The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “Jesus,” Williams said, nearly tripping backwards on his own feet. “What the hell is going on?”

  “You’re right, this isn’t us.”

  “Where’s the soldiers?”

  “I don’t know, Cap.”

  “This is my fault. I told him…told Medina we would do this. I trusted that bastard.”

  Turning to his right, the pair then came upon the ditch, which ran lengthwise. Bodies, some still breathing, littered the area.

  Then Williams saw her—a petite frame. She couldn’t have been older than eleven, maybe ten. Still clutching what Williams assumed was her mother, she reached up for help, her small fingers spread like the talons of a jungle cat and gasped. Somehow, she still trusted that man would do right.

  “I don’t…I don’t…” Williams dropped his rifle and fell to his knees.

  “Cap, what you want us to do?”

  The scene faded as her outstretched fingers spread out, hoping he would do the right thing.

  FOUR

  “You in there, Cap?” Williams’s eyelids rolled back to reveal Jackson starring down at him, a legion of flies swarming over his bald dome.

  “I think so, at least,” Williams said. He tried to muster enough spit to wet his tongue, but his mouth remained dry and his tongue the consistency of cardboard. Every breath felt like a chore.

  “Didn’t sound so good when you were sleeping. You were mumbling something. Was it a dream?”

  “Haven’t dreamed since I got here.” Williams wrenched his neck to the side. A dull throb pulsated up from his leg and into his chest, fueling his migraine. He noticed a gauze bandage wrapped around his leg, already soaked with more blood than it could hold. “Been out long?”

  “About an hour. Told me to keep an eye on you.” Jackson smiled. “Garcia thought you went into shock. Thought you might die on me.”

  “I feel like I died.” Williams wiped his bangs away from his eyes, grinding the layer of dried mud covering his cheeks and forehead against burnt skin. They could have at least put some damned suntan lotion on him. Of course, it was probably lost in the crash.

  “Whatever the case, happy to have you around.”

  “That makes two of us.” Looking down the length of his body and over the tips of his boots, Williams focused on the figures scattered along the ridge, scavenging for whatever they could find from the wreckage. He recognized a hint of organization, Garcia at the helm, although Simmons shrugged off his commands with a few choice words.

  A quick count revealed eight men: Harris, who still wore Williams’s helmet; Ernesto Garcia; Alex Donovan, the pretty-boy college flunky; the half-cocked Texan Carl Simmons; Wilson Jones; Dave Anuska, the family man and son of a polish immigrant; and Sonny “Ears” McEvoy, the enigmatic communications engineer, or whatever they called it these days. Sonny had earned his nickname for obvious reasons.

  All were grunts, mostly privates, save Garcia. Anuska held the crown as oldest, barely in his thirties. With the exception of the teenage Harris, the rest of them were in their early twenties. According to the government, they were perfect fodder for the United States Army.

  “Shit,” Williams cursed himself for their predicament. As the only officer among the group, he remained responsible for their safety. Except he didn’t feel like a soldier. He felt more like a zookeeper keeping the wolves caged inside their pens. They had been wronged, their friends killed by the NVC and VC, all hungry for insatiable revenge. How else could he explain their anger in My Lai? They had enough. All of them.

  “Ain’t nothing else. Just some rocks, dirt, and mud,” Jones tossed what appeared to be a river rock to his side as he sauntered close to Jackson and Williams. “Not even some smokes.”

  “Found a half-empty canteen all dented to hell. Some matches, too. Lucky for us, they managed to stay dry,” Donovan responded, rifling through a half-torn sack. “Jackpot, baby.”

  They gathered whatever they found on top of a tarp. Williams counted four M-16s, two rucksacks, some canned rations, likely some meat stuff “M” units or “D” unit peaches in heavy syrup, and a few other items too small to recognize. He closed his eyes at the next sight, wishing that he had never seen them: two sets of boots stuck out from underneath another tarp.

  “Nine out of what? Fourteen. That’s a miracle,” Williams said, except he didn’t believe in miracles. He’d stopped believing back in Maryland, his skepticism reinforced by the events in My Lai. “What unlucky bastards did you find under there?”

