The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  Smith pulls the trunk to the lip of the chopper door. He flips open the lid and yanks out a flak jacket. He shrugs it on and fastens it. He tosses another flak jacket to Towers. “Put it on, kid.”

  Smith looks over at me. “Seems like we don’t have your size, Ames.” He shakes his head. “Real sorry ’bout that.”

  He pulls out an M16 and a magazine clip. He tosses them both to me. I catch one in each hand. They feel familiar. Muscle memory. In one motion I slide the clip into place. I level the weapon on Smith.

  “What’s really in that village, Smith?”

  He chuckles. “Not a chance in hell you’ll shoot me, Ames. You’re the original good guy, the black man in the white hat. You want to get her out so bad that you’re pissin’ your pants. And you know you can’t do it without me. The dwarfs would eat you and the kid for dinner.”

  I lower the weapon “That remains to be seen,” I say.

  He points at Towers with his thumb. “You think he’ll keep going?”

  Behind me I hear Towers stammer, “I-I-I’ve come this far.”

  Smith turns, reaches for another M16, and tosses it to Towers. The weapon hits his palm and falls into the sand.

  “Nice catch,” Smith says. “You ever fire one of those?”

  Towers picks up the weapon. Holds it awkwardly. “In basic,” he says.

  “What about AIT?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Great,” Smith says. He looks over at the pilot and shakes his head. Jones is watching intently.

  “What’s really in that village,” I demand again.

  “Our girl, probably. At least I hope so.”

  Smith pulls out two military web belts and tosses them to us. We hook them around our waists. Then he pulls out a bandolier, ten pounds each, with seven pockets for seven magazine clips.

  “Think you can handle this?” he says to Towers. He tosses the bandolier to him. Towers catches it. His face is a show of confusion as he struggles to slip it over his head.

  “Good goin’, kid,” Smith says.

  He reaches into the trunk again and pulls out a number of flares. “We’ll use these to signal, if it gets too dark.” He tucks them under Towers’s web belt. Then he tosses another bandolier to me. I catch it and strap it over my shoulder. He tosses me a .45. I slide it under my belt. Then a radio, and I clip it on. He clips another radio to his own belt, then tosses a machete onto the sand.

  I see the pilot stirring in the cockpit. “Back in no time,” he calls to us. “You two get into that village.”

  He cranks the ignition, and we move away from the rotors. After a few moments he lifts off slowly and then banks toward the water. It’s nearly a full minute before the turbulence subsides.

  “Look, Ames,” Smith says then, and spits on the ground. “You know we’ll only get one try in the village. If she’s there, and we surprise them, then she’s ours. If she’s not there, it doesn’t matter much, does it. But if we don’t surprise them, we’re finished. Fun, huh?”

  “Good fun,” I say coldly.

  “And if one of us doesn’t make it back, or none of us does, you can bet that nobody will ever find out what happened here. Just like nobody’s found out about the others we left here.”

  “Except some people have known all along.”

  He scoffs. “Of course they’ve known all along. What did you expect?”

  “Those were our soldiers! Those were lives!”

  “You think I don’t know that! But this is the real world, Ames! You live in a fucking fairy tale!”

  “Who’s behind it, Smith? Who?”

  “You forget what it was like back then, Ames. All the protests and riots; the country was at stake. The politicians had to get the fuck out of the war before the whole nation came apart. They had to wash their hands of it, see? Completely wash their hands of it. Nothing personal, see?”

  I step closer to him. “Yeah, nothing personal when they claimed they’d brought all our guys home.”

  “That was a joke and everyone knew it. Later there were so many sightings of our guys that the Pentagon and the politicians had to deny it over and over. But the families needed something to bury, so they mounted excavation teams to find teeth and bones.”

  “We could’ve come back! We could’ve gotten the ones still here! We knew about them for years!”

  He shakes his head. “It was too late.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense!” I say angrily. “Anyone bringing our soldiers out would’ve been heroes—the president, the Pentagon, Congress, all the fucking politicians. The military! The country would have made them all into heroes.”

