Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  Unsheathing his knife, Smith handed it to Sal and ordered gruffly, “Here, take this weapon and try to kill me.”

  Perplexed by the request, Sal hesitantly took possession of the long blade. “Look, just ’cause I don’t like you, that don’t mean I wanna kill you,” Sal remarked confidently.

  “You don’t like me?” Smith taunted. “That’s too bad, ’cause I was really starting to like you. Or should I say, I was really enjoying fucking your mother in her sweet little ass last night. Now come and try to kill me, you cocksucking Guinea bastard.”

  Strongly lunging forward, Sal tried to run Smith through with the blade. However, Smith easily side-stepped Sal’s amateurish attack, and delivered a powerful roundhouse kick to Sal’s ribs. The force of the blow sent Sal sailing toward Jones, who in turn took hold of Sal’s arm, and flipped him to the ground. With the resilience of a cat, Sal bounced back to his feet, weapon in hand, and charged Smith once more. Wildly swinging the knife, Sal slashed and cut at the elusive man, but Smith deftly avoided every thrust. Sal then stumbled over a rock causing him to make an awkward stab which enabled Smith to seize the hand clutching the weapon. Cranking Sal’s wrist, Smith forced him to drop the knife. With lighting fast reflexes, Smith then administered a lethal choke hold.

  Though Sal fought back valiantly, he was weakened by the lack of oxygen, and fell to one knee. Smith continued to apply pressure until he could easily wrestle his semiconscious foe to the ground. Tugging at the arm around his throat, Sal desperately tried to keep from blacking out. Just before Sal was about to lose consciousness, Smith loosened his grip, allowing him to breath freely. “Are you okay, Scalise?” Smith asked calmly.

  “Yeah,” Sal said, nodding.

  “Lesson number one, never lose your temper. Always be in control of your emotions. Even if your adversary is callous enough to insult your deceased mother. Anger only makes you stupid and gets you killed. Roger that, troop?”

  Again, Sal nodded.

  “Good. I’m going to let up now. This particular exercise is over.”

  Rising to his feet, Smith then helped Sal to his.

  “You have a lot of potential as a close-quarters combatant, Scalise. However, if you can’t learn to think, rather than react, your life expectancy in this particular theatre of operations will be short. Roger that?”

  Rubbing his reddened throat, Sal said softly, “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s try it again. Only this time don’t allow yourself to become unbalanced. I’m gonna show you a very simple and effective way to break free from this type of choke hold. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yeah, how did you know about my mother?”

  “I saw the picture you put out near your bunk.” In an unusually kind tone, Smith asked, “It means a great deal to you? Doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  Seeing the break in the action, Wilson rose from his desk screaming, “What the hell is going on out there? This isn’t a fucking social gathering.”

  Smith’s face immediately became hard and he yelled, “Come on, Scalise. You have a lot to learn. Come at me again.”

  The next several weeks went by very fast. Every waking moment Sal spent being trained, tested, and coached by Wilson’s team members in kung-fu, karate, jujitsu, small weapons, military tactics, and reconnaissance. Retaining every bit of knowledge and technique he was taught, Sal excelled in his martial arts training to the point where he was able to take Smith down on more than one occasion. Ultimately, Sal graduated from Wilson’s school of assassination and warfare with a Ph.D. in murder.

  Participating in several minor operations, Sal performed magnificently and his hard work managed to garner him a noteworthy amount of respect from the rest of the team members. However, the bulk of the operations he engaged in were the transportation of undisclosed medical materials being shipped to the United States. Secretly, Sal suspected that Wilson and his men were actually involved in the illegal distribution of narcotics. Having no proof of their activity and knowing the consequences he would face if he were to object, Sal decided that the smart move for now was to remain silent.

  Over time, Sal’s opinion of the other team members changed from contempt to respect. Wilson and his men were remarkably dedicated, but there was also something very strange about them. They only addressed each other by their last names, they never allowed themselves to be photographed, and they never spoke about themselves or their families. Killing didn’t bother these men at all, though after a while, it didn’t matter much to Sal either. Coming to the end of his tour and feeling that he had finally had enough of this shit, Sal only wanted to go home.

