He swung around the gate just as the guards noticed him. He flicked on the lights, and floored the gas pedal. The jeep shot forward.
"Go, brother," yelled Mac.
Everybody cheered as they jolted down the dirt road through the swamp.
In the yellow glow of the headlights, green trees and heavy foliage zipped by. Frogs jumped for cover.
The night jungle smelled heavy. When they pulled into the bushes, everyone quieted down. Frank clicked off the motor and killed the lights. The familiar jungle closed over them. Crickets chirped in the dark.
Frank spoke. "From here, I'll foot it into town. I'll take the woods trail back at two. You'll hear when they jump me. Don't get so drunk that you forget."
"Good luck, Frank," said Patty.
"Have fun," Camp said.
"Give my best to Frenchy," said Mac.
"You bet your sweet ass I will.” Frank grabbed a beer, snapped it open, and jumped out of the jeep. He walked off and started singing into the dark. "A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.” His voice trailed off in the distance.
"That's a good man," said Mac.
"Yeah," responded Camp.
"So what are we gonna do for the next couple hours," said Baker.
"I know what I'm doing.” Mac pulled himself out of the jeep. "Man, that's tight for four dudes.” He picked up a Bud, sat down on the ground, and leaned back against the jeep. Everybody but Italy got out and took a beer.
"That's the way, men," said Italy. "Take your positions.” He stretched out in the back seat. "Me, I like a soft seat. Toss me a beer, Patty."
Patty pitched him one.
"One case is for now," said Camp. "The rest is for after the fight."
"Mac leaned back and closed his eyes. The jungle smelled good to him. "I go with the dark," he said softly.
"What?" said Patty.
"This is my place," said Mac. "I can hide in the dark, and it feels fine. I can smell everything growing, and it's not concrete and garbage. Listen."
A low wind rustled the palms. Crickets whistled. Strange animals cried. The jungle encircled them. Patty snapped open a beer, but it had no effect.
"I wish I was home," said Baker.
Nobody answered.
Patty pictured Frank's bashed face again. "Mac?"
"Yeah, Patty. What?"
"You ever get scared in a fight?"
"Yeah. The trick is not to show it."
Patty closed his eyes. He remembered his last fight in high school. They went down and fought in the black sand below a trestle. The guy was big and slow, but no matter how many times Patty hit him, he kept getting up and coming on with that black coal dust caked on his face. In twenty minutes, he didn't take one backward step. Everybody stood around them and cheered for blood. Patty's arms felt like lead. He struggled to his knees and tried to swing, but his strength was gone. The bull threw a long, loping right. Patty saw it coming, but his arms wouldn't move. The fist landed high on his forehead. He heard the thud, and the circle of people spun. Another punch split Patty's nose as he fell. He awoke on the ground. Everyone but Janet was gone. She held his head on her lap and cried, tears streaking black smudges on her face. The sky spun. Patty rubbed dry, dark blood from his cheek. His head ached.
Patty opened his eyes. The moon was up. "Hey, Mac, you like fighting with your fist or a rifle?"
"Man, I can take a punch, but one shitty little bullet, and you can hang it up."
"Yeah, I guess.” Patty picked up a blade of grass, sucked on it and thought. In combat, you never touched the enemy. He never touched you. You never saw his eyes widen, his throat bob. A bullet or a piece of shrapnel whistled through the air, caught the surprised flesh unaware, and carried away a fistful of meat. You only got tired of walking. And the recoil of the rifle felt clean and good.
Headlights flashed up the road and disappeared. Patty sat up and looked around. Mac took a long swig of beer.
"Don't worry, Patty. You get used to fighting, like anything else."
"I'm used to it. Is it time?"
"Hey, Camp," Mac called out. "Is it time?"
Camp looked at his watch. "Yeah, it's time. Italy, you think you can get your fat ass in gear."
"I'm ready," said Italy. He got out of the jeep.
"Let's go, men," said Camp. "Me, Mac and Patty will take the far side of the trail. You guys take this side. Keep it buttoned. The M.P.s will be here soon, and we want this to be a surprise party."
