“Like separating the brain into parts by function?”
“Yeah. Exactly,” Cherry smiled. “Into functional areas instead of anatomical parts. For example they found that there is a specific area for reading, another for memory of words while you’re reading. There’s an area for writing which has its own word memory area which is why a person’s vocabulary for reading or writing or speaking is all different. There are specific areas for specific motor movements. Specific areas for things even as specific as remembering a tune. There are mechanisms for integrating memory with new information being received to form concepts. The way our neural pathways are structured has a lot to do with the way we think or behave.”
“That’s fascinating,” Brooks said. He was taking sketchy notes. A word here or there.
“Wait a minute,” Cherry said. “I’ll get back to this but first let me say that emotions, fear, aggressive behavior, territorial behavior, the strong emotions, they seem to be located in the brain stem or are at least activated by stimulating the brain stem. The higher cortex is the location of abstract thought and complex concepts and planning and worry. Stuff like that.” Cherry was becoming wound up. It was like taking his oral comprehensive examinations prior to graduating from college except that this time it was fun. He was surprised at the avalanche of thoughts and facts, of figures and ideas that crashed down upon his speech center all trying to be communicated to the L-T at one moment. “You see,” Cherry said, “our brains are built on an ancient brain stem and our brain stem dates back to when we were animals, maybe back to when we were reptiles. You can’t understand human behavior in the present without looking at man’s evolutionary history. We were built, muscles, heart, skeleton, maybe mind, to run or to attack. Physiologically we want to do these things. We bring a lot of our past to the present in the anatomical and functional makeup of our bodies and brains. Humans were aggressive territorial animals. We still are today but now we’re more refined and we’re capable of building and using helicopters and fighter-bombers to express our ancient physiological emotions.”
Brooks was now writing feverishly. It was a new approach for him and it fit in with his other beliefs about war. The concept excited him. He put to the back of his mind the LZ and the valley and everything else about him. There was something significant in what Cherry was saying. Something that went deeper than even Cherry knew.
“The brain stem still functions,” Cherry began again when the L-T’s pen slowed. “When people are under stress they revert or regress to earlier forms of behavior. The neocortex is, ah, the brain kind of short circuits and bypasses the neocortex. Let me back up a moment. I said before physiologically we want to run. It’s more basic than that. The most basic need of any organism, the most basic drive, is for stimulation or information from its environment. That’s what’s behind man’s drive to explore the reaches of space. If we want to understand the complex behaviors, first we have to understand the most basic, and that is the drive to acquire information from the environment. The acquisition may be equated with stimulation, so it may be said that man requires or has a drive for stimulation. Follow that to its extreme, daredevil sports are almost maximum stimulation. The only thing more stimulating is war.”
“That seems a bit farfetched,” Brooks said.
“Maybe,” Cherry said. “Maybe the last part but in combination with our evolutionary makeup, the idea of a drive for stimulation and the fact that if we’re stimulated in a stressful way we’ll regress to our animal instincts … see? Combined, they push us to fight.”
“Hmm. Yeah,” Brooks said cautiously. He found it easy to accept Cherry’s statements but difficult to accept his conclusions. “I’m not sure …” Brooks began.
“We should have a course on bio-knowledge or bio-culture,” Cherry interrupted him. “One of the questions no one’s been able to answer is how much information we’re born with. How much of our present do we organize because of information we possess within our cells? In our DNA or RNA? How much knowledge is passed genetically from generation to generation?”
“Hum,” Brooks mused. “If that were true …”
“Yeah,” Cherry said. “Do you know there have been birds hatched in incubators and raised completely alone and yet in a planetarium these birds can navigate the course they’ve got to fly to migrate with their species? It’s as if they have a complete map of the stars in their genetic structure and a complete understanding of how to use it. They don’t learn it. They’re born with it. How much knowledge do you think man’s born with?”
“If that’s true,” Brooks said quickly trying to get a word in edgewise, “I wonder if different races maybe have slightly different organizations of their brain structures and maybe even of the information passed from …”
“It’s true,” Cherry said. He was feeling very good.
