"Shue, what does this say?"
Shue glanced at it and smiled up at Patty sitting on the low shelf. "Come back soon. It's probably signed by his father."
The other photo showed a serious self-absorbed teen-age couple gazing at each other. "What's this say?"
"'Love, Liang,' Sergeant."
Patty gazed at the pictures and started to reach for his wallet, but stopped. He didn't have to pull it out. He knew the pictures it contained and didn't want to look at them in this profane place. He slid the picture back into the wallet and placed it on the shelf. Closing his eyes, he rested his forehead on his hands, his elbows on his knees. "Shue, tell me what the notebook says."
"This is a diary. It says what he did each day. He was wounded by shrapnel from a bomb two weeks ago. His fellow soldiers made this hut for him and left him here with food and medicine last week because he could not walk and was very weak. The writing is very bad at the end. I cannot read it."
Patty nodded.
"We were lucky he was so weak and could not aim well," said Shue.
"Yes.” Patty felt sick.
"Do you wish to hear his letters?" said Shue. "They are from his, how do you call it, fiancée."
"No," said Patty, weakly.
"And the one he had in his pocket?"
"Okay, if you wish, you can read it to me."
“As you wish, Sergeant," said Shue.
"Okay, damn it. Read it," answered Patty.
The paper crinkled as Shue pulled it from its envelope. Shue read slowly in a low, sing song voice:
My Dear Liang, I have thought so long of our future that it seems that I have almost lived it, almost given you children, almost had a home, but I have not. And fear clutches my heart, for I know now that I will not. I am very sick and will soon die. I bless you. I pray for the happiness and safety of your grandmother, father and mother, and aunts and uncles. If I am not too tired, I will write more.
Patty closed his eyes and trembled. He heard the crinkle of the letter as Shue slid it back into its envelope. Then all was silent.
Outside, Baker called, "Any good souvenirs in there?"
"I bet there's plenty," said Leigh. "Or else he wouldn't be in there so long."
"Say, Johnny, I told you there's nothing like yellow ass," said Frank.
"Your ass," responded Baker.
Patty opened his eyes. Everything was watery bright, and Shue's grin floated in front of his face. Patty turned away from Shue's ever present smile and saw the body pressed sideways against the wall. The right leg was thickly wrapped in a dirty white bandage from the foot to the knee. The upper body was shattered, with green and yellow and red spattered about it.
After a minute, Patty got up to go.
Shue touched his arm. "Wait, please."
Shue picked up the helmet and smiled at Patty. "You take this, please. It is a good souvenir."
"I don't want it," said Patty.
Shue looked cautiously into Patty's eyes, and his smile flickered for an instant. "Take it. It will help you remember."
CHAPTER 18: AWARD CEREMONY
All Patty wanted to do was sit down on the floor in his underwear and listen to music, but the whole battalion was due on the top deck in ten minutes. Patty kicked on his trousers, laced up his boots, and headed for the steps.
"Hey, Patty. Do you know what's happening?" called John.
"Nah, and I don't care."
"I think it's an award ceremony," said Frank.
"Do you think we'll get something?" asked John.
"Yeah," responded Patty. "A pin from God. It's just what you need. You can stick it on your cross."
"That's not funny," said John.
"Patty, you're up tight," said Frank. "Cool it."
"Frank, I can't. I've had it."
"Ah, it's just a lousy ceremony. Who knows, maybe they'll say nice things about us.” He smiled and clapped Patty on the shoulder. "Let's go, buddy."
They clanked up the steps and on to the top deck together. The sky which had been blue for so many months was different. Thick rolls of gray clouds were moving in rapidly, carried by a cool breeze.
"Atten-hut," called the C.O. Five hundred heels clicked on metal.
The men waited. The sun was hot and bright and draining. Patty caught the clouds out of the corner of his eye and hoped they would arrive quickly.
The colonel came on carrying a bull horn. The officers saluted, and he returned their salute smartly. He turned to the battalion, raised the gun of the horn, and bellowed, "At ease, men.” His voice sounded metallic, and the men moved in response to the metal command like tin soldiers on a tin boat.
