by Don McQuinn
Allen’s mock gravity made Taylor laugh until he hurt. “You’re plain crazy, you know that?”
The Captain sniffed. “You spend the best part of a year staring at bathroom walls and you’ll grow a little kinky, too. You ever read Milton’s ‘On His Blindness’?”
“You’re not going to give me, ‘They also serve who only stand and wait,’ are you?”
Allen effected exaggerated surprise. “Oh ho! Literary pretensions from the mercenaries!”
Taylor gave him the finger.
Denby injected his precise voice into their laughter. “Run out of conversation, Marine?” His teeth were displayed in a disarming smile that shadowed none of his malice. Behind the glasses his eyes challenged and he licked his lips as if anticipating.
Even as he rose, Taylor knew it was the whiskey making him respond. Reason pulled at his mind and anger overwhelmed it easily. Under the table, Allen’s boot cracked against his shin hard enough to pain. He swung that way, ready to deal with that injury first.
Allen’s eyes never left Denby. “We were discussing language, as a matter of fact, sir.” He spoke with underling’s caution. “I was saying how English is becoming almost a universal tongue, much as Arabic was the trade language of the Muslim empire and beyond, during their expansion. The irony is that the language is spread by sailors and soldiers and entrepreneurs, rather than teachers. Grammar and scholarship suffer. Obscenities become common currency. Major Taylor was demonstrating that speech isn’t the only way to display crude behavior. It’s certainly not philology, but it’s communication, isn’t it?”
Denby’s smile drew in on itself. “The sort you expect from some, yes.”
Allen extended his own finger upward, peering at it as it unfolded, twisting his head to inspect it from varying angles. “I’m not sure I can agree completely, Colonel. A thing like that, there’s no way of knowing where it’ll turn up. Pardon the pun. I’ll bet I could take that nimble creature anywhere in the world, whip it on the populace, and every one of them’d know exactly what I was telling them. Isn’t that amazing?”
“You two go ahead and amuse yourselves.” Denby’s smile thinned, degenerating to frustration as he stared at Allen’s finger before returning to his conversation with Tho.
Relaxing his hand, Allen said, “That’s one you owe me, Major.”
From the other side, Duc leaned to speak past Taylor. “I thank you, Dai Uy, even if this one not. I not know how you make him sit. If you not, be beaucoup trouble, for sure. And you got that Denby good. Thank you for two things.”
“My pleasure,” Allen said, “especially fucking over Denby’s mind. As for the Major, I made him sit down by kicking his shin. Come to think of it, that was a pleasure, too.”
Duc’s face warped into a drunken frown. He pursed his lips so hard they protruded in front of him like a fleshy bud.
“Not good Dai Uy kick Thieu Ta. Bad morale thing. And he more big than you, too.” Duc hoisted an elbow onto the table, planting it firmly in the saucer holding peanuts. He propped a knuckle against the tip of his nose, curling it up so that when he tried to speak the taut skin between his septum and upper lip caused the words to flutter incomprehensibly. Pulling the hand away, he glared accusation at it, then said, “Next time, you pass word me. I kick him.” Pleased by his solution, he sagged back against his chair.
“What a relief to know my future is in such good hands,” Taylor observed dryly. “Kinda gets you right under the old emblem.” He patted the sport shirt on the left breast pocket, where his Marine insignia would be on his utility jacket.
Allen’s answering smile was perfunctory. “Watch Denby, Major. He won’t mess with me ‘cause he keeps hoping I’ll get him in on parties. I take him just enough to keep his appetite sharp. He really digs that crap. But he’s got a hard-on for you. You ought to know about it.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Everybody knows it. And he may have more free time to let you know about it from now on.”
“Are we playing riddles?” Something in Allen’s attitude warned Taylor and his own question was clipped. Allen averted his eyes.
“There’s talk—” He stopped and shrugged. “It’s not just talk, it’s fact. The Unit’s a goner, Major. No replacements. We’re going to disappear through ‘normal attrition.’ The Old Man doesn’t even know it yet. Denby’s been told, but he’s afraid to tell him.”
