here. What about you, Sarge?’

‘Oh, Christ, I don’t want any medals. Now settle down. All this fuss is bad for your lung. I’ll see you later.’ He nodded. ‘Sister.’ And walked out.

She caught up with him at the rail of the shaded terrace, lighting a cigarette, handsome in his tropical uniform.

‘Master Sergeant Quinn.’

‘Daniel will be fine for you, too. What can I do for you?’

‘You mean you haven’t done enough?’ She smiled. ‘Colonel Harker was kind enough to tell me a bit about your background. With all you have, why did you choose to come here?’

‘Easy. I was ashamed. What about you? You’re English, dammit. This isn’t your war.’

‘As I told you, we’re a nursing order. We go wherever we’re needed – it doesn’t matter whose war it is. Have you ever been to London? We’re based at St Mary’s Priory on Wapping High Street by the Thames.’

‘I’ll be sure to look you up the next time I’m there.’

‘Please do. Now would you like to tell me what’s troubling you – and don’t try to say you’re not troubled. It’s my business to know these things.’

He leaned against a pillar. ‘Yes.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve killed before, Sister, but never like in the swamp. At least two of them at close range were young women. I was on my own, I had no choice, but still…’

‘As you say.’

‘But still a darkness came over me. I saw only the killing, the death and destruction. There was no balance, no order.’

‘If it worries you, make your peace with God.’

‘Ah, if only it were that simple.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I’d better go. Generals don’t like to be kept waiting. May I kiss you goodbye?’

‘Of course.’

He touched her cheek with his lips. ‘You’re a remarkable young woman,’ and he went away down the steps. She watched him go, then returned to Jackson.

At headquarters, he was passed through to General Lee with unusual speed, and soon found himself shown into the great man’s office by a smiling captain. Lee, a large, energetic man, jumped up behind his desk and rushed around. As Quinn tried to salute, Lee stopped him.

‘No, that’s my privilege. I’d better get used to it.’ He clicked his heels and saluted.

‘General?’ Quinn was bewildered.

‘I’ve had a communication this morning from the President. Master Sergeant Daniel Quinn, I am proud to inform you that you have been awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor.’ And he saluted again, gravely.

And so the legend was born. Quinn was sent home, endured many interviews and ceremonies until he could take no more, and finally, with no interest in a permanent military career, he left the Army. He went back to Harvard and studied philosophy for three years, as if trying to exorcize some kind of demon, and carefully kept out of bars so that he would not become involved in any physical arguments. He did not trust himself enough for that.

Finally, he agreed to go into the family business. At least it meant he’d be able to help his old friend, Tom Jackson, who’d received a law degree from Columbia after Vietnam and had risen over the years to head the legal department at Quinn Industries.

He didn’t marry until he was in his thirties. Her name was Monica, and she was the daughter of family friends; it was a marriage of convenience. Their daughter, Helen, was born in 1979, and it was around that time that he decided to follow his grandfather’s dream, and entered politics. He put all his financial interests into a blind trust and ran for an open Congressional seat, won by a narrow margin, and then by ever greater margins, until finally he challenged the incumbent senator, and won there, too. Congress began to wear upon him after a while, though: the backstabbing and deal-making and constant petty crises, and then, when his grandfather died in a private plane accident, he began to rethink all his priorities.

He wanted out, he decided. He wanted to do something more with his life. And it was at that point that his old friend, fellow veteran and now President, Jake Cazalet, came to him and said that if Daniel wanted to give up his seat, he understood, but he hoped Daniel was not forsaking public service. He needed someone like Daniel to be a troubleshooter, a kind of roving ambassador, someone he trusted absolutely. And Daniel said yes. From then on, wherever there was trouble, from the Far East to Israel, Bosnia, Kosovo, he was there.

Meanwhile, his daughter followed family tradition and went to Harvard, while his wife held the fort back home. When she was diagnosed with leukaemia, she didn’t tell him until it was too late – she hadn’t wanted to interrupt his work. When she died, the guilt he felt was intolerable. They held a funeral reception at their Boston home, and after the guests had departed, he and his daughter walked in the gardens. She was small and slim, with golden hair and green eyes, the joy of his life, all he had left, he thought, of any worth.