The colonel spoke of the gratitude of the people back home and the military tradition of the American people who served their country when called. The ship's flag rippled in the wind. The men's legs ached. The sun beat down on bare heads.
A special pride came into the colonel's voice as he called out the names of heroic men in the battalion. ". . . and to Timothy Lincoln is posthumously awarded the Purple Heart.”
Patty felt a slap like coming awake. The colonel called Hal Patsin a second time, and Patty stepped forward. Frank and John were beside him.
The colonel stood in front of Patty, beaming as he read the citation. ". . . For valor above and beyond the call of duty. In that you did risk your life in an exposed position to protect your comrades in arms. In that you, along with two other men, assaulted a hill and took an enemy bunker under heavy fire at the risk of your own life, you are hereby awarded the bronze start with 'V' for valor.” He pinned the ribbon to Patty's shirt. He smiled with pleasure, and Patty smiled back. They shook hands.
"Congratulations, son. You're a fine young man. You're a credit to the army. We could use more like you."
"You think so, sir?" said Patty.
"Yes, I do."
"Thank you, sir."
The colonel went on.
Frank tapped Patty in the ribs. "You're a fine young man. You're a credit to the army. We could use more like you, Patty."
"You think so?"
"Notice he didn't say that to me."
"That's 'cause you're a slob."
They chuckled.
"Be quiet," hissed John under his breath.
"Yes, sir, Johnny," chuckled Frank. "What's that Bible of yours say? ‘Be not puffed up with pride.'"
Patty and Frank laughed. "Shut up," said John. "This is serious business.
Frank winked at Patty, and they both smiled.
The colonel went on, beaming, pinning medals, and making appropriate comments. The sky darkened, and the wind picked up. Patty's collar flapped; his pants billowed against his leg. The colonel finished pinning on medals and returned to position. A big drop of rain hit Patty's cheek.
"Gentlemen," said the colonel. "It looks like the rainy season is upon us. You're a fine bunch of men. My congratulations to all of you."
He gave the signal, and fourteen riflemen presented arms and fired. Patty had expected it, but before he realized what had happened, he was on his knees cringing, his arms covering his head and ears. He shook all over.
"Easy, buddy," said Frank. He pulled Patty back to his feet.
The colonel, ignored them, saluted, and marched off.
The wind blew dust. Big rain drops pelted down.
"Troop dismissed," yelled Chardi.
Everybody ran for the steps.
In the crush at the steps, Camp hugged Patty from behind. "That was a hell of a good move out there, hero."
"No big thing," Patty responded.
"Listen, Patty," said Camp. "Are you sure you're alright?"
"Yeah, I'm lovely. Just wet."
"Let's talk, huh," said Camp.
Patty shrugged. "Maybe later.” He clanked down the steps.
His shirt clung to his back. He unbuttoned it and threw it on his bunk.
John came over smiling. "Wasn't that wonderful?"
"Yeah, great," said Patty.
"Say, what
happened to you out there?"
"Nothing. Absolutely goddamn nothing."
"Okay," said John. "I'm sorry I mentioned it. I just thought maybe I could be of help."
"It's alright. I'm fine," said Patty.
"These medals are really beautiful, aren't they?"
"Yeah, sure."
"I already wrote my mother about what we did. We earned them together, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"Could I see yours?"
"Sure," said Patty. "It's up on the bed."
John pulled the shirt off the bed and unpinned the medal. He held his in one hand and Patty's in the other. "They're just alike, and that's the way it should be."
"Yep," said Patty. "That's the way it should be."
John handed Patty's medal back to him. "You better put it away, or you'll lose it," said John.
Patty nodded.
He shoved the bottom bunk up and opened his locker lid. A V.C. camouflage covered helmet stared up at him. Kneeling, Patty grabbed the helmet and squeezed it as if he could somehow crush the life from it. He dropped it back in the locker, slammed the locker shut, and raced up the steps.
