Fields of Fire (25 page)

Hodges grinned whimsically, dripping streams of sweat as he lay listening to his radio in the oven of his poncho hootch. How long have I been here? Well, let's see. I've got almost ten months left to do. But that don't mean a goddamn thing. I've been here forever, man. For—fucking—ever.

THE resupply helicopter that brought Gilliland also brought ice. The platoon commanders were called to the company command post. It was a serious occurrence. Hodges had not seen ice in the bush during his whole time there.

The company supply sergeant had stolen a piece from the mess hall in An Hoa and put it in a metal ammunition box. The ammunition box had sat on the resupply strip next to the runway for several hours. By the time it reached the field, the piece of ice was the size of a large grapefruit.

Five representatives gathered solemnly at the company command post; one for each rifle platoon, one for the weapons platoon, and one for the company headquarters personnel. Ceremoniously and exactingly, under the security of the five men, the company commander divided the ice into five roughly equal chunks. Hodges received his. It was the size of a golf ball.

He raced toward his platoon lines, the ice cube melting quickly in his hands. It was deliciously cold. He had felt nothing so cold and inviting in months. The air was oven-hot and the cube was disappearing as he jogged. He was tempted to eat it. No one knows why I went to the CP, he reasoned excitedly. I could just throw it into my mouth and no one would ever know. The inside of his mouth was dry. He was sweating and hot. The cube was passing quickly, coldly, through his fingers.

He kept his head, and did not eat the ice. He called to Gilliland as he reached his platoon command post. “Get the squad leaders. Quick, man. Oh shit. Hurry up!”

Gilliland jogged to the lines, knowing it was important, whatever it was. Hodges did not get excited without reason. Hodges placed the ice cube under his poncho hootch, in the shade. By the time the squad leaders had assembled in front of him, it was the size of a quarter.

Hodges motioned toward it. “We got ice. Anybody got any ideas how to pass it out? It's so small now, I don't think anybody could divide it. It should go to one man.”

They could not decide. They debated as the cube melted away. Finally Hodges picked up the now nicklesized piece and nonchalantly tossed it across the perimeter. He laughed, shaking his head in amazement at his earlier panic. He still felt the luxurious coldness on his fingers. He sucked them. “Jeee-sus. Who ever sent that out was a damn sadist.”

19

Hodges stared boredly at a fleeting speck that came only near enough to sprout stubs of barely discernible wings, that stayed only long enough to display one quick flash of rounded, all-weather nose before it screamed away, back to the Other World. From its orbit in the heavens, a thousand feet above reality, the Beacon Hop had struck. The waggle of a stick, the simple pressing of a button by an unsweating, air-conditioned hand, and the mission was complete.

He grinned ironically. Two more points toward that next Air Medal, eh, Major?

And in the treeline across scraggly squares of empty paddies there had been a short, unsettling scream as the jet passed over, then a deep volcanic roar, a flow of fire and metal quick and hot as lava. Twenty-eight 500-pound bombs, erupting in the space of a few unfightable seconds.

Hodges was sitting on a bed of sawgrass a half-mile away. He still could not hold back a mighty wince as the impact of the explosions sailed across the empty field. He had watched large jags of shrapnel dig into the dirt, even as far from the treeline as his knoll.

And then had waited, ticking off the minutes, knowing they would come. And the field filling with them, little specks at first, like termites gushing from a piece of old wood that had been mashed, destroying their home. Little white dots oozing into the unkept rice field, swarming slowly toward the Marine perimeter, not understanding the connection between this latest volcanic eruption and the circle of dirty, sun-hard men, but collectively knowing, mutually in awe of the fact, that these strange men had the power to invoke such wrathful gods. And had the power, as well as the means, to help mend the newest gaping holes that the froth of fire and steel had left them.

The termites fought the paddy grass, stumbled over dikes, moving slowly toward the perimeter. They reached a wide stretch of sand, a low dip that would hold a deep stream when the monsoon filled the river, and approached the strip of village that loomed across it, home of the Marines. They walked steadily, women and children and old, old men, starkly etched, colorful figurines of agony, plodding through a long moment of white, relentless desert. They carried three stretchers.

Finally they were close enough. Hodges gathered a patrol, summoned Dan, and moved to the edge of the perimeter to meet them. They struggled across the treadmill of loose sand, reaching him in groups of three or four. There was no terror in their faces. Their faces were incurably sad, hopelessly numb. The pains were too regular to invoke terror. They could not fight it. It did no good to fear it. It was as inevitable as old age.

Hodges watched them absently as they approached, no longer interested in examining the individuals, having undergone this ritual so many times that each figure became a caricature: the monkey-faced women in their flour-sack tops and dirty black pajama bottoms, hair pulled back into severe buns, lips and teeth stained by betel nut, who began whining the moment they came within earshot. The frail old men, always dressed in white to ensure they were not mistaken for VC and shot at from long range by an anxious trigger, apologetically smiling behind wispy beards and high, crinkled cheeks. The stolid, half-clothed children, conical hats made out of discarded C-ration cases, unspeaking, covered with ulcerous sores.

