Fields of Fire (19 page)

He rejoined Gilliland in the paddy and as the patrol made its way among the weeds he felt a surge of deep, undirected anger and desire to kill. Kill everything, mused Hodges. We're a floating islet waiting to be killed just because Those Bastards think we should be killed so they can have more bodies on their tote boards when the React pulls us out from where we never should have had to go. Those Bastards sit somewhere with air conditioners around them and Coca-Cola inside them while we drink this goddamn wormy water. We're closer to being gooks than we are to being Them and yet here we are wanting to kill gooks, any gook because of this ulcerous anger that eats the insides of my guts and this is only Checkpoint Four.

Stork humped the radio now. “Call in Checkpoint Four.”

“Yes, sir. Six, this is Three.”

Hello Checkpoint Four you mother two more of you and I'm one patrol closer to being out of this shit-hole.

“Roger, Six. Be advised we're at Checkpoint Four.”

Shards of earth, broken trees, staring gook mamasans and kids they're numb look at them numb from all this and I look at them and wonder where their old man is. He probably set the trap that just blew Boomer up the bastard and the kids would like to kill us I don't blame them I'd like to kill them too not the kids but who gives a shit anymore it's all the same too hard to draw lines seen too many dead kids I don't feel bad for them anymore. They hate me. They're pathetic as hell but their old man's trying to kill me right now they'd just groove on watching me crumple to the dirt that's right need another cigarette. Here comes another paddy if they hit us again it will be in this paddy it's too wide to cross without prepping I'm going to put us all on line and call a mission Battery Three if they'll give it to me Open Sheaf three repeats I'll blow that treeline all to hell. There's mamasans and babysans in there I know that but what the hell I didn't ask to do this dangling and if I don't blow them away I'll hit a goddamn company of NVA and I'll never live long enough to be glad I didn't kill any mamasans besides they have family bunkers and anyway there you are again it's them or us and that my friend whether you'll admit it or not isn't any choice at all.

14

From outside the lines came a racing whoosh, then overhead a wavy string of smoke. The green-star cluster popped, its burning capsules lighting a phosphorescent patch of scraggly hill inside the perimeter, and in a moment all was predawn dark again.

Doc Rabbit squinted toward the middle of the perimeter, where the burning capsules had landed, looking for movement. He grinned sleepily, sitting up in his bed of raw earth. That had to be Waterbull's team coming in, Rabbit mused. Bagger shot that green-star. Bastard gets closer every time. But if he ever really does set the Skipper's hootch on fire … Oh, well. That was his last chance before R & R, anyway. Skipper'll have ten days to forget about it.

Hodges had the last radio watch. The handset squawked and he braced himself, answering the call.

“This is Three. Go, Six.”

Hodges held the handset away from his ear, making a pained face at Rabbit. Green-stars go parallel to the lines, the radio was saying. Train your men, it continued. Finally there was a waiting silence.

Hodges keyed in. “Roger, Six. Probably was the first time my man ever worked a green-star. I'll talk to him.” Hodges shook his head hopelessly, sharing Rabbit's grin. A listening post with Wild Man, Waterbull, and Bagger. The Skipper was lucky they didn't start an imaginary fire-fight out there, just to wake everybody up. He looked across ten feet of weeds to Rabbit, who had fought his way out of his poncho-liner blanket and was sitting in a disheveled lump in the middle of an array of canteens, C-ration tins, and battle dressings.

“Crazy bastards. I better find a new game for 'em before we all get in trouble.”

Rabbit nodded, stretching sleepily, then drank deeply from a canteen. The water was musky, alive with creatures from some leech-infested pool, but was cool from the night air. Rabbit liked to soak his canteen covers with water just before dark. The evaporation, and the night air, had a small refrigeration effect, and made each morning's drink a luxury. He finished drinking and held the canteen like a toy in his huge hands, pondering his choice for breakfast out of the C-ration tins that were scattered at his feet.

