The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “None. Must have all blown out in the crash with my kit. Only have what you see over there.”

  “Those “D” rations we have. They peaches?”

  “Yeah. How’d you know?” Garcia’s eyebrows perked up in curiosity.

  “Just my luck.” It had to be peaches.

  “Consider it luck. For all intents and purposes, we’re back in the Stone Age. Just another glorious evening in Nam.”

  “We’ve been in the Stone Age for quite some time.” Williams slammed his fist into the makeshift Vietnam map. “You think now would be a good time to pray?”

  “There’s always a good time to pray. Although, I’m not sure if He would hear us. Not after—”

  “Get that nonsense out of your head.” Just because Williams considered himself damned, it didn’t mean he would let the others walk down the same path, especially Garcia. “I’m going to need you out here, all of you. Those guys. They’re just kids. Scared as hell. Some of them deserve better.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call them kids anymore.” Garcia glanced down at the troops below. “That innocence is gone after what happened and all.”

  “I understand what happened, believe me, but there’s no use in going back and trying to rewrite history. Won’t serve us any good here.” Williams made sure to be careful with his choice of words. “No compass. Broken radio. No map. Limited ammo means we won’t stand a chance against an ambush. We need to be definite in our movements. Stick together. We’re going to just have to be one big dysfunctional family.”

  Another clap of thunder reverberated across the sky, this one a little more pronounced, echoed above with a flash of light.

  “Here I thought we were in the middle of dry season.” Garcia’s face lit up with white light.

  “So it seems.”

  “I’m glad you made it, regardless of what happens.”

  “Feeling’s mutual. Now let’s get everybody up here, including the supplies. If this storm has any punch to it, we might be dealing with a little flooding in that stream. Last thing we need is for our supplies to be washed out.”

  “What about the bodies?”

  Williams looked down at his fallen troops. He didn’t want to, but he knew it was inevitable.

  “It won’t do us any good to keep them close if any of those damned animals pay us a visit.” Williams’s mind drifted back once again. The encounter with the beast, the vision of the platinum eyes should have been his last.

  “At least they’ll be baptized,” Garcia said.

  “Have a feeling they’re going to need it.”

  Something shuffled to their side, bristling against a thicket of ground brush. Williams thought he caught a glimpse of orange and black within the brush, its ominous silhouette blending in and out of the environment.

  “Holy shit. Did you hear that?” Harris backed away, his mouth agape with concern.

  “Viet Cong wouldn’t be foolish enough to expose themselves that easily. Maybe just a wild boar. Who knows?” Garcia said, feigning courage with a grim line across his lips. He followed the unknown’s movements as it weaved back through shadow. “Might do us some good to kill it. Could use the food.”

  “Harris, keep a close eye on those plants over there. Garcia, call everybody in,” Williams said, keeping his eyes locked on the bush.

  “Everybody, up here with Lieutenant. Grab all the supplies you can.” Garcia waved them up.

  “What about Edwards, Brewer, and Cobb?” Jackson asked.

  “We’ll let God sort them out,” Garcia responded with a hint of disfavor.

  I don’t think God has anything to do with this, Williams thought as his hand slid back down to his Colt.

  FIVE

  The nine of them huddled inside the makeshift shelter constructed around the base of the tree—a sad excuse for what they learned back in boot camp. Like most Vietnam storms, the downpour came quick, but not before the small troupe managed to jimmy a lean-to out of tree limbs and one of the tarps, which served as part-insulator, part-roof.

  Williams listened to the steady rush of water as the storm caused the stream to swell with rainwater. Eventually, the midnight landscape of stars broke through the smattering of fat raindrops, the celestial bodies reflecting in the puddle outside of the shelter’s opening where Williams positioned himself.

  Having grown up in Annapolis where industry touched every part of the suburbs, the stars seemed to shine brighter across the primitive lands. Williams studied them every night, sometimes while at base camp, sometimes during a scouting mission. They were always there, watching his every movement. He wondered if she was watching, far removed from the savage land. It was the only thing that calmed his nerves.

