by Robert Mason
Adjacent to our laager was a village. From where we were parked you could not see the huts for the trees, over a hundred feet tall. A trail led into the dark-green lush-ness. I decided to follow it.
In just a few steps I was in another world. Dark and cool under the canopy of green, the well-worn, clean path led to a kind of courtyard and stopped.
A hundred feet above me a small circle of light broke through the trees. I turned to look behind me for the inevitable bunch of people, the “Hey-GI-you” crowd. No one anywhere. I stepped up on a kind of sidewalk that connected the hooches. I looked in the door of the first hooch. Nobody was home. I leaned in cautiously—some—where in my brain a voice warned me to watch for booby traps—and saw that the cooking fire at the back of the hooch was glowing. I looked around outside again—nobody.
I walked to the next door, leaned inside, and met a face that had been hiding against the wall next to the door. The face was a woman’s. She was smiling, her forehead wrinkled in worry. From behind her black pajama pants peered a small boy.
She bowed slightly and said something to me and then called out to someone. I stepped back outside nervously, wondering why the fuck I was here alone. The woman and boy followed me out, smiling and bowing nervously. Behind me I heard another voice. I turned quickly and saw an ancient lady in black limping across the courtyard.
She smiled, showing black teeth. I didn’t remember any words in Vietnamese except numbers. I didn’t know what to say except “You Vietcong?”
Suddenly the three of them pointed outside the village. “Vietcong.” I wanted to ask them where their men were, but I didn’t know the words. Finally, I did the American thing and took their photograph.
I began to feel self-conscious with the three of them huddled fearfully on their sidewalk. I explained to them that I was just looking around and that I was going on along the trail. I waved good-bye.
The trail led to another, identical courtyard. No one was home here, either. I found some cooking fires still hot, but everybody had obviously beat a hasty retreat. Alone in one of the hooches, I touched the wattle walls and sat in a net hammock. Above me, the exposed bamboo rafters and beams looked well made. The floor was clean, even if it was made of dirt. Not a bad place, actually. Certainly it was a lot better than the tent I slept in. It was not the average American home, but I doubt that the inhabitants paid much of a mortgage.
I walked farther into the village under the trees, passing a suspicious pile of rice stalks that probably hid the entrance to underground bunkers and tunnels. I could’ve gone over and checked. I could’ve grabbed my pistol and committed suicide, too. They both would’ve amounted to the same thing.
The last hooch I examined was the home of a master carpenter. I discovered his box of tools. Inside the box—about the size of a small suitcase—scores of tools rested in neat compartments. Yellow brass gleamed; shiny steel edges glinted. Knurled hardwood knobs held planing blades tight in their handles. All manner of carving tools reposed in their own boxes. The wide selection and the quality of their tools told me that these people, or at least this person, were definitely not savages.
I had never heard of a gook or a slope-head or a slant-eye or a dink who did anything but eat rice and shit and fight unending wars. These tools and that waterwheel convinced me that there was a successful way of life going on around us, but all we saw were savages, backward savages fighting against the Communist hordes from the North. Why were all the men of this beautiful village gone just when the Americans were right outside? Wouldn’t people under attack by the Communists welcome the men who were there to save them? Or was I seeing the wrong way? Maybe the only people who wanted us around were the Saigon politicians who were getting rich by having the Americans here. This village was a long way from Saigon. And the people weren’t rich; they were just people.
The carpenter had made a bench whose parts fit so well that it didn’t need any nails to hold it together. It was so precisely made, and so in tune with the materials that made it, that it held itself together without aid. I saw this as an enlightening symbol of the true nature of the Vietnamese people, so I stole the bench. I carried it on my shoulder back up the trail, past the rice-stalk pile, past the two courtyards, past the still-smiling women, and back out into the sunshine of the sandy garden. I walked over to my helicopter and put the bench in the shade of the rotor, sat down, and said, “Look, no nails.” I shifted back and forth to put strain on the bench to show that it did not move. Kaiser came over to see. “See, they put this together so well it doesn’t need nails,” I said.
