We were about to head out when a small boy ran up to McCoy with a bag containing several unexploded M79 rounds. Others followed, each with a small cache that he or she had hidden away. We were happy to see the growing pile of munitions, including grenades, rifle rounds, and two dud 81mm mortar rounds. To us, the stuff was worthless, but the NVA were adept at transforming it into deadly and effective booby traps. The pile represented several lives and many lost limbs. While McCoy was on the radio calling for assistance in disposing of it, two old papa-sans trotted up with a 105mm howitzer round suspended from a bamboo carrying pole. This alone could have wiped out half of our platoon.
While stuffing my pack, I overheard McCoy getting his ass chewed out by some lifer in the rear. He was reminded in no uncertain terms that we had not been authorized to give our food away to the villagers. The lifer also groused about the logistical problem of removing the ammunition, as well as the time delay this would cause, which would screw up the execution of our next mission. It was outrageous that the man could complain about having to dispose of the cache, which was as deadly as anything we could have captured from the NVA. When I looked across the perimeter to see how McCoy was taking it, I saw that he was holding the handset of the radio at arm’s length, laughing, and shaking his head in disbelief. His years of experience had taught him to see the humor in the ignorance, gall, and absurd behavior of our superiors in the rear.
I was surprised at the effectiveness of our accidental exchange. Our initial presence in the village had been met with closed doors and shuttered windows, but the simple act of sharing our food had eased their fears and opened a line of communication. Their response to our openness and trust had been greater than anything we might have been able to solicit through intimidation, arm-twisting, or political rhetoric. The war had placed the villagers in an impossible, no-win situation. First the VC would arrive and steal their crops and anything else of value, and then GIs would storm their homes looking for VC. Being unarmed, their survival depended on their ability to placate the current bully on the block, and I realized that their display of preference required real courage.
A chopper flew in to haul the munitions back to the rear, and once again we disappeared into the jungle. I continued with most of the disciplines that I’d developed early on. Usually, at the start of a new mission, I would have to force myself to repeat the mechanical motions—look down the trail, left, and right; scan the trees for snipers. After a time, I noticed that when my attention was completely focused in the present, the pain in my body from carrying a gargantuan pack would seem to fade away. This phenomenon alone was enough to reinforce my behavior, yet I seemed to be developing other sensitivities that I felt would increase my chances for survival. For increasingly long periods of time, my thoughts would fade to the degree that sensory information would flow through my mind without requiring the usual internal reflection and commentary. I was beginning to realize that while my thoughts were on hold, my ability to process sensory data was smoother, clearer, and more continuous, and it was also during these periods that a door to intuitive impressions would, at times, open. Slowly, the feel of a place or situation was taking priority over my thoughts or analysis.
My habit of imagining what it would be like without a body was another strange, admittedly morbid, ritual that I continued to practice before going to sleep every night. Lying on my back, I’d try to imagine what it would be like without eyes to see, ears to hear, or a body to feel. At first, I found the practice was relaxing and refreshing, but as time went on, images would appear out of the darkness. Toys and scenes from my childhood would float by, and geometric forms would change and grow. On one occasion, I saw a clear image of myself as a five-year-old, wearing a cheesy cowboy vest and hat and brandishing twin cap guns. None of it struck me as being particularly meaningful, but it was entertaining enough to encourage me to continue.
As we pushed on, I noticed that my attitude toward the jungle itself had changed. What once had been an alien and hostile environment was now wondrous and gentle. At first, it had appeared to be a confusing conglomeration of individual plants, animals, and insects, all competing to survive, but gradually I began to see it as a single, huge living entity whose parts came into being, grew, and died willingly to support and perpetuate the whole. A tree provided the shade that allowed other layers of vegetation to grow, and it was the home of birds and insects and the trellis on which vines could climb to reach the light, and later, in death, that tree supported the growth of moss and fungi and became food for termites until, inevitably, its rotting mass produced nourishment for other plants and, perhaps, for saplings that had grown from its own seeds. In the jungle, the death of an individual part was a necessary and functional occurrence that maintained the prolific life of the whole. And then there was the war. It seemed that within the beautiful and subtle harmony of this being was a disease; a blight; a sour, dissonant note in the great vibrant chord.
We were out only a week when we came across another village. Word was out that we were on a MEDCAP, which meant that we were to provide medical help to the villagers. After some haggling with local officials, we were told to set up in the schoolhouse. McDouche ordered our squad to set up a listening post along the road at one end of the small village while McDouche, the lieutenant, and their RTO set up in one room of the now-vacant two-room schoolhouse. I gathered that we would be there several days, a welcome rest after days of humping the boonies. Tennessee, Bruce, Orville, Sgt. Sam, and I found a shady place about fifty yards off the road and prepared for an afternoon of lounging and getting stoned. We strung hammocks between trees and were digging for munchies in our bags when a twelve-year-old boy, dressed only in a pair of gym shorts, approached us cautiously from the road. I had some reservations about him, but he seemed harmless enough.
“Hi, GIs,” he said as he walked up to us. “What you doing here?”
“We’re on a MEDCAP,” Bruce replied, trusting him instantly. “Do you know what that is?”
“You bet. Where’s bác sỉ [the doctor]?” he asked.
By this time, he was sitting down with us, eyeing our stash and the pipe that was lying on the poncho liner. I was amazed at how well he spoke English and how knowledgeable he seemed about GIs. He said his name was Tom. He hung around for half an hour before asking where our lifers were.
“Oh, they’re up at the school,” Bruce said.
“You give me one can of Cs, and I’ll do lifer check,” Tom suggested.
“What do you mean by ‘lifer check’?”
“You give me a can of Cs, and I’ll sit up by the road there and let you know if any lifers are comin’.”
Bruce was laughing as he dug in his pack. Tom definitely had us pegged. Finding a can, he threw it to Tom, who stationed himself strategically by the road. We relaxed even more, freed of the threat of being surprised by McDouche, and got out a radio and a deck of cards. The village had a creepy feel to it, as none of the villagers had been around to check us out, though somehow we felt secure. It was great to have a chance to rest and compare notes after weeks in the field, which allowed only limited conversation. Time was sliding by peacefully, and every time I looked to see if Tom was keeping watch, I’d see him leaning against a coconut tree, fully aware of anyone who was on the road.
Three hours had passed before Tom came running to our position, waving his arms and shouting, “Somebody coming! Somebody coming! Maybe a lifer—better check it out.”
Sam got up to take a look, and when he got to the road, we could tell that it was cool. Soon, he and Tom were heading back to our position, with Sam playfully mussing up Tom’s hair. It looked like we had a new friend.
When they arrived, Bruce thought to quiz Tom about the situation in the village.
“Before, beaucoup VC here,” Tom replied. “But when GIs come, VC đi đi [leave].”
This confirmed the creepy feeling I had about the place, and Bruce continued his line of questioning.
“VC come back?”
“Yeah,” Tom replied, “but no sweat. When GI come, they đi đi, when you leave, they come back. They don’t want to mess with GIs. No need.”
I saw Sam nodding, followed the logic in the tactics of the VC and concluded that we would be okay. The path of least resistance for them would be to put the squeeze on the village when we were gone and to simply leave when we arrived. They had no desire to start a fight with a well-equipped platoon of GIs, and they couldn’t booby-trap the place without endangering the villagers. It seemed that we were home free—for a while.
The following morning, Tom arrived bright and early. Knowing that we were going to be in the village for a while, he clued us in on the local mama-san, who ran a small shop.
“If you want buy something from Mama-san, give me money. I buy for you. Mama-san number one rip-off,” he said, openly angry at Mama-san’s behavior. “She always get beaucoup money from GIs and give tí tí [a little].”
Of all the problems we might have had, we weren’t about to haggle for a few pennies with Mama-san, but Tom was adamant, so we took up a collection and sent him shopping. He returned with several packages of noodles, a few Cokes, a couple sweatbands, cigarettes, and rolling papers that he’d purchased for us at truly bargain-basement prices. Sam broke out the squad’s stash of weed, and I started rolling it up.
Seeing what was going on, Tom asked, “You roll one for me, okay, Baby-san?”
I looked up from my work to see what sort of reaction the squad had to his request, and seeing that they thought that it would be all right, I handed Tom a number.
“Thanks for the jay, Baby-san,” he said. “Can I use this?”
He was in my pack, unsnapping the pouch that contained the “long whip” antenna for my radio. The antenna was made up of several hollow sections that fit together, like the pieces of a fishing pole. He took out one of the larger sections and, with permission, stuck his joint in the tube. He asked Sgt. Sam for a light and then strutted around our card game looking like a cross between Toulouse-Lautrec and Patton.
Bruce, who had been eyeing the coconuts that were ripening in the village, asked Tom if he could buy us some.
“No sweat,” Tom replied. “I get some for you.”
He found some tall grass, grabbed a handful, and twisted it into a crude piece of rope. Standing at the base of a forty-foot coconut tree, he wound the “rope” in a figure eight around his ankles and knotted the loose end. Tied in this way, his feet could move no farther than twelve inches apart.
“Hey, GI, you tell nobody, okay? Or Papa-san will beat my ass.” He quickly inchwormed his way up the tree. Sitting in the crown of the tree, he twisted off several choice coconuts and then shinnied down in a flash. He seemed to know that we were already in another fix: how to get the nut out of the larger, tough husk. We would have managed, eventually, but he saved us the trouble by grabbing Sam’s machete and with a deft whack, buried the knife into the nut’s husk. He squatted, with his feet on the handle and flat side of the machete to pin it to the ground and rolled the nut toward himself, peeling off a section of the husk in the process. Once he’d removed the husk, he tapped the nut all over with the back of the machete to loosen the meat, and split it in half. We were all impressed by our new little buddy’s skill and agility. If it had been possible, we would have brought him with us in the boonies, but luckily for him, he was too young to be in either army.
A call on the radio ended what I’d hoped would be a day of R & R. McDouche requested that Bruce and I report to the schoolhouse. I brought my radio, as ordered, and we headed out, wondering what was to be the nature of our duty. Approaching the school, we ran into Doc, who was waltzing around with a five-year-old village kid on his shoulders. The little boy, who had a huge red flower stuck behind each ear, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying Doc’s clowning. As we got closer, we could hear that Doc was singing as well to the lyrics of the Beatles’ “Love is All You Need.” I doubted that the kid understood the lyrics to the song, but he seemed to feel their meaning nevertheless.