Rabbit should have been called Doc Bear. He was large and thick, with a layer of dark hair that covered his limbs and heavily bearded him. He had sad brown eyes and a sleepy growl of a voice that made his comments sound like afterthoughts. But he had been nicknamed Rabbit years before, because his top teeth were prominent, and he sported a rabbit tattoo on one bulky forearm.

Rabbit selected a can of fruit cocktail and began working a C-ration opener around its lid. “Rained last night, Lieutenant.”

The sky was gray now. It was almost dawn. Hodges tore off a quarter-sized corner of C-4 explosive, lit one ragged edge, and dropped it quickly into a punctured C-ration can. The C-4 ignited and burned hotly. Hodges set his canteen cup over it, heating water for cocoa.

“I noticed. I dreamed I was taking a shower, and I woke up to turn on the hot water.”

Rabbit chuckled. Hodges reached over and shook Staff Sergeant Gilliland, who was snoring loudly underneath a poncho. “Come on, Sarge. Up and at 'em. Today's the big day. Look like you love it, man.”

Rabbit laughed again, eating his fruit cocktail. On the lines the first radio clicked on, meeting sunrise, piercing the still air like the first lathe in a factory that would soon be overwhelmed by noise and motion.

“Goooooo-o-o-o-o-od morning, Vietnam!”

Gilliland's poncho flew into the air, and he sat on the piece of C-ration cardboard he had scrounged for a mattress. He rubbed his craggy, acne-scarred face, then ran a hand along the wet, packed earth at the edge of his cardboard.

“Rain.”

Hodges nodded. “Yup. We were just talking about it.”

A cigarette appeared automatically under Gilliland's bushy black moustache, and was lit by hands that needed no guidance from the eyes, which quickly scanned the perimeter, then the field and the village across from it, finally becoming satisfied that this would be a boring, empty morning, like so many others. They lost their molten look and Gilliland threw his match disconsolately to one side and sat smoking, staring bleakly in front of him. He quickly smoked the cigarette down to a nub, then flicked it in front of him, rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah. Rain. You ain't seen the monsoon yet, Lieutenant. We got to start checking feet. Wait till you see a man take a boot off and leave half his foot in it.” Gilliland massaged the ground as if in deep thought. “It'll be another couple of months before it's real bad.” He pondered the C-ration cardboard he was sitting on. “You know, if anyone ever asked me what the most important development of Vietnam was, I'd just have to say C-ration cardboard.”

Rabbit nodded to Hodges. “The man's gone dinky-dau on his last day in the bush.”

“No, I mean it. We sleep on it. We burn it to keep warm. The villagers put it in their thatch to keep out rain. They make hats with it. What the hell has done that much good?”

“Rubbers on R & R.”

“Well, I wouldn't know about that. I saw my wife in Hawaii.” Gilliland reached defeatedly for a C-ration box, coming up with a can of date pudding. “Shee-it. This gets old, you know, Lieutenant?”

Hodges eyed him, sipping cocoa now, and grinned amusedly. “That's a hell of a thing to say on the day a man re-ups, Sarge.”

“Well. You can bet your ass I'm not re-upping for this. Two tours of this is enough. That's right. You worry about the monsoon. I'm gonna be dry.”

The whole platoon had been ribbing Gilliland for days. Hodges jibed him again. “You'll be back, Sarge. You got expertise now. They ain't gonna let you switch from the grunts.”

Gilliland worked to open the date pudding. “I gave 'em ten years of this. Ten years and three Hearts. And for what? Now it's their turn. I want ten years of Motor Transport, something like that. I need some expertise I can retire with. What the hell can an old grunt do when he gets out?” He peered bleakly at Hodges. “It's not like I'm getting flaky on 'em after ten years, you know. I got to think of my future.” He found a plastic spoon in one low trouser pocket, wiped it on a skivvy shirt crusted with sweat and mud, and ate the pudding in four huge, untasting bites. Hodges pointed at the pudding and grimaced: “Date pudding? For breakfast?”

