On the porch of the longhouse, the baby's father unrolled a mat and placed a jar and a bowl on it. I turned to Roberta.
"He's got a cooked rooster in the bowl and alcohol in the jar. And a sharpened piece of bamboo to cut the umbilical cord."
The husband chanted something.
Roberta listened. "He's asking for it to be a girl."
"Girl? Don't the men want sons?"
She shook her head. "Why? Girls do the heavy labor and own the property. Boys don't have any power. When Dad's done, he'll pour a cup of alcohol for his wife to sip, and fetch fresh water to bathe the baby. He's already dug a hole under the house to bury the placenta."
"Good. He's staying positive. We like that."
"Well, he's also notched that little pole."
"Stuck in the ground next to the log casket?"
"Yeah. It'll go at the head of the coffin. Kind of a ladder to the underworld."
The woman went down on all fours. Roberta examined her again by flashlight, turned it off, and settled on the ground alongside her, me at her back.
"The kid's coming," she said. The woman went to her knees.
I squatted and snapped on the flashlight. I was gazing at the birth canal, which was filled with flesh, not feet. "Is it crowning?"
Roberta stepped around and shook her head. "The baby's coming butt-first. Its ankles must be up by its ears."
"Can she possibly pass it through her—you know?"
"She has to. We're not pushing that kid back in and cutting her open. Please, God. Shine the light again, Captain."
I trained the flashlight and saw the cleft in its ass. "I see it! I see it!"
Roberta turned toward me, amused. "You see it," she said.
"Yeah." I was breathless. More wound up than the dad.
"Good thing you see it." She turned her attention back to the pregnant woman and applied the stethoscope to her chest. "You're catching this kid."
Its bottom slipped out, its little back, legs and finally feet, arms, and tiny fists ... Mom was facing away. Most of the baby was in my hands and its head still inside the mother.
"Jesus," I said, terrified.
"One advantage of malnutrition. The baby's little. Probably made the trip easier."
"Can it last like this?"
"Not long," she said, voice hoarse. "Minutes. Five. Maybe ten."
The baby hung headless in my hands, its little chest motionless. Roberta spoke words of encouragement to the woman. The umbilical pulsed less and less. The shaman stepped close and streaked us with ash.
"Doc—"
"Wait."
The mother growled, brow touching the ground. On the next contraction the head emerged with a sucking pop.
"I got it!"
Roberta took it from me instantly and rose. She inverted the infant, holding it by the ankles, umbilical trailing. Fluids dripped from the newborn. I saw its penis, smaller than my pinkie.
"It's a boy!" I said. He had arrived ass-backwards but alive.
Roberta cleared his mouth and the newborn cried out.
I stood bent at the waist and rested my hands on my knees. "I know how you feel, kid."
I was warm and cool at the same time. My knees were shaking. Roberta made me hold the kid anyway. The father approached and purposefully blew in his ear.
"What's he doing?" I said, surprised.
"Blowing the child's soul into its body."
Roberta washed the baby with the treated water and I passed him to the dad. He stood grinning, overjoyed, holding his son.
8
IT WAS ALMOST ten at night by the time we were ready to return to Mai Linh. The colonel came on the radio, impatient with us, like a dad whose children were deliberately flouting their curfew. We had been drinking, but in subdued celebration. The Montagnards feared making the yang spirits jealous of the newborn, though the father couldn't tamp down his joy. He could barely contain himself. Neither could I.
We'd been invited to the parents' hearth in the family's longhouse for a meal, where the chief unsealed a jar of rice wine. I accepted the long straw and imbibed. A wooden marker made sure we each drank a proper portion. I was buzzed and still high as a kite from the birth, so I didn't realize what they were doing until the brass bracelets were already on our wrists, our bare feet resting on an ax blade, anointed with blood dribbled out of a headless chicken. Dad shook our hands and took his leave, disappearing into the dark. Mom and child were nowhere to be seen. The chief looked self-satisfied and content.
