The Vietnam Reader (18 page)

As the company dug into its new positions Hodges strode the hill, examining it. At its very crest was a long, Z-shaped trench, chest-deep and as wide as a man’s body. It was perfectly sculpted, the walls of the
trench absolutely parallel. In the middle of the trench, just to one side of it, was a large, circular hole, four feet deep and about six feet across, with the earth left in the middle of it as a perfectly cylindrical post. It seemed to him to be a work of engineering genius.

He called Snake to the trench. “What is this? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Snake scratched a tattoo, bronzed and shirtless in the heat. “Everybody likes this hill, Lieutenant. That’s the way the gooks set up.” Snake jumped into the trench, demonstrating. “They don’t need any circle. They don’t need to protect all those radios and shit. If a man stands in this trench he can blow you away no matter which side of the hill you come charging up.”

Hodges pointed to the circular post. “What about that?”

“That’s a machine-gun post. Prob’ly a fifty-cal. Maybe a twelve-seven. You put a tripod on the post and get down in that hole and you can fire three-sixty degrees, keep a bead on a jet coming and going, hardly even expose yourself.”

“That’s stomp-down amazing.”

“Hey, Lieutenant.” Snake measured his new Brown Bar carefully, not yet accepting him. “Old Luke the Gook don’t screw around.”

Snake sat comfortably at the edge of the NVA trench, peering steadily at Hodges. Finally he grimaced. “You shouldn’t of made Flaky burn that boot. Sir. Bad style. It stunk.”

“It would’ve stunk anyway.”

“My new man Senator threw up.”

“I was sick of looking at it. What a mess. Don’t you ever clean up?” Hodges studied the man who had already showed himself to be the most proficient member of his platoon. “What would you have done?”

“I’da buried it.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t you? You had the CP for half a day. You sat up there with all those flies and shit. You were acting platoon commander. If it pissed you off so bad, why didn’t
you
bury it?”

Snake smiled slightly, surveying Hodges with fresh interest.

“ ’Cause I don’t like dead stuff. I never touch dead stuff. I just leave it alone.”

“Well, I don’t like dead stuff, either.” Hodges’ eyebrows lifted and he offered Snake a grin. “That’s why I burn it.”

Snake shrugged, satisfied. “O.K. Lieutenant. I just never seen it before. It made my man Senator get sick, I told you.”

“Yeah.” Hodges sat across from Snake. He took out a pocketknife and cut himself a plug of chewing tobacco that had come in a Supplementary Pack, along with cigarettes, candy, and writing gear in the resupply. He pulled his map from a lower trouser pocket, and studied it, then looked to Snake.

“We’re gonna ambush Nam An two tonight. Half the platoon. Your squad and a gun team and me.”

Snake lit a cigarette, staring coolly at Hodges. “Did you think this up yourself, Lieutenant?”

“Are you crazy? I got nothing against Nam An two.” The two men smiled at each other with a tentative fraternity. “Know any good places?”

Snake took out his own map, pondered it, then peered down the hill into the paddies, scanning the narrow string of trees across from them that marked a heavily used speed trail. Nam An two was one mile down the trail. “There’s a little cemetery just off the speed trail, maybe a hundred meters from the ville. We could put a gun on the trail. Easy to defend in the cemetery. Might make a Number One ambush.” He eyed his new Lieutenant. “Long as we gotta go.”

“Yeah. Well, we do. Skipper’s breaking me in, or something. Says we’ll have a good shot at the gooks if they move down the trail toward the company tonight. Hell, I don’t know. Says we should have first shot.”

“He’s all heart, ain’t he?” Snake watched Hodges spit a stream of brown tobacco juice into the dirt. “You really chewing that SP tobacco, sir?”

Hodges nodded casually. “It ain’t that bad.”

“Bagger says he wouldn’t give it to his horse for worms. If he
had
a horse. And it
had
the worms.” They laughed together. “Only thing that ragweed’s good for is feeding gooks who don’t answer questions.
Fucks them up,
Lieutenant! One swallow of that and they sing like stoolies.” Hodges shook his head, amused at Snake’s quick humor.

Snake reached into his lower trouser pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. “Here, Lieutenant. Have a smoke.”

“I’ve been trying to cut back. Bad for your wind.”

“You gonna worry about that out
here?
Hey, Lieutenant. We are
all
sucking wind.”

