The Ghosts of My Lai

by JC Braswell

  “Quiet.” Williams wished he could send Simmons to the brig, his taint forever removed from their company.

  “Spirit,” the VC said.

  “What?” Williams started to reach for the VC’s collar again. “Don’t start with that crap again.”

  “Spirit.”

  “I told you.” Williams seized the VC and pressed his forearm into the sternum. “Say ‘spirit’ one more time, and I’ll bury this blade in your gut. Just one time, so you’ll bleed out like my friend. You hear me? You’re going to guide us out of this hellhole. The choice is yours whether we leave with or without your head.”

  The VC’s nostrils flared.

  “LT,” Harris called from behind. “Something…there’s something over there.” Harris backed away, fumbling for his rifle. “I heard some type of buzzing.”

  Williams turned around to investigate what alarmed Harris. It took a second, but he saw the source in the dull amber light. Trampled leaves and the occasional broken sapling marked the edges of a trail. There was a reason the area was easier to traverse than the opposite bank. The river provided water. A trail led to the river which could only mean one thing. They were on the road to the devil’s den.

  “The river. Don’t tell me we’re smack dab in the middle of a Viet Cong supply route.” Williams heard the buzzing sound, too.

  “Ah, shit.” Simmons joined Donovan. The two steadied themselves as they crouched to one knee, using the sparse undergrowth as camouflage.

  “Damn it. Stonewall, cover Garcia and watch Tonto.” Williams ducked through the jungle floor, leaving Jackson to handle the VC.

  It didn’t make sense. If the Viet Cong were going to attack, why would they wait until the morning when they were refreshed?

  “I think I hear something.” Williams crawled over and pulled the frightened Harris down, coming face-to-face with his helmet that read, If found, please return to the US of f’n A.

  “Over there.” Harris’s finger twitched as he pointed to a narrow row of white bark. The trail curled around behind the trees, forming what appeared to be a small grove. “Listen.”

  The buzzing subsided. The only sign of life emanated from the morning chirps as the birds called overhead, lost in the thick span of foliage. Then Williams heard it again. The undulating sound of a weed-whacker resonated around the grove, a tool with no earthly reason for being there.

  Williams nodded at Donovan, who readied his M-16.

  “What do you think that is? Maybe a trap?” Harris asked. His matted hair formed icicle-like bands down across his forehead.

  “Like it not, I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough.”

  Williams gripped his leg, hot and tight, praying that it would hold for at least the next few minutes. He pointed forward with two fingers pressed together.

  “Son of a bitch.” William’s tone escalated as Donovan barreled forward, disregarding the potential for a trap. “What the hell is he doing?”

  He had no choice. Williams rushed past Simmons, hobbling the entire way after Donovan. His only means of defense was a handgun loaded with a half-empty magazine he’d found earlier in the night.

  “Screw y’all,” Donovan screamed with a gleeful expression. The hothead welcomed the chance for retribution, disappearing into the wood.

  Williams stumbled to the right then to the left as his illness took him. The ground bounced underneath of Williams’s footfalls, but he needed to get to Donovan. The cocky college dropout was a sitting duck.

  “He wants to bring the pain. Let’s bring the pain,” a bloodthirsty Simmons screamed from behind.

  They must have been setting up an ambush all along. Donovan happened to be the unlucky bastard on the receiving end, likely staring down the steel barrels of a firing squad, all preparing to unload on the hasty American. His gung-ho nature would be his ultimate undoing.

  “No.” Williams squatted with his good leg and propelled himself into the cover of the grove, past the sting and the dizziness, where he crashed into Donovan. His shoulder planted into Donovan’s hips, his momentum sending both crashing down on the moss-covered ground. He half expected bullets to spray the area, but they didn’t.

  “Bastard.” Simmons ran up to their feet, his bottom lip drooping. “Dad damn it. This can’t be real. This can’t be real.” His eyes were locked on to something.

  “What is it?” Jackson yelled from across the camp.

  “Jesus, just a head’s up.” Simmons turned away, his expression sour with irritation. He puckered his sun-bleached lips and spat. “We found the rest of McEvoy.”

