CHAPTER 26

19 AUGUST 1970

In the gray yet dark Egan rose. He rose from the exact place he had sat hours earlier. He had not moved all night. Nor had he slept. Jax fell in behind Egan. They did not speak. Next back, Cherry was on the radio. He keyed the handset and whispered almost inaudibly, “Four, Two. Moving. Out.” He did not wait for a response.

Behind the point Alpha rose, moving now in three silent, unequal, parallel columns. 1st Plt and the Co CP led down the center. The formation looked like a wide based bi-pod. 2d Plt moved south 50 meters toward the river then turned and followed 1st, lagging back 150 to 200 meters on the right flank. 3d Plt moved left 50 meters toward the road and followed 1st by 100 meters. The formation gave Alpha partial sweep advantages plus surprise drags to catch enemy followers and flanking and maneuver elements should they ran head-on into the enemy. Egan led the head column eastward over successive undulating rolls through brush then bamboo and brush again. The valley floor rose toward the headwaters. Rain fell. The mist thinned.

In column formation action usually happens at point, sometimes at drag, seldom in the middle. To middle-soldiers days passed as endless meaningless humps, walking, carrying a rack and a weapon, following the man in front. Many middle-soldiers neither knew nor cared to know where they were going. Some did not care to know why. Some men gravitated to the middle. That was how they wanted it. To Cherry, it was maddening. He had spent most of six days at middle. Now as third man back he was eager, almost zealous. His passions were boiling. He did not know why. Twice Jax motioned him to back away, to keep his interval. He calmed himself by singing marching songs within his mind. I don’t know but I been told, Cherry as march leader sang out. I don’t know but I been told, his fictitious platoon answered back all in cadence. That her pussy’s made o gold, he sang. That her pussy’s made o gold, they answered. Cherry yelled, Sound Off! The platoon, One Two. Cherry, Sound Off! The platoon, Three Four. Cherry, Cadence count. They, One two three four, Onetwo—threefour. He began another verse. Had a girl from North Korea …

Egan led Alpha east then south then east again. The valley floor swelled and fell yet each rise was higher than each fall. By dawn Alpha had crossed a kilometer of jungle and risen 100 meters. It was still raining. The mist was below them. Egan climbed slowly up the first real hill in the valley floor. At the crest he stopped and squatted. He motioned Jax down and Cherry forward. From the crest they could see the river to the right and rolling hills before them. On the side of a mound, perhaps 170 meters away, there was a squad of NVA soldiers. They were walking in column, spaced, swinging their arms freely, seemingly oblivious to everything. Egan flattened. Cherry squatted slightly below him. Egan counted: eleven soldiers, eight with rifles, three unarmed. Every enemy soldier wore a pack. Egan immediately, instinctively, estimated their rucks to weigh forty pounds. They were traveling heavy, east, uphill. Maybe toward Bravo, Egan thought. He grabbed Cherry’s radio. He called Brooks, reported quickly. The flank columns stopped. Egan called the battalion TOC directly. Simultaneously he produced a small set of binoculars from his ruck and a topo map from a fatigue leg pocket. Egan handed Cherry the binoculars. “Watch em,” he whispered. Cherry’s excitement doubled.

“Rover Two, Red Rover One,” the radio responded. It was Major Hellman, the battalion executive officer. The GreenMan must be sleeping after last night, Egan thought. Quickly Egan explained the target. “Can you adjust fire from your location? Over,” Hellman asked.

“That’s affirmative,” Egan answered. The NVA squad was approaching hilltop. Cherry wanted Egan to hurry. “Armageddon Two, Rover Two,” Egan now radioed the artillery unit on Barnett.

“Roger, Rover Two. This is Armageddon Two. Over.”

Egan read off the coordinates. He spoke very quickly yet paced and distinctive and to Cherry it seemed slow. “Dinks in the open,” Egan said. He knew the cannon-cockers loved that call. “Lotsa dinks,” Egan encouraged them.

Cherry followed the enemy’s progress through the binoculars. At the distance they appeared small and unreal. A second squad appeared and began climbing after the first. If they’re supposed to be so good, Cherry thought, how come they’re in the open?

“Whole battery. Hotel Echo. Airbursts at five zero,” Egan whispered. This was no time for test rounds.

“Shot out,” Cherry heard the radio rasp.

“Shot out,” Egan repeated gleefully.

Then came a horrible rushing sound. Cherry’s heart was pumping massive surges of blood. Six rounds screamed down. Cherry’s eyes were pasted to the binoculars. He could see the horror on the faces of the enemy. The rounds exploded. Four NVA soldiers were blown down. The NVA dropped, scattered. A second salvo screamed down. The rounds seemed to explode on the ground but in reality they were bursting a hundred-sixty feet above the earth and exploding a hot metal shower downward.

“Drop fifty.” Egan smiled.

Cherry could see soldiers wriggling. Others limped. One seemed blown to bits. Another ran without arms. One body dragged itself without legs. At the distance, in the dawn light, it seemed colorless and unreal. “Man, they’re still there,” Cherry began. “We got seven. Seven hit bad. Least two dead. Keep em firing. There’s some to the left. They ran left into that clump of trees. Some below.”

Egan called in the adjustments. He was no longer watching the action. He watched Cherry. Egan smiled, chuckled at Cherry’s enthusiasm. His Cherry was going nuts. Egan loved it. “Here,” he said to Cherry. “You call in the adjustments.” Cherry took the hook. “Work em back en forth.”

Now Cherry transmitted. “Left fifty, add one hundred.”

The rounds screamed in and exploded uncomfortably close to Alpha. “Jesus Christ, watch it,” Egan laughed. “You’re s’pose ta get them, not us.”

Cherry laughed, muted and hysterical. Jax laughed at them both from below. Brooks had reached the point now. He laughed with them too. They all laughed viewing the enemy carnage on the hill before them. “Let’s go mop up,” Brooks said pleased.

Alpha approached the site of the NVA dead cautiously.

They were still in three columns, now spread farther apart, the two flanks forward, 1st Plt lagging in the center. They closed in upon the site. The flanks halted, 1st Plt swept up the middle. There were no bodies. No weapons. No equipment. There were a half-dozen blood trails and Polanski in 2d Sqd found a hand. Alpha pursued the blood trails south and west to the river’s edge. The trails vanished.

Cherry was pissed. “Why do you expect them to leave the bodies of their comrades behind on the battlefield?” Minh asked Cherry after Alpha had retreated to a thickly vegetated rise. They had set up a quick perimeter and were now eating breakfast and resting. At 1st Plt CP, Jax, Moneski, Doc Johnson and Lt. Thomaston were listening to Minh and Cherry. “In American units,” Minh said seriously, “you pride yourselves on never leaving an American soldier’s body behind. We Vietnamese are not different. The enemy is not different. It is not mysterious that they should take their dead and wounded. All armies do exactly the same.”

“I don’t know,” Cherry said. “We saw about twenty dinks and I saw at least ten of em get greased. They musta had ah … there musta been like thirty or forty of em to sky like that.”

“Hellman don’t believe we got em,” Monk said. “He was chewin out the L-T royal, Man. He didn’t ee-ven need a radio. We coulda heard him right from the firebase.”

“Why he on the L-T’s ass?” Jax questioned.

“Man, you know,” Doc said.

Thomaston injected, “It don’t count unless you can verify the bodies.”

“What?” Cherry squealed.

“That’s right, Bro,” Doc said. “Hey, you okay?” Doc stood up. Cherry indicated he was okay. Doc motioned him away from the others. “You doan look right, Mista,” Doc said.

