I hope to see you again. You will come back, I know that. I don’t know what you’ll be like by then, whether you’ll be anything like the person I once cared for. But I will still want to see you.
Doctor Cable’s son tried to kill himself. He wrote a note saying that he could not face life as a cripple. The doctor thinks the real cause was the disillusionment caused by being shot by one of his own men. He walks around like a dead man himself. But he never fails to ask about you when we talk. He liked you a lot. Perhaps a letter from you would help.
Take very good care of yourself, hero. Write me when you can. I will always answer.
She signed it, Love. Just like I did. Did she mean anything by it? Probably not. But it makes me feel good anyway. Will I be anything like the person she once knew? His words, his high ideals seemed like mockery now. He had sworn he would never kill an unarmed adversary. Then he had done it, many times. No good to rationalize that there had been no other choice. Had there been no choice? Or had the killing just become easy, much easier than the alternative? Did it matter? They were the enemy, after all. There was no doubt of that. Did they deserve to die? Probably. But it did not make him feel any better.
What would he say to Colonel Cable? That his son’s sacrifice was not in vain? Bullshit! That they would undoubtedly punish the soldier who shot him? That didn’t bring his son’s legs back. That the army was self-destructing and his son got in the way? Real good, Jim, that ought to explain things real well. There was nothing he could say that would help.
“Damn good thing I was there,” said Al, sitting on the empty bed. “What a ratfuck operation that was!”
“What happened?”
“First off, we ended up with not only the 101st involved, but also the Korean artillery unit. Nobody was speaking each other’s language, nobody knew where anyone else was, nobody seemed to give a shit. I ended up acting like some sort of goddamned airborne command post, just like those assholes we used to hate so much. Got any of Roger’s medicine left?” he interrupted himself, then continued as Jim poured out a half tumbler of the amber liquid. “Anyway, first thing that went wrong was that the Korean artillery shot out of fan, one round landed right in the PRU CP area. Killed four of my people, wounded another six. I know I promised Roger not to go on the ground, but if I hadn’t the rest of the PRU was going to go over and kill some Koreans. All we need, a shooting war between the allies.
“I had to do some damn fancy talking, I can tell you that. Promised them all sorts of shit I hope we can come up with. Official apologies from the Koreans, death benefits over and above what we ordinarily pay, care for the wounded out with the Germans, big fancy funeral. Finally got them calmed down, and then the Airborne called up and wondered why they weren’t moving! That pissed them off again. Told the Airborne commander to shove it up his ass, had to fly up there and argue it out with him. Then over to the Koreans to see what the fuck happened, and those arrogant assholes claimed that it wasn’t their fault. Told those kimchi-eating motherfuckers that if I didn’t get some satisfaction, I’d make sure they got some night visits.
“Pain in the ass, man. Not enough we’ve got to fight the Commies, we can’t even get along with each other. I’m getting tired of this shit. Maybe I’ll take that assignment in Germany once this is all over, see what the peacetime army is like.”
“Boring as hell, I expect.”
Al nodded. “I expect you’re right. When are you due to get sprung, anyway?”
“Another week. Doc wants to make sure all my holes are closed up. Says he suspects that sure as hell I won’t stay out of the field so’s I can keep the muck out of them, so he’ll make sure we don’t have to worry about it. I think Roger is pacifying him after going over his head about you.”
“I’m hearing some bad stuff from my sources,” Al said. “Something about those kids that got killed. Seems like they may have belonged to some bigwig. Don’t know who, but likely someone high in the Vietnamese government. Rumors are that there is some very serious shit coming down about it. Roger say anything about it to you yet?”
The bile rose in his throat, burning like distilled pain. Everything about this screamed setup! “What else have you heard?” he asked, as soon as he was able to talk.
“That’s it. I’ve got everybody listening for more, though. Think it’s time to run yet?”
Jim seriously considered it. Nothing that he did seemed to do any good. When he tried to do his job they attempted to kill him, or put him in jail. If he did nothing the enemy would win. Did it matter? Who was the enemy? The soldiers who fought against him? Or his supposed allies, who were thieves and murderers and liars?
