Word came down to saddle up, an unusual order this late in the day, but considering that we’d stolen a few days of fun, none of us was going to beef about it. From where we were in the valley, any path led up. But luck was with us, and we took a gently rising trail, following a ridgeline that led to higher elevations. I was happy to be in the bush again. Playful interludes like the one we’d just had would, for me, bring about a sense of uneasiness, dissipation, and eventually a kind of panic. Thoughts and emotions, long held at bay while humping the boonies, would reassert themselves and disrupt my sense of clarity and calm. I’d sense a slight, but noticeable, drop in my energy level and confidence, resulting in the fear that they might be lost for good. If I could catch these emotions in time, I’d revitalize myself by swinging in my hammock and staring at the clouds or stars, but more often than not, I’d get carried away by the “school’s out” attitude and the pleasant, if unwholesome, distractions at hand.
In spite of the physical demands and danger, I felt that when we were on the move, I was going somewhere, not just physically but also in a nebulous, internal sense. Keeping my attention fixed in the present—from one microsecond to the next—had, I thought, allowed me to find a state of mind in which the weight of my pack seemed to disappear. I knew it had something to do with my increasing sensitivity to emotional energies or vibes, be they those of an NVA soldier or a friend, and I was positive it had something to do with the exhilarating sense of well-being I’d feel at the end of the day. Yet without the discipline enforced by the skills of our opponents—the knowledge that a lapse in concentration could cost a leg or one’s life—I felt set adrift, vulnerable, and lost. I was sure that this had something to do with why Captain Speed, Tennessee, and Sgt. Ski had opted for a second tour, particularly after seeing Ski come back from a thirty-day leave in the States. The man was a wreck—depressed, untrusting, and confused. It took him the better part of our first mission to recover, laugh again, and get some spring back in his step. Something strange and incredibly ironic that had happened to him, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand what it was.
At any rate, I was glad to be back in the groove again. The groove wasn’t a static thing; it changed, evolved, and expanded, leading to new strange and exotic lands. Lately it was taking me on a tour of Morbidland, where death was behind every bush and around every corner. The groove allowed me to take the tour with calm detachment rather than stark terror. Although I was absolutely certain there weren’t any NVA around and my position in the middle of our squad protected me from booby traps, Death, my death, leered at me from behind trees and taunted me in the calls of jungle birds. He constantly reminded me that a sniper’s round to the center of my forehead could deliver me to him at any instant, and he drew so close to me at night that I could feel his chill. Never before had I been on such intimate terms with this inevitable aspect of my personal reality, yet the groove had led me there, and I knew not to fight it. That same groove that had led me to dizzying heights and uncontrollable laughter had revealed the exquisite beauty of the jungle. It now required a nodding acquaintance with my own mortality—who was I to resist? I felt that it was being gentle with me, easing me into acknowledging death’s inescapable embrace, yet I sensed that there would come a time when the groove would fix my gaze and demand a face-to-face confrontation with the reality of the complete obliteration of my physical being.
We had gained enough elevation to free ourselves from the densest jungle, and at the first grassy patch large enough to accommodate a Huey, we stopped for resupply. We formed a perimeter, and when the chopper pilot requested identification, I popped a purple smoke grenade and tossed it into the center of the clearing. Hearing his approach, I stood at the end of the clearing that would allow him best clearance for his machine and raised my M16 overhead with both hands. He settled neatly in the clearing just long enough for his crew to kick off a few cases of Cs, bundles of clean fatigues, and a bag of mail. I dragged the mailbag to the lieutenant for distribution and found a place next to Doc Mock to wait while Bruce and Creeper doled out our rations and fatigues.
Doc’s aid bag was open and ready before the first of several ailing boony rats found his way to his location. The usual cases of jungle rot, blistered feet, and insect bites were dispatched with Doc’s expected efficiency, but when Creeper rolled up his pant leg, Doc’s levity turned to serious concern. Creeper’s machete had glanced off of a particularly hard branch a couple of days earlier and struck him in the shin. The cut was deep, and Doc surmised that the machete had possibly nicked the bone, though it was hard for him to tell exactly what was beneath the golf-ball-sized lump that festered on Creeper’s leg.
“This is bad,” Doc announced to the already annoyed Bastard Rat. “The whole thing’s infected, and if it’s gone to the bone, there’s nothing I can do for him here. He’s gotta be dusted off.”
Noting the Bastard Rat’s look of total exasperation, Doc was quick to add that our resupply chopper was yet to circle back and pick up our dirty fatigues and that since there was nothing he could do for Creeper there, that chopper would suffice. A nod of approval and some hurried goodbyes were the extent of Creeper’s send-off party. They were all that was possible under the conditions, and in fifteen minutes, Creeper was gone, close enough to the end of his tour for us to know that he’d never return. We’d miss him, of course, and perhaps would have liked a chance to express our gratitude for his services and friendship more completely, but all in all, we were glad to see him go. He was home free, without even having to deal with the usual short-timer’s paranoia about getting fucked up in his last few days in the bush. He’d made it, and we were happy for him.
