by David Rabe
“Whitaker,” says a calling voice.
Whitaker turns to find Sergeant Major Wilcox approaching. The man’s cleanliness is the first thing Whitaker sees; he doesn’t appear to even sweat. Pausing, the sergeant major puts his clipboard against his left knee in order to scribble something on it. The pencil makes a dry sound. “You’re on guard tonight, Whitaker. We got to guard our area up here. You’re on first shift. Lieutenant Felder is OD. Sergeant Emlin is Sergeant of the guard. Reese’s second shift, Roland’s third. Two on and four off. You can have the afternoon off tomorrow if you work the mornin’. We got lots to build. You can go down to the village in the afternoon and test the water if you want. Take your galoshes.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“You know what I’m talkin’ about?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“Then why do you look so fucking stupid? Take your rubbers if you go into town, is what I’m tellin’ you. You don’t want a dirty dicky, do you?”
“No, Sergeant.” Whitaker is blinking to wipe away all evidence of whatever expression might have made him appear stupid.
“That’s what I’m sayin’. GI always curious about slant-eyed pussy, you can go see if you like it. I don’t mind a boy in my outfit gettin’ what he needs, but if he comes down with the clap, I don’t like it. I don’t like diseases. They make people miss work. That’s what I’m tellin’ you. You can pass the word to Roland and Reese to wear their galoshes if they’re gonna get their dicky wet.”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“You do right by me, Whitaker, you’ll be real happy. We clear?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major.”
“You gotta hustle.”
“Sergeant Major, what time does first shift start?”
“Real soon, Whitaker.”
“Will I have time to shower first?”
“No, no.”
“When does it start?”
“Depends on how fast you can get your gear together and report. That’s the time first shift starts. You better get a move on. If you wanna be there. Sergeant Emlin and the lieutenant are important people. You can shower after first shift. That’ll make you sleep real good. You’ll feel real good and clean.” Turning away, he strides off toward the bunker where the board in Rowe’s hands slams against the bags of the wall and Doland watches.
Artillery booms. An ARVN unit resides down the road. Looking at the sky, Whitaker searches, as if he might see the arcing shells; he feels the smallest of shivers in the earth beneath his feet as the cannons rumble. It’s support fire more than likely; artillery launched at request and into requested coordinates; although it might simply be harassment fire: rounds that are sent for no specific reason and with no specific pattern into free-fire zones.
Whitaker pivots, starting to hurry along, thinking of how Sergeant Major Wilcox did not cross with him on that ship. Rowe was on it, and he’s run into Rasputin, but the others are scattered all over the place. Once ashore, they traveled as expected to Bien Hoa air base and the 90th Replacement Battalion where they learned they were all being reclassified as “in transit.” Rumors flew, and one by one their officers were reassigned. A chubby Spec Five from personnel seemed to enjoy telling them how much he knew and they didn’t, how they were going to be shipped out as replacements to random units on the basis of their “military occupational specialty.” He couldn’t just say “MOS” like everybody else did. Whitaker slept a lot, sluggish in the heat, desperate to get acclimatized. He loitered around the personnel section, trying to pick up any scrap of information that might pertain to him, because those fuckers inside could be deciding to send him anywhere there was a motor pool, which was just about every kind of outfit there was, engineers, artillery, transportation, infantry, you name it. And then one afternoon he and Rowe were told they’d lucked out. They were going to work construction, eventually in the motor pool of a medical headquarters at a compound being built along Highway 1. An evacuation hospital and lots of other medical outfits, all kinds of units, were to be located there. It was rumored that a jeep was traded for Whitaker and Rowe.
