Going After Cacciato

by Tim O'Brien

  He couldn’t breathe. He tried, but he couldn’t.

  He felt himself sinking. Vaguely, through a rush in his ears, he heard them shrieking.

  A dream: caught in an avalanche. A monk with gleaming green eyes was screaming and bending his arm double. Two others bounced on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. He kept trying, forcing it, but nothing came. Weight and incense and body sweat, pressure he’d never known before, a drowning feeling. Smothered, he thought. A dream crushed and broken in Mandalay.

  When he came awake, the park was deserted.

  Sarkin Aung Wan bent over him, gently licking his forehead.

  “Alive,” he said.

  He sat up, touched himself. His left arm wouldn’t straighten. His lungs were full of cement.

  “I’m alive.”

  She kept licking his forehead. In the dark he could see peonies in full bloom, a sky of amethyst, a single candle burning on a park bench. The monks were gone.

  “What happened?” He tried to stand. “What was it?”

  Sarkin Aung Wan stroked his face. “I tried to—”

  “Tell me what happened.” He got to his knees. He still couldn’t straighten the arm.

  “Such a hero,” she said. “A brave hero disturbing Cao Dai. Touching the untouchables. I tried to warn you, Spec Four, but, no, such a hero.” Shaking her head, she bent down to lick his forehead. “Such a brave Spec Four.”

  He touched himself again. His ribs ached.

  Then he felt the fear. He sat back in the grass. A fine evening in Mandalay. He sat for a long time, letting the girl lick his wounds, and when the fear had passed, and the humiliation, he felt the first anger.

  He got up, brushed himself off.

  “Which way?”

  “What?”

  “Cacciato. Which way?”

  It was real anger. It was Stink’s kind of anger, killing anger.

  Sarkin Aung Wan stood back and gazed at him. Her earrings gave off a soft glow. She sighed. Turning, she pointed to a large dark structure beyond the park.

  “That way,” she said gently. “He ran that way.”

  Paul Berlin rubbed his eyes. It was a huge building. Stone and cement and steel. Taxis lined a long driveway leading to the front entrance.

  “What is it?”

  Sarkin Aung Wan smiled. “The way to Paris,” she said. “The railway station.”

  Nineteen

  The Observation Post

  Three o’clock, and Eddie’s homemade Jolly Roger fluttered at half-mast, blown now by a stiffening sea breeze. Amazing, how the nights turned cold. You could bake all day, fry, but then at night when you wanted heat you could never find it. Even the petty things never seemed quite right.

  He found his poncho liner, wrapped himself in it, then lit another cigarette. The war had taught him to smoke. One of the lasting lessons.

  Three o’clock, the darkest time. Two more hours till the first easterly pink. He decided not to rouse Stink for the next watch—tonight there would be no changing of the guard.

  He moved to the north wall. The coast of the Batangan was a jagged silhouette that curved away until it swallowed itself. The moon was behind clouds. This was the dangerous time. He’d heard stories of how OPs were attacked: always during the darkest hours, whole squads blown away, men found days later without heads or arms. He tried to forget it. The trick was to concentrate on better things. The trek to Paris. All the things seen and felt, all the happy things. Average things. Peace and quiet. It was all he’d ever wanted. Just to live a normal life, to live to an old age. To see Paris, and then to return home to live in a normal house in a normal town in a time of normalcy. Nothing grand, nothing spectacular. A modest niche. Maybe follow his father into the building business, or go back to school, or meet a pretty girl and get married and have children. Years later he could look back and tell them about the war. Wasn’t that normal? To tell a few war stories—Billy Boy and Pederson, the bad time in Lake Country, the tunnels. And how one day Cacciato walked away, and how they followed him, kept going, chased him all the way to Paris.

  He smiled. It would make a fine war story. Oh, there would be some skeptics. He could already hear them: What about money? Money for hotels and food and train tickets? What about passports? All the practical things—visas and clothing and immunization cards? Desertion, wasn’t that what it boiled down to? Didn’t it end in jail, the stockade? What about the law? Illegal entry, no documents, no military orders, no permits for all the weaponry? What about police and customs agents?

