Bryan pulled a bottle out of a cabinet and held it up. "You want some scotch?"
Patty frowned. "I got some letters to write."
"Come on, Patsin. Relax. A couple fingers of scotch won't hurt you.” He poured the brown liquid into two glasses. His hand shook as he poured, and a little scotch splashed on the carpet.
"Officers have it pretty good," said Patty as he accepted a glass.
Bryan nodded and sat down. "They ought to improve your barracks. They're too crowded."
Patty looked at the lamp on the end table beside him. "I'm not complaining."
"To the world," said Bryan softly. Patty took a sip, and Bryan eyed him. "What are you thinking about, Patsin?"
Patty looked down. "I'm thinking about Jimmy. He'll never see it again."
Bryan put his half-empty glass down on the end table. "Listen, Patsin. I don't want any trouble from you."
Patty looked up, surprised.
Bryan leaned forward in his chair. He'd turned pale and his jaws were set. "This was a tough mission. You and I have different ideas of what happened, but it's over now, so let's forget it."
Patty sank back in his chair and crossed his legs. He felt bitter. "Bryan, I didn't come up here to argue. Just what do you want to forget?"
Bryan stood up angrily. "Patsin, I'm an officer, and I don't have to take any crap from you. Just remember I can make it a hell of a lot rougher on you than you can make it on me."
Patty stood up and stepped close to the lieutenant. "Bryan, I got letters to write, and I'm not in the mood for small talk. If you got something to tell me, say it."
Bryan hesitated.
Patty looked carefully at him. "My time's valuable. In the future, don't waste it unless you got an order for me."
Bryan bit his lip. "Alright, Patsin. I've got an order for you. I'll be down to inspect the squad in two hours. You better get everything squared away."
"Listen, Bryan."
"Lieutenant Bryan to you."
"Listen, Lieutenant Bryan. We just got in a couple hours ago, and the men are tired. If you want to punish somebody, try me."
"You wanted an order, now you got one.” Bryan smiled grimly. "Now, get the hell out of here."
"Thanks for the drink," said Patty. He turned on his heel and slammed out the door. He walked quickly back to his squad's hole below deck. After seeing Bryan's quarters, everything looked worse than usual. Even the playmate of the month looked raggedy. Country music squawked from the radio speaker. A dirty undershirt hung half off a bed like a flag. Newspapers and letter envelopes littered the floor. Mac's stereo blared 'American Woman' for the millionth time. Italy sat cross-legged on the floor. "Deuces never loses," he chanted.
"Okay. Everybody shut up and turn off the music," Patty called.
Nobody moved.
Patty smashed his fist against the side of a bunk. "Now."
Mac turned off his record player. The cards slapped the floor as Italy continued dealing.
"Italy, you deal another card, and I'll tear up the goddamned deck."
Italy looked up. "Hold up, Patty. What you being such a hard ass for?"
"Listen up, everybody. We got an inspection in two hours. Bryan's orders."
"Screw that s.o.b.," said Frank. "Just who the hell does he think he is?"
"I guess he's scared," answered Patty. "We gave him too much lip, so he's putting us back in our place."
"Yeah. Like he put Jimmy in his place," said Camp.
"We just got back a few hours ago," said Baker. "I ain't doing nothing."
"Hey, Patty," called Mac from his bunk. "You better talk to him, or that dude ain't long for this world."
"What do you think I been doing?" Patty answered. "He just gave me some scotch."
"Sounds like he's running scared," said Mac.
"Fuck him," said Frank. "Somebody ought to waste that mofo, and I think maybe I'm the man."
"Cool it, Frank," said Patty. "We have to clean our weapons for the next mission anyway, so just clean them now, and spend fifteen minutes picking up the trash and squaring away the floor. That'll do it. Come on. It's been tough enough. We don't need any more shit."
Patty walked over to Mac's bunk and cuffed his cheek. "It's beautiful to see you, buddy, but what are you doing down here?"
Mac smiled. "This million dollar wound ain't worth a quarter. The hospital's full, so they said I could stay down here with you guys."
"How you feeling?"
"I'll be out in a mission or two."
