13th Valley

by John M. Del Vecchio

  The perpetual smile on Minh’s face angered Whiteboy. “Damn gook a’ways laughing at us,” he would say when Minh was not around. Minh was a foreigner; he could never be part of Whiteboy’s Alpha Company. “Minh, you lit’le fucka,” Whiteboy said, “the Jew asked you a civil question. Why doan you give him a straight answer?”

  “Whatcha gettin on his case fo?” Doc said. “He tellin ya it’s goan be a bad mothafucka. Goan be another 714. Huh, Minh?”

  “I do not know,” Minh said still smiling. “I hope it will not be so.”

  “Fuckin ay, dammit, best not be,” Whiteboy snapped. “Ah’ve ordered me a Super Sport ta hop up when Ah get back home an Ah sures hell expect ta be theah when it arrives.”

  Minh continued to smile. The muscles of his face ached from smiling but it was his only response to the Americanisms which he did not understand. Later, if he was alone with Doc or possibly El Paso, or if he were in the rear with Lamonte, he would ask questions and he was often surprised to find that many of the American soldiers had as little understanding as he of 427s or 352s or Holly four-barrels which were not weapons. Minh had often been surprised and pleased to find that Americans smiled outsider smiles just as he.

  But with Minh it was that way more often than not. The creases from the constant smile on his face became deep and permanent. The Americans looked at the dumb smile and they saw the misunderstanding in him and they saw their own lack of knowledge of Americana and they hated him because of it. Minh knew he was an outsider and this scared him when he was in the boonies. He feared that if Alpha got in trouble, became pinned down in contact, the Americans would not jeopardize their lives to save his. Minh was thus overly cautious and the American soldiers thought him a coward. In turn Minh hated most of the Americans he served. There were individuals, El Paso and the L-T and Doc, whom he developed genuine friendships with, symbiotic intellectual relationships, exchanging and defining against each other their cultural heritage and in that, themselves.

  In his village and among his city friends Minh was also an outcast. To them he had become Americanized. The riches of the wealthiest land on earth were at his disposal. He was a farmer milking the great cow, prostituting himself and his country for material benefits. Minh was a man alone with broken ties to his culture and with shallow ties to the American military presence.

  “Hey,” Silvers said, “you know what I was just remembering?”

  “Yeah,” Doc laughed. “I’m inside your head.”

  “I was remembering when I first came in-country,” Silvers said laughing along with Doc. “I remember we had just gone through in-country training and, ah, everybody was still scared. There was so much that was unknown.”

  “Damn”—Whiteboy drew the word out for extended emphasis—” that so far back, Ah can’t recollect none a it.”

  “I remember it very clearly.” Silvers gazed into the ground then looked up. “Or at least this part. I remember we didn’t know where we were going or what it was goina be like. During training we kept hearing about this one battalion that had been mauled really badly and we still hadn’t gotten our assignments as to where we were goin. I remember goin into the EM club there and getting a beer. I had just gotten assigned to Alpha Company, 7th of the Four-oh-deuce. And the guy says to me, ‘Where you going?’ I said, ‘Alpha Company, 7th a the Four-oh-deuce.’ And he says, ‘Here.’ He says, ‘Here. The beer’s on the house.’ This cold chill ran up and down my spine. I thought, ‘Oh God, it’s all over. The minute this guy hears where I’m goin he gives me a free beer.’”

  Doc and Minh laughed and Whiteboy said, “You really remember au a that? Ah doan know. Ah got two mo months then Ah’m gettin out.”

  “What you goan do?” Doc fed Whiteboy the question.

  “Ah’m gonna do, Ah guess, just lahk ma daddy did. Think Ah’ll get on with the railroad. Ah’m sure my daddy can get me on as a brakeman or sompthin. Ah got a letter from a friend the othah day and he says mah ol sweetheart’s had a kid an looks lahk a Sherman tank. Ah guess Ah’ll just drift a bit then get on with the railroad but Ah doan really know.”

  “What about you, Doc?” Silvers asked. “What are you goina do?”

