13th Valley

by John M. Del Vecchio

  Chelini and Leon Silvers followed six blacks into the club. To the left the blacks meshed with the group of soul brothers and daps were exchanged all around.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” a tall white soldier announced into a beer can as Chelini and Silvers moved to the bar, “and welcome to ABC’s Wide World of War. Tonight we take you to the jungles of the Republic of Vietnam for the finals of the ancient sport of hand-to-hand combat.”

  The men standing around the tall soldier laughed and urged him on. Someone shouted, “Go to it, Rafe.”

  “In the finals tonight, which, by the way, are taking place in this spacious Thua Thien arena outside the Citadel, we will see bold, courageous and humble Joseph Gee Eye pitted against the Little Giant, snarling screaming Charles V. C. Cong.”

  “Yea, Charlie!” someone yelled. Silvers bought a beer for Chelini and himself. They stood to one side and watched.

  “Joe, from Sometown, Anystate, weighed in prior to tonight’s engagement at 187 pounds. He has a 41-inch reach and stands six-foot-one.

  “Charlie, from Sauhnmhamlet, Upnorth Province, weighed in at 58 kilos, ahhh, that is 127 pounds. He stands five-foot-five and has a 34-inch reach.

  “I think I just heard the sound of barbed wire being snipped—‘The National Anthem.’ We are about ready for the start of tonight’s fight.”

  Chelini felt slightly self-conscious. His new haircut was lifer-short and his fatigues newfer-new. He stayed close to Silvers and tried to look inconspicuous.

  “I noticed at the beginning of this broadcast that Joe had been in his bunker working up a high on Laotian Red. You should note that Joe has several M-67 frags hanging from his belt, a bandoleer of 5.56 M-16 magazines and a black plastic weapon made by Mattel. Bayonet is affixed.”

  “Sock it to em, Joe.” The club was becoming rowdy.

  “Could we please have a little quiet here at the broadcast booth? Here at my right I have the pleasure of having Willie Moreland, who, as you know, is an internationally recognized expert at this sport. Last year, before he retired, Willie was captain of the southern All-Star Team which played the north to a 40,000 to 200,000 deadlock. Willie, the fans and I would like to know how you think Joe will open up tonight if he wins the toss of the coin. Would you comment?”

  The soldier turned to the bar then turned back with his shoulders hunched and his head cocked back. “Hey, this guy’s really good,” Chelini whispered to Silvers.

  “Yeah,” Silvers said louder. “That’s Ridgefield. He’s from Alpha too. Like us.”

  “Well, Jim,” the soldier continued in a high voice, “as you know we like to encourage the boys to open with a bang. Sometimes a short burst will be effective.”

  The tall soldier turned again to the bar and returned as the announcer. “And what if Charlie wins the toss? Do you think Joe will be able to open with the same move?

  “No, definitely not, Jim. He will probably open with a vertical butt stroke series or maybe a long thrust and hold. It really depends then on what VC, ah, Jim, you don’t mind if I refer to the boy from the north as VC do you?

  “No, not at all.

  “Well, Jim. If VC pulls something unusual, Gee Eye may have to counter with something unusual.

  “I hate to interrupt you, Willie, but I just noticed that Chuck has a Samurai sword and two bags of plastic explosive. That is kind of unusual, isn’t it?

  “Yes, Jim, it is. VC usually moves with a minimum of weight and that’s a mighty large sword. He usually depends on speed, you know.

  “From my seat high above Firebase Kathryn I can see that Charlie has won the toss of the coin. He’s opening with a diversionary tactic. I see some blue-white flame off to the left.

  “Jim, I think Gee Eye is groovin on the flames …”

  “Come on,” Silvers nudged Chelini, “Let’s go over there where Doc and Jax are.” They worked their way through the crowd, bodies parted before them and closed behind. At the table in the middle Jackson jumped from his seat.

  “See that,” Jax shouted holding up his fists. “Fast as rockets.” He jumped into the air and spun fully around firing both hands at imaginary targets. “Mean, babe, mean. That’s ARA—aimed right atchya. Don’t mess with this dude. Floats like a butterfly, stings like a B-52.”

  Five other soldiers were now sitting with Jax, Doc, Whiteboy and El Paso. Others stood by the group listening or watching. The center group seemed to control the club’s mood.

  “Hey,” El Paso shouted, “the Jew’s comin ta join us. Watch yer MPC, babes; he looks like he’s got some dirty pictures to sell.”

