SNAFU: Resurrection

by Dirk Patton

  That’s how Corporal Strayer found himself late at night in the A Shau valley in front of the blackest cave mouth he had ever seen with less than a month left in country.

  Sarge motioned them forward. Holquist took point, with Strayer, Quinn and Sarge following as quiet as possible. Within ten minutes they were back looking at the cave mouth. Jacob, who had been left guarding the entrance, merely nodded. He lay in the bush with the muzzle of his shotgun pointed in the direction of the cave.

  With a few quick hand signals from Sarge, Holquist started forward, silent like a jungle snake. After a twenty count, the others followed. Holquist was already in the cave, invisible to his companions.

  They had just arrived at the cave mouth when they heard the Stevens go off. They hurried ahead as fast as the low ceiling would allow and stopped just short of the turn. This far in the flickering firelight was clearly visible.

  Sarge gestured, and he and Quinn crept forward as Strayer watched their six, keeping his focus on what was happening in front but making sure nobody was sneaking up from behind.

  After a moment Sarge whispered, “Reverend, I think we require your services.”

  Quinn came back around the corner and swapped places with Strayer, who kept his M-16 up as he edged forward and confronted the scene.

  The small tunnel opened into a larger room, one with boxes and bags and a small fire in the center.

  Next to the fire were the remains of an NVA soldier and another Vietnamese man in black peasant garb. Both had been shredded by the shotgun blast. The boxes and wall behind them were spattered with blood and covered with bits of bone, hair, and brain. The air smelled of copper and gunpowder. A single plastic shell lay on the ground between Holquist and the fire. He still held his Stevens up, aiming at something beyond the flames. Strayer turned and squinted, finally seeing who Holquist had in his sight.

  On the other side of the fire calmly sat an old man. He appeared unfazed by the shotgun blast in the tight quarters. As soon as Strayer focused on him the old man’s eyes brightened. A look of expectation crossed his face.

  “Services as a clergyman or as a translator?” Strayer asked Sarge without taking his eyes off the old man.

  The old man spoke before Sarge could reply, “Tại sao bạn ở đây? Bởi vì những người bị đốt cháy hoặc những người bị chết đuối?”

  “The fuck’s he saying?” Sarge barked.

  “He’s asking why we’re here. I only understand some of the words. Something like are we here because people burned, or because people drowned?”

  “Ask him what the fuck he knows about it.”

  Strayer thought for a moment and spoke, “Bạn có biết về những người bị đốt cháy và những người bị chết đuối?”

  The old man smiled. “Con Hoa và Bá Thủy đã ở cùng họ. Bây giờ họ sẽ ở bên bạn. Người của bạn đã thả napalm trên các làng của tôi. Tôi nghĩ rằng bây giờ bạn sẽ biết những gì nó là để có lửa đuổi theo bạn.”

  Strayer gestured at him to slow down for a moment. He rolled the words around in his head, searching for their meaning. “He says Ba Thuy and Con Hoa have been with them. That they will be with us now. He said something about how we used napalm on them, so now we will have fire chase us.”

  “Who the fuck are Ba Thuy and Con Hoa? These guys?” Sarge pointed to the bodies opposite the old man.

  The old man just smiled. The only sound was the snap and crackling of fire. Somehow that was worse than the earlier firefight. Strayer felt the weight of something or someone else in the cave with them.

  “No, Sarge,” said Strayer, glancing around to confirm no one lurked in the shadows. “Ba Thuy is a water goddess who causes noi.”

  “Noise?” Sarge stared at the old man with the eyes of a rattlesnake.

  “Not noise. Noi. It’s a traditional curse. It makes people push their own heads down in water so they drown even in very shallow amounts.”

  “He expects us to believe a goddess has been killing American soldiers? Commies don’t believe in gods, Strayer. What’s the other thing?”

  “Con Hoa? I think they’re the ghosts of people who burned to death. They make other people set themselves on fire.”

  All three soldiers fell silent, staring at the old man, who in turn stared into the fire. The flames surged but could not chase the shadows from the cave. Rather, the flames and shadows danced together, never illuminating the dark spaces. Strayer suddenly felt very vulnerable. He noticed the others also seemed on edge. He wanted to attribute it to the claustrophobia, to the VC and NVA in the cave, but he knew this was something else.

