Don't Mean Nuthin'

by Ron Lealos

  The whup whup of a helicopter landing on the private pad next to the hootch came through the louvered windows. Comer was the only one who used the pad. He flew a UH-1 chopper without military insignia, just a drawing of a crisscrossed set of pistols. The little prick must be here about Viper. Or bringing his replacement.

  The night’s light show of flares, rockets, artillery explosions, and tracers outlined the small, thin man who walked through the bamboo door. He was Mickey Rooney short and tried to be Charles Bronson tough in his tight jeans, snakeskin boots, gold-buttoned, long-sleeve cowboy shirt, silver belt, studded hip holster, and Stetson hat. The stupid reflecting sunglasses he wore were useless in the dim lantern light of the hootch. All Comer needed was a pair of spurs, a lasso, and Shirley Temple to be in the movies.

  “Home from the range, Morgan?” he asked. Comer’s voice was a baritone croak. He must have spent hours in front of a mirror practicing to make it sound more like a bear’s growl than the squeak he was probably born with.

  Phoenix operatives weren’t officially in the military. I didn’t have to salute. Or even get up. I rolled to my shoulder and rested the side of my head in my hand. “Just bedded down the horse and hung up my saddle,” I said.

  Comer was followed into the hootch by the most dangerous man in Vietnam other than Westmoreland: Molar, the Toolman. Dangling from his throat was a leather necklace adorned with yellow and brown teeth. Molar was a collector. On the buffalo hide beside the teeth, Molar hung a carved silver pair of mini-pliers, a symbol for his tool of choice when he pulled a souvenir tooth from his victims. By the number of teeth on the leather, Molar must have killed more than a hundred Vietnamese. He worked Saigon.

  Comer stepped aside to let Molar through the door. The cleats on the soles of his boots tapped on the uneven floorboards.

  “You know this cowboy?” Comer asked. His arm stretched to touch the shoulder of the six-foot-four-inch Molar, dressed in sockless tennis shoes, Bermuda shorts, and a flowered shirt. A handlebar mustache curled around the corners of his mouth.

  Molar’s long fingers caressed his necklace. “Sure, he knows me,” Molar said. “We were in special ops school at Benning and did a little jungle training in Panama.” Molar’s hand moved to brush his mustache. “How’s the conscience, Morgan?”

  From the black transistor radio on the spool table, Hanoi Hannah whispered, “GI, why you fight this war? Nobody at home wants you to. They spit on you when you get back. They won’t look you in the eye. Your sister may be killed because you’re here. Who will you talk to about what you’ve done? Will your sweetheart love you more for the babies you’ve killed? Listen, GI.” The slow guitar of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” beamed from Radio Hanoi.

  “Turn that shit off,” Comer said. “I wish we would nuke that bitch.”

  Comer sat in the canvas-back director’s chair across from me. Molar rocked up and down on the balls of feet behind Comer.

  The cot squealed when I sat up and moved the radio out of Comer’s reach. Dirt on the floor scraped my bare toes. Lanterns flickered with the continuous artillery fire, and my framed picture of Janis Joplin at Winterland jiggled on the wall. The night air was filled with the smell of gunpowder from the 105s, Cambodian Red, diesel and gas fumes from the petrol dump, jungle decay, and the latrine behind the hootch.

  Comer twirled his pearl-handled revolver and asked, “Who do you think greased Viper, Morgan? The dinks? ARVN? A jealous husband?” He moved his hidden gaze from my eyes to the silver pistol. “Or maybe it was you.” Comer looked back at me. “If the ARVN hadn’t found the bodies of your squad on the trail, you’d be the prime suspect. Even if your story can’t be proven, must believe we don’t kill our own kind when there’s enough gook savages here to waste. Right, Morgan?”

  Simon and Garfunkel still sang, “Like a bridge over troubled water/I will lay me down.”

  Molar crossed his hairy arms on his chest and smiled. His canine teeth hung over his lower lip when he grinned. They were pointed to the side rather than up and down.

  Sometimes I thought I lived in a Zap comic book full of sadistic cartoon characters. No real world would have a dwarf cowboy flying his own Huey and twirling a pearl-handled revolver while he chatted about wasting little people. Or a skinny giant in unlaced tennis shoes with dog’s teeth who collected the molars of his victims and hung them from his neck.

  Gotta lay off the acid. This was real as death could be.

