Back Bay Blues

by Peter Colt

  I could feel warm fluid trickling down my left arm. Not a lot of it, but enough to give me an idea why my arm wasn’t working right. I found the wound, and I was pretty sure that one of the Vietnamese mercenaries had hit me with a 9mm round. My arm didn’t hurt enough to be broken, and it probably passed through the meat of the arm. I wasn’t dead, so it probably missed all of the major arteries. I couldn’t get a good look it, so there was some guesswork involved.

  I took the cotton Bundeswehr undershirt, tied it to one of the many pipes, and ripped it into strips with my good hand. I ripped another piece and put it against the wound. I tied a strip of undershirt around it by holding one end in my teeth and then using my good hand to knot it. I used half the shirt to bandage my wound but it wasn’t very neat, but it was better than not bandaging the wound at all.

  The sky outside the porthole was turning from black to gray, and then streaking light shone through the sky. The sun came up, and I shivered. I had to get warm or there was no point in surviving last night. I was cold and clammy but wringing out the wool undershirt meant it was damp, not soaking, and I was retaining some body heat. The itchy wool next to my skin was helping.

  I started exploring the cabins. I found a musty navy issue wool blanket in one, which went over my shoulders like a cape. In another cabin, I found a bunk with a mattress covered in a large rubber zippered bag. No two cabins seemed to have the same stuff. Finally, I found one that wasn’t too musty. Other cabins had an assortment of dilapidated furniture or old paperwork, logbooks, etc. Some had keys, and I found one with boxes of lightbulbs. I briefly thought about a fire, but the paper was damp, and I had no way of venting it and the smoke, if it didn’t do me in, would have the navy here in no time. I went back and took my pants and sweater to the nicest bunk I could find. I put the sweater under my head and the pants against the bulkhead. I lay down under the wool blanket and tried to get some sleep.

  I woke up cold but mostly dry. My surroundings were chock full of peeling paint and dust, but I had been in worse situations. My left arm hurt, and it still didn’t want to work properly. I was hungry, and I was pretty sure that there was no food on board. I would have to stay on the ship till dark. Dusk might be my best bet. I could slip into the water at a time of day that would be too light for a Starlight scope but dark enough to provide some concealment.

  I roamed the ship as best as I could. I found graffiti written in Vietnamese that I didn’t understand. I could only imagine what conditions on the ship had been like, crowded with refugees, tossing on violent seas, desperate to start new lives away from the turmoil of the communist victory, after the terror of the war. Gold had been packed in the hull, and most of the people on board probably didn’t realize it was there. Except one person did. Someone put something wrapped in USAID flour sacks in the ballast section instead of lead. I assumed that it was gold. It would have been hard to smuggle it off of the ship.

  I spent the hours until near-dusk walking around and thinking about it. Eventually, my clothes were mostly dry, and I was mostly warm. I found two old orange life jackets in my travels. They were spotted black with mildew, but they would work. I took the rubber bag off of the mattress. I had unzipped it but had raised a sweat getting it off the mattress one handed. I put the life jackets, the wool blanket, my sweater, and my pants inside the mattress bag.

  I folded the mattress condom over on itself several times. I rolled the zipper part so that it was covered by several folds of rubber and tied it off with what was left of my German undershirt that hadn’t been used to bandage my arm. I managed to form a big rubber loop to slip my good arm through. I found that even though my left arm didn’t want to work, I could still use my left hand. I tied the knots by dangling my arm down and using my left hand to hold the strips of undershirt and tie with my right hand. Now, I had a raft, of sorts.

  The problem was that I didn’t have a lot of good choices. The near shore, with Goodyear Slough and the marshes, was the smartest bet except that it was close to Keller and killer Vietnamese mercenaries. Montezuma was two miles away fighting the current. I could try for the opposite shore, across from Ryer Island to the south, but that would mean crossing several miles of open water. I was injured, starving, and no Navy SEAL. It would have to be the near shore, and let the current bring me to it. That was a swim of a few hundred yards—a few football fields—versus miles in open water, water that I knew only too well how cold it was.

