by Peter Gilboy
***
The measurements had to be perfect. Even the day—Thứ sáu, Friday, was perfect. March 30th. Sunday would be Lễ phục sinh. What the Americans called Easter. They’d be relaxed, probably celebrating. Probably drunk. The fools. They were proud that their young country had never been defeated. Too proud. Now their defeat was just minutes away.
***
T.R. kissed her on the cheek again, then bracketed her face in his hands and kissed her softly on the lips. She let him. He moved his hand higher under her blouse, toward her breasts. She stopped his hand. She held it there as she looked into T.R.’s face. Patricia wasn’t angry, just questioning. She wanted to be touched. Tiny levers stirred inside her. The setting was perfect. The setting was what every couple dreamed of.
“We’re the only people in the world,” T.R. told her.
“I know.”
“Brian won’t find out,” he said.
***
Captain Brian Pavlik started his jeep and headed across the compound toward his wife’s supply office. The road ran along the fence, parallel to the outside street. Dust and exhaust fumes were everywhere. He coughed hard. Stupid gooks with their cyclos and scooters. But, nineteen days was all. Then the long ride in the Freedom Bird. Drinks on the way home. Laughter. Relief. Maybe he’d do Patricia in the plane’s restroom. Wouldn’t that be a kick. Then they’d start a new life back in the world.
***
Patricia closed her eyes as she felt him undoing her fatigue blouse. It was okay. Her bra was still wet and sticky, and she felt his hand move over her.
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“We’re the only people in the world,” he repeated in his perfect drawl.
He began to undo her fatigue pants. She helped him.
Then, a rustle in the leaves behind them. A little man in a black shirt jumped out from behind the palms.
“Oh shit, oh shit!” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!” He backed away from them. “I didn’t see nothin’!” he shouted. “I’m sorry! I didn’t see nothin’! You two just go right ahead!”
7
JANUARY 15, 2006
LINDBERGH FIELD, 1:15 P.M.
THE PLANE IS A Boeing 739. It’s a narrow-bodied craft with a single center aisle. First class has a seat width of twenty-one inches and a recline of seven and a half inches. I know all the figures. When you’re big, you do your research and keep it in your head. Delta has more legroom, but there wasn’t a flight until evening. So, it’s the friendly skies of United. The best seat on such short notice.
Yes, Julia had demanded that I go to the hospital. “You passed out, Quintyn! We have to know what it is. Please, Quintyn.”
I had driven a few blocks from the restaurant and parked in front of a jewelry store. The sign said Leo Hamel’s. I’m sure we looked suspicious. Almost immediately an ambulance flashed by with lights and sirens. A police cruiser followed. We were in our rental, a Ford something. Julia and I in front, Eddie Cobb in back with his arm stretched across the seat as if he owned it. I could see his eyes in the mirror.
Julia had tissues and was dabbing the gash on my forehead. “Was it that soldier?” she asked. “That Army guy who came in?”
“The food,” I say.
“No, damn it! Tell me! Was it that soldier?”
We were silent for minutes. Then I started the car and headed back toward I-5.
“The hospital?” Julia asked.
I took the exit to the airport.
Julia doesn’t throw things when she’s furious. Nor does she give the cold shoulder. As I drove to the airport she simply stared at me, uncomprehending of what I was doing. Then she started in. Lovingly. Reasonably. Reason is one of her strong points. She’s logical and levelheaded. She’s normal.
“I can help you, Quintyn. We can work this through. But I have to know. Was it that soldier? Who was he?” She took my hand. “Just tell me what happened. I’ll understand. I promise. Who was he? Please!”
We reached the entrance to the airport.
“Quintyn, please. Help me to understand! There’s so much ahead for us and I’m afraid you’ll destroy it. We can have children. We’ve talked about that, and we can raise them together, you and me, but not in DC. Somewhere quiet and safe, someplace, maybe in the Midwest where it’s easier. A boy and a girl. Emma, after my mother, and Eddie, after, you know, your friend.”