  The Colt .45 semiautomatic was in my hand next to my thigh, out of sight of Comer and Molar. Jungle humidity was hard on the bore of the Hush Puppy and silencer. They were stowed in my footlocker with the garrote. But the Gerber fighting knife was under my pillow. A new M16 leaned in the corner alongside an ammo belt and grenades.

  “You got that number ten right,” I said. “Don’t matter how many I waste, you just keep me going out for more.” The pebbled handle of the .45 was rough against the sheen of sweat on my hand. No-slip grip.

  “You know we don’t handle things like the army,” Comer said. “Keep it inside the Firm. No pussy investigators, prosecutors, defense counsels, court-martial.” He cocked and recocked the firing mechanism on his Smith & Wesson. The pistol made a click when the arm touched the breech. “If you’re guilty, there’s no court of appeal. It’s summary judgment to the back of the head. Get my drift, Morgan?”

  I scratched my balls with my left hand while my right pushed off the safety on the .45. Every chamber was filled with dumdum shells, not available to GIs, but standard issue for an assassin. One bullet into any part of Comer’s body would take a team of surgeons to fix. If he lived.

  Molar’s hand slowly moved to his back. He surely had a pistol in the waistband of his Bermudas since he wasn’t wearing a shoulder holster. Molar probably had a little Beretta in his pocket by the pair of pliers he never left home without.

  “Loud and clear,” I said. “What are you doing in the boonies? Got a top-secret mission for me? Want to swap lies around the campfire? Or just try to tighten my asshole with your threats? You know as well as me that ’Nam is a better place without the stink of Viper. Besides, it’s hard to shit a killer you created who don’t give a shit.”

  Could have been all the Cambodian Red I smoked that night. Or the remnants of an opium afternoon. But Hanoi Hannah’s sultry voice was making my dick hard. “Hello, GI,” she said. “What are you thinking about? A walk on the beach holding hands with your lover? Taking her home and slowly undressing her on the rug in front of the fire? Sharing a glass of wine? Kissing her firm breasts and making love all night? Tomorrow, there is a sniper in the trees who will make sure that dream never comes true. Instead, your lover will get a call from your mother that two uniformed men have just left her porch with condolences from the president. But tonight, relax GI, and listen to Dionne Warwick sing ‘I’ll Never Fall in Love Again’.”

  “That bitch is funny enough to make me stomp my Stetson,” Comer said. He put his hat on the knee of his jeans and leaned back in the chair. “Can’t figure why all the grunts listen to that bullshit. Thought you were a cut above the herd, Morgan.” Comer took the reflecting sunglasses off and wiped them on the sleeve of his cowboy shirt. His eyes were the clear blue of the water above the reefs off Vung Tau. The pistol was back in the tooled-leather holster.

  Molar stuffed his hands into the pockets of his shorts and relaxed his legs. He smiled at me like I just escaped a trip to the firing squad. Molar winked.

  “Helps make it through the boredom and loneliness of hot nights,” I said. I scratched at an itching gook sore on my calf, careful not to break the scab. This one was healing, unlike most of the others that were still open and oozing. The doctors called the sores “skin ulcers.” The smallest nick and the infection began eating flesh. Like the tension that caused stomach ulcers to feast on the inside of most grunts. Hell, that’s what the Rolaids in the C-ration supplementals were for.

  Sunglasses went back on Comer’s nose. He played with the cowboy string tie
that hung from his collar. His fingernails were uncut and dirt filled the ends. “Got a new trail boss for you, Morgan. Saigon’s getting too small for the Molar. Gonna transfer him to your ranch so he can ride herd.”

  The cleats on the soles of Comer’s snakeskin boots were dull in the yellow light when he stretched his legs out to their full two-foot length. He took a small cheroot cigar from a can in his breast pocket and lit it with a wooden kitchen match on the silver of his belt buckle.

  The pointy grin on Molar’s ugly face widened, and I shook my head.

  “Now ain’t that sweet,” I said. “Orders from another psychopath.” A tic started the corner of my eye jumping. “When you gonna get that most of the people we grease don’t have a damn thing to do with this police action? They’re just people who didn’t suck the right dick at the right time. Not a fucking thing to do with military targets.”

  Comer coughed and took out a red bandanna from his jean pocket. He wiped his nose. Gold circled the carved skull in the middle of the ring on his finger.

