Rafter Man is walking across the road. He does not hear the invisible tank. He does not feel the mechanical earthquake.
I double-time after him. "Rafter!"
Rafter Man turns around. He grins. And then we both see it. The tank is an object of heavy metal forged from a cold shadow, a ghost with substance. The black mechanical phantom comes for us, dark ectoplasm rolling in the sun. The blond tank commander stands in the turret hatch, staring straight ahead and into the beyond, laughing.
Rafter Man turns around.
I say, "Don't move."
But Rafter looks at me, panic on his face.
I grab his shoulder.
Rafter Man pulls away and runs.
The tank is bearing down on me. I don't move.
The tank swerves, misses me, roars past like a big iron dragon. The tank runs over Rafter Man and crushes him beneath its steel treads. And then it's gone.
Rafter Man likes on his back in the dirt, a crushed dog spilling out of its skin. Rafter Man looks at me the way he looked at me that day at the Freedom Hill PX on Hill 327 in Da Nang.
His eyes are begging me for an explanation.
Rafter Man has been cut in half just below his new NVA rifle belt. His intestines are pink rope all over the deck. He is trying to pull himself back in, but it doesn't work. His guts are wet and slippery and he can't hold them in. He tries to reinsert his spilling guts back into his severed torso. He tries very hard to keep the dirt off of his intestines as he works.
Rafter Man stops trying to save himself and, instead, just stares at me with an expression that might be found on the face of a person who wakes up with a dead bird in his mouth.
"Sarge..."
"Don't call me 'Sarge,'" I say.
I kneel down and pick up Rafter's black-body Nikon. I say, "I'll tell Mr. Payback about your belt and about your SKS..." I want so much to cry, but I can't cry--I'm too tough.
I stop talking to Rafter Man because Rafter Man is dead. Talking to dead people is not a healthy habit for a living person to cultivate and lately I have been talking to dead people quite a lot. I guess I've been talking to dead people ever since I made my first confirmed kill.
After my first confirmed kill, talking to corpses began to make more sense than talking to people who had not yet been wasted.
In Viet Nam you see corpses almost every day. At first you try to ignore them. You don't want people to think you're curious. Nobody wants to admit that corpses are not old hat to them; nobody wants to be a New Guy. So you see lumps of dirty rags. And after a while you begin to notice that the lumps of dirty rags have arms and legs and heads. And faces.
The first time I saw a corpse, back when I was a New Guy, I wanted to vomit, just like in the movies. The corpse was an NVA grunt who died in a great orange ball of jellied gasoline near Con Thien. The napalm left a crumbled heap of ashes in the fetal position. His mouth was open. His charred fingers were covering his eyes.
The second time I really looked at a corpse I was embarrassed. The corpse was an old Vietnamese woman with teeth which had turned black after a lifetime of chewing betel nuts.
The woman had been hit by something bigger than small-arms fire. She was killed in a crossfire between ROK Marines and NVA grunts in Hoi An. She seemed so exposed in death, so vulnerable.
My third corpse was a decapitated Marine. I stumbled over him on an operation in the A Shau valley. My reaction was curiosity. I wondered what the rounds had felt like as they entered his body, what his last thought was, what his last sound was at the moment of impact.
I marveled at the ultimate power of death. A big strong American boy, so vibrant and red-blooded, had become within minutes a yellow lump of inflexible meat. And I understood that my own weapon could do this dark magic thing to any human being. With my automatic rifle I could knock the life out of any enemy with just the slightest pressure of one finger. And, knowing that, I was less afraid.
The fourth corpse is the last one I remember. After that they've blurred together, a mountain of faceless dead. But I think that the fourth corpse was the old papasan in the conical white hat I saw on Route One. The old man had been run over by a six-by as he squatted in the road taking a shit. All I remember is that when I marched by, flies exploded off the old man like pieces of shrapnel.
I got my first confirmed kill with India Three-Five.