I tightened the last strap on my now fully loaded pack, leaned it against a tree, and kicked back to savor yet another soggy Camel. Mail was brought around. Nothing for me this time, but I noted that Doc had gotten a huge care package from his folks in Kansas. This fact hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Bastard Rat either, who was lustfully eyeing Doc’s goodies as he stuffed them in his pack.
“Doc!” he growled. “Gimme a pudding.”
Though Doc had heard him, he hesitated for a second and fiddled with his pack.
“Doc!” he growled even louder. “Gimme a pudding!”
Doc fiddled a little longer, just to get the Bastard Rat a little more irritated, and pulled an aluminum can of pudding out of his pack. He held it up, zeroed in on Sarge—eyes sparkling with impish humor and delight—and said, “Ask and ye shall receive, Big Sarge. Seek and ye shall find. If you have an intent heart to look, it shall be there!”
Big Sarge looked as if he were ready to explode. “Don’t want any of your shit, Doc. Don’t gimme none of that shit. Just hand it over.”
Doc flipped him the can and shook his head in mock astonishment at the Rat’s bad temper. Even though everyone in Vietnam knew that nobody but nobody fucked with the medics—not wanting to be on the bottom of the list were triage ever necessary—Doc pushed Sarge for all his position was worth. I wondered why Doc actually went out of his way to mess with Sarge; most of the rest of us were convinced that he would never come out of his shell. My wondering ceased when I realized that Doc simply responded to things in an entirely different way than me. While I might consider someone’s character and likely response, Doc just acted, spontaneously and without judgment, and was free. He seemed to be able to enter any situation, act, and leave without a trace of sticky emotional residue or any sense of lingering, unfinished business about it. Like Captain Speed, he functioned with confidence from a place that had nothing to do with mental evaluation or consideration of results, yet his behavior showed unmistakable signs of clarity, compassion, magical precision, and completely effective timing. But these qualities were apparent only in retrospect.
Soon enough, I heard the call of the Bastard Rat signaling that it was time to hit the trail. The call was as persistent as that of any jungle lizard, though not nearly as melodious. “Doc, get your shit on, we’re headin’ out. Doc! Get your shit on. Damn it, Doc, stuff that shit in your bag, or we’re leavin’ without ya!”
They’d been playing this game for weeks, and it was getting to the point that anyone in the area would have to turn away to hide his snickering. Doc would be sitting there, calm and unruffled, intent on handing out one more handful of antibiotics or treating one more cut until Sarge got to the breaking point. He’d stall Sarge to the limits of his patience, then act as if he were frantically trying to get his shit together.
Once again, I felt the straps of a fully loaded pack dig into my shoulders as we slipped into the jungle, and for yet another time, each of us entered his own deeply personal inner realm. During the seemingly endless hours of silent stalking, we each stood before a mirror that uncompromisingly reflected our innermost thoughts and attitudes. In the field, on the trail, the self-created suffering resulting from anger, worry, and self-pity was never slow in coming. One slip, one minor indulgence in any form of negativity, and one was cast headlong into the region of hell specific to the offense.
At times, I’d feel myself transformed into a wild-eyed demon raging against the army, the ignorance, and my fate, ranting to no avail. The jungle’s heat would become unbearable, my stomach would knot, and my mind would feel like it was stewing inside my steel pot. Then, sweating, sick, and with passion spent, I’d catch myself and thank God that my tantrum hadn’t caused me to miss a booby trap or sniper. At other times, I’d load sandbags of self-pity into my pack till my legs would burn, then chill, making me feel cold and weak from nausea. These were admittedly useless endeavors—but hey, ya never know until you try. Once I knew the consequences, I learned not to try them too often. Over the months, I’d learned to assign an internal monitor that would warn me of these dangers, and from time to time, he’d break my train of thought, like Barney Fife: “Here it comes—Andy—here it comes. Ya gotta nip it, nip it in the bud!”
I realized why the old-timers had so often repeated their repertoire of stock phrases in response to newbies’ grousing and complaints, real or imaginary. The dialogue would go like this:
NEWBIE: God. Ya know what I could go for right now? A Big Mac with cheese, a shake, and a large order of fries.
OLD-TIMER: Wish in one hand, man, and shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.
Or:
NEWBIE: Gee, this pack is really heavy, and my boots don’t fit very good.
OLD-TIMER: Sounds like a personal problem, man. Tell it to the chaplain.
Or:
NEWBIE: The water in my canteen tastes like plastic.
OLD-TIMER: Fuck it, man. It don’t mean nothin’.
Or:
To a newbie who was pining over a letter from his sweetheart at mail call.
