Targets: A Vietnam War Novel

by Don McQuinn

  He nodded. “Good.”

  She sniffed. “Good? You crazy? Terr’ble. Get up in dark morning never be good.”

  “I didn’t mean I like it. I mean it gives me time to tell you something.”

  “What?” She stepped back, preparing herself. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly and her full lips thinned. When he reached a hand for her, she retreated another step. “What? What you want tell me?”

  He stood with the hand outstretched. “Dao, it’s no big thing. I only wanted to tell you I saw Colonel Earl on the way over here.”

  The fear continued to play across her features, diminishing like a heavy mist. “That’s all? No other thing?”

  “No other thing.” He stepped forward to cup her chin. “He wanted me to tell you he’d like to talk to you.”

  Deviltry replaced the previous light in her eyes. “He hot for me, yeah?”

  “He too much hot for you. I don’t like it.”

  She took his hand and kissed the palm. “I like for you be jealous.”

  “That’s the damndest part of this whole thing. I’m jealous of another man’s wife.”

  “I tol’ you many-many times, not same-same wife. He got number-one wife. I minor wife.”

  He removed his hand from hers to continue dressing. “Goddamit, Dao, that’s medieval! I don’t care what he promised your parents, he can’t—”

  “Yes. Can.” She walked out of the bedroom. “Not talk anymore. I put breakfast on plate.”

  He was still muttering when he sat at the small kitchen table. She slid scrambled eggs and toast in front of him and sat opposite, sipping coffee, looking at him almost pityingly.

  “You never understand Vietnam, Hal. Here, man with power do anything. All men work get power. Not use, why have? Man get rich so get things. Young wife always nice thing have, no?”

  “You’re not a thing. Don’t say that. Don’t ever—”

  “Never mind. I not unhappy be minor wife. He help my father, get my brother school in France.”

  Allen rolled his eyes and looked skyward. “Jesus, don’t I know it! You’re given to an old man so your brother can go to medical school in France and I’m here to fight for the country for him and you and the old man. What’s going on?”

  “If you not come, we never see each other. If I have real husband, I never speak you. Old basserd husband idea work pretty good, huh?”

  “You’re incorrigible.” He grinned, getting to his feet. “I can’t argue with you.”

  She walked beside him to the door, trying to hold him inside an arm stretched across his waist. “What that word mean—that incor—in—?”

  “Incorrigible.” He kissed the top of her head. “It means you’re a naughty girl. Bad. Xo lam.”

  He waited for her to look up, scolding or pouting, to participate in the joke, but when she turned her face to him, tears smeared her cheeks. She grabbed his shirt in both hands and pulled him down, kissing him with a desperate longing.

  “I am bad,” she cried, and broke away. “I not want be bad. You make joke. I make joke. Not funny. I love you too much.”

  Holding her to him, shaken mentally by the violent change in her and physically by the sobs against his body, he gently rocked her and dropped his head to hers, the mass of him almost enfolding the delicate woman.

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart, don’t cry. I love you. You know that. I’ll think of something. We’ll work it out.”

  She sniffled, checking the sobs. “I want belong you. I want be yours, only yours. I not want—”

  He pressed her head to his chest, quieting her. “We want the same things, Dao. Leave it to me. We’ll get married, I promise.”

  She brushed away tears and managed a smile. “We be happy now. I crazy for cry. OK now. You go! Hurry!” She shoved him out the door, turning up the streaked face for a dutiful housewife’s kiss. Allen obliged, taking her face in both hands.

  “I promise,” he said, looking deep into her eyes.

  Nothing stirred there and he left wondering if a man could tell himself a lie so well he believed it.

  Taylor was waking under different circumstances.

  The alarm clock jack-hammered at his hangover. He’d gone to sleep knowing the pain would be waiting for him when he awakened. It depressed him that his foresight had alleviated nothing.

  He jerked aside the camouflaged poncho liner that was the standard Vietnam blanket and swatted at the clock.

