After removing his helmet, Fletcher slipped off his boots and settled into his stretcher. He made sure he was alone before pulling out a photograph he kept folded in his back pocket. As he straightened its corners, his breath caught in his throat. It never failed to move him. The picture was of his wife and daughter, taken in their sitting room almost a year before the crash. The camera that captured it had a self-timer that allowed him to be included in the photograph. However, in his haste to get into place alongside his girls, he had slipped on the rug and fallen headfirst into the couch. Scrambling to his feet, he literally dived in front of the lens at the last moment. When the photograph was developed, he couldn’t believe how well the image had come out. It showed Abigail and Kelly in hysterics, watching wide-eyed as he lunged comically across the bottom half of the frame. They looked so happy, so perfect; it was an image that inadvertently captured their essence. Abigail, with her long black hair and sultry blue eyes, and Kelly, with a thick mop of mahogany hair and bright green eyes, were incandescent on the small square of film.
It reminded him of all the wonderful times they had shared—many of which he had taken for granted. If only he had known they were living on borrowed time, he would have made more of their days together. He would have spent fewer hours at work and invested less energy in things that didn’t matter. He would have held hands for longer. He would have pushed Kelly on her swing until it was dark. He would have slept less and lived a good deal more. But most of all, he would’ve told them both how much he cherished them every single day.
He stared at the photo for as long as he could bear before slipping it back into his pocket.
Six
That night, like most evenings after an excursion, the Fat Lady gathered at the Soup to blow off some steam. The pub was little more than an old tent furnished with a few tables and benches, a string of old Christmas lights draped from the roof, and a dilapidated fridge that frequently threatened to expire but so far continued to keep their beers cold.
Although the tone of their conversation was jovial enough, Fletcher sensed there was something bubbling beneath the surface. Wayville, in particular, had the look of a man who wanted to get something off his chest. “Hey, Wayville,” Fletcher said, flipping the crown off a fresh beer. “Who pissed in your bed? What’s on your mind?”
“This war is what’s on my mind,” he replied, staring down into his glass. “Christ, am I the only one who sees that we’re getting our asses kicked out there?”
“Easy,” Mitchell warned, his eyes barely slits in the soft light. “Leave it alone.”
“No, screw it! We’re getting fucking slaughtered out there! Every day we get weaker, and the gooks keep advancing. We’re losing this goddamn war. I want to know when it’s going to stop. When will there be enough rotting body bags before those cunts in Washington finally pull the plug on this bullshit? How many men have we lost? Fifty thousand? More?”
“Don’t do this to yourself,” Travis said. “We all know it’s bullshit, but this kind of talk will drive you insane.”
“So, are we just supposed to sit back and take it? I’m sick to hell of—”
“Of what?” Rogan interrupted. He was standing at the entrance to the Soup. “Finish your sentence, Rex.”
Wayville paused, then lowered his voice a notch. “C’mon, Lieutenant, our missions are a waste of time. We’re risking our necks, and for what? To delay the inevitable? How many troops have already returned home? The war will soon be over.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Maybe not, but I sure as fuck don’t want to get my ass shot off while the politicians try to figure out how we can get out of this mess with our pride intact.”
“Whether or not the war is drawing to an end cannot factor into your thinking. Let me make this very clear to all of you: We’re all part of a bigger machine. Our job is to keep our heads down and execute our orders. End of story. I shouldn’t have to paint you a picture, but if Lord’s mind begins to wander while he’s at point and he starts contemplating his place in the universe, we die. If Pearson radios in the wrong coordinates for support fire, we die. If Green decides not to be a medic, but instead to scratch his dick and wonder how many days he has left in this shithole, we die. And if we die,” he said, slamming his fist into the table, “then the men behind us die! Do you get me, Rex?”
The room fell into a deep silence.
Rogan glared at each of the men, demanding their support.
