Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  Minh stopped again, and his eyes were clear once more.

  “No one should laugh at a man who has watched his son die, Major.”

  “What did he say after that?”

  A muscular movement that was almost a smile moved Minh’s lips. “Nothing. My axe was in his head. I took my wife and we hid in the forest while I tried to think. I did not like the government, especially the soldier who stole my ducks, but even if they stole them all, they tried to do something to protect my son. I told my wife it is not necessary to steal ducks to be a soldier and it is not necessary to kill men who wish to help other men. If I must be a soldier I would rather be on the side that steals ducks than the side that steals life from children.” He drained his glass with a steady hand. “I would be permitted one more glass of beer?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  With fresh drinks, they walked away from the cart and Minh turned to Taylor once more.

  “Why do you never use Ordway, Major? He is a Marine, the same as you. Do you dislike him?”

  “No. There has been nothing for him to do.”

  Minh sighed. “He is ashamed.” He scratched his head again and this time it irritated Taylor. It suggested Minh was doing a mime from an old Stepin Fetchit movie.

  Unnoticing, Minh continued. “He has always done his job well. It is in his heart that he should fight. I have seen this with other Marines and when I was a small boy, there were men of the Foreign Legion near our village. You and Ordway remind me of them. I think it is a very strange way for men to be.”

  “Go get him. We’ll sit and talk.”

  When the two Corporals were seated across the table from him, Taylor opened the conversation by saying to Ordway, “We haven’t had many chances to talk. Has the Colonel told you how well you did on the radio job?”

  “Yes, sir. Wasn’t much to it. Nowhere near as exciting as driving through traffic.”

  There was just enough expression to let Taylor know exactly how Ordway felt about his work. If he hadn’t seen him drinking, Taylor realized, the Corporal’s minor slurring of his sibilants would have gone unremarked.

  “Everyone knows the job was long and boring. The operation wouldn’t have meant shit without you doing your part. You should be proud.”

  “ ‘Boring.’ ” Ordway made the word an indictment.

  “That’s the business—tons of boredom so we can recover from the ounces of terror.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Major. I’ve never been terrified. Just fucking bored.”

  “You feel cheated?”

  Ordway took the question as a challenge and his face flamed. From the corner of his eye, Taylor saw Minh flinch.

  “Yes, sir, I do.” Discipline, pride, and alcohol warred in his voice. “I’m as good a Marine as any sonofabitch in Three MAF, Major. I didn’t ask for this shit—this candy-ass typing and driving and running fucking errands. I come in the Corps to be a Marine!”

  “You ever been shot at?”

  The Corporal leaned back in the chair and sneered openly. “C’mon, Major, don’t psych me.” He gestured around the room. “You got a good reputation. Don’t come down with a lot of happy horseshit about how we all got our job. I’m as good a Marine as anybody. I may not be as smart and I ain’t no officer, but I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me, I won’t get in no trouble. Don’t ever talk about re-enlistment, though.”

  It made Taylor feel incredibly old, made him feel age in his body like heat applied to a sand statue, driving off the sustaining moisture, letting individual grains crumble away faster and faster.

  “You’re a lucky bastard,” he said. “If I was a Gunny Sergeant, I’d knock you out of that fucking chair and we’d find out just how tough you are. If I was some officers, I’d bust you back to Private. What I am, though, is full of enough booze to listen to your shit and try to understand. I’ll tell you a story. Then maybe you’ll understand. When I was a platoon leader in Korea, we went into reserve and we all got loaded. I got in an argument with the battalion CO. He was worried about some day making a tactical error and I was saying our job was to insure his plans worked, good or bad. We had a fun argument right up until my company commander and the battalion exec carried me outside and shoved me into a snowdrift to sober up.”

  Ordway’s face softened in a faint smile. “Did it work, Major?”

  Ruefully, Taylor said, “I got sober, but I don’t think I got smarter. There isn’t that much snow anywhere. My point is, we really do have our jobs to do and we all envy the other guy, one time or another. This Binh op is our whole war, right now. I’ve spoken to the Old Man about I Corps for you. It’s in the hopper. And I’ll promise you if anything comes up around here, I’ll get you in on it if I can.”

