CHAPTER 17

Three hours before Cherry got his cherry busted, everything was peaceful, businesslike, ordinary. Atop and about the peak, at noon, the soldiers were doing their jobs and they were bored. The sun was high, the sky untainted. In the high canopy leaves caught the sun and a slight breeze and reflected the sun like glossy mirrors. Across the valley a small FAC observation Piper Cub buzzed. Closer by, two LOHs hummed and darted. Mist still cloaked the river below and the rumbling of occasional artillery rounds bursting on the western end of the Khe Ta Laou echoed and reverberated and rolled up upon the peak unnoticed.

1st Plt had regrouped after the morning patrols and most of the soldiers sat idly, some eating C-rat lunches, some writing letters, some cleaning weapons. No one was in a hurry. The mortar rounds and office machines and rice and other odds and ends of NVA equipment had grown to a three-foot high heap. They had had to move it twice. First it was decided to evacuate the goods and they had moved them from the top of the peak to the trailhead leading back to 848. As the dump grew it was decided to blow it and everything had been moved again, now to a depression off the north crest. Boonierats from the 2d Plt had sporadically added to the dump all morning.

The company CP directed the general movement from the south crest. Brooks conferred with De Barti and Randalph, then with FO then Thomaston then El Paso. By radio he reported to the Old Fox and the GreenMan. He returned to study the topo maps and plan his moves. The radios were squealing with new finds and more information all the time.

Brown was on the hook to the artillery on the firebase. “Ah, Armageddon Two, you had a secondary with that last dime-nickel,” he called describing an explosion in the valley seemingly caused by a 105mm howitzer round detonating an enemy cache.

“Roger, Rover Four,” the radio rasped.

2d Plt continued to hack at the bunker complex to the west. The slashhacking noise was considerably dampened by the vegetation but everyone in the valley knew where Alpha was. The soldiers of the 2d continued to explore and patrol deeper and lower and they continued to find additional fighting positions. “Frank,” Brooks said to De Barti as he unfolded his topo map, “I want you and Pop to take a squad of your men down this ridge. Take two.” Brooks traced a ridge on the map which descended to the west then looped and rose north for 600 meters to a third peak. “Be careful in the draw. Good ambush site. Don’t go off the trail til you’ve reached that peak.” He now pointed to the peak clearly visible through the thinner jungle vegetation of their own summit. “We’ve got a LOH coming on station to hover at your point. He’ll come up on your freq.” Brooks paused, turned to El Paso. “Thunder Two Six,” El Paso answered without being asked. “Thanks,” Brooks said and returned to De Barti. “Frank, you may hit the shit in that saddle. I think the LOH will make them dee-dee but … Come here and look.” The two lieutenants walked off to the northwest.

Earlier in the morning 3d Plt had come down as far as the red ball in the draw just west of 848. They had set up ambush on the vertical rises on both sides of the draw and most of the men laid back, attempting to regain sleep lost on the last night of stand-down and by the 0430 wake-up. They were roused again by El Paso’s message directing them to return to and secure the LZ on 848. “For a scout dog team,” El Paso explained to Kinderly. No more needed be said. That was reason enough though everyone grumbled about having to retrace his steps. They had begun coming off the LZ when the mortars landed and had had to back up when the entire column pushed them up from below. They had descended into the jungle a second time when Whiteboy opened up and they had had to reclimb to the LZ. They came all the way to the draw this morning and now were going back up. And they would have to come back down again before nightfall. “What a fucked-up operation,” Ridgefield lamented to Nahele.

As 3d Plt ascended east and 2d Plt descended west, a PsyOps Bird passed over, speakers blaring a chieu hoi message in Vietnamese. A LOH came on station, hovered at treetop level and led 2d Plt down their new trail. After a few minutes the LOH began spraying mini-gun fire all over the saddle west of the CP’s peak and immediately the M-60s of the patrol opened up. Cherry froze at the first cracking shots but no one near him seemed even to hear. He monitored his radio. When Egan approached he was able to report, “Recon by fire.” “Yeah,” Egan nodded. Cherry walked to the west edge. The LOH was far enough down the hillside to be below him. His radio crackled with static and a report of negative results followed. 2d Plt continued the recon.

