One Very Hot Day

by David Halberstam

  Anderson looked at him, perplexed, wondering if there really were two ends to a leech.

  “He was a mean one, though,” Beaupre was saying, “that one had more blood than a first aid station.”

  Then almost as if he were talking to himself, Beaupre said, “Jesus, I feel terrible.” He shut his eyes, and he felt terribly dizzy for a moment.

  “Don't crap out on me here in Ap Than Thoi,” Anderson said.

  “That where we are?” Beaupre said. “I might have known. Got a little dizzy.” He opened his eyes.

  “Well, it doesn't look as populated as Ap Than Thoi,” Anderson said, “but we checked on it, and it is. Smells about the same.”

  “Well, that's the important thing. That's how you can tell. They can always change the other thing, disguise themselves, put up a sign on the city limits with a different name, take down the police station, put up more flowers, but they can't change the smell.”

  Ap Than Thoi was the missing village: they had missed it six weeks ago on an operation and since then it had become a legendary place. It had been a search and clear operation and they had been warned that the local population might be unfriendly, which, in the particular understatement of the times, meant that they were likely to be very hostile. They made their first stop as scheduled with a minimal amount of success and difficulty, and then they had moved toward their next objective which was Ap Than Thoi, four kilometers away, and reputed to be most unfriendly. They had gone the four kilometers, and they had not found it, and they had gone a little further, another click and a half and they had not found it, and by then the Colonel was on their radio demanding to know if they were in Ap Than Thoi, and if not, why the hell not. A few minutes later he was back on the radio wondering aloud why they were behind schedule, saying that it was goddamned embarrassing at Headquarters, embarrassing to the entire American Army, but more important, embarrassing to him, in front of his Asian allies. Beaupre, he said, his voice becoming very correct, was making him look silly in front of Colonel Co, and the Colonel did not like to look foolish in front of anyone, particularly his Asian counterpart. It's embarrassing here too, Beaupre had said, and Dang is just as embarrassed as I am. Don't tell me about Dang, the Colonel said, I don't want to hear about your problems, get those ffing Viets off their asses, that's your job. You're not paid to be embarrassed. You're paid to move.

  Ten minutes later when they still hadn't reported in from Ap Than Thoi (by this time Beaupre had convinced Dang to send patrols out in all four directions, looking for Ap Than Thoi, and Dang had complied surprisingly easily, apparently Co was chewing his ass too over the failure to find the village which was making Co lose face at the CP), the Colonel came back on shouting angrily that if they didn't get there, he would come in to Ap Than Thoi himself, by helicopter, he would by God welcome them there and be the goddamn hospitality committee; he would lead their goddamn parade for them and he would carry out on that same ffing helicopter Beaupre's weather-eaten ass, and that shiny new West Point ass too, Anderson's ass, he said a moment later, having forgotten the Lieutenant's name in his excitement. That was when Beaupre had gotten angry. “My weather-eaten ass is now resting at,” and then read his coordinates, and demanded the coordinates for Ap Than Thoi. The Colonel read them back and they were the same. Beaupre then was angry and excused himself to the Colonel, begging his pardon sir, and announced that they were there, but the village was not. It was the village's fault. He also referred to it as “your Ap Than Thoi.”

  He sensed from the voice that the Colonel had taken if relatively well; he had read coordinates out, where they were, where they had been, where they were going, and finally again demanded to know where the village was.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” Beaupre said, “but there are two Americans and one hundred and fifty Vietnamese wondering the same thing.”

  “The other side of the canal,” the Colonel said, “that's it, the other side of the canal. The map made a mistake.”

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” Beaupre said, “but the map did make a mistake, but it's not the other side of the canal. We've been working it for the last twenty minutes and they don't have it either.”

  “But there must be a village there, must be people there. Why we even have reports saying the people are hostile, so that proves it. If they're hostile, they've got to be there,” the Colonel insisted. “Look around yourself, Captain Beaupre, what do you see?”

  “Sir, Vietnamese, a lot of them, a lot of trees, some bushes.”

  “What are the troops doing, Beaupre?”

