The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

Williams’s fears surfaced. Decorum was lost. The unfettered mob mentality would spread through them like wildfire just like it did back at My Lai.

  “I’m gonna cut me a trophy.” Simmons grinned, displaying his blackened teeth for a second. A sliver of steel flashed as Simmons grabbed the Viet Cong by the throat. A second later, the Viet Cong screamed, blood spurting from the side of his head Simmons held the mangled ear in the flashlight’s beam.

  “You sick bastard.” Garcia pounced on Simmons, who swatted him away with his oak-like forearm. Garcia tumbled to the ground and rolled to a stop. He immediately clutched his shoulder, his face contorted in pain.

  “The shit you lay a hand on me, Mexicano. Next time you ever, and I mean ever, raise a hand to me, your ear will end up as my prize. You hear me?”

  Garcia wept. The others stared.

  “Now you gonna stick up for the VC? You one of them? Probably are, you Mexican turd. Just like Montezuma’s Revenge. Probably have the same bloodline and all. I guess it’s time to teach you a lesson.” Simmons twirled the knife he brandished and bore down on Garcia. Simmons’s twisted face resembled an enraged baboon, but his eyes revealed his intentions to Williams. Simmons saw Garcia as another enemy, another piece for his collection.

  Williams leveled his Colt at Simmons and shoved it into the mutineer’s skull. He could have fallen at any second, the ground spinning under him, but he would protect his troupe at all costs.

  “Back down, soldier,” Williams commanded.

  “Oh, come on LT. His holier-than-thou bullshit didn’t stop us from being there. Hell, he was even there,” Simmons grunted, his words laced with malice.

  “You even come close to taking that knife out against any one of us, I’ll hang your ass up and leave you for scavengers.”

  “And what happens when you run out of bullets?” Simmons licked the blood from his knife.

  “I’ll always have one. You can believe in that.” Williams refused to back down.

  “No problem, LT. No problem at all.” Simmons held up his hands, his lips twisted into a sadistic grin. Garcia immediately went to tend to the VC, tearing off his jacket and pressing it against the VC’s shallow wound. The VC listened to Garcia’s instructions and held the jacket close.

  “We go back to what camp we have. We bury McEvoy in the morning, and then we move.” Williams hesitated to holster his firearm, keeping a steady eye on Simmons’s movements. He wouldn’t put it past Simmons to attack when he wasn’t looking. He needed an extra set of eyes.

  “With all due respect, LT, that still doesn’t solve our issue. After Anuska and now this, it’s obvious we’re being hunted,” Donovan said.

  “Yeah, we are.” Williams studied McEvoy one last time. His father was right; the kid had never stood a chance.

  “What are we going to do? Wait to be picked off one-by-one? Is that your plan?” Simmons questioned.

  “Survive.” Williams’s stomach turned. Another wave of nausea hit. “We survive and get the hell out of here.”

  He knew none of them cared. They wanted retribution for their fallen brother. Simmons huffed, Harris following suit as they left. Donovan responded by shaking his head and leaving for camp with the other two. The three disappeared as Simmons dimmed his flashlight.

  “Keep an eye on them for me. Can’t be trusted.” Williams motioned to Jackson.

  “I know it ain’t my place, but I don’t like the way he’s acting. That’s insubordination.” Jackson asked.

  “I’m well aware of what it is. But right now I have as much power as the majority gives me. We’re in the wild now. We just need to hope they stay in line.”

  “Not talking about Simmons, sir, talking about our friend down there. I ain’t feeling so good with him around.” Jackson nodded towards the VC, who remained silent as Garcia tended to him. “Maybe those guys have a point. Maybe we should off him.”

  “No, you’re too good of a person to think that way, Jackson. If you fall, then we all fall.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Plus, he needs to tell us what happened with McEvoy.”

  “McEvoy’s the only one who understood him. What if he’s signaling them or something, leaving a trail?”

  “Harris isn’t the brightest kid, but he wouldn’t let him do that. I told him to keep an eye out.” The knee-high grass felt like it snaked up his legs and up to his hips, causing Williams to stumble to his right. The world was having its way with him.

