by Peter Gilboy
“I said to spread out!” I say in a harsh whisper. “Didn’t you learn anything in basic?”
Towers stares straight ahead, breathing rapidly and not answering. Smith rises and rushes forward again. I watch until he reaches the grove.
“I’ll go next,” I say.
I bolt forward, zigzagging my way. I hear Towers on my heals. I reach the grove and collapse again. Towers lands beside me. We lay there for minutes, gasping for breath.
“I’ve been sitting in an office too long,” I say.
“Sir, this is crazy!”
“Yeah. I know.”
I stand and begin to push through the grove. I see a path, but I don’t take it. I motion to Towers to avoid it too. Smith is pushing through the trees farther to my right. I raise my rifle to avoid the snagging thorns.
I check Smith again. He’s waiting on one knee now and pointing. I look. There’s an overgrown cemetery directly ahead. Just past it I see the corner of a dilapidated cottage covered with vines. Low palms are around it, concealing what lies on the other side.
“The edge of the village,” I tell Towers and Smith.
“Yeah,” Smith grunts.
We stand and move forward in a high crouch, fanning out as we cross the cemetery, stepping over stones and low mounds. On our right, the land slopes away to the beach. My eyes sweep side to side as I head toward the vine-covered cottage. When I get close, I hear Towers behind me. Smith fans farther to my right and looks along the other side of the cottage. He comes back to where Towers and I wait.
“I don’t see anyone yet,” Smith says. “But I can smell ’em.”
He stands and advances on the path with his M16 poised. Then he rounds the cottage and suddenly stops. For some reason his hands fall to his side. A moment later Towers and I catch up with him. Our hands fall to our sides too. We stand there on the path, stunned and amazed.
61
CUY HOA
JANUARY 21, 2006
I EVEN WENT TO Eddie’s home in Pittsburgh. On the north side, off Henderson Street. It’s a row house. Scraggly yard. Beat-up car in front. I lurked outside. After a while I saw someone who I think was his mother coming home with groceries. Maybe a younger brother then, on a bike. I wanted to go to the door. I wanted to tell them. I wanted to explain how it happened, everything. That it was my fault. But I didn’t.
Everything sparkles. Blues, greens, and yellows array the cottages of Cuy Hoa; and they are all crumbling, decayed, falling. Ahead of us is a rough path made of broken tiles, bright yellow and jade green. Tall grasses grow between the tiles. Farther ahead I see a larger building with a steeple and a bell tower that is bordered in yellow and aquamarine. It’s the chapel. It looks like it’s in the center of the village.
And there’s silence.
Towers mutters, “It’s eerie, sir.”
“They’re hiding,” Smith says.
It’s late afternoon now, and the sun is lower, its light streaming through the palms and tree branches. The cottages and the steps to their doors glitter in the light. Everything gleams. Everything shines. And everything is crumbling, cracking, falling.
We advance, and I point to the side of a cottage where a torn hammock still hangs motionless between two palms. Then to a blanket that seems to still be drying on a clothesline. A hammer lays on its side next to a broken table. There are no murmuring voices, no children crying, no rustling of footsteps or clinking of pots. The birds make no sounds. Even the wind seems to be holding its breath.
I move to the trunk of a palm and crouch again.
“It’s weird,” I hear Towers say. “It’s like there’s nobody here.”
I know that armies have habits. Guerrilla warfare has three rules: Conceal the size of your force. Hide in the enemy’s ranks. Attack when least expected.
Hide in the enemy’s ranks.
Still keeping low, we continue forward, hunching behind palms. The village seems to be laid out in a grid pattern. We cross a palm-lined lane with a number of broken-down cottages, each with blue steps to their doors. Then another lane with more crumbling cottages; and then another lane. We finally reach the center of the village and the chapel and bell tower.
A lane runs along the side of the chapel. We rush across. We put our backs against the side of the building. Down the lane are more collapsing cottages littered with gleaming shards. Towers moves closer to me.