Coconut shells went on the fire for kindling, and we were served roasted chicken and fish on banana leaves. Roberta hugged me. She couldn't stop grinning as she dismembered the fleshy chicken, her fingers glistening with fat.
"Maybe they'll name him after you," she teased. "More likely they'll wait and name him something like Harelip or Mole, or worse." She threw back her hair. "But they won't even do that until he's around five. They'll want to see if the yang let him live before they give him a name."
We wobbled down the notched log ladder and barely made it to her Rover. The Yards had carefully repacked it with her medical supplies. On the passenger seat was tree bark with a moon-white orchid growing from it.
"What's that?" she said.
"The doctor's fee, I'd say."
Two bamboo containers lay next to the flower. She switched on her flashlight and opened the first. "Raw opium," she said. She opened the second: "Broial root, which they use to treat sties. They're replenishing my medicines."
I tossed my gear in back and radioed Mai Linh.
"Wait one," the operator said. "Six wants you," and the colonel came on.
"Red Fox, what the hell's your situation?"
He sounded less worried when he heard our report.
"Well," he said. "What was it, boy or girl? Over."
"Boy. Maybe five pounds."
"What's he called?"
I looked at Roberta, stuck for a reply. She took the mike and keyed it. "Old family name. Victor Charlie."
There was silence for a second at the other end. "Seriously? Over."
"Yes."
"Do you require assistance? Over."
"No, we're fine," she said, exuberant. "How's the area? Would you advise we stay the night?"
"Negative, negative. Come back. Be quick." He sounded worried again.
Roberta turned the ignition. "Rider," she said, thrilled. She leaned over the shift stick, clutching her bracelet, and kissed me on the cheek. "We did it, we did it."
In the dark I couldn't tell if it was sweat around her eyes or tears.
We rolled toward Mai Linh, Roberta driving, me riding shotgun, rifle stock at my shoulder, radio handset resting on the other. The headlights were nearly blacked out with tape and we were creeping along.
"You ever prescribe heroin for your patients?"
"No. Raw opium's easier to obtain in Cheo Reo. We buy French barbiturates like Binoctal at a pharmacy when we can, and cadge dextroamphetamines our military men are issued going into combat."
"Can you do me a favor?"
"You looking to score?"
"No, I draw the line at weed. Never been fond of needles. But could you ask your Montagnards if they know of any big new fields of poppies or marijuana plants in the province? It's an intel thing."
"They all grow a little weed in their gardens, right alongside tobacco. How big is big?"
"Big enough that people take notice and talk."
"What was that?" she said.
"What?"
"That light."
I grasped her shoulder sharply and she braked. "Switch off the headlights."
"What are we doing?" she whispered.
"Did you really see a light?"
"I thought so, but I don't see it now. Maybe the headlights reflected off something. Why?"
The dad had been grateful, sure, but did our protection end once we were out of the village? The VC could easily know by now that a pair of tipsy, barely armed Americans were heading back
toward Mai Linh in the dead of night.
"What was that click?" she whispered.
"My rifle. I switched off the safety."
"What should we do?"
"We're too far along. Keep going. Try for Mai Linh."
"Now?"
"Just a second. If you even think you see a light at the side of the road, tell me immediately."
"You mean like a flashlight?"
"More like a candle in a can."
"Held up, like a lantern?"
"No, no! On the ground. A number-ten can—the kind coffee comes in—with a little window cut out."
"You lost me."
"They cut a square opening in two number-ten cans, put a lit candle in each one, place them on the side of the road, maybe twenty feet apart, with the windows toward the road. Then they take up a position a safe distance away, where they can see both lights, and they wait."
"Shit."
"Even if it's dark as death—like now—they can see their target block the first light as it rolls past. When the target crosses the light of the second can, they detonate whatever explosive they've set up."
"Okay, okay," she said, "now I'm scared." She strained to see in the inky dark. "What do I do if we see a light ...? Rider?"
"Spin us around and haul ass."
"Shouldn't we wait for some moonlight or something?"
"No. The less time we think about it, the better. Okay," I said. "Fast."