Trotting down the hillside toward the cluster of GP large and medium tents where he bunks and his gear waits, Whitaker is thinking, But, Sergeant Major, I already been to town. I already used my galoshes. The gravel of the pathways is cooked white from the sun, and the tents, bulky shapes darkened with dust embedded in their fibers, are peaked and scooped, like big ocean waves lit from within. Coming upon piles of uprooted tree stumps gathered in angular heaps, he slows his pace. They do not seem the remains of a tropical forest, but rather the skeletons of trees where he grew up. As sturdy and twisted as oaks or elms, they lack the curving softness of tropical growth. Roots that begin as thick as the leg of a horse end up as thin as strings six yards from their start. Taking ten or twelve tiny steps of preparation, he leaps the first of a number of holes, glimpsing crushed beer cans at the bottoms. He ducks into his tent and comes right back out with his washbasin, which he fills from one of the five-gallon cans that stand on a rack near the drainage ditch that parallels the road. The basin rests on the waist-high wall of sandbags fortifying the tents as he splashes his face. He rubs a damp towel over his belly and chest before reentering the tent for his pistol belt with ammo packs, first-aid packet, and canteen, which he shakes, checking the amount of water it contains. He slaps the belt around his hips and hooks it. He pats the right-front pocket of his trousers to be certain of his green-handled knife. He slips on a T-shirt and then a clean fatigue shirt, which he fails to button as he grabs his helmet, steel pot, and green camouflage cover, from off the hook where it hangs. Rifle slung on his shoulder, he decides to refill his canteen before setting off toward the headquarters tent, buttoning and tucking in his shirt. He walks a crooked course, wary of the tent pegs and ropes sticking up from the ground. Unable to get his shirttail arranged satisfactorily, he removes his pistol belt and loosens the blackened buckle of the belt on his trousers. The moment approaching is the part of guard he detests, a time spent in the immediate presence and under the power of the officer of the day. He runs his hands over the pockets of his uniform, making certain each button is fastened. He enters and, unsure of the extent of military procedure expected, takes up a lax position of attention. The lieutenant stands slowly from the edge of the desk on which he has been sitting while conversing with Staff Sergeant Emlin, who rests against the middle tent pole. The lieutenant is young and thin. A .45 automatic rides in a black holster strapped to his hip and tied down to his thigh by a looping thong of black leather.
Whitaker says, “Sergeant Major Wilcox sent me, sir.”
“You’re … ? ” For maybe the tenth time, the lieutenant squints at the nametag above Whitaker’s shirt pocket, driving home the point that Whitaker should know that he is useless and forgettable. “Whitaker.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First shift.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s tighten up that position of attention, soldier.”
He does his best; shoves his shoulders back, heels together, the butt of his M14 steady on the floor.
Referring to a square of paper taken from the desk, the lieutenant says, “You’re on at ten. It’s ten to ten now.” He is circling Whitaker; he taps the paper against his fingers. “What’s your first general order?”
“Sir. My first general order is to take charge of this post and all government property in view.”
“Inspection arms!” says the lieutenant. Whitaker raises the rifle diagonally, hooking and locking the receiver open. He offers the weapon to the lieutenant, who takes it and studies the receiver. He seems unhappy about something in the mechanism, then raises the muzzle toward the nearest lightbulb. He peers into the barrel, and they stay that way for so long Whitaker wonders who this fucking asshole thinks he’s impressing. “They’ll be stopping work there at ten,” the lieutenant says as he returns the weapon. “Where’s your flashlight?”
“It’s in
my tent. I’ll pick it up on my way back, sir.” The prolonged scrutiny provokes throbbing uneasiness.
“Come here,” says the lieutenant and steps around to the back of the desk. With a pencil and a yellow pad he sketches an irregular oblong and then places about it a number of boxes and xs. He adds some arrows. “This is the pattern I want you to walk. These are the bunkers, the generator, et cetera. You’ll have two magazines, forty rounds. But I don’t want them in the weapon unless you intend to use them. While you’re out there walking, you will carry your weapon empty. Only if you expect trouble—if you’re sure there will be trouble—will you insert the magazine, and only if you want to kill somebody will you lock a round into a chamber.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s right as rain, sir,” says Sergeant Emlin. “Most a these boys in this kinda candy-ass outfit think that thing’s a toy. They don’t know.”
“Whitaker does, though, don’t you, Whitaker? You know.”
