The Girl Who Loved Animals and Other Stories

by McAllister, Bruce

  I said, “Your girl in Australia loves you—she really does.” He looked at me and his eyes had that look you get when morphine isn’t enough. I could tell he thought I looked like her. He couldn’t even see my hair under the cap and he knew I looked like her.

  He grabbed my arm and his jaw started slipping and I knew what he wanted me to do. I always knew. I told him about her long black hair and the beaches in Australia and what the people were like there and what there was to do.

  He thought I was going to stop talking, so he kept squeezing my arm. I told him what he and his girlfriend had done on a beach outside Melbourne, their favorite beach, and what they’d had to drink that night.

  And then—this was the first time I’d done it with anyone—I told him what I’d do for him if I was his girlfriend and we were back in Australia. I said, “I’d wash you real good in the shower. I’d turn the lights down low and I’d put on some nice music. Then, if you were a little slow, I’d help you.”

  It was what his girlfriend always did, I knew that. It wasn’t hard to say.

  I kept talking, he kept holding my arm, and then he coded on me. They always did. I had a couple of minutes or hours and then they always coded on me, just like in the dreams.

  I got good at it. The pictures got better and I could tell them what they wanted to hear and that made it easier. It wasn’t just faces and burns and stumps, it was things about them. I’d tell them what their girlfriends and wives would do if they were here. Sometimes it was sexual, sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes I’d just ruffle their hair with my hand and tell them what Colorado looked like in summer, or what the last Doors concert they’d been to was like, or what you could do after dark in Newark.

  I start crying in the big room one day and this corpsman takes me by the arm and the next thing I know I’m sitting on the john and he’s got a needle in his hand, a two percent solution. He doesn’t want to see me hurting so much. I tell him no. Why, I don’t know. Every week or so I’d walk into the john and find somebody with a needle in their arm, but it wasn’t for me, I thought. People weren’t supposed to do that kind of thing. Junkies on the Pike back home did it —we all knew that but not doctors and medics and nurses. It wasn’t right, I told myself.

  I didn’t start until a couple of weeks later.

  There’s this guy I want to tell you about. Steve—his name was Steve.

  I come in one morning to the big ER room shaking so hard I can’t even put my cap on and thinking I should’ve gotten a needle already, and there’s this guy sitting over by a curtain. He’s in cammies, his head’s wrapped, and he’s sitting up real straight. I can barely stand up, but here’s this guy looking like he’s hurting, so I say, “You want to lie down?”

  He turns slowly to look at me and I don’t believe it. I know this guy from a dream, but I don’t see the dream clearly. Here’s this guy sitting in a chair in front of me unattended, like he could walk away any second, but I’ve had a dream about him, so I know he’s going to die.

  He says he’s okay, he’s just here to see a buddy. But I’m not listening. I know everything about him. I know about his girlfriend and where he’s from and how his mom and dad didn’t raise him, but all I can think about is, he’s going to die. I’m thinking about the supply room and needles and how it wouldn’t take much to get it all over with.

  I say, “Cathy misses you, Steve. She wishes you could go to the Branding Iron in Merced tonight, because that band you like is playing. She’s done something to her apartment and she wants to show it to you.”

  He looks at me for a long time and his eyes aren’t like the others. I don’t want to look back at him. I can see him anyway—in the dream. He’s real young. He’s got a nice body, good shoulders, and he’s got curly blond hair under those clean bandages. He’s got eyelashes like a girl, and I see him laughing. He laughs every chance he gets, I know. Very quietly he says, “What’s your name?”

  I guess I tell him, because he says, “Can you tell me what she looks like, Mary?”

  Everything’s wrong. The guy doesn’t sound like he’s going to die. He’s looking at me like he understands.

  I say something like, “She’s tall.” I say, “She’s got blond hair,” but I can barely think.

  Very gently he says, “What are her eyes like?”

  I don’t know. I’m shaking so hard I can barely talk, I can barely remember the dream.

