Termite Hill (Vietnam Air War Book 1)

by Tom Wilson

  "Maybe I said the sweetest operator. . . . Anyway, one thing following another, she said I should talk with one of her friends. She said the girl was very pretty, and was separated from her cruel Chinese businessman-husband.

  Benny shook his head in amazement.

  "So I told the special girl my story, how I'd been without female companionship for a long time."

  "And she went along with your bullshit?"

  "I told her about the Purple Heart I'm getting."

  "Jesus," Benny said in disgust.

  "She said her father had fought in World War Two, and would love to talk with me. She also said her sister would like to talk, too. She was engaged to a Philippine Air Force fighter pilot who got killed.

  "I pick her up at the main gate at six. She's going to take me home to meet Pop, and then we're going to dinner."

  "You're crazy!"

  "I told her there were two of us. She wants you to meet her sister."

  "Bear, you really are crazy." For the moment he'd forgotten about his funk.

  At the exchange they selected candy and small gifts: ornate cosmetics compacts, an inlaid jewelry box, tobacco, and a pipe. The girl had told the Bear her father spent most of his time just sitting about fouling the air with his pipe.

  "Filipinos are sentimentalists," Benny advised sagely. "They'll love you."

  "Us, you mean."

  From the BX they took a black and orange taxi. At four o'clock they were at the main gate.

  "Two hours to go, so let's not waste it," said the Bear. "How about a hotsy bath?"

  They left the cab at the gate and made their way through the Saturday crowds of Americans and Filipinos. After a short search they found the Blue Diamond Bar and Swedish Massage Parlor. At the rear entrance they each paid three dollars to a taciturn old woman who showed a gaudy, gold front tooth when the Bear announced his displeasure at not getting her services. He settled for a plump nineteen-year-old who giggled at his jokes as she led him through a curtained doorway.

  Benny's girl, slender and shy, was dressed in a miniskirt and an armless cotton blouse. She led him through the doorway and motioned to a bench. "You take off clothes," she said, handing him a towel. She then turned on steaming hot water in an old chipped bathtub at the other side of the room. "You want beer?"

  She took a dollar from him and left the room.

  He stripped naked, then wrapped the towel around his middle and sat on the bench, feeling heady with intoxication. As he sat waiting, he turned philosophical. The Bear is right, he thought. Living well is the best revenge.

  The girl returned, barefoot and dressed in hot pants and a T-shirt advertising Coca-Cola, punctuated by erect nipples. She carried a bottle of San Miguel beer as if it were fine champagne.

  He swigged the ice-cold beer and shivered. It was close to a hundred degrees outside, and the air conditioning was dismal. That, with the steam rising from the tub, had him sweating like a pig, but the beer chilled him as it trekked through his pipes.

  The girl led him to the tub. "In." She pointed imperiously.

  He inserted his right foot and withdrew it with a howl. "It's too damned hot!" he yelled.

  "In," she repeated, bringing her hand to her mouth to giggle at the face he made. She pulled his towel away as he gingerly sat in the tub, sucking his breath as the hot water covered him to the waist. She scrubbed his back thoroughly with soap and water, and he felt muscular tensions easing away, as if he was being exorcised of mean spirits. She washed his hair, making the roots tingle as she shampooed and massaged his scalp with her knuckles, then used a rough washcloth on his chest, legs, and feet.

  She stopped and giggled. He had an erection.

  "You want special," she said, sliding her hand down and grasping him.

  "No," he said, very badly wanting the special.

  His refusal neither bothered her nor slowed her down. "Up," she said, motioning. He stood and let her towel him off, then lay on the massage table as she pummeled his back with relentless hands. She worked and kneaded his buttocks and legs, then pummeled again.

  When he rolled to his back she modestly placed the towel across his loins. She rubbed and kneaded his chest, arms, and legs. Finally, she reached under the towel and touched him again.

  He groaned out loud and flinched.

  "Special?"

  "No," he mumbled.

  "Hokay," she said, willing to go along with his strangeness. She motioned for him to turn onto his stomach once more. "You like me to walk on back?"

  He considered, since the doctors thought there could be something wrong with his back. To hell with it, he decided. "Sure," he said.

  She crawled onto the table and, using the wall beside the table to steady herself, slowly and expertly trod up and down the muscles of his broad back.

  "MM-mmm-mmm," he muttered involuntarily as she walked. It was delicious torture.

  "You very strong man," she declared.

  "MMM-mmm-MM-MMM-mmm," he moaned in his pleasure.

  Thoughts of his wife's infidelity had been washed and pummeled away. For the first time in days, Benny Lewis felt human.

  03/1715L—Takhli RTAFB, Thailand

  Tiny Bechler

  "One mechanical alarm clock," Tiny said.

  "Check," Mike Murphy said.

  "Another group of letters. Let's see . . . seven in all."

  "You look them over?" asked Murphy.

  "They're mostly from girlfriends. A couple were a little heavy, so I tossed 'em."

