While Cherry squatted, Whiteboy went running by, his pants half down, his hand on his penis. Doc McCarthy was chasing’ him with at least three cigarettes burning. Behind McCarthy, Hill, Harley and Andrews were all giggling, trying to keep silent, trying to keep up with the medic. Whiteboy circled back and Hill and Harley cornered him.
“Aw, Gawd A’mighty. Whut am Ah gonna do?” Whiteboy whispered. He was still holding his penis.
“Shoot it with Little Boy,” Harley laughed staring at Whiteboy’s groin.
“Here, Whiteboy,” McCarthy whispered catching up. He held up the cigarettes. “I’ll get rid of it for ya.” And the medic descended upon Whiteboy who let him get to within a foot then jumped back.
“Ah got to figger,” Whiteboy said. He half giggled at McCarthy approaching like that but he was obviously afraid and in pain. Cherry pulled up his own pants and approached. He looked at everyone’s object of concern. Hanging out of Whiteboy’s urethra was the tail end of a leech,
“Come on,” McCarthy chuckled. “I won’t burn off more than an inch. You got plenty ta spare and you aint usin that thing here, anyhow.”
Egan appeared, as always, seemingly out of nowhere. He immediately perceived the situation and produced, to everyone’s astonishment, a small bottle of bug repellent. Without a word he walked to Whiteboy, removed the bottle top and dropped half a dozen drops on the leech. It squirmed and began to withdraw. Egan squeezed several more drops on. “Hold still,” he ordered.
Whiteboy was nearly in tears of joy. “More, Eg,” he pleaded. Egan squeezed another drop. The leech seemed to back out further. “Whut are you, Eg? A junkie? More. Please.” Egan squeezed, another drop fell then the bottle deflated empty. Egan tossed it over his shoulder, smiled, shrugged and left. The others stood silently around staring at Whiteboy and the leech, stifling their laughs. Cherry ran back to his perimeter spot, pulled his pants down and squatted. Then he snapped upward and looked back for leeches.
Alpha forded several wide though shallow streams on the move east. They crossed all without ropes. Each time they crossed they proceeded in similar manner to the crossing of the day before, sweeping, pausing, observing before entering the open space. Each time Brooks felt the maneuver went smoother and quicker. With each stream crossing the vegetation changed. Alpha left the brutal elephant grass for the congestion of bamboo and then for a scary sparse low brush and sand meadow.
The valley floor here was a series of rolling swells. “Hold them up,” Brooks told El Paso when the CP reached the meadow edge. “Who’s at point?”
“3d Sqd, 3d Plt,” El Paso answered. He radioed the halt forward.
That dumb son of a bitch Caldwell, Brooks thought. He pulled out his topo map, made note of the location’s coordinates, looked up and ordered a slow withdrawal from the sparsely vegetated area. 3d Plt withdrew and the point headed south then east again skirting the meadow. Half a kilometer beyond the meadow, the point called a halt.
“What do they have?” Brooks asked El Paso.
“Cornfield,” El Paso said.
The CP moved forward. Before and beside the point there stood tall cornstalks in a well-cultivated field. Silently Brooks directed elements to flank the field. The column advanced from behind filling the voids created by the circling troops. Almost immediately 3d Plt found the field’s parameters. It was barely six meters wide and thirty meters long. Brooks led a sweep up the center. El Paso picked an ear of corn. He peeled back the husk. The kernels looked ripe and juicy. He cautiously licked the ear. No taste. He took a small bite. Sweet. He picked another ear and gave it to the L-T. Taste it, he signaled. Brooks did. Doc watched, picked, tasted, then picked several. Soon every man on the center sweep was harvesting the corn. Pick it but keep moving, Brooks signaled.
Alpha left the cornfield, reformed in column and climbed up and over the next swell east. Brooks called a halt. Brown and FO worked their way to the back of the unit and into a position to observe the enemy food supply.
“Fire mission, over,” FO whispered into the handset. The radio responded. To FO the handset felt alive. His words spoken into the small plastic and metal apparatus set the FDC and the gun bunnies scurrying. He was the eyes of the artillery unit.
