by Ward Just
Smalley was sitting on a pallet, his back resting against the wall, his arms folded awkwardly in his lap. He was wearing his army fatigues but the insignia of rank was gone. He was blindfolded, and then Pablo saw that one arm was in a sling and that the blindfold was a crude bandage. Smalley appeared to be unconscious. He spoke softly but Smalley did not reply except to move his foot. Pablo bent to look at the bandage. Smalley's face was unshaven and blood was on his shirt. His wrists were crisscrossed with tiny cuts. He groaned then, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere inside his chest, rising to the height of the ceiling, the voice of the deepest self in terrible agony; and not only physical. Pablo spoke into Smalley's ear; explaining who he was and where they were, and that no harm would come to them. He said they were going to walk out of the hamlet together. They had been given safe passage. But it was necessary to hurry. Do you understand what I am saying to you? He looked at Smalley's feet and saw he was wearing sandals, two sizes too small from the look of them; everything about Smalley was disproportionate to the surroundings. He was the giant in the doll's house. Pablo remembered his complaint about stand-down: equipment rots, men get into trouble.
Pablo explained once again that they would leave immediately. The matter was urgent. The worst was over. Each needed the other and if they cooperated they would be home by nightfall. A meal, medical attention, rest. He gave Smalley a reassuring pat on the back. When he tried to lift Smalley by his arms he met no resistance; they were soft as putty, without tone or sinew, or will. The captain appeared quite content to remain where he was, in a senseless, numb place not entirely of this world. When Pablo pulled hard, Smalley's body came away from the wall. He tumbled on his side and lay there stricken, groaning horribly, his breath coming in short strokes. Tears trickled from beneath the bandage, and they were not tears of pain or of humiliation but the tears of one who believed himself damned with no chance of redemption.
What did they do to you? Pablo said. My God, what did they do?
But Smalley gave no sign of having heard.
Pablo believed that to go forward he had to take Smalley back in his memory, to the moments before capture, when he was a professional soldier responsible for his men and the success of the mission.
Forgive me, Pablo said. Then he stepped back and with a sudden violent motion slapped Smalley full in the face.
Captain Harry Smalley was a full head taller than Pablo Gutterman but his head seemed to have shrunk, collapsed into his neck so that as they stumbled down the trail they seemed about the same size. Smalley's good arm was draped over Pablo's shoulder and he leaned heavily, trying to find balance as they walked. Smalley continued to groan, though more softly now. He seemed eager to please. From time to time he spoke, a word or string of words that made no sense, but the tone was apologetic. Somehow the sling that held his right arm had fallen away, revealing a long, ragged wound. With his right hand he kept smoothing his blond hair, stroking it the way you would a cat's fur. And that seemed to bring him some comfort.
The trail did not look the same going in the opposite direction; the sun was now behind them. When they came to the stream, Pablo was startled. He thought it was farther on. Then he saw his own footprints and remembered the place where he sat to put on his shoes. He was thinking about snakes and the absence of birds, and what lay ahead. They forded the stream staggering like drunkards, Pablo careful to keep hold of his hat. The hat had become a talisman. It had gotten him into Song Nu and it would get him out. His wife had promised that he was protected and the protection was the hat, though her astrologer was owed thanks as well, along with the guides, if that was what they were. He knew there was only a certain amount of luck in the universe. It was finite. Chance was finite, too, and they were not the same thing. He hoped to God he had not used up what luck he had been given or had earned.
I'm as crazy as you are, he said to Smalley.
