by James Webb
She glanced to him shyly, her eyes on his war-scarred neck. They prayed, she noted with hesitation, that sons and husbands would be found unfit for military service.
No samurai on Okinawa.
Hodges watched her through all those hours and sensed that, in her delicate, indirect way, she was telling him something. But the power of his ghosts, all the pride that made him Hodges, would not let him listen.
HE spent the next day in a large, dim warehouse, putting his initials on dead seabags.
The seabags came from all the reaches of Vietnam's I Corps, to be collected in the warehouse and shipped home in groups. Each one represented a casualty who could not carry his own seabag away from the war, and who had preceded the seabag either in a coffin or on a medevac flight filled with the gravely wounded.
Seabag duty was reserved for officers awaiting flights into Vietnam. Sort of a—reacclimatization process, noted Hodges drily as he strode across the camp toward the warehouse where he would stand duty.
IT was a boring day. Hodges sat at a field desk in the front of the warehouse, talking away the hours with supply clerks and fantasizing about that evening, when Mitsuko would get off work. Occasionally a clerk would drive up in a motorized forklift and unload one or two seabags, presenting a casualty ticket and the seabag's tag for Hodges to verify. After Hodges signed the verification, the bags were placed on shelves in the rear of the warehouse.
The huge racks of seabags behind him began to bother him as the day progressed. The forklift worked unhurriedly, yet brought him a steady stream of dead bags to join the high, long rows that loomed in the darkness to his rear.
He found himself checking the names carefully as he certified the bags, at the same time hoping that he would not have to go through the agony of certifying the bag of one of his men, or an Officer classmate from Basic School. The dead bags became dead people. The forklift was bringing him coffins. Each bag was the same on the outside, like a coffin. And each held its own collection of belongings, sizes that fit only the man who had packed the bag, individualized—like the tragic innards of a coffin. The bags pulsed with personality, and he became overwhelmed by the long, dark rows of dead men.
Dead men. Yes, that was it. He walked the rows as if he were strolling through a cemetery. The bags reached the ceiling, shelved on racks, blocking the overhead lights and making mournful shadows on the floor. Occasionally he stopped, reading the tags, noting the man's rank and unit, as if reading the inscription on a gravestone.
They had existed. They bled and died. There was no monument to their effort in Vietnam and there would be little impact back in the World outside of their own homes. But here, in the dark rows of the warehouse, they came together for a day or week, a whole room of testimony. They had once existed, and now they did not exist.
A slow month, the clerk had informed Hodges earlier. It had been a slow month while he had been in the hospital. You could tell by the seabags. And how did you die, wondered Hodges, fingering a tag. A firefight on a slow day outside Dong Ha? A mere platoon overrun in Arizona? A booby trap on a boring squad patrol near Da Nang?
He found himself reading every tag, trying to find someone he knew. He dreaded the discovery, but he felt he needed it as an affirmation. All the misery, all the blood and death. Surely it could produce one seabag out of the room of bags, one affirmation of his own endeavors. He walked faster. He reached higher. He was lost in the dark rows, swallowed by hundreds of dead bags, each carefully tagged and certified. But there was no one he knew.
Finally he gave up, and returned to the field desk. In the very mortuary of affirmation, his platoon and his friends did not exist.
“Lieutenant Hodges, reporting as ordered, sir.”
“Hodges. Come on in.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Hodges walked the three steps to the Major's desk, and stood at attention. The Major was the Personnel Officer. Hodges had seen him every evening at the Club, and had often discussed the Twenty-Fifth Marines operations with the Major. They had gone so far as to have dinner together on several occasions, and it was apparent to Hodges that the Major knew he was seeing Mitsuko.
The Major held a green three-by-five card. Hodges knew it was his flight card. He had watched it inch its way toward the top of the Processing Clerk's stack for a week. After having stood seabag duty, he knew he had a day, or at best two days, before he would transit back to Vietnam.
The Major tapped the flight card on the palm of one hand, contemplating Hodges. “How'd you like to stay on Okinawa?”
“Sir?”
