13th Valley (85 page)

“Do you think war is against human nature?” Brooks asked just as Egan was about to rise to leave.

“No way,” Egan said settling back down. “People are always sayin it's against human nature for man to war against man.” Egan spoke with contempt for the idea. “They say any advocate of war is against mankind. You can make just as good an argument for war being man's nature. If you want the truth all you gotta say is man's nature is intermittently warlike. War and peace. They have a continuous, maybe sine-like, maybe erratic, function. Did you know that on any given day there's an average of twelve wars goin on on earth? There's been over a hundred wars since World War Two. You don't gotta justify war. Fuck the pansyass politicians and the pantywaist left. War's its own justification.”

“That's sad,” Brooks said.

“Why?” Egan demanded.

“We're here and that justifies our being here?” Brooks made it sound ridiculous.

“The only justification you need for Nam is we're doin it. It is, thus it is right. That goes for everything. If it is, so it is.”

“That's crazy, Danny.”

“Don't worry, L-T. It's supposed to be. The stupider the war, the more the blunders, the better for mankind. Shit, if we ever become one hundred percent proficient at killing each other, then we'll kill one hundred percent of us minus one. Like if we have thermo-nuclear war. We're a lot better off runnin around with 16s than if we begin tossin ICBMs at each other.”

“Why can't we change mankind and eliminate the need for conflict yet still remain different and flexible. It would only require tolerance.”

“Never happen.”

“Why?”

“You'd have ta change it all—every last man, woman and child—if you wanted ta break the cycle of peace-war-peace-war. You'd have ta build a new base. If you can't change the system that produces war there's one thing you best mothafuckin do—you better win them fuckin wars.”

“Amen,” Brooks said.

Egan began rising. “We gotta get to our AO,” he said to Brooks. “I gotta find what happened to the MA.”

“Wait a minute,” Brooks said. “I want to ask you just ah … about something else.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to switch to personal conflict. Like,” Brooks hesitated then nearly blurted it out loud instead of whispering it in his field voice, “like between my wife and me. You know the situation?”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You ever not been able to get it up?” Brooks asked.

“You mean like …”

“Yeah.”

“When drinkin,” Egan admitted.

“What about, you know, like when perfectly sober?” Brooks asked.

“I never had that problem,” Egan said, “but I think it's common. Temporary impotence they call it. Like if you're nervous.
Playboy
, I think, they had an article on it. I think it said it happens to fifty percent of all dudes at one time or another.”

“Really?” Brooks was amazed.

“Yeah.”

“Ah …” Brooks began slowly again, “have you ever fantasized about another man being with your lady?” He now had almost no voice at all. “I mean, like seeing an image of another dude and your lady making love?”

“Oh yeah,” Egan answered robustly. “All the time. I think everybody does that.” Suddenly to Egan, Brooks seemed transparent.

“It doesn't mean, ah, like ah …”

“This is really botherin you, huh?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Happen in Hawaii? Begin there?”

“Yeah. How'd you know?”

“Same thing happened to Hughes. Happened to Rattler too.”

“Really?” Again Brooks was amazed. “What about, like seeing you and another guy and your lady? Three of you?”

“Yeah. Sometimes,” Egan said. “I don't think a guy can get it on with a lady who he knows has had other dudes and at some point not think when he's eatin her he's gettin some other dude's cum or when she's stickin her tongue in his mouth thinkin like she'd wrapped that same tongue around somebody else's meat. It's almost like he was blowin the other dude.”

Brooks looked at Egan, shocked. Then subdued he said, “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Yeah,” Egan continued. “Rattler said the Doc … not Doc but the shrink at Division … he called it the Nam Syndrome.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Rattler thought he was turnin fag. He was really shook up, L-T. You didn't know him then. He was really nuts. That's why he went to the shrink.”

“I thought that was because of what happened on 714 and 882?”

“Well, he couldn't come out en say somethin like that.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Brooks agreed. “Hey, Danny, ah, either of those guys tell you what happened, ah, what kind of thoughts …”

“Yeah, that's what I mean,” Egan said. “Rattler said he kept jerkin off fantasizin he was gettin butt-fucked.”