  “Hey, Molino,” one of the soldiers surrounding the seated group at the table called, “give the Jew a Fresca, on me.”

  “Hey,” Silvers addressed Chelini. “This is El Paso and Garbageman. That’s Doc and Jax. Whiteboy, Numbnuts, Boom-Boom, Monk and Brunak. Got that? This is Cherry.”

  “Yous just come in from the show?” A seated soldier asked, then added, “That was a real downer.”

  “Those Filipino strippers were the worst I ever seen.”

  “I liked the one with the big jugs.”

  “That’s plastic, Man. Gooks got little tits.”

  “Oooooh, Man. Forget them,” El Paso said. He nodded toward Doc Johnson. “Doc and Top went to the ville and brought some ladies back.”

  “OOOoo-OOOo,” a soldier whistled. “We are gonna have fun tonight.”

  “Doc. You made sure them ladies is clean, didn’t ya?”

  “Who you think you playin with, Mista?”

  “How much?” Silvers asked.

  “For you, Jew? One shot? Back a the line? Pound a flesh and 100 piasters.”

  “He aint gonna have ta pound his flesh tonight,” Boom-Boom laughed.

  “L-T’s pickin up the tab,” Doc said, “with his own bread.” “Man,” Jackson spoke up. “They’s ugly. Uggglee, I mean. One so ugly she gotta sneak up on her meals ta get somethin ta eat.”

  “Yeah, but it’s big,” Numbnuts said.

  Someone stuck his hand over the table and formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger and laughed, “This big?”

  A soldier who’d been there formed his arms into a circle over his head. “No, Man. This big. It’s so big you kin stand back a hundred yards and throw grenades inta it.” Everyone laughed.

  Chelini felt even more self-conscious being near the center group. No one addressed him. Men at the fringe of the seated group stuck their ears in for a bit then went back to drinking beer from cans or looking about or talking more softly to others standing at the fringe. Chelini looked at the bar. The man who had announced the hand-to-hand sporting event was now sitting on the bar simulating the sound of an early radio broadcast. “Aaaahh, this is rumor control reporting directly to you out there in radio land from the Phuc Ruc TOC,” the voice whined. “Rumor here has it,” the voice went on with crackles, “that the Big Screaming Yellow Chicken himself, CO of the flock, has personally requested to put your sweet asses under the operational control of the Third Brigade for a brief trip to the DMZ. Rumor has it that the Screaming Bird was so impressed at how good you is, he thought kindly enough to arrange a direct scrimmage for you with Uncle’s little men. Big Bird offers his condolences for not being able to participate hisself …”

  Soldiers near the announcer cracked with laughter and stoned giggling. The man continued. “At early dawn, on good sources, rumor has it here at control HQ, that is right, right here at Hotel Quicksilver, that the men from Uncle have called for …”

  Chelini turned halfway back to the table. A man beside him was saying, “… R&R. I said to her, ‘The way I’d really like to try it next is in a bathtub full of peanut butter.’ And she coos, ‘Oh, Bill. You’re so sensual.’ So …”

  Another conversation spilled into Chelini’s ears. “… if Yastrzemski can’t get Boston inta the Series …” “Yer fuckin nuts, Duke. Boston’s in the cellar. They …”

  Chelini turned back to the table. Jackson was looking
at him. He nodded to Jackson and grinned an indecisive grin. “Don’t they teach you nothin, Man?” Jackson accused him.

  “What? I mean, excuse me?” He had not expected anyone to address him.

  “Don’t they teach you cherries nothin?” Jackson said standing up. He pulled Chelini toward him, into the focal point of the group’s attention. “Prepare yo mind, body and soul, for the number one GI Joe of Attack Company Seven of the Four-Oh-Two. Jax’ here to square away you.”

  “What?” Chelini asked sheepishly.

  “Yo dog tags, Man.”

  Silvers looked at Chelini and shook his head.

  “Take em off,” Jax ordered.

  Chelini removed a chain from around his neck on which the two identification tags hung.

  “Boy. Now yo gowin take off yo boots,” Jax said.

  Chelini looked past Jackson to Silvers. Silvers shook his head in confirmation and pointed a finger in mock disgust. Chelini bent over and began untying his bootlaces.

  “Sit in my chair, Boy,” Jax ordered.