Our irrepressible medic followed Bruce and me right up to the steps of the school and continued to sing until McDouche shot him a disapproving look and started giving us orders. Doc Mock knew that his position as the platoon’s medic offered him some protection from harsh treatment from the lifers, and he constantly used his leverage to try to pry McDouche from his rigid and humorless ways.
We were ordered to make the rounds through the village and let it be known that medical help was available, if somewhat limited. In spite of what Tom had told us about the VC, the shuttered doors and windows of most of the houses in the village created an atmosphere of mutual fear and suspicion, and so, before leaving the schoolhouse, I chambered a round in my M16. Bruce and I were both pretty edgy at the start, but after the first few houses, we took a cue from Doc’s fearless innocence and relaxed enough to be able to cautiously enjoy our job. Doc was serious when it came to patching people up, but in meeting the villagers, he maintained a lighthearted sense of humor. Some of them sternly grumbled “điên cái đầu” (crazy) in response to Doc’s attempts at levity, but most at least smiled and seemed to appreciate his effort. None of the people Bruce and I visited claimed to be in need of medical help, but word spread throughout the village, and by the time we got back to the school, several people were already waiting for Doc. An old man with a nasty cut on his leg waited patiently while Doc tended to several children with bad cases of jungle rot, which, without antibiotics, became large, consuming scabs that would continue to grow larger instead of healing. Later, probably as an indication of their increased trust in our medic, mama-sans brought in babies who needed attention.
The stay in the village allowed us to rest, relax, and—for once—feel like we were doing something of value. Chasing away the VC and protecting Doc while he helped the villagers was much more in line with the collective desire of the platoon than our vague and seemingly futile efforts in the field. Because we had lacked the courage and conviction needed to opt out, feign insanity, or go to jail, we had ended up here in Vietnam with M16s in our hands. Now we could only hope that we’d be lucky and that our time would run out before we were in a position of having to kill or be killed.
As we left the village and entered the jungle, I knew that, once more, I would have to leave my thoughts and doubts behind in order to survive. Only the present moment could exist if there was to be any hope of surviving this trial by fire. My intuitive perception in the field was steadily growing clearer and more certain. For long stretches of time, my thought processes would remain suspended, allowing only the flow of visual images, smells, and sounds to pass through. These were noted, analyzed, and discarded, without mental reflection, from one split second to the next. While my concentration was focused in this way, I was no longer aware of physical pain or time. I was also beginning to learn that even reflecting on this wondrous new discovery threw a wrench in the works. If my focus was disrupted in any way—even to notice how my focus affected my sense of time—it felt as if I had been thrown down a steep hill into a muddy bog. Thoughts, emotions, and my body’s pain would regain center stage of my perceptual reality, and only renewed discipline and perseverance would, eventually, give them the hook.
Early in the morning of our fourth day out, an urgent call from the rear ordered us to stop immediately and cut a landing zone. Machetes and hatchets flew, and we created a small clear circle on the ridge we’d been climbing, and even though it seemed too small for the rotor blades of a Huey, McDouche ordered me to pop smoke. Amid a cloud of blowing leaves and branches, a chopper slowly nestled itself in the clearing, picked up a squad, and eased slowly out before lifting its tail and roaring off. Three more Hueys repeated the tricky maneuver, and in less than an hour from the call, we were flying above the jungle as fast as a Huey can. It seemed that we’d only been in the air for a few minutes when I spotted a wispy cloud of purple smoke on the edge of a field of rice paddies. The chopper dove for the smoke, and when it hesitated for a second above a tiny patch of solid ground, we jumped out. One of the choppers actually touched down, and as I made a dash for the tree line, I turned to see why. Five men wearing black-and-green face paint and dressed in camouflage fatigues passed within twenty yards of me and ran for the impatiently stationary Huey. One of them looked familiar, and with a second glance, I recognized him. Calendar.
My mind flashed back to scenes from jungle school where I’d met him—ages ago, it seemed—when we were both new in country. I remembered a kinship of sorts. He was a fellow college dropout who, like me, had spent more time partying than studying or keeping abreast of current events and had likewise been pinched by the draft. My memory brought up images of an amiable man who had seemed determined to “party on” in spite of the draft—or even Vietnam—and as my mind compared those images to what I had just seen, I felt a chill. It was Calendar, without a doubt; it was the same unmistakable baby face, even under the blotches of green and black. But his eyes—damn. As he was dashing for the chopper, our eyes had met for an instant. Long enough for me to recognize the cold, deep well of the thousand-yard stare. The fun-loving spirit of the man I’d met in jungle school was gone, and his eyes, which had once twinkled with mischief, were now the doorway to an unfathomably deep abyss. He carried a sniper’s rifle, and I knew at once that he had used it.
I felt as if I’d been carried away by the flood of memories, and now, with a jolt, I returned to the here and now. The sound of helicopters faded as I tried to orient myself. The platoon had made a defensive position, and we were waiting for an attack. Seconds passed. Minutes passed. Nothing. Silence. I caught a flash of movement to my right and saw Creeper waving for me to follow him. I fell in place with the single-file line of men that was making its way down a trail on the edge of the tree line, heading for a grove of coconut trees. Near the trees was an open area that was strewn with bodies, North Vietnamese regulars. Some appeared to have been killed instantly and collapsed in place, but a couple looked like they had died while they were trying to crawl away; one was curled in a fetal position. The body of one man was lying right next to the trail, facedown. There wasn’t a mark on him—no bullet holes, no blood—except that the top quarter section of his skull was gone, leaving his intact brain exposed to the morning sun.
The platoon regrouped in the grove near a pile of several more corpses. A few of us formed another defensive position while the rest of the platoon collected weapons and grenades and searched through the packs that were scattered around or were still strapped on the backs of the dead. The grisly scene numbed my mind. The bodies, for the most part, were intact, with only a few nickel-sized bloodstains on their clothes. They looked peaceful, as if they were sleeping, and I caught myself looking at them with envy. For them, the struggle was over. No more pain, rage, or grief, just this eerie, seductive stillness.
We were to spend the night among the corpses, waiting in ambush, as it was well known that the NVA almost always tried to recover the bodies of their fallen comrades in order to give them some semblance of a proper burial. While digging in, I heard the story of what had happened. Calendar’s group was an LRP (long-range reconnaissance patrol). They had set an ambush along the trail by rigging thirteen Claymores for simultaneous detonation. The five of them sat tight and waited, expecting that maybe a squad or possibly a platoon would fall into their trap. In the predawn darkness, Calendar, who had a starlight scope (a night-vision device) on his sniper rifle, saw them coming down the trail. It was neither a squad nor a platoon. A whole company of NVA moved right into their trap. They waited until the center of the column, which is where the company commander usually travels, was centered in the kill zone, and then they blew the bush, cutting the company in half. Fearing that they might be able to regroup, Calendar opened up with his sniper rifle on anything that moved. The NVA, not knowing the size of the unit they were up against, scattered.
We spent a long and nearly sleepless night waiting for them to return, but luckily, they never showed. In the morning, we packed up and left, moving only a few miles to a road, where we were picked up by two deuce-and-a-half trucks that drove us to a nearby Military Assistance Command, Vietnam (MAC V) compound. MAC V was a rear-echelon bunch whose function, other than shuffling supplies around, I never really understood. They were quartered in a building that had been left by the French, and I suspected that we had been moved there to back them up in case of a retaliatory strike by the NVA. It was clear, even at first glance, that the CO who ran the place was running some sort of major scam, something that would have made even Sgt. Bilko blush. He greeted McDouche in a pair of silk pajamas, and while they were talking, Tennessee and I slipped into the building to check it out.
The place was deluxe even by air force standards. The guy had a television, a large kitchen, and several bedrooms upstairs, and a large rec room/movie theater on the ground floor with a fully loaded wet bar. We ran across several Vietnamese maids—or whatever—on our tour of the b1038uilding and slipped out just in time to hear McDouche ask the man if he could put us up inside for the night. The CO responded that he would have liked to but that he really didn’t have the room.
We were able to set up poncho hootches in the area surrounding the building before the afternoon rains set in, which, for us, was luxury enough. Although the platoon had grown accustomed to sleeping with only the barest of necessities, considering that we were there to defend the compound, it would have been a nice gesture for the CO to invite us inside for a rare, truly dry night. Evidently, the man who had created this Shangri-la felt that it might be spoiled by harboring a bunch of funky grunts with mud on their boots.
After two days of his gracious hospitality, we were loaded on trucks again and shuffled back to Uplift for three days of stand-down. The rear was quite cozy after our last stretch in the field. It wasn’t pretty, but it felt safe. In less than an hour, Tennessee, Speed, Orville, Bruce, Doc Mock, Creeper, and I were on another truck heading for Linda’s. Each time we visited, I trusted her a little more, but there was always a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. What if she was VC? What if she was only pretending to appreciate our efforts in order to get us stoned and hope for a tidbit or two of useful information about our activities in the field? Speed and the other old-timers trusted her implicitly, and though she was slowly earning my trust, I always kept track of my M16 during our visits, just in case.
I knew that she sensed my mistrust, and although she was cordial, I could tell that she was making a conscious effort not to push herself on me. She kept her distance, and I thought she felt that, in time, my fears would fade and I would become comfortable there. I wasn’t so sure, but I appreciated the way she was handling the situation.
We were well into the usual ritual. The little kids had found my lap, and I was beyond my troublesome reflections, when the sound of laughter came from an adjacent room. Speed chambered a round in his M16 and demanded an explanation from Linda. He was across the room in a flash, standing by the curtain that divided the rooms. Linda was making a desperate plea for him to calm down.
“No sweat, Speed. Be cool,” she pleaded. “It’s only ARVNs. They buy cần sa [pot] from Linda.”
Heedless to her appeal, he flung the curtain aside, revealing three sinister-looking Vietnamese men in ARVN uniforms, who—sure of Linda’s protection—sneered at Speed.
Speed was only marginally relieved to see the ARVN uniforms. He, like most of the old-timers, had been burned by ARVNs during supposedly cooperative missions and considered them cowardly at best, treacherous at worst. He demanded that Linda throw them out.
She pulled Speed back across the room and convinced him to sit down.
“How you gonna act, Speed?” she asked, trying her best to cool him down. “They ARVNs, not VC.”
