The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “I warned you about that water. Might have been a fish or something,” Williams mumbled. He leaned against the whittled stick he used as a crutch. His armpit burned with chafing, a small sacrifice for the help it provided. “Maybe…something else.”

  “I swear it’s there,” Harris said between dry heaves, glancing over at Williams but ignoring the warning.

  “Don’t be screwing with me, boy. We still got another hour till sundown, then we can break,” Simmons barked. His paranoia escalated with each hour, dousing his charisma with failure.

  “I’m…I’m not messing with you.” Harris backed off. There was confusion in his eyes. “It was right there. Like a bat or something. Felt like it was flying through the jungle.”

  “Don’t tell me you stopped me for a damned flying rat,” Simmons scoffed. “You’ve got to be out of your mind, son.” Simmons circled Harris like a bear admonishing her cub, pointing and stomping the ground. “I don’t want to be stopped anymore. We’ve got one more—”

  The trees rustled at their side accompanied by what sounded like wings flapping up and down, releasing a wind that sighed across area and causing the fog to swirl at their ankles. Saplings bent in succession as Williams caught a glimpse of the tiger’s mastodon-like shadow in his peripheral vision. A high-pitched cry followed its movement before retreating into the vegetation.

  “There it is.” Harris swept the barrel of his rifle across the area, his fingers twitching, his elbows unsteady. “If I see the bastard, I’m gonna shoot.”

  “I’ll be damned. You weren’t lying, were you? Looks like we’ve been followed, boys. Everybody down,” Simmons said nonchalantly. He pulled Harris down to his knees and pointed his own M-16 toward the disturbed area. He had no idea what they were dealing with. “Somebody wants to play a game of hide-and-go-seek. What say we show Williams’s friend of his what revenge tastes like?” The pink slip of Simmons’s tongue coated his lips then retreated.

  “Simmons,” Donovan said, a hint of uneasiness in his voice as he readied himself. He pressed his knee against the VC’s chest, securing him against the ground. A twisted smile surfaced across their prisoner’s battered face. “You sure this is a great idea? I mean, we can’t just unload on something we can’t see.”

  “Give ’em another second and they’ll give their position away,” Simmons hissed, brushing an errant branch aside as he thrust his rifle’s barrel toward the unseen enemy.

  “Come on, Sims, let’s not make this mistake,” Donovan said. Williams detected the nervousness in Donovan’s words.

  “What are you scared of?” Simmons sneered at Donovan. “You ain’t gonna tell me you’re backing away now, are you?”

  “He ain’t backing away. None of us are backing away. Right, Donnie?” Harris spoke fast.

  Without warning the shadow of the tiger darted between the brush. Its footfalls glided along the ground with supernatural agility. Its dark body blended into the foliage and another swath of trunks directly in front of Simmons’s position.

  “Jesus,” Donovan said, readying his rifle. “Did you see that? Fast.”

  “I sure as hell saw it,” Jackson said, lowering his hand to his hip.

  “We don’t have a shot,” Williams muttered, still unsure if it was another hallucination. He tossed his walking stick aside and steadied himself against Jackson. His vision wavered. He reached for his gun.

  “Con hổ.” The VC’s cryptic warning couldn’t have come at a worse time. The orange and black flashed before blending back into the growth. “Spirits”

  Spirits, what are you talking about spirits? Williams thought.

  “What the shit did you say?” Simmons barked again.

  “Con hổ. Spirits.” Garcia repeated the words, his eyes still closed, ignorant to the world racing around them.

  “Ain’t no spirits here. Got it? Feel like I’m looking over a kindergarten class.”

  “Jesus, he sounds just like that VC. What if he’s telling the truth…about the spirits?” Harris asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’re hearing impaired also. Look at him. He’s out of it. Don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Trust me. Sure, it’s a ghost, but an ghost we’ve all hunted before. The Dac,” Simmons said. “They’ll string us up like Anuska and McEvoy. Ain’t no way that’s going to happen.”

  “I don’t know about this. I don’t want my head on a stick. And I can’t see what I’m firing at.”