“How much water you got left?” Egan asked Cherry.

“Canteen and a half.”

“You fucken cherry ass,” Egan snarled. Egan was irritated. He had been thinking on and off all morning of his dream last night. He was angry about the spider incident and about having shrieked at Denhardt. That’s what R&R does to ya, he kept telling himself. It freaks ya out. You can leave this shit but you can’t come back. Egan set his eyes upon Cherry. “When was the last time you fired that weapon?” he asked indicating Cherry’s M-16.

“I never fired this one,” Cherry said. “I fired one at SERTS but we turned ours in up there. Top just gave me this one.”

“Get up on the line.” Egan pointed to the northeast edge of the peak where half a dozen soldiers were gathered. “Bring yer ammo. Mad minute.”

“Where’s that correspondent?” Numbnuts giggled when Cherry joined the group. “He oughta get a picture of me firin.”

“Is he the guy,” Cookie Frye asked cautiously, “ah, you know, the guy who wrote all them letters about My Lai?”

“That’s the fucker,” Numbnuts giggled.

“Shee-it,” Happy Lairds chuckled nastily, “we oughta have him here with us. Bet he’d like some target practice. Bet I could shoot the camera from off his neck.”

“You don’t never see correspondents with the front troops,” Numbnuts said. “He’s sittin back ghostin with 3d Plt.”

“Okay, fuckers,” Egan snarled at them, eight all together. Egan set his eyes on them all. He asked himself whether he should explain to this lame/lazy bunch that Caribski’s letters were worth more to them than their words were worth to him but he resisted. Egan yelled at the top of his lungs, “Fire-in-the-hole … Fire-in-the-hole … Fire-in-the-hollll …”

All eight opened up. Beaford’s M-60 led the loud bangchatter and Numbnuts’ M-79 punctuated the noise. Cherry fired an entire clip on full automatic. He had never done that before. It was exciting. He ejected the magazine and reloaded and fired as fast as possible, feeling like a hero, spraying wildly at nothing. Egan grabbed his firing arm. “Put it on semi and try to hit somethin. This aint a carnival. It’s practice.” Cherry settled down, feeling good. Egan was right. Cherry picked out a tree 20 meters down the hill. He squeezed off a round. It missed. The others had settled down also. “About a foot to the left,” Egan said from behind Cherry. Cherry tried again. “Yer way to the left,” Egan said again. Cherry adjusted the rear sight and fired again. “Yer left about five inches,” Egan said. Cherry adjusted the sight two more clicks. He fired and nicked the left edge. He adjusted one click, fired and hit dead center but higher than he had aimed. He lowered the front sight post a click. Right on. He picked out a twig at 25 meters and cut it in half. He turned and looked up at Egan. Egan smiled very slightly and moved off to Numbnuts, who was pumping out rounds from the hip. Egan got him to sit with the M-79, use the strap as a ranging device and pump his rounds out like a mini-mortar. Egan cut the mad minute off like turning off a tap. “Water run,” he ordered.

Twelve men went on the water run, in lights, without rucksacks, nine from the 1st Plt and three from the 2d. They had collected all the empty canteens of both platoons which amounted to 137 one-and two-quart canteens. They humped down the trail between the new peak and 848. They passed through the rising pungent odor of the dead NVA soldier in his shallow mulch grave and moved down to the red ball. Up to that point it had been a piece of cake. They were loose, easy, happy, on familiar ground. Beaford and Smith were at point/slack. Then Moneski, Hall and Michaels. Cherry had gone to give the detail an RTO. Behind him was Greer, a black soldier from 2d Plt Cherry had never seen before, then Roberts and Sklar, Greer’s buddies. At drag were Happy Lairds, Bo Denhardt and Polanski.