“That's right.” The Major smiled. “Jesus, Lieutenant. I thought you would have jumped over the desk by now. I'm on the level. We just had a billet open up over at Special Services. Recreation Officer. A Lieutenant rotated early on an emergency leave. He had less than ninety days on his tour, so he'll be reassigned from the States. I have the authority to fill the billet from the transients who've been In Country already. You're ideal. Combat time, hospital time. Would you like it?” The Major jibed him, grinning. “Good duty. Lots of free time. Stick around, Hodges, and we'll turn you into a whore-mongering drunk.”
Hodges smiled weakly, assessing both the Major and his offer. Why me, he wondered. What the hell does he care? Hodges thought of the warehouse filled with seabags. Rather than repulsing him, they had reinforced his own sense of guilt. He had not yet contributed enough. His platoon had endured a month, was still enduring, while he frolicked every night against the silky skin of Mitsuko.
The Major shrugged, still smiling. “What the hell. I don't think I need to explain myself, for God's sake. Take it or leave it. It just isn't often that a Personnel Officer can do something for a grunt.”
Hodges stared at the card as it moved in the Major's hand. All the way from the bottom, hundreds down, to just below the top, then whisked out of the pile by the arbitrary whim of a man who had been impressed by his war stories. He found that he resented the Major's kindness, because it forced him to face himself. Until now, it had been unavoidable. But, with a simple yes, he had the power to make it all go away. A simple yes, and the war would be over.
But so would everything else, and for the first time he confronted that truth. Yes, Major, thank you, sir, and the rest of his life would be anticlimax. There was nothing on the other side. What does a man do when his war is over, wondered Hodges, except keep fighting it? All expectancies then lived, and if not fulfilled, well, at least confronted.
The bald, red hills with their sandbag bunkers, the banter and frolic of dirt-covered grunts, the fearful intensity of contact. It was too deep inside him, and he had not yet done enough to be free of it. He suddenly felt superior to the Major, a creature apart, capable of absorbing combat's horror without asking for quarter. Down South his men were on patrol, or digging new perimeters, or dying, and he was nothing if he did not share that misery.
He stared deep into the Major's face, enjoying the one moment of nobility that his months of terror had allowed. “Thanks, Major. But I didn't come halfway around the world to referee basketball games.”
29
An Hoa. A space of earth, a collection of bald clay hills. Tents and sandbagged bunkers. Guns and tanks and trucks. Strange odors of excrement and rot. People. Brickdust like red mist. At this moment so vibrant, so powerful, that it dominated the Basin. Nerve center. Possessed of guns that could reach to every hill and tree. Collector and dispenser of sustenance. Sanctuary. The Rear.
And yet tenuous, ephemeral.
An Hoa was totally American. Its tents housed Americans. Its mess halls fed Americans. Its guns killed for Americans. Its miles of barbed wire and concertina fenced Americans in, and Vietnamese of all bents out. An Hoa was a moment of total power, foreign to the brick-dust soil. It sat like Troy on the bald red mounds.
THEY struggled up the thin road from the helicopter pad, tired but relieved, electric with anticipation, looking forward to a promised four days of turnaround time in An Hoa before they beat the bush agai
n. Snake's remnant of a squad shambled off one helicopter and joined the string of people that headed toward the company troop tents.
Hodges watched them, waiting at the troop tent. Bagger, gaunt and hollow-eyed, but already starting to unwind, walking with his sturdy yawing steps, his rifle over one shoulder like a tramp's stick, held by the barrel. Goodrich, plainly morose, avoiding the eyes of the others, walking alone, his chubby face a miserable scowl. Snake, Cannonball, and Cat Man, a dusty threesome, smoking and jiving, happy to be back in the rear.
Hodges smiled excitedly and called to them. They collectively brightened and walked quickly to him. He greeted each of them as a long-lost friend.
Snake smiled relievedly. He looked as tired as Hodges had ever seen him. “Oh, Lieutenant. I never been so glad to see somebody in my whole damn life. You our Actual again?”
Hodges grinned back. “Yeah, well you all are lucky as hell. They tried to make me a Special Services officer on Okinawa, then a battalion supply officer. But I told 'em I needed the bush, man.”
