Sympathy for the Devil

by Kent Anderson

  Hanson’s face was stiff with sunburn and his eyes were hidden by the mirror sunglasses. He was wearing the beret and tiger suit, and he had the AK-47 in his hand. Except for the Vietnamese driver, there was no other living person for twenty miles. Hanson could kill them both and be on his way. The truck was stolen and so, technically, were the supplies. The kid paused, fear showing in his face, then came on ahead, and Hanson’s eyes smiled behind his sunglasses.

  “I’ve been back there following you for five miles, blowing the horn, trying to get you to pull over. Thought you were attempting to elude.”

  Hanson laughed. “Sorry,” he said, taking off the sunglasses. “I didn’t hear you. I was thinking about something else, I guess.”

  “Had you clocked at better than fifty, a solid clock. And this vehicle…Jesus. Where are your driving goggles?”

  “I don’t have any,” Hanson said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know things were getting so civilized around here.”

  “If the vehicle doesn’t have a windshield, the operator is required to wear driving goggles. It’s a good directive, and saves lives.”

  The MP checked the lights, turn signals, and emergency brake on the truck. None of them worked. “I don’t even believe this vehicle,” he said. “Where’s your trip ticket?”

  “My what?”

  “Trip ticket. Trip ticket.”

  Hanson laughed and threw up his hands, one of them holding the AK-47. “I don’t know what that means,” he said. “I’ve never heard the term before.”

  The MP sighed, not knowing whether Hanson was baiting him or if he was stoned. “The form you filled out at the motor pool before the motor sergeant released this vehicle to you. What unit are you from?”

  “We got a little camp about thirty miles west of here. There’s ten of us Americans there.”

  “West of here? There’s nothing west of here except NVA. I’ve never been this far west except in a convoy,” he said, glancing up the road. “I only followed you this far against my better judgment.”

  “We’re out there. We have a hell of a time getting spare parts for our vehicles. We don’t have anything you’d call a motor pool, or a motor sergeant. I’ve been filling in as camp engineer since our regular engineer got shot up and medivacked. I guess that makes me the motor sergeant.”

  “Goddamn,” the MP said, less defensive. “West of here, huh? I didn’t think there was anything west of Dong Ha except gooks. What a fuckin’ day it’s been. Three accidents this morning, paperwork up the ass, and I haven’t even started on it. Another hundred and seven fuckin’ days left, and I’m gone.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m gonna drop the unsafe-vehicle charge I was gonna write you up for. If I charged you for everything that was wrong with this truck, you’d be in big trouble. Yeah, I’m only gonna charge you with doing forty. I don’t like to fuck a guy over. But you get these deficiencies corrected as soon as possible.”

  He wrote out a DR, a military traffic citation, an original and three copies, each one a different color. He handed Hanson the green one.

  “Well,” Hanson said, “thanks for cutting me some slack. I’ll watch that speed.”

  “Yeah,” the MP said, smiling. “No sweat. Take it easy.”

  He hopped back into the jeep, and the driver whipped it squealing around back toward the east. Hanson leaned against the truck and watched them fade, bubble in the roiling heat above the road, and vanish. He looked at the ticket and began to laugh. He wadded up the little piece of green tissue paper and was about to throw it away, then realized that he’d need it as proof when he told Quinn and Silver that he’d gotten a speeding ticket. He stuffed it into his pocket, felt something there, and pulled out the toy helicopter. He wound it up and set it on the black asphalt.

  The helicopter clicked and whirred, its little blades spinning as it rolled in one direction, stopped, spun around, then tracked off on a new course.

  Up in the distance the mountains loomed cool and silent. Another hour and he would be through the pass, back where things made sense.

  MAI LOC LAUNCH SITE

  Hanson propped his rifle against the wall and piled his rucksack and web gear next to it, grenades hitting the floor like billiard balls. After five days in the field beneath the weight of the equipment, he suddenly felt as if he were floating. It was cool and dark inside the teamhouse, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. Silver was sitting on a bar stool, his back to the bar, plucking notes from a ukulele he’d had a friend buy him during an R&R to Hawaii. “Aloha, waki, waki,” he said.