  “Hold on, Cap.” Jackson wrapped his right arm underneath Williams’s for support. The weight shifting off his leg did little to dull the ache.

  “Yeah, just need a breather.” Williams grimaced, trying his best to mask the pain in his thigh.

  Garcia finished bandaging the VC and hoisted him to his feet. Blood and mud caked the side of the VC’s face, yet he still displayed little emotion, possibly resigned to his inevitable fate.

  “You ok?” Williams asked.

  “Not at all.” Garcia’s eyes were red and swollen. Simmons tested the preacher’s son, looking to break Garcia’s will.

  “Spirits,” the VC said.

  Jackson, Garcia, and Williams froze as the VC repeated the words.

  “Spirits.” The VC’s glazed-over eyes looked directly at Williams. His broken smile highlighted with yellow and cracked teeth once again peeked through his lips. “Con hổ.”

  “There he goes again,” Jackson said.

  “Get back to camp, both of you,” Williams commanded. He had braced himself against the closest tree without realizing it.

  The VC’s gaze lingered as if understanding Williams’s fate.

  “Dead child. Dead woman. Crash.” The VC’s perfect English slammed into Williams like a haymaker to the ribs. His skin grew cold with gooseflesh. The VC couldn’t have known about the accident.

  “Captain?” Jackson cocked his head. “I’ve heard some crazy shit, but this ain’t right.”

  “Get him out of here now,” Williams commanded, images of that fateful night surfacing in his thoughts.

  “But he just—”

  “I said now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Jackson shoved the VC forward.

  Williams sighed, allowing the fetid air to escape his lungs. He needed a moment to put the puzzle together, to clear his mind of Karen. He thought back to Anuska and the others hanging from the tree, fastened by a vine that had no business supporting their weight. Then there was McEvoy and the absurd amount of bloodshed.

  He looked back at the outskirts, deeper into the jungle, no droning sound of insects, no moon or stars to cascade down to the feathered floor. He felt it out there, penetrating him with indifference. It was hungry now and looked to feed. But how could it have killed McEvoy like that?

  Claustrophobia set in as Garcia’s flashlight faded.

  “Spirits,” Williams said. “Con hổ?”

  SEVENTEEN

  “He’s gone. Not even a trace of blood.” Garcia searched the area, picking up dried tree limbs in hopes of revealing something that wasn’t there. McEvoy’s decapitated corpse had disappeared. “This is the tree, isn’t it?”

  “Animal might have dragged him off. Chewed him up and all.” Jackson sat Indian-style. His grim expression told the entire story.

  “Just like Anuska and the others.” Williams wiped his face, his vision still muddled from sickness. His forehead felt like he could fry and egg on it.

  “Maybe it was a dream,” Harris said.

  “A dream we all had? I don’t think so.” Simmons said, his arms crossed over his barrel chest.

  Williams traced his fingers along the crevices in the bark, searching for any signs of blood. He stopped when he brushed against an insect with opaque, murderous eyes. Even the bugs wanted them dead.

  Then he noticed the familiar color of army green tucked underneath a prickled bush.

  “Is that his pack?” Williams asked, pointing to the small satchel.

  “Has to be,” Garcia answered.

  “You know wh
at that means? He came over here on his own. He wasn’t running from the VC.” Donovan approached the tree, his musk smelling of moss and shit. They all smelled like shit.

  “Maybe to take a leak?” Garcia asked.

  “You think…you think it might’ve been an animal who attacked him while he was pissing?” Donovan asked, picking up McEvoy’s pack.

  “Didn’t we have this discussion last night? There’s no way it was an animal,” Simmons said, followed by uttering nonsense Williams couldn’t decipher.

  “Seriously. It makes too much sense. He brought the VC over with him. That explains why the VC was hiding in the trees and why he was scared. Maybe it was a damn animal, not an army of gooks.” Donovan opened the sack. “Still, it’s kind of weird he needed to carry it over with him.”

  “Maybe he was afraid of losing it.”

  “Please don’t tell me this is a plausible theory. Please don’t.”