“Hey,” Brooks said softly, “talking about evolution, there’s physical evolution and there’s also cultural evolution.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Well, a culture passes knowledge from one generation to the next and that body of information grows. The culture evolves to a higher form, a more complex society.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“I’ve got some questions,” Brooks said. “Why must every man make the same mistakes in his life that his father and his grandfather made in theirs? Why must every generation have its war? Each year our weapons systems evolve to a higher and higher state but mankind just repeats itself again and again and all the time with larger weapons and with larger consequences. Why can’t the mind of man evolve?”
“It does, L-T. Well …” Cherry stopped. He was thinking that it does because of the higher layers and that it doesn’t because the brain stem continues to repeat itself. Cherry’s face contorted and showed his conflicting thoughts. “Evolution isn’t really clean,” he said finally. “Like, did you know that Neanderthal man had a larger brain than present-day man. Anthropologists say that we have superior verbal abilities but maybe he just didn’t … ah … maybe he lost his brain stem. Like he wasn’t aggressive enough. Homo sapiens destroyed him.”
“Maybe we talked him to death,” Brooks laughed. Cherry laughed too. The two of them talked on and on as Alpha dried out, rested, rejuvenated.
Brooks continued taking notes. He was skeptical but now was the time to find ideas—later he could validate or discard them. At one point he wrote: It would be arrogant to believe that man is the last creature of creation. Will the Creator stop here or will He create something superior to us? Brooks read that to Cherry to get his reaction.
Cherry looked at him oddly then said, “God created man in his own image. Then God became man. Do you know why? It’s because Man is God.”
At 1330 hours El Paso and Doc interrupted the conversation telling them the log birds would be on station in one five.
The first resupply bird delivered what Alpha had come to call the très bien resupply. Doc had heard Minh use the term and he thought it was Vietnamese for ‘Three Bs’ as in beans, bullets and batteries. Jax had picked it up from Doc and from those two it had spread and become universal company jargon. With the très bien resupply, amongst the cases of C-rats, ammunition and radio batteries packed onto the helicopter, was Spec 4 Molino.
“Hey Man,” Molino screamed to Whiteboy, the two passing in the roar of the helicopter rotorwash, “they stickin it ta me, too.”
Then the bird and Whiteboy, Arasim and Roseville were gone. Molino stood on the silent LZ in starched, tailored REMF fatigues. He squinted at the Alpha troops near him. He stood stock-still shocked. He had seen them all on stand-down only eight days past. They had been drunk and cheerful and healthy-looking. They had transformed to vacant shells, to wraiths, to apparitions. Yet they did not know it. They lugged cases of Crats off the LZ and broke them down, they cleaned their weapons, they resolutely worked at their tasks, attempting to appear like living soldiers. On all of them Molino saw death. He shuddered.
&nb
sp; “Hey, Egan,” Molino called spotting the barefoot platoon sergeant in the shade of a palm frond lean-to.
Egan looked at him. “Three Buds and three Millers,” he mocked.
“Comin right up,” Molino laughed. He could not keep his eyes on Egan. Egan’s feet were gray and smelled dead, even at ten paces. Scabs and sores crusted his arms. His lips were cracked, blistered, peeling. “Hey, the Murf was by. He come over the other day to see ya.”
“Fuckin Murf,” Egan smiled. “How he doin?”
“Man, he couldn’t believe you went back out. Man, he said ta tell ya about Mama-san. Said, Man, that you’d wanta know.”
“Which mama-san?” Egan snarled suspiciously.
“You know, Man. The one the Murf always goes up to.”
“What about Mama-san?” Egan asked.
“She been blown away, Man. She an three of her gook kids. All her daughters, I think. They tryina say the VC done it but the Murf thinks it was GIs. Some dude the old bitch fucked. Maybe give him some bad dew … Hey, where ya goin, Man?”
To Molino, El Paso looked much healthier than Egan. Tough brown skin, Molino thought, like Dago skin. The ex-bartender/ librarian cornered the barefoot senior RTO in amongst the CP’s ruck pile. “Hey, “¿que pasa, Senor?”
“You are, Bro,” El Paso said quietly.
