by Don McQuinn
The recitation was so stilted there could be no question that it had been memorized.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” Taylor swore, getting out of bed. “What the hell kind of game is this? ‘Make me understand,’ my ass.” He jerked open the metal wall locker, angrily grabbing soap and towel.
“You seem to carry messages well. Hear this. Get on the phone and tell your goddam Colonel that Major Taylor sends his respects and regrets he’ll be delayed because he was asleep when you got here and needs a shave and shower. You got it?”
“Yessir.”
“Well, by God, you tell him exactly what I told you. Tactfully. I want him to know, tactfully, I think he’s a fucking idiot. And don’t forget persuasive.”
He stalked away to the shower room at the end of the barracks. The Lieutenant watched him, grinning, then left to find the telephone.
After a furious shower, Taylor shaved with swooping strokes. A slick of moisture still covered him and standing under the large fan cooled him mentally and physically. He finished dressing, brushed a hand across the black crewcut stubble, and walked to the front entrance. The Lieutenant was already waiting in a jeep and Taylor swung into the passenger’s seat.
“Before we get rolling, suppose you tell me your name. I know it’s on that tape over your pocket but I was too angry to notice it before and it’s too dark to read it now.” Taylor extended his hand.
The Lieutenant took it, straight-faced. “I’m Bill Harker, Major. I’d have said so before, but—” He checked Taylor’s expression, debating a full smile.
Taylor grinned. “I guess we didn’t exchange much social chat, did we? Get this thing moving and let me know what’s going on, OK?”
The return smile that had brightened Harker’s face was immediately pushed aside by a frown. “I can’t tell you much, Major, I really can’t. The Colonel didn’t say what he wanted.”
Harker watched to see how his passenger would take that. He was pleased that things hadn’t gone too badly yet, and the quick muscle bulge of the Major’s jaws made him apprehensive. Then the older man relaxed and Harker blew a satisfied sigh. He knew he’d never get used to these errands, especially the ones where he had to bug some senior officer.
This one sure doesn’t look like anyone special, he thought. Maybe a tad over six foot—no moose for size. Average looks, unless his eyes are always that hard. He looked like he was measuring me in there. Winter’ll find out what’s in him if he decides he can fit in. I wonder if he can imagine what the Colonel has planned?
As the jeep pulled through a tight U-turn the headlights revealed a surprising number of men brought out by the relative cool of the evening. The scene was a surrealist’s Main Street—no women, no children, just men standing or sitting in pairs and groups, most wearing shorts and undershirts.
Taylor said, “Look at those people. This is a combat zone?”
Harker laughed. “You’ll find it a lot different from I Corps, for sure, but if Charlie decides to lob in a few one-twenty mortar rounds or chuck a grenade at you, you won’t be missing the old days.”
“That’s another thing I worry about. It’s going to be a strain wandering around wondering who are the hostiles.”
“You get used to it.” The grim prospect conveyed by Harker’s easy answer drove Taylor to concentrate on the pleasure of the ride. He recognized the general outline of the Tan Son Nhut terminal to the right and the angular mass of MACV Headquarters to his left. Squat cement bunkers crouched immediately behind a high chain link fence, black embrasures staring outward. He hoped their primary function was artillery cover—that close to the wire they were absurdly vulnerable to grenades or planted charges. Then they were past and Harker was pointing out other things.
“That chopper coming in over there in that big vacant lot on the left is headed for the Third Field Hospital landing pad. You can tell when there’s a heavy fight somewhere—it gets really busy. At other times it’s mostly courier stuff coming in. And on the right is the VNAF club—that’s Vietnamese Air Force—and they’ve got a bar, and the restaurant serves really good Chinese food.”
The club loomed against the glare from the air base, its sweeping pagoda-style roof an exotic presence. The outline was accentuated by a string of colored lights. The attempted festive appearance fell flat, reminding Taylor of a honky-tonk.
They leaned to the right at a fork in the road and Harker continued his commentary.
