Fields of Fire

by James Webb

  Burgie eyed him, still smiling, still hoping. “Pretty bad, huh, Senator?”

  Goodrich kept his head in the grass. He retched again. I can't look at him, he thought to himself. There's nothing I can do. Can't tie him off. Can't patch him up. Can't get him out of here. Behind him, the gun opened up on the compound again.

  Maybe I can call.

  He inched down to Speedy's carcass and took the handset from under him. The radio was dead. He had known it would be. At least I won't have to look at Burgie if I play with it, he reasoned. He turned the knobs, banged it gently and absently keyed the handset, still petrified of the gun team in the treeline. No effect. The radio was shot to hell.

  There were a lot of soldiers in the treeline. He could hear them whispering and he thought he could smell them. He thought they were laughing, celebrating, but he didn't know Vietnamese so it was just silly gook talk, up and down the music scale. He thought they stank but it could have been a waterbull pen in the ville. He thought he was bleeding all over, dripping off his crotch and chest, but it could have been sweat, or Burgie's blood, or his own vomit. His eyes burned and his arms hurt where they had scraped against the coarse sawgrass blades. He thought his arms bled, too, from the grassblades. But it could have been sweat. Or Burgie.

  “Senator.” The same soft, pleading voice. “Hey. Help me, man. Help me, Senator.”

  Goodrich turned and crawled back toward Ottenburger, pulling cautiously on the grass and pushing with his toes. Ottenburger eyed him sleepily, then burped up a stream of blood. Oh, my God, thought Goodrich. His stomach, too.

  “It's all cold, Senator. Can you patch me up?” Burgie still grinned, sleepily.

  The first eight-incher hit the treeline, with a terrifying, huge explosion that rent the earth, sending tree roots and huge clods dancing in the air. Goodrich and Ottenburger were covered with a veil of fresh-erupted earth.

  “Help me, Senator.” Then, with numb finality, “I'm gonna die, aren't I? You're just waiting for me to die.” Burgie burped again. “Oh, God. Can't you patch me up?”

  Goodrich peered into the ice-blue eyes, but could not hold them. “You're O.K., Burgie. You just need a doc, that's all.” There was a moment of silence as all near firing abated. Goodrich felt certain that nearby enemy soldiers would hear them. “Now, hold it down, O.K., Burgie? No noise, man.”

  Burgie did not answer. He continued to stare at Goodrich through calm, heavy-lidded eyes. Goodrich was becoming unnerved, feeling damned by the dying Burgie.

  “Patch me up, O.K., Senator? Help me, man.”

  “You need a doc.”

  Another earth eruption, an explosion so loud and close that it seemed to come from inside, to be a living part. Burgie still stared, oblivious to the dirt shower. His voice took on a fading, pleading tone, yet he still smiled hopefully.

  “Can't you stop it?”

  I'm in hell, thought Goodrich, over and over. I'm in hell. He crawled to Burgie's face because he was too afraid to whisper from three feet away. His own face was contorted in its fear and anguish. “I can't.”

  “I'm gonna die. Oh, Buddhist Priest. I'm only nineteen. It's cold, Senator.”

  “You'll be all right.”

  “Don't leave me, Senator. Oh, God. Don't leave me, man.”

  “I won't, Burgie. I won't leave you. Now, hold it down. O.K.?”

  FIRST light. The rubble of the chapel smoked lazily, little curls of gray still reaching from the heap of blackened sandbags. There was an occasional, isolated burst of rifle fire as the last of the sappers were rooted out of bunkers and tents. The mess-hall Gunny opened up his supply tent and found an NVA soldier nonchalantly chewing on a load of bread, like a stuporous rat. The Gunny cut him down, sending bullets through the rations. The soldier lay dead in a pool of sugared water from canned fruit.

  Along the perimeter's edge, the wire held dozens of charred treasures, blown to bits, scorched, decapitated. A mechanical mule drove along the dirt road, loading bodies to be buried later in a mass entombment outside the compound.

  The concertina gate creaked open. A column of hulking, exhausted figures filed slowly down the narrow road. In front of them, the river shimmered red with sunrise. The patrol followed the outer wire and passed the inside hook of the J-shaped hill where one string of sappers had broken into the compound. There were more than a dozen bodies caught along the wire, like fish snagged randomly by a wide net.

