Summer Shorts-Four Short Stories (4 page)

Quietly, in a subdued voice, BB Boy answered
"Ok".

******

The first show at the enormous U.S. base Da
Nang went off without a hitch. Yes, there were a few shouts of
"Bullshit" and "Fake", but BB Boy performed like the old pro he
was. Sure there were hot looking dancers, a cooking rock band, and
a concert light show behind him, but when BB Boy concluded with the
old theme song, hundreds of GI's stood arm around one another
singing along.

"…Cold blue steel in his hands,

He's the champion of the land,

It's a rifle-not a toy,

He's our hero, BB Boy"

The next show scheduled a few days later to
take place just outside of Saigon was expected to draw even bigger
attendance numbers. It was slated to occur on the Vietnamese New
Year being called "Tet". With a truce called for the New Year
holiday, Republic of Viet Nam soldiers would be attending the show
along with American soldiers and civilian employees.

The ensemble was stuffed into Army
helicopters and flown south towards the capital city. Most rode in
the massive "Jolly Green" twin motor choppers but BB Boy and his
ever present new side kick, the Major, brought up the rear in a
smaller Huey chopper. Twenty minutes into the flight, a rocket
propelled grenade emerged from the jungle bellow, striking the Huey
in its tail rotor and causing it to spin wildly. The Major shrieked
orders into his headset mic for the Jolly Greens to climb to a
safer altitude, all the while the Huey spun like a maple seed
towards the base of a hill.

******

The crash came suddenly…violently…rolling the
Huey sideways towards the hill as rotors and cargo flew through the
air. There was stillness for a moment, soon pierced by moans and
cries of pain. The pilot was severely injured; no doubt his spine
was shattered. The co-pilot was dead, as seemed to be the case of
the door gunner/flight engineer who had been thrown from the
wreckage. His limp body wrapped around a tree in the distance. The
Major had a broken leg…probably internal injuries to boot. BB Boy
sat on the floor of the mangled Huey, dazed and looking around,
questioning his own survival in the midst of such destruction.

The Major called over to him "BB, you okay
kid?" BB Boy replied in an uncertain tone of one in shock: "Well…
it appears to be…oops!" When he tried to scoot over to the Major,
he heard a gurgling sound coming for inside of his Army jump suit
the Huey crew had provided him. Unzipping it, he saw a mass of his
own insides exposed. Instantly, he zipped it back up. "I guess not,
sir" he mumbled to the Major who saw the look in BB's eyes and
quickly surmised the rest.

"Son, they'll be coming for us soon…ours and
theirs. Your new gun is on board. Can you reach it?" BB Boy saw the
special black rifle case with "BB BOY" stencilled on the side of
it. It had been securely tied to the side of the cargo well and had
survived the crash. "Yeah, I got it" BB Boy groaned as he reached
over and released its tie-down straps. "Son, inside that case
you're going to find a phosphorus grenade. I put it there …just in
case this sort of thing happened." BB Boy felt the grenade inside a
small compartment within the case. "Found it too, sir" he replied.
The Major's voice grew softer…sadder…as he added "Now son, that M16
of yours has the new Starlight vision scope attachment in the case.
Neither the gun nor the scope can be taken by the enemy. Do you
understand what that means?" BB Boy felt a nausea sensation
stronger than he had ever known. Leaning out the window beside him,
he vomited. It was mostly blood. Wiping the mess from his lips, he
replied "I understand sir...
totally
".

There was a crackle in the Major's headset.
Then a voice called "King 151…King 151. Do you read me?" Above
there was the faint sound of an aircraft engine…a propeller engine.
The voice continued "This is Sandman 79. What is your status?" The
Major relayed the situation to the pilot of a "Sandy", a propeller
driven A-1 Skyraider attack plane. The A-1 was not glamorous
compared to its jet counterparts flown by the Air Force, but it was
a most reassuring sight to downed American pilots. Sandy's flew
escort missions for rescue helicopters and were renowned for taking
as much punishment as they dealt out.

The Major was both encouraged and disturbed
by Sandman 79's arrival. "Charlie" also knew about the A-1's duty,
and the Major knew that the enemy would be drawn to the wreckage
site by Sandman 79's presence in the area. With the sun setting,
the Major also knew it was "Charlie Time"…the darkness in which
American planes were blind.

