He broke onto the deck, and the ringing stopped. It was already night time, clean and full of stars. A cool breeze dried the sweat on Patty's forehead. He found himself pacing along the back of the boat, letting the chain rail slide between his fingers as he walked. He leaned out and tried to see the water. He heard its slow slap against the side of the boat but saw nothing. Was it here, he thought, at this exact point that Rob jumped off? What was the last thing he saw before he slipped under, his final thought as water gurgled down his throat?
"Jump," said Baker. He pressed his finger against Patty's back. "One move, and I shoot."
Patty tensed. His every muscle went rigid. Yet he controlled it and spoke in his natural voice. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you?"
"Hell, yes, I would," said Baker.
Patty turned around and eyed Baker. "Where's Leigh?"
"How do I know? He's not my bodyguard.” He spoke angrily. "I left him below."
"You been drinking?" Patty said.
"No lie, buster," Baker answered.
He pulled out a whiskey flask. "Have a drink on me, Patty. I'm celebrating."
"What you celebrating?"
"That's for me to know and you to find out. Now, just drink."
"Okay," said Patty. He took a deep swig, washed his teeth with it, and swallowed it down. It was hot and good.
Baker grabbed the flask away. "You pig, don't finish it."
"I wasn't going to," answered Patty.
"Don't give me that.” Baker took a deep swig.
"You know what we just drank to?"
"No. What?"
"Your old lady getting laid by some young, black stud in the states right at this moment. How's that grab you?"
"That's funny," said Patty noncommit-tally.
"The truth ain't never funny, but it's true all the same."
"Baker, you don't know nothing," said Patty.
"I know enough to know that. I can just look at you and see that you're the type whose woman says 'out of sight, out of mind.'"
"Bug off, Baker. I'm not in the mood for games."
"Yeah. What do you want to do about it?” He shoved Patty back against the chain.
"Baker, I'll bust your teeth," said Patty, pushing him off.
"Come on."
"You're just drunk."
"Come on," said Baker. He pushed Patty hard against the chain again.
"You shouldn't have done that," said Patty angrily.
He swung and hit Baker flush on the jaw with a sucker punch. Baker stumbled three steps and crashed on his back.
"Get up if you want to fight," yelled Patty. He stood over him, fists up and ready.
"You suckered me, Patty," said Baker. "You shouldn't have done that."
"That's not all I'm going to do," said Patty. "Now get up."
Baker got slowly to his knees, then dived at Patty's legs. Patty fell backward and hit the back of his head on the metal deck. He felt dizzy and didn't want to open his eyes. When he did, Baker was on him, pummeling his face, panting and screaming, "You lousy pimp, you lousy pimp.”
Patty swung his arm sideways and caught Baker in the throat. He gagged on 'pimp,' and Patty threw him off. Patty jumped on him and brought his knee down hard into Baker's groin. Baker swung and caught Patty with a punch on the ear. Patty fell off him, and they both scrambled to their feet. They faced off, panting and sweating. Baker swung and missed. Patty grabbed him in a bear hug, and they fell backward against a bulkhead.
A bunch of soldiers ran up and pulled them apart. Three men held Baker, and two held Patty. Patty lunged forward, but they grabbed him and pulled him back.
"Come on. Come on," Patty screamed.
Baker's body sagged tiredly.
Frank held Patty tight. "Easy buddy.” He spoke softly into Patty's ear. "Can I let you go now?"
Patty's body relaxed. "I'm okay," he said.
Frank released his grip. "Use a gun next time, good buddy. It's faster."
Patty looked at him. A flash of Thompson lying stilled in a rice paddy hit him, and he felt stupid and ashamed. He walked away, up to the front of the boat and sat down on the deck. It was still warm. He listened to the sound of his breath and smelled his sweat. He scratched a patch of jungle rot on his ankle. The night had become still. The sky was luminous with stars.
"Hey, Patty," called Frank from the rail. He was a dark silhouette leaning out over the water.
"Yeah," said Patty.
"Baker got a 'Dear John' letter today."
"So what."
