He opened a few cans while he talked. "Anybody who wants anything has to eat here. I ain't about to supply the black market. I got pork and beans, meat and potatoes, spaghetti, eggs, and chocolate for you. The chocolate's great, but the eggs are terrible. That's life in the big city."
He beckoned the littlest kid over and sat him on his lap. "Baby-sahn, you say America number one."
The little kid blurted, "Number one."
An older kid yelled, "America, number ten."
Baby-sahn called his heckler up. "Hey, wise guy, say Baby-sahn, number one."
The kid laughed. "Baby-sahn, number one."
Baby-sahn grinned. He broke off a piece of chocolate and gave it to the joker. "You big guys have to wait.” He tousled the hair of the tyke on his lap. "Bet you never ate with a spoon before.” He fed him a plastic spoonful of pork and beans. Everybody laughed. "It ain't nice, but it's not bad," said Baby-sahn.
Night settled down, and the kids went home. In the moonlight, under a blanket of stars, the little huts of the village looked warm and inviting. They spoke hauntingly of a simpler, more innocent life. The smell of ashes, clay, and greenery drifted on the night breeze. The wind carried intermittent snores.
"Patty, you awake," said Baby-sahn.
"Yeah," answered Patty. "I can't sleep."
Baby-sahn crawled over and leaned on his elbows. "I'm short, Patsin," he said softly.
"Nothing wrong with that."
"No," he said. "I didn't mean that. I mean not many days left in the old army. This is my last mission 'cause I'm leaving when you guys go on the boat."
"You could always re-up.” Patty smiled in the dark.
"Stop kidding around. I want to talk.” He spoke angrily. "Just 'cause I'm a little guy and young, you guys never take me seriously. Hell. I got thoughts in my head just like everybody else. And I got feelings too. That's something you never noticed, did you?"
Patty felt put upon. "Go ahead. Talk. We got the whole night."
Baby-sahn put his hand on Patty's wrist. "You'll listen, won't you?"
Patty nodded in silence. Baby-sahn's gentle grip on his wrist made him nervous.
"I joined the Army," Baby-sahn began. "I know you smart guys, you draftees laugh at us three year heroes, but I wanted to do it. You see, I thought it would make me a man. Oh, not in the stupid way the slogans say, but it would do it somehow. Give me a chance to test myself, to have my first real job, money on my own, maybe a girlfriend. I wanted to know if I was a coward or a hero. I never ran under fire, but somehow I don't feel like I was ever really tested. You know what I mean. Eyeball to eyeball. And now I'm going home in a couple weeks, and I guess I won't never know. I always wanted to know. I really did.” His hand slipped off Patty's wrist.
In the silence, the stars seemed immense and close, almost palpable and wet with the dew of the earth.
"What do you want out of life?" said Baby-sahn. His voice rose faceless out of the earth.
Patty shrugged. "The usual stuff. An old lady, a couple kids, a house, a job. Sounds a little drab, even to me."
"Well, I don't want any of it. I want something to believe in, something great to die for, to show I love my country. I want to fight Hitler like my dad did, not some little, hungry, yellow-skinned bastard."
"Pipe down," said Patty. "People are sleeping."
"Patsin, you know what I mean?"
"Yeah, I know.” Patty paused and closed his eyes. After a minute, he spoke. "When I was in high school, I had this dream. Again and again, I died in the arms of a helpless lover after I'd saved her life. And only in my death did she know and appreciate what a fine idealistic guy I am. Only then did she realize that she loved me."
"Ideals, that's it."
Patty shook his head and laughed bitterly. "No, it's not. That's bullshit. They knock that stuff out of you when you grow up. You hear too many lies and read about dead babies in trash cans. They teach you to cheat and lie when you become a man 'cause you got to get yours, or nobody respects you. Well, I'll get mine. I'm getting wheels and a home when I get back to the world, and the hell with fancy dreams."
"You're not like that," said Baby-sahn. He put his hand back on Patty's wrist. "I can tell. You care too much about people. You won't change."
"Yeah, buster. You watch me. I got a motto. Just two words for when I get back in the world - 'Get it'. That's my theme song. And when I get back in the world, you better believe I'll eat people alive to get what's coming to me. I earned it."
