Fields of Fire

by James Webb

  They reached a pallet-box sidewalk and strolled languidly between a closer grouping of tents, into the company office. In the rear of the tent the First Sergeant sat among a gaggle of clerks, drinking a beer. He was huge and crew-cutted, a jovial disciplinarian who still carried a piece of shrapnel in his back from Korea.

  The Top squinted slightly when Bagger and Cannonball walked in together, shoulder-bumping close, obvious friends. The racial polarity of the rear area made that a rare occurrence. He made sure that both were on the R & R list, then billeted them in the company transient tent. Finally he smiled sternly to the two scruffy bush Marines.

  “You people look gross. Go to the supply tent and get some clean utilities. And get across the street to the showers before they turn the water off. You've got an hour. And shave. And tomorrow, get haircuts.”

  Bagger nodded wryly, remembering the ephemeral regime of Sergeant Austin. “Whitewalls.”

  The Top affirmed, still smiling. “That's right, Marine. Whitewalls. Welcome back to the Corps.”

  Bagger nudged Cannonball as they exited the tent. “Welcome back to the Corps. Christ. Will somebody please tell me where the fuck I been for five months?”

  Cannonball shrugged nonchalantly, accustomed to hassles. His sharply featured, cream-colored face was totally at ease. “C'mon, Bagger. Didn't you know this is the real Corps?”

  In the transient tent there were a half-dozen new dudes, green-clothed, faces ambiguous, as yet unaffected, who would join the company in the bush shortly. They crowded together at one end of the tent, suffering communally the miseries of the inexperienced. In the rest of the tent were a dozen other transients, back from the hospital, on the way to or returning from R & R, or merely slackers, playing an angle that would keep them in the rear while the days ran on their tours.

  Bagger and Cannonball strode into the tent, found adjacent cots, and dropped their packs and weapons. A tall, spindly man with a full mane of jet-black hair approached them. He was grinning conspiratorially, and wore two strings of love beads, like brightly colored Indian trinkets, around his neck.

  Bagger looked at the man as he approached in the shadowed darkness of the tent, then finally recognized him. “Way-ull. Kiss my ass. It's Stretch. Where you been, boy?”

  Stretch's long neck bobbed affably. “Japan. Two months. Been skating for a fat man's ass. Uh huh.”

  “How the hell you make it to Japan on a stomachache?”

  Stretch smiled proudly, massaging his stomach. “Had the hookworms, man. Had me a Number Ten case. Rode those mothers all the way to Yokosuka. They laid eggs in my gut and I took a two-month cure. Can you dig it? Coulda kissed each one of 'em.”

  “Did it hurt?”

  “Had the shits, cramps, stuff like that. What the hell. For two months in Japan, I'd do it again.” Stretch grinned his conspiratorial grin. “Matter of fact, I just might.”

  “Well, you won't have any trouble finding wormy water. Skipper won't have any water buckets sent in, and we're in the An Tams now. He says it affects our mo-bil-ity. Yeah. There's plenty of wormy water.”

  Stretch turned to Cannonball. “Well, Cannonball. How you making it, boy?”

  Cannonball smiled easily and tapped Stretch on the chest. His fingers lingered along the tall man's shirt front, and he stood very close. “You see a boy, you jus’ go ahead an’ knock him down.”

  Stretch laughed. “Yeah, old Cannonball. Hey. Homicide's back.”

  Cannonball's hazel eyes sparkled. “No shit? I been wonderin’ where that bad-ass brother been. He been gone a hell of a long time fo’ a slice up the side of his head. Where's he at?”

  Stretch cocked his head, enjoying his informer role. “Well, he's in trouble. Uh huh. Reason he took so long is he decided to take him a vacation down in Dogpatch—you know, in Da Nang, there—when he got out of the hospital. Spent a couple months shacking with some whore down there when he shoulda been back in the bush. They caught him swiping a camera in the R & R center a couple days ago, sent him back here for a court-martial.”

  Cannonball shook his head. “Damn fool.” He looked back up to Stretch. “So, where's he at, man?”

  “He's over in the Black Shack.”

  “Say what?” Cannonball squinted up at the gloating Stretch.

  “Man, you have been in the bush a long time. The Black Shack. Two tents down, in the back.”

