The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers)

by Stephen Leather

  Afterwards she’d said that she was sober enough to drive the rest of the way home and she’d dropped him off on the main road so that he could catch a taxi back to Wan Chai where he rented a small flat on the twenty-third floor of a cockroach-infested residential tower block.

  Coleman had called her the following day, and the day after that, and they’d gone out five or six times. At the end of each date she’d ended up making love to him in the passenger seat of the Jaguar, hard and fast like a wild animal. He’d fallen for her in a big way but she wouldn’t see him more than once a week, she wouldn’t go back with him to his flat and she wouldn’t take him home to meet her parents. Now she seemed to be avoiding him and wouldn’t even return his phone calls.

  He thought back to their last date, more than two weeks earlier. They’d eaten at a Thai restaurant and caught a movie at Ocean Centre in Tsim Sha Tsui. She’d offered to drive him home with a sly smile and he thought she’d go up to his apartment for the first time but instead she’d insisted they make love in the car, parked in the car park under his building. The car park was well lit and regularly used but she said she didn’t care. She’d been wearing a black dress, cut low at the front, and she’d unzipped him and mounted him in one smooth movement because she wasn’t wearing underwear. She allowed him to slip the dress down over her shoulders so that he could kiss her breasts but when he’d tried to take off his shirt she’d told him that they didn’t have enough time. She wouldn’t kiss him while they were making love, either, as if she didn’t want intimacy, just the use of his body. Thinking about the way she’d ridden him made him hard under the desk and he shook his head. He wanted to call her the same way that he wanted to draw on a cigarette, but he’d called yesterday and left a message with one of the family’s Filipina maids. He’d give her until the afternoon, at least.

  All the vets seemed to grow more relaxed during their stay at the beach resort of Vung Tau, as if they finally sensed that Vietnam was no longer the threat it used to be, and that the smiling Vietnamese were smiling because they were glad to see tourists, not because they were planning to put ground glass in their beer or a bomb under their Jeep.

  Hung and Judy drove them back to Ho Chi Minh City and booked them all back into the Floating Hotel. Judy then shepherded them on a series of tourist trips around the city: tours of pagodas and temples, a visit to an army surplus market that was still doing a healthy trade in US equipment and clothing, a look around the zoo – which was in as much of a sad decline as the city itself – a children’s amusement park, and an orchid farm.

  Lehman found himself enjoying the city, despite its obvious poverty. The people they met were friendly and helpful and he could see that they were keen to get back on equal terms with the West. He made a mental note to look at the possibilities of some sort of Vietnamese venture capital fund. Not a real one, naturally, but a scam to fleece investors. He was convinced it would pull in the suckers like flies to jam.

  Even Carmody appeared to relax. At first he’d done nothing but pick faults and arguments, calling the hotel staff “gooks” behind their backs and making fun of the cyclo drivers because of their cheap clothes and bad teeth. But as the days went by he became less sarcastic and bitter and began to take a real interest in what Judy was showing them.

  Gradually, though, the sights that Judy took them to became more political. She took them to the Military Museum and showed them its collection of NVA equipment used to defeat the South. Then she took them to the Museum of the Revolution which celebrated the communist struggle for power. Inside the white neoclassical building were huge gilded ballrooms which had been converted to exhibition rooms containing Viet Cong weapons and photographs of what the Vietnamese called “The Liberation of Saigon”. She showed them equipment the VC had used to conceal papers and weapons – a hawker’s display of cigarettes with a secret compartment underneath, a boat with a false bottom in which guns and explosives could be hidden, a sewing machine with space underneath in which a bomb could be concealed. It was terrorist equipment yet Judy didn’t treat it as such; instead she proudly demonstrated it to the Americans and cited it as an example of Vietnamese ingenuity in the face of US oppression.

  Lehman heard Tyler talking to Carmody at the back of the group. “She doesn’t seem to realise that most of this stuff was used in Saigon, for booby-traps and sneak attacks,” he whispered. “It wasn’t used in the war, it was urban terrorism. What use would a sewing machine be in the jungle, for God’s sake?”