  “Just throwing it out there. I mean, the VC’s don’t take the bodies. An animal would.” Donovan shrugged.

  “Have any of you been listening to me? They’ve been hunting us since we crashed. Telling you, it’s the DC who would do something sick like this. Tell me what animal could possible stake someone to a tree. Huh? None of them are big enough to do this.” Simmons cleaved a vine with his machete. He grabbed the remaining piece of stalk and held it to his mouth, allowing the rainwater to run into his throat.

  Williams kept a skeptical eye on the Texan. After the prior night’s charades, he had every reason to worry. He’d held a gun to Simmons’s head, and, in doing so, lit the short fuse. He had no choice in the matter. It was either the threat or one of Garcia’s ears hanging from Simmons’s necklace.

  “If it was an animal, that blood would be all over the place. Would see tracks, too,” Garcia swept his arm around the ground. “Nothing.”

  Williams remained silent.

  “This is pointless. No body to bury. I say we go.” Simmons saddled up next to his toady, Harris, who seemed less than enthusiastic about the idea of another march. “Maybe we’ll find him strung up on a tree.”

  “I don’t know. We should find him. At least read him his last rites or something,” Garcia added.

  “Then maybe we all imagined it. Even better. Maybe McEvoy was a figment of our imagination. That would make a lot more sense.” Simmons’s sarcasm was understated, but enough to gain Williams’s ire.

  “Can we just go? Please?” Harris pleaded.

  “Harris is right. Jungle’s swallowed him. Let’s move. Donovan, you watch the VC.” Williams inhaled. His lungs gargled with more mucous. He knew it was a fool’s game. McEvoy was gone. If they wanted to survive, they needed to move. And as the troupe set out, Williams surveyed the area that served as McEvoy’s memorial. It was there. Waiting. Lurking. But this wasn’t the work of a tiger, or could it be?

  EIGHTEEN

  The procession of blistered faces waded through waist-high brush most of the day, watching the sun during its daily pilgrimage along its arced path. Dark trails of sweat and misery stained each of their jackets from the base of their neck to their behind. Unlike the day before, the day was quiet. There was no Alan Jackson to be sung, no Donovan jokes, and especially no off remarks from McEvoy, just the chirps from the trees and clanking of their equipment.

  If there was anything worth celebrating, it was the fact that the river had widened throughout the day, a sure sign they were heading towards open waters and freedom.

  With each hour, the wrenching in Williams’s stomach worsened. He forced himself to eat, his appetite reduced to a mouthful of canned peaches. He found himself drifting back home to find comfort, the bustle of the marketplace, cobblestone streets lining Main Street leading to the great dome of the state capitol, and the Chesapeake’s waves coasting into the harbor. It was the only thing keeping him sane and his attention off his rotting leg.

  The third hour summoned her specter once more. She walked stride for stride beside him. Her perfectly manicured locks were bundled in a ponytail. The sunglasses he’d bought for her in Myrtle Beach shielded her emerald eyes. Her hand massaged her swollen belly. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled. It wasn’t real, just specters of the past.

  I miss you.

  He looked over at the river, barely five feet from the trail they forged. He wanted to disappear underneath its brown surface, through the catfish and shit until he reached the bottom. Maybe he would see her again.

  “Do you believe in God?” Garcia startled him from behind. He had never prodded Williams about religion before. Williams noticed that Garcia’s cheeks and forehead were flushed, not the typical tan complexion for a Mexican.

  “What…what are you talking about?” Williams staggered forward, nearly falling to his side.

  “I’m just curious. We never really had an opportunity to talk about it.”

  “Kind of odd to be bringing this up now.”

  “Not if you think about it.”

  “I try not to.”

  “I noticed.” Garcia looked over, a certain defeat within his eyes.

  “What was that for?”

  “What?”

  “You know damn well. That look you just gave me.”

  “Nothing, it’s just that…”

  “Go on.”

  “You know my family and my upbringing, I’ve told you about them. Those beliefs run deep.”

  “You don’t say, preacher.”

