Who Shot the Water Buffalo?

by Ken Babbs

  And the weather turns completely to shit.

  Your co-pilot looks and sings the refrain

  We can’t see squat in this fucking rain

  With a grunt and a start, he checks the chart

  And suddenly studies the ground.

  ‘Tell One Dash Zero,’ he says like a hero

  ‘If we hold this track we’ll never get back

  The colonel, that hound, has us Laos-bound …’”

  Cochran flings his hand in the air. The cigar flies out and sticks in the thatched ceiling. The crowd, oblivious to the move, yells, “He’s a hound dawg.” “Turn this puppy around.” “Back to the dawg house.” “This flight is curtailed.” Then all eyes turn upward. Cochran jumps on the table and reaches for the cigar just as the thatched roof bursts into flame. Cochran loses his balance and crashes to the floor. Shouts of “FIRE! FIRE!” fill the club.

  The senior officers assist the women out of their chairs, around Cochran and out the door. The pilots rush to the flames and throw their drinks at the ceiling. Whoosh, a Chinese lantern disappears in a fireball.

  “Calm. Calm. Everyone remain calm,” Cochran shouts. No one pays any attention. The pilots have liberated the booze and are drinking big gulps and spitting mouthfuls at the ceiling. The hundred-proof alcohol flares up, smoke fills the club, the floor is swamped and the pilots slip and fall trying to get out of the way of a water buffalo being shoved through the door by six shitfaced Marines who fumble with the valves and struggle with the hand pump; one of them points the hose, there’s a few feeble spurts, then a powerful gush rips through the roof; pilots grab at the hose, “Let me, No me, Turn loose you fucker,” water sprays everywhere, and up in the front of the room, Wee Willie Weems grabs the guitar, Too Tall Tolliver liberates the electric bass, Herbee Jenkins shoves the drummer off his stool and Dum Dum shouts into the mike:

  “She calls her daddy Big Boots

  And Big Boots is my name

  It takes a big man to wear big boots

  That’s her daddy’s claim to fame

  She’s the gal in the red blue jeans

  She’s the queen of all the Gyrenes

  She’s the woman that I know

  She’s the woman that loves me so

  She can handle my armored tank

  She can drive it fast or she can drive it slow.”

  Emmett grabs Cochran by the arm and spins him around.

  “Hey, Emmett, what’s happening?” Cochran shouts. “A pfennig for your thoughts.”

  “I’ve had it up to here with you, Cochran. Of all the shit you’ve pulled, this tops it the max.”

  “Well, thank you, I did work long and hard on that—”

  “Not your stupid poem or whatever. You came within a whisker of burning down the club.”

  “Well, that. That was really not intended and if I could do it over, I’d—”

  “That’s just it, you can’t, you numbskull. You can’t undo your asinine fucking stunts. First the poker game, then that grenade, now this and who knows what else you’ve gotten away with.”

  “Now hold it right there mister lily white, your hands aren’t so clean. What about that blackjack game you’ve been running, taking money from your fellow officers?”

  “You’re full of shit if you think I’m getting anything out of that game. All the money goes back to the club, or did you think we paid for everything on drinks alone?”

  Water is dripping everywhere. The stink of wet charred wood permeates our clothes. We’re soaked in the filthy goop. The music has petered out. Everyone stands waiting, gathered in a circle around Emmett and Cochran who are locked in a staredown.

  “I know,” I blurt in, gotta inject some humor here, defuse this time bomb. “We’re not here for the fucking around, right? Hey Emmett, can you say that in German? Sprechen zie deutsch?”

  Emmett turns on me. “Keep your wetback face out of this, wiseass.” He pushes me in the chest. Before I can come back at him, Cochran steps between us.

  “Pick on someone your own size, fuckface,” he yells.

  “Wait a minute,” I yell back. “I don’t need your help to pop this doodle bug.”

  Cochran ignores me. “Come on,” he says to Emmett. “I know you can do it. Give us the word, your favorite infantile phrase in your native tongue.”

  “I’ll do it,” I holler. “We don’t need his phoney baloney. No estamos aqui para hacer el capullo.”

  So what, it’s Spanish, not German. Still means the same thing. It’s way too late for humor. Emmett ignores me. Glares at Cochran.