  “Too early ta say yet,” Doc dodged the question. He would like to have said he was going to continue his education in medicine, become a nurse or a technician or even a doctor, but he believed those things were beyond the hopes of a poor Harlem black. “I think I’ll jus get out first,” he said. “What bout you, Minh? We know the Jew goan buy a respectable whorehouse but what yo gonna do? You in fo the duration.”

  “To me,” Minh said, “it is most important for peace to return to my country and for all of you to go home. We do not have futures as long as the war continues and as long as your army is in my country.”

  “God A’mighty,” Whiteboy snapped. “We’re heah bustin our guts out for you lit’le fuckers and au you can think of is throwin us out.”

  “Why you gettin on his case again?” Doc said. “If I said to you it’s time yo left yo’d say ‘Right On!’ and thank me. Shee-it. Minh, I say thanks fo wishin me the fuck out.”

  “Ah, fuck this shit,” Whiteboy said and strode up the ravine.

  Whiteboy moved his great bulk smoothly, stepping lightly over Jackson and around other soldiers, over Cherry and up the loose gravel incline onto the landing strip. Cherry had been following their conversation on and off and as Whiteboy stepped over him he smiled trying to indicate to Whiteboy his own approval of the big soldier’s position. Whiteboy did not acknowledge him and as he passed Cherry thought, that guy, he shouldn’t treat Minh like that. Whiteboy proceeded past the lieutenants and the sergeants to the devastated sundry pak where he grabbed a new deck of playing cards. Whiteboy nodded to Pop who was standing with Don White guarding the remaining supplies. The big soldier flexed his muscles, squinted up and down the strip and returned to the ravine.

  All the men in the ravines were sweating. The sun had turned the small canyons into ovens. The men chatted blindly. Some men opened canned C-ration fruit. Others munched candy bars. They shared the fruit and candy, sometimes passing food between groups.

  Whiteboy sat again with Silvers, Doc and Minh. He broke the seal on the deck of cards, removed the jokers and began to shuffle.

  The last wave of Chinooks approached. Whiteboy held the cards tight. Troops turned their backs to the storm of the descending helicopters, a shower of loose landing strip pelted their worn fatigues even though the CH-47s set down at the far end of the strip. Echo Company and the scout dog teams disembarked. The big birds lifted, climbed, swung toward the sea and were gone.

  Jax got up from near the card game, walked up the ravine to the sundry paks, removed a can of shaving cream, shook it up then artfully designed a large elliptical peace symbol on the hot hard ground. El Paso came up behind Jax, looked at the peace symbol, tapped Jax on the shoulder and said, “Never happen.”

  “Na, Dude,” Jax responded, “doan be a fool. Yo gowin be outa here and I gowin be outa here before it happen but I bet ten ta one Cherry doan pull no full tour.”

  In the trench sitting back against his ruck, sitting beside Jax’ ruck, Cherry scratched sand from his scalp. Dust and grit stuck to his sweating arms and neck. He was miserable. He was still alone.

  The staging area was now a cluster of hundreds of individual activities. Cherry was surprised, as he looked up and down the strip, to see so many men. In a ravine behind him a platoon sergeant snapped at the troops from Charlie company. “Come on,” the voice demanded. “Turn in all your pot. Let’s go. Pot, pills, hash. All that shit. Come on now, I know you got that shit. I’m going to go for a walk. Go up and throw it in the sundry box. No questions asked. If you don’t turn that shit in, I’m going to find it on you. If I find it in the boonies, yer goina be in a world a hurt.”

  “Shee-it, Egan,” a voice boomed out. “I don’t know how you kin smoke them gook cigarettes. They smell like they come outa the asshole of a dyin gook whore.”

/>   Egan was coming down the ravine. Cherry did not look up though he followed Egan’s approach with his peripheral vision. Egan was looking directly at him. For the first time Cherry really noted Egan’s physical appearance, noted the ill-fitting faded and torn fatigues draped over the wiry thin body, the dilapidated jungle boots worn bare of color, the jungle sores and sun blisters and scars on Egan’s face and arms.

  Egan squatted beside Cherry and in a voice coming from low in his throat he said, “Aint this a fucker?”

  “This? What?”

  “This,” Egan said looking Cherry up and down and then straight in the eyes. “You doin okay?” he demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Aint this a bitch though?”