“There’s nobody here,” he says, with relief in his voice.
“They’re here,” Smith corrects. “And they know we’re here.”
Towers’s voice is shaky. “You mean they’re waiting for us?”
“Of course they’re waiting for us,” Smith snaps. He laughs shortly. “That’s always been the gook game. They think they got us.”
I say, “The old man said she’s in a cottage facing the front of the chapel.” I point. “We have to go this way.”
We hug the side of the chapel as we head toward its front and the lane crossing at the corner. We stop there, and I peer around the corner of the building. The chapel has a double-door opening, with only one door left. All the arching windows are gone. I look down the lane then and see more broken-down cottages, each glittering in yellows and bright blues. The old man said she was in a cottage facing the front of the chapel. But there are six of them. Which one?
“What’ll we do, sir?”
“We watch for movement of any kind,” I tell him. “It’ll come from that bell tower above us or maybe from the rear of one of those cottages across the way. We’ll have to search each of those cottages one at a time.”
I point to the blue-and-yellow house on the corner, across the lane. “We’ll start with that one. One of us keeps guard here,” I say. “Another guards from outside that cottage. The third goes in and searches.”
I pull out the radio and press the button. I check the frequencies again, keeping the volume low. The pilot still isn’t within distance.
Smith brings his weapon to his shoulder. “I’ll stay here,” he says. “And I won’t shoot ’til I see the yellow of their eyes.”
I get to my feet, feeling the weight of the machete, the .45, the ammo belt and radio. I race across the lane to the side of the first cottage. The machete clangs as I press myself against the building. Towers scrambles next to me and falls down. My eyes sweep the bell tower for a sniper. Nothing.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper to Towers. His lips are white and trembling. But he’s holding up so far.
A single shot rings out, reverberating in the hot air. I duck, a reflex action, then flatten against the side of the cottage. I scan everywhere trying to find the origin of the shot. I can’t locate it. Then another shot echoes off the sides of the cottages. But there is no whine of a bullet, no point of impact, no ricochet. Towers has wilted to the ground.
“It sounds like target practice,” I say. “Or executing someone.”
I motion for Towers to stay put. I inch along the front of the cottage and up the broken tile steps. The wooden door is still intact. I try the handle, and the door swings open from its own weight. I enter cautiously. A single room. Windows are broken and the ceiling has caved in the middle. The air is dense and reeks of infection. A low table stands in the middle. There’s a cupboard against the wall behind it. I have to fight the stench as I move toward the cupboard. I open it, and an even stronger stench engulfs me. I stagger backward and fight the urge to retch. I look down at the two figures hiding in the cupboard, their bodies entwined in the tiny space. They are motionless, except for their eyes blinking up at me.
62
CUY HOA
JANUARY 21, 2006
THE TWO FIGURES SLOWLY disentangle and crawl out. From the length of their hair, I surmise that one is a man and the other a woman. But the hideous shapes of their body make it difficult to know how old they are. The one with long hair stands. Her face is swollen and elongated to the side, like a lopsided ball. The center of her face is swollen in odd patches that distort her mouth and nos
e. Then the man stands. He’s taller, and his face, bare chest, and stomach are covered with a reddish swelling like a burn.
They face me, stooped and unmoving.
Fighting the gag reflex from the smell, I hold out my weapon to them. They stare at it. I set it at their feet and hold out my hands, palms up. Then I bow to them.
The woman understands first. She bows slowly in return. Her lips are parted in a strain as she says something in her language. Then she nods to me and points with a crooked finger to the left side of the cottage; then with the same finger she makes three invisible marks on her palm. She points to the third mark.
They know who I’m looking for.
I bow again. “Thank you,” I say. I pick up my weapon and move back to the door.
Outside, I lean against the cottage door and suck in the clean air. I edge back to Towers, who is crouching at the corner of the cottage with his rifle to his shoulder. He seems more composed now.
“What did you find, sir?”