Hodges shook his head, still amused, and took a Marlboro. He spat out the chewing tobacco and rinsed his mouth with canteen water. “Bagger’s right. It tastes terrible.” He casually placed the remainder of the plug into his low trouser pocket.

“You
keeping
the rest of it?”

“ ’Course I am.” Hodges grinned, his amused face thanking Snake for teaching him this latest Lesson Learned in Vietnam. “For gooks.”

Phu Phong (4) had three good wells, deep concrete holes with raised portions of earth at the base. The French had built them for the villagers. They sat at the base of the village’s steep hill, equally spaced along a wide, dusty trail that ringed the village on a paddy dike. The dike itself was thick and high, separating the village from the surrounding fields. Hundreds of smaller, lower dikes latticed the paddies into a maze that somehow held deep certainties to farmers.

Marines flocked to the wells in groups of twos and threes, refilling canteens and washing. Village children gathered and gazed somberly at their frolics, standing off of the trail in the dry bush. The babysans were sickly and unwashed.

Goodrich leaned over a concrete hole, drawing water out of it with a half-gallon can that had once held apple juice supplied to the Marines. The can was left by some other company that used Phu Phong, and made into a bucket by the villagers. Goodrich worked the rope, pulling the can of clear, sweet water from the black hole, and poured it over his face, drinking thirstily. The move to the Phu Phongs had exhausted him.

He then turned to Speedy, handing him the can. “I really think those kids hate us.” Goodrich spoke as though the feasibility had never crossed his mind.

Speedy tossed the can into the well and let it sink, then drew it back up. He found Goodrich’s comments perplexing, naive. “We try to kill their papa, Senator. This whole valley VC.” Speedy gorged himself on village water.

“That’s a hell of a note.” Goodrich forced a winsome smile. “It’ll take a little getting used to. I just hadn’t expected to be hated. Not by them.”

Speedy drew another pail of water, mildly irritated. “Ah. It don’t mean nothing, Senator.” His wide, brown face went orgasmic as cool water poured over it again. “We get over to the Phu Nhuans, on the other side of the river, the kids are better. They hustle for you. Fill canteens, help wash you, stuff like that. We give ’em C-rats and cigarettes for it. It’s all right.” He attempted to console Goodrich, himself unconcerned with staring children. “It’s better over there. You’ll see.”

Speedy scrutinized Goodrich, who was still studying the children, apparently lost in thought. It appeared that Goodrich was becoming upset. Speedy finally ran at the babysans, throwing his arms out threateningly.
“Didi,
you little fuckers!
Didi mau len!”

The children stared at their attacker for an unfrightened moment, then turned and walked solemnly through the brush, back up the hill. Goodrich held the water can over one of his canteens, filling it.

“You didn’t have to do that, Speedy. I didn’t
mind
them, really. I just can’t help feeling sorry for them.”

Speedy’s flat face cocked curiously and he grimaced to Goodrich. “Make up your mind, Senator.” He looked back through the brush. “Those little sons of bitches’ll
do
your ass, I mean it.” He took the bucket from Goodrich and tossed it back into the black hole of the well. “Don’t feel sorry for ’em, Senator. You give ’em chow, their old man eats it tomorrow night. You turn your back”—the brown face splashed with water again—“they steal everything you got. Grenades. Everything.”

Speedy took a long drink, then peered philosophically at Goodrich. “Those little babysans are devils, man. No shit. Devils.”

“I still can’t help it. I mean it. None of this is
their
fault.”

“Well, none of this is
our
fault, either.” Speedy stared solemnly at Goodrich. “Do yourself a favor, Senator. Frag yourself and get the
hell outa here before you crack up. You don’t belong here. Know what I mean?”

The stand of trees loomed like a low black cloud in front of them. Goodrich watched it grow larger, strained to find some light or movement that would disclose the great chimera that sat among the sunbaked branches, waiting to scorch him dead. The column seemed to jet along through the knee-deep rice. Goodrich fought reluctantly to keep the pace. Too fast, he mused loudly, the thought echoing through the chambers of his fear. We’ll walk right into them and when we get five feet away they’ll kill us all. I’ve heard the stories. Who the hell’s on point? Doesn’t he know they’ll kill us all? What will I do? Can’t hear anything but clonks of LAAWs and bandoleers and rice swish on my legs I’m thirsty need a drink. What if I just take out a grenade and pull the pin and hold it so when they start to kill us I can throw it at them how will I know where to throw it I can’t see a fucking
thing
not even Burgie and I could reach out and touch Burgie he’s that close look at the trees now we’re so close we could die at any moment who the hell is walking
point?