  Chelini sat down and removed his boots. Everyone in the group had become serious. Jackson took one boot and handed it to Doc. He took the other boot and handed it to El Paso. Chelini looked at his boots and blushed slightly. The boots still looked brand-new. Doc and El Paso unlaced the boots down to the first eyelets. Silvers grabbed Chelini’s chain and removed the dog tags and handed one to Doc and one to El Paso. The two men with the boots took the tags and slid them onto the laces and began relacing.

  “You cherries,” Jackson said. “What Doc gowin do when yo loose yo head, when yo dead. Yo got only one head, yo know. So. Yo got two feet, neat. Chances yo loosin two feet is lots worse than chances yo loosin one head.”

  Doc handed the boot to Whiteboy for his approval and El Paso passed the other to Garbageman who passed it to Happy who passed it to Silvers. They all approved. Whiteboy and Silvers tossed the boots at Chelini. Chelini covered up and let the boots hit him. Jackson began to laugh and everyone laughed. Chelini laughed so hard he couldn’t get his right boot on.

  Jax nudged Chelini out of the seat and sat down smiling. He pulled a black and chrome hair pick from a fatigue pocket and stuck it into his short Afro hairdo. He fluffed the black frizz and then scratched his scalp slowly with the long chrome teeth. He eyed Chelini.

  “Whatchu think of this cherry, Jax?” Silvers asked.

  Jax smiled but he did not answer. He had not yet judged Chelini. About him the laughter continued and the conversation flowed back to the floor-show strippers. Ridgefield had a new mock radio program going by the bar. At several of the tables soldiers were breaking out bottles of hard liquor they had brought into the Phoc Roc. As the whiskey and bourbon were passed, swigged, chased with beer, the noise level rose. Jackson continued eyeing Chelini.

  Although he hid it well William Andrew Jackson was very defensive about his dark black skin and his broad flat nose and his full lips. He was defensive about his background.

  As Jackson sat watching Chelini, smiling, smelling the stale beer smell of the Phoc Roc, not hearing the ruckus, his mind played games with images and odors from home. Jackson had been born and raised in a depressed area of rural Mississippi, an area known as Nigger Hollow. For some perverse reason the Hollow attracted odors. If an animal thereabouts was dying it came to the Hollow to lay its broken body down and during the day the whole area smelled of carrion. At night there was always the smell of skunks. When a person from the Hollow made a trip to town the smell preceded him and remained there long after he left. That embarrassed Jackson when he was young. The thought embarrassed him now.

  Jackson shifted in his seat and chuckled at something everyone else was chuckling at. He still was not sure where to place Chelini. Chelini seemed sharp, smart, a sleeper.

  At seventeen Jax fled from his past, fled into the army. The army gave him a better life and it gave him pride. He earned a high school equivalency diploma, advancement to Private First Class and he learned the skills with which to kill. After AIT Jackson, proud, spit-shined and shaved-head, returned to the Hollow. A brief wild fling with the eldest Wilitts girl ensued and before his leave was over, he married her. Two weeks later he was in Vietnam. Two months later, after he had already been awarded his first Silver Star, the letters began and at first they embarrassed him. Not his wife but his new brother-in-law wrote to remind Jax of the suffering black people had endured because of white men. His brother-in-law, Mathew Wilitts, renamed himself Marcus X. The letters were full of Black Power and revolution. The initial embarrassment became agitation in Jax. He exploded, allegedly attempted to frag an officer, was court-martialed and was sent to L.B.J., Long Binh Jail, for a three-month cool down. After a time the letters no longer agitated Jackson though they still hurt him. Jax wanted to be racially militant but he did not have the true militant’s fervor. He had no hate. He had resignation. Maybe he would hate this cherry. Jax would not make up his mind about Chelini for two days and then he would change his mind almost daily thereafter.

  When the laughter settled down again and he could keep himself from choking on the laughs Chelini stared at Jackson, then Whiteboy then around the table. These people are really okay, he thought. If they’re willing to laugh at me and let me laugh with them then it must mean something good. He detected no resentment.

  Part of the crowd from the surge into the club had left and the Phoc Roc was less crowded but still noisy. Some had left to form private parties, to get stoned or to get drunk or just to get a longer night’s sleep. There was more room to move about and the group at the table in the middle acquired several more chairs. Chelini and Silvers pulled up chairs at the side.

  “Can I ask you guys some questions?” Chelini asked the soldier next to him.

  “Whatcha think you just did?” a soldier from the far side of the table laughed and they all chuckled again and drank more beer.

  “No, I mean, like can I ask a serious question about tomorrow? I feel a little funny. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

  “Just do what we do,” El Paso said.