  Bagger erupted into motion, taking Cannonball by the shoulder. “Well, come on. Let's go see the stupid shit.”

  Stretch leaned his narrow head back, mocking Bagger. “You better not go, Bagger. He don't want to see any Chuck dudes. He won't even say ‘hey’ to me when I see him on the road.”

  Bagger dismissed Stretch. “So what. Neither would I. C'mon, Cannonball. Let's go.”

  IN the battalion area, two tents down from the company tent, one-quarter of a troop tent had seceded from the Marine Corps. Blocked from the remainder of that tent by a divider wall, and from the rest of An Hoa by a barrier of hate, it held six cots, although it had never been fully occupied. Four months earlier, Bagger learned, a group of blacks awaiting court-martial had seized it in the name of Brotherhood, and christened it the Black Shack. Periodically the occupants changed, but the Black Shack had remained: no officer or NCO, white or black, had had the fortitude to eject them.

  Above the tent flap was a hand-lettered sign: NO

  CHUCK DUDES ALLOWED: THIS MEANS YOU. Malcolm X glowered from a poster on one wall. On another, Bobby Seale pointed a rifle at the camera. There were hand-lettered posters: KILL THE BEAST. DEATH TO ALL CHUCK PIGS. A table in the center of the tentspace was covered with stacks of Black Panther and Muslim literature.

  The Black Shack was the place to come and rap about the horrors of racism and prejudice.

  And Rap Jones was its guru. Bagger had heard of Rap Jones. The longtime private was infamous throughout the Regiment. Rap Jones had been in Vietnam more than two years, merely trying to complete a one-year tour: a person's brigtime didn't count toward completion. Rap Jones had been convicted of more than a dozen noncapital offenses, most of them petty, ranging from unauthorized absence to refusal to obey a direct order. Rap Jones, it was rumored, knew every dope pusher and deserter in Dogpatch, the thicket of tin shacks in Da Nang where such errant people dwelled.

  Rap Jones, in the parlance, was a bad nigger.

  And now Rap Jones stood at the entrance to the Black Shack, holding both tent flaps tightly, arms outstretched like a bronzed Christ, self-proclaimed martyr of the People, denying Bagger access to his friend. Bagger stared up the three wooden steps at Jones, torn between a natural impulse toward undirected, explosive frustration, and his desire to reach a harmony with the smirking malcontent so he could speak to Homicide.

  Rap Jones pointed to the sign: NO CHUCK DUDES ALLOWED. “Cain't you read?”

  Bagger glanced at the sign, then back to Rap Jones. “Homicide in there?”

  “Uh huh. But he doan’ want to talk to you.”

  Bagger tried to peer past Rap Jones at the inside of the tent. Bobby Seale pointed a rifle at him from the far wall, but Homicide was not apparent. “Hey Homicide! Come on out here, man! It's me, Bagger! Me and Cannonball! Cmon out!”

  No sound or motion from inside the tent. Rap Jones nodded to Cannonball. “You comin’ inside, Brother?”

  Cannonball eyed Bagger, noting the anger that had tightened his friend's lips, burned his cheeks, driven his hands deep into his trouser pockets. He knew that Bagger had a tendency to explode when pressured. He looked at the narrowing eyes and comprehended that Bagger was ready to unload on Rap Jones, that he would start a race riot at any second, in an effort to see a black friend. Cannonball sensed the irony of that possibility, and suddenly felt trapped by the two worlds he would have to straddle in order to prevent its occurrence.

  Desperate, Cannonball screamed into the tent. “Homicide. Get yo’ black ass out here. Hurry up, now!”

  Rap Jones taunted them both with a mocking leer. He jabbed
at Cannonball. “You Whitey's nigger, boy? Goan’ stand outside. Don't piss ol’ Whitey off now, boy.”

  Bagger bristled. His fists came out of his pockets in two hard balls, ready to mash Rap Jones's face. “Why, you motherfucker—”

  Homicide peered down at them, over Jones's shoulder. A jagged scar ran down his deeply black cheek from the hairline, vestige of his wound. His hair was combed out into a puffy Afro. His normally angry eyes were dulled by pills. Homicide was totally spaced out.

