Who Shot the Water Buffalo?

by Ken Babbs

  Outside, the cloud cover parts and the moon shines through. In the operations tent the duty forecaster notes the hourly weather report and enters it in his log: scattered layer 1100 feet, overcast 5000.

  Back in our tent, Ben-San hums the tune to “The Harlot of Jerusalem” and wishes he could remember the words.

  Major Lurnt, asleep in his bed, doesn’t feel his eye swelling and discoloring.

  Rob Jacobs lies angelic and happy in the dispensary, five stitches closed the split over his eye, bandage fresh and virginal in the moonlight.

  In the new BOQ barracks, built for the Army pilots, a drunk Marine staggers to a cot in the dark, finds someone already there and pushes him onto the floor, then curses the beer-soaked pillow.

  The body on the floor sits up, rubs his head, and fumbles outside where he runs into General MacLeod sitting on the ground drinking a warm cup of jungle juice.

  “Oh, I say, Colonel …” the General begins, but the Hammer shoves by without a word, splashing through the mud, slipping along the ditch.

  “Well,” General MacLeod huffs, but his indignation is cut short by a belch and a heave and the short snappy General blurts the evening’s fun into the Hammer’s retreating footprints. It’s up to Doc Hollenden to get the General to a warm bed. There’s one cot still unused in the dispensary—next to Rob Jacobs—and that’s where the General snores the night away.

  “Funny business,” Cochran mumbles from his bunk. “Rob Jacobs is getting further and further out … more and more frantic … you watch …”

  Cochran’s voice lowers to a soft murmur. I strain to catch the words, but instead of Cochran, it’s Captain Beamus talking in my head. “Don’tcha know, Huckelbee, you have a future in the Corps, you can be a senior officer” … “But sor, but sor, will the curse come on me, sor?” … “Consider yourself born to command, the man at the helm.” … “But sor, will I be coarsened, will the head-butting make me dogmatic, pussywhimpering?” … “All part of the responsibility, Huckelbee” … “Oh, sor, spare me the mantle, ungird me the loins, I yam what I yam, sor …”

  III

  VIETNAM

  September, October, November

  1962

  Da Nang The Mountains

  “We came out like Hell’s Angels.”

  Shu Fly pie and apple pan dowdy

  Oh I never get enough of that wonderful stuff

  12. What Lies Ahead

  There’s a change in the weather, there’s a change in me … pack my bags … strike the tents … dismantle the portable ice machine … Da Nang looms in the offing … Da Nang … an ominous sound … like the clang of a dissonant gong struck in the hollowed skull of a vulture-picked, fly-cleansed water buffalo…

  See me as the duty officer, Doc … sitting in the ready room, the tent billowing in the harsh wind … I’m drinking hot coffee to warm these bowels ere they burst before the long windhowl night ends … morn’s light brings Cochran to relieve me … he picks up the log book … turns to see the Hammer standing at the tent flap … grim-faced … sparks smoldering … he beckons with his finger … outside, in front of the ready room tent, the sign: HMM-188, THE HAMMERING EIGHTS with scarlet claw hammers and eggbeaterprops flying figure eights over a bright golden background … it lies flattened … splintered into plywood shreds … sand covers the remnants … it must be replaced … and replaced posthaste … the Hammer leaves it up to us … every officer knows how to handle these problematicals, Doc … pass them on down the line … Sergeant Soonto, front and center …

  Da Nang … an echo like the memory of third-grade frolics … dropping the chalice with a clang … a costumed pageant that Momma cried over and Daddy snored through … we’re going to Da Nang and the soldiers are coming to Soc Trang … and in keeping with the spirit, the winds … the fickle tickle of the Capricorn highs and the sibilant sighs of the tropical lows … the winds will change, too …

  The dry season arrives in the Delta. The wet Southwest Monsoon breeze turns into a hot humid wind, bringing steady heat and cloudless skies. Three months of sun, persistent as time, unbearable as fate. Hard-baked rice paddies and sticky skivvy drawers.

  In Da Nang, low clouds cover the hills with mist and rain. The Northeast Monsoon, the mountain rainy season, is upon Da Nang. The Army will bring their heat and helicopters to Soc Trang. We will take our machines and wet weather to Da Nang.

