The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “I tell you what.” Donovan took Williams’s lead. “Why don’t we get your mind off of this. Let’s go help Batman and Robin get hunkered down for the night. You can sit and watch me antagonize them.”

  William stabbed the dirt with his knife. Jackson’s previous statements came out of left field.

  “Yeah.” Jackson looked into the distance as if waiting for something to appear. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  “You too, junior.” Donovan’s smile came back across his lips as he motioned towards McEvoy. “The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can get to a little smoky-smoky. Know what I’m saying?”

  “Understand,” McEvoy responded, following Donovan and Jackson toward Simmons’s singing.

  “You ok?” Garcia exhaled, waiting until the others were outside of earshot.

  “Besides that constant howling, my leg feeling like beef jerky, that ticking time bomb, and now Brother Grimm’s fairy tales, I’d say I’m doing ok.”

  “Stop bullshitting me. You’re hiding something from me.”

  “Hiding what?”

  “I saw it back there when you were about to shoot that kid. Your patience, it isn’t there. You have this lost look to you.”

  “Blood loss. That’s all.”

  “You’re lying to me.”

  “We massacred those people. We cut them down like they were disposable bodies with no families. I dreamed about them last night. I saw her, this one girl’s eyes, looking up at me from that trench.” Williams pulled out a card from his pocket. The glossy coating on the plastic flickered in the setting sun, revealing a black spade. It stood large on the white background, reminding him of a spider’s shadow, its legs reaching out, ready to bury its venomous fangs into Williams for all of his past crimes. “Maybe this is just our purgatory.” Williams tore the card in half.

  “Chris, you can’t blame yourself.”

  “You’re right. I should’ve stopped it all. I could’ve saved those people.” Williams cringed as he hobbled to his feet.

  “Take it easy. Did you take a couple more Tylenols? Maybe the heat is getting to you.”

  “I’ll be fine as long as the rot doesn’t set in.” Williams steadied himself on the trunk and studied the VC.

  “As long as we keep the wound clean it won’t be a problem, but you can’t be clumsy about it.”

  “Understood.” Williams snatched a branch for support and walked over to their prisoner. The VC stared back at him with indifference. Again, he mocked Williams.

  “What are you going to do with him?” Garcia called.

  “My patience will only last so long with you.” Williams unbuttoned the VC’s breast pocket. He held up the torn ace of spades an inch from the Viet Cong’s face. The Viet Cong studied it and snickered, his gnarled yellow teeth flashing through his chapped lips. “They want you dead and I’m the only one keeping you alive. You better start making sense. Consider this a warning.”

  Williams slid the two pieces of card into the Viet Cong’s front pocket. Ironic that it was over the bastard’s heart.

  “As for other matters…” Williams reached into his pocket again, this time pulling out Anuska’s family picture. Anuska’s children, their innocent smiles that would never greet their father again, wrenched at him, asking for retribution. His hand trembled as he held the picture in front of the VC’s face.

  The VC blinked a few times. His smile turned to an emotionless line before he turned away.

  “Turn around,” Williams ordered.

  “What’s that?” Garcia said.

  “I said turn around.” Williams removed his Colt.

  “No, tell me you’re not just going to execute him in cold blood. You’re better than this, Chris. Don’t become an animal like them.”

  “One last time, turn around,” Williams spoke with a demanding cadence as he guided the Viet Cong’s face forward with the barrel of his gun. The VC kept his eyes towards the ground, ready to meet whatever god he prayed to. “You don’t need to be part of this.”

  “I can’t let you do this, Chris,” Garcia pleaded.

  “Listen to me. My first words were a warning.” Williams’s eyes welled with tears, the weight of his actions holding him down.

  Williams slammed the pistol’s handle across the VC’s jaw with a bludgeoning thwack. The VC’s head whipped backwards then bobbed forward, his chin slightly crooked and touching his chest.

  Williams didn’t feel satisfaction in his actions, just the cold reality of falling further down Jacob’s Ladder. He needed to save his soldiers. Maybe he could even save himself.