OLD-TIMER: If the army would have wanted you to have a girlfriend, they would have issued you one.
I’d been stung by the old-timers’ rebuffs countless times during my early weeks in the field and was only now fully able to appreciate their intent. They seemed brutal at the time, but rather than offer some half-hearted sympathy, they’d made it clear that I was the one responsible for my own attitudes and their emotional consequences. For the first time in my life, it was clear to me that my well-being was a matter of choice. I was free to rage, fret, or go on a bummer—that was entirely my own business—but if it was painful, they didn’t want to hear about it. I’d be left to bear the full weight of my choices, and they theirs. At that time, the nature of their choices was a mystery to me, but the results were clear. They were calm, generally of good humor, and had an infuriatingly consistent sense of gratitude.
As we moved along the trail, I realized that the jungle was not at all the frightening place it once had been. I slipped deftly past some tangled vines of thought and, in doing so, missed getting snagged by some thorny emotions. The jungle required constant vigilance, but I gave it its due, knowing the trail led to a sunlit clearing with a spring of cool, clean water. We climbed a small hill, and while going down the slope that followed, I could see the front half of the platoon: Tennessee, Bruce, Doc, and Speed. Their movements—our movements—harmonized like a school of fish or the branches of a tree in a breeze. We were no longer separate selves, but one being, gliding through the jungle, looking for a clearing in the sun.
Though there was no sense of time in this, days passed. My radio crackled, “Hotel Fox, Hotel Fox, this is Hotel Alpha, request Lima Zulu.” We stopped on the rise of a small hill. There were no large trees in the area, and the platoon took to the hilltop, machetes flashing, like cane cutters in a field, and soon cleared a circle big enough for a Huey. Our location had been compromised by the racket, so we carefully guarded the perimeter while a sortie of Hueys scouted for our location. With the sound of choppers still quite distant, I popped a green smoke in the center of the clearing. Not long after, the pale wisp of mint-green smoke drifted above the brush, I heard a pilot on the radio. “Have green smoke. Do you copy? Have green smoke.”
“That’s a Roger on the copy and a Roger on the smoke,” I confirmed, letting the pilot verify our location. It was his job to verify the color of smoke, so that the NVA, listening in on our radio communications, couldn’t try to lure him in with smoke of their own. Soon we were stung with flying brush as the first of the sortie eased in and momentarily touched down. With the efficiency of a diving hawk snagging a rabbit, it plucked up a squad of men and flew off. The remaining choppers swooped down in rapid succession to scoop up the rest of us, and in minutes, we were flying in formation at altitude.
As we floated over the sea of mountains, I allowed myself the luxury of entertaining a few thoughts about our destination and the nature of our next mission. We hadn’t been told to prepare to land in a hot LZ, which, though mildly reassuring, left a multitude of options. Too many, I finally concluded, to bother myself with needless speculation. Finding myself becoming increasingly irked at the lifers’ need for secrecy about such things, I shut down the thinking part of my mind and refocused in the present. We floated over miles of steep mountains before the terrain eased into rolling hills. As the chopper carved a wide arc in the sky, I could feel that we were losing altitude. Instinctively, my mind cleared and my body tensed. Preparing for the worst, I scanned the area, trying to pinpoint the most likely LZ. Below my boots and billowing pant legs were palms, indicating an unseen river, along with thatched roofs and flooded rice paddies. We skimmed in low over the paddies. Suddenly the chopper lifted its nose and dropped its tail, like a bird coming in to roost. It settled gently on a hilltop, in the middle of a circle of a dozen well-fortified bunkers; it looked like we were in for a boony rat’s dream vacation—bunker guard on a minibase.
It was truly the best of all possible worlds for a platoon of grunts. No humping, no lifers (except for the Bastard Rat and Lieutenant Anderson), and no booby traps. It was defendable enough that only a major suicide mission on the part of the NVA could overrun it, yet it had obviously been established long enough that they weren’t going to stumble across it by accident. As it was on a hilltop, every “room” had a view and was outfitted with genuine army-issue cots—no more of that waking up in the mud in water-logged fatigues for us. There was only one catch, and as Lieutenant Anderson briefed us about our mission, I heard the groans as he revealed it.
“A platoon of ARVNs is going to join us every night just before sundown, and they’re going to man every other bunker.”
His news that they’d return to their village after two hours was met with sighs of relief. The ARVNs were generally considered to be a first-class pain in the ass. They’d steal your rifle or personal effects in the blink of an eye and hide behind the language barrier if you tried to get anything back. “Noooo biết, noooo biết” (I don’t understand) would be their plaintive cry under such circumstances, but if there was something they wanted, they could always produce someone who could speak enough to ask for it. If the shit hit the fan, they’d vanish into thin air, sometimes before the first shot was fired. My only consolation was that I spoke just enough French Vietnamese to say, “Tí tí time. GI fini Vietnam” (In a short time, the GIs are pulling out of Vietnam). To which they’d invariably reply, “beaucoup xạo, beaucoup xạo” (Big lie). It was outrageous to us that while we were fighting and dying for their country, their only concern was how much money they could make on their thievery and the black market.
