Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  Carr swiveled his head to Winter, keeping his eyes to the front, the move giving him an automaton mask. Taylor reflected that the man might have been a machine designed to inspect parts produced by another machine.

  Winter grinned, a thing with no humor in it. “I don’t question the degree of your patriotism. I question its direction. And morality? And techniques? You talk about Trung’s death and your suspicions. Haven’t you ever been suspicious that two of my men were ambushed by so-called VC within hours after your friend Barline paid a visit to the headquarters of a man who claimed to own a woman one of the men was sleeping with? Tell me about the morality and technique in that.”

  The blood drained from Earl’s face as if one drop. He remained stock still long enough for color to reappear in his cheeks and then said, “He didn’t—” and stopped. His Adam’s apple bobbed rapidly.

  Winter’s face darkened. “He didn’t?” he repeated, and waited.

  “Your man didn’t die for what he did.”

  Taylor noticed Earl set his shoulders as he spoke and an apprehensive chill slipped over him, a feeling that another force had entered the room. He searched the faces, Winter’s questioning scowl, Earl’s returning control, Carr’s metallic curiosity. There was nothing to explain the heavy sensation in his head, as if he was being watched. A hint of movement from Harker passed across the periphery of his vision and he half-turned and looked into eyes gone feral underlined by lips drawn to a slash of satisfaction. As unobtrusively as possible, he moved his foot until it was above Harker’s boot and lowered it. He was beginning to wonder if the man would ever acknowledge the increasing pressure when Harker started, almost jerking the foot from under. The wild expression changed to fright before settling to bland unconcern.

  Taylor looked away to see Carr watching them with interest. Winter broke the spell.

  “No, Colonel, my man only lost a leg. But to what purpose? To atone for his sins? Or hers? What of the Colonel’s sins? And if Barline was the man who informed the Colonel, can you honestly imagine he was moved by moral considerations? Morality!” The last word came like spit, crude and shocking despite all that had gone before.

  Carr said, “Gentlemen, we seem to have strayed far afield of our subject.” He nodded in Winter’s direction. “I only asked you to bring the Captain here because the Senator requested I speak to you. Frankly, he wanted me to determine if there were grounds for an official investigation.” He transferred his gaze to Earl. “I don’t see any such grounds. Mr. Barline apparently willfully ignored warnings by Captain Harker and Captain Chavez after insisting on observing a mission he had no legitimate way to be aware of. I’ll deny I ever said it, but I’d much rather order an investigation of Mr. Barline’s sources.”

  Earl refused to respond.

  Carr went on, “I don’t know what’s to come of all this. I grew up between the two world wars, you know, always reading how America lost its innocence during the first one. Then I saw the communist empire blossom out of the second, and I wondered why we’d ever gotten involved in either. I came into the Foreign Service because I thought I could help keep us away from such mistakes in the future.”

  He stopped, seeing back into years of his own. When he remembered the others, he smiled apologetically.

  “How comforting it is to find myself in the company of others foolish enough to think they may have a hand in the course of events. Gentlemen, I put it to you that all of us—hawks, doves, tortoises or hares—are damned to spend our lives in a constant struggle that is no more than a waste of time.”

  Harker flushed. “Sir, you’re saying—”

  Carr flagged him with a wave. “No, son, I’m not saying we’ll lose the struggle with the Russians. Or the Chinese. Or our own fledgling demagogues. But we shall lose, as they shall lose, because none of us are able to build any longer. The present human condition revolves around the concept of destroying in order to build, but we’ve become Kipling’s Bandar-log, incapable of a two-step process.”

  Various degrees of irritation flickered on the faces of his audience, but Carr was unaware of them. He lowered his gaze to his desk and his lips puckered as if the smooth surface offended him.

  Winter shuffled his feet, the scuff of the boots loud in the room. The sound brought Carr from his reverie sharply but he maintained the control that prevented anything like a show of surprise. Taylor thought it would be interesting to match him against Loc.

