by Ken Babbs
He looks us over. “I needn’t remind you how important this mission is, not only for the good of our Vietnamese American relationship but also for the building of good will between the Diem government and the people in the outlying provinces.”
Captain Beamus surprises us with a click of his heels, a snap to attention and a crisp salute.
“In the tradition of the United States Marine Corps you can count on us to—” he begins, but is cut off by the embassy official.
“I’m sure. Shall we proceed?”
Madame Nhu and the most important officials climb aboard the Rajah’s chopper with sprightly alacrity, considering the weight of the medals, the stiffness of the starched uniforms and the rigidity of their encrusted scowls. The lesser encrusted jump in with us. Doc Hollenden greets each one with a grin and handshake, his glasses slipping down his nose.
We land on a soccer field at the edge of Sa Dec. A cluster of houses hugs a canal. A dirt road leads into the village. The local dignitaries greet Madame Nhu and her entourage with bows and greetings, then escort them into the ville. Captain Beamus, having ingratiated himself with the official party, hops aboard the gravy train for the official dinner. Cochran and Ben-San and Doc Hollenden and I and Soonto and the other crew chiefs are left standing in the soccer field. We’re quickly surrounded by a crowd of villagers. They’re small. Even the adults are the size of kids, except for the very old, who look like shriveled midgets. For the first time in my life I feel like a giant, towering over everyone. Cochran, the six-two gorilla, they must find unbelievable.
The women chew betel nut, leaving their teeth red if they are young, or black if they have been chewing for a long time. The old men cultivate stringy beards, eight or ten meager hairs. Amazed by the profusion of hair on our arms and wrists, they yank at our fur when they get close enough to touch. They are also curious about the size of our plumbing and follow and gawk when we take a leak. Mothers carry babies perched on their hips. Whenever a baby screeches, mom whips out a breast and nurses the kid quiet.
A grizzled old gent steps forward. “My name is Trung Nhut,” he says. “You, I, we are friends to visit and tour our village. Hie, shoosh,” he yells at the kids.
The little shits are everywhere. Kids without pants. Kids without shirts. One wears a straw cowboy hat and looks just like a kid from Texas. A girl wearing a short white dress with flowers around the hem peeks out from behind the boys. They’re like gophers popping out of burrows, big ones, tiny ones, some carried by middle-sized ones. Some dirty, others filthy and all barefooted. Feet that never felt the slap of leather. Feet that curl toes in soft mud. Feet that beat flat soles on hard-baked ground.
They wave their arms and yell, “Hello. Hello.” They all know hello. And okay. Everything is, “Okay. Okay.”
They are awed, curious, and scared, moving closer all the time until one boy gets close enough to find out that the giants are harmless. Then there is a rush to make sure they all get a chance to touch an American.
They surround Ben-San, pulling at his legs and arms and fighting to be the first to pull the hair on his arms, gawk at his boots, his knife, his pistol; a contest to see how much he will tolerate. He is engulfed and only manages to escape when Sergeant Soonto gives a kid a piece of candy. Then they are all over Soonto. They beg him for a can of C-rat peaches. They don’t even like the peaches. It’s the begging and the getting. They’ve gone too far too fast. Burned their cute cards. No more freebies. Sour grapes replace sweet treats. Soonto chases them away.
They turn to Cochran. Pull at his flight suit, screaming and scratching like crows working a roadkill. Cochran swings his arms and, furious, maddened, face contorted, he whirls around, lets out a mighty whoop and charges the pack.
The kids run screaming, a little guy falls, mowed under by the bigger boys. Cochran bursts out laughing and the kids, realizing they have been tricked, are immediately back on him. All but the kid on the ground. He twitches and froths, his eyes rolled back in his skull. Cochran leans over him.
“Soonto, you got a C-rat spoon?”
Soonto tosses it over. Cochran pries the kid’s mouth open and presses the spoon down on his tongue. He holds the spoon in one hand and the kid’s head in the other until the boy stops twitching. The kid’s eyes come back and he looks around.
Cochran eases the spoon out. “There you go little feller, you’ll be all right now.” He helps the kid up and steadies him until he can stand by himself.
Doc Hollenden, who has been hovering over the impromptu treatment, nods his head. “Yes, a mild epileptic attack. He should be fine.”
