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Fields of Fire

Page 32

by James Webb


  For a moment he cursed Cat Man's proficiency. Like Phony used to say, Old Snoop and Poop and his bent grassblades. Then he reconsidered. Cat Man was worth his weight in dope.

  BoomBoom! Down the trail there was a large explosion, followed by a huge secondary, uninterrupted by a pause. That should do it, thought Snake. He scanned the trail. Still no Baby Cakes and Ogre. Well, he reasoned. They prob'ly found a hole next to it so they wouldn't have to trip all the way back down there if the fuse went out on 'em. Pretty good thinking.

  Five more minutes. Still no Baby Cakes. Snake had become uneasy, but would not allow himself to think the gruesome thought. He fought it for a few more minutes, and then had to admit it. Christ Almighty, he grieved. They done blown themselves to bits.

  Snake scampered over to Sadler. “Something's wrong, Sarge. We better get down that trail, right goddamn now. ”

  The platoon mounted up and rushed down the trail, leaving the company to move to its night position without them. Two bends in the sawgrass and the village revealed itself before them. At its near edge, where the bomb had been found, the air was lightly hazed by dust and smoke. And in the air, clinging to each particle of haze, settling with the dust on grass and tree leaves, was the rich, wet aroma of recent blood.

  But there were no bodies. And the bomb had not been blown. It lay ominously where Cat Man had discovered it, partially excavated toward one end, but undetonated. For a moment the whole platoon stared numbly at the empty scrape of dirt before the bomb, as if they had collectively discovered a haunted building or a ghoul itself. The undercurrent ran through all of them like a shiver: what the hell is going on?

  Sadler was mystified. If it was gooks, he reasoned, there would have been a firefight. And what about the second explosion? And where the hell are they? He became spooked, and yelled to Snake and the other squad leaders.

  “Set up security! Hurry up!”

  The platoon deployed into a perimeter, and began searching out the area. There were few clues. The dirt in front of the bomb was raw, but there were no blood trails, no signs of the three men. Nor were there any mattings in the grass that might be followed.

  Snake walked slowly around the grassy edges of the dirt area, massaging scraps of cloth in the fingers of one hand. The scraps clung like fuzz to the grass. In a moment Cat Man brought him a dark green strap that he had found on the other side of the bomb.

  Snake approached Sadler. “I'll tell you what happened, Sarge. I'll bet my ass on it.” He showed Sadler the scraps. “Some gook fragged 'em, getting ready to hit 'em, and he got a secondary off that engineer's goody bag.”

  Sadler pondered it, intense. It sounded logical. “So what happened to 'em? Couldn't have blowed 'em all to bits.”

  Snake calculated, his chin in one hand. “Nah. There was maybe five or six pounds of C-four in that bag, plus the man's blasting caps. Prob'ly did a royal job on the engineer. But there couldn't be any shrap metal.” He looked at Sadler. “I bet it didn't do nothing but knock Baby Cakes and Ogre out from the concussion. Yup. I'll bet it didn't. And I bet those gook bastards picked up all their trash and skyed out with 'em.”

  Snake looked amazed, as if he had never contemplated such a fate. “Jesus Christ. They're POWs.” He scanned the narrow ville, and the seas of sawgrass that ran virtually unbroken for five miles to the mountains. “Well. They can't be very far away. It's only been fifteen minutes. We better chase 'em.”

  Sadler scanned the impenetrable, unsearchable sea. “If they want to keep 'em alive, they'll take 'em to the mountains. If they don't, well—” He shook his head, still mystified by the whole occurrence. “And anyway, we better hurry.” Sadler checked his watch: five-thirty. “We'll sweep on up to the edge of the ville real quick, maybe check a couple trails, too. If we doan’ find nothin’, we'll come back tomorrow. We'll call Division, too.” He noted Snake's disappointment. “I'm sorry, Snake-man. That's all we can do.”

  “Hey, Sarge, you better come over here!” Wolf Man, from guns, held up a helmet. He and Cronin were straddling an unviewable object in the sawgrass. “It's the engineer. He is all fucked up.”

  The god of night pulled his shade across the sky, unleashing all his demons as the gray set in. The platoon moved quickly down the sawgrass trail, racing him, hurrying to beat the black. The black belonged to those others, the night god's children, who frolicked, even murdered under the romance of starbright. Night for the platoon was hiding time, time to dig deep holes and wait in fear for the loneliest of deaths, the impersonal, shattering projectile that would just as soon kill tree or air as man. In their middle, dragged between two poles, was the mangled body of the engineer. Back in the village, or in the grass, or maybe only in their memories, were the other two. No trace of them was found. Ogre and Baby Cakes had evaporated.