At the red ball the water run detail took a right, slowed, tensed up, quieted and proceeded down with caution. They were in an unpatrolled area. Beaford, Smith and the Monk were veterans. They moved noiselessly and in slow smooth motions. The trees about them were slashed with shrapnel from yesterday’s air strikes and from the artillery of last night and very early this morning. All the smaller trees were splintered, many were cut in half. At one point on the hill rising to their right there was a large bare orange cliff where a bomb had avalanched a steep section.

The trail was moist, smooth and clear. As it descended it became muddier and in the mud there were fresh tracks. The farther down they stepped the less apparent was the damage from the shellings and the thicker the canopy. Beaford crouched down to examine the tracks. He wasn’t sure if they were yesterday’s or today’s but he damn well wasn’t going to stay on the red ball. Smith and Moneski concurred. The detail paused. Moneski consulted his map. He backed up to Cherry, radioed El Paso then led the detail right, off the trail, headed ten meters across a steep vine-tangled face and descended until they came to the edge of a tiny steep gorge. Water was trickling off the moss and algae-green rock sides into a pool fifteen feet below. The pool, puddle, was two feet long, a foot wide and perhaps eighteen inches deep. It was filled with leaves and bugs and two tiny translucent lizards.

Moneski signaled the detail into a loose perimeter ten to twelve meters in diameter about the gorgehead then he and Hall dropped down the slippery walls sliding on the moist stone and falling to the bottom. Smith dropped halfway down and braced himself on a small ledge. Michaels acted as runner. He collected the empty canteens from the guards, brought them to the edge and dropped them to Smitty who dropped them to the men in the hole. The water men filled the canteens as quickly as possible and tossed them back up to Smitty who tossed them to Michaels. It was a slow process. It seemed to be taking forever. In the gorge Monk became more and more nervous because there was no exit. And Hall became nauseous from the air. It was like being in the bottom of a well. Cherry sat alone by the gorgehead, staring uphill, monitoring his radio.

3d Plt was back on 848 before the detail had filled half their canteens. It had taken 3d less than an hour to reclimb the familiar trail and circle the LZ. The bird with the dog team had not arrived. The afternoon had become warm.

On the peak west of 848 a skeleton crew had been securing the perimeter. Now they all moved off below the south crest as Egan, Jackson and Silvers prepared the demolition to destroy the NVA equipment heaped on the far side.

“Hey Doc,” Hill called to Doc Johnson, “you hear that music?”

“Yeah,” Doc answered surprised. He looked around. Very faintly a melancholy melody seeped over the peak and down to them. “Hey,” Doc called. “Hey, El Paso. Hey, tell them dumb shits ta shut off the radio.”

“What radio?” El Paso called back. He had been on the hook with Calhoun of the 2d Plt monitoring 2d Plt’s progress toward the next peak.

The music, Doc, Hill and El Paso were interrupted by Egan and Jackson yelling in unison at their lungs’ best, “Fire-in-the-hole. Fire-in-the-hole. Fire-in-the-HOLLLlll …” and a tremendous concussion explosion sending dirt and fire and shrapnel and pieces of typewriter and mimeograph machine in a huge expanding cone out and up from the north face like an erupting volcano, followed immediately by at least one secondary explosion and smoke and dirt gravel rain falling noisily through the trees. Then silence. Then the forlorn crying music.

At the gorgehead Cherry had heard the music too. It was strange wailing music. Then the explosion. It shook the earth under him and he jumped up then squatted and reconcealed himself in the vegetation. Moneski rose up out of the well and grabbed him by the foot. “What the fuck was that?”

Cherry shook his head.

Moneski grabbed the radio handset grumbling he’d near shit his pants. He called El Paso. “Fire-in-the-hole,” Moneski repeated handing the hook back to Cherry. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn us?” Moneski mumbled and disappeared. Only half the canteens were filled.