To draw attention away from the kid, I take off my hat and point at it and shout, “Hat,” and the kids take up the lesson and shout back, “Hat.”
In rapid succession I shout pencil, camera, gun, knife, head, hand, arm. Every time they hear a new word they set up a roundhouse football-game cheer. In the midst of the screaming, a procession comes by, led by two men carrying scrolled oriental banners. I point and shout, “Parade!” The kids yell and wave. Behind the banners four men carry a small temple with incense burning inside. That too is greeted with a cheer.
Bringing up the rear is a large container, carried by eight men. One of the men takes off his cap and waves it at us and the kids go into a frenzy, laughing and screaming and leaping and dancing, a great merry ball, and not until we look closer do we realize that what we are treating with such merriment is a funeral procession.
Three kids are splashing in a big puddle. A crew chief throws an empty C-ration can into the water and a kid whoops after it and retrieves it off the muddy bottom. The other two kids immediately set up a clamor, demanding their own cans. The crew chief wings two cans into the water and the scrabble brings more kids running. It becomes a free for all with fights and crying, the bigger kids getting the cans, the little ones missing out. Cochran yells at the men to knock it off.
“But Lieutenant,” the crew chief says, “they’re enjoying themselves.”
“Sure,” says Cochran, “like dogs enjoying a fight their masters sicced them on.”
“That would be fun,” he smirks.
“For dogs, maybe. But these aren’t dogs.”
Rather than argue about it, Cochran falls back on the easy expediency of ordering them to stop, a rarity, seeing’s how he reacts when anyone pulls that ordering shit on him.
“We go now,” Trung Nhut says. “I show you our village.”
We walk along the road into town. The kids surround us and slow us to a crawl. A canal full of scum and debris runs alongside the street. Hordes of flies buzz around turds lying in the gutters. The road opens into a square with a marketplace in the middle. I stop at a stall and buy a bag of hard candy. The kids climb on me like I’m Sandy Claws. They crawl up my legs and, in order to get them off, I pitch the candies out in the street. I try to escape while they fight for the booty but they catch up and grab at my hands, unrelenting in their demands.
I use my remaining piasters to buy a short straw broom, perfect size for paddling, and begin slapping at the mob of kids. Like the president of the Skunk Works, I exude a mean sense of power. It doesn’t do any good. No one even notices, but just then an emaciated, long-legged, black-and-white dog comes running past, and the kids chase after it. The dog runs in a big circle and comes back and scoots between Soonto’s legs. One of the kids grabs at it, the dog yaps and snarls.
“Hey perro,” I call, and reach out to pet him. He snarls and snaps at my hand. I pull back. All right, all right. No touchy-feely, I can dig it. Sergeant Soonto laughs. He holds out his hand, the dog looks at it warily, then sniffs Soonto’s knuckles. He lets Soonto rub his muzzle and scratch his ears. A rotund man with a short machete fastened to his belt elbows us aside. He grabs the dog by the scruff of his neck, gives him a good shake and carries him away.
“Come now,” Trung Nhut says. He leads us through the marketplace, past goods arrayed on blankets, stalls crowded with people sipping tea, chatting, smoking ba
mboo pipes, nibbling on cu do, puffed rice candy. The tour ends at a small house facing the square, where we go inside for our not-so-stately dinner.
The walls are bamboo and the ceiling a thatched roof. Stilts hold the wooden floor off the ground. There are no chairs so we sit on mats in a circle. An elderly lady prepares us tea.
“The hostess of the house,” Trung Nhut says. “Green tea. We call,” he struggles for the right words, “hook-shaped curly tea. The leaves curl up when dried.”
The hostess pours the tea from a pot into a bowl and then ladles it into our cups. Young ladies roam the circle filling our bowls. Trung Nhut describes the dishes: “Com, rice. Mam kho, salted fish stew. Nuoc cham gung, ginger fish sauce. Mien ga, noodle and chicken soup. Dua mon, vegetables in fish sauce. Thit cho, meat.” He doesn’t say what kind.
I look at Cochran. He has a sickly smile on his face but gamely samples each dish. Luckily, they’ve provided spoons along with the chopsticks.
“Hey, not bad,” Ben-San says. “Meat’s a little tough, though.”