“I’m okay, Doc,” Cherry said. “Really.” Doc looked at him unbelieving. “I, ah, got some cuts en some jock rot. That’s all.” Doc still looked at him. “And, ah, the ah … the shits.”

“McCarthy give you anything?”

“Naw, Doc. It’s okay. It’s goin away.”

“Gonna get worse,” Doc said. “Mista, I ken smell ya. How long you had it?” Doc questioned Cherry on every detail to Cherry’s embarrassment. “Listen, Mista,” Doc said finally, “that shit is dysentery. That caused by a flagellated protozoan. Dig? Under adverse conditions they can form a cyst. Not form it themselves but cause it. Right now you jus built up a concentration which is causin irritation in your intestines. That triggers the peristaltic action which gives you the shits. You know what I mean?”

“Wow!” Cherry said. Again the black medic with his Harlem street dialect had completely amazed him. He thought for a moment then asked, “What should I do?”

Doc pulled a vial from his pocket. “F-S-N 6505-074-4702,” he read off the label. “Lomotil. Two pills, four times a day. Slows intestinal motility. Doan go O-Din on em.” He handed the bottle to Cherry. Then Doc shook his head. He gave Cherry that unbelieving look again. “Man,” Doc whispered, “you still a cherry. I wasn’t gonna say this but you gotta learn faster’n you is doin, Bro. You aint gonna be able to depend on Egan ta tell me somethin wrong with you. He DEROSin in two weeks.”

“Egan?!”

Doc looked at Cherry again, shook his head and walked away.

“I’m a pretty fair swimmer,” Cherry said to Lt. Brooks.

Alpha was at the river. They had backed off the rise where they had eaten breakfast, again using the unequal three-pronged formation, and had moved west, downstream 200 meters. Egan had walked point, Jax slack. They had crossed five trails running from the river toward the north escarpment. Three of the trails were narrow and old. Foliage had closed over them and small yellow grass shoots choked their middles. Two were red balls. Both showed signs of recent heavy use. Alpha had moved quietly, slowly, until the sounds of a helicopter fleet broke upon the valley. At that point Brooks had directed them to move to the river. The maneuver was similar to the first river crossing except using three prongs eliminated the need to establish flank security. Alpha had sat just back from the river’s edge, observing. The helicopters were CAing Recon from Hill 848 to Delta’s position on the north escarpment. Even in the rain the helicopters flew. They would be in the air nearly all day.

Brooks looked at Cherry. “How fair?” he asked.

“I use ta be on the swim team,” Cherry said.

“Do you know what you’re volunteering for?” Brooks asked.

“Yes Sir.”

Brooks studied his face. Cahalan crawled up to them. “L-T.”

“Hey?” Brooks whispered. He was still watching Cherry.

“I just got word on Brunak.” Cherry and Brooks turned and looked at Cahalan. “They’re going to medevac him to Japan,” Cahalan reported. “They say he’s going to make it, they think.”

“Good,” Brooks nodded. “Send FO up here.”

Brunak, Cherry thought. Jesus H., I’d forgotten all about him and … and Silvers. Cherry looked through the grass and brush. Fifteen feet away the Khe Ta Laou was shimmering dark. Silvers, Cherry thought. I gotta write his folks.

Lt. Hoyden approached noiselessly and nodded to Brooks. “FO,” Brooks asked, “can we get some arty about 300 meters downriver and maybe some on the knoll and some up behind us?”

“Can do,” FO said. He pulled out his map and asked, “Where do you want it?”

“Someplace to distract the little people,” Brooks said. “Something to make them keep their heads down.”

“When?”

“Now.”

FO grabbed Brown’s handset and radioed Armageddon Two. He talked to the FDC officer giving coordinates and explanations. “In one five,” FO whispered to Brooks. “Behind us and across only. Too much bird traffic downstream.”

Brooks nodded. He turned to Cherry. “Be ready. Go when the first round falls.”

Cherry moved a few feet to the left. Cahalan and Hoyden disappeared into the vegetation away from the river. Lt. Caldwell appeared next to Brooks. Without trying Cherry overheard their conversation.

“Larry,” Brooks asked. He sounded pissed. “Whatever possessed you to go straight through that meadow?”

“Lieutenant Brooks,” Caldwell said sarcastically, defensively, “my mission was to take my force east as best and as quickly as I could.”

“Your primary mission, Lieutenant Caldwell, is to insure the safety of your people. Moving east was secondary. You needlessly exposed yourself and your platoon in that meadow.”

“I did what I thought best, Sir,” Caldwell said tauntingly.

“Well, fuck it. You’d better start thinking differently, because, that was not the best.”

Cherry moved down to just above the river’s edge. 1st Plt was behind him preparing themselves for the crossing. Cherry stripped naked. His crotch was still sore and inflamed. The infections on his arms were about the same. His asshole burned. The skin of his feet was mushy and convoluted. For all the cleaning he had tried to do in the last two days, he still stank. Being naked felt wonderful, even though it was cold. Cherry took an end of the heavy crossing rope from Egan. He wrapped it about his waist and Egan tied it. “Ask em ta call the weatherman,” Cherry whispered to Egan. “Ask em to turn on some sun.”

“Shee-it,” Egan laughed. “I don’t think we know his freq.”

“Maybe we can call God,” Cherry suggested. “This weather sucks.”

Jax was there helping Egan coil the line. “God’s freq on the high band,” Jax laughed. He went over to Cherry’s gear and fiddled with the frequency settings on the PRC-25. “I think it 72/95,” Jax chuckled, “but I doan know his call sign.” Cherry and Egan chuckled too. “Augh fug,” Jax continued. He returned the dials to the proper settings, “Yo caint git Him on this set. You need a monster set.”

“Man,” Cherry whispered laughing, “maybe we can build a fire. I’m freezin my balls off.”

“Don’t mean nothin,” Egan whispered. “They aint doin you no good out here.”

Two rounds freighttrained across the sky then exploded to Alpha’s south. A third exploded upriver. Cherry crawled to the water and slipped silently in. More artillery rounds exploded. Cherry breast-stroked at an angle into the current. He swam smoothly, quickly, silently, a very strong swimmer. In twenty seconds he was on the opposite bank. He crawled from the river, scampered up the bank, backed into some brush, grasped the rope and motioned for someone to come across. Egan slipped into the water in lights with both his and Cherry’s rifles. Even the minimal equipment sunk him. Cherry strained on the rope trying to keep Egan up but Egan and the line went under. Cherry strained harder. Egan’s head broke the surface at mid-stream then down again. A minute later he emerged gasping at the far side. He stormed up the bank into cover, drained the barrel of both M-16s and searched the jungle. Jax was on his way over. Then Thomaston. Then Marko. Egan directed the south bank.

Thomaston and Marko secured the rope. Jax began the defensive ring. Egan stripped. He and Cherry slipped back into the water and became guides and life guards as the others crossed. Alpha’s move went quickly and no equipment was lost. On each crossing Cherry dove under and washed a bit of his body, mostly his arms. This is blessed water, he thought. On the bank Brooks caught himself staring at the two naked soldiers. He became upset with himself.

“Fuckin gooks is aw’right,” Pop Randalph chuckled. “Look at them thangs, Sir.” Pop, Garbageman and Lt. De Barti had come to the CP with half a dozen traps.

“I’ll be dipped in shit,” Garbageman giggled. “There got to be at least a dozen of em so far.”

Where Alpha had emerged from the river, the bank was littered with bamboo scraps as if someone had had a small mill by the water. There were numerous footpaths leading up and down the river’s edge. 1st Plt had moved due south, 2d had gone west downstream, 3d east upriver. Fifty meters downstream 2d found the fishing camp. Then 3d Plt found the marijuana fields. Minutes later 1st found the ruins of an old village. It was like nothing any of them had ever seen before in the mountains.