  “McEvoy?” Williams questioned, covering Donovan. It couldn’t be. Then he heard the buzzing again.

  “Why do you think I didn’t fire?” Donovan wriggled underneath. “It’s ugly, LT.”

  “How ugly?” Williams patted Donovan on the shoulder and looked towards the grove.

  He remembered the previous day. McEvoy’s headless body harkened back to Washington Irving’s timeless story. He braced himself for what was to come. If it was anything like what he’d seen before, Williams knew whatever message the VC wanted to deliver would be just as brutal.

  It was.

  The stake sprouted from the center of the clearing as if arranged to display a trophy, a circular cropping of trees surrounding McEvoy’s impaled head. A plague of flies circled above, landing on the decomposing gray flesh, implanting their eggs, each one producing a buzz that resounded within the grove.

  “This can’t be right,” Williams said. He rolled off of Donovan and to his back.

  “Holy…oh my god.” Harris heaved as he rounded the corner, emptying his stomach. The rest silently looked at their fallen brother.

  McEvoy’s fly-bitten and decomposing face barely resembled his former self. His bottom jaw was detached and hanging to the side. His nose had been bitten off, leaving a triangular gorge. His eyes sank into the recesses of his skull. The crown of his head had been scalped and punctured with the stake, exposing brain matter oozing down his cheek.

  An insect Williams couldn’t identify emerged from McEvoy’s empty eye socket and injected its stinger into the wilted skin. McEvoy had only been dead for twenty-four hours, but he looked like he had been fermenting for a week.

  “Lieutenant, do I have permission to kill our prisoner yet?” Simmons asked.

  The lack of humanity didn’t disturb Williams. He felt a certain level of gratification after seeing the pictures. McEvoy had raped a girl, probably leaving the teenager in some ditch after he had his way with her. He would’ve never pegged the kid as the type, but then again, some of the men didn’t understand the monster inside, releasing it when Vietnam consumed them.

  “Son of a bitch.” Williams noticed the edge of a small rectangular slip of white shoved through McEvoy’s eye socket. Another omen.

  Williams plucked the white sleeve from McEvoy’s skull. A trail of brown-red stained the paper. He flipped the card over to reveal what he knew was imprinted.

  “What is it, LT?” Harris asked.

  “Ace of spades,” Williams said, his head feeling lighter than it should have. He grabbed one of the trees and allowed his weight to shift to the one leg that would likely not be amputated. “Spades.”

  “Ain’t no way. Ain’t no fucking way,” Donovan said, fidgeting with his rifle as he scanned the area. It was the first time Donovan had displayed a hint of weakness, the slightest bit of fear.

  “Is there still a reason why we’re supposed to conversate about what just happened? Waste another two hours of our lives.” Simmons narrowed his attention to their hostage. “Or should we send a message back to these bastards? I see a landscape full of trees we could use.”

  “No.” The monotone drone of flapping wings vibrated in Williams’s mind as he tried to gather his thoughts. “We’re not going to impale him.”

  “Think about what this means,” Harris said. “They left that card on purpose. They left one in Anuska’s skull. They know about us. Jesus, if they did
that to McEvoy, what do you think they’ll do with us?”

  “Our friend over there is in on it. Maybe he’s been leaving a little cookie trail for these slant-eyed mongrels to follow.” Simmons smiled, grinding his teeth together like some demented jack-in-the-box.

  “They don’t need a damned cookie trail to follow us. We’ve been making enough noise let the entire NVA know where we are,” Williams said.

  “Well then, oh brave commander, maybe if I have a moment to question that little faggot you’ve protected, we’ll find out.”

  “That’s not the way,” Williams answered.

  “Oh, it isn’t? Don’t think I missed it. I saw that hunger in your eyes when you grabbed him. That’s the same hunger we’ve been feeling.” Simmons stepped forward. Leaves crunched beneath his impenetrable frame. He was on a roll, unfazed by McEvoy’s presence. “Grab on to it, Chris. Let that animal out, because that’s what’s going to keep us alive.”

  “Staying together is going to keep us alive.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken, but isn’t that McEvoy’s skull on a stick? That’s what sticking together will get you.” Simmons wouldn’t stop antagonizing him.