  One evening after receiving a high priority radio transmission requesting the CIA’s involvement in a field interrogation, Wilson, Smith, and Sal got on a chopper and lifted-off into the darkening sky above Laos. Wearing jungle fatigues without name tags or unit affiliation, each man carried an M-16, an ammo pouch, and a knife, standard-operating-procedure while in the field.

  Curiously, Wilson carried a small pack that he had securely slung over his shoulder. Having learned that anything these extremely regimented men did that was out of the ordinary had significance, Sal stared suspiciously at the bag because he didn’t recognize it.

  Their highly classified mission was to conduct field interrogations of VC infiltrators suspected of conducting reconnaissance missions for a major NVA offensive along the Cambodian border. However, no training in the world could have prepared Sal for what he would witness and reluctantly take part in.

  The Huey touched down in a remote clearing ten-meters from a hut in which the North Vietnamese POW’s were held. Jumping out of the chopper, Wilson, Smith, and Sal made their way into the hut. Gagged with cloth and bound to chairs with rope were the four men designated to be questioned. Their wrists were tied to the armrests, and their lower extremities were secured to the front legs of their chairs. Standing behind them clutching M-16s were two young, strong-looking Special Forces E-5 Sergeants. Having already been subjected to punishing interrogation techniques, the prisoner’s faces were bruised and cut. In charge of the prisoners was a handsome, muscular Special Forces Captain. Proceeding up to the Captain and extending his arm to shake, Wilson said congenially, “I’m Wilson.”

  “I’m Captain Rand.”

  “Have you ascertained any information from the prisoners?” Wilson inquired studying the captives’ faces.

  “No sir. We were in the process of interrogating these men when we were ordered to stand down and await your arrival.”

  “Excellent. Which one of these individuals is the most expendable in your opinion, Captain?”

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘expendable’?”

  “Which one do you believe knows the least about their operation and is of no use to us?”

  Pointing to the farthest prisoner on the left, the Captain stated confidently, “That one there. He spilled his guts already. But the others, they’re much more disciplined and better trained.”

  “Good,” Wilson said politely. “Maybe you gentlemen should wait outside.”

  The battle-tested Special Forces soldiers rolled their eyes. Confidently the Captain replied, “Well stay. We need to hear everything these monkeys have to say, anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.” Wilson opened his bag and laid its contents out on a tabletop. Long, sharp, dangerous-looking cutting instruments were neatly tucked into individual pouches. Each covered by clear plastic so every ghastly implement could be identified. Taking out one long, gleaming blade with a steel handle, Wilson slowly walked over to the POW the Captain had pointed out. With one clean stroke, Wilson sliced the man’s throat, severing the jugular vein and carotid arteries. Everyone in the room but Smith was nauseated by the stream of blood flowing down the front of the man’s chest. Feeling his evening meal starting to come up, Sal quickly began breathing exercises he had learned to steady his nerves.

  Horrified by what they had witnessed, the three remaining prisoners
squirmed and rocked in their seats causing their chairs to lift off the floor and slowly bounce across the room.

  “I think they may be willing to discuss the specifics of their mission with us now, Captain,” Wilson declared as he pulled down the first man’s gag and asked him in Vietnamese. “Are you ready to talk to us?”

  “No!” the man shouted.

  Grasping a handful of the man’s hair, Wilson used it like a handle to hold the man’s head very still. Raising the blade, Wilson then loped off the man’s right ear. Blood sprayed the floor as the man shrieked. Without conscience, Wilson hacked off the man’s other ear and then asked calmly, “Do you feel like talking now?”

  The captive still refused. Taking hold of the man’s right hand Wilson steadied it, and then skillfully severed the man’s pointer finger at its second knuckle. The digit fell to the floor as blood shot out from what remained of the finger.

