Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  “Tell me something.” Winter moved from behind the swirl of smoke, staring hard at the younger man. “Did any of this reasonability course through your mind while you dangled An over eternity?”

  A frown rutted Taylor’s forehead and he consciously eliminated it. “An wanted to play war. That wasn’t a manifesto he stuck in Harker. When he pulled the knife, he stepped on my turf. Even so, if I hadn’t believed Harker was dying, An’d be our guest now. Those noises though—” He twisted his face painfully. “That’s when it all became academic.”

  “You fascinate me. You really do. It’s going to be exceptional, watching you while you’re here. Which reminds me, when’re you going to put in your request for extension?”

  “I’m not extending, Colonel.” The flatness of his answer pleased his own ears. “I’m not involved in any crusade and I need time back home to find a job before I’m retired.”

  “I’m not going to try to talk you into it, so relax.” Winter hoisted his feet off the desk and dropped them to the floor with a thump. “I was hoping you’d want to see the Binh thing through to a conclusion.”

  “What’s that mean? We’re doing all we can. Don’t you think this plan’s going to work?”

  “Oh, I think it’ll work. I don’t think it’ll work quickly. Binh has no reason to think we’ll treat him gently.” He flicked a probing glance at Taylor and continued. “It’s my bet he’ll crawl in a hole somewhere and pull it in after him.”

  “That wouldn’t be too bright. He’ll have Charlie and us both after him, and Charlie must know all his rat-holes.”

  “Don’t you believe it!” Winter snorted derision. “He’s lived this long knowing we may get our hands on someone who’ll make him for us. He’s taken steps to insure a place to run where no one knows to look. He deals with thieves and profiteers all the time and I’ll bet there’re plenty of comrades only too anxious to believe he’s on the take. He’ll run and hide and we’ll be in a footrace to find him first. When we get him, we’ll be rolling up VC all over the country.”

  Taylor said, “If that’s supposed to whet my appetite, forget it. I’ll read about it in the papers.”

  “Summer soldier. No perseverance.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. You’ve gone Asiatic.”

  Winter smiled. “You may be right.”

  “Why do you hang in here? Is this place all that important to you?” A cold stare marred the atmosphere momentarily, but Winter blinked once and it was gone. When he answered, his voice was as even as ever.

  “It’s what I do.” There was a hint of resignation in the words. “A long time ago I decided I had to throw in with the Vietnamese. I simply love the country and the people. Oh, I know—a psychiatrist would trace it all to my father or potty training, or something. I’m not good at that sort of self-analysis, and to tell you the truth, I don’t think many people are. All I know is I’ve never been able to get my reasons for leaving to match my reasons for staying.”

  The definition in Winter’s facial planes faded, the subtle change of a cragged coast muted by an incoming tide. Taylor realized that, for the moment, he no longer existed for the other man. Time and distance had dissipated in his mind and he was living entirely within himself.

  On Plantation Road a piece of heavy equipment raced its engine, an unintentional prelude to Winter’s next words.

  “You’ve probably heard that my wife died in ‘57. Cancer. I don’t think losing her is the reason I’ve continued to extend here, but it gives me a reasonable excuse. I miss the kids, our daughters, but hell, they’re grown up, gone, married, kids of their own, the whole bit. I can’t stand to visit Joan. Her husband gives me the pukes.” He growled in his throat at some recollection. An expression of mild surprise brushed away the burgeoning frown and he looked at Taylor directly once again. “This is where I belong,” he finished simply.

  Taylor half-saluted. “Good days, Colonel.”

  Winter repeated the gesture. “And quiet nights, my friend.”

  Taylor rose. “Sir, if I hurry, I can manage some sleep before breakfast. Duc and I have a lot of things to police up today. Anything you want us to pay special attention to?”

  “No.” The answer was drawn out. “I think you’re handling this well, in spite of everything. Check with me about 1600 and let me know what’s happening. Keep a low profile for a while and stay away from Denby. You sure you’re OK?”