A Huey slick approached, descended and landed on the LZ on 848. A dog handler, a tracker and a German shepherd named Cherokee leaped from one side and hurried into the brush below the cleared peak. Four boonierats met the bird and with the doorgunner assisting, quickly unloaded eight cases of ammunition, explosives and supplies, a bag of mail, and a new radio and rucksack for Fernandez. A civilian photographer and his PIO escort, a cherry second lieutenant from 3d Brigade, ambled off the other side of the bird. The bird departed. It was to make several other drops about the valley then return in one hour for the photographer. This was becoming quite an operation. Not just a military correspondent, not just one civilian correspondent, but a civilian photographer with escort, two military correspondents, and Craig Caribski with escort. That was almost unheard of. The men of Company A had never seen correspondents in the boonies like this. On firebases, sure. Even forward firebases. But in the mountains? They loved it. The boonierats loved the attention.

3d Plt began breaking down the new supplies with a great show of panache. “Two cases of frags,” Ridgefield called out.

“Two frags,” Kinderly checked off on a fictitious list.

“Two cases Charlie-four plastic explosive,” Ridgefield yelled.

“Two Charlie fours,” Kinderly checked.

Snell and Nahele and McQueen got in the act, breaking the cases apart with great gusto. The photographer snapped photos like crazy or at least pretended to. They always had to spend half their time pretending to shoot the take-my-picture shots, until the men became bored and went back about their business as good soldiers must and allowed good photographers to get natural photos.

Don White, the platoon sergeant, broke down the small bag of mail, removed and distributed the letters for 3d Plt then told his 2d Sqd to hump back to the company position with the rest of the mail and as much extra ammo, frags and M-60 belts especially, as they could carry for the 1st and 2d Plts. Two squads would secure 848 until the bird returned.

Cherry had been set off by Moneski’s admonition. “If the fuckers would just let you know what your job is beforehand,” he cussed, “I’d be able to do it right. Do they expect me ta be a fucken mind reader?” He was pissed. He was dirty. He was hot. What am I doing here, anyway? he asked himself. I didn’t even have to be in the army. I could have beaten the draft. Why didn’t I? Cherry pondered that. Was it an act of rebellion against his parents? An assertion of independence? An opportunity for freedom from the city rut get-a-job life? Was he seeking the approval he knew parents and relatives secretly held for soldiers even if they no longer expressed it in 1970 America?

Smitty came up from the gorge. Michaels had already loaded Cherry down with ten quarts of water. Moneski and Hall came up. They looked filthy. Their fatigues were soaked with sweat. It must have been 100% humidity in the well. They saddled up, hefted their equipment and water, and moved out in almost the same order except now Cherry was behind Greer instead of Michaels. Moneski led them, directed them from behind the gun team, horizontally east from the waterhole, across a tiny crest, circling the hillside east then northeast. They stepped deliberately, placing their feet just before or just beyond twigs or leaves. Branches that crossed the narrow path were pushed aside by hand so as not to brush against one’s fatigues and make noise. It was completely quiet. Branches were returned to their original position slowly, by hand, so the limbs would not snap back. Where broad brown and dry palm fans overhung the path to the height of only several feet the men gently squatted, then, on hands and knees, slid beneath the vegetation.

Cherry watched Greer closely. He tried to place his feet in Greer’s footsteps. Cherry began noticing details about Greer. The man had a list of months written on the back of his helmet cover. In various shades of ink, all faded, even July, Cherry could see the first six months lined through. There was something about that that excited Cherry. Here was this soldier opening up his personal history to Cherry without being asked. Cherry decided he liked the man.

The patrol proceeded horizontally, perhaps registering a slight elevation gain, through thicker and thicker jungle. It was impossible to see five feet to either side. Tree trunks and boughs were choked by solid mats of vines. Some of the vines were as thick as human legs. Some vines had barbs that hooked onto shirts and the soldiers were continuously backing up to untangle themselves. They came through an even denser section then stopped. As Moneski had figured they had intersected the red ball. Again there were fresh signs of enemy activity. The red ball fell to the right gently and was visible for perhaps five meters. It rose to the left very steeply and was visible for perhaps three meters. The patrol froze. Moneski moved quietly to the front. He stepped out, crouched, looked up and down the leafy tunnel and stepped up. Beaford then Smith followed, maintaining an interval of six to eight feet. Between motions the riflemen sat very still on the path. “One at a time,” Smitty signaled Hall. Hall paused for a minute then stepped out. Moneski was moving very slowly, staying in the brush on the left of the red ball. Michaels stepped out, signaled to Greer, “Wait. One at a time.” There was no noise. Greer paused two minutes, stepped out, returned and told Cherry, “Wait one.” On the red ball the detail inched forward.