  The near shore offered the best chance to survive. It was closer, and there was plenty of marshland to hide in once I made it. I could work my way north of the navy security station and make my way to the highway. I should be able to find a pay phone and call Chris collect. Then I would lie low, waiting for him to come pick me up in his green truck instead of a Huey.

  I wasn’t looking forward to going back in the water. I didn’t want to, but I had the feeling that if the navy found me Keller and his men would end up with me. I couldn’t wait on board indefinitely. I was hungry and eventually would grow too weak to swim. Plus, having an arm that had a bullet hole in it wasn’t going to help matters.

  I took the rubber mattress condom raft to the companionway door. I checked the ties, and when the sun had dipped below the horizon, I carefully opened the hatch. I grabbed the raft and dogged the hatch behind me. The ships had shifted, and now I was far away from the near shore. I could make out white painted arrows on the deck, pointing outboard. The lines led me to wooden steps and a wooden gangway leading to the next ship. I crossed nine more such bridges and I was on another Liberty ship, identical to the Adams. I found the gangway leading down to the water.

  I carefully went down the gangway and lowered the makeshift raft, dropping it the last few feet onto the dock. It sounded like a gunshot to me, but there were no alarms, no spotlights lit me up. I managed to lower myself then drop onto the dock. My landing was graceless, but I didn’t hurt myself or end up in the drink. I put my arm through the loop in the raft and partially slung it over my shoulder. I sat down on the dock, dangling my feet in the cold water, and then scooted off the platform into the water.

  It was cold. I was instantly cold. I wanted to get out to wave my arms and call the navy over and give myself up. Instead, I kicked my feet and pushed toward the shore. It was five hundred yards, five football fields away. I kept kicking pushing my ungainly raft along toward the shore. My legs started to burn the more I fought the current, and my breath was ragged.

  The current was pulling me south toward the bridges and the industry and the shipping. I was getting closer to the shore but I was also moving south more than I wanted to. South would also bring me to the navy security station. I was in no shape to fight Keller and his goons. I couldn’t fight a newborn kitten right now. Instead, I just kept kicking toward the shore. Lights in the distance grew bigger and brighter. I could hear the highway sounds, car horns and the noises of industry as I drew nearer. Then, finally, my knees started to scrape on the sand and silt. I had made it but was too weak to stand. I managed to crawl onshore and collapse in some reeds. My breath was rising toward the newly emerging stars in plumes of steam. Maybe I should see if my giving up Lucky Strikes wouldn’t cripple the tobacco industry.

  Chapter 22

  After lying on my back and contemplating the relative merits of being in a wet marsh I sat up. That didn’t kill me or seem to hurt that much. My stomach growled to remind me that I hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours. The ship still had had some fresh water and the water fountains had slaked my thirst, but I couldn’t find so much as an old can of SPAM onboard.

  I got up and took off my wool undershirt and spun it above my head for a few rotations, then wrung it out. I put it back on, and it was followed by the commando sweater, then my pants. I wasn’t as cold as the last time I had been in the water, but I had to start moving or I wasn’t going to go anywhere.

  I stepped into soggy marsh, sinking in over my ankles and stumbling often. It was wet and smelled foul. My efforts to keep my pa
nts dry were mostly useless after sinking in mud and falling into standing water. After forty-five minutes, a lot of cursing, and some sweating, I made my way out onto a dirt road. It was Goodyear Slough Road, little more than a dirt track that cut through the tidal marsh following the slough.

  I waited, and there was no traffic in any direction. I stepped onto the road and put my right shoulder parallel to the bay. I started walking north with a purpose. By walking, I mean exhaustedly shuffling at a pace that was less than blistering. My left arm hurt, and it bumped against my side. I slid my left hand into my pocket, hoping to immobilize it. The plastic baggie with my money was still in there. They had taken my weapons and gear but for some reason had missed the money.