  “You only have nine more chances left to answer my questions. Then I have to start at your feet and work my way up,” Wilson gleefully pointed out to the suffering man.

  Clearing his throat loudly, the Captain suggested, “I think maybe my men and I should wait outside after all.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Smith fired back sarcastically.

  “Captain, would you be kind enough to leave us your canteen. These types of interrogations can parch a man,” Wilson requested in a civilized tone.

  Removing his canteen from his web gear, the Captain placed it on the table. Opening the door of the hut, Smith allowed the three Special Forces soldiers to leave and then slammed it shut behind them. Sensing this may be his only opportunity to get out, Sal dashed toward the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Scalise?” Smith asked belligerently.

  “I don’t think I need to be here. I mean, there’s nothing I can learn from this.”

  Rubbing his hands together, Wilson flashed a sinister smile. “Oh, yes there is. This is part of your training, Scalise. You once asked me what I’d be instructing you on. Well, this is it, asshole: covert interrogation techniques and procedures. Pick up a fucking knife.”

  “Are you outta your fucking mind?”

  With blinding speed, Smith snatched the weapon from Sal’s hands and trained both his and Sal’s M-16 on him. “Do as you’re told, Scalise, or you’re gonna be KIA as of right now.”

  Not believing the threat, Sal responded fearlessly, “That’s fine with me asshole. Go ahead.”

  Tightening his grip on the weapons, Smith squeezed both triggers. Automatic gunfire shot up the floor and chewed up the bamboo walls behind Sal. Bullets whizzed by Sal’s head and body, narrowly missing their mark on purpose.

  “You sick motherfuckers!” As smoke rose from the barrels of the weapons, Sal’s eyes glazed over. “You wanna see crazy? I’ll show you fucking crazy!” Snatching up one of the knives from Wilson’s pouch, Sal approached the bleeding man, raised the knife, and hacked off three more of the man’s fingers. Blood covered the floor and shot up, spattering Sal’s face. Wiping his eyes, Sal barked at the nearly dead man in Vietnamese, “Tell me what I want to know or I’ll cut you to pieces!”

  Defiantly, the man shook his head. As if no longer in control of his senses, Sal savagely swung the blade, slicing through the man’s throat. The spark of life drained from the poor bastard as quickly as the blood now gushing from his throat. With murderous eyes, Sal turned toward the next man ready to do some slicing on him. “You’re next, asshole!” Sal threatened loudly in Vietnamese.

  The terrified man shook then unleashed a tremendous groan along with large amount of fecal matter. A stench immediately filled the room. Scrunching up his face as he sniffed the air, Smith ordered. “Hold up, Scalise. We got a shitter.”

  Taking the knife still clutched in Sal’s strong hand, Wilson ordered, “Release the instrument, Scalise. I’ll take over from here. You did very well. Much better than the last man who was here before you.”

  “You’re talking about Horan, Robert J. Ain’t you?”

  “How did you know about him, Scalise?” Wilson asked, surprised.

  “That’s classified, asshole!” Turning to Smith, Sal demanded, “Gimme back my fucking weapon.”

  Wilson nodded and Smith tossed Sal back his M-16.

  “Allow me to congratulate you on a fine job, Scalise. This may seem ruthless to you now. But if you possess the will to cut up a man like a piece of steak, it doesn’t matter how tough he is, he’ll tell you anything you want to know. Now that you’ve seen what I do up close and personal I’ll finish your training back at our camp,” Wilson calmly explained.

  “Sounds like a lot a fun.”

  “Don’t dismiss the importance of our techniques so quickly. Someday you might have to employ this practice to save your life or the lives of your fellow soldiers.”

  “I don’t think so,” Sal mumbled under his breath.

  Covered in the blood of his comrades, the third man was sweating profusely as tears ran down his face. Taking down his gag, Wilson forced the man to sit in his own shit-filled pants while he intensely interrogated him. Smith noted everything the prisoner had to say about their mission, their objective, the means in which they planned to perform the operation, and the names of all conspirators.

