“I just gave you some. What’d you do with them?” the medic asked.
“I need more.”
“You shouldn’t take so many. This is the last I can give you.”
Singer looked at the few tablets in his hand. “It’s not enough.”
“That’s all there is.”
“Fuck,” Singer said.
With the medic reluctant to supply them he started getting aspirin from anywhere he could, even sending the Cherry to the medic for some and stealing more from the aid station when they were at the firebase. But the headaches and the voice persisted, as did the sense that he was bleeding.
Relief was nowhere to be found. Through it all, they kept patrolling, searching for the enemy and another fight. Oddly, this time when they returned to the jungle, Singer didn’t mind the darkness and the isolation. It was as though the light of day exposed all the harsh ugliness of war and of himself in ways he could no longer bear to see.
Still he continued to hoard grenades and reload magazines, awaiting the next firefight, promising he’d be ready. Knowing afterward he’d hate himself more than he did already.
Maybe this was why men stood up in battles and invited their own deaths.
He would have to decide soon if he was brave enough to bring an end to it and save himself.
26
September 28, 1968
Vietnam
The battle was finally over. The end came unexpectedly, without drama or any precipitating event. Something in the accumulation of things had ultimately tipped the balance, and Singer knew in that moment that everything was finished. He was going to end the killing. Military authorities would court-martial him and put him in a military prison, but still he was determined to do it.
Though he was about to dramatically change the course of his life, he felt unusually calm. In the final hours, after weeks of agony, the choice had come easy, and he moved now with the same conviction as he had in battle to the cries of the wounded, knowing he had to help. This time it was even more personal and there was no one else that could do it. He picked up his rifle but left his ruck, though he doubted he’d be coming back, and went in search of the platoon leader.
The darkness of early evening that masked the bunker line and the distant hills made what he was about to do easier. The courage he felt might be lost in the stark light of day and under the eyes of the men of the company and the others on the firebase.
In late afternoon they’d come back to the firebase for a couple days on the bunker line, after nearly three weeks in the jungle with sporadic firefights. There’d been nothing unusual about the operation or the fighting that might have changed things. While in the mountains, they’d found another jungle camp, smaller and less elaborate than in the A Shau. This time they had the air support that had been strangely absent then. The enemy offered only light resistance, quickly fleeing in the face of jet fighters and gunships, abandoning a cache of new weapons that had the men celebrating and some of the officers looking nearly giddy with the find. They chased the enemy in the mountains through the pursuing days, with brief running gun battles that never grew into anything big. There were casualties and medevacs, but far fewer than in earlier months, and none of them from friendly fire.
The New Lieutenant, who joined fourth platoon just as the operation began, relegating the Shake and Bake to platoon sergeant, was gruff and humorless but demonstrated some field and command skills, directing the men in a more competent manner than the parade of lieutenants before him. Measured in his risk-taking, fair with his assignments, and leading from up front, sharing the danger, he’d gained some acceptance by the beginning of the third week in the field. They came back to the firebase with the platoon mostly intact. It had all been much the same as all the other field operations and fighting. Yet by the time they reached the firebase, Singer knew everything had changed.
To do what he intended, Singer needed to see the New Lieutenant first. Despite the New Lieutenant’s steady first days afield, Singer still wasn’t sure about him or what to expect when he faced him, but there was no avoiding it.
Now was the time to do it. They wouldn’t stay on the firebase for more than a few days. When they headed out again, it would be too late. Doing it in the field would complicate everything and perhaps even change the outcome.
From his pocket, Singer pulled out the gold tooth he had taken from the NVA body in the aftermath of the May fifth battle when he, Trip, and the New Guy searched the ambush site. He held it in his hand, noticing how it glinted in the moonlight as it had in the peculiar ray of light that penetrated the jungle on the day he collected it. May fifth. That was when it all started, wasn’t it?
No, it was long before May fifth that he started down the path to becoming what he now knew he was, but tried so long to deny. There were things that led him to this point long before he ever killed the first man. Through weeks of basic training, he’d march to the cadence song refrain, “I want to go to Vietnam. I want to kill some Viet Cong,” until he almost believed it. At the rifle range, he fired his M16 again and again at human silhouettes until the shape came to signify nothing more than a target to be struck down with dead-on shots. He ran through the bayonet course, thrusting his bayonet into life-sized dummies, screaming, “The spirit of the bayonet fighter is to kill,” learning the mantra of the bayonet fighter along with the killing thrusts of the long, heavy blade. “The spirit of the bayonet fighter is to kill.” He said the words with none of the enthusiasm now that he yelled them then. Now there was something sad and sinister about them.
Even years before his military training, the potential for what he had become was likely set in the games of his youth: in the wars he played out with miniature soldiers and tanks on the living room floor, hiding the tanks under the sofa, from where they made their surprise attacks; in the games of cowboys and Indians in the woods that stretched behind the house, when he wielded his plastic pistol and toy rifle with boundless enthusiasm, mowing down friends with imaginary fire; in the board games of attack and conquer he’d played with friends when they were older, gathered around the board’s map, each of them leaning in, intent on victory; in the days spent stalking deer, honing his skills, celebrating his kills, savoring the status they brought him; in the . . .