"No, you won't," said Baby-sahn. "You're not the type."
"What do you know?” Patty shook him off. "And keep your creepy hand off my arm."
Patty lay back, cradled his head on his hands, and closed his eyes. But somehow he couldn't keep the light of the stars out. They were like a neon sign that flashed a warning. That stupid Baby-sahn. Tears started in Patty's eyes, and he fought them back as he remembered the days when he walked in peace marches and the long night in a tent with a black man when he'd shared hopes and dreams with an intensity that felt like prayer. He looked over at Baby-sahn but no words came. The cold clay of night chilled the back of his hand. He shivered. Night settled over him, deep and quiet, dreamless and empty.
Frank shook Patty awake as the sky began to shed light. "You're on, buddy."
"Okay. I'm awake," said Patty.
"It's five thirty," said Frank. He handed Patty a watch and crawled off to sleep.
The last shift before dawn was the nicest time for watch. The stars disappeared, and morning filtered out of a little box in yawns of gray. It was a good time for Patty. The earth, the trees, the river, the smell of water buffalos. All things seemed new and fresh. He gazed out at the land and wondered at all he'd never touched or felt. The fog rose, slowly revealing new and sparkling detail each minute until, like magic, the world bathed in bright morning.
Patty looked at the watch. It was six thirty. He stood up and stretched. "Okay, men. It's time," he called. "Time for breakfast. Even you, Baby-sahn.” He walked over and kicked him on the rear.
"Enough," Baby-sahn growled. Patty smiled down at him, turned, and walked away.
The short business of eating breakfast and getting ready for the day ended like faded chatter, cigarette butts of words stamped out on the hot ground. The men started the day's march and swung into the patient step that would last until the zing of a bullet or an officer's rest order.
Two little boys trailed Baby-sahn. He tossed them bits of chocolate, shared his canteen, and talked to them as he walked, until the heat silenced even him, and the little boys walked sadly behind.
The men passed through parched, empty rice fields of baked dirt and cracked stream beds with puddles of putrid brown water guarded by hordes of humming mosquitoes. A small clump of trees, and more dry rice beds, spider-cracked. The land, the trees, the river beds repeated themselves in a slow rhythm of dry circles.
The V.C. opened fire at noon. They weren't much of a unit, just a half dozen guns popping off. They'd opened up too soon and hadn't hit anybody, hadn't really shot to hit. Fear had fired their rifles, fear of all the olive uniforms closing in on their little squad. The area was easy, an easy mission, and the V.C. had time to flee. They should have. Their guns popped off and hit only air and dust while Charlie Company slipped deftly behind the dikes. Italy radioed for choppers, and the firing ceased. In the afternoon stillness, the soldiers stretched out and rested from the day's march. Some ate lunch and some dozed.
An occasional bullet, meaningless and empty, chopped the air. Then, the silence returned.
One of Baby-sahn's little orphans whined at him. The little child cried and tugged at his sleeve.
"Those hungry brats have bottomless stomachs," complained Baker.
"The kids are my problem," answered Baby-sahn.
The child pulled at Baby-sahn's shirt. He pounded Baby-sahn's chest with his little fist.
"Smack him and send him packing," drawled Baker.
Tears slid down the child's
cheeks. Baby-sahn grabbed him and pulled him onto his lap. He hugged his to his chest. "Don't you worry, little one. Baby-sahn will take care of you."
"Those orphans will cry your heart out and shoot you in the back first chance they get," said Baker. "You better watch out, a lot of them are V.C. agents."
The child squirmed on Baby-sahn's lap and pointed out into the open field toward the woods. He broke free and started to run. Baby-sahn left the safety of the dike and ran after him. He tackled him and crawled back with the child in tow. He brought the child over to Patty.
"Watch him, Patty, will you?" he said. He turned to the child and spoke gruffly. "You stay put, you hear.” He pointed at the ground and made a stern face.
"What you doing?" said Patty.
"Nothing," Baby-sahn answered. He turned and slid back over the dike.
"What's up?" called Patty.
"His brother's out there," answered Baby-sahn.
"Man, you're crazy," said Baker. "Leave him be. He's probably just faking."