  Lehman didn’t turn around but he agreed with Tyler’s sentiments. Judy seemed to take great pride in the things she was showing them, without acknowledging that it was equipment which the VC had used to take the fight behind the lines, to the shops, bars and cinemas of the city.

  She went on to show them maps and photographs of the fall of Saigon but there was no mention of the thousands killed by the North Vietnamese forces in the months that followed “Liberation” or of the hundreds of thousands who were sent off to the re-education camps.

  Lehman got the feeling that Judy had been breaking them in gently, that she had done all the tourist stuff first to put them at their ease before starting to push the government line. Sure enough, the following day Judy and Hung took the group to the Museum of American War Crimes. When she first told them where they were going they thought she was joking, unable to believe that the Vietnamese could be so aggressively untactful about naming an exhibit. But no, she was serious. They got off the bus and were each handed a leaflet headed “Some Pictures of US Imperialists’ Aggressive War Crimes in Vietnam”. It was badly written but the grainy photographs spoke for themselves – bodies at My Lai, US soldiers posing in front of dismembered bodies, setting fire to huts, and horrific pictures of victims of phosphorous bombs and napalm. Carmody flicked through his brochure and, as Judy watched, screwed it up and dropped it on to the floor. Horvitz glanced at his and then pushed it into the back pocket of his jeans.

  In the yard in front of the museum was a collection of US artillery and armoured vehicles, including a 175 mm Howitzer, an M48 tank and, behind it, an M41. Judy took them slowly around the equipment, each of which had a small information sign in Vietnamese and English. It was the first museum they’d visited where signs were in English, and as he read the one in front of the Howitzer he could see why that was. “The US imperialists mostly used this Howitzer in their numerous criminal acts in the Iron Triangle area,” it said.

  Horvitz snorted as he read the sign. “Most of the criminal acts I remember in the Iron Triangle were on their side,” he said to Lehman. He had tied his long hair back in a ponytail and it swung from side to side as he shook his head. “This is shit, man,” he said.

  “It’s their view of what happened,” said Speed, appearing behind Horvitz and Lehman. “They’re entitled to their viewpoint.” He stepped to the side and began filming the tanks. Tyler was looking at the M48 but he moved away when he heard the whirr of Speed’s camcorder. He came over and stood by Lehman.

  “Bit one-sided, wouldn’t you say?” Tyler asked.

  “It’s the type of propaganda they pushed all the way through the war,” Lehman said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I didn’t expect to find them still calling us imperialists.”

  “You read this?” Tyler said, brandishing the leaflet. He opened it and read aloud. “The war against Vietnam had caused lasting sting to the US conscience thus sparkling – yeah, sparkling – off widespread antiwar movements in US walks of life. We – Vietnamese people – are sincerely grateful to world peoples, including progressive Americans, for their precious support of our just struggle for Independence, Freedom and Happiness.”

  Lehman shook his head sadly. “Independence, Freedom and Happiness,” he repeated. “Can’t say I’ve seen much of that here.”

  “Have you seen what’s over there?” asked Tyler, pointing over Lehman’s shoulder.

  Lehman swung round and his eyes widened as he saw the tadpole-shaped helicopte
r squatting among a clump of bushes.

  “A Huey,” said Lehman.

  The two men walked over and stood in front of the helicopter. The paintwork was peeling as if it was suffering from some incurable skin disease and Lehman could see through the Plexiglas that most of the electronics inside had been stripped out. Most of the structure was intact, though, and there was an M60 machine-gun mounted in the doorway on the left.

  Lehman reached over and stroked the bulbous nose of the helicopter as if he was petting a horse.

  “Think it’d still fly?” Tyler asked.

  Lehman grinned. “I shouldn’t think so,” he said. “It’s probably rusted away inside.”

  “The panels look good. And the rivets seem okay,” said Tyler, walking around the Huey.