Outside the sky was gray, the ocean black, rough, and filled with whitecaps. The rain poured down almost horizontally. Wind-whipped drops stung Patty's face and dust blew into his eyes. He gripped the wet rail. His pants and undershirt clung to his body, and water ran down his face.
Patty heard a sound behind him, and Frank came to the rail. They looked silently at each other. Water ran from Frank's light hair down his face. He had no expression, no sympathy, no pain, no hatred, no anger, just pursed lips and cold bright eyes.
Patty heaved the medal as far as he could throw it. He gripped the rail, his knuckles white, rivulets of water running from his hand.
CHAPTER 19: BATTLE FATIGUE
One good storm, that was all, one hint of the monsoons to come, then nothing. The dry season held sway with an unrelenting harshness. Days passed, and the hot blue of the sky never changed.
Patty walked over the land and felt himself become a part of it, cracked burnt brown and hard as concrete. The withered remains of once green plants hung on as broken bits of straw. Dried water buffalo dung didn't even draw flies. There was no subtlety and no shelter in the flat delta.
As Patty walked the dikes through the dead rice paddies, he felt that he would walk forever with his legs melting and the sweat dripping down his forehead, burning his eyes. Western minutes and hours had no place in the eternity of the day's flat march.
Patty looked at his boots, at the powdery dirt in front of him, half searching for a booby trap that would end the monotony. Occasionally, he looked up, eyes stinging, to find the shimmering horizon, hoping for a wood line, a dried up stream, an empty village, an enemy's ambush.
"Break time," yelled Chardi. "You have five minutes, then we have to move. Charlie's still an hour away."
Patty lay down right on the dike. He unplugged his canteen and sucked the hot water.
Camp sat down beside Patty. Neither man spoke for a minute as they gasped for breath in the heat. Finally, Camp touched Patty's boot. "Christ, it's so hot I could die."
Patty nodded. "A hundred twenty degrees."
"You got a little extra water," said Camp. "I'm out."
Patty sat up and handed over the canteen. "Easy, will you. It's got to last."
Camp took a couple sips and gave the canteen back. "I thought the rainy season was due."
Patty spoke hoarsely. "Frank says that's worse, with mud up to your ass."
Camp closed his eyes.
"Okay," called Chardi.
Camp handed Patty a piece of melted chocolate as they got up.
Patty bit into it and shoved his rifle tight against his shoulder. Mac touched Patty's arm.
"Yeah?" said Patty as he turned and looked into Mac's tired, bloodshot eyes.
Mac looked at the ground and whispered, "Martin Luther King was shot three months ago today."
"So what," said Patty.
Mac shrugged. "Nothing."
Patty walked off.
It was late afternoon before a wood line came into view. As the men closed in, they made out a small village and a stand of old trees. The village had an empty look, a feeling of people having fled. That meant the V.C. were in the woods. The knowledge brought no special ripple of excitement. The men moved on line, but nobody slowed down or speeded up.
Frank came up beside Patty. Patty smiled to himself. As he plodded on, he looked forward to the whine of the bullets, to the chance to lay down in the dirt and rest. He felt no fear, only an aching tiredness, a sullen knowledge that the V.C. were scared, and that their fear would make them fire too soon, and then the planes would come to answer their bullets and kill them all. And he was too tired to care whether the planes came or didn't come, or whether he was killed or Charlie was killed.
Patty walked slowly to the edge of the village. The hooches seemed to wink at him with obscene, empty leers. Patty winked back as he walked through the quiet village suburbia, waiting for the noisy, whorish greeting of the downtown neighbors. It came with a single crack, followed by the chatter of many guns from the wood line. The bullets whined past, seeking and occasionally finding their target, and the men dove for cover. Patty lay still behind a dike, glad to put his head down, to rest the numbness of his body on the cool dirt.
He rested, oblivious to the sound and the people around him, waiting for the numbness to leave and for his body to pull itself back together. Slowly sweat congealed on his forehead. Sweat dripped in little rivulets off his back, out of his armpits, onto sides and stomach. He imagined the sympathy he'd get if only it were nice, bright, red blood. He pressed his nose into the dirt, hoping it would bleed but it didn't. The world slid back to him gradually. As the waves of nausea receded, he smelled the heavy green stench of his body and clothes. The rhythmic crack of the guns ebbed to sporadic shots. The radio spluttered noisily. From busted voices, Patty pieced together that the planes would be delayed. The men beside him came into focus.
