The Cry of Cthulhu: Formerly: The Alchemist's Notebook

by Byron Craft

  I remember trying to recall if it had been real or the results of the drug. Maybe I had left and the old medicine man with his mysterious perception had reached out through the void at the proper time and brought me back. Possibly he had never left me at all, but was guiding me, directing me on the current course holding on to me all the way only I thinking I had made the journey alone.

  Of course I didn’t consider the most obvious explanation until the effects of the drug wore off and that explanation was the hallucinatory drug itself.

  The next morning I woke up on my own cot still clutching the tiny star stone in my fist. I had no idea how I got back to my hooch or what time of day it was. I am not sure how long I laid there in a semiconscious state before realizing that I was being shaken from my slumber. My head weighed a ton but eventually through the grogginess I was able to recognize Bill. It took some moments before I came around and even though he and I had been buddies for close to a year, his face appeared unfamiliar and distant until I cleared the cobwebs from my brain. I was beginning to concentrate. He was shaking me by the shoulders and shouting something about “bugging out.”

  It wasn’t clear but I knew what the words “bugging out” meant. We had to pull out, back and in a hurry. It meant that the whole camp was in danger. If there is one thing that I’ve learned about the military is that when the order to retreat is given, things must really be hot!

  I staggered to my feet trying to recall the correct evac procedure that had been drilled into our heads during basic training but my powers of reason were lost amongst the scrambled eggs I had for brains. I grabbed my helmet and weapon and staggered into the hot morning sun. Tent stakes were being ripped from the earth and all the camps canvas structures that had been our home for almost a year sagged inward and collapsed like slow deflating balloons.

  Soldiers scurried about and orders were shouted. The sky funneled inward before my eyes. I reeled like a drunk maintaining my balance by leaning up against the communications post that stuck out of the ground in the middle of the compound; loud speakers radiating from the top.

  Someone shoved me aside and I tumbled to the ground. Another yelled, “Soldier, get to your platoon!” It was like a bad dream. Everything had a surreal distorted quality to it. Then all hell broke loose. The air shrieked painfully and shells fell exploding in every direction. I started to run for cover but shells were coming down everywhere. To the south, they fell where reconnaissance last reported the enemy encampment. The road and even the village were being hit.

  Bloch appeared out of nowhere standing in front of me. He acted very calm as if he hadn’t noticed the bombardment. “Let’s go” he shouted above the shriek of an incoming eighty-two millimeter. “We’re hitting the jungle south of the perimeter. Church, you’ve got the point.”

  I hesitated aimlessly for a second or two trying to recall which way was south when Bill came up from behind and slapped me on the shoulder. “It’s okay partner,” he screamed in my ear. “You pull up the rear. I’ll take point.”

  “But it’s my turn to take the ...” I started to say, but my voice trailed off never completing the sentence because Bill had already run ahead. He slowed down his pace for only a second when catching up with Sergeant Bloch, yelled something close to his ear than ran on. Before following, Bloch shot me a hard glaring look over his shoulder, motioned for everyone to follow then headed for the edge of the perimeter.

  Everything moved in slow motion. I remember Stash and Rinaldi jogging past me. There was a blur of O.D. green. Two helicopter gunships hovered low over the perimeter like huge dragon flies. My legs were lead. It was the sensation of time being out of sink you can have in a nightmare. You try to run from some danger but your feet feel like they have been glued to the pavement. Our entire platoon must have trotted past me because I was the last to hit the jungle.

  A ground fog or a fog of my imagination hung over the jungle floor. Smoke and the smell of cordite filled the air above giving the morning sun the appearance of artificial lightning. I was a character on stage in a play. The scenery was in place, the background and lighting were all set.