“Not yet,” he said. “First I want to find out who’s doing this shit. And take care of him. Then we’ll see what happens.”
“We’ll keep the option open, anyway. Never know what will go down next. Time for me to get back to the field. Give Sally Suckemsilly a kiss for me. Though you know what that will make you, don’t you?”
“Yeah, a cocksucker by proxy. That line was old when George crossed the river.”
“Hell, it was old when Christ was a corporal, and I was just a junior lieutenant. But what the hell. I like it anyway.”
“Why don’t you hang around for the night? I could use someone to talk to. Can’t do it with anyone here.”
“You know why, don’t you?”
“Why?”
“Because they’re shit-scared of people like me and you. I’ve heard them talking. Killers, they call us. Hard-eyed gunmen. Shit, almost makes me scared of myself!”
Jim was silent for a moment. “We are, you know.”
“Yeah. I guess so. Helluva thing. You ever wonder why?”
“Why what?”
“Why you can do the things you do. Without a hell of a lot of remorse. Without the good old Baptist guilt. You read more than anybody I know, Jim. Have you ever read in any novel about anyone who didn’t go through horrible pangs of conscience, flashbacks, bad dreams, when they had to do things like this? It always destroys them in the end, yet here we are and it doesn’t seem to make us a hell of a lot of difference.”
“Frankly I suspect there are more of us out there than there are the other kind. People who are relatively normal, who are good citizens, whatever that means, peaceful, nice to their neighbors and all, but who have the capability of doing exactly the same thing. If they have to. They just don’t get novels written about them.”
“Maybe you’re right. Anyway, as I was saying, we scare the hell out of people. I’ve got an idea. I heard there was a band at the Officers’ Club tonight. Want to go there?”
“Why not?”
They arrived at the club when it was in full swing. A Vietnamese singer was crooning, “Moon libber, wider than a mi, I clossing you in sti, sunday.”
“Jesus, I love this,” Al said. “Look at all the people dancing. Somehow, dancing with somebody else in fatigues never appealed to me.” They took an empty table. Ordered drinks. Were amused at the furtive looks that came their way.
“Well, Captain, I see you’re still alive.” They looked up to see the doctor who had treated them.
Al smiled up at him. “Shit, Doc, I’m indestructible. Join us for a drink?”
“Sorry, I don’t drink with patients.” The doctor looked uncomfortable at the thought.
“First off, I’m not your fucking patient anymore. Second, I wouldn’t waste good booze. Finally, get your raggedy ass out of the way. I think the go-go dancers have started.”
“See what I mean, Jim?” Al asked after the man had made his way back across the room.
“Yeah, well, fuck ’em all.”
“Yeah, I know, all but nine. Six pallbearers, two road-guards and one to call cadence. Let’s have another drink.”
Roger didn’t show up for four more days. Jim tried to call him several times, with no success. The duty officer’s story was that he was out, that he couldn’t be reached, that an important operation was going down, a
nd as soon as he got back he was sure to call. Day by day he grew more worried. If he couldn’t count on Roger he was lost. Perhaps he should take Al up on the offer and run. But Al hadn’t shown up again either. Maybe he should just check himself out, catch a flight to Saigon, disappear. It would take them a long time to find him. Some deserters had been hiding there for years. Surely he could find a way to get out of the country before they could track him down. Disappear, take a new name, go somewhere that no one cared about his background. Where would that be?
In the end he came to the realization that his original impulse had been the correct one. Stay here and fight it, find out who was behind it, do something about it. No matter what happened. Better to go down fighting than to run away only to be brought back in chains.
“I think it’s time you took a little vacation,” said Roger when he finally walked in the door. “You’ve been in country for a little over four months now; that authorizes you some R&R. So I’ve taken the liberty of getting you some orders cut. Where do you want to go?”
“How about Hue?”
