The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “What the hell happened? You can’t tell me that a ’copter crash caused this.” Williams fought back another bout of nausea at the gruesome sight. He wanted to save Brewer. He wanted to save them all.

  “I don’t now. I really don’t know.” Garcia straddled Longhorn, slapping him across the cheek again. It wasn’t pretty, but the brutal technique kept troops conscious. Williams could tell that Longhorn was hanging on by a thread. “Harris, look in that rucksack. We don’t have all day.”

  “Shadows. It was in the shadows. The beast looked at me. Beast talked to—” Longhorn exhaled one final time.

  “Jesus, no.” Desperation haunted Garcia’s words as he pressed two bloodstained fingers to Longhorn’s throat, searching for a pulse that would not come. “Come on, man. You still haven’t proven your nickname to us.”

  “Damn it,” Williams said. He knew Garcia hated to fail.

  Garcia sulked back onto Longhorn’s abdomen, dipping his head in a moment of silent reflection. The half-Mexican’s Roman Catholic heritage taught him to be pious, even in the most hellish of times when other forces would have him disbelieve.

  “Found it. I found it.” Harris withdrew a piece of gauze about the size of a napkin from the sack. His gleeful smile disappeared as he noticed Longhorn’s passing. He wished that Harris could bottle that feeling of jubilation. He wanted to wash away all of their sins, but he knew he couldn’t.

  “It’s ok, kid,” Williams said, watching as Longhorn’s pink tones already faded to blue-gray. It was a color he’d seen all too often.

  “No, not Longhorn,” Harris said. The young man had experienced too many deaths in his short life. This one was just the latest.

  “I failed him.” Garcia raised his head, his face twisted with dejection, his cheeks glistening with sadness. He placed his hand across Longhorn’s hushed chest and furrowed his eyebrows until they became one. “I’m sorry, brother. I’m truly sorry. Wish there was more I could do for you.”

  Williams bowed his head to a god he forsook. Longhorn laid rigid, Charlie Company’s trademark—the ace of spades—clutched within his soiled fingers.

  Their commanding officer Captain Medina had dubbed Charlie Company the ‘Death Dealers.’ Some embraced the man, almost revering him like a folk hero. Others slowly succumbed to the moniker. They saw no other way around it. Assimilate or be ostracized. The last thing a solider needed was for his fellow soldiers to harass him. They only had each other in a country where the natives wanted them dead.

  Williams couldn’t understand how anyone admired the demon. Both sides were guilty of atrocities. Less than twenty-four hours ago they were the third platoon through, the harbingers of their own ill-gotten fate. And because of his ignorance, they would all suffer.

  “Get rid of that shit,” Williams balked at the playing card.

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Garcia nodded to Williams and removed the card from Longhorn’s hands.

  “He’s…he’s dead.” Harris slapped either side of his metal helmet. A simple scrawl was penned across one side stating: “If found, please return to sender—US of f’n A.” Williams recognized the helmet. It belonged to him. Somehow Harris had found it and claimed it as his own.

  “Yeah, return to f’n sender,” Williams whispered. He’d already forgotten about the pain.

  “What’s that, LT?” Harris asked.

  “Nothing,” He sighed. “We don’t happen to have a radio, do we? Longhorn needs to get home. We need to get home.” Nobody would be left behind—dead or alive.

  “Williams,” Garcia said, defeat in his voice. As quickly as he’d tended to Longhorn, Garcia abandoned his patient. He wasn’t always able to let go. Williams knew it took Garcia a long time to compartmentalize the pain of losing a fellow mate. It was something they all learned to do, one way or another. The pre-med student scurried along the ground toward Williams and immediately investigated the wounded leg. “This ain’t good. How you feeling?”

  “Woozy. Weak,” Williams replied. “You know, typical morning for me.”

  “The news keeps getting better. We need to get everything. Weapons? Ammo? We don’t have ammo,” Harris tripped over his words, whipping his head around in a frenzy. “Where the hell are we even at?”

  “Calm down, kid,” Williams said, wincing as Garcia poked around his open wound. Except Harris wasn’t a kid anymore, at least not by his standards. Harris bragged about it in the ’copter. A kid doesn’t walk away with a smile on his face after killing six innocents. It turned Williams’s stomach to know some of the others played a role of the soldiers’ dark shepherd, leading them to a pasture withering with lies.