"His wife's divorcing him to marry another guy. I just thought you'd want to know."
"Who cares," said Patty. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the itch of his jungle rot.
CHAPTER 17: THE HELMET
The river was a good thirty feet wide, with a fast mud-filled current. Lush greenery grew thickly on the banks, and tree branches hung above the water, casting early afternoon shadows into the river. Parrots, bright arrows of green and orange and yellow, squawked as they crisscrossed the water. White clouds drifted overhead, mixed with an occasional gray, the year's first hint that the rainy season was near.
Chardi, Bryan's replacement, called Baker over. "I hear you're the best swimmer," he said. "You going to take the rope across?"
"You volunteering me?"
"You already volunteered. You just didn't know it," answered Chardi.
Baker nodded, took off his clothes, and piled them neatly on the bank. He tied a rope around his waist, while Frank rolled out coils and circled the end around a tree. Baker waved to Frank and stepped into the water. One step, and it was to his knee. At the second step, it flowed past his chest, and then he was swimming against the fast current. The current carried him downstream, but he swam steadily for the other bank, easily carrying the rope against the heavy flow of the river.
Patty lay on his back in the grass. He wiped the drying sweat from his forehead and tried to think of a way to assuage the nervousness that had been building in him for days. He thought aimlessly for a few minutes, but his head ached, so he gave it up and pulled an old letter from Janet out of his shirt pocket. The sheet was folded over twice, and the paper was torn at the creases from having been opened many times. The ink was water smeared and barely legible, but Patty knew the words and they always helped. He scanned past the beginning to the section he liked and reread it slowly, half forming the words with his lips so he heard them in his head.
Your last letter sounded distant and lost, as if you no longer know who you are nor what you are to me. It seemed almost a plea for reassurance and not like the man I've always known. Your words remind me of a song, 'If I were a carpenter and you were a lady, would you marry me anyhow, would you have my baby.' The answer is yes. Know that whatever it is that you would wish to receive from me, I will always give because I love you for what you are, no matter what you do. That may not be right. I know I should judge you at times, but the only judgment I know is love.
The letter went on, but Patty stopped reading. Instead, he listened to the song singing in his head. The letter was a part of the song, and the song was a part of the letter.
"Okay. I'm tying the rope," yelled Baker.
Patty folded the letter and put it back in his pocket.
Frank pulled the rope tight, and it rose from the water. The bridge was ready.
Patty picked up his helmet and rifle and got up. Always another stream to cross, another enemy in the way, he thought. He would have liked to stay on the safe side for once.
"Okay. Let's go, men," said Chardi.
The soldiers started across, one man close behind the next. The rope sagged under the weight of the men and their equipment. John grabbed the rope. He took two steps down the muddy incline and entered the water, pulling himself forward hand over hand. His pants billowed in the brown current, and he hung from the rope at a downstream angle.
Patty followed, with Frank right behind him. He grabbed the rope and slid down the incline into the
chilly brown water. The water rose to his waist, his chest, his armpits. He jiggled forward, hand over hand, pulling against the heavy current. The rope cut and numbed his fingers, and he felt cold deep in his back. As he dragged forward, his helmet slipped sideways. He tilted his head to keep it on, but as he reached for the next handful of rope, the helmet fell with a slap into the water. Patty grabbed for it and came up with water. The helmet thudded against his canteen and he caught it, a bucket full of water. Pain suddenly cramped his wrist, and his fingers came away from the rope one by one, as in slow motion. He saw a flash of blue and white sky, then everything went dark and watery, brown and green. He swallowed cold water and vomit rose in his stomach. He gripped his helmet and sank, without a fight or a thought. Frank grabbed him from behind, pulled him backward and up. Patty's head broke water and he glimpsed watery bright trees and sky.
"Grab the rope," yelled Frank.
Patty reached. His fingers scraped the hard braid, and he went under. He swallowed and gagged. Again he was raised. He grabbed for the rope and caught it. His fingers stung. His arm ached.
"I got you," yelled Frank. "Put on your helmet, and get both hands back on the rope."