  He stared inland.

  Sure, there were always the skeptics. But he would explain. Carefully, point by point, he would show how these were petty details. Trivial, beside the point. Money could be earned. Or stolen or begged or borrowed. Passports could be forged, lies could be told, cops could be bribed. A million possibilities. Means could be found. That was the crucial thing: Means could always be found. If pressed he could make up the solutions—good, convincing solutions. But his imagination worked faster than that. Speed, momentum. Since means could be found, since answers were possible, his imagination went racing toward more important matters: Cacciato, the feel of the journey, what was seen along the way, what was learned, colors and motion and people and finally Paris. It could be done. Wasn’t that the critical point? It could truly be done.

  Twenty

  Landing Zone Bravo

  They sat in two facing rows. Stink Harris kept clicking his teeth. Next to him, Eddie Lazzutti moved his neck on his shoulders as if loosening up for a race. Oscar Johnson was sweating. Rudy Chassler smiled. Vaught and Cacciato were sharing a Coke, and, down the aisle, Jim Pederson sat with his eyes closed, holding his stomach with both hands. Flying scared him more than the war.

  There was a long floating feeling as the Chinook fell. It dropped a hundred feet, rose, bounced, and cold air shot through the open tail section. Private First Class Paul Berlin could not understand how it could be so cold. He didn’t like it. The smells were greasy and mechanical. On both sides of the ship, the door gunners sprayed down a drone of fire that blended with the chop of the rotor blades and engine, and whenever there was a slight change in the mix of sounds, the soldiers would jerk their heads and look for the source. Some of them grinned. Buff bit his nails, and Eddie Lazzutti coughed, but nobody said much. Mostly they watched their weapons or their boots or the eyes of the men opposite. Oscar Johnson sweated silver and Stink’s teeth kept rapping together. Buff studied his right thumbnail. He would bite it, then look at it, then bite it again. Pederson, who hated noise and machines and heights, but who was otherwise a fine soldier, held tight to his stomach and pressed his thighs together. The others tried not to look at him. Cold air swept in as the ship dropped again, and Private First Class Paul Berlin hugged himself.

  The door gunners squatted behind their guns and fired and fired.

  They were not going down smoothly. The ship fell hard, braked, dropped again, bounced, and Paul Berlin shivered and held to the wall webbing, wondering how it could be so cold.

  He tried to think better thoughts. He watched the door gunners do their steady work, hunched over their guns and swiveling and firing in long sweeping patterns, their mouths open, arms and shoulders jiggling with the rhythm, eyes dark under sunglasses and helmets. Spent shells clattered to the floor, rolling into piles as the Chinook banked and maneuvered down.

  Paul Berlin rubbed himself against the cold. He watched the others. Buff was working on his left thumbnail and Eddie Lazzutti played with his pant leg. Pederson was curled inside himself. His eyes were closed and his tongue sometimes fluttered out to lick away sweat. Doc Peret sat next to him, and next to Doc was Buff, and next to Buff was Ben Nystrom. The lieutenant sat on the floor, leaning low and wiping dust from his rifle, his lips moving as if talking to it.

  The door gunners leaned into their guns and fired and fired.

  It was a bad feeling. The cold wasn’t right, and Paul Berlin wondered if the others felt it too. He couldn’t he
lp watching them—all the faces composed in different ways, some calm and sure, others puzzled-looking. it was hard to tell. None of the faces told much, and the door gunners did not have faces.

  The Chinook began to slide eastward, going slower now, then again it dropped sharply. Pederson’s helmet popped up while his head went down, and the helmet seemed to float high a long time before falling to the floor. Pederson didn’t reach for it. He kept licking his lips. It wasn’t his fault or the church’s fault that he feared heights; it wasn’t a fault of faith.

  “Four minutes.” the crew chief shouted. He was a fat man in sunglasses. He moved up the aisle, rolled down the rear ramp, and leaned out for a look. “Four minutes,” he shouted, and held up four fingers, and then took a copy of Newsweek from his pocket and sat down to read.

  Oscar Johnson lit up a joint.