Finally satisfied, he took a deep breath. “While you’re all together, you may as well know we’ve got orders for a recon mission the day after tomorrow. We spread our wings early—two hours before first light.” He scanned the room, waiting to be challenged. When no one spoke, he turned and walked away.
“What makes you so immune?” Wayville called out. “Why doesn’t this shit get to you? You’re like a … fucking empty shell!”
Rogan drew to a halt. Then, clenching his fists, he spun around and marched toward Wayville.
“Lieutenant,” Gunther began, stepping in front of him, “he’s had a few drinks. It’s been a long day—”
“Move, Pearson.”
Without breaking stride, Rogan pushed past Gunther, leaned forward, and punched Wayville in the middle of his chest. The force of the blow sent him sprawling backward over a table and into the side of the tent.
“You ever talk to me like that again, I will rip out your goddamn throat,” he warned. This time, there was no reply.
Seven
For the first time that Fletcher could remember, the Fat Lady flew in total silence. Were it not for the sound of the helicopter’s rotors cutting through the air and the wind swirling through the cabin, it would have been like sitting in a mausoleum.
They were headed to what was considered one of the most dangerous areas in Vietnam: Lao Trung. To make matters worse, it was a reconnaissance mission, where they would have no ground or air support. If they came under heavy fire, they would be alone. Their job was to establish the level of activity in the region and pinpoint Charlie strongholds. The coordinates would then be radioed back to base, and the various camps and compounds would later be bombed with daisy cutters.
To exacerbate the uncomfortable quiet, tension still lingered between Rogan and Wayville.
“It feels like we’re chasing a runaway car off a cliff,” Travis eventually said, keeping his voice down.
“Chasing? We’re fucking strapped into the car … and it’s on fire,” Fletcher countered.
“Jesus, will someone please say something out loud,” Gunther called out. His eyelids, which were seldom hoisted beyond half-mast, gave the impression that he was continually tired. This, coupled with a set of high-riding eyebrows—like the raised wheel arches of an old car—gave him an almost comical look.
“All right … you’re an idiot,” Kingston offered.
“And an ugly cunt,” Wayville added.
A smile tugged at the corners of Gunther’s mouth. “Screw you clowns! You boys should come spend a few days in my hometown—then we’ll see how many jokes you’ll be telling.”
“The only time I’ll come out to your piece-of-shit redneck town is to pick up your sister,” Wayville taunted.
“You leave Janey right out of this. I don’t even want you thinking about her!”
The rest of the men laughed, partly at the sudden high pitch in Gunther’s voice. Jane Pearson was a beauty queen of some fame, and the men often gave Gunther a hard time about it.
“And that goes for the rest of you,” he warned, unable to suppress a faint smirk. “That’s my baby sister you’re talking about.”
“Hey, Gunther … did you ever … I mean, have you ever thought about—”
“You finish that sentence, Wayville, and, as big a motherfucker as you are, I’ll shove this radio right up your ass!”
Even Rogan managed a smile at that, but it was short lived. Moments of levity in Vietnam seldom lasted.
They were approaching
the drop-off zone.
Eight
Jump, land, roll, and run for cover—basic military training. What the army couldn’t equip you for, Fletcher thought, was the sickening feeling that Charlie might be waiting behind you in the trees, his AK-47 trained on your back. It never failed to prick up the hairs on his neck. It was the kind of aching dread that would keep soldiers from their sleep both in Vietnam and, for those lucky enough to survive, during the nights that followed.
As Fletcher hit the ground, he rolled and tried to get onto his feet in one fluid motion, but slipped on a patch of gravel and fell onto his back. The weight of his pack pinned him briefly to the earth like an insect impaled on a thumbtack.
“Jesus, Carson, get on your feet!” Rogan yelled, grabbing him by his collar and wrenching him up.
Together they scrambled to a nearby rock. They all held their positions as the Huey climbed and disappeared over the treetops.
So far, so good.
