13th Valley

by John M. Del Vecchio

  Jax and Doc leaned back, the music was in them. Egan said the words in his mind. Between the stanzas where the clarinet player would trip up and down the scale in the way good jazz musicians do, Egan saw, not heard but saw images in his mind of lines and patterns, a graphic presentation in his head of static then kinetic forces, then flashing shapes, then flowing visual patterns, then the motions of Stephanie. Egan forced the image away and looked about.

  The entire club was silent. Then from behind the bar, very softly at first, Molino’s voice could be heard. As he sang some of the soldiers sang with him or just hummed beneath the words.

  I landed in this country,

  One year of life to give,

  My only friend a weapon.

  My only prayer, to live.

  I walked away from freedom

  And the life that I had known,

  I passed the weary faces

  Of the others going home.

  Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,

  Scared but not alone,

  300 days more or less

  Then I’m going home.

  The first few days were hectic

  As they psyched my mind for war,

  I often got the feeling

  They’re trying to tie the score.

  The first day with my unit

  We climbed a two klick hill,

  To find an enemy soldier,

  To capture, wound or kill.

  Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,

  Scared but not alone,

  200 days more or less

  Then I’m going home.

  The air was hot and humid,

  The ground was hard and dry.

  Ten times I cursed my rucksack

  And wished that I could die.

  I learned to look for danger

  In the trees and on the ground,

  I learned to shake with terror

  When I hear an A-K round.

  Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,

  Scared but not alone,

  100 days more or less

  Then I’m going home.

  ‘SKYHAWKS’ is our motto,

  ‘AIRBORNE’ is our cry,

  Freedom is our mission,

  For this we do or die.

  Boonie Rats a legend

  For now and times to come,

  Wherever there are soldiers

  They’ll talk of what we’ve done.

  Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,

  Scared but not alone,

  50 days more or less

  Then I’m going home.

  They say there’ll always be a war,

  I hope they’re very wrong,

  To the Boonie Rats of Vietnam

  I dedicate this song.

  Boonie Rats, Boonie Rats,

  Scared but not alone,

  Today I see my Freedom Bird,

  Today, I’m going home.

  Within seconds the soldiers returned to the beer stench reality of the Phoc Roc. Doc offered to buy a last round. It was 0120 hours.

  “You know,” El Paso began slowly, setting the pace for the succeeding talk, “ten centuries from now history here and in other solar systems may view our involvement in Southeast Asia along with colonialism and neocolonialism as nothing more than a rapid manner of destroying traditional cultures and supplanting them with an ethos susceptible to the spread of technology—a planet of earthlings with a common energy advantageous to the exploration of the universe.”

  “We aint gowin be roun ta see,” Jax said. “I’m concerned bout me en my kid. I’ll let my kid be concerned bout further inta the future. My chil’s gowin grow up in a new world with a papa it ken be proud a.”

  “That’s right, huh?” Egan said reaching over and rubbing Jackson’s tight curled ‘fro. “I’m sorry, Jax. I forgot to congratulate you. Ol’ Jax goina have a kid.”

  “Yep. I’m gowin have me a beautiful little black princess an I aint eeven gowin let a white man look at her. Then later on, I’s gowin grow half-a-dozen of the baddest, meanest ball playin badasses anybody ever seen an anybody come near their sister gowin get banged up side da head, til they dead.” Jackson paused for breath, then said, “You know, Eg, that lady you always talkin bout in yer sleep. You ought go back an tie that lady down. Time’s a runnin, Bro.”

  “That was a real bummer,” El Paso pursed his lips. “What the L-T’s old lady did.”

  “What’d she do?” Egan asked.

  “You mean, Man, he didn’t tell ya?” Doc was shocked.

  “No. What happened?”

  “I thought you two was tight, like this,” Doc held up his hand and crossed two fingers.

  “When we got in for stand-down,” El Paso said, “he got a set of papers from her lawyer.”

  “Say again.”

  “Yeah,” Jax said. “She suin his ass fo a dee-vorce.”

  “Shee-it. Fuckin ladies. L-T said somethin bout them havin problems but he didn’t tell me that.”

