Fields of Fire

by James Webb

  39

  DAN: Sometimes I think it will never end, this war.

  LAOS, 1971

  Operation Lam Son 719 There was an urgent, unstoppable rumble and the ground trembled, vibrating angrily. The dust rose in a hazy blanket that covered the hill and coated lungs and stung eyes. Across the narrow valley was a stream of steady flashes and a black cloud that grew quickly behind the flashes, puffing up like exhaust fumes from a poorly tuned truck. Dan pressed his sweating face into the dust and clutched his rifle and wondered at the ground beneath him as it quivered. It was the arc light again. Perhaps that will stop them, he thought, knowing that nothing would stop them.

  The arc light finished and a black cloud hung low over the thick green canopy of the ridges across the valley. There was a moment of hesitating silence. They will come now, he decided. The B-52s are gone and there is nothing to stop them. As if on cue the artillery crunched into the hill, saturating it and the valley in front of Dan with angry clouds, devastating crunches. 152s. They will kill us all, Dan decided. So strange to die in this country I do not know. But, he sighed, hugging the barren ground, that is the nature of things. I warned them. I told them but they would not listen. A Private is not listened to. And it was so logical. A Private knows intrinsically what a General must learn through experience. That is because a Private thinks with caution since he will be killed. A General can be daring when only the Private will die for his mistakes. But it is useless to think about it. Thoughts will not change it.

  The night before the operation began they had sat in the abandoned ruins of Khe Sanh and watched the jets as they saturated the Laos road with bombs and napalm. There had been much talk about Khe Sanh among the soldiers. This is where the Marines killed so many North Vietnamese, they had agreed in awe. A great battle for the Marines. Now it was abandoned and the airstrip was tatters of curled plating that used to be runway and the bunkers had dissolved into the earth. And the Marines were gone. But it was a great battle. Thousands of ghosts haunted the dark perimeter.

  There had been a pep talk by the company commander. He had clasped his hands in front of his chest, intent. “Tomorrow will begin the greatest test for our Army,” he had said. “Tomorrow we attack Laos.”

  Dan could not fully comprehend Laos. Nor did he understand why it was a test. To him it was absurd. So many problems right here, he thought. So many North Vietnamese soldiers in my valley. And no Government soldiers there, since the Marines left. And yet we are attacking this Laos.

  Finally his reticence was overwhelmed by his common sense. “And what is this ‘Laos’ that it is so important,” he had asked. “Why do we attack this ‘Laos’?”

  The Dai Wei had looked at him with contempt. “It is a country,” he answered. “We attack it because enemy soldiers and supplies are there. Many soldiers. Much supplies. It will be a great victory.”

  Dan shrugged, meeting the company commander's eyes. “Enemy soldiers and supplies are everywhere. There are easier places. We do not know this ‘Laos.’ ”

  The officer had become angered. He walked over to Dan, standing over him. “Are you a General, then? Three years you spend doing nothing with the American Marines. Before that you are the enemy. And now you are a General. We attack Laos for the good of the country.”

  Dan was not afraid of the Dai Wei. The man could only beat him. “We do so many things for the good of the country,” he answered. “We kill so many. We destroy so much. And what is a country? Is it a group of people who think alike and work together and want all other people to leave them alone? Then my valley is a country. Is it a piece of land that can be separated from other land? Then my valley is a country. Two rivers come together and a cliff joins them at their wide part. I do not do this for the people of my valley. And I do not know your country.”

  The officer slapped Dan hard on the face. “Your valley is VC. You are VC. I should kill you.” The officer slapped him again. “You want me to put you in prison so you will not have to attack Laos with us. Peasant coward. Que lam.”

  Dan stared tiredly at the officer. “I am not afraid,” he said slowly. “I do not have to be afraid to think it is wrong.”

  The officer stomped off and Dan sat down and lit a cigarette. Across the border another air strike was dropping bombs along the road. The air strikes are like a magnet, Dan mused. They know what we are going to do. They will wait for the right time and mass on the road and destroy us. It is so stupid.

