Prayers to Broken Stones

by Dan Simmons

  FADE OUT

  Introduction to

  “E-Ticket to ’Namland”

  I was born in 1948. By the time Kennedy was elected in 1960, World War II seemed like ancient history. Not just to me … everything is ancient history to a twelve-year-old … but, I believe, to most people in America then. The countless veterans had come home, and while many individuals had to deal with the traumas of war, the vast majority of them put the war behind them in various ways: went on to school on the Gl Bill or got on with starting families, bought homes, and renewed their lives. Many of the men and women in my parents’ generation had changed during the war, but most for the better. Travel and combat had brought some half-sensed maturity to the men; work and participation in the war effort had brought some inexpressable confidence and widening of horizons to the women. America had changed forever—gone forever was the isolationist, essentially rural nation recovering from the trauma of the Depression. I was born into the world’s greatest superpower. We had the Bomb, economic prosperity, an unlimited future, and a young president who promised a New Frontier.

  World War II was ancient history. Fifteen years had passed since our victory over the dictatorships, and even the brutal dress rehearsal of Korea hadn’t changed our optimism. The real war was long ago and far away.

  As I write this, fifteen years have passed since the last Americans fled Vietnam. Seventeen years have gone by since we withdrew our fighting forces. Two decades—a fifth of our century—have elapsed since the height of our involvement there. Yet, I feel, we’re just beginning to find some collective peace of mind about Vietnam.

  I suppose someone has suggested the parallel (it may be a cliché by now, for all I know), but it occurs to me that the stages of our national response to the trauma of Vietnam closely reflect the classic stages of response to the death of a loved one or the reaction to learning one has a terminal illness. Just look at our movies about Vietnam over the past twenty years.

  First, denial: No major films. Nada.

  Then anger: The cathartic “Coming Home” mental rewrites where the veterans were either anti-war martyrs or nutcases, followed by the revisionist fantasies of Rambo and his clones.

  Then depression: The one brilliant depiction of the war was “Apocalypse Now,” but Coppola jumped a stage in our recovery cycle so his effort was shunned. If he had waited until after we’d sickened of our Rambo fantasies, the film would have been received quite differently.

  Finally, acceptance: “Platoon” and “Full Metal Jacket” and “Casualties of War” and the other post-trauma films have—despite the ballyhoo to the contrary—little content, less philosophy. What they do have is a shockingly correct texture—something quite close to the real smell of sweat and crotch rot, something surprisingly near to the actual language and true fatigue and terrible claustrophobia of a patrol in the boonies, something almost right about the fear that rises from the actors on the screen and spreads to the audience like the stench from a day-old corpse.

  And so, after two decades and with an entire new generation which has grown up bored with the whole topic, after more changes in the texture of daily life than we can imagine or accept, I think we’re finally beginning to feel—if not really understand—the true dimensions of the terrible national traffic accident that was Vietnam.

  But for some people, that’s just the beginning of the process.

  E-Ticket to ’Namland

  The twenty-eight Huey gunships moved out in single file, each hovering a precise three meters above the tarmac, the sound of their rotors filling the world with a roar that could be felt in teeth and bones and testicles. Once above the treeline and gaining altitude, the helicopters separated into four staggered V-formations and the noise diminished to the point where shouts could be heard.

  “First time out?” cried the guide.

  “What?” Justin Jeffries turned away from the open door where he had been watching the shadow of their helicopter slide across the surface of the mirrored rice paddies below. He leaned toward the guide until their combat helmets were almost touching.

  “First time out?” repeated the guide. The man was small even for a Vietnamese. He wore a wide grin and the uniform and shoulder patch of the old First Air Cav Division.

  Jeffries was big even for an American. He was dressed in green shorts, a flowered Hawaiian shirt, Nike running sandals, an expensive Rolex comlog, and a U.S. Army helmet that had become obsolete the year he was born. Jeffries was draped about with cameras; a compact Yashika SLR, a Polaroid Holistic-360, and a new Nikon imager. He returned the guide’s grin. “First time for us. We’re here with my wife’s father.”