"Tow truck is on it's way…ten outbound,
forty-five in" Sandman 79 advised, meaning that the rescue chopper
had departed ten minutes ago and would arrive in forty five
minutes. "Sit tight and I won't let the bed bugs bite" Sandman 79
laughed as he continued circling high above.

Then they bit. It sounded like hail hitting a
tin roof as the Viet Cong riddled the wrecked Huey with Ak-47 fire.
"Sir, I hope you realize that I've never shot a man. Hell, I've
never even shot at one. I didn't even hunt as a kid…just
targets…always targets." There was no reply. The Major was
dead…struck by a bullet that had pierced the hull of the wreckage
separating him from the Viet Cong outside. "Captain? Captain? Are
you still with us?" The pilot had either succumbed to his injuries
or he too had been shot.

Sick beyond pain's threshold, terror now shot
down his spine making his legs tremble. Sliding closer to the
Major's limp body, BB Boy slid the headset off the lifeless head.
"Sandman, this is The Package. I repeat…this is The Package. Major
signed off for good". There was a pause, then a sympathetic
"Understood, Package," A moment of silence passed, then the headset
crackled again with a chuckle and "Package, you say? Is this the
one and only BB Boy?" BB sighed, smiled and replied "That's
affirmative, Sandman. In the flesh…what's left of it. Just me and
the Indians".

The sound of the A-1 suddenly grew louder as
it dove down to the tree top level, scaring the hell out of the
Viet Cong and BB as well. "Well, now we get to answer the great
mystery, BB. Is that stuff you do with the gun all fake or can you
really shoot? Now might be a good time to find out…seeing that you
have company coming." BB Boy pulled the M16 from its case and
stuffed the phosphorus grenade into his overall pocket. He inserted
a clip, and with his right hand thumb, flicked the mode selector to
"burst". Sliding back over to the window, he eased the barrel of
the M16 out the window and squeezed off a three second fusillade
towards the trees and bushes. Immediately there was a response from
enemy guns firing towards the window from where the mussel flash
had appeared. The scene replayed two more times, then they withdrew
to the tree line…to wait…for the imminent darkness to obscure
them.

The grass was dripping with dew, and steam
slowly wafted upwards from every leaf, branch, and petal creating a
waist high cloud layer of fog. The late night tropical dampness
soaked through every article of clothing where it blended with his
sweat. His limbs ached as the adrenaline began to give way to the
exhaustion, muscle cramps tugged at his legs from kneeling so long
in such a constricted space.

The chatter---those damned monkey-like
voices--their voices --continually filled the dark thick air,
blended with the noise of the distant artillery to make dull, white
noise that surrounded us in a tiny bubble of silence. He gasped for
air, flexed his knees for circulation, shook off the cold dew, and
waited for them.

"Forty-five minutes, my ass…Sandman. Where's
that tow truck?" BB Boy's speech was now slurred between pain,
delirium, and lack of water. The voice returned in his headset
"Well you may not believe it, TV star…but it appears that Charlie
isn't throwing this shin-dig just for you. VC's raising hell all
over the place. Saigon, Da Nang, Hue and some shit hole called "Khe
Sahn". It's just you and me, tonight BB. Is this the smallest
audience you played?"

BB moaned, grimaced, and then laughed "My
hamster…I used to practice my routine in front of my hamster,
Hercules. He never complained." Laughter rang out from the headset.
BB felt a twinge and then a tugging sensation. Glancing down, he
could see that the overalls were now drenched in his blood. His
guts were sticking to the gooey material.

He gathered himself, then solemnly added
"Sandman, I'm afraid the show's closing down in a few minutes. I've
got just a couple of tricks left in me…then I'd appreciate a big
finale. Really light it up for me…okay?" Again there was a pause on
the radio, and a subdued Sandman replied "Understood. You call it,
BB."

Attaching the low light Twilight scope, BB
began picking off the VC as they slithered towards the wreckage in
the darkness. Each one cried out in surprise…amazed that they had
been seen in the fog shrouded blackness of the jungle night. BB
felt neither joy nor remorse as he shot one after another. He
thought for a moment that he was back in his basement shooting
gallery with Hercules looking on from his cage.