Speed cooled a bit but was not impressed by her argument. To him, the distinction was questionable. He finally conceded that she could have dealings with them if she wanted, but that while we were there, he didn’t want them around.
In the meantime the ARVNs had been pointing at me and laughing.
“Mama-san” they taunted, referring to the kids on my lap.
Their remark only heightened the tension in the room. Creeper and Bruce glared at them, telling Linda that if she didn’t throw them out, they were going to have to kick ass. Fearing that things were about to get out of control, Linda asked us to wait, went into the room with the ARVNs, and closed the curtain.
She returned in a few minutes with assurances that they were gone and that she would concede to Speed’s demand in the future. When the matter was resolved, she turned toward me and spoke sharply in Vietnamese to the kids on my lap. Reluctantly, they slid off and were herded out of the room. I was dumbfounded but didn’t want to interfere with her disciplining of the kids.
We’d had enough hassle for one day and decided to return to Uplift. Speed, as usual, was buying a supply of weed for our next trip to the boonies. While stuffing a kilo of weed and several packs of bombers into a brown bag, Linda cautioned him about the new battalion commander at Uplift. He had installed a new bunker at the entrance and had it manned, during the day, by MPs who checked everyone entering the compound. She said that a grunt from Delta Company had been smoking a bomber on the way into Uplift, and the MPs had tried to bust him. Before they could grab the joint for evidence, the guy ate it, and the infuriated MPs punched him several times in the stomach in a futile effort to make him vomit it up.
Forewarned, Speed and Creeper plotted how to avoid getting caught by the MPs on the return trip. They decided to throw the package into the weeds along the road before we were stopped by the MPs (the dreaded Military Police) and to crawl through the concertina wire later that night to retrieve it. As the truck approached the perimeter of our base camp, Speed smoothly executed the first part of the plan without detection. We were stopped by the MPs at the gate and were checked thoroughly before being allowed in. Phase two was going to be the difficult and dangerous part. According to the plan, before Speed snuck through the concertina wire, he would inform the guys manning the nearby bunkers of his mission, so—in theory—he’d be able to get in and out safely. But there was always a chance that the base would be attacked while he was outside the perimeter, leaving him in no-man’s-land.
At dusk, Tennessee, Creeper, Bruce, and I were kicking back in lawn chairs on our assigned bunker. Under the old battalion commander, I’d felt comfortable that there had been almost tacit approval of our partying on guard. He had, seemingly, made a distinction in the behavior expected of his people. He required the clerks and supply sergeants in the rear to be all spit and polish, but he basically left the grunts alone. It seemed fair enough. After all, we were the ones who were doing the dirty work and getting shot at; nearly everyone felt that we deserved the slack. Now our new colonel, fresh from the States and fighting the war by pushing colored pins in a map, was going to try to change all that. I could understand why he would try, but what bugged me was that he obviously didn’t know the nature of the men he was fucking with. To say that we were outraged would be putting it mildly, and considering that some of us were near the breaking point already, I wondered which straw would be the last. I shared my fears with Tennessee.
“Shit, man, don’t sweat it,” he replied. “It’s out of our control. Even if you and I agreed with his policy, which we don’t, it wouldn’t make any difference. He’s fuckin’ with four hundred men here, and sometime, somewhere, he’ll learn he’s fuckin’ up. The guys in Delta Company already threw a frag in his shitter, and if the motherfucker can sit on the throne every day, count the shrapnel holes in the door, and not get a hint, it isn’t like we didn’t try.”
Tennessee laughed and patted me on the back. Surely it was an absurd situation, and it eased my mind to realize that, for the most part, he was right. It was beyond the control of any individual.
Speed climbed on our bunker and gave us each a bomber with a grin. I was glad to see that he’d retrieved the stash without any problems.
“Hey, Baby-san, you got a stick of C-4, don’t ya?” he asked.
I nodded. At the last resupply, I’d grabbed a stick of the Play Doh–like plastic explosive for personal use. Technically, we carried it to detonate booby traps in place, but it had a number of other applications. The stuff was very stable unless matched to the proper heat and concussion rate of a detonator, and it would burn with a quiet yellow flame when lit with a match. A marble-sized piece would do a nice job heating a can of Cs or would dry your shirt if you sat down and stretched your shirt over your knees above its flame.
“Well, let me have it, will ya?” Speed asked.
Without thinking, I fished around in my pack and found it.
“Thanks,” he said as he slid off the roof of our bunker. “I’m taking up a collection.”
I was worried again, but the party continued. I saw two men coming down the road behind our bunker and elbowed Tennessee. He crouched down low to get a silhouette and in a few seconds recognized them.
“Don’t worry. It’s Tommy Hendricks and Big Ernie,” he said. “You haven’t met them yet but don’t freak out when you do. You might think that Big Ernie is a lifer at first, ’cause he has shiny boots and wears starched fatigues with all the right shit sewn on ’em, but he’s cool. He works in headquarters and keeps us informed about what the lifers are planning. Tommy’s a clerk and does typing for our first sergeant. Every now and then they can sneak out on the bunkers and cop a buzz.”
As they approached, I saw that Big Ernie surely lived up to his name; he was six feet four, at least. And true to Tennessee’s description, I could see the toes of his boots shining in the moonlight. Tommy was much shorter and wore round granny glasses, like Doc. They were accompanied by a yellow dog, the first I’d seen in country.
They were both grinning as they climbed onto the bunker, and Tennessee wasted no time in breaking out our stash of bombers. After we were introduced, Big Ernie clued Tennessee in about the details and habits of our new battalion commander while Tommy told me about the dog, Sesame.
“He’ll do a great lifer check for ya. Great dog. Watch him.”
After collecting pets from the crew on the bunker, Sesame perched himself on the roadside edge of the bunker and stood guard vigilantly.
“If there’s a lifer within fifty yards, he starts doin’ this low growl,” Tommy continued. “Hasn’t missed yet.”
“How does he know that they’re lifers?” I asked, amazed that a dog could sense one’s career plans.
“Don’t know for sure, but I think it has something to do with vibes. It must be that lifers have different vibes. All I know for sure is that he can spot ’em a mile away.”
I looked again at Sesame and saw that he was vigilant as ever, but something that Big Ernie was telling Tennessee caught my attention.
“But that’s not the half of it,” he said with a nod acknowledging that I was listening. “He’s got the officers in the rear doin’ checks on the bunker line. Last week a lieutenant that he sent out slipped up behind a grunt from Delta Company while he was on guard and cocked a .45 behind his head. He thought the guy was sleeping, but he wasn’t. At the first click, the grunt spun around and leveled his M16 in the lieutenant’s gut and damn near blew him away.
“We have a system now, though, so if you hear anyone say ‘Lima Charles’ on the radio, it means lifer check. If I’m in headquarters when they’re getting ready to go out, I’ll let ya know.”
Their conversation drifted to distant mumbling as I contemplated the possible outcomes of Big Ernie’s info. Ostensibly, there was no problem. If the lifers thought for a moment that they could infiltrate the tight-knit brotherhood of us grunts, they were gravely mistaken—nevah hoppen, as Linda would say. Already they had underestimated us more than they had underestimated the North Vietnamese, but one thing bothered me. For months I’d heard guys say things like, “Hand grenades don’t leave no fingerprints” and “Don’t worry, man, we’re in Vietnam. Everybody’s got an M16.” For the most part, these had been idle threats used to blow off steam when the lifers got petty or outrageous, but now there was a new and dangerous factor to the equation. Heroin.
I’d seen a few guys use it at Linda’s and didn’t like what I had seen. The guys who were shooting up would arrive at Linda’s with a mad, hungry craving in their eyes. After some messing about with needles, candles, and such, they’d tie their arms with some surgical tubing, find a vein, and be gone, unconscious, in some dark netherworld. Five, ten, sometimes fifteen, heart-stopping minutes would pass while some outfit’s medic was taking their pulse and wiping the sweat from their bodies before they’d return, weak and ghostlike. The whole trip was completely antithetical to smoking pot or even opium. With heroin, there was no ritual sharing, camaraderie, laughter, and opening of doors. It was a selfish, solo dance with death. So far, our platoon had resisted this siren on the rocks, but her seductive wail echoed loudly in times of confusion and despair. As my musings came full circle, I realized why Ernie’s seemingly innocuous information had made me feel so queasy. I felt sure that a dash of heroin in the cauldron of our discontent would surely, inevitably, make for a very nasty brew.
Then there was Speed, prowling the base camp with the quarter-pound stick of plastic explosive I’d given him without question. I’d seen him stash it in a sack along with a dozen others, some det cord, blasting caps, and fuse, and I was only now wondering what he was going to do.
Baroom! An earthshaking explosion rattled sand loose from the roof of our bunker. The sound echoed off the mountains that surrounded our base camp and was followed by a spontaneous cheer from those close enough to realize what had happened. Speed had demolished the MP’s new bunker at the base entrance. Even in the twilight of a nearly pitch-black night, I could see that he had done a masterful job. All the main timbers had been blown, leaving a useless heap of rubble. It would take weeks to get the materials to build another one.
“Them fuckin’ Ps will think twice before fuckin’ with us again,” laughed Creeper. “Now they’re gonna be standin’ in the rain, and if they got the brains God gave a goose, they’ll know it was jus’ a friendly warning. Speed don’t fuck around.”
Instantly, intuitively, I knew Speed was right—precisely right—in giving the MPs a “subtle” hint before things got entirely out of hand. But as was my nature, my mind flipped through its memories, as through a Rolodex, for scenes that would fill in the blanks and confirm the precision and efficiency of Speed’s actions. I remembered walking slack for Speed while he was walking point on our last mission. No longer mystified by the cat like grace of his movements, I knew that he was just in the groove, as I referred to it—that state in which your muscles relax, and you go from trudge to glide, from struggle to float. But it was only on this last mission that I was able to pick up on some of the finer points of Speed’s skill. We had come to the edge of a clearing when I realized how he had survived all those months at point. He stood stock-still for an instant, and I felt him slide into a place of deep calm. He wasn’t looking, listening, or smelling the area consciously. He let go, and trusting that he would be aware of any relevant sensory information, opened himself to the vibes, the energy of the place. He relaxed. And I relaxed. We both knew that in spite of signs of recently cut vegetation and the remnants of a cooking fire, there was no one around. I felt him shift again. We were no longer in sync. He had attuned himself to a finer, more subtle level of perception, yet I knew what he was doing. He was feeling for finer energies. Traces of feelings left when people handle things: watches, rings—booby traps. He relaxed again. It was cool; there weren’t any grenades with trip wires or feces-covered pongee stakes in the area. As we crossed the clearing, I knew that he knew, but I couldn’t help straining to see if there weren’t any impossibly fine lines or suspicious-looking vines that could get us blown away.