  “I say we waste it all. Fuck these trees. What are we? The National Conservation Society of Vietnam?” Simmons said. “We should show them some love.”

  “Whoever they are, they’re moving too fast,” Donovan said, hesitating. “Not sure if it’s a good idea to waste ammunition.”

  Anxiety swelled Williams’s abdomen. It was unlike Donovan to back down from a confrontation, particularly one against the enemy. The same guy who had barreled towards an ambush earlier in the day sounded unsure.

  “Something is spooking Donovan.” Williams knelt on his good knee, positioning his swollen leg in front of him. His heart raced faster. The air plummeted around him like a January night in the Annapolis suburbs. Again, supernatural cold settled in around the area. It seemed to be the norm whenever the tiger arrived.

  “Count me in, too,” Jackson answered. “Something ain’t right about this place.”

  “See anything?” Williams said. His helmet felt heavy, causing his neck muscles to spasm.

  Another thwack echoed over the green tide. Its origins seemed to be born from the ground itself, but this time there was no movement. He felt every molecule of cold sweat dripping down his cheek and across each individual piece of stubble. He wondered if he’d ever shave again.

  “There’s cover over there by that tree.” Jackson pointed. “Or we can stay out here and be sitting ducks.”

  “Not so hot on the sitting-duck idea,” Williams answered. “But I suppose we don’t have another choice.”

  The two hoisted the semi-conscious Garcia back up and shuffled a short distance to the thick trunk, keeping their backs flat and below the brush. They waited, the four others ten yards to their right, still mesmerized by the interloper. But for a moment Williams thought he saw another figure—the slender silhouette of the girl. She was there, a herald for the tiger. Or maybe it was the Viet Cong or the Dac Cong playing tricks. Maybe they were all out there, his mind writing a terrible tragedy in hopes it would fool Williams into believing they would survive.

  Come on, Chris. Think.

  As if on cue, the VC cackled. His crooked teeth stuck out of his swollen gums like daggers. He was summoning the devil himself.

  “Jesus Christ.” Donovan lunged to smother the VC, but the VC had other plans. He bit down with his jagged teeth and tore into the webbing between Donovan’s index finger and thumb, causing Donovan to jump back.

  Donovan screamed as he stomped down on the VC, slamming his heel into his jaw, silencing the laughter. Donovan then hoisted his rifle and aimed it at the unseen enemy. Sparks fired from his rifle in a single wave. The bullets whizzed through the air and began to mince the undergrowth in front of him, clouding the area with particles of green and brown.

  Harris and Simmons reacted to the gunfire, pulling back on the triggers of their weapons. They should’ve known better. It was just an excuse.

  “Ammo,” Williams yelled through the hail of gunfire, bracing himself against the tree.

  “What’s that?” Jackson yelled back.

  “Ammo. We’re going to waste ammo we can’t afford. Wait till you see them.”

  Donovan screamed, blood running down the forearm of his one hand, his other with an iron grip on his rifle. Harris and Simmons bore down on their triggers. Their faces were ripe with pleasure. They might as well have fired with their eyes closed.

  Viet Cong were chameleons, using the surrounding territory as natural camouflage. The Vietnamese people’s uncanny ability to blend in with the primitive environment had cost the Americans more lives than Willia
ms could count. He recalled Trevillian, who found out the hard way, taking a knife to the back as one leapt out from the brush on a regular perimeter check. Trevillian’s look of surprise as the blade sliced into his lung would forever be etched in his memory.

  “If it’s the VC, they’re playing with us, man. Whatever you do, do not abandon Garcia,” Williams said. Deep down inside he wanted to believe his words, but he knew better.

  The hail of gunfire continued, filling the air with its cries, mowing down everything in their line of sight. Trees cracked and toppled over. Birds cried for each other, streaking across the sky in exotic reds, blues, and yellows.

  Simmons stood, his rifle’s power causing his arm to kick backwards. He relished every moment of the carnage as he sprayed bullets toward the noise. Harris, although slower to react, stood as well, gaining confidence as he unloaded his rounds.

  “All right…all right,” Donovan shouted. His rifle locked up, his last rounds spent. Smoke poured from his nozzle. “I don’t see a damn thing moving out there. Place looks like a construction site.”