  The gunners kept firing. The Chinook trembled as the engines and blades worked harder now.

  Oscar inhaled and closed his eyes and passed the joint down the row. The soldiers focused on it, watching its passage from mouth to mouth. When it reached the end of the far row, Harold Murphy got up and handed it to Vaught, and it came down the second row to Paul Berlin, who pinched the tiny roach and held it close to his lips, not touching, careful not to burn himself.

  He drew the smoke deep and held it and tried to think good thoughts. He felt the Chinook falling. Pederson’s face was waxy, and the cold swept in, and the gunners kept firing and firing.

  The crew chief held up three fingers.

  Immediately there was a new sound. The cords of exposed control wires that ran along the ceiling jerked and whined, and the ship banked hard, and Vaught started giggling. Doc Peret told him to hush up, but Vaught kept giggling, and the ship seemed to roll out from beneath them.

  Working their guns left to right to left, the gunners kept firing.

  “Two minutes,” the crew chief shouted. Very carefully, he folded the magazine and put it in his pocket and held two fingers over his head.

  The gunners leaned into their big guns, fused to them, shoulders twitching, firing with the steady sweeping motions of a machine.

  The crew chief was shouting again.

  The Chinook turned in a long banking movement, and for a moment Paul Berlin saw the outline of the mountains to the west, then the bland flatness of the paddies below. The ship steadied and the crew chief leaned out for another look. He shouted and held up both thumbs. Across the aisle the men were loading up. Oscar wiped his face and grinned. The lieutenant was still wiping his rifle, leaning close to it and whispering. Cold air shot through the hull and the gunners kept firing. Shivering, Paul Berlin patted along his chest until he found the bandolier. He pulled out a magazine and shoved it into his rifle until it clicked, then he released the bolt and listened to be sure the first round entered the chamber. He just wished it weren’t so cold, that was all. He didn’t like the awful cold.

  “Going in,” the chief shouted. The fat under his chin was jiggling. “She’s hot, kiddies. Everybody off fast, no dilly-dally shit.”

  He held up his thumbs and the men stood up and began shuffling toward the rear. They grinned and coughed and blinked. Buff balanced the machine gun on his shoulder, chewing on his cuticles now, going systematically over each finger, changing the gun to his other shoulder. It was hard to stand straight. The Chinook was bucking, and the men held to one another as they pressed toward the ramp.

  “One minute,” the chief shouted.

  Then there were new sounds. Like dog whistles, high-pitched and sharp. Vaught was suddenly shouting, and Eddie and Stink were jumping up and down and pushing toward the rear. Harold Murphy fell. He lay there, a big guy, smiling and shaking his head, but he couldn’t get up. He just lay there, shaking his head. Holes opened in the hull, then more holes, and the wind sucked through the holes, and Vaught was shouting. A long tear opened in the floor, then a corresponding tear in the ceiling above, and the wind howled in all around. Instant white light shot through the holes and exited through opposite holes. Bits of dust played in the light. There was a burning smell—metal and hot machinery and the gunners’ guns. Harold Murphy was still on the floor, smiling and shaking his head and trying to get up, but he couldn’t do it. He’d get to his knees, and press, and almost make it, but not quite, and he’d fall and shake his head and smile and try again. Pederson’s eyes were closed. He held his stomach and sat still. He was the only one still sitting.

  The gunners fired and fired. They fired at everything. They were wrapped around their guns.

  “Zero-five-zero,” the crew chief shouted.

  Then there was more wind. The chief’s magazine fell and the new wind snatched it away. “Damn!” the chief screamed.

  The Chinook bucked hard, throwing the men against the walls, then a gnashing, ripping, tearing, searing noise—hot metal—then blue smoke everywhere, then a force that drove the men against the walls and pinned them there, then a fierce pressure, then new holes and new wind, and the gunners squatted behind their big guns and fired and fired and fired. Murphy was on the floor. Cacciato’s empty Coke can clattered out the open tail section, where it hung for a moment then was yanked away. Pederson sat quietly. A gash opened in the ceiling, and the crew chief was screaming, and Harold Murphy kept smiling and shaking his head and trying to get up, and the gunners kept firing.