De Barti held out two of the fish-traps to Brooks. “There’s fresh tracks all over the place down there,” the platoon leader said to the company commander. “It looks like they got maybe a platoon of dan cong (civilian coolies) doing nothing but catching fish for their troops. We’ve got ten traps so far and we’ve only swept a small stretch of bank.”

Brooks lifted one of the traps and inspected it. The trap was a cylindrical bamboo cage closed at one end and having a bamboo cone opening at the other. The traps were simple yet the workmanship was elegant. Brooks sighed. “How’s your security?” he asked.

Before De Barti could respond El Paso interrupted them with Caldwell’s report of the marijuana field. Then fields. Two, then a third and finally a fourth. Then Paul Calhoun called from 2d Plt to report that they could not collect any more traps because they couldn’t carry them all. “We’re in their fishin grounds,” Calhoun reported. “They got enough traps here ta feed a regiment. We got a few small animal snares too.” A queer feeling ran up Garbageman’s neck to the base of his skull as the report came in. He no longer felt like giggling.

“Destroy what you have,” Brooks directed De Barti. “Stop the search and get out of there. Mark it for arty. We’re moving south-twenty-west.” Brooks turned to his RTOs. “Cahalan, call in the report. We’re going over to 3d.”

A quarter of Caldwell’s men were busy harvesting the crop they had found. Everyone else was on security. The four fields were in a square. Each patch was approximately 15 x 25 meters. The marijuana plants ranged from three to seven feet high. Before Brooks could inspect the fields, Thomaston radioed saying that 1st Plt had discovered the ruins of an ancient village. “It can’t be too ancient if you’re finding old thatch,” Brooks radioed.

“It’s all rotting. Rotten,” Thomaston transmitted. “It musta been a Montegnard ville but it’s collapsed and there’s new growth over it all. Over.”

“Any indications of it on your funny papers? Over.”

“Negative that. There’s an abandoned ville indicated four kilos to the whiskey. Over.”

“How many hootches? Over.”

“Six for sure. Maybe eight. They’re just lumps on the floor. There’s a new red ball running right through the ville. Five, six feet wide with overhead cover. Beaucoup signs recent activity. Carts … doesn’t seem to go anyplace.”

Major Hellman cut in on Alpha’s internal. “Quiet Rover Four, this is Red Rover One. Do you read? Over.”

“Red Rover One, Four Niner,” Brooks responded. “I’ve got you lumpy chicken. Over.”

Hellman said he had been monitoring Alpha and that he wanted the fields of marijuana cut and burned, the fishing traps collected for evacuation and the red ball monitored for enemy traffic. “UUUh,” Brooks grunted. He thought, that guy, someday he is going to get everybody killed. Brooks did not answer Hellman’s order. Hellman repeated his order and Brooks snarled into the handset, “Just how in the fuck are we going to burn a fucken half-acre of grass out here, Red Rover? It’s been raining down here for a thousand years.”

“Rover Four Niner, do you know who this is?”

“I am not going to compromise my position for a few fucking fishing traps and a field of dew. You got the coordinates. You want to destroy it, fine. Go ahead. Over. Out.” Brooks seethed. He rammed the handset back into El Paso’s hand and told him to get the unit moving.

Alpha continued their three pronged formation moving south away from the river 100 meters then arching southwest and finally west. There were signs of enemy activity everywhere. The North Vietnamese seemed to have an almost endless series of well engineered dirt roads and trails snaking south from the valley center toward the mountains. All routes had overhead cover. Egan was more apprehensive than he had ever been. Every step put them on a potential ambush site. They crossed from brush to elephant grass again as they descended. Egan stayed off the established trails except for crossing them. Then he approached slowly, stopped, observed and crossed quickly. At one point Egan thought 3d Plt was crowding 1st on the left flank. Nahele was at point there. Egan paused, brought Cherry up, radioed Kinderly. “I can hear you assholes,” Egan whispered. “Aint no way,” Kinderly answered. 3d was 100 meters back. Egan squatted and called a general halt.

Recon’s airlift to reinforce Delta was completed. Bravo, three klicks northeast of Alpha, was resupplying. Those pilots, Egan thought. They do incredible things. We should have a LOH on station. Jax had moved past Egan. Egan sat with Cherry. He called Brooks. “Feeling. Trail watchers to sierra.” They sat soundlessly. Whiteboy and 3d Sqd advanced to point. The column rose. Egan stopped Whiteboy and led off again himself, the big squad leader at slack, then Cherry. While they sat Cherry had plucked pieces of grass and stuck them into his helmet cover and ruck to break up the smooth lines of the radio and his head. Others had watched him and copied. Behind Cherry 3d Sqd followed, then the Co and Plt CPs, 2d Sqd and 1st now at drag. The other columns advanced also. All three were being watched.

A disconnected thought vision came to Cherry. Disconnected from Nam. He did not know why or how the thought began. Perhaps the grass or being able to see the hills again triggered it or perhaps the sense of power he had from the morning artillery raid or perhaps the cleansing action of the river water. The triggering stimulus made no difference to him, but the meaning of the vision seemed all important. As he walked, Cherry saw himself gliding above a rugged stretch of California coast. The sun was out. It was a magnificent day, his second day as a soarer, a hang glider. Cherry had never attempted hang-gliding, had never been to California, had indeed no knowledge of soaring at all, yet in the vision every detail was perfect. He could see himself above the bluffs before the Pacific, could feel the cool ocean breeze. Three days earlier he had been to the doctor. He knew the history in the vision without having to see it or think it. Somehow, he had strained himself very badly and he had ignored it for a long time. Finally he had gone to see a specialist and the doctor told him he had poisoned his system. The condition is irreversible, the doctor explained. You will be dead within five days. Cherry, the man in the vision, had fallen into deep depression. Before he had met with the specialist he had known what the man would say. The depression seeped from the vision to the soldier on the valley floor in Vietnam. Cherry felt very sad. Yet physically he felt strong. His muscles were in fine shape. The doctor had acknowledged that. Cherry decided to become a soarer as his last earthly feat. He also decided this would be the best way to end his life. He told no one.

On his first day of soaring he was an excellent student. His instructor was a wing salesman and Cherry had the latest gear. It gave the soarer an incredible amount of control. They practiced, the salesman instructed and Cherry learned. Day two found them on the cliffs and bluffs just south of Mendocino. Perhaps Cherry had seen a TV special. How could he know these things? How could it be so real? It was a beautiful day with a crisp September wind gusting in crystal blue sky. Off Cherry leaped and then returned. He was ready now. His secret plan was to marry his physical being with the Pacific coastline—that exact spot where it is neither land nor sea but sometimes either and sometimes both. A wavewashed rocksand beach.

He soared, first a bit awkwardly, then more and more gracefully. First just a bit above the bluff and then higher and higher over the ocean. Into dives then out to barrel rolls and loops. The new wing was more maneuverable than any earlier design. Higher. The wing was incredible. From three hundred feet over the bluff he could see the coast for one hundred miles and the endless ocean. Freedom, elation, higher.

It is time, he said to himself. Cherry looked straight down. It was late afternoon. He had been in the air for three hours. Slowly he nosed over and folded the wing back into a missile, gravity shooting him ever faster toward the earth. The speed was terrific. The pressure of the wind on his eyes seemed to be ripping them apart. Tears squished out and shot across his face and temples and lost themselves in the wind. Faster. Darting to the coastline. I don’t want it, Cherry thought. I can’t do it.

Violently he forced the bars to expand the wing. He was still crashing. I can’t do it to myself, he screamed. The wing grabbed a tiny fluff of rising air and whipped, thrashed, and a few vertical feet from the coast leveled and began ascending.