  “Hike up your pants, Harris. Consider it a miracle we’re still alive. Remember your training. Focus,” Garcia said.

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Williams followed. How could it come to this? Lost in some god-forsaken jungle, a petri-dish of disease and VC, he thought.

  “This isn’t going to be…easy,” Garcia said, sitting back on his heels with both hands on his knees. “Need to take a closer look at it. Cut it open.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Garcia removed a knife and cut through the canvas fatigues around Williams’s thigh, widening the hole. Williams felt every individual muscle fiber run through the blistering wound as Garcia jerked his leg back and forth from cutting. It stung like those bumblebees that often plagued his family picnics when he was younger.

  “Looks pretty deep. Damn thing bit into you hard.”

  “Barely remember anything after they started to shoot at us. There was something jabbing at me, then falling through the window. Still can’t believe I survived. Can’t believe any of us survived.” Williams kept an eye on Harris’s nervous pacing.

  “Tell me about it. Landed in the stream myself.” Garcia shook his head, obviously thinking back to the crash. “Regardless, you said you were feeling sick? Anything else?”

  “A little nauseas. Some minor bumps and bruises…and this.”

  “I wouldn’t call this minor.” Williams saw the doubt in Garcia’s brown eyes. Doubt was a dangerous, sometimes deadly emotion in Vietnam.

  “Hoping you wouldn’t say that.” Williams bit his lower lip. “How about yourself? You hurt at all? Anybody else survive?”

  “Couple bruises. Maybe a concussion. Donovan keeps complaining about his shoulder. McEvoy made it, and since you asked about it, his radio’s pretty banged up.”

  “McEvoy survived? Figured the fall would have broken him in half.”

  “Yep, among a few others. As I said, we’re all pretty beat up. Nothing that won’t stop us, though. But first things first. We need to find our way out of here.”

  “If that’s an option.”

  “Don’t sound so pessimistic.”

  “Sorry, just shocked about everything. This place…” Williams surveyed the alien landscape once more, wondering where the tiger hid, “just doesn’t feel right, like we’re in purgatory or something.”

  “Nothing feels right, not right now. We’ll just have to suck it up and get through it. Won’t be our first rodeo. On a higher note, that was a pretty brave thing you did back—or should I say up—there. Jumping in the cockpit. Took some cojones, my friend.”

  Williams chuckled. Garcia’s comment had to be a joke.

  “What?” Garcia stopped fiddling with the leg for a moment. “You having a breakdown?”

  “No,” Williams answered, thinking back to when they boarded the helicopter minutes after leaving a shallow trench filled with a hundred lost memories, another taint on this war. One simple order could’ve prevented the whole damned mess. “Save those compliments for a hero like Patton. I’m far from brave.”

  “Nonsense,” another familiar voice came from behind. “You saved our lives pulling that stunt up there. You got some cojones, or whatever Garcia said. Either way, nice going, Cap. That’s how I like them white boys to operate.” Earl Jackson, his skin as black as mud, trudged up the hill.

  “Told you.�
�� Garcia managed a knowing smile. “You steadied it enough for us to not impale ourselves on those trees. We would’ve been toast if we landed sideways. Lucky for us I think the branches broke our falls. Soft ground doesn’t hurt. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet…literally,” Williams replied.

  “You found somebody else?” Harris said, studying the pair of legs dangling from Jackson’s shoulders. Jackson didn’t say a word.

  Before Williams could greet his platoon-mate, another body flopped down beside him. This one held no breath.

  “Jesus, Jackson.” Harris jumped back.

  “What?” Jackson relaxed his stern cheeks, revealing a bit of emotion as he bit his lower lip. “I figured we’d gather the bodies. At least when we get out of here, you know.”

  Williams recognized Edwards’s buzzed blond hair. Edwards looked like he’d been hacked by a dozen buzzsaws, his clothing torn and sliced. Williams tried but couldn’t muster a single tear, too numb with detachment as he studied the remains. Death had become too frequent.

  “That’s curious.” Williams noticed Edwards’s neck.