  “Wrong, Ames. If they had come out years after we’d said we left no one behind…” He shakes his head at me.

  “What? What?”

  “Then who would go off to fight the next war? Who?”

  I’m stunned. But he’s right. It’s so clear now. The missing piece was there all along. They couldn’t bring them out. They couldn’t go public. Not after they’d promised for so long that they’d left no one behind. So they sacrificed them; the good of the many at the expense of the few.

  “That’s just part of a soldier’s risk, Ames. I guess it sucks to be them.”

  Shoot him! Shoot him!

  “You fucking bastard!”

  The M16 falls from my hands as I spring forward, knocking Smith to the ground. I pin him in the sand, my knees on his chest, three hundred pounds of me. Smith turns red and struggles to breathe, but he manages a short gasping laugh. “You missed the point, Ames,” he manages.

  I draw my fist back and slam it into his face, then again and again. “People like you don’t deserve to have a face!” I shout. More blows to his face, and he continues to struggle against me.

  Then I release him and step back. I’m ready for anything he can bring at me.

  But he just coughs as he struggles to his feet. He laughs and spits out blood. “You’re a joke, Ames,” he says, rubbing at his neck. “And your boy there, too.” He points to Towers, who is standing beside me now.

  “Who’s behind this, Smith? Who?”

  He blows blood from his nose, then wipes his face with his sleeve. He brushes the sand off his shoulders before looking me in the eye.

  “The way I figure it, Ames, who isn’t behind it? Korea too,” he adds. “If the country knew we’d left men there, and let’em be carted off to some Soviet prison, who would’ve come over here, Ames? Who would have come here and fought this war?” He looks me in the eye. “We always need more soldiers.”

  I point down the beach. “What’s waiting for us in that village, Smith?”

  He wipes more blood from his nose. He spits on the ground again. “Gooks, of course. And maybe our pearl. Maybe. If they haven’t put her away yet. You know how they do executions around here? They’ll tie her to a tree and take target practice around the edges and work their way in. She’ll be bird feed before they’re done.”

  “Then we go,” I say. “We go now, and we find her.”

  I pick up the M16 and brush off the sand. I grab the machete and hook it to my belt. I look to Towers, who’s suddenly backing away.

  “I’m not sure now, sir,” he says in a warbling voice. “What are the odds that we make it?”

  “That’s the best part, boy,” Smith replies coldly. “There aren’t any. This particular game hasn’t been played yet. God, I haven’t lived like this in years.”

  Ready?

  Smith points up the coast.

  “This way, gentlemen,” he announces. He turns, and in long strides sets out toward the tree line. He glances back at us with a broad grin.

  “This way to Nam.”

  60

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  I FOLLOWED THE LIVE sightings of Americans still there. That was between ‘73 and ‘98. There were hundreds of sightings. Thousands. I checked the papers, too, looking for Eddie’s name, just to make sure. He wasn’t there. Anywhere. Eddie was st
ill over there.

  We let Smith get twenty yards ahead before Towers and I start out, hugging the jungle’s edge at the base of the mountain as we scramble in a half crouch toward the tree line. Towers stays five paces behind me. Thorny ferns tear along my neck and snag my shirt. Branches scrape across my glasses as I duck under them.

  In minutes I’m already out of breath. But I keep moving in a crouch, my lungs heaving. I methodically scan the area as I go. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to worry about. Then I glance down at the black plastic stock of my M16 and the barrel guard in my hands. Memories detonate in a row, like firecrackers.

  Finding the LT, his sides torn off.

  Geltz and Colome. Greene. Wilcox.

  And Eddie. Promise me, Quintyn!

  My mind goes to Julia: Eddie’s dead, Quintyn! He’s dead!

  Then the White House aide: None of those sightings—I repeat, none—has panned out!

  And Rogowski: Before that, people trusted.

  I keep moving, the M16 in my hands and the machete hooked to my webbed belt. I sense the jungle wall on my left reaching over my shoulder.