  As the storm subsided, tree frogs and the damned insects sang in the same monotonous tone. The fabled jungle lizard with its drawn-out growl joined in the nightly chorus. Then there were the unknown noises that made the hair on the back of Williams’s neck pimple with gooseflesh. Just like the children stories his parents read to him at night, there was something mysterious about this land, something whimsical yet dangerous.

  Williams had only experienced the serene obscurity one time before, in the deserts along the West Coast a month before heading for Vietnam, an impromptu trip of supposed self-discovery. One could consider it peaceful. Williams knew better than to fall prey to nature’s illusion. It was during peace when most bad things happened.

  His eyes trailed down to the three soldiers lying at the ravine’s bottom, each with a name, each with a past. He watched the water rise over their bodies, soon to wash them further into the jungle’s heart where the unknown waited.

  Or maybe the tiger would take them.

  Villagers told stories about the man-eaters roaming the jungle floor. They told the same fear-mongering fables to children, warning them if they did not behave the jungle’s spirit would open its mouth and swallow them whole. It was the Vietnamese version of the boogeyman.

  Williams had thought the stories silly until his first encounter with a tiger roughly one year ago. It was his own damn fault, wandering away from his patrol so he could empty his bladder. He knew he traveled too far from the encampment, logic telling him to turn back but emotion pushing home deeper into the growth.

  Part of him wanted to be punished for what he’d done back in Annapolis. He hoped some Viet Cong patrol would pick him off. But it wasn’t a Viet Cong patrol who would visit him that night.

  Moonlight highlighted the feline’s orange cloak with a hint of blue, joined by a purposeful growl that could’ve made the moist earth below tremble. The ivory of its fangs extended like daggers slicing through the untamed night. Instinct took over as the beast lunged for him.

  He shouldn’t have survived, but he did. The machete he used to clear a path sunk deep into the tiger’s throat as the weight of the beast pressed down upon Williams’s body, its blood spilling across his torso and warming any exposed skin. It took all his strength to avoid suffocating under the tremendous amount of dead weight as the tiger took its last breath.

  He returned to the spot where he slain the beast the following morning only to find discolored foliage and a few impressions in the mud. The was no sign of beast.

  Though he encountered tigers twice before, this latest encounter felt off. The beast stared at him as if it had a soul, penetrating deep within Williams’s thoughts. He still felt its presence. It was out there, lurking, possibly seeking revenge for having slain its brethren.

  Williams pulled the tarp tighter, careful not to clip his bandage. He would not see sleep at all for the night.

  “Corncob, you want some of this?” Harris offered Simmons a joint—a common practice for the Death Dealers back at camp, but not out in the boonies where Viet Cong could pick you off. Opiates, pot, and whores were often the selection of the day, especially the women. At any given time, half the platoon would be scratching their crotch, wishing away an STD.

  “Yeah, I’ll indulge a little more,” Simmons answere
d. “Shouldn’t hurt someone like myself.”

  “Right there with you,” Harris smiled.

  “You guys are playing a dangerous game out here smoking that garbage. Save it for camp, not here,” Williams said.

  “Relax, LT. Does it really matter right now? Look around. We’re lost. Ain’t no harm in enjoying what may be our last bit of freedom.” Simmons smirked as Harris handed him the joint.

  Williams eyed the exchange. He already saw the potential danger. Since Harris’s arrival, Simmons had taken the boy under his wing. Like a kid looking up to his older brother, Harris followed Simmons around, even adopting some of Simmons’s less-than-flattering mannerisms, including occasionally mouthing off, a bold move for someone so green.

  “Hey, Cap. What say we going to do next?” Jackson asked.

  “Get the hell out of here. That’s what I’m saying,” Donovan said with a drawn-out voice, bloodshot eyes, and his lips curled with his trademark grin.

  “We wake up early. Find our bearings. As Donnie said, get the hell out of here,” Williams’s words were poignant. He needed to gather them up and find a way out of the jungle. “McEvoy, did you manage to collect their dog tags?”

