by Ken Babbs
“Over there,” Cochran shouts. “Drill the bastard.”
I riddle the mound with a long burst. The chopper skips and dances, Cochran lifts and turns the chopper so Soonto can cut loose with the M-60. The ARVNs are squatting on the ground, blasting the bushes. Cochran wraps on throttle and we surge off the dike, flash across the trees and climb, last one out.
“Eat lead, you butt-ugly mud fuckers,” I give the foiliate another burst. The magazine empty, I stick the rifle between the seats. Eyes closed I can still see the dancing geysers.
I look over at Cochran and key the intercom. “For a peace-loving maverick you were a mighty bloodthirsty cheerleader back there. Thought we were here to fly not to fight.”
“That peacenik bullshit is only good to a certain point. Those motherfuckers were shooting at us. Take it a while, mister buttuglio. My hands are sweating like a bitch.”
The bird is light and free under my slippery hands. My knotted stomach loosens, matching the rotor head vibes, dampened at cruise rpm … if you don’t know how to do it … I join up on Pappy Lurnt, our section leader … I’ll show you how to walk the dog …
Pappy interrupts the song: “Second section, I’m setting down. Circle and cover me.”
I follow him down in a cockscrew descent and watch the major land on a hummock. He clambers from the cockpit, struggles out of his flight suit, leans his hands against the chopper and squats, holding his gear out of the mud. Arkansas razorback, he gotta go he gotta go. A flat-bottomed skiff skims across the paddy on the other side of the hummock, three black-clad men poling for all they’re worth.
“They must think Pappy landed to go after them,” I tell Cochran.
“If they only knew, they’d be after him, catch him with his pants down.”
“I’ll give them a what for.”
I kick the stick over, drop the collective and dive for the skiff. The men abandon the boat. Two of them run through the knee-deep water into the cover of the brush. The third hightails it across the paddy. Muddy ringlets mark his trail. I sight in on the back of his head and build up airspeed, then level off. I’ll flatten the bastard with one of the wheels. The surface ripples under the rotor wash and the rice stalks sway in the blast of air. The water explodes in shuddering bursts in front of the man and he dives into the muck.
I yank back the stick, honk on the power and rise off the water.
“Who’s shooting?”
“Ben-San,” Cochran answers. “He opened up on the guy.”
Another couple of yards and we’d have been in the line of fire. Cochran grins like a cheshire.
“You’d have let me splat that guy’s brains all over the chopper, wouldn’t you,” I snarl.
“If that’s what you wanted, killer. Everyone’s gotta decide for himself. I already blew my cool today. Just hope I can stick with flying from now on, not gunning.”
“Yeah, right, advisory capacity only—”
“Get back here,” Pappy Lurnt cuts in. “Just ‘cause a man’s gotta answer the call of nature doesn’t mean you can go skylarking all over the place. Join on me.”
I bank to the rendezvous and we head over the water-quilted landscape and return to the landing strip for another pickup.
“Skipper’s down,” a call comes in on the radio. A white plume of smoke rises a half mile away. “He’s okay. Took a round in the transmission. His wingman picked him up. They’re leaving the chopper, we’ll get it later.”
All day long, ARVNs are picked up and flown to the zone. We stop at a temporary airstrip to refuel from big black bladders squatting on the ground. Not bothering to shut down the engines, we heat C-rats on the hot manifolds and eat while the tanks are topped, then head back to the zone, which looks like a football stadium parking lot so much crap has been hauled in and laid about, with supply types scurrying and big-wigs arriving, the press shooting pictures and scribbling in notebooks.
The Viet Cong tried to surround Father Wong’s village but the ARVNs surrounded the Cong instead. Many dead is the report, with the remainder fleeing in sampans. The ARVNs are elated. Catching or killing a single VC is memorable but today’s work is worth the visit from the Secretary of Defense. Orbiting overhead, we can see a dozen huts burning. The rest of the ville is still intact. We land and shut down, and Cochran and I follow the crowd to a bare spot on the edge of the village.
