Chapter Ten
When I could go no further, I persuaded Mary Ann to take a break. We sat on a flat rock by the trail, drinking water from the canteen and eating the remainder of Amber's carrot slices. The late afternoon sun had heated the terrain and sweat trickled down Mary Ann's tan neck as she lay with her hands behind her head.
“I wonder who those two men are.” I asked.
“Hermits.”
“Ever seen them before?”
The face Mary Ann made telegraphed her feelings on the subject long before she answered. “No, but they were kind of creepy, weren't they?”
“No kidding. Explain again why you didn't tell anyone about Bill's journal.”
“I just figured that if anyone could find it, it would be me and I haven't found a way to get up here yet. Until now,” she said, staring into the hazy valley.
“How did you talk your grandfather into letting you skip class?”
Mary Ann squirmed and her face contorted into a silly grin. “Didn't, really. Knew you wouldn't bring me otherwise, so I told a little fib. You're not mad, are you?”
“Only if your granddad calls the sheriff and has me arrested.”
Mary Ann sat up and brushed nonexistent crumbs from her shirt and jeans. “He won't if we hurry. First I have to take a trip behind a rock.”
“Not a bad idea,” I said.
Mary Ann held out her hand for me to help her up then strolled away up a trail. I went the other direction, stepping lightly through the thick growth of vines, briars and creeping trailers and trying not to imagine what creeping Denizens resided beneath. Within ten feet of the trail I was out of sight but continued until I was far up the hill. There I relieved myself against a wall of rock. What I saw when I glanced up made me glad I had. I was staring directly into the cold eyes of a coiled rattlesnake.
And suddenly I was back in Vietnam.
***
An LZ slashed in the jungle. Incendiary bombs and thousand-pounders dropped from B-52s had destroyed the triple canopy and created the clearing. Now, all that remained were fingers of smoke snaking skyward in yellow toxic wisps as choppers began arriving single file. The noisy birds hovered just above black, decimated earth, disgorging human cargo like bees from a hive. I climbed down onto the Huey's landing ramp and hung there a moment before jumping, rolling when I landed on soft hot dirt.
Charred and broken stumps replaced triple canopy jungle that had once covered the clearing. Now its charcoal skeleton continued to burn in spots. Everywhere, toxic smoke hung in the air reeking of burned gasoline, destroyed vegetation, and craters big enough to swallow a house pitted the earth. Only brown and sickly yellow remained, along with the lingering stench of mass destruction.
Charlie Company spread out, forming a wide perimeter around the charred LZ. The stump on which I sat was still warm as we waited for what seemed like an hour before the whump-whump-whump of a single helicopter, hovering a hundred feet above us, disturbed the pregnant silence. It was then we witnessed a blindfolded person, clothed in black pajamas and with his hands tied behind his back, tumbling out the door. His body connected with unyielding earth with a sickening thud that sent a cloud of black soot into the air.
Moments later the lone bird landed beside the lifeless body and two soldiers and another VC prisoner exited, bending low at the waist to avoid whirling rotor blades. One of the two soldiers accompanying the prisoner was South Vietnamese, the other American. The black American, Sergeant Thompson, was a Vietnamese interpreter. They held their hands in front of their faces to circumvent toxic soot and smoke swirling all around them. The prisoner's with bound hands gazed at his dead comrade before turning abruptly away when the ARVN soldier yanked on the rope around his neck. He led him to the center of the clearing and shoved him to the ground.
The war in our area of operation had turned bitter and nasty as both sides made negligible progress. A fire fight here, an ambush there. Most encounters lasted less than five minutes. About the time, it took to call in a Cobra gunship or artillery barrage. Both sides played head games. VC and NVA regulars often tortured and killed soldiers they captured, leaving mutilated bodies for their friends to find.
GIs were no better. Years of fighting had escalated these games into a brutal, often nonsensical contest. Sergeant Thompson's fatigues were crisp and freshly pressed. Unlike the line company grunts, he looked as though he had just stepped out of an air-conditioned office building. Handsome and clean cut he spoke six languages, including Chinese. He disliked whites, all whites, and had a streak of cruelty that transcended reason. He also had an ear collection. Unlike other collectors who extracted their trophies from the dead Sergeant Johnny preferred taking his from living prisoners.
Because of the nature of the conflict, we rarely took prisoners. We had lost one unlucky soldier from our own company that week. Private Jimmy Lee Tanner, an eighteen-year-old Alabama redneck. Jimmy Lee had married his high school sweetheart shortly before shipping out for Vietnam. She called him Honeyboy, an endearment several of his friends had overheard. The name stuck.
Honeyboy had disappeared during a prolonged hump through the jungle. Usually the company moved in single file, spread out in such a way that a well-placed mortar round or burst from a deadly RPG would only take out one or two grunts. During monsoon season, rain was incessant. Part of the year was dry, with little or no rain. The day Honeyboy disappeared this had become a problem.
Barring unavoidable situations helicopters supplied our line company every third day. Each man received fresh rations, ammunition and two or more gallons of water to last until the next supply day. The eight pounds a gallon of water weighed restricted how much an individual could hump on his back and how often he needed new supplies. Three days was just fine. Four was not. Following an unavoidable occurrence, we entered our fourth day without fresh supplies and our first full day with little or no water. Unlike the war, monsoon season had ended.