Then the vision was gone. Cherry thought about it. He smiled. That’s like saying I can’t kill myself, he thought. He felt very happy. The vision seemed to have taken only a minute. Cherry looked forward smiling broadly. Goddamn, he thought, Egan sure is moving slow this time. He had not advanced twenty steps during the dream. Dream? It seemed so real.

Suddenly the air erupts—Egan opens up with his 16 and falls flat—Whiteboy’s 60 barkbuzzes through a hundred rounds—four men jump from vegetation to the left—Cherry lunges forward—Hill jumps over him—Egan is up firing again. He fires a burst which cuts one man in half. AK fire is coming from their front, left and right. All of 3d Sqd charges the ambush. Whiteboy is standing, machine-gunning from the waist, firing his ass off. Cherry runs into the fire with the surging boonierats—he is spraying rounds to the right. He falls sprawled flat believing for a moment he is still upright sprinting—MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! Thomaston screaming—Cherry’s legs pumping though he is prone then he is up sprinting—rifles crackbarking popping, grenade explosion—Rover Five, Rover Four, they’re breaking your way, El Paso—Cherry doesn’t realize he is up. He sprints forward hurtling bushes and prone reloading boonierats. The NVA are running, retreating. Cherry heaves a grenade then another without consciously aiming. Behind him Egan blasts a wounded NVA. More NVA open up from down the trail. Harley, Frye, Mullen reloading, Cherry still charging—BOOM—more explosions. Tracers zing up through the grass and brush. A fireball erupts to Cherry’s left, the concussion knocks him down—a wounded enemy soldier lifts an AK toward Cherry’s head—Cherry spinning bringing his 16 around—the soldier’s eyes flaring open with amazement or fear—Egan has unloaded six rounds into his chest—no cry of pain—amazement—the eyes rolling up the body sagging, collapsing. They fucked up, Egan thinking laughing. They blew it too early. Grenade! Brooks screams—he is in the middle firing with them, he leaps away—Egan down reloading—the noise incredible—the grenade has landed behind, at Egan’s feet. He is unaware. Cherry sees it smack, splatting in the mud. He shouts but no sound leaves his throat. He lunges for the handbomb, a swimmer’s dive thrusting out flat with both legs, arms stretched forward, eyes on the grenade. He grabs it, his body still in the air, squeezing it in his hand his body crashing in the mud rolling like a shortstop and throwing the grenade back toward the enemy, the bomb exploding in the air. Whiteboy sees enemy in brush uptrail. He drills one. The body caves in. Marko up. Chops brush to debris with his 60. In back Numbnuts is flat on the ground. He hasn’t raised his head since the first volley erupted. He hasn’t fired. Egan grabs Cherry’s radio to call Armageddon, the firebase artillery. FO is already calling in support.

The firing decreases. The NVA retreated left and right. 2d and 3d Plts had maneuvered to the flanks of 1st. Shots and explosions came first from 3d’s position then from 2d’s. Denhardt and Lairds slit the throats of five NVA insuring they were dead. Alpha regrouped almost instantly, three prongs turning south. The action had exploded suddenly, flashed like powder and died in less than two minutes. One NVA soldier had made a slight last movement as his unit, having followed 1st Plt’s approach, setup a hasty L-shaped ambush. Egan had seen him and surprised the ambushers a moment before they were ready. 1st Plt killed five at the ambush site. 3d Plt caught three fleeing and killed them. 2d gunned down one. Whiteboy received Alpha’s only wound, a piece of grass slit his eyelid. The grudge stake for the Khe Ta Laou was being raised.

“How many do you think got away?” Brooks asked the group.

Alpha was now set up together on an earthen swell at the base of the south escarpment. They had moved very quickly not allowing the NVA time to reorganize. “Them raggedy-ass mothafuckas neva knew what was comin down,” Harley whispered to Whiteboy.

“Gawd A’mighty Sweet Jesus,” Whiteboy whispered back. “Ya ken say that fer me too. Sure as shit stinks.”

“You en Little Boy was doin a J-O-B,” Egan chuckled. “We shoulda had the photogs here today.”

“Fuckin God,” Frye said. “Ever since the dinks stole that 60 from Delta I been expectin ta walk inta an ambush where they’d be usin the likes a Little Boy on us.”

“Hey,” Brooks called softly. “One meeting, huh?”

“I’d estimate there were fifteen at most,” Thomaston said.

“We know at least two got by us,” De Barti added.

“None escaped through 3d,” Caldwell said.

Brooks leaned forward then rocked back. He was sitting cross-legged, a topo map on his lap, his rifle beneath it. Close about him were his platoon leaders and advisers. They were well concealed in a briar thicket. Alpha’s perimeter circled the CP at a ten to fifteen meter radius. The men were still excited. And happy. They had hit the enemy behind his own lines, hit him hard, then run. Now Brooks had to figure a way to get them back down there, even deeper in, without being ambushed. The NVA won’t make that mistake again, he thought. And we better not use the trifork formation again. They’ll be onto it. Brooks rocked back and forth slowly, studying the map, pondering his situation, mentally moving his unit and the enemy and trying to perceive the outcome. Each time the NVA had hit Alpha, Alpha had been moving toward the center of the valley. When they were moving either toward the mountains or beyond the valley center toward the open plain to the west, the NVA had not touched them. Was that a matter of coincidence?

On the perimeter Cherry was jubilant. He had reacted well and he knew it. It had been his first experience of the freedom of a firefight, the anything goes rage of a battle. He felt young and strong. He had been free to perform. He could have laid in the muck like Numbnuts or a few of the others who said they were pinned down, but he hadn’t. He was ebullient. He had been able to protect himself, to save Egan and to be saved by Egan. Goddamn, we carry a vicious personal arsenal, he thought. Had it lasted longer, I could have called in artillery, Cobras, the fast movers. Cherry sat smug, snug, buried in foliage. The heft of his M-16 felt good in his hands. He was so happy. They all had reacted well, he decided. This was man-to-man friendship. A gutsy bond. Combat camaraderie. They shared discomfort and death and victory. If you get killed, he told himself, that’s not so bad. Didn’t El Paso say it right? Everybody has to die sometime. It’s if you get maimed, that’s when it’s bad. That would suck. Going home maimed would be rotten. Wounded, he thought, wounded but not badly wounded, that would be okay. That’d pass. Getting killed’d pass too. Really, the only bad part about getting killed would be not having gotten to do all those things I always wanted to do. I got places to go, girls to know. Hell, I aint tired of livin this life yet. Cherry looked into the field before him. He was aware of his responsibility, ability, to kill anything out there that moved. I am a mangod, he said to himself. Every man is part god; every man who knows his soul belongs only to himself.

It was up there again. High over the valley. The music, the PsyOps bird with its loudspeakers blaring. Minh looked up but he could not see the bird. It is probably above the range of .51 cals, he thought. Minh did not like hearing the music. He tried to shut it out. The PsyOps people were playing the same tape they had played on the first and second days of the operation. The bird descended slowly, spiralling down, playing the music first near the firebase then over the north escarpment, now over the valley center. Minh could not help but listen. The sorrowful funeral music brought back many memories, memories of a war that had rocked his land all his life and much more. Minh had heard the music played for brothers and cousins and friends. He remembered how his cousin’s body had been delivered to his family in 1965. The body came in an opaque black plastic bag. When the bag was opened the family found the body just as it had been at the moment of death. Minh’s cousin was still in uniform. The blood was still sticky on the newly cold flesh. Above the valley the tune changed. Minh knew the new song also. It was said to be a popular song in the North. A girl sang woefully of her first lover who was far away. A metal drum beat the melancholy rhythm. When the song was over a third began. This one Minh found very saddening also for it was about a young boy who had left his love and gone off to combat. The melody began slowly. A lonely soldier sang the words. The PsyOps bird was directly over Alpha. The mist and fog had thinned but the helicopter was so high it could not be seen from the ground. With it two Cobras could be heard. Then all sounds of the birds left. Minh and Doc were seated just outside the CP circle.

