by JC Braswell
Then there was the matter of dealing with the others. Simmons and Harris stood a few feet behind the others. The Texan eyed Jackson, his stare one of anger. He needed to keep him in check if they had a shot of making it out.
“Still don’t understand why you did it, Lieutenant.” McEvoy’s head peeked around a tree like a squirrel, fresh from unloading his bowels. McEvoy was notorious for valuing privacy, even after serving six months in Vietnam.
Williams could never understand how a meek individual wanted to be a career soldier. McEvoy mentioned his father, a career, several times, but only during his rambling about his desire to be a hero and save people.
“It was the only decision.” Williams slid the picture back in his pocket. “At least it was a decision.”
McEvoy tossed his rucksack down and unscrewed his canteen’s lid.
“Hold up. Where’d you get that water?” Williams asked.
“The river.”
“You know better.” Williams slapped the canteen aside. “Boil it. Then drop the iodine inside.”
“What? It’s a river, not some sinkhole. Hell, that stream has been getting a little—”
“Listen to me, kid. I don’t need you shitting yourself on the way out of here. The rest of us will be miserable smelling your stink. And be careful when you boil it. Try not to use any greenwood that smokes. We don’t need to send up a signal.”
“Sure, didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just want people to look out for themselves.”
“How you feeling? Knee and all.” McEvoy replaced the lid and leaned back, using his elbows as support. “I mean, given the circumstances of the crash and all. You look a little tired.”
“I’m surviving.” Williams sighed. McEvoy was clueless.
“You know it wasn’t your fault.”
“Why would it be my fault?” Williams sighed. “Did somebody say something?”
“No, I’m just saying if you blamed yourself, you shouldn’t, because that’s not what I’m saying.”
“You sure about that? Don’t be holding anything back.” Williams swatted at a mutant mosquito circling at brow height. They were larger, more menacing in Vietnam. He’d already been bitten once by the malaria lottery. The last thing he needed was to roll the dice another time.
“Positive.” McEvoy smiled with his perfectly polished teeth. The sun torched his face to the point of his freckles becoming even more visible, like constellations. “Because you’ve helped us a lot. I may not agree with all of your decisions. You know I trust you and all.”
“Let me guess, you don’t agree with me letting him live?” Williams fastened his bandage, nimble in his movements.
“Well, I guess.”
“Go on.” Williams already knew his decision to let the Viet Cong live wasn’t popular with most of them.
“The others…the others thought you should’ve killed him. I kinda do, too.”
“You have balls to question the decision of an officer.”
“I only bring it up ’cause…’cause,” McEvoy’s stuttered, a dead giveaway for when he became nervous. The kid could never win at poker for a reason.
“No, you don’t need to bring it up.” Williams shut him down, scanning the area for Anuska’s killer. An ambivalent yellow gaze peeking through squinted eyes greeted him.
The VC’s lips teased again with a sardonic smile. The VC remained silent for the entire march. Occasionally he knelt, refusing to move only to have the butt of Simmons’s gun find its mark across the back of his neck. Yet he defied Williams’s demands as interpreted through the broken Vietnamese McEvoy understood. He wanted to slap the prick more than ever.
“They wanted me to execute him.” Williams focused back on McEvoy. “That’s what it would’ve been, an execution.”
“They think you should’ve shot him in the back of the head. Bam. Over with.” McEvoy clapped his hands once.
“I know it sounds sexy to just kill him like that, but you haven’t been around long enough to go dead inside after you kill someone. I don’t want any of you greens to get like that. Plus, he might be the only way we get out of here.” Williams swatted at another mosquito, inadvertently smacking his already-bruised ribs.
“You sure? I mean, it might take a little time for him to crack. Look at him over there. I’m telling you, Chris—”
“Lieutenant.” Although it was trivial, Williams needed to maintain some semblance of military decorum, however false it may be.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. No insult.”
“Just keep yourself. I don’t want to give some of them a reason to protest.”
“Absolutely.”