Cherry sat down again. Through the vegetation he could see the red ball ascending from the right, crossing before him and disappearing up left. He waited for Greer’s signal to advance. Nothing came. Greer disappeared. Cherry waited. A twig with two leaves on it was brushing Cherry’s left arm. He waited. He turned slowly to the left and with the fingernails of his right hand he pinched the leaves off the twig. Things were so quiet he could hear his joints squeak as he returned his right hand to the trigger assembly of his M-16. His mind wandered. He felt impatient.

There aren’t any birds out here, Cherry said to himself. I just noticed that. That really is peculiar. Lots of helicopters but no birds. Maybe they all left because they felt replaced by the mechanical flying machines. Cherry’s mind wandered but his eyes were very aware of the red ball. Where the fuck did Greer go? Cherry began thinking about his brother. He thought about their motorcycles. They had once planned on running the moto-cross series at the upstate parks and tracks but then Victor had split for Canada. Cherry thought about some of the girls he knew and about McDonald’s hamburgers. His mind would not stay on one thought. He began thinking about girls again. Damn, he was horny. He thought about Cathy and Judy. Then he thought about Linda. Linda. Was she still in Philadelphia? He planned his ravaging of her when he returned. Then he fantasized seducing the stewardess he’d met on the flight from New York to Seattle, seducing her while other passengers discreetly watched. What am I thinking? he thought. That’s not me. I’m not like that.

Cherry looked across the trail, up the trail. He was conscious of his body and of the trail. Where the hell is Greer? They must be taking a break. Cherry turned around. The man behind him was sitting quietly, cleaning his fingernails. Cherry’s mind no longer seemed to be functioning properly. He could not maintain a thought. His mind jumped and jittered impatiently. He had, it seemed, ten thoughts working at once, all struggling for dominance and failing. There was the trail. Wasn’t he here to discover something about the elusive truths of the Vietnam Conflict? And Linda’s body. And Victor. And his shoulders. God, they were sore. Cherry’s watch was ticking. He could hear his heart pumping. He was aware of his thinking, thinking about his thinking about all these things. It was exhausting to be thinking so. He at once felt tired, physically and mentally, and yet excited, held in suspense. A twig to his right broke.

El Paso received the mail for the CP and 1st and 2d Plts from Spangler. He sorted it. He handed Brown a letter. There was a San Francisco Chronicle for the L-T and the July 27th issue of Newsweek for Silvers. He gave Cahalan the mail for 2d Plt and delivered the letters to 1st Plt personally. There was a letter for Jackson and one for Whiteboy and along with the magazine a small package for Silvers. “They didn’t get it all sorted in the rear,” El Paso said to Egan. “Maybe on next resupply. Ya know, fuckin REMFs can’t do nothing right.”

“They bring in the dogs’?” Egan asked ignoring El Paso’s’ comment.

“Just one. Brought out another civilian photographer.”

“Good. That’s just what the fuck we need.”

“He aint stayin though. Bird’s goina come back for him. Most a 3d’s still up on the LZ with em.”

“Can’t these people ever do any fuckin thing right?”

“Who knows?” El Paso shrugged. “Hey where’s the Jew? His mommy sent him a package.” Silvers was close by and he looked up guiltily. He knew what was coming. It came once a month. “Com’on Leon,” El Paso cajoled, “let’s see what mommy sent.”

Egan and Jackson and Hoover and everybody close by were laughing and Silvers laughed too. When he had first arrived in-country it had been during the monsoon season. He had sent a description of the rains to his folks along with an explanation about immersion-foot. Immersion-foot was the army updated euphemism for trench-foot, a painful foot disorder resulting from prolonged exposure to wet in which the skin wrinkles and creases then layers begin separating leaving the foot raw. Every month since Leon’s description, he had received a soft package from his mother.