Dead VC are piled on top of a mound, bodies bloody and mangled, all with the same signature: a bullet in the back of the head. It’s a staged photo op and the cameramen are busily shooting, burning ammo in the propaganda war. A prisoner stands by himself, hands tied behind his back.
“North Vietnamese,” an American voice says. I step closer to hear better. “He’s an adviser,” the American says. “He had a one piastre bill in his pocket. That’s their code sign.”
A voice from the past. Vern Battles, my old high school nemesis. King shit of Texas Military Academy, he never could stand it when I tackled him in football practice, me just a sophomore and him a big stud senior. They ran sweep right and Vern Battles blindsided me and my shoulder popped out. Now we’re bosom buddies, hand shaking and back slapping, in this shit together, ancient animosities forgotten in the rush of meeting and exchanging histories. He’s the American adviser to the ARVNs we’re hauling, and it’s a bitch of a job, he says, the Vietnamese battalion commander does everything his own way, ignores Battles, who is always exhorting the ARVNs to attack, attack, attack.
Thin and stoop-shouldered from backpacking the PRC-10 radio, Battles nevertheless looks like he just got off the parade ground. Khakis starched with razor creases, even his floppy jungle hat is blocked to fit his head at a rakish angle. The only thing he loves better than his job—fighting, swearing, running, advising, leading—is talking about it.
And I’m eating it up, nodding, grinning like an idiot, agreeing with everything he says. Cut them off at the nuts, break the bastards’ legs, yes yes, we’re a couple of idiots gone completely bonkers. He’d like to take it to the Cong, destroy those fuckers, but he’s frustrated, the ARVNs can’t or won’t understand him, his interpreter speaks French but no English, Battles speaks no French and only a little Vietnamese. Misunderstandings all the way around and Battles figures it’s on purpose so they don’t have to do anything he says.
The prisoner stands stiff and glaring. Battles motions him to crouch down and when he doesn’t move, Battles knocks him to his knees. The prisoner looks straight ahead, emotionless. Cochran walks up, takes a package of C-rat cigarettes out of his pocket and puts one in the prisoner’s mouth. The VC spits it into Cochran’s face.
“You Americans are soft,” he says. “That’s why we’ll defeat you in this war.”
Cochran picks the prisoner up by his neck with one hand, and holds him off the ground. He shakes out another cigarette, drops the pack, sticks his finger in the VC’s mouth and jams the cigarette in. He pulls out a lighter and fires it off.
“Not soft, man. Kind, maybe, but not soft.”
He drops the VC to the ground.
Emmett shakes his head. “Great, Cochran, just great. The summation of our mission as only a gorilla can state it.”
Cochran’s smile is glued.
“That’s enough,” Battles says. “Let the ARVNs work him over. We kicked ass today. Great body count. Gotta go, battalion is moving out.”
He slaps my shoulder, hikes the PRC-10 radio up on his back. The radio is called a prick ten, perfect for Battles, a prick to the tenth degree.
“Crazy war, huh? Good seeing you, Huckelbee. You guys are doing a terrific job with those choppers.”
He doesn’t have a clue, same old turd. “Break a leg,” I yell. He doesn’t turn. Raises his arm. De superioridad moral, what you might call a self-righteous jerk.
A short, beaming-faced man, wearing green khakis and a steel helmet atop his rounded dome, steps forward. He bows slightly and smiles.
“I am Father Wong and this is my parish.” He motions towards the huts. “A
nd these are my parishioners.” He nods at the villagers gathered around.
He and two hundred Chinese immigrants fled their homeland ahead of the Red Horde, he tells us, and now, once again, they are beset by the godless communists determined to wipe them out.
“By all that’s holy those atheists aren’t chasing me any farther. Here I stay.” Sticks his staff of God into the ground. “On this mud flat I built my church.” A grass shack sitting high atop big mud bricks that keep the building dry during the floods.
The Diem government is all Catholic so Father Wong gets the backing and supplies he needs. President Kennedy is Catholic, too. The Pope has an ear cocked. The story of Father Wong and his village is picked up by the American press and before a pilgrim can shake his chalice, Father Wong has his own fort, private army, American cash, a fervent following and the Father Wong song. Right on cue the village kids raise their voices:
Father Wong
And his throng
Two hundred strong
Fight the Cong
Who are wrong
Beat the gong
Say so long
Cong are gone.