  THE next morning two platoons from the company searched the village, hootch by hootch, and followed the trails toward the mountains. They found nothing. Word was passed to all operating units in the area to be on the lookout for signs of the two men. There was no immediate response. Helicopters and observation aircraft patrolled, swooping low, seeking possibilities inside the sawgrass. There were none. Baby Cakes and Ogre had vanished. It would take a miracle to find them.

  In the company perimeter the squad gathered at Snake's hootch, as if summoned, upon its return from the exhausting, many-houred patrol. Snake sat in the grass next to his poncho hootch, smoking a cigarette, mechanically throwing a bayonet knife into the dirt. He would throw it into the dirt, look at it for a frowning, contemplative moment, then slowly retrieve it and repeat the process. The others sat, stripped to tiger shorts or utility trousers, shirtless, watching him. Bagger drank thirstily from a canteen. Cat Man lit a smoke.

  Finally Snake threw the knife hard. It entered the dirt up to its hilt. He took a long drag on his cigarette, and surveyed the four men who were left in his squad. Cat Man, sitting stolid as a gook, deeply upset because another of his discoveries had gone afoul. Cannonball, sweating profusely from the patrol, now drinking the remainder of Bagger's canteen. Bagger, his face completely drained, looking as if he had lost twenty pounds over the past three weeks. And Goodrich, nervous, egocentric even at this moment, fretting over an ulcerous gook sore on his arm. All of them, each in his own way, awaiting Snake's wisdom.

  Snake picked the knife up again and studied it as he spoke. “We been together a long damn time. And we're all that's left.” Names and faces flashed in every mind, unspoken. All the dozens that had poured through the conduit, now down to five. Drop by drop, drained down to this sediment, these exhausted dregs. We're all that's left. Out here, forgotten but for momentary hurricanes of helicopters, left to be killed or maimed, dreg by dreg, for the honor of possessing Trailbend or Banana Clump or nothing.

  Snake lit another cigarette. No one said anything. “We can't leave Baby Cakes and Ogre out here.” The tenor voice was soft, reasoned, modulated, but filled with underlying strength. “Baby Cakes ran straight at ten damn gooks to try and save Vitelli. Baby Cakes would still be out there looking for you.” He stared at each man. Each man nodded self-consciously, agreeing. “Well. As long as there's a chance, we gotta try and find 'em.”

  Cat Man shook his head bitterly. “It's my fault, man. I always see too many things. I see bananas and Phony gets blown away. I see a bomb and Baby Cakes is gone. I should never see these things. It don't do no good to try, man. I quit. I don't try no more.”

  “It ain't your fault, Cat Man. Don't let it get you down.”

  Bagger eyed Snake hesitantly. “Well, what can we do? We're only five damn people.”

  Snake threw the knife back into the dirt. “We been on Go Noi almost a month. Company's pulling out of here tomorrow or the day after. We gotta get another look at that ville, maybe talk to the mamasans and babysans. If we can get some good scoop outa somebody, we might be able to help find 'em.” He scanned the group again. “Who knows? They just might be out there in the weeds somewhere.”

  Ba
gger shook his head negatively. “No way. We can't do that by ourselves.”

  “Sure we can. If Sadler and the Skipper will let us. Matter of fact, it might be the only way to do it. We'll take us a little killer team out there tomorrow, just at first light. Take Dan with us so we can talk to the villagers. That'll be six people. We can really snoop around with six dudes. Any less than that, we might be hurting if we get hit.” Again he peered at each man with the intense stare. “Is everybody in?”

  They mulled it silently. Goodrich was incredulous. The man is absolutely crazy, he marveled. Six people out there? Whatever happened to Baby Cakes and Ogre, it's clear that whoever did it had their shit together. They'd eat us up.

  Help me, Senator. No, no. They can't even be alive. A full day. No sign of them. We took that ville apart today.

  I'm only nineteen.

  All right, all right. If somebody else says they'll do it, I'll say I will. I'm not a leader. I could fuck up a wet dream.

  You're just waiting for me to die.

  “All right. I'm in. I'll do it.”

