The American Pearl

by Peter Gilboy

  I fire again, clip after clip. Towers does the same. Then he hands me another flare from his belt. I prepare it and hit the percussion cap with the palm of my hand. Another long whoosh, and the burning ball rushes toward the soldiers who had just started again toward us. I grab another flare and send it in another flaming arc, landing in front of the soldiers and hopefully blinding them for a time.

  Towers and I leap to our feet. I grab Patricia and somehow get her over my shoulder. We have to run. We have to run.

  There’s no other way.

  68

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  CONSIDER THIS—THERE’S A MAN running on a beach. He’s running hard, but not particularly fast. He’s grimacing, and holding his side as if wounded, weaving left and right. The man stumbles. He straightens. Then he stumbles again. The man’s black-rimmed glasses are crooked on his face. He struggles to keep going.

  Now let’s say that you are on that beach too. You feel the sand under your feet. You smell the salt air. It’s evening, and the sky is darkening. You see the man scrambling in a zigzagging stagger. You see a woman over his shoulder. You see the man stumble again, then straighten and keep going. Then you see that there’s another man running beside him. That man collapses onto the sand. And you realize that, for them, it’s all come down to this.

  “Go ahead,” Towers gasps. “Go ahead. I’ll come.”

  I stoop and pull off Towers’s webbed belt, releasing the weight. I yank him to his feet. With Patricia still over my shoulder, I pull Towers along. Then he gains momentum again and is able to run on his own.

  We’re out of flares now, and it’s growing even darker. I don’t know if we’re visible. There’s sporadic fire coming from behind us. I have to stall them.

  Still gripping Patricia, I halt and turn. I check my weapon and plant myself. They’re coming down the beach now, forming a line behind us. I get off one shot, but my breath is heaving and the weapon isn’t steady. Nobody goes down.

  “Sir!”

  From the side, a shadow. The man halts thirty feet away and kneels, raising his AK-47 and taking aim. Towers quickly raises his weapon and fires in that direction. He somehow hits the soldier, who drops right there.

  “Thanks, Corporal.”

  “You got it, sir.”

  They are still coming from behind. I look down the beach ahead of us, and now there’s a second line of riflemen blocking the way. We can’t run. There’s nowhere to go. It’s over. I push Towers to the sand. I throw myself on top of Patricia. I glance back to where I fired the flares. The fire is still burning. I see the silhouettes of the soldiers, fifty yards away now, closing in on our rear with their rifles poised.

  I shoulder my M16 again and fire three bursts at the soldiers closing in from behind. My eyes sting with sweat, or maybe it’s blood. I shove in another clip and fire again on automatic, two long bursts. The bolt of the M16 stays open. The magazine is empty. I release the clip and reach for another magazine, gliding it in. Fewer are coming toward us now. I look the other way, to the line of soldiers to our front. They’re down on one knee like a firing squad about to carry out an execution.

  There’s a hum in my ears again. A low rumble. I try to shake it away, but I can’t.

  “What are we going to do now?” Towers asks, but there’s a strange calmness to his voice. I turn toward him and can just make out the strain on his face.

  “We’re going to die now, Jodee.” I tell him. “We’re going to die now.”

  69

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  TOWERS’S VOICE IS CALM. “We tried, sir. We tried.”

  “That’s right,” I say.

  There’s a rasping voice beside me demanding, “We—go—home!”

  I feel no fear of dying. I think of Julia, and I hear her voice: I think they should throw the ball slower. Or make it bigger, don’t you think?

  The firing squad is ready.

  You’ll get yourself killed, Quintyn!

  I never gave all to Julia. Too absorbed. Too selfish to really love her. A selfishness that has brought me to this moment, here on this beach.

  My eyes sting but I can see Patricia Pavlik as she searches my face for help. Pleading eyes. “Go—home?” she asks in a faint voice.

  Ready?

