by John L. Hart
Yes, he did it MY WAAAY!
11
JD wished he could say he was pleased with their progress, and under other circumstances he might have been. Gregg and Izzy had been real troopers, doing a couple of drug groups while he scrambled for more information and followed orders not even Phillip knew about, and now here they were, heading for My Tho, about five hundred kilometers, a little over three hundred miles, from Nha Trang.
As promised, Phillip and Claymore had provided everything he asked for, no questions asked. Their present mode of transport was a Navy Swift boat about fifty feet long with only a five-foot draft. While not so great off shore in any kind of heavy chop or swells, on the ever shifting shallows of the Mekong and its tributaries, this boat was king.
The boat had been “stealthed,” with the highest camouflage technology, an engine so muffled he could hear Izzy puking overboard twenty feet away, and a highly select crew in camo he knew to be an amphibious version of the Special Operations people he dealt with in the Highlands. JD likened them to the human version of a panther. Lithe and lethal. Built for speed and strength and endurance. Anyone expecting Hollywood versions of tough guys would be disappointed at first glance since they seemed almost physically normal. They were not hugely muscled or especially strong looking, but anybody stupid enough to antagonize one would realize in the short seconds before they were torn apart that these creatures operated at a completely different level of speed, cunning and lethality.
Just his kind of guys for a typical assignment. But there was nothing typical about any of this and, as reluctant as Izzy and Gregg were to get anywhere near him, he was grateful to have them both on his team.
His many attempts at conversation since leaving Nha Trang had not been successful. They didn’t have much time before landing at their appointed drop-off near My Tho, so he would try again. Something they could discuss besides Kate, since that would only antagonize Gregg. What they needed was some common ground to dissipate the tension and funnel it where it needed to go.
JD made his way to Izzy and handed him a clean towel. He’d had the foresight to bring several sleeves of crackers along, knowing Izzy’s propensity for vomiting at the drop of a hat.
“Sorry I’ve been too caught up with my own stuff to ask you about yours. How’s Margie doing?” JD was quite aware of how Margie was, but he would keep that to himself.
Izzy accepted the saltines. At least he didn’t suspect poison. “Still safe and sound in Hawaii. She got her promotion to major.”
“Tell her congratulations for me.”
“If I get the chance, I will.”
JD didn’t bother making false promises. “I’ll do everything I can to get you back to Margie and make up for the letters I’m sure you’re already missing.”
“Look, JD,” Izzy said between dry chews, “I know you put a word in to get Margie that promotion. That was a decent thing to do.”
“As much as I appreciate being referred to as decent, Margie got that promotion on her own. She earned it. She deserved it. And I’m really glad she’s in Hawaii instead of here. Bad as it was during her deployment, I don’t need to tell you it’s gotten a lot worse in a very short time.”
“Gregg says sentiments in the states are raging. What do you know on your end of the table, JD? Something tells me you have a little more intel on all that than we do.”
Gregg had joined them at the mention of his name. He and Izzy had a tendency to mirror each other’s expressions and movements—probably from shadowing each other’s backs—and the look they gave him now was like the double slap of a gauntlet. A challenge to tell them something they didn’t know before they took it to their graves. Maybe things were turning a corner. At least they were open to having an actual conversation as opposed to the lengthy silences in his presence that would serve them well if they ever decided to become monks.
“Okay,” JD agreed. No one else was near but he lowered his voice anyway. He of all people knew there were listening ears everywhere, even when you couldn’t see them. “The whole heroin thing is a huge embarrassment to the military. Gregg saw what’s going on first-hand when he was back home—and sorry it wasn’t longer, Gregg, really I am—but as you can attest, we’ve already lost the PR war in the states. Even President Johnson said we lost it when we lost Walter Cronkite, and things have only ramped up since Nixon was elected. No favors from Cronkite there either. As for the fraggings, they’ve made matters even worse, and the top brass is doing everything possible to keep what they can under wraps. After all, it’s pretty hard to argue that soldiers killing their own leaders are enjoying ‘high morale’ and ‘winning the war.’”