  Suddenly I’m talking. “They’re green. She wears a lot of mascara, but she’s got dark eyebrows, so she isn’t really a blond, is she.”

  He laughs and I jump. “No, she isn’t,” he says and he’s smiling. He takes my hand in his. I’m shaking badly but I let him, like I do the others. I don’t say a word.

  I’m holding it in. I’m scared to death. I’m cold-turkeying and I’m letting him hold my hand because he’s going to die. But it’s not true. I dreamed about him, but in the dream he didn’t die. I know that now.

  He squeezes my hand like we’ve known each other a long time and he says, “Do you do this for all of them?” I don’t say a thing.

  Real quietly he says, “A lot of guys die on you, don’t they, Mary.”

  I can’t help it—I start crying. I want to tell him. I want to tell someone, so I do.

  When I’m finished he doesn’t say something stupid, he doesn’t walk away. He doesn’t code on me. He starts to tell me a story and I don’t understand at first.

  There’s this G-2 reconnaissance over the border, he says. The insertion’s smooth and I’m point, I’m always point. We’re humping across paddy dikes like grunts and we hit this treeline. This is a black op, nobody’s supposed to know we’re here, but somebody does. All of a sudden the goddamn trees are full of Charlie ching-ching snipers. The whole world turns blue just for me, I mean, it turns blue—and everything starts moving real slow. I can see the first AK rounds coming at me and I step aside nicely just like that, like always.

  The world always turns blue like that when he needs it to, he says. That’s why they make him point every goddamn time, why they keep using him on special ops to take out infrastructure or long-range recon for intel. Because the world turns blue. And how he’s been called in twice to talk about what he’s going to do after this war and how they want him to be a killer, he says. The records will say he died in this war and they’ll give him a new identity. He doesn’t have family, they say. He’ll be one of their killers wherever they need him. Because everything turns blue. I don’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s like a movie, like that Manchurian Candidate thing, and I can’t believe it. They don’t care about how he does it, he says. They never do. It can be the world turning blue or voices in your head or some grabass feeling in your gut, or, if you want, it can be God or the Devil with horns or Little Green Martians—it doesn’t matter to them what you believe. As long as it works, as long as you keep coming back from missions, that’s all they care about. He told them no, but they keep on asking. Sometimes he thinks they’ll kill his girlfriend just so he won’t have anything to come back to in the States. They do that kind of thing, he says. I can’t believe it.

  So everything’s turning blue, he says, and I’m floating up out of my body over this rice paddy, these goddamn ching-ching snipers are darker blue, and when I come back down I’m moving through this nice blue world and I know where they are, and I get every goddamn one of them in their trees.

  But it doesn’t matter, he says. There’s this light-weapons sergeant, a guy they called the Dogman, who’s crazy and barks like a dog and makes everyone laugh even if they’re bleeding, even if their guts are hanging out. He scares the VC when he barks. He humps his share and the men love him.

  When the world turns blue, the Dogman’s in cover, everything’s fine, but then he rubbernecks, the sonuvabitch rubbernecks for the closest ching-ching—he didn’t have to, he just didn’t have to—and takes a round high. I don’t see the back of his head explode, so I think he’s still alive. I go for him where he’s hanging half out
of the treeline, half in a canal full of stinking rice water. I try to get his body out of the line of fire, but Charlie puts the next round right in under my arm. I’m holding the Dogman and the round goes in right under my arm, a fucking heart shot. I can feel it come in. It’s for me. Everything goes slow and blue and I jerk a little—I don’t even know I’m doing it and the round slides right in under me and into him. They never get me. The fucking world turns blue and everything goes slow and they never get me.

  I can always save myself, he says—his name is Steve and he’s not smiling now—but I can’t save them. What’s it worth? What’s it worth if you stay alive and everybody you care about is dead? Even if you get what they want.

  I know what he means. I know now why he’s sitting on a chair nearly crying, I know where the body is, which curtain it’s behind, how close it’s been all this time. I remember the dream now.