  “A little pumped up, still. Hope I didn’t talk your arm off.”

  “Not quite. If the bounce is too hard when the excitement runs down, stay in the sack.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be OK.”

  Taylor pulled the door shut and headed down the hall. One of the other BOQ residents, returning to his own room from a card game, didn’t trouble to look twice at the unkempt Marine Major repeating, “It’ll be OK. It’ll be OK,” as he walked past.

  They were all strange, one way or another.

  Chapter 16

  Ba Ly turned from the garden as Taylor entered the yard and gave him a warm smile, one hand brushing a stray plume of hair. He approached thinking how she could make any chore seem bright and pleasant. The glint from the cutting edge of her shears emphasized the muted blue satin of the ao dai and the robust colors of the flowers cradled in her arm contrasted with calm ivory skin. His footsteps pounded in his ears as he grew closer, wanting to hold the soft curve of her jaw in his hands and kiss her, a lover’s kiss of tender implication. Her eyes would well with surprise before the lids would slowly fall. She would return the kiss. He would break the contact and raise his head and she would laugh, content.

  “Good evening, Ba Ly,” he said.

  “Good evening, Major. You are a few minutes early?”

  “I had some administrative matters to clean up, and when they were done, the Colonel said I could leave early. I visited a friend in the hospital.”

  Harker’s face surged into his memory, looking up from the stark sheets, the tropical tan dirty, like undusted furniture. The minute change in Taylor’s expression failed to escape her attention.

  “He is badly hurt? Is it someone I know?” The plea in the questions was offset by an aggressive forward movement, as though closer physical proximity would force denials from him.

  “The young Lieutenant, Harker—a student of yours some time ago. He was in a brawl, a fight. His injuries are painful but not serious. He was lucky. It could have been worse.”

  “A fight?” Her concern gave way to tentative disapproval. “How did it happen? How was he hurt?”

  Taylor squelched a mad urge to say Harker had been kicked in the nuts. Lying about the circumstances was second nature. Still, she might learn about the nature of the injuries eventually, so it would be unwise to try to cover that up.

  “He was cut with a knife.” She gasped and hugged the flowers tighter to her breast and Taylor hurried to explain. “It isn’t a dangerous wound. The other injury is more painful, and it’s not serious either.” He smiled wryly. “Let’s say it’s an indelicate injury and the Lieutenant’s social life will be very dull for a while. He’s also going to walk funny until he recovers.”

  Her eyes mirrored her efforts to grasp the American speech pattern and terminology. When the import registered, she pulled the flowers across her body and buried her face in them, laughter shaking her shoulders. Taylor ignored the sound of embarrassed amusement, studying the effect of the blossoms against the black hair.

  “You are cruel,” she scolded, straightening. “The Lieutenant suffers and you make me laugh about it. I am ashamed of myself. There is no sympathy in your heart.”

  The sound of An’s question as he felt the release of his link with life was suddenly in Taylor’s ears. He clenched a fist and, too late, saw her notice the movement.

  “There is more,” she said. “It is something that involves you.”

  He tried to disguise the reaction with a quick smile. “You read minds as well as English?”

  “Do not joke with me.
There is something. I know. I do not want to know, but I do.”

  “I was with him. We’ll have to make official statements and the Colonel is angry because we got into a situation like that. It’s nothing.”

  “I see.” She stepped past him toward the front door. “We can go inside. We will work hard today and push these troubles from your mind.” She turned to insure he followed, her look appraising.

  He passed her on the steps, reaching to open the door. She swept into the room, talking over her shoulder. “Chi Hong is away this afternoon. She is going to the cai luong with her sister. I will get a vase for these flowers and be back in a minute. I have marked the section in the text for our study.”

  He said, “Wait—you said cai luong?”

  She laughed lightly. “I have been neglecting you. You can never understand Vietnam until you understand two things, cai luong and the novel of Kim Van Kieu. Cai luong is our opera. I think you call it ‘folk opera’ because it is for the people. It speaks to all of us, rich or poor, educated or illiterate.”