“Anyway, you were telling me something about how he wasn’t going to crack.” Williams grimaced as he repositioned his leg, tingling as if a million bees feasted on his thigh and calf.
“Oh, yeah. He ain’t gonna crack. You see how he behaved back there. The dink-bastard refused to move at times and hasn’t even spoken to us. I mean. Shit…” Every bit of McEvoy’s concentration seemed to derail at the same time. Dehydration’s beleaguering effects were taking hold of the kid.
“Take your time. Just tell me your thoughts.”
“He’s soulless, Lieutenant. Animals like him don’t have a reason to live.” McEvoy snapped his fingers. “You see what they’ve done to Anuska and Jones. The whole lot of them.”
“I know full well what they did, and I hate them for it.” McEvoy’s words rang loud in Williams’s head: Soulless. Was McEvoy not aware of what happened back in My Lai?
“I’ve been watching them since I got here, their culture and all. The shit they eat. The shit they do. Hell, they even shit out in those rice fields. You’ve seen them. The shit fields. They stink like high hell.” McEvoy said, having mastered a word that his mother likely punished him for saying. He then removed a white bottle and unscrewed its cap. “Damn headache.”
“Careful with those. We don’t need you wasting any.”
“Absolutely, Chr…LT.” McEvoy slung two tablets back without any water, swallowing dry. “Well, think I’m going to go join the boys. Maybe they found themselves a nice catfish we can grill. I’ll send Harris to watch him next. Hey, you think we ought to build a foxhole or something?”
“Foxhole?”
“Yeah, to hide.”
“Not with the sky about to puke.” Williams studied the gathering grays and deep-blue underbelly above, water vapor churning with anger. “Downpour will wash the foxhole out. You don’t want to drown, do you?”
“I see. Yeah, I see.” McEvoy rested his hands on his hips and joined Williams in staring at the sky. “You know, this ain’t even their rainy season. That’s what I read, at least.”
“This land is as strange as anything I’ve experienced. You’ll learn soon enough.” The kid must have been a mind reader. At least he was good at something. “Get the boys. Build a couple shelters on higher ground. Maybe dig in a little bit, but not too deep. I’ll go relieve Jackson.”
“Sure.”
“And one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Let me know if you hear anything else from the boys, especially Harris or Simmons.” Williams stared over at Harris. The kid stood atop a small embankment, a steady stream of piss splashing into the river, laughing the entire time. He zipped up his pants then pointed at some movement in the river before turning to face Williams.
“I guess I can. They’re my friends, you know.”
“Just remember friends don’t hang each other out to try.”
Simmons and Harris climbed up the side of the gulley, towards their position. Williams sighed, wondering what type of insubordination he’d have to deal with for his decision to let the VC live. Harris stumbled forward. Williams’s oversized helmet teetered atop the kid’s head. As Williams feared, the two were growing even tighter.
“McEvoy, you ought to give Lieutenant Williams here some space.” Simmons slapped McEvoy on his shoulder a
nd slid his hand to the base of his neck, giving a slight squeeze. “He needs to plan our next move, so he can rescue us and all, or maybe that savage of ours will just stab us in the back Ain’t that right, LT?”
Simmons grinned. The two hadn’t talked since their confrontation.
“McEvoy, why don’t you help your buddy build us a shelter. Rain’s coming,” Williams ordered, ignoring the verbal jab. “Maybe open the canteens, fashion a basket or something to collect the fresh rainwater.”
“I can still try and catch some fish.” McEvoy nodded. The kid still didn’t get it.
“Hold up.” Simmons grabbed McEvoy’s jacket, preventing him from leaving. “They crap in that river. People like the mongrel over there. That river is a toilet. Their personal outhouse. That’s what savages do.” Simmons laughed, a yarn of black drool hanging from his jaw.
“What?” McEvoy asked.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen them. They build these wooden contraptions overtop the water. That’s why the catfish always look terrified, big eyes and all. Those mongrels act like tightrope artists, walking across the planks to the wooden seat. And as that moment of relief comes, the catfish below gets a nice meal.”
“That ain’t right. Can’t be right. Tightrope? Catfish eating shit?” McEvoy asked.