  “C’mon, bring it on,” Cochran says.

  “That’s it, you fucking Gorilla,” Emmett yells back, and the long dormant volcano that’s been seething beneath the surface erupts with a big roundhouse swing that catches Cochran with a resounding wallop on the side of his head and sends the basketball helmet flying. Cochran steps inside Emmett’s next windup and punches Emmet in the nose, snapping Emmett’s head back and spewing a big spurt of blood.

  “Gentleman, gentlemen,” Baptist John calls out. “Have mercy. How many times must you forgive your brother his sins?”

  “Shove it up your ass, you imitation Bible thumber,” Emmett mumbles, holding his hand to his face, blood spurting between his fingers.

  “Judge not, lest ye be tasting the slough of depression the rest of your days.”

  “Oh yeah,” Emmett brandishes his fist. “Taste this and you’ll be wearing false teeth the rest of your life.”

  “Not another word,” Cochran says, brandishing his own fist.

  Emmett waves him away. He pushes through the circle, stops and turns. “I don’t know what’s the matter with you idiots. I was going to say it before you started hammering on me. Wir sind nicht hier um zeit zu verschwenden.”

  The German at last, accompanied with spitting blood. Emmett stalks out. The pilots are glum. The bunting, the streamers and the Chinese lanterns are a sodden mess, the club is a wreck, but, looking at the bright side, the building is still standing with four walls intact, nothing so bad a good cleanup and a new thatched roof can’t fix.

  Spare Tire steps steps forward. “I gotta hand it to you Gyrenes. You really know how to party.”

  “Well,” Cochran answers, his ear swelling big as a cantaloupe, “as Grits so succintly stated, we’re not here for the fucking around.”

  24. Surprise is the Key

  Is it more bull roar, Doc, or should I say buffalo roar? … it swirls all around the line shack where we read the gripe sheets and then sign off on the choppers… in the background the bull roar soars … a ground-pounder Staff Sergeant waiting for a ride to Khe San says, I shot the water buffalo … I was riding security for convoys up and down Route One and started carrying a .22 rifle … I’d see a water buffalo with a kid sitting on top and I’d plunk the water buffalo in the ass and the beast would rear up and throw the kid off, and up ahead the bridge crossing the river would blow up, leaving the kid standing with wires dangling and the water buffalo hightailing it out of there … you have to give the man credit, Doc, he didn’t kill the water buffalo, nor the kid either …

  And then one of the crew chiefs, after hearing the story, says, My brother was in Phu Bai, working as an MP … he drove a jeep to Da Nang hauling prisoners and they were being sniped at by guys hiding behind water buffalos in the fields next to the road … one time he decided to let loose with a preemptive strike and he blasted the water buffalo with an RPG round … the buffalo went Kerboom and so did the little old gentleman hiding behind it … the crew chief pauses to let that sink in … then says, My brother felt kind of bad, he didn’t know if the old guy was a sniper or not … he didn’t even know that he was there until the guy went flying through the air … Soonto yells at me from the door … come on, Lieutenant, we’re ready to go … I scrawl my name on the bottom of the gripe sheet … I’m ready to go, Doc … write me off on your gripe sheet … turn me loose from this pain …

  Shit on a shingle, that old militar
y breakfast staple served in heaping mounds of meat and white gravy piled atop toast hours before first light. Everyone is up, fifty pilots, dressed in camo flight suits, high lace-top boots, Hammering-Eight baseball caps with a cartoon figure eight logo hammering at a cloud, fire-resistant gloves sticking out of pockets. Some are wearing their leather flight jackets with fur collars to ward off the chill, a patch with name, rank and gold naval aviator wings sewn on their chests. On the backs, the old World War II- type blood chit: an American flag and beneath it in Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Laotian, Thai and Cambodian scripts, the promise of a hundred-thousand-dollar reward for the safe return of the pilot—in case you’re shot down and wandering in the jungle.

  “This shit will stick to your stomach,” says Wee Willie Weems, shoveling in a mouthful.

  “Verily,” says Baptist John. “Your belly is like a heap of wit set upon by lilies.”