“Rover Four, Two. Stand by for shot,” the radio rasped.
“Roger Two,” FO radioed. To Brown he said, “Pass the word, stand by for shot.”
“Shot out,” the radio sounded.
“Shot out,” FO repeated. Then he counted to himself, “… one thousand five, one thousand six …” Twenty meters above the valley floor a white cloud popped into existence. It was fifty meters right of the field. “Left fifty,” FO called. “Fire for effect.” Three HE rounds impacted across the near end of the field. Then three more. “Oh, oh. Boys, yo on the money,” FO cheered the arty unit via radio. The rounds passing over Alpha and exploding at FO’s command, even so near, sounded friendly. Up and down the line boonierats felt warmed by the violent eruptions. “Add fifty,” FO called. The field was progressively decimated. Half of Alpha’s boonierats crunched joyously into the sweet raw corn.
The rain became heavier as darkness closed about Alpha and the fog again descended to ground level. The unit moved cautiously through high discontinuous brush, moved generally eastward, the land slowly rising, the vegetation slowly thickening. When it was very dark the unit stopped, the column shortened and widened, the boonierats sat, covered themselves with poncho and poncho liner, ate, and set up LPs and guard watches. The CP meeting was concise and only Thomaston and Caldwell and the CP group attended. Cahalan’s report was also short. Bravo and Recon had both made contact, both in bunker complexes, both at the eastern edge of the valley. Bravo’s contact had taken forty minutes. They killed one NVA and captured one who wore first lieutenant insignias. Recon’s engagement lasted less than a minute. They also killed one NVA and captured one. Recon’s prisoner was half-dead, blown to pieces. Both prisoners were evacuated by medical helicopters. Except for Delta, all the other SKYHAWK companies were tightening their grip around the Khe Ta Laou. The gaps between the units were receiving continuous artillery H & I fire and constant high level electronic and infrared surveillance. There was no evidence of major enemy movements into or out of the Khe Ta Laou and intelligence teams suspected they had overrated the valley’s significance.
Cahalan’s report was followed by a brief discussion. Then Brooks said, “Tomorrow, we cross the river and check out the south bank.” The meeting ended. It was early, dark, quiet and cool. The night promised to drag by slowly. Half of Alpha slept, the other half fidgeted. Brooks too was uncomfortable. At 2300 hours he radioed 2d Plt and requested Pop Randalph to bring six volunteers to the CP. Ten minutes later Pop crawled into the CP circle followed by all of Mohnsen’s squad except Roberts and Sklar.
“Yes Sir,” Pop reported.
“3d’s got an LP due east fifty meters,” Brooks said to the assembled team. “I want you to go out to them, leave them there, move 150 meters farther east and set up an ambush site.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” Pop said. “I know just the spot.”
Brooks whispered a few questions checking out the team. He had Ezra Jones, Mohnsen’s RTO, contact the LP and inform them of the move. “Plenty of time, Pop,” Brooks patted the old boonierat on the shoulder. “Take your time.”
The team departed but still Brooks felt uneasy. He lay back and tried to sleep. El Paso was on radio watch. Cahalan was breathing easily. Minh and Doc were whispering a few feet away. Brooks crawled to them. Then Egan showed up. Then Jax. Then Cherry. The men formed a tight cluster. The discussion began almost as if it had not ceased the night before.
“Do you know who was the first American to die for freedom?” Doc asked.
“You mean here?” Cherry asked.
“I mean ever, Mista. I mean the very first.”
“Who?”
“Crispus Attucks,” Doc said proudly. “Killed in the Boston Massacre in 1770. That man won’t even free yet he died so y
our great-grandpappy could own mine. That man was a black slave.”
“Right on,” Jax laughed. “A black begun the first revolution an it was over blacks the second was fought. Now this black gowin begin the third. Let whitey eat my turd.”
“Oh, eat my asshole,” Egan snapped.
“The revolution is at hand,” Jax giggled. He was having a good time. “Come wid me, Bro, join our band. A new gov’ment we’ll give the land.”