Camp walked off into the woods. Mac and Patty followed behind him. They came to the trail in a couple minutes, crossed to the far side, and sat down in the brush. Mac pushed a cobweb off his face. Patty slapped a mosquito. Baker, Leigh and Italy waited on the other side.
The silver moon lit the trail like a streetlight. For a moment it slid behind a cloud, then reappeared. Patty's thoughts drifted, but his mind was empty, unfocused. Time slipped with a slow beat.
The voices of the M.P.s broke the stillness.
"Think that stupid grunt will ever learn?"
"Nah. If he had a brain in his head, he wouldn't be an infantry man."
Crackling leaves and crickets drowned out some words.
". . . old lady all right now?"
"Yeah . . . okay, thank God."
The footsteps stopped. "Cut the gab," said the sergeant. "I think I hear him.” They waited.
The thin reed of a distant voice sang above the chirping. The voice grew louder and fuller. "Eighty-one bottles of beer on the wall, eighty-one bottles of beer. . ."
Camp gripped Patty's shoulder. Mac shook his fist and grinned, a bright, toothy grin.
"If one of those bottle should happen to fall . . .”
"Grunt, you're off limits."
"Why Sergeant Kowalski. Fancy meeting you here."
"I thought you don't talk to M.P.s, grunt."
The ambush squad crawled forward. In the moonlight, seven M.P.s stood in a semicircle around Frank.
"Why, sergeant, it's always a pleasure to talk to you. After all, everybody knows fat men have a good sense of humor.” Frank smiled.
"Listen, smart ass. We're gonna kick shit out of you before we take you in. You got me?"
"Yeah, Sarge, I got you.” Frank’s voice dropped menacingly. "I'm not drunk this time. So, are you coming first, Kowalski? 'Cause you been putting it to me for a long time, and now it's my turn."
"Yeah. I'm coming first.” Kowalski smacked his club on his palm and started forward. His men pulled out their clubs and moved forward.
"Hey, grunts, get 'em," yelled Camp.
The M.P.s froze. In that instant, the trap snapped shut.
"Welcome to grunt territory, Sarge," yelled Frank as his fist thudded into Kowalski's jaw.
Patty hooked an M.P. from behind, took three quick running steps, and smashed his head into a tree. The man dropped and was out. Mac yanked an M.P.'s arm upward and behind his back. The arm cracked with a snap. Mac spun around, pulled a man off Leigh, and kneed him in the balls. The man doubled up, and Mac's other knee smashed his face. Frank picked up the Sergeant and knocked him down again. Baker, panting, sat on an M.P. Every few seconds, he slapped him with his open left hand, then thudded his right fist into the man's face.
Wiping his hands on his pants, Camp stood quietly above a prone M.P.
Italy squatted beside Patty and spit. He rubbed his shoulder. "That crud hit me with his club."
Patty nodded.
"Enough," called Camp.
Frank left the Sergeant on the ground and spat out, "Next time, Kowalski, you remember I got friends."
Mac and Leigh pulled Baker off his M.P.
Baker screamed at Mac. "Leave me alone, you black mother fucker. I'm gonna kill that son of a bitch."
Mac held him in a bear hug. "Cool it, man," said Mac. "He didn't do nothing to you. What you want to kill him for?"
"I'll kill him. I'll kill
him."
"Easy," said Leigh. "It's all over."
Baker quieted down, and Mac released him.
"Let's get to the jeep," said Frank. His voice had an edge of ice and panting.
"We'll get you," Kowalski called out weakly.
"Fuck you," said Frank. He turned and walked off. The rest of the men followed him.
They got into the jeep and grabbed beers.
"Good fight, men," said Italy.
Nobody answered. Frank gunned the motor and flipped the lights on. They powered out of the bushes with a jolt and zoomed forward. The wind whipped past their faces.
Italy swigged his beer. "Frank, I got an objection."
"Yeah?"
"That's no way to talk about fat men."
Frank was silent for a minute. Then he spoke. "Italy, what do you mean? I said fat men have a good sense of humor. Anyway, you're not fat, you're cute."
His words broke the tension, and everybody laughed.
"Bunch of pushovers," said Leigh.
"Hey," said Baker. "This isn't the way to the base."
"So what," answered Frank. "Have another beer."
"Where we headed?" said Camp.