The first group reached the patrol. There was a low wail from a mamasan. Dan cut her off with a sharp, gut-teral word and she stifled herself, whimpering. She and another ageless, beautiless hag took a bamboo pole off their shoulders and eased a parachute-wrapped figure to the sand. The parachute was stained with blood. Inside it was a girl, perhaps fourteen years old. She was unconscious, and bled from her midsection.

The villagers gathered before the Marines. There were perhaps thirty somber persons standing wearily at the edge of the sand, staring up a bush-filled bank at Hodges. The other two stretchers were placed next to the dying girl. There was an old mamasan with an unidentifiable welt that had swollen half her face, and an oozing wound in one thigh that had saturated a bandage made from an old shirt. A small child lay in the other parachute, unconscious from a severe head wound. It was obvious that the child would soon die.

Doc Rabbit checked the small child first, then shook his head negatively, declining to work on him. He began redressing the older girl's wounds. Hodges watched Rabbit for a few minutes, then nodded to Dan, gesturing toward the patiently waiting group.

Dan eyed the villagers. They were from Le Nam, several miles east of Liberty Bridge. Ten miles from his former home in My Le. Dan did not know Le Nam. He felt nothing for the villagers. He spoke strongly, almost arrogantly.

“What do you want?”

One mamasan dared to answer, groveling before Dan while shrewdly eyeing Hodges. When she finished, Dan continued to stare at her, his face almost sullen.

Hodges prodded him. “What did she say?”

Dan still eyed her. “She say babysan get boo-coo bac-bac bomb, same-same K.I.A. Say honcho mebbe souvenir chop-chop.”

Hodges squinted unbelievingly at Dan. Is she for real? Dan continued. “She say mebbe one case C-rats same-same one babysan.”

Hodges turned to the mamasan, studying her. How in the name of God can she prostitute her grief, declare a clean slate, for twelve C-ration meals? Did the kid mean that little to her? Or has she merely accepted the inevitability of it (they are going to die, eventually, all of them) and attempted to wangle the most realistic deal? Or is she starving? He studied her flesh. She was thin but not emaciated, definitely not starving. Hungry, perhaps.

He shook his head. “Hey, I ain't believing this. Dan, tell her no chop-chop. VC end up with it.”

Mamasan played her trump card. She leaned over and deliberately stroked the dying child's swollen head, then spoke pleadingly to Dan. Dan still stared directly at her, emotionless. “She say mebbe one poncho same-same one babysan.”

Hodges shook his head, rubbing his knuckles into one thick palm. “Look. Tell her we're sorry as hell her kid's screwed up. Tell her we'll try to get it to a hospital. But no goodies.” He grimaced. “We're not the goddamn Salvation Army.”

Dan translated. The crowd, which had been awaiting Hodges’ decision before daring to voice other claims, broke into resigned mumbles, intermittent whines. Hodges watched them, noticing at the same time that Dan had grown cold, almost angry with their agonizings. The thought emerged once again: what the hell right do they have to bitch, anyway?

He nudged Dan. “Tell 'em if they don't like it, they can always leave.” Dan cocked his head inquisitively at Hodges. “Tell them if they don't like getting shot at they can move to the resettlement village.” Dan still did not understand. “Tell them, no like mamasan, babysan bac-bac, didi Duc Duc, got boo-coo rice, fucking hootch, no VC.” Dan nodded, smiling. Ah. He translated once again.

There were knowing, ironic looks among the villagers. A very old man with a thin nose and shocked eyes pointed to Dan and spoke slowly, gesturing toward Liberty Bridge and An Hoa, both unreachably far away. Dan nodded, again and again.

“He say, no can do. Got VC, Cu Bans, La Thaps, stop mamasan, papasan, say go back home.” Hodges appeared skeptical. Dan remembered his own experiences as a VC in the Arizona, and the days he was posted along the riverbank with the same mission. He nodded affirmatively. “No shit.”

Hodges pondered it a moment, staring at the beaten, suffering faces, a few of which were actually daring to hope as they watched him in thought. All right, he decided. I'll call their damn bluff.

“Tell them to go get their gear. We'll put 'em on a helicopter. You know. Same-same medevac.”

Dan appeared skeptical, but dutifully translated. The villagers mulled the proposition, attempting to gauge Hodges’ sincerity, then set out in half-lopes back toward the treeline, which still smoldered here and there from the recent Beacon. Dan watched them depart, envious of the ease in which they were escaping. It would have been so easy for me this way, Dan thought, remembering.

Dan addressed Hodges without looking at him. “They say, fucking A, honcho Number One. Back most ricky-tick.”

Warner, from Pierson's squad, stepped up beside Hodges and watched the spindly mob struggle across the barren sand. “Can we really do that, Lieutenant? Evacuate a whole ville, just like that?”

“Why the hell not? That's what we're here for, ain't it, Warner? Hearts and Minds, all that good shit.”

Warner was tall and slightly meaty, with a sensitive, open face. He had enlisted after two years at a small midwestern college, where he worked forty hours a week frying hamburgers to pay for his school. He was the only member of the platoon who spoke consistently of national objectives, communism, or winning a war. But even he had recently ceased such speculations: in the bush, they were irrelevant.