“I brought ya somethin, Man,” Molino said. He slipped his shoulders and arms from the unfamiliar straps of his ruck and let the weight crash to the ground. “Fucken things,” he cussed. He dug through the jumbled contents and pulled out a thick paperback. “Here,” he said handing El Paso the book. It was a copy of Vietnam: A Political History by Joseph Buttinger. “It come in just before the GreenMan stuck it to me,” Molino explained. “I know you read this stuff so I checked it out for ya.”
“Well,” El Paso said accepting the book, “check it out, Bro. Check … It … Out! Thanks.”
“Yeah, I was sure you’d want it.”
“Hmm,” El Paso moaned reading the backcover then the table of contents.
“Hey,” Molino said trying to maintain a mellowcool voice, “this … they say this is a bad AO.”
“Could be worse,” El Paso said detached, leafing through the book.
“Gotta be a bad AO. They tell me Rapper Rafe got clean scattered to the breeze.”
“You mean Ridgefield?”
“They said you couldn’t even find his chest or arms and that you guys just put the pieces in a bodybag.”
“I wasn’t there,” El Paso said eyeing Molino. Molino was staring off toward the valley. “I wasn’t there but that’s not how it happened. Sniper got him. Only one round. Maybe two.”
“That’s not what I heard,” Molino said lowly. “Shit. Him an Escalato in the same week. That’s fucked, Man.”
“Yeah, it’s fucked,” El Paso agreed matter-of-factly.
“No fuckin way I wanted to come out here, Man,” Molino said. El Paso did not answer. “Don’t nobody expect me to accept my own execution. That’s for fools and Mama didn’t raise no fools. I’m gonna fight it every mothafuckin step of the way. You’d do that, right?”
“Yeah,” El Paso said.
“Hey,” Molino said. “Hey Bro, would you do me a favor?”
“What do ya need?”
“Oh, it’s nothin, Man. Maybe I shouldn’t even ask.” Molino squirmed pretending discomfort.
“What is it?”
“Well, I.… ah.… I was wonderin … ah … if you could, you know …”
“Know what, Man,” El Paso let him squirm.
“If you could talk to the L-T, Bro,” Molino pleaded. “I’d like to get inta the CP. Man, I can’t even picture myself down with a squad. I’d probably get half of em killed if I ever had ta walk point.”
“Naw, you’d be good, Bro.” El Paso smiled to himself. “Es verdad. I know. You are a cagey person. You’d be very good to have at point.”
“Oh no, no, no. Not me Bro. Hey … ah … I’m … ah … outa practice at that sort’a thing. Bro, I know you could set it up for me. Man, I’d hump yer books if you get me into the CP.”
“Ah, my friend …”
“El Paso,” Molino was becoming frantic, “I’ll hump yer batteries.” El Paso looked down and shook his head. “Man, yer water. That’s half the weight of yer ruck.”
“I caint do, my friend,” El Paso said sliding into a deep chicano accent. He threw up his hands. “L-T, he say, send Molino to Mohnsen. You go there. 2d Sqd, 2d Platoon. There, there is only Mohnsen and Sklar left. You caint kill half a squad when there are only three people.”
The GreenMan burst upon Alpha bringing more enthusiasm than Alpha’s ascension to the sun. Along with his radiant smile and praise he brought dry cigarettes and lighters, bug repellent, foot powder and a crate of XM-203s. He also had with him the battalion executive officer, Major Hellman, and Command Sergeant Major Zarnochuk. He had ordered them both to smile. All three looked pink against the grayness of Alpha. Pink and clean and spit-shined.
“Lieutenant,” the GreenMan’s voice was clear and strong, “you’re doing one helluva fine job. One helluva fine job. You and your men have been wreaking havoc down there.” The GreenMan raised his voice so the entire LZ crew could not help but hear him. “Your kind of success calls for rewards,” the commander beamed, “and I’ve got a bunch coming your way. Major. Break out that first box. We’ll get to the other one later.”
Half a dozen troops had approached to a respectful distance. They squeezed closer. The GreenMan played to his audience. Major Hellman bent over slowly. He slit the cardboard with his knife and peeled back the lid. The GreenMan stepped forward. His eyes twinkled like a boy playing ringmaster beneath the big top. He reached into the box and pulled out five shiny chrome Zippo lighters and he tossed them to the infantrymen standing, staring, acting no different from the Vietnamese peasant children when they themselves tossed cigarettes or gum to the kids in a ville.