My Rolodex fell open to another card, a scene from seven months earlier, the first night I met Speed. He had handed me a bomber on my first, scared-shitless night of guard duty in the field and was telling me a story. The scene replayed itself with amazing clarity, but without dialogue. Silently, with twenty-twenty hindsight, I could perceive the more ethereal layers of significance in our first encounter. I remembered being in a bit of a panic as the powerful Vietnamese reefer took effect. I felt as if all that I had considered to be me was slowly being stunned. I was finding it nearly impossible to maintain a coherent train of thought and grew increasingly frightened that without them, I would dissolve into oblivion. Speed watched me struggle for a while and began to talk. The tone of his voice was calm and reassuring. It tethered me to the wet mud beneath my butt. He spoke in a hypnotic cadence that eased my fear. It was his apparently absurd story about my magic poncho liner. My memory didn’t repeat the story, but it allowed me to understand its intent. Speed was well aware that there was a dogged determination in me to maintain a steady stream of thoughts, and to this dog he had thrown a bone. My mind grabbed the story the way a drowning man would grab a life buoy and drifted with it into uncharted seas, completely content to unravel its multilayered meanings. Understanding Speed’s story about being invulnerable while wrapped in a poncho liner was like getting the punch line of a joke. What had been mysterious was suddenly hilarious, and at that instant, I realized I was naked in the void. There was an almost palpable pop—or perhaps it was applause—when my incessant thoughts took a bow and left the scene. I knew what I had feared. Death. Somehow I had believed that without my precious thoughts, there would be no me. Yet they were gone now, and I was still alive! Now there was only a profound calm, a stillness both ancient and timeless. I reached out to feel Speed, but he was transparent now, allowing me to explore on my own. It was as if I’d been introduced to an old, old friend, and though there were no words, she said:
Listen,
You can hear the jungle for the first time now.
Its sounds have forever been thus:
Rich, lush, and beautiful.
Look around you and wonder at the pale blue light filtering through the trees.
The forms around you are perfection.
Feel the damp air caress your skin.
Smell rotting wood and fragrant plants.
The air not only smells of life, it is
Life.
This was what the ritual of communion alluded to. I remembered slowly being aware of Speed again. When I looked at him, he was smiling. When I looked at him, I realized I was smiling.
My memory scan complete, I felt relieved of my temporary confusion about the explosion that had torn the MP’s bunker to shreds. I knew that, whether it was nursing a newbie, finding a booby trap, or blowing up a bunker, it was from this stillness that Speed functioned. And as I gazed across the top of our bunker, I could see Tennessee, Tommy, Big Ernie, and Creeper sitting in silence. They were taking communion. Sesame sat with his back to them, facing the road, ever vigilant to his duty of lifer check.
In the morning, after chow, we were herded to the company area, where stacks of Cs, ammunition, and supplies informed us of our fate. We were going to the boonies again. Though we were used to the routine, a hush settled over the company as we stuffed our packs. At this point, only two things were clear. We knew that the lifers had already been briefed and that we wouldn’t know the strategy or intent of our mission until it became obvious in the field. I could almost hear the thoughts swirling around the somber assembly. Would military intelligence be right for once, would we really be landing in a hot LZ or near an NVA base camp? Or, more likely, were they intending to drop us in a “safe” place that would be loaded with booby traps and set up for an ambush? Had the general tenor of the war changed from hide-and-seek to an out-and-out battle somewhere? As I snapped a fresh clip of rounds in my M16 and buttoned a grenade in my shirt pocket, I knew one thing for sure: we’d soon find out.
From the start, it was an unusual mission. The company was loaded on deuce-and-a-half trucks rather than Hueys and driven north along the coastal highway. After an hour on the road, the convoy entered a small village, where it stopped to drop us off. We quickly regrouped into squads and platoons and headed east through the village on a footpath that I knew, inevitably, would lead us to the mountains. The surly villagers acknowledged our passing with icy stares, and it seemed that they had even positioned three teenage boys to give us a parting shot of their scorn as we left the area. The boys were sitting on a fence that separated the villagers’ territory from the no-man’s-land known to us as a free-fire zone—a zone in which we were authorized to shoot anyone on sight. They laughed at us as we strained under the weight of freshly loaded packs and were quick to point out, for their added amusement, anyone who was unusually tall, short, or black or, most hilarious of all, had red hair. Evidently, they were oblivious to the purpose of our mission, which was to protect their village from the NVA, who—our intelligence sources contended—were waiting for them to finish harvesting their rice so they could raid the village and steal it.
Two miles from the village, we joined forces with a company of tracked vehicles (lightly armored boxlike vehicles that rode on tracks, like tanks) that had formed a defensive perimeter and was awaiting our arrival. Their company comprised a dozen armored personnel carriers (APCs), each with a top-mounted M60 machine gun, and two tanks. Since the army had discovered that anyone riding inside an APC was likely to be killed by the concussion if it happened to hit a land mine, we were ordered to ride on top, one squad per track, with the tanks picking up the slack by providing space for the remaining infantrymen. Tennessee, Creeper, and I climbed on the back deck of a tank that was in the middle of the single-file column, which was already moving down the center of the wide valley.
It was the first time we’d worked with an armored unit, and while I had to admit that riding was surely easier than grunting under a heavy pack, the high-profile nature of their operation seemed out of place in a guerilla war. They had plenty of firepower at their disposal, but I doubted that this alone could compensate for their awkwardness and lack of maneuverability. Surely, any NVA within twenty miles already knew exactly where we were and where we were headed, since for a company of tracked vehicles in this area, there weren’t many options.
The valley narrowed until there was only one possible avenue that would allow us entrance into an elongated box canyon, which was our destination. As the options for the tracks grew slimmer, they were forced to pass through bottlenecks that were dotted with large, flat boulders. Having one track on stone and the other churning up soft earth in the narrowest part of the valley had caused the track on another of the APCs to be wrenched off the sprocketed drive wheels. We had passed two that had stalled in this manner. Their crews, aware of their sudden vulnerability, were working frantically with huge steel pry bars to lever the heavy track back on the drive wheels.
We were about to encounter yet another deadly snafu as our tank entered the narrowest passage in the valley. I was only mildly relieved to discover that the sensitivity that I had developed during months of silent stalking in the jungle still functioned well, even amid the cacophony of the diesel engines. I knew beyond a doubt that we were being watched and that those who watched us were more contemplative than afraid.
A deafening explosion confirmed my perception. A command-detonated mine had been blown by the NVA, who had been waiting for our tank to enter the kill zone of their ambush site. Their timing, slightly off, harmlessly sprayed the area between our tank and the APC ahead of us with shrapnel. Instantly, the turret on our tank swung to the left and fired its main gun. The recoil caused the tank to squat and jerk backward, throwing Tennessee, Creeper, and me into the air like fleas on a horse’s back. We crash-landed onto the steel deck and immediately jumped alee of the tank for cover. A squad was dispatched to scout the hill from which we’d been ambushed, and Capt. Quick snagged Tennessee, Creeper, and me for a recon patrol of our right flank. He had our Chiêu Hồi scout (a North Vietnamese soldier who had surrendered or been captured and had agreed to work with us) take point, with me behind him in the slack position. In keeping with the style of his command, Capt. Quick came along behind me, with Tennessee and Creeper covering our rear.
We traveled a wide loop to the right of the tracks, and although I’d been in country long enough that I wasn’t pee-your-pants scared, the NVA scout was an unnerving distraction. He was extremely young—couldn’t have been older than seventeen. The other thing that bothered me about him was that he seemed to be scared and green in the field. Bringing him along was one of Capt. Quick’s recent innovations, and I couldn’t bring myself to trust him. I couldn’t help thinking that at any instant, he might turn, spray us with automatic fire, and disappear into the jungle. To make things worse, I knew that when our patrol broke into clear areas, we were being watched. The NVA were tracking our movements and could, from the high ridge that overlooked the valley, open fire at their discretion. As we approached our own perimeter, I remembered that, although they probably could have wiped out our patrol, the NVA preferred more calculated moves. They would rather wait for an opportunity to employ a clearly defined strategy than reveal their precise location by acting on impulse. An expert chess player doesn’t capture every available piece, and thus we were left on the board, I was sure, because it suited the NVA’s larger game plan.
We’d barely had time to get settled on the tank again before it lurched forward and blasted its way through the few remaining obstacles that, minutes before, had caused it to move at such a measured and cautious pace. The tank plunged into the canyon amid a spray of flying mud, executed a sudden and amazingly agile right turn, and wheeled into position in the already partially formed perimeter. Even over the roar of our mechanical monster, I heard the terrifying sound of explosions at five-second intervals. The NVA had, indeed, anticipated our destination, and they were lobbing in mortar rounds as fast as they could stuff them in the tube.
“Medic, medic!” The shout came from across the perimeter. “I’ve been hit, Doc! I’ve been hit!”
McDouche’s voice faded in the din of Hueys that touched down near our tank. The chopper crews quickly off-loaded a dozen wooden crates, along with a German shepherd tracker dog and its handler. The gunner on our tank motioned for Tennessee, Creeper, and me to retrieve the crates, and we instantly complied with his command. While dashing across the open grass toward the stack of crates, I could hear from the sound of the incoming rounds and knew that the NVA were “walking” them toward the pile. I frantically tore open a crate and saw what I knew must have been a round of ammunition for the tank’s main gun but was surprised to find that instead of the brass canister at the base end, this thing had only a rubber boot. Like almost all army munitions, from the M16 to heavy artillery, there was a projectile fitted atop a brass canister filled with powder to propel it, but this strange thing had only a projectile in front of a rubber sleeve. Under the sleeve was a white cylinder that looked and felt like baked clay. Cradling the thing in my arms, I ran back to the tank and handed it to the driver. His eyes nearly fell out.
He shook his head and yelled, “Don’t take off the sleeve, this shit’ll go off with a match!”