  “Chẳng bao lâu,” the old man whispered.

  The shadows crept closer. The flames let them.

  “What does that mean?” asked Sarge.

  Strayer stared at the man staring ever deeper into the flames. Strayers mouth was dry, almost too dry.

  “Soon,” he managed to croak out.

  “Soon? What’s fucking soon? He thinks he can scare us? Because I don’t think fire ghosts or water goddesses are going to fuck with us.” Sarge pointed at the two bodies. “Because that is an NVA soldier wearing a special operations patch, and that looks like a goddamn PLAF soldier missing a head, thank you for that, Corporal Holquist. Now why is our friend here sitting down with an NVA commando and a Viet Cong soldier in a room full of supplies? Please ask our friend here.”

  Strayer asked. The old man answered.

  “He says they came to him. They wanted his help.”

  Sarge smiled grimly. “And why would the NVA and Charlie need ole grandpa here?”

  “He says he is a ‘Ong Thay Phap’?”

  “And what the fuck is that?”

  “I’m not sure. Hang on.” Strayer asked the old man a series of quick questions, which the old man answered more slowly, never once taking his eyes off the fire. With each exchange, Strayer grew more hesitant. It wasn’t the language, but what he was being told. “Near as I can guess, Sarge, it’s a kind of sorcerer.”

  “Like a witch doctor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How do you say ‘bullshit’ in Vietnamese?”

  “Nhảm nhí.”

  “Hey, grandpa! Nhảm nhí. I don’t give a fuck if you’re a witch doctor, a werewolf, or the fucking Wizard of Oz. What is all this, and who are they?” He pointed at the corpses again.

  The old man looked at Sarge, then back into the flames.

  “Chẳng bao lâu,” he whispered again.

  “Nhảm nhí, grandpa. What’s this stuff?” He indicated the boxes behind the old man and the dead men.

  Strayer asked. The old man answered.

  “Supplies – food and medicine for the villages napalmed just south of here.”

  Holquist spoke up. “He talking about Khe Sanh?”

  Strayer shook his head. “I don’t know. He just said ‘his’ villages. The NVA guy and Charlie here brought this stuff to buy his services.”

  “And what services were those?” Sarge said, his voice quiet and dangerous now.

  “Apparently he can summon Ba Thuy and Con Hoa.”

  “Gods and ghosts,” said Sarge. A statement, not a question.

  “Yes,” said Strayer.

  “Gentlemen, it seems this is the one we have been sent to find.”

  Knowing what was coming, Strayer paused. “Yes, sir. This would appear to be the one the colonel wanted us to find.”

  Sarge pulled the trigger on his M-16. The old man flew backwards as the bullet struck him in the chest, and he slumped against the boxes.

  “No telling what’s booby trapped around here and no time to figure it out. Let’s drop some willie pete and start the skedaddle back to daddy to tell him we done good. Di di mau.”

  Strayer started to follow Sarge out of the cave as Holquist pulled two white phosphorus grenades from his bandolier. He looked back at the old man who, amazingly, was not dead yet. He smiled at Strayer thro
ugh bloody, black teeth. “Chẳng bao lâu,” and then in English, “Con Hoa, for you.”

  Strayer suppressed a shiver and turned, following Sarge and Quinn.

  “Fire in the hole,” Holquist yelled, barreling out of the cave just as fire and smoke started to pour from the opening. They kept moving, no longer bothering to stay quiet until they caught up to where Jacobs waited.

  “Sarge?” Jacobs asked.

  Sarge looked back at the cave as smoke continued to pour out, the glow slowly dying.

  “Problem taken care of. Jacobs, call in some snake and nape to make sure this area is very fucking off limits to whatever dinky dau shit they thought they were doing.”

  Jacobs looked at the four men standing in front of him. “How dinky dau?”

  “Sarge wasted a witch doctor,” Quinn said, “and Holquist brought an NVA and a VC closer to Buddha.”

  “Okay,” Jacobs said, not sure if he was being made fun of. He got on the radio and called in the strike request. “Snake and nape coming here at first light, Sarge.”

  “Good. Should make sure whatever Charlie had been planning here is no longer a concern—”

  Mamacita open up on full. Ten rounds a second streaming off into the bush. They dropped low.