  “Sir, the troops are sitting down, and talking and some of them are already impurifying the canal, and a few of them are starting to break out the rice.”

  “Just a minute," the Colonel said. “You wait there a minute, Beaupre, and don't go anywhere. Don't leave the place you're at. Think of it as Ap Than Thoi.”

  Then he sent a spotter plane over and it circled the area for a few minutes without finding the village or drawing fire. Finally the plane radioed back and the Colonel called Beaupre and said, “Beaupre, cross Ap Than Thoi off your map. Forget about it. It's not your fault, Captain.”

  Beaupre thanked him (he liked the Colonel) and made a note that someone should draw up some new maps, since these were twenty years old and not always accurate.

  That night the Colonel said nothing, but apparently the entire advisory group knew what had happened and almost overnight Ap Than Thoi became a part of the vocabulary. One went away to Saigon but claimed he was going to Ap Than Thoi; someone violently ill for three days claimed he had contracted the bug at Ap Than Thoi; if an officer with a girl met a buddy in Saigon, he always introduced her as being from Ap Than Thoi; if something went wrong in the field, a terrible snafu, it always took place at Ap Than Thoi; if an operation were being planned and someone wanted to know the local political climate, he would be told it was no worse than Ap Than Thoi.

  “Old Ap Than Thoi,” said Anderson. “I wrote my wife the other day and said I had a big leave in Ap Than Thoi, and I spent one hundred dollars because the hotels are so expensive there, fifteen dollars a night and ten bucks for meals, and then I said there was a lot of incidentals because it cost so much there, but that I couldn't list them and so she wrote me back this long letter saying it was all right and she understood about the incidentals; she knew what it must be like to be a soldier and she only hoped I had a good time there, and then she asked some of the other wives where Ap Than Thoi was because she never heard about it, and one of them said it was a Chinese whorehouse — she said house in her letter — in Saigon, and another of them said it was a little island where the French soldiers used to go for girls; and so I wrote her back to tell her what Ap Than Thoi really was and thinking it was pretty funny and I got back the angriest letter I've ever had, telling me not to play games and she was heartbroken, and how could I do this to her, and now all the other wives were laughing at her, and how did I really spend the one hundred dollars.”

  He looked over at Beaupre and kept talking: “Can you imagine that, her getting pissed off at me for not getting laid, so I knew I couldn't joke about it or play any more games any more so I gave Crawford a check for one hundred dollars when he went to Hong Kong and told him to buy exactly one hundred dollars' worth of this new stereo gear, and he did and I wrote her a letter saying it was all supposed to be a surprise but I spent the hundred dollars on stereo and tape recorders, and I got back a letter saying wasn't I wonderful and she had loved me all the time.”

  He looked over at Beaupre. “Goddamn women. If I told her there never was any hundred dollars, she'd never believe me.” He looked again. “You know, Captain, it's not my job to say this, but you sure look like hell today. You been in this business a lot longer than me, but you ought to go easier on it in Saigon. You're pushing it awful hard, considering the kind of climate and all that sun.”

  He waited for Beaupre to curse him, and then he thought, that old son of a bitch is asleep, too much whiskey, more even t
han I thought, and then he looked again and saw something different: Beaupre's mouth a little bit open, a faraway look in his eyes. He's passed out, Anderson realized.

  For a moment he thought of calling the CP, and then he realized that would be the worst thing he could do; for a moment at least it was none of the CP's business. He looked over and was disgusted by this old man, his face dirty and unshaven; whoring, and drinking and belching on weekends, he thought, then coming down to his job and going on a little walk, and drinking too much water and passing out like some Navy officer. It was a hell of an example to show to the Vietnamese; the Vietnamese did not drink heavily, and he believed they were repelled by Americans drinking: what can they think when we show them men like this — we come here to set examples for them, examples of the greatest army in the world, new, modern, with helicopters, and we bring them Beaupre who shouts and curses and who can't walk as far as their own women and who comes apart in public. He was offended by that part, in particular, the public failure of Beaupre; failure was permissible but not desirable as long as it was private; when you came to the time to fail, you stayed out of other people's sight. You didn't do it in a foreign country. Let him do his failing at the bar in the Seminary. He was sure the Vietnamese could smell the whiskey in Beaupre's sweat just as he could. A few minutes ago Beaupre's face had been red and now it seemed a dirty white. He felt the canteen and it was virtually empty; Beaupre had drunk all his water before noon, like a kid cheating on candy. Anderson took his own canteen which was virtually full and poured half the water into Beaupre's canteen. Then he cupped his hand, poured a little water into it, and sprinkled it on Beaupre's face. He watched the water trickle down, making tiny rivers of cleanliness on the face as it washed away some of the filth. He did it again, and then once more, and then he noticed a little movement in Beaupre's eyes.