  Nobody likes to die alone, Steve says. Just like he said it in the dream.

  He stays and we talk. We talk about the dreams and his blue world, and we talk about what we’re going to do when we get out of this place and back to the Big PX, all the fun we’re going to have. He starts to tell me about other guys he knows, guys like him that his people are interested in, but then he stops and I see he’s looking past me. I turn around.

  There’s this guy in civvies at the end of the hallway, just standing there, looking at us. Then he nods at Steve, and Steve says, “I got to go.”

  Real fast I say, “See you at nineteen hundred hours.” He’s looking at the guy down the hallway. “Yeah, sure,” he says.

  When I get off he’s there. I haven’t thought about a needle all day and it shows. We get a bite to eat and talk some more, and that’s that. My roommate says I can have the room for a couple of hours, but I’m a mess. I’m shaking so bad I can’t even think about having a good time with this guy. He looks at me like he knows this, and says his head hurts and we ought to get some sleep.

  He gives me a hug. That’s it.

  The same guy in civvies is waiting for him and they walk away together on Phan Hao Street.

  The next day he’s gone. I tell myself maybe he was standing down for a couple of days and had to get back, but that doesn’t help. I know lots of guys who traveled around in-country AWOL without getting into trouble. What could they do to you? Send you to ’Nam?

  I thought maybe he’d call in a couple of days, or write. Later I thought maybe he’d gotten killed, maybe let himself get killed. I really didn’t know what to think, but I thought about him a lot.

  Ten days later I get transferred. I don’t even get orders cut, I don’t even get in-country travel paper. No one will tell me a thing—the head nurse, the CO, nobody.

  I get scared because I think they’re shipping me back to the States because of the smack or the dreams—they’ve found out about the dreams—and I’m going to be in some VA hospital the rest of my life. That’s what I think.

  All they’ll tell me is that I’m supposed to be at the strip at 0600 hours tomorrow, fatigues and no ID.

  I get a needle that night and I barely make it.

  This Huey comes in real fast and low and I get dust in my eyes from the prop wash. A guy with a clipboard about twenty yards away signals me and I get on. There’s no one there to say good bye and I never see the 23rd again.

  The Huey’s empty except for these two pilots who never turn around and this doorgunner who’s hanging outside and this other guy who’s sitting back with me on the canvas. I think maybe he’s the one who’s going to explain things, but he just stares for a while and doesn’t say a thing. He’s a sergeant, a Ranger, I think.

  It’s supposed to be dangerous to fly at night in Indian Country, I know, but we fly at night. We stop twice and I know we’re in Indian Country. This one guy gets off, another guy gets on, and then two more. They seem to know each other and they start laughing. They try to get me to talk. One guy says, “You a Donut Dolly?” and another guy says, “Hell, no, asshole, she’s Army, can’t you tell? She’s got the thousand yards.” The third guy says to me, “Don’t mind him, ma’am. They don’t raise ’em right in Mississippi.” They’re trying to be nice, but I don’t want in.

  I don’t want to sleep either. But my head’s tipped back against the steel and I keep waking up, trying to remember whether I’ve dreamed about people dying, but I can’t. I fall asleep once for a long time and when I wake up I can remember death, but I can’t see the faces.

  I wake up once and there’s automatic weapon fire somewhere below us and maybe the slick gets hit once or twice. Another time I wake up and the three guys are talking quietly, real serious, but I’m hurting from no needle and I don’t even listen.

  When the rotors change I wake up. It’s first light and cool and we’re coming in on this big clearing, everything misty and beautiful. It’s triple-canopy jungle I’ve never seen before and I know we’re so far from Cam Ranh Bay or Saigon it doesn’t matter. I don’t see anything that looks like a medevac, just this clearing, like a staging area. There are a lot of guys walking around, a lot of machinery, but it doesn’t look like regular Army. It looks like something you hear about but aren’t supposed to see, and I’m shaking like a baby.