I’d never been schooled about tank munitions, but I immediately realized that in modern ammunition for the tank’s main gun, the army had done away with the brass cylinder full of powder and replaced it with compressed explosives. In relieving the tank’s crew from having to deal with the hot brass of a spent round, they’d lost the security of the old ammunition, particularly if some hapless grunt tears off their only line of defense—the rubber sleeve. In the middle of a mortar attack, the tank’s driver was staring at thirty pounds of raw explosives.
I nodded, turned to get another one, and was greatly relieved to see that the pile had disappeared.
Savoring a moment to catch our breath, Tennessee, Creeper, and I huddled near the tank for cover. Creeper elbowed me and pointed across the perimeter, where Capt. Quick, Speed, the dog, and its handler were disappearing into the bush. They were heading toward the most likely placement of the NVA’s mortar tube.
“There’s two bad motherfuckers,” Creeper said, in reference to Quick and Speed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they liked this shit.”
I had to agree. Since Capt. Quick had taken command of our company, he and Speed had grown inseparable. Fellow Green Berets, they were the only two among us who had been adequately trained to fight in a guerilla war. For the rest of us, with only eight weeks of infantry school after basic training, it was really an OTJ—on the job—affair, and our focus was more on how to survive rather than on how to win this weird and unjustifiable war. Although we greatly appreciated Speed’s competence and willingness to serve the company as our best point man, both he and Capt. Quick had an enthusiasm about the war that boggled our minds. Often, when we traveled as a company, the two would patrol outside our perimeter for hours, as if they were hunting pheasants in Kansas. The two of them—Quick with his .45 and Speed with an M16—could move swiftly and with such stealth that it was far more likely that they would surprise any of the NVA who were usually prowling about, keeping tabs on our company’s movement. We could only guess what they were doing now, in this valley, but whatever it was, it had been effective. The mortar fire suddenly ceased.
Our attention was drawn to one of the army’s miniature Loach helicopters, which had been circling the ridge, but now was zipping about like a hummingbird. At treetop level, it darted back and forth until we could hear that it was drawing fire. Heavy fire. Chunka, chunka, chunka.
“Goddamn!” Tennessee shouted. “They’ve got a .51 caliber up there in the hills. Thank God they didn’t use it on us.” He pointed to the gun’s location.
I’d never heard of the NVA being in possession of a bona fide antiaircraft gun, and knowing the havoc they could wreak with the rifles and rocket-propelled grenades that were their mainstay, I shuddered to think of what they could do with it. The Loach slid down the hillside and floated into position a hundred yards to the right and slightly above the gun’s location. From there, it gathered speed for one last passing spray at the placement. Red tracers poured from it, but we could hear the .51 returning fire so, wisely, the little Loach retreated. Two heavily armed Cobra gunships arrived minutes later to take up where the Loach had left off. Those of us who watched helplessly from the valley thought that the Cobras would make short work of one antiaircraft gun. Flying in a large circle, 180 degrees apart, the Cobras set themselves up to keep a steady barrage of fire on the placement. Taking turns, they blasted the location with everything they had, but the NVA were not to be intimidated. Their return fire had, evidently, either made some hits or come too close. The Cobras also retreated.
With the Cobras’ retreat, a cold shadow seemed to pass over the valley. We all knew that, man for man, the NVA could kick ass. This display of the impotence of our technology only served to remind us of what we already knew—they’d been fighting this war with equipment that was barely out of the Stone Age, and they were winning. None of us needed to be reminded about the strategic disadvantage of our position on the valley floor; yet, it seemed to be the army’s way of fighting. We’d been set up as bait for the NVA in order to entice them into capitalizing on our vulnerability and revealing their presence by blowing us to kingdom come, in trade for a few casualties of their own. Then, with a little juggling of statistics by the lifers in the rear, the folks back home could be deluded into thinking that we were actually winning this goddamned futile war. And thus the lifers could keep it going for a few more months.
Speed slipped up behind us with a sort of good news/bad news joke about our situation. The good news was that he and Capt. Quick had found an indentation in a log that had served as a base plate for the NVA’s mortar tube. The dog had led them directly to it, but it appeared that the NVA running it had already been alerted by observers on the ridge, who had surmised Capt. Quick’s intentions. The mortar tube had been silenced by the pressing need to relocate it; it hadn’t been destroyed. Also, somewhat questionably in the good news category was the news that when Doc checked McDouche for his alleged wounds, he couldn’t find a mark on him. Feeling the concussion of one of the mortar rounds, he had imagined that he’d taken hits of shrapnel. Evidently, McDouche, who had always been so willing to lay someone else’s ass on the line, had buckled under the strain of being under fire himself.
Then there was the bad news. Speed had overhead Capt. Quick talking to the rear on the radio. Our intelligence had intercepted NVA radio communications regarding their strategy in the valley. They had been given orders from their higher-ups that, at all costs, they were to keep us trapped in the valley until reinforcements arrived that would allow them to wipe us out completely. Grim news, to say the least.
During his report, Speed had reached into the thigh pocket of his fatigues and handed me his stash of weed. I tamped it carefully into the bowl of my ivory pipe, thinking, With news like that, what the hell. I fired up the pipe and passed it around for hits. Tennessee and Creeper each took a long draw, and after copping a toke for himself, Speed handed the pipe to the tank’s driver. Several minutes later, the driver returned my pipe to Speed, hot and empty. I leaned against the tank and stared at the ridge, thinking that surely the NVA were polishing their prized weapon in preparation for their next move. The waiting was getting on my nerves, and my emotions vacillated between anger, worry, and resignation.
Tennessee must have noted my dark mood, because he interrupted the downward spiral of my thoughts. “Hey, man, I’ve got some peaches in my pack. I’ll split ’em with ya,” he said with a grin.
I was almost irritated that he could read me so easily, but I couldn’t help but smile and feel grateful for his help. He dug in his pack and pulled out the can, and for an instant, he almost looked like old St. Nick himself, eyes twinkling. He’d been helping me out every chance he could during the eight months I’d been in country, which had seemed like eight years. Like the other old-timers, he liked to pounce on you in times of greatest distress and slip in a lesson or two. We could almost read each other’s minds by now, and I had a pretty good idea what he was thinking. It would go something like this: “All these months, you thought I was making these great sacrifices on your behalf, but now maybe you get the picture. We could have been blown away any minute. If anything I did made you feel good, it made me feel good. I haven’t sacrificed a thing. All I’ve been doing is sharing my joy. Joy is worthless to have alone.”
He opened the can of peaches, which were widely considered to be the crème de la crème of C-ration fare, and handed them to me along with a plastic spoon. He watched me carefully and giggled like a child. He knew that I had understood his wordless communication and his sympathy with my dilemma. There had been times in the last few months when I had experienced a measure of the clarity, humor, and joy that seemed to be such innate qualities of his personality and that had been able to be of service to the less experienced members of the platoon. Yet, for me, these were fragile and all-too-temporary states, easily disrupted by environmental circumstance or the gravity of my habitual thought processes. I felt that he saw the humor in my present state the way a father might find his child’s first attempts at walking rather comical. I had taken a few wobbly steps, beamed a self-satisfied smile, lost concentration, teetered a bit, panicked, and fallen on my rump. His twinkling eyes and giggly laugh had lifted me out of my serious, self-critical sense of failure to a higher and more forgiving perception of my condition.
A pair of Phantom jets made a pass over the valley. We knew their routine and watched eagerly as they jockeyed into position. As expected, they fell into formation across from each other, on the circumference of a wide, imaginary circle in the sky. Next, they would each make a practice run at the machine-gun placement, and then, well organized and oriented, they would commence bombing it to dust. They would alternate dropping HE and napalm bombs until there was only a bald spot left where the placement had been or until our CO called them off, whichever came first. All eyes were on the first jet as it screamed in low, just over our heads. It maintained its altitude until it neared the ridge, where it raised its nose to keep its course parallel to the terrain. From our perspective, it looked as if it was performing yet another demonstration of precision flying, but to our shock and horror, it crashed into the top of the ridge, shot out of the sky by the fearless NVA and their .51 antiaircraft gun. A huge, yellow-orange ball of fire erupted from the site. Seconds later, the other Phantom—the remaining member of what had once been a team—screamed in, firing its cannons at the gun placement and, in the same pass, dropped a pair of HE bombs on his partner’s crash site, in an attempt to completely demolish the wreckage and render it unsalvageable to the NVA. After its pass, the second jet kept climbing until it was out of range of the .51. With a wide arc, it set a course for the air base.
An eerie hush settled over the valley. Stunned by the apparent ease with which the NVA had destroyed one of our most sophisticated war machines, the emotional atmosphere now had the quiet, contemplative, slightly guilty feel of a church on Sunday morning. I’m sure that more than a few prayers were said for the welfare of the spirits of the men who had perished before our eyes.
The sound of a lone Huey shattered the silence. It snaked its way through the valley and landed near our tank. We could see Capt. Quick and Speed calmly making last-minute equipment checks before making a dash to board the anxiously waiting chopper. During the brief moments before takeoff, I noticed a confident look of grim determination in Quick’s face, while Speed appeared to be jovial and excited. The Huey lifted its skids a few feet off the grass, spun around in place, and zigzagged through the narrow entrance of the canyon.
What those two were up to was anyone’s guess, but for us, it was nearly the end of another long and stressful day. The clouds above the ridge were turning pink, and since Doc Mock and Bruce had managed to slip over to our location—fuck it, it was time to party. Tennessee unstrapped the ammo can from Speed’s pack, opened it, and reeled out 150 rounds of belted M60 ammunition to reveal a neatly organized stash that was hidden at the bottom. He pulled out a pack of bombers and carefully repacked the can. After passing the pack around to us, he traded what was left for the use of the tank crew’s radio. Although it was the only English-speaking radio station in Vietnam, the military-run AFV network played all the popular music of the time. Their disc jockey Sgt. Pepper seemed to have a knack for timing his music to our situation. Nestled against my pack, in a tranquil, opiated womb of euphoria, I watched Doc engaging Creeper in an animated discussion about God-knows-what—with Doc, it didn’t matter. Just to watch him move and smile was to share in his lighthearted joy.
While observing a living example of what it was to be free, I realized that Doc, even more than Tennessee, had always mystified me with the consistency of his positivity. If cowboys died with their boots on, I was sure that Doc, should his number come up, would die with his grin on. He seemed to be in possession of a rare and fine source of well-being, one that I hoped, one day, to discover myself.