  “Fuck, Lopez! Move!” Sarge led the way, the soldiers running back to the rear position where Lopez had been watching the back door.

  The Gun cut out.

  Silence screamed across the jungle.

  They found Lopez lying against a tree, his uniform charred and smoking. The Gun lay a yard from his feet. As they neared, the skin on Lopez’s face and hands had been burned, and some of his hair under his helmet was more than a little singed. As they stood watching, blisters began to form on the man’s hands and face. The smell of burnt flesh bit strong. The terror in Lopez’s eyes was obvious.

  Quinn, Holquist and Jacobs immediately took up defensive positions while Sarge and Strayer tended to the giant man.

  “What was it? Where are they?” whispered Sarge.

  Lopez stared at him.

  “Who were you firing at?”

  Lopez looked off into the darkness of the jungle, and simply said, “Them. They came from out of the jungle.”

  “Them? How many? Did you get them all?”

  Lopez looked at him, terror in his eyes. “I didn’t hit one.”

  “Fuck, stay alert,” Sarge hissed. “Light up anything that moves out there, boys. We got us some hostiles.” The men all drew in a little tighter.

  Sarge turned back to Lopez and put his hands on either side of the man’s head. “What happened here, soldier?”

  Lopez was panting, terrified, but also like it hurt to breathe. The burns on Lopez’s arms and face turned from red to white with black edges. Almost as if his skin was still being burned. The smell of the burnt flesh, hair and clothing filled Strayers nostrils. He tried to ignore it but heard Holquist quietly retching behind him.

  “Lopez!” Sarge barked, “Focus up, soldier.”

  Lopez looked at Sarge. “Mamacita did nothing.”

  “What?”

  It clearly hurt Lopez to speak, but in his terror there was also a kind of confusion.

  “Mamacita didn’t hurt it. Why?”

  He looked off into the jungle. “The flame.”

  “What flame? Lopez! Stay with me!”

  He forced Lopez to focus back on him.

  “No.” The skin around his mouth began to split, and pus oozed out as he spoke. “A five-foot-tall flame. It was fucking walking towards me!”

  “Okay, Lopez. I don’t know what happened, but you’re shell-shocked.”

  Lopez gripped Sarge’s arms. Some of the skin on his fingers began to slough off. “No! It was a flame. It was moving towards me. I shot at it and it kept coming. It spoke to me! ‘Soon’, it said. Then the flames went away, and it was an old man. ‘Now’, he said, and then there were all these children. They were naked and on fire. The old man smiled at them, and they all ran and grabbed me. Mamacita told them not to come, but they ignored her. Everywhere they touched caught on fire. So, I threw myself on the ground and rolled around to get rid of the flames..”

  Strayer looked up from examining Lopez’s body, disbelief in his eyes. “Some of these burns are pretty bad, Sarge. But look at this one.”

  There was a burn mark on Lopez’s arm. The red and black outline of a child’s hand was clear. The center of the burn was streaked with white and black as the flesh continued to crisp.

  Sarge straightened up, his eyes moving back and forth across the jungle. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on here, but we are making a beeline for the evac zone for an extraction. Jacobs, call it in.”

  “The fuck is going on, Sarge?” Panic obvious in Jacobs’ voice.

  “Keep your shit together, Jacobs. Keep it together all of you! Stay focused.”

  “Roger that,” said Holquist, but he was scanning the jungle incessantly. Everyone gripped their weapons a little tighter.

  “I want a bird there to get us the fuck out of here. Lopez, I don’t care what the fuck happened to you. What I need to know is can you walk?”

  Strayer helped Lopez up, and the man tested his feet. He looked badly hurt.

  Lopez nodded and mumbled, “Someone will have to carry Mamacita.”

  “Roger that. Quinn, you get the honors. All right, gents, look alive. Change in plans. We are heading back the way we came in. We have an extraction point that is supposedly free of things that want to kill us about ten clicks from here. We know the jungle behind us ’cause we just came through it. I don’t know what lies down the planned evac route, but whatever the fuck is going on here, I want us gone before it comes back. We need to be there at first light. We move as fast as Lopez will let us. Move out.”

  They started down the trail, Holquist on point, the rest back about a dozen feet, guarding Lopez like a treasure they were afraid Charlie might try to steal.