Now Warner smiled, though, his thin lips ironically parting. “You better watch it, sir. A couple days like this and I might start believing again.”

Hodges eased down the embankment into the sand. “Don't do that, Warner. It's been nice having you sane.” He approached Rabbit, who had just shot the old mamasan with morphine. “How are they, Doc?”

“Babysan's dead. That girl there has shrap metal in her gut. I'd say she hasn't got a prayer. Old mamasan here is gonna tough it out.”

The patrol surrounded the makeshift stretchers. Warner knelt down next to the unconscious girl and stroked her hair. “God. She's such a pretty thing.”

Maye, also from Pierson's squad, snorted. He was stringy and tough, coal-digger tough, a stolid, accepting boy-man who was too realistic, too knowledgeable for sentiment. “Three years she'd be like all the rest of 'em. If she's lucky she'll live through this and stay in Da Nang when she gets out of the hospital. Then maybe in a year or two she'll make a good whore.”

The girl was indeed beautiful, naturally so, her face calm and smooth in its unconsciousness. The lips were full, and underneath the pajama top were the sproutings of delicate breasts.

Warner looked sharply at Maye. “C'mon, man. Knock it off.”

Maye grinned, knowing he had rankled Warner. “Wonder if she's grown a pussy yet? She's about old enough. Know how long it's been since I seen a pussy?”

“Well, however long it's been, it's gonna be a little while longer, Maye.”

Hodges stared calmly at both of them.

“Ah, Lieutenant. Just a peek. She won't even know.”

“Sure. And the next time you'll want to cop a feel, maybe get a stinky finger. And after that you'll want a ride.”

Maye shrugged absently, giving no ground. “So what, Lieutenant? She's gonna be a whore, anyway!”

Warner's fists clenched. “Goddamn it, Maye, you never let up, do you? The whole world's your damn whorehouse.”

Hodges nodded toward the dying girl. “Take her up to the perimeter. We'll see if we can't at least preserve her alternatives.”

“IT won't work, Lieutenant.” Gilliland grinned mischievously.

“It's got to work, Sarge. Don't be such a goddamn cynic. Just because you're a short-timer—”

“Hey, Lieutenant. I'm so short I got to look up to look down.”

“Yeah. O.K. I know. But don't be so negative all the time.”

“Now, Lieutenant.” Gilliland still flashed a secret, knowing grin. He dragged ceremoniously on a cigarette. “You know there's nothing I'd rather leave you with than a good attitude. Really.” Gilliland lay back on his poncho, his head resting on his pack, staring at the roof of his poncho-liner hootch. “Couple weeks I'm gonna be laying in a real rack with my woman, trying to decide if I want steak or lobster for dinner. Least I can do is try to leave you with a good attitude, for Christ sake.” He rolled his molten eyes, a humorous smile lighting his face. “But it ain't gonna work. I know.”

“You've got a friend—”

Gilliland laughed, enjoying the mystery he had provoked. “That's right. I got a friend. He's the Gunny for the regimental Civil Affairs Section.” Gilliland raised his eyebrows, a gesture of finality. “Lieutenant, the resettlement ville is full.”

“Full? That's goddamned impossible. I saw it a couple months ago. It wasn't even half-full. Hell. A quarter-full. It can't be full.”

Gilliland grinned ironically. He flicked his cigarette into the grass. “Oh, it ain't really full. It's just full on paper. But you won't get any ville full of people into it, I guarantee.”

“I don't get it.”

“C'mon, Lieutenant. You gotta think crooked. District Chief says he's got five hundred bodies in the ville when he only has two hundred. Government sends him five hundred rations of rice. He feeds two hundred people, then sells three hundred rations of rice on the black market. Pretty tricky, huh? Him and the Sergeant Major would make a gruesome twosome.”

Hodges was stunned, unbelieving. “There's got to be some way to stop that. Why doesn't somebody blow the whistle?”

Gilliland explained, teasing Hodges with overbearing patience. “Who you gonna blow the whistle to, Lieutenant? This is what they call one of those ‘Civil Affairs.’ The Vietnamese run it. We just coordinate it. If the Man says the ville is full, then the ville is full. You might scream to the Province Chief, but he gets a cut off the rice, you can bet your sweet ass. Only thing to do is get it while you can, whenever they feel like letting a little go. But you ain't gonna get any whole ville in there.”

“I'm gonna try like hell.”

“I'll bet you a bottle of booze you lose. Jack in the Black.”

NO bet. The request was called via the battalion radio channel, and came back within a half hour: the resettlement village was full. Hodges sat moodily at the edge of the perimeter and watched the termites fill the paddy once again, a narrow string of them this time, each figure balancing a large bundle on its head. They approached, fighting the bog of sand, holding clothes and pots and baskets and small babies, and assembled in a tight, faintly hoping group outside the perimeter. The faces were the same: beaten, forever saddened. But there was an electricity among them, a sense of preparation.

Hodges summoned Dan and took a fire team down to the edge of the sandstrip. The group of villagers studied his face, noted the hesitation in his stride, and as if by command the electricity died. They knew, he decided.