Two hours into our party, Speed slipped in to tell us of his adventure with Capt. Quick. He was amused to hear that we had thought that they, for some reason or another, had gone to the rear. It was exactly what they wanted the NVA to think, when actually their Huey had circled and dropped them off behind the ridge. They had managed to sneak over the ridge and surprise the crew that was running the .51 from behind. Drenched with sweat and wired from the dangerous operation, he told of how they nearly ran out of ammunition (in their weapons, at least) before finishing the job. Having caught the NVA totally unaware, they had had a chance to plan their move before they attacked. Using hand signals, they had decided that Capt. Quick would take the two men on the right with his .45, leaving the other three for Speed with his M16 on automatic. They executed the plan with lightning speed and precision, but there was a hitch.
“The officer that ran the crew was one tough son of a bitch,” Speed said. “I’d hit him with three rounds on the first spray, but he just wouldn’t die. I knew I’d hit him—I could see the holes across his gut, but when I turned to collect their weapons, he leaned up on one elbow and tried to shoot me with his 9mm handgun. Capt. Quick saw him move out of the corner of his eye and laid him back with a blast from his .45 but—dig this—it stopped him for only a few seconds. He leaned up again! His face was so bloody he could barely see, but he leaned up again and was waving his pistol at us, trying to aim it. I had to empty the clip in my M16 to get him to die. You should have seen it. It was too much.”
I was glad I hadn’t. As with 90 percent of the company, I couldn’t rejoice over anyone’s death. The only thing easier to take about the death of the “enemy” was that I didn’t know them personally. Most of us felt that they were as much the victims of circumstance and political propaganda as we were. And given the chance, they—like us—would probably rather have gone home and forgotten about the war. There had been times when we were on a hilltop and had seen them in a valley, but we never told. One of the guys from second squad, known as Wimpy, was alive only because they had done the same for him. He had gone down to a stream to fill canteens for his squad, thinking that it would take him just fifteen minutes and that he could do without his rifle. At the stream, he looked up to see a lone NVA soldier with an AK-47 over his shoulder, who, seeing that he was unarmed, just turned and walked away.
I woke in the morning to the sound of a Chinook and was able to see it head for the rear with the .51 caliber gun dangling below on a steel cable. An hour later, a Huey arrived to pick up the tracker dog and its handler, drop off our new platoon leader, whose name was Anderson, and pick up McDouche. Although I was greatly relieved to know that McDouche’s tyrannical command had come to an end, I couldn’t help but pity our new lieutenant, who had to join us under such dire conditions. Even from a distance, he looked wide-eyed and scared, and I could tell that he was as freaked out to meet the men he was to command as he was to find himself in combat. Watching his reaction brought to mind my own first day on the job, shyly meeting the weather-beaten, hollow-eyed members of the platoon in my brand new fatigues and shiny boots. I could only imagine that he was even more shocked than I had been to see that the whole platoon was officially out of uniform—wearing gold peace-sign necklaces and strings of beads, sweatbands, and every color and every style of sunglasses except the ones that were army issue. It would only be a matter of time before he would learn that the FTA emblazoned on most of our helmets in Magic Marker stood for Fuck the Army.
Shortly after his arrival, Capt. Quick introduced us to Lt. Anderson and outlined our mission. We were to join forces with a platoon of five APCs and attempt to leave the valley through the treacherous series of bottlenecks that we had struggled through on the way in. No matter what sort of strategy Capt. Quick had in mind, the one thing for certain was that we were in for a tough time. If our intelligence reports were right, there was no way we could leave the valley without a fight.
Tennessee, Creeper, Speed, and I climbed on the nearest APC, which took its place in the center of the single-file formation. All the bells and lights of my internal sensors were working overtime, trying to alert me to the danger of our predicament, but when the track shifted into drive, there was no turning back. I knew that the NVA had been watching us for two days and could feel that they were watching us even now, but somehow I wasn’t nearly as scared as I had been before, during equally hairy operations. As we entered the narrow passage, I wondered if my nervous system and adrenals hadn’t burned out, leaving me with only a fraction of their usual response, but this was no time for such idle musing. I shifted into the mind state that experience had taught me was appropriate for the situation. My thoughts were put on hold; for now, they would be dangerously distracting and a waste of energy. Sensory input was brought into crystal-clear, present-centered focus, and with this shift of perception, my ability to access an intuitive-level feel of the environment was greatly enhanced. Now I knew beyond a doubt that the NVA watching us were feeling both anger and fear.
The lead track veered slightly to the right and detoured around the base of a small ridge that extended into the valley from the mountain to our left. Following the contour of the ridge, it curved back to the left and disappeared into the bush. Suddenly, I flew off the track, executed a graceful half twist, and landed on my feet about a yard behind the APC. In a split-second reflection, I remembered that only a moment before, I had been sitting on the roof of the track, completely extending my legs in front of me across the open hatch in the track’s roof. My right hand had been gripping the stock of my M16, and my left had been gripping the rifle’s handguard around the barrel. From that position, it was not humanly possible for me to have jumped off the track, let alone land upright behind it. Equally strange was the fact that, at that instant, there was no reason for having done so.
I took a step and heard the crackle of gunfire—M16. Another step, semiautomatic gotcha, gotcha, gotcha—AK-47. With the third step, I entered into a profound tranquility, accompanied by an awesome feeling of clarity and power. Without fear, my movements became smooth and spontaneous. My pocket Bible and sunglasses had fallen out during the jump and were lying on the ground at my feet. I picked up my sunglasses and stood up to see Lt. Anderson directly in front of me. His face appeared to have been greatly magnified, and I gazed for a moment directly into his eyes. From a place of utter calm, I felt ever so slightly bewildered at his expression. His eyes and mouth were wide open, and his head was shaking as if he was being electrocuted by high voltage.
“Get on the line,” McCoy’s voice called over the din. “We’re going to sweep the hill.”
The platoon formed a line at the base of the hill and moved in unison, like a giant comb, up the ridge. It was our predictably futile response to being ambushed. Ten minutes into the sweep, a pair of gunships took position just ahead of us and finished our job by pelting the ridge with minigun fire. We regrouped by the waiting tracks and boarded them for the return trip to the company’s perimeter. As I settled into position on my assigned APC, something shiny caught my eye. It was a reflection from the lid of an ammo can that had been strapped on top of the track just twelve inches to my left. The shine was coming from a fresh, elongated dent in the top of the can, and it told the tale, at least in part, of what had happened. Our track had been momentarily stalled in the center of the kill zone of the NVA’s ambush, and the machine gunner to my left had been their prime target. AK-47 fire from the top of the ridge had been aimed at him. Had I been sitting on the track a second longer, the round that dented the can would have—with absolute certainty—torn through my left lung and quite possibly found my heart. I tapped the gunner on the arm and pointed to the dent in the can. He stared at it for a moment and responded with a slow, sober nod.
When we regrouped with the company after our short-lived recon to the mouth of the valley, they quietly celebrated our safe return. Only then did I hear the details of what had happened. We had driven straight into the jaws of an NVA ambush. McCarthy, one of the new guys in our platoon, was sitting on the front of the lead track, and when it rounded the curve to the left, he spotted an NVA soldier about forty yards dead ahead, hiding in the bush, taking aim with his rocket launcher. The NVA had intended to demolish the first track, stalling us indefinitely in the kill zone, but their man hesitated a split second too long, allowing McCarthy to spray him with his M16. Had things gone according to the NVA’s plan, the snipers on the ridge would have devastated us with sustained fire. But, knowing things had gone awry, they managed only a few parting shots.
Much of the deep calm and clarity that had so unexpectedly come over me during the ambush was still with me as I observed the platoon’s celebration. Tennessee and Doc Mock had both noted the change and gave me a subtle smile or a slight, timely nod. They knew what had happened to me, and although they acknowledged it, I could tell that this wasn’t the sort of thing that was talked about. They knew that something in me had snapped during the ambush that had displaced terror with an incredible, crystal-clear calm. I could only guess at their reason for their reluctance to talk about it, but I trusted their judgment and kept still.
One of the army’s huge Skycrane helicopters settled down in the center of the valley and left us with the bottom half (the tracks and frame) of a bulldozer. Capt. Quick’s bold and decisive strategy was now clear to everyone, especially the NVA. Having cleared our escape route of its apparently inevitable ambush with our patrol, he was preparing to smooth a path for the tracks before the NVA could set another trap. The flying crane returned with the engine half of the bulldozer, and in less than an hour, mechanics from the armored company had it bolted together and ready to roll. With a tank and a squad of grunts for cover, an APC driver mounted the machine and headed for the bottleneck that had caused us so much trouble on our way into the canyon.
The mood in the valley was hopeful. At worst, we would have to survive only one more ambush before leaving the place for good. I doubted that the NVA, being that they were a superstitious lot, would try even that. After losing their precious antiaircraft gun and blowing what should have been a surefire ambush, I felt sure that they would now suppose that the fates were against them. Most likely, they would wait for us to do something stupid again (which probably wouldn’t take too long) and then strike us with the vengeance of a wounded bear.
In the rear, the lifers could crow that they had only lost two pawns and taken six. I could picture the despicable bastards toasting their success and voraciously relocating the colored pins in their wall maps, which, to us in the field, were far more than markers on a game board. They represented human lives—our flesh and blood.
Half a dozen deuce-and-a-half trucks roared through the narrow entrance into the canyon, circled inside our perimeter, and formed a single-file formation heading out. Nervous drivers revved their engines as they anxiously waited for us to scramble on board. Obviously, they were as intent as the rest of us to get the hell out of this godforsaken place. The tracks pulled away from their positions around the perimeter and led the way for our convoy. Tennessee, Creeper, Doc, Speed, and I had jumped on the truck that would be the last to leave the valley. When it finally lurched into gear, we saw a small boy in red gym trunks closing in behind us. The little guy had run for all he was worth—half the length of the valley—to reach us.
“Wait, GI!” he hollered above the roar of diesel engines. “Wait! Wait!”
Tennessee finally recognized him. It was Tom, the jungle boy.
Speed slapped frantically on the truck cab’s canvas roof, which, at other times, would have brought the truck to a screeching halt, but here it had no effect at all. The driver was in no mood to be separated from the convoy. As we pulled away from the tiny figure, we could see him slow, then stop altogether. His shoulders went limp, and his head hung low. I knew he was crying.