“Oh wow, Man! Look at this,” the children-soldiers squealed. The lighters were engraved on one side with a map of Vietnam and on the other:
BOONIERAT
A/7/402
101ST AIRBORNE
AUGUST ’70
WAS A BITCH.
“There’s one for every man here,” the GreenMan beamed.
“Let’s keep this orderly,” Brooks said as a second half dozen soldiers clustered forward. “El Paso. Call the platoons. Have them send up one man from each squad for the lighters and cigarettes.” Brooks bent and grabbed a lighter and smiled. The Zippo had a nice feel, a nice heft. “Thank you Sir,” he said to the GreenMan and the GreenMan beamed brighter. In minutes every Alpha troop was smoking a firm dry cigarette lit with his new Zippo.
Then the smiles stopped. At one end of the LZ Old Zarno cussed out Jax for the hair pic stuck in his growing fuzzy ‘fro. Hellman indiscreetly jumped on a sleepy FO for the sloppy example the forward observer was setting. FO was naked, “… in full view of enlisted troops.” The GreenMan shook his head and hustled Brooks away from everyone with a ‘Let’s-have-a-look-around’ gesture.
“Tell me about Delta,” the GreenMan said when they were alone. “How were they set up? What were they doing when you were there? How did they act? Were they quiet?”
Brooks told him what he and the others had observed. The GreenMan seemed concerned, sincerely concerned and hurt. “How am I supposed to help these men?” the GreenMan whispered. “Lieutenant, if no one informs me about how badly one of my units is performing, I cannot correct it. That was a massacre, Lieutenant. And I’ve half a mind to have you court-martialed for not reporting O’Hare’s incompetence to me.” The GreenMan did not speak in anger. Not yet. He seemed very saddened by the event at Delta two nights previous. Then he burst out, “What the fuck was the motherfucker doing?” The GreenMan cussed like a trooper. “That sadass got his fucking self and five others killed. Seventeen wounded. If he hadn’t got himself killed, I’d of killed him myself.” He paused to take several deep breaths.
Brooks had never seen the GreenMan upset. “Lieutenant, a lot of people in America are screaming about our ground forces still pursuing the enemy.” The GreenMan’s voice became bitter. “They’re asking why we don’t stay in our bases and let them come to us. Those people do not understand the first thing about war. If we sit in fixed defensive installations they’d murder us all in three months. We must constantly be searching for the enemy, finding him, hitting him before he can hit us. The moment we set up, the NVA moves. If we do not pursue he can resupply at will, advance at will. He can choose the time, the place, the method of attack. That’s why we’re out here. If you set up some hideous semi-permanent base here, like O’Hare, I promise you, the enemy will know and he will maul you. Get these men moving. Keep them moving. All my companies will be moving.
“That Delta thing, that was strictly a leadership failure,” the Green-Man continued. “Lieutenant, O’Hare failed his men. Perhaps I failed O’Hare. I’m not going to fail you. You,” the GreenMan called to a troop they were passing as they walked, “come here.” Cherry approached the colonel. He was not sure if he should salute or not. “Why hasn’t this man shaved?” the GreenMan growled at Brooks. “Look at his rucksack. It’s filthy. A mess like that makes enough noise to let the entire valley know where you are. Get that man squared away. Lieutenant, follow me. I want to inspect every one of your troops.”
Cherry sighed soundlessly watching the GreenMan stomp off.
“This entire battalion’s too fat, too lazy.” the GreenMan was now ranting with anger. “This is the 101st. This is SKYHAWKS, Seventh of the Four-oh-Deuce. I’ve stripped every possible man from the rear. You got Molino, that worthless candyass. Running a goddamned club when there’s nobody in the rear except clerks and jerks. I’ve sent nine men to Delta, three to Bravo. All the cooks are on Barnett. We’re going to leanout this unit, Lieutenant. Every able-bodied man in the bush. You have two men in the rear on charges, don’t you?”
13th Valley Page 59