  In his most precise manner, Carr ended the session. “There will be no official statement concerning Captain Harker’s or Captain Chavez’ involvement in this matter.” He looked expectantly at Winter.

  “MACV intends to take a similar position, sir. Barline’s death was an accident of his own causing. Our people did what they could to stop it.” Carr swung his attention to Earl, every eye following his lead. Earl met no one’s eyes steadily, finding the spaces between the other men. There was less surety in his manner, Taylor noticed. Even his slumped posture said he’d lost something since the meeting started.

  His answer was made of defiant words in a voice that lacked timbre. “I’ll always suspect that any reporter other than Ben Barline would still be alive. Maybe some day we’ll know more. Maybe the source who called will come forward.”

  Harker sat a bit straighter in his chair. “His driver was a source. I wonder if Barline knew he was VC.”

  “You’ve never proven that!” Earl exploded, tension spewing as inner dams broke. “The man’s dead, unable to defend himself!” He pointed a trembling finger at Harker. Cords strained in his neck like halyards. When he swallowed his chin moved in a thrusting motion.

  Carr got to his feet. “It’s over, gentlemen. We’ve all had our say—more than necessary, I should think—and further discussion would clearly be counter-productive. I suggest we all bend our efforts to the business of returning to normal.”

  Taylor glanced at Harker and without any further cue, they made their way to the door. Winter made the goodbyes. Earl brushed past him, overtaking the other two in the waiting room. He looked at them as if they were completely unknown to him and left, unspeaking.

  With Winter’s arrival, they retraced their path outside. Taylor moaned at the sight of the traffic build-up. Before anyone could comment further they all froze, listening to the hoarse scream in the distance.

  “Rocket,” Winter said, managing to get the word in just prior to the explosion. It came to them as a harmless rumble. Taylor looked at the traffic streaming past, watched the people check and saw their faces jerk from apprehension to wary resignation as they set themselves toward home once again. In the distance, sirens howled. The three Americans moved toward their jeep once again.

  Harker gestured in the direction of the impact. “That’s what we were arguing about up there—whether it’s moral or immoral for us to be involved in a war with scummy bastards who shoot rockets into cities. They kill civilians on purpose and it’s guerrilla warfare. We bomb a power plant in Hanoi and kill civilians by accident and we’re war criminals.”

  Winter took his eyes from the traffic long enough for a meaningful stare at Harker. “I wouldn’t get worked up if I were you. I’ve had my fill of attitudes. Let’s concentrate on doing our job for a while.”

  Taylor hurried the last few steps to the jeep, anxious to get it started and get back to MACV so he could leave for the apartment and Ly. Discussion had become academic at the sound of the rocket, as it did at any of the war-noises. The explosions in the city were political punctuation marks to Winter and Harker and Earl and Carr, to all of them. Small arms fire was something that underlined a tenet in a textbook. It was something to be read and interpreted.

  Not for me, Taylor thought. I have Ly and my child to be born and I know what this is and its not a great politico-intellectual-sociological drama.

  It’s fear.

  It’s wondering if the loving woman beside you will live through the night. Wondering if the house will be burned around her during the day. Wondering
if a stray bullet will rip that incredible loveliness or if an ethnic purist will destroy her and the life carried in her in the name of a better world populated by people created more in his own image.

  Carr’s right, only his emphasis is misplaced. It’s the incessant yammering that’s a waste of time. My child has to grow up free and unafraid and I only know one way for that to happen. If I have to die for it, I know I’m right.

  Chapter 50

  Chi Hong opened her eyes with a grave misgiving that vaulted to fright when she realized she had no idea where she was waking. She closed her eyes again, quickly.

  Why was the sky above her? There should be the familiar ceiling of her room.

  And why was she waking at such an odd hour, and in the midst of such a terrible racket? What was all that noise?

  When she struggled to sit up her legs wouldn’t do what she wanted and her head swam with sudden pain. She blinked, and when she opened her eyes this time there were people running and shouting all around her and for some reason she wasn’t surprised. It seemed to be what was right for this time and place.

  What time and place?