Frank looked at Patty and spoke slowly, loudly above the slow spat of bullets. "I said Camp's dead."
Patty looked at Frank, and he seemed a stranger. "What did you say?" said Patty.
"You heard me," said Frank.
"You're kidding," said Patty.
Frank looked at Patty and didn't say anything.
Patty stared at the dirt. "What happened?"
"How the hell do I know," Frank flared. "Nobody told you to make friends."
"Get fucked, Frank," Patty said softly.
Frank shook his head. "He's dead, that's all."
Patty tried to picture Camp, but he couldn't remember what he looked like. He closed his eyes and he heard Camp's voice inside his head - a snatch of conversation back in the barracks. 'What do you think. My wife had a baby girl.' Camp winked at Patty. 'I hope she turns out to be a sarcastic son of a bitch.'
Quiet settled over the battlefield, and the smoke of gunfire drifted away. The sun painted the land in gaudy colors, burning away the somberness of just another death, just a bit more stench on the ground. The woods were a dark, cool green. The half-dried stream that separated the village from the woods was a smelly mud puddle with light green algae along its banks. The village baked in the sun, and yellow reflected brightly off the thatched roofs and hard dirt.
Baker crawled over to Patty and touched his arm. Patty looked at him.
"Patty, there's a hooch right over there.” Baker pointed a few yards up the dike. "We can get inside, and it'll be nice. It's hot, and there's no shade out here."
"Go ahead," said Patty softly.
Baker and Leigh crawled off to the hut. Patty, Frank and Mac followed them into a small room with dirt sides and a thatch roof. It was cool inside with a musty, damp clay smell. The men lay back and tried to get comfortable in the cool twilight.
Patty should have had somebody check the mud hole of a bomb shelter in the back, but he was too
tired to bother.
Baker yawned loudly. "Nothing like a roof over my head, even in one of these doll houses," he said. He pulled out some Crations and C-4 plastic explosive. One cube and thirty seconds, and he had hot potatoes and meat.
Patty put his helmet under his neck and stretched out. He closed his eyes and fell right asleep.
He awoke with a start. Baker was laughing and dragging a little girl out of the bomb shelter.
"Baby," he chuckled. "Hey, little baby, look at me. You know what you are. You're the spoils of war, so stop fighting and enjoy it.” He bent over and slapped the girl. She was maybe nine or ten, dressed in a white shirt and black pants that looked like pajamas. Baker grabbed her ankle and pulled her on her back into the middle of the room.
"Don't fight, little one," said Baker. "You just ain't big enough."
She turned her head away and her eyes caught Patty. There was no expression, no words, just a wide-eyed stare from her dark child's eyes. Baker dropped her leg and her eyes shut tight like a door slamming. Baker jumped on her. Patty lay still, unable to bring himself to move. His legs seemed asleep, his body fragile and immobile. He heard her white blouse rip and forced himself to sit up. He saw Baker stretch the black pajamas and tear them open. Patty gazed at the straight line of her leg, her uncurved hips, flat belly, and unformed breasts. He too wanted her. Baker mounted her as Patty struggled to his knees.
"Don't," whispered Patty.
The little girl opened her eyes and stared at Patty. Her head slid slightly back and forth to the rhythm of Baker's movement.
"Don't. Stop," Patty screamed.
Leigh, Frank and Mac sat still, watching silently.
As he reached for his rifle, Patty heard Baker's breath accelerate. He gripped the rifle tightly and pressed the barrel against Baker's neck just below his ear.
"Stop," said Patty softly. He felt the movement coming through the weapon, swaying his hands.
"Stop, you bastard, or I'll shoot," said Patty, his rage mounting with the movement.
The hair on the back of Patty's neck tingled to the gentle touch of metal. Leigh's southern accent caressed him. "Put down the rifle, good buddy."
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