  A group of soldiers crowded eagerly around Dan when the officer left. His willingness to stand his ground in the face of certain pain and ridicule gave him a strong charisma. There were many in Dan's squad who felt the way he had spoken. They did not resent his past. He had been with them for six months, and had always been reliable.

  And there were the stories. Dan's melodious baritone sang out the pain of his past in a hard, unemotional ballad that they loved to listen to. They were eager to learn of the VC and were mildly assuaged when Dan spoke of them with disgust. The VC had taken his family and his land and thus his life, for the sake of discipline. He would never forgive them. It was the only passion he felt and it was a personal one. The other soldiers interpreted his passion as one against the VC movement. He did not attempt to distinguish the hate for them. It would not change anything for him.

  And they were eager to learn of his years with the Marines. Dan spoke of the Marines with mild warmth. They were good years for him and the warm ember of their remembrance was the only pleasure he was able to speak of. So many great battles. So much respect. “I would have stayed with them until I died,” Dan would tell his eager listeners. “It was the best life for me. But they left and there was no place to go. I could not return to my village because of the VC. I have not seen my valley since I was conscripted.” Dan never questioned why the Marines left. It was the nature of things that they would leave. Always the foreigner leaves. This was not their home.

  They spent an eerie, restless night amid the ghosts at Khe Sanh, and in the morning began following Route 9 into Laos. The fog was dense and heavy in the lungs and its isolating thickness created an air of unreality about the column's movements. Dan was surprised when Laos appeared no different than Vietnam. He had been sure that different countries would look different. But they are all the same, he had mused in awe. What is this that it is Laos and not Vietnam?

  For two weeks they twisted along narrow trails, under thick canopy and bamboo trellises where canopy ended. There was almost no resistance. The Dai Wei ridiculed Dan occasionally. “So we do not know this ‘Laos,’ eh, General? So it is wrong?” Dan did not answer. The North Vietnamese will speak for me, he thought.

  He was right. When the column was far enough into the trap that supply lines could be cut, the NVA massed with thousands of troops and hundreds of pieces of heavy equipment. Whole battalions were overrun and destroyed. Dan's battalion had been attacked the day before, and had moved onto a scarred, barren hill in order to defend.

  The heavy artillery had shelled the hill for a full day. Dan's battalion now shared an unspoken but permeating conviction that they would be defeated soon. The men stayed in hastily dug fighting holes only because they were more afraid of running than of fighting. There was an undercurrent of panic in every unit.

  A medevac helicopter made it through enemy guns and landed on the hill, and was immediately swamped with frightened men. Soldiers hung on to the outsides of the helicopter when the insides were too full. American crewmen cursed the panicking soldiers and kicked at them, knocking them off the helicopter railings so they could depart.

  Dan crouched inside his fighting hole, not understanding the depth of the other soldiers’ panic. Why would a man risk his life on a helicopter railing, wondered Dan. It is so stupid. When the helicopter lands he will only be taken by the officers and sent somewhere new to die.

  The artillery fire became more intense. The hill was under a cloud of dust. Then there was a creaking rumble to the front, where the arc light had been, and
the narrow valley filled with a dozen Russian tanks. The artillery shifted to behind the hill and the tanks charged out of the trees to the front of it, spitting huge explosions and churning curtains of dust behind them. The soldiers watched a Cobra gunship scream above the tanks, pumping rockets. The gunship disintegrated in the air. Someone on the ridge behind the tanks had blown it up with a Russian SAM missile. A second gunship screamed in and also exploded.

  When the second gunship blew up there was a high, collective scream of terror and the battalion snapped. Masses of troops and officers fled the hill, running through the artillery barrage behind it. The tanks climbed the hill, taking it easily, and consolidated on the other side of it. Behind the tanks a battalion of NVA advanced in skirmishes, moving quickly up the hill. The Political Officer of the NVA battalion spoke melodiously into a loud speaker. “Hoan ho Bac va Dang! Surrender to us and you will not be harmed. We are fellow countrymen! Throw down your arms and join us in our struggle! Surrender and you will not be harmed!”