  A transistor radio cut into the silence. “Gooooo-o-o-o-ood morning, Vietnam!”

  Hodges bristled. “Tell Bagger knock off the sounds.”

  The order passed quickly up the column. The radio went silent. The only noise now was the blunt scraping of sawgrass on their legs.

  Finally Wild Man stopped. He was standing in a short ditch, among four poncho liners half-buried under clumps of dirt and branches. Hodges waved him on. “Left. Down the streambed.”

  Hodges peered into the looming treeline. The twelve-seven lay awkwardly on its side, half-buried under riven earth, one leg of the tripod jutting into the air. He felt his lips go tight. Well. They certainly got their twelve-seven.

  Just beyond the poncho liners Smitty's helmet lay in the ditch, abandoned in his frantic crawl to catch the rest of the team. They followed the streambed for seventy meters more. Finally, the team sprawled before them, surrounded by the buzz of feasting flies and the cooked aroma of drying blood.

  Wild Man halted by Smitty's corpse. The rest of the patrol bunched up behind him. They stared silently for a long moment, absorbing the gut-wrenching impact. Finally Waterbull spoke in a barely audible tone, as if he were mimicking a sportscaster.

  “Senator's O.K. Senator made it.”

  Goodrich still sat next to Ottenburger, who lay dead over a large scab of blood that buzzed with flies.

  Goodrich's helmet was in the streambed and his head was between his knees, the forehead resting on one crossed arm. He looked up slowly when Waterbull spoke, then gazed numbly at the cluster that was peering mutely at him.

  “I can't talk. Please. Don't ask me about it.”

  Hodges called to the compound for an amphtrac. Snake approached Goodrich and put an arm on his shoulder, offering him a cigarette. Goodrich pushed Snake's arm away.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Goodrich stood with effort, and found that he was shaking uncontrollably. He reached down to pick up his weapon and stared numbly at Burgie's corpse. His lower intestines rumbled fiercely and he felt his anus spasm wildly and he dropped his weapon, running ten feet down the streambed as he yanked his trousers open. He squatted shakily in the sawgrass and excreted a gush of brown water that was odorous with his last night's fear. He held his head in his hands, not wanting to view the rest of the squad that stood nearby. Sawgrass scratched his ass cheeks. Flies discovered his excretum and buzzed lazily below him. The sun cooked up his moisture and he was surrounded with the stench of fear. He rolled forward to his knees and retched, great dry heaves that drained a spittle of bile from his already empty stomach.

  Snake walked over and offered him a canteen of water. “Take a drink, Senator. You'll feel better.”

  Goodrich drank with effort, still shaking. “God, I'm so fucked up.”

  “Put it outa your mind, man—”

  Goodrich began to cry. He shuddered, his chest heaving. “Put it out of my mind? Oh, shit. What do you know? You want to see me cry? There. See? Are you happy?” Snake reached for him and he backed away, still sobbing. “Go away.”

  “You need to get some chow inside you and catch some Zs.”

  “I'll go myself. I don't need you. Leave me alone.”

  Goodrich walked back toward the compound, sobbing, catching his breath. He retrieved his poncho liner from the abandoned LP site, getting his first look at the huge gun that had caused his terror. He saw limbs and uniform pieces scattered among the clods. It upset him more.

  He couldn't think. His mind was scarred from fear, bludgeoned by a new self-hate. He cried and the red dust of
the road stuck to his face. His sweat melted crusts of Ottenburger's blood on the back of his hands, making rivulets of pink run down his fingers. He threw his rifle into the weeds next to the road and walked several steps, then went mechanically back and retrieved it. Neither act required a decision.

  The compound was in front of him. They were still throwing bodies onto trucks and hauling them away. The mortar crew was already firing new missions into the Arizona. Last night it had been an unreachable haven, but now it was a wire-encircled prison.

  I'm in hell, Goodrich sobbed over and over. I'm in hell I'm in hell I'm in hell.