Patty tapped Mac's shoulder affectionately. "You take it easy and get some sleep, brother. You're out of this inspection."
"Got you, brother," said Mac. He turned his record player up and lay back. "Work hard, gents," he called to the ceiling.
Country music squawked again from the wall. The men grumbled, but they worked. In short order, the aisle was clean and neat. The men sat down on the floor side by side and cleaned their rifles.
Patty ran the brush up and down the inside of the barrel, then the soft white rag. It came out black, covered with bits of powder grit. He wondered idly where the spent bullet shells lay, if any rested warm inside a twitching Charlie. He rubbed oil onto the rifle until the black plastic gleamed like a new Christmas toy.
Inside an hour, each weapon glistened in shining black on tightly tucked olive blankets. The men returned to letter writing, talk and cards.
Patty knew he should write to his mom, but he'd run out of ways to talk to her, so he sat with the pen in his hand and the words "Dear Mom" on the paper. He tried to remember what life back in the world was like but it was too long ago, too distant. Affectionately, the close on his mom's last letter; it seemed an ugly word from the days when life was a vine full of green leaves. Now existence seemed like a dark unraveling thread, unworthy of the effort it took to hold the ends together.
"Atten-hut."
Patty jumped to his feet.
Bryan stood at the end of the aisle. "At ease, men," he called. The men slouched back against their bunks. "Listen up. I want to have a little talk before this inspection. Too many of you have been getting out of line, and that's why I'm having this inspection. You're soldiers, and you damn well better start acting and looking like it. I'm the lieutenant around here, and when I give orders, I don't want any second guesses. You just do what you're told, and I'll handle the consequences. I hope you all understand what I'm saying."
"Yes, sir," answered Frank. "Sir?” He raised his hand. "If you don't mind, I got a question, sir?"
"What is it?" snapped Bryan.
"What did you write Jimmy's parents in Chicago?"
Bryan's face turned red. His fists balled at his sides. "I think you need a lesson."
Frank stepped forward. He smiled coldly. "Sir, would you care to give it to me?"
"You're lucky I'm an officer."
"Yes, sir," Frank sneered.
"Soldier, let me see your rifle."
Frank pulled it off the bed and flipped it to him.
Bryan turned it over, glanced at it, and flipped it back. "It's not perfect, but it'll do. Remember, men, a rifle's your best friend in combat.” Bryan turned to Mac. "Soldier, what are you doing in bed? Get up and get me your rifle."
"I'm wounded, sir."
"You're not that badly wounded."
"Stay there, Mac," said Patty. He walked deliberately up to Bryan. "The man is wounded."
"Patsin, what do you think you're doing now?"
"I told him he didn't have to clean his weapon because he's wounded, and he's not going out on the next mission."
"I gave orders for everybody to clean their weapons."
Patty glared at Bryan. "I said the man is wounded."
"I could have you busted, you know that?"
"Yeah. Who you going to make sergeant? You think anybody wants the job?"
"Let me see your rifle."
Patty pulled it off his bunk without taking his eyes off Bryan.
Bryan took it and ran his hand
over the outside. "This rifle's full of oil. You better clean it again. It's probably filthy inside."
"Look, lieutenant," yelled Patty. "If you think it's filthy inside, look inside."
"I don't need to look," answered Bryan.
"Yeah. Ten dollars says it's goddamn cleaner than yours," said Patty. He pulled the money out of his pocket and threw it on the floor.
"I'm not here to prove myself to you, Patsin."
Italy threw two twenty dollar bills on the floor. "Make it fifty."
"That's fifty dollars, Bryan," said Patty. "It spends, even for you."
Mac reached into his pillow and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. "I been saving this. There it is, lieutenant.” He wafted it over Patty's shoulder. The bill landed right in front of Bryan's polished boot.
Bryan looked down at the money at his feet and turned pale. Sweat beaded his forehead. He gazed down at the money like a man seeing his face on a wanted poster for the first time. He recalled all the threats and trembled inside, but he steeled himself and looked past Patty's shoulder to Mac. He spoke quickly. "Mac, you'd better get that weapon clean.” He turned on his heel and stalked off.