ARVNs notwithstanding, I was happy to be out of the boonies for a while and was determined to make the best of it. Tennessee, Bruce, Captain Speed, Orville, and I were assigned a bunker on the village side of the perimeter, which afforded a tremendous view of the valley below. It looked like a scene from hundreds, quite possibly thousands, of years ago. A lone farmer in the distance waded in the paddies behind a water buffalo and wooden plow. Timeless palms shaded the bamboo, mud, and thatch houses of the village, while the eternally self-renewing jungle crowded the paddy fields on three sides. The serene scene spoke volumes about life, continuity, simplicity, and harmony with nature. I had little doubt that this bit of land could have sustained the village for yet another thousand years of tranquil acceptance of the laws of nature had not the ugliness of war invaded this peaceful place.
Late in the day, in the steaming, sweltering heat of the afternoon sun, the ARVNs came trudging up the trail that connected the village to the minibase. For the most part, they acted like unmanageable preadolescent boys, pushing, shoving, and tripping each other and marching in a bouncy exaggeration of military style. Until they entered our perimeter, that is. There they suddenly changed their demeanor to that of a frightened child. They gathered together at one of the two bunkers in the center of the perimeter for assignments and looked at us sullenly, though they were not frightened enough to dispense with one of their favorite pastimes: pointing at one of us, yammering to each other in Vietnamese, and laughing. I knew that there was much about them I didn’t understand and tried my best to make allowances for their behavior, but they didn’t make it easy.
We retreated to the cool of our earthen bunker for the remainder of the afternoon. I lounged in a hammock strung from the beams, listening to the radio. It was luxurious. Noticing the lengthening shadows, I left my comrades and positioned myself on the bunker’s roof, facing west, for my sunset-gazing ritual. Given the chance, I found myself doing this at every opportunity, whether in the field or back at our base camp. There was something about evening that I’d long ago realized had a wonderful effect on me. It evened and balanced the competing aspects of my inner self that were constantly vying for attention. Along with the setting sun, thoughts from my overactive mind would ebb enough for my emotions to make their presence known. Acknowledging the emotion of the moment, be it melancholy, anger, or fear, seemed sufficient to allow it to retreat for another day. At twilight, my system was usually quiet enough for me to send out my intuitive feelers for a read on the environment. I could feel the reassuring confidence of the trees or the carefree caress of a breeze as it slipped over the hilltop.
Lately, it seemed that the sun itself had found a pinprick in my personal armor. As I sat, silently immersed in the beauty of yet another sunset, its light wormed its way in and shone on my heart. I could feel in my chest the wan smile of my heart’s reply—feeling, yet unbelieving, that anyone or anything would care to nurture it. It tricked me into no-time time, for when I once again became aware of my surroundings, night had fallen, and I’d been enveloped by the cool, black air. The glow in my heart remained for quite a while, making me smile unknowingly. Its light gradually waned, the way the glowing embers of a campfire shine brightly at first but eventually fade into darkness, leaving me feeling calm, loved, and reassured. Had I the desire to think at the time, I would have noted that something strange and mysterious was going on.
Except for Orville, who pulled the morning watch, we slept in till midmorning. I dug in my pack for some Cs, made a stove out of a cracker can, and was heating some water for instant coffee when Speed handed me a bomber for hits. A couple of tokes, and I was grinning like the Cheshire cat as I added a package of hot chocolate mix to the nasty C-rat coffee. Sgt. Pepper, our army DJ, was into a marathon from the new Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young album when Doc Mock dropped in for a visit. Army regulations had it that Doc was supposed to travel and camp with the lifers—in this case, the Bastard Rat and Lieutenant Anderson—which, though somewhat confining for Doc, offered us access to the somewhat confidential nature of our mission.
“Looks like we’re going to be here for a while,” Doc confided. “They don’t know for sure, but it looks like at least a week.”
“Out fucking standing,” Bruce shouted, as he broke into spasmodic stoned giggling. He jumped off his cot and made the rounds of the squad for a series of uninhibited high fives. He wanted to make sure everyone shared his enthusiasm at our unexpected good fortune. We did.
Orville was suddenly suspicious. “But what’s the deal? Are they gonna send us out on five-man patrols during the day, or what?”
“Nah, man, don’t sweat it,” Doc responded. “That was totally McDouche’s doing. No one from the rear requested that shit.”