As we wound our way out of the valley, the big deuce-and-a-half trucks started picking up as much speed as the terrain allowed, and when they hit the highway, it was pedal to the metal. I got the distinct impression that the drivers wanted to get as much distance as possible between themselves and that god-awful place. We wheeled into Uplift in a cloud of dust after only fifteen minutes on the road, disrupting the softball game that was being played in the company area. It seemed odd to me that only one day’s hump away, we had been battling it out with what was probably at least a company of NVA, yet here it was Sunday in the park. We wandered to supply for some clean fatigues and hit the showers.
In the morning, Speed, Tennessee, Creeper, Bruce, Doc, Orville, and I headed for the road and flagged down a truck that was headed toward Linda’s village. As usual, none of us had passes, and even though there was supposed to have been some sort of crackdown, we wheeled right by the checkpoint where the MPs had been posted to curb such unauthorized escapes. After the events of the past week, none of us was in the mood for being fucked with, and the MPs, standing by the wreckage of their bunker, didn’t appear in the mood either. Our ride screeched to a halt in the middle of the village, and once again, we bounded over fences and streams to the sanctuary of Linda’s house. She greeted us, as always, with her personal welcome, somewhat formal, but quite cordial. Once we were seated and settled, Katy, her sister, made the rounds with a two-handed offering of Bong Son bombers.
The atmosphere of Linda’s was almost always one of politeness, calm, and security, and clearly it was Linda who was in charge there. Linda’s sisters—Katy, who was probably in her very early teens, and a couple others, who were even younger—treated us as honored guests, constantly making the rounds and doing minor housekeeping while we were there but never talking unless pressed to do so. We barely had time to finish our first bomber when Katy brought around a white porcelain bowl containing neatly folded, ice-cold damp washcloths. After this soothing ablution for our brows and necks, she quietly collected the soiled washcloths and retired to the kitchen to fetch a round of Cokes. Between rounds, she’d stand in the doorway to another room and serenely survey the goings-on with her soft doe eyes. She often reminded me—particularly after I’d drifted away in a cloud of euphoria from the first bomber—of one of those bodhisattvas standing on a cloud in Asian paintings.
While visits to Linda’s were usually a welcome respite from the intensity of our normal routine, today was not one of those days. I was doing my best to get comfortably laid back, but I could hear Linda talking to Speed in an uncharacteristically excited and agitated tone. They usually spoke in an infuriatingly hard-to-understand combination of Vietnamese, French, and English, which I didn’t even attempt to follow, but today Linda was using more English, so I listened in. She moved toward the wall and took a veil from a picture hanging there. It was a photograph of a GI, and from the looks of it, he was a medic.
“This dude in Delta Company, Speed. He a new guy. He come here, I treat him like anybody, but he a foul dude, Speed. He a CID (Criminal Investigation Department officer)! Already he get four guys in Delta Company busted. Number ten dude for sure. You kill him for Linda, okay?” The term number ten was shorthand for “the worst.” It was part of an agreed-upon scale of values—with number one being “excellent”—that helped to overcome the language barrier between us.
At this point, I heard Orville moan. “Oh, goddamn, if that don’t beat all. Must be that fuckin’ new colonel. I ain’t believin’ it. Here they tell us to kill anything that moves in a fuckin’ free-fire zone, and we’re criminals for smokin’ dope.”
I was shocked that Linda had asked Speed to kill the guy. If Speed were to waste anyone, he’d do it of his own accord. I was surprised at Linda too, but evidently that “hell hath no fury” thing applied cross-culturally. When Speed quizzed Linda as to the villain’s whereabouts, she could only say that the guys from Delta Company had told her that he had disappeared. This eased my mind. The lifers had tried to infiltrate Linda’s, with only moderate success, and now it could be considered a one-shot deal. From now on, new guys would be scrutinized with the same intensity as a potential ambush site. Nevertheless, the lifers’ persistence was worrisome, and any illusions on my part that the situation would ease were immediately dispelled.
Bam, bam, bam! A pounding at the door stilled the quiet mumbling of rage.
“Open up! MPs.”
We stared at each other, shocked and dumbfounded. Here we were, supposedly hardened and cunning guerilla fighters, trapped like rats in Linda’s mud-walled house. Katy flew into action and locked the wooden shutters on the windows while Linda checked the bolt on the door.
Bam, bam, bam, bam!
Katy, a model of calm efficiency, rolled up a straw mat that covered the floor, lifted a trap door, and motioned for us to jump in. In seconds, the trap door was quietly eased shut, leaving us whispering in the earthy, inky blackness.
“Go ’way, fuckin’ MP,” Linda shouted through her door. “This Linda house. No fuckin’ MP gonna come in here.”
Linda’s defiance was as admirable as her knowledge of military law. The MPs, unless they could confront us directly outside of private property, had no jurisdiction to search her house. The point would be moot, of course, if a waiting game were to follow. It was possible that they would simply rotate guard on the house until circumstances forced us to leave. Dark images of us being paraded through the village with our hands over our heads like POWs filled my mind. I’d heard enough about Long Binh Jail to shudder at the prospect of spending the rest of my tour sweating in a steel box.
Linda persisted in feigning innocence and outrage, eventually threatening to call the village magistrate to settle the matter. Evidently, this last ploy must have intimidated the MPs, who were probably also questioning the legality of their move. They retreated. After a long and increasingly tense silence, Katy opened the door of our tomb.
“Boy-san say MPs leave. Boy-san say truck coming. Go! Now! Leave! Hurry!”
Grabbing our M16s, we blasted out of our earthen hideaway and flew out the door, squinting in the bright light. The residual adrenaline in my system gave me the distinct feeling of flying as I followed Creeper, leaping over fences and the stream with gobs of room to spare. When we hit the road, Speed had us set up a defensive perimeter as if we’d been attacked by the NVA. Panting and peeping through the grass along the ditch near the road, I could see that half the village had rallied in our defense. Mama-sans and children had formed a wider perimeter around us and were on the lookout for MPs. The truck arrived in seconds, and as we clambered on, I noticed that Speed had not been unnerved enough to relinquish the prize of our foray into the village. He smiled as the truck roared off and held aloft the rumpled brown grocery bag that contained our supply of smoke for our next mission.
As we approached Uplift, Speed pitched the package into the weeds along the road. He would retrieve it later that night, crawling again under the concertina wire in a risky half-hour mission. Tension rose again as the truck slowed for the MP’s checkpoint. We all awaited that heart-stopping moment when the MPs would either stop the truck, as they were instructed to do, or wave us through. It was at that moment—and in full sight of the MPs—when Speed, Bruce, and Creeper chambered rounds in their M16s. They were pissed, really pissed, that any REMF would have the unmitigated gall to hassle us boony rats. They spent their tours sleeping on cots and working eight-hour days in relative luxury while we were pounding the boonies and sleeping in the mud. What’s more, we were the ones who would be sent out to protect their perimeter if there was any hint of VC activity around Uplift. I understood the contempt and outrage that my buddies felt for the MPs. But at the same time, I knew that it wasn’t really the MP’s fault. They had their obscene, absurd job to do, and we had ours. Neither was commendable. We rolled through the checkpoint unopposed.
I was actually relieved to be looking at the jungle under the toes of my boots as we were flown out on our next mission. The rear, which had once afforded us an opportunity to shift down a couple of notches from the electric intensity and immediacy of attention required in the field, had become a nerve-wracking, potentially dangerous game of cat and mouse. I remembered overhearing a conversation months before about the question “Who would you kill, given the choice?” At that time, it seemed to be a toss-up among the men between the ARVNs, who would split at the first shot in a firefight (sometimes before), leaving the GIs holding the bag, and our lifers, some of whom would crawl over our bodies to advance their own careers. Lately, our lifers, particularly our new colonel, were on the top of everyone’s list. I remembered being surprised at the time that the North Vietnamese regulars weren’t even up for discussion, but now I knew why.
The NVA were simply experts at the game. Renowned for their cunning and patience, they fought with conviction, bravery, and consummate skill. They knew our tactics and thoroughly understood our mind-set and weaknesses. To play the game with them was to be confronted with our own ignorance. To survive, one had to assimilate as much of their subtlety and finesse as possible in an incredibly short span of time and reevaluate one’s erroneous assumptions about these “ignorant, third-world savages.” Yet for all the respect we had for them, we knew that they were as much the victims of circumstance as we were. We’d had scouts from time to time, ex-NVA regulars, who told us that they hated the war every bit as much as we did. Clearly, their societies and their politicians had sold them a bogus bill of goods, just as ours had, and now they, like us, were sent to die for it. One scout who worked for us, who called himself Tracy, had been with the NVA but had Chiêu Hồi-ed (surrendered). His personal story closely paralleled our own.
Tracy had fought the war for years, first with conviction, then with growing disenchantment. His breaking point came when a new, somewhat overzealous commander was sent to lead his company. His new CO, he said, was not content to follow the carefully planned strategies formulated by his superior officers, and at every chance, he initiated firefights with GIs, hoping to kill as many as possible, regardless of his superiors’ overall strategy. Although they’d been somewhat successful in this endeavor, his company was taking more than their usual losses as a result of their CO’s ambition. Finally, the night before they were supposed to spring an ambush on an unsuspecting platoon of GIs, Tracy could take it no more. He loosened the pin on a grenade, tied it to his sleeping CO’s bootlace, ran away in the night, and surrendered to the GIs. I remembered that when Tracy told us this story one night on bunker guard, it was met with immediate recognition. Speed, Tennessee, Creeper—all of us—started laughing and patting him on the back. Irrespective of his former alliance, he was recognized as one of us.
As our chopper settled in the bush, I allowed myself the luxury of one thought. Given our recent experience in the rear, I thought, It’s hard to fight an enemy we’ve learned to respect.
Even after we’d formed a perimeter and the last helicopter had thumpa-thumped its way over the ridge, I found it dangerously difficult to clear my mind and focus on the job at hand. Throughout the first mile or so on the trail, the heebie-jeebies from our stay in the rear clung to me like my uncle Henry’s cigar smoke—stale, foul, and bitter. Eventually, however, the weight of my pack brought me back to the here and now. My collarbones screamed and my thighs burned, letting me know that if I didn’t find that clear, calm, empty space, it was going to be a long day. We were making our way up the side of a steep mountain when I remembered to coordinate my breathing with my steps. Inhale, lift, step, exhale. Inhale, lift, step, exhale. Two hours later, as we started to follow a ridgeline, it happened. I was back. Colors brightened and my pack disappeared. My body dissolved, and once again, I was a pair of eyes and ears floating through the jungle. My vibes-detector was working again, too. There weren’t any NVA around, not now, at least.