“Special for you our honored guests,” Trung Nhut says.
“Kinda stringy,” Cochran says.
“Chew each bite thirty-six times,” Doc Hollenden says, masticating vigorously.
Stringy and tough, it reminds me of something. That skinny mongrel. Madre de dio. My stomach does a flip. I get up and stagger outside and stand in the shade of the overhang. Hold my stomach, wait for the others to come out.
Trung Nhut performs the obligatory goodbye dance, graceful bows and mellifluous murmurings of appreciation. Enough with the thank yous already, I’m dying out here. He finally exhausts the requisite requirements of a proper departure and escorts us away.
A small pond, full of rushes and muddy water, sits in the center of the ville. Trung Nhut kicks off his sandals, rolls up his pant legs and wades in up to his knees.
“You see.” He reaches with his hands, feeling along the bottom. “Aha.” Spreads his arms, bends, grasps, starts pulling out a slimey python. Our eyes get bigger as the snake gets longer. At least eight feet in length with brown skin splotched with white markings, the python’s flat yellow head lolls sleepily as it lies languorously loose in Trung Nhut’s arms.
“Village pet. Eats rats, his belly is full, so no danger now.” He gropes along the snake, showing us a lump halfway down. “He is grown too big. We scared he will eat a child. We would like you to have Dinh Lanh, a gift.”
He holds the snake out, one hand behind its head, the other clutching him in the middle. The snake flutters its eyes. His tongue flicks out. Trung Nhut smiles. “Dinh Lanh is a friend. He will give you much happiness and remind you of hands clasping across Vietnam and America. A gesture of goodwill.”
“Whoa,” I say, backing off. “I don’t think so, compadre.”
“Ah, you chickenshit.” Cochran reaches out. “Give me that sucker.”
“Are you sure?” the Doc says, looking alarmed.
Trung Nhut feeds the snake to Cochran, like reeling out a thick rope, first the head and then the body. Dinh Lanh’s eyes open wide and his body quivers, a pulse up and down its length. The snake winds around Cochran’s back and along his arms.
“Take a picture, Huck.”
Okay. Is that a smile, Señor Gorilla Hombre Con Culebra? I snap the shot. Gorilla Man With Snake, but no smile. Cochran’s eyes get wide. Dinh Lanh has his tail wrapped around Cochran’s chest.
“Hey, this fucker’s squeezing on me. Get him off …”
The kids laugh and jump up and down. Trung Nhut looks on, nodding and smiling. I snap another picture.
“Make with the snake charm, Cochran,” Ben-San says. “Sexy undulations. Exotic whistling.”
“Ah, shouldn’t we do something? Not just stand here?” Doc Hollenden says.
Cochran’s face turns red. Dinh Lanh is wound around Cochran’s arms and chest and clamping down. I drop the camera and grab the snake. It’s like pulling on a fire hose pumped full of water. Unmovable.
“… Can’t breathe …” Cochran gasps.
I’m eyeball to eyeball with Dinh Lanh. Inside his orbs I see green determination as old as pond stones worn to pebbles … before his eyes suck me into his depths, my survival knife is at his throat … last chance, fucker, turn loose … what? No way Jose? … okay, if that’s the way you like it … a quick thrust of my knife through his mouth straight into whatever tiny brain runs this sucker’s outfit then out the top of his skull with all my might … how’s that for a decision, motherfucker?
“Nnnnh, nnnh …” Cochran mumbles.
What the fuck. The snake hasn’t let up.
“His muscles locked,” says Trung Nhut.
“Now what?”
The dog butcher steps forward and slices with his machete, whup whup, up and down the the python, spraying blood, skin, bone and guts. It looks like he’s slicing Cochran along with Dinh Lanh. Pieces fall to the ground. Kids scoop up the chunks. Cochran stands, arms outstretched, eyes bugged, nary a cut.
“You okay?”
He nods. “Gddbliggdd pyysthonnn … gttt piggure …”
“What?”
“Piggure, gddbliggd it, piggure …”
I step back, aim in and snap. Caption: Gory Cochran.
Trung Nhut is rather sad. “Dinh Lanh was good snake.” He brightens. “Will make many good meals.”
Doc Hollenden grasps Cochran’s wrist. Peers at his watch. Raises his eyebrows. Looks over his glasses.