  McEvoy rubbed his arms up and down his chest. With little body fat, his teeth chattered, his breath visible in the cold. The jungle’s meteoric drop in temperature served as another reminder how she transformed at night like Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde.

  “Hell, LT, couldn’t find a single one out of the three of them. Searched real hard. Found some cigarettes, though.” McEvoy’s breath stank like an overflowing outhouse. Hygiene had never been one of his strong suits.

  “You sure you checked?” Williams took a sip of water, making sure to keep hydrated from the loss of blood. “Positive?”

  “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Everybody, keep an eye out for the tags. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but we owe it to them,” Williams ordered.

  “Why even waste our time?” Simmons asked.

  “Because.” Williams studied Simmons in the dull light. The devil definitely knew the Texan well. “If we can’t bring back the body, at least we bring them back in another way. Their families deserve it.”

  “They’re just metal. Army issued. No big deal.”

  “I know it’s hard for you to comprehend, but imagine a wife sobbing, holding her newborn close as she receives the news. This war ain’t got a place for white picket fences or vegetable gardens. The least we can do is bring their memory back. Maybe provide a little comfort. They can put them up on their mantel or something.”

  “Speaking of dying, did you see their faces?” He had to go there. Simmons showed no compassion. He never did. “They look like they were all about to shit themselves. Gooks didn’t see us coming. Medina had it all right. Damn Viet Cong sympathizers,” Simmons blurted out. “They got what we came for. Next one I see, I’ll rip his throat out and stuff it right up his ass. God damned chinks.”

  “You mean gooks, right?” Donovan chuckled.

  “That’s what I said.” Simmons frowned.

  “No, you didn’t. You said they were chinks.”

  “Well, whatever. I meant gooks. Ain’t a damned difference between those mongrel species anyway. All monkeys to me.”

  “Yeah, I got me some of them monkeys.” Harris wriggled beside Simmons with excitement, almost awkward in his delivery. “Got me twelve of ’em.” Harris’s numbers grew with each telling.

  “Your first kills, kid.” Jones slapped Harris on the back, more unwarranted brotherly love. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “I can still see the whites of their eyes. Big old cue balls. They thought they were going to pull their wizardry and shit.” Simmons laughed, prompted by the marijuana’s spell. “Wizardry and shit, did you hear that? They think they can get us with their magic. All these temples and Buddha nonsense around here. Goes to show you how backwards they are.”

  Williams shook his head in disgust. Although it was the village’s decision to join the Viet Cong, they had no reason to kill innocents. Most of them would have made another choice if they knew the truth. Williams hated them for this, condemning his men to a life that would be forever altered from the massacre. And for what? Politics.

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Williams said.

  “Hear what?” Harris asked.

  “Anything about killing. Not here. Not now. Ok?”

  “Whatever.” Simmons muttered something else under his breath.

  Williams wanted to close his eyes to escape from it all, but the villagers’ cries haunted him. Revenge in the form of newly minted American bullets tore through the lot of them. Like the small stream filling with water during the downpour, that cursed trench filled with the blood of the innocents, lifeless eyes staring up at them until the thick crimson syrup swallowed them whole, some still hugging their children.

  Then there was the one girl who reached up for him, tiny fingers sprawled out in hopes of a hand to pull her out of her personal hell. He saw genuine terror in her eyes, questions of what they were doing to them. Maybe she was holding a homemade doll before they arrived. Maybe she was skipping around her hamlet. It didn’t matter. He did nothing.

  “I don’t get them,” Garcia whispered, counting a few more Tylenols for Williams to take. “I don’t see how murder is anything to be proud of.”

  “The sickness hasn’t taken you yet,” Williams huffed, staring at the small white pills, more to spit out and save when Garcia wasn’t looking. “Part of me wonders, too. Then that part of me remembers Hackett. Remember Hackett?’

  “How can we forget?” Jackson nodded.