  The chief’s fat face was green. He pushed the men toward the ramp.

  Pederson just sat there. The chief screamed at him, but Pederson was holding himself together, squeezing his stomach tight and pressing.

  “Zero-one-zero,” the chief screamed. “Pull that fuckin kid off! Somebody—”

  The Chinook touched down softly.

  The gunners kept firing. They hunched over their hot guns and fired and fired. They fired blindly and without aim.

  “Out!” the chief was screaming, shoving the first soldiers down the ramp, and the gunners went mad with the firing, firing at everything, speechless behind their guns, and the crew chief screamed and shoved.

  Stink Harris went first. Then Oscar Johnson and the lieutenant and Doc Peret. They sank in the mush, but the gunners kept firing. Next came Buff, and then Eddie Lazzutti and Vaught. The paddies bubbled with the fire. Wading through the slime, falling, the men bent low and tried to run, and the gunners swayed with their firing, and the paddies were foam. Next came Harold Murphy, stumbling down, and then Ben Nystrom, and then Paul Berlin and Cacciato. The cold was gone. Now there was only the sun and the paddies and the endless firing, and Paul Berlin slipped and went down in the muck, struggled for a moment, and then lay quietly and watched as the gunners kept firing and firing, automatically, firing and firing. They would not stop. They cradled their white guns and fired and fired and fired.

  The Chinook hovered, shaking, making froth in the paddies. Screaming, the crew chief dragged Pederson to the ramp and threw him out.

  The gunners swung their fire in long brilliant arcs like blown rain. Pederson paused a moment, as if searching for balance, then he began wading with his eyes closed. He’d lost his helmet. Behind him, the gunners strafed the paddies, red tracers and white light, molded to their guns, part of the machinery, firing and firing, and Pederson was shot first in the legs.

  But the gunners did not stop. They fired in sweeping, methodical rows; dense white smoke hid the gunners’ faces.

  Slowly, calmly, Pederson lay back in the slush.

  He did not go crazy at being shot. He was calm. Holding his stomach together, he let himself sink, partly floating and partly sitting. But the gunners kept firing, and he was shot again, and this time it yanked him backward and he splashed down.

  The big Chinook roared. It rose and turned, shaking, and began to climb. Clumps of rice bent double in the wind, and still the gunners fired, blind behind their sunglasses, bracing their guns to keep the fire smooth and level and constant. Their arms were black.

  Pederson lay on his back. For a time he was rigid, holding himself, but then he relax
ed.

  Moving slowly, lazily, he raised his rifle.

  He aimed carefully. The Chinook climbed and turned, and the gunners kept firing, but Pederson took his time.

  He squeezed off a single shot. The sound was different—hard and sharp and emphatic and pointed. He fired again, then again, carefully, and chunks of green plastic jumped off the Chinook’s fat belly.

  The gunners went berserk with their firing but Pederson took great care, aiming and firing and tracking the climbing ship. One shot at a time, smoothly and precisely. Bobbing in the slime, he tracked the Chinook and fired into its great underside. He rolled to follow the climbing machine; he was composed and entirely within himself. Suddenly the door gunners were gone, but still the hot guns kept swiveling and firing, automatically, and the Chinook trembled as Pederson calmly aimed and fired into its plastic belly.

  The Chinook’s shadow passed right over him.

  And the shadow shrank, and soon the Chinook was high and far away and gone, leaving the paddy soapy with waves and froth, but even then Paul Berlin could hear the steady firing of the ship’s guns.

  Twenty-one

  The Railroad to Paris

  Two o’clock on a clear December morning. Paul Berlin sat up, scratched his throat, then moved to a window.

  The country was the same. Huge, sunken fields of rice crept by like sleep. There were no lights or towns. The moon hadn’t budged all night. In eight hours the Delhi Express had taken them barely two hundred miles. The old train seemed to wobble along—jerky, random motions followed by quick braking followed by a feeling of suspension. Twice during the night there had been long waits while the engineer and brakemen sat outside drinking tea.