  “That’s Edwards.” Jackson pointed to the first set of boots. “And you know about Longhorn, but you don’t see him ’cause he ain’t got no legs. Then there’s Cobb. Yeah, Cobb. Gonna miss that fool’s jokes.” Jackson took a knee beside Williams and let his words trail off.

  “Sorry about Cobb. I know he meant a lot to you.” Williams leaned back on his elbows.

  “Yeah, like a brother.” Jackson sighed.

  “We’re all brothers out here.” He slapped Jackson’s boot in a reassuring manner.

  “It fine. Just gotta tell his momma.”

  “For what it’s worth, he’s probably in a better place right now. Not stuck in this mess.” He didn’t believe a word he said. Jackson wouldn’t understand, but it was better this way. Cobb would face his demons sooner rather than later.

  “If only that were true, Cap.” Jackson glanced at Simmons before retreating to Cobb’s lifeless form.

  An awkward silence followed as Williams allowed Jackson a short time to grieve.

  “Have we heard anything? Anything at all?” Williams asked.

  “Not so much luck. Sonny’s radio is still broke, though. Static and all. Heard a little gibberish in another language.” Jackson plopped his helmet down, wiping his cheeks clear of a tear.

  “Not the news I wanted to hear.” Williams realized they were indeed cut off from HQ and left to the foreign land to fend for themselves. It would be easier to put together a plan without the damned headache. “You think we can get Garcia to change this bandage? Looks like its best days are behind it.”

  Jackson didn’t budge. Williams knew the native Georgian grew distant during stressful times. It wasn’t that he hated taking orders; it had everything to do with his past, something about his family life and what he went through before he joined, but it wasn’t the time to worry about the past. They had to make it out for the future.

  “Jackson, going to need you to wake up. Get Garcia for me,” Williams asked with a little more emphasis.

  “What’s that?” Jackson swatted at his albatross—the same flies hovering above his head.

  “Need to get this dressing changed.” Williams pointed to his sullied bandage. “I would do it myself, but I don’t know where anything is. Garcia does.”

  “Sorry about that. Must’ve spaced out for a minute.” Jackson wrangled himself forward with a grunt. “Hey, Garcia,” he yelled across the stream.

  Williams cupped his hands over Jackson’s mouth, hushing him.

  “Stonewall, let’s be a little more aware of our voices. We don’t need any of those gooks springing up, especially with what just happened.”

  “Oh, yeah. I hear you.”

  “Night’s going to be here before you know it. You know how they crawl around here when the sun’s down.”

  They infested every corner of the Vietnamese jungle. Watching. Waiting. Listening. The gray plume of smoke pouring from the helicopter served as a beacon—honey to a bear’s senses. It only a matter of time before the Viet Cong descended upon them from the trees.

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson nodded. Although he appeared less-than-brilliant, the man was deceptively smart. He earned his nickname for his admiration of Stonewall Jackson, or at least that’s what Williams was told. He never bothered to question it. The nickname was odd considering Jackson’s upbringing and, well, the color of his skin. That type of hatred was lost on Williams from growing up in the North. “I’ll go and get the priest, I mean Garcia. He’s got what you’re looking f
or.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jackson trudged down the slope toward the rest of the Death Dealers, allowing Williams a welcome moment of solitude. What he would give for his boat, his waves, his Annapolis sun, his Hemingway, and his Salinger.

  “Where the hell are we? Think, Chris.” Even as a child, Williams talked his way through problems. It alleviated the isolation of being a loner. “Been here before. Not your first time.”

  He brushed aside a few decaying leaves, large in size and not of the modern world, to reveal the crimson earth. His fingers dug deep into the dirt. The soil felt different, its texture alien. Williams gave pause for a moment, studying the red-black canvas beside him. How many men had already sacrificed their lives for this land?

  Longhorn said a tiger got him. He dug up another clump of dirt, allowing it to filter through his fingers, lost in his thoughts. If a tiger attacked Longhorn, what prevented it from attacking Williams? The narrow features of the tiger’s visage remained fresh in his mind.

