“Ah, Mr. Chapel,” Colonel Pardee said, weaving his way through the tables to get to Ernie. He was carrying a briefcase and he set it on the green-and-white terrazzo floor beside his chair. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, but duty doth occasionally detain.”
“You do have a way with words, Colonel,” Ernie said dryly.
“Yes, that is a nice turn of phrase, don’t you think?”
A white-jacketed waiter appeared.
“I’ll have a gin-ton,” Colonel Pardee ordered. “You, Mr. Chapel?”
“I’m fine,” Ernie said, indicating that his beer was practically full. Ernie was a little surprised that Colonel Pardee had ordered a drink in the middle of the day. Particularly since the colonel was on duty.
“I once read,” the colonel said, “that England gave three gifts to civilization: the most expressive language, rare roast beef, and gin-and-tonic. The Frogs might argue over the language, the Chinks over the roast beef, but no one will dispute the medicinal value of a gin-and-tonic, well mixed.” The waiter returned and Colonel Pardee held his glass out to Ernie. “Cheers,” he said.
Ernie, without replying, raised his glass of beer.
“Now,” Colonel Pardee said, putting his glass down and opening his briefcase. “I want you to look at some of the action reports I’ve prepared for release this week and see if there isn’t one you might be able to use.” He handed a sheaf of papers across the table to Ernie.
The crashing glass caused everyone in the bar to duck from the flying splinters. A few jagged pieces of the mirror hung in the frame, and their daggerlike slivers reflected in the face of Hunter Two Bears, twisted in rage.
A bar girl, her eyes cobra-lidded and darkly painted, moved over to Hunter.
“What’s the matta you? Why you do this?” she asked, pointing to the shattered glass on the floor.
“He’s dead,” Hunter said. “He’s dead and it’s Cox’s fault.”
“Maybe you buy me drink you feel better,” the girl suggested.
Hunter pounded his fist on the bar. “I should’ve killed the son of a bitch,” he said.
The girl, deciding that the tall, swarthy G.I. wasn’t fit company, made a face.
“You dinky-dau, G.I.,” she said. “You crazy.”
“Get the fuck away from me!” Hunter said. He took another drink.
“Hey, fella,” a master sergeant called. The master sergeant was in khakis, his overseas cap neatly tucked into his belt. “I don’t know how you do it in the field, but here we don’t talk like that around ladies.”
Hunter stared at the master sergeant. He didn’t say a word but his eyes, picking up the red lights behind the bar, flashed angrily. A few people standing nearby almost expected to see laser beams shooting from his eyes. The master sergeant turned and walked away quickly.
Hunter killed his drink, then walked outside. He was in front of Maxim’s Bar and he stood at the sandbag barricade to let his eyes adjust to the bright, afternoon light.
Hunter was wearing fatigues, not the stifling starched jungle fatigues of the Saigon Warriors, but the soiled fatigues of a man who had worn them in combat. The black stripes pinned to his collar were barely visible, his name tag and the U.S. Army flash were unreadable and he was wearing no shoulder patch. He had on a web belt and an empty holster. He was carrying a pistol in his trousers leg pocket. Because he wore a helmet in the field, he was without a hat.
An M.P. Jeep slowed in front of the bar. “Get a hat, soldier,” one of the M.P.s called.
Technically, Hunter was AWOL. He didn’t want to be picked up by the M.P.s for any infraction because it would take very little to find out his status. In fact, word might already have gone out.
Hunter stepped back inside the bar. He saw a hat lying on a table, so he took it. It had a small, black, First Cavalry pin on it. Hunter wasn’t a member of the First Cavalry but it made no difference to him. He put it on, then went back out front and flagged down a cyclo.
“I grant you, they are well-written pieces,” Ernie was saying. “But surely, Colonel, you can understand my position. It’s a matter of job preservation. If I start using generic material, my editors are likely to wonder why they’re paying to have me over here in the first place.”
“I understand all that, but—” The colonel’s rebuttal was interrupted by a loud, barking call from a rather scruffy-looking soldier who was standing just at the entrance to the Continental’s veranda.