  "Okay, seven letters, check."

  Tiny held up a portable tape recorder. "One recorder. I checked the tape inside. It was from his parents."

  "One tape recorder, check."

  Tiny counted, then looked up. "Eight unrecorded three-inch reels of tape."

  "Eight reels of magnetic tape, check."

  Tiny Bechler looked about until he was satisfied, then began to secure the top of the box with strapping tape. "We're finished."

  Murphy filled in the rest of the form, then signed Michael K. Murphy at the bottom, in the SUMMARY COURTS OFFICER space. He handed one copy of the inventory sheet to Tiny, who placed it on top of the contents before closing the last flap. Another copy was placed in a small envelope and taped to the outside. A third copy would go into the squadron files, and the fourth he would keep for his own records. As summary courts officer Mike was responsible for the return of his squadron mate's belongings to his family.

  "Shitty job," growled Tiny Bechler. He had been volunteered by Colonel Mack to help. They'd lost two pilots in yesterday's strikes.

  While Tiny checked to make sure the three other boxes of clothing and goods were properly taped, Murphy completed two other forms, then signed all copies of each.

  "Well babes," Mike said sadly, "when the guys from shipping and receiving get here we turn these in and then we're done."

  Tiny looked at the boxes. "Jimbo Smith was a good guy."

  "Yeah." Jimbo had still been in his aircraft when it had hit the ground.

  Colonel Mack came into the hootch.

  "You guys done yet?" Mack asked.

  "Just finishing," said Murphy, still examining the forms for accuracy.

  Tiny looked at his handiwork before standing up.

  "You checked the stuff over good before you boxed it up, right?" asked Mack.

  "Yes, sir," said Mike. "He's clean. There was a lot of . . . ah . . . questionable stuff. Half-finished letters to girlfriends, stuff like that."

  "And?"

  "When she gets the stuff, his mother will know Jimbo lived like a saint."

  "No use for Mom to think otherwise," said Mack. He looked at the boxes. "We'll all miss him."

  Mike Murphy, who had been close to Jimbo Smith, did not comment, but kept looking over the paperwork. His eyes were moist.

  Within the squadron, only Toki Takahara and Mike Murphy were openly sensitive to the loss of their buddies. The others also felt those losses but kept their feelings close inside. Too many had
been lost to properly grieve for them all, so they'd developed hard shells. Tiny sometimes wondered how Toki and Mike could cope with grieving and still function.

  Captains Bud Lutz and Toki Takahara walked down the aisle of the hootch toward them. They had been handling the personal effects of a major named Jack Rose who had only been at Takhli for four days when he'd been shot down. It was his second mission.

  Tiny Bechler didn't like Bud Lutz. He was aloof and had never joined the others at the bar. He seldom saw him excited or rattled. A quiet type. Some of the guys said he was very studious. Tiny thought he was just scared shitless. He'd seen him reading from a Bible before a mission briefing once.

  "We're done," said Lutz. Summary court duties were the least pleasant ones in a combat squadron.

  Colonel Mack looked at Lutz squarely. "You forget something?"

  "What's that, sir?"

  Colonel Mack pointed at his shoulder. "Your date of rank as major was today. You oughta be wearing your new rank."

  "I just didn't get over to the parachute shop to get them sewn on. I'll get it done tomorrow."

  "You're out of uniform, Major."

  "Sorry, sir."

  "Shipping and receiving on their way over?"

  Bud Lutz said, "Should be here any minute now. I told them seventeen-thirty."

  As he spoke a staff sergeant carrying a clipboard entered the hootch and looked around. Two burly airmen followed him. They'd done this before, but didn't look like they enjoyed it.

  "Remember you've got an appointment at the club. Gotta spend some of that new major's pay on free drinks, Bud. See you there soon as you're done."

  Lutz solemnly went to the other end of the hootch and started with the shipping and receiving people.

  Colonel Mack looked about with obvious satisfaction that the dismal job was done, then left.

  "That Lutz is a real turkey, isn't he," said Tiny to Murphy.

  Mike Murphy drew in a breath. "Tiny, just shut the fuck up unless you've got something better to say."

  "Sorry," said Tiny, startled by the outburst.

  "Bud Lutz is a lay preacher, doesn't smoke or drink or screw around on his wife. That why you call him a turkey?"

  "Well . . ."

  "You think all the real men drink and raise hell every night, like you and me? You think you gotta fuck whores to be a real man?"

  Tiny felt uneasy.

  "Bud, Jimbo, and I were in the same flight back in Wichita. Bud had already been here when Jimbo and I arrived a couple of months back. He got us assigned to the 357th so he could teach us what he'd already learned about flying combat.

  "Night before last Jimbo and I went to downtown Takhli. Screwed around, got drunk, and started talking about the differences between us and Bud. You, me, the rest of us try to forget about being scared shitless, losing buddies, or screwing up and dropping our bombs a little long and maybe killing some civilians. We drink and sing songs and raise hell to forget, so we can fly tomorrow.

