The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  Williams hobbled over to the river. Long slices of river grass jutted out from the muddy banks and swayed over the rolling water. Foliage covered most of the shoreline with the exception of a small patch of dirt, which held the semi-makings of a trail.

  He spotted a half-fallen tree extending over the rushing water. He hooked his arms around the rotting trunk and pushed the small branches aside, pulling himself up just high enough to see clear across the river.

  Taller trees populated the opposite bank, preventing the undergrowth from spreading too thick. Satisfied that they could make it, he shimmied back down the tree to solid ground where he took a moment to collect himself. He needed to tell the others.

  “We need to cross,” Williams said, unscrewing his canteen as he approached the troop. The expected groans came from bowed heads.

  “Shit.” Simmons swiped at a sapling. “Got to be kidding me.”

  “I know we don’t want to, but we have to. It’s the only way.”

  “Nonsense.” Harris kicked a stump. “Gonna get all wet. Gonna be miserable.”

  “Your dirty tail needs a shower,” Simmons fired back, much to Harris’s chagrin.

  “LT’s right. Ain’t no way we’re getting through this mess. We’re going to have to cross if we want to make it out of here. And don’t piss in the river. Those damn micro-worms or whatever will crawl up your pisshole and lay eggs. Prick will explode,” Donovan explained, gathering his belongings.

  “How deep?” Jackson asked.

  “Don’t know, but I’ll go first,” Williams said.

  “You can’t go in your condition. You’re too…” Garcia looked up, realizing his folly in revealing Williams’s beleaguered state.

  Williams made sure to telegraph his displeasure with Garcia with a roll of his eyes.

  “Why can’t he go?” Simmons put his hands on his hips. “Something the matter, Garcia? Afraid to see your friend possibly drown?”

  “There will be no discussion. I go first,” Williams said.

  NINETEEN

  “Hot damn, this water feels like a bubble bath from hell. I think my balls are in my stomach.” Donovan hollered as the brown water bubbled around his hips. He pumped his rifle overhead, tiptoeing across the river. “About time we got a little excitement.”

  The crossing seemed to breathe new life into the six. One-by-one, they followed Williams’s lead. He entered first, then Donovan, Simmons, Jackson, Garcia, and finally a distraught Harris escorting the VC.

  Harris claimed the VC would turn around and drown him.

  Simmons told him to change his diapers.

  Despite their upswing in attitudes, the calm waters offered little refreshment from the early-evening humidity. The placid river was deceptive in its appearance, its waters moving fast under the surface, bringing with it a wicked undertow that tried to take them under. Nobody wanted to drown, not in this shit-smelling stream.

  Williams took note of the darkening skyline. He needed to get them across and dry before the night’s bitter chill took the jungle. Hypothermia would be a new enemy.

  “Donovan, fall in line. Just because we’re out here doesn’t mean you can hotdog it,” Williams said as Donovan’s wiry frame sliced through the current with ease, but he still needed to follow protocol. At least that was Williams’s excuse. His real objective was to keep Simmons close. His outburst a few minutes ago added fuel to his potentially mutinous intentions.

  “Yes sir,” Donovan said, spinning around to tease the others.

  “Hotdogging idiota,” Garcia muttered. There was an eagerness tied within his words. Williams could understand. Garcia struggled since getting into the water. The one Williams needed—their medic—was somehow worse off than him, but Garcia was too proud to admit it.

  “Don’t think I didn’t catch that.” Donovan smiled.

  “Isn’t that a double negative? Are you sure you didn’t voluntarily drop out of college?” Garcia answered with a dash of sarcasm, much to Williams’s surprise. “I’m the non-native speaker here, too.”

  “Relax, hombre. Don’t be getting all mean to Donnie just ’cause he can cross a river better than y’all. Hey, shouldn’t your kind be trained to cross rivers? That’s what most of you do anyway. Cross the Rio Grande,” Simmons said, forging through the river with the strength of a water buffalo.

  “Whatever you say, cowboy.” Garcia panted, continuing to inch forward.