“Yes, sir.” He is rubbing his fingers on the sight of the rifle. Christ, he hates this fucking goddamn lieutenant.
“Here,” says Seargent Emlin and Whitaker takes from him the two magazines of M14 ammunition; the weight of them pushes his hand down a little.
“Do you understand the route I want you to walk?”
“Could I take that paper with me, sir? Then I’ll be sure.”
“Good idea, Whitaker.”
Upon stepping from the tent into the open air, he sees the men retiring from the work area, fifteen or twenty weary figures, trudging, kicking stones. He can hear the yips and scramble of a basketball game down the hill. The men coming from the bunker carry their shirts. They carry the Lyster bag. Using a shirt knotted into the shape of a ball, two of them play catch, the shirt, tumbling, the sleeves flapping. Carney is approaching Bonefezi with a couple of open beers.
“Hey, lookee the soldier,” says Bonefezi, spotting Whitaker.
“Is that a soldier?”
“Sure.”
“Boy oh boy.”
“Pretty impressive, huh?”
“He’s gonna go guard. Keep us safe.”
“What you gonna guard, Whitaker?”
“The dirt,” Bonefezi says.
“The bunker, too,” says Whitaker.
“Very cool,” someone yells.
“Sure,” says Bonefezi. “We don’t have somebody up there, VC gonna come in steal all our dirt. Or steal our bunker, huh. You are a serious sonofabitch of a soldier, Whitaker.”
“Get fucked.”
“First chance I get.”
“If you was me that’d be tomorrow. Tomorrow’d be your first chance.”
“Goin’ to town, Whitaker. You watch out for them razor blades.”
“Ho, ho, ho.”
“Listen to that fucker talk that good talk,” says Griffin. “Whit can talk gook, huh, Whit?”
“You mark my words,” says Bonefezi. “That’s some dangerous pussy.”
It is a tale often told about some Vietcong whore who, in an unexplained way, positions razor blades in her cunt, and at the arrival of an unsuspecting prick, she closes them upon it, severing the prick at its root.
“You remember … Whitaker!” Bonefezi is hollering, having fallen several strides behind the others. Obscure in the dimness, he jumps up and down. “You come home all stumpy and bloody, you remember, ole Bonefezi warned you.”
19
A gnomish man with a brown face as gouged by wrinkles as a coconut, Lan’s uncle Khiem is a surprise standing in the yard of Madame Lieu’s house. Though the sky is dull and overcast, he waits under a drooping palm tree. Lan approaches in a Lambretta, staring at him, her gaze intent, as if to decipher from his outer manner his most inner and secret thoughts. A nervous, feral little man, his extreme concern for triviality has always exasperated her entire family. Now he stands in the nearing dusk before the house where she works, watching her walk toward him. Eccentricity emanates from him. The odd interests of his mind affect his countenance: they seem to even change the aura of the air before him. Lan greets him respectfully and asks after the health of his sister, her mother.
“Thank you,” he says, “she is well, as usual.”
“What of your own wife and children?”
At this he brusquely, furiously shakes his head to show how she has irritated him. “You must join me on my motor scooter,” he says. “We will go somewhere to talk.”
“But I have to work.”
“I spoke to grandmother here, and she does not object. Come.” He turns to go. “Do you admire my motor scooter?”
“Oh, yes,” she says.
Climbing the uneven slope of the roadside toward the gleam of his red-and-blue Honda, he makes demeaning remarks about the blouse and slacks she is wearing. He giggles as the insults flow across his tongue, exciting him: “The slacks are not as you think. The blouse is a stupid color. At best you look like an ignorant peasant,” he says, “or a whore.”
“I am a whore,” she tells him.
To hear this only makes his laughter sputter into a larger, richer pleasure as he revels in the delicious privacy of some joke that is all the more precious and funny because he alone sees it.