  “You're okay,” he said. “You're okay, old buddy. Don't worry, all okay now.” His hand moved slowly again to Beaupre's face and his voice was surprisingly gentle; curiously he was no longer disgusted by the old officer, but in a strange way that he did not entirely understand he felt for him; the hell with the Vietnamese, if they saw it and didn't like it. Beaupre might be an old fool, but he was our old fool, he was an American fool, an officer too, and he had seen many wars and many places and if this war were a little better organized and better run, if they would shape this goddamn war up a little, he probably wouldn't drink so much here either. It was their fault as much as ours. Beaupre had earned the right to drink that much.

  “You're okay now. Just a little hot here. You know how this place is. God giving the Vietnamese all his leftover sunshine. Heat getting all of us. Getting me too. Getting the Viets. You've got to get up so you can help carry the Viets out of here.”

  Beaupre seemed to nod.

  “Heat's terrible,” Anderson said. “Worst day I've seen here. Another damn hot day but we're going to lick it.”

  Beaupre, he thought, seemed to be coming to, seemed to be nodding. Anderson held the canteen out for Beaupre, but carefully so that the Captain wouldn't drink too much, and then quickly pulled it back. He waited a minute and then gave Beaupre the canteen again.

  “I hate the heat and I hate the sun here,” Anderson said. “Funny thing, I grew up in Minnesota, and it was cold there, always cold, and I loved the sun. We used to wait for it. I remember even in the late spring it was a big thing when the sun finally began to come because it meant that when you got into your car after school, the inside of the car would be warm, and then you would wait until the middle of summer and finally the sun would come on strong, and I would go swimming and lie down and wait and enjoy the sun — not go into the water at first, but instead let the sun broil and broil me until I was soaked in my own sweat, completely covered by it, and only then, I would go into the water. It was like a game with the sun. I loved it so much. After this country, I'll never be able to do it again, never be able to let the sun hit me again, without thinking of Vietnam and wondering if I'll make it through the day. I'll never do it again.”

  “I passed out,” Beaupre said.

  Anderson patted him on the shoulder.

  “That's a hell of a thing to do. Never did it before. Never crapped out before.”

  “Happens to everyone on a day like this. You'll probably have to carry me in later.”

  “I'm sorry, shouldn't have done it to you. Never did anything like that before.” He paused. “Dang see me?”

  “No,” Anderson said, sure that somehow Dang had managed to see Beaupre, that this was the kind of thing Dang would know. “He's too busy talking to the generals.”

  “Look,” said Beaupre, “I'd appreciate it if you don't say anything about it back at the CP. It's the first time. You know how those people are. That's the kind of thing they love.”

  “They're all too busy sleeping back there anyway. They never tell us when they tap out.”

  “That goddamn Dang. I bet he knows.”

  Anderson brought out some salt tablets and told Beaupre to take two.

  “I hate those goddamn things. I won't take them.”

  “You don't take them and I'll get stuck with Dang for the rest of the day.”

  “I'll take the one.”

  Anderson gave him one and then a little bit of water. Then he made Beaupre put his head between his legs.

  “Feel any better?”

  “Better. The Disneyland movies are over. I'm back in Vietnam, if that's better.”

  “You sure you don't want me to call a chopper? We could probably get one in here. It might be the best idea.”