  Shopping. Cho Lon. That was it. She was shopping in Cho Lon and there was the terrible noise and the next thing she was looking at the sky.

  She shivered.

  There had been an attack! She had been caught in it. That was what all the excitement was about, of course.

  It was all coming back. There was a little pain, no worse than a dull headache.

  She shifted, her legs still uncooperative, and she looked down, half-afraid, wondering if they were hurt. It was then she saw what pinned them to the sidewalk and screamed.

  * * *

  “Records Research Unit.” Taylor reached for a pencil as he answered the phone.

  “Is there a Major Taylor there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Major Charles Alfred Taylor?”

  “That’s right. Who’s this? What’s going on?”

  “Just verifying, Major. One more question, sir. Are you married?”

  “Me? No. What the hell is this? Who are you?”

  “Cornelius, Major—clerk here at Third Field?—we got a woman here—two of ‘em, one young, one old—and the older one keeps sayin’ the young one’s your wife, but we don’t—”

  “She’s my wife. Give her anything she needs or wants. Both women. I’ll be there in two minutes. You hear?”

  “Yes, sir, but the doctor—”

  He dropped the phone in the cradle and ran. Harker shouted after him and Taylor threw Ly’s name over his shoulder without slowing. Earth and gravel exploded from under the tires as he sped out of the yard and onto the street leading to the gate, where he roared by the angry yells of the guards who had to leap out of his way. He broke across the streaming traffic, sending it into a mad dance of howling brakes, horns, and curses. At the hospital he slewed to a stop and jumped out, landing running, racing into the hospital.

  A burly E-5 grabbed him with a hand like a padded vise.

  “Whoa, Major, please. Let us help you. It’ll be a lot quicker and easier for all of us.” He steered Taylor to a bench. “Who is it you want to see, sir?”

  “Her name is Ly. Your man Cornelius called me, said she came in with an older woman. I think he meant Hong.”

  The Sergeant nodded. “Wait here, sir. I’ll ask the questions for you.” Reaching the administration desk rapidly, he spoke to the clerk, indicating Taylor. The clerk looked and nodded and Taylor advanced instantly.

  The Sergeant turned to meet him, still smooth and easy. "She’s one of our patients, sir. Came in with the Hong woman, just as you said. We’ll have to speak to Doctor Hall.”

  “I’ll see her, Sergeant. Now.”

  The man shook his head sorrowfully. “Major, you know it don’t work like that. It might not be a good system, but without it, we’ve got nothing. I’m moving things as fast as I can. Now, please, sit over there until I come back.”

  Taylor took a step forward and the big Sergeant stood unflinching. “Major, let me put it this way. All you can do is fuck things up and make it worse for the lady.”

  Taylor felt his head move in an affirmative nod that contradicted every impulse in the rest of his body. He forced himself to the bench but sitting in one place was impossible. He walked the few feet to the door and the non-hospital smell outside, unseeing eyes aimed at the unconcern of vehicles passing on Vo Thanh. After an abortive effort at pacing, he leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, inhaling heavily on the first drag, concentrating his whole being on the impact of the smoke on his lungs.

  When he exhaled he was finally able to look around and see. Coherent thoughts emerged from the chaos of shock. He told himself to prepare, be ready for the worst, to be able to console Ly over the loss of the child, if necessary.

  Suddenly he thought of her crippled and it was a shaft of pain that struck his chest and radiated in all directions. Other images appeared and sweat poured from him as he strained to shut them out.

  He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it with all his weight, turning the ball of his foot with the mindless persistence of a leopard patrolling its cage.

  The Sergeant interrupted him. “Good idea, waiting out here in the fresh air, sir. Doctor Hall’s waiting. We’ll have to hurry.”

  The last was gratuitous, as Taylor was already abreast of him and moving for the corridor. The Sergeant took a one step lead, calm and purposeful.

  Taylor accepted the guidance gratefully, using it to avoid looking at people on beds, people in traction, people passing with their bodies in all descriptions of injury. It was a walk through hell. Every hurt became a thing that could be visited on Ly. The earlier unwanted images swam through his imagination, reinforced by the surrounding misery.