Relieved as I was to be back, I knew it wasn’t something one could assume would always be there. What had once been a tightrope walk was now a narrow path; there was some slack, but not much. One thought could lead to another and another and another, and then I’d be back in hell, feeling the full torment of my body. Or worse still, I could start feeling sorry for myself and become completely exhausted.
Our new lieutenant had us loggered-in with plenty of time to heat our Cs and even brew a cup of instant coffee. I stole a few moments with Tennessee to get his impressions of our new CO, Quick.
“Oh, he’s tight, alright,” Tennessee whispered as we watched twilight envelope the valley below. “He sure won’t be havin’ us do the kinda stupid stuff our ol’ CO did.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” I said. “But he seems to know where the gooks are and how they act or somethin’, doesn’t he?”
“He knows better than most, but he’s still goin’ off of army intelligence.”
We both laughed.
“Know what you’re gettin’ at, though, man,” Tennessee confided. “You’re worried ’cause you think he’s gonna run us into more shit than the other dude. Who knows? I don’t know, and if I did—well, you know ya can’t be sweatin’ the small stuff.”
Tennessee lit a bomber and passed it to me for a toke.
“Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” I said. “Do ya think Quick is gonna get all gung ho and try and bust us for smokin’ dope in the field?”
Tennessee pushed hard on my shoulder, almost knocking me over.
“What’s the matter with you tonight?” he asked with a grin. “Here, ya better smoke some more of this; you’re all kinds of worried. Do I think Quick’s gonna bust us for smokin’ dope?” Tennessee giggled for a while, as if I’d asked the dumbest question on earth. “Let me put it this way,” he said, reveling in the fact he had a chance to mess with me. “Who does Quick pick when he goes on those two-man huntin’ trips when we’re in the field?”
“Captain Speed,” I said, already feeling pretty stupid.
“That’s right!” Tennessee said with a giggle, patting me on the back. “Come on, man, give Quick a little credit. If he doesn’t know Speed smokes dope, nobody does. Shit, it’s in his records. He’s been busted three times. So, you tell me. But really, man, I know what’s happenin’ with you. If you can’t bring yourself to worry about the big stuff, ya start worrying about little stuff. But hey, man, ya can’t worry about none of that stuff, ’cause fuck it. Jus’ fuck it. It don’t mean nothin’. But really, there’s one thing that worries me.”
“What’s that?” I asked, honored that Tennessee would confide his worries in me.
“You’re bogartin’ the joint, man. Look at ya! You’re bogartin’ the joint!”
Tennessee grabbed the joint from my hand and took a toke. A seed exploded and blew sparks all over his shirt. He started to say something, but when he realized I already knew what he was going to say, we both started laughing. We said it together, “Pop! There goes another problem!”
For the next few days in the field, my system grew increasingly more adjusted to the routine. I had noticed when we flew out that we landed not all that far from the site of our last mission—the valley we went into on APCs and tanks. Perhaps we were circling around behind it; it was hard to tell exactly, but I knew we were somewhere around there. I had the distinct feeling that the NVA knew we were there and that they were choosing to avoid contact. Also, it was unaccountably clear to me that they felt that after our last go-round, we had the mojo going for us and were best left alone. I was beginning to get a feel for them. They were like that, kind of superstitious, kind of psychic. Sure, they’d shot down a jet, but they’d also blown two ambushes on the grunts—perfect setups. There were no dust-offs coming out of that valley.
As the days passed, I felt myself more and more completely immersed in the groove. There was an unmistakable way it felt. I trusted it and went with it, even though, sometimes, my silent, solitary wanderings led to some strange spaces. Lately I was obsessed with the thought that at any time, a sniper could shoot me right in the center of the forehead, right between and above the eyes. For hours, my attention would be drawn to that spot, and I would rub it when we took a break and before I went to sleep. Normally, I wouldn’t allow myself to indulge in such constantly negative thinking, but this, whatever it was, was so persistent, so seemingly natural, that I let it ride. Surprisingly enough, the thought did not invoke a great deal of fear. Rather, it made each moment of my existence in this reality seem a priceless gift. I’d realize I wasn’t dead, and I’d look around. How fantastic! How wonderful! That last step could have been your last, but you’re still here.
Another thing that was happening was that before I went to sleep, I’d fold my arms over my chest, the way corpses are posed for burial, and I’d imagine that I was in my casket, the lid was shut, and now dirt was being shoveled over the top. You’re dead, I would think. Now, what’s left. I felt I had to know. I’d relax my muscles to minimize my awareness of them, slow my breathing, and still my thoughts. What’s left? What’s left? For a time, it would seem that all that would survive was a dot or point that knew of its own existence. Night after night, I felt totally compelled to do this exercise. It was part of the groove, and I would not fight it.
Three weeks later, the platoon followed a well-worn trail down a ridgeline and set up on a small hilltop overlooking a field of rice paddies. Across the field, palm trees and a few thatched roofs revealed the presence of a village. The rice in the paddies was half-grown and evidently not in need of much care, as none of the villagers were to be seen. We were told to dig in and to do an extra good job of it, complete with overhead cover and firing lanes—the whole bit. For the platoon, it was a sign that we were going to be there for a while. Speed made the rounds, making sure each squad had a supply of smoke. I set up my recently acquired hammock, and we were ready to party. Our new lieutenant seemed to be unusually forthcoming as to our purpose and told us that Captain Quick and the rest of the company were sweeping the area. Our function was to sit tight and keep a lookout for any NVA that might be traveling through in an attempt to avoid Quick’s sweep. Evidently he suspected that they might infiltrate the village and use the civilians for cover. It sounded good, in theory.
In the morning, Bruce and Canary, one of the newbies, asked the lieutenant if they could slip into the village and refill the platoon’s canteens from the well. Bruce was careful to explain that while we could fill our canteens with rice-paddy water, it was hard to filter out everything, excepting the larger chunks of water buffalo shit, and that Doc required us to dose that water with extra halazone tablets to make it potable, if unpalatable. I could see our new lieutenant getting a little green as Bruce described the condition of the rice-paddy water—justifiably, to be sure—but he was working on him so shamelessly I was glad I had my boots on. The water buffalo doo-doo was getting pretty deep. I saw a nodded approval for the plan, and Bruce and Canary wasted no time emptying their packs and collecting empty canteens. When they left, I felt a little anxious, thinking that they should have had an armed escort, but they returned in short order, resupplied us, and were ready to party.
Creeper, Bruce, Tennessee, and Doc started a card game near my hammock. I was feeling somewhat distant and withdrawn at the time. It might have had to do with my macabre preoccupation with death during our last hump, but whatever. I was content to swing in my hammock and observe, and they were content to let me be.
In the days that followed, there was a progressive disintegration in the integrity of our ambush site. It started the next morning, with the arrival of two Coke girls—as girls selling Cokes were called—from the village. No harm, it seemed; we hadn’t had an ice-cold anything for almost a month. That afternoon, a couple of boy-sans tentatively approached us with ripe coconuts to sell. Two days later, it was a veritable caravan from the village to our position. Boy-sans, Coke girls, mama-sans with their trays—like those cigarette girls who plied the nightclubs in the 1930s and 1940s—selling sunglasses, sweatbands, cigarettes, and candy. They all congregated around the platoon like bees on honey. But what topped it all was the two crazed boy-san pimps who drove their Honda 90s deftly across the rice-paddy dikes to our position with their girls sitting sidesaddle on the back. It wasn’t much of an ambush, but hey, we were winning the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people. It was our job.
Things were going swimmingly even into the next day. The lieutenant had lost the exasperated look on his face and was actually starting to have a good time. Our new platoon sergeant, the Bastard Rat, as he called himself, might otherwise have been a wet blanket, to say the least, if one mama-san hadn’t given him such a good deal on a couple of bottles of cheap whiskey. The old fart was happy as a clam, staggering around and harassing us troops. Good old mama-san. I had to hand it to her; she really knew how to grease the wheels of the free-enterprise system. The place was really starting to have some atmosphere—kind of a combination flea market, garden party, and outdoor whorehouse. It was great. Given time, I suppose we would have strung some Chinese lanterns in the trees and hired a band, but this was not to be. Late in the afternoon, we had an uninvited guest.
I just happened to catch it out of the corner of my eye. Our new lieutenant was standing at attention, face red as a beet, while some other guy dressed in camouflage fatigues, with his back to me, paced back and forth in front of him. He needed no introduction. It was Captain Quick. He had slipped up on us with the party going full tilt boogie. I could tell from the captain’s movements that he was doing all he could not to lose it altogether. He showed no appreciation whatsoever for our attempt at winning hearts and minds and was chewing the lieutenant’s ass out without mercy. I felt sorry for our new platoon leader but figured it might be all for the best. I knew from the first time I met him that, regardless of his rank, his heart wasn’t in this war. He might be getting his ass chewed out, but still, he was better off being soft and cared for by his men than being a hard-ass like McDouche and hated. I was getting short, but Speed and Tennessee had plenty of time left in their second tours to keep him out of trouble, and I knew they’d try.
Word of our visitor passed quickly and quietly through the platoon. We did our best to pick up scattered equipment and get things shipshape before the shit hit the fan. The lieutenant was still getting reamed when the Bastard Rat descended on our squad. He did his best at acting pissed off, but it was thoroughly unconvincing. He was an old soldier from the boys-will-be-boys school of thought, and we all knew he was just going through the motions, reprimanding us only for appearance’s sake. Though he obviously had a great deal of affection for the men in his command, he was enigmatically distant when approached on a personal level. From time to time, various members of the platoon had approached him outside the context of his official capacity and offered friendship, but they were always decisively rebuffed. Living up to the namesake moniker scrawled on his helmet, he’d act like a cornered rat on those occasions, snarling, baring his teeth, and even going on the offensive. I’d seen it happen, and it was frightening. He had all the earmarks of someone who’d lost too many buddies in battle and believed that his friendship was the kiss of death. Tennessee had some of the same symptoms, but he could talk about it and, in doing so, was gradually coming out of his shell. But the Bastard Rat had built a defensive perimeter around his heart so formidable that none but the daring or foolhardy would hazard an approach. Except for the times when he was drunk enough to forget himself, he seemed destined to die from a case of terminal loneliness.