  “Yeah, but it’s been out in the open for God knows how long. The turbine will be fucked and the gearbox will probably have seized up.” He stuck his head inside the cabin. “And a lot of the electrics have been pulled out. No, it’ll never fly again.”

  “Brings back memories, though?”

  “Yeah, it does that.” He went over and tried the door to the pilot’s station but it had been padlocked. He shaded his eyes and pressed his face against the Plexiglas. Inside he could see the metal frame seats and their webbing covers. A headset was lying on the pilot’s seat, still plugged into its socket in the roof.

  “How many flights did you make?” asked Tyler.

  “Nine hundred and sixty three,” replied Lehman without hesitation. “A total of 2,146 hours in the air.”

  “All in the Huey?”

  “Most of it.” He pushed himself away from the window and looked at Tyler. “You ever flown in one?”

  Tyler shrugged. “I prefer something a bit faster,” he said, which Lehman recognised as just another evasion, even though it came with a friendly smile. Tyler was wearing his sunglasses so Lehman couldn’t see his eyes.

  “You weren’t a pilot, were you?” Lehman asked. He could see his own reflection in the black lenses.

  “I can fly,” said Tyler quietly.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Tyler nodded slowly. “I know it isn’t.” He smiled and continued walking again. “How do you feel about what happened here, in Nam?” he asked.

  Lehman watched Tyler walk away and slowly followed, looking at the ground. “I think we were here for the right reasons,” said Lehman. “I think it was a war worth fighting. And I think from what we’ve seen of the place in the last couple of days that it would have been better for everybody if we had stayed.”

  “What do you think we were fighting for?” Tyler asked.

  Lehman thought for a while. “It might sound corny, but I think we were fighting for freedom. It’s like it says on JFK’s tomb – we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to ensure the survival and success of liberty. I really felt like that back then. I know the regime here was as corrupt as hell, but it had to be better than what they’ve got now. Saigon used to be buzzing. It was a vibrant, lively city. The whole country could be as rich as hell – it’s got great land, great natural resources – and yet look at it. It’s Third World. It’s pitiful. And it’s the communists who’ve done it. Yeah, I was happy to fight for that.”

  “You volunteered?”

  Lehman nodded. “Yeah. And that’s what made it all the worse when I went back to the States and found that no one cared. Or worse, that they thought I was a fascist child killer who’d had no right to be there in the first place.”

  “It hurt,” said Tyler.

  “Damn right it hurt. I was out here fighting for something I believed in.”

  “Something you still believe in?”

  Lehman thought for a while. “Now I just believe in myself,” he said eventually. “Myself and the guys I fought with. Guys like Lewis and Horvitz. Everything else is shit.”

  The black lenses stared impassively at Lehman for a full ten seconds, and Lehman felt like a laboratory specimen being studied under a microscope.

  “Can you still fly?” Tyler asked.

  “Sure.”

  “When was the last time you flew a helicopter?”

  “I worked as a pilot for an air taxi firm up until a few years ago. And I still fly now and then, just to keep my licence up to date, you know. Why? Are you looking for a helicopter pilot?”

  “Maybe,” said Tyler softly. “Maybe I am. Come on, let’s catch up with the rest of them.”

  They walked by the salesman from Seattle, who was sitting astride the turret of the M48 tank with a big grin on his face as his wife snapped away with a small Japanese camera. The barrel was sticking between his thighs like some huge phallus and he patted it and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at Lehman.

  “How about having this between your legs, Dan?” he laughed.

  “Yeah, right,” said Lehman, biting back the retort that one big prick deserves another because, much as he disliked the man’s over-the-top bonhomie, he wasn’t worth picking a fight with.

  Lehman and Tyler walked up to Horvitz who was studying a selection of American mines, shells and bullets in glass cases. He was bending down to look at a claymore mine, about the size of a brick that had been bent into a curve. He pointed at the words imprinted on the convex side of the grey metal block. “Front Towards Enemy,” he read out to the two men. “We didn’t exactly send our best and brightest, did we?” he asked, his voice loaded with bitter irony. “I’m always surprised that they didn’t write ‘bullets come out here’ on the barrels of our M16s.”