  “It’s back,” I whisper into the air. “It’s back.”

  My vision sharpens. My peripheral view widens. My hands are trembling, but not from fear. It’s from remembrances. Thirty years gone, eighty pounds heavier, no artillery support, no squad at my heals, no gunship waiting quietly in the distance. Nam. The land of a thousand surprises. Nam. The land of a million stump-red arms and legs. Nam. The land of the meek farmers who at night transform into efficient killers.

  I shake my head to ward off the thoughts; but then I hear Julia’s words in my head: Are you sure she’s there, Quintyn?

  I stop.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” Towers says, coming up behind me.

  I face him. He’s trying to stay calm, but I see the strain on his face.

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Corporal,” I say. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  “Yes, sir,” he says uncertainly.

  I focus again on that tree line still fifty yards ahead. It’s no more than a narrow strip of growth that reaches across the sands toward water. I continue toward it in a half run, stumbling over low stumps and roots. I see Smith, a crouching figure just now reaching the tree line. He disappears into it. He emerges again and crouches. He motions for Towers and me to catch up.

  A minute later we reach Smith and the tree line. He points at something through the growth. But it’s too thick for me to see through. I fall to my elbows and push away some brush. I wiggle forward across roots and rocks, cradling my M16. I hear Towers behind me. I turn and see his lips quivering as he comes forward on his stomach. He’s shaking, but his face looks determined.

  I part some low limbs in front of me and see a fifty-yard field of tall, sharp-bladed grass, like vertical spears. But there’s also a narrow strip of freshly furrowed dirt, a peasant’s garden. Standing in the garden is an old man with a bandaged arm. A rope is harnessed to one shoulder. He’s pulling a plow made from a pointed log. Behind him is a scrawny girl, not more than eight years old. She’s trying to push the plow. Her waist-long hair is covered with dirt; her thin, straining face is filthy brown from soil and sweat. I hear them struggling as they come closer to where I lie.

  Smith crawls alongside me. He reaches for the .38 strapped to his leg, and then for a silencer strapped to his ankle. He screws in the silencer.

  “No,” I say. “We leave them.”

  “They’re dangerous to us,” he says.

  “You’re dangerous to us.”

  Smith lets out a sigh of exasperation. He restraps the .38 and the silencer, then suddenly stands up beside me at the edge of the tree line. His rifle is tucked under his arm like a hunter. The old man and the girl see him. They stop their plowing. The girl’s eyes show surprise, but the old man is impassive. He bows politely. Smith motions to them, and they come forward obediently. Smith backs up, drawing them deeper into the tree line. The girl doesn’t see me concealed there, and she stumbles over me. She starts to scream, but I yank her down and cover her mouth. Her dark eyes are wide on me and watering with fear. She struggles against me, and I have to hold her until she stops. Then I turn to the old man.

  The years on the old man’s face have put him beyond any surprise or fear. He squats dispassionately, looking up at us. His eyes are clear and calm, as if this is an everyday event. I want to communicate with him, but Smith grabs the old man and twists his collar until the man gasps for air. But the man’s eyes remain clear as they fix on Smith. I grab Smith’s arm to free the man, but he holds him even tighter. The man is now choking.

  I pull the .45 from my belt and push it hard against Smith’s temple. He reacts with a snort of disgust and gives me a sideways look down the barrel. “Which side you on, Ames?”

  I flick off the safety.

  “We’re in earshot,” Smith says. “You make some noise with that thing and if Pavlik is there, she’s as good as dead.”

  “I’ll use your head as a silencer,” I tell him.

  “That’s a good one,” he replies, ignoring the .45. He nonchalantly turns to me until he’s looking directly down the barrel. “We find out what we can from them,” he says. “Then waste them.”

  I push the pistol against the corner of his eye socket. “They’re not the enemy, Smith,” I say.

  He sneers. “This is Nam. The enemy is anyone who gets in the way.”