“That’s because they have to. Dumb gooks don’t know how to make nails,” said Kaiser.
We had been away from the Golf Course for more than a month when it was hit in a mortar attack. Several people were killed, fifty or so were wounded, and several Hueys were shredded, but that didn’t interfere with the scheduled appearance of Ambassador Lodge, who showed up the next day to dedicate our division compound officially as Camp Radcliff. It was too late. The name had become the Golf Course, and we were stuck with it.
“Don’t worry about McElroy; he can take care of himself,” said Rubenski. McElroy’s platoon had been encircled, and we could not get to them. Charlie had set up antiaircraft guns on the hillsides around the platoon, and somebody had already died trying to fly past them. We waited in the dark at Dog for the air force to bomb the emplacements.
“Of course,” I said. “But what does being able to take care of yourself have to do with surviving a Vietcong ambush?”
“If you knew McElroy, you’d know he’ll do just fine.” Rubenski’s scarred face brightened in a crooked smile. He once told me that he almost did not get into the army because of all the old fractures in his skull, part of the growing-up process in Chicago. “Listen to this plan,” he said. “McElroy’s plan.”
“Not the bank-job idea.”
“No. No measly bank job. That’s the point. McElroy has a mind.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Lake Tahoe.”
“Jesus.”
“Wait a minute, sir. Give me a chance.”
“You want to rob Lake Tahoe?”
“Just listen. Then tell me if you see any bad spots, okay?”
“Go ahead. I’m not going anywhere for a while.”
“The target is a casino at Tahoe. Now, McElroy has seen this, but he doesn’t know yet exactly how often each week they do it—collect the take from the machines and tables. We’d have to case the place for a while to get the times straight. Anyway, they collect all the loot in garden carts and haul it outside to an armored car. They got guards all around, but for a minute or so millions of dollars is just sittin’ there waiting to be scarfed up.”
“So all you have to do is walk past a bunch of guards—”
“Wait, sir, let me tell you,” Rubenski said eagerly. “We use gas, like we do here. Three of us wait in ambush and pop the gas when the loot is outside. Then, as we go into the gas to get the carts, you come in with a Huey and land on the road, in the smoke.”
“Me? How did I get into this plan?”
“It’s gotta be you, Mr. Mason. I’ve seen you do stuff like this a hundred times. See, that’s the genius of McElroy’s plan. We take the stuff we learn here and put it to good use back home. You see?”
“Yeah, I see you flying all over the place trying to figure out where to park a Huey-load of money without raising suspicion.”
“That’s the best part,” he continued. “When we drop the CS”—a vomit-inducing agent—“nobody is going to stick around who doesn’t have a mask. We also pop a bunch of smoke to cover the loading and the takeoff. We get off with everybody on board and head away low level. We fly for a hundred miles to a lake McElroy knows about. There’s a cabin there where we can stash the money and where we can stay for six months while things cool off.”
“Nobody’s going to notice a Huey parked out on the dock?”
“Oh, yeah. We take the Huey�
��stolen from the National Guard—out over the lake and ditch it. Then we hang around for six months thinking about how to spend over a million dollars each. Can you imagine?”
“It’s a classic plan all right.”
“I knew you’d like it.”
“I didn’t say I liked it; I said it was classic.”
The stars were bright enough to see a man running from ship to ship, a shadow. At the next ship we could hear him asking for Rubenski. Rubenski called that he was here, and jumped out to meet the shadow halfway.
Some people had died in the ambush. McElroy was one. Rubenski came back and sat in the pocket by his gun and cried. Choking sobs filled the Huey.
I stared out into the black night and shed tears for McElroy, too, and I didn’t even know him.
“I can’t believe anybody’d be dumb enough to walk into a tail rotor.”
“I know. And a grunt who’d been on a bunch of assaults, too.” We laughed.
