The battle was finally over. The end came unexpectedly, without drama or any precipitating event. Something in the accumulation of things had ultimately tipped the balance, and Singer knew in that moment that everything was finished. He was going to end the killing. Military authorities would court-martial him and put him in a military prison, but still he was determined to do it.
Though he was about to dramatically change the course of his life, he felt unusually calm. In the final hours, after weeks of agony, the choice had come easy, and he moved now with the same conviction as he had in battle to the cries of the wounded, knowing he had to help. This time it was even more personal and there was no one else that could do it. He picked up his rifle but left his ruck, though he doubted he’d be coming back, and went in search of the platoon leader.
The darkness of early evening that masked the bunker line and the distant hills made what he was about to do easier. The courage he felt might be lost in the stark light of day and under the eyes of the men of the company and the others on the firebase.
In late afternoon they’d come back to the firebase for a couple days on the bunker line, after nearly three weeks in the jungle with sporadic firefights. There’d been nothing unusual about the operation or the fighting that might have changed things. While in the mountains, they’d found another jungle camp, smaller and less elaborate than in the A Shau. This time they had the air support that had been strangely absent then. The enemy offered only light resistance, quickly fleeing in the face of jet fighters and gunships, abandoning a cache of new weapons that had the men celebrating and some of the officers looking nearly giddy with the find. They chased the enemy in the mountains through the pursuing days, with brief running gun battles that never grew into anything big. There were casualties and medevacs, but far fewer than in earlier months, and none of them from friendly fire.
The New Lieutenant, who joined fourth platoon just as the operation began, relegating the Shake and Bake to platoon sergeant, was gruff and humorless but demonstrated some field and command skills, directing the men in a more competent manner than the parade of lieutenants before him. Measured in his risk-taking, fair with his assignments, and leading from up front, sharing the danger, he’d gained some acceptance by the beginning of the third week in the field. They came back to the firebase with the platoon mostly intact. It had all been much the same as all the other field operations and fighting. Yet by the time they reached the firebase, Singer knew everything had changed.
To do what he intended, Singer needed to see the New Lieutenant first. Despite the New Lieutenant’s steady first days afield, Singer still wasn’t sure about him or what to expect when he faced him, but there was no avoiding it.
Now was the time to do it. They wouldn’t stay on the firebase for more than a few days. When they headed out again, it would be too late. Doing it in the field would complicate everything and perhaps even change the outcome.
From his pocket, Singer pulled out the gold tooth he had taken from the NVA body in the aftermath of the May fifth battle when he, Trip, and the New Guy searched the ambush site. He held it in his hand, noticing how it glinted in the moonlight as it had in the peculiar ray of light that penetrated the jungle on the day he collected it. May fifth. That was when it all started, wasn’t it?
No, it was long before May fifth that he started down the path to becoming what he now knew he was, but tried so long to deny. There were things that led him to this point long before he ever killed the first man. Through weeks of basic training, he’d march to the cadence song refrain, “I want to go to Vietnam. I want to kill some Viet Cong,” until he almost believed it. At the rifle range, he fired his M16 again and again at human silhouettes until the shape came to signify nothing more than a target to be struck down with dead-on shots. He ran through the bayonet course, thrusting his bayonet into life-sized dummies, screaming, “The spirit of the bayonet fighter is to kill,” learning the mantra of the bayonet fighter along with the killing thrusts of the long, heavy blade. “The spirit of the bayonet fighter is to kill.” He said the words with none of the enthusiasm now that he yelled them then. Now there was something sad and sinister about them.
Even years before his military training, the potential for what he had become was likely set in the games of his youth: in the wars he played out with miniature soldiers and tanks on the living room floor, hiding the tanks under the sofa, from where they made their surprise attacks; in the games of cowboys and Indians in the woods that stretched behind the house, when he wielded his plastic pistol and toy rifle with boundless enthusiasm, mowing down friends with imaginary fire; in the board games of attack and conquer he’d played with friends when they were older, gathered around the board’s map, each of them leaning in, intent on victory; in the days spent stalking deer, honing his skills, celebrating his kills, savoring the status they brought him; in the . . .
All of it had served to bring him to this point. Where it actually started didn’t matter. He had to stop it now before it was too late, if it wasn’t already. This was where it would end.
He’d come to the war with the excitement and apprehension of a young man on the edge of discovery, full of idealism and naïvety, still believing in the glory of war. That had all been exploded in the May fifth ambush that was nothing like the imaginary games of youth. From there, the killing followed a progression he would have never believed possible. Even now, it was hard to understand how it happened. The early killings came without forethought or design in the heat of the first battles out of a desire to survive. But in the rage that followed he wished and prepared for it, waiting to even the score. When finding it still left him empty and vengeful, he sought more, even as he felt himself slipping away. The harder he tried to keep dead friends alive through the killing, the more he lost himself. It took a long time to understand this. He felt himself drowning, sinking into the depths of darkness from which it would be impossible to return once he reached a place where the light on the surface was no longer visible. It was when the power and excitement of the killing became the sole compelling force drawing him in that he knew he was near that point.
The closer he came to being completely lost, the stronger his self-awareness grew, along with his headaches and the petitioning cries that only he could hear. The person he was before was nearly dead. He had become something he couldn’t bear to consider. He wasn’t sure if any remnant of his former self remained, but he was certain if he didn’t stop the killing now there would be no hope.
“Something wrong?”
Singer quickly closed his hand around the tooth and looked up to see the Shake and Bake, eyes dark despite the moonlight, the shine gone. “No. Fine. Everything’s fine. I just need to see the lieutenant.”
“What do you need?”
“I got to talk with him about something.”
“I’ll pass it on.”
“It’s personal.”
“Be quick, then, and get back to your position.”
“Right.”
After the Shake and Bake left, Singer returned the tooth to his pocket. He looked up at the moon and a scattering of stars. How long would it be before he would stand outside and see the sky again? He found the New Lieutenant near the platoon CP.
Helmetless, a crew-cut of muddy-brown hair emphasized the New Lieutenant’s blocky features. His ears showed the kind of damage seen in wrestlers. One on one, he’d be a formidable foe.
“Sir, I need to talk with you,” Singer said after saluting, which he wouldn’t have done in the field, but it seemed important now.
“What do you want?”
“I am done, sir.” There it was. He’d said it.
“Done with what?”
“I won’t do it anymore. I’m done. I won’t kill anymore.” Singer held out his M16 and ammo bandolier.
The New Lieutenant took a step closer, ignoring the rifle. “Singer, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, sir.”
“Get back to your post right now,” the New Lieutenant said. “This is a war. You are in the army. Quitting isn’t an option.”
Singer didn’t move. “I won’t do it anymore.”
“How old are you, Singer?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Seven months, sir, I came over with the Brigade.”
“Seven months, Christ, and you want to quit now? Quitting in a war zone, do you know what will happen to you?”
“It doesn’t matter, sir.”
“They’ll court-martial your ass and then hang you for refusing to fight. They’ll lock you up and throw away the fucking key. Your life will be over. I’ll see that that happens. Is that what you want?”
“I won’t kill anymore, sir.”
“Then you belong in jail. There’s no place for you here. I don’t want you in my platoon. Give me your rifle.”
Singer handed over his M16.
He stood there, aware of his empty hands and of a new aloneness beyond anything he’d ever felt. For the first time in months, he was without his rifle. Could he be done with killing just like that?
“Wait here,” the New Lieutenant said. “The CO will deal with you.”