JD paused. As shrinks these guys were professionally trained to keep secrets, so he wasn’t worried about that. His primary concern was giving them the burden of information that could be considered useful to a source even more nefarious than himself.
“They didn’t talk about the fragging thing while I was back,” Gregg offered. “I hadn’t even heard about it until Izzy mentioned it to me.”
“It’s not like I know that much and what I do know doesn’t sit well. Mostly I get my information from the soldiers I counsel and, as one of them put it, ‘there’s a whole lotta lying going down, with most of it coming from the top.’”
“Can’t argue with that,” JD muttered just loud enough for them to hear.
“Yeah, don’t you know it,” Gregg agreed. “Ever since the whole Hamburger Hill debacle last year it was like forget all that victory, ‘light at the end of the tunnel’ bullshit. Still . . .” Gregg shook his head. “Killing a commanding officer? That’s pretty messed up, even if he is an asshole.”
“Actually, given the low level of morale, I don’t know why any self-respecting general would be all that surprised. This whole ‘death from friendly fire’ is nothing new in the history of war.”
Gregg’s cocked eyebrow and Izzy’s squint behind his black horned rims told JD he had their attention and, for once, not in a bad way. This was where he needed them to be. On some kind of common ground, with Gregg feeling disenfranchised at home and Izzy the intellectual with nearly perfect recall, ever curious to learn something he didn’t know.
“Are you saying the fragging doesn’t surprise you?” Izzy prompted.
“Not really. The fragging is a subtle form of mutiny, and mutiny is nothing new. What is new to this particular war is the sudden uptick in friendly fire incidents aimed at unit leaders, the patrol leading NCOs and officers. Pretty much in line with what you’ve heard in your counseling sessions, Izzy. The message they’re sending is that they know the war is a farce at this point, that no one expects the US to win, and they just want to survive instead of being sacrificed for nothing—which is why most of the fraggings are taking place in rear-echelon areas.” He shrugged. “Rolling a grenade is an easy, untraceable way to get the job done. But again, nothing really new here other than the means of delivery.”
“So basically, what you’re saying is that this fragging thing is the combat troops’ version of ‘fuck it, I’m totally done with all the bullshit.’”
The way Gregg summed it up reminded JD of an elephant doing a pirouette in a telephone booth. Inelegant but right on the money spilling out of the payphone. Money and war. The two were inseparable, with those considered dispensable always paying the ultimate price.
“Correct. If there’s one common thread, the targets appear to be green officers or NCOs ambitious for medals and promotions, even if it means going out on an ill-advised mission. One that’s likely to sacrifice troops in exchange for some kills.”
“The kill too often being US troops and not the enemy,” Gregg surmised.
Izzy moved closer into their confidential huddle. “Know what else I’ve heard? One of the soldiers I counseled told me there’s even an underground GI newspaper offering bounties from units to get rid of certain unpopulars. You know a
nything about that, JD?”
“Enough to know that I haven’t seen my name listed. Yet. Thanks, guys.” He gave them the semblance of a smile and estimated they had two minutes to wind this up before the boat moored at its destination point in My Tho. Once there he would disappear to do his thing while they did theirs. “Listen, before we split up here, I just want you both to know that I respect the value for life you’ve worked hard to keep in a really misguided war that doesn’t value much of anything—including the people they’re supposedly fighting for. Believe it or not, I do have some values myself. And I especially value your expertise and willingness to use it to help us find . . .” Reluctant as he was to introduce her name to a conversation that had gone better than he had hoped, JD finished quietly with, “Kate.”
12
The My Tho drug group was taking place in a typically dreary, stark room at the appointed army medical facility. The drug groups they had done since being tapped by JD weren’t the first to which Izzy had applied his counseling skills. He’d already done several at Camp McDermott for the troops who were at risk of becoming junkies. But he was a child psychiatrist by training, trained in clinical assessment and diagnosis, and child psychotherapy and play therapy, and didn’t feel entirely comfortable, whereas Gregg clearly excelled.