“She’s three cottages down,” I say.
“Someone told you that, sir?”
“Lepers,” I say.
“How do we know we can trust them? Maybe everyone was told to lead us into a trap.”
“We have to start somewhere,” I tell him.
I motion to Smith who is still squatting against the chapel wall on the other side of the lane. I point down the lane. Smith stands and moves cautiously along the wall in the direction I pointed. A second later another shot rings out, this one hitting the wall behind Smith.
He laughs as he hits the ground, then low-crawls and disappears into a line of shrubs along the front of the chapel. “We must be getting close,” he shouts. More shots then, this time the staccato ripping noise of AK-47s on full automatic. They’re directed into the bushes where Smith has gone. Then I see the bushes rustling as Smith squirms through them in a low crawl. He’s unhurt.
I can’t see where the shot was fired from. I inch along the side of the cottage, then scramble to the next cottage. I look back as Towers moves in beside me. He’s no longer quivering. He seems more focused and alert. More shots ring out, crashing into the side of the cottage above our heads. They came from the bell tower. I dive behind the trunk of a skinny palm. Towers lands squarely on top of me as bullets whine past us. We’re pinned down now, with only the narrow palm between us and the sniper.
Towers whispers, “What are we going to do, sir?”
“What do you think?” I answer solemnly. “We’re gonna find him. And then we’re gonna kill him.”
“Yes, sir,” he says softly.
I move a half foot to my side. Towers is still on my back. I peer up from the base of the palm and focus on the bell tower. It’s dilapidated, with a missing bell. I see a shadow move inside the tower arches.
“There,” I say. “At least one of them.” I pull my weapon from under me and put the stock to my shoulder. I fumble with the safety, then find it and flick it downward. I’m ready.
“Don’t jiggle me,” I say. “Hold your breath.”
Towers takes a deep breath and is motionless on my back as I wait for the sniper to show himself. Nearly a full minute passes, and then a head and rifle muzzle appear. I squeeze the trigger. The bullet runs high and hits the bell tower arch.
“I’ll do better,” I say. “Hold your breath again.”
He does, and a full minute passes before Towers finally gasps for air and then exhales. “Sorry,” he says.
“We can’t wait for him to show himself again,” I say.
“What’ll we do, sir?”
“Will you stop asking that?” I say. “We’ll keep going, that’s all. To the next cottages.”
As I stand, Towers slides from my back. I race to the palm beside the next cottage. Towers is one tree behind me. The next cottage is the one. If the lepers were telling the truth.
Then, more gunfire, and I don’t know whether I should be protecting my front or my side. I fall flat on the ground beside a palm and a large rock. Towers lands on top of me again, with a grunt. I push him off me and come to a low crouch.
There’s a noise behind us, followed immediately by a piercing, animal cry. I start to spin, but Towers shoves me flat again. I roll twice on the splintered tiles and come to my knees facing a uniformed man in the window.
63
CUY HOA
JANUARY 21, 2006
I ROLL AGAIN, DESPERATELY trying to keep moving as I get off a shot. It goes wild, hitting nothing. I hear a loud crack, and the man at the window slumps over the sill. His AK-47 swings from his finger where it’s caught on the trigger housing.
“I forgot to tell him to have a nice day,” Smith shouts from across the lane. He laughs hideously. “Jesus, this is good.”
I check the uniform of the man who was in the window. It’s not camouflaged but a faded green. He’s regular army. He looks to be about sixteen. There’s a large hole in the side of his head where the bullet exited; a spray of brain matter on the sill and red leaking down the tile siding.
I look to Towers, then grab him by the shoulders. “You okay?”
He nods to me. “I think so,” he says.
I hear Smith moving parallel to us across the lane, still in front of the chapel. I point to the third cottage. It’s even more dilapidated than the other. Every blue and green tile looks broken or missing. Tiny fragments lay around the little building. But the door is closed and the one window is boarded over.
“She must be in there,” I whisper to Towers. “She’s got to be. At least I hope to God she is.”