Thud. Goodrich tripped over Ottenburger, who was squatting in the rice. He fell down next to him, the echoes of his bandoleers a scream inside the ear horn that was his helmet. Burgie grasped him quickly and held him to the earth.

“Lay chilly, Senator. They’re peeping out the treeline.”

Goodrich sat very still, then turned his head slowly toward the trees. The whole column was kneeling, motionless, frozen like a picture, swallowed by rice. It was so quiet he could hear the distant booms of artillery shooting out of An Hoa with a clarity that seemed to come from just on the other side of the looming trees.

Four silhouettes crept soundlessly from the treeline then, rifles ready, moving toward the column. Goodrich felt his eyebrows raise and pointed his M-16. Burgie pressed the rifle back into the rice.

“Take it
easy,
Senator. That’s Cat Man.”

Cat Man set his team in at the edge of the treeline and moved to a low dike where Snake and Hodges were kneeling. He knelt next to
them, pushed his helmet back, and leaned over. He addressed Snake, ignoring Hodges.

“Too much shit in there, man.”

Hodges whispered. “It’s the right trail, ain’t it? We follow it for a click and we’re there.”

Cat Man shook his head. Snake looked coolly at Hodges. “Cat Man’s right, Lieutenant. We take the trail, we may never make it there. Too many dogs and water bulls, shit like that. They’ll start barking and grunting and the gooks’ll hear us coming, blow our asses away. Don’t take that treeline, sir.”

Hodges nodded, acquiescing. Then, as an afterthought: “You can find the cemetery all right from the paddy?”

Cat Man measured him without emotion. Starting from a known point, his mind was its own map. “Yes, sir.”

The column cut quickly through the trees. Goodrich moved inside them, was enveloped by the black haunt of empty hootches, mushroom trees, thick high sawgrass where every inch a shadowed ghoul lurked, waiting. Will I die tonight? How embarrassing that would be: to die on my first patrol. He softly clicked his weapon off “safe,” then thought of tripping over Ottenburger again and accidentally killing him, and clicked it back.

Finally back into the open paddy again. He felt the welcome scrape of rice along his legs, waited briefly for the monster to attack and kill him from behind, then focused his fear to the front once more. The whole black night was a laughing killer, waiting for its moment.

Goodrich’s ears were filled with clonking metal, whispered curses, and his own stomps from stumbles into potholes and low unseen dikes. Finally they reached the low mounds of the cemetery. He viewed its haunting isolation as a haven from the swishing madness.

Hodges placed the machine gun quickly on the mound nearest the trail. Snake began to position his squad behind various graves, making a tight perimeter.

Across the trail, a hundred meters distant, was a clump of trees shot with a dozen scraggly hootches. It was off the trail, an island in more rice, laced to the other villes by another narrow treeline. Nam An (2). Hodges peered intently at the ville. A small mote of light flickered
inside the dark shadows of trees and hootches. He remembered that no lights were to be on in villages after sunset. The villagers know that, he mused.

Hodges approached Snake, who was setting in two men behind a mound. “That light mean anything?”

Snake squinted. His hands grasped clumps of grass on the mound. He bolted toward the unpositioned squad members.

“Open fire on that ville!”

The cemetery erupted as tracers reached toward Nam An (2). Rounds poured furiously for a few quick seconds, then there was a moment of silence: in their excitement, all had emptied the first magazine of ammo at the same time.

Hodges caught up with Snake. “What’s going on?”

But now the ville responded, answering Hodges’ question. Muzzle flashes by the hootches, high cacophony of AK bullets overhead, flash-booms of B-40 rockets, their large grenades a rash of second booms around the cemetery. A .50-caliber machine gun tore ragged holes in slow, heavy bursts above their heads.

“Fire the LAAW!”
Speedy cut loose. There was a belch of fire on his shoulder, then a boom in the ville.
“Fire the LAAW!”
Another belch, another boom. A hootch in the ville was now in flames. Hodges could see urgent shadows near the flames, creeping to new places. What do you know, he marveled. Gooks.