  “Hello, GI,” Hanoi Hannah said. “I’m worried about you. The Fourth Division has you in their sites. General Giap’s troops have you surrounded. Sappers are shoving Bouncing Bettys under the wire around your camp. There’s a shortage of crutches back in The World. Too many ’Nam brothers need them. What will you use to walk? I heard that the stock price of the wheelchair companies went up 50 percent. Maybe you should invest so your legs can bring part of profit. Lay back now and enjoy your last night with toes. Listen to a song by Blood, Sweat, and Tears.”

  David Clayton-Thomas sang, “And when I die, when I’m dead, dead and gone, there’ll be one child born in our world to carry on, to carry on.”

  UCLA. Hanoi Hannah must have gone to school there. No East Coast or Southern accent, just a laid back nondistinct California dialect. Sometimes she dropped a word like all the English-speaking dinks, but she could talk the talk of ’Nam like a grizzled vet. Maybe she combined acting school with her language studies and psychology classes.

  The radio was out of Comer’s foot-and-a-half reach, but he tried to grab it anyway. I got there first and put the transistor in the lap of my sweat-moist shorts without showing the .45. Comer’s hand went back to the pearl handle on his pistol.

  “Don’t make a cow turd what that bitch or you say,” Comer said. “Our job is pacification. What better way to pacify the gooks than by putting them in their bedrolls for a long sleep? Old Molar here is gonna make sure you wrestle plenty of dink steers.”

  Behind Comer, a lizard crawled slowly up the plywood wall hunting for one of the flies that dive-bombed the nearby lantern. The gecko’s tongue snapped in and out like he was using it to scout the trail. Through the door, flashes from the 105s reflected off the steel concertina wire that bordered the off-limits Phoenix sector of Bien Ha. Comer’s Brut aftershave mixed with the other ’Nam firebase and hootch smells.

  No one had used the dead man’s cot in the hootch for months. Viper had his own. Molar slid the canvas-topped cot next to Comer and sat. A scar that looked like a pink zipper ran across Molar’s tanned knee.

  Back in the world of Zap. The three of us sitting within five feet of each other, heavy-duty firepower at our fingertips, being oh so civil, when the slightest move from any of the psychopaths would bring a shitstorm to the hootch.

  “Remember that mission you were sidesaddle on with me, Morgan?” Molar asked. “Shit, with you along, podner, I got two extra teeth.” Molar jiggled his necklace. “Never seen anybody better with a garrote than you. Fitted them Cu Chi Charlies with a bow tie so quick they couldn’t even fart. Smooth, man.” Molar ran his index finger across his throat. “But them dink fuckers shit their pajamas. Smelled worse than the latrine at a titty bar in Saigon.”

  The cot squealed like it enjoyed Molar’s stupid joke as much as he did.

  Smoke from Comer’s cheroot made little Os when he leaned back and puckered his lips.

  “You’re a true professional, Morgan,” Comer said. He cleared his throat and spit on the floor, the cheroot smoking in his hand. “Admit it. What other rodeo could you ride that gave the satisfaction of this one? Where else could you cut any bronc out of the herd you wanted? It’s like Gunfight at the O.K. Corral here. And you’re Wyatt Earp with a Hush Puppy.”

  The tic in my eye was about to do permanent damage to my face. Sweat dripped down my side from my armpits. It wasn’t fear.

  “Won’t do any good to argue morality with you two cowboys,” I said. “I’ve only got twenty-five more days in-country. Just give the orders and save the bullshit for the brass that appreciates your act. I don’t give a rusty fuck if it’s Molar or you sending me out.”

  The radio in my lap tickled my groin like a vibrator.

  “I got a letter today from GI,” Hanoi Hannah said. “He writes, ‘Dear Hannah, I’m here at the Veteran’s Hospital outside San Francisco. The doctors say I’ll be able to feed myself soon. The nurses claim they don’t mind changing my bedpan and I’m no bother. I do miss my feet and my right arm. Sometimes, I remember how I used to pitch in the little league games and play tag with my sister. She brings me flowers and Hershey Kisses when she visits, but she hasn’t been back for over a month. I know it’s a long way from San Jose. At night, I think about your voice and how you told us how terrible the war was for everyone. I wish I would have listened. Even if I deserted to Sweden or Denmark, I’d be better off than being spoon-fed my dinner and trying out plastic feet. Be well and I hope the B-52s aren’t over your head.’ That nice letter was signed by Corporal Marvin Brantley, Americal Division, Serial Number 8369934. Thanks, Marvin. Here’s another Dionne Warwick song dedicated to you. I hope you recover soon.” The sound of “Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” came from the transistor.