  “I’m not an eleven-bravo,” Chelini explained. “I’m supposed to be a wireman.”

  “I’m supposed to be a cook,” Happy said.

  “Ah’m supposed ta be home and out a heah,” Whiteboy said.

  “I won’t never supposed to come,” said Brunak. “As a matter of fact, I think I’m goina sky. Doc, what’s that bitch look like you brought back?”

  “She’s number fuckin one.”

  “She’s ugly, Man.”

  “I’m comin too,” Numbnuts said.

  “Shee-it,” Boom-Boom said. “If you ever saw a pussy you’d throw rocks at it.”

  “Count me in,” Garbageman said. “I’ve gone too long to care what it looks like. I aint goina eat it.”

  Boom-Boom rolled back in his chair. “Don’t give Numbnuts no ideas.”

  Brunak, Garbageman and Numbnuts rose and Boom-Boom rose too and they all left, leaving seven soldiers at the table.

  “What are you worried about?” El Paso said to Cherry.

  Chelini felt conspicuous again but he forced himself to speak. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he shrugged. “I don’t know a thing about the field.”

  “It’s like this,” El Paso said. “You just do everything everybody else does. And you do it quiet. We don’t make any noise.”

  “After the CA …” Jax said, “CAs is excitin, Man … but after the CA maybe two days it all jest humpin yo ruck up every mountain like a bear. Yo goes over the mountain ta see what yo ken see and what yo see …”

  “… is another mountain.”

  “Yo got it, Cherry. Check it out. One after nother like the fuckin bear.”

  “Thaht ruck goan kick your ass,” Whiteboy drawled. “And thaht weapon goan get so heavy you’re goan cuss it like tits on a bull, til when you need it then you goan wonder how it done got so light.”

  “We had one dude,” Jackson said, “up at Bach M
a. We called him the Shepherd cause he wouldn’t carry a weapon. Yo dudes remember the Shepherd? Carried a long stick instead. Called it his staff.”

  “That asshole.”

  “What happened to him?” Cherry asked, disbelieving.

  “I think somebody shot him for sleepin on guard,” El Paso said.

  Chelini chuckled briefly. The others remained silent as the point struck very fast and Chelini stopped chuckling.

  “Look,” Doc said. “You do what you gotta do. First bird in is bad. B-A-D—if the dinks don’t want ya on the ground. Usually it the second bird theys after. If they can blow that one away they can waste the dudes that come in on the first bird and the other birds can’t land cause the second bird messin up the LZ. If we get three birds in theys gonna dee-dee.”

  “If the dinks are out there, we’ll do em a J-O-B,” Happy said from behind Jackson.

  “Kick ass—take no names,” Jax said.

  “Scatter their shit to the wind,” Happy added.

  “Nobody gets blown away unless we make a mistake,” Silvers smiled. They all began smiling now and Cherry couldn’t tell if they’d been serious or if they’d been teasing him the entire time. “Course,” Silvers said, “it may be a mistake to be here in the first place.”

  “Hey Monk,” El Paso said. “Tell him the story about the dude with the bagpipes. I like the way you tell that one.”

  “Christ,” Silvers chuckled. “The war story of all war stories.”

  “This aint no shit,” Moneski said. Moneski was a small, squarish-looking soldier who’d said very little but who had drunk a lot of beer and smoked a lot of cigarettes while the others were BSing. He drew his head back, belched as loudly as possible and said, “Well, t’was a feller we had here one time that use ta tell a story about a unit he was in down south on an earlier tour. I forgit his name. I think it was McDonald. Yep. Some dude in his old unit come cross this idear on how to keep everybody from gettin killed. Units down south, Man, they’re fucked up. This dude figgers the NVA and the VC aint never but never heard no bagpipes. He figgers he can create enough noise so next time they get sprung in an ambush he goina be able to scare everybody away. He says they gets into a firefight, ah, that is McDonald says they hit the shit bout two weeks after this dude comes up with his bagpipes. All of a sudden, from someplace in the middle of nowhere comes this horrible screechin sound. It sounds so bad, McDonald says, that everybody stops firin. Even the NVA stop firin. Then McDonald says that crazy motherfucker stands up and starts marchin forward screechin and screamin on his instrument. Then everybody starts rushin around, pullin out frags, attachin more belts to the 60s, gettin set to charge up behind this dude when, WHAM. That crazy motherfucker standin up with his bagpipe gets it right square in the head, right between the eyes. Boom. Naaughk. Ginggg.”