“Over here on the left is Two Hundred P Alley. The name’s out of date, ‘cause you can’t buy any woman around here for that much anymore, but that’s what it’s called. You can get anything you want, though—no sweat. It’s off-limits but nobody does much about it.” He gestured to the right. “We just passed the main gate to Tan Son Nhut Air Force Base. The military and civilian field are the same, just different terminals. I’ve watched a few times, and I don’t know how they handle it all.”
Taylor agreed. “I noticed all the planes when we came in. Do they have many accidents on the field?”
“None I can think of, but just a few months ago a chopper headed for Third Field fell in the street right in front of the Massachusetts BOQ. Wasted the pilot and co-pilot, but the gunner got out. Funny thing is, it plowed through all that traffic on Cach Mang and no one else got hurt, if you don’t count a couple hundred cases of diarrhea.”
Harker turned off the main road as he finished speaking, stopping at the gate of a walled compound. An MP stepped out of his sentry box to identify them. Taylor was puzzled by the shape and size of the thing and was amused to recognize it as a concrete sewer pipe with a section cut out of the back. Positioned just a foot from the cement wall behind it, it was good cover. A poncho on poles formed an inadequate roof.
Harker interrupted the inspection. “You may have heard of this place back in the world. It’s BOQ 1, for Colonels and Light Colonels. All the rooms are air-conditioned, they’ve got refrigerators in most of the Colonels’ rooms—maybe in all of them, I don’t know—and there’s a swimming pool, and—”
“Hold it! A swimming pool? Like a motel?”
“Just like. Got a couple of nice bars and a great steak restaurant, too.”
“Sonofabitch,” Taylor marveled, “that’s too much. Does the pool work? Can anyone use it?”
Harker laughed. “Only if you’re the guest of a resident or a female. But they’re building another bigger one for us peons over at MACV.”
He pulled the jeep into a parking slot and grinned at Taylor’s expression. “The bit about the females get to you? You’ll find out this’s the most feminized war anyone ever saw. We’ve got Red Cross dollies, State Department types, WAFs, WACs, AID girls—God knows what all. Hell, I forgot the nurses.”
During his litany, he carefully strung a heavy chain through the steering wheel and locked it before setting off toward a wing of the building. Taylor fell in and Harker chattered on.
“Usually on Sunday afternoon there’s broads all over the pool. A lot of these old jerks plop out there soaking up sunshine and booze and when a couple of good looking chicks show up they pant ‘til it sounds like the surf’s up.”
Taylor shook his head.
Inside, the building smelled of fresh floor wax, disinfectant, and humanity. Carrying through all of it was the electrical taste of mechanically cooled air, although the dun hallway wasn’t appreciably cooler than outdoors. Harker knocked on one of the doors.
“Come in! It’s not locked.”
Holding the door for Taylor, Harker spoke past him to the man sitting in a rattan easy chair. “Colonel Winter, this is Major Taylor.”
The Colonel smiled broadly as he stood and walked across the room, thrusting out his hand. In spite of the lower temperature in the room, he wore only shorts.
Taylor had been prepared for some drawn look of contemptuous authority. Instead, the man suggested a friendly doctor, with his warm brown eyes over the welcoming smile. Taylor felt himself disarmed, embarrassed by his preconceptions.<
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The Colonel’s body belonged to a wrestler—torso and thighs blocky, the long arms heavily muscled. The strength of his handshake implied more available on call. His hair was thick and black, a fact that made the small stark white irregular patch in the middle of the thatch on his chest even more incongruous. In spite of the Colonel’s near nudity and his own recent shower and shave, Taylor felt grubby in his wrinkled wash-khaki.
“I’m pleased you could come on short notice,” Winter said. He put his hand on Taylor’s shoulder. “It was rude to roust you this way, but it was important that I see you before too many other things get started.” He steered Taylor toward a second rattan chair. “Sit down and have a drink while I unfold a tale of the mysterious Orient.” He took the other chair himself and turned to Harker. “Slide that coffee table over here and find something to sit on. I’ll want you to talk to Major Taylor, too.” Turning back to Taylor, he produced a packet of cigars. “You use these?”