Father Wong smiles proudly. Half medieval Jesuit, half warrior-fighter, half priest, half counselor, half terrifier, he brandishes the wrath of the padre’s guns in this world and the wrath of the Catholic God in the other.
“They thought they’d wipe us out,” he says. “VC burn huts, rape women, steal rice, pigs, chickens, ducks and snakes and then go to edge of village and cook the meat, drink sacramental wine and have big party, give us the finger.
“Ha ha. Not on my patch. I buy three one-oh-six millimeter reckless rifles in Saigon and hide them in church and in reflecting red and orange and gold flaked sun setting on canals blow them apart and wreck their party with antipersonnel projectiles blast them into the darkness from which they came.
“Not that it has deterred the Cong,” he admits. “They have big reward on my head but we are stronger all the time with more weapons and better training and we go in the field ourselves and hunt them down but we aren’t totally barbaric.” He shakes his head piously. “We try to rehabilitate prisoners, teach them catechism, give them chance to join Army of Christ.”
We nod obsequiously and follow him around the village, yas, Father Wong, yas, doing a grand job, just grand, WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?
I’m face to face with a black shriveled head stuck on a pole in the middle of the village square. Its eyes are bugged and protruding, tongue black and swollen, pushing out of cracked peeling lips.
“One of the men we rehabilitated. He went back over and was captured again, raiding and looting. Unfortunately he died in the fighting, burned in the hut he torched. A shame, really.”
Ben-San steps forward. He’s brazen, reckless, going to outdo Cochran. Pulls out a cigarette and jams it between the charred lips.
“Get a picture of this,” Ben-San says, posing.
Whoa, I’m thinking. Better kill those prints. What if Mom, apple pie and pasteurized-vitamin-D whole milk ever saw the sons of our evangelical heartland indulging in such gruesome pranks?
“Ah, what’s so atrocious about a man smoking?” Ben-San says.
Everyone shuffles their feet. This is too much over the top. Pappy Lurnt breaks the tension. “Mount up, Gyrenes, it’s time to book on out of here.”
“Don’t you mean boogie on out of here?” Ben-San says.
“You shavetails don’t understand Old Corps talk. Used to be when you went on liberty you signed out in the book. We don’t sign out any more but we still book, so haul your asses and on the double.”
An hour later, silhouetted against a brilliantly colored sunset we approach the field at Soc Trang, daisy chaining toward the runway in a mad bucking whip, fighting turbulence and rotor wash, the men below watching us arrive safely so they can feed us, purify the water, fire up the showers and work on the choppers all night so we can get up before dawn the next morning and repeat the ball-busting experience all over again.
We stagger into the ready room tent and drop our gear on the floor, everyone pushing and shoving for space. In the middle of the melee Captain Beamus steps up on the podium and yells, “All right, who shot the water buffalo?”
Cochran’s head jerks up.
“The water buffalo? … Oh no … did someone actually … ?”
“That’s right. Emptied a whole magazine.”
Cochran charges through the flight gear, scattering hard hats, flak vests and knee boards. He grabs my arm. “Get the buckets … the water cans…” Hustles me out of the tent. “Quick, Huck … the water cans … quick.”
I envision holes in the sides, water pouring out, long trips to the mess hall spigot, carrying water cans all the way. I run back to our tent, grab two cans, and rush to the water buffalo only to find Cochran muttering and cursing. Too late, I think, the water’s all gone.
I take a closer look and, miraculously, there are no holes in the water buffalo. I open the tap and water gushes sparkling onto the ground.
“Just like this fucking war,” Cochran says, shaking his head. “Man says one thing he means another. Someone else hears him he gets a completely different take. Everything’s totally fucked. I’m getting so I can’t tell what’s real any more.”
We drag back to the ready room tent. Captain Beamus continues his harangue. One of the crew chiefs shot a water buffalo while we were going into the zone. Maybe a good case for righteous indignation for him but it doesn’t mean shit to us after the anxiety of losing our private water buffalo.
