He didn’t grow braids, although he did toy with the idea of transferring to recon, so he could spend more time in the green. Away from all the crap. And he didn’t rape women or collect ears himself, but once he’d sighted down on an old man plowing a paddy with his water buffalo, just to see what it was like to play God. And sometimes, after particularly brutal days, he even began to understand those twin urges of domination, the fierce desire to cap mere killing with calculated savagery against the enemy, assaulting his women or hacking off parts of his corpse. Rape and mutilation were extreme versions of pissing on the enemy: If nothing else, they made crystal clear just which one had survived the battle.
Three months in-country, and Allen’s eyes gazed on the world from the other side of a chasm. Whenever he shaved in his murky steel mirror, he concentrated on the cheeks and chin, because he knew that if he looked farther up, he would see that look the journalists liked to call the “thousand yard stare,” the expressionless face of an old, old man who no longer dares focus on anything close by. Allen concentrated on the face below the cheekbones, because a part of him did not want to acknowledge what he in fact was.
A twenty-year-old cold-blooded killer.
The calendar changed to 1968, and paradoxically, while Allen’s own tensions simplified and leveled out, the pressures on the country around him grew. While Allen learned to move quietly in the land he was coming to know, Charlie was growing more and more blatant. It was almost as if he could smell blood in the water, as the growing drag of antiwar sentiment at home made even the rawest recruit suspect that the U.S. wasn’t going to be in the country long enough to win. The Wolf took on a haunted look, and his determination that the men under his command would fight an honest war was grim now instead of dignified. Things happened even in Second Platoon that wouldn’t have earlier, blind eyes were turned on the unjustly dead. Someone told Allen that life would calm down once Tet, the Vietnamese New Year, started. He replied that he’d be more than ready for it.
During a day inside the NDP, Allen was mending a ripped cargo pocket on his fatigues when he looked up to see Ricardo Flores, the whip of an antenna snapping back and forth over his head, bright green eyes sparkling in a grinning face. Allen dropped his clumsy needle to throw his arms around this figure from a past life and pound on the little guy’s tightly muscled back.
“Hey Flowers! Or do they still call you Lucy?”
“Don’t know what I’m going to do when I go home and my mother calls me Ricky,” he admitted. “How you doin’, man?”
“Counting the days, Lucy, just countin’ the days. What’re you doing here, anyway?”
“They had to do some shuffling at the regiment I was in, putting some platoons together, that kinda shit. We had two romeos, you guys were one down, so here I am.”
In other words, his company had had such heavy losses, they shipped in an entire new platoon to fill their numbers.
“It’s great to see you. You with the Second Platoon, then?”
“First.”
“Second’s better, Lieutenant Woolf’s better’n most of the generals.”
“Hell, Carmichael, you’re better’n most of the generals.”
“True. Hey, I should tell you, Farmboy’s in your platoon. Remember him and Dogs? Dogs shipped out last month, lucky bastard, some kind of liver thing.”
“Yeah, I remember them, from the bus. So the farmboy made it this far—I’da thought he’d get hisself stomped by a water buffalo or something.”
“Not yet. So where you been?”
“All over.” The green eyes took on a haunted look and shifted away, which meant that he didn’t want to talk about it. Fair enough.
“Well,” said Allen, “anyway, welcome to Bravo Company. You need me to show you where your platoon is?”
“Nah, I got it. See you around, okay?” And Flores left Allen to his mending.
Two days later, Tet began.
But instead of the breathing space of peace that past experience led everyone to expect, the celebrations set off a paroxysm of violence that ran from the delta to the demilitarized zone. VC and NVA alike rose up from one end of the country to the other, even in areas assumed to be secure. Saigon in the south came within a hair’s breadth of falling, the Marines in Hue to the east were awash in blood, battalions near the DMZ came close to being overrun. The grunts hunkered down and met the enemy, and it was a close thing, but by the end of February, it was apparent that the Tet offensive had stalled. Westmoreland claimed a victory on his way out the door, but when Walter Cronkite came to see for himself, he declared to the American people that the war was lost. The men on the ground figured both authorities were right; at the same time, they knew it would be a long time before anyone recognized it.
In early March, Allen’s platoon lifted out for five days of turnaround time near the coast, hot food, cold beer, real bunks, and above all, someone else to stand guard. The five days passed in a welter of fistfights and fucking and they returned to their part of the jungle more tired than when they’d left.
Still, it had been a change, and had let them take a small step away from the craziness.
And then there was what was called “friendly fire”: Artillery was given wrong coordinates, overheated guns misfired by one or two degrees, gunships laying down white phosphorus were given incomplete information or failed to see the smoke markers. Whoever came up with the phrase no doubt did not intend its flavor of bitter irony—that came from the victims.
Late March; raining. First and Second Platoons had been out for the better part of a week, slopping through the deluge, trying to keep their M16s dry, looking like mud men, the noise of the rain on their steel hats deafening them. The point man in the next squad up had his bush hat on, no protection from flying steel but it kept the rain out of his eyes and gave him a chance to hear something other than pounding rain. Still, not even he heard the gunship coming up the turgid, red-brown stream. Allen’s squad was picking its way through the waist-deep water, rifles over their heads, when the Slick came upon them. The gunship had taken ground fire in this same place three times the previous day and its crew was antsy; when it swooped around a curve in the stream and saw heavily draped men carrying burdens, the gunner opened fire.