  The single room guaranteed him privacy of vision only. Sound penetrated the plywood walls unhampered. At this time of day, when all the rest of the world seemed still, each scuffle, yawn, flatulence, or dropped boot resonated. In his present state, it was like being caged in a drum.

  Dressing with studiousness, he considered each movement, wincing at any that disturbed the position of his head. Blousing his trousers evoked a series of self-pitying groans. He shuffled out of the tiny room and down the hall to the community head. Allen, cinching his belt, followed him in.

  “Morning, Major. You surely look terrible.”

  Taylor grunted and turned on a water tap that afforded a bare trickle of water, yet managed to roar like Niagara. A deep breath to strengthen his resolve, and he sloshed cold water over his head and neck, snorting like a mule. It helped. When he straightened, colors were no longer pastel blurs and the headache was a mere battalion of artillery. He decided he’d live.

  Allen whistled while he shaved. When it became necessary to alter the shape of his mouth, he broke the tune, picking it up as soon as the affected area was free again. The stuttering irregularity of it curdled in Taylor’s brain.

  “Will you, for the love of Christ, either whistle or shut up?”

  Allen turned half-lathered innocence to him. “Hung over that bad?”

  “It’s not the noise.” Taylor squirted shaving cream into his hand and smeared it on. “It’s the goddam tweet-tweet, pause, tweet-tweet.” He drew the razor down the side of his face with exquisite care.

  “I can’t do it any other way, Major. If I don’t unpucker, I’ll cut myself. I don’t think the sight of blood’d do you much good right now, you know?”

  Taylor leaned his head against the mirror and gripped the edges of the sink with both hands. “The thought of you bleeding is the single prospect of delight on my horizon, Allen. Only my iron will keeps me alive to clean up and gain enough strength to die with dignity.” He pivoted, keeping his head pressed against the cool glass. “I’ve earned that. ‘I have fought our country’s battles on the land and on the sea. First to fight for right and freedom and—’ ”

  Allen pushed a fist to his mouth and backed away in a parody of horror. “I quit! No more whistling, I swear!”

  “You’re an honorable man.” Taylor resumed shaving. “You also whistle well, when you’re not mucking it up. A talent you developed while idling about with the other rich folk, I guess.”

  “Some cats got it, some cats ain’t.”

  “Too true. On the other hand, I’ve always considered myself blessed to have been born good looking instead of rich. They’re not going to give you a new face, come payday.”

  Allen’s snort blasted shaving cream onto the mirror. “Hung over and still raving drunk! A marvel!”

  “It’s called a tolerance level. Us poor people learn a lot about tolerance. We learn it along with agility, dodging polo pony turds.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Bet your ass.”

  “Anyhow, if it wasn’t for rich dudes like me, what would you sturdy peasants have to aim for? The fact that we exist keeps you hustling. It’s good for you.”

  A bitter taint crept into Allen’s speech, sharp enough to make Taylor glance his way, puzzled. He discounted the feeling and splashed his face some more, coming up making derogatory noises.

  “When I think of how I’m over here fighting a war so you capitalist bloodsuckers can get richer— You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “It’s all for the best,” Allen sa
id.

  Once more, something about the tone and manner was out of place and Taylor would have sworn he stopped, as if he’d checked himself before continuing.

  “Play your cards right,” he went on, “and when this is all over I’ll get Dad to put you on as a groom. Then you can walk in front of the ponies.”

  Taylor stopped in mid-squeeze with his toothpaste. “You honest-to-God have polo ponies?”

  “No! We own a couple of riding horses, that’s all.”

  “Humphh!” Taylor mumbled through a mouthful of suds. “Nouveaux riche. I should have known.”

  “With all due respect, Major, sir, fuck you.”

  “Not now. I have a headache.”

  Allen gargled and choked, finally asking, “Going to chow?”

  Taylor said, “Absolutely. Let me get my blouse on and a couple of aspirin down. I’ll meet you on the porch.”

  A few minutes later, stepping out into the dawn walk to the messhall, Taylor reflected that it was something he enjoyed, rain or shine. The one thing that intruded, that galled him daily, was passing the neighboring ARVN enlisted married quarters. His first view of them had been in a pre-dawn like this one and revulsion had surged in his stomach.