  Dan had watched the tanks in amazement. There are so many, he had marveled. And they are so good. He knew it would be no use to run. They would kill the ones who ran. He lay curled inside his hole as the tanks passed over him. Then he heard the loudspeaker. He sensed with his natural, uncanny shrewdness that the message was a true one. They truly believe these things, he remarked inwardly. Countrymen. Struggle. They were the words he himself had urged upon villagers years before, when the VC took him into the villages at night.

  Dan stood in the haze of dust and put both hands into the air, leaving his rifle in his hole. He joined a group of surrendering men, the men crawling out of similar hiding places, arms in the air. His face was the definition of endurance, cracked with a small, ironic smile. He was not afraid. If they killed him it did not matter. But they would not kill him. He was sure of that. He knew the words they desired to hear and his strong, melodious voice would carry the words into their senses and they would nod and accept his words as urgent truth.

  The group of beaten, surrendering men was swallowed by the North Vietnamese. The NVA soldiers were flushed with their victory and eager to interrogate their prisoners.

  Dan sighed. They seemed so naive. And it was such a game.

  40

  SNAKE: Well, I'm gonna get me some of that. Bring me home a medal. No more mopping up other people's pee.

  Outside, low gusts of wind rattled trash and made dirty eddies in the sidewalks, but never blew high enough or strong enough to move the amber haze that hugged the skyline. The streets were filled with garbage and spiraling trash. Fronts of buildings were piled with junk and stained by soot. Everywhere there was lifeless, controlling concrete. Wasteland. Home of the regurgitated and the lost.

  It was late morning. Inside the creaking, fetid row-house the windows whined and rattled at the wind, leaking arctic currents through their looseness when the gusts beat at the panes. Snake's mother sat up in her bed, waking late and alone, and felt her feet grow icy as they moved from the bed to the floor.

  Just can't keep it out, she mourned to herself. This damn place. Like living outside. No use caring 'bout it, either. Won't change it. She caught a glimpse of the picture on the dresser, then settled her gaze on it and smiled briefly. She felt a secret sweet elation, just a current of unadmitted elation.

  He'da changed it. Yeah. I think he would have.

  She stood beside the bed, feeling old and shivering in her underclothes. Feeling old was a recent misery that had crept up on her. She was not yet comfortable with it, or even able to accept it. But it was a real emotion on lone cold mornings. Old. She took a cotton robe from the bedpost and threw it around her shoulders, snuggling into it. She would wear the cotton robe all morning. Perhaps all day. So little to dress for. So little to care about. Then she picked the picture up and held it, remembering.

  It was his Boot Camp picture. He was short-haired and uniformed. The elation came back again, mingled with just a tinge of relief. The picture stared back, eyes cool, invincible behind the glasses, chin forever tilted in arrogant bravado.

  Crazy kid. Always fighting. She smiled sadly. Always in trouble. But you sure did a wonderful thing over there, Ronnie. You sure did. Wonder when that medal's gonna come?

  She held the picture to her shrinking, hollow breasts and imagined the ceremony. What will I wear, she wondered for the latest innumerable time. I'll have to buy a suit. A good one. She touched the bleached hair, now lusterless and brown from being forty-five and not caring any more. And get my hair done right. And I'll stand there on the White House lawn and cry just a little—I know it's gonna make me cry, hearing 'bout the brave way he died—and I'll just say Thank You, Mister President. This'll never take his place, you know that, but I'm so proud of what he done. Died for his country. Died a hero, my little Ronnie did. Then after they give me the little shadow box—I seen 'em in the magazines, a handsome officer all fixed up in his Number Ones walks up and stands in front and hands it over, maybe touching my cheek to help wipe tears and all—then after that we'll go inside the White House and we'll all have a cocktail. I'll stand there chatting with the President, maybe even have lunch. Wonder when that medal's gonna come? Been over two years now. Sure takes a long time. But I guess they got a lot of paperwork.