  She walked back into the room, the vase forgotten. “It is our version of hat boi, the ancient Chinese opera. The costumes, the makeup, the scenery—everything is bright, bright!” She stamped a foot and postured, holding the flowers by their long stems and pointing at him as with a sword. “The actors gesture fiercely and the women are totally female, sometimes cruel and haughty, other times soft and tender.”

  Posing and gesturing, she whirled around the room, her expressive face keeping pace through constantly changing masks of emotion.

  “They speak and sing of all things. Even if you do not understand what is being said, the gestures and the music tell you the story. It is all very symbolic, very sophisticated, and still it is plain enough to attract all of us. Because it is colorful, we can forget the mist of sadness in our own lives. Because it is only a play, we can lose ourselves in it. It is not real, so we can laugh or cry and not think of things already too heavy to think about, things that have been thought about too much.”

  As she finished, the false expressions were discarded and she spoke into the flowers babied in her arm. With the hand holding the shears she reached across her body to them and stroked petals with a finger. He watched, not wanting to speak, content to assimilate a new picture of her, marveling at the vivacity that had shone before him.

  When she looked up, he was startled to see the face of a furious child, spiteful and wanting to hurt.

  “Westerners do not understand. Our music is different, so you say it is unpleasant, ‘like someone killing cats.’ You do not know the significance of the symbolic gestures so you laugh at the strange movements. You look at our opera, this thing that is at the center of our culture, and you mock.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she stalked out of sight around the corner. Heat washed up and down the back of Taylor’s neck. He rose, fidgeting while he waited for her to return. When she did, she placed the vase on the coffee table without looking at him. He waited until she turned.

  “Now it’s my turn.” The harshness of his voice was greater than he intended, the English blunt and coarse. “I’ve never seen or heard your opera. Maybe I never will. If I do, I may not like it, but I won’t laugh at it, and I won’t laugh at the people who enjoy it. But, by God, I don’t have to like it! And I don’t have to be responsible for the people who don’t like it, or make fun of it, or anything else. I won’t be blamed for something I haven’t done. I can’t run all over the goddam world feeling sorry because someone I don’t even know had done something to someone I never heard of. I make my own mistakes. They’re sufficient.”

  “Truly, they are.” Her eyes burned again. “You are in my home, Major. I will not be spoken to this way.”

  “I know where we are. As a guest in your home, I didn’t expect to be accused of bigotry. That’s not part of my culture.”

  Her laugh rang like steel. “You are not a guest, Major. You assume too much. You are a customer, a student who pays well. I never asked you to come here. You never asked to come here. Colonel Winter arranged for me to teach you our language. The mistake was in trying to discuss culture with you.”

  He stared silently, knowing that a single word more would push them to a point that allowed no retreat. The phrases of anger swelled in his throat and he dropped onto the sofa with his fists against his temples, refusing argument. He scorned himself for a fool, panting at a woman who couldn’t see him even when she was trapped with him. He remembered the fantasy in the courtyard and swallowed sour embarrassment, asking himself if leaving might not be the only smart thing to do. Even as the idea entered his mind, admission crept to the surface of his denials and he realized he’d want to come back here under any circumstances. My God, he thought, with a shock of fear, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t come back.

  He picked up the textbook, flipping to the page she’d marked, and willed himself into study. After a while, he became aware of a distraction, a sound outside her normal murmur that accompanied his reading. He’d learned to ignore that, as he shut out anything else that interfered. This was different.

  She was calling his name. “Charles—are you listening?” There was both plea and demand in the words. “Xin ong nghe toi!”

  “ ‘Please listen to me!’ ” Taylor translated automatically. He essayed a smile. “I’m listening. You know how I am when I concentrate. I’m sorry.” Her answering smile appealed. “The argument?”

  He nodded.