All of it had served to bring him to this point. Where it actually started didn’t matter. He had to stop it now before it was too late, if it wasn’t already. This was where it would end.
He’d come to the war with the excitement and apprehension of a young man on the edge of discovery, full of idealism and naïvety, still believing in the glory of war. That had all been exploded in the May fifth ambush that was nothing like the imaginary games of youth. From there, the killing followed a progression he would have never believed possible. Even now, it was hard to understand how it happened. The early killings came without forethought or design in the heat of the first battles out of a desire to survive. But in the rage that followed he wished and prepared for it, waiting to even the score. When finding it still left him empty and vengeful, he sought more, even as he felt himself slipping away. The harder he tried to keep dead friends alive through the killing, the more he lost himself. It took a long time to understand this. He felt himself drowning, sinking into the depths of darkness from which it would be impossible to return once he reached a place where the light on the surface was no longer visible. It was when the power and excitement of the killing became the sole compelling force drawing him in that he knew he was near that point.
The closer he came to being completely lost, the stronger his self-awareness grew, along with his headaches and the petitioning cries that only he could hear. The person he was before was nearly dead. He had become something he couldn’t bear to consider. He wasn’t sure if any remnant of his former self remained, but he was certain if he didn’t stop the killing now there would be no hope.
“Something wrong?”
Singer quickly closed his hand around the tooth and looked
up to see the Shake and Bake, eyes dark despite the moonlight, the shine gone. “No. Fine. Everything’s fine. I just need to see the lieutenant.”
“What do you need?”
“I got to talk with him about something.”
“I’ll pass it on.”
“It’s personal.”
“Be quick, then, and get back to your position.”
“Right.”
After the Shake and Bake left, Singer returned the tooth to his pocket. He looked up at the moon and a scattering of stars. How long would it be before he would stand outside and see the sky again? He found the New Lieutenant near the platoon CP.
Helmetless, a crew-cut of muddy-brown hair emphasized the New Lieutenant’s blocky features. His ears showed the kind of damage seen in wrestlers. One on one, he’d be a formidable foe.
“Sir, I need to talk with you,” Singer said after saluting, which he wouldn’t have done in the field, but it seemed important now.
“What do you want?”
“I am done, sir.” There it was. He’d said it.
“Done with what?”
“I won’t do it anymore. I’m done. I won’t kill anymore.” Singer held out his M16 and ammo bandolier.
The New Lieutenant took a step closer, ignoring the rifle. “Singer, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No, sir.”
“Get back to your post right now,” the New Lieutenant said. “This is a war. You are in the army. Quitting isn’t an option.”
Singer didn’t move. “I won’t do it anymore.”
“How old are you, Singer?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Seven months, sir, I came over with the Brigade.”
“Seven months, Christ, and you want to quit now? Quitting in a war zone, do you know what will happen to you?”
“It doesn’t matter, sir.”
“They’ll court-martial your ass and then hang you for refusing to fight. They’ll lock you up and throw away the fucking key. Your life will be over. I’ll see that that happens. Is that what you want?”
“I won’t kill anymore, sir.”
“Then you belong in jail. There’s no place for you here. I don’t want you in my platoon. Give me your rifle.”
Singer handed over his M16.
He stood there, aware of his empty hands and of a new aloneness beyond anything he’d ever felt. For the first time in months, he was without his rifle. Could he be done with killing just like that?
“Wait here,” the New Lieutenant said. “The CO will deal with you.”
27
September 29, 1968
Vietnam
The Huey lifted off without urgency and climbed lazily before heading east, following the river toward Hue with its lone passenger. The door gunners sat back, holding on casually to their guns. This was a simple transport mission. They flew above any possible enemy fire.
Hot air buffeted Singer as he leaned out of the Huey and strained to look back at the firebase with its bunkers, tents, and artillery pieces. At first, he could see men moving about and sitting on bunkers guarding the perimeter. He could identify Charlie Company’s positions, where he’d been yesterday until he irreversibly changed things. As the helicopter flew east, the men of Charlie Company grew smaller until they weren’t visible anymore and all Singer could see was the bare, reddish-brown mountaintop that marked the base that had been a sanctuary between missions for so many months. He knew he was seeing it for the last time.
He looked out at the mountains beyond the base, deep-green summits of nearly impenetrable jungle fading into vague, dark peaks on the horizon, and considered all that had happened there and how it had changed him in so many ways, changed his very view of himself and even of humanity, and yet the mountains and jungle stood as always and armies went on fighting, men killing and dying to an uncertain end. The thin, pale strip of road came from the east and ran past the base, disappearing in the mountains, ending somewhere near the A Shau. A line of connection with where he had come from and who he had been, and where he had gone and what he had become. The May fifth ambush site along the road lay quiet and barely distinguishable from the surrounding terrain. So much had ended there, yet from the air it seemed so inconsequential.