  I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I had marched—rucked, we called it—literally thousands of miles while I was in the army. It started out in basic training. We learned the skills of a light infantryman, marching with a heavy rucksack, weapon, and ammunition and being able to fight the enemy when we got to our destination. Then in SF, we learned to ruck farther, more quietly, with heavier rucksacks. Then in Vietnam, we rucked farther still with heavier rucksacks, in hotter, more humid weather with more weapons and equipment. Now, here I was, shuffling down a road, moving slowly with no rucksack, no weapon or equipment.

  I don’t know how far up the road I had gone or how long I had been shuffling along. It could have been yards, it could have been a few miles. It was dark and I was cold. I could smell the unmistakably acrid smell of burning rubber. It came to me on the breeze, and I stopped. I could hear voices and the sound of breaking glass. Off in the distance. I couldn’t hear any engine noises. I started walking again. The smell grew stronger, and the voices became more distinct. They sounded like I was right on top of them, but I didn’t see anything.

  I looked into the night and realized that there was a boat in the marsh between me and the Suisun Bay. It was hard to see at first, because it was screened by some reeds. The hull was facing me. It looked like a thirty-footer, a cabin cruiser, once a rich man’s toy now lying on its side in the marsh. It must have broken its moorings and ended up here wrecked after a storm. The voices and smoke were coming from the side away from me, where the deck and cabin would be. There was a narrow path of trampled marsh grass leading around the boat that you would miss if you were driving by.

  I waited and listened. It sounded like a bunch of teenagers partying and just screwing around. Hanging out at an abandoned boat was a much better place to drink or smoke weed than mom and dad’s basement. I stood still in the darkness listening to them, trying to decide if it was worth the risk. In the end, I had to face up to the fact that I was cold, exhausted, hungry, and had a bullet hole in my arm. Teenagers, even if they turned out to be assholes, were still a better option than Keller and his franchisees. I stepped around the side of the boat to see four unremarkable teenage boys. There were two little Honda 30cc motorbikes leaning up against the deck. They were too small for me to use even if my arm weren’t hurt. They were sitting on cushions from the galley and burning rubber fenders. The boys were dressed in jeans and jackets or vests. One of them wore glasses, and none of them stood out in my tired mind. At first, they didn’t notice me, but then one of them said, “Guys, guys, shut up.”

  “Hi, there. I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I’m in trouble, and I could use some help.” I could only imagine what I looked like.

  “Hey, mister, we aren’t doing anything wrong. The boat is, like, abandoned.” The boy with the glasses. I could have pointed out that the smashed portholes and windows might indicate that they had been vandalizing. Who was I to criticize boys having good, clean fun?

  “I didn’t say you were. What I said was that I’m in trouble, and I need your help. Can you help me? I can pay you.”

  “Help with what?” One of the boys wearing a down vest against the damp chill of the Bay Area in March.

  “Nothing that will get you in trouble.”

  “Hey, man, we aren’t into any weird shit.”

  “No, I need you to call a friend of mine and tell him where I am, so he can come pick me up. I can pay you?”

  “Mister, what’s wrong with your arm?” From Vest Number 2.

  “Yeah, and why are you so dirty?” This from Glasses.

  “Some men shot me last night, and I ended up in the bay. I got messy crawling up on shore.” It was mostly the truth, but if anyone was to talk to them later, the less they knew, the better.

  “Cool. I thought I heard fireworks last night.” After that they decided I was okay. I told them I would pay them a hundred dollars. Two would go and call Chris, and two would stay with me. I told them Chris’s number and made them repeat it back to me a few times until I was sure that they had memorized it.

  “When he answers the phone, tell him the following message: ‘Red is declaring a Prairie Fire,’ and then tell the man on the line how and where to find me. Or have him meet you someplace and show him the way here.” They repeated the message. It was a throwback from our days in Recon. When a team was in trouble, in danger of being caught or killed, they called Covey and declared a Prairie Fire. Covey circled overhead in their plane coordinating the evacuation helicopters, jets, and gunships. Covey was the voice on the radio telling you that you were going to make it. Covey was the ringmaster of the world’s deadliest aerial circus.