  He attempted to focus on his visitors, finally recognizing them, and slurred out in a deep bass, “Hey, y'all.”

  Bagger glared at Rap Jones, vindicated: Homicide had spoken. “Goddamn, Homicide. What you been doin’?”

  Homicide stared dully at Bagger for a long, motionless moment, then touched the scar on his cheek and spoke slowly, as if he were reciting a school lesson that he had just succeeded in memorizing. “Been bleedin’ Whitey's war. Killin’ brown folks, ain’ no reason. Been dyin’ fo’ the Beast.”

  Bagger stared unbelievingly at Homicide, then uneasily over to Cannonball, who was grimacing, feeling more and more trapped. Cannonball felt Bagger's unspoken accusation and attempted to ignore it, turning back to Homicide. He studied the stuporous, expressionless face, the body draped in a black skivvy shirt, strings of love beads like a choke chain around the neck, a slave bracelet around one wrist.

  Homicide, decided Cannonball, was beyond reasoning. But Cannonball nonetheless scolded him, attempting to reassure Bagger that Rap Jones's hate did not predominate. “C'mon, Homicide. What you sayin’, man? You talkin’ trash. Shut up, now.”

  As he spoke two faces peered down at him, one deeply black, round and numb, the other the color of polished leather, thin and angular, hating. Rap Jones spoke with finality, nodding to Cannonball. “You wan’ talk with Homicide, you come inside. You doan’ wan’ come inside, you slide.”

  Bagger's neck veins bulged and his wide face was turbulent, furious. “We ain't talking to you! You shut your face. Hear?”

  Rap Jones seemingly ignored Bagger, but reached quickly inside the tent and came back to its entrance with a long, carved stick: short-timer stick. Bagger watched his antagonist pat the end of it against the flat of one hand and quickly realized that, in one swift motion, Rap Jones could pull the sheath and expose the hidden blade, and in another, pierce him with it.

  But Bagger was beyond caution. He reached inside his flak jacket pocket and pulled out a grenade, straightening the pin. “You pull the cover offa that, I pull the pin outa this. You stick me you better be quick, nigger, 'cause this is going inside your skivvy shirt.”

  Both men froze, staring deeply, tautly, into each other's eyes. Homicide still peered blankly over Jones's shoulder, mumbling numb aphorisms about the Beast to a silently staring Cannonball.

  Cannonball sensed that he had somehow caused the standoff by his waffling, and that Bagger would not back down of his own volition. To ask Bagger to leave with him now would be a futile gesture that would explode the powder keg. Rap Jones would prod Cannonball for being an Uncle, Bagger would attack Rap Jones, and somebody would die. Or at least bleed.

  Ain’ worth it, mused Cannonball. An’ I did this. Doan’ ask me how, I doan’ know how, but I know I did this. Only one way out of it, too. He turned to Bagger. “Bagger, you book on out o’ here, man. I gotta rap with a brother, hear? Catch you later, man.”

  Rap Jones smirked. Bagger glared unbelievingly. “You mean you're gonna go in there?”

  Cannonball shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. “Yeah. You doan’ understand, man. I'll just catch you later. O.K.?”

  Cannonball walked up the steps. Rap Jones dropped the short-timer stick on a near cot and passed the Power to Cannonball in an overlong, exaggerated series of hand grabbing, celebrating his victory over Bagger.

  “Heyyy, there's a Brother. What's happenin’, now?”

  “You what's happenin’, Rap Jones. An’ the nevahendin’ struggle.”

  “All right! An’ what is Blood?”

  Bagger watched, amazed. He bent the grenade pin back. The three men disappeared inside the Black Shack and tightened the tent flap behind them.

  Bagger stood for a moment, watching after them, then walked dazedly back to the transient tent, muttering to himself. “Niggers. Jesus Christ. I never thought Cannonball was like that. Out in the bush, they need you, they're all right. Get 'em back in the rear and they turn to shit.” He mimicked Rap Jones. “An’ what is Blood? Well, kiss my ass. Goddamn spooks.”

  17

  The sun fell like a red balloon through the haze above the western mountains, streaking the mists with sheets of flame that made the hills appear to burn. At last it was cool enough to eat. Goodrich sat alone underneath the half-thatch of a burnt-out hootch, at the edge of the latest confluence of village and trees that had become their two-day home.