  “The things I said about Westerners and our culture were true, Charles.” She traced a series of spirals on the sofa cushion with a finger. “I had no reason to be rude to you. Many Westerners are not like that, but the ones who are insult us terribly. You understand?”

  “None of it ever happened. I have forgotten it.” He hoped she couldn’t hear the extent of his relief. His lungs ached with pleasure at a deep breath.

  She watched herself continue to draw invisible figures. “You shame me. It is difficult to be wrong and be forgiven so easily.”

  “I said nothing about forgiving, I said I’d forgotten. If you remind me, I’ll be angry again.”

  She tilted her head just enough to look at him through heavy lashes. “I don’t know what to think about you. You have cruel eyes, Charles. When I look at them and you are upset, you make me afraid. But you are kind. Until today, you have always spoken to me softly.” She stopped drawing on the sofa, transferring the patterns to the back of her hand. “Do you know why I attacked you?”

  He frowned involuntarily at the peculiar choice of words, then had to smother a smile.

  “A bad day,” he said easily. “Something bothered you and I happened to be available. It’s natural.”

  “No!” She shook her head and stood up. A coil of hair, flung awry, draped down the front of the ao dai, curling over her right breast.

  “I told you I saw that something is bothering you. It is not some small fight. I look at you, I hear your voice, and I feel you are not the same.” She tossed her head and the hair flicked back over her shoulder. “It is too hard to say. I know you are very troubled and I want to help. I have no right to feel that way about you. I must not—care for you. My mind burns from too many things.”

  He was afraid to move. The muscles in his jaw tightened and he clinched his tongue between his molars, enjoying the slight pain that gave him something identifiable to focus on. Finally, he rose to his feet.

  “Would the sky fall if you were to—care for me?” He mimicked her phrase gently. “You seem to be aware of almost everything in my mind, Ly. You never wondered how I feel about you?”

  She smiled, a wan look. “You feel the same as the others.” Her hand came up defensively as he opened his mouth to protest. “No, Charles, don’t argue. If you say anything, you will speak of love and that will be a lie. You don’t love me and I don’t love you. If I did, I don’t think I could live. It would be hopeless.” She turned completely around, her back to him, and lowered her head to upraised h
ands.

  His eyes traversed the rounded slope of her shoulders, following the delicate inward-thrusting lines of her back, balancing the tiny waist on the foundation of rounded buttocks. He stepped forward until he was nearly touching her.

  “Are you so afraid?” He placed his hands on her waist. With the thumbs extended and touching, his fingers curved around in front of her and he felt the entire girdle of muscle draw tight.

  A mute nod, then, “Yes, I am afraid. You are not so blind that you have not seen the way others look at one of us with an American. You have heard what people say of her. And they are right. You will leave here—forget the war, forget Vietnam, forget me. I am not afraid of you, Charles. It is life that frightens me.”

  He moved his hands upward, caressing. “I only know one thing about life.” He dropped his head even with her ear. “It is uncontrolled. Sometimes you use it and sometimes it uses you.”

  Her elbows blocked his hands. He felt the rest of her body grow rigid as he forced them outwards, the resistance giving way with the sensation of a net unraveling. He cupped a breast in each hand and she drew a long breath that came in a shuddering series.

  Uncoordinated thoughts crackled through his brain, red and flaming. He wondered at flesh so soft and still unyielding, wondered if he should take her now, as she was, unresponsive. He knew he had no choice. Short of rape, he was going to take her and to hell with everything.

  At that point she suddenly whirled and was facing him, her eyes probing his. The anguish he saw checked him as physically as any wall. He felt his arms grow slack even as his loins raged need. Then her eyes seemed to deepen in color, almost to suffuse within their sockets. Her lips pulsed as she stretched up to kiss him. Her fingernails dug into his neck. There was a barely perceptible hesitation, and then she pressed her body to him. As quickly as she had reached to kiss him, she pulled away. He held her, and she buried her face in his chest.