  “Enough, guys. Just concentrate. Save your energy,” Williams said, summoning his inner hardass again. The last thing he needed was to lose another man to an avoidable mistake.

  “You ok up there, Cap?” Jackson called, trailing ten feet behind. It was the third time he’d asked. He knew the game. Williams provided the safety net Jackson needed. Jackson never showed weakness, but unlike the others, Williams knew Jackson’s little secret: the big man couldn’t swim.

  “Doing ok as far as I’m concerned. Could do without the smell. Like an outhouse.”

  “Told you they shit in the river. Or did Jenkins just crap your—” Simmons started.

  “Don’t even, hillbilly,” Jackson said, cutting Simmons off. “I’m in no mood to be dealing with you now.”

  “Dang, what’s with all the name-calling? Since when did I become the bad guy around here?” Simmons sloshed forward. “You’d think I didn’t save your asses a few times in the past. Can’t a good guy catch a break?”

  Williams peered over his shoulder. They approached dead center of the river, the water rising to breast height. He second-guessed his plan to cross as he tiptoed forward, careful to secure his footing. The bed was slick, heavy with silt and river rock. The passing thought about waving them forward and allowing the current to sweep him under seemed like a better solution. But he had a duty to them, some unseen sense of purpose pushing him past where hope could lead him.

  If he fell, so would Garcia. Simmons would take over and likely execute the VC. He knew what Simmons searched for, having felt it once before. There was no retribution in offing a man with his arms tied behind his back. Williams had hoped to feel that same warped sense of justice when he’d entered My Lai. He’d only found emptiness.

  There were no heroes and villains, just different shades of gray fighting for rock and soil. In some twisted way, he still wanted to save Simmons. Retribution was just a temporary relief to dull the pain.

  “Hey, LT, you ok?” Donovan’s arm wrapped underneath of him from behind, his gun held high with his other arm like some type of circus act. Williams didn’t realize it, but he canted to the right, his left arm numb and lifeless, the water rushing up and around his elbow, pulling him under.

  “Didn’t you just hear Jackson ask me that? What do I look like? A damned Girl Scout?” Williams cleared his mind of My Lai and the red river.

  “You sure you don’t want me to take point? I could—”

  “Damn it, Donnie. Did everybody get water in their ears?”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help, LT.”

  Suddenly, the water surged with energy five feet ahead then twisted into a whirlpool. A second later the water bubbled and an oblong creature camouflaged by water breached the surface then dove back down again into the river’s darkness, causing the anomaly to dissipate.

  “What was that?” Garcia asked. Williams was not the only one to notice.

  “I saw it, too.” Donovan let go of Williams arm and readied his rifle.

  “Might be the DC.” Simmons grunted. “Wouldn’t it be something if they were gonna take us all now? Smart.”

  “It ain’t the DC. The DC spend time in the trees, not in the water pretending to be mermaids.” Donovan kept his rifle trained ahead. “Maybe a snake.”

  “That was a big-ass snake,” Jackson added.

  “Wait.” Williams held his hand to Donovan’s chest. He didn’t need the lunatic to stir up a ruckus.

  Minutes passed as the seven of them waded in the middle of the river, scanning the glassy surface in front of them. He felt it pressin
g down on him, the tiger observing from the thickets. The water grew cold around Williams’s feet and knees. For the first time, Williams would welcome the heat from the Vietnam spring.

  They were at least fifteen yards from the opposite bank. The branches and foliage arched over an opening. It was the perfect place to exit the river and set up camp for the night, but they needed to get there first.

  “See anything?” Garcia adjusted his helmet.

  “Not a damn thing,” Jackson said in a long, drawn-out voice.

  “Going to agree with Donovan. Maybe the big-ass snake left.” Williams took a step forward.

  He spoke too soon. Energy surfaced again. The river swirled around from behind, forming a crescent wave the length of a small raft that rushed around Harris and the VC. Harris’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree as he pushed the VC forward in a sacrificial gesture. His mouth opened to scream, but no words followed.

  “Holy shit,” Donovan called, firing a shot that pierced the wave of energy. It had no effect.