  “Do I smell burnt gook?” Simmons released his trigger and nodded to Harris, who followed suit. Quiet followed. It was the type of silence after a firefight when only the dead could speak.

  The sound of bullets continued to ring in Williams’s ears. He looked through the smoke and floating bits of leaves. It smelled of hot metal and ash. Young trees lay broken and bent, riddled with bullet holes. Jagged trunks spiraled towards the sky. The prickled bushes Williams came to detest received a dose of their own medicine, laying in crisscrossed patterns over the torched earth. The M-16 had unleashed its fury, clearing out an area the size of the infield of baseball field, making it appear as if they used napalm instead of bullets.

  “You out there? You hear me, you slant-eyed shit brains?” Simmons’s voice echoed over scorched earth. “If you ain’t gonna come out and fight us like men, well, we’ll just have to light your entire goddamn jungle on fire. Burn you out.” Spit flew with Simmons’s words.

  “Damn it.” Donovan squeezed his injured hand. “Is Garcia up? Garcia needs to see this?”

  “Garcia ain’t in any condition to be looking at anything, Donnie,” Jackson answered.

  “Yeah, I don’t hear anything.” Simmons lowered his voice. “Maybe a couple of bugs, but that’s it. We got the bastards.”

  “Dang straight we did. They’re probably wishing they never came across us, like our old pal down there.” Harris smiled at the VC. “Ain’t that right?”

  Across twenty yards of smoking dirt and brush, the beast’s silhouette emerged again, scampering through the unscathed portion of the jungle. The amorphous shadow still stalked them, somehow unharmed by the spray of gunfire.

  “Well, I’ll be damned. Have a few stragglers.” Simmons’s biceps bulged as he readjusted his rifle. The Texan still didn’t get it.

  “No way that anyone could’ve survived that,” Williams whispered. His throat burned from the floating plant particles and bark. The thought of inhaling poisonous plant residue crossed his mind for a second, but he had other things to worry about. The same uncanny feeling returned from when he’d tended to McEvoy’s decapitated body. The ghost stared at them, laughing at their actions.

  “What if they escaped, Cap? Ran back that fast?” Jackson asked.

  “Nobody can outrun a bullet.” Williams went for his Colt.

  Another stiff breeze, this time stronger. The trees shook again, shedding some of their leaves.

  “If these bastards aren’t going to come out and meet us, I say we hunt them down like they hunted us.” Simmons aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger. Click. Silence. “What the…” He banged on the rifle a few times to no avail. “Dad damn it,” he cursed, looking between the jungle and his belt as he retrieved another magazine.

  Simmons’s canines protruded. His eyes were that of an animal as he locked the magazine into place. Seconds later his gun exploded. White sparks shot from the barrel as he unleashed another round of bullets that tore through the vegetation. Harris followed Simmons’s lead, firing off another salvo. They fired in every different direction, relying on emotion and not logic to guide their attack.

  “This is a waste.” Williams head hung down.

  “Shame we don’t have ourselves some phosphorous grenades. Could smoke them out if they happened to go underground,” Jackson said. “See them bastards run around like chickens. That’d be funny.”

  “You’re assuming what we’re fighting is human.”

  “What do you mean?” Jackson squinted in semi-confusion.

  “Keep your head straight. We’ll get out of here,” Williams responded, looking back at the carnage. What are you waiting for?

  Simmons and Harris fired until their rifles clattered to a stop. They stood side-by-side, chests heaving, their faces reddened from the rays, a pack of two wolves. Both had a hungry look about them.

  “There we go.” Simmons nodded in satisfaction. “I don’t hear them now.”

  “Think they got them?” Jackson asked Williams.

  “No,” Williams answered. “Not a damn chance.” His lungs constricted from another wave of floating debris filtering to the bottom of his throat. He wanted to puke.

  Suddenly, on the opposite side of their hacked trail, another shadow danced beneath the foliage.

  “You’re kidding me,” Simmons scowled. “You got to be shitting me.”

  They all turned in unison. Williams was the only one who did not, knowing what they faced.