“Chapel! Chapel, these sons of bitches won’t let me in to see you, so you get your ass out here!” Ernie looked around toward the disturbance and was surprised to see SFC Hunter Two Bears. “Hunter! What are you doing here?’’
“I came to see you, you feather-merchant civilian asshole. But these slope-headed bastards won’t let me come in ’cause I’m not properly dressed.”
“See here, Sergeant,” Colonel Pardee said, starting toward Hunter.
“I’ll handle this, Colonel,” Ernie said quickly. “No, by God, I’ll handle it,” Pardee said. “This man is a disgrace to the uniform.”
“He’s drunk, Colonel,” Ernie said. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“All the more reason to get him off the streets.”
“What are you coming over here for, straphanger?” Hunter asked.
“What? What did you call me?”
“Oh, excuse me, Sir,” Hunter said. “I meant, what are you coming over here for, straphanger?”
“Sergeant, I don’t know who you are, or where you came from, but I hope this little episode has been enjoyable for you. I imagine it took you eight or ten years to make those stripes. You are about to lose them all in two minutes.”
“Fuck you, straphanger.”
“What did you say?” Colonel Pardee got so red in the face that Ernie thought he was going to have a stroke.
“Hunter, go get us a taxi. I’ll be right with you.”
“You goddamned right you’ll be right with me,” Hunter said. “Me and you got some serious talking to do.” Hunter staggered back across the sidewalk, then hailed one of the little blue-and-yellow Renault taxicabs. He sat in the backseat and told the driver to wait.
“I’m going to burn that sergeant’s ass,” Colonel Pardee said.
“Colonel, he’s been in the field, he’s seen some rough times. Let me calm him down.”
“I’m sick and tired of the field troopers coming into Saigon like they have an edict from God,” Pardee said. “I won’t put up with it.”
“Suppose I promise to use your release, as written, in my next story?”
“You’re not doing me any favors, you know. That’s my job,” Pardee said.
“And I’ll credit you,” Ernie offered.
“You’ll credit me with the story?”
“Yes.”
Pardee rubbed his chin, then looked toward the taxi. Hunter was leaning his head back on the seat, as if totally unconcerned about what was going on. Pardee sighed. “All right,” he said. He pointed at Hunter. “But I better never see that son of a bitch again.”
“I’ll get him sobered up and cleaned up,” Ernie promised.
“Don’t change one word.”
“Deal,” Ernie said. Ernie hurried over to the taxi, gave the driver an address, and then the taxi made a big U-turn against the traffic and started back down Le Loi.
Colonel Pardee walked over to the telephone, then called the provost marshal’s office of the Saigon Area Command.
“Yes, this is Colonel Pardee from Military Assistance Command, Vietnam. I would like you to locate and apprehend an SFC for me.”
“Apprehend, Colonel?” the voice on the other end asked. “Are you prepared to file charges?”
“Yes, yes, I will file charges,” Pardee said. “What is the nature of the charges?”
“Drunk and disorderly, conduct unbecoming, insubordination, out of uniform, and, I wouldn’t doubt, AWOL.”
“AWOL charges will have to be filed by the sergeant’s command,” the pr
ovost marshal spokesman said. “What is the sergeant’s name?” For a moment Pardee was stuck. Then he remembered hearing Chapel call the sergeant by name. He also remembered seeing the First Cavalry pin on the sergeant’s hat.
“Hunter,” he said, smiling. “Sergeant First Class Hunter, from the First Air Cavalry.”
“All right, Colonel, we’ll get right on it,” the provost marshal promised.
Colonel Pardee hung up the phone and returned to his table, where he ordered another drink. Maybe he had promised Chapel he wouldn’t do anything, but Chapel was a civilian and this was a matter for the military. If he didn’t do his duty, he couldn’t live with himself. Civilians just didn’t understand anything like that.
“Your gin-ton, Colonel,” the waiter said.
“Thank you,” Pardee replied. He took a drink, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Yes, sir, he thought. Civilians just wouldn’t understand.