  “What’s that?” Garcia continued to study Williams’s wound.

  “No tags. Did you happen to take them?” Williams always looked for dog tags first. It was his way of burying the dead.

  “Nah, man. Maybe got tangled up in one of those branches up there,” Jackson said.

  “Guess it makes sense. Just keep a look out for it. Would be nice to get it back.” Williams coughed as he leaned back, allowing Garcia to work his magic. “Did you count how many of us are left? Survivors?”

  “The four of us so far and Simmons,” Jackson said.

  “Simmons made it?” Williams sighed, knowing the ‘sickness’ may have already taken the Texan.

  “Donovan, too. That’s six.” Garcia pried at the wound a little more. It already stank with infection, a mixture of rotten eggs and excrement. “Yeah, it got you pretty good.”

  Jackson’s lips turned down in a scowl as he turned his head.

  “What is it?” Williams looked up at Jackson’s silhouette. His bowling-ball-sized shoulders were unmistakable in the sun.

  “You know I don’t like blood,” Jackson cringed.

  “Always made me curious,” Garcia said, “why you signed up for this war.”

  “Not by my choice.” Jackson extended a canteen. “Found this over there, beyond that small river. That’s where the other part of the ‘copter landed, at least what’s left of it. Here, you probably need some, Cap.”

  “Thanks.” Williams accepted Jackson’s gracious gesture.

  “Yeah, it’s definitely some part of the helicopter housing. Not sure if it’s smart to yank it without the proper tools. Might be a good idea to drink some of that.” Garcia nodded to Williams. “Looks like you lost a fair amount of blood. You sure no feelings of shock? Hallucinations?”

  “No, but I think I saw someone.” Williams tipped the canteen towards the area across the ravine where two trees formed an archway above the small clearing where he’d landed.

  “Who’s that?” Harris froze in his tracks. “Another one of us?”

  “Not sure. Small frame. Didn’t say a word. Disappeared, though. Kinda like a ghost. Could’ve been my mind playing tricks on me.”

  “I asked you about hallucinations and you tell me you saw a ghost,” Garcia cracked a smile. “Perfect.”

  “Think I saw something else, too. Think it was a tiger or another cat. Couldn’t place it. The fall knocked me senseless.”

  “A ghost then a tiger? Yeah, you’re not in the right mind. Have a better chance of running into a ghost than a tiger.”

  “Didn’t…didn’t Longhorn say something about a tiger attacking him?” Harris stuttered.

  “Longhorn also had both his legs removed, kid. He could’ve said Mickey Mouse tore him apart with the amount of blood he lost,” Garcia answered. “This jungle is already working its mojo on us. And be careful what you eat. That goes for all of you.”

  “The jungle provides.” Williams smirked. For as much as he hated it, Williams couldn’t deny the jungle’s beauty. A combination of the fertile vegetation, the trickle of the stream flowing along the narrow rock bed, and the calls of its native creatures allowed Williams to escape for a few seconds. The scene reminded Williams of the Garden of Eden from back in Sunday school. Ironically, there were no saints among them.

  “All right, I’m going to need to get this out somehow. Don’t want you to snag it on a branch.”

  “We’re already losing time,” Williams said. “Just rip the damned thing out and stuff what you can in there. If it gets infected, it gets infected. I’ll deal with it when we’re out of here.”

  “Ain’t no question about it. That’s gonna get infected,” Jackson said. “Momma always told me to pour hydrogen peroxide on those wounds.”

  “Thanks for the reassurance.”

  “We’re not lucky enough to have any of that,” Garcia wiped his forehead across his brow.

  “Seriously, just rip the damned thing out,” Williams insisted. “I don’t need to be a burden.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I could tear a nerve or rupture a vein. You’d be dead in a matter of minutes.”

  “Do it.”

  “You sure, Cap?” Jackson questioned. The Georgian thought every higher-ranking officer was a captain. “I mean, shouldn’t you listen to Garcia?”

  “I’ll live. Just give me your leg.” Williams leaned back and wrapped his fingers around Jackson’s mastodon-like calf, squeezing as Garcia pressed down on his thigh. It burned like hellfire.

  “You positive?” Garcia’s eyes quivered.

  “One last time, rip the damned thing out.”