  No one lived in the village anymore. It was filled with hootches like the one Goodrich sat under, blown apart and abandoned. Latticed trenches dug by the NVA zigzagged throughout it, connecting hootches and advantageous firing points. Fighting holes from three years of Marines surrounded the village along the paddy dike that encircled it. Some of the holes were so old and the grass had grown so high inside them that they were unnoticeable unless someone fell into them when walking. Others, like the one Goodrich had just finished digging, were raw on their insides, walled with a clay that clung to a man each time he rubbed against it.

  But you never use an old fighting hole, Goodrich remembered, opening a can of Spiced Beef. Either it's booby-trapped, or the gooners know exactly where it is and can hit it with a B-40 blindfolded. Always dig a new one. He snorted helplessly. A few more times in this ville and we'll have a trench dug all the way around it.

  Goodrich ate his dinner, surveying the ghost town that had once bustled with villagers. Sometimes, when he could shake the permeating fear out of his mind and focus on it, the futility of what they were doing overwhelmed him. Abusing the land until it became unworkable, killing and being killed, and yet nothing changing beyond the tragedy of the immediate event.

  Those tragedies had accumulated in his mind like particles of silt in a filter, until they had completely plugged up his logical processes, preventing the saner portions of his existence from registering any longer. Every day, some new horror inflicted in the name of winning Hearts and Minds. It either numbs you or it infuriates you, he lamented. No wonder the other people didn't get uptight when I shot that old mamasan on my first patrol.

  He tried to count the tragedies. The villages they had assaulted on line for fear of being ambushed when they crossed open areas: “reconnaissance by fire,” Hodges called it. Shot dogs and chickens and hogs. Accidental wounds and deaths of civilians. They were a routine, almost boring occurrence.

  Marines denying villagers their extra food, on the premise that the food would only wind up with the enemy. Destroying unused C-rations, punching holes in the cans and tossing them into burn holes with the trash. It had become a familiar sight, from some black-humored theater of the absurd, whenever the company pulled out of an old perimeter. The last part of the company column would still be on one side of a hill, or on one edge of a village, as a horde of tattered villagers massed on the other end, like an anxious army of rats. And the column hardly clear of the hill or village when the rats began to cover it, children and women and old men scampering about the trash holes, flicking out C-ration tins with long sticks. Occasionally, the company would mortar its own perimeter with White Phosphorus rounds after leaving it, to scare the scavengers away. But it never achieved more than a momentary effect.

  Then denying the villagers their own food as well: not being able to distinguish between an enemy rice-collection point and a family's storage area, so taking all rice beyond a villager's immediate needs. Or, if no helicopter was available, destroying the rice by urinating on it or dropping smoke grenades in it.

  The prisoners. Goodrich had come to Vietnam with a Miniver Che
evy view of war, believing that reason would rule over emotion, that once a combatant had been removed from the fray he would be accorded a certain sum of dignity. He had also thought the North Vietnamese soldiers and the fabled Viet Cong would face captivity with a sort of gallantry. It had confused and amazed him to see prisoners shit in their pants and grovel before him. And he could not get used to men being beaten and kicked, for no apparent reason.

  And worse. He had watched Wild Man shoot a bottle off one prisoner's head, on a dare. The prisoner had fainted, then shit in his pants when he was awakened. He had seen Bagger try to talk a wounded soldier into killing himself, handing him a bayonet knife and placing the tip of it into the soldier's belly. He had been amazed to see Waterbull, normally a nonparticipant in the abuses, toss a prisoner into the water of a bomb crater when he had tired of carrying the enemy soldier, who had been shot through the knee. Waterbull then yelled jocularly that the prisoner was trying to drown himself. Goodrich had helped fish him out of the water, to the taunts of some of the others.

  The pain of watching living corpses. The worst had been two North Vietnamese soldiers who had been either napalmed or hit by White Phosphorus, it wasn't clear which, and had walked to their perimeter to surrender. A villager had patiently guided them. They were scorched from head to foot, blinded, their hair burnt off and their skin pink and cracked, like a hot dog on a charcoal grill. Their throats were also scorched. They could not speak or cry. The villager identified them as enemy soldiers.