  Heather leaned over to join the conversation. “Daddy was here during … you know … the war. They thought it might be good for him to take the Vet Tour.” She nodded in the direction of a short, solid, gray-haired man leaning against the M-60 machine-gun mount near the door’s safety webbing. He was the only person in the cabin not wearing a helmet. The back of his blue shirt was soaked with sweat.

  “Yes., yes,” smiled the guide and stepped back to plug his microphone jack into a bulkhead socket. His voice echoed tinnily in every helmet and from hidden speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, please notice the treeline to your right.”

  There was a lurch as the passengers shifted their positions and craned for a view. Ten-year-old Sammee Jeffries and his eight-year-old sister Elizabeth shoved their way through the crowded space to stand next to where their grandfather sat by the open door. The barrel of Elizabeth’s plastic M-16 accidentally struck the older man on his sunburned neck but he did not turn or speak.

  Suddenly a series of flashes erupted from the treeline along one rice paddy. The passengers gasped audibly as a line of magnesium-bright tracer bullets rose up and lashed toward their ship, missing the rotors by only a few meters. Immediately one of the gunships at the rear of their V-formation dove, curved back the way they had come in a centrifugally perfect arc, and raked the treeline with rocket and minigun fire. Meanwhile, at the guide’s urging, Sammee stood on a low box, grasped the two-handed grip of the heavy M-60, swung it awkwardly to bear in the general direction of the now-distant treeline, and depressed the firing studs. The passengers instinctively clutched at their helmets to block their ears. Heavy cartridges, warm but not hot enough to burn anyone, clattered onto the metal deck.

  An explosion split the treeline, sending phosphorous streamers fifty meters into the air and setting several tall palms ablaze. Bits of flaming debris splashed into the quiet rice paddy. The passengers laughed and applauded. Sammee grinned back at them and flexed his muscles.

  Elizabeth leaned against her grandfather and spoke loudly into his ear. “Isn’t this fun, Grandpa?”

  He turned to say something but at that second the guide announced that their destination would be coming up on the left side of the ship and Elizabeth was away, shoving her brother aside to get a better view, eager to see the village appear below out of the heat-haze and smoke.

  Later that evening five men sat around a table on the fifth-floor terrace of the Saigon Oberoi Sheraton. The air was warm and humid. Occasional gusts of laughter and splashing sounds came up from the pool on the fourth-floor terrace. It was well past nine, but the tropical twilight lingered.

  “You were on the village mission-tour this morning, weren’t you?” asked Justin Jeffries of the young Oriental next to him.

  “Yes, I was. Most interesting.” The man sat in a relaxed manner, but something about his bearing, the precisely creased safari suit, the intensity of his gaze, suggested a military background.

  “You’re Nipponese, aren’t you?” asked Justin. At the man’s smile and nod, Justin went on. “Thought so. Here with the military mission?”

  “No, merely on leave. ‘R and R’ I believe your people used to call it.”

  “Christ,” said the overweight American who sat next to Justin’s father-in-law. “You’ve been up north in the PRC fighting Chen’s warlords, haven’t you?”<
br />
  “Just so,” said the Nipponese and extended his hand to Justin. “Lieutenant Keigo Naguchi.”

  “Justin Jeffries, Kansas City.” Justin’s huge hand enclosed the lieutenant’s and pumped twice. “This here is my father-in-law, Ralph Disantis.”

  “A pleasure,” said the lieutenant with a quick nod.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Disantis.

  “I believe I saw you with your grandchildren at the village today,” said Naguchi. “A boy and a girl?”

  Disantis nodded and sipped his beer. Justin gestured to the heavy-set man next to his father-in-law. “And this is Mr.… ah … Sears, right?’

  “Sayers,” said the man. “Roger Sayers. Nice to make your acquaintance, Lieutenant. So how’s is going up there? Your guys finally getting those little bastards out of the hillcaves?”

  “Most satisfactory,” said Lieutenant Naguchi. “The situation should be stabilized before the next rainy season.”

  “Japanese brains and Vietnamese blood, huh?” laughed Sayers. He turned to the fifth man at the table, a silent Vietnamese in a white shirt and dark glasses, and added quickly, “No offense meant. Everybody knows that your basic Viet peasant makes the best foot soldier in the world. Showed us that forty years ago, eh, Mr.… ah …?”