The scenes flowed through his mind like the changing landscape that streamed by below. Details, names, and battles, lost to him after the carnage in August, when he climbed through the NVA bodies in front of his position. The pounding rotors chopped up memories, casting them throughout a torn landscape.
He slid his hand into his pocket and touched the gold tooth. Rolled it between his fingers, feeling its smoothness. In his pocket he still carried the photo, the face of the enemy he didn’t have to look at to see.
Below him, the river flowed from this ground toward the sea without a hint of the blood that was spilled along its banks. But he knew it held the memory as certainly as he did.
He was like the river that ran through this land, seeping into the soil as it passed, leaving part of itself behind while it flowed on, carrying part of the earth, of this place, wherever it went. Blood and water. River and memory inseparable.
The Huey bore east carrying Singer away, leaving the mountains and jungles further behind. But even as these places faded in the distance, he could feel them tugging at him, holding him, pulling him back. Was it possible to ever really leave?
The rotors slapped the air, and he felt the fear and exhilaration of another air assault. He clutched his weapon toward him and for a moment was confused by why he was alone and where all his ammo was.
The rotor’s sound was the same regardless of the mission. But the emotions they stirred varied. There had been times when the sound had brought hope, coming to whisk him away out the hands of death that clutched at his feet, pulling him down. Fear or relief, depending on direction. Like so many things. But now there was something melancholy about the music of the rotors. He was leaving so many things behind.
Courage or cowardice? The question sat there waiting for an answer he couldn’t provide. He had seen the thin line between the two on the battlefield and how they could be part of the same person on the same day. Today he was unable to make such judgment about what he’d done. But it didn’t seem anything like courage.
He looked at his gear piled on the floor of the Huey. His web gear was nearly empty, much lighter than what he’d carried through the months. The grenades were gone and he’d given up all but one of his forty magazines of M16 ammo. The M16 he’d surrendered had been returned to him. Unloaded, he held it on his lap. He’d promised the New Captain he’d continue to carry it, even though he never intended to use it again.
He shifted back on the seat and stared ahead without seeing where he was going, still seeing where he had been.
Things had gone okay with the New Captain. It wasn’t the disaster it might have been, with the New Captain sending him away under armed guard to await court-martial. Instead, he was riding a helicopter unescorted to a rear base. It was Top who had interceded to see things went that way. Singer hadn’t anticipated that, but he wasn’t surprised by it either. Top was always there tirelessly trying to save them. He didn’t want to think about how things would have been different if the New Lieutenant, intent on making an example of him, had gotten to the New Captain without running into Top first. He knew Top had saved him.
It was Top who came and retrieved him from where he waited at the platoon CP, mulling over the likely outcomes of his decision. Top carried Singer’s M16, which he’d collected from the New Lieutenant.
“Come with me,” Top said.
When they were alone in the darkness, Top stopped and turned toward Singer. “Okay, tell me what’s going on.”
Singer explained as best he could the transitions from the earliest battles and the things he’d been feeling, his fear that he was losing himself and becoming something he di
dn’t like and didn’t want to be, and how he’d decided he wouldn’t do it anymore. Would Top understand any of it? He watched Top’s face for some hint of what he might be thinking, but Top’s expression gave no clue. When Singer finished he braced himself for the harsh judgments and condemnation that would follow.
“Let’s go see the captain,” Top said and started walking again.
Nothing else was said until they reached the company CP bunker and Top told Singer to wait outside. Again Singer stood alone in the darkness, uncertain of what would happen, not unlike the moments spent lying in the dark on ambush wondering if the enemy would come, how many, and whether he would survive. The minutes dragged by, now as then, until it seemed a half hour had passed before Top called Singer in.
Singer stepped down and pushed through a dark-out curtain to find the New Captain standing next to a long table that held banks of radios and piles of maps, a dim bulb burning overhead. A Spec 5 was talking on a radio and then laid the handset down and wrote something on the short stack of papers in front of him.
When the New Captain looked up, Singer saluted, then stood before the New Captain at attention.
“At ease,” the New Captain said and led Singer over to a corner with a smaller table and crudely fashioned chairs. The New Captain sat down, pushing aside a flashlight and the papers under it.
“Sit down,” the New Captain said.
Singer sat down on one of the chairs opposite the New Captain. Top, instead of leaving, as Singer expected, sat down on a chair beside Singer. The New Captain dwarfed the table and when he leaned forward and rested his thick forearms on it, Singer thought it might collapse. The New Captain’s hands were in loose fists and a gold band glistened on his left hand. On his right he wore a ring similar to the one Singer had seen on Lieutenant Creely.
“Top says you are a good soldier.”
Singer looked up at the New Captain’s face, uncertain what to say. When Singer didn’t respond, the New Captain continued.
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