  The young man leaned forward. “I’ll do anything. I’d really appreciate it, sir.

  Rising, Taylor said, “I told you before—or I think I did—if you get opened up, don’t remind me I spoke up for you.”

  “Deal, sir.”

  “Yeah, sure. You two have a good time. I’m going to have another drink.” Both Corporals stood to see him leave. He walked away without looking back, still able to hear the sound of Ordway’s voice. For a moment he was curious as to what he might be saying, then decided it would probably depress him further.

  Winter, laughing hugely, spotted him and waved for him to join them. Taylor smiled carefully, pointing at the bar cart with his empty glass. Winter gave him a thumbs up.

  “Draw one for me while you’re there. We don’t get many chances to celebrate, so let’s make the most of it.”

  Chapter 18

  Ordway sipped at his clear drink, hoping everyone would assume it was something made with gin, and wished he’d learn to keep his mouth shut. Miller, re-splendent in black slacks and green dashiki, waved and headed his way. Ordway watched him approach with an apprehension that had him locking and unlocking his knees.

  Miller’s greeting was, “Make a lot of points with your iron-jawed buddy?” and the knees locked firmly and stayed that way.

  “We were just talking.”

  “Shee-it!” Miller looked away. “You stroking me again? Even if I wasn’t watchin’ you turn red, I could see Minh. He was so nervous he was jumping.”

  Ordway looked sheepish. “It got a little warm. I said a couple things.”

  “Dumb. You determined to get your ass ruined, shot off or chewed off, one.”

  The glass in his hand was too small for Ordway to hide behind, but he tried, raising it to his lips and pretending to take a long drink. When he noticed Miller’s easy manner change to a charged intensity, Ordway lowered the glass, its purpose now completely forgotten. He was troubled, unsure if Miller’s earlier behavior had hidden tension or if the new posture and ceaseless sweep of the bright eyes had been started by something in the room. Without preamble, Miller faced him and said, “I been thinking. We’re going out tonight.”

  “Out? Out where? For what?”

  “To talk to a man.”

  “What man? What you up to?”

  Miller grinned and Ordway half-turned from it, keeping his eyes glued to the shining teeth. “You got a load and you want help carrying it. What’s going down?”

  Indicating the door with a sharp head motion, Miller led the way out. “Tho did some asking around about the black guy our crooked Major’s trying to get with, you know? He hangs out mostly around Tu Do.”

  “Everybody hangs out mostly around Tu Do,” Ordway sneered. “Some hot lead. You’re goin’ down there and find one black?”

  They were at the door and, ignoring Ordway’s pessimism, Miller pressed ahead. The sudden silence in the hallway, once the door closed off the party noise, drove Miller’s voice to a harsh whisper.

  “I’m gonna make him come to me, dummy. If he’s looking for some people to put together a junk-running deal between here and the States, why not us?”

  “Us? What do we know about smuggling?”

  “Everything.” Miller shoved o
pen the door to the courtyard and they stepped into heat, the liquid noises of the swimmers, and sunset’s first colors. Miller said, “We got files on every smuggling dodge ever tried in this country, and a couple others. You want smugglers? A couple hours in those files and we’re it, baby.”

  Ordway levered into the jeep, waiting until Miller was behind the wheel before answering. “You know, for such a smart guy, sometimes you talk like an asshole. All those smugglers? You know why we got files on them? ‘Cause we caught ever’ damn one of them, that’s why.”

  “I know that. What difference does it make? We ain’t gonna do it, we’re gonna make him think we’re gonna do it. Then we go to the Old Man and get the whole thing busted.”

  “Do the whole thing by ourselves? The two of us? Not tell him? You ain’t talking like an asshole, you are an asshole. He’ll find out, man, and when he does, your ass has had it.”

  “Our asses, buddy. Yours and mine. I need help.”

  “You need a fucking doctor.”