Pablo stopped to clean his eyeglasses, streaked with sweat and fogged from the midafternoon heat. Smalley stood quietly at his side, turning his head like someone waiting for a traffic light to change. After he had replaced his glasses, Pablo thought to look behind him—and there, not twenty yards away, was a little gathering of villagers, an old man and two old women flanked by younger men and women. Some of the women carried infants. They looked at him incuriously. When Pablo raised his hand in a gesture of farewell they averted their eyes, turning to walk back up the trail; and then they seemed to vanish, becoming one with the forest. His eyesight was so poor, he could not be certain. Maybe they were shadows. But it was logical that they would see him out as they had seen him in. The milky sun was lowering behind them, and birds returned in flocks. Smalley replaced his arm on Pablo's shoulder, and it was then that Pablo noticed Smalley's bare feet. Somewhere en route the captain had lost his sandals. His ankles and toes were lacerated. Behind them on the path were bright drops of blood clinging to the razorgrass and the sharp rocks, a spoor such as an animal makes. Smalley seemed unaware of any of this. His face was impassive, his breathing shallow.
At the top of a rise, Pablo halted. He waited for a breeze but the air was still. He motioned for Smalley to sit but Smalley remained standing, his arm on Pablo's shoulder, staring into the monotonous distance. Pablo saw no sign of human habitation, only the forest stretching to the horizon. There was no smoke from cooking fires and if there were villages, they were concealed beneath the canopy of trees. The leaves were heavy and limp in the still air, veined like a human hand. He listened hard but heard no sound beyond the call of the birds. He moved close to Smalley, measuring his left foot against Smalley's right. But Pablo had small feet, and his shoes would not fit. He reached with his fingers to peel a leech from Smalley's instep, and when the leech came away Pablo saw bone, as white and soft to the touch as soap. And still Smalley did not move or make any sound at all beyond the sigh of his breathing.
Help me now, Pablo said.
But his wife did not answer.
He took off his hat and waved it at the forest.
And at that, Smalley looked at him curiously, the way a child does when an adult makes a strange or unexpected gesture.
My wife, Pablo explained. I depend on her. She knows things about the country that I don't and never will. And I forgot until a moment ago that she said my mission would be successful. And so it shall.
His white suit was filthy and streaked with Smalley's blood. He put his arm around the soldier's waist and pushed gently. They advanced a step at a time, keeping to the middle of the trail. All the way back, Pablo told Smalley about his wife, how they met and where they courted, her disappointment when she discovered they would have no children. Foreigners thought Vietnamese women were difficult, humorless and fierce, hardhearted, materialistic. But foreigners were wrong because they looked at things through the Western prism, and were frequently disconsolate. They were beside themselves with anxiety at the refusal of Vietnamese to conform, and to desire what Westerners desired. Desire was ranked differently on the scale of things; and virtue was a function of the spirit. They never saw a Vietnamese woman with her family, or paying homage to her ancestors. His wife was a lovable woman with the gift of prophecy. They lived in a plain stucco bungalow in the suburbs with a lawn in front and a garden in the rear. In a tropical climate, anything grew. Vietnam will never be without flowers.
Pablo did not know if Smalley was listening and it did not matter. He wanted to talk about his daily life with his wife, their evenings together in the bungalow and vacations by the sea or in the mountains, the presents they gave each other at birthdays and anniversaries, the private names they had for each other. He told Smalley things he had never told a living soul. In that way the two Americans stumbled on for an hour or more until the Fiat was in sight.
Pablo helped Smalley into the small rear seat, stuffing him through the door as you would a bundle of laundry. He sagged sideways until he was half on and half off the seat, finally sliding the rest of the way to the floor. Pablo avoided loo
king at the captain's feet. He threw himself behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and raced away. For the first mile he drove recklessly, then throttled back. He did not want to attract attention even though traffic was light and Smalley could not be seen. He passed trucks and motocyclos and once pulled to the side of the road to allow an American convoy to pass. He had promised Sydney he would drive directly to Group House in Tay Thanh. Rostok was supposed to arrange for an ambulance.
Approaching Tay Thanh, Pablo was not surprised to see Rostok's Scout parked at the side of the road, his Nungs drawn up around it. This was not part of the arrangement, but it wasn't Rostok's nature to follow arrangements. Rostok made his own arrangements. So Pablo parked behind the Scout and waited for Rostok to say what he had to say.