Gilliland waved him off. “Ah. It all tastes the same.”

Rabbit threw his empty can toward the trash hole, and continued to rib Gilliland. “C'mon, Sarge. You know goddamn well the Sergeant Major ain't gonna let you switch. Nobody leaves the grunts. It's sacrilegious to even think it.”

Gilliland eyed Rabbit, then snorted. “He's a hell of a one to talk, ain't he? Walking round the rear with an AK-47, flak jacket all zipped and helmet snapped, like he's the toughest grunt that ever walked. Shee-it. You know what he did his whole career? You think he was a grunt? Hell, no, Doc. He was a damn office pogue. That's right. A Remington Raider. If that fat fucker tells me I can't switch I think I'll break his head.” Gilliland pondered it, his face becoming intense. “Hell, no. I'll go you one better. I'll turn that son of a bitch in. Yeah.” He grinned sardonically to Rabbit. “Yeah, that Sergeant Major's a real winner. Sitting back there in An Hoa, selling off our rations to rear pogues. You ever wonder why we never get beer and soda out here?” Gilliland snorted again. “Beer and soda per man per day. Right? That man is making a mint back there, on our rations.”

Hodges nodded absently. He had heard the stories, but could not be convinced that such a thing would occur. It would be the greatest of heresies. “Well, good luck, Sarge. If it all works out for you we'll never see you again.”

Rabbit grabbed a wad of C-ration toilet paper and headed toward the perimeter's edge. “Yeah. And if it don't, remember you always got a home with us.”

Gilliland lit another cigarette and begrudged them a grin. “Well, don't think it hasn't been a kick in the ass. Even if it hasn't.”

Rabbit walked through wet weeds, stepped over a low paddy dike, and reached Waterbull's team, just in from the LP. “You crazy bastards. You almost did it. Six more inches and you'da burned a hole in the Skipper's ass.”

Wild Man looked up from a canteen-cup of coffee. “Wasn't me. I was gonna use a LAAW.”

Rabbit grunted: “Sure.”

“It was Bagger again.”

Bagger grinned awkwardly. “Only six inches from getting me a company commander? Hell. I just might stay out here an extra day and try again.” He dragged ceremoniously on a cigarette. “But I kinda fucking doubt it.”

“Where you going?”

“Hawaii.”

Rabbit squinted unbelievingly. “Hawaii? You married, Bagman?”

Waterbull leaned over to Rabbit, gesturing ironically toward the muscled, baby-faced blond. “Where the hell you been, Doc? You mean you ain't seen Bagger's ‘These Eyes’ routine?”

Bagger's face deepened to a scowling blush. “Aw, knock it off, Bull.”

Wild Man mimicked the song.

These eyes cry every night for you,
These arms long to hold you again—

“Come on. Cool it, turkey.”

Waterbull guffawed. “The pictures, Bagger! Come on, now. The flicks!”

Rabbit rubbed his bearded face. “What the hell is going on?”

Bagger attempted to cut the others off. “Nothing, that's what. It's personal, and assholes here ain't got any right to butt in. So butt the hell out.”

Waterbull ignored him. “Every time that song comes on, old Bagger sits down right where he is and breaks out the flicks of his wife. Then he just rocks back and forth and cries like a goddamn baby! Every time, man! We could be in the middle of a ville, on patrol, and old shithead here would drop everything. Man. I can't believe you ain't seen him, Doc. Hell. We could be in a damn fire-fight—”

Rabbit grinned unbelievingly. “You're shitting me.”

“No-o-o-o! Hell, it makes you wonder. Last night—”

“Well, what do you know about what it feels like, Bull? Huh? You and the others. Go on off to Bangkok and get the clap from some damn whore of a wife!”

“Oh, she ain't really a wife—”

“Well, you bet your ass she ain't! And mine is.” Bagger took his wallet from its plastic bag and opened it, holding the picture up for Rabbit's perusal. “Now. Check out what the hell I'm missing, there, Rabbit. Tell me you wouldn't miss it, too.”