  “Look, let’s do it this way.” Miller raced across one lane of the traffic ripping up and down the street in front of the BOQ and melded in between two trucks in the other. He resumed the conversation as if there had been no break. “We’ll bait this dude. Drop a few hints, you know? No big thing. If anything happens, we’ll see what we got. If it’s enough to bother the Colonel with, we’ll do it.”

  They approached a traffic light and Miller joined everyone else in jockeying for position, each driver determined to keep his place in the order of things. Miller pulled within inches of the bumper ahead. Any deviation from a straight line invited another car to slide a fender into the gap, trying to shoehorn forward a few inches. Slack between vehicles was seen by motorcyclists as license to crowd in, secure that no one would deliberately crush another person.

  While Ordway considered this last, most aggravating stunt, two young men did it. They were Saigon cowboys, the driver in oversized belled trousers and white shirt, his passenger in jeans, boots, and a scarlet western-cut shirt. Taking advantage of Miller’s momentary distraction when the car ahead crept forward, the motorcycle whipped a front wheel into the vacancy. Miller was infuriated.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “You’re crowding! Get out of there!”

  The driver glanced over his shoulder and away without expression. The passenger looked back and smiled, reflective sunglasses making him look like an impudent bug. He was close enough for Ordway to see himself in the twin mirrors.

  Miller fumed helplessly and Ordway sympathized. “They’re nuts. And they make us nuts. What do you care if he gets in front of you?”

  “It ain’t just him! It’s the whole fucking country, man! Why ain’t that sonofabitch in the Army? It’s his fucking country, man! Why am I sittin’ here in a jeep and that little prick is riding around on his Honda?” The motorcycle passenger’s smile drew tight and he spoke to the driver from the corner of his mouth. The driver raced his engine and smiled at nothing. When the light changed the motorcycle leaped to wedge in and Miller let him move forward before gunning the jeep. The fender brushed the passenger’s leg as he was giving the Americans the finger and his grin blew away in a howl of anger. He yelled over his shoulder at them while they sat stonefaced, flowing inexorably with the traffic.

  Others looked in their direction. Ordway noticed there were no other Americans in sight and his hands felt wet.

  “We’re in it now, shithead,” he said, watching the other drivers. “If you see a way out of here, you better by God grab it. There’s some ugly shit coming down.”

  They slowed to another stop, a smoking river of machinery temporarily dammed. The rider in front continued to shout complaint, rubbing his calf. He got off the motorcycle and limped in a tight circle, making faces of accusatory pain. Horns blew from other cars and motorcycles. Voices rose with the scorching exhaust fumes. A second motorcycle growled up on Miller’s left and a Vietnamese soldier spoke to the aggrieved civilian. He listened, nodding at intervals, then walked his own motorcycle backwards until he was abreast of Miller.

  “You hurt this man,” he declared in careful English. “He very injured.”

  “He very full of shit,” Miller retorted, unconsciously imitating the soldier’s speech at first. “I’m not even sure I touched him. I just brushed his pants. Tell him to show you a mark.”

  “No time mark. Come later.”

  “There won’t ever be one. I didn’t hit him.”

  The soldier shook his head. “Very hard hit. Leg hurt. Big hurt.”

  “Big bullshit,” Miller snorted. “He’s another cowboy trying to rip somebody off. Fuck him.”

  “Easy buddy,” Ordway cautioned. “There’s a lot of people watching.” The two cowboys wandered to where the soldier argued their case, the injured one limping dramatically. Ordway got out of the jeep to stand in front of the soldier’s motorcycle where he offered to shake hands with the driver. It was refused with a blunt move back and a sharp phrase. The passenger smiled at the action before pointedly staring at Ordway’s hand and looking past to the soldier.

  The latter leaned closer to Miller. “Accident you trouble. Police come, make big trouble you.”

  Miller shifted in the seat. “There’s no need for police. I didn’t hit him. I might have brushed his leg, but I didn’t hit him hard enough to hurt.”