Pablo took off his hat and laid it on the seat. Rostok began talking at once, a catalog of regret, another wasted effort, a wild goose chase to the back of beyond, a wild throw of the dice doomed to failure. No Vietnamese was to be trusted, ever no exceptions. Now we look like idiots, he said. Naive idiots who chose to go around the chain of command, with the usual catastrophic results. If the army ever finds out about this, I'm on my way home and it's your fault, you and Parade—
He stepped back when he noticed the blood on Pablo's jacket.
He's in the rear Pablo said.
He is?
On the floor Pablo said.
Rostok peered through the window to the rear seat and said, Jesus. Is he alive? Rostok pressed his forehead against the glass to get a better look, shuddering at the sight of Smalley motionless.
He's in terrible shape, Pablo said. He's injured. He's delirious and doesn't know where he is.
Jesus, Rostok said again. Well, let's take him in. Let's get going now. You've got quite a story to tell, Pab. And this lad, he does, too. You drive him and I'll tag along behind. I'll give you my Nungs. Unless you want it some other way.
Pablo stared at Rostok. Then he said, Who's there? Who's at the House?
The ambulance, Rostok said. Sydney, too. And I asked one or two friends from the press, just in case we got lucky. I didn't tell them what it was about. I didn't let them know who we were bringing in. Better not to raise hopes.
You didn't give them my name, Pablo said.
No, I didn't, Rostok said. But we'll have a little press conference, you can tell them the bare bones of what went on out there, your valiant efforts, how you did it, and so forth and so on. Smalley, too, if he's capable of it.
He isn't, Pablo said.
Well, then, it'll be just us two and Syd. You can change that jacket if you want. Personally, I wouldn't.
It's your show, Ros. You do it. And if you mention my name I swear to God you'll regret it as long as you draw breath.
Pablo, Pablo. You've had a long day. You've done heroic work. But that's uncharitable. That's the farthest thing from my mind!
With surprising gentleness, the Nungs transferred Smalley to Rostok's Scout. Pablo pulled away first. In the rear-view mirror he saw Rostok talking urgently into the radio, pounding his fist on the hood of the Scout as he spoke. When Pablo passed Llewellyn House in Tay Thanh he saw half a dozen men in tailored khaki suits gathered on the front lawn. Television cameras recorded Sydney Parade standing in the doorway reading from a sheet of paper; and then Rostok arrived, beating a tattoo on the Scout's horn. So he had wasted no time; and if an ambulance was in the vicinity, Pablo could not see it.
He was stalled on the outskirts of Tay Thanh. All traffic was halted to make way for a long convoy of Vietnamese troops returning from some action in the field. Wounded men were packed into open trucks, closed trucks following shortly. Those were the trucks filled with dead. Flies were crawling over the canvas. The people by the side of the road averted their eyes, handkerchiefs over their mouths and noses. The stench remained after the trucks had gone on. Pablo got out of his Fiat and stood in the shade of a rubber tree preparing his briar pipe, tapping the bowl, packing the tobacco just so, taking his time with the match, taking more time achieving an even draw.
He stood with his arms crossed, smoking while he watched the convoy with its appalling cargo. Overhead he dimly saw a flight of American jets, Phantoms from the sound of them. They came over low, flying in V formation like geese. They hurtled across the sky and were gone before he knew it. The roar of the engines remained, intensifying before it receded. The Phantoms were followed by a long string of helicopter gunships; he counted ten and then another flight of twenty or more. His pipe had gone out so he lit another match, the flame steady in the windless air. The Vietnamese convoy came on and on and finally ended. Civilian traffic began to move but Pablo stayed under the rubber tree, smoking his pipe and thinking about Smalley. He guessed his wife's prophecy was correct. What they had taken from him was more vital than life.