Quickly Patty tipped over his helmet, slid it onto his head, and grabbed the rope. Cold water trickled down his head and neck.
Frank released him. "Move it."
Patty heaved, and dark vomit ran down his chin.
"Move," yelled Frank.
Patty pulled hand over hand. The land jiggled closer, and he rose on the rope. The drag of the current eased. Two men grabbed him and pulled him to the bank.
Patty lay in the grass next to a tree and retched, until there was nothing left but the smell. He lay still in his vomit and felt emptied. He dry heaved, and sobs shook him.
John knelt down and rubbed his back. "It's alright now."
Frank sat down and leaned back against a tree trunk. He pulled a blade of grass and sucked on it. "Man, cut the crying. You almost wiped out, but you didn't."
Patty calmed down and looked at Frank through bleary eyes. "Thanks," he mumbled.
Frank reached in his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and threw it to Patty. "Wipe your face. Throw the hanky away when you're done.” He got up and walked away.
Patty blew his nose and wiped the green from his chin and shirt. He balled up the hanky and tossed it into the water. It floated downstream and disappeared.
The last of the men crossed. Chardi gave the word, and the men marched off. They walked through sparse woods. Sun rays jabbed holes of light between the tall trees. The forest floor was a soft mat of brown needles with yellow flowers growing close to the ground.
At each step, water squished from Patty's boots, and his wet clothes chafed his body. As he began to dry, he itched, and he rolled up his sleeves. A swollen reddish brown lump hung to the skin of his forearm. He stopped and tried to pull it off, but it wouldn't come.
"God, what is this?" Patty asked Frank as he came up. "It's growing. Ugh."
Frank glanced at it. "A leech. Where did you get that? That river was too fast for leeches."
"I don't know. Get it off me."
Frank grinned. "He's really fat. Got a lot of your blood."
Patty had a flash of Humphrey Bogart in "The African Queen," and the revulsion on Bogart's face grabbed him. His heart beat fast as he pulled at the leech, but it slid through his fingers and clung to his arm.
"Hey, don't do that," said Frank.
Patty rubbed his arm against a tree. "The goddamned bugger won't come off me. He's drinking my blood. Get him off me."
Frank grabbed Patty in a bear hug. "Patty, stop it. Stop it."
"Get him off. Get him off me."
"I will. Just calm down a sec. You can't pull him off."
He let Patty go. Patty held his arm out and stared at it. "Frank, get it off."
Frank pulled a plastic bottle of bug juice from his pocket and gave the leech a quick squirt. It jumped and pressed itself more tightly to Patty's skin. Frank squirted again, and the leech rolled off Patty's arm and fell to the ground.
The two men squatted down. "He's a fat one, isn't he," said Frank. "Look at the blood drain out."
"That's my blood," said Patty.
"It won't kill you," Frank answered.
"Hey, I'm still bleeding."
"Yeah," answered Frank. "They got something that keeps your blood from coagulating. You'll probably drip a little for the next twenty four hours, but it's slow, and it won't hurt you none. Let's make it."
They hurried back to their places in the line. As he marched, Patty's mind drifted. He pictured the dark water, and the leech, and Janet's quiet smile. A tune played in his head and he sang it over and over again inside himself. "If I were a carpenter and you were a lady, would you marry me anyhow, would you have my baby?"
Gradually, the trees became sparser, the land dryer and more open. Lifeless rice paddies pocked with bomb craters stretched to the horizon. The land was dead, prostrate, waiting for the first rains of the new season. Only one small mound marred the flat continuity. They angled toward it.
As they came closer, Patty made out several small bushes. But somehow the hill seemed strange, oddly shaped, and Patty felt a tension, a presence in the air that he'd known too many times to mistrust. He looked back at Frank, and Frank held up his palm in silent warning. Patty nodded to him and waved his arm. The men made an arc and came on line. Patty took a sip of tepid water from his canteen and started forward.
He watched the hilltop through the haze of midday heat waves and dust. Nothing. No movement. If there were anyone there, they'd be scared, and they'd fire prematurely. Still, no one fired, and yet the danger seemed palpable.