“No, sir.” Taylor reached into his sock for his cigarettes. “These are my problem.”
Harker leaned over with a lighter, first to Taylor, then to Winter. He replaced the lighter and Taylor said, “Want to try one of mine?”
Harker said, “I don’t smoke, sir.”
It was apparent he carried the lighter for the Colonel. Taylor looked away quickly.
“I figure it’ll be a nice souvenir when I get out of the Army.” There was a note in Harker’s voice Taylor couldn’t identify. Winter snorted and plunked ice cubes in glasses. The Lieutenant displayed the lighter for Taylor. The decoration was an eagle clutching a streaming banner with ornate lettering that read “Fuck Communism.”
“The other thing,” Harker went on, “is some people get forgetful, you know?”
Winter poured whiskey without looking up. “Young pup,” he growled. “They don’t make Lieutenants like they did when I was a shavetail.” He glared mock anger at Harker. “Someday I’ll take offense at your insubordinate mouth and send you to Laos on a one-man patrol.”
The younger man enjoyed what was transparently a running joke. Handing a glass to Taylor, Winter said, “Add water as your taste dictates, Major—it’s in the pitcher. Incidentally, my apologies for the lack of variety. All I’ve got in the place is Scotch. I hope you like it.”
The glass jerked to a stop half-way to Taylor’s mouth, the suddenness spilling some. “Colonel, it’s just fine. I’m only worried about the Red Queen running through here. After all, swimming pools, O clubs, ‘I’m sorry we’ve only Scotch’—I still don’t even know why I’m here in your quarters. Quarters, yet!”
“It’s a shocker, isn’t it?” Winter leaned back. “And you’re getting it all in one lump.” He took a long swallow of his drink, looking at Taylor over the rim. When he lowered it the smile was gone and the eyes had become speculative.
“Let’s get right to cases, Major. You know I had a reason for asking you here. Harker, get me that bio.”
Harker picked up a single sheet from the desk in the background. He extended it to Winter who waved it away.
“I want the Major to read it and comment.”
In the upper right-hand corner was his name: Taylor, Charles Alfred. Under that was rank, service number, Social Security number, and security clearance. The narrative section was single-spaced, wide-margined.
Subject white male is 6’1", 190 pounds, eyes blue, hair black. SUBJECT stays in excellent physical condition, but considers himself slightly overweight. SUBJECT is divorced. Separation reasonably amicable; no re-contact established. No children. Former wife remarried. Parents of SUBJECT native-born citizens, deceased. SUBJECT is infantry officer with field experience in Korea and Viet-nam (see Summary of Duty Assignments, Tab A) and has been assigned duties in intelligence field on three occasions. Only two are applicable, as per data requested, forwarded under separate cover. SUBJECT is terminal in grade of Major. Failed of selection to LTC as result of fitness report submitted during previous tour in RVN. No derogatory information in previous or subsequent reports. Investigation and evaluation of SUBJECT indicates high degree of probable capability re potential mission. SUBJECT has proven adaptable to unusual circumstances. SUBJECT is considered an adequate choice.
The other men watched Taylor closely as he put the paper on the coffee table. He reached for a fresh cigarette, the only sound in the room the mechanical click of Harker’s lighter. Then Taylor shoved the report gently away with one finger.
“Colonel, this is bullshit. You’ve already read a detailed bio on me and those other assignments. You’re running a spook operation. Why try to snow me?”
Winter grunted. “Wanted to see what you’d do, more than anything. Not one of my better ideas. Still, I think I could use you. You’ve been under consideration for a long time.” The ice in his glass made a thin clatter.
“I don’t think I want in. I’m flattered to be considered. My ego’ll never recover from the pass-over. But all I want is to do my share and go home.”
“Your ego doesn’t mean shit to me.” Winter grinned as he said it, but Taylor knew there was enough truth behind the smile to make the statement stick. “I’m in the market for people who can do the sort of work I have in mind. I think you’re one of them. I’ve bought you your first drink in-country. I think you owe it to me to hear me out, give me a little more consideration than an immediate negative.”