The key now, Fletcher knew, was to get moving as quickly as possible. The helicopter would have alerted Charlie to their presence, and they would soon be scouring the area for them. As of now, they were being hunted.
Rogan quickly called everyone in. “Fallow, what business are we in?” He always asked the same question at the start of an operation.
“The business of survival, lieutenant.”
“That’s fucking right! Let’s remember that. Think before you goddamn break wind. Everything you do here has a consequence. Get your minds focused.” He hastily pulled out his map and compass and confirmed their route. A minute later, they were moving. For reasons of superstition more than anything else, they usually traveled in the same formation: Mitchell at point, followed by Rogan, Wayville, Gunther, Kingston, Fletcher, and Travis. The three teenagers—Edgar Green, Craig Fallow, and Arnold Keens—always brought up the rear. Rogan insisted on it. Although he never offered an explanation, Fletcher knew why: The young men were a great deal safer at the back, shielded to a large degree from traps, ambushes, and even sniper fire.
Fletcher peered over his shoulder and could see the fear etched on each of their young faces; it was sheer madness that they had to share in the burden of another generation’s war. Ironically, by Charlie’s standards, these men were already senior citizens—some of their recruits were barely teenagers.
As Fletcher wondered again how a nation of fathers could send their children to war, and whether or not any of them would see nightfall, he scanned the dense jungle ahead of them.
They had almost thirty kilometers to hike.
Their day, like most in Vietnam, would be excruciatingly long.
Nine
By late morning, they had made good ground. Because of the meandering nature of the terrain, it was difficult to work out exactly how far they had traveled, but they had moved quickly, encountering nothing more sinister than the jungle’s wildlife. Of some concern were three water buffalo they had stumbled onto a mile ago, drinking from a shallow river. The animals were known to be domesticated by the Vietcong, but after a brief sweep of the area, it was clear these three were on their own. The temperature had been hovering at around seventy-five degrees for much of the day, but the mercury now pushed up into the nineties. That, coupled with the stifling humidity, made it increasingly difficult for the platoon to maintain its concentration.
They had just stopped to eat and to tend to their blisters and insect bites when Mitchell raised his hand as a sign of danger. Back on the Strip, they had often joked that he was two parts bloodhound, one part human. But there was no laughter now.
Mitchell hesitated, as if reading subtle vibrations in the air, then pointed to a small hillock ahead of them. Without saying a word, he dropped down onto his stomach and began to crawl up the hill. Rogan and Fletcher followed behind him. Reaching the top, they carefully parted the tall grass, and Fletcher eased his rifle through the gap.
There were four men, moving slowly, less than two hundred yards away.
“What’re they holding?” Fletcher whispered, squinting.
Rogan reached for his binoculars. “Bow and arrow … and a spear … they’re hunting.” He panned the binoculars away from the men and saw what they were after. “Wild pig.”
“Are the men soldiers?” Fletcher asked.
“Looks like … Montagnards.”
“What?”
“Jungle people,” Mitchell replied. “Hunters. Not many of them left. Some believe they’re also cannibals.”
Fletcher watched as the four distant shadows closed in on their prey. With unnerving precision, the man in front drove a long spear into the animal’s back. The pig squealed briefly, then fell silent.
“All right, no need to sound the alarm. Let’s just get moving,” Rogan decided.
They retreated quietly down the embankment, collected their gear, and moved out. After a few minutes, Fletcher pulled up alongside Mitchell. “Those men were almost two hundred yards away. How the hell did you hear them?”
“I didn’t. I could smell shit in the breeze. When animal crap is that strong in the wind, it’s normally because it’s been smeared on something; in this case, the Montagnards. They were stinking out the place.”
The jungle was a bouquet of different smells, including plants, herbs, dead animals, rotting leaves, mud—not to mention a wide variety of excrement—yet Mitchell had still managed to discern that something was amiss. “Unbelievable.”