“Yeah,” Speed interjected. “Remember that ranger handbook McDouche used to carry in his shirt pocket? That’s where he got those fucking bright ideas. He was just doin’ that shit to cover his own ass. He didn’t care if we were out there stompin’ on booby traps or runnin’ into shit so long as he could be sure no one was sneakin’ up on him. Likely fuckin’ story anyway, but Anderson’s cool. I been scopin’ him out. He ain’t up to that kinda shit.”
“But what if somebody tells him what McDouche used to do?” asked Orville.
At that, Tennessee and Bruce pounced on Orville in a playful mock fight. Tennessee held his hand over Orville’s mouth so he couldn’t ask any more worried questions while Bruce rapped his knuckles on his head. Doc jumped in and started tickling him till it looked like poor Orville was going to explode. They held him down while Speed shotgunned him by blowing backward through a pipe filled with dope. Then they suddenly let him go.
“You fuckers better stay offa me,” Orville said, trying to act serious. But he was grinning, and though a little skittish about another attack of tickling, he was no longer worried about our stay at the minibase.
Feeling a little claustrophobic in the bunker, I decided to scout the hilltop and see what was going on. Squinting into the blazing light of day, I felt instantly seared by the heat. Most of the guys stayed inside to avoid the heat, but I found Sgt. Sam, our 60 gunner, sitting in the shade of his bunker, polishing his machine gun. It was like meeting a long-lost friend; our reconnaissance missions in the field offered little opportunity to talk with the guys in other squads. I’d always liked Sam. He had a great sense of humor, as did most of the guys in their second tour, and could always be counted on in a pinch to bring smoke with his 60. He had Nordic good looks and nearly white, sun-bleached hair, but he could do a great impression of Stan Laurel when he sensed the need for a laugh. He carefully leaned the barrel of his 60 against the bunker, stood, and offered me a hooked-thumb handshake.
“How goes it with Baby-san?” he asked, with a knowing grin. He could tell that I was a little buzzed.
“It’s cool,” I responded. “No fucking sweat, GI. If we can hang out on this hilltop for another couple of months, I’ll have it made.”
In the conversation that followed, Sam clued me in on one of the new guys in his squad who had been added to the platoon during the last resupply. The guy’s name was Cory, Doc Cory—he was a medic. Sam viewed him with uncharacteristic suspicion.
“He’s way out there,” Sam confided. “Sometimes he seems okay, but at other times, he’s kind of gone. He’s a transfer from Delta Company, and you know they don’t do that very often. Says he’s been in the field for six months, but he seems pretty flaky to me. Worst of all, he acts like he’s hiding something. I don’t remember anybody who’s been in the field that long acting like there’s something to hide. It’s weird. I don’t like it, but I haven’t figured him out yet. Maybe he’s doin’ smack or something. I just don’t know. There he is! Check him out.”
I saw a short, blondish guy with a round face messing with his pack by the next bunker and wandered casually over to the area to get a feel for the newest member of our platoon. As I approached, he waved me over. Without hesitation or checking me out at all, he opened his aid bag and assembled a makeshift water pipe out of an IV bottle, a syringe, and some surgical tubing. Before I could even comment, he filled the syringe with some loose grass, fired it up, and offered me a toke. He had done all this within direct sight of the door to Lieutenant Anderson’s bunker. One trip to the latrine by the lieutenant, and he would have been busted on the spot. I looked over my shoulder at the vacant doorway to Anderson’s bunker, took a toke, nodded thanks, and headed back to Sam’s bunker. Walking back, I could see Sam shaking his head in disbelief. Though the lifers knew we smoked, we were careful not to flaunt it, allowing them plausible deniability if we were ever confronted by anyone outside the platoon. It was an unspoken agreement that seemed to keep everyone happy, but this new dude was sure to throw a wrench in the works.
“See what I mean?” Sam asked when I was within earshot. “I just talked to him yesterday and told him to be cool, but look at that.”
I looked back at the bunker to see Cory toking on his pipe in full view of anyone who had happened to venture out into the sun. It was upsetting, but I hoped that, all in all, it would be a minor snag. I knew that the rest of the platoon had enough cohesiveness and competence to compensate for one off-the-wall character, but I didn’t exactly relish the thought of Doc Cory working on me if the shit hit the fan.
That evening I settled in for another sunset. Gazing to the west, the colors of the sky had returned and offered me solace. The blazing light had already softened. Splashes of neon orange appeared before my unfocused eyes, filling me with wonder and gratitude. The tension in my body fell away as I glided into no-time time. Gentle purple and rose mists infused me with their light. Warm waves rippled from my heart, filling me with peace. A quiet joy made me smile. Hours-long moments lingered as the colors slowly faded. At twilight, it seemed as if the light had fused with the air for a moment, giving it life and power. Breathing deeply of the sun’s last light, I felt myself dissolve into the growing shadows—almost, almost gone.