Baby-sahn bellied out into the field, ten, twenty, fifty yards, snaking slowly over the hot clay. Patty wiped sweat from his forehead and watched Baby-sahn's slow crawl over the open field. The dark-eyed child peered over the dike just as Patty was doing. He looked up at Patty and squeezed his hand in his two little fists.
Patty patted him on the head, "Don't cry, little one. We'll get him."
Baby-sahn poured sweat as he crawled forward. His knees and elbows stung. He was halfway to the enemy line. Surely they could see him, but they didn't fire. He reached the child who lay on his back, whimpering in a puddle of dried blood."
"Shh. Baby-sahn will take care of you.” He stroked the child's forehead, picked him up in his arms and stood up. For a long minute, he stood still facing the V.C., the child cradled in his arms. Finally, he turned and walked slowly back. Camp crawled over and met him at the dike. Baby-sahn laid the child back on the ground and wiped blood from his fingers on to the dike.
"You'll fix him up, Doc, won't you?" said Baby-sahn.
"Sure," said Camp.
"You did a brave thing," said Patty.
"Nothing," answered Baby-sahn. "Can you help him, Doc?"
"Sure. It's only a leg wound."
Baby-sahn took the other child on his lap. The child threw his arms around Baby-sahn's neck and clung tightly to him.
"You might get a medal now," said Patty.
"They don't give medals for helping Charlie," yelled Baker.
A gunship hummed overhead.
"41st Med-Evac, come in," said Italy. "41st Med-Evac, this is Charlie Three One Oscar, over."
The gunship opened fire. It rained bullets down on the enemy.
CHAPTER 11: ON THE BOAT
At first sight, the ship seemed a little gray dot on the dark ocean. Soon, it grew into a giant tower. Alone on the water with the sun setting, the ship gleamed silver gray and red. As the chopper closed in, the ship loomed up like a big mother hen, with ten helicopters floating on a side platform and a dozen attack ships tethered to its belly. A white sheet hung like a flag on the sundeck.
The double white circle bulls-eye landing target came into focus, and Patty felt a tightening in his chest. Home. Alive and safe after the first boat mission. They landed on the bulls-eye, and Patty jumped out, ducking under the spinning helicopter blades and ran through the wind onto the main deck. The turning blades and the plastic dome of the helicopter caught the evening sun, reflected it clear and red.
"Patsin, here's your beer. Wipe that stupid grin off your face."
Patty laughed. "Thanks, Donner."
He plopped down on the deck and leaned back against a bulkhead. Mac took his one beer reward and sat down beside him.
"One lousy beer after a three day mission," said Mac.
Patty nodded. "Man, you smell."
"Three days of sweat," said Mac. "You ain't exactly a rose neither."
Rob walked past them.
"Hey, Rob," said Mac. "Take a load off your feet and drink your beer with us."
"Don't bug me, man.” Rob scowled.
"That mission wasn't bad, huh?" said Mac.
"I ain't doing whitey's shit never again.” Rob stalked off.
"Man," Patty called after him. "You can't hide in the laundry forever."
"Fuck you," Rob yelled. A metal door banged shut behind him.
"Patty, you shouldn't have said nothing," said Mac.
"I'm sorry, but he gets to me."
They sat on the deck and drank as twilight fell. Patty was tired, and the can was icy in his hand. The beer felt good, cold going down.
"I guess there's no hot water in the shower," said Patty idly.
"Maybe.” Mac tossed his empty can into the water. "Man, let me steal a swig of your beer."
"Finish it.” Patty handed him the can.
Mac drained the last gulp and sailed the can out over the ocean. "Thanks, Patty."
"No big thing."
Dark fell quickly, and the ocean breeze turned chilly. They got up weary-legged from three days of marches and clanked down the steps into the belly of the ship.
"Home," muttered Mac. He hesitated as he gazed out over the packed gray room with bunks piled three high, cramped amid protruding pipes. Chuckling softly, he dove into the crowd, pushing his way through the narrow aisles to the back wall. He turned to Patty and grinned. "We made it, Sarge."
Patty nodded. They had the special privacy of the back wall and the corner with the loudspeaker. Under the loudspeaker hung 'Playmate of the Month.' She wore a beard and moustache. Mac advocated braces for her teeth.