Nobody moved or said anything. It was as if Bryan's ghost hovered in the air above the hundred dollar bill.
Camp broke the silence. "Lend me twenty, Italy, will you?"
Italy handed him the money. "Ten percent 'til payday."
Camp nodded. He dropped the money at Patty's feet, turned, and started to walk away.
"Hey, Camp," asked John. "What are you doing?"
"Explain it to him, Patty," called Camp as he walked out of the room.
"Leigh, Baker," Patty called. "The rest of you guys, you going to add some money?"
More money dropped on the clean floor, littered it like old letters.
"What's going on?" repeated John.
"Think," said Patty, "Maybe you'll figure it out for yourself."
John frowned. "I don't understand."
"We're collecting a reward," answered Patty. "For the man who killed Jimmy."
Surprise and recognition dawned on John's face. "It's a sin to kill."
"Tell that to Charlie," said Patty.
"That's different. That's war."
Frank intervened. "You going to let Bryan get you and everybody else in this squad killed? Bryan doesn't have to be killed, just taken out of action for his own protection, and for ours."
"But he's one of us."
"So was Jimmy," said Patty.
"I see," said John. He spoke diffidently, almost girlishly. "If it has to be done, I better do it."
"It's not like shooting somebody you don't know," said Frank.
"You don't want to do it, do you?" said John.
Frank shrugged.
"Well," said John. "I've thought about it. It's the right thing to do."
"Yeah," answered Frank. "It's the right thing to do.” His voice was tired. He turned and walked away.
"Patty, I hope you'll excuse me," said John. "I have to finish writing a letter home.” He went over to his bunk and picked up some writing paper.
Patty bent down and gathered up the money. Everybody was busy looking away. Patty counted it slowly, twice. His eyes glazed with tears as he looked at the funny colored scrip.
Italy dealt some cards. "A quarter on the lady," he called.
"Two hundred and twenty-five dollars," said Patty.
Nobody responded.
"Buddy, come on," said Italy to one of the card players. "You're either in or you're out."
"Okay, okay," said the man as he tossed in a quarter.
As the landing ship chugged slowly down the river, the thick green overhang of the jungle floated by. Occasionally the jungle gave way to villages of mud huts and thatched roofs. A naked child waved. An old woman ran out and disappeared. The musky jungle closed in again. Parrots squawked and flew above the wide, slow moving, brown water. The putt, putt of the engine was like the beat of a heart, strained with motion.
The ship came around a brown bend in the river. A rotting hulk, an old burned-out landing craft, lay tilted in the mud at the point where the tributary joined the main river.
As Patty gazed at the ship, he wondered how many men had died with it. It seemed so still, one could almost hear ghosts groaning amid the slow stir of the water against the boat.
The landing craft turned and slid into the bank beside the derelict. Twigs scraped against the boat and broke off. The men in the bowels of the boat stood up, their rifles ready. The front of the boat cranked down, and the men rushed for the land.
Patty scrambled out, and his foot sank in the mud. He pulled it out, pushed a bush aside, and made it up onto dry land. He pushed a couple yards through the woods to a large clearing, a V.C. crossroads village of a dozen empty thatch huts.
"Home, sweet home," said Camp.
"Torch it," called Bryan as he entered the clearing. "And let's get moving."
The men broke into groups of three, checked each hut, and then set it afire. Bullets left beneath the floor mats crackled amid the whoosh of the flames.
The soldiers piled their finds in the square. Shue, their Vietnamese scout, examined the little pile for information – an old sandal, a torn blouse, a little rice. Shue sifted the rice through his fingers, got up, and walked sadly away. He couldn't understand the burning of rice. Leigh torched it.
An old man crawled out of the woods. He scrambled up to Patty and grabbed his knees. "Choc-a-leet, choc-a-leet, choc-a-leet.”
"Watch him," said Baker. "He's Cong."
"Yeah," Patty muttered.
Patty pushed him away with the butt of his rifle, but the man grabbed on again. Patty hit him harder with his rifle, and this time, the old man let go for good. They moved out of the village, sweeping along the river. The old man lay on the ground in the little cleared square and sang in a high pitched whine. "American, American, hah. American, American, hah.” Over and over, he whined like a broken record.