  I stand. From somewhere deep inside me comes a bellow, a long animal howl. I raise my M16 and shoot three short bursts into the soldiers lined up as a firing squad. Two fall to the ground. The rest scatter. I release the empty magazine clip and shove in another. I swing around to the soldiers behind us. The rifle jams after the second burst.

  The air explodes with gunfire. One round grazes my neck and another tears clean through my shirt under my arm. I look to the ground. Towers lies on his side, bleeding from his arm and side. In the dimness I grope for his M16. But Lieutenant Pavlik already has it and is already struggling to kneel. She points the muzzle up the beach. She fires a wild burst, then falls to the sand again, still with her weapon raised. She fires two more bursts that are also wild. I reach for the weapon, lift it to my shoulder, and aim. Our last chance. I pull the trigger.

  The magazine is empty.

  That hum is still in my ear. I throw down the weapon and pull out the .45 pistol. For some reason an old military joke flits through my head; that if you’re down to the errant .45, you’re as good as dead and might as well just shoot yourself.

  The hum grows louder as I spin back to the line of executioners who have quickly regrouped in front of us and are preparing to fire. I confront them alone, with just a pistol. It doesn’t matter. I would confront the entire army now, Vietnamese and American. I would confront Congress and the generals who declared everyone dead, every president who looked the other way; the departments and agencies that lied all this time.

  All of them. In this final gesture, here on this beach, I confront them all.

  70

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  I FACE THEM WITH the useless .45. Only eight rounds, and in seconds it’s empty. Every round missed as I knew they would from this distance.

  They know we’re out of ammo, so they approach slowly from front and back, their weapons held across their bodies. No need for them to run or even crouch. I can hear them laughing. It’s over.

  The hum in my ear is suddenly a high-pitched roar. The air shivers and whirls in a thunderous gale that nearly knocks me down. I recover to realize I’ve nearly been hit by the helicopter racing along the sands just ten feet above the ground. It dips down even lower after it passes, the pilot steering directly into the line of soldiers at our rear. Some scatter, some stand, firing up at the chopper as it sweeps past them, then swoops higher again.

  The pilot goes into a steep bank and turns back toward the soldiers. To our front and back, all weapons are now trained on the helicopter as it dives again. The pilot passes over us. The chopper’s nose flares back as he confronts the confused line of executioners. The pilot swings the tail toward them, the spinning blades causing some to scatter. Others stand their ground and fire into the chopper. The engine sputters. The helicopter falls several feet, it’s skids now scraping along the sands as the pilot struggles for control.

  The pilot throttles the chopper and heads toward us, then past us, and swings the whirling tail rotor toward the other line of soldiers, like a boxer punching out on all sides. The soldiers flee in confusion, some discarding their weapons.

  I race down the beach to one of the discarded AKs. I unload a long burst toward the soldiers ahead of us. The clip empties. I find another AK farther down the beach and pick it up and fire. Then Towers is beside me, bleeding but struggling to raise another AK to his shoulder. He fires at the first line of soldiers. One of them falls.

  I look back to where I left Patricia. She’s not there. I spin around in the dimness. She’s not there.

  The chopper comes in again, sputtering as it flares back like before, and nearly sets down beside Towers and
me. The pilot struggles to hold it steady. Towers lunges for the door and scrambles up and onto the cargo floor.

  I look again for Patricia. Where is she? I have to find her. I have to. But I need a better vantage point.

  The chopper starts to rise. I grab a side grip and swing one leg on the skid and manage to pull myself up and inside. There’s a tremendous wind now, and I realize the entire windshield has been blown away. A blue ceiling light and a white passenger light cast eerie mixes of colors. Towers is sprawled beside me holding his side. Slumped in the corner is Roy Smith, his body riddled with bullets, his eyes wide open, as if something surprised him. His head is cocked at an impossible angle. Blood still drains from him across the cargo floor.

  The pilot turns and shouts, “The girl! Where’s the girl?”

  “She’s still there!” I shout. “She’s still there! We’ve got to go back!”