Patty's heart beat fast. This is a stupid place for them to wait, he thought, this little hill in the middle of nothing. There was no big woods, no place to run and hide. Whoever was there would be surrounded and killed. Still, Patty felt tight, and he had to will his legs forward. Fire, you bastards, he thought. Stop being brave. Stop waiting.
They started up the darker dirt of the hill. Still nothing. No movement. As they came close to the hilltop, it still didn't look right. It was flattened like a roof, with misplaced bushes.
The bastard's got guts, thought Patty. He was waiting. He didn't want to miss when he fired.
"Damn you, fire," said Patty, without realizing he'd spoken.
A shot rang out, and a dust ball kicked up in front of Frank. He hit the dirt, and another dust ball kicked up between John and Frank. Everybody hit the ground and opened fire.
"Come on, Patty," yelled Frank. "There's no cover here. Let's go get 'em."
He jumped up and started running. John and Patty were up in a second, running a few yards away, almost even with Frank, zig zagging up the hill, firing on automatic at the slit in the top of the hill where the bullets had come from. That's right, Charlie, thought Patty. Keep your head down so you don't get hit and can't fire.
The tactics were instinctive. Frank, firing on automatic, ran for the front of the bunker. John and Patty held fire and circled for an opening on the side. Patty circled a gnarled tree. Its branches clawed at his shirt. He spun free and came upon the open side of the bunker. The bastard was crouched on his knees, aiming at Frank. Patty fired. Again. Again.
The first shot was the only one necessary. The bullet smacked his head, spun his surprised, glassy-eyed gaze toward Patty and knocked him over on his back against the far wall. The good luck shots blew away his chest.
Panting, Frank ran up. "Atta way, man."
"No big thing," said Patty.
John grinned and grabbed Patty's hand. "Good shooting, Patty."
"Talent, that's all," answered Patty.
He pulled a few loose bushes away and crawled into the bunker. It was comfortable, like a small room. Somebody had worked hard to make it nice. Patty could almost stand up inside. There were two view slits about two feet wide and a foot high on every side. The roof was thick, hard mud. The dud
e had an easy life, thought Patty. His hammock hung in the corner with a stack of books and a water jug on a mud shelf beside it. On a shelf in another corner sat a burlap sack of rice with a pot on it and an opium pipe beside it. The floor below the shelf was littered with medical supplies, bandages, opium, syringes, iodine. Next to where the man had been crouching was a packet of letters, a brown notebook, and a helmet made of plastic, pointed like a peasant farmer's hat. It had a soft green cloth camouflage cover.
Outside, the men were laughing, sitting around and smoking. "Get that bastard Shue in here," called Patty.
Shue had spent four years as a V.C. captain. He'd been thoroughly indoctrinated after his capture and was now a volunteer. Patty didn't doubt that he was well-paid. Whether or not he was really to be trusted was another question. One thing for sure, he knew his business. He could always tell exactly where an incoming mortar round was coming from and where it would land. He could follow trails that no one else could even see. And he was a gentle interrogator who somehow usually managed to get any information that was needed. He never used unnecessary words or showed emotion. Patty would have liked him better if just once he'd frowned or removed his steady obsequious grin. Patty had no use for him and avoided him on missions, figuring he'd put a bullet in some poor G.I.'s back during a battle one day.
Shue slid into the bunker. "Sergeant Patsin, you wanted me?"
"Yeah. Search that guy's pockets and bring his stuff over here."
While Shue searched, Patty glanced through a kind of diary, pages and pages of Vietnamese writing with two line breaks before each date. The handwriting was neat and beautiful except for the last week when it had become shaky and blotched.
Shue brought over a handful of stuff and set it on the shelf. Sifting through it, he said, "This letter was in his shirt pocket. The wallet was in his pants. The rest of this is nothing."
Patty nodded. "Go through this notebook and see what it says."
Patty opened the wallet and found a little money and two faded black and white photos. He looked at them and felt strange, like he had seen them before, almost like he had posed for them. One was a group picture, a mother, father, grandmother, and eight children. They all smiled into the camera. Patty turned the picture over.
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