“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. And you know it can’t be that bad for you. The catfish eat it, and all those gooks eat are rice and each other.” Simmons gnawed on another piece of betel nut, biting into with all the grace of a lush.
“Oh, no.” McEvoy’s cheeks bulged as he fought his gag reflex.
“How you gonna be a soldier if you can’t hold your stomach?” Simmons popped McEvoy in his gut. “Where’s that animal I know from before? I know you got it in you, son.”
“Simmons,” Williams raised his tone. The simple-minded Sasquatch didn’t help matters.
Their prisoner broke his silence and cackled like a witch Williams dreamt about when he was a child.
“Sorry, Lieutenant. Just joshing around.” Simmons released his grip on McEvoy. “That’s what us boys do, you know. I’ll get right on building them forts for us. Just like the Alamo. Except instead of Mexicans, we’re fighting the gooks. And if you don’t mind, I’m gonna need to borrow this.”
Simmons picked up Williams’s machete; the veins within his forearms protruded with anger. The dull blade glistened with plant juice. The beta challenged the alpha as Simmons eyed Williams, letting it be known that his patience waned.
“Let’s go, junior,” Simmons said in his slow Southern drawl.
Harris followed, giving a slight glance back at Williams as the two hacked their way to find the perfect spot.
The tension in Williams’s stomach relaxed as Simmons left. He was in no condition to test the Texan. He knew Simmons’s kind from back home, their tempers sometimes as hot as an early afternoon in August when the oppressive humidity settled in off the Chesapeake. If he intended to hold the band together, he would have to deal with the devil.
“Relax, McEvoy. He’s just testing your mettle,” Williams said.
“Testing my mettle?” McEvoy pressed both hands against his stomach. “You’d think he know I was a good soldier, being out here for six months and all. Hell, I’m part of Charlie. They don’t just put anybody in Charlie.”
Williams saw it in the private’s attitude: all McEvoy wanted was approval, some type of acknowledgment his father didn’t show him.
“Chris, how’s the leg?” Garcia trailed behind Jackson and Donovan, who both kept an eye on their medic’s injury.
“How’s the shoulder?” Williams questioned back, avoiding a response. He didn’t want pity. Any sign of weakness could potentially trigger the rabid wolverine known as Simmons.
“No worse than you. At least I’m walking.”
“Seriously, how does it feel?”
“Holding it together. It was a clean shot. Could be worse,” Garcia spoke the words of a liar, probing his shoulder near the wound.
“Jackson. McEvoy. Donovan. Why don’t you go help out the other two? I need to talk to Garcia alone.”
“Sure thing, Cap,” Jackson huffed. His lips were pink and thirsty. Some men were built for long days with little supply. Jackson was not one of them. He could plow his way through a line of Viet Cong quicker than any of Charlie, but roughing it in the Stone Age was an entirely different situation. Williams made a mental note of monitoring Jackson’s deteriorating condition.
“We’ll take care of it, LT,” Donovan said. His teeth sparkled in the jungle’s light with his timid grin.
It had to be wearing on them all—the march, the creatures that hissed just out of sight, the thought of getting sniped. Their only hope to get them out of that hell sat a few yards to his left.
“Before we build ourselves a dirt palace, and I don’t mean to be pressing LT, but what do you think we should do with the dink?” Donovan’s words spilled out of his mouth quicker than a machine gun. Northerners, Yankees, they all spoke so damn fast.
“Simple. We get him to speak.”
“There’s your interpreter.” Donovan motioned to McEvoy “I’d help and all, but I only took Spanish. Did he say anything?”
“Only nonsense.” McEvoy squinted and held his hand over his eyes, blocking out what sun he could. The kid’s beet-red face grew brighter every minute.
“What nonsense?” Williams tightened his mouth.
“Just garbled sentences. It don’t make sense. Like an older dialect. Words I ain’t even heard before.”
“Wait, he actually said something? That might be some pretty pertinent information.” Garcia leaned on his side and grimaced as he lifted the gauze from his wound.