It was funny now, on the back of the truck heading toward Qui Nhon. But last night, when we returned from Dog, a grunt had walked right into the spinning tail rotor of the ship in front of me. I almost resigned. It was too much. I could not stand the idea that somebody could get killed by a Huey after the same Huey just saved his life. I was pulling off my helmet as the ship whined down when I saw the guy rush around from the side door of the ship. Before I could even think of saying “Stop,” he was driven to the ground. The tail rotor had hit him on the head. Thud. Down.
I didn’t resign. There was a trick ending: The guy wasn’t dead. His helmet saved his life, leaving him with only a bad concussion and some cuts.
“The dumb fuck is probably on his way home right now,” said Kaiser.
“He deserves it,” said Connors. “Anybody that is still alive after that should get a medal and a plane ticket home.”
This truck ride was the first break in a month for the six of us. Other groups of pilots had got into Qui Nhon, and now it was our turn.
Whether by accident or plan, I was with the usual bunch, Connors, Banjo, Kaiser, Nate, and Resler. Farris was also with us—to make sure we came back.
The twenty-mile drive from the Rifle Range at Phu Cat to Qui Nhon took nearly two hours on a bumpy causeway through unending rice paddies. Every so often an island village punctuated the causeway.
“You’d think the fucking army could squeeze one fucking ride in a Huey for a bunch of its ace pilots,” said Connors.
“No ships available. Too many down for maintenance,” replied Farris, the army spokesman.
We parked the truck where the traffic got thick and hired a kid to watch it for us. Then we wandered down the street, looking to be entertained.
Connors was stopped by an MP. “Sorry, sir. You have to have your sleeves rolled above the elbow,” said the MP.
“What?” Connors said.
“Your sleeves, sir. You have to have them rolled up above the elbow.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, sir.”
Connors glared at the MP. We all did. None of us had our sleeves rolled up high enough.
“What if I like my sleeves just like they are?”
“Then I’ll be forced to arrest you, sir.”
“You would arrest me for not having my sleeves rolled up?”
“Yes, sir. Those are my orders.”
“Tell me,” Connors said quietly. “Do you know that there’s a war going on?”
“Yes, sir. Of course I know there’s a war going on.”
“Then why the fuck do you care how high my sleeves are!”
The MP flinched. “I don’t care, sir. But if I don’t enforce the dress codes, I get my ass in a sling.”
“Ah. You get your ass in a sling if my sleeves aren’t rolled up above my elbow. Now you’re making sense.” Connors started rolling his sleeves. “See, gentlemen, it’s not this specialist’s personal perversion that makes him look for sleeve abuse during wartime; it’s the personal perversion of his rear-echelon boss.” Connors nodded grimly. “Right, Specialist?”
“That’s right, sir.”
Everybody looked pissed off, but we rolled our sleeves up.
“Damn. I keep forgetting that the army goes on like normal while we’re away,” Gary said, voicing our thoughts as we strolled down the bustling street.
While we were still in sight of the truck, Farris told us to meet him back there at 1600 hours, to which we reverently agreed.
Kaiser had been here before. “What we need to do first, gang, is to go get a steam bath so we won’t repel the lovelies.”
“Ah, the lovelies!” Connors swooned.
“You’ll need more than a steam bath, Connors,” said Banjo.
“I love the lovelies.”
“Like, plastic surgery,” Banjo continued.
I had always liked the idea of a steam bath, but it wasn’t what I expected. It was hot, way too hot to enjoy. I was forced to the floor, to breathe the mythical cooler air there, two minutes after I had closed the door to the steam room. This is fun? After two more minutes, when I was sure I was passing out, I practically crawled outside to the massage table.
A middle-aged Vietnamese man positioned me carefully on the table and began to wreak Oriental vengeance upon my Occidental body.
“Good, no?” he said as he slammed on my back. “You will like… this.” I winced as he pulled my elbows beyond my head. He continued for some minutes. He leaned over quietly and said, “You want blow job?”
“No,” I said quickly, embarrassed.
“I can have girl come here give number-one blow job.”
I was relieved to know that it was a girl he was talking about, but I wasn’t interested. “No. Thanks anyway.”