They stood in the aisles, leaned against the bunks, and stripped off their clothes. Caked mud cracked from their pants and boots. The room was wall-to-wall naked men, smelling from three days of sweat and fear. Patty's legs itched. Mud flecked off when he scratched.
Mac tapped him on the shoulder, and they headed for the showers. The shower room was big, and the fifty showers filled it with steam. When they were hot, they were wonderful. They had a hard spray that massaged all the aches. Warmed by the steam, the men stood around waiting their turns, laughing and slapping naked rear ends.
Mac slid under the spray and moaned. "Somebody shoot me. I want to die right here."
"Mac, you're supposed to be taking a shower, not moving in for the night," said Patty. "Hurry up, I'm waiting."
"Just bring me a pillow, that's all I want," answered Mac.
Rob elbowed his way out of the shower without a word or a smile. Patty took his place under the shower. The hot spray hit him, and he trembled. He imagined that the dirt was holding him together and that when it washed off, he would sink to the floor and bubble down the drain. But the shower felt good. When he came out, the aches were gone.
He dressed quickly and hustled to the mess hall. As usual, the meal was skimpy. Rob threw his tray of half-eaten food on the floor, jumped up and screamed, "I just risked my life, and you honky bastards out selling my food on the black market.” He glanced quickly around. Tears started in his eyes. He broke into a sweat and ran from the room.
Patty looked at Mac out of the corner of his eye. Mac sat still with his head bowed, gazing at his tray. He got up without looking at anyone and left the room.
Patty grabbed an uneaten piece of bread from Mac's tray. Rob was right, thought Patty, but there was nothing to do.
Chairs scraped, and the men drifted back to the bunks for a free evening. They stripped off unnecessary clothes and got comfortable, black and white bodies stretching out on the bunks and on the floor.
In the intersection of two aisles, Italy gathered the poker players. "Come on," he called. "Anybody with money can take on the king pin.” Patty had tried once. It cost him fifty dollars. Italy raked in a pot. He winked at Camp and smiled. "You got a good mind, but you need a quick eye.” He looked around the circle of players. "This is a game of skill, gentlemen. If you need loans to get through the month, I'll speak to you after the game, ten percent 'til pay
day. Okay, gentlemen, shut up and let's deal."
In the far corner, the hillbillies gathered around the loudspeaker and read snatches of the Bible between country and western songs. Baker read, "'A woman of worth, who can find, for her value is far above rubies.'" He smiled and patted his shirt pocket where he carried a picture of his dark-eyed wife.
"Can it," yelled Italy. "We got an important meeting going on here."
"You'll burn in hell for playing cards," rejoined Leigh.
"Leigh, even you don't believe that crap," said Italy.
"Up yours," snapped Leigh.
"Okay, but just let me live long enough to win some money. Roll 'em, gentlemen."
Baker continued, "' . . . the heart of her husband doth safely trust. . . '"
"Fifty cents on the one-eyed bastard," chanted Italy.
'The Green, Green Grass of Home' came on the loudspeaker and silenced everybody. Italy stopped dealing, the southerners stopped praying, and the blacks, and the letter-writers, and the rifle-polishers were silenced.
When the singer sang, "How I long to touch the green, green grass of home," Leigh, a grown man who had killed other men, cried. Nobody thought him a fool. Nobody tried to comfort him. Each man shared his grief and was grateful for his tears.
Mac, big clown that he was, ended the reverie. "Goddamn it, Patty. I'm gonna buy that record from Camp."
"I thought you didn't like country music," said Patty.
"No, not that shit. I mean 'American Woman.'" He shuffled down the aisle doing what he called the Harlem Boogaloo. "And that's with a capital 'H' and a capital 'B', brother.” He slapped his hands and sang, "'American Woman, stay away from me. American woman, can't you see. . .' Camp, you greedy mother, get out of that poker game. I got fifty cool smackers here, and I want that record now, ASAP, meaning as soon as possible for all you square dudes."
"Mac, you're ruining my concentration," said Italy. "One dollar on the black aces."
"You sure that ain't black asses," said Mac.
"I'm out," said Camp.
"My pleasure.” Italy smiled as he raked in the money. "Skill, gentlemen, just skill. Fifty bucks is a lot of bread for just one record. You hurry back, Camp."
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