  THERE was no patrol back to the compound. A few caught a ride on the loaded amphtrac, sitting on top after the dead men had been loaded inside. Others walked in twos and threes, at their own leisure. Snake and Hodges strolled slowly up the dust road together, kicking at its red powder layer, smoking pensively.

  Finally Snake spoke. “A bummer, man. I never seen anything like it.”

  Hodges kicked at the dust. “I have to write letters.”

  Outside the wire, a caterpillar tractor was scooping up mounds of earth, preparing a mass grave for the dead NVA soldiers. Snake gestured toward it. “They better dig a deep one. I bet we killed a hundred gooks last night.” He reconsidered. “Eighty, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but what can you say. ‘Dear Mrs. Ottenburger. We got a hundred gooks and three Marines. Sorry about that.’ ” Hodges shook his head. “I just can't write the goddamn letters.”

  “Then don't. Sir.” Snake put his arm on Hodges’ shoulder for a brief moment. “I'll do it. I wrote 'em for Vitelli and Marston. Hey. Don't let it get to you, Lieutenant. If you start crying, we're in the hurt locker.”

  THEY reached the compound and Phony was sitting on a bunker at the edge of the road, popping a wadful of gum. “Hear the news, man?”

  “What's that?”

  Phony grinned ironically to Snake. “My man Kersey's gonna get himself a Silver Star.”

  Snake glanced at Hodges: was I right, or what? “For last night.”

  “That's affirm. Him and the Colonel.”

  Snake squinched up his mouth. “I'll bet they never left that bunker over there.”

  Phony grinned again. “Well, Kersey did. He just went down for chow.”

  “Hmmph. The only thing that surprises me is they didn't put each other up for the goddamn Medal of Honor.” Snake considered it. “Prob'ly didn't have enough casualties.”

  Snake and Hodges walked through the tent area, toward the platoon tents along the finger of the compound. Kersey approached, his utility uniform still clean, carrying a mess tray filled with food. He glared at Snake.

  Snake smiled blandly to Kersey. “Hey-y-y-y, Lieutenant Kersey. Hear you're gonna get the Big Star. Yes, sir. Some day you'll be a General. Yup. It's gonna look real nice up there with your—Purple Heart.” He threw the final words like daggers.

  Kersey scowled at Snake, his face washed with hate. They passed on the dirt road, then Snake shrugged ironically. “Yes, sir. That's another reason why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why I'd kill that man in a minute, if I ever had the chance.”

  12

  PHONY

  Knock on the door and hide. If somebody answers, wait until the door is shut and make your bird. If nobody answers, knock again. Loud. Peep the neighbors out. If a neighbor comes to a window, wait until they go away, then make your bird. If nobody answers and no neighbors notice, go on in. Break a pane of glass. Shimmy a loose door. Ain't no biggy.

  Don't take too much. Hard to carry. Hard to fence. They notice quicker and they remember more.

  Find yourself a fence. They're everywhere. Some fences give you skag. Ask for a taste before you trade. If what you got is good enough, they'll give you a taste. But after that you better trade. If you don't, somebody's gonna do you.

  Or play hit man. So many stupid people. It ain't hard. Catch somebody right, like when their arms are full. Hold you a knife or a gun if you got one and start to take their money. If they move, bonk 'em one. Do 'em quick. Don't cut 'em. Don't shoot 'em. Too much trouble if you're caught. If they get the drop on you, run away. Make that bird.

  If you get caught, play scared. There's room for that, too. No sweat. They'll send you to a home, only it's a jail. Juvie Hall. Be good in jail. They're mean bastards, anyway. If they want a piece of you, be sweet. If you're good, they let you out. Foster home again. Be cool for a couple weeks. Then you run away and find a door and knock on it and hide.

  If you don't get caught, that's cool. Trade you for some skag and bring it back. Throw down a Twinkie and a Coke for dinner and then lean back against the bare wall, right there on the floor with all the dirt and roaches, and shoot up. Rip. Pow. It takes your breath and leaves you there all low and floating, there ain't any feeling like it.

  That's living.