  “Who,” Hanson asked him, “are those guys?”

  There were five Americans sitting around the card table on the other side of the teamhouse. Strangers. They were all wearing hard-to-get camouflage Marine fatigues. On their left shoulders they wore the green triangle patch of the 3rd Mech.

  Silver smiled broadly. “That’s the U.S. Army.”

  “What are they doing in the teamhouse?”

  “They’re here to give us a hand, help us win the war. Hey, check out the fat guy over by the door, the one with the camouflage beret. Huh? Pretty neat. Never saw one of those before.

  “What it is, see, there’s a whole company of ’em down by The Ville where they’re gonna put in some big guns. Which is okay, I guess. We’ll make a fortune off beer and pop sales. But the captain said something about going on an operation with them.”

  “No way, GI. I don’t associate with people like that.”

  “And,” Silver went on, “you remember your man Grieson, back in Da Nang? He’s due here pretty soon. Gonna put in some kind of classified radio relay bullshit. They’re gonna be living here in camp. Captain isn’t happy about it, but he says a lot of pressure is coming down to get us out of here and turn the whole show over to the Vietnamese and technicians like Grieson. Everything’s changing.”

  Hanson walked around to the refrigerator and got a beer. “I’m taking this to drink in the shower,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Wait,” Silver said. “Listen to this. I think I’ve got it.” He picked out the beginning of “Hawaiian War Chant” on the ukulele, then grinned. “Hawaiian music is some awful shit, isn’t it? What kind of weird people would, you know, develop music like that? Maybe it’s what happens when all you eat is pineapple and coconuts.”

  That evening Hanson was sitting at the big mess table drinking French cognac he’d bought at the Da Nang PX for three dollars a bottle, and reading the mail that had collected while he had been on operation. He drank out of a crystal snifter that Linda had sent him packed in popcorn.

  There was a letter from Linda. They came irregularly because she only wrote him, apparently, when she was tripping on LSD. Her writing was hard to read, but even if he could make it out the letters never made sense anyway. “Don’t ever change, even if you can,” she wrote. “I stood at the window and cried one tear. I thought it would stop the war (I only promised you that I loved you and got high easy). I have heavy eyelids but my head goes on. Moon, sand, wind…”

  “Well, well,” Quinn said, sitting down. “Enjoying your mail, I see. Letters from home.”

  “Letters from Mars,” Hanson said. “I don’t know…”

  The soldier with the camouflage beret, the one called Froggy, walked over to the table. “Hey, men,” he said cheerfully. “What’s happening?”

  Quinn looked down at the magazine he was holding, glaring at it.

  “Oh, not much,” Hanson said. “Just looking at my mail.”

  “Yeah? I wish we’d get some mail. You know, we haven’t gotten any mail for a week now.”

  Hanson nodded his head and looked back down at the letter.

  “What’s that, letters from your girl?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. I wish our mail would catch up with us. My girl—”

  “Look, pal,” Quinn said, looking up with his flat, murderous stare, “I’m trying to read. Do you mind?”

  “Right,” Froggy
said. “Sorry. Hey,” he said to Hanson, “wait a second.”

  He walked to the other side of the room and pulled a plastic bag out of a box and brought it to the table. “Did you get yours?” he asked Hanson. “A whole box of these GI packs came in while you were out in the field. There’s a lot of good shit in ’em. Here.”

  Hanson took the bag. “Yeah,” he said, “we’ve gotten these before.” He dug around in the bag, through the toothpaste and shoestrings and packets of catsup, till he found the little printed card inside, the one that said “First Presbyterian Church, St. Louis, Missouri, Ladies Auxiliary—We’re behind you all the way!”

  Hanson smiled. “Hey,” he said to Quinn, who looked up angrily from his magazine. “Those ladies at the Presbyterian Church are still behind us all the way. I can see ’em now, you know, down in the ‘activities room,’ in the basement, sitting on folding chairs and stuffing these bags.”