A single shot cracked the air. Nothing more. It came from south and west of the CP. In the rain splattered valley night the exact direction and distance of a single shot was impossible to determine. An aerial diagram of Alpha's set up would have looked like the cross-section of an orange cut perpendicular to the axis. The very center would be almost empty. Only a skeleton CP remained. The first circle out would be formed by the apex of the sections. This would be the thinned though still tightly packed berm perimeter of Campobasso. Farther out, spaced almost evenly about the center, are six dots, seeds, LP/ OPs protecting the center. Expanding beyond and filling the circle are twelve sections, the AOs of the rover teams. To the south is the river. To the north is the road. The teams with sections to the southwest were Mary, Claudia and Laurie. There was no report. Then the squelch on El Paso's radio was broken three slow times. Sitting tight. Nothing more happened.

At the CP Cahalan monitored a krypto call that excited Brooks and FO. Bravo Company's honcho POW from several days earlier had agreed to lead that company to a headquarters bunker complex he maintained they had swept over twice without discovering.

“There it is,” FO said, smiling, relieved.

“Thank God,” Cahalan said. “They're goina send Bravo back up that ridge.”

“Least it aint us,” El Paso said.

“I still think there might be a bunker complex on that knoll,” Brooks said cautiously.

“You heard the man, L-T,” Cahalan said wanting to believe the call. “Their hotel quebec is down by Bravo.”

“Don't get your hopes up too high,” Brooks said. “Bravo still hasn't found it.”

After an hour the squelch on El Paso's radio was broken twice. Rover Team Laurie reported laconically, “Kilo india alpha one november victor alpha. Counted two seven moving november. Out.”

Cherry and Egan and Denhardt left Campobasso well after dark. The rain had not ceased. It was very dark. Egan led them at a slow walk. The move even to the close perimeter of their NDP was hard. They cleared themselves with the guards, radioed the LP and walked out erect. They made no sound. They moved slowly, Egan leading, Cherry laying one hand on Egan's ruck following in the middle, Denhardt holding Cherry's ruck at drag. No one spoke. No one coughed. No equipment rattled. Egan kept one eye on the luminous dial of his compass. Cherry counted their steps. Every few meters they froze and listened. Then they moved on. Twenty meters, forty, sixty. They froze. The LP should be to their left. Cherry keyed his handset three quick clicks to break the natural static of the radio at the LP. The LP acknowledged by repeating the signal. Rover Team Stephanie moved on. And on.

They came to a trail Pop had skirted earlier when he had led Egan and Cherry to the road. Egan dropped slowly to his knees. He felt the ground for a thin, rigid piece of grass. He found one. He lifted it to his face and brushed it across his nose. He brushed it against his pant leg, over the compass, on the ground. Egan hefted the grass blade in his right hand then spread prone, on his stomach in the trail. Cherry followed Egan down kneeling behind him in the muck of the trail, grabbed Egan's left foot with his left hand. Denhardt slowly squatted behind Cherry. The team inched forward.

Egan brushed the ground before him with the grass blade before each movement. Very slowly he extended his right hand with the grass checking each inch of trail for booby trap trip wires. There was no rush. He had all night to cover only a few hundred meters. He retracted his hand then pulled himself forward the cleared one-third meter. Cherry and Denhardt crawled forward with him. Egan repeated the sweep. The trail was bare of growth because of heavy traffic. The mud was three-inch thick slime. It seeped into every opening in Egan's fatigues, into all their boots. Somehow it was not uncomfortable. It was soft. It was no wetter than they already were. It even felt warm. Cherry felt very relaxed.

Where puddles inundated the trail Egan put the grass stalk between his lips and walked his fingers slowly through the water. Then he slid into the puddle and checked the next arm's length of dark territory. Cherry continued counting. After every fifty movements he shook Egan's left foot. After three hundred and fifty movements they ceased moving. The road, the smell of cordite, was directly ahead.

Jax' skin was almost rotted through. Of that he was sure. His muscles were cramping from the cold and the hours of stillness. He was sure he would die of exposure. “Au this fucken way,” he whispered to Hoover. “Au this way ta die a nee-moan-ya.”