“Didn’t think it was a big deal.” McEvoy shrugged.
“And you didn’t say anything? Our ticket out of here and you kept your mouth shut? Brilliant. And I thought Harris was dumb.” Donovan threw his arms up, moments away from one of his profane-laden verbal tirades. Jackson stood there like a redwood, too tired to move, but beamed at McEvoy. Now trust was going to become an issue.
“Come on, guys. It was just nonsense. All he does it say a few words and smile, like he knows something. Folklore and stuff.” McEvoy looked over at the Viet Cong. When the VC returned the favor, McEvoy shifted his attention to the ground.
“Tell us, kid,” Williams said.
“I’m telling you, it’s stupid.”
“Tell us, Ears.” Donovan’s tirade fast approached, his firecracker temper known to Williams all too well. “It might not be important to you, but if you haven’t realized, we’re stuck out in this shithole looking for a way out. We just lost Anuska and Jones. The last thing we need is a surprise from that VC over there, because I really want to wake up with a knife in my back. You think we want to keep him alive?”
“Fine.” McEvoy shifted his tail on the ground. He leaned over and whispered, “He said something about spirits or something. Something about, I don’t know, spirits of the trees, defiled ground or something. Says that our souls are like animals, that we’re the walking dead. Only way we can survive is penance. Some crazy ass stuff.”
“So he didn’t say anything about troops following us?” Williams asked.
“Well, no.” McEvoy frowned.
“Jesus, McEvoy. My ass was on the verge of pulling a muscle there.” Donovan laughed. “Freaking spirits. That quack is probably hallucinating on some shrooms or something.”
Even Garcia laughed.
“You all right, Jackson?” Williams noticed his friend’s beleaguered condition, rocking in silence. Laughter didn’t find its way to the big man.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just don’t like hearing about no spirits and all. My grandma told too many bedtime stories with spirits.”
“Oh, come on, champ. Not you, too. Don’t go worrying about some old voodoo crap. You know that Casper don’t exist,” Donovan said, jostling Jackson’s helmet over his head.
Jackson bowed. He was som
ewhere else in his mind. “I don’t know. Didn’t want to say anything, ’cause I think y’all think me a fool.”
“Go on, big man,” Williams asked.
“Truth be told, felt like something was watching me down by the river. You know how you got that feeling when you were young in bed with no nightlight. We all thought a monster hid behind that closet door. Boogeyman would come out and get you. I swear I heard the door squeak a couple of times. Made me wet the bed.”
“You felt like you were in bed? Like a child?” Williams asked.
“Well, not a child, exactly, but that same feeling.”
“Come on now, Stonewall. You’re too much of a tank to be bringing up old stories. There ain’t no beds around here and there certainly is no boogeyman,” Donovan said. “Don’t tell me you believe in him.”
Jackson kept his head down, taking an errant twig and peeling off its bark, lost in thought. Williams knew exactly what he was talking about, the nature of their hunter.
“What if…what if we were supposed to bury Anuska and Jones? We ain’t supposed to treat the departed as such.” Whatever it was—his upbringing, his spirituality—for the first time, Jackson’s normally happy-go-lucky conscience weighed on him in a way Williams hadn’t seen before. The jungle made her play for Jackson. “Maybe I’m just being stupid and all. Jungle playing tricks on me.”
“It’s ok, Stonewall. Seriously.” Donovan gave Jackson a reassuring pat on the back. For someone so full of himself, he showed a sense of compassion towards Jackson. “It ain’t your fault, man. That place was crawling with VC. I’m sure Jones and Anuska would have wanted to see us live. Their bodies would have slowed us, man.”
“He looks a bit queasy,” Garcia said. “A little flush.”
“Flush? Are you kidding me? My boy is a tank and dark as a kettle,” Donovan responded, inspecting Jackson.
“You sure you’re ok, big man?” Williams asked, trying to get a read on Jackson. It rattled Jackson, not gunfire, grenades, or the sickness, but something deeper had found its way into Jackson’s psyche. “I don’t need any surprises down the road.”