I was writing a feature article about how the grunts at the Rockpile on Route Nine had to sweep the road for mines every morning before any traffic could use the road. There was a fat gunny who insisted on walking point with a metal detector. The fat gunny wanted to protect his people. He believed that fate killed the careless. He stepped on an antitank mine.
A man is not supposed to be heavy enough to detonate an antitank mine, but the gunny was pretty fat.
The earth opened up and hell came out with a roar that jarred my bones. The fat gunny was launched into the clean blue sky, green and round and loose-jointed like a broken doll. I watched the fat gunny float up to heaven and then a wall of heat slammed into me and I collided with the deck.
The fat gunny floated back to earth.
Although shrapnel had stung my face and peppered my flak jacket, I was not afraid. I was very calm. From the moment the mine detonated I knew I was a dead man, and there was nothing I could do.
Behind me a man was cursing. The man was a Navy corpsman. The corpsman's right hand had been split open and he was holding his fingers together with his good hand and cursing and yelling for a corpsman.
Then I understood that the "shrapnel" I'd felt had only been shattered gravel.
Grunts from the security squad were crawling into the bushes, turning outboard, weapons ready.
Still confused about why I was still alive I got to my feet and double-timed to the little pit that had been torn into the road by the explosion.
Two grunts were double-timing across a meadow toward a treeline. I followed them, my finger on the trigger of my M-16, eager to pour invisible darts of destruction into the shadows.
The two grunts and I ran until we passed through the treeline and emerged on the edge of a vast rice paddy. There the fat gunny was floating on his back in the shallow water, surrounded by dark pieces of do-it-yourself fertilizer.
The grunts spread a poncho under him while I stood security. Both of the gunny's legs had been torn off at the pelvis. I saw one of his fat legs floating nearby so I picked it up out of the water and threw it in on top of him.
We all took hold of the poncho and started carrying the heavy load back to the road. I was breathing hard, and the black anger was pounding inside my chest. I was watching the trees, hoping I'd see movement.
And then out of nowhere a man appeared, a tiny, ancient farmer who was at the same time ridiculous and dignified. The ancient farmer had a hoe on his shoulder and was wearing the obligatory conical white hat. His chest was bony and he looked so old. His sturdy legs were scarred. The ancient farmer didn't speak to us. He just stood there beside the trail with rice shoots in his hand, calm, his mind rehearsing the hard work he had to do that day.
The ancient farmer smiled. He saw the frantic children with their fat burden of death and he felt sorry for us. So he smiled to show that he understood what we were going through. Then my M-16 was vibrating and invisible metal missiles were snapping through the ancient farmer's body as though he were a bag of dry sticks.
The ancient farmer looked at me. As he fell forward into the dark water his face was tranquil and I could see that he understood.
After my first confirmed kill I began to understand that it was not necessary to understand.
What you do, you become. The insights of one moment are blotted out by the events of the next. And no amount of insight could ever alter the cold, black fact of what I had done. I was caught up in a constricting web of darkness, and, like the ancient farmer, I was suddenly very calm, just as I had been calm when the mine detonated, because there was nothing I could do. I was defining myself with b
ullets; blood had blemished my Yankee Doodle dream that everything would have a happy ending, and that I, when the war was over, would return to hometown America in a white silk uniform, a rainbow of campaign ribbons across my chest, brave beyond belief, the military Jesus.
I think about my first kill for a long time. At twilight a corpsman appears. I explain to him that Marines never abandon their dead or wounded.
The corpsman looks at each of Rafter Man's pupils several times. "What?"
I shrug. I say, "Payback is a motherfucker."
"What?" The corpsman is confused. The corpsman is obviously a New Guy.