“Yes, you do, Mason.” I heard Kaiser’s voice beyond the partition. “You owe it to yourself to enjoy the best each place has to offer. The best this place has to offer is Nancy and her magic lips.”
The Vietnamese masseur nodded expectantly, but I said no. He shrugged and started beating me up again.
We wandered around, shopping and drinking, more or less as a group, for a couple of hours. I began to lose track of my position. I was somewhere in the heart of Qui Nhon on a sunny street, off a sunny street. Four of us were sitting around a table at a wonderful little bar on the lovely, sunny street talking to beautiful little girls who wanted to fuck us blind. Kaiser belted back more booze while he tried to get a laughing girl to pay him for his services. Gary blushed and talked to an image of a sweet-heart. Nate became a sober intellectual as he discussed world affairs with a nodding woman. I drank and watched everything that happened in this sunny, wonderful bar. I never knew just how good bourbon could be.
“Secret?” I said, alerted by the words and face of a girl who had become my confidante. “Where?”
She pulled me to her to whisper the secret. Laughter broke out when Kaiser’s girl compromised and announced she would fuck him for free, just like he had said she would. Ah, it’s so wonderful here with all these lovely people.
“But if it’s a secret, why are you taking off your clothes?” Aha, be witty and she’ll love you. The girl grimaced as her pants caught her foot. Haste clouded her face with worry. Magically, my clothes were gone, too. She flinched once when I entered her, but maintained an admirable state of concentration while she waited for me to finish floundering out my months of pent-up lust. She didn’t have to wait long. Soon I was being led back to the bar, where I raved about how wonderful it was to get laid by these wonderful, sunny people.
“Ain’t it the truth?” slurred Kaiser. “Ain’t these little honeys the best little honeys there are? Huh?”
“It’s the truth!” said Nate, hitting his forehead on the table for emphasis.
From this point, the events grow faint. We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the streets and drinking. By the time we remembered Farris and found our way back to the Jeep, we were an hour late.
“We got lost,” Kaiser explained.
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br /> “Right. Let’s go,” Farris said brusquely.
Unfortunately, after the two-hour drive back to the Rifle Range, I was stone sober. We bounced along the causeway watching village after village go by until, finally, a sandy, greenish tent city appeared. Ah, I thought, home at last.
9. Tension
Army infantrymen, Marines and helicopter crews suffer highest losses in Vietnam.
—U.S. News & World Report, March 21, 1966
March 1966
I stood with thirty enlisted men on an apron at the airport at An Khe. Sweat dripped down my sides, staining my khakis.
We watched airplanes move around the airport, trying to determine which one was going to take us to Saigon. A silver C-123 transport had taxied out to the center of the field and then shut its engines off. An army Caribou taxiing toward us locked one brake and swung around, bathing us in a hot breeze that evaporated the sweat. This was our plane.
The rear end of the silver C-123 opened. Four men got out and walked toward us. The rear end of the Caribou opened. The crew chief walked down the ramp eyeing us, the eager groundlings, suspiciously. Up through the fuselage I could see the pilots in the cockpit. One of them noticed my wings and nodded hello.
The men from the silver plane got close enough for us to see they were brass—one army, three navy. The crew chief started to tell us to get on board. The pilot waved to him. He carried his clipboard up front to confer.
The brass were closing fast. The one up front was very tall, very big, wore stars, and had his arm in a sling. I racked my brain. Who is very big, wears stars, rides around in silver airplanes, and has his arm in a sling?
“Isn’t that Westmoreland?” a private behind me asked.
Right! Westmoreland, the ruler of Vietnam, was only a hundred feet away, heading for us. I turned around, looking for a lieutenant or a captain to take charge of this mob and call attention and all the stuff you’re supposed to do when the fucking general shows up. My search revealed that I was the ranking person there. “A-tent hut!” I yelled. AWOL (overnight) bags and laundry sacks hit the dirt as the mob dropped everything to come to attention for the general.