“Come on, Leon,” Hoover chimed in, “let’s see em.” Silvers tore away the brown paper and held up two pair of bright yellow knee-high socks. He gave a half-hearted smile and sighed, “Mother!”

“Letter for Jax too,” El Paso called. He enjoyed passing out the mail.

Jackson took the letter and looked at the envelope. It was from his brother-in-law. He put the letter in his helmet and returned to his perimeter position. It’ll be jest like all them others, he told himself.

Brooks pretended to be studying the topo maps and the reports of contacts and enemy sightings. Things were turning up all around the valley. Charlie Company had found fighting positions with overhead cover on Hill 711 five kilometers west of Company A. Across the valley Bravo had found another red ball with signs of vehicular traffic, that could mean carriage-mounted .51 caliber machine guns or possibly 37mm anti-aircraft cannons or nothing more than a pushcart for rice. Recon was lying low, sending out patrols, not finding recent signs of enemy activity but finding old ARVN NDPs and some questionable material. Licking their wounds, Brooks thought. Only Delta had reported no sightings at all. They had come in on a peak on the north escarpment and had decided to come almost straight off the south face which was a cliff. No one, no NVA, would place positions there, Brooks thought. It would be too easily surrounded and then impossible to escape. And the GreenMan’s pilot in the C & C bird with the GreenMan aboard had shot up a sampan on the river with unknown results.

Brooks stared at the maps and repeated the reports but now he was not aware he was doing it. He was thinking of Lila again, of their conflict and of conflict in general. He tried not to think about her. He attempted to supplant it with thoughts of the here and now but it didn’t work. There was Lila and there was that thing bothering him and there was racial tension and there was war. They were all conflicts and he wanted to think about conflict causation but under it all there was that thing. The thing in Hawaii. Perhaps it had really begun with their first fight and with what happened afterward. Maybe, he thought, that was the origin of the Hawaii thing. It goes back a lot farther than those divorce papers, he said to himself. Farther back even than Hawaii or even than getting married. Man, he thought, so your gal’s off with some Jody. So what. When you get back to the World you can slip into his AO and set up an MA. It won’t mean a thing. How does Egan always say it? ‘Don’t mean nothin. Just say fuck it and drive on.’ Yeah, it don’t mean nothin. Goddamn Lila. Goddamn you. Goddamn, it’s a lot easier to get into a woman’s pants than it is into her head. Goddamn she knows how to hurt a person. She has the power to make me feel like shit. It’s not her, Rufus, it’s you. The conflict came with you. You brought it to this marriage. You bring it with you wherever you go. The causes of conflict between two people are the same as the causes of racial violence and of war. Goddamn, I wonder if that’s true.

He could not get hold of his thoughts. Concepts began to crystallize then vanished. The thought production element of his brain was pumping out work faster than the analyzer element could handle it and a backup of ideas overwhelmed him. He recognized what was happening. He relaxed, took a few deep breaths. It was a perfectly beautiful day in the jungle. Well, maybe it was too warm. “Rufus,” the lieutenant said to himself, “we must back up on our thoughts, back up on theory development, back up to the beginning and take this one step at a time. Think carefully. Be patient. The goal should be to develop a framework theory for conflict by careful elucidation of the concepts, correct analysis of the information available and patient resolving of the problem.”

That thought made him feel very good. It gave him a clear guideline for his thinking task. An Inquiry into Personal, Racial and International Conflict, he titled it in his mind. Then, he said to himself, we’ll get down to this Hawaii thing.

Shortly after Rufus and Lila met, he persuaded her to spend a weekend with him. She had refused to be at or near his school or with his jock friends—” like that Italian creep,” she had scoffed—and that, perhaps was the real beginning. Brooks had been nearly broke. Lila was singing and painting and earning and had far more money left over after expenses than he did even with his assistance, ROTC pay and scholarship. And trying to get a date with this lady had been near impossible. She was always out with dudes with bread. “I’ve got two tickets to …”—what concert had it been—he began after finally catching her home. She said yes to it all much to his surprise. “Meet you at Keystone Korners at seven Friday,” she said. And that had been that.