  In front of me was the barrier that surrounded our camp on the side of the jungle. It had been constructed of three rings of concertina wire with the spaces between the rings filled with trip flares and low tangles of barbed wire. It appeared impassible except to the trained eye. There was a low spot in the earth just below the first ring of concertina wire covered by a small outcropping of pepper hedge. The pepper had been planted by the first infantry division who originally set up the camp and carefully trimmed so that it wouldn’t grow too large and over shadow the wire barrier but trimmed in such a way as to still maintain the appearance of wild growth.

  The low bush marked the easy entrance and exit to and from the perimeter for any knowing grunt. All you had to do was to plop your butt down on the pepper and slide under the wire. Once inside the first and second rings, you could scurry on all fours to your right about a hundred feet and you would come across another clump of bush allowing you to slip under number two ring. The third and last ring could be crossed at another bush approximately fifty meters in the opposite direction. Carefully navigating the trip wires and barbed wire between the three rings of concertina you would find yourself outside the main barrier to our camp.

  I had crawled safely under the first and second rings and was making it around my third trip wire when the sounds of a fire fight made me freeze. First it was the cracking of AK fire, then after a moment or two it was followed by the reports of several M-16’s. A full half minute later the sound of two M-60’s roared from the bamboo. I knew it was our guys. They probably came smack up against some VC or worse the North Vietnamese regular army. I knew this had to be a major offensive on the part of the North Vietnamese. Why else would we have been ordered to pull out?

  I also knew I wasn’t functioning on all cylinders but I pressed on anyway. The thought “I’ve got to help” was the only thing on my mind. The banks of the Ben-Hai were within view and I saw a herd of barking deer, no larger than dogs, nervously skitter along the river’s edge.

  Seconds later I saw a salvo of eighty-two millimeter mortars descended to the south flattening several acres mowing down the bamboo. The whumping sounds of the exploding shells was deafening.

  I laid face down in the dirt for a minute then lifted my head to the sounds of men screaming. They were death screams. The chilling sounds made by the severely wounded. Visions of maimed bodies and torn limbs swam before me. I tried to force the thoughts out of my head and moved on. I only had to pass the third ring and I would be out.

  The third clump of pepper lay just ahead. I scrambled on my belly toward the concealed opening in the concertina wire.

  To my right caught up in one of the low tangles of barbed wire was an arm. I first saw it out of the corner of my eye. I knew how it got there. I didn’t want to look at it. I was afraid to. I knew it was from one of our guys. The shirt sleeve was the right color. It had to have been ripped off at the shoulder from the concussion of one of those mortar shells.

  I only gave it a passing glance. You learned to do things like that in Nam in order to maintain your sanity. Just move along and try not to take in too much of the scenery. Then my eyes caught a glint of yellow. Bright yellow reflecting the suns rays. It was gold. A bracelet around the wrist. Bill wore a gold bracelet on the wrist of his right hand. Was that a right arm or a left arm? I couldn’t keep going. His wife gave it to him the day he was shipped out.

  I crawled toward the severed arm. They had only been married a year when he got drafted. Their daughter was two months old when he left. The elbow was turned away from me. The thumb on the hand pointed down. Oh God it was a right arm. Their love was strong and she had the two words engraved on the face plate where he could easily see them. “Forever Always.” I crawled closer. Red veins and an artery hung from the shoulder socket. A demon within me dragged me toward the ugly thing. I didn’t want to look at it
. It could have been another infantryman’s arm. A similar bracelet.

  The arm was turned in such a way that seeing the gold plate was impossible. Shaking uncontrollably I took hold of the wrist but jerked back the moment I touched it. The flesh was still warm. Momentarily dislodged from the wire the arm slid sideways turning the faceplate upward. “Forever Always” it read. “Forever Always...Forever Always” screamed in my thoughts. Just then another salvo hit the jungle. One shell after another exploded as if mocking the words that screamed inside my head.