  “Commie bastards wanna play games with me?” Simmons yelled, searching for another magazine. The overgrown Southerner displayed a momentary act of urgency as he realized his dilemma: no ammo. “Harris, you got anything?”

  “Any what?”

  “Ammo?”

  “Out, sir.” Harris breathed a little heavier.

  “What about you, crybaby? Any ammo?”

  “No,” Donovan said, wrapping his hand with a piece of torn cloth.

  “Well then.” Simmons’s rifle clattered against the ground. “Looks like we have to explore this communication problem once again. Rethink our message.” With a sadistic grin, Simmons eyed the VC like a vulture sizing up its prey. He jerked their prisoner up with one hand and unleashed his sidearm with the other. “You see this, bastard? Only have a few bullets left. Want to make them count. This is what happens when you mess with one of us.” Simmons enunciated every word.

  “No!” Williams yelled and went to stop the inevitable, but his battered thigh betrayed his intentions. He wanted to see the VC suffer, but not like this, not with them still in the jungle, not with their ghost following.

  “The hell you say, Williams?” Simmons buried the nozzle into the VC’s temple. A sense of calmness shrouded the VC’s puffed face as he readied himself, golden eyes staring deep into the jungle as if something inside prepared to carry him off to another world.

  Williams tried to move again, but stumbled forward and sprawled against the moist earth, too weak to do what he thought was right. He could not see what followed, but all he needed was to hear.

  The trigger snapped. The pin struck down. A loud pop followed. The gunshot resonated longer than the others. Williams peeled his face from the quarter-inch of slicked mud, clumps of dirt blinding his already-beleaguered vision.

  The right side of the VC’s head popped like a water balloon. Blood and white-yellow pus smattered against the earth. The VC’s fractured head, one side blown out to reveal the white of cranium, whipped against his shoulder then collapsed to the ground. His arms went limp, contorting underneath his body.

  Williams shivered, his helmet too burdensome to wear. The VC stared back at him with an eye that remained attached to his lopsided skull. Coiled brain mass and blood leaked over exposed bone, pumping as the VC still held life.

  “Son of a bitch,” Donovan cried, still bracing his injured hand. “How the hell we supposed to get out of here now?”

  Defeated, Williams c
losed his eyes and sank his face back into the dirt. Simmons’s carelessness silenced the jungle…and their efforts towards escape. Even the distant howls of monkeys stopped, disapproving of the American’s actions. If they were not damned before, they were damned now.

  “We’re done,” Williams whispered.

  “What’d you say, Cap?” Jackson asked.

  “There’s a difference between war and murder. We murdered in My Lai just like we murdered here. There is no redemption in murder.”

  Killing a man in battle seemed almost honorable, both men fighting for their country and respective beliefs. Although it didn’t ring true for some of the men who were forced into the army by life’s circumstances, the majority of soldiers held fast to a higher belief in their country and their family.

  Even his broken spiritual side provided Williams some sense of comfort for his actions. Williams came to find redemption in Vietnam—a self-evolved sense of forgiveness for his past decisions. What he discovered was the fine line between animal and human. It was a primordial instinct that made him feel less than human. It was the same instinct that took Simmons and slowly consumed Harris. One had to deal with that instinct to maintain his humanity.

  It was another thing entirely to kill a helpless man in cold blood. One had to embrace a wanton malice buried within their soul that most feared to explore.

  Most men who came to Vietnam eventually touched that primeval instinct during the lonely hours between dusk and dawn when a soldier was alone. Only the fauna’s nighttime ballads would keep him company. During those moments, a solider wondered, shaking and anxious as he dealt with the death of a brother or his first kill. They wanted to survive, some at all costs. This natural tendency led a soldier to overthink his place in the war.

  A soldier would eventually grow numb to death. He found a way to mute the repercussions from killing a man. When Williams explored the instinct to survive at all costs, he realized man’s darker nature.

  It was then that a solider decided between two paths. A soldier could bottle that emotion up, seal it as far down inside of him as he could, never to be found again, or to embrace the hatred, let it fuel him towards a insatiable revenge. Revenge would soon become bloodlust.