Barely had he unbuckled his parachute, when Erwin and his buddies found themselves trudging through elephant grass and mosquito-ridden forest, laden with heavy packs and machine guns; or crawling on their bellies in saturated paddy fields. The skies above their steel helmets were thick with helicopters – known as ‘birds’ – which spewed machine-gun fire, and, later, the devilish substance called napalm, which sticks to skin and burns like acid.
The environment would have been horrifying for most normal boys, but Erwin was not a normal boy . . . he enjoyed it! It made him feel alive.
Within days of his arrival Erwin witnessed scenes of inhumanity from both sides. A report in the EZ file said:
Many in the company had given in to an easy pattern of violence. Soldiers regularly beat unarmed civilians. Civilians were murdered. Whole villages were burned. Wells were poisoned. Rapes were common.
In addition, naïve boys like Erwin discovered a strong culture of drug-taking in the army. By the later stages of the war, the majority of soldiers smoked marijuana, and hard narcotics like heroin were everywhere. Erwin had his first experience of LSD right there on the battlefield. Full details were not available, but it seems that Erwin was involved in some kind of brutal initiation ceremony, in which he was given massive doses of LSD before being thrown into a nightmarish conflict zone. Professor Cerberus’s file contained witness statements saying that Erwin suffered from ‘the screaming heebie-jeebies’. And in one forthright comment: ‘Ain’t no pretty way of saying it – this soldier fried his brains. Simple as that.’
The tribunal then moved to the question of race. Erwin had grown up in a segregated state, but his parents had not been racists – in fact, there had been many non-White employees on the family farm. In Vietnam, however, Erwin witnessed racism in its most savage forms. Hostility towards the Viet Cong turned into hatred for the whole Vietnamese population – the ‘Gooks’. The ancient rule of conflict is that it is easier to kill if the enemy can be reduced to a crude group; a lower level of humanity.
On top of racism towards the Vietnamese, the civil unrest from back home had been exported to the theatre of war. Tension between Black and White American soldiers began to emerge. Grisly practices, such as cross-burning were transferred from Mississippi and Alabama, and in some cases Ku Klux Klan ‘Klaverns’ were being set up at military bases.
Slowly but surely, Erwin became indoctrinated into the culture of racial hatred. He needed a scapegoat for the crazy paranoid feelings in his head and found it in the Vietnamese people, as well as the African Americans at his side. Ironically, it was in the dripping rainforests of South-East Asia that Erwin joined the Ku Klux Klan: being a Klansman gave him a sense of identity and belonging.
It seemed that Erwin gained a dangerous reputation, even amongst the Psyche Squad. The average Vietnamese is short in stature and Erwin was very tall indeed – the report paints an appalling picture of this uncontrolled giant storming into battle, out of his mind on drugs, killing without mercy. According to testimonies from the court martial, Erwin shot any ‘gooks’ he saw, be they soldiers or civilians, young or old. One fellow soldier reported an incident in which our platoon was checking out a remote village where the Viet Cong were said to be holed up. We had been taught stealth, but Erwin just runs ahead firing in the air and yelling ‘Hate, hate, hate!’ and ‘Kill, kill, kill!’ like some wacko. We hear dogs barking and babies screaming and Erwin is just firing at anything that moves. By the time the rest of us roll up Erwin has torched five or ten straw huts, and within twenty minutes the whole village is ablaze. I ain’t never gonna forget the sight of Erwin coming out of the smoke real slow, with a big smile on his face like it was all some crazy game. I looked at his eyes and I knew that boy was insane.
The events that led to Erwin’s dismissal from the army are more horrific still. In the heat of a firefight Erwin captured a peasant girl of about fifteen years of age. Right in the middle of battle he attempted to assault her against a tree. A Black senior officer saw what was going on and began to shout at Erwin to leave the girl alone. Erwin ignored him. The officer approached Erwin and told him that if he did not release the girl, he would be put on a charge. Erwin yelled obscene racist abuse at the officer and began firing in every direction. It took around ten men to bring him under control.