  “Minh,” said the little man and shook hands around the table. “Nguyen van Minh.” Minh’s hair was black, his face unlined, but his eyes and hands revealed that he was at least in his sixties, closer to Disantis’s age than that of the others.

  “I saw you on the plane from Denver,” said Justin. “Visiting family here?”

  “No.” said Minh. “I have been an American citizen since 1976. This is my first trip back to Vietnam. I have no family here now.” He turned toward Naguchi. “Lieutenant, I am surprised that you chose to spend your leave on an American’s Veterans’ Tour.”

  Naguchi shrugged and sipped at his gin and tonic. “I find it a sharp contrast to modern methods. Up north I am more technician than warrior. Also, of course, learning more about the first of the helicopter wars is valuable to anyone who is interested in military history. You were a veteran of that war, Mr. Disantis?”

  Justin’s father-in-law nodded and took a long swallow of beer.

  “I just missed it,” said Sayers with real regret in his voice. “Too young for Vietnam. Too goddamn old for the Banana Wars.”

  Justin grunted. “You didn’t miss much there.”

  “Ah, you were involved in that period?” asked Naguchi.

  “Sure,” said Justin. “Everybody who came of age in the discount decade got in on the Banana Wars. The tour today could have been Tegucicalpa or Estanzuelas, just substitute in coffee plantations for the rice paddies.”

  “I want to hear about that,” said Sayers and waved a waiter over to the table. “Another round for everyone,” he said. From somewhere near the pool a steel drum band started up, unsuccessfully trying to mix American pop tunes, a Caribbean beat, and local musicians. The sound seemed sluggish in the wet, thick air. Tropical night had fallen and even the stars appeared dimmed by the thickness of atmosphere. Naguchi looked up at a band of brighter stars moving toward the zenith and then glanced down at his comlog.

  “Checking azimuth for your spottersat, right?” asked Justin. “It’s a hard habit to break. I still do it.”

  Disantis rose. “Sorry I can’t stay for the next round, gentlemen. Going to sleep off some of this jet lag.” He moved into the air-conditioned brightness of the hotel.

  Before going to his own room, Disantis looked in on Heather and the children. His daughter was in bed already, but Sammee and Elizabeth were busy feeding data from their father’s Nikon through the terminal and onto the wallscreen. Disantis leaned against the door molding and watched.

  “This is the LZ,” Sammee said excitedly.

  “What’s an LZ?” asked Elizabeth.

  “Landing Zone,” snapped Sammee. “Don’t you remember anything!”

  The wall showed image after image of dust, rotors, the predatory shadows of Hueys coming in above Justin’s camera position, the thin line of passengers in combat garb, men and women instinctively bent low despite obvious clearance from the rotors, tourists clutching at their helmets with one hand and hugging cameras, purses, and plastic M-16s to their chests with the other, groups moving quickly away from the raised landing platform along rice paddy dikes.

  “There’s Grandpa!” cried Elizabeth. Disantis saw himself, aging, overweight, puffing heavily as he heaved himself down from the helicopter, disdaining the guide’s outstretched hand. Sammee tapped at the terminal keys. The picture zoomed and enlarged until only Disantis’s grainy face filled the screen. Sammee shifted through colors and widened his grandfather’s face until it became a purple balloon ready to pop.

  “Stop it,” whined Elizabeth.

  “Crybaby,” said Sammee, but some sixth sense made him glance over his shoulder to where Disantis stood. Sammee made no acknowledgment of his grandfather’s presence but advanced the picture through a montage of new images.

  Disantis blinked and watched the jerky newsreel proceed. The abandoned village of rough huts. The lines of tourist-troops along each side of the narrow road. Close-ups of huts being searched. Heather emerging from a low doorway, blinking in the sunlight, awkwardly lifting her toy M-16 and waving at the camera.

  “This is the good part,” breathed Sammee.