  They rounded a corner and a chunky, almost bald man waited. Expressionless eyes bored into him through thick glasses, like sea water held out by ports.

  “You’re Taylor?”

  “Yes, sir. Where’s Ly?”

  “Thieu Ta! Thieu Ta!” Chi Hong’s voice rose from a bed down the ward. “They have taken her from me! Where is my child, Thieu Ta? Go to her!” A Vietnamese woman, her head swathed in bandages, hurried through a side door toward the distraught voice, murmuring soothing sounds. Hong’s cries subsided to muffled sobbing.

  Hall continued to stare at Taylor. “Your wife came in the same ambulance with the older woman. Some kind of servant, I understand. The older one says the younger woman’s your wife.”

  It was a question and Taylor answered it. “Close enough. We’re finishing the paperwork now. I want to see her.”

  Hall wiped clean hands on his white jacket. “It’s not important. We—” He stopped, wiped the hands again.

  “Major, we did our best, but the damage—” He looked full into Taylor’s eyes again and there was pain in his, and then the cold waters claimed it. “You can see her. She may not regain consciousness. We did all we could. I’m sorry.”

  Taylor felt his knees buckle and kept himself erect only by the strength of the gaze he locked onto the face in front of him.

  “Don’t tell me that. You can’t tell me she’s—that there’s nothing you can do. We’re getting married, for God’s sake! She’s no part of this!” He heard his voice rise as if an undisciplined stranger abused it. The Sergeant touched his arm and he recoiled. “Me! I’m the one! She’s not involved, goddamit, can’t you understand that?”

  Life stirred behind the glasses again. “Look around you, Major.” Each syllable was a whiplash. “There are no soldiers on this ward. Vietnamese females. Aged three, we think, to somewhere around eighty. Don’t tell me about involvement. Get a grip on yourself.”

  Taylor said, “What are her odds? What do I tell her?”

  Hall said, “She knows. I don’t know how, but as soon as we were done, she looked at me and told me. Comfort her. She deserves that.”

  When Hall turned to lead the way, Taylor tried to follow but his knees b
etrayed him again and he stumbled awkwardly. The Sergeant was there as if scheduled, one hand supporting, and as soon as Taylor steadied the hand dropped as if nothing had happened.

  He kept pace behind Taylor as they moved through the ward and into a smaller, separate room. The distances between the beds was a little greater. Ly was in the one closest to the door and he was beside her with no conscious movement. When he took her hand in his, it was cool and unresponding. His heart tore at his ribs.

  “Ly?”

  He thought about the sound itself, to keep the volume down. He imagined his tongue pulling away from his teeth, saw the vowel sound flow across his lip. Her name was always a caress to his mind and he repeated it, trying to make it the same for her.

  Slowly, she came to him, progressing from an increased pulse in her throat to the flutter of an eyelid, from open, unseeing eyes to recognition and his name.

  “Charles. I knew you would find me.” A smile tried her lips and fell away. She said, “Our baby, Charles—I am so sorry. I prayed.”

  He gripped her hand tighter, amazed at the clarity of her words even as the huge tears welled in her dark, dark eyes to be forced out by closing lids.

  “It’s OK, honey. It’s going to be OK.” He hated the insincere rasp of his voice, so crude in contrast to her strength.

  Faint pressure said she was trying to squeeze his hand in return. “I will be with our baby.” She said it calmly and at his wordless objection, found the strength to open her eyes again.

  “It is no use to lie. I know. How could I not know, Charles? This morning I carried life in me. I can feel what is there now. I can be brave, but, please, you must help me. I need you.”

  “I need you, Ly. I love you. Without you—” He had no words to finish, unable to face the cut of the inference.

  Ly said, “You must be strong, too, my Charles,” and there was direction in her voice. “I love you so much. All I leave you are memories.” Her words caught before she continued. “I want to be remembered by good memories. You must not be sad.”