  Ignoring every bit of medical training he received, Garcia pulled back on the steel shard like a lawnmower cord.

  “Son of a bitch.” Williams grimaced, tightening his grip around Jackson’s calf. The world around him silenced for that moment. Jackson stared down at him like a proud father would look at his son.

  “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.” Garcia pinched down on Williams’s gash, providing a temporary seal for the wound. He held the triangular-shaped metal shard in his other hand like it was some trophy.

  “That can’t be good,” Jackson turned his head once again.

  “Good news is that it doesn’t look like you cut an artery or anything. Would be bleeding like a stuck pig. I know you’re going to hate wasting time, but I’m going to have to clean it up pretty good to prevent infection.” Garcia breathed in hard, another few drops of sweat curving around his cheeks. He tossed the shrapnel aside as he inspected the wound. “Still don’t know how you survived all that blood loss.”

  “I still feel something. Like there’s something biting.” Williams reached down, overwhelmed by a surge of nausea. Blood loss and fatigue took its toll. Tree frogs echoed. Multi-colored wings fluttered above. He sank deeper into the jungle floor.

  “Still some more in there?” Jackson’s voice muffled as he peered down at the wound. What the hell did he know about medicine? He was a machine-gunner, a mule for the army.

  The vibrant colors faded.

  “Damn it. Didn’t get all of it. Without any sterilized instruments, I’m not gonna risk it.” Garcia stretched out the gauze. “Harris, hold the wound. Press down and don’t let up.”

  Harris complied, taking Garcia’s place. Blood continued to bubble like a hot spring from Williams’s thigh.

  “Chris, stay with me, bud.” Garcia slapped Williams’s cheek.

  Treetops spun above Williams in counterclockwise motion. With each orbit, the leaves seemed to come alive, their tips glowing, breathing in the air as they reached down.

  “Lieutenant. LT,” Harris spoke up. Williams looked over to Harris. For a moment, Harris was just a kid who happened to be wearing Williams’s helmet.

  “If found, please return to the US of...” Williams released his grip around Jackson’s calf. His head dro
pped to the floor and rolled to the side. On the opposite side of the embankment, he saw it again—his ghost’s petite silhouette leaning against the tree. Williams blinked once, then twice, before his eyes shut, the inside of his head whipping with the sounds of ’copter blades.

  He was back inside the Huey’s fuselage as it jostled seconds before touchdown outside the village of My Lai. The Huey was flanked by several others as soldiers poured out like bees from a beehive, joining the other men who arrived after the first minutes of carnage.

  They were supposed to be there—the VC, hiding in the area known as Pinkville.

  Williams felt the weight of his weapon of destruction and hunger pangs deep in his stomach as he exited the Huey. He never ate before a mission, always afraid the anxiety would cause him to puke in the middle of battle.

  Ominous columns of smoke reached for the heavens. The roofs of hootches and huts were set ablaze by overzealous GIs. Some of his fellow mates prowled outside the primitive homes, firing upon the disoriented women and children who exited. Others didn’t wait, choosing to take the initiative and enter the homes. A few bright flashes of gunfire enveloped the doorways, some accompanied by a scream, some not.

  Then there were those who took to firing upon pigs and scattering chickens like some demented game of target practice. It was par for the course with such a young force. Fear drove young men to the limit. War drove them off of the cliff.

  Flanked by Jackson, Williams navigated through the battle with his rifle pointed at the ground, past makeshift piles of corpses, twisted faces of innocents laying on top of each other as if their lives meant nothing.

  The more Williams observed of the natives, the more he realized the lack of one material element—fighting age men. In specific, the Viet Cong they came to eradicate were no where to be found.

  “This ain’t right,” Williams’s words echoed in the ethereal scene.

  “What to do then, Cap?” Jackson asked.

  “I don’t…I don’t know. This ain’t us.”

  He noticed a few GIs corral a handful of sobbing women a several yards far to his right, away from the main focus of the village. The women, some no younger than high school students, huddled together in a language Williams still didn’t understand. One of their captors brandished an M79. Williams could only pause as the GI popped off the grenade launcher, and with an explosion of dirt panted red, the women were gone, lost to an explosion of manufactured hellfire.