  Snap out of it. He shook his head clear and picked up an errant twig. “Pinkville,” he recited to himself as traced the twig through the mud, drawing the outline of a map from memory. He grimaced at his rendering of the Vietnamese coast. Even a three year old would be appalled by his lack of artistic ability.

  We were heading south to rendezvous with the rest of Charlie Company. In flight for what, twenty minutes? Jungle approached soon after. Then the shots. That was about five minutes in. He drew a line signifying his thoughts.

  Williams stopped drawing and looked around him once again. The sun had already begun its twilight descent below the horizon. Thunder boomed within the gathering clouds, signaling the birth of an evening storm—odd for the time of year.

  “Williams, you’re up.” Garcia traversed up the slope, his foot digging up clumps of dirt every third step. Donovan and Simmons followed close behind. Simmons slipped more than once, supplanting a handful of wet grass to support his lumbering body.

  “Yeah.” Williams smirked, still calculating in his head. “Don’t get too excited. Looks like I was out only for an hour. Not like I’m on my deathbed.”

  “An hour? Not quite,” Donovan laughed. Even in the darkest of times the self-proclaimed comedian of the group could find humor. Williams didn’t mind Donovan, being one of the few college-educated kids in the troop. The oft-kilter humor lightened the mood when he least expected. “Try six hours.”

  “Six?” Williams eyed Jackson. “Thought you said one?”

  Jackson simply shrugged.

  “No matter. How’s the wound? The pain?” Garcia bent down, allowing his rucksack to slide off his shoulder. Williams knew Garcia likely spent the past six hours pushing past the brink of exhaustion with futile attempts of resurrecting their fallen brothers.

  “Hurts.”

  “How’s the nausea?”

  “It’s there…for what it’s worth.”

  “Still can’t believe you didn’t bleed out. I mean, you should’ve. Someone must be looking out for you above.”

  “Bullshit,” the insurmountable prick Simmons grunted from behind.

  “Must be my thick blood. Stops the bleeding,” Williams answered. Garcia peeled off the sullied bandage, exposing the festering gash underneath. Williams turned away in time to avoid the sight of his wound but couldn’t avoid the stench. Another wave of pain shot up his leg as Garcia prodded the gash. “The gauze…you must’ve found your bag?”

  “This?” Garcia removed a clean rag from the backpack he carried. “Harris was able to round up a few of these. Have a feeling my bag is hanging from a tree several miles from here.” Williams squeezed his hands and stiffened his toes as Garcia poured hot water over the cloth and pressed it into the wound. The pain was worse than before. “We need to keep this clean. Here, keep pressure.”

  Garcia guided Williams’s hand above the wound and pressed down on the fresh gauze.

  “Were you able to find anything else?” Williams squirmed as Garcia prodded his wound again. “Iodine tablets? We’ve got to worry about keeping ourselves hydrated. Doubt we find some magical oasis out here.” Williams knew one truth about the jungle: they needed to drink. In the climate’s harsh conditions, consuming enough water was paramount to all else, sometimes even his greatest adversary. A man could easily die from dehydration before one of the Viet Cong nailed him.

  “Ain’t nothing,” Simmons said, his jowls gnashing down on a betel nut root, its dark juices flowing between the cracks of his lips like maple syrup. His teeth were stained black with shades of yellow like the root itself, a byproduct from his time in Vietnam. “Except them two coons.”

  “Damn it, Simmons. Really? Now?” Donovan said, securing Garcia’s rucksack. “Haven’t we moved past that? This ain’t the Civil War we’re fighting.”

  “It kinda is,” Garcia chimed in. “We’re just visiting, helping out with one of the sides.”

  “Spare me.” Simmons turned his back to Donovan. “Don’t give me that bullshit, not here. Ladies like you make my job a hell of a lot harder.”

  That demon killed the most out of all of them, Williams remembered Simmons’s actions back in the village, the diabolical smile on his face, the emotionless glaze across his eyes as he pulled back on the trigger and sprayed the helpless who were still flailing in the shallow grave.