  “Come on.” Williams’s lungs refused to expand with oxygen. Adrenaline pumped faster than blood as he pulled Jackson and Garcia forward, separating them from the disturbance. He’d heard stories about giant anacondas swallowing men whole in the Amazon, but that was a different continent. They did not exist in Vietnam.

  “Of all the damn things to get in our way, it has to be a giant snake.” Donovan fired another shot as the wave spiraled down. It disappeared below the surface before reemerging in front of Williams, cutting Jackson and Garcia off from the rest. It focused on the two, ignoring Williams and the others.

  “Looks like we’re gonna be eating some snake jerky tonight, boys.” Simmons followed suit, firing a few wild rounds into the unexplainable wave rushing toward Garcia and Jackson. It had all the qualities of a snake, but it moved in an erratic manner that physics could not explain, shifting its direction by shedding some of its weight, then summoning more water over its body.

  “What the—?” Harris choked out his words, tripping past the VC towards Simmons and Donovan. Both men continued to fire cover shots. Their bullets harmlessly batted the water, creating tiny geysers with each hit. “Damn it, help me, help me.” Harris abandoned the VC as he reached for the safety of his brothers, his arms flailing in the air, his face stricken with fear.

  “Back. Get back.” Williams swallowed hard as the snake thrashed to the right of Garcia then to the left, spraying water over the troop. Williams aimed his handgun toward the serpent and squeezed. He struggled to concentrate through the chaos, to keep the gun level. The weapon popped off twice.

  As the bullet pierced the snake’s body, it whipped violently downwards, submerging itself. Water rippled around them until the river fell silent once more.

  Simmons and Donavan stopped firing. Harris stopped screaming. All Williams could hear was heavy breathing and the shouts from Garcia and Jackson as the two waded toward the shoreline.

  “Move. Get going. Don’t worry about us,” Williams barked out the orders to Garcia. Jackson grabbed Garcia’s shoulder and prodded him forward, forgetting his own fear of the water.

  Williams thought it was gone. He knew he was wrong.

  The water erupted in front of the bank, launching Garcia five feet above the water’s surface. The medic flipped backwards and crashed headfirst into the river. The snake’s tail smacked Jackson’s back before plunging again. Jackson skidded across the last few feet of water before rolling to the shore in a heap. The damned reptile was toying with them.

  “Move, move, move.” Williams lurched forward, pointing his Colt forward as he searched for Garcia. Numbness crawled down his waist and bit at his quadriceps. He felt it circle underneath, biding its time. The river had its prey. It prepared to feed.

  “Holy hell.” Harris’s voice cracked.

  “Stop messing around and move,” Williams shouted. The water swelled around him, forming another whirlpool pulling at his injured leg. This would be it, but he wasn’t going without saving his men.

  “Ok,” Harris whined.

  “Get the VC,” Williams hollered, grinding his teeth together as the sharp pain bit at his leg. A rush of frigid water crashed into his abdomen and spouted up his shirt, constricting his lungs.

  “Screw him, LT. He deserves to die in his own piss-smelling shithole of a toilet,” Simmons countered.

  The VC remained surprisingly calm, allowing the water to churn around him, almost unaffected by its power.

  “You don’t bring that VC, I’ll shoot all of you before you can make it across,” Williams said.

  The raging bull in Simmons glared at him. Again, he had challenged his brothers, but it was not for personal reasons. He wanted to save them, all of them.

  With a cry more akin to that of a fox, the water snake rocketed up like a torpedo into the air. The serpent’s mass, still encased in a cyclone of water, arched forward and crashed mere feet from shore.

  Snakes don’t make that sound. That’s…impossible.

  “Spirits my ass,” Donovan cried. He popped off more wild shots with no discernable target.

  Williams fought through the rapids, scanning the horizon for any sign of Garcia. Then he saw him. Garcia’s listless form bobbed face-up, stuck under an outcropping of roots. Williams couldn’t tell if Garcia was dead or not, but he owed it to his friend to try to save him and get him back home. His gun felt heavy, lactic acid biting at his deltoids as he eyed up the snake and fired again. Useless. A waste of precious bullets.