  Calling in a Prairie Fire was bad. It meant you were in serious trouble. You were compromised. The enemy was chasing you. You were in a gunfight or you could be overrun at any moment. Maybe you had been wounded or likely would be. It meant you were in a world of shit. This wasn’t Vietnam, but I was in trouble and Chris was the only one who could get me out of it. Hopefully, he was waiting by his phone when they called him. I didn’t have a good back-up plan. Or any back-up plan, for that matter. This was a typical Andy Roark production. SNAFU. The old army slang for Situation Normal, All Fucked Up. That could describe my life.

  Two of them left on the squat little Hondas with their plump, knobby tires and lawn mower–like engines, like a minibike gang riding off into the night. Only in California. One of the kids left behind offered me a pull from half a bottle of Night Train. I almost said yes, but having some experience with Night Train, I knew that if I lived my hangover would hurt more than my arm.

  I made small talk with the two kids, Glasses and the other one with the vest with a V-shaped maroon stripe. They were fascinated by the fact that I had been shot. They talked a lot about Red Dawn. It was their favorite movie and was currently playing on HBO. They loved it when the kids started ambushing Soviet supply columns. I had seen the movie, and it was like a guerilla war training film. Hollywood will probably try to ruin it by remaking it someday.

  I was comfortable on the cushions. The burning rubber stank to high hell and made me cough, but I was really warm for the first time in thirty-six hours. The kids seemed like decent, all-American teens, the type who go to Boy Scouts with passion until they realize they want to get laid more than they want to be Eagle Scouts. Then it was all cars, weed, sports, and girls, not necessarily in that order. Then college or maybe the service, but in the post–Vietnam era there weren’t a lot of kids joining in spite of the army’s urging them to be all they could be.

  I had lost track of time. I had a watch, but I wasn’t paying attention to it. The hands moved, and I noted the time but then just as quickly forgot it. The teens had left. I think they said something about having to get home before they got grounded. I handed each of them a hundred-dollar bill and said something stupid about staying in school, then sat there alone in the dark with my wool blanket. The rubber fenders had burned out, and I had only clean, cold air to breathe. I tried to remember the words to an army marching cadence about “Christopher Columbo.” The words eluded me. Then I tried to think of the words to my favorite Doors songs. Then, somehow, I was singing “Emotional Rescue” by the Rolling Stones to myself in the dark, windy night.

  The night was clear, and the stars w
ere bright pinpricks on a panorama of onyx. In the distance I heard thunder. I wrapped the blanket tightly around me. The last thing I needed was to get rained on. I was already cold enough without that. I had been wet enough for the last day and a half. The storm was fast moving. The thunder grew louder, and the very earth trembled. The stars twinkled at me, laughing at their own private joke or my stupidity. Then there were lights dancing in the night, not lightning.

  I heard voices and heavy men crashing through the reeds toward me. I tried to push myself up. If I was going to die, it wasn’t going to be lying down like some dog that had been kicked too much. Chris and two gnarly looking bikers emerged around the stern of the boat.

  “Jesus, Red!”

  “Howdy.” I felt like giggling; then I was giggling.

  “This is my bro from Nam, Red. Let’s get him into the truck.” Chris was giving orders to the two of the scariest-looking bikers I had ever seen. One stuffed a Dirty Harry–sized Magnum in his belt. The other had slung a Remington 870 pump-action 12-gauge over his shoulder. Rough hands lifted me. Chris had a Ruger Mini-14, the kind with the tubular folding stock, in his hands. They carried me around the beached cabin cruiser to the road, Chris pulling security the whole way, pointing the Mini-14 wherever he thought Charlie might pop out of the brush. His eyes tracked and he pointed the muzzle of the weapon wherever his eyes were looking. He hadn’t forgotten a thing.

  On the road, the thunder made sense. There were what looked like twenty biker dudes on Harleys. They looked like a band of pirates in their colors. The two with Chris put me in his truck. Chris checked me over quickly and decided that I would make the ride back to the city. With a mighty roar of American-made muscle, we started south down the road. With ten bikers in front of us and ten behind, we rolled down the dirt road and slowed down to turn left by the navy security station. We rolled by slow and loud. Fuck you, Keller! I passed out before we reached the highway.