  But before the change, the Army had to finish a final job in Soc Trang. No canvas-tubbed, chemically cleaned, water purification system for the doggies. Their engineers dug a well, put up a water tower, stood back proudly and announced the changeover could now be made; flush toilets and hot-water showers are ready for use.

  Two days before the move we wake up to discover the new aluminun painted water tower defaced with Army-baiting taunts. Across the front, a prankster has painted a Marine Corps globe and anchor. Beneath, in the same black paint, the letters: USMC. The decorators covered the rest of the water tower with taunting phrases: ARMY SUCKS. FUCK YOU DOGGIES. BITE THE HAMMER’S CLAW.

  The Hammer strides out of his tent, sees the water tower and calls for his number-two man, “Major Lurnt!”

  The Exec runs out in his skivvies and gapes while the Hammer bellows for him to By God get every bit of that black paint removed, and not after breakfast, but right now.

  An hour later a working party has covered the black blasphemy with fresh aluminum paint. The Marines stare at the repaint job and mumble and sulk. The last item to disappear is the Marine Corps Emblem.

  “That’s a mistake,” says Cochran. “The Hammer could have at least left the globe and anchor on the tower for the Army to paint over. Now the men will make sure they leave a message.”

  The next day someone has painted a crude drawing of a claw hammer striking an Army helmet. ARMY TAKES A MARINE CORPS POUNDING.

  “I won’t have it,” the Hammer vows, striking his fist into his hand. “Gross insubordination, disobedience of a direct order. You’ll put it to a halt …”

  “Yes, sir.” Major Lurnt hops in his jeep and drives to town and buys the last gallon of aluminum paint in the province, vowing this is the final repainting job he’ll organize, tonight he’ll put an armed guard on the tower.

  Before dusk a sentry armed with rifle, bandoleer, flashlight and whistle takes up his position below the water tower. He remains on post until midnight when he is relieved by another Marine who an hour later, rather than suffer a knock on the head, is willingly led away and tied up by unknown assailants.

  We are up before dawn for an early takeoff, baggage aboard the helicopters for the six-hour flight to Da Dang. C-123 supply planes will shuttle the heavy equipment and, following the Hammer’s itemized schedule, the squadron will be moved and ready to begin flight operations out of Da Nang by dawn tomorrow morning.

  Cochran and I preflight the bird. Sergeant Soonto hovers around the troop-compartment door. The belly is crammed with sea bags and footlockers.

  “Good morning, Soonto,” Cochran says. “All ship-shape, ready to fly?”

  “Yessir, Lieutenant, ichi ban, number one.”

  We turn to continue the preflight. A little yip makes us pause. Cochran’s eyebrows rise. We turn back. Soonto is busy tightening a strap around some crates. Cochran leans in the belly of the bird for a looksee. I peer over his shoulder. Soonto’s catchall sits next to the door. It’s not zipped shut and a black wet nose pushes at the opening.

  “What have we here?” Cochran says, reaching in. The nose juts out, forcing the zipper open, followed by a white muzzle, snarling teeth, a fierce growl and a quick snap at Cochran’s hand, jerked away an instant ahead of the sharp teeth.

  “Here now,” Soonto orders in a stern voice. “None of that. You mind your manners. These are officers.”

  “Yes, please do be a good dog,” Cochran says. “Open the bag, Soonto, let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”

  Black and white spotted, skinny and long-legged, one ear cocked, the other hanging down, we
recognize him instantly: the cur we thought we ate when we flew Madam Nhu to Sadec.

  “What the hell,” I say. “You mean that wasn’t the meat in the stew?”

  “I’m sure he wasn’t the only cur in the ville,” says Cochran.

  “Un-fucking-believable. You’ve had him here all this time, Soonto? How’s come we never saw him before?”

  Soonto shrugs. “Kept him in the hangar and the back room of the line shack. The men, you know, they sort of adopted him, our mascot.”

  The dog is suspicious; will Soonto let these strangers cart him off to the butcher? He curls his lip, narrows his eyes, tense.

  I laugh. “Un perro demenio,” I say. “Oh, I am so frightened, perro.”

  Soonto’s eyes light up. “That’s it, Lieutenant. You nailed it. A devil dog. A real Marine.”