"Hang on."
She put the Rover in gear, let out the clutch, and we were off. In the pitch-black, with little slits for headlights and bouncing madly, ten miles an hour felt like we were doing a hundred. Something clanged loudly against the undercarriage and Roberta slammed on the brakes, skidding us to a stop on the sandy road.
"What was that?" she said.
"Don't know."
"Did we drop the transmission?"
"No. No. We're okay."
"Are you sure? What was that awful bang?"
"I have no idea. A rock, maybe. Drive straight forward twenty yards. Don't turn the wheel. Not even a little bit."
She nodded and obeyed, edging us forward.
"Now what?"
"Just drive on normally."
She hit the gas. We covered the three kilometers in record time and came screeching up to the Mai Linh gate. It flew open instantly and we rolled in. The colonel, Cox, and Grady were sitting in an idling jeep, all wearing harnesses and bearing arms: a rescue party.
Sergeant Grady took Roberta's bag to the "guesthouse," an abandoned bunker in the inner defensive tier. The colonel took charge of her and the orchid. Grady came back to the Rover, and he and Cox took me in hand.
Cox said, "Congratulations on the bambino. First delivery's the hardest, I hear."
"Drink?" Grady said. "Man, you look like you could use one."
We walked past a white screen onto which a film was being projected, turning part of the camp into an open-air movie theater. Two hundred Montagnards sat on the ground, enthralled.
Grady said, "We got a mixed film batch tonight. One Batman episode, one Combat. Oh, and the third reel of some western. You don't want to be around when the western comes on. The Yards get carried away."
"They root for the Indians, right?"
"Used to. Recently they've decided the Indians are Vietnamese and they root for the cavalry—us." Grady took a swig of brandy from his canteen and passed it. "Then again, they root for the Germans in World War Two flicks. We had one feature with a forest fire—that really got them agitated. They just about stampeded. And King Kong, that was a wow. But they've gotten used to movies, mostly."
We circled the audience. The Vietnamese Special Forces in their red berets stood at the back.
I noted the obvious: "They're still here."
"The LLDB? Yeah, till tomorrow." Grady sniggered. "They're struttin'. We gotta watch out for feuds among the Yards too. The Jarai and Rhade get along okay. But the Bahnar and Jarai have been fighting each other forever."
A poker game was in progress in the team house. The pot was formidable: the table was littered with chips and military scrip and piasters and personal weapons of every variety, put up as collateral by Green Berets strapped for funds. Sprague, the medic, was trying to bet his Rolex but no one would accept it. No one wanted to risk winning a medic's watch.
"You wanna sit in, Captain?"
"No, thanks, my hands are shaking too badly. I wouldn't wanna embarrass myself."
In the corner, an E-7 strummed a ukulele as he sang to a caged monkey with a powder blue snout and pale orange circles around its eyes. The monkey was dipping its fingers in a cup of beer and licking away. I pointed to the triple locks securing its chicken-wire cage.
"Does it jailbreak a lot, or is it prone to attack?"
"That's Bobo the Third," Grady said. "Belongs to our commo sergeant. A mean drunk. Bobo, that is. Just like Bobo the First, and lots worse than Bobo the Second. It'll bite you for no reason, drunk or sober. But nah. The locks are to keep it safe. The guys death-squadded the last one and let the Yards eat it. They're plotting against this one too."
Grady retrieved two cold beers from a large shiny refrigerator the size of a station wagon and offered me one. We clinked bottles and each took a pull.
"You liberate the fridge from the Navy?"
"Nope," Grady said. "Graves registration in Qui Nhon."
Two Montagnard kids appeared out of nowhere and stood stiffly in front of the icebox. Grady said something to them in Rhade and pulled open the door. He removed an ice tray and cracked out a couple of cubes, handing one to each. They bravely accepted the ice he put in their palms and stared at the cubes. Grady shooed them out.
"Yard kids ain't never seen ice, much less touched it."
A beet-faced sergeant scowled at Grady. "Will you keep those f-in' kids out of here? They are gonna hand you a grenade one day."