  When the prisoner was finished, the captive politely requested a drink of water. Satisfied with what he had learned, Wilson picked up the canteen off the table, loosened the ropes restraining the man’s hands, and presented the prisoner with the canteen.

  After gulping several mouthfuls of water, the POW reached up to hand the canteen back to Wilson, but “accidentally” dropped it. Strangely, no one had noticed that the man’s foot ties had loosened during this lengthy ordeal. When Wilson bent over to pick up the canteen, the prisoner kicked him in his face. The force of the blow sent Wilson flying across the hut.

  Picking up a knife off the table, the crazed POW rushed Smith, who was reading the notes from the interrogation with his back turned toward the prisoner. With no time to spare, Sal managed to raise his weapon and squeeze off a burst of automatic-fire, striking the POW in his shoulder and the side of his head. The rounds propelled the prisoner’s weakened body away from Smith and he hit the floor. Seeing the knife still clutched in the dead man’s hand, Smith realized that Sal had just saved his life

  “I guess I owe you one, Scalise,” Smith remarked with humility.

  “Yeah, a big one,” Sal gladly pointed out.

  Picking himself up off the floor, Wilson ordered, “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Stepping out of the hut, Sal quickly headed toward their chopper. Disgusted by the ordeal, he hopped up into the Huey, strapped himself in, and closed his eyes.

  Approaching the Special Forces Captain with the interrogation notes in hand, Wilson explained, “This is a detailed report of everything the prisoner divulged. I’d put an accuracy level of ninety-eight percent or better on this information. There’s one more POW in there. We have no use for him. He’s yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Leading Smith away from the chopper, Wilson asked quietly, “How did Scalise find out about Horan?”

  “I have no idea, sir,” Smith said shrugging.

  “I don’t think it would be very prudent to allow Scalise to ever get back to the world. He knows too much. We can’t afford to have his stupid ass running around the states with intimate details of our operation.”

  “I don’t believe he’d be any kind of a security threat to us, sir. All that poor bastard really wants to do is go home.”

  “When I want your fucking opinion I’ll give it to you. Roger that, troop?” Wilson roared.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “We have our rendezvous with the Colonel next week. I think that would be an opportune time for our I-talian friend to go MIA. Wouldn’t you agree, Smith?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Climbing onto the chopper, Wilson and Smith strapped themselves in,
and the pilot lifted-off into the night.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the dark early morning hours Sal, Wilson, Smith, Jones, and Murphy were deployed by chopper to a remote region of the North Vietnamese jungle. Clad in jungle fatigues, and faces striped with black camouflage paint, each man carried an over-filled duffel bag in addition to their weapon.

  Out on point, Wilson easily negotiated the familiar terrain. After humping several clicks the team came upon a village deep in the jungle. As they continued through the dense brush into a clearing, Wilson was greeted by a North Vietnamese soldier standing guard. Wilson exchanged salutations with the sentry, and the team was permitted to pass. After leading his men past several burnt out structures, Wilson and the team entered a newly constructed bamboo hut.

  Several NVA soldiers sat on crudely fashioned benches and chairs with their trademark AK-47s firmly in hand. Their body language suggested anxiety and they seemed to be waiting for something to happen. Seated behind a big desk shuffling papers was a distinguished-looking older Vietnamese gentleman wearing a black silk robe over his NVA Officer’s uniform.

  Wilson made his way to the desk and politely addressed the man in Vietnamese, “How are you, Colonel Nguyen?”

  Looking up, the Colonel smiled. “I’m doing well. It’s good to see you again, Wilson.” The Colonel rose from his chair and shook Wilson’s hands.

  “It’s good to see you too. We have everything you asked for.” Opening his bag, Wilson emptied its contents onto the table. Nicely bundled stacks of US currency overflowed the desktop. The Colonel ran his hands over the money and then picked up a package of hundred-dollar bills. “Wilson, I would like to ask you a question that has been troubling me for some time now.”