  Cochran shakes his head. “You’ve kept him hidden this long, might as well bring him to Da Nang. We’ll see how it plays up there.”

  “Yessir, Lieutenant.” He pushes the dog into the catchall. “You stay there, now, and no noise, you hear?” Zips the bag.

  Cochran turns to me as we walk around the back of the chopper. “That’s not just Soonto’s cur, it’s his curmudgeon.”

  “For sure. Hope he has his rabies shot. Isn’t a Marine devil dog a boxer?”

  “Well, yeah, in true Corps lore, but we don’t have to take it literal.

  They call us leathernecks, you know, but now our shirts have soft collars. Let’s get a move on, we’re about to go.”

  The choppers are lined up on the runway. From where we sit the water tower shines clean of any painted blasphemy.

  “Soc Trang tower,” the skipper radios. “Hammer Flight ready for takeoff.”

  “Roger, Hammer flight. Have a good trip and happy hunting.”

  The round dome of the sun sprouts out of the horizon as we wheel in a lazy arc over town and descend toward the airfield for a final low pass. We cross the field at two hundred feet and I look down at the heads, the mess hall, the few tents remaining and the hangar, searching for something that will lock this place in my memory. It looks the same, as familiar and nondescript as ever. Except, unseen from the ground, a red Marine Corps Emblem covers the top of the water tower. Then, in front of us, tall white numbers appear: HMM-188 THE FLYING EIGHTS, painted across the runway in ten-foot-high letters.

  No one breaks radio silence to comment, and the Hammer flies on, making me wonder if, unknowing, he thinks he has won the battle of the paint, or if, knowing, and not saying anything, he keeps us in doubt. Cochran chews his gum, noncommital, intent on flying a good wing. He glances at me, shakes his head and shrugs his shoulders.

  I pull down my visor, fold my arms over my chest and close my eyes; snoozing, until Cochran nudges me to take the controls. I lock on the section leader, and while Cochran sleeps I say farewell to the Delta.

  Goodbye I sing to the rice paddies. Goodbye I jig a dance on the rudder pedals to the farmers. I hosanna the canals, paddies and the binjo ditches. Transferring to a camp with permanent buildings, a BOQ, toilets and showers is anticipated with pleasure, getting there is a day-long flight.

  The contour of the country changes, rolling hills replacing the flat delta as we climb towards the northern plateau.

  “Look there,” Sergeant Soonto calls over the intercom.

  A big black beast thunders over the turf, raising puffs of dust.

  “What the hell?”

  Cochran banks for a closer look. A big bastard of an elephant, wide-eyed, huge-tusked and hung like the bull boss of the herd.

  “Imagine that,” Cochran says, “nothing but jungle and that big bull waving his trunk and bellering for some cow he can spend the day humping.”

  “Let’s plug him,” I say. “Drill the muthah smack dab in his loathe-some head. Gotcha Dumbo. I’ll gouge out his tusks with my survival knife and load the ivory aboard, sit around the fire every evening with my chisels, carving small images and goddesses in homage to the Elephant Bwana, the good tuskmaster. I’ll use his scrotum for a tool sack.”

  “I don’t think the tuskmaster would appreciate that.”

  “Ha ha. No ivory goodies for you, spoilsport.”

  “I do believe you are going native, Tomas. Time you had a little R and R. What do you think, Soonto?”

  “That’s a ten-four. We’ll burn that town to the ground.”

  “What town’s that?” I chime in.

  “Hong Kong, Bangkok, Manila. Take your pick.”

  We make a refueling stop at Nha Trang. Shut down and heat C-rats on the engine manifold. Soonto sneaks his cur out for a pee and a dump.

  “Load ’em up,” and we’re aloft again, four sections of six choppers each, strung out across the sky, our backs and bottoms stiff, the morning enthusiasm long-since vibrated into numb endurance.

  “Check that out,” Cochran says.

  A long line of dark insectlike choppers passes on our left, the Army Flying Bananas heading for Soc Trang. The poor bastards will be operating tomorrow morning, fighting to keep those monstrosities in the air. We’ll be doing the same, not missing a beat, peering ahead, eyes squinting until we give up, realizing we can’t see all that far ahead.