  TEN

  The rain came fast, pouring in buckets over area as the sun descended behind the mosaic of green. They thatched another lean-to with errant wood and jungle leaf. It provided shelter for the most part, except for the portion that Harris, according to Donovan, had secured. It leaked with heavy drops, forming a tiny moat underneath the cover. They made Harris sit closest.

  Unlike the night before, the group didn’t carry on as much, instead gorging themselves on Donovan’s small stash of marijuana. A haze reeking of pot and sweat circled inside the crude shelter.

  Williams studied them. They were exhausted from the day’s march, smiles replaced by somber frowns. It had been about forty-eight hours since their last contact with base camp. He knew deep down the real trials were yet to come. Most of them were too young or too ignorant to understand what they would face…or whatever followed them on the outskirts, waiting for one to fall.

  He thought back to those moments after they’d touched down in the small village. A few of them made verbal protests, but most complied with Medina’s order. They slaughtered them like cows. Mothers covering children, the elders falling down, clutching their chests as the great devil known as America leveled its justice. How had they fallen so far?

  He could’ve avoided it all if they went with the first two waves, but he wanted to go with Medina’s force. He wanted to see if he could fight alongside the devil and make it out with his conscience still intact, or was he like the man he loathed—a man fit for a scythe and dark robe? He needed to find a cure for the sickness that took the others. In the end, Williams blamed himself for their quandary, lost in some foul-smelling jungle, struggling to trek through unfettered growth and a blanket of humidity.

  Some Americans thought they were murderers, damning their fellow countrymen who fought for a flag others were eager to condemn. But there were two sides to every story. It didn’t make it any easier when both sides were to blame.

  Williams remembered when he’d first confronted evil, the sickness festering within a man. It reminded him of a scene straight out of National Geographic. Some of the mud-and-stick hovels weren’t fit for kid’s tree fort back home. The people back home didn’t understand the proliferation of violence and other bullshit taking place within the Vietnamese hamlets.

  Then there was the guide who was supposedly sympathetic to their cause. Their “guide” wandered around their camp, laughing and carrying on with some of the troops. He played cards, taught them how to cook traditional Vietnamese food, and told stories about their culture. Williams liked him enough, even exchanging a Baltimore Orioles shirt for a few Vietnamese tokens.

  He didn’t realize that each night the bastard would scramble up to the hills and climb a tree to his perch. The insurmountable prick spent the midnight hours picking off soldiers as they made their way to the outhouse, half-asleep, unaware of the danger. He imagined the gook’s toothless grin as he laughed at each victim—poor saps whose only thought was to piss, only to have their heads blown off.

  Sure enough, he would come down the following morning and gallivant around the tents, reassuring the Americans that brighter days were ahead. Even when they questioned him, the gook claimed ignorance, blaming it on the NVA.

  Williams caught him by chance, while he was patrolling the outskirts of the camp one evening. His shoelace had snagged on a shrub. He bent down to retie his shoe when he heard a
curious shuffle within the undergrowth. The short silhouette snaked into the cover of trees.

  Williams followed him up the hill and into the shadow as evening came. He watched the gook uncover his rifle from a pile of debris and take to the trees. The moment the native extended the barrel toward the camp, Williams lifted his gun and shot him in the groin. There was no thought, just action and consequence.

  The spy tumbled out of his perch, screaming in his native tongue, his limbs flapping at his side as he plummeted to the ground. His neck popped like a firecracker when he landed. Williams lost a bit of himself that evening when he laughed at the surprised expression on the dead Vietnamese’s face. Retribution for nine dead American soldiers. He never saw Williams coming.

  He didn’t say anything to the platoon, fearing they would claim revenge on others who might be innocent. They forgot about the man soon enough. Williams wanted to grieve for the shooting, but there was no grievance to be had. He just didn’t want to become sick like the others, but he deserved it just as much for his own sins back home.