  They had been returning to the LZ when figures along a distant dike had opened fire. At first the tourists milled around in confusion, but at the guides’ urging they finally, laughingly, had taken cover on the grassy side of the dike. Justin remained standing to take pictures. Disantis watched as those images built themselves on the wallscreen at a rate just slower than normal video. Data columns flashed by to the right. He saw himself drop to one knee on the dike and hold Elizabeth’s hand. He remembered noting that the grass was artificial.

  The tourists returned fire. Their M-16s flashed and recoiled, but no bullets were expended. The din was tremendous. On the screen a two-year-old near Justin had begun to cry.

  Eventually the guides helped a young tourist couple use a field radio to call in an airstrike. The jets were there in less than a minute—three A-4D Skyhawks with antiquated U.S. naval markings bright and clear on the white wings. They screamed in under five hundred feet high. Justin’s camera shook as the explosions sent long shadows across the dikes and made the tourists cringe and hug the earth from their vantage point six hundred meters away. Justin had managed to steady the camera even as the napalm continued to blossom upward.

  “Watch,” said Sammee. He froze the frame and then zoomed in. The image expanded. Tiny human forms, black silhouettes, became visible against the orange explosions. Sammee enlarged the image even further. Disantis could make out the silhouette of an outflung arm, a shirttail gusting, a conical peasant’s hat flying off.

  “How’d they do that, Grandpa?” asked Sammee without turning around.

  Disantis shrugged. “Holos, maybe.”

  “Naw, not holos,” said Sammee. He did not try to hide his condescension. “Too bright out there. Besides, you can see the pieces fly. Betcha they were animates.”

  Elizabeth rolled over from where she was sprawled. Her pajamas carried a picture of Wonder Duck on the front. “What’d Mr. Sayers mean on the way back, Grandpa?”

  “When?”

  “In the helicopter when he said, ‘Well, I guess we really showed Charlie today.’ ” Elizabeth took a breath. “Who’s Charlie, Grandpa?”

  “Stupid,” said Sammee. “Charlie was the VC. The bad guys.”

  “How come you called him Charlie, Grandpa?” persisted Elizabeth. The frozen explosion on the wallscreen cast an orange glow on her features.

  “I don’t remember,” said Disantis. He paused with his hand on the door. “You two had better get to bed before your father comes up. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

  Later, alone in his room, sitting in silence broken only b
y the hum of the air-conditioner, Disantis realized that he could not remember why the Vietcong had been called Charlie. He wondered if he had ever known. He turned out the light and opened the sliding doors to the balcony. The humid air settled on him like a blanket as he stepped out. Three floors below, Justin, Sayers, and the others still sat drinking. Their laughter floated up to Disantis and mixed with the rumble of thunder from a storm on the distant and darkened horizon.

  On their way to a picnic the next day, Mr. Sayers tripped a claymore mine.

  The guide had put them on a simulated patrol down a narrow jungle trail. Sayers was in the lead, paying little attention to the trail, talking to Reverend Dewitt, an airwaves minister from Dothan, Alabama. Justin and Heather were walking with the Newtons, a young couple from Hartford. Disantis was further back in line, walking between Sammee and Elizabeth to keep them from quarreling.

  Sayers stepped into a thin tripwire stretched across the trail, a section of dirt erupted a meter in front of him, and the claymore jumped three meters into the air before exploding in a white puff.

  “Shit,” said Sayers. “Excuse me, Reverend.” The Vietnamese guide came forward with an apologetic smile and put a red KIA armband on Sayers. The Reverend Dewitt and Tom Newton each received a yellow WIA armband.

  “Does this mean I don’t get to go to the picnic?” asked Sayers.

  The guide smiled and directed the others on how to prepare a medevac LZ in a nearby clearing. Lieutenant Naguchi and Minh cleared underbrush with machetes while Heather and Sue Newton helped spread marker panels of iridescent orange plastic. Sammee was allowed to pop the tab on a green smoke marker.

  The dust-off bird came in with a blast of downdraft that flattened the tall grass and blew Disantis’s white tennis hat off. Sayers, Dewitt, and Newton sat propped on their elbows and waved as their stretchers were loaded. The patrol resumed when the dust-off ’copter was just a distant throbbing in the sky.