“Funeral music again?” Doc asked quietly.

“Yes,” Minh whispered.

They sat quietly for several minutes. Suddenly they could hear helicopters again, many helicopters sounding as if they were diving directly for Alpha. All of Alpha looked up. A Huey was diving off the south ridge down toward the valley floor. Behind it to its left and right were Cobras. Behind them two more Cobras chased. From the Huey a spray of leaflets gushed, thousands of leaflets falling, being caught in the rotor wash of the helicopters and splaying then fluttering, falling gently with the rain. “Them crazy fuckas,” Doc whispered. “Trying ta draw fire so the snakes can shoot em up. Crazy, Man. Crazy.” The birds pulled out of their dive, gained altitude and the Huey began a new broadcast. The loudspeakers crackled. The tape recorded message in Vietnamese blared.

“Dear Comrades of the 812th Regiment, can you identify me?” Minh translated sentence by sentence for Doc. “I am Lieutenant Le Xuan Que, Political Commissar from the 812th. I have rallied to the Free World Forces.”

“That the POW?” Doc whispered quickly between sentences.

“Yes,” Minh said concentrating on the broadcast.

“Po fucka,” Doc said.

Minh continued translating. “For years I was with Battalion K-34. I served with KI/6 Company on 652 Mountain. Then I served with the K-19 Sapper Battalion. Three days ago I was captured. Now I am a free man with the People of the Republic of Vietnam. I appeal to all my friends to rally before you are killed by Free World Forces. Do you remember Battalion Commander, Duong, and Political Commissar, Co Rang Vau, told us many times about plans to encircle the enemy? After many days of fighting what have you accomplished? Do you see our comrades who fought with us? What has happened? I hope survivors of 652 Mountain and of Khe Ta Laou become clearheaded enough to understand the hollow promises of our cadre. I advise you to allow yourselves the opportunity to rally to the Government of Vietnam. Be like me. Or go back home. Leave the battlefield. Do you know that no one buried Phi, Link, Chieu or Song of the K-19 who died during our assault against the Americans? In the past week companies of Americans and South Vietnamese have killed hundreds of our comrades. Already this morning twenty of your friends have been killed. Much of your ammunition has been discovered and destroyed. The Americans have terrifying helicopters. They are coming to get you. You have a choice. Pick up the leaflets we are dropping. Hold them up to the Allies as they come for you. Do not hold your weapons. You will not be shot. Comrades, the Allies have treated me well and they have taken care of my health. Soldiers of the 7th Front, You Do Not Have To Die!”

The helicopter repeated the message down the valley, the message no longer intelligible to Minh at Alpha. Listening, squatting beside Minh, were Brooks, El Paso and Egan. Minh looked at them. Then he said, imitating Jax, “Shee-it. Aint no fucken way we aint gowin shoot em.” They all laughed.

At 1600 hours Alpha was ambushed again. They had moved back down toward the river, this time with two recon squads eighty meters forward of the main column. 2d Plt had led off with Baiez’ and Mohnsen’s squads reconning and Catt’s squad at column point. Behind Catt’s came the Co CP then 1st Plt and 3d at drag. The exhilaration of the earlier firefight had waned. The boonierats were again tired. They did not wish to descend again into the valley. Yet into the valley they went. Brooks had directed the unit in a spiral off the earthen swell, uphill, then east, then north and finally west again. The vegetation was patchy and discontinuous, elephant grass then secondary scrub brush, then bamboo. Five hundred meters from where they started hell broke loose slowly.

It began with Mohnsen’s squad. Smith was at point, Garbageman at slack, then Mohnsen, Jones (RTO), Greer, Roberts and Sklar. A single AK round broke the air. Sniper? Trail watcher? It seemed like a warning shot fired high. They stopped. Squatted. Jones radioed El Paso. There was movement in the brush twenty meters ahead. Mohnsen moved up to Smith, kept him from firing. The squad leader motioned Smith and Garbageman right. The squad moved forward. Roberts and Sklar to the left. Mohnsen, Jones and Greer straight in. Jones radioed their position and situation to the other recon squad. They moved out. Another sniper round cracked, slashed through the high vegetation. They all wanted to open up but the sound was somehow muffled, its location blurred. They pursued quietly, hearts pumping faster, adrenaline flowing. Three AKs opened up at them. Mohnsen’s squad exploded in a charging fusillade. They attacked the noise, firing, meeting the challenge of an unseen enemy, breaking an unknown ambush, attempting to gain fire superiority. Again the NVA fired, lower now, more continuous yet still retreating. Garbageman saw one. He unloaded half a magazine at the fleeing soldier. The rounds slammed into the NVA’s legs, ass, lower back and the body collapsed running forward—Mothafuckers, Garbageman screaming—Mohnsen, Jones charging—got em runnin, kick ass, take no names. Then from three sides the entire jungle explodes, rocking—grenades, RPGs, RPDs and AKs. The ground shakes and thunders deafening all of Mohnsen’s people. Quickly, quickly, everything happening instantaneously, a long instantaneousness, last forever in a flash. Then slowly, the reality congealing and time again pacing—Got to get out, Mohnsen. Got to get my people out. Jones screaming, crying. He is down yet still he returns fire. Armageddon Two, he screams into the radio, the noise about him too loud for him to hear any response—a series of rounds catches Greer’s right thigh ripping the flesh and shattering bone, the leg disintegrates, he falls contorted, the leg twitching violently. Rockets whiz over Mohnsen, explode. Tracers zinging, then fireballs and thunder and smoke, powder, odor, pinned down, fear. The earth about them erupts, the air above becomes a fire tempest. Four boonierats are hit. All seven lay flat trying to creep into the earth, burying themselves in the rotting vegetation hugging the swamp floor muck. Smith bellows loud from pain, hit in the neck and shoulder and arm—Save us, God, save us—Mohnsen crawling to Jones grabbing blood-sticky radio. No American fire now, the NVA settling back to a controlled second-by-second torturous rifle fire methodically pecking at every square inch of their ambush kill zone, life seeping out of Greer, out of Smith. NVA gloating but not closing overrunning the site. Boonierats sad remorseful run to death from stupidity of falling into a trap at least two thousand years old. NVA in a U-shaped ambush clockwork pelting the killzone unseen.

From fifty meters away Baiez maneuvers his squad to behind the NVA position. The enemy have trenched-in beneath thick bamboo, their firing heard but not seen. Within two minutes the left flank recon squad is atop the NVA rear firing at noise, not seeing, just firing trying to break the NVA hold over Mohnsen. Another minute later the main column flanking right and coming frontally—the NVA opening up again with all their force, now inward, now outward. Brooks screaming into the radio, screaming at boonierats, “Keep your fire low. Keep it low.”

“Come on, Man,” Mohnsen whispers to Jones. “Come on. Hang on to me.” Mohnsen works Jones’ body on top of his own then begins crawling, retreating. Roberts pushes his bloody stumped torso after Mohnsen. Garbageman pulls Greer, wraps his arm over Greer’s chest like a lifeguard pulling a drowning victim. Sklar helps Smith. Crawling, all crawling, retreating, faces in the mud, slime oozing into their eyes and mouths, blood, fluids oozing out.

“Get em back,” Brooks calls, “Get em back.”