  “If those cunts want to help,” Quinn snapped, “let ’em come over here and kill gooks. That’s the only kind of support I want. Fuck this bullshit,” he said, grabbing the bag. He shoved it at Froggy’s chest and said, “Why don’t you take this shit and go on back to your unit out there. We need some privacy. Okay? Good-bye.”

  Froggy took the bag, said, “Okay. Sure.” He walked over to the other four Americans, then all five of them left.

  Silver had been sitting at the bar, playing with his ukulele. “That kind of attitude is going to cut down on our beer sales,” he said.

  “Fuck ’em,” Quinn said. “They can buy it and drink it outside. Come on, bud,” he said to Hanson. “Let’s move to the bar and let Silver buy us a drink.”

  An hour later the captain came in the back door. He had been Lieutenant Andre’s replacement, assigned to them six months after Andre’s death. Now his tour of duty was almost over. He was a young captain, and it was easy to picture him as a college football star, tall and lean, blond crew cut, always ready with a gleaming smile. He had a face that was handsome but somehow bland, lacking the lines that come from worrying about problems that have no solution.

  “Hey, Di Wee,” Silver called to him. “How about a beer?”

  The captain smiled and walked over to the bar. “Well,” he said, “my three favorite trained killers. How’d the operation go?”

  “Number ten, Di Wee. Dry hole.”

  “Yeah. Not a lot of activity lately. Say, how would you and Quinn feel about going with some of these Third Mech people on a little road-clearing operation? Take a company of Vietnamese with you.”

  Silver rolled his eyes dramatically. “Vietnamese and Third Mech both. What a fucked-up operation.”

  “I thought we’d seen the last of the Vietnamese,” Quinn said.

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” the captain said. “But we’ve gotta push ‘Vietnamization’ and the general over at the Third Mech wants his people to get some experience working with the little people. I’d appreciate it, guys.”

  “I suppose if it’s a personal favor,” Hanson said with a smile.

  “Yeah,” Quinn said, “I kind of enjoy watching the different ways the Third Mech fucks up.”

  “Good men,” the captain said. “Get with me tomorrow, then, and we’ll set it up.”

  “Hey, sir,” Quinn said, “when are you gonna let the three of us go out on operation together? Back down at the river. We’d get some fuckin’ kills. A body count to be proud of.”

  “Yeah, sir,” Hanson said. “How about it? Personal favor.”

  “One good turn deserves another,” Silver said, playing a little phrase on the ukulele.

  The captain smiled uncomfortably. “Well,” he said, “I’m afraid to let the three of you loose at one time. I’ll think about it. I’ve been trying to get the Vietnamese captain, Di Wee Tau, to send an operation down there from the Third Mech AO, but all he says is ‘Beaucoup NVA,’ then changes the subject.”

  “That fish breath little cum bubble,” Quinn said. “I wanta go down there and kill some motherfuckers, and it ain’t even my country. And they think they’re gonna ‘Vietnamize’ the goddamn war with people like that?”

  “You read that bullshit about Vietnamization in the last Time magazine?” Silver asked. “Every general in the Army has got this push-to-talk button installed, and they just keep saying, ‘Uh, yes. Yes! The Vietnamese are capable soldiers and ready now to take over the conduct of the war…clickclickclick. Buzz.’ ”

  “Ain’t no use in worrying about it,” Quinn said. “The man in his office in Washington, D.C., has done decided how things are gonna go. He’s laughing at us, man. Fuck these Vietnamese.”

  “Sir,” Hanson said, “when the Americans leave, how long do you think it’s gonna be before Charlie takes over the country? A month, maybe?”

  “Well,” the captain said, “it’s hard to say…”

  “You know,” Quinn said, “I think I’d pay my own way back over here to fight with the Yards. Kill a couple busloads of ragged-ass ARVN. Huh? Blow that little turd Di Wee Tau out of his socks.”

  “What would be more fun, though,” Hanson said, “would be to come back while the Third Mech was still here and blow them up.”

  “Right!” Quinn said. “Those worthless scumbags and their fuckin’ tanks. Could we get a body count of those sorry-ass Third Mech legs or what?”

  The captain finished his beer in a couple of quick swallows and said, “Well, guess I’ll get some sleep. See you in the morning.”