Bagger squinted, taken aback. “When did you get so gungy, Lieutenant?”
“Well, what kind of hello is that? Besides. You wouldn't want me as a supply officer, Bagger. I'd fuck it up so bad you'd starve.”
They laughed fraternally. Cannonball grinned slyly. “Hey, Lieutenant. Come on. Show us yo’ scars.”
The privileged ceremony of the grunt: Hodges took off his shirt and proudly showed them the ones on his triceps and neck. “The ones on my ass are private.” As they commented approvingly, he surveyed them. “Whoooeee. Man. You all look like hell, I shit you not.”
Bagger shook his head. “Aw, Lieutenant. It was the worst shit I ever been through. Nickel and dime. Nickel and dime. They ate us up.”
Cannonball agreed. “There it is. We never caught 'em in one good firefight. They just keep fuckin’ with us. Phony an’ Big Mac over here, Wild Man on the trails, Waterbull in the weeds, Baby Cakes an’ Ogre …” His voice trailed off.
Snake eyed Hodges. “How many new dudes we got?”
“About half a tentful.”
“Well, where the hell they been?”
Hodges grinned ironically. “Well, you see, we gotta go back into the Arizona next.” He brightened, lifting his eyebrows sardonically. “They been saving 'em for the Big Op.”
Cannonball grunted. “Yeah, I like that. They should save all of us fo’ the Big Op. I ain’ seen no Big Op to be saved fo’.”
Cat Man and Goodrich had stood silently on the fringe of the gathering, Cat Man because of his natural shyness, Goodrich out of a brooding disaffection from the others since the shootings. Hodges called to Cat Man. “Cat Man. How you holding up, man?”
Cat Man brightened perceptibly, but still appeared disillusioned, mildly confused. “Not too good, sir. It's a bummer.”
“How 'bout you, Goodrich?”
Goodrich came sullenly from his doldrums and scrutinized Hodges. He had been faintly hopeful when he first saw the Lieutenant, but had been immediately turned off. Show me your scars, Lieutenant. Let's play John Wayne and model our scars. Hey, here, Lieutenant. I got a Number One gook sore that some ant shit in a while back. Want to hear the story on that one? Then we can all sit around and talk about the people we've killed. “I need to take a shit.” Goodrich walked away from them, toward the troop tents.
Hodges shrugged. “Well, the Senator's his same old happy self, I see. Hey. Get yourselves some racks. Top's got a cookout going this afternoon, and we already got the showers turned on.” He grinned one final time. “Better relax while you can, 'cause in a few days we are gonna be busting some ba-a-ad caps.”
THE square, low-ceilinged room was lit only by awkward slants of sky that filtered through slits of high screen just under the roof. It held twelve showers, six along each outer wall. The room and the showers teemed with filthy, screaming, happy grunts. The water was hot. Snake and Cat Man shared one nozzle, taking the first hot shower either had experienced in several months. Snake soaked under the shower head, his face into a gush of water, greeting each hot jet with something bordering on ecstasy. Cat Man soaped himself in the middle of the room, standing in a river of dirty water that sought a nearby drain hole.
He stared disgustedly across the shadowed room, past a score of naked bodies, to a corner shower. Two young Vietnamese men scrubbed together, taking advantage of the infrequent water hours. They operated the only Vietnamese concession on the Combat Base, a barbershop. They had played together in the corner shower for ten minutes, while a throng of dirty grunts waited in a line outside to enter the shower. One of the barbers masturbated gleefully as he scrubbed. The other saw him, shouted an exclamation, and joined in.
Cat Man watched them busily soaping their private parts, oblivious to the crowd of Marines. He nudged Snake, scowling with disgust. “Look at that, man. Goddamn gooks.”
Snake jumped out of the water and began washing his hair with a bar of soap. “Yeah. They're like that, you know? Ever been to Da Nang? Christ. The fuckers act like they own the place.”