  “You really laid into him, didn’t you, LT?” Donovan said, snapping Williams from his thoughts. “Gave him a real shiner. His jaw looks all swollen and crooked. Might be drinking pea soup out of a straw from now on. Think they have pea soup here?”

  “Doubt it.” Williams looked over at Garcia. He knew he’d upset his friend. “It’s nothing to be proud about. Let my emotions get the best of me.”

  Garcia refused to speak to him. The pacifist within the medic abhorred violence, including any form of retribution. But this was different. Retribution didn’t fuel Williams’s actions. It was a warped sense of righteousness Garcia couldn’t appreciate. Maybe it was the righteousness of the damned.

  “Jackson, I got a question for you,” Simmons’s smile hid nefarious intentions.

  “You gonna ask me why I like watermelon or something?”

  “Damn, man. Why you insist everything coming out of mouth is racist?”

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Garcia groaned in disapproval as he opened his copy of the New Testament. He’d managed to scavenge the good book in the ‘copter’s debris. He rested his head back on his rucksack, his breathing laden with mucous.

  “Well, no. I’m just wondering,” Simmons cackled.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m wondering how you stay hard by sticking it to a black women? I mean, they ain’t attractive at all. They smell like shit and their breath stinks.”

  Jackson sprang forward as fast as a man of his size could. So much for the peace.

  “Hey,” Garcia yelled as the two bulls collided.

  “Damn it,” Williams shouted. “Calm down, both of you.”

  The lean-to erupted in a small scuffle as Harris struggled to hold Simmons’s arms back. Donovan dove in front of Jackson, a joint still hanging from his mouth. Simmons’s face turned crimson, his nostrils flaring, his teeth clenching with rage.

  “Don’t make me take your honky ass to the woodshed.” Jackson showed less emotion, shrugging off Donovan.

  “As if you would know,” Simmons dared him. “Damn Neanderthal.”

  “Are we deaf? I said cut it out. Save your energy for something more useful instead of trying to get us killed. You might as well be a siren for them to track us down. The moment they see a sign of weakness, they’ll strike. I can promise you that,” Williams said.

  “What’s going on in here?” McEvoy ducked into the shelter, fresh from his watch over their prisoner. He stopped midway as Jackson crawled back to his spot.

  “Just a little disagreement. Jackson,” Williams said. Jackson snapped his head around. He would at least listen. “Watch our deaf friend for thirty.”

  “Go on, boy. Do our dirty work.” Simmons waved Jackson away.

  “Simmons, you’re next when he gets back.” Williams ordered, hiding the fact that Simmons would serve double time for being a blatant asshole.

  “I’ll be outside waiting, if that’s what you want, farm boy.” Jackson fastened his helmet to his head. “Can’t promise both of us will make it back in one piece.”

  “Aw, shit.” Donovan clapped. “We gonna have ourselves a boxing match.”

  “Donovan, enough. We don’t need any more antagonizing. Goes for the rest of you, too. Keep your cool, and put a lid on the racism. Save that for the gooks.”

  Williams waited for the tension to dissipate as Jackson made his way out of the lean-to. They were all looking for somebody or something to blame for what had happened during the past day. He wanted to confess his sins.

  ELEVEN

  Williams groaned as lifted his head off the dirt floor. His chest throbbed. The pang in his thigh felt even worse. He looked across the dark forms underneath the diagonal roof of the lean-to. McEvoy snored and Jackson mumbled in his sleep. A disturbance at the opening of the shelter caught his attention.

  “LT, outside. I heard something cooing. It ain’t normal.” Donovan grabbed his arm, insisting for Williams to follow.

  “Donovan? Are you high?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, no, just a little. I swear, I heard it.” Donovan stumbled over his words, his bloodshot eyes betraying his true condition.

  “Heard what? Who’s out on watch?” Williams tried to shake himself free from the grogginess.

  “The kid.”

  “Anybody else awake?” The post-sleep haze slowly left him as he looked over the crew again.

  “No, but listen.” Donovan pressed his index finger against his lips.