"Tanks for the memories..." I say, because I do not know how to tell him how I feel. You're a machine gunner who has come to the end of his last belt. You're waiting, staring out through the barbed wire at the little men who are assaulting your position. You see their tiny toy-soldier bayonets and their determined, eyeless faces, but you're a machine gunner who has come to the end of his last belt and there's nothing you can do. The little men are going to grow and grow and grow--illuminated by the fluid, ghostly fire of a star flare--and then they're going to run up over you and cut you up with knives. You see this. You know this. But you're a machine gunner who has come to the end of his last belt and there's nothing you can do. In their distant fury the little men are your brothers and you love them more than you love your friends. So you wait for the little men to come and you know you'll be waiting for them when they come because you no longer have anywhere else to go...
The corpsman is confused. He does not understand why I'm smiling. "Are you okay, Marine?" Yes, he is a New Guy for sure.
I ditty-bop down the road. The corpsman calls after me. I ignore him.
A mile away from the place of fear I stick out my thumb.
I'm dirty, unshaven, and dead tired.
A Mighty Mite slams on its brakes. "MARINE!"
I turn, thinking I've got some slack, thinking I've got a ride.
A poge colonel pounces out of the jeep, marches up to face me. "MARINE!"
I think: Is that you, John Wayne? Is this me? "Aye-aye, sir."
"Corporal, don't you know how to execute a hand salute?"
"Yes, sir." I salute. I hold the salute until the poge colonel snaps his hand to his starched barracks cover and I hold the salute for an extra couple of second before cutting it away sharply. Now he poge colonel has been identified as an officer to any enemy snipers in the area.
"Corporal, don't you know how to stand to attention?"
Right away I start wishing I was back in the shit. In battles there are no police, only people who want to shoot you. In battles there are no poges. Poges try to kill you on the inside.
Poges leave your body intact because your muscles are all they want from you anyway.
I stand to attention, wobbling slightly beneath the sixty pounds of gear I'm humping.
The poge colonel has a classic granite jaw. I'm sure that the Marine Corps must have a strict examination at the officers' candidate school at Quantico designed to eliminate all officer candidates who lack the granite jaw.
His jungle utilities are razor-creased, starched to the consistency of green armor. He executes a flawless Short Pause, a favorite technique of leaders of men, designed to inflict its victim with fatal insecurity. Having no desire to damage the colonel's self-confidence, I respond with my best Parris Island rendition of I-am-only-an-enlisted-person-I-try-to-be-humble.
"Marine..." The colonel stands ramrod straight. This stance is the Air of Command, intended to intimidate me, despite the fact that I'm a foot taller and outweigh him by fifty pounds. The colonel investigates the underside of my chin. "Marine..." He likes that word. "What is that on your body armor, Marine?"
"Sir?"
The poge colonel stands on tiptoe. For a moment I'm afraid he's going to bite me in the neck.
But he only wants to breathe on me. His smile is cold. His skin is too white. "Marine..."
"Sir?"
"I asked you a question."
"You mean this peace button, sir?"
"What is it?"
"A peace symbol, sir..."
I wait patiently while the colonel tries to remember the "Maintaining Interpersonal Relationships with Subordinate Personnel" chapter of his OCS textbook.
The poge colonel continues to breathe all over my face. His breath smells of mint. Marine Corps officers are not allowed to have bad breath, body odor, acne pimples, nor holes in their underwear. Marine Corps officers are not allowed to have anything that has not been issued to them.
The colonel jabs my button with a forefinger, gives me a fairly decent Polished Glare. His blue eyes sparkle. "That's right, son, act innocent. But I know what that button means."
"Yes, sir!"
"It's a ban-the-bomb propaganda button. Admit it!"
"No, sir." I'm in real pain. The man who invented standing at attention obviously never humped any gear.
"Then what does it mean?"
"It's just a symbol for peace, sir."
"Oh, yeah?" He breathes faster, up close now, as though he can smell lies.
"Yes, Colonel, it's just--"
"MARINE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
The poge colonel moves around me, stalks me. "Do you call yourself a Marine?"
"Well..."
"WHAT?"
"Crossed fingers, king's-X. "Yes, sir."