“You make real funny jokes. Right now if you went to Hue you’d last about fifteen seconds. Al tells me you know about the problems. I’ll finish filling you in. The kids that got killed were relatives of the biggest Buddhist bonze in the country. And he thinks you did it deliberately. So every Buddhist around would like to get a piece of your hide. Now, I’ve got some plans on how to take care of that. But those plans include you not being around for a while. So how about it, where do you want to go? Thirty days anywhere in the world. Want to go to Hawaii?”
“You’re not just getting rid of me for good? You’ll let me come back?”
“If we can get this situation squared away, hell yes. You’re the best PRU officer we’ve had.”
“How about just going to another province? Somewhere down south.”
“You don’t seem to understand!” Roger yelled, losing his temper for the first time. His voice roared through the hallways. A nurse passing by looked startled, paused on her rounds, then hurried on upon seeing the glance he shot at her. “Every fucking Buddhist in this country is your enemy right now. You’ve got to leave. Trust me. We’ll get it squared away. Now, for the last time, where do you want to go? Or shall it be to the States, in handcuffs?”
“Fuck it. Australia.”
Chapter XI
Jim woke as the World Airways jet began its steep descent into Danang, looked out the window, saw the ocean beating against the shore, the steep mountains, the cloud cover that just now would be blanketing Laos. He sighed. Back home.
It had all seemed like a dream, anyway.
He’d liked Sydney. The taxi taking him to his hotel passed through the Kings Cross section. Even at an early hour the sidewalks were filled with people. Beautiful women, most of them. Miniskirts so short it seemed a waste of material to wear them at all. He settled back in the seat to enjoy the view. Bursts of laughter came through the open windows. It was one big party. He suspected that he was going to enjoy the R&R in spite of himself. His attitude had changed somewhat since being told that he had to go on R&R rather than staying in Vietnam. Amazing what the sight of pretty women could do.
“Here you are, mate,” the driver said, pulling up outside the big hotel. “You must be one of those bloody Green Beret types, eh?”
Jim looked at him sharply. “What do you mean by that?”
“No offense,” the man said hastily. “Miller’s Oceanic Hotel is a hangout for you types. Nobody else on R&R, at least nobody in their right mind, stays there. Have a good time, mate.”
The extremely pretty young lady who registered him was very friendly. She explained about the hotel, about the R&R party room that was reserved for their honored guests from Vietnam, about the mixers designed to get their guests acquainted with the local citizenry, about her working hours and how she certainly hoped that she would see him again soon.
In his mind he vowed that she certainly would.
Within an hour he was in the hotel bar, drinking the first of many cold Fosters lagers. Quite a difference from the rusty cans of Hamms that seemed to be all that was left in the PX in Vietnam after all the good stuff was skimmed off. It tasted good, ice cold, just slightly bitter. Heady stuff. He had another. Then another. Was just starting to develop a pleasant buzz. Felt a hand on his shoulder. Stiffened, ready to lash out, then remembered where he was and relaxed.
“Easy, mate, I’m a friendly. Name’s Frank Klasic, and I run this place. You must be Jim Carmichael.”
“I guess I must. Al Dougherty told me to tell you hello.”
“Ah, my good friend Aloysius Dougherty. And how is the little bastard? Still as mean as ever, I expect.”
“He’ll be down in a couple of months. Soon as he can tear himself away. Powers-that-be decided I needed a break before he did.”
Frank sat at a stool next to him and ordered two more beers. “Everyone should come to Sydney at least once,” he said. “I expect you’ve already seen some of the things it has to offer.”
“Yeah. Clean, soft beds. Beautiful women. Clean streets. Good beer. Nobody shooting at you. I’m overwhelmed.”
“How long are you here for? The regular five days?”
“No. Lucky me. Thirty.”
“Extension leave, then?”
“Nope.” Jim shook his head. “They just decided they could do without me for a month.”
For the next two hours they talked. Jim felt himself relaxing for the first time in a very long time. The life he had left only yesterday faded in a Fosters-induced haze. He felt at peace with the world. He thought it nice that it was unlikely he would be called upon to kill anyone in the immediate future.