  “Not this way.”

  “Don’t go telling me we’re going to survive by tiptoeing around these savages? Think again. It’s hot out here. We’re soaked, day in and day out, smelling of our own shit, and you want to coddle that faggot over there who might, and I emphasize might, give us the answer. Why don’t you let me have a minute with him alone? I’ll guarantee he’ll talk.”

  “What do you intend to do with him?” Williams kept his face towards the ground, concentrating with all his ability to remain standing.

  “He deserves quite a bit. Don’t you think?” Simmons seethed. “I think it’d be a good idea if our buddy joined McEvoy on that stake.”

  “It sounds like you want to kill the only person who knows where we are,” Williams answered. The ground spun faster.

  “I tell you what. I’m open to communicating. You know, a little compromise.” Simmons wiped the black juice from his chin. “Let me remove the bastard’s other ear, maybe he’ll start singing. It’s worked before.”

  Williams knew the look—he’d experienced the void in Simmons’s glare too many times before with others. Simmons approached the edge and willingly jumped. The animal was about to take over.

  “Why would you do that? You know we can’t understand what he says.” They were losing it. They were all losing it. “Or do you just want to add to that fancy necklace of yours?”

  “You think I like wearing this?” Simmons lifted his necklace of decomposing gray flesh. “I’m not sure if you know, LT, but this wasn’t my idea. No, you weren’t there. You were in that cushy office reserved for officers of yours. Grunts like me, we’re different. We actually face danger. It was right outside some Podunk village where they picked off Grayson and Rampage on consecutive days. We were ambushed then. Didn’t see it coming. It was only Hayes and me left. A group of twenty of them came out of the mountains like fire ants coming out of a hole in the ground. Looked like the walking dead at first. Wasted all of us except us two. Our only play was to act dead, hide under one of the bodies. Thought that would work.” As he spoke, Simmons’s eyes seemed to withdraw into his skull, matching the distance in his words.

  “But they couldn’t leave us alone. No, they needed to make sure we were dead. They walked over us, stepping on corpses, smashing boots into the back of our brothers’ heads with this…sound, this crunch sound that still echoes in my ears. One of them couldn’t have been more than fifteen, maybe sixteen. I remember his expression as I pretended to be dead, peeking through my squinted eyes, hoping he couldn’t tell. Looked like a ghost, Chris. Kid had no soul. He poked Hayes for a bit. Hayes played possum with the best of them, so good that the little cocksucker wanted to make Hayes a medal, at least from one of his ears anyway.”

  Williams’s supporting hand slid down the smooth bark of the rubber tree. His arms were as heavy as anvils. Every solider had a story at that moment when they decided to shed their former self. This was Simmons’s story. As much as he loathed the bastard, he wanted to listen, to try and understand.

  Donovan and Harris were captivated. Jackson, still tending to Garcia, listened, but did not watch.

  “That NVA, well, he was fooled, all right. I still remember that stiff sound. That grinding sound a knife makes from overuse.” Simmons paused for a moment, the lobes of his eyes beginning to water. “Hayes was a good ol’ boy. Didn’t mean no harm to anyone. I learned a lot from that red-bearded bastard. But that kid didn’t care. That mongrel sawed through his ear, sliced it right off with this pop. Hayes just lost it. Imagine the kid’s surprise when Hayes jumped up, screaming like some lunatic. Kid reacted all right. He took that damn knife of his and stuck Hayes’s throat like a voodoo doll or some shit Jackson’s family would conjure. I seen blood plenty of time before, but this was different. Hayes’s blood was almost black as it just spilled out of his throat. That NVA kid grew up that day. He didn’t seem to mind slicing through Hayes’s cartilage and skin while Hayes was struggling for his last bits of life. Next thing I know the kid had Hayes’s ear in his hand. Looked like beefy jerky. He smiled at it with some evil toothless grin. But the little bastard didn’t realize the rest of his friends left him, kinda like a cattle moving on, leaving their calf at his lonesome.”

  Simmons’s attention meandered to the distance. There was neither man nor animal for that brief second.