He was flown back to the United States under guard and brought before a tribunal. He refused to speak in his defence, but occasionally he could be heard muttering to himself. A member of his military guard thought the prisoner was mumbling, ‘Hate, hate, hate . . .!’ In spite of overwhelming evidence against him, Erwin did not serve a jail term; he was simply let off with a BCD or Bad Conduct Discharge. A senior army psychologist described Erwin Zachery as ‘suffering from acute battle trauma resulting in permanent psychological damage and severe personality disorder’.
So Erwin’s military career came to an end, but the bloody Vietnam War would rage until 1975, leading to the loss of between one and three million lives.
It seemed extraordinary to me that this murderer and rapist had escaped custody – but then I came across some personal correspondence in which, strictly off the record, the same military psychologist told Professor Walter Cerberus that Erwin possessed
many useful military skills which could be of benefit to the Invisible Empire. There is no question that this slightly alarming young man has serious problems, but in my view, if he is handled properly, he would be extremely useful to the movement.
Cerberus replies:
If you can secure his release, I would be happy to take him under my wing. It seems to me that Erwin is exactly the kind of boy who is brave or reckless enough to take our campaign to a higher level and, let’s be frank, to take the flak if things go wrong! I believe he should remain at Dead River Farm, from where he can travel and train our recruits throughout the state. He is a simple country boy, but he has a strong drive to climb upwards through the ranks, and this can be used to encourage him. He is easily pleased by small rewards and I have already ensured that he is supplied with a vehicle and sufficient ex-military equipment to meet his needs.
Professor Cerberus signs off his communication with these chilling words:
As you know, we have plans to escalate our campaign in dramatic ways. It is my considered opinion that Erwin Zachery will be a useful puppet for the Klan – albeit a puppet of super-sized proportions! Your contribution to the Cause is duly noted.
KIGY, brother
Walt
41
Hannah in the Kitchen
hannah in the kitchen
the taste of bitter fear
erwin grab a hold of me
and whisper in my ear
ye growed up gal you know that
grown awl purty ah see
thems breasts on yer bawdy aint they
thas what they look laike t me
wal erwins taired o waitin
bin patient wi you this far
ahm comin t pay you a visit gal
so
leave
yer
door
a
jar
42
The Beginning of the End
In the yard, every chicken, turkey, duck, mouse and flea had slunk into the shade.
Even the doghouse was too hot for Amigo, who had managed to crawl below the deck of the farmhouse and collapsed there like a panting pile of fur.
With rivulets of sweat trickling through her make-up, Lilybelle lay on her back gazing out of the window at the sky, which seemed as heavy as the earth itself.
‘Storm comin’. Ah feel it in mah knees.’
Pip sat motionless, his book on his lap. Even the act of thinking was too much effort.
‘Wal,’ said Lilybelle at last. ‘Ye gonna read, Pip, or ’m ah gonna have to guess how th’ story ends?’
Pip surfaced from his stupor. He opened the book and realized that only a few pages of Great Expectations remained unread. Then he recalled something that
Jack had taught him earlier that summer. ‘Wanna know somethin’, Lilybelle? Old Dickens couldn’t make up his mind about how to finish the story. First he writes a sad ending; then he writes a happy ending. But he just can’t decide. So he thinks about it, an’ he thinks about it, an’ then he says there should be two endings! That way the reader can choose how they want the story to end.’
‘Wal, if thar’s a choice, li’l Pip, y’ know what ah’m gonna say? A happy endin’ every taime fer me.’
Pip smiled. What an inspirational person she was! This heat must be unbearable for a woman of her size, but she never complained. In spite of all her problems, Lilybelle remained optimistic. And lately something amazing was happening: as she continued to lose weight, her creativity expanded accordingly. Now her paintings were bolder and brighter than ever. From floor to ceiling, the pink bedroom swirled with extraordinary art.
‘Ah know ah’m different, Pip. Guess ah finally decaided t’embrace th’ diff’rence, stead o’ hatin’ mahself fer it.’