  “I don’t, and they run deeper than you think. My father, he warned me about going into this mess. He said war was against what we stood for. There was always something about a particular phrase he used that resonated with me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something about a just war. I don’t know. Sounds like I’m just rambling now. Heat’s kind of getting to me.”

  “I’m not judging.” Williams paused for a moment, taking in another mouthful of air, and sized up Garcia. Garcia labored compared to the previous day, his shoulders more rounded, his breathing erratic. Even his skin held a slightly green tinge.

  “We lost ourselves even before the village. I mean, look. I’m carrying an ace of spades in my pocket so I can stick it to a corpse. Why would I ever do that?” There was certain exigency in Garcia’s words. The devout Catholic was never one to question his own beliefs. “Maybe we’re damning ourselves. Maybe my dad was right. This ain’t a just war. We’re playing a dead man’s game.”

  Williams listened, occasionally eyeing the others as they hiked up another incline.

  “I don’t have a good feeling about all of this.” Garcia looked across the river to the other side. “McEvoy dying back there. It’s like he didn’t exist. We’re not even mourning. Think about it. Two years ago we’d be crying. Now he’s just another casualty, another lost memory. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Considering our current situation, nothing makes sense. Not every day you crash in a land where everyone wants you dead.”

  “Kind of like Jesus.”

  “Jesus? Not sure if he’s ever had the pleasure of walking through a mosquito-infested jungle with trees that grow forever. It all reminds me of that Raquel Welch movie. What’s it called?” Williams searched for the answer. He could barely formulate a cohesive thought, let alone think of an old movie he’d seen.

  “Ten Thousand Years Ago? Does that sound about right?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. 10,000 BC or something like that. Hot little momma she was. A little smile won’t hurt us.”

  “Can’t say I disagree with you.” Garcia chuckled.

  “When did you come to this revelation about the war and all? Never really mentioned it in all the months I’ve known you.”

  “Last night when I saw McEvoy.”

  “I have a feeling what’s coming next.” As the trail plateaued, the foliage tapered around them. Jackson and Simmons hacked away at a faster pace, their long arms extending and falling like those of the reapers Williams thought about before.

  “What do you thi
nk that was? That caused all that?”

  “Not sure.” Williams kept thinking about the golden orbs, the tiger, and the Dac Cong.

  “Anuska and the others, how they were tied up. I don’t care how much you’re trained, that’s just impossible out here. Then McEvoy. How do you explain that?”

  “Vietnam is just full of surprises, especially this jungle. Always has been.” Williams glanced up at the clearing above the river. Two black hawk-like birds soared high above, their wings extended to the size of a small car, adding to the near-prehistoric nature of the land. He couldn’t tell if they were real or the result of his fever.

  “You mentioned before how the Viet Cong would let the jungle take care of us. I think you’re right. I think it’s the jungle,” Garcia’s words were as poignant as ever.

  “The jungle? That’s not exactly what I meant by it.”

  “I don’t know. Between the radio and McEvoy I’m just a little spooked. Maybe I’m just rambling again. What I do know is that we aren’t getting any closer to that clearing we saw. It’s like the further we march, the wilder this place becomes. All this nonsense and how we can’t explain what happened to McEvoy—I can’t reconcile any of it. I don’t know. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I can’t straighten with my beliefs. He wouldn’t do this to us. We’re genuinely good people. I’m just afraid. I want to go…home.” Garcia stumbled. Williams reached out in time to break his fall.

  “You ok?” Williams steadied Garcia.

  “Yeah, just feeling a little woozy. Long day. Hot and all.” Garcia swayed in his boots; the whites of his eyes bore a yellow tint.

  “Cap,” Jackson called from ahead, panting like a dog. Copious amounts of brush and other undergrowth formed an impenetrable barrier in front of them. He knew it before they said anything. They would have to find another way. “Getting real thick. These blades are growing dull, too. Need time to sharpen them up. Gonna have to use all our strength just to get at it.”

  “Take a few.” Williams looked at the others, their flaccid expressions thanking him for the moment of reprieve. “Need a moment to think.”