TWO dust roads met in the middle of the battalion area, making a clearing half the size of a football field. The company gathered there, around huge outdoor cook-stoves that the First Sergeant had scrounged somewhere, made from oil barrels cut lengthwise. No one asked the Top where or how he had obtained the barbecue stoves. Questioning a First Sergeant about logistical sources caused the sources to disappear. They ate freeze-dried B-ration hamburgers, and frozen hot dogs obtained in the same manner as the stoves. They drank gallons of beer. They got smashed and roughhoused and forgot about all the miseries outside the wire of An Hoa, one easy mortar arc away.
Hodges was shit-faced. He walked blearily around the gathering with Snake and Cannonball, who were totally stoned, in the middle of the two men, one arm around each. He was so drunk he forgot to eat. Snake was so stoned he was overcome by the munchies and could not stop eating. Hodges felt desperately close to the ones who had been with him since the beginning, as if they were the lone survivors of some ongoing, never-ending calamity. He felt possessive of them, as if he was their big brother, which was exactly the way they treated him.
On the far side of the clearing, near the company tents, a group of blacks crowded around a small tape deck that blared out soul music. In the still dusk air they danced shirtless on the road, their dark sinewy limbs flailing, their bodies sweating, working out their anguish through the music's conduit. Cannonball began bouncing under Hodges’ arm, then jived across the dust clearing.
“Catch—you—later—suh!”
One of the company office clerks brought out a guitar and began strumming it. Goodrich approached him. “May I?”
The clerk shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
Goodrich was also drunk. There was no excuse to stay sober and there was no such thing as maintaining decorum anymore. He found a wooden ammunition box and sat on it. He tuned the guitar for a few minutes, strumming it fretfully, then exploded in an unending catharsis. He played the guitar expertly. His chords were melancholy parts of his own frustrations. Dozens of people were drawn by the mournful strings. They gathered in a knot around him.
He began to sing. He had a clear, strong baritone that cried for all of them. He sang every antiwar song he could think of. He sang every Dylan protest song he could remember. They loved it. He had reached them with music in a way that his words and arguments had never approached. And, more important, he was re-energizing after months of agony, pouring out his bitterness in sweet, melodious words.
He was a natural entertainer. He strummed between songs, enjoying the attention, the requests. He seemed to know every popular song that anyone wanted to hear. He played “Galveston” and “Stand By Your Man” for Bagger, who wept unashamedly as he listened, peering at a set of pictures of his wife.
Hodges appeared, walking next to Snake. Goodrich spoke loudly to the crowd, gesturing to his platoon commander. “Wait a minute, folks. I have to dedicate one to my Lieute
nant, old Grit-City himself. Robert E. Lee Hodges! Can you possibly dig it?”
Snake stepped forward. “Be careful, Senator.”
Goodrich eyed Snake with a small smile, strumming on the guitar. “And for my squad leader—well, there's only one song for a lifer.” Goodrich picked his chords. “From the … hell of Montezuma, to the … hell of Tripoli. We will… die for stupid reasons, on the land and on the sea.”
There were a few laughs, a few claps from the dozens of men around Goodrich. He nodded graciously to them. Snake smirked.
“Real cute, Senator. Bring that guitar with you out in the Arizona next week, and sing it to Luke the Gook. He'll love you.”
Goodrich stopped, afraid of rankling Snake. He strummed the guitar, still smiling, pondering Hodges. “Now, my Lieutenant just got back.” He continued to strum, his words coming out as a melodious introduction to another song. “Yeah. They asked him to stay on Okinawa, drinking beer and screwing off. Yeah. But my Lieutenant, he's a dedicated man. Yeah. It's in the blood, they say. There's no peace on Okinawa when there's war in Vietnam. Yeah. ’Cause there ain't any… kills on Okinawa, and there ain't any … gooksores junglesores ringworm hookworm diarheeee-a!” The Marines applauded and cheered. Goodrich strummed faster. “No. And there ain't no day acts night acts LPs OPs ambushes or … pa-a-trols.” His audience cheered again, laughing at Goodrich's fat-faced mimicry. Goodrich grinned intently, strumming slower. “So I just have to sing a little song for my Lieutenant, who likes this bullshit so much he came back for more.”
Goodrich sang slowly, looking mournfully at Hodges. It was a popular song, a favorite of the Marines.
I'm not scared of dyin’
And I don't really care
If it's peace you find in dyin’