The Huey had turned and was taking a return pass before one of the men in Alpha Squad managed to free a smoke canister and set it going. Fortunately it was one of the yellow ones, visible even in the half-light of the rain and the streambed, because the helicopter bearing down on them abruptly pulled up and sailed past; the gunner stared down appalled at his handiwork, like a god who has mistakenly summoned lightning against his own priests.
Of the twelve men caught crossing the stream, four were down, two trapped underwater by sixty pounds of equipment. Allen flung his rifle in the direction of the bank and splashed after the nearest spread-eagled figure. He grabbed the man’s foot, then his own boot went out from under him and he went down, bouncing along the stream bottom until he fought clear of pack, grenades, bandoliers, and flak jacket, staggering upright, gagging and coughing as he tried to shout for help, but when he dashed the water out of his eyes, all he saw was the downed man in the fast-moving center of the stream, gaining momentum. He waded after the figure, slow as a bad dream, then flung his helmet aside and dove in unencumbered. Ten, fifteen strokes, and he had hold of the boot again. He clawed at belt, equipment, anything. The body seemed determined to head for the distant China Sea but, cursing and choking, Allen managed to get the senseless weight turned faceup.
Streak.
Allen hawked the mud from his throat and roared, “For Christ sake somebody help me—Streak’s hit!”
Then Chris was there, lifting Streak’s head out of the swirl while Allen took the feet; using the water itself as a stretcher, they struggled against the current, back to where the bank ran with blood. Hands reached for Streak, dragging him onto the rocks, fumbling to release his web gear while Allen ripped at Streak’s flak jacket and yelled, “
Medic! We need you here, right now!”
The medic appeared at his shoulder, kneeling beside the still body, resting his fingers on the skin under Streak’s jawbone. Then, inexplicably, he was straightening up and moving away, back to the man he’d abandoned. Allen grabbed his arm, hard.
“What the hell you think you’re doing? This man needs you.”
“What this man needs, I can’t give. He’s dead, Carmichael.”
“He’s not dead, he’s just stopped breathing. Give him some artificial respiration or something, get the water out of his lungs.”
“Carmichael. Look at him. He’s dead.”
The medic’s patience forced the meaning through.
Streak? Their shortest guy, their platoon leader, nerves-of-ice Streak? No. Not possible.
But without the muddy water, with the wide bandoliers stripped from his chest, Allen could see that the words were true. The blood oozed, without the pressure of a heart to pump it: For eleven months, Streak Rychenkow had survived all Charlie had to throw at him, only to fall to a bullet made in the USofA.
That was not the whole of it, either. Allen looked up from Streak’s slack features to another face startling in its contrast, a face so contorted in pain and fear that he failed for a moment to recognize it. Farmboy Pete, helmet tipped back from that blond and tousled head, legs in the water, freckles stark against skin gone monstrously pale. He was trying to get his hands onto his belly where the medic was working; two men were struggling to hold his wrists while Pete writhed and gulped for air, his eyes locking on to Allen as if to a life ring. Allen splashed over to his side, and one of the bloody hands shot away from its keeper to grab Allen’s arm.
“Don’t leave me, Carmichael, don’t leave me here.”
“Nobody’s going to leave you, Farmboy, you’re safe now. The medic’s going to patch you up and it’s off to the hospital with you, nice, clean sheets and plenty to eat, all those pretty nurses, don’t worry.” Nonsense phrases poured out, nonsense because it did not seem possible for a man to lose that much blood and survive to the medevac’s arrival. “Can’t you give him some morphine?” he asked the medic.
“Any more might kill him.”
It was on the tip of Allen’s tongue to ask why that wouldn’t be the lesser evil here, but with Farmboy’s blue eyes holding his, he could not. All he could do was wait, and listen to the gulping quieten, and watch the eyes’ focus go farther and farther away. The kid was still alive when the medevac came. It was only the drugs, Allen told himself, that made him seem close to death.
The gunship’s friendly fire had taken Streak and another short-timer from Alpha Squad just behind them on the bank, given T-bone a bullet in his buttock, and left Farmboy . . . wherever he was. They shoved the four men into the medevac with as much gentleness as they could, and watched the chopper take to the air.
“Not enough that Charlie’s shootin’ our asses, now the First Fuckin’ Cav’s got to take its turn.” It was Mouse, more bitter than Allen had ever heard him. “Suckers think we can’t aim better’n Charlie, put a hole in they gas tank?”
“They know we’re not going to do that, Mouse. They’ve got us by the balls—we’re not going to shoot at the guys who bring us food and haul us out.”
“Maybe you not gonna do that, Crazy. They better damn well not count on this boy not to get ’em in my sights.”
“Frag a chopper, man?” Chris exclaimed. “Dude, that’d be bitchin’. Get their attention, know what I mean?”