  “Man,” El Paso said, “you gotta know two things about ladies. One, you can’t pay attention to them and expect them to pay attention to you and, two, every lady wants every dude to desire her ass. They all want to trap you then leave your sorry ass in the lurch. That’s what happened to the L-T. He got trapped.”

  “Women,” Doc said. “Women. They all the time doin somethin jus so you can’t expect why. They’s like the dinks. If you expects them in the valleys they’s gonna be on the hills and if you expects them on the hill they’s gonna be in the valley. Women like that. They figure out what you expects then they do jus the opposite. They know they gotta keep a dude jumpin. A dude’s like a dog with a cat. Ever watch a dog with a cat? Ol’ dog trippin down the block sees ol’ cat layin on the stoop. Ol’ dog doan give a rat’s ass. Cat says, ‘Well fuck all. That man ‘pose ta want my ass.’ An ol’ cat leaps off in front of ol’ dog and burns down the block. Dog says to hisself, ‘Shee-it, Man. Dare she go. She must be a real somethin an all the time I thinks she’s over the hill.’ See, ol’ dog now thinkin he missed somethin special and he cranks up his four-on-da-floor, chirps his rears an burns after her. The thing ta ol’ cat da chase. Always gotta have a dude chasin em. Ol’ cat goes inta da ally, up da garbage cans an up top da fence. Dog growlin and snappin and cussin up a ruckus an dat cat, she up dere stretchin out her rear legs, you know, spreadin em, spreadin them toes and lickin herself like the dog aint ee-ven dere. Man, you wanta be ol’ dog. That aint even cool. Sometime a dude got plenty of brains for dealin on dinks but he loses his powers when applyin it to pussy.”

  “How is the lieutenant taking it?” Cherry asked.

  “Weren’t you listenin?” Doc said. “I jus told you.”

  “Bro,” El Paso turned to Egan, “I wanted to talk to you about it. L-T’s takin a heavy. Given him a bad time like your lady did you.”

  Egan shrugged slightly. “Yeah. I thought they were okay, ya know. Life’s hard, Man. See Jax, that’s why I aint tied down to that lady. It’s simple as that. Life just aint easy. You gotta struggle till you die and all you can do is make the best of it and sometimes that aint much.”

  “Egan,” Jax shook his head annoyed, “yo a middle-class white dude, how yo ee-ven spout that shee-it?”

  “Don’t change nothin, Man. You can have dough out the yang, yer lady splits and yer fucked. No fat whore goina change that.”

  “Fat whore? Yo crazy, Man. Yo crazy. Yo want some skinny woman-wench. Yo always talkin bout that ‘lithe lean roun eye.’ Maybe yo like some a these dinks. They got no tits. They got no ass. That what yo want, Man. Yo nuts. My ol’ lady’s fat and yo always dischargin that shit bout skinny tight cunt like my ol’ lady a nigger bitch in honkeyville. Give me a woman who’s got nice … nice … nice junk I can hold.”

  “Give me a woman,” Egan said unscathed by Jax’ allegations, “to whom I can dedicate myself. I need a woman who will dedicate herself to me one hundred percent.”

  “Man, you like the ol’ dog,” Doc said sadly. “Maybe you’s sufferin from o
ptical rectalitis.”‘

  “What’s that?” Cherry asked.

  “That,” Doc winked, “is when the nerve from the eyes cross the nerve from the rectum and short circuit. Give a man a shitty outlook on life.”

  “That’s a white man’s disease,” Jax said. “Yo dudes got a strange way a lookin at things.”

  “Man, do you realize,” Doc said, “that while you worryin bout yer skinny cunt there are people back in the World, I mean, Man, in the World, right in the US of A World, who have to steal to eat. You white mothafuckas doan know that.”

  “I know that,” Cherry said, “and I think you’re right. But I think it’s only a portion of the overall picture …”

  “Doan try to whip no L-T philosophy shit on me.” Jax spit.

  “Jesus H. Fucken Christ,” Egan shot back. “What the fuck’s with you. You been ridin my ass since I came in. I’ll give you somethin ta ride …”

  “Wait a minute,” El Paso shouted. “Cool it.”