The crunching of boots on gravel told me someone was approaching, yet I sat still and unperturbed. Tennessee slipped up beside me, his eyes throwing sparks of mischief like a pinwheel on the Fourth of July. He reached in his shirt pocket and handed me a bomber, then lit it with his Zippo. One toke, and I was expanding beyond my body, electrified and euphoric.
“Thanks, dude,” I said. “That’s real nice.”
“Aw, fuck, man, it ain’t nothin’, and you know it,” he said, shoving me on the shoulder and laughing at my body’s rubbery response.
“Ya know,” he continued, “I was just thinking you’re getting short, aren’t ya?”
“I don’t know,” I managed, already having a hard time thinking.
“Ya gotta be. You got here right after I started my second tour, and I’m gettin’ pretty short myself.”
I started feeling giddy and amused. It all seemed so serious and real to Tennessee, but to me, it didn’t seem to matter. As I strained to figure things out, I realized that I had absolutely no idea what month it was. The last frame of reference I had was R & R in June; anything past that was a complete mystery.
Tennessee giggled at my confusion. “Well, when did ya get in country then?”
“I left Seattle December 11.”
“Okay, good enough,” he pulled a dog-eared calendar card out of his wallet, squinted at it for a minute, then flicked open his Zippo for better light.
“Here it is,” he said excitedly. “Here we are. Today’s October 7. Wow, man! You’ve been a two-digit midget for better than a month and didn’t even know it. Hey, man, we gotta celebrate.” A two-digit midget was someone with ninety-nine days or less left in his tour.
Sparks were still flying off of his eyes as he dug in the side pocket of his fatigues. He pulled out a can of Cs and handed me an opener.
“Here, have some peaches.”
My tongue seemed to grow fat and dry as I wrestled the little opener around the can’s lid. The stoned munchies had already set in, in a big way. When the can was open at last, I sipped some of the juice so as to not spill its sugary ecstasy. Nearly overwhelmed by the shock of sweet, I dove in with my spoon and carefully guided a piece of fruit into my mouth. I felt like one big taste bud as peachness filled my mind. Still chewing, I handed the can to Tennessee. He refused. I tried again to no avail.
“Nah, go ahead, man, really! You’re so short everybody’s gonna think you’re standin’ in a hole. We gotta celebrate!”
I wasn’t about to argue. The peaches were delicious—everyone’s favorite C-rat treat. In seconds, the small can was empty.
“Wow, man, that was great, but hey, you didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t,” Tennessee replied with a mischievous grin. He was twitching with barely controlled laughter. “Those weren’t peaches.”
At that, we both burst into uncontrolled laughter. A couple of times Tennessee tried to say the punch line we both knew all too well, but he was laughing too hard to talk. When he finally got himself under control, he blurted out, “They were apricots.” At which we both exploded in sidesplitting convulsions of laughter.
It was the oldest trick in the book, a Vietnam chestnut. Get a guy stoned and suggestible and pass off a can of rubbery, furry apricots for peaches. We loved to pull it on the newbies, and in fact, Tennessee had hit me with this one at least twice before, but he had spaced them out just long enough for me to forget. And this time, with the elaborate prelude of the calendar and all …
Brrrrrrap! Pop! Pop! Brrrrrap!
Rifle fire! An electric jolt went up my spine. A flash of stark terror. Then nothing. Calm. Clear. The tinkle of brass empties told me the source of the firing was behind and above us. I grabbed my M16 and chambered a round. Tennessee was already on his feet and hollering in Vietnamese, “Get out of here, motherfucker. Get out! Get out!” He was pointing his rifle at something I couldn’t see on top of our bunker. I heard the banter of Vietnamese and then nothing.
The Bastard Rat must have been roused from his bunker, as I heard him growl. “What the fuck is going on over there?”
“Nothin’, Sarge,” Tennessee hollered back across the compound. “Just the fucking ARVNs. They think we’re under attack.”
“Well, tell them to shut up. Slap ’em. Tell ’em I’m not putting up with any of their bullshit,” he bellowed.
While Tennessee translated the Bastard Rat’s message to the ARVNs, I loosened the clip on my M16 and flipped the chambered round into the dirt. I was polishing the round on my shirt when Tennessee slipped back around to the front of the bunker and sat down beside me. He seemed to have cooled off, as he was giggling again, but suddenly he got real serious and said, “Don’t trust those fuckin’ ARVNs for a second, Baby-san. I know ya got the scope on ’em, but you’ve never had to fight with ’em. They’ll do anything to save their own asses, and as you just saw, they’re squirrelly as hell. If we get hit while they’re on the hill with us, get back to our bunker and get on your radio. Keep tabs on the rest of the platoon and watch your backside. I’m tellin’ ya, if the shit hits the fan, it’ll be hard to tell which side they’re on.”