  THERE were a dozen foster homes, where he'd learned The Smile. The early years of agonizing days spent under disapproving glances when emotions were unveiled, as if emotions, other than a pleasant front, were unnatural and condemnable. As if a cry for help were a weakness and, more important, an intervention and a bother. The only solution, the only workable attitude, was to keep The Smile in good repair, to be careful not to ruffle the Man or the Bitch, and then to fight like hell, any way he could, for what was his. Or for what he wanted.

  At ten he started running. By thirteen there was no way in hell they could keep him in. He'd found the freedom of the street, and he dealt with its chimeras in the same way: grin at it until it turns around, then unload. And run like hell.

  By sixteen, he was in the Federal narcotics farm, after having come down with hepatitis from a dirty needle. He was the youngest person on the farm. He was good. He played scared and innocent. He knew jails. The other inmates named him Phony.

  At seventeen he was on the street again. Incorrigible. Heavy. Whatever it means. He had a probation officer. The man was worried about Phony's future. Phony had never had a job. He had a civilian record, the officer shuddered, that would make a Juvie judge break down and cry.

  The probation officer decided that the only way to balance out Phony's record, to give him a fresh start, was for him to go into the service and come out with a clean record. A good discharge would give him a clean slate. He might even learn a marketable skill.

  Phony had raised his eyebrows at that. Yeah. Like I could be a hit man or something.

  The probation officer wrote letters. He emphasized that Phony had made a good adjustment since his latest release, and seemed desirous of making a contribution to society. He emphasized that Phony had come from a deprived background, and had not had a chance to become a responsible citizen. He made certain to point out that Phony's offenses were Juvenile, and should not be held against him.

  The Marine Corps took him. The probation officer was elated.

  And Phony did all right. He knew jails.

  13

  April. Already …

  Back in the villes again. Somebody said it was an operation with a name, but it had its own name: Dangling the Bait. Drifting from village to village, every other night digging deep new fighting holes, every day patrolling through other villes, along raw ridges. Inviting an enemy attack much as a worm seeks to attract a fish: mindlessly, at someone else's urging, for someone else's reasons.

  THEY waded an opaque, muddy stream, fretfully picking leeches off their arms and legs on the other bank, then moved slowly, single file, Indian-style. The village sat like a dark green knot in the middle of a wide, dirt-brown paddy. Hodges scanned the fields. There were no conehatted babysans lazing on the backs of water bulls. When water bulls disappeared from the fields, it was always the first sign that the enemy was near, very near, in large numbers. It reminded Hodges of the TV Westerns, when the town cleared the streets before a gunfight.

  At the edges of the village, all along the outer rim of a paddy dike that surrounded it, large, loose piles of shit glistened in the morni
ng sun. The sun beat down on the dozens of droppings and the air filled with their stench as the platoon filed cautiously through the first trees that shrouded the trail. Hodges noted the human dung and halted his platoon, listening carefully before moving any further. There was too much shit for such a small village, and the people had eaten too well. That could only mean enemy soldiers had sneaked down from the mountains to that isolated village and feasted the night before, unless they had taken over the village for a few days, as the Marines often did, and were on some sort of operation against the Marines. Either way, it meant trouble, and Hodges cautiously congratulated himself for noticing it.

  The village had been almost unpopulated two weeks before, when he had made a similar patrol through it. Now there was evidence of occupation: thatch in many of the roofs, and a dozen freshly dug family bunkers. And yet no people. The town was truly cleared for a gunfight. The platoon walked slowly along a narrow dust trail, their vision choked by weeds and brush. They passed a hootch every twenty yards. Cook fires still burned underneath the thatch. Empty red mackerel cans littered the porches. Rice balls sat half-eaten on chipped and broken china plates. The plates, apparent in every ville, always amazed Hodges: fine china from some other time or place incongruously scattered through the primitivity of the Phu Phans. He did not know that once, only a few years before, a railroad had brought such luxuries twice a week.

  There would have been dogs. Or roosters. Hodges registered another reason for caution. If it were villagers remarkably reversing the momentum of flight and returning to resettle an empty ville, they would have brought animals. But the village was dead. No domestic animals, and the others had long ago fled the valley to the mountains that ringed it: the playful monkeys, the richly colored birds, all disappeared, driven away by constant artillery. A few rats skittered through the brush near some of the hootches. Only the rats remained.