“And they’re probably in there with her,” Towers whispers back.
“Unless they’re all out here,” I say.
“Sir, we still don’t know how many there are.”
“Doesn’t matter, Jodee. We’re here now. No turning back.”
I take the radio from my belt and flip it on. There’s only static. I press the button and speak. “This is Ames. Do you read. Over?” More static. “This is Ames. Can you read me? Over.”
There’s a garbled reply but too much static to understand what he’s saying.
“He must be on the way back,” I tell Towers. “But he’s still out of range.”
My glasses are filthy. I take them off again and wipe them on my sleeve. I pass a hand over my face. “God, I’m too old for this.”
“And I’m too young for this,” Towers responds.
“You’re right,” I say.
“What do we do, sir?”
“Stop saying that! I’m going to the side of that cottage. Then I’ll go in. You got anything better?”
“No, sir.”
“I’m no strategist, obviously,” I add.
“I can go, sir.”
“No, you can’t. Get your rifle set. You’re going to cover me.”
Ready?
I rise to a low crouch and dash to the side of the cottage. Breathing heavily, I flatten myself against the building, scanning around me for any movement. None. I inch toward the boarded-over window. It’s just above my eye level. I scan the area again. Still nothing. I go on my toes and look through a crack in the board. It’s too dark inside.
Then, two shots. The first one whines by me and sinks into the side of the cottage near my ribs. Lucky. More shots, and I find myself spinning backward and falling. The world is a red blur. But I’ve only been nicked in the temple. Lucky again. I try to ignore the burning wound and squint into the blur to get my bearings. Except my glasses are gone. I grope for them over my head, then along the ground. I find them and push them on. The world begins to clear, but blood still falls over my eye. There’s no time to even push it away, as more shots ring out, this time staccato bursts of a weapon on automatic.
Towers is flat on the ground and watching me. I give him a nod. He raises his rifle and starts firing, seemingly at nothing in particular. Realizing it’s the best cover I’m gonna get, I summon all my energy, then roll twice, spring up, and race to the front of the cottage and it
s door. More automatic fire as I hit the door full force, knocking it straight backward and crashing onto the floor. I spin around in all directions, my weapon poised and ready. No one fires at me.
I take a deep breath and hold it as I blink into the darkened room at the huddled form in front of me.
64
CUY HOA
JANUARY 21, 2006
SHE SITS WITH HER arms hugging her legs as she stares at me with a lifeless expression. I lower my M16. The firing continues outside. My eyes continue to adjust, and I see her cracked lips, her brown skin peeling with filth.
I go from a prone to a kneeling position, facing her. She cocks her head at me as if not understanding what is happening. Then she goes to all fours and crawls toward me, dragging a chain around her leg. She whispers something incomprehensible, maybe in Vietnamese. I become aware of the smell. But it’s not leprous.
She has a bewildered look on her face as she reaches up like a blind person to touch my face and watery eyes.
“Patricia,” I say.
She seems startled by the word and mouths the name as if trying to remember it. Her bewildered look changes to a grimacing smile. Her cracked lips and brown face crease as her mouth opens in awe. She cups my face in her hands and traces the corner of my mouth with her finger.
“America?” she asks me.
“Yes,” I tell her. “America.”
Silent tears begin streaming down her face. Then she looks down at the chain around her ankle. She pulls on it. It’s fastened to the wall by an iron ring.
“Go!” she shrieks. “Go! Go! Go!” She yanks on the chain again and again. She crawls to the iron ring and pulls on it. “Go! Go!”
I yank on the ring too, then put my foot to the wall and pull harder. It’s no use. It won’t budge.
I sit back to catch my breath. But she grabs at the machete on my belt. I see it too late, and she brings the machete down on her bare ankle to free it from the chain. But her strength is so diminished that the blade cuts only to the bone and not through it. She does not cry out from the pain or the sight of blood gushing in bright streams to the floor.