  Doc had a sudden surge of hate for Cherry and Cherry’s condescending tone. “What makes you think you know so much?” Doc yelled. “Just cause a man’s black, mothafucka, and jus cause he’s not as educated as you, mothafucka, doan mean he aint smart as you.” Doc’s shouting rattled the walls of the Phoc Roc and men in both the black group sitting at the side and the white group at the bar stopped their conversations to listen, to get ready. There was more in Doc’s voice than anger.

  “Look,” Egan shouted back, “that fuckin cherry’s bout right. No nigger in the world can claim they don’t have one fuck of a better life now than they had twenty years ago or ten years ago or even five years ago. Look at all the legislation that’s come down in the past ten years givin every nigger a fair deal.”

  “Blacks,” Doc yelled at Egan, “is fuckin tired of a fucken Congress that say we gonna pass a law that make everythin right. Fact is, it don’t.”

  “Who you callin a, nigger, honky?” one of the black soldiers from the group by the side jumped up.

  “Who you callin a honky, nigger?” a white soldier from the bar stormed up to the black soldier.

  “Cool it,” El Paso yelled.

  “I’m goina bust dat mofugga in da head,” the black soldier snarled toward Egan and all the other blacks fell in rank behind him. The whites by the bar grabbed up their beers and circled the other side of the table in the center.

  “Cool it,” El Paso yelled again.

  “That fuckin nigger’s always spoutin that shit,” another white soldier rasped.

  “Dats fuckin honky jive,” the black soldier who’d first jumped up said.

  “Who you callin a honky, Nigger?” Jax stood defending Egan with a smile.

  “Yeah,” Egan stood, laughed at the white soldier, “and don’t you go callin my Bro a nigger, Honky.”

  Jax and Egan sat down and El Paso waved the blacks back toward their table. He turned to point the whites back to the bar.

  “Watch it, mothafucka,” Doc laughed at the white soldier who’d first come over and who stood nearest. “I’m ETS in thirty an if you aint careful I’m gonna look up your sister and give her a thrill.” Doc turned and winked at Egan who began to laugh. Then the white soldier swung from the hip and hit Doc in the back of the head.

  For one second, as Doc’s whole upper torso shot forward and his head, slamming against the table, his forehead catching the edge of a beer can, spit blood, the entire room suspended motion. Doc’s head and body were the only moving parts in the three-D still life. A latent pulse throbbed, rebounded, then bodies converged about the table in the center.

  The outside imploded upon the concentrated nucleus, the center growing denser with bodies, the bodies flaying quicker to keep from being crushed.

  Molino turned the lights off then on and off. “Hey! Stop that! Hey! Okay! That’s enough! Closing time! Everybody out. Watch my motherfuckin stereo. Get the fuck out a here. Everybody out. Fuck off! Stop that! Get the fuck out.”

  “Grab the Doc’s other arm,” Jax shouted at Cherry. “Let’s get out a here.”

  Egan and El Paso covered the retreat with a few well aimed punches and the five from the center split to the door while the two groups, black and white, thrashed savagely at each other in the dark.

  CHAPTER 8

  The moon had begun its ascent through the high mist. It climbed slowly, quietly, smoothly, seeming to diminish in size as it rose, seemed to contract and intensify. The night had become cool-humid tropical. Through the night the moon cut strong yet cast indistinct dark nebulous shadows, images of window frames against chairs and images of chairs and desks against a man and images of the man cast with all other images in a continuous conglomerate darkness onto the floor of Alpha Company’s headquarter hootch.

  The back room of the hootch was windowless and dark. He did not sit there. It was hardly a room, his room area, sectioned off by locked personal equipment cages and company equipment stores and sided by empty rifle racks. Lieutenant Brooks’ bunk sagged beneath his cleaned equipment. His rucksack was packed, canteens full, sitting in the center of his cot. His helmet and weapon lay against his ruck. A web belt with canteen, four ammo pouches and four fragmentation grenades rested across the foot of the cot. He had checked and rechecked the equipment in the dark, had assured himself of its readiness then had gone to the front of the hootch and sat at the company clerk’s desk.