  “He didn’t see it coming. I snatched that kid’s twig neck. He must’ve shit himself, because there was a hang in his britches. All I could smell was his bowels and rice, or something like that. He said some nonsensical gibberish like our VC friend over there, real scared and all, before I squeezed my forearm and popped his neck. Think he might have sounded off like a rooster, but what do I know? He just took Hayes. His body just went limp on me, like it wanted me to cradle him before he went to Hell. That was my first kill. I actually kind of figured tit for tat, Hammurabi’s Code and all, so I took the knife he used on Hayes.” Simmons patted his pocket, but did not reveal his token. “That’s when I dug into his ear and pried it off. It was like peeling an orange. Gotta admit, it was kind of…empowering. Still remember how the ear felt. Slick, covered with blood.”

  Simmons shifted his hand towards his necklace, massaging to the first token on the rope, the most shriveled and decomposed of them all. “So you think I’m sick? Nah, I’m not sick. This”—Simmons pointed to the ground with emphasis—“just made me into the person I am today. Hell, I should be back home tending to the fields. But that ain’t me anymore. That person died when he hopped off the ‘copter. I figure it’s payment for all the nonsense I’m going to have to go through back home. Yeah, it ain’t fair for any of us pulled into this shitstorm. So you stand there and criticize me all you want, Mohawk. Don’t you think I forgot about your stories, as well.”

  Williams winced at the mention of his nickname. It harkened back to his brutal attitude when he’d first stepped foot on the red dirt of Vietnam. He was reckless back then, cursing and careless in his demeanor. If the army was flush with qualified officers, they might have thought differently about sending him over.

  “Judge me when you know damn well all the crap we’ve been through. Think about those piss-smelling fields, the days on end without a shower, the looks of disdain, the snipers shooting us in the back. These ungrateful mongrels who would rather spit in our face than see that we’re helping them. Damn it, Chris, we’re here defending their country in some backwards war against the commie bastards up north. We don’t belong here. If I want to get our boys to safety, I intend to do so, with or without you.” Simmons hollow voice almost dissipated with the wind as he spoke. There was a quiet rage about it all.

  “So be it.” Williams looked at his hand. Dirt clumped underneath fingernails and embedded in the lines of his knuckles. “You don’t think I’ve heard that before? You don’t think all th
ose people before us had to deal with the same bullshit? But you got something wrong. You think we’re better than them. We’re no different than them, not after what we did back there. There were kids—”

  “They were VC, Mohawk. NVA sympathizers just like those mongrels in the other villages who hid shit to blow our asses up. That’s the difference between you and I. I know my loyalties. I know about the red, white and blue. It was our duty to go in there and eradicate them for our boys, to protect our boys. Now don’t you go on and tell me you don’t want to protect our brothers.”

  “Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. There were kids in there.” Williams’s jaw trembled. “Has nothing to do with protecting our own.”

  “Kids? You call someone who would bury a grenade in our artillery tent a kid? Oh, hell no, not me.” Simmons’s grunted, turned away, and sucked in his lips before looking back at Williams. “Once you cross the line and kill, you lose that ability to call yourself a kid. So if you’re asking me if I feel damn sorry about what we did to them, listening to them scream, then you’re asking the wrong person. They were all soldiers, Chris. Soldiers in smaller clothes.” Simmons threw down the gauntlet.

  “What happened to you?” Williams glanced at the others, knowing decorum was once again about to go to Hell.

  “What happened to me? Really? Maybe I need to repeat myself. It’s this.” He pointed all around him. “It made me aware of all the bullshit out in this world. I’m willing to accept it while you’re not capable, Mr. High and Mighty.” Simmons took one more step forward, his stale breath heavy with each exhale. “You may think I’m some dumb country hillbilly, but I’m not blind, not yet. Garcia’s on his deathbed, wheezing all night, hacking up his lung. How much time do you think he has left? A day? Half a day? He’s as good as dead. But what do you do? You want us to lug him around to find some hospital that ain’t gonna pop up like some oasis, and that’ll slow us down for time we ain’t got. You’d rather sacrifice all of us than sacrifice one.”