  Snake's eyebrows raised in mild amazement. “Senator? All right.”

  Cat Man and Cannonball measured each other, then nodded affirmatively.

  Bagger studied Snake, and then the others. “What if we get hit. Huh? What if we get ambushed on the trail, like when Wild Man got it? What if they hit all of us coming into the ville? What can six people—” He considered Dan “—five people and a goddamn gook—what can they do?” He snorted. “I think it's crazy.”

  Cannonball measured Bagger, his head tilted unbelievingly “Ma-a-an, am I hearing you right? You was goan’ kill Rap Jones just 'cause he wouldn't let you see Homicide. Homicide was only a little fucked up. These dudes are dyin’, man! What'sa matter, Bagger? You doan’ like white folks?”

  Bagger felt his anger rise, then realized that Cannonball was attempting to affirm his friendship. He nodded, won over. “Rap Jones just pissed me off, man.” He pondered that. “I'll just have to get pissed off at the gooks that took Baby Cakes and Ogre.” He thought another moment, convincing himself, almost forgetting his fear. “Goddamn it, I am pissed off at those gook motherfuckers!” He looked back to Snake. “O.K. You're right. It's the only way. We owe it to 'em.”

  Snake retrieved the knife and held it tightly, his mouth set in a rigid line. “Good. I knew none of you dudes would flake out on me. We been tight too long. I'll clear it with Sadler and line up Dan.”

  He brightened slightly, his face fiercely determined. “Tomorrow we find Baby Cakes.”

  ALONG the trail the sawgrass whispered with their passing, stroked them at the trailbends, leaned out and brushed them with every breath of wind. They walked quickly, unspeaking, knowing each other's tendencies and movements after months of naked closeness, one body that had six parts in perfect, conditioned harmony. The fog clung to them, making morning as isolated and personal as night.

  At last they reached the village. It did not suspect their presence as it would a company, or even a platoon. They crept along its edge, past the place where Baby Cakes and Ogre had melted into nowhere, walking toward the gathering of hootches. The hootches sat like visions in the mist, emanating rancid, moist smoke from their cook fires, ammoniated, dung-filled mud from waterbull pens, ashen death from inside the thatch. Somewhere a papasan was puffing on a twist of tobacco. Faint whiffs of it floated across to them.

  They left the trail without command and walked a wet grass field, coming into the first hootch from behind, around its family bunker. Its inhabitants, a papasan of perhaps forty-five and a somewhat younger mamasan, were genuinely startled. The Marines filled their thatch porch and they sat motionless, panicked eyes peering toward the next hootch, looking for an avenue of escape.

  Snake turned to Dan, who watched the villagers solemnly. “Tell 'em they help us, they won't get hurt.”

  Dan translated. The expressions of the Vietnamese did not change. Snake pulled out a picture of Baby Cakes, taken months before out in the Arizona. He showed it to the terrified papasan, and employed a sort of sign language as he talked. “Couple days ago. Right out here. Him and another dude, took away by the NVA. Understand VC? Khong biet? O.K. Where'd they take 'em?”

  Dan translated again. He was already becoming angry. He sensed that the man knew exactly what Snake was talking about. He also sensed that the man was not going to help, no matter what he knew. The man's eyes peered straight into Dan, seemingly inoffensive, but asking him a harsh, unarticulated question with their very passive resistance. Why do you fight for them? Why do you help kill us?

  “Khong biet,” the man answered.

  Dan spoke rapidly, his flash of anger surprising even Snake. “I know you are lying to me,” Dan responded. “If I find out you were lying I will kill you. You have one more chance. What happened to them?”

  The man was terrified, but his eyes continued to peer coldly through Dan's. He shrugged, a seemingly helpless gesture. “I do not know. Sometimes there are VC. Sometimes there are Marines. But I do not see VC with Marines.”

  Dan appeared furious. Snake grabbed him by the shoulder and smiled to the papasan. “O.K., Papasan.”

  He asked Dan softly, “Is he lying, Dan? Papasan bullshit Marines?” Dan nodded, breathing quickly, upset by the confrontation, the battle over hostages, that reminded him of his own loss to the VC.

  Snake ignored the papasan for one second, then turned quickly, striking him in the face with the back of his hand. Papasan's head jerked madly from the blow.

  Snake walked to him, showing him the picture again. “Now, motherfucker. Take a good look. O dau, huh? Where'd they go?”