  Separated from the Unit’s own ARVN compound and a similar American facility by an eight-foot high chain link fence, the barracks-like buildings stood in the half light in precise rows, as if strict geometry could offset the shabby construction. He had continued toward them of necessity, having to pass in order to reach the messhall. Abreast of the first building, seeing children at the mesh fence, a memory from a shrouded corner of his mind surfaced. It was of transient worker’s camps, carrying the same air of disinterested squalor and a smell that affected the mind more than the nose, because it was the odor of rotting dreams that lay unclaimed for fear of the derision of the confirmed losers.

  Here, the children cadged apples and oranges with a challenging boldness that took what they did out of the realm of begging and turned it into a game. The more aggressive and fortunate invariably shared. The mothers stood in the background, embarrassed, smiling. Taylor had seen only two Vietnamese soldiers ever acknowledge what was happening at the fence. They had glared and turned away. The others ignored it with stiff backs.

  The Americans handing out the fruit behaved much like the women. Some spoke to the children. Most simply forced their offering through the wire or pitched it over and hurried on. There was one man who was there frequently. Always carrying several items under his blouse, he distributed them with no favoritism, no conversation, and a steady, bumptious friendliness. He was a favorite of both the kids and the mothers. When he’d finished, he always waved to the wives. They waved back at him, the only American who cleansed the tension from their smiles.

  Taylor knew he’d wonder all his life why the man had bothered to establish that rapport. Perversely, he knew he would also cherish not knowing.

  This morning was no different, with the children calling to the passers-by. Taylor shouted a greeting, generating a chorus of brash demands. He continued on, avoiding looking at the housing. The initial loathing had long ago given way to rage at the thought that good men lived like that while his own government pimped for the men who arranged their deaths. And grew rich.

  Allen’s gesture in the direction of the houses caught Taylor’s eye, interrupting his contemplation.

  The younger man said, “Every time I walk past here I want to turn around and run back to the office and thank the Old Man for letting me in on this Nguyen Binh deal.”

  “I know what you mean. He’s linked with someone on our side of the barbwire, that’s for sure. I doubt if he’ll tell us who. If we catch him.”

  “Tho’ll get it out of him. Sometimes I think he’s the only man in Nam who knows how to treat the badasses. I could name a couple for him.” Even in the half light, Taylor could see the belligerent thrust of Allen’s jaw and the taut line of his lips. He recognized the statement as a cue and realized the other man was thinking of something far removed from Binh. He determined to keep the conversation firmly centered on the known.

  “Tho’s system doesn’t always work. He’s not having too much luck with Trung or Tu.”

  Allen appeared to relax a little before answering. “He hasn’t unloaded on them yet. You know Loc’s holding him off because he’d like to use them for interviews or something.”

  “I know. And I think he’s nuts.”

  “He must think he can get away with it.” Allen gave a bitter laugh. “Can you picture the swoons at one of my mother’s liberal conclaves if they’re watching TV and Trung comes on and says, ‘—and that fascist beast, Captain Harold Allen, smacked me across my peaceable chops with his capitalist shotgun?’ ”

  “Your mom’s friends are like that?”

  They trotted across the street to the messhall. Safe on the other side, Allen resumed. “You can’t imagine it. While I was doing my number on Trung, I’d bet anything Mom was packing a placard somewhere denouncing the war.”

  Taylor said, “I’ve heard of people getting a ‘Dear John’ from their mother.”

  “Don’t laugh. You know what she sent in my last Care package? A Swedish travel brochure! Is that subtle?”

  Taylor was still chuckling when he paid the cashier in her booth. He waved a greeting at the waitresses across the large, crowded room and turned back to Allen.

  “You all must have a lot of fun conversations at the old dinner table. How’s your father take all this?”

  One waitress, bolder than the rest, waved them toward her table. They moved toward it.

  “He’s like us, I guess,” Allen said. “Confused. Angry. Worries about me more than he needs to. I keep telling him my greatest danger is a tainted canapé. He’s trying to equate this mess with Korea or World War Two. It doesn’t work.”