  “What?”

  “This havin ta go look for em,” Egan said teasing Cherry with the half statement. He spoke at Cherry, aimed his voice at Cherry’s face. “My bag is killin gooks,” Egan said. “I really love it. Didn’t I tell you that last night?”

  “Ah … no …” Cherry stammered.

  “I remember the good ol days,” Egan said. His eyes shone. “Tet a ’69. It was tremendous. We had gooks runnin around the battalion AO. Right in Eagle. Man, they’d gotten through the perimeter. This is a fucker but back then you didn’t even have ta go lookin for em. Shee-it. Now you don’t find enough ta fill an ant’s asshole. But before—you could just walk out in back a the orderly room and shoot a few.”

  Cherry stared at Egan. Egan was glaring him in the face. Cherry looked away, frightened. My God, he thought, this character’s sick. Cherry looked down at his knees. He still wore one of the uniforms he had been issued at Fort Lewis. It struck him how new his fatigues were. He looked up at Egan then past Egan and he realized that he, of all the men in the ravine, had on the only new uniform. His skin was the only clean skin, the only skin without sores and scabs and bandages.

  Egan’s voice rose in an eerie whisper. “Maybe we’ll get ta shoot some gooks today—shoot em right through the fuckin head. Would ya like that? DAMN! War is good. Really good. You love it, don’tcha? Don’tcha?” Egan leaned forward pressing Cherry for affirmation.

  Cherry trembled imperceptibly. “War,” Egan said forming his lips into a trumpet and sensuously blowing the word at Cherry. “They send you to the far corners of the earth. You hear the blasts of artillery and bombs. You get weapons, helicopters. You can call all heaven down, all hell up, with your radio. War. It’s wonderful. It don’t make a gnat’s ass difference who the enemy is. Every man, once in his life, should go to WAR.” Egan harshly flicked the butt of his cigarette across the ravine then spat into the earth between himself and Cherry.

  Cherry hesitated, then muttered, “Yeah, but is it right?”

  “Winning makes it right,” Egan snarled. “You can count your cherry ass on that.”

  “What about the corruption?” Cherry asked more aggressively.

  Egan snapped harsher, “Corruption?! What corruption? Thieu? Are you goina tell me if the gooks win, they won’t be corrupt? Do you think they’ll be better? Do you think their honchos won’t rape and pillage? You can kiss my ass. You’re missin the point. Fuck the honchos. It’s us or them. WAR! May the best man win. WAR. Beautiful WAR. When yer kids ask ya, ‘Daddy, who’d the night belong to? Daddy, did you kill anybody?’ tell em the night belonged to Egan—and he killed everybody.”

  Egan stomped away. Cherry did not look at the men about him. He was sure everyone was staring at him. He breathed deeply trying to gain control. Things had been coming together slowly for him. At first everything seemed detached from every other thing; each incident, meeting, conversation seemed to be a separate entity. Then things began to blur; one incident became indistinguishable from another, the starting and stopping in time and physical arrangement became all screwed up in his mind. Egan’s tirade had suddenly caused a connection, a clear slash of reality through the haze. It was the beginning of understanding, the beginning of Cherry’s loss of innocence. Chelini was at war. “You are finally goina see it,” he mumbled to himself. “You’re finally goina be a part of it.”

  Off the landing strip at the beginning of a tiny divide between two ravines of Alpha Company troops, Lieutenant Brooks re-briefed his platoon leaders, forward observer and two platoon sergeants. In one hand he held a map of the operational area, in the other his M-16 rifle. “Birds will be here in one-three,” he said. “They’ll land at thirty-second intervals. We’re going up in platoon order, first, second and third. Have your men arranged in pick-up order. Where’s Egan?”

  “I think he went off to write a letter to his lady,” Lieutenant Thomaston said.

  “Tell him to get moving. Okay, let’s break it up. Have em get em on.”

  Lieutenants Caldwell and De Barti walked off with their platoon sergeants. Lieutenant Thomaston strode over toward where Egan stood cussing.