“How could Denby know a thing like that without Winter knowing?”
“He got the word in a letter from a guy in D.A. back in D.C.”
“Shit!” Taylor tipped his drink and took a long swallow. “What that tells you is Department of the Army’s buckling in the heat. We must be doing something right. Does Denby know where the trouble’s coming from?”
Allen surveyed the room furtively and the reaction angered Taylor further. “What’re you looking for, spies?”
To his surprise, Allen grinned. “Them is us, Major, remember?” Then, soberly, “Look, I don’t want to be around when the Old Man gets the word, and I sure don’t want him getting it from me. Denby doesn’t know any more than I told you, except the guy who wrote is sure of what he said and scared shitless of whoever pushed the decision through.”
Taylor drank again. “That figures. A month’s pay against a dime it’s one of the assholes who wants to see us get whipped.”
Allen clamped his lips together, unsure of himself, worried by the taller man’s bitterness. He thought, he’s pretty cool most of the time, but right now he’s looking off into space. He sounded like an old-fashioned fascist when he let himself open up.
As though aware of the thought, Taylor threw a glance at Allen that noted his continued presence and passed on, noncommittal. Allen felt an involuntary tension in his shoulders that passed quickly. He took the opportunity afforded by the continued silence to further analyze his feelings toward this man who could close himself off so quickly.
He didn’t really like him, he decided, puzzled, because he had no firm reason for it. It wasn’t as if he actively disliked him. The man was friendly enough and if he was always aware of his rank, he was scrupulously aware of everyone else’s, too. Was it that thing he did to make himself seem to draw away from others?
His mind divorced itself from Taylor’s silent frustration and the boisterousness of the others.
He was years away from all of them.
He sat on the ground, tears burning his face, watching the chestnut hunter prance delight at dumping its twelve-year-old rider. The stirrups glittered uselessly in the bright spring sun as the animal frisked out of sight behind a thicket. He got up from the ground slowly, building courage to feel his right arm and see if it was broken. It felt wrong and hurt and he was afraid. Anger and embarrassment forced more tears. A rumble of hoofbeats from behind stopped in a flurry of ripped turf and his uncle was looking down at him.
Uncle Paul the surgeon. To everyone, Unclepaulthesurgeon, one word, as if surgery and the man were born of a piece. He sometimes wondered if Uncle Paul really needed a scalpel when his eyes cut better than razors. He looked into them now, slick like the almost-black agate book-ends on the library fireplace mantel. His crying turned to sobs.
You’re not hurt, Uncle Paul ordered.
He fought the sobs, lost, talked between them. My—arm—won’t—work—right.
Stop that infantile whining. The agates searched the thicket where the horse continued to snort and thrash, unseen.
You have to control the horse, not let it control you. Raise your arm. The voice was a dull knife, unlike the eyes. It tore instead of slicing.
I can’t. It hurts. It feels like it may be broken.
The eyes came again, into his own, opening his brain, halving it like a head of lettuce, exposing the hidden wrinkles and folds. Then the movement, too swift to avoid. The sure grip on the wrist and the smooth lift until only his toes scraped the grass and his nose was mashed against the bristling flank of the horse and he was too shocked to
scream before realizing the pain was no worse than it had been. He was dropped, staggering backward before collecting himself.
Fists so tight his fingernails gouged palms.
You big, mean sonofabitch!
Cool out your horse properly. He’s a valuable animal.
The memory fell apart, disappearing as a mass of elusive colors and scents.
No, Taylor wasn’t as distant as Uncle Paul. The eyes sometimes brought Uncle Paul to mind, but Taylor’s lacked the chill vacancy. It was truly a puzzle, the lack of liking. He gestured unconsciously, telling himself he’d always be glad to have Taylor around, even if he wasn’t one of his favorite people.
“What was that for?”