FO calling in artillery behind the NVA position. Cahalan calling for a medevac. El Paso monitoring each squad’s position, directing, passing the L-T’s orders. Withdrawing, withdrawing. Disengaged.

“Mark it,” Brooks directs. At Alpha’s flanks and from center three red smoke-grenades are detonated. They billow thick plumes. From high above the valley the GreenMan directs attack. Two Cobras swoop down firing rockets toward the concealed enemy fighting position.

“Where’s Greer? Where’s Garbageman?” Mohnsen asked.

“Hit.” Jones gurgles sputum blood.

“Where?”

Jones pointing toward the inferno.

“Stop the birds. Stop the birds. Stop the fire.”

The helicopter barrage ceases, the birds circle. A rear element administers to the wounded. There are no cries of pain. Medics and soldiers helping. Cherry watching disattached as if not comprehending yet completely comprehending. “Medevac,” Cahalan screams into the handset. “M-E-D-E-V-A-C. You dumb mother. Got that.” Fear and bile surge to his throat, into his mouth, burning. The odor of explosions, gunsmoke, cordite and burned flesh is incredible and disgusting. He vomits. He does not care. “Get me a Dust-Off, here. Now … Fuck you, don’t tell me not to cuss on your freq … you crazy … crazy son of a bitch. Get off this freq … get me Mercy Eagle. Fuck the colonel. Get me Dust-Off or this company’s comin back in an looking you up. Over.” Cahalan shaking uncontrollably, crying. Doc Johnson working on Roberts. Both of his arms are torn apart at the shoulders. Fragments of bone and bamboo stick to the raw tissue, Doc Johnson works over the body like a highly trained mechanic. He works quickly, systematically, having Minh and Brown assist. Doc removes Roberts’ left boot and begins an IV of plasmatine in the foot. He shoots Roberts with a syringe of morphine, then returns to the mangled stumps retying them off, quickly cleaning and wrapping the meaty shreds.

Simultaneously Brooks maneuvers 1st Plt and the remains of 2d back to the ambush site while 3d Plt retreats to an open space 250 meters east to establish a perimeter and an evacuation LZ. Egan directs the frontal assault. “Jax, take your squad around right,” he speaks with complete confidence and authority. “Cherry, Bill, we’ll go left. Take it easy. 3d Sqd out farther right. Monk, you bring 2d straight in easy. Don’t know one push it too hard. We all cover each other.”

Cherry looks at Lt. Thomaston. It is obvious Thomaston will follow Egan, will let Egan direct everything. All 1st Plt knows who commands 1st Plt. Thomaston had long ago put his rank and authority behind Egan and followed.

“Right on,” Jax says leading his squad right.

The flank elements waddle forward. 2d Sqd eases up the center. The Cobra rockets had blown chunks out of the jungle exposing two NVA bunkers and a vacated lateral fighting position. 1st Plt moves in, then stops. The bodies of Greer and Garbageman, a mangled mix of blood, mush and jungle, are splattered and nearly unrecognizable as human.

“Cover me,” Egan whispers to Cherry. He crosses to the fighting position, slides in, freezes, waits, then inches forward. His 16 is in his left hand, a grenade in his right. Jax tightens 1st Sqd on the right. Whiteboy closes the far right. To the far left Baiez’ squad pinches in. Egan slithers from the foxhole toward the bunker, rolls, lays up next to the opening, rolls tosses in the grenade and rolls back. The concussion seems tame compared to the earlier hell. Cherry slithers to the fighting position and sets up cover for Egan. Brooks appears next to him from nowhere. Egan crawls to the second bunker and blows it. Then he dives in. Brooks jumps up and dives into the first. A second later they each reappear. Brooks has a shattered AK-47 rifle. Egan a sachel of grenades and two cans of AK ammunition. There are no NVA bodies. Alpha sweeps through the miniature bunker complex and fifty meters beyond. There are signs of enemy activity everywhere but no NVA and no blood trails.

Twenty minutes after blowing the bunkers Alpha retreated to where 3d Plt had cleared the evac LZ. The bunkers had exuded ghosts upon Alpha. They were not on a trail. The recon squad was in the middle of thick brush away from all trails. The ghosts followed the boonierats, infectiously passed from one to the next until a plague of skittish panic seized all but the doped wounded and dead.

The Dust-Off bird arrived and circled high above waiting for Alpha to bring its casualties to the LZ. Then the helicopter descended, set down. Medics helped the wounded, boonierats loaded the dead, the bird rose, sped off. It was late afternoon. Mist fumed from the sodden thickets building to fog. The jungle closed, pressed in. Alpha had to escape.

Egan did not stop to analyze any of the numerous trails he crossed. He did not study the tracks in the mud. It was clear, too clear. They had crossed into the midst of the long established enemy area. That madman Brooks, Egan thought. Mad. Flee behind their perimeter. It’s beautiful. Sweat poured from Egan’s armpits. Beads formed on his forehead, broke and streamed down his face. The salt burned in jungle sores on his face. He paid it no attention. He walked carefully, quietly, looking left right up down. He sniffed the air with each step. He saw no movement. Only fetid valley odor registered in his brain.

The column followed Egan, each man taking mental notes. Pop Randalph at column drag couldn’t believe his eyes. In his three Vietnam tours he had never seen such an elaborate and extensive enemy area. Fishing grounds, game snares, cultivated fields, roads, bunkers connected by trenches and commo-wire, tunnels, most everything dug in and underground. “This aint no place fer yall ta be,” he repeated again and again.

Cherry had fallen in behind Egan and now walked slack. His vision tunnelled, he lost all peripheral perception, he focused on Egan. I thought we weren’t goina march in and knock on Charlie’s back door, his mind chattered. That’s what the L-T said.

Hide, Brooks thought. Hide where they won’t look. Hide between them, amongst them. Use their bunkers. They build them everywhere to use in emergencies but they don’t occupy even a fraction of them. Hide. If they can’t see you, they can’t hit you.

At point Egan came upon a road as wide as the road beneath the north ridge. Across the road was a bamboo thicket looking like an impenetrable wall. Egan looked up and down the road. No movement. He sniffed. No smell. He listened. No sound. The road showed fresh tracks. Egan motioned for Cherry to cover him and to sit. He shed his ruck, crossed the road to the thicket, crawled into a hole in the wall and disappeared. A minute later he reappeared and came back to Cherry. He radioed Brooks. Alpha rose and followed.

The vegetation was very thick and it was difficult to see. Egan was at point, on hands and knees, crawling inward, penetrating the thicket. Cherry crawled behind Egan. One by one the boonierats scampered from the brush on one side of the road to the hole in the bamboo wall on the other. They crawled after the point. They cussed and bitched silently, afraid to make a sound. Dumb! Fucken Dumb! L-T’s gone mad. Green-Man’s behind this. No boonierat’d ever choose this way. They cussed themselves for snapping bamboo stalks and making noise. The bamboo made a tunnel about them. There was no place to look, no cautious observation, just follow the tunnel and the heels of the boonierat in front. At point Egan found the brush to be thickening. He crawled, then rested, looking, listening, then crawled again. The vegetation caught on his ruck and he had to strain to break through. The entire company crawled behind him. At drag Pop and Doc Hayes attempted to obliterate the signs of seventy-six pairs of GI jungle boots crossing the road. Then they attempted to seal the bamboo tunnel.

After 200 meters the thicket gave way to brush and elephant grass. Alpha crawled to the edge, circled to form a perimeter and stopped. Everyone was exhausted, filthy, yet purged of the ghosts from the bunkers.