At that, we returned to our bunker. While Tennessee filled the squad in on our misadventure, I felt suddenly fatigued. Perhaps it was my first case of short-timer’s nerves, but I was sure glad to find an empty cot. It seemed that my mind had taken off without me, running at full speed, thinking about things I hadn’t thought about in months—like time. It was so strange to try to comprehend something like sixty days when, for months, my attention had been focused almost entirely in the present. Even when they told us we were going to man a fire base for two or three weeks, it didn’t really register. Things changed, there was nothing we could count on, and we knew better than to try. But this sixty-day thing weighed on me. It was an impossible burden, and it colored my view of the present like a pair of dark glasses. I wished Tennessee hadn’t mentioned it, but I knew that I would have discovered it anyway. Mercifully, my mind shorted out, and I fell asleep.
As the days slid by, I could sense a growing tension in the platoon. We all knew that, in spite of the ARVNs, we were fairly safe on the hilltop and that manning the base was a hell of a lot easier physically than humping the boonies. No one mentioned it, but there was a growing sense that we would soon be out on another mission. For me, Mr. Short Time, another mission was a particularly ominous concept. Everyone knew that when your number was up, it was up, but after it’s been in the hat for a while, it’s hard to fight the feeling that your number might float to the top. Until now, I hadn’t understood why guys who were short would dig deep trenches for themselves in the bush or sleep with their helmets on. Now, with time a part of my own reality, I realized how difficult it was not to review the struggle and the suffering, the close calls and the lucky breaks. Like everyone else who had neared the end of his tour, I wanted to make it to the light at the end of my personal tunnel, and I wondered if my luck would hold.
A raucous commotion shattered my worrisome contemplation and zapped me back to the here and now. I looked up to see the small yellow puppy that had become the platoon’s mascot snarling and running in circles while Lt. Anderson tried to draw a bead on it with his M16. Foaming at the mouth, the dog was obviously rabid, but Doc wanted to be sure and implored the lieutenant to not shoot it in the head, which would be needed for analysis. One quick pop, and the little puppy was dead. Its body was placed in a plastic bag, and within an hour, a chopper arrived and carried it away. It was a sad, grisly scene that had dire implications for the whole platoon.
Late that afternoon, Lt. Anderson called the platoon together for a meeting. He asked anyone who had handled the puppy to step forward. This elicited a confused response. Did it mean that we had to have fed it? What if it had licked us? If it licked us, did we have to have a cut to get rabies?
“Fuck it,” growled the Bastard Rat, ending any further discussion. “We’re all going in for rabies shots—the whole fucking platoon.”
When we got to the rear, word had it that the colonel, our gung ho new battalion commander, was absolutely livid about our platoon being deactivated for twelve days for a series of rabies shots. In the rare times we’d seen him outside the triple-thick fortress of the tactical command bunker, it was easy for us to reason why. His starched fatigues with all the right shit sewn on them and his shiny boots told the tale. He was a lifer to the max and, like many of the officers, he considered his tour of duty a great opportunity to advance his career. Push a pin in the map here or there, concoct some brilliant strategy (a virtual impossibility, considering the intelligence reports he had to work with), get an impressive body count, and presto, he’d have himself a chest full of medals to wear back in the States. And, who knows, maybe even a promotion or two. It was amazing to me that someone could have been in Vietnam for three months and still be so deluded, but every time I saw him, it was déjà vu Fort Benning. He had the tight-ass walk, flat-top haircut, and crisp salute of a man who definitely didn’t know where he was.
Even before our first rabies shot, I learned that the colonel was still cracking down on the dudes who smoked dope. Some of the boony rats from Delta Company had tried to drop him a subtle hint—in the form of a grenade tossed into his private shitter—that maybe the guys in the field had seen too much death and too many crippled bodies to be intimidated by his rank and the authority of military regulations. We were truly beyond reform. Yet he persisted. I couldn’t imagine a man sitting in his private shitter (rank has its privileges), looking at the shrapnel holes in the door, and thinking, “Well, things take time. All I have to do is keep the pressure on, and sooner or later, they’ll conform.” Nevah hoppen.
So we lined up at the aid station for our shots. As the line moved inside, I could see my buddies lying on stretchers as a team of medics administered the shots. After the horror stories I’d heard about rabies shots, I was relieved to see that all they did was take a pinch of skin near the navel and slip in a normal-looking needle. We were told that they were going to inject us at twelve and six (above and below the navel), then three and nine, and they would fill in the remaining gaps as the days passed. I was thinking that the next twelve days were going to be a piece of cake until I left the aid station and saw that the Bastard Rat was riding herd on the guys who had left before me. The colonel, we were told, had plans for us.
We were escorted to an area behind the colonel’s bunker, where a deuce and a half had just dumped a sizable pile of dirt. The shovels and bundles of empty sandbags clarified our mission. We were going to put yet another layer of sandbags on the colonel’s bunker. Though fortifying bunkers was a laughably easy job, I could tell from the banter that most of the guys considered it punishment for our having exposed ourselves to rabies. It also seemed that the colonel’s bunker had been chosen to remind us of our subservience. Both points were noted, but neither had the intended effect.