  Seven men approached Brooks from the center of the landing strip. They were dressed in smartly tailored, well-starched fatigue uniforms. Leading the group was the 3d Brigade commander. He wore a spotless helmet with a freshly starched cloth helmet cover. On the front of the cover were embroidered gold letters spelling out OLD FOX in a horseshoe wreath. Inside the wreath was the silver eagle insignia of his rank.

  By the side of the Old Fox was Lt.Col. Henderson, the GreenMan. Both men wore web gear over their fatigues and both carried .45 caliber pistols in polished leather holsters. Their boots were so shined that somehow the dust of the strip had not dulled or coated them.

  Behind Henderson was his aide and behind the Old Fox was his entourage of aides and advisers. The commanders approached Brooks together while the aides hung back a respectful three or four feet.

  “Good morning, Sir,” Lieutenant Brooks saluted.

  “Good morning, Lieutenant,” the two senior officers saluted in unison.

  “Lieutenant Brooks, I do not think I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance before but I’ve heard nothing but positive reports about you for the past week. I’d like to say it is an honor to have you in my command.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Brooks replied uneasily.

  The Old Fox spoke perfectly, weighing each word for effect and calculating the response each received. “Brooks, I am the Colonel, The Man, The Old Man if you like. And what I say goes.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Lieutenant, if there is one thing life has taught me it is this: You have to pay for what you get. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “You have to pay for liberty, for freedom, for justice.”

  Christ, Brooks thought. What am I in for now?

  “I want to tell you something about war, about this war. I want to impart to you lessons I’ve learned that seem to be lost on our youth today. I’d be very pleased, Lieutenant, if you’d impart this lesson to your platoon leaders and NCOs. I’d’ be very pleased if my words filtered down to your brave men. How old are you, Lieutenant?”

  “Twenty-four, Sir.”

  “Twenty-four,” the Old Fox repeated quietly, shaking his head. “Lieutenant,” he said louder, “this infiltration is like a cancer to this nation. It’s like a tumor which we’ve attacked. We’ve halted its growth and possibly reversed its gnawing, rotting progress. When Marines first landed in I Corps back in ’65 most of their contacts were made within five to eight kilometers of the cities. In ’67 and ’68, with the exception of the Tet Offensive and Counter-Offensive, the fighting had moved into the jungles and away from the populated lowlands. Now, Lieutenant, we are in the mountains thirty, forty, fifty kilometers from the cities we must defend. A lot of Americans have paid dearly for this protection and we have been paid back. We have checked this cancer. But until the victim is strong enough to combat this disease by himself, our aid is paramount to his survival.”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “One of our problems is public opinion, Brooks, and you and your men are part of the public. That’s why I want to address you personally. The North has never publicly admitt
ed either to infiltrating the South or to its ultimate objective of conquering the South. That lack of a clearly stated objective has tricked many Americans into questioning whether their objectives, so fully exposed by our intelligence network, are indeed real. Many Americans simply do not believe it or choose not to believe it yet we are about to tangle with a massive element of NVA regulars—infiltrators.

  “The purpose of our being here is to defend South Vietnam, not to occupy or to dominate it. We are an army opposing an army. They are an army who has come to conquer. We may well try to capture or control the same objectives but our intent is not identical. We are defenders, not aggressors. As President Johnson once said, ‘Aggression unchallenged is aggression unleashed.’ We are here to challenge the aggression from the North. Do you believe that, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes Sir.”

  “Good, Lieutenant, because if you believe in what you are fighting for, if you support the cause, you are more apt to be willing to die for that cause. If you do not believe in what you are fighting for, you fight badly. If you fight badly, you are more apt to lose and more apt to die. It is a paradox of traditional warfare that if you believe in the cause for which you fight, you are more apt to risk your life, more apt to win, less apt to fight badly and less apt to die. More risk but less death. That, Lieutenant, is why you and your men must believe in what we are doing.

  “We are the strongest, toughest, hardest fighting division in the Army. But by the news releases that I see every day, one would think we are a bunch of pansies. Lieutenant, I believe in our just cause and I want you to know you are backed by our every asset. Either we shall all pull together, fight together or we shall die together. That’s the way it is. Lastly, Lieutenant, you would not be here, your men would not be here, if your country did not need you. Believe me, Lieutenant, your country will repay you many fold.”