The other pilots know we’ve been filling our cans from the water buffalo while they have to wait in line at the mess hall spigot. Payback time. They laugh and point and grab their crotches, high five, do a fake circle jerk, then break into a shuffle, slap legs, click fingers above their heads, chant, “Who-ah shot-ah dah wa-tah buffalo? Hey! Who-ah shot-ah dah wa-tah buffalo? Hey!”
“All right, knock that shit off,” Pappy Lurnt hollers. “We got more important stuff going on here. You know, we left the skipper’s chopper out there but I’m happy to say although we lost a bird we also gained a bird.”
He holds up two silver eagle insginias.
“Just got word the skipper’s promotion came through. He’s a full bird colonel now.”
The Hammer walks forward. Major Lurnt pins the eagles on the colonel’s flight suit and steps back and gives him a salute. In the midst of the scattered applause and muted huzzahs Cochran and I grab our flight gear and hustle out of the tent.
6. Prepare for the Retreat
Come on, Doc, cool me down here, I’ve got a hole in my shoulder bigger than a shotgun blast … hawks and doves … to shoot or not to shoot … some say yea some say nay … “It’s all bull roar,” says Daddy … shoot at the flock or shoot at the bird … one is nay one is yea … the moment comes you decide the way … you can’t be of two minds … indecision will get you every time … a hunter has to be of one mind … they looked so cute, Doc, like little kittens with bushy tails and black and white stripes so I jumped down in the garbage hole to pet them and they stuck their tails in the air and let loose a smell that made me sick and my eyes cry and I got out of there and ran howling and crying to the house and Abuela grabbed me before I got to the door and tore my clothes off and put me in a tub and poured in tomato juice and water and soaped and scrubbed me and covered me with a towel and made me sit on the steps in the sun while she picked up my clothes with a stick and threw them in the garbage pit and covered everything with dirt … yas, Daddy, I’ve heard that bull roar … tie a bull’s scrotum to a long piece of hide and whirl it around your head and listen to the bull roar … learn to do it son and when that time comes, whatever is in the way won’t work against you, remember that, son … looney tunes bizarro gazarro, Doc … right hand doesn’t know the left hand exists, Doc … in one side of the mouth all hail and high water … out the other side all doom and gloom … blow hot or blow cold but never blow lukewarm, not if you’re a h
unter …
He’s a hunter sniffing the air, blood on the wind, his back up, stalking, the thrill of the kill, and, like the guy who’s been down so long everything looks up to him, after a shower and a steak barbecued on grills next to the mess hall, Cochran is ready for the poker game.
Rubbing his hands, grinning and smirking, working on the tic, poking me in the ribs, smacking his lips, Cochran bounces on his size twelves, bopping between the tents toward our destination: Grits Emmett’s tent.
Cochran pauses, squares his shoulders, composes his features into a bland blend of calm and bends down to enter the tent, then he stops, huddled over. He motions with his hand for me to stay back and watches the action inside a moment before turning and, going shhh with his finger to his lips, draws me away into the darkness. He pulls me along by the arm, slowly, then faster, and, as soon as we get out of earshot, lets loose:
“Shit piss corruption snot, seventeen assholes tied in a knot, I can’t believe it!”
“What the hell are you so all-fired het-up about. Whyn’t we go in there?”
The light from the hangar casts a garish glow across his cragged face, black brows twisted, mouth grimaced.
“The table’s full,” he snarls. “Every chair taken. No place for us, Huck, no room at the inn.” He laughs bitterly. “Emmett, Jacobs, Ben-San, Beamus, the chickens ripe for plucking, they’re all there, but instead of us, they’ve dragged in the good doctor who knows as much about poker as a proctologist does about the Peloponnesian War.”
“Peloponnesian, huh? That’s profound. How do you spell Peloponnesian by the way.”
“Shut up. I know the warriors beat up on the egg heads and that’s good enough for me.”
“Wait a minute. You think they set it up like that or just got tired of waiting? You were taking your own sweet time getting there.”
He hunches and slouches and paces. Damned if he doesn’t look like a gorilla, with his face scrunched, eyes narrowed, mouth curved down and arms dangling.