It was a relief to settle back, to watch and learn from the expert in his therapeutic element. As for JD, he had disappeared as soon as they disembarked, but at least he provided an escort to drop their things at their temporary, utilitarian quarters.
After a quick meal at the officers’ mess, he and Gregg met with an impressive number of soldiers in need of help, assembled on their behalf. Word had been sent ahead and the medics, squad leaders and platoon leaders had, in military terms, “invited” anyone at risk, or identified as a serious drug user, to attend the group. Nobody looked particularly strung out on drugs in the large circle of chairs that he and Gregg had hastily arranged, but Izzy knew why. It was because they were strung out by the war, and the drugs were so cheap and so readily available that no one was ever strung out from not having drugs.
As per Gregg’s earlier request, JD had made sure a Teac stereo with a tape player and good speakers was set up with the music Gregg had specifically requested. Gregg hit the play button and the sounds of Marvin Gaye and “What’s Goin’ On?” filled the air and sounded off the concrete floor.
What’s goin’ on, what’s goin’ on?
It was their language; it was their music. Any resentment about being “invited” to discuss their drug issues with a couple of shrinks visibly dissipated as crossed arms relaxed and heads started nodding to the beat and the lyrics, and especially to the plaintive, moving voice, with which some of them started singing.
Gregg didn’t rush it, his timing impeccable as he slowly lowered the volume until the music faded to a soft background loop and his own voice, damn near as beautiful as Marvin Gaye’s, asked, “Okay, guys, what’s going on? That’s all we’re here to talk about—no judgments, no preaching, no orders, none of that crap. So let’s just go around the room one time. Just say your hometown. No names, just hometown. Me and this other guy here ”—he hooked a thumb at Izzy to his left—“we’re both docs, sworn to silence, so whatever gets said here is as confidential as it’s going to get in this, uh, army.”
Gregg made a funny face and rolled his eyes at his mention of “army.” Everyone laughed in return. Considering the audience and venue, Gregg’s ability to work the crowd was right up there with the time Izzy saw Lenny Bruce give a knock-out performance at Carnegie Hall in the midst of a blizzard that couldn’t keep the crowds away. He remembered the date well: February 4, 1961. His twenty-first birthday.
“Del Mar, California,” said Gregg, getting the dialogue going. “Just call me Doc Del Mar. And this is my partner, best shrink in the Nam.”
“Who, me?” Izzy pointed to himself and got a handful of chuckles. “Okay, I’m Izzy . . . uh, I mean Brooklyn. Doc Brooklyn.” Inspired by Gregg’s ability to reach these kids, he tried to connect with them himself and quickly added, “What’s going on? I hate it here. I’ve been here since last May; getting close, but kind of worried about going home since nobody there has any idea what I’ve really been through. What about you?” Izzy looked to his immediate left. It was a skinny black kid holding a black soul stick and tapping the carved, clenched fist on the end against his thigh to the background music.
“Bronx,” said the young man in a soft voice. “Bronx.”
“Hey, Bronx, what’s going on?” asked Gregg. Just simple, no bullshit. “What’s going on, man?”
He hesitated, then apparently came to a decision and slapped the stick hard against his thigh. “Bad shit going on, Doc. They fucking with us all the time.”
Around the circle, nods and affirmations.
“Fucking patrols to nowhere, no sleep, guys getting shot, brothers dying, blown up, it’s fucked up, man. You come back from the trenches and some motherfuckin’ lifer NCO at a desk tells you get your haircut. Motherfucker. Makes you feel like smoking his ass. Has happened. We all know it. We all thinking about it. Then you go back out again and some goddamn newbie LT out for a medal wants to lead a hunt out to nowhere to boost his body count and kill your ass? Fuck it. Smoke him. If not for the weed and some good dope . . .”
“Ride that horse . . .”
“Got that . . .”
“Right on . . .”
More affirmations from the group.
And so it went all around the circle, almost to the end—until the meeting room’s door flew open then slammed behind the guy who staggered in, accompanied by the wafting smell of some heavy, Southeast-Asian dope.