  “It’s a frog dish original,” Pappy Lurnt says. “Beef day la cream, or some such delicacy. Back in the first war, they cooked it up one night as a treat for the Army doggies but the Marines, out in front of the main body didn’t get any, so next morning the Frogs sent it up cold. First Sarnt ordered it heated, put on slices of bread and handed it out for breakfast and that’s when shit on a shingle was born.”

  And borne well it is, everyone chowing down with gusto for we know it’s going to be a long day and the next hot meal will be many hours away.

  “Been a military staple ever since,” Pappy continues. “Cep’n where the Army uses chip beef, the Marine recipe calls for a higher class of meat—ground beef.”

  “Is that an example of Arkansas hogwash?” Wee Willie Weems says out of the side of his mouth.

  “I heard that, wiseass,” Pappy Lurnt says. “You remind me of a member of the Twisty Mouth family. Their mouths were twisted all which ways except for the youngest, and his being straight they sent him to college. He came home for dinner and afterwards they tried to blow out the candles but their twisted mouths couldn’t blow straight, so the youngest gave it a try and blew the candle out.”

  Pappy takes a forkful of S.O.S. and chews slowly.

  Wee Willie looks around. Getting no help, he says, “I don’t get it.”

  “Shows the value of a college education,” Pappy says.

  Outside the mess hall the buses wait with engines idling. They are painted dark green and have wire mesh across the windows to keep the stray grenades out. As soon as the bus is full, the driver shuts the door and takes down the sign hanging in front: SSSRO, Standing Sitting and Squatting Room Only. He heads out, headlights piercing the dark. Everything is quiet across the fence in Dogpatch. The 5 P lady tending her water buffalo stands barefooted in the shallow water next to the road. The object of whistles and requests for sexual favors by the passengers, she will honor the request—if the driver opens the door and someone throws out a five piastre bill—by pulling up her blouse and displaying her breasts, but not today, not this dark morning. The bus roars implaccably onward, its destination the airfield and ready room.

  The Hammer is already there, ensconced in his chair. He writes in his notebook, ignoring the bedlam of the pilots checking their pistols out of the weapons cage, putting them in their holsters, slipping on flak vests, making sure they have their emergency packets and medical supplies.

  The Hammer stands up and faces the room. He waits for everyone to settle down. “As you know a major operation has been ordered on. A large VC force has been spotted coming out of the mountains to indoctrinate the villagers and exact their annual rice tribute. We’ll load 2nd ARVN Division troops here and carry them to the drop zone at the base of the mountains and seal off the VC escape route.” He points to the map on the wall. “25th ARVN Division troops from Tam Ky will attack from the East.” He indicates their positions. “They are the hammer in this case,” chuckles from the pilots, “and we’re providing the anvil. If all goes well, this will be a very successful operation. Surprise is the key.

  “For greater mobility we’ll use three plane sections instead of four. The first wave will consist of nine aircraft and as soon as they lift out the second wave of nine will be landing. When they lift, the final wave of six will come in. The last aircraft in the flight will carry the corpsmen, mechs and spare parts, and will circle overhead. Maintain radio discipline and get in and out as fast as you can.”

  Emmett is standing on the other side of the room. His eyes are black and his nose is swollen. Cochran flops down beside me. One ear is twice the size of the other and the side of his face is an ugly black and blue, mottled in yellow.

  “I can’t believe it,” he mutters.

  “What?”

  “They left-seated me.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. Beamus just gave me the word. My HAC’s been revoked. Orders from the top. Lessen I straighten up and fly right, both on the ground and in the air, I’ll be a permanent copilot. You’re the Helicopter Aircraft Commander on this run, Tomas.”

  He gives me a wry grin and starts copying the radio frequencies and call signs on his kneeboard. Que desorden. A fine kettle of fish, as my mama would say, a real hie-dee-ho. Least ways Cochran and I are still flying together. We’re on Pappy Lurnt’s wing, with Wee Willie Weems his copilot. Emmet, with Herbee Jenkins, is leading the three-chopper section next to ours.

  Briefing over, we hike out to the choppers. All twenty-four birds are available for the mission, the mechs having worked all night to fix every gripe, get every helicopter ready. The ARVN troops stand lined up on the edge of the matting, waiting for the orders to board. Cochran and I go to our assigned bird, Yankee Victor 23, and start the preflight.