As soon as we finished the task, which we all knew was to be followed by eleven more days of menial labor, Doc Mock headed straight for the aid station. In the books of army regulations regarding the treatment of personnel, he found our salvation in black and white: during the administration of rabies serum, “only light duty shall be allowed during the series of injections.” Doc was euphoric when he brought us the news. It seemed such a fitting touché to the man who insisted on going by the book. He said that when he first presented his find to the lifers, they tried to squirm out of their own regulations. But using his medical savvy and a measure or two of BS, he convinced them that severe reactions could set in if they persisted in using us as beasts of burden for the duration.
So we were free. Free to shop at the trailer PX, to run the gauntlet of MPs and go to Linda’s for a buzz, and to catch the occasional movie shown on a piece of white painted plywood. And for me, it meant that I was down to only six weeks of possible time in the field.
That night, bunker guard was a no-holds-barred blowout. We had tunes, Cokes, bombers, and food from the EM club in abundant supply, but as we settled in to party, I noticed two things were missing: Sesame the Wonder Dog and Big Ernie. I asked about them and was told that Big Ernie had inexplicably joined a recon team. I had a vague feeling that he had always wanted to emulate us to some degree. Perhaps he thought that being in the field had put us all through some kinds of changes that he wanted to experience firsthand. He wanted to share in our camaraderie and felt he had to go into the boonies to do it. Not everyone needs to get hit in the head the way we had to value brotherhood, honesty, and loyalty. I’d always felt that Big Ernie had gotten the hang of things even without experiencing what we had, and I was somewhat saddened to think that he felt he had to prove it to himself in such a dramatic way. But that was his choice, and there was no turning back.
Sesame, nemesis of all the lifers in the rear, had been ordered destroyed soon after it was discovered our platoon had to return to the rear for rabies shots. The lifers had wanted to get rid of him for a long time and jumped at the chance. Tommy, my REMF buddy, told me that they had taken Sesame to the aid station the day before and shot him up with tranquilizers, then they unceremoniously threw his body in the dump. A truly undeserved fate for such a steadfast friend.
In spite of everything, we partied on. Captain Speed and Tennessee had command positions in their twin lawn chairs, and Bruce and Doc dug in their packs for sweets after our evening smoke. I sat contentedly with my feet hanging off the bunker’s sandbag roof, watching the sky change colors with the setting sun. As the clouds began to change from neon orange to violet, on their way to dusty blue-gray, I felt secure in knowing that I’d be able to watch the entire hour-long spectacle without being interrupted. There was an unspoken code among the men in the platoon—time for solitude was respected. Unless I looked lonely or troubled, no one would intrude. After some indeterminate time in the velvet darkness of an overcast night, I slipped back toward Speed and Tennessee to listen to their conversation.
Phaap. We could almost hear the light as the guys on the hill switched on their 150-million-candle-power searchlight. Bruce let out a long, drawn-out “Wow” and started laughing as the light’s blazing white amoeba crept around our perimeter, just outside the concertina wire. As it was almost impossible not to, we watched, transfixed, as the light tracked its usual course, but then something went terribly awry. The amoeba jerked suddenly and stopped, settling directly over bunker sixteen.
We sat stunned and helpless, knowing full well that this was the kind of fuck-up that the VC rarely let slide. Seconds dragged by. Enough time to zero in a rocket or mortar. Nothing happened. Then to our amazement, we watched as a lone figure climbed atop the bunker and faced the light, standing stock-still. Even a VC who was a lousy shot could have taken his head off with one shot at three hundred yards.
Bruce bellowed in alarm, “What the fuck is he doing?”
As he started to bob and weave, I heard Tennessee tell Captain Speed to turn up the radio. The army DJ had just started playing Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride,” and suddenly it was obvious what the nameless man was doing. He was dancing, prancing, marking time, and pantomiming with such style and grace it was as if he were spirit incarnate. Fearless, weightless, precise, and light, he pierced the night, all but outshining the blazing white amoeba that enveloped him.
In the reflected glow of the light, I copped a glance at Captain Speed. He was smiling; he knew. A lot of new guys had been added to the company recently and needed to see this. They were groping for ways to survive the insanity of being in Vietnam, and they might as well let a master show them how it was done. This was no self-conscious flaunting of death, but rather an expression of full awareness. The dancer’s timing was superb, spontaneous, and exact, full to the brim with unrestrained joy. When the song ended, he finished his act by getting down on one knee and spreading his arms to the light, like some ham actor in an old vaudevillian play.
The light went out. Whoops, hollers, and applause erupted across the half of the perimeter that had seen the show. In one small moment in time, the mysterious man had revealed, to newbies and old-timers alike, the essence of his presence, in the night, in the light, in Vietnam.