Echo, our sister company, had found an NVA bunker complex and a regiment of NVA regulars had engaged them, pinning them with mortar and small arms fire. This unexpected skirmish made necessary the use of every available chopper to assist in Echo's rescue. It also left us with little remaining food or water and that morning we set out on a prolonged and unplanned hump to a distant river.
We rarely moved more than a kilometer because of debilitating tropical heat and humidity. We always cut our own paths through the undergrowth, forsaking jungle trails often booby-trapped or ripe for ambush. Thirst makes a man bold and sometimes crazy and that day the river was three clicks away.
We made the river at dusk but it was dark before anyone realized Honeyboy was missing. During the march, the single-file line of grunts had spread out further than normal, sometimes a hundred yards, or more separating individuals. Honeyboy was drag gunner, the last man in line, and had fallen out of sight of the man in front of him. A patrol returned down the trail and found his boots and steel helmet but no Honeyboy. Now we had captured our own prisoner and Sergeant Thompson was questioning him with a straight razor.
Thompson's razor did not impress the prisoner, even after claiming an ear, but Thompson was a pro. He kept at it until he found something that did impress the young VC. A sheath-like strip of rubber used to waterproof mortar rounds during transport did the trick. This strip of rubber looked like a giant balloon and grunts collected these rubber devises from crates of ammo and used them to protect wallets, letters and pictures. Because of their size and shape, we called them donkey dicks.
Sergeant Thompson noticed the prisoner wince when he removed his wallet from his own donkey dick. Recognition flashed in his brown eyes and he grinned, his thin lips riding up in a cruel expression over ivory white teeth. Unrolling the rubber sheath from the wallet, he pulled it down slowly over the captured man's head, over his face and nose.
Blood and sweat caked the prisoner's neck and shoulder. His eyes were large, dark and filled with horror, but not from the straight razor. Thompson had located the man's secret fear and it had already loosened his bladder. Like impending death, a sickly fetid odor wafted through the humid LZ. Finally convinced by the good sergeant of his imminent damnation, the young prisoner quickly confessed Honeyboy's fate, and then led us on a circuitous journey to a dark hole in the ground.
Tunnels, blind chutes, and spider holes laced the jungle. VC and NVA used them as shelter, command posts, and points of ambush and supply depots, among other things. This was different, a simple six-foot wide hole plunging straight down into the ground that seemed to have no utilitarian purpose. According to the frightened prisoner, Honeyboy's body was in the hole, thrown there after they had killed him. The Captain asked for a volunteer to go in after the body.
Never volunteer is the foot soldier's credo but I looked at my fellow Troops, mostly city boys from northern climes, and saw the fear of the hole laced in their eyes. Crusty lesions caused by fungal growths and many tropical skin diseases proliferating in incessant jungle heat and humidity scabbed their exposed arms, necks and faces. They were out of their element and knew it. Like an idiot, I raised my hand.
They tied a rope around my waist and lowered me into the hole. Five feet from the surface, I realized it was deeper than any of us had thought. The jungle was hot but the temperature in the hole felt like the inside of a steam cabinet. Damp, musty, and vaguely acrid air assaulted my lungs like a full strength shot of ammonia.
Soon the hole took an abrupt bend, blocking out most of the filtered light from above. My boots bumped against loose earth and broken clods tumbled down into the bottom of the hole still far below. They lowered me through a huge spider web and elastic strands wrapped around my face and neck like a living hand. I tore at it, trying not to hyperventilate in Stygian darkness, as cool air suddenly blasted up from the depths. Immediately it chilled perspiration dripping down my face, neck and damp palms clutching the rope.
Chilled air brought with it a different smell—the rotten odor of spoiled melon. Some forty feet below the jungle, my feet touched the bottom of the dank hole. I stood there, absorbing the pitch-black silence with a noisy heart. When I probed with the toe of my boot, I connected almost instantly with something soft and squishy. The touch produced a low moan of escaping gas that sounded like the protest of a prodded spirit.
Then I heard and felt something else and knew what it was without seeing it. When it slithered across my boot, I was certain. I yanked on the rope and yelled, “Pull me up! Pull me the hell up!”
Then I was back at the surface, shielding my eyes from muted glare reflecting through the trees.
“Fix a torch,” I said. “It is pitch black down there.”
“Is Honeyboy down there?” the Captain asked.
“Something is,” I said, and reattached the rope to my waist.
My heart continued to race as they lowered me back into the hole. This time I saw bats hanging upside down and huge rats turning away from the glare of the burning torch. I finally reached the bottom of the hole and located Honeyboy in the red ghastly glow. Lying on his back, his arms outstretched, and he stared at me through eyeless sockets.
He was not alone. Hundreds of snakes, both large and small, matted the floor of the circular cavern like a living carpet. Their bodies pumped and pulsated and one of the viperous beasts twined itself around my ankle. Another started up my leg. Then a hooded viper dropped from a ledge above me, landing on my shoulders. At first, I froze with fear then brushed the snake off my shoulder and thrust the torch at the pulsating mass of reptiles.
Courage trickled down my leg and only a sudden surge of straight adrenaline saved me. Tossing the torch at the angry mass of reptiles, I wrapped my arms around Honeyboy's chest, not wanting to wait alone in the viper pit while the grunts pulled his body to the surface.
With a desperate yank on the rope, I closed my eyes to the darkness and clutched Honeyboy's lifeless, putrefying body to my chest, trying not to breathe but knowing I would remember the pungent smell of his rotting flesh until the very day I died.
***
“Tom, you okay?”
I stared up into Mary Ann's eyes and clear blue Arkansas sky.