Sometime later, he couldn’t have told when, they left the bar and went to the R&R room. The place was decorated with unit plaques from most of the elite outfits of the world. Jim saw the ones for all the Command and Controls, SOG, the SAS, the Royal Commandos. He felt right at home. It was full of people, some of whom he vaguely recognized from Group. Everybody was drunk, and again it seemed that everyone was happy. He switched from Fosters to screwdrivers, then to an evil concoction called Black Velvet. The young lady who fed it to him told him it was half Guinness Stout and half champagne. The name was appropriate. It made his tongue feel like it was coated with velvet that someone had been wearing for a long time without bathing. The girl was taken away by someone else and another sat beside him. His vision was by this time a bit fuzzy, but not so much so that he could not recognize the receptionist. “Is it that late already?” he asked, aware that his words were slightly slurred.
“And past,” she sighed. She cocked her head, sighed again. “I suppose you’re too drunk to take me to dinner?
“Yes you are,” she answered her own question. “Come, give me your room key. I’ll take you to your bed.”
He looked at her in surprise. Surely she didn’t mean what he hoped she meant. She was probably just trying to keep him from making a fool of himself. Best to leave now before that happened. He handed over the key.
Later he learned that she’d meant exactly what he’d hoped she meant.
The next week passed in a haze. For the first few days he scarcely made it out of the hotel except to sun himself on the beach. Each day he passed the receptionist, who was polite and proper, but nothing more. No matter. There were plenty more. All the young ladies in the area stopped in the Oceanic, hoping to meet one of the notorious free-spending Green Berets. Most of them got lucky. It was one long drunken party. After the second day he tapped into the bottle of Dexamil he had brought. The stuff was issued in Vietnam, supposedly to keep you awake on patrol. He had learned long ago that it would do that. It would also give you wonderful hallucinations after a couple of days. He had tried it once in combat, stopped after on the third night awake he had seen elephants walking down the trail with Styrofoam wrapped around their feet to cut down the noise. Bright green Styrofoam, and the elephants had been blue. But it was great
here. No need to sleep! You could sleep when you were dead. One girl in the morning, another in the afternoon, perhaps another that night. No guilt, no shame. You were going to die anyway, might as well enjoy life while it was possible.
At one point he made it out of the Oceanic, all the way to the Kings Cross, where he met twins. He escaped from their flat only after a very long two days. His crotch felt raw.
Out on the sidewalk the town was again coming alive. Time to see more of the city than just barrooms and bedrooms. It was a beautiful day, and he was alive and there was a whole world out there to enjoy. He hailed a taxi.
The next two days were spent sightseeing. Sydney was a beautiful city. Not as crowded as major cities in the United States, cleaner, built around a gorgeous bay. Everywhere he went the people were friendly. He drank only in moderation, took no pills at all, and was beginning to feel almost healthy. Time, he thought, for some more serious debauchery.
For in his semisobriety the dreams had started. He’d wake up, soaked with sweat, the dimly remembered dead faces swimming before him. Time again to wash them away, to drown them in a sea of alcohol and sex. Time to find someone who, if she could not make him forget, could at least exhaust him enough that the dreams would not come.
And then he’d met Barbara. Beautiful, impossible Barbara.
His mind shied away from the thought of her. Best get your game plan together, Jimmy! That’s over. Well and truly over.
Barbara, who’d almost convinced him to give the whole thing up. Resign his commission. Stay in Australia.
He remembered the refrain of an old British drinking song.
An livin’ off the earnings of an ’igh born laydy.
He smiled at himself. Idiot! You screwed that one up royally, and there’s no going back.
As if there ever could have been. He had business, unfinished business, right here.
The World Airways stewardesses walked down the aisles, checking seatbelts. On the way out the GIs had almost slobbered over them. Now they paid them little attention at all. Australia had a way of doing that to you.
Into the Treeline Page 21