  The soldier said, “Police come soon. Make trouble. Maybe man forget hurt, you pay something.”

  “Hear that?” Miller called to Ordway. “They want money.”

  Ordway looked at the civilians, who seemed to have understood Miller’s last word. They smiled. Ordway looked back to his partner.

  “Tell them to shit in their hats. Tell that doggie we’re going to make them pay for the damage to the jeep.” He went to the right side of the vehicle. The cowboys watched him go, listening to the soldier’s translation with growing fury. They began to shout again.

  Miller looked at the crowded scene around them, wishing that whatever had traffic held up would break so he could get away. A few drivers and riders from other vehicles were on the street now, and none of them looked neutral. He told himself they weren’t necessarily hostile—it was hot enough to make a statue frown—but the logic failed to stop the electric sensations in his knees and elbows.

  The soldier’s confiding tone gave way to outright threat. “Many Vietnam people here. Not like American hurt other Vietnam people. You pay.”

  “Screw you.” Miller gripped the wheel. “We’ll wait for your goddam cops.”

  “Police too late, maybe. Maybe come, you hurt.”

  “What’s he saying?” Ordway called from his position by the fender.

  Before answering, Miller sized up the crowd again. There were more people standing outside vehicles now, and horns were blowing. The heat seemed to have gone up twenty degrees since they’d jammed up. Even the lowering daylight contributed to his feeling of being separated from all things familiar.

  “He’s saying they might go for us.”

  To Miller’s surprise, Ordway raised both hands, waving them across his body and shaking his head. “Don’t do that,” he said to the soldier. “We can fix.” He pointed to Miller and himself, repeating, “We fix, we fix.” Pointing again, he indicated the soldier, then the fender, saying, “You look. Come see.”

  The soldier laughed at Miller and spoke to the cowboys. They laughed with him and fell in behind as he moved to Ordway.

  The Corporal smiled at them, offering his hand to the soldier, who took it and spoke rapidly in Vietnamese. The cowboys laughed some more and he smiled his appreciation.

  “You have to look over here,” Ordway said, penitent. “See where the threads stuck. From trousers.” He gestured them down further. Bending to touch the fender, he said, “How’s the traffic look, buddy?”

  “You can see it, same as me.”

  “The oncoming traffic, you dumb shit.” At the hard sound, the soldier grew suspicious. Ordway i
mmediately patted the fender again. “Mistake. We make mistake.”

  Miller said, “I can get out as soon as this truck passes.”

  “Stand by.” Ordway nodded and smiled for the soldier. “Tell them we sorry make trouble. We want be friends. How much we pay?”

  “OK,” Miller said, urgency lifting his voice. The soldier was turning to speak to the cowboys. Ordway put his left hand on the back of the cropped head and rammed it in the face of the driver, sending them tumbling to the ground with the motorcycle in a thrashing mass of limbs and wheels. The passenger grabbed at him and Ordway ducked, driving his fist into the unprotected stomach stretched in front of him. The man’s breath whooshed and he doubled over, limp fingers trailing down Ordway’s arm as he jumped for the already moving jeep.

  Miller let the clutch out and pounded the gas pedal to the floor, sending the jeep lurching into a squealing U-turn that sent them bouncing off the opposite curb. At the first corner, he cut in front of a bus, forced his way through some miscellaneous traffic, and dodged around the next corner before slowing. He glanced over his shoulder. “Anyone coming?” Ordway had been watching behind. “Nobody.”

  A half-block further Miller’s relief boiled out in nervous laughter and remembrance. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you, man!” He pounded the steering wheel. “ ‘We fix, we fix’ ” he imitated. “You sure did fix. You hear that kiss when you pushed that soldier? Ponk! Sounded like somebody cleanin’ used bricks, man. Ponk!”

  Less enthusiastic, Ordway said, “I figured we had to get out of there, you know? If that sucker hadn’t started a riot, we’d still have ended up in a sling for getting in a hassle. I’d just as soon get court-martialed for thumping some sonofabitch like that as for some phony shit about hurting one of ‘em’s leg.”