She put these changes down to Pip’s encouragement and her new diet, but the fact that Zachery rejoined her each night played a part too. The thing about that weird old couple was they truly loved one another.
‘I like a happy ending too,’ said Pip. ‘But I guess life ain’t always like that. Maybe you can’t separate happiness and sadness, Lilybelle. Maybe you need one to appreciate the other. Light and shade, ain’t it!’
He found his place and began to read. And now his reading was fluent and easy. On that suffocating afternoon he read to Lilybelle for the last time, describing how Pip’s long journey and quest for his great expectations came to an end. How the boy atoned for his arrogance and discovered the most precious treasures of all: compassion, tolerance and love.
‘I took her hand in mine,’ Pip read, ‘and we went out of that ruined place . . .’ And so their storytelling sessions came to an end.
When he had closed the book, Lilybelle breathed a long tremulous sigh and enveloped Pip in her huge hot arms. The large woman and the lean young man clung together in the oppressive heat.
He said, ‘Lilybelle, I’ve been wantin’ to tell you somethin’, but you just won’t listen . . . I don’t wanna leave you, but I need an education – you told me that yourself. Besides, things have changed, see . . . Hannah and I . . .’
‘Ah know, Pip. Ah ain’t blind. It wus love at first sight.’
There was that phrase which Pip had resisted. And yet he did love Hannah, and the thought of being apart from her was something he could not bear.
‘Ah misjudged Hannah, didn’t ah, Pip?’ said Lilybelle. ‘Ah’m truly sorry. Bein’ silent don’ make y’ dumb, do it, Pip?’
‘No, Lilybelle. Hannah’s ’bout the smartest person I ever met.’
She lay back on the huge cloud of pillows. ‘Y’awl come back an’ visit me some day, tha’s awl ah ask. Cin you promise tha’ thang t’ me?’
He swore that they would. Then he took his book and left the illuminated bedroom.
It was Saturday 14 September, the last day before Jack’s return to Ireland. When Pip crossed the sultry yard to the bungalow, he found Jack looking pale and thin, but he opened the door and welcomed Pip inside. The living room was almost bare now – even the photographs of the many Morrows had been packed away. Pointing at a pile of cardboard boxes, Jack invited Pip to help himself to any of the books and records inside. Pip flipped absentmindedly through names he had heard Jack mention – William Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, Aretha Franklin, Thelonious Monk, but there was nothing he wanted. He had no precise idea of where he would be heading, but he planned to travel light.
Pip mentioned that he hadn’t seen Finnegan for a while, but all Jack would say was, ‘That’s the thing about animals, Pip. They come and go, don’t they? Perhaps we should never try to own them. But he was— he is a lovely creature, old Finnegan . . .’
That afternoon two of Jack’s students came to take the beloved silver Spider. They seemed overjoyed at their purchase, and as Jack and Pip watched from the deck, the couple drove away, hooting loudly.
Jack hadn’t fully explained why he intended to leave, except to say that it was a matter of principles. Now even his health seemed to be suffering; but Jack was not a man who liked to be pitied.
‘Well now, Pip, I don’t know what I’m doing mourning the loss of a sports car – it hardly counts as deprivation!’
It was cooler inside, so they sat together in the white room while Pip related the terrible story of Hannah and the twin boys in the poplar tree, and how Erwin had threatened her so often. Jack listened mournfully, shaking his head in disbelief and clutching his forehead between finger and thumb. Then he told Pip some of the shocking details about Erwin’s military career.
‘He’s not a fellow who can be helped,’ said Jack. ‘He’s not about to change his ways. The sooner you are both away from him, the happier I will be. I’ve met some unpleasant people in my time, Pip, but Erwin is a man without a shred of conscience and I’m terrified of what he might do.’
He talked about the guilt he felt in returning to Ireland. He felt that some act of terror was imminent but he was powerless to prevent it.