The explosions, when they came, were faint but grew louder. They sounded like the stutter of a distant thunderstorm. He felt the ground move underfoot and still the stutter continued. He looked at his watch and five minutes later it had not ended. Five minutes beyond that the explosions went on until at last they faded, echoing, and then ceased altogether except for the residue in Pablo's head. The silence was welcome. Surely there would be an ambulance for Smalley by now. Pablo listened to the birds; and high above he heard the Phantoms returning to base. His pipe was dead and he tapped the bowl against the heel of his hand. He knew his wife was waiting for him but he could not move from the shade of the rubber tree. He decided to stop for some coconuts, and mangoes if he could find them; and later on, at dusk when the air cooled, he would mow the lawn as he had promised. He put the pipe in his pocket. He was drained of all emotion and could think only of his ritual tasks, buying fruit and mowing the lawn. Pablo watched the last of the Phantoms flying south and knew then that Rostok's first call was not to Sydney Parade but to military headquarters, and that Song Nu had ceased to exist.
The Arsenal of Democracy
THE PHOTOGRAPH that appeared on the front pages of the world's newspapers that Sunday became a morbid emblem of the early days of the war. Reading from left to right, Sydney Parade, Captain Smalley, and Dicky Rostok—Smalley towering over them both, his hands crossed abjectly in front of him, his head listing at a strange angle, his hollow eyes staring downward as if something there had caught his attention. Rostok had removed his bandages for the picture. Parade and Rostok were suitably solemn in the presence of one who had survived such an ordeal—and while the picture captions were tactful, even uplifting, most readers turned from the page in pity at the sight of the helpless giant between the two healthy nondescript civilians. He looked as if he were their prisoner.
The full story of the rescue of Captain Smalley was one of the small secrets of the war. On that, Rostok kept his word. Military headquarters disclosed no details, citing confidentiality of methods and sources. CAS similarly was silent. The bombing of Song Nu disappeared from all after-action reports. For a while there were tantalizing newspaper accounts purporting to describe the activities of the little-known Llewellyn Group, since it was assumed that Rostok and Parade had something to do with Smalley's liberation, a premise that Rostok did nothing to discourage but would not confirm, either. These stories were of the working-quietly-in-the-shadows-of-the-war-without-fanfare variety, and earned Rostok favorable notices where it counted at Highest Levels. Of course, without fresh details to animate his story, the hero captain vanished—only to be reborn some months later when the photographer won a prize. Where was he now? He was at Walter Reed Army Hospital, doing splendidly and improving each day. No, he was unavailable for interviews. He had been promoted to major. He had been awarded the Silver Star for gallantry. No, Major Smalley was not expected to return to active duty. His uncle, the congressman, said in a statement that his family still hoped for a full recovery.
One more related secret remained.
When Pablo Gutterman arrived home that night, his wife was not there. He was alarmed and waited nervously in their garden, listening
for her footsteps, eating one mango after another. When she appeared at last she was distraught, her eyes damp with grieving. She said that the hamlets of Song Nu had been destroyed, with terrible loss of life. And the people there were blameless! VC had tortured the American and left him in the hamlet for the people to dispose of as they saw fit. They notified Monsieur Armand, who seems to have notified the American authorities. How could he do such a thing? What business was it of his? This was not his affair, but he should have left it alone. And now there was nothing left but rubble and a hill of dead. And now you are involved, Pablo. You share responsibility. They do not blame you alone. But they are very angry. There must be something you can do to settle your own account.
Armand was not involved, Pablo said, lying to his wife for the first time in their life together.
He was, she said. And this Parade—
Sydney wasn't involved, Pablo said, and then thought, Second time.
Who then? Who was responsible?
Rostok took charge of Smalley when I brought him out. The arrangement was that he would return Smalley to the authorities and that there would be no reprisals. But he called the military, and the military decided to bomb. Revenge for what was done to Smalley and the others who had been captured. Rostok broke his word.