The sound of a vehicle braking squealed
beyond the tree line. With a last ounce of hope left in him, BB
clicked the headset and muttered "Sandman, you expecting company?"
A quick reply shot into the headset "Not friendly, BB. You're in a
bad spot". The tree line seemed to quiver as a dozen VC emerged
from it in the darkness. They moved towards the wreckage like
shadows…silently gliding through the mist.

"Oh, you think so?" BB mused. "The crew only
gave me one clip. It's empty"

Then BB added: "So Sandman, do you know the
words?"

Sandman asked "What words?"

BB chuckled "Oh bullshit, you know what
words!"

"You start it" Sandman urged gently. BB sang
the verse alone, then Sandman joined in on the chorus…the only part
he ever knew:

"…Cold blue steel in his hands,

He's the champion of the land,

It's a rifle-not a toy,

He's our hero, BB Boy"

The pin from the phosphorus grenade dropped
to the metal floor of the Huey. Sandman saw the flash, readied his
bomb release, and flipped the switch. The jungle seemed to erupt in
a river of fire that engulfed the chopper and streamed into the
tree line where it swallowed the VC truck and all around it.

Turning for his home base, Sandman made one
more pass, dipped his wing, and sang it one more time.

"Thirty years past
your prime" he remarked to the mirror. "Now just what are we going
to do with you…huh?" Even though the task at hand was to take down
the time-worn, massive bathroom mirror; he, like everyone paused
occasionally to check his hair: not just the "good hair" on top of
his head that seemed to be holding its own against the ravages of
time, but also the "bad hair" that sprouted from the perimeter of
his ears, his nose, and eyebrows.

He was a young man of thirty-two when he
first beheld his image in that mirror. His home was brand new then,
and he was at the top of his game in his career. His very successes
that previous year had given him the down payment for this, his
first house. With his young wife and two small children, they
planted the grass, landscaped the yard, and finished the basement
into a family room. It didn't seem so long ago, but indeed thirty
years had gone by.

So many jobs at so many companies had gone
away too for him as well. At each job, he had worked hard and
studied his trade. But between poor management decisions, bad
economic times, and sometimes his own temper; he had moved from
company to company never staying long enough to build a retirement
for himself. What little he was able to save was spent on surviving
the times in between jobs. Life seemed to be a never ending cycle
of one step forward--two steps back for him.

Such it was that on that particular day, he
was again unemployed. In between searching the various job search
websites and going to worthless interviews with worthless job
recruiters or "headhunters" as he referred to him; he had been
given a simple task by his wife: take down the old mirror.

With him being off work again, it was a good
time to spruce up the home. The "honey-do list" was comprised of
simple, inexpensive tasks that could be completed on the limited
funds of the wife's salary and his unemployment checks. Hopefully
the tasks would clear away the dark cloud of depression that had
enveloped him after his most recent job loss. For of all of his
past unemployment spells, this one pierced his spirit the most.
Perhaps that was why he so eagerly chose replacement of the large
mirror as his first task to complete.

The mirror had lied to him. Each day as he
had prepared for work at his last job, the mirror told him that his
smile still worked, and that he wasn't all that much older than his
co-workers. Then he would arrive at his workplace, stride through
the halls to his desk; but as he smiled and said "Good morning" to
each person he passed, he was either ignored or avoided as if he
were a leper.

Seeing recent photo of himself, he was
stunned by the image staring back at him…it looked more like his
dead grandfather than the smiling face from the mirror. "Who was
that old man and how did he get in that photo?" he complained to
himself. Realizing that the photo spoke the truth and that the
mirror had been lying to him all those recent mornings, his heart
sank…his smile diminished…and his proud stride slowed. The mirror
had lied and now it must go, he concluded.

Struggling with the sheer weight of the
mirror as he stretched his sixty-plus year old body over the
bathroom counter top, he used every ounce of his strength to rest
it from its wall hanging brackets. Although its plain, unbeveled
edges were chipped here and there, he was extremely careful not to
crack or damage it any more than it was. He thought that it might
still have value for some purpose.