  Lehman laughed. “Or ‘this way up’ on the tops of our Hueys,” he said.

  Judy led the group into the museum proper, a series of single-storey buildings where the walls were lined with black and white photographs and exhibits.

  She stopped them as they passed over the threshold of the first room and asked them to gather around a small glass-fronted display case which had been mounted on the wall. It contained a small cluster of medals and a small plaque from a US infantry sergeant which read: “To the people of a United Vietnam. I was wrong. I am sorry.”

  “This soldier admit that what he did was wrong,” said Judy. “He very brave. He true American hero. Only a brave man can admit that he was wrong.” She looked around the group for signs of agreement, and found it from Henderson, Speed and Cummings, who all nodded. There was a metallic clicking noise from behind Lehman and he turned to see Carmody opening and closing his steel claw. There was a Purple Heart in the case and Lehman knew that Carmody would have received the same decoration, at the very least, for his injury. He smiled in sympathy at Carmody but received no response because Carmody was staring stonily at the tour guide. Tyler, too, had a look of contempt on his face and Lehman wondered how many decorations he had received, and for what. Whereas Carmody looked the type to treat his medals with contempt – though not to the extent of sending them to the Vietnamese – he could tell that Tyler was a man who would wear them on his chest with pride.

  Horvitz sighed and shook his head and walked away while Judy rattled off statistics about the war: the number of Americans who fought in Vietnam, the cost to America, the number of civilians killed, the number of Vietnamese civilians who died.

  “Do you believe this crap?” Horvitz asked, nodding at a series of photographs on the wall. They detailed a series of amputations which had been carried out on a VC prisoner in a bid to make him talk. First his feet were amputated, then his legs below the knee, then finally above the knee, operations which the museum said were totally unnecessary because the man only had superficial wounds. After each operation he was given time to recover, questioned, and then sent back under the surgeon’s knife. He was a hero, said the sign under the photograph of the man with stumps where his legs should have been. And another sign carried a list of all the operations and the dates.

  “Do you believe it?” asked Horvitz, looking at Lehman with his dead eyes.

  “Maybe,�
� said Lehman. “I was just a pilot. I didn’t see much of what went on at ground level.”

  “Yeah, well I was on the ground, and I never saw stuff like this. I saw killings and I saw firefights but I never saw no torture. Not like this. Not from Americans. I know the South Vietnamese did it to the VC, and the Koreans were a mad bunch, but we never did stuff like this.”

  “My Lai happened,” said Lehman. “You can’t deny that. We killed more than 500 people there, most of them women and children and old folks.”

  “It was a war,” said Horvitz. “I’m not trying to excuse it, but it was a war.”

  Horvitz continued to stare at the photograph of the man with no legs, running his hand through his unkempt beard. The facial hair made it difficult for Lehman to assess his companion’s age; it could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty, though the well-muscled body suggested he was still in his thirties.

  “I had a friend once, in Nam,” said Horvitz, his voice almost a whisper. “Name of Wills. Billy Wills. His dad had named him William Wills, can you believe that? He was nineteen, a couple of years younger than me. We were in the Lurps, the Long Range Reconnaissance Patrols. He was a mad bastard. Totally without fear, you know? Always wanted to go point, always fretting when we were laid up at base camp, always first off the helicopter and last one back on. He’d volunteer for anything, just so long as it got him out in the field. He was so gung-ho. Good guy to be out with, though, because he was careful, too. And he had a gift for spotting booby-traps, ambushes, stuff like that. We were together for about six months, part of a five-man team, long range recon, nothing too heavy. Had a few close calls but we knew what we were doing, clean in and clean out, hardly any kills to speak of. Just doing our job, you know? We weren’t sent out to cause trouble, just to draw maps, identify VC trails, spot NVA activity, and get back to base without anyone knowing we were there.” Horvitz didn’t look at Lehman as he spoke, and Lehman felt for all the world like a priest hearing confession from a Catholic who’d stayed away from the confessional box for too long.