Taylor’s question snapped Allen out of his musing. “What was what for?”
“You moved your hand, like you were saying something, or going to say something.”
“Thinking. Guess I did it from habit.”
“What kind of heavy thinking makes you wave at nothing?” Taylor smiled as though the earlier anger had never surfaced.
“About Winter,” Allen lied quickly. “Every once in a while I wonder what he’d have been in a different time. Elizabethan England, for instance, or maybe right here, say, around the turn of the century. He’d be a romantic figure in any era, wouldn’t he?”
The pressure of Taylor’s stare turned him to face the other man. “I think I’m getting a little drunk, aren’t I?” He laughed self-consciously.
Taylor shook his head. “No drunker than me. I think all of us play that game, but there won’t be much romance in the air if this scuttlebutt of Denby’s is true.”
Suddenly Allen had to know more about Taylor’s earlier statement. “Do you really believe whoever set up the policy for the Unit wants to see us beaten?”
“I don’t know what else to think, sometimes. I think it, but I can’t believe it. Not in the sense of a fifth column, or anything. I don’t know. I’d like to take an NVA division into Berkeley and turn them loose to establish peace and a liberated zone.” He grimaced and threw down the last of his drink, holding his head back to let the last drops drain through the ice.
“Fuck it,” he added, wiping his lips. “Fuck ‘em all.”
A loud knock at the door stopped all conversation immediately, and Miss Oanh pushed a loaded serving cart into the room. She grinned at the welcoming chorus, directing her chattering crew, the red-and-black costumed girls bringing a freer, innocent laughter with them. When the steak dinners were distributed she shooed them all out.
“If want more wine or anything, I bring, OK?” She smiled back from the doorway.
Loc answered. Taylor had the impression he had no need to raise his voice. When he spoke, no matter the distance, people heard.
“That is thoughtful, Miss Oanh. We will have six bottles of the Mateus now, please. After you have brought it, you will please see that we are not disturbed unless we ring for service.”
“I understand, Dai Ta.” The casual bantering manner used with the Americans was missing.
The dinner proceeded quietly. Allen embarked on a detailed discussion of Vietnamese cooking with Sergeant Chi. Taylor looked past the American once and Chi flashed a cheerful smile. Taylor managed to produce his own, fighting the image of Chi’s bulk manifesting from darkness to strap Tuyet to the chair. He stared at his food and wondered if Chi ever thought of screams and blood and urine in the middle of a meal. He looked for help from Duc, something to talk about to clear away the fogged pictures.
Duc was attacking his steak with the fervor of a man who knows he eats too much and wants to finish his meal before his conscience catches up.
Taylor sliced his meat mechanically, spearing the morsels and chewing without relish. He determined to concentrate on the enlisted men at the party. They were the ones who had monitored the radio signals from the doctored rounds and Winter had sworn they would attend the celebration in BOQ 1. Taylor had no idea what sort of weight he’d thrown around to accomplish it, and he’d given up conjecture about Winter’s off-the-cuff accomplishments. Being around him was the same as watching a magician—nothing was as it appeared, and finding out how it was done took all the fun out of it.
The man to attract Taylor’s scrutiny was Corporal Tranh Minh, probably as typical an Oriental soldier as could be found. It was impossible to give him an order he would question, he worked as hard as he could at any job assigned him, and he wanted but one thing in the world, and that was to go home to his farm and raise his family in peace. Right now he watched Miss Oanh pour his glass of wine, too interested in the swirling color to attach any significance to the fact that he was the last one being served. Taylor suspected that, had it been pointed out to him, Minh would have still been more interested in the wine than the order of its serving.
With Miss Oanh’s second departure, the men all fell to serious eating, and it was a short while before she was back. She brought another serving cart, this one equipped as a bar, and while she arranged it, her crew cleared the remains of the dinner. She looked to Loc as the last of her girls left, noticeably relieved at his bird-like nod of approval. She hurried after the others.