  “Gook piece of cow dung,” Simmons yelled. He, along with Donovan, Harris, and the VC, struggled behind Williams through the heart of the river.

  “Jackson,” Williams called as he continued toward Garcia. Jackson didn’t move, remaining facedown in the mud. “Wake up. Help the others.”

  The snake zigzagged toward Garcia, cutting through the waters with ease.

  Williams rattled off another shot as the snake coiled, preparing to strike. This time he caught the reptile’s attention. Its massive body circled around, abandoning Garcia. The diamond-shaped head barreled toward him, throwing up water on either side of its frame. Williams swore he could see its eyes glow underneath, lighting up the water around it with a faint yellow hue.

  “Donovan, get Garcia,” Williams shouted.

  The snake curled backwards, its torso the width of small oak as he loomed five feet overhead in the orange-pink heavens. Then it made a sound not of this Earth or one made from a snake, a guttural cry that begged for Williams’s spirit.

  “This is how it ends.” Williams emptied his magazine into the snake, each shot finding its mark.

  Water sprayed across his face with every shot fired. It had no effect. Finally, with a traditional hiss, the snake opened its black void of a mouth.

  Williams’s heart sank. At least the others would make it.

  “Come on, you bastard,” he shouted, pulling the gun’s trigger to no avail.

  The snake baptized Williams as it brought the bulk of its weight across his head and chest. It felt like a bulldozer plowed into him. His lungs exploded and his ears rang as he was doused by a tidal wave.

  Confusion set in as his hears popped. He closed his eyes and there was nothing. He reopened them to see the sight he yearned to see.

  He felt the boat teeter to the side. The green-blue waters spread out for miles in every direction. The wind snapped their boat’s red-and-blue flag, bringing with it a welcome breeze that cooled him from the mid-summer heat. The faceless boy cast his rod high and tight, pulling its shaft back as the bait bobbed along the ocean. Two silhouettes he did not know but radiated comfort hid within the cabin.

  Williams cracked open his Schlitz, taking in the aroma of hops as he relaxed against his captain’s chair. He listened to the young boy giggle, his golden hair curling out from under his cap.

  Finally, happiness. He was home.

  “Lieutenant,” their muffled voices called from the great beyond.

  Storm clouds gathered a
bove. The calm waves began to churn, painted with white caps. His boat leaned to the right as an errant wave crashed into the starboard side, jarring the boat and sending the kid sprawling to the deck. Another wave slammed into the side. The kid screamed as his legs flopped over the railing, the water pulling him into the ocean.

  “Williams,” they shouted again. His vision spun between reality and his unconscious spirit.

  The child screamed, calling his name. Williams threw the beer and lunged forward against the grating floor, his arm outstretched for the child.

  “Come on,” the familiar voices echoed with the thunder.

  Their fingertips touched. Green and brown columns erupted from the ocean. The smell of salt water evaporated, replaced by the sharp scent of fetid water.

  He reached out further. Their fingertips touched again, and then the boy was gone, the ocean waters swallowing his body and pulling him down into its depths. Williams clutched the boy’s baseball cap in his hands.

  “I’m sorry.” Williams’s spirit dropped.

  “Come on, Chris,” Donovan called.

  Williams snapped from his dream as a canteen nicked his jaw. Water surged up his nostrils as he barely kept his head above its surface. He was back in Vietnam.

  “What? Where?” His heart raced. Voices called from the shore.

  The water rippled outwards from his position to a black nothing that made him feel like he was floating in space. The snake disappeared. The rapids abated. He needed to cross.

  “There we go,” Donovan cheered him forward, the shadows of their arms outstretched. “Come on, Chris.”

  He couldn’t tell one from the other, just that six had made it across, including the VC. He stepped without precision, kicking rocks underneath. He still heard the child calling his name.

  Ten feet away. Seven feet away. His jaw tightened, biting his tongue in the process.

  Five feet. Their arms reached out. They summoned him forward.

  Three feet. His heart raced. His breathing quickened.

  Although his back was turned, he felt its presence creep from behind. It hissed once more as it reemerged.

  Jackson shouted.