“Look around, Man,” Egan said. “Is this what you want ta do back in the World? You want ta hump a 60 back there?”
“How are you going to overthrow the government?” Cherry asked seriously.
“We shall unite the people,” Jax said. “People of the world unite! Fight imperialist dogs! Stand up, be courageous! Advance! Wave upon wave of my people will descend upon the filthy butchers. We gowin form a platoon.”
“If one shot is fired” Egan took Jax’ bait, “your revolution’ll create a monster.”
Jax just laughed.
“You mothafucker,” Egan laughed back bitterly. “You mothafuckers talkin revolution. You just want to steal what other men created. Color only gives you an excuse.”
“They been doin it to us forever,” Doc said. “There aint no Brothers doin it out here. We all pullin our weight.”
Jax reached out and grabbed Cherry’s arm. “Bro, why doan you join us? Yo get back Jax gowin need a good RTO.”
“I got a long time to go,” Cherry avoided answering.
“You’re just tryin ta get over,” Egan sighed.
“Like au yo white granddaddies did on mine,” Jax said.
“Not mine, Man,” Cherry said.
“All the whites did,” Doc said.
“Fuck that,” Cherry whispered firmly. “My ancestors were serfs in Italy while yours were slaves here. Hey, Man, my grandparents came to this country in 1896 and at that time most of the Italians lived in crowded city tenements and worked in mills. Back then only twenty percent of all Americans lived in cities. My people were trapped there just like yours. But they didn’t go cryin to the government, ‘bus my kids to the WASP countryside.’”
“Course not, Bro,” Jax laughed. “They won’t no buses in 1896. Yo’d have ta a walked.”
“Ha,” Cherry huffed. “But my people didn’t stay there either.”
“Right on Little Bro,” Jax said. “Yo learnin. That jest what I’s sayin. We doan condone the pigs. Ef yo dowin whut they wantin yo ta do, yo helpin ta perpetuate their system. The revolution is at hand. Join us.”
“People are dumb,” Egan injected. “They’re dumb and they’re apathetic and they like to be used. They don’t like to make decisions or to be responsible. Even for themselves. They want to be led. They want to be exploited.”
“Do you really think so?” Brooks asked softly. He was enjoying the conversation, and now too, the night.
Egan looked through the blackness toward Brooks. He was aware of the L-T’s debating skills and he proceeded cautiously. He had already committed himself. “Yes, I do. Look around. You have to beg people to be platoon sergeants, even. There’s a dozen guys in 1st qualified to be platoon sergeant who are satisfied sitting back puttin in their time.”
“Jax,” Brooks’ soft whisper floated in the black mist. “Why do you think the people allowed themselves to be exploited by a … an elite?”
“That whut I’s sayin, L-T. We doan condone it no mo.”
“But blacks did before?”
“They had to.”
“Could it be as Danny said. They were too lazy or simply did not care?”
“Lazy and shiftless, L-T?” Doc whispered nastily.
“What do you think, Minh? Your country was exploited for a very long time. Could the people secretly have wished to be members of the elite and thus wanted it to remain?”
“Oh no, L-T,” Minh’s whisper was high and thin. “I do not think this is so. But it may be so. To have an elite you must have the masses, yes? Perhaps they are a unity. Perhaps one cannot be eliminated without eliminating both. And then who remains?”
“Huh?” Cherry uttered.
“Thank you, Minh,” Brooks said. “Maybe we should think about that. Perhaps many blacks in the World no longer want to be used. Perhaps they now refuse to condone being automatically relegated to society’s lowest levels. But they’re not, no matter what they say, on the road to destroying the country. Perhaps they are securing the perpetuation of the system by fighting to be the elite. Perhaps they are out to build a better country.”
“Like they built a better Watts?” Egan suggested sarcastically. “Or maybe a better Detroit? By rioting and burning the place down? By forming guerrilla platoons, secret armies, to overthrow the government?”