"Cool it, you dumb fuck. They're just bein' curious."
"You're stupid as a sack of rocks, Grady."
Sergeant Grady and I stepped outside, past two stone-faced Nung, to get out of range of the other sergeant's anger. A cloying odor drifted over us. Montagnards watching the movie were smoking fat cigars rolled with homegrown dope.
"Man," Grady said, "best we keep upwind. They marinate them bliffs in opium. Just bein' near that shit will knock you on your ass."
A Bahnar with bushy hair rose from the crowd and walked unsteadily by us. One of the Vietnamese Red Berets said something as he passed. The Montagnard stopped.
"Lu mat," he said to the soldier and bared his filed piranha teeth, lacquered black.
The Vietnamese recoiled. "Du mi ami," he snarled. Motherfucker.
"What did the Yard say?" I asked. Something as fierce as his rictus grin, I presumed.
"Nothing bad. He don't speak Vietnamese. He's a sweet guy. Said he's drunk, is all."
Grady chuckled as the man passed us and tottered off into the dark.
The Bahnar was barely able to stand, so we tagged after him to the men's longhouse to make sure he made it in one piece. Grady climbed up the pole ladder to the thatched porch and together, him pulling and me pushing, we hoisted the guy up. The Bahnar grinned again.
"Kahan," he said with dignity, touching his chest.
"What now?"
Grady looked proud. "Said he's a soldier. A rifleman."
The man staggered inside, the two of us close behind. Fires smoked in several hearths, seasoning the air in the long hall and stinging our eyes. Our host curled up on a long wooden slab and immediately went to sleep.
"They all look kind of shaggy."
"It's the hair," Grady said. "They don't like to cut it." Grady squatted next to the guy and covered him with a handwoven blanket. "Their souls leave their heads and go wandering when they sleep. You know, like in their dreams. Then come back in the morning."
The Bahnar snorted and turned over.
Grady stood up. "If they cut their hair they worry some enemy will, like, voodoo the
m—take a lock of hair and bury it to make their soul think their body's died and been buried, and the soul will never come back."
Something on the exposed rafters caught my eye and I gasped. Human skulls.
"Damn," I said, stepping back, "that's some home décor."
"Yeah, well," Grady said, "Bahnar are into some wild shit."
"I'd hate to see their souvenir shop," I said. We left and climbed down the notched log leaning against the front porch to the ground.
Grady laughed to himself. "We gotta watch 'em in the field. If a Yard gets hit, it's like they're all insulted. They're liable to take big vengeance—just chop a dead VC's head right off. Scares the crap out of helicopter crews when the Bahnar hold up the thing like a trophy as the bird's comin' in." He scratched the stubble on his face. "You'd think Bahnar would be easy pickings for the Commies."
"Why?"
"They're practically Communists already. Divide up every bit of food among everyone in the vil. Everybody gets an equal share. I've seen 'em divvy up a scrawny-ass chicken among a whole damn village. Not more than a pinch of food for each person, but that's what they do. Reminds me of my grandma. Every kid got somethin', even if it was nothin'."
Grady walked me back to the innermost part of the camp where only Americans and the camp commander were allowed at night.
"Di Uy, radios are your bag, right? You ever see one of our Sneaky Pete specials?"
He took me into a shallow bunker and lit a lantern to show me a wall of portable radios on a long shelf. I took one down. A Japanese transistor model.
"Those Melvins at psy ops stuck us with a whole batch of these, rigged so they lock on this one Saigon propaganda station. You know, Viet happenin' tunes and silky talk to jones the VC into turning themselves in to the Chieu Hoi ‘Open Arms' centers for some R and R. The VC are all hungry as hell, they figure, and hurtin', so they broadcast this sweet deal: come shoot the shit, turn in your piece, get some serious bucks, a couple months' rack time, home cookin', a little volleyball. The psy ops jerks want we should drop them radios where Charlie is gonna pick one up, turn it on, and be rockin' out." He snapped his fingers in rhythm.
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