"To the port.” Frank pulled a key out of his pocket and waved it over his head. "I requisitioned the Colonel's motor boat."
Everybody talked at once, kidded around, and popped beers as they zipped up the dark road. They drank two cases during the thirty minute ride to the port.
Mac leaned heavily against Baker as they swung up the port road. "Hey, Baker, just once I want to hear you say black mother fucker, sir."
Baker was silent.
Frank slammed the car to a stop beside the colonel's sleek little motor boat. Its windshield glinted in the moonlight. The boat was a red and white eighteen footer with a black steering wheel, eight seats and an outboard motor.
"Gentlemen," said Frank. "Would you care for the island tour or the harbor sights specialty?” He finished another Bud and tossed it in the water. "Come on. Out of this truck, you drunken bums."
"Anybody got a deck of cards?" said Italy.
"In the boat," said Frank. "I'll take you on the harbor tour."
They got out of the jeep. Baker jumped into the boat, and Frank tossed him the two remaining cases of beer. Italy strolled over to the boat, stepped off the dock, and splashed into the water. He came up sputtering and stood chest deep.
"Goddamn it. Get me out of here. I'll drown."
Leigh and Patty dragged him out.
He shook himself like a wet dog. "Okay. Which one of you bastards moved the boat?” He stood there, glaring with his hands on his hips.
"What boat," Frank smirked.
"That one over there."
"Oh. That one."
"Yeah. That one."
Frank shook his head. "Italy, I'm afraid you're drunk."
"Not me."
"Listen, good buddy. Either that or you're blind."
"My aim's always been bad."
"Yeah. Then don't ever take a piss when you're standing next to me."
"Hey. Where's the cards?" said Italy.
"C'mon," called Baker. "I'm waiting."
Frank gripped Italy's arm and helped him into the boat. Everybody piled in behind them. Frank turned the ignition. The motor roared. The boat lifted a little in the air and slapped hard into the water.
"Jesus. You forgot to untie the rope," said Camp.
"It's untied now," answered Frank. "Open up some beers and pass 'em this way.” He slapped the side of the boat, and the sound echoed above the roar of the motor.
They zoomed out to the middle, the boat smacking up and down on the water. At every sharp turn, somebody fell out of his seat.
"Easy," said Camp.
Frank cut the motor to half throttle.
Patty sat in the rear corner of the boat, trailing his hand in the cool water, and sipping beer. The wind sprayed water on his face. He looked at Baker moodily drinking a beer and thought about him sitting on that M.P., slapping and punching him, ready to kill him. The cool wind tickled Patty's hair. The water chilled his fingers. He sipped the last of the tepid beer and dropped the can overboard. It bobbed on the water and disappeared in the dark. Patty nodded off to sleep.
Baker shook his shoulder. "Patty."
"Mnn. Hmnh," Patty forced his eyes open.
Baker squeezed his arm. "I don't want to die."
Patty smiled and closed his eyes.
Up front, Frank, Mac, and Camp sang "Roll me over in the clover again." The sound of their voices came from a distance, and Patty fell asleep.
"Atten-hut," called Lieutenant Bryan, the crew cut, baby-faced kid who'd replaced Captain Madison.
The company snapped to attention. Sun poured down out of the blue cloudless sky, and wind kicked up dust on the company street.
The Colonel strode up, snapped a salute to Lieutenant Bryan, and turned to the formation. "At ease, men."
Grimly, he looked over the unit. "I've called this formation because a very serious matter has come to my attention. I understand that some men from this company willfully attacked and beat the living hell out of a squad of M.P.s. That kind of behavior cannot and will not be tolerated in the U.S. Army. Now, who did it?"
Nobody moved.
"Come on. Step forward like men."
Frank walked to the front of the formation. The rest of the attack squad followed him and formed a row in front of the Colonel.
"How do, Colonel, sir.” Frank smiled.
"None of your lip, soldier.” The Colonel glared at him. "Frank, I've come to expect this kind of stuff from you, but the rest of you men should be ashamed of yourselves. I want you to see what you've done.” He turned. "Sergeant Kowalski, bring your men out."
The M.P.s came out of a little shed and walked slowly over to the formation.