  “You take that side and I’ll take this,” I tell Cochran, then stop and stare. “What the hell happened to you, Sergeant Soonto?”

  He gives me a hangdog look and points to his sleeve. “Corporal Soonto, sir.” His lip is swollen, and he has stitches over one eye. “After the birthday party a few of us snuck over the fence to Dogpatch and found a bunch of Air Force jokers having an all- night blast at the Monkey Mountain Bar. Everything was amenable till they started ragging on us, ‘Whatcha scratching at, Jarhead, got the itchy crotch from jungle bunny poopin and snoopin?’ and making disparaging remarks about whitewall haircuts and shiny boots and flying-outfit Marines lacking the courage of the groundpounder Marines, which led naturally enough to a loud ruckus complete with fisticuffs which led to the Shore Patrol arriving which culminated in a trip to the doctor for certain Airmen and an appearance at Captain’s mast for certain Marines and as a result I get busted a pay grade and a warning that from here on in I watch my step or face the greater consequences.”

  I’m very impressed. That’s the longest outpouring of words I ever heard from Soonto. Still waters running deep welling up to the surface in a flood.

  A surreptitious kiss of the Saint Chris, then it’s up and into the cockpit and strap in. Cochran eases his helmet over his swollen ear and we run through the prestart check list. He reads off the items and I toggle the switches. A very different experience. I’ve flown right seat before but always with some other pilot, Wee Willie or Herbee or Too Tall or poor old Rob Jacobs—but this is the first time with Cochran as my copilot.

  I hit the starter and the engine fires with a puff of black smoke then settles into a comfortable idle. The mech standing by with the APU moves farther down the line. Below us, the ARVNs climb in and squat on the floor.

  “All green,” Cochran says.

  “Engaging rotors.” I release the rotor brake and run the rpm up to 2000. The Hammer calls for a radio check. “Yankee Victor Two Three,” I respond in my turn. We are ready to go, and taxi forward and lift off into the dark, running lights blinking.

  The Hammer climbs at a slow 85 knots, so everyone can catch up and take their places in the formation. We level at fifteen hundred and make a sweeping turn south. Below us, a glimmer of white waves break and roll to the beach. To the right, cumulus clouds rise over the mountain
s and reflect the first rays of sun. We’re flying dark with only the fuselage lights on, and I’m glued tight on Pappy. The old razorback has a steady hand on the stick and I need only slight corrections to keep my position. Cochran fools with the radios. We’re on the VHF band for communication with Da Nang. The FM band is for squadron chat and now the AM comes on as Cochran finds Hanoi Hannah.

  “Good morning Marine pilots of Colonel Arthur Rappler’s number one eight eight squadron. I hope you are enjoying the cool flying weather because according to forecast it will be very hot later on and you should be taking your pleasure at the beach and not terrifying Vietnamese people who want to be left alone to live their lives under the peaceful protection of the only true government that has their welfare at heart, not the evil American puppet Diem in Saigon but the benevolent party leader, Ho Chi Minh, who implores you to refuse the illegal orders of your Generals working with the deluded armies in the south of our country to keep our peoples enslaved by capitalistic doctrine …”

  “Whoa up there,” Cochran says over the intercom. “Too much information, too early in the day, where’s the music?”

  “… so turn back, Marine pilots, return to your base, spend the day repairing your burned-out drinking and gambling den, fill your cannibal hunger in your messy halls, forsake this useless attack that is doomed for failure …”

  “Yeah,” Cochran says. “Tell the Hammer to shove it up his ass, right?”

  “You didn’t hear that, Soonto,” I say. He clicks the mike in response.

  Hanoi Hannah continues on, letting us know what a waste of time this mission is, how we’re only making things miserable for ourselves, wasting time and material while accomplishing nothing.

  “Shut your trap, lady,” Cochran says. “Don’t you know surprise is the key to this operation?”

  We wheel into our approach with enough light showing to see the clearing blelow with mountains on each side, a brush line in front and an open field sweeping to the sea. A solitary water buffalo stands in the field. Two T-28s flash past, guns firing.