“What about it, Doc?” I ask him. “Is he fit?”
“Fit enough to fly, although his pulse rate is a little high. But I can’t say his uniform will pass muster.”
Captain Beamus comes striding up, the official lunch having ended. “All right, let’s get back to the choppers, it’s time for the speechifying … what in the name of Chesty Puller is going on here? Lieutenant! Get yourself cleaned up. The dignitaries will be along any minute and they better not see a United States Marine Corps officer looking like that.”
Cochran leans over the pond, grabs handfuls of water, splashes his flight suit, squeegees off globs of snake with the side of his hand, gets rid of most of the goop, but the process leaves him sopping. No never-mind, it will dry fast in this heat. We head out to the soccer field, hustling to catch up with Beamus and Ben-San. Trung Nhut huffs along behind.
The townsfolk are lined up, waving small SVN flags and murmuring patriotic phrases. Madame Nhu steps onto a platform and bows. She straightens and begins speaking, slow and stilted.
“She not good Vietnam talker,” Trung Nhut tells us. “She speak French mostly. Very strong person. Some call her Dragon Lady. Now she talk about Woman Solidarity Movement. Will help villagers with nurseries and maternity clinics and schools. Now she say there will be stiff penalties for adultery. Divorce is outlawed except by permission of President.”
“Who just happens to be her brother-in-law,” Cochran mutters.
“Vietnamese people are on purification road, she say. No more taxi dancers, no more prize fighting, no immoral entertainment of Trojan rubbers, beauty contests, fortune telling, gambling, bee-hive hair-dos, fast western music.”
From the looks on the villagers faces she isn’t getting much support for the proposed changes.
“Now she talk about people who are opposed to government in Saigon. She say we will track down and shut up and vanish all those scabby sheep.”
Her voice rises and she speaks slowly, emphasizing each word. Trung Nhut keeps his voice down. “She say, if one bows to madness and stupidity of immoral acts how can one find strength to fight atrocities of communists? We must unite under central banner.”
Muted applause, mild flag waving. Madame Nhu bows and steps off the platform. An old bentover man, wrinkled and gnarly, mudriven as the paddies, shuffles forward. Madame Nhu stops and looks at him. The old man stands up straight and hawks a big loogey right in her face.
A greatness of oohing and ahhing. A vastness of surging forward. Caramba! A quickness of a thru
st between the old man and Madame Nhu. A bodyguard, gun out, barrel up the old man’s nose. Madame Nhu shakes her head, no, and wipes herself with a silk hanky. She lowers her parasol so no one can see her face and glides away. The bodyguard clubs the old man and scurries after her.
The townspeople surge forward. Soldiers with rifles face off the crowd. The generals and high muckity-mucks make a hasty exit. I look at Cochran. He has the same notion. We sprint for the choppers. Doc Hollenden puffs behind.
“Let’s crank it up, Soonto,” Cochran yells, climbing into the cockpit. “We gotta book on outta here.”
Soonto nods, climbs in, carrying something under his flight suit. No time to mess with that. I look at Cochran.
“Did you just say book on out of here?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Oh, nothing.” Sometimes the Marine Corps rubs off on you and you don’t even know it.
We lift off and turn east. I look down at Trung Nhut, standing by himself, waving. Soldiers are herding the townspeople along the road, toward town.
“So much for the gesture of good will,” Cochran says.
We drop the load of morose and somber big wigs and their dragon lady at My Tho and head for home as the sky darkens. The flight line is ablaze with floodlights. The Vietnamese fighter-bomber has been yanked out of the Marine helicopter’s belly. Mechs swarm around the mangled chopper. Doc Hollenden gives a wave and heads for the dispensary. We go in the flight shack to fill out the after-action report. Soonto edges around the side of the building, keeping his body between us and whatever he’s hiding inside his flight suit. He bumps into the wall and there’s a slight yelp, then he disappears around the corner. Cochran shakes his head.
“I don’t want to know,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get a drink.”
At four o’clock in the morning, the Sadec lunch explodes in my stomach, delayed-action fuse triggering the blast. I fight the full-up sensation in my throat and bowels then get up and dash for the head. My flip-flops slap wet against my goopy feet as I sprint past the tents and a surprised sentry.