  “I don't want any goddamn choppers. I'll walk in. I've always walked in. The day I don't walk in, they can get the wood box and the American flag ready for me and call the man about the farm. There's only four, five clicks left and I'll make it. You call a chopper and I'll never go out again. They'd like that, one more retread captain, that's all they need now. They'll put me in psywar and let me inspect strategic hamlets. Eighteen years, and I've always walked and I'll do it today. I took your salt tablet, didn't I? You think I'd have taken one of those things if I wasn't going to walk in?”

  “All right, but I just wanted to be sure.”

  “Well, you're sure now.”

  Beaupre stood up, a little unsteady at first, and began to walk around. “All right,” he said, “now let's get those goddamn Viets off their asses.”

  Beaupre got up slowly and pulled the visor of his hat down as far as it would go. Anderson offered him a pair of sunglasses; Beaupre didn't like them, they were, he thought, the mark of a playboy, but he took them and put them on, perhaps they would help a little; whatever else, he couldn't afford to pass out again, to be sick once more. If he was, then Anderson would be forced to report him, he knew that. He stopped for a minute by the canal and dipped his wrists into the canal water; it was warm but to him it seemed somewhat cooler than the air and this was an old trick he had learned long ago as a construction worker in times when water was cheap and plentiful, it was like playing with the pulse. Then not refreshed, but not sick, he began to walk again. At first he was careful; each step was like a marker, the very accomplishment of it was an achievement and bore proof of survival; each step meant that he hadn't fallen down or passed out again. Then he realized he was going to be able to walk, that he was going to make it, and he cursed himself for having passed out in front of the boy, for having made a fool of himself, for having had to ask the boy not to report him. He cursed his weakness, but he was sure he was going to make it that day. He realized that Anderson was only a few yards behind him; Anderson was worried and lacked confidence in him. I'll show these young bastards, he thought, and he began to gain back his confidence, and he returned to the normal monotony of the long hot day.

  That monotony did not last long. Ten minutes later they were interrupted by the radio. The voice was shrill and excited, so excited, that Beaupre moved right back to the radio without Anderson's having to signal him.

  “Big Wil
liam. Big William and the Rangers just got hit,” the radio said. “Big William bought the farm. Just awful there. Oh, God, they got Big William and I was talking to him when he died, just like I am with you. It was awful. He just kept saying, ‘they got Big William and his Rangers just like ten pins, just like ten pins,’ and then he died. I never heard that before. Terrible. Everything going to hell there. Two thirds of the lead company dead in their tracks. Not a shot fired, and the Viets going crazy and weeping now. Crawford told me it was the goddamndest thing he ever saw, looked like twenty little Vietnamese carrying off Big William's body and crying to beat hell. Says he never saw them weep before, and some of them saying, ‘how they hanging Big William, they hanging fine,’ just like he used to. Christ, all hell's breaking loose there.”

  Beaupre took the radio from Anderson and started to calm down the CP, give it to me slow, start from the beginning, no, slower. I'm not interested in who's crying, I'm interested in who's alive and who's dead. Please, make it simple, please, and finally put the story together: they had just come out of a village where they had been particularly well treated (“look how Big William's charm work here, they goin' to name this here village after him, name it Big William Village”), and they were in a particularly good mood. Big William claimed they were going to name not just the village but the whole county after him and the CP had said that they couldn't do that because they didn't have counties, so he said fine, make it a province, it sounds bigger than a county, anyway, more like a whole country, and we'll name the province capital Pickens — he was laughing to himself at that — when the VC opened up and caught them flush in the open, and Big William said, ‘I'm hit, hit, hit bad, not even one shot, didn't fire one shot, hit just like ten pins,’ and then he died. They got some Vietnamese officer too. Short and sweet, the CP said, now (he was recovering) barely time to get the fighter planes in, the VC were gone before they arrived. There was a hell of a time getting the helicopters to go in there for wounded because the first ship that was supposed to go, the pilot was very short, on his last week, and he didn't like the sound of it, so they bitched a little and changed the order and made his ship the second one, and they came in without fire, but there was a hell of a mess and too many Viets claiming they were wounded and trying to get on the ship. Hell of a mess there.