  His mind was running, reflecting on theories of international conflict, deliberating problems of his own personal life. He stared at the desk, the floor, the shadows. It seemed so clear yet he could not find the words for it. An explanation of the cause of war was here, right here, coming together. And with it, with these revelations, were the nagging last letter from his wife and the forms he had just received from her attorney.

  For a long time he sat at the company clerk’s desk staring into the eerie light filtering through the screened windows to his side. He did not turn on the electric light nor did he light a candle. He sat in the chair behind the desk and held the letter and the newly arrived forms at arm’s length.

  Rufus and Lila, he thought. We were something special. How did this happen? Where did it start? It had been a fairy tale. From the moment of eye contact in the cathedral he had never doubted the specialness of their relationship. He thought of specific times, of their first walk, a stroll in Golden Gate Park through the flower show. He thought of early walks through the financial district where they window-shopped, when they discovered once again their perfect match. How could this have happened? Am I ignoring our early fight, our few bad times?

  Very early, perhaps their first day together, she had told him her recent experiences with love. She had lived with a man for two and a half years, she had said. One day the man came home and said he had fallen in love with a secretary in his office. In two weeks, Lila told Rufus, the man had moved out. He hadn’t let it die there. He told her that he had never really loved her though he did not know it until he felt real love. Lila said that six months after he left, her ex-man married the secretary and even sent her an invitation to the wedding. “I was really hurt when he left,” she had told Rufus, “especially with that ‘I never really loved you’ stuff.”

  Rufus had told Lila that he understood where the man was coming from. He had said, “I’ve been there. I might be there now if I were living with some lady.” She had smiled when he said that. To him, her face seemed to glow. Rufus had said, “A man needs lovin whether he’s in love or not. That man probably really liked you very much but, well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.” “Humph!” She had reacted yet her eyes still shone and Rufus knew he was in love. When had that been? She had been bitter about the man and that had made her all the more beautiful.

  He pictured another time. A night in the park when she had sung soft blues songs and they’d kissed and he’d put his head in her lap as she sang. He could see them there now as if he were a third person watching young lovers from across the path in the park. He longed to be the man
with Lila in the image in his head.

  In the strange darkness Rufus thought of the days and nights in the park, at parties, after basketball games, on study breaks. He thought of the plans and the planning that surrounded their marriage and of the graduate school nights when he sequestered himself and his books in the tiny den and she’d paint or other nights when she’d have a gig and be singing at a club and he’d not be able to go because of the studies, the papers, the deadlines. He’d be furious, raging within, raging without while she was gone, jealous and fearful. Yet he’d say, “I understand. I can’t hold her too tight.”

  Lila was a striking woman with a beautiful face and taut body. Her dark skin had an undertone of red which she accented on her rounded cheek-bones with a touch of rouge. She’d wear her hair parted in the center, pulled tight about the crown of her head by a colorful band and then frizzling out and down to her shoulders. He could not help but love her. She was poised and intelligent, active and lovely. She painted and sang and modeled for local boutiques. Rufus loved Lila first for her beauty and then for everything else about her.

  Now here in a busted shanty infantry company headquarters, Rufus asked why. As he thought, his stomach churned. Would these letters and forms affect his ability to command? And, he thought, Lila, how can I overcome Hawaii without you?

  For many soldiers Vietnam was depression, despair, a valley of terror. Much of the anxiety came not from the NVA nor from the jungle. For many soldiers there was no war, they never saw any of it in the giant rear base camps and beaches. But anxiety came from being away from wives and friends and family and being totally out of control in a life where control seemed the utmost criteria for survival. It was an old story and Rufus Brooks knew it.

  The story was as old as mankind, as old as war: the Dear John story. For American soldiers in Vietnam the story was probably more common than for GIs in earlier wars. The war was unpopular. Could any soldier really expect something more from his woman? The war was immoral, wasn’t it?, with all the indiscriminate killing, the bombings, the napalm, the defoliants. By extension then, were not the soldiers immoral too? Could anyone expect any righteous woman to stand by a barbaric man? By 1970 it had almost become the patriotic duty of a wife or girl friend to leave her man if he went to Vietnam. Why should Lila be different? Why should she be true to a boonierat, a commander of boonierats, the operator of a death machine?