She waits for my response.
“Why aren’t you speaking? What is it? Damn it, tell me!”
But what could I say? It wasn’t that I had no words. All the words in the world and she still wouldn’t understand. The truth is I didn’t care. Or rather, I cared. I cared deeply. But caring wasn’t enough.
I pulled into a no parking zone.
“So you’re fucking leaving me here! I don’t believe it! What the fuck is going on with you?”
I faced her. “I know this doesn’t make sense, Julia.”
“God damn right—”
I grabbed her and kissed her hard. She struggled against me and I let her go. She looked stunned.
“I’ll try to explain later,” I told her. “I love you. I love you very much. Please trust me.”
Then I got out. I went through the automatic doors, letting Julia disappear behind me.
Flight 1525 was already boarding. I got a ticket and ran; a huge black man with no baggage holding tissues to his bleeding forehead as he raced up the ramp. People searched behind me for the police. The security line was thankfully short. I got the wary eye from the security woman, no bags, but she let me through only to have another security person waiting for me. He took me aside and carefully wanded me for any hidden metal. Finally, he was assured I only looked dangerous.
Then to the gate, almost the last to board. The plane smelled like a plane. Left over air conditioning and bathroom antiseptic.
Seat 2E up front, and my legs hung out into the aisle. Somehow I settled in, my thoughts staying on Julia and how I’d ruined everything. Her response was rational, loving, then angry. But some things defy reason. Some things you just know. I could see the letters in my head.
Nobody rebuffs a bride. Nobody runs off on a honeymoon unless there’s distrust and doubts about the marriage. Yet I couldn’t tell her. I wanted to, but it wouldn’t make sense. Maybe she’ll simmer down. Maybe she’ll have her own second thoughts. And after I find out more about the ROWBEC letters, maybe Julia will let me make it up to her. Somehow. But even thinking that, I remembered the other times I was going to make it up to a woman. They would have none of it. I’d gone too far. That look on their faces.
I hear a voice: “Is it okay, Bob? You don’t mind Bob?”
Yes, Eddie came with me. Twirling that rabbit’s foot in his mouth. Remembering is a kind of re-happening: Rewind, right here, right now, and it’s Yen Bai again.
Third day in the ditch and Bob Wilcox announces that he’s really had enough of this shit, and he’s going home. Who’s going to stop him? he asks, a rhetorical question because everyone knows. He stands up and says, “Peace brothers,” and makes the sign with two fingers. Then he isn’t there anymore. Something else is there. A crumpled uniform in the mud, and guts bubbling and arms flailing like empty sleeves in the wind. Rewind. Repeat. Guts bubbling and arms flailing.
Rewind. Repeat.
I try to remember who went first. Was it Bump Rogers? Bump was a farm boy from Minnesota, born December 24, 1951. That date was a winner—if you wanted to be drafted into the war. Bump’s birth date was number two in the draft lottery for that year, 1970. I know because Bump kept looking for a guy who was number one in the war lottery, because he wanted to find the only son of a bitch who was unluckier than he was. Bump was only in country three weeks before Yen Bai. Not enough time to find that person.
We hardly knew Bump. The rule was that you don’t want to know anyone until they’re in country for three months. Ninety days. That was the cutoff. Before that they were as good as ghosts walking
the trail with you, but after three months you figure they’d learned enough to make it to the end of their three hundred and sixty-five days and not be real ghosts. So then you got to know them. Maybe you’re wondering if Bump was tall or short. Blond or dark. Truth is, I don’t remember. He wasn’t there long enough.
We got to know Eddie Cobb, though. Eddie was about the kindest person you’d ever find. “Is it okay, Bob? You don’t mind Bob?” Kind, yeah, but not like someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly, or who would give you the shirt off their back. Sometimes Eddie did hurt things. The guy whose head popped out of a hole and who was more surprised to find us there than we were to find him. The guy who had an AK hidden in his sack. He wasn’t kind to either of them.
Rewind. Repeat.