  When we hit the LZ the three guys don’t even know I exist and I barely get out of the slick on my own. I can’t see because of the wash and suddenly this Green Beanie medic I’ve never seen before—this captain—has me by the arm and he’s taking me somewhere. I tell myself I’m not going back to the Big PX, I’m not going to some VA hospital for the rest of my life, that this is the guy I’m going to be assigned to—they need a nurse out here or something.

  I’m not thinking straight. Special Forces medics don’t have nurses.

  I’m looking around me and I don’t believe what I’m seeing. There’s bunkers and M-60 emplacements and Montagnard guards on the perimeter and all this beautiful red earth. There’s every kind of jungle fatigue and cammie you can think of—stripes and spots and black pajamas like Charlie and everything else. I see Special Forces enlisted everywhere and I know this isn’t some little A-camp. I see a dozen guys in real clean fatigues who don’t walk like soldiers walk. I see a Special Forces major and he’s arguing with one of them.

  The captain who’s got me by the arm isn’t saying a thing. He takes me to this little bunker that’s got mosquito netting and a big canvas flap over the front and he puts me inside. It’s got a cot. He tells me to lie down and I do. He says, “The CO wants you to get some sleep, Lieutenant. Someone will come by with something in a little while.” The way he says it I know he knows about the needles.

  I don’t know how long I’m in the bunker before someone comes, but I’m in lousy shape. This guy in civvies gives me something to take with a little paper cup and I go ahead and do it. I’m not going to fight it the shape I’m in. I dream, and keep dreaming, and in some of the dreams someone comes by with a glass of water and I take more pills. I can’t wake up. All I can do is sleep but I’m not really sleeping and I’m having these dreams that aren’t really dreams. Once or twice I hear myself screaming, it hurts so much, and then I dream about a little paper cup and more pills.

  When I come out of it I’m not shaking. I know it’s not supposed to be this quick, that what they gave me isn’t what people are getting in programs back in the States, and I get scared again. Who are these guys?

  I sit in the little bunker all day eating ham-and-motherfuckers from C-rat cans and I tell myself that Steve had something to do with it. I’m scared but it’s nice not to be shaking. It’s nice not to be thinking about a needle all the time.

  The next morning I hear all this noise and I realize we’re leaving, the whole camp is leaving. I can hear this noise like a hundred slicks outside and I get up and look through the flap. I’ve never seen so many choppers. They’ve got Chinooks and Hueys and Cobras and Loaches and a Skycrane for the SeaBee machines and they’re dusting off and dropping in and dusting off again. I’ve never seen anything l
ike it. I keep looking for Steve. I keep trying to remember the dreams I had while I was out all those days and I can’t.

  Finally the Green Beanie medic comes back. He doesn’t say a word. He just takes me to the LZ and we wait until a slick drops in. All these tiger stripes pile in with us but no one says a thing. No one’s joking. I don’t understand it. We aren’t being hit, we’re just moving, but no one’s joking.

  We set up in a highlands valley northwest of where we’d been, where the jungle is thicker but it’s not triple canopy. There’s this same beautiful mist and I wonder if we’re in some other country, Laos or Cambodia.

  They have my bunker dug in about an hour and I’m in it about thirty minutes before this guy appears. I’ve been looking for Steve, wondering why I haven’t seen him, and feeling pretty good about myself. It’s nice not to be shaking, to get the monkey off my back, and I’m ready to thank somebody.

  This guy opens the flap. He stands there for a moment and there’s something familiar about him. He’s about thirty and he’s in real clean fatigues. He’s got MD written all over him—but the kind that never gets any blood on him. I think of VA hospitals, psychiatric wards, and I get scared again.

  “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

  “Fine,” I say, but I’m not smiling. I know this guy from the dreams—the little paper cups and pills—and I don’t like what I’m feeling.

  “Glad to hear it. Remarkable drug, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” I nod. Nothing he says surprises me.

  “Someone wants to see you, Lieutenant.”