“They sure as shit think twice about shootin’ at our asses—eatin’ this fuckin’ mud while they sittin’ up there, nice and dry.”
Allen didn’t like this talk, not the way Mouse was saying it. Things had to become pretty grim in a company for the men to talk about fragging a hated officer, “accidentally” loosing a round or grenade in his direction during a firefight. But this company had no such hated officers, and open war breaking out between the grunts and the helicopter crews would be a catastrophe.
“Look, Mouse, fuck ’em. Let The Wolf tear the chopper boys another asshole. He’ll do it righteous, you know that.”
Even Mouse had to pause at that, considering what their lieutenant’s response was going to be, having his own men shot down by some jumpy-fingered gunner. Mouse’s bulked-up shoulders relaxed, and the open rage faded from his face as he began to imagine The Wolf lighting into the gunship crew, The Wolf closing in on the hapless First Cav gunner, eyes gleaming and teeth bared; every man there pictured it with anticipation. “He better, man, you know what I’m sayin’? He just better. Streak was good people, fuckin’ hell.”
“Who better what?” spoke the voice of authority, and Woolf was there, his eyes already angry.
“Nothing, sir.”
“How many in your squad now, Carmichael?”
Allen did a quick head count: Mouse, Chris, and he were the only members of the squad as it had been when he first shipped in; T-bone would be gone for a while, by the looks of it; and there were a pair of new guys who’d been with them eleven days.
“Five, sir.”
“Okay, I’m dropping Bravo Squad until we’re reinforced, I’ll be putting two of them in with you. What’re your DEROS dates?”
Allen found he was fourth down, even though he’d served less than half his time, following Chris, Mouse, and a guy recently transferred into Bravo, one of the few soldiers Allen had seen here who looked older than twenty. The guy’s hair was even thinning—he’d have looked like an accountant playing at Army Reserves if it hadn’t been for the eyes.
“Okay, Garrison, you’re squad leader,” Woolf told the man, but the accountant shook his head.
“I’d rather not, sir, if you don’t mind. I’ve been here long enough to know that my strength is not in leadership, you might say. Besides, I’m off to R&R in a week.”
“Take it now, Garrison. We’ll shuffle when we get back to the NDP.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Wolf’s gaze went to the other squad members. Funny, Allen thought, you always expect his eyes to be yellow. “You men okay with that?”
“Sure, Loot.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “A person would think this Army was a democracy or something,” he said, and walked away.
The squad stared openmouthed at the retreating back.
“Did The Wolf just make a joke?” Allen asked.
“Hard to imagine,” the accountant said. “You’re Carmichael? I’m Gregory George Garrison—they call me ThreeG.” They shook hands, and went off to amalgamate their two squads.
But the Army didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry to bring the platoon in. Over the next two days, pressing forward into the green, no one seemed to know what they were doing out there, and they would have suspected that the company command had forgotten about them had they not responded to radio requests for artillery and supplies. Allen found himself walking next to Flores the morning of the second day, and heard how The Wolf had used Lucy’s radio to call in the report of the gunship’s friendly fire.
“Sweet Jesus, I’m glad it wasn’t me on the other end.” Lucy said it with admiration. “Just listening made me want to crawl off and shit my guts out under a tree. Thought my radio’s tubes’d be melted down. That gunner better arrange himself a quick bullet in the foot and get lifted out right quick, else he’s gonna find himself in lots of little pieces.”
That cheered Allen, and left Mouse with a bounce in his step when he relayed the conversation to him. The rain even let up for a while, enough to tuck their ponchos up over their shoulders and steam in the sun.
They came to a small ville around two in the afternoon, five hooches, six ducks, and a bunch of kids wearing shorts or nothing at all, most of them with sores on their legs and scalps. The closest thing they found to a bunker was a suitcase-sized hole under the family sleeping area, covered with a board: a rat-resistant store for rice, but nothing being hidden from human attention. The ville’s papers were in order and the people were
friendly, so the GIs distributed a few chocolate bars and cigarettes, the medic smeared the worst of the kids’ sores with ointment, and they moved on. One kid tagged along for a while, a handsome boy of about eight, formally dressed in both shorts and an adult-sized T-shirt that had once been printed with a picture of the Eiffel Tower. It was more hole than fabric and the ragged hem came to his knees, but it was clearly a thing of pride. Allen figured the kid was hoping that if he hung around the GIs long enough, one of them might give him another T-shirt. The boy skipped up and down the line, chattering merrily in his pidgin English, and because he was cheerful, because his scalp was relatively clean from scabs and his face was animated, the weary, dispirited grunts put up with his presence. Eventually, though, he decided that these GIs had given all they could be talked out of, and between one tree and the next, he was gone.
That night, the enemy fell upon them.
The platoon was dug in on a piece of ground marked on the maps as Hill 117, nicely softened but with enough drainage in the soil that their holes did not turn instantly into bathtubs. Allen was not the only one to fashion a cup from one C-ration tin and cut a stove from another, heating a cup of cocoa over a chunk of burning C4—the air was cooler here on higher ground, and the hot drink was welcome. Chris lit a joint and handed it back and forth with Mouse, offering it to Allen but not taking his refusal personally.