  He nods calmly, just another day for him, and immediately banks the chopper and starts back to the coastline. As we approach I see the soldiers down on one knee, waiting for us to get closer to knock us out of the air. Two soldiers are pulling Patricia as she struggles against them. They’re dragging her up the darkening beach like ants pulling their prey.

  The pilot slows, and then hovers, the chopper now facing up the length of beach. It sputters again and nearly falls out of the air, but he regains control. He looks back at me. I know what he’s thinking. We’re going to rush at them, giving them our front instead of our broader side. He points. The .30-cal lies on its side in back. Next to it is the metal ammo box, rectangular and green, holding at least one ammo belt.

  I rush to the ammo box, open it, and pull on the belt. It unfolds in a long strip. I glance at the pilot, who is continuing to hover at the end of the beach. He looks back at me. He’s waiting for the go sign.

  I flip open the cover extractor on the .30-cal and clumsily try to feed the brass clip into the weapon. I finally get it in and snap it closed. I’m ready. Thirty-one pounds of weapon, and there’s no tripod for it. I struggle to my feet and stand at the door, hefting the weapon with both hands and pointing it out. I look back at the pilot. He sees me, and I nod.

  The chopper tips forward and we accelerate.

  I hold the weapon against my hip. I stand in the door. I’m as ready as I will be.

  71

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  THE CHOPPER PICKS UP speed as we race along the strip of beach. When we get closer, the pilot slows and turns the chopper so the cargo door is facing the soldiers. I let go with a burst from the .30-cal. The fierce hacking sounds frighten even me. I rock back from the recoil but manage to hold on. Outgunned, the soldiers scatter, some even running into the water.

  The pilot turns and heads farther along the beach. I can just see the soldiers pulling Lieutenant Pavlik into the shadows along the edge of trees.

  Don’t let them take her! Don’t let them take her again!

  They release her and turn in our direction. They aim their AKs.

  You know what to do!

  The .30-cal is unwieldy and too imprecise at this distance

  You know what to do!

  The pilot moves us closer, with my cargo door facing them.

  Do it! Do it!

  I ready the .30-cal.

  You promised, Quintyn! You promised! End it! End it now!

  I point the .30-cal again. This time at Patricia Pavlik.

  I take a deep breath and steady myself. I fire, but to the left and right of Patricia. The soldiers drop to the ground and roll away from her. They ready their weapons in the prone position.

  You promised!

  The pilot slides the chopper even closer and lower. We’re almost at ground level. The skids touch and snag, throwing me to the floor with the .30-cal. The pilot fights to lift again. I regain my balance and move back to the door. They’re firing at us again, and rounds are impacting the hull of the craft.

  Fifty feet away, Patricia stands up and struggles toward us, a slow stagger. Her legs give out. She fights to her feet, ignoring the soldiers behind her who are readying their weapons on her. Two more steps forward. Then two more. The craft stutters, and we snag the beach again.

  You promised!

  Another roar from my .30-cal and a soldier to the side of her is cut in half. Now the others run, some dropping their weapons in the sand. Patricia still staggers toward the chopper.

  I leap from the cargo door and race toward her, grabbing her as she falls. I turn back to the chopper. I see Towers on the cargo floor on his back. The pilot is struggling as the craft coughs and nearly dies. I run with Patricia in my arms. I reach the chopper and set her on the cargo floor, then push her away from the door. The chopper immediately lifts off. I grab the skid and swing a foot over it. I struggle to pull myself up.

  Then I feel a hand gripping my collar and another hand pulling on my leg as Patricia and Towers grapple to get me inside.

  72

  CUY HOA

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  THEY HEAVE WITH ALL their strength, and finally my leg is inside the cargo door. Then my shoulder. I struggle to pull up too. We strain, and then I’m in and on my back on the vibrating cargo floor. Patricia and Towers collapse backward onto the floor. I lie there in disbelief. We’ve done it. It’s over. And now we’re over the sea on our way to the Japanese boat.