  “He haunts me the most. I can’t even take a piss without thinking about him. That kid was different, though. Had that lost look in his eyes when I handed him the Hershey.” Williams took the Tylenol, thinking back to when the Vietnamese kid, much younger and frailer than Harris. The village kids would swarm the American troops in hopes of receiving their prized possession: candy.

  “Yeah, I remember that. His lips all smothered in chocolate. Didn’t see the killer inside him.”

  “That’s how we are. Parents do a great job of corrupting children. Blind hatred doesn’t help.” Garcia hesitated.

  “Animals. Some people are animals,” Williams voice faded. He couldn’t think about it anymore. “You ever get that compass to work, Donovan? The one you said you found?”

  “Shit no.” Donovan giggled, lost in the haze. “That nonsense is all cracked, spinning and all. Can’t tell east from south.”

  “Wait, I thought you said it was broke.”

  “It’s broke all right. Glass is cracked. Can hardly read the damn thing. You can have a look-see if you want.” Donovan stopped combing his thick black hair and retrieved the black circular device from his pants. Williams reached over, ignoring the jolt of pain, and took the compass. “What’s it matter anyway, LT? Without a map, what use is it?”

  “I sometimes wonder what they teach you boys in boot camp these days. Anything about common sense?” Williams opened the case. Sure enough a spider web of cracked glass marred the lens, reminding him of the helicopter’s cockpit window as they fell.

  “Well?” Garcia peered over, the slight smell of phosphorus as he flicked his lighter. The small flame produced just enough light to illuminate the neon-green N within the glass.

  “What?” Williams looked closer. Donovan was right. “Why is it spinning like that?”

  “See, I told you it was broke.” Donovan propped his M-16 along his chest, his hand not far from the trigger. “Crash took everything. Real trippy if you think about how we survived.”

  “Shouldn’t matter that the lens is broke. Has nothing to do with how it works.” Williams tapped the side of the compass housing, hoping it would steady the spin. Nothing.

  “What do you think it is?” Garcia asked. “Anything around here in relation to magnetic north?”

  “Wizardry, like Simmons said,” McEvoy spoke up. Even i
n the pale light, Williams could count the freckles across the kid’s cheeks.

  “There ain’t no damn wizardry,” Donovan said. “Stop talking like you’re one of the Brothers Grimm or somebody.”

  “Ain’t no damn wizards or witches,” Jackson added.

  “Bullshit. You should be familiar with it. Voodoo, ain’t it?” Simmons egged Jackson on in a thick Southern twang. “You stick the needle into the doll. Bet you have a doll.”

  “Kiss my ass.” Jackson turned away from Simmons.

  Williams watched the black piece of circular metal with the green N spin clockwise then counter-clockwise. It continued the endless pattern until Williams snapped the compass shut and tossed it back to Donovan. Hope faded, but hope was for those with conviction, those with a right to continue.

  “Never seen a compass go haywire like that. This ain’t the Bermuda Triangle,” Jackson said.

  “No, this ain’t the Bermuda Triangle.” Williams snapped the compass shut.

  “I think I’d rather have the Bermuda Triangle about now. At least we can be on the beach with all them women. Big ol’ brown titties.” Harris took another drag, taking in short breaths so as to hold in the smoke.

  “Do you really need to talk about that now? With a group of men,” the normally quiet Anuska spoke up. He’d been keeping to himself, sharpening the ends of a few sticks with his knife for the past hour. Anything to keep occupied from the thought of being lost. “Not like you’ve experienced the warmth of a woman without paying for it.”

  “Yeah, keep quiet over there.” Donovan laughed at Harris. They all laughed, save McEvoy, who immediately shut up, a grim expression marring his face. “Keep to you and your prostitutes.”

  As much as society scorned affairs and looked down upon prostitution, Williams could not fault his men for finding comfort in the arms of a foreign woman. It helped ease the jitters of watching your best friend’s head get blown off earlier in the day. Most of what he observed were boys who yearned to be back home, turning to the only thing that could tear those restless thoughts from their minds. Society would never understand. It was either the women or the alcohol. Nothing good ever came out of alcohol.