The Colonel stood silent and waited for a moment. "Sergeant," he snapped. "Don't you salute when you greet a Colonel?"
The Sergeant saluted.
"Men, you'll notice," said the colonel, "That the Sergeant didn't answer me. That's because one of you bastards broke his jaw and his mouth is wired shut. And look at this man's face.” He put his arm around a second M.P. "And not one, but two men with broken arms. And this man is on crutches. And another in the hospital with a concussion. You men aren't soldiers; you're animals, regular front line grunts. Stop smiling, Frank."
He went to the last soldier and squeezed his shoulder until the man winced. "And this man got off without a scratch. You men are confined to barracks for the rest of the day. Get your weapons clean. We have a mission at the crossroads tomorrow."
One of the M.P.s stared at the colonel. "But, sir, what kind of punishment is that? They're always confined to barracks on the day before a mission."
"Stop being a crybaby, soldier. These are combat soldiers, and I need them."
"Yes, sir."
"M.P.s dismissed."
The Sergeant saluted. They shuffled and limped stiffly away.
"One more thing, men. If anybody ever again touches my boat or my jeep, I will personally beat the living crap out of him.” He turned to Lieutenant Bryan. "Welcome to Charlie Company, Lieutenant.” He saluted and strode away.
"Atten-hut.” Bryan yelled smartly as he clicked his heel. "Troop dismissed."
CHAPTER 10: NUMBER ONE, NUMBER TEN
Baby-sahn. Baby. In a slitted dress that hinted of delicate skin and warm legs, a Saigon beauty peeked out from under dark hair. Softly she gazed at a stranger. "Hello, baby. Want to buy me a Saigon tea, baby?” Out came rock music.
Baby-sahn. Sahn. The word was soft like a southern drawl. "Sahn, you all come on over heah. Sahn, set down, and we talk.” The word slid like a lullaby, like a drink of tea.
Baby-sahn was a soldier who didn't quite fit, a squad member who was almost a stranger. He was 5' 4", and 110 pounds, built more like a Vietnamese peasant than an American soldier, except for his color. He had fair skin, blond crew-cut hair, innocent blue eyes
, and a child's face. He shaved every morning, but once a year would have been enough. Chicago was his home town and he walked with a swagger like a gangster from the thirties.
"What you say, bud?" he said to the mirror as he took a swipe with his razor.
"Hey, Baby-sahn," yelled Italy. "Put a little milk on your face and have a cat lick it off."
"Your ass," snapped Baby-sahn.
"No bad words for Baby-sahn," said Camp.
Baby-sahn gave them the finger. "I'll walk your asses off on the next mission."
The day of the mission was hot and dry. The sky was an empty, endless bright blue. The earth shimmered in waves of heat. It stretched out flat and almost treeless to the horizon.
Baby-sahn took point and set a fast pace. After a couple hours, everyone was dragging.
"Come on, you pansies," yelled Baby-sahn. "Move it. If you're soft, get a desk job.” He stepped up the pace.
Patsin told him to slow down, but Baby-sahn stayed on point and kept moving. There were no V.C. and the day sped by.
In the twilight, they set up camp near a small village, just a couple dozen huts on the edge of a smelly, almost dry stream. The men sipped tepid water from their canteens and broke open their Crations.
Vietnamese children slowly materialized out of the twilight, and came timidly to the tired soldiers. They didn't speak. They rubbed their little bellies, opened their mouths, and pointed inside. The soldiers tried to ignore them and the children drifted closer. A little eight-year-old with a swollen belly uttered "American . . . food" and a few of the others started to cry.
The soldiers tensed their shoulders and looked away as they cooked their rations. After a few missions, they'd learned not to give food away, because each dole brought more and more of those sad little beggars until the food was gone, and the soldier sat there hungry and empty, surrounded by little, staring faces.
Baby-sahn was crazy. He loved the kids. "Come on over here, you little brats," he yelled. He sat down with his legs crossed like a Buddha. "Okay, you monkeys, move it."
They must have understood his tone because they gathered around him. He pointed to himself. "Me Baby-sahn.” He pointed to the semi-circle. "You baby-sahn. I got food for everybody, so just you line up. I had to steal to get it, so you better be grateful.”
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