His uniform indicated he was a PFC, and from appearances had chosen the draft over going to prison or possibly a mental ward. Izzy still couldn’t get over the irony that while he was being drafted from the psychiatric program at Columbia Medical School there were guys being drafted out of mental hospitals so the draft boards could make their quotas. This newest attendee could be one of them, though he would fit in better with the pockets of AWOL guys in Saigon living on the streets with his stringy blond hair, a stupid-looking ratty mustache, and sloppy oversized fatigues with stains. Bad skin, red buggy eyes. What a dirty mess. He giggled.
“Sorry, sorry.” He belched out a breath so strong it was a wonder they didn’t all get stoned just smelling it. “Sssorry, I’m late,” he slurred around a thick tongue, and almost fell down as he plopped into the last available chair.
Izzy had never seen a guy look so strung out or so evidently doped up; and he had seen his share.
“Hey, man, it’s okay,” Gregg said gently. “We were just going around the circle and saying where we’re from and what’s going on. It’s easy and you’re welcome here, so listen in and you can—”
“And you can fuck off. They made me come.”
“Hey, hey, these guys cool,” interjected the one called Bronx, who was joined by “Yeah, brother, lay off. Shut the fuck up,” murmurs of agreement.
The guy looked around with bleary eyes, but must have been coherent enough to get the vibe. He nodded.
“Okay, okay. They cool, I get it . . . I get it . . . I get it.”
Then he shut up and just started nodding as the last two guys finished opening up about their own “what’s going on,” with the last one asking the fried stoner, “What about you, man?”
Apparently too out of it to form a reasonable answer he started muttering some existential tangent that strangely reminded Izzy of Lenny Bruce at his Carnegie Hall best.
Gregg turned up the music.
Brother, brother, brother, came out of the speakers, you know we got to find a way . . .
Gregg stood up. “Okay, guys, just talk to the guy sitting next to you, just for a couple of minutes. Tell him, not me, not anybody else, tell him what you are using, why, and how bad it is. Got it?
Two minutes and all he does is listen. No advice, no shit, just listen for two minutes. No judgment. I’m going to turn up the music so I can’t hear what you’re confessing, okay? Just be as honest as you can for two minutes, only two minutes, and I’ll say stop. Then one minute of silence and we listen to the music. After that, it’s your turn to be the listener for two minutes. Got it? I’m the timer so . . . Go.”
Izzy watched them follow Gregg’s directions, saw how powerful the moment was. These guys, who had come in so alone and angry and defensive, were actually talking with each other for real. Even the dope head that came in at the end and obviously needed rehab the most.
*
After the session a good number of the attendees hung around for a personal word, rapping some more with their neighbor, or to help put up chairs and get the room squared away. All in all, Gregg was happy with what they had accomplished. Were they here on their own terms he would have suggested a few follow-up meetings, rather than push ahead to the other drug groups JD had lined up—unless he scrapped their itinerary to accommodate a change in plans, which he had a way of doing. As for what he was doing now or where he had gone, who knew?
That left his “team members” at loose ends for the evening. Gregg wasn’t sure where their escorts had gone after taking them to their quarters, which was basically two bunks with mosquito nets at the end of an otherwise abandoned hootch. JD had been very explicit about their not wandering off to explore the city of My Tho. Gregg wondered why. No reason to sit and stew in the hootch. My Tho was an old Chinese trading town and had been a center of commerce for French Indochina. It would likely have some nice, colonial-style architecture. If he had it to do all over again, maybe he would be an architect instead. He loved old buildings. It made him sick to see so many blown to crumbling piles of mortar, the stories and lives behind them reduced to napalm-dusted wind.
But as much as he wanted to see the water market and canals of My Tho, Gregg knew that mostly he hated taking orders from JD. Being used like a sock puppet, with JD commanding the sock, always pissed him off. It made him want to do exactly the opposite of whatever JD told them to do, even on the outside chance it was for their own good. But if it was, how would they know, since he rarely deigned to tell them for what or why?