“My pecker's freezin off,” Marko whispered over.

Earlier Jax had been more enthusiastic. When the L-T had asked him for the name of his Rover Team, Jax had cooed, “I's be Jax, they's my Jills; Jax en Jills goes up the hills ta fetch nine pail a mud; Jax come back, the Jills got sack; carryin nine pail wid gook blood.”

Rover Team Jill was the farthest east of any Alpha element and long into the night they seemed to be in the quietest locale. They had set up in a hollow in a bamboo thicket three meters from a narrow trail. They had left Campobasso on schedule at 1930 hours and had reached, found, their night position by 2100. For five hours they had sat still, cold, waiting. They had gone out with great anticipation and enthusiasm for the tactic, had gone with the expectation of a first-time fisherman, and with the same patience.

Jax could no longer control his arms, legs and chest from shaking. He was wet, had been wet for what seemed like forever. The hot dry interlude at resupply was forgotten. Jax' teeth began to chatter. Hoover snuggled up to him on one side, Marko on the other. They each wrapped an arm over Jax' back. The warmth felt good but it was not enough.

“Fuck it,” Marko said. “Just say fuck it. Don't …”

“The fuck it doan,” Jax whispered wildly, standing up. “We gotta …”

At that there was an explosion perhaps thirty feet away. They froze, solidified like statues. Jax' chillchatter vanished. The sound had been a loud pop, a giant explosive cork blasting from a bottle. POUAHK. A second mortar round was launched. Jax turned to Marko then siezed a grenade from his belt. “Frags,” he whispered. Hoover and Marko immediately grabbed two each. Jax stepped forward, one pace, two, three, to the edge of the trail. Hoover was to one side, Marko to the other. The sound of the mortar team chattering in Vietnamese came from their close right front. “Throw two, then hit it,” Jax whispered. “On go.” He paused to give them time. Then he whispered, “Go.” They cocked and threw.

Another mortar round was launched.

Jax, Marko and Hoover each immediately depinned and threw their second fragmentation grenade. Then they hit the ground. Marko's first frag went beyond the NVA, Jax' to the left, Hoover's also behind. All exploded simultaneously. An enemy soldier screamed. The second three frags exploded. There was scurrying in the brush, there was the sound of a body being dragged. Then all was silent. Rover Team Jill lay perfectly still until first light. Jax smiled the rest of the night.

In the center of the Khe Ta Laou River valley nothing moved before first light. The NVA had called a halt to routine early morning moves. During the preceding afternoon and night they had been in contact five times with unknown elements of the American battalion that was stamping around in the hills and most probably sending a coordinated series of ambush teams into the valley on a one-shot attempt. All five contacts had resulted in North Vietnamese losses with no apparent American losses. The situation could not be serious. Americans never stayed in one area for long without building an outpost. They had not built one so they must leave soon. Sit tight, the NVA command ordered. Sit tight until tonight.

During that same pre-dawn Cherry had his last rational thoughts. Rover Team Stephanie had moved from the trail they had crawled up, into a tangle of debris, vines and bamboo. They spoke not a word. They breathed the smell of burnt explosive and the smell of blood hour after blackrain hour. Chill set into every bone. Egan took it in stride. He always did. His sense of easiness, almost casualness, permeated the others and they too relaxed. Denhardt breathed slowly, deeply. The war odor was pleasant to him. Stuck in that remote rotting valley of death one had either to accept the smell and be pleased with it or accept the smell and abhor it. Either way, sanity fled.

Earlier at Campobasso Cherry had been nearby while Brooks questioned the platoon sergeant. He had heard snatches of speech and had wanted to comment but he had not been invited into their circle. In his mind he now pictured Egan and him in serious discussion. Suddenly he found himself with Egan. They were at a CP, chatting softly, almost intimately.

Every day since they first encountered each other at Phu Bai Cherry and Egan spent more and more time together. They were now almost older brother, younger brother. Hadn't Egan even called him Little Brother earlier that very day?

“Yer such a cherry,” Egan's image laughed to the image of Cherry.

“I thought you were on the other side of that,” the Cherry-image answered firmly.