  After he’d left, Quinn looked at Silver and Hanson with narrowed eyes and a tight smile. “The Di Wee couldn’t handle that Third Mech shit, man. A little too heavy for the captain tonight.”

  “And nooooowwww,” Silver called, “let’s hear it for…the war!”

  The three of them began laughing, clapping, and cheering.

  “Hey kids,” Silver said, “I’ve got a great idea.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, turning to his right and assuming a different voice. “What’s that?”

  He turned back to his left and spoke in the first voice. “Why don’t we…put on a musical comedy based on…the war in Vietnam?”

  “Wow!” he said, turning to his right, “that’s a swell idea. Wait’ll I tell the guys about this. But…can we get some guns?”

  “Sure. And we can use the vacant lot for rehearsals,” he said, and went into a soft shoe, humming and grunting out a tune.

  “All right, goddamn it,” Quinn said. “Let’s get serious,” going into the speech they’d all heard a dozen times in the Army. “There’s a time to fuck around—I like a good time as well as any of you men—but there’s also a time to, uh, get serious. There’s an appropriate time and place for everything. And we’re talking about war here. About the lives of American boys. About Army regulations. Enthusiasm is fine, but at the right time and place.”

  “I’ve only got one question, Sarge,” Hanson said.

  “What’s that, troop?”

  “I just want to know,” Hanson said, and paused, and in unison the three of them said in a slack-jawed Texas drawl, “Why…Vet-nom?”

  They drank in silence then, until they heard Hose push open the screen door and come snuffling and wheezing across the room.

  “Hey,” Quinn said, “it’s my main dog Hose. How’s it hangin’, Hose,” he said, bending down to pet him. The dog bobbed his head back and forth like a punch-drunk fighter.

  Quinn went to the refrigerator and got out a beer. He poured it into a bowl and set it in front of the dog. The four of them drank, alone in the teamhouse. Through the screened windows they could see the flash of distant artillery.

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “I think we should determine, once and for all, who is the best man with a handgun. The loser buying the next two rounds.”

  “Done.”

  “Okay. Although our flower child up there is shot up rather severely from the last time, I can see that her left tit is still untouched. The winner’s gonna be the first man who puts a nipple on it.”

  Acros
s the room there was a large poster tacked to the wall, a full-length image of a long-haired girl, naked, bending back as though caught up in a dance, her hair swirling around her. The girl was printed on the poster four times in four different colors, yellows and greens, the images juxtaposed on each other, producing a “psychedelic” effect.

  “Wait one,” Hanson said. “I’m tired of shooting her,” and ran out the door. He was back in a minute with another, smaller poster that was black and white. “It came with a bunch of intel reports,” he said. “I guess I’m supposed to put it up over the typewriter or something.” He tacked it to the wall and stood back.

  “Tricky Dickey,” Silver cheered. “Our new main man.”

  Hanson stepped back and looked at the poster. “He looks like the founder of a shoe factory.”

  The portrait of Nixon was a bad reproduction, but it was him, the thinning hair, hard little eyes, the flattened nose and jowls.

  “Me first,” Quinn said, pulling the .45 from his belt.

  Even though Hanson was expecting it, the report from the big automatic made him flinch, the shock in the closed room hitting him in the eyes and nose like a blow.

  Hose hit the screen door running, knocking it completely back on its hinges.

  “Grazed him,” Quinn shouted, putting the pistol back in the Western-style holster he’d bought in Da Nang. Fat shiny .45 rounds ran the length of the wide black belt.

  Silver fired his snub-nose .38, the kind of gun private detectives carry in the movies. They are inaccurate weapons, and he missed the poster completely.

  “You know what I was thinking?” Quinn said, his words tinny in Hanson’s ringing ears. “I wish everybody carried guns back in the States. You know, like the Old West? If you didn’t like some asshole, you could shoot ’em. But they could shoot you too. Everybody just takes their chances, and the best guys win. That’d be all right.”

  “You’re talking about the social contract,” Hanson said.

  “Go ahead and tell us about it,” Quinn said. “I know you’re gonna anyway.”