The war was over for the afternoon, he was sure, and he leaned back, exhausted and dry; he found his heart was beating wildly. He positioned the Viet at the clump, went back to the column, and using hand signals, sent three more men up with orders to keep moving in and out of the perimeter. He looked across the canal and waited. Finally he saw the young Vietnamese lieutenant. He shouted for him to work the other side for a few more minutes. The Lieutenant gave him a thumbs-up signal, and Beaupre, surprised at first, grinned and returned it. Go get 'em, old buddy, he thought.
He went back on the radio and talked to the CP. The CP was very cheerful and for a moment Beaupre had the feeling that he had telephoned a disc jockey by mistake. He told them he thought his Victor Charlies were gone for the day. The CP asked how many Victor Charlies he had killed. Saigon, he said, almost apologetically, was anxious to have the results, Beaupre would understand, a bad day and they needed this. Beaupre thought for a minute and said, one and maybe two. The CP asked if he had two or not. Tell them one and maybe two, he said, doggedly, tell them to invent a new category.
“Oh sure,” said the CP, “I understand.”
The CP told him to wait a minute and then came back happy as ever. They just talked to Bien Hoa, and we got the zoomies back. They’re on the way. You want them over there. Bien Hoa's sorry they weren't there earlier, but you can have them just the same.
“No,” he said, “but I got a place for them.”
“Where?” the CP asked.
He gave the coordinates for the main canal where the recon patrol had bought it.
“You got any observers there?” the CP asked.
“No,” he said, “not any more.”
“Where you want it?” the CP asked.
“I want it all over the goddamn place. I want it where they were supposed to get us, and I want it north, because they'll probably head north, and you tell the zoomies that if they see anything moving, any mother's sons, white pajamas, black pajamas, no pajamas, to zap their goddamn yellow ass. Anything moves, kill it. I'll take the responsibility.”
“Okay,” said the CP, “if that's what you want.”
“It's what I want,” he said.
Behind him the Viets were milling about. Beaupre went back to where Anderson lay, loosened Anderson's canteen and took a long drink from it. He looked through the Lieutenant's papers: he had been twenty-five years old, but had claimed twenty-seven. There was a card showing membership in some West Point group. There was a photo of his young and pretty wife who annoyed Beaupre so much, and a letter which Beaupre looked at, it ended with love and love, I am feeling so lucky to be married to you even though you're away, I feel the better than the other women even though they have their husbands here. Beaupre closed it and put the letter in his pocket. He felt embarrassed for having envied Anderson only his decency, his poor decency. He sat down and rested his back against a tree for a minute. Behind him the bark of the tree had been chewed up by machine gun bullets. He looked over and saw the young Vietnamese lieutenant walking toward him. He was walking with a funny expression on his face and then Beaupre recognized it as pain and for the first time Beaupre saw the limp. Thuong came over and sat down next to him, the first time he had ever done that.
“You get hit there?” Beaupre said. “Let's see it.”
“No,” said Thuong. “I stepped in a punji trap. I was very stupid.”
“You'll have to be more careful next time,” Beaupre said.
“Yes, next time we must all be more careful,” Thuong said.
They sat side by side for several minutes; it was impossible to tell time after a battle, just as it was during a battle, five minutes was five hours, five hours was five days. All time seemed so very long. Finally Thuong, not caring who looked, turned and with great gentleness, started taking off his boot. Beaupre watched, sensing the man's pain. Finally the boot came off. The sole was caked with blood. The foot was absolutely white, a madonna's foot. Beaupre watched him set his teeth and then squeeze the heel.
“We had the good luck,” Thuong said to him. “All we hit were the outposts of their ambush.”
“Yes,” said Beaupre, “the good luck.”
He watched Thuong clean the wound and then put the boot back on. Then Thuong went back to the men and started pointing to the dead soldiers. At first there was no response from the living, they did not want to touch the dead. Do that for them, do that small last thing for them, Thuong began shouting, and finally the living began collecting the dead. They lined up their dead, and they lined Anderson up too.
Overhead two T-28s flew into view, and began low-flying raids on the main canal; Beaupre could hear the explosions, and he released a purple smoke grenade to mark their own position. They tipped their wings in recognition. Zoomies, Beaupre thought, going back to tell each other what a hell of a war they fought.
By all rights the Viets should have carried Anderson out, but Beaupre, angry with himself, went over and hoisted the body and threw it over his shoulder, smearing his own uniform with the Lieutenant's blood. Thuong continued to shout at the Viets, and one by one they picked up the dead. Then they began to move.
As they moved along, Thuong came over to Beaupre and said the troops were very concerned and worried and they wanted him to talk with the American; they had a question, would there be trucks, or would they have to walk home. They were very concerned.
“We'll ride home,” Beaupre said. “Tell them it will all be all right.”
On his shoulders the Lieutenant felt heavy and Beaupre lagged behind the others; someone else would have to be the point. Already the Viets were lollygagging again, laughing and talking, even the ones carrying the dead. One more burst of Sergeant Schauss' trusty grenade, he thought, would wipe them all out. He looked at his watch. It was nearly 2 P.M. By three they would link up with the other elements, if they were able to make it, and ride back to My Tho. It was all senseless, he thought. There was no real pursuit, no chase. The VC would reorganize that night and do whatever the hell they wanted. He knew, of course, that by the book some sort of pursuit was mandatory, but he could never get the Viets to pursue now. He could barely get their living and dead asses home; anyway he was tired and glad to be alive, glad that pursuit was hopeless, glad that there was no one there to force him to force the Viets to pursue. They would never find the VC anyway. He did not want to hunt the VC any more and stay out all night in some tiny village without a mosquito net, being eaten up by the mosquitoes; he wanted to spend the night in the Seminary and sleep between clean sheets, and bitch about the lack of pursuit, and think of the eighteen months he had to go for his twenty.
His war was over for the day and he was glad. It struck him that the Vietnamese lieutenant, Thuong, had been very good, and that he hadn't seen Dang since the ambush. He had finally seen the enemy for the first time; all those months in Vietnam and he had finally seen one. They make a lot of noise for such small people, he thought.
He walked slowly now, a short hulk of a man carrying an immense load, almost more graceful now because of the care he must take as he walked. Big William and Anderson in one day, he thought. The VC were getting close. He remembered that he should write to the Lieutenant's wife and visualized the letter, wondering what he could tell her. That her husband had been a good officer, had been desperately in love with her, that he had died during a hot walk in the sun, no not that, he had been killed in a battle, yes, and he wondered where, and thought, Ap Than Thoi, just past Ap Than Thoi, and then he realized it was no good, she knew where Ap Than Thoi was.
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One Very Hot Day Page 19