"I ought to put a bullet in him," said Baker.
"Save your ammo," answered Patty.
They went on in silence, save for the fading howl of the old man. The woods, thick grass, and towering trees closed in. The men jumped little, smelly, half-dry ditches every few yards. Every twig that cracked under foot sounded like a booby trap or a bullet.
The first shots came from the right. Everybody dived behind bushes and opened up. A cloud of smoke rose overhead. There was a momentary silence, then the heavy rattle of fifty millimeter machine guns rang out, their bullets slicing through the bushes. A man in the second squad took a bullet in his shoulder. As he began to moan, Camp raced to his side. The bullet rattle became mixed with a slap sound of mud flying overhead and hitting the ground. The woods burst into flames.
"That's napalm," yelled Frank. "Our boats are shooting at us. Call them off, on the radio quick. Call the bastards off."
More flew overhead. A glob of the thick gel landed on Italy's shoulder. He screamed and grabbed his shoulder with his hand. His fingers balled into a fist. "Help. Help me," he yelled.
"Into the ditch," screamed Frank.
Bryan yelled into the radio, "Navy, this is Charlie. Call it off. Call it off."
Italy started to run. Patty jumped up, ran through a blaze of bullets, and tackled him. They rolled into a little ditch together. In a second, Frank was with them. He held Italy down in a couple inches of slimy water and pressed mud on to his scorched skin. The firing ceased as quickly as it had begun. The hot flames hissed and faded. The rag of Italy's shirt fell off. His shoulder was tatters of brown, and red, and mud. His right hand was half-balled into a fist and with no little finger. The finger lay in the mud, stuck upright like a plant.
"Thanks," said Italy to no one in particular. He got up and picked up his finger with his good hand. He shook it at Patty. "Hey, Patty, what's the odds that this is a million dollar wound that gets me out of combat?” Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he laughed. "Huh, Patty, what do you think?�
� He laughed harder. "What do you think, Patty?"
"Shut up, Italy," said Frank.
Italy sat down abruptly on the bank. He tossed his finger into the bushes. He rocked back and forth. His head bounced on his chest, and he cried.
The woods quieted again. Only the gray smoke remained.
Camp pushed his way through the bushes. "Italy, you okay?"
"Doc," said Patty. "You take him back to the ship. Thank the Navy for me."
Frank patted Patty's shoulder and sat down on the edge of the ditch beside him. "Buddy, I thought you don't like to be dirty," he said.
Patty was completely covered with mud, even his hands were caked. He pulled globs off his uniform and brushed his hands in the grass. Italy sobbed as he and Camp walked away. The sound seemed to mix with the old man's howl and echoed in the trees.
In his mind's eye, Patty saw the finger planted in the mud. "Jesus, God, why did they do it?"
"Cool it, Patty," said Frank. "That was one cute trick, a couple shots at us and a couple shots at the Navy, and we open up on each other while they split."
"Let's go, men," called Bryan.
"Party time," said Frank. He got up and gave Patty a hand up.
They moved out with Bryan up front. His broad back and thick legs made an inviting target. Patty pictured him lying on the ground, groaning with pain, sweat beading his forehead, blood trickling out his shirt. Patty shuddered and tried to dismiss the vision, but it lingered. The high tangled grass tugged at him. Trees blocked out most of the sky. A sunbeam fell on Patty's face. Overhead he caught a glimpse of blue and a little piece of white cloud. Patty tried to picture Janet in his arms. For an instant, he saw her. Patty glanced back and saw Frank. The corners of his lips turned up in a little, bitter smile.
They came into a clearing of slanting sunlight, just a few bushes and high open palm trees. The V.C. jumped up from a ditch and came at them yelling in Vietnamese. They had their rifles, but they didn't fire. Patty and his fellow soldiers opened up and hit them, but they kept coming. Three, four, five bullets they took until they fell, wide eyed and open mouthed. Opium. A dozen dead men.
Patty closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The heat was choking. He felt that he was part of a ritual, a religious rite of passage. He opened his eyes, and the V.C. opened fire from the trees.
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