Approximately forty-five minutes later, Hunter Two Bears, showered and in a fresh pair of fatigues supplied by Ernie Chapel, walked out onto Ernie’s patio. Ernie had whipped up a pot of chili while Hunter was showering, and now he spooned up a bowl for each of them.
“I’m not sure I can handle that,” Hunter said, nodding at the chili.
“Sure you can,” Ernie said. “You’re not hung over, you’re just drunk. You need something to eat and the spices will sober you up real fast.”
“Okay,” Hunter said. He sat down and Ernie poured him a cup of coffee. Hunter took a swallow of coffee, then a bite of chili. “Damn,” he said. “It really is good.”
Both men were silent for several moments. Then, after the food was consumed and the bowls carried back into the kitchen, Ernie came back onto the patio and poured another cup of coffee for each of them.
“You want to tell me about it?” Ernie asked finally.
“Bill Hanlon’s dead,” Hunter said.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I know you liked him.”
“He was...he was like a little brother,” Hunter said. “I mean, he was a feisty little son of a bitch. I don’t know why I liked him. But I did.”
“Is that why you went AWOL?”
“Yeah. No. I mean, there’s more to it than that. Ernie, I’m going to tell you a story that you won’t believe. But believe it. Every word of it is true.”
“I’m listening,” Ernie said.
Hunter took a sip of coffee, then in slow, quiet words told Ernie the story of My Song. When he was finished with the story there was a long moment of silence. Finally, Ernie spoke again.
“Hunter, are you telling me this because you want me to print it? Because if you are, you know I’ll have to have half a dozen verifications before my editor will even come close to it.”
“I know, I know,” Hunter said, waving his hand. He sighed. “To be honest, Ernie, I don’t know why the hell I told you. I guess I just had to have someone to talk to, that’s all. I’m not going to go off and blow myself away the way Bill Hanlon did.”
“Blow himself away? What do you mean?”
“He couldn’t stay with the company anymore,” Hunter said. “So he transferred out. He got killed the first night he went on ambush patrol.”
“Yeah, but that could happen to anyone,” Ernie said.
“Not this way. I went over to find out about it. You know what they told me?”
Ernie shook his head.
“When the V.C. hit, Bill stood up. He just stood up and started walking out across that rice paddy,
shooting his M-16 from his hip. He just walked right toward them, like he was on parade.”
Ernie remembered his own night on ambush patrol. He remembered how terrifying it had been when the V.C. hit…how he had made himself as small as possible while he was loading magazines for Pepper. He thought of what it must have been like for Bill to just stand up and walk toward the V.C.
“You’re right,” he said. “He blew himself away.”
“He couldn’t live with what he saw,” Hunter said. Hunter sighed. “And I can understand it, ’cause I’m having a hell of a time living with what I know.”
“I hope you aren’t planning on doing anything like that,” Ernie said.
“No, I’m not. I didn’t have anything to do with it...I’m not the one who should be blown away. Neither was Bill.” Hunter stood up and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. “Listen, I’ve got to get on back to An Loi,” he said. “The last courier flight leaves in about an hour, and I need to be on it. If I can get back tonight, I’ll be okay. Thanks for sobering me up, feeding me, and listening to me.”
“Sure,” Ernie said. “Listen, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I am now,” Hunter said.
“That’s an incredible story you told me. Would you like me to look into it more—try and come up with the verifications so I can write it?”
“No, that’s all right,” Hunter said. He smiled, though the smile barely reached his eyes. “Just
talkin’ to you about it was good enough. I feel a lot better now, really I do.”
“Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep your head down, okay?”
“You got it.”
As Hunter stood on the curb waiting for a cab, a Jeep with two M.P.s pulled up beside him. Hunter looked at them.
“Excuse me,” one of the M.P.s said. He read the name tags on the shirt…Chapel on one side, Correspondent on the other. “Mr. Chapel?”
For a second Hunter almost corrected him. Then he remembered he was wearing Chapel’s correspondent uniform.
“Yes?” Hunter asked.
“We’re looking for a sergeant first class, a man named Hunter. He’s with the First Cav.”
“You’d know him if you saw him,” the other M.P. said. “He’s a big man, and according to the word we got, he’s so drunk he can barely stand.”