  I ran on my hands and knees leaving my weapon behind and dropping my helmet to the ground. I moved recklessly along the perimeter occasionally snagging my shirt and trousers on the barbed wire but never stopping. In that crazed state I somehow navigated my way back through the perimeter barrier toward camp. Getting to my feet I staggered to the edge of camp in time to witness two 122-millimeter rockets slam into the motor pool. The roof lifted several feet into the air, then collapsed. Fragments of metal, glass and wood showered the compound. The concussion from the explosion knocked me down. Mortar shells kept falling all over the area.

  I managed to crawl to the garbage dump for cover and lay there quivering between the concussions of each volley, squeezing the stone trinket in my palm. My brain swam feverishly from the confusion of the attack and the still clear memory of my dream from the day before. Dust and shrapnel choked the atmosphere and through the raging tumult I imagined the old medicine man’s face looking down at me. His arm was stretched out, a finger beckoned. I jumped up and followed the outstretched hand of my imagination to the other side of the camp, explosions screaming in my ears. Half way across the compound the garbage dump erupted behind me with the force of an eighty-two millimeter. Turning from the explosion I looked beyond the Ben Hai river in time to see a large bombardment strike north of the village. My vision of the old Montagnard disappeared when portions of the rock faced Dalat Mountains gave way under the violent detonation.

  I was face down in the dirt after that, sandwiched between a half-track and the mess tent. I heard someone screaming close by, and after several seconds elapsed, I realized that it was my own voice.

  I came to one hundred seventy five miles southeast of camp and found myself in a bed of the 93rd Evacuation Hospital. Bed space was at a premium and wounded were pouring in every minute. My head was clear of the drug and except for a slight pounding in my skull I was fine.

  I watched for a familiar face amongst the men that hobbled in on crutches and rolled in on stretchers. Then I noticed Corporal Rinaldi. He was in the bed next to mine. I thought I was hallucinating again but the thought passed when I heard him laugh. Evidently the look on my face told all. I babbled on briefly about how good it was to see him alive then fell silent. His right arm had been bandaged from the shoulder down. Tubes ran from his side and his arm was supported from above by a sling. I felt stupid. I remembered what happened to Bill.

  The next day I learned from Rinaldi that the bug-out was a fake. A ruse trumped up by H.Q. and known only by a handful with the direct purpose to flush out the guerrillas hiding in the south causing them to tip their hand and reveal their location.

  A company of four platoons were immediately taken off evac procedure sending half to sweep from the east and the others from the west with the enemy caught in the middle leaving no retreat available as artillery was supposed to keep them pinned down hammering at the south and our divisional headquarters’ field guns to the north.

  Artillery, unfortunately, made an error dropping shells around camp and the village until after few costly miscalculations the southern target was located. Some of the friendly fire was directed at the lines of our encampment. The camp suffered heavy damage by the time our C.O. got on the horn and convinced the one hundred and fifty-first that their shells were a little too close for comfort. The people of Dai Sut weren’t so lucky. It was one of these volleys of fire that I witnessed falling far north of the target destroying the village. Rinaldi had a better view than I. While being pinned down amidst a crossfire he saw the base of the Dalat Range reduced to rubble. The entrance to the cave of the elders had been sealed with tons of rock.

  The campaign, however, was a successful counter offensive. There were reports of how the American victory had set the NVA back several months. The aftermath of the battle had only Rinaldi and a handful of others making it back. At least half of them were killed by collateral damage and although the guerrillas were cut down in large numbers, only a few of our guys remained to tell about it. Those that were lucky enough to make it through the barrage met with a fierce battle that lasted almost a full half hour.

  There I was, a cowardly survivor of the battle that had killed most of my friends. The only injury I had sustained was to the mind. While the few that did come out of it considered themselves fortunate to be only wounded.

  Rinaldi never made it to the firefight. Unlike me, he had been stopped by a chunk of shrapnel in the right arm.

  It was, I know, fortunate that I was saved from going into that battle and from the artillery fire as well. Nor am I fool enough not to realize how lucky I was to return home in one piece. But I did panic. Whether it was the drug or the shock of battle or both, I don’t think I’ll ever be certain of the answer.