But Eddie, he was a hugger. Hugged us. Hugged the mama-san who came out with rice for us, her gums all smiling-black from beetle chew. Hugged the papa-san who led us across a mine field with his long stick. Hugged the kids playing in the village dirt. Eddie had a wiry frame and a mouth full of crooked teeth so that you couldn’t help but cringe when he smiled. But he was kind.
Rewind. Repeat.
I try to remember the order. Maybe Jim Geltz went first, then Sammy Greene and Tommy Colome. They were always together, the three of them, so maybe it was right that it happened that way. Even through the mine field outside Ha Thuy, they were together, three in a row, stepping in the same places; Jim Geltz stepped first, as always, and every so often he’d call out that he wasn’t popcorn yet. You had to laugh. What else were you going to do?
Sammy Greene always walked second. He was from Buffalo. He’d been there six months so he was on the okay-to-talk-to list. He was a light-skinned brother and the son of a preacher, and he was going to be a preacher too. Tommy Colome walked third. He was white. He said his ancestors were from Scotland and that they even had a coat of arms. Not that it helped him. He said the coat of arms had a knight’s helmet and two lions. Nobody told him that there weren’t any lions in Scotland.
And Leroy Williams, he was—.
“I think they should make the ball bigger.”
I look up.
“Or make them throw it slower, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely,” I tell her. “It’s not fair, otherwise.”
There is no smile on Julia’s lips. She’s not showing any anger either, but I know she’s holding it inside.
“You’re a sweaty mess, Quincy.”
“It’s Quintyn.”
“You’ve been running or something?”
“Yeah.”
She gives me a long stare. “Must be some heck of a weather pattern in the Midwest for them to need you back this much.”
“Yeah.”
“No other weathermen available, I suppose.”
“Weather researcher,” I correct.
“I get the window,” she announces, and waits for me to get up and let her by. “And the armrest,” she adds.
“Anything else?”
She pushes past me. “Yeah, fuck you.”
“I know,” I tell her. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
She settles into her seat. “Let’s just hope there’s no wind shear or loose bolts on the wings, or maybe a pelican sucked into the turbines.”
“You’re a real upper,” I tell her.
“You too,” she says, looking out the window. “Fasten your seat belt.”
8
MARCH 30, 1972
CUY HOA VILLAGE, 3:25 P.M.
THE LITTLE MAN IN black raced away from them, his feet sinking into the loose sand, his arms swinging hard to get some speed.
Patricia scrambled to her knees. She quickly fixed her pants. “Hey!” she shouted after him. “Come back here!”
He kept marching away. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!”
Patricia raced down the sands after him. She caught up and grabbed his shirt, spinning him around. He was breathing hard. He was barefoot. He had dog tags around his neck.
“You’re a soldier!”
“Let me go!”
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I didn’t see nothin’!” His eyes were on her open fatigue blouse. Patricia quickly fixed it.
“I said who are you?”
“First Marine, ma’am. Proud of it. I Corps. At Phu My.”
“First Marines left. A long time ago.”
“Don’t know about that, ma’am.”
“Everyone’s gone home. What the hell are you still doing here?”
He pointed toward the village. “I live here.”
He was just a boy, really. Wiry and muscular, scrappy and lean, but he didn’t look mean. Short blond hair that was matted down flat. Maybe nineteen. Maybe less. The hint of a rough city accent. Probably a deserter.
“I’m not a coward, ma’am,” he pleaded. “And I’m not crazy. The buffalo told me I’m not crazy.”
“No one’s saying you’re crazy.”
T.R. caught up with them. He saluted Patricia with two fingers, then looked to the little man. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m Noey Levinson. Corporal. First Marine. MOS 0311. Proud of it.”
“First Marines? They’ve gone home.”
“You know what MOS 0311 is?”
“No.”
“It’s a rifleman. That’s me. I’m a rifleman. And a damn good one. Damn good. And I’m not a coward.”
“No one said you were a coward,” T.R. told him. “But you can’t stay here.”