Rabbit stared at the picture. It was slightly out of focus, and revealed a mildly attractive, rather stocky girl in pigtails and a cheerleader's uniform, kneeling between two pompoms. He nodded judiciously. “Uh huh. She's real nice, Bag-man. I don't blame you.” Bagger continued to hold the picture in front of him, as if demanding more. “Cheerleader, huh?”

“You better believe.” Rabbit began to leave and Bagger flipped the plastic card holder once more, grasping his shoulder and extending two more pictures. One of them was the same girl with a small baby.

“A baby?”

“That's right. Jerry Dean Dolan, Junior.” Bagger blushed again. “He's two months old. I ain't seen him yet, but she says he looks just like me. She's bringing him to Hawaii. Don't he look like me?”

“Say what?”

“Don't he look like me?” Bagger appeared mildly threatening.

“Huh? Well, it's hard to tell. I mean—” Rabbit eyed Bagger's expression. “Sure, Bagger.” Rabbit considered the picture again, and shook his head helplessly. “Good Christ. Who'd have believed it. My man Bagger is a daddy! Poor kid.”

“Hey. Now you know why I hate this shit so much, huh? I got something to go back to. I got responsibilities. All you suckers got is yourselves. I got a wife and a baby to take care of. What the hell am I doing out here, anyway? Where's the goddamn ARVNs? Who needs this shit, huh? I ain't any hero. Goddamn John Wayne, anyway.” Bagger appeared spooked, as if he were beginning to hallucinate or remember a nightmare. “What if I get killed over here, for God's sake? What are you gonna tell my kid? Huh?”

“Anything but the truth.” Rabbit waved Bagger off,
trekking toward the edge of the perimeter. “Don't worry,
Bagger. He'll never find out.”

“Ahh. Screw around. Nothing's serious, is it?” Rabbit dug a cathole and squatted in the far weeds.

He could hear Wild Man and Waterbull continue to taunt

Bagger.

The hurtin's on me, yeah,
I will never be free no my baby no no—

Hodges lay in the oven heat of his poncho hootch, dozing absently while monitoring first platoon's patrol on the company radio. Captain Crazy, the company commander, was telling Rock Man to move into a village he had just taken sniper fire from. Rock Man, the first platoon commander, was arguing for an artillery prep before he moved in. There were resupply choppers in the air, and Captain Crazy was explaining that there would be no clearance for an artillery mission unless Rock Man was in bad trouble, since it would be necessary to down the helicopters.

Hodges admired Captain Crazy. The big, bluff Italian, who had been an ARVN advisor during his first tour, was an excellent tactician. He was too offensive-minded for most of the troops, pushing all of his activities to the edge of periphery—as at the moment with Rock Man—but he produced a lot of kills, and was uniformly respected. Hodges and the others considered themselves lucky. At least Captain Crazy knew what he was doing.

He wasn't nicknamed Crazy for his tactics. Hodges named him during the Captain's first week in the bush, because of two incidents. One was the Captain's insistence that any unpenned pig be killed in the villages they used for night perimeters. Captain Crazy was spooked by pigs running through the weeds at night, and he claimed troops mistook them for gooks, and mistook gooks for pigs. So, every new village saw its hog population slaughtered.

The other incident was Captain Crazy's wound in the back of his head, from a B-40 rocket, in his fourth day. He refused to be medevacked, and instead led a small patrol back to Liberty Bridge, where the Battalion Surgeon shaved the Captain's head and placed a large X-shaped bandage over the wound. The bandage was visible from a thousand yards. The troops took to joking about the real reason for the bandage. Bagger claimed it marked the center of the bull's-eye for snipers. Wild Man maintained it was where they changed the rocks in the Captain's head. Hodges decided that any man who didn't accept a medevac back to the sanity of Da Nang was nothing but stomp-down crazy. And the name stuck.