  The pilot motions to me. I move to a crouch and hobble forward, fighting the gale through the missing windshield. I see an open flesh wound on the pilot’s shoulder. Another on his leg. He grimaces as he adjusts the rudder pedals. There’s a .38 in his lap.

  The pilot looks over his shoulder and shouts something to me. I can’t hear it. The engine coughs again and I scan the instruments looking for any flashing lights that might tell me something.

  The pilot moves his mic from his mouth. “What about them?” he shouts, pointing to the rear, at Patricia and Towers.

  “They’re hurt,” I shout back, “but it’s over. It’s over.”

  The pilot nods, then shakes his head. “Not yet,” he shouts to me.

  “What?”

  “We got to go back!”

  “No! No! They need help!”

  “I said we’re going back!” He bobs his head up and down as if agreeing with himself. “This one’s for her. This is for all the years.”

  “It’s crazy! We’ve got her. They need help! We’ve got the proof! We’ve got everything we need.”

  But he’s already banking toward the coastline. The chopper sputters and coughs, and the pilot wrestles with the control.

  “The engine!” I shout.

  “Just a nick in the fuel line. Happens all the time.”

  “No!” I shout. “It’s over! It’s over!” I hit the back of the pilot’s seat with my fist.

  He looks back at me, a strange but calm look. He pushes the microphone from his mouth again. I can read his lips: Don’t worry. Everything is under control.

  The chopper wobbles and shakes as I return to the rear and pull Lieutenant Pavlik onto a bench seat in the back. I check her pulse and look into her eyes. Her lips are moving, saying something over and over. But the sounds are lost in the noise of the helicopter engine.

  I grab Towers and pull him up against the bench seat. Then I hold onto a handle and lean my head out the open cargo door, squinting into the wind. Full darkness has set in, but I can make out the white sands skimming under us. Ahead, fires are still burning and a strip of white sand is illuminated.

  The pilot shouts something. I move forward again.

  “Get the .30-cal,” he shouts. He points his thumb to the rear where the gun has slid. The belt is still loaded.

  “It over!” I shout again. “Get us the fuck out of here!”

  “For her” he shouts again. “And all the others!”

  I move to the rear again. The .30-cal is on its side. I pull it from the corner and slide it toward the cargo door. I grab the inside handle of the chopper and lean out. We’re at a
hundred feet and going lower.

  Suddenly a torrent of muzzle flashes ahead of us on the sands. Tracer bullets glow toward us. The effect is theatrical. I’ve seen it before.

  The helicopter engine growls and sputters. The craft slows, dipping to the side. We’re losing altitude. I grab the handgrip. The chopper rights itself. I glance toward the cockpit. The pilot isn’t budging from his course.

  We approach the illuminated section of the beach. The sands go by in a blur. I pick up the .30-cal and hold it against my hip again. I untwist the belt, point the muzzle out, and look ahead to the gray forms on the beach. Some are dragging bodies up the sands. Others stand around bodies, firing up at us. For me it’s just silent flashers and tracers streaming upward.

  I stand at the door. Then I lower the .30-cal.

  It’s over.

  Nam is over.

  I turn and toss the weapon to the floor. I face out again. Tracer rounds follow us as we pass over more gray forms below.

  Then we bank again, and in seconds we’re out over the South China Sea.

  73

  ABOARD THE IWATE-MARU

  JANUARY 21, 2006

  I HALF AWAKEN TO a constant droning. I smell oil. And salt. There are faces looking down at me. They are saying something in a language I don’t understand. Japanese. The Japanese boat. It has to be the Japanese boat. The droning is the engine pushing forward at full speed.

  I’m on a cot. The room is steel gray. There are handles and railings. Pipes overhead. A porthole, high up. I touch my head. It’s bandaged. So is my neck and side. I presume my leg, too. I struggle to sit up, but they ease me back, speaking to each other in a conversational tone. I turn my head and look for Patricia Pavlik. I don’t see her at first. I strain my head upward and look again. She’s there, on the other side of the small room. Someone is with her. There’s blood coming from her ear. She’s not moving.