  Lopez stumbled through the bush, but Strayer kept a hand on him to keep him steady. Lopez’s eyes were unfocused, and he moved like a marionette. He was shivering and stumbling. Fear, maybe, but Strayer knew the burns had probably started Lopez down the path to hypovolemia and hypothermia. Strayer hoped they’d get him all the way to the evac point, but Lopez was fading.

  They had been moving down the mountain for about fifteen minutes when Holquist stopped and raised a hand. He peered into the bush, then sank down. The others followed. Strayer helped Lopez get low. He tried to hand the soldier a .45.

  “Just in case,” Strayer murmured. Lopez couldn’t close his fingers around the weapon, and Strayer put it back in his belt.

  In silence they waited. Only the sounds of the jungle met them – animals, birds, a water flowing nearby. They waited. And waited. Nothing from Holquist. Sarge motioned for them to stay in place while he crawled ahead. He moved through the bush towards where Holquist was, and after a minute they heard a quiet “Shit.” Sarge called them forward.

  Holquist was face down in a stream coming down the mountain. They ran forward. Sarge had pulled him out of the water and started mouth to mouth and CPR. Strayer moved to support while the others stood guard over them. Quinn, Jacobs and Strayer all exchanged glances. Quinn was starting to panic, eyes darting. Jacobs kept turning in a circle after that, looking for who or what did this to Holquist. The only sound was Sarge trying to breath for Holquist and the stream flowing on. Moonlight reflected off the stream, creating a glow around them.

  “What the fuck, man? What the fuck is going on?” Quinn yelped.

  “He tripped. Must have hit his head,” snapped Sarge as Strayer took over CPR.

  “It’s that old man,” muttered Jacobs.

  “Stow that, soldier! I don’t want to hear that talk. The next man to go all heebie jeebie on me is going to regret it.”

  Strayer fell back from Holquist, exhausted – it was clear the man was gone.

  “Fuck, man,” said Quinn.

  Strayer wiped his face with a
bandana and looked up at Sarge. “He drowned in six inches of water, Sarge. He didn’t hit his head. He put it down into six inches of water and held it there.”

  “Time to move, Reverend.”

  “Can’t leave him here, Sarge,” began Jacobs.

  “You gonna carry him, Jacobs?”

  The men stood staring at Holquist.

  “Y’all knew the rules when we set out,” said Sarge. “Get fucking moving. Jacobs, grab his effects for his family. Lopez, the Stevens is yours now.”

  Lopez looked down at his devastated hands and held out his blackened fingers.

  Softening, Sarge looked at his men. “It was an accident. He was one of us. But he’s gone and we are in hostile territory. Grab his stuff – don’t leave anything for the gooks.”

  The men took the gear from their fallen comrade begrudgingly, as if they were robbing a grave.

  When they were done, Sarge looked at Strayer. “Reverend, a few words.”

  Strayer bowed his head and closed his eyes, clutching the M16 tightly. “Lord, we commend our friend and fallen comrade James Holquist to your hands. He was a good friend and a good soldier, and he deserved a better end than this. May he find peace and rest in your bosom. Amen.”

  Sarge nodded. “Jacobs, take point.”

  The men started through the bush again, and Strayer quickened his pace and caught up to Sarge.

  “Don’t,” said Sarge.

  “Got to admit, it is a hell of a coincidence.”

  “Don’t have to admit shit, Reverend. And lower your voice, Charlie will hear you. Stow your crap and keep moving.”

  “The men are starting to panic, Sarge.”

  “The men are professional soldiers and will do their job. Now fucking do yours, Reverend.”

  They hit the valley floor and could move a little faster now, although Lopez was starting to slow.

  “Sarge, Lopez is badly burned. He needs water and rest. Let’s a least catch ten.”

  Sarge looked at Lopez, nodded. “Ten.”

  The men dropped and opened their canteens. Strayer held out his. “Lopez – have a drink, man. You need water. Let me take a look at those burns.”

  Lopez took the canteen with both hands, holding it like a child, but didn’t drink. He stared off into the jungle as Strayer conducted his examination. Lopez was covered in second and third-degree burns. They looked far worse than when he had first examined him. Anyone else, thought Strayer, and they would have died of these wound a mile ago.