Dinner was delightful, the concert superb, all of it costly. Rufus had let one of his teammates reserve rooms for him. “It’s gotta be cheap,” he had told his friend, “but it can’t look cheap.” Rufus took Lila to the Kennedy Hotel down on the Embarcadero. It was the cheapest place in town. Rooms began at $7 and that was for a week. Not that his friend registered them for the cheapest room. He had paid $7 for two nights. Rufus and Lila came in late, through the darkened lobby, a ten-foot-square room with a desk, up the dimly lighted stairs and down the dark narrow hallway. He half carried her as she nuzzled her nose into his ear. He opened the door. Without turning on the light, with only indirect lighting from the street coming through the window, he undressed her and she tore his clothes away. She was a madwoman, a crazed woman. He could not get enough of her or she of him, especially she of him. After, as he slept, tried to sleep, she stirred and moaned faintly and stimulated herself.

“This isn’t a bad place,” he joked and laughed the next morning, happy, cheerful, anticipating the morning, afternoon and night to come.

“This is a filthy trap,” she had growled getting her first good look around. There wasn’t even a shower in the bath. She hadn’t noticed that before. The showers were down the hall. She went to inspect them and returned yelling, “This stinking hole’s filled with bums and fags.” She scurried away from his outstretched hands. “No way college boy. You bring your hookers here.” She was indignant. He couldn’t understand it. It caused their first fight. She called a cab and left.

Rufus had paid for the room for two nights. He stayed. Indeed the hotel proved to be infested with cockroaches and frequented by homosexuals. That night, alone, depressed, he allowed a man to pick him up. It was the first and last time. The man was a short-order cook. He invited Rufus to a birthday party at the Club 77. “Hey, I’m game,” Rufus said. He could not believe what he saw. Not the guys kissing and squeezing so much, that he expected, but the food. The club was closed except to regulars and their dates. The bar was open, booze flowed freely, and in back the buffet was two eight-foot tables end-to-end stacked with mounds of food. In the center of the table there was a cake Rufus would swear was five feet in diameter and four feet high. All this just for allowing some white fag to rub his buns.

For a month after that weekend Brooks tried to get a date with Lila, even for lunch. He apologized profusely over the phone. He dated no one else. The homosexual called him several times but he refused to even talk to the man. Rufus finally arranged to see Lila but she broke the date. He tried again, then again and again. He needed her badly but every date made was broken. Finally they had it out.

“Look, you want to know what’s going on,” he yelled at her. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. I’ve been trying to get a date with you for a month. That’s right, Lady, a month. Every time I phone you’re all booked up and you say, ‘call me back.’ But every time I call you you always have a sick girl friend to take care of or something. So I, like a sucker, say, ‘What about the next day or the next?’ and you say, ‘Well I’m going sailing on Saturday and it’s going to run into Sunday with the regatta and I’ll be too tired Monday. Why don’t you call me on Tuesday?’ Lady, that’s been going on all month. Lady, you just go off with your rich boyfriends. I wish you the best. That’s right. I really do. I’m happy to have known you.”

“My goodness,” Lila said coldly, nastily. “You’re jealous. You really are, aren’t you? You think just because we’ve gone out you own me. Aren’t we getting awfully possessive? Do you think you own every woman that lets you touch her? You bastards are all alike. You lay a guy once and he thinks he owns you.”

“At least, Lady, I’m only out with one woman at a time. How many men do you have chasing you, hanging around cause you’re in heat?”

“Why you lousy … lousy … honky’s fag.” That’s what she said. He could hear her say it now. “… honky’s fag. You jive with them cocksuckers in Fag Hilton.” He stopped. The fight had passed. Making up from the fight had been terrific. He probably would never have thought of it again had it not been for Hawaii and then the divorce papers.

Rufus and Lila dated more and more frequently and finally exclusively. At times she bickered and complained that she was being lost in the narrowly directed course his life was taking but he was always able to overcome her arguments with an intellectual logic she could not refute. And he was so happy. That meant a lot to her. He brought enough love to their relationship for the two of them. They fought but they always made up and they had such good times. They married and soon he was on active duty.