The two Colonels strode to the bar and fixed themselves drinks and the rush was on.
Backing away with his whiskey and water, Taylor leaned against a wall and realized he was standing next to the man he’d been thinking about a few minutes earlier. He raised his glass in greeting and Minh grinned, repeating the gesture with his glass of beer.
“No whiskey?” Taylor asked. “The Colonel is paying and we do not get many chances to get drunk on his money.”
Minh’s grin expanded and Taylor noticed each of the dark eyes seemed to be focusing on different objects.
“I think of that, Thieu Ta. I drank before very fast. I afraid he change mind. Already I pleasing drunk, thank you much. Colonel Winter be angry I thank him for make so good drunk?”
Taylor delayed, giving the question grave thought. “No, I am sure he would not be angry. However, I think it would be more thoughtful if you did not say anything to him about it.”
Minh rolled on his heels, an inner ground swell causing him to yaw slightly. He scratched his head to indicate confusion.
In Vietnamese, Taylor said, “We must consider his face, Corporal. It would embarrass him to hear praise of his generosity. He can look at you and see you enjoy the party. To speak of it would be too much, would it not?”
Minh heaved a breathy, “Ahh!” of understanding and drew himself erect. “I must speak in my language. My English will not say what I want you to hear. Sometimes I think you could be Vietnamese, Major. You see things with our eyes and our hearts. Why do you not find a good woman and stay with us?”
“You are truly very drunk,” Taylor said quietly.
Gesturing, Minh said, “Would I, a Corporal from a small village, speak so to an American Major if I were sober? Tomorrow when I see you at the villa, I will run and hide like a chicken from the cook and I will hope that tonight you are too drunk to remember the things I have said. So tonight I talk too much.”
Taylor laughed. “Very well. Tomorrow we will question your future. Tonight we will talk. But we will not talk about finding me a woman. We will talk about you. Where is your home, Minh?” Saying it, he shifted against the wall, getting comfortable so the Corporal would feel free to speak in detail. He continued to watch Minh and saw something like the luminous trail of a shooting star hurtle across the depths of his eyes, gone so quickly there was no clue to identify it. When Minh spoke, it was in the soft tones that can turn Vietnamese speech into distant music.
“My home is north of here. My ancestors have lived there always. Our small farm is at the base of a tall mountain, facing east. In the morning the sun comes fresh from the sea to our crops. We fish, saving most of the remains for the vegetable garden. Fish parts are very good for the soil, Major. If you ever farm, you should remember that. Crushed shells are good, too. The sea can be a great help to a farmer.”
Taylor agreed silently, acknowledging the importance of such knowledge.
Enunciating carefully, Minh said, “Farming is a good life. A man knows his land and it supports him. We were happy.” His vision left Taylor, the room, the party, resting on scenes for him alone. “The trouble came unexpectedly. Strangers said we must fight the government. I did not like the government, but I did not want to fight anyone. I walked away and they called me names, but they did nothing. Then the government men came. A soldier stole some of my ducks. I did not like that and I considered that the men who called me names took nothing from our village without paying for it. After some weeks, the government soldiers came back. They had men with large containers on their backs, with hoses that sprayed a liquid that smelled. They said they would return until they killed all the mosquitoes that bring the disease you call malaria. The whole village cheered then.”
He stopped and for an instant he smiled, an expression of selfcontempt for a long-dead weakness.
“When the soldiers and the others left, we heard a loud explosion down the road. We all ran to see. The VC propaganda team was waiting. The government soldiers and the other men were all dead. The ones who lived through the explosion were shot. The propaganda team said a government that cannot defend itself against a few VC could never kill a valley full of mosquitoes. They said the spray would poison the water and we would die. It was days before we tried our wells. No one got sick. The spray people never came again. That year my only son got the malaria. The next time a VC came to our village, he came alone. He said if we had a doctor we would have no malaria and promised us a doctor. I asked him why they killed the men who tried to help us. He laughed at me and said I was a tool of the government.”