‘I wish I could be around to look after you, old fellow. God knows, you’re both still young. But you’ve got to manage on your own now. I think you can. You’ve a great intelligence and you’re older than your years.’
He talked to Pip for a long time about developing his self-belief and using the money to build a future. As they spoke, Jack removed his sunglasses, and there were moments on that airless afternoon when Pip found himself drifting away as he stared into those extraordinary eyes. It was if Jack’s voice was settling in the deepest recesses of his mind. His words of belief and encouragement seemed to take root, so that, hours later, when Pip rose and thanked Jack for everything he had done, he was surprised to find himself energized and self-confident and ready for whatever the future might bring.
Pip promised that he would be over early in the morning to see Jack leave. And when the two of them parted on the steps of the white bungalow, Pip stood a head taller than his teacher.
43
Dynamite Night
There’s only one thing sadder than a stack of suitcases by the door, and that’s a one-way ticket on the table.
I hate flying – I must be the only fellow on the planet who suffers from jetlag before he leaves the ground.
After Pip had gone I fixed myself a meal, but I barely managed a bite. In that relentless heat it was hard to believe that I’d soon be walking the foggy streets of Dublin wrapped in a scarf and raincoat, or sipping Guinness in a smoky pub.
I had another of those damned migraines right behind my eyes and my spirits were low. After all my fine words to Pip about positive thinking and self-belief, I felt I had failed in every way. And now I was going home to Mammy with my tail between my legs. What had begun as the greatest opportunity of my life had ended in defeat.
Now, before you get too weepy-eyed, I haven’t finished yet. If that was the conclusion of my tale, it would indeed be a sorry ending. But of course the story is not over. Before I board my flight I’ll fill you in on the explosive events of my final night at Dead River Farm. You see, Pip was right – that great master, Dickens, did create an alternative ending to his tale, and although I did not realize it then, there would be an alternative ending to mine . . .
For hours I paced the white bungalow, deep in thought. So many unanswered questions kept me from my bed, but in any case I never sleep well under a bright moon, and the moon that night was a huge unblinking eye, staring down on the bungalow and the rickety buildings of Dead River Farm, which loomed like the ghostly set of a silent film.
Then I heard it! No . . . first I felt it: the floor of the bungalow began to rumble and the windows were doing their rattly thing. I peered out through the curtains, and there they were! The nightriders heading along the track towards me. The moon was so bright that they drove without headlamps.<
br />
My first thought was that someone had reported the fact that I still had friends who were not ‘from my own community’. Ah, it would be a sorry thing to get lynched like Finnegan on my final night in this beautiful, terrible country.
As they drew closer, I counted them and they were fewer than before – in fact, only three vehicles in all. And maybe it was a special occasion – someone’s birthday perhaps – because the man himself was leading the parade! I could see Erwin’s white-starred ex-army Jeep at the front of the slow-moving procession, and he and his passengers were dressed in their full regalia like mad monks on an outing. Perhaps you’re forgetting that I’d never witnessed what Pip called the ‘ghost-men’, so the sight made me shudder. There was Erwin at the wheel of his Jeep in crimson robes, with the pointy hood and the gaping black eye sockets and the cruel cross on his heart. And next to him was a ghost-man in white; and behind him, two more of the devils. I saw nine men in total, sitting bolt upright in the three vehicles.
I don’t mean to be racist, but do all Ku Klux Klansmen look the same?
Of course, they did not stop at my bungalow; they floated by like white sails on a silver river. What I would learn later was that these fellows had far more important fish to fry that night than a nervous Irishman in his cotton pyjamas.
I went to the kitchen and swallowed a couple more aspirin, feeling worse than I ever had in my life. If only this damned weather would break – it felt like a storm brewing in my very skull.
See, Pip thinks I’m some kind of hero, because I had done the old sleepy thing on Erwin. But I’m not a hero at all. I felt like a bloody coward, if you want to know the truth. That’s why I was running home, wasn’t it? I was sick and scared and fed up with the whole thing – and I wasn’t even a man of Colour.
The Hypnotist Page 18