  What lies ahead is a seacoast city. Beaches with white clear sand stretch for miles. Breakers spank the sand. Mountain ridges nudge the seacoast like a resting dinosaur’s tail, and clouds cover their peaks.

  The slopes are thick with rain-forest growth. Waterfalls plummet down vertical cliffs.

  We arrive at the Da Nang airbase along with an evening shower. The airfield, two long parallel runways capable of handling jets and large transports, is three miles from camp and we sit next to the helicopters waiting for trucks to haul us to our new quarters.

  A jeep pulls up ahead of the trucks. Emmett jumps out. He was part of the team sent ahead to prepare everything for our arrival. He gets on the truck, a big six-by-six with planks along the sides to sit on. We follow him aboard and as we head out, he begins talking, our tour guide.

  “You’ll note, the road is a mess, a battle between the Marines and the flooded clay roadbed. It’s a tossup which will win, but the Motor Transport boss has a heavy duty road grader to throw into the fray. The engineers build, grade, tamp, smooth and repair the road until they have it in good working condition. Then a single hour’s rain floods the road and digs foot-deep rivulets across the crown, but Captain Road Grader clamps another cigar between his teeth, rousts his weary crew and once again roars to the attack.”

  Emmett points out a pile of dirt and a ditch running alongside the road.

  “There’s the water line, runs from the air base to our compound. When I got here we had no water. The grader had plowed up the line, flooded this whole area we’re driving past. Drained the big water tank. Gave Captain Road Grader an excuse to build a new water line, and he had ditch digging equipment flown in from Japan.”

  We give the construction a desultory glance. How much longer is this going to go on? The whole damned ride it looks like. Emmett has the bit and isn’t letting go.

  “Colonel Swinn, the camp commander, had to curb the engineers’ grand ambitions. They were beginning to take precedence over everything, so, once he was one grader blade ahead of rainstorm destruction, Colonel Swinn ordered Captain Road Grader to hold the line. Ah, here we are, our new home.”

  We pull off the road through a gate and into a walled compound. Brick-and-mortar buildings, a central courtyard, everything clean and neat.

  “Enlisted men’s barracks to the right, mess hall in the middle, senior officer’s rooms in the building straight ahead. New home for the junior officers is here on the left.”

  We climb down, toting our duffel bags. Emmett stands at the door of a long building, windows lining the sides.

  “These are the old barracks where the French Legionnaires lived when they were fighting their war. Unfortunately for them, Viet Minh guerillas snuck in one night and killed them all in their sleep.”

  He
doesn’t get the reaction he hoped for. Who gives a shit? But in honor of the history we dub our new quarters the Frog House. Where the ghosts of the Legionnaires drink pernod and nibble on truffles.

  A hall runs the length of the building, down the middle. Cochran and I and Ben-San and Rob Jacobs grab a room across from the toilets and showers.

  The water tank never refills. Not enough water in the well, or maybe the pump can’t supply enough. When the tank runs low we go on water hours, and can only brush our teeth, flush the toilets and shave and shower two hours a day.

  We have maids and a barber. We no longer wash our mess kits in the immersion heaters. Instead, real plates and knives and forks are cleaned by Vietnamese pot-wallopers hired to do the pearl diving. Liberty goes every night in a town full of booze and broads.

  “If we no longer live like animals in tents, don’t have to scrape stainless steel mess trays, walk half a mile to shit in a hole, then for God’s sake why can’t we have other good things too? Like some roundeye women?” Rob Jacobs complains.

  “That’s not going to happen, but you’re right,” Ben-San says. “In Soc Trang it was part of the game to go without sex—maybe in a moment of extreme horniness bang an ARVN camp follower snuck under the barbed wire, but in this regal setting, we’re entitled to a higher class of damsels.”

  Doc Hollenden comes into our room. He’s more nervous than ever, looking out the window, hefting the pistol he strapped on his belt that first day he arrived, bleary and acid-stomached, from his drunken layover in Japan.

  “I asked them not to send me here,” he mutters. He belches and fights down the rancid juice. “Look here.” He shows us a piece of paper. “The VD list. It’s distributed around the command to discourage the men from sticking their dicks in dirty holes. Colonel Swinn told me to do something about it, there’s officers’ names on that list. So, I’ve been treating the officers on the sly, scratching their names off the list.”