  “You hurt him, and I’ll drop you in a heap right here regardless of Pavlik, regardless of all the other pearls.”

  He sees my finger tensing on the trigger. “You don’t know a goddamn thing about this war,” he says to me.

  I point to the bandage on the old man’s arm. “I know that he has leprosy,” I say.

  Smith jumps back like he’s seen a snake. The old man gasps for air. The girl rushes to him. Smith speaks harshly to the old man. The old man nods, grimly. “I ought to just finish him,” Smith says.

  “Yeah, that’ll teach him,” I say. “How about you ask him if there’s a prisoner in the village, a woman?”

  Smith stares icily at the old man, then says something to him. The old man replies and points in the direction of the village.

  “He says yes,” Smith tells me.

  “Where?”

  Smith asks him. “He says she’s locked up in a hut. No one can talk to her. If we can believe him.”

  “And she’s there now?” I ask.

  Smith says something harshly to the old man. He shrugs as he answers.

  “He says they had her yesterday. He can’t be sure about now, but she was in a hut near the middle of the village.”

  “Which hut?” I ask.

  Smith speaks again, then translates. “One of the huts facing the front of the chapel.”

  “How many soldiers?” I ask.

  Smith asks him, then translates. “He’s not sure. He saw maybe forty.”

  “What weapons?”

  Smith asks him. “Hand-held types. That’s what he says, anyway. And something on a tripod. Must be heavy duty. That doesn’t look good.”

  “What else does he know?”

  Smith asks again. “He says that the soldiers steal from the villagers. And they hurt the women. They’ve killed two villagers already.”

  “Ask them what he’ll do if we let him go.”

  “You know he’ll lie to us!”

  “Ask him!” I demand.

  Smith does. “He says it’s his duty to warn the village,” Smith translates.

  “We’ll have to tie them up,” I say. I unhook the machete and cut some vines from the trees. I toss some to Smith.

  “I’m not going to touch his arm!” Smith exclaims.

  I push Smith out of the way and tie the old man’s hands and ankles, then the girl’s. I pull them both against a tree. Smith stands above the girl and says something to her. She begins crying and shaking quietly.

  “What’d you say?” I demand.
<
br />   “I told her that if she makes a sound, I’ll come back and carve up the old man right in front of her.”

  I squat down and touch her gently on the arm. I have no words that will help. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  I gaze over the next field again. Tall grasses all the way to the grove on the other side of the field, and Cuy Hoa.

  “There’s a lot of space between us and that grove,” I tell Towers. “The jungle’s too dense against the mountain, and that field is too exposed.” I glance at Smith and point toward the beach off to our right side. “But the beach is even more exposed.”

  I take my radio from my belt and flick it on. I check two frequencies and speak into the mic. The only reply is static. “Jones must still be out of range,” I say. “Let’s hope he’s gassed up and heading back.”

  Towers’s face is drawn and tense. “What’ll we do now?” he asks.

  “We’ll assume Jones will be back in time. So, we’ll cross the field one by one, making sure we’re spread out. Each man advances when the other stops. If they have lookouts, only one person is exposed at a time.”

  Smith is chuckling. “Like old times, Ames. Feels good, don’t it?”

  “This is your chance to be a hero, Smith. You go first.”

  “God, I can smell the stinking fish-breaths from here.”

  He leaps forward onto the field, keeping low. He crosses the old man’s garden, then makes his way through the tall grass. Halfway across the field he drops into the grass and disappears.

  I look to Towers. “You want next?” I say.

  “You go, sir,” he says, his voice wavering.

  “We’re all scared,” I tell him. “We just show it differently.”

  I scan the field again. My heart is a hammer. I take off my glasses and wipe them clean of sweat and sand. I slide them back on and grip the weapon tightly. I nod to Towers and step out, hunching low and zigzagging across the field.

  There’s no gunfire. I reach the center of the field just ahead of Smith and to his left. I collapse onto the ground, heaving for breath. I wait, and after a few moments Towers’s feet thump right behind me. The corporal flops down at my side.