“Guerrilla groups doan just happen, Mista,” Doc said. “Riots doan just happen. You know that. They produced. They produced in a kind a society where there’s hopelessness.” Doc paused. He flashed on hot summers in Harlem, heat wave days when the TV crews showed up to film eggs frying on car hoods and black children playing in the gushing water of fire hydrants. It always looked like so much fun. Like an amusement park. Inside the tenements, unfilmed, men lay sprawled, near naked, gasping for breath. Only the putrid air seemed more listless than the jobless old women who sat unable to move. Very old people died in their rooms unnoticed until evening when they were carried out. The evening brought little relief from the heat. Doc remembered the summer when Marlena, a tiny child, was nearly killed by roof rats in her makeshift bed. For a month the wounds on her legs seeped. Doc cleared his throat. The others were silent. “Riots doan just happen,” he repeated sadly. “They come from despair, Mista. You know what I mean? They doan come from repression. They come from crushed expectations. It aint far from hopelessness to riots.”
“Doc, I don’t understand. I don’t see things as hopeless,” Cherry said easily, trying to sound sympathetic yet encouraging. “I see opportunity everywhere.”
“You brought up that way, Mista. You see people makin it. Where I come from, I see people wastin way. Hopeless, Man. You can say what you want but nobody listens. Like you. You can’t hear me. They pass laws, they say they spendin money. Nothin happen. Jax right, Bros. The government gonna fall. It’s the government who decide who live, who die. The government decide who drafted, who shipped to Nam, who a boonierat, who get jobs, who starve.”
“It’s not that way for everyone,” Cherry said.
“The revolution is comin,” Doc said very sadly. “It comin an the government can’t stop it. They can’t stop it cause the guerrilla is the heart of the people. The heart of the people that the government discards.”
“Maybe you dudes are right,” Egan said. This time he had really listened. What was being said went against much of what he believed but he could not deny it. “It’s right to say the government’s in control. They got the guns. All political legitimacy comes out of the barrel of a gun. All human rights, speech rights, property rights. If you really don’t have them maybe you do have to revolt. I take back a lot of what I said. If the government tries to take your freedoms you got to revolt. That’s power out of the barrel of a gun. Americans have traditionally had a low flash point. That’s why we know such great freedoms. And you’re right. We are losin it. We’re losin it little by little to the Nixon machine and to the bureaucratic machine. But you know somethin? We’re askin to lose it. We’re sellin our freedoms one by one to that bastard. We’re sellin it to be taken care of by a paternalistic government. And that’s cause people are lazy and they don’t care. Yeah. If you gotta revolt, that means you care.”
“Right on, Bro,” Jax whispered.
After a pause Brooks said, “It is important for us to understand how racial violence occurs if it is to be avoided in the future. Doc, you said something just now that really hit me. Race riots don’t just happen. Wars do not just happen. Would you do me a favor and ponder that? I want to talk some more, but later.”
The little group broke up and the
men returned to their positions. Brooks went to his ruck and silently removed a stenographer’s pad from the waterproof ammo can at its base. The time had come. He would write down his observations and thoughts about conflict. In the dark he wrote carefully, large and cryptic. On the cover he printed, AN INQUIRY INTO PERSONAL, RACIAL AND INTERNATIONAL CONFLICT. On the first page he wrote: Conflict does not just happen. Wars do not just happen. Divorce does not just happen.
Then he put the notebook away. To himself he said, I must DEROS now. I must write my dissertation. I’ll radio GreenMan in the morning. Should I tell anyone else?
Why do I always come out sounding like a bigot? Egan asked himself. He and Cherry were back amongst 1st Plt. Egan mulled over the argument with Jackson and reviewed the other conversation at the CP. He did not, could not, believe he was a racist. He would not even describe himself as right wing. He believed he was very open minded, very much a man who weighs all sides of an argument.
Cherry’s whisper disrupted his thoughts. “What?” he said.
“How do you think Jax and Doc and the L-T feel about you comin down on blacks?” Cherry repeated.
Holy Shit, Egan thought. Was I that bad? Egan spoke softly in that jungle-night voice developed in veteran boonierats, a firm voice with almost no sound. “Boonierats is a race,” he said. “We can say things like that. Nobody takes it personal.”
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