Taylor spread his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m not trying to be inconsiderate. The less I know about your operation, the less I have to worry about my mouth.”
Winter nodded. “You won’t learn anything but generalities, don’t worry. But you might find the prospect more interesting than drawing blue arrows on a map.”
There was a stirring in Taylor’s guts that angered him, resentment that Winter could so neatly describe his own attitude toward the faceless job he expected.
“I’d be pleased to talk it over with the Colonel, but I don’t believe I can help, sir.”
“Possibly.” Winter shrugged. “If I come to that conclusion, you’ll know it.” He looked to Harker. “Get us some of that squid and some cheese, why don’t you? We’ll snack while we talk.” He faced Taylor again. “You like dried squid? Friend of mine brought some back from Japan. Number one.”
Taylor nodded.
“Thought you would,” Winter continued. “But let’s set some stage for what I want to tell you. In the first place, this war’s the most screwed-up property on the books. Here it is August ‘69 and we’re still fighting a war that should’ve been over in ‘65. In fact, a war that shouldn’t have gotten off the ground. It goes on because we don’t fight the right way.”
“ ‘Separate the people from the guerrilla?’ ” Taylor interjected with a touch of boredom.
One of the brown eyes winked approvingly. “Exactly. Everyone knows it, but it lacks glamor. No serried ranks advancing in the sun. The mentality that caused the French to lose here isn’t exclusively Gallic. Until we eliminate the Viet Cong, as well as the reasons for it, we’re swatting flies with a sledgehammer.”
“Colonel, I’ve watched people try to generate data on the VC. When the intelligence snuffies in the 2 shack get any they can’t give it away unless it’s an excuse to fall in a battalion. If you’re interested in going for the heart of the VC, I might be interested, but if it’s just dicking around with statistics and charts, I’d rather do something that won’t confuse me into thinking we’re making progress.”
He noticed the disapproval on Harker’s face and wondered if it was because of his attitude or his behavior toward the Colonel, then continued.
“Even if you do hope to go after Charlie, I don’t see how I could help. I’ve just barely started to study the language, and I sure as hell won’t pass for one of the locals.”
Winter tipped his glass and peered over the rim again. Lowering it, he said, “The genuine report on you made quite a point of the fact that you value your own judgment. It’s a good quality, but try not to let it ge
t the best of you. Would you seriously want to try for Charlie’s heart, as you put it?”
The question followed the rebuke so smoothly Taylor didn’t know which to address. He ignored the sharp comment, hoping it would die more quickly that way.
“I’m not afraid of work, if that’s your point, sir. I just don’t see how a round-eye can get into their machinery. The last Viet I saw try it was up around Chu Lai and they sent us his head in one of those little rice baskets.” He imitated a man carrying a small, unpleasant bundle.
“Charlie can be pretty blunt when he’s of a mind.” Winter worked his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, studying Taylor. Abruptly, he asked, “You think we’re going to win this war, Major?”
Taylor said, “I don’t know. Charlie can’t win it from us, militarily, but I don’t think that makes much difference. We’re losing it in Berkeley and New York and D.C.”
Winter closed his eyes in thought. Taylor helped himself to the cheese, musing he might as well enjoy it. If the Colonel didn’t appreciate the last answer, he’d get no more.
“You mean that little speech about not being afraid of work?” Winter finally asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Jerking out the cigar, Winter jabbed with it at Taylor. “I mean dry, dusty work. Dull. While you learn enough to be valuable.”
After being awakened to attend this ridiculous party, he was being interrogated. Taylor knew better than to lash out, but was too stung to stay with the simple answer the situation required.
“I’ve been told I already have a dull job, Colonel, and it must be worthwhile, or it wouldn’t exist, would it?”
“You spoke of Charlie’s heart.” Winter ignored Taylor’s irritation. “I asked if you thought it was a worthwhile target and you told me a war story. Now, I want to know, clearly, if your cherished ego’s completely crushed or if you still have enough professional pride to carry out a mission that would put demands on you.”