“What did he do?” Hunter asked.
“He cussed out Colonel Pardee,” the first M.P. said.
Hunter chuckled. If they were looking for an SFC Hunter from the First Air Cavalry, there was no way they could even trace it back to him. “I met Colonel Pardee,” Hunter said. “If you ask me, they should give this Sergeant Hunter a medal.” Hunter saw a taxi and flagged it down. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said. “I have a flight to catch.”
Chapter Nine
Sergeant Phat was now Captain Phat. It didn’t really mean anything; soldiers of the People’s Liberation Army weren’t paid a regular salary, they just took what they needed. The fact that Phat was already in charge meant that he could take what he needed anyway.
Some thought it would mean something after the victory. After the victory, the officers and leaders of the liberation movement would be the officers and leaders of the new army and new government. They would have the finest villes in Saigon or Vung Tau. They would have the Mercedeses and the Fords...if they survived.
When Phat first joined the liberation army, he sometimes dreamed of the glory and power that would be his after victory. Then he saw so many of his comrades fall around him that his goal became much more modest. He began to dream only of surviving the war. Then, even more modestly, he hoped to survive from day to day. He no longer even thought about that. He learned some time ago that if he would consider himself already dead, nothing could bother him. He was now the walking dead, with ho hopes, no ambitions, no loves or passions, no hunger or feelings, and no fear.
It was because Phat had no fear of the present and no hope for the future that he did not flinch when orders came down to lead a sapper team through the wire at An Loi. It was a suicide mission and all who took it understood that. There had always been suicide missions during times of war, most notably the suicide missions of the Kamikaze pilots during World War II. The Kamikaze pilots were ennobled by their status, elevated almost to the rank of gods.
There was no such elevation with Phat or the other members of his sapper team. In their minds, they were already dead anyway and beyond su
ch things as glory, patriotism, or honor. They undertook the assignment with the same calmness they showed when ordered to unload a cart of rice.
It was just before dawn. There were three men at bunker number five, a PFC, a spec-four and a spec-five. The spec-five was in charge and they were “blasting” pot. That was to say, one man would inhale a mouthful of smoke, then blow it through a gun barrel into the mouth of another. This had the effect of making a hit more concentrated, thus producing a more intense high.
“Oh, wow, far out!” the PFC said. The gun barrel they were using was the barrel of his riot shotgun. The bunker was equipped with an M-60 machine gun, known as a “pig,” an M-16, and a twelve-gauge shotgun. The shotgun would be effective only at close range, so they felt secure in breaking it down to use it for blasting. “Sheeeit!” the PFC shouted. Then he laughed.
“Goddammit! Keep it down!” the spec-five warned. “You want the N.C.O.I.C. to come snoopin’ around?”
“Don’t worry ’bout that motherfucker, man. He ain’t gonna come outta his bunker all night long. That man’s cuttin’ some z’s, man.”
“What was that?” the spec-four asked.
“What was what?”
“That sound. I heard a...a pinging sound.”
“A ping? Like someone cutting through the wire?” the PFC asked.
“Yeah, man,” the spec-four said. “Like someone cutting through the wire.”
The PFC laughed. The PFC had been busted from spec-five and he was an old hand in Vietnam. The spec-four was new.
“I used to hear that kinda shit all the time myself,” the PFC said. “The first few times you come out on the wire, man, you spend the whole night thinkin’ Charlie’s sneakin’ up on your ass. Everything you hear, you think it’s Charlie. There ain’t nothin’ out there. Come on, give me another blast.”
The spec-four took a deep drag, then got ready. The PFC put the end of the gun barrel in his mouth and waited. The smoke hit his lungs at about the same time the knife hit his back. When he gasped, the other two thought it was the result of the smoke. By the time he fell forward with a knife in his back, four V.C. were crawling into the bunker. The M-16 was leaning against the corner, the M-60 was pointed away from the compound, and the short-range riot gun was broken down. The spec-five and the spec-four had no means of defense. They were killed before they could make a sound.
Dateline: Viet Nam: A Military Thriller Double Page 26