Brooks craned his neck. Then what happened? he thought. Brooks cleared his mind. He breathed deeply and said to himself, the roots of conflict and the expansion and escalation to violence are similar whether interpersonal or international. That’s the beginning of the answer. Perhaps conflicts caused by …

Brooks’ thoughts were interrupted by the crackbarking of an M-16 close by. Then the popping of an AK, two AKs opening up. Then more 16s.

Cherry sat motionless for what seemed like a year. Behind him Roberts had also heard the twig snap. Cherry went rigid. The blood in his veins seemed to squeak, his tired bones and joints creaked, his watch ticked thunderously. Slowly, slower than he had ever moved in his life, he turned right. He looked behind him, moving only his eyes. Roberts had stopped cleaning his fingernails and was watching him.

Someone was coming up the trail. Cherry reached down with his left hand and silently moved the selector of his M-16 from safe through semiautomatic to automatic. Very slowly he lifted his rifle to his shoulder. He could feel his arms quivering, his stomach cramping. He examined the trail below him, scrutinizing every leaf. Again he heard something. A footstep.

His mind clicked to being a soldier. The first general order shot over his tongue. “I will guard everything within the limits of my post and quit my post only when properly relieved.”

Roberts could not see the red ball from where he sat but he too heard the approach and he aimed his rifle toward the noise. The second man behind Cherry was beyond the sight of either of the two poised with their weapons.

Throw a frag, flashed through Cherry’s thoughts. Throw a frag. Goddamn it, I don’t have a frag. Training took over. Cherry had an instantaneous flash of an entire platoon on an infiltration exercise. The men low-crawled slowly through the woods at Ft. Dix. There were thirty men crawling and it was difficult to tell anyone was there at all.

From the depths of the trail, amidst the vines and brush, Cherry could distinguish a man’s shoulder. Then a head and chest. Cherry waited. The man approached with extreme caution. He was carrying an AK-47 automatic rifle. He wore Ho Chi Minh sandals, khaki shorts and shirt and a pith helmet.

Go away! Cherry’s mind ordered the soldier. Do something.

Still the man approached. He was less than twenty feet away. With underhand beckoning typical of Vietnamese he motioned for someone to his rear to come forward.

Get the fuck outa there! Oh, God. Cherry was furious and frightened. Why me? If Egan were here he’d know what to do. Maybe he’s South Vietnamese.

The soldier moved forward another step and all thoughts vanished from Cherry’s mind. Cherry’s arms steadied, the soldier’s nose rested above the front sight post of Cherry’s M-16. The man stepped forward into clear view. Slowly, Cherry squeezed the trigger and a volley of eight rapid shots cracked from his weapon. Instantly from below the first enemy soldier, two AK-47 rifles discharged long volleys of explosive bursts. The AK fire hit to Cherry’s right and left and one round smashed into the dirt below his left foot.

Again Cherry squeezed, this time aiming only at the sound of the enemy rifles. His and Roberts’ M-16s drilled the trail and jungle below them cutting branches and leaves. Cherry ejected the magazine and immediately inserted another and continued firing until the AK fire stopped. The action seemed to take minutes but Cherry knew it was only seconds. Cherry retreated toward Roberts. He dove and lay prone on his stomach. Peering from behind a tree he pointed his weapon toward the last burst of enemy fire. His breathing was deep and quick. Roberts leaped and set up beside Cherry. Sklar, Lairds, Denhardt and Polanski closed into a defensive ring, all searching the jungle.

“What’d ya see?”

“I got a dink,” Cherry babbled frantically. “I saw him fall.”

“Shhh,” Roberts ordered. Again they waited.

“Where’s everybody else?” Roberts asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Cherry whispered. “They’re up the hill. I’ve been waiting for them to …”

He was interrupted by Moneski’s voice shouting from about forty meters up the red ball. “It’s us. Don’t fire. Anybody hurt? We’re comin down.”