“It’s because he used to sleep out in the barn back home,” Wayville commented from behind, casually chewing on a strip of sugarcane.
Mitchell didn’t take the bait; he never did out in the field.
“You could learn a lot from Lord,” Rogan said without looking back. “Like how to stay focused and concentrated.”
Wayville rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He knew better than to argue the point.
* * *
Three hours later, they were nearing the area where they planned to hole up for the night, when Mitchell stopped walking in midstride. He lowered down onto his haunches and inspected the path ahead of him. It was covered with thick banana leaves. He carefully pried them up.
Rogan knelt down beside him. “What’ve you got?”
“Possible soldiers on a skewer.”
The leaves had disguised one of Charlie’s most devastating traps: a Punji pit. Sharpened bamboo sticks like snake’s teeth lined a deep cavity in the ground. The rest of the platoon quickly gathered around.
“That’s the first one I’ve ever seen,” Arnold Keens said, his voice tinged with awe.
“Me, too,” Craig Fallow added.
Mitchell shook his head. “Something’s wrong.”
“What is it?”
“Too easy … they wanted us to find it. They used banana leaves. Proper Punji pits are covered with mud, small leaves, and bits of roots. They wanted us to find this, but why—?”
“Stop!” Rogan suddenly called out to Arnold Keens, who had wandered around the side of the pit to get a better view. “Do not move.” He walked over to the young infantryman and knelt down. He gently pressed on the innocuous-looking foliage at his feet. The ground immediately caved in, revealing a second Punji pit. This was the one intended for them. It was twice the size of its counterpart.
Arnold slowly stepped back. “Christ, that was close.”
Enraged, Rogan leapt to his feet. “Keens! Who told you to break formation? Since when do you move ahead of point?”
“Sorry, Lieut—”
He grabbed the youngster by his collar and, without realizing it, lifted him clean off the ground. “You need to think more about what you’re doing! We’re in the land of the devil, and he’s a cunning son of a bitch. Do you understand?”
“Yes … sorry, sir.”
“What are we in the business of?”
“Survival, sir.”
“What was that?”
“Survival, sir!”
Instead of releasing the young man, he pulled him closer. “Arnold, I’m
tired of writing letters to mothers explaining how their sons died.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.”
“It better not,” he replied, letting him go. “It better not.”
It was the first time Fletcher could ever remember the lieutenant calling one of them by his first name. Perhaps he’s human after all, he thought.
Ten
Another night in hell, another hastily dug foxhole.
Travis had managed to fall asleep with relative ease, but Fletcher was again left grappling with the oppressively dark night. Wary of evening patrols in the area, they had set up camp halfway up an embankment under heavy vegetation. Instead of the infinitely glittering night sky above them, they had banana leaves and thick palms, like the overlapping hands of giant men, as their heavens.
For his earlier lapse, Arnold Keens and his foxhole-mate Edgar Green were pulling watch between 0200 and 0430. Fletcher listened as the two soldiers quietly discussed topics natural to men of their age. They spoke intermittently about cars, music, and surfing, but their conversation inevitably gravitated back toward women, or more specifically, the prostitutes scouring the shores of China Beach. They both had some time off due to them and were planning to spend it getting blind drunk and losing themselves in the comforting folds of Vietnam’s thriving skin trade. Although most of the men were involved in relationships with local women—sordid or otherwise—it bothered Fletcher that so many children were being born who would never know their fathers. He tried to imagine a life in which he would turn his back on Kelly, but couldn’t.
After a while, he tuned out their conversation and turned to his own thoughts. The prospect of the war coming to an end left him feeling conflicted. He was genuinely happy that American troops would soon be able to go home to their families and return to the lives they had left behind, but he felt for the South Vietnamese. Without support, they would succumb to the North within a matter of weeks. They would no more be able to hold them back than they would a tidal wave. Once their defenses were breached, they would be overcome and then punished for siding with the enemy. Of that, he was certain.
Finding Jack Page 3