  They sat down. Taylor ordered his normal huge breakfast and the waitress strained to control her giggling while she scribbled on her pad. Allen watched the unvarying routine before ordering only coffee.

  Taylor invariably ordered practically everything on the menu as well as taking quantities of fruit from the self-service rack in the middle of the room. The tiny women initially refused to believe his orders. Once they realized he was serious, they watched eagerly for him to sit in their sector. As soon as the chosen one had everything on paper, she scurried to the galley door where the other waitresses waited. Every morning they went over the list, item by item, glancing at Taylor, whispering, and occasionally shrieking amusement. It was the highlight of the morning shift.

  Taylor tried to explain he ate no lunch and a light dinner. It made no difference. The fact that he ate that much in a day, much less a single meal, delighted them.

  Allen said, “If you ever go on a diet, you’ll break their hearts. What kills me is, you were sick with a hangover not thirty minutes ago and now you’re about to shovel in a ton of rations.”

  Taylor dug into a cantaloupe. “Germ theory,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Simple.” Taylor waved the spoon. “Down there in my tum-tum are all these bad guy germs, jumping around, making my head hurt. I drop all this chow on them,” he spooned another chunk of cantaloupe and swallowed it, “and it mashes the bastards. Can’t beat medical science.”

  “The girls know about this?”

  Taylor paused in his attack on the fruit. “Naw. They just get a kick out of a man who enjoys. Funny thing, with all the misery in Asia, there’s a streak in all of them that lets them enjoy seeing another person enjoy. When they get envious enough and mad enough, they’ll kill you. Nature’s way of redistributing the wealth, I guess. The difference is, here, when they’re done burying you, they’ll all smile, and someone’ll say, ‘He sure knew how to have a good time, didn’t he?’ and everyone’ll nod and go home hoping to be next on the good times roster.”

  Allen’s face was frozen into determined neutrality. “You think it’s a built-in response, a reflex? You think because the
y’re Orientals they’re supposed to accept abuse until they break one way or another?”

  “You think I’m bigoted.” Taylor said it easily, making light of the younger man’s masked hostility. “My comment was an observation, not a comparison, and it was a generality.” He returned to his meal, watching Allen stir his coffee.

  The Captain said, “I keep trying to understand the attitudes here, and they keep getting away from me. I mean, how do they stand for some of the things that go on?”

  “If you have to ask, you’re right, you don’t understand. Give it some time. You, too, can go bamboo like the rest of us old farts. For now, quit pestering me so I can get to work. My girls and my stomach are waiting.” He bobbed his head at the approaching waitress.

  “God forbid!” Allen leaned back. “I’d get between Momma Bear and her cubs before I’d stand between you and your hotcakes.”

  He recovered some of his normal manner as he said it, and Taylor was glad of the familiar openness of the face across from him. Yet, it wasn’t exactly the same. There was a difference and he couldn’t define it.

  Eating provided something to do while he puzzled over it.

  He told himself Allen was probably only suffering the same whiskey malaise. The idea died aborning. No, he decided, there was something else and the man was having trouble expressing it.

  A grim smile flicked on and off as he considered that Allen was possibly looking for help and afraid of losing face. He could be closer to understanding the East than either of them realized.

  Chapter 20

  The afternoon sun pressed against the window of Winter’s office, shouldering through in an oblique slash of energy that added the only touch of color to the self-conscious spartan arrangement. Loc watched the slow retreat of the shaft, wishing he knew a way to point out to his friend that, as the powerful sun moved slowly, they, too, must exercise patience.

  Winter stirred irritably at his desk and a whirl of dust motes escaped from the rug into the path of light.

  He said, “It’s been a month, Loc. We should have him by now.”

  “Everything has gone well,” Loc said. “All infiltrated dumps have blown up. We have Trung and Tu in the interrogation house. Binh has done nothing unanticipated. He is hiding. Trung has given us the name of most of his contacts, I am sure. It is a question of time.”