At what time he had fallen into lonely sleepless dreaming Brooks did not know. He was not sure when the valley had socked in beneath the fogmist and darkness, nor when the dreaming stopped and his consciousness controlled his thoughts. He was only aware of a sickening taste in his mouth and the cold drizzle.

For two days he and Lila acted the parts of a soldier and his lover. They did the tourist things, they ate at another luau, they drank heavily, they pawed each other. Yet they spoke little. Nam was constantly on his mind yet he had agreed not to talk about the war. The hardships the war had caused her were on Lila’s mind but she dared not talk of that. She never told anyone she was married to a soldier. How could she tell him that? In her stateside life she denied him in a hundred silent ways. It almost seemed the patriotic thing to do. How was she to now be the army wife? They had toured Oahu in the morning then gone sail-surfing then returned to the hotel. Just how or why it had happened he did not know. It confused him and it tormented him to this night. The image of him and Lila washed over him like a cold wave.

“I’m not going to end up like her,” Lila said defensively while removing her bathing suit. He watched longingly and she pretended she didn’t see him watching. “I’m not going to let you do that to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rufus said turning his back to her.

“My mother was a smart woman,” Lila said. “She had it all together.” Rufus turned back and looked at her. He was confused and did not know what to do. This is something she’s been thinking about for a long time, he told himself. Lila was slightly drunk and she slurred her words, but as Rufus suspected, the thoughts were not new thoughts. “After she do all the stuff, washing, cooking, like that, for the family, she don’t have no time for her own thing. The old man come home criticizing, tearing her down. Little things.”

“Are you telling me I do that to you?”

“Old man say he don’t like the way she dressed, or the food aint right, aint done enough. Like that. Always tearing her down.”

There was an aggression and hate in Lila’s manner Rufus had not seen since their first fights. Rufus tried to soothe and pass over the rough edge. “Hey, come here, now,” he said pulling her to him, toward the bed. They were both now naked.

“That’s not happening to me,” Lila said allowing herself to be wrapped in his arms. “You all the time expecting me to be just what you expect me to be. No way.”

“Lila, come on,” he said sitting, rubbing his, hands on her body, pulling her down to the bed. Her body relaxed but her head raced on. “Sweet, sweet Lila,” he said nuzzling her in a practiced way.

“Another thing,” Lila said. “Your old man. I can’t believe him. He living back in the ’20s or someplace.” Rufus removed his hands from Lila. He was excited yet anxious. “You know what he said to me before I left?” Rufus bent back and hugged Lila. He flicked his tongue across her nipples, alternating from breast to breast. His hand slipped between her thighs and she squirmed. “He said, ‘We are not Blacks. We are not Negroes.’ He said, ‘We are of color.’ He’s crazy. What the hell are you doing?” Lila pushed him away and sat up. She rose from the bed, turned on the radio, took her time finding a station and returned to the bed. During the physical break, perhaps because of a flash radio news item as Lila turned-the dial, Rufus’ concentration leaped back to Nam. He saw a scene of six dead enemy soldiers and one wounded American. Firing smashed into the trees. Someone screamed. Rufus wilted, lowered his body gently to the bed as if hiding from possible enemies in the walls.

Lila returned to the bed and, acting bored, as if she had nothing better to do, she stroked-squeezed Rufus’ flaccid manhood. It stayed limp. She smothered a laugh. “That the best you can do, Stud?” Lila rolled over and lay facing away from him.

Rufus looked at Lila’s ass and then at his penis. His penis drooped across his muscular thigh. He could not feel it. He sat up, rolled to his knees and on hands and knees hovered over her, kissing her body up and down, aware always that his penis was still limp and hanging dead between his legs. Rufus caressed, massaged, titillated Lila and she purred softly, her eyes closed, thinking about someone else, he thought, she lying on her belly now, breathing a little quicker, a little harder, undulating her pelvis slowly with the caress of Rufus’ large hand, the stimulation of his thick finger. Rufus lay forward and pressed his chest to Lila’s back, supporting his body with his knees and chest, fingering Lila with one hand and squeezing his limp penis with the other. It stiffened slightly. He thought of her warmth and it stiffened more. He moved behind her and his penis touched her and shrank. Fear, embarrassment, overcame him. Come on, he coaxed himself. Come on. Rufus continued caressing Lila. She reached down and adjusted his hand to give herself more pleasure. He pulled harder on himself hoping she would not roll over. “Oh, Rufus,” Lila moaned. “You should do this all the time. You always want to get in me so fast. I feel so hot and juicy. Don’t stop.” Rufus inserted his finger deeper, he let himself lie on her and he curled his other arm about her and stroked her forehead. He kissed her back. Lila grabbed his hand from her head and brought it to her mouth. She kissed his fingers. Then she began sucking his middle finger rhythmically, undulating her groin in time. “Come in me,” she cried. “Oh, I’m ready,” she gurgled, she rolled under him. Rufus continued stimulating her vagina with his hand. He closed his eyes and pretended—pretended another man was with them—was behind Lila—was behind him. His penis became rigid. He slid atop Lila, between her thighs, he opened his eyes and wilted. “Fuck me,” she cried. “Fuck me. Give it to me … give … what’s the matter with you?”

After they got up she repeated it, nastily, trying to hurt him, repeated it again and again. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Look, ah, I just flashed on, ah, something. That’s all.”

“Oh good. You get me all jacked up then go thinking about your boys again.”

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“Here he is, Mr. Fagman. You can have him. Mr. Stud. A one-ton bomb with a half-inch wick. But don’t worry. He’s not dangerous.”

“Wait a minute, Bitch. All you gotta do is spread them thighs. It’s me that’s gotta do the work.”

“The WORK!? Is that what you call it?”

It did not get better between them. She was hurt and she wanted to hurt him. They drank more heavily. “You think it easy for me?” she asked the next day. “You know how many nights I spend alone? I’m out singing, working with all these really right dudes, out in really fine company, and I go home alone. I may not always do that, Stud.”

Rufus, the ex-athlete, felt as if his body had betrayed him. The fifth night of R&R they tried again to make love and again he could not keep hard. They sat, not looking at each other, not speaking, each wondering how to get through the time remaining until they would return to their own worlds, each disgusted with the other, hurt by the other, disappointed with the other and with their own selves.

On the sixth and last night of R&R Rufus said to Lila, “I don’t know what it is, or why. I thought we could make it. I don’t know or maybe I do. I think maybe I really do. You think because I’ve told you I love you, you’ve unlocked all the mystery of me and there isn’t anything left to find. You think there’s no room to look at me anymore and it’s time to move on. Lady, I don’t think you’ve even scratched the surface.”

“Maybe,” Lila answered softly, they had ceased shouting that morning, “that’s because you won’t let me. You’ve got this coating of words so wrapped around you, you can’t even see yourself. How do you expect me to know you?”

On the second night she had said, “Not tonight, Honey.” On the sixth night it became his turn and he did not even try. All my life, he told himself, I’ve been good at whatever I’ve attempted. I’m not going to start failing now. He gawked at her. She grinned at him, nastily, crudely, destructively. “I hate you,” Lila said and they passed the night in polite silence.

At noon the next day, Lieutenant Brooks, in uniform, said good-bye to Mrs. Brooks. They spoke formally. Around them other soldiers were politely saying good-bye to their wives also. There was no frantic passion as there had been when that planeload had arrived from Vietnam. There were only a few tears.

“It wasn’t supposed to be this way, Rufus,” Lila said softly not looking at him.

“No,” he answered. “It wasn’t.”

“Good-bye.” Tears welled then streamed.