  On the last day that I saw Rinaldi, he sensed the guilt I was harboring; the loss of our friends that we grew to know during our period of internment. The joys and hardships we shared just trying to stay alive will forever be marred by their tragic deaths.

  When the morphine wore off Rinaldi’s shoulder would give him a lot of trouble. Even though I felt cowardly and ashamed of the outcome, somehow I sensed that he envied my situation.

  Before being shipped stateside I was sent to Heidelberg, Germany, where they put me in a nut ward and fed me Thorazine for a month. After thirty days I was declared “cured” and sent home.

  I left Vietnam without ever knowing if Faab had survived. I made an inquiry with H.Q. but nothing ever turned up. Even though his presence at the garbage dump that afternoon had to have been a hallucination, I still today cannot get over the coincidence of his disappearance that was timed so precisely with the bombardment of the Dalat Mountains.

  ***

  Before I go any further, and possibly wander off, I better tell you how I acquired the position of head photo technician for the NATO West German Missile Deployment. The job title is important sounding enough and the pay was great, everything else was disappointing. I have never told this to anyone, not even to Janet in its entirety and though the situation was odd, circumstances made it imperative that I take the job.

  The fighting in Vietnam ended shortly after I returned home. Afterwards jobs were scarce. They had been before but the costly stalemate of the war just made things even worse. I spent the first couple of weeks in New York City re-acquainting myself with Janet and civilian life. I met my wife’s friends, Emma and Harry, and the four of us had some great moments together. The adjustment was tough and Janet’s job and my discharge pay got us by for awhile but rising inflation and a desire on both our parts to raise a family sent me out amongst the job force to look for work.

  A dream of mine has always been to become independent, self-employed with my own business. The desire was stronger than ever. Two years in the military taking orders has that effect on a lot of people. Commercial photography was the field of course and I needed money to make it a reality. A business needs capitol and contacts to get started so I had to find employment. I was determined to find work in a related field. Almost an impossible task. It became a real hardship. In fact, any job at all was difficult to find.

  I busied myself for awhile taking odd jobs in the neighborhood, running deliveries, washing windows and painting vacated apartments for our landlord in lieu of rent. I filled the remaining gaps by frequenting the different employment services and combing the want ads. I put together a portfolio of some of the better pictures I had taken during my college days and a very short resume. The war
had left me little time to further my talents. I was rusty and updated the portfolio the best I could within our budget. I spent evenings brushing up on new techniques published in the current photo journals and magazines.

  Life turned stagnant and any hope of starting a career looked grim. I had virtually no job experience and unemployment was at an all time high. I was very confident at first of my abilities, but the employment situation was such that it was almost impossible to get even an interview, and the few that would condescend to talk to me held my work record against me.

  Everyone wanted “experienced help only” and with the jobless rate as it was they had the cream of the crop to pick from. There were moments when I resisted the urge to beg for an opportunity to prove myself. One interviewer refused to look at my portfolio unless I had a minimum of five years experience. I wanted to hit him. I became depressed and took to sleeping in late and watching television, seldom leaving the apartment. If it hadn’t been for Janet, I probably wouldn’t have eaten regularly. I began to think of myself as a failure in life ... a looser.

  Janet had described those times pretty good in her diary except she left out one very important word, and that word was “bum.” That was me. I really stopped believing in myself by then. I chucked my portfolio into a closet and went about making a career of boozing it up and getting myself fired from as many transient jobs as humanly possible. I took one uninteresting job after another. A couple paid pretty good too but I normally got canned in a few weeks or a month. Those months turned into years and I found myself playing this looser game for quite awhile until one day when Harry got the loan of a cabin in Connecticut from one of his customers and the four of us took time off from the city for a week of hunting and fishing. We returned on the following Sunday and I picked up our mail from a neighbor down the hall.

  As usual that morning, I scanned the want ads. I came across the following:

  LOOK NO MORE!