“Water buffalo said I could.”
T.R. glanced at Patricia. The little man was crazy.
The man pointed toward the village again. “They need help. So I help ’em out. I do dishes. I make things. And I seen you, you with that yellow hat taking care of people’s teeth. And I seen you two over there, too.”.
“We weren’t doing anything,” T.R. told him.
“You’re an officer,” the little man said.
“That’s right.”
“Well, the buffalo told me not to trust officers.” He laughed a high, giddy laugh. “Ever see a water buffalo?”
T.R. glanced at Patricia again, then back to the little man. “Of course.”
The man smiled. “Then you know.”
“Look, you come with us, soldier—”
His words were cut off by sounds in the distance. Explosions, one after another.
Patricia froze. Her memory sought something familiar—Roman candles, fireworks, Fourth of July. Then a larger blast closer by, and the ground shook as if tectonic plates were shifting under her feet.
More blasts then, even closer.
“No!” T.R. shouted. “God damn it, no! They’re innocent!”
But the little man stood there unafraid, smiling. “They’ve come,” he said to them. “They’ve come!”
Patricia’s eyes raced everywhere trying to understand. More explosions, and she threw herself down on the sands, her breath knocked out of her as she spread her arms trying to keep as low as possible. She felt herself choking for air and tried not to panic, tried to breathe deeply, tried to fill her lungs in great gulps.
More explosions, one round at a time, as if walking through the village and then along the beach. She lifted her head to look around, and the air turned solid as shock waves hit her face. More blasts, lifting her into the air and slamming her down again. For some reason she was shivering. Her hearing narrowed until it was only the blasts that she heard, and something else too, a steady pounding inside her—a heartbeat. No other sounds. No rhythm from the sea. No birds. No breeze in her ears. She curled into a ball for protection.
***
It was 3:44 p.m. when the shelling started. Back in the world it was 3:44 a.m. Arthur Godfrey had said his good-bye on CBS Radio. Edmund Muskie was the early Democratic favorite. Polaroid had announced a film that would develop itself before your very eyes. On this night the moon was nearly full and it hung calmly in the sky as if gazing down at a sleeping nation with pillows fluffed, covers pulled tight, and Eas
ter baskets ready for the morning. Couples sighed in their sleep, turning toward each other and touching in their many dreams.
***
Captain Brian Pavlik sped along the compound road. He would find his wife and have a word. Yeah, she’d hear about it. Where the fuck was she?
He approached an inner-compound gate. The guard swung the gate wide.
Then the first explosion hit, jarring Pavlik. Stunned, he slowed his jeep. Almost immediately a second round fell and the stable earth quaked beneath him, jolting the jeep and finally awakening him to his circumstances. He floored the vehicle, swerving to miss the guard, then fled the racing jeep, spinning in the air and skidding along the dirt and gravel. His collarbone snapped instantly. The skin on his right arm tore open. He had no gun, not even a helmet.
Everywhere soldiers ran wildly toward the sand bunkers. Two seconds more and two more thunderous explosions, these even closer. Then another. The explosions continued, and Brian Pavlik curled into a ball as tight and low as he could. His fear overrode the intense pain in his shoulder as his bruised arms wrapped around his head to cover his ears from the shockwaves.
Seconds were an eternity; mortars falling left and right, then up and back as rounds marched through the compound lifting Brian Pavlik into the air with each blast. Between explosions there were only the moans and hoarse cries of soldiers around him. Brian Pavlik remained curled in a ball on the compound road. The incoming continued. Forty-two blasts in all.
Then it stopped.
***
The rounds kept coming along the beach, and Patricia jumped to her feet. She grabbed T.R. and pulled him toward the jeep. It was their only chance. She ran hard, gulping air, her feet sinking in the sand with each step. She was faster than T.R., and when they were closer to the village she had to pull him along. His face was red. She glanced back and saw the little man silhouetted on the beach, motionless, with his hands on his hips, suddenly ominous looking. Behind him the sea glared in the bright sun.