  Papasan talked quickly, his hands at his shoulders in a helpless shrug. On and on he babbled, motioning with his hands, pouring out his frustrations.

  Finally Goodrich cut him off. He rubbed his own face, peering uneasily down the village trail. He was wishing he had not come on the patrol. He wanted to hurry up and end it. He felt certain they were going to be ambushed if they stayed out very long.

  “Come on, Snake. We're out here to find Baby Cakes, not to beat on gooks. If you think he knows something, let's take him back with us and send him in.”

  Snake still stared angrily at the papasan, who was eyeing Goodrich hopefully. “And what the fuck good would that do, Senator? He'd be interrogated for three days and we'd be outa here tomorrow or the next day and Baby Cakes and Ogre would be God knows where by then. Nope.” Snake peered intently at the man. “He knows something. Dan says so.”

  Goodrich grimaced, nervous and unimpressed by Dan's conclusions. “How the hell does he know?”

  “That fucker just knows, man. If you grew up with gooks you'd know, too.” Snake pondered it. “Oh, well. It might be better to let him think he's off the hook and then come back to him. But we'll have to sneak up on him, or he'll sky out. Let's go peep the others.” Snake winked to Dan, giving him a reassuring grin. “Tell him ‘thanks.’ Tell him I'm sorry I hit him.”

  Dan stared coldly at papasan, translating. Papasan was still wary, but visibly relieved. He nodded quickly, nursing the side of his head. The killer team departed, moving to the next hootch.

  Bagger motioned back toward papasan's hootch as they left. “You know what I don't like about him? He ain't old.” He asked Dan in a hoarse whisper. “He VC, Dan?”

  Dan pondered it, and answered judiciously: “Mebbe.”

  There were more than a dozen hootches scattered through the ville. The squad crept up on each one, interrogating villagers, showing them the picture of Baby Cakes, seeking information. They found none. Each villager was properly, almost dutifully fearful of them, but none volunteered information. Several hours passed. They probed the outer reaches of the village, following trails into the grass, looking for clues that did not exist.

  Finally Snake had had enough. He tilted his helmet back and addressed Cat Man. “I say we go back and pick up old papasan and take him to the scene, man. Go over where they were blowing t
he bomb and walk out in different directions and play Hot and Cold. You know, peep him out, see what scares him. That old dude knows something.”

  Bagger agreed. “He ain't old. I'll bet he's a gook. No shit.”

  They crept back toward the first hootch at the other end of the ville. Papasan sat on his porch, rocking on his haunches, smoking. He saw them approach when they were about fifty feet away, and rose as if to run.

  Snake called to him. “Dung Lai, motherfucker! You ain't going anywhere.” Papasan froze resignedly. Running was for younger men. He was too old to make it to the sawgrass.

  Cat Man grabbed him. Snake walked up. “You come with us.” He noticed the mamasan, who was surveying them with a suspicious bitterness. “You come, too, you old hag. C'mon! Lai day!” Mamasan howled, complaining as she walked out from her porch to join them. “Shut up, bitch.”

  Bagger squinted at her. “She's a gook, too. How come she's got no kids? I'll bet she's a damn nurse or something.”

  Cannonball took her hands and turned them palms up. “Look at this shit, man! She ain’ even got a callus! Not one damn rough spot on her hands! She ain’ no mamasan. Bagger's right. I'll bet she's a damn NVA nurse!”

  He lifted her lips. She tried to turn her head away, staring hotly at him. He slapped her hard on the cheek, raising an immediate welt, then pulled her upper lip again. “Look at these teeth, ma-a-an. She ain’ even chewed betel nut! How can she live out here an’ not chew betel nut? Ain’ no way, man. She's a goddamn nurse.”

  Snake called to Dan, then pointed to the woman. “She VC?”

  Dan walked slowly to her, examining her as he approached. The skin too white, too unpocked to have survived for forty years on Go Noi. The hair pulled into a villager's bun, but almost rich, not as coarse. The eyes, surveying him with an intelligence, a knowing hotness that understood more than a suffering mamasan could ever comprehend.

  He reached for her breasts. She intercepted his hands. He hit her hard in the face, then continued his quest. He stared directly into her eyes, feeling the breasts, remembering his own wife's withered set, even before she bore him children and drained herself to sustain them. Too much milk. She has eaten too well when younger, thought Dan. She is not a villager. She could not be from Go Noi.

 

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