Starting the engine, he drives off at such a slow, deliberate pace the trembling scooter barely maintains its balance. A honking jeep goes by. A dead dog lies in the road like a broken sack of garbage spilling its waste in the dirt. Big trucks rush past in both directions, some packed with crates, lumber, or laborers, others full of GIs. Pedaling toward them on the wrong side of the road a cranky bicyclist rings his bell at them. Then, beeping behind them, a Lambretta pulls out and around, its rear cab a wire mesh cage full of mournful chickens. The dusty wind teases Lan’s hair into flutters.
When they have traveled what seems to her a kilometer, he veers into a tiny clearing where nameless wildflowers grow beneath barbed wire. What has he come for? she wonders. What, with his funny little mind? To stand before her dabbing dry his mouth with a white handkerchief? Her thoughts, it seems, draw from him a smirk. He removes his green-billed cap and pats his brow. Neatly he folds the handkerchief before putting it in his pocket and picking a cigarette from a tin case.
“Do you remember Phan Duy Zung?”
“Oh, yes.”
“She hit her mother-in-law. It was funny to see. They argued and argued.” And he shakes his head, laughing a little, as he lights his cigarette. “The mother-in-law turned to walk away. Zung hit her. Oh, yes.” He sighs. “And Pham Thi Doan, who was married for two days, refused to live with her husband. Everyone told her she must go to him, but she would not. The council will decide what is to be done. They have made no decision yet, but it will be to let her do as she wishes, I am sure. Or she will do as she wishes anyway. The people are all very strange today. More and more. Nguyen Van Ly got into an argument with Le Van Doc and nearly killed him hitting him with a hammer. I suspected such things were possible from Ly. Indeed.” His fraught little giggle is a steady counterchord beneath each word and intricate sentence, a fuzzy, happy breathing that increases in amazement at each story’s ending. In the barbershop he runs in their home village, he gathers gossip like a bird collecting the makings of a nest. He snips and cuts away, and the hair of people’s heads settles to his floor, as do the stories of his customers. He rests his odd brain in a home built of the curious events of their daily lives. Now he breathes to a slower rhythm. Softer, the sound has less frenzy in it. “I am here, Lan,” he says, “to get a picture of you. Your mother has no pictures of you. I searched all through your house. Searched and searched.”
“A photograph?” she says. “Of me?”
“Yes, yes; there are none, your mother says with so many moves and the terrible fire. Only those already on the altar were rescued. If you don’t have any, you must get one prepared and give it to me. I will come back when it’s ready. Can you do that? Lan, I have worried about our family—you have no father, and you can die so far away from home as you are.”
> “I don’t understand,” she says.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” he says, his voice husky with the intimation of something known by him to be grander and different than what she means. “Nor do I. But I have pictures of myself safely in my home; my wife keeps them. Your mother keeps pictures of me. My younger brother. I will be represented and remembered. But you—perhaps strangers will bury you. What if they do and they forget about you? You would not be represented on the altar. You are young; you don’t worry about such things. More and more each day is neglected, but I will not join this failure, this indifference. The bird goes to his nest, and we go to our family. The altars in the homes of the Vietnamese people have today more pictures than people to pray before them. We die and die.” His breath grows shaky and thin, until a spasm lifts it into laughter. “I’m late,” he says, looking at his watch. “I must go to Saigon. Do you not want a place upon the communal altar? You wander so alone and miserable now. It will only be worse when you are dead. Next week. One week from today. Bring the photo to work and I will meet you.”
“All right,” she says.
“Did I tell you Quach Thi Ba was going to remarry? You remember her husband, Huy, was killed not even three years ago in the terrible fighting at Bac Tin. His body was not found. Many were buried in big graves. All together, both sides. Lost and dead. Or given no burial at all, but left to be eaten by the animals. His ghost came to her house. His spirit voice shouted in the dark at her. He looked cold and wet and hungry, Ba said. She told everyone. He was bitter and frantic; she could not marry, she was his wife. He was lost and wandering but he was coming back to her. He was going to live again. He loved her still and she must wait. He begged her to remember him, to honor him.” Her uncle’s dark eyes were as shiny as beetle shells. “Do you like Ba? What do you think of her?”