  The gecko caught a fly and made it a one-swallow meal wrapped like Pillsbury dough in his curled tongue. Somewhere, outside the concertina walls, the Southern Cross helped guide the B-52 jockeys making their way from Thailand to Hanoi on Operation Linebacker.

  Comer stood and wiped off the seat of his britches.

  “You don’t have to worry about the way to San Jose, Morgan,” Comer said. “Tomorrow you’re gonna di di mau to Cần Thơ.” He tightened the cowboy string tie and patted his revolver. “I gotta saddle up. Molar will fill you in. Adios, muchachos.” Comer strutted toward the door and signaled to the chopper driver to crank it up with a wave of his Stetson. The cheroot still burned in the corner of his mouth.

  Molar stood. The cot toppled on its side against the wall, and the thin blanket from some dead man fell in the dirt.

  “Gonna be fun, eh, Morgan?” Molar said. “Reveille at oh six hundred hours. Keep that Hush Puppy greased. I got beaucoup plans for it. I’ll be bunking in Viper’s old hootch.” Molar walked the few steps to the door. The teeth around his neck clicked together. He vanished into the night still lit by artillery fire and flares and the sound of Comer’s Huey taking off for Saigon.

  The leather sheath on the fighting knife poked the back of my head when I lay back down on my pillow. I lit the roach of Cambodian Red in the C-ration can ashtray.

  Books. I used to read books before I went to sleep. A ritual. Now books just scared the shit out of me. Books said things like: “The soldier, involved in the defense of his country, is the most honorable man. Willing to risk his life for the continuing cause of freedom and to assure that generations to follow will not be subjected to the yoke of tyranny, he stands as a beacon to all.” Or: “There is a dark secret in every man’s heart. Hidden until the time he is confronted with unspeakable evil. Then, he must choose the direction correctly or he will be lost to the blackness forever.”

  I never knew when a written line would ambush me. Sneak up. A sapper in the wire. Books weren’t worth the risk. Just like going in the jungle on a moonless night. Too many punji stakes.

  The smoke from the joint drove away some of the flies. I put my hands behind my head, the radio on my chest, and closed my eyes.


  “It’s time to say good night, GI,” Hanoi Hannah said. “If you’re still wondering what your girlfriend did tonight, I can tell you that she didn’t miss you. She’ll be dreaming of someone else when she goes to sleep. But, maybe tomorrow she’ll answer your letter from two months ago. It will start, ‘Dear John, I met the most wonderful man. He is against the war in Vietnam and has shown me the truth. I feel I can no longer love anyone who fights in that war. I hope, someday, we can be friends. Sincerely, Mary.’ Now, rest your head on your poncho and let the sound of Simon and Garfunkel take you back.” Radio Hanoi shut down for the night with “Homeward Bound.”

  I was glad I didn’t have a girlfriend to remember. Only green eyes and an innocent cherry with dimples.

  Flies covered the gook sores on the monkey’s gray back. He was perched on the shoulder of a bearded GI in a dusty vil off the road to Cần Thơ southwest of Saigon in the Mekong.

  Some of the monkey’s sores were scabbed over, and others were shiny yellow and pink. When the monkey scratched, strands of wiry hair from the clumps that peppered his skinny haunches formed a gray cloud in the hot afternoon breeze. He was tethered at the neck to the soldier’s wrist by a white nylon cord from an F-4 Phantom parachute. The monkey squeezed a green banana and screeched at Luong and me as we walked across the packed dirt of the vil to the crooked hut. Luong was my newly assigned Montagnard scout, a hill tribe mercenary working with the Americans for little pay other than the chance to kill Vietnamese. Lots of Vietnamese.

  A peace sign was painted in white on the back of an army fatigue nailed to the bamboo wall outside of the hootch. Above the symbol, a sign made of an old C-ration box read TUNNEL RAT RETIREMENT VILLA. The hootch was blackened from fire and was the only one in the vil with a fresh thatched roof over the door. Green ammunition boxes were stacked against an outside wall with yellow flowers growing from the top box in each pile. An upside-down, webbed GI helmet sat on the clay next to the ammo boxes, white flowers blooming from the red dirt inside.