“Good-bye,” he said simply, watching her crack. She turned and ran from him, ran from the loading gate, from the terminal, from Hawaii. He turned and walked up the ramp. In his throat he sang the lyrics to the song Walk Like A Man. His spine was straight, his lips formed the words, Walk.…

The Hawaii torment followed him, chased him for months. There was a side of the conflict he never saw, never imagined. Had he seen it he would not have understood it. Lila continued to spend lonely nights and anguished days. When she had left for Hawaii she had wanted something to call her own, a baby, a family, yet the dream had soured. Upon returning she tried to get a steady job. She had to become self-sufficient again and learn not to depend on his allotment. She asked herself a thousand times if she could leave him. She did not want another man. Men became repulsive. Should she divorce him? In March she wrote him a note which said only, “I didn’t want to be pregnant and I’m not.” Could she send it? Could she? She did and with it she decided irreversibly to divorce and she set about building her support system which jelled in July. In early August she filed the papers.

In his mind Brooks entered the bedroom of a penthouse bachelor’s pad. He crept in slowly, noiselessly, in the best boonierat fashion. She did not know he had returned. It was his first day back. They were giggling on the bed. The lights were low. Lila, her sensuous mocha-colored body naked on the Jody’s legs, her mouth on his large penis. The Jody laying back, eyes stoned-closed dreaming. Brooks snapped his right hand toward the bed. The spoon flew from the grenade with a metallic ting. No wait. His mind stopped the scene. The image switched. He and Lila were on the bed making love. He watched her so lovingly lick and suck him. It excited him beyond description. It excited him as he lay on the cold valley floor. With the excitement there nagged a secret thoughtimage which he tried to chase away, which disgusted him. It was a mental picture he watched begin a hundred times since Hawaii yet never allowed it to run on. If Lila could enjoy it so, if she could bring him so much pleasure, if he could love it so, would he be able to bring that pleasure to another man? He wanted to suck a cock. Yes. He wanted to feel the head in his mouth, to lick the ridge. He wanted to suck his own cock but he couldn’t. He was in bed with the Jody. The Jody was Egan. Oh, that beautiful cock Egan had plunged into that gypsy bitch in Australia. What would it be like to be eating her pussy and then have Egan step from the shadows and begin to fuck her while he ate her? His mouth on her lips, on her juiciness and on Egan’s hot shaft simultaneously. He could feel her back off. It was Lila. Egan had been fucking his wife. Egan was his Jody. Lila kissed Rufus passionately. She stuck her tongue deeply into his mouth, licked her own juices from his chin. Then Egan began rubbing his giant cock against her face. She turned and licked it. She turned back and kissed Rufus deeply pulling him to Egan. Egan’s erectness was between them, between their lips as they kissed and licked. Then the cock slid into his mouth. Lila held Rufus’ face to it. Egan pumped back and forth. Brooks squirmed on the jungle floor. Stop. Not that. He pushed Egan out of the picture and brought Lila’s head down to his groin. Suck me. That’s how it should be. His mind shot spiralling into a void. He felt the darkness, the emptiness expanding. He was losing everything. The emptiness grew forcing his entire life away. Everything became a black void, expanding, expanding like a giant bubble of nothingness, like a gigantic balloon with only a speck of dust at center. Expanding—a helium-filled balloon—ever expanding, its walls becoming fainter, more fragile. Emptiness expanding, concentrating tension and pressure at the walls, the outer edge of the void. Pressure more severe than those at the ocean’s greatest depths, pressure within and without. The darkness of his closed lids expanding beyond his body, beyond his mind, and the tension and static balanced forces escalating, threatening to collapse, threatening a tremendous implosion destined to destroy the center where his eyes are shut.

Hold it together, he demanded of his mind. Hold it together. It hasn’t all collapsed yet. It doesn’t have to.

SIGNIFICANT ACTIVITIES

THE FOLLOWING RESULTS OF OPERATIONS IN THE O’REILLY/BARNETT/JEROME AREA WERE REPORTED FOR THE 24-HOUR PERIOD ENDING 2359 19 AUGUST 70:

AT 0310 HOURS COMPANY D, 7/402 RECEIVED A SAPPER ATTACK IN THEIR NDP IN THE VICINITY OF YD 143328 RESULTING IN SEVEN US KIA AND 17 US WIA OF WHICH 11 REQUIRED MEDICAL EVACUATION. ENEMY CASUALTIES WERE UNKNOWN.

FOUR SEPARATE ATROCITIES WERE PERPETRATED BY THE ENEMY AGAINST VILLAGE POPULACES OF THUA THIEN PROVINCE PRIOR TO DAYBREAK RESULTING IN NINE CIVILIAN CASUALTIES. DETACHMENT 4, 7TH PSYOPS BN IN COORDINATION WITH DISTRICT LEADERS AND THE VIETNAMESE INFORMATION SERVICE COLLECTED ANTI-GOVERNMENT AND ANTI-FREE WORLD MILITARY ASSISTANCE FORCE LEAFLETS WHICH THE ENEMY HAD DISTRIBUTED. GROUND LOUDSPEAKER TEAMS WERE DEPLOYED AND IMMEDIATELY BEGAN BROADCASTING PRO-GVN MESSAGES. THE EFFECT OF THE NVA PROPAGANDA WAS EFFECTIVELY NEGATED. PHOTOGRAPHS AND TAPE RECORDED INTERVIEWS WERE MADE FOR POSSIBLE FUTURE USE.

AT 0737 HOURS, COMPANY A, 7/402 SPOTTED TWO NVA SQUADS IN THE OPEN THREE KILOMETERS WEST SOUTHWEST OF FIREBASE BARNETT. ARTILLERY WAS EMPLOYED. A SEARCH OF THE AREA REVEALED NUMEROUS BLOOD TRAILS.

DURING A LATE MORNING SWEEP, 2D PLT, CO A, 7/402 DISCOVERED AN NVA FISHING CAMP, VICINITY YD 165311, WITH NUMEROUS BAMBOO FISH TRAPS AND SEVERAL SMALL ANIMAL SNARES. THE TRAPS AND SNARES WERE DESTROYED. AT 1215 HOURS 3D PLT OF CO A REPORTED FINDING FOUR MARIJUANA PATCHES VICINITY YD 168309. WHITE PHOSPHORUS ARTILLERY ROUNDS WERE EMPLOYED TO DESTROY THE CROP.

AT 1330 HOURS ON A SWEEP SOUTH OF THE KHE TA LAOU RIVER CO A WAS AMBUSHED BY AN ESTIMATED REINFORCED NVA SQUAD. THE UNIT RETURNED ORGANIC WEAPONS FIRE AND WAS SUPPORTED BY ARTILLERY RESULTING IN NINE ENEMY KILLED AND FOUR INDIVIDUAL WEAPONS CAPTURED. NO US CASUALTIES WERE REPORTED.

IN A MASS GRAVE APPROXIMATELY THREE KILOMETERS NORTHWEST OF FIREBASE RIPCORD, THE 3D CO, 3D BN, 1ST REGT (ARVN) DISCOVERED 20 ENEMY KILLED DURING THE PREVIOUS WEEK BY TACTICAL AIR STRIKES.

WHILE RECONNING AN ENEMY BASE AREA VICINITY YD 155307, A SQUAD OF CO A, 7/402 WAS AMBUSHED BY AN UNKNOWN SIZED ENEMY FORCE. THE SQUAD RETURNED ORGANIC WEAPONS FIRE AND WAS SUPPORTED BY ARA AND REINFORCED BY TWO PLATOONS OF CO A. TWO US WERE KIA, THREE US WERE WOUNDED AND EVACUATED. ENEMY CASUALTIES WERE UNKNOWN.

FIREBASE BARNETT RECEIVED 13 ROUNDS OF 82MM MORTAR FIRE AT 1819 HOURS. NO CASUALTIES WERE REPORTED.