  She reached into the top dresser drawer and took out a stack of letters. On the bottom of the stack were the cryptic messages Snake had sent her from the bush. She flipped through them. Saved 'em so he could tell me the stories. Every one of them's a story. She shook her head, near tears. That little fart sure could tell a story.

  On the top of the stack was the other letter. Two days after Snake was killed his company commander had written to her. He wrote of what a fine Marine her son had been. He wrote of the universal respect he had known, of the combat meritorious promotions he had received. Then he described the way her son had died, fighting tear gas and incredible odds and single-handedly saving the lives of at least two people.

  She had marveled at the description of the things Snake had done. She had slowly waved her head from side to side, reading the Captain's letter. Like something in a movie, she thought wonderingly. To jump out in front of all those guns so many times, to save a wounded friend. And, the Captain had written, I want you to know I am recommending your son for the Medal of Honor. I am getting witnessing statements right now. I think he deserves it. I think he'll get it.

  That had been more than two years before. She stood reading the letter in the arctic clutter of her bedroom, the pages stained and wrinkled from having been read at times like these. Such times came often now.

  A wonderful thing. To jump out in front of all those guns like that. Wonder when that medal's gonna come?

  SHE did not know it but the medal would never come. Three days after the Captain wrote the letter, the Regimental Legal Officer had visited the field. He was in the process of completing a formal investigation regarding an alleged atrocity that had occurred on a patrol some weeks earlier. It was alleged that six members of the company had participated, either as perpetrators or as aiders and abettors, in the murder of two Vietnamese civilians. One of the six had actively discouraged such heinous acts, and had willingly cooperated in the investigation. In fact, he had initiated it. The others, it seemed, had participated fully, according to the statement, and were to undergo an Article 32 investigation to determine whether charges would be filed against them. Snake, according to the statement, was the main perpetrator. Division has a special interest, the Legal Officer made a point of saying. The General himself. These things can cause serious political difficulties.

  The company commander took the report from the Legal Officer and glanced at the names. Snake: dead. Bagger: blind. Cannonball: shot. Goodrich: amputee. Cat Man: still here—squad leader now. Dan: not chargeable by American authorities.

  “Well,” said the Captain. “They're pretty well avenged already, wouldn't you say?”

  Then he read Goodrich's sworn statement, and felt a hot ball
of disgust roll through his abdomen. Unarmed. No direct provocation. Executed firing-squad style in front of their graves. Goodrich wrote well. The Captain was infuriated. Two civilians killed in cold blood. Snake had ordered it done. It was all in the statement.

  “Tell Division the murderer is dead,” the Captain said. “He died a week ago out in the My Hieps. Tell Division we regret the incident, and we'll cooperate fully with the investigation of all participants. Tell Division I'm relieving the squad leader, and canceling an award recommendation that I just started on the murderer. Tell them that, Captain.”

  The Legal Officer nodded, writing laborious notes in his notebook. The company commander lit a cigarette and thought of what the newspapers would say if they found out about the incident. Perhaps they would even use his name. It might ruin, and would certainly affect, his career. He shook his head. People like that, he mused. I'll just never understand what gets into them.

  AND in the icy bedroom Snake's deluded mother swayed, the letters a small warmth to her. Such a wonderful thing, Ronnie. To jump right out in front of all those guns and save a wounded friend. Well, you always had the guts to do that. You just never seemed to have that kind of friends. You finally found them. Must have been a hell of a friend, that you would die for him. I'da liked to hear the story.

  41

  ROBERT E. LEE HODGES, JR.: And will I, in the end, meet your fate, Father? I'm not afraid. You and the others taught me that.

  I

  They sent his mother a flag and a gold star and the medals he had earned and she put them into the footlocker he had prepared before going overseas. She could not bear to touch the locker again and whenever she allowed herself the miserable luxury of looking at it she would break down. After a few weeks of such disruptions her husband moved it into the dusty dankness of the back shed, placing it beside an older, similar footlocker that a few remembered but none would ever open.