"Now seriously, son..." The colonel begins an excellent Fatherly Approach. "Just tell me who gave you that button. You can level with me. You can trust me. I only want to help you.
" The poge colonel smiles.
The colonel's smile is funny so I smile, too.
"Where did you get that button, Marine?" The colonel looks hurt. "Don't you love your country, son?"
"Well..."
"Do you believe that the United States should allow the Vietnamese to invade Viet Nam just because they live here?" The poge colonel is struggling to regain his composure. "Do you?"
My shoulders are about to fall off. My legs are falling asleep. "No, sir. We should bomb them back to the Stone Age...sir."
"Confess, Corporal, confess that you want peace."
I give him a Short Pause. "Doesn't the colonel want peace...sir?"
The colonel hesitates. "Son, we've all got to keep our heads until this peace craze blows over.
All I have ever asked of my boys is that they obey my orders as they would obey the word of God."
"Is that a negative...sir?"
The poge colonel tries to think of some more inspiring things to say to me, but he has used them all up. So he says, "You can't wear that button, Marine. It's against regulations.
Remove it immediately or you will be standing tall before the man."
Somewhere up in Heaven, where the streets are guarded by Marines, Jim Nabors, in his Gomer Pyle uniform, sings: "From the halls of Montezuma...to the shores of Tripoli..."
"MARINE!"
"YES, SIR!"
"WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE!"
"AYE-AYE, SIR!"
"The Commandant has ordered us to protect freedom by allowing the Vietnamese to live like Americans all they want to. As long as Americans are in Viet Nam the Vietnamese will have the right to express their political convictions without fear of reprisal. So I will say it one more time, Marine, take off that peace button or I will give you a tour of duty in Portsmouth Naval Prison."
I stay at attention.
The poge colonel remains calm. "I am going to cut a new set of orders on you, Corporal. I am personally going to demand that your commanding officer shit-can you to the grunts.
Show me your dogtags."
I dig out my dogtags and I tear off the green masking tape around them and the poge colonel writes my name, rank, and serial number into a little green notebook.
"Come with me, Marine," says the poge colonel, putting the little green notebook back into his pocket
. "I want to show you something."
I step over to the jeep. The poge colonel pauses for dramatic effect, then pulls a poncho off a lump on the back seat. The lump is a Marine lance corporal in the fetal position. In the lance corporal's neck are punctures--many, many of them.
The poge colonel grins, bares his vampire fangs, takes step toward me.
I punch him in the chest with my wooden bayonet.
He freezes. He looks down at the wooden bayonet. He looks at the deck, then at the sky.
Suddenly his wristwatch is very interesting. "I...uh...I've got no more time to waste on this unprofitable encounter...and get a haircut!"
I salute. The poge colonel returns my salute. We hold the salute awkwardly while the colonel says, "Someday, Corporal, when you're a little older, you'll realize how naive--"
The poge colonel's voice breaks on "naive."
I grin. His eyes fall.
Both salutes cut away nicely.
"Good day, Marine," says the poge colonel. Then, armored in the dignity awarded him by Congress, the colonel marches back to his Mighty Mite, climbs in, and drives away with his bloodless lance corporal.
The poge colonel's Mighty Mite lays rubber--after all that talking he doesn't even give me a ride.
"YES, SIR!" I say. "IT IS A GOOD DAY, SIR!"
The war goes on. Bombs fall. Little ones.
An hour later a deuce-and-a-half slams on its brakes.
I climb up into the cab with the driver.
During the bumpy ride back to Phu Bai the driver of the deuce-and-a-half tells me about a mathematical system he has devised which he will use to break the bank in Las Vegas as soon as he gets back to the World.
As the driver talks the sun goes down and I think: Fifty-four days and a wake-up.
I've got forty-nine days and a wake-up left in country when Captain January hands me a piece of paper. Captain January mumbles something about how he hopes I have good luck and then he goes to chow even though it's not chow time.
The Short-Timers Page 11