  “You’re all the same. All you backwater hillbilly—” Donovan jumped.

  Simmons snatched Donovan’s throat before he could finish. The bull lifted Donovan of the ground and rushed him into the closest tree. A few startled birds cawed above, feathers falling as they scattered when Donovan’s spine snapped against the trunk.

  “You like this, boy? I oughta bend your peachy ass over and—”

  “Enough! Both of you,” Williams shouted. His words were magic. They both stopped. “We don’t need internal enemies here. I’ve had enough of that infighting for a lifetime.”

  “Ok, Lieutenant,” Simmons said, a few drops of saliva dribbling down the scars carved in his chin as he set the wriggling Donovan down. “Whatever you say, Williams.”

  “No more of that horseshit. From my count, there are nine of us left. It’ll take all nine of us to get out of here safely.” Although Williams didn’t make a habit of socializing with most of the enlisted, often segregating himself from the indentured volunteers, he garnered their respect with his no-nonsense demeanor.

  “Yeah.” Donovan brushed off his sleeves and straightened his jacket. He tried to give a confident expression but fell short. “We’re all on the same team here. Don’t you know?”

  “Alex, do us a favor and try not to mock Simmons. The bull gets a little rattled.”

  “No doubt,” Donovan answered. “Like his balls are rotting from the syph.”

  “Alex, shut it. Spend your time being useful and search the far end. Nightfall will get here before any of you know it. I’d rather not be stuck out here ill prepared.” Garcia displayed a hint of uncharacteristic frustration.

  Simmons mustered a resentful groan and bared his black-yellow teeth towards Donovan. Donovan waved the bigger man forward. It was a brazen act for a man half Simmons’s size.

  “The iodine pills. You never answered,” Williams asked.

  “We have enough…for now. All we need is a few days, right?” Garcia’s attention lingered on Simmons as the Texan left.

  “No more than three days. But still, let’s not make a habit of wasting them on me then. Got it?”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll be damned if you leave me alone with these nutcases. Won’t let you out of this that easy.” Garcia smiled.

  “I’ll stick around as long as I can. Promise.”

  “Hopefully.” Garcia’s words were not filled with much hope. He dug deeper into his rucksack, found a bottle, and popped the cap. “Take these. It’s only Tylenol, but it will help ease the pain.” Garcia dropped a few white circles into Williams’s hand. Williams stared at them.

  “And I can’t argue with you
to save these for the boys?”

  “Nope. Don’t even try.”

  “So be it.” Williams whipped his head back and acted as if he swallowed them whole. He’d spit them back out when Garcia wasn’t looking. It wouldn’t do any good to waste them on him. “Jackson mentioned the radio. Has McEvoy tried to fix it?”

  “He’s been tinkering with it. Works for a few seconds a time but no luck.”

  “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “What’s that?”

  “All of this. How did we did hit jungle so fast? Time doesn’t work out.” Williams looked back at his elementary-school map carved in the dirt.

  “The thought came across my mind. Maybe we were wrong. Maybe we accidently headed west into the mountains. We weren’t exactly thinking right after what happened,” Garcia bit his tongue. Williams imagined the entire ordeal weighed the heaviest on Garcia.

  “An order is an order. There’s no use in dwelling on it right now.” Williams tried to play psychotherapist. He’d taken a class on the subject during college, spending most of the time doodling in the margins of his notebook.

  “I know this isn’t a good time to bring it up. It’s just that…why didn’t you step up back there?” Garcia asked.

  The two exchanged an uneasy glare. Garcia was the first to withdraw.

  “That’s something I’m going to have to square with myself, but there’s no use dwelling on it. Not now. We need to focus on the here and now, which is getting all nine of us out of here.”

  Garcia maneuvered his arms as fast as he could, tightening the fresh bandage around Williams’s thigh. Williams thought back to the scene, his inability to speak up and order his troops to withdrawal before the bulk of the slaughter.

  “What do we have in terms of maps? Any compass?” Williams asked.