  Williams followed Donovan’s suggestion and opened his ears to the Vietnamese night. It was full of the typical soft sounds and the occasional odd chirp. A breeze rustled the tree leaves, reminding him of home, followed by an anomalous splash of water. A steady drip plopped against the ground. At least the unseasonal storm had passed.

  Then he heard it: a footfall followed by a snort, then another couple footfalls in rapid succession accompanied by what sounded like a whisper. He couldn’t tell if there was more than one, but Harris should have alerted them.

  “Quiet. Wake the others.” Williams crawled toward the entrance.

  “Hold up.” Donovan pulled him from behind. “Shouldn’t you wait for us?”

  “Don’t have time. Harris is my responsibility. Get the others up.”

  Williams cast himself into the purple-green night where the river shimmered below. He welcomed the fungal notes in the air, cleansing his nostrils from the stale stink of cigarettes and body odor. Quietness took the area, ushering in a darker, more primeval scene.

  It didn’t take long to spot the faint outline of Harris’s rounded helmet resting against a tree. The kid didn’t budge.

  Damn it, Harris. The abnormal quiet amplified Williams’s footsteps. “Harris,” he whispered, checking for any sign of movement, but the helmet remained frozen.

  Williams filled his lungs again and steadied himself, surveying the area for any sign of Viet Cong or the tiger. Two tours in Vietnam had honed his instincts. He could tell when one of them was prowling on the outskirts of camp. It was an ominous feeling, a paranoia that kicked up a notch the further you walked from camp. This was different. Its hungry gaze settled on his form.

  The golden flash to his right beat back the darkness for a second. His heart skipped a beat as he removed his gun as fast as Doc Holliday and pointed it through the endless procession of trees where he saw the light.

  It shifted from behind, just like before. Williams twisted around in time to see the shadow of a vine swinging in front of him, then nothing. The beast vanished, or maybe sleep deprivation’s effects were taking hold.

  Playing games. He fidgeted, wiping the glaze from his cheeks.

  He didn’t want to believe.

  “Harris,” he called. He needed to move.

  Williams shuffled sideways through the cover of mist, looking around until he focused on Harris. The young soldier snorted once then shifted but still did not wake. His M-16 carelessly rested on his t
high, ill prepared for any ambush. More importantly, their prisoner was gone.

  “Damn it.” Williams’s heart pumped faster. He knocked on Harris’s helmet harder than he should have. “Wake up.”

  “What…what?” Harris shuddered from his stupor. His rifle toppled to the ground.

  Williams didn’t wait for Harris to realize his mistake. He retrieved the rifle and scanned the trees. Maybe it wasn’t the beast this time around, rather the Viet Cong.

  “Oh, man, LT, I’m sorry. I didn’t—” Harris whimpered.

  “Get back with the others. You’re lucky our friend didn’t slash your throat when you were napping.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “You let the mouse loose. That’s what happened.”

  “How the hell could he have escaped? He was tied—” Harris squirmed.

  “I don’t want to hear it. Just go.” He’d had enough of the kid for the night.

  Without another word, Harris stumbled into the shadows but in the opposite direction of their camp.

  “Son of a bitch.” Williams wanted to yell at Harris’s stupidity. “Wrong way.”

  “Holy shit,” Harris cried a few seconds later, his silhouette still slightly visible.

  “What?” Williams began to move towards Harris’s voice when he saw it again. The ominous light pulsated in a cascade of different colors down by the riverbank. Gold became blue. Blue became red. Red became white. It was still there.

  “You’ve got to see this.” Desperation plagued Harris’s voice. “Jesus. I’ve never—”

  “Harris.” Williams watched the mysterious light ascend a tree on the opposite bank.

  “He’s here and they’re here, LT,” Harris screamed.

  Williams locked on to the white glow. His finger slipped around the trigger, but the pulsating stopped, separating to form two distinct orbs that hovered across the branches.

  “What in the hell are they doing?” Williams whispered.

  “It’s Anuska. I found him,” Harris whined again, scampering back to Williams’s side.