  "Bud's different. He remembers his shortcomings and prays for the strength to do better."

  Tiny looked closer at Bud Lutz, who was coming down the aisle with the shipping and receiving sergeant. The two airmen were carrying out the last boxes of Major Rose's things.

  Mike pointed out Jimbo Smith's boxes to the shipping and receiving sergeant, and went over the tags to make sure they had Jimbo's correct address on their own forms.

  Lutz glanced over at Tiny. "Thanks for the support, Lieutenant Bechler," he said.

  "Glad to help, sir," said Tiny, in a quieter voice than he normally used.

  "Guess we're done here now. Let's go to the club so I can buy some refreshments for you characters."

  Tiny understood something he had not before.

  03/1750L—Angeles City, Republic of the Philippines

  Benny Lewis

  When Benny emerged from the bathhouse the Bear was waving good-bye to the old woman with the gold tooth. He hefted the sack of gifts and followed the Bear out the door into the brilliant sunlight. Benny felt good. Red-faced from the heat of the bath, loose from the rub and scrub, and more than a little intoxicated, he stepped out with new zest.

  "Hot damn," said the Bear. "I think I like the Philippines."

  "Yeah."

  "You get the special?"

  "No," he quickly replied.

  "A hotsy bath is incomplete without the special. My lady had magic hands."

  They stopped at a stand and bought mangoes wrapped in paper. They ate the fruit as they walked back toward the main gate, talking and wiping juice from their mouths with the coarse tissue. They were close to the walk-through gate, where the Filipino workers exited the base.

  "She said she'd come through about six," said the Bear.

  At 18:07 according to Benny's flying watch, a petite Filipina dressed in neat slacks and a linen blouse passed through the walking gate and casually looked about.

  "That's Esther," the Bear said.

  Benny shook his head. "Can't be." The girl had too much class to be picked up with a telephone call.

  "That's her. Yellow blouse and black slacks, like she said." The Bear waved. "Esther?" he called.

  She was slim and had rounded, pleasant features, including a petite nose and chubby cheeks. Her friendly smile showed off perfect teeth. "You are Captain Malcolm Stewart?"

  "Guilty," the Bear said smoothly. "You are lovely beyond all expectations." Benny listened with surprise as the Bear turned up his charm.

  She wrinkled her nose. "My parents taught me to beware of smooth-speaking men."

  He held his arms out expansively. "I will be whatever you desire."

  She laughed pleasantly and turned. "You must be Captain Lewis."

  "Call me Benny."

  "And what do I call you, Captain Malcolm Stewart?" she asked, turning back toward the Bear.

  He motioned to Benny. "My friends call me Bear."

  "What do you prefer?"

  The Bear was grinning at his good luck. "Bear is a special name used for warriors, and in your presence the last thing I want to think of is war. Call me Mal."

  Benny groaned, but noticed that Esther sparkled. She and the Bear spoke in conspiratorial tones as they made their way through the mob of civilian workers exiting the base. Benny was scarcely considered and felt content to trail along behind. The day was warm, the girls they passed were pretty, and for another moment he forgot about being miserable.

  Bear Stewart

  "Where to?" the Bear asked her.

  "To my home to meet my family. Do you mind?"

  "Not at all," he said. No matter what the country, you got to pay your dues, the Bear thought.

  "And you, Captain Benny?"

  "That would be fine."

  Damn, thought the Bear. Benny's mood was swinging like a gate. In the midst of his last retort, he'd started looking ill at ease. The Bear was determined to help his squadron-mate through his tough time.

  "We will take a jeepney," Esther happily announced.

  "Jeepney?" asked the Bear.

  "A homegrown jeep," muttered Benny. "They build 'em here."

  The Bear noted the sour expression. Perhaps meeting Esther's sister would help.

  She was talking about her family. "You must be patient with my father," she bubbled, "for his memory fades."

  They climbed into the back of a chrome and bright-red, backyard-manufactured vehicle with a Japanese four-banger engine sounding like a washing machine out of sync. From the front the jeepneys looked like World War Two jeeps, for they were fashioned precisely after that design. In the rear was a passengers' pit. Rows of gaudy lights rimmed the top of the vehicle fore and aft.

  Esther gave instructions and bargained with the driver, then turned her attention back to the Bear. "It is not far."

  The city was pulsing with life. Raucous honking, shouts, whistles, and laughter from both G.I.'s and Filipinos filled the air.

  As they rode along the busy street, the Bear noticed several old R
eo trucks and wondered if they, too, were replicas. Benny said they were relics from the war, left by the Americans in 1945. Some were built from the parts of several vehicles. You could tell because of the different colors of the various body parts.

  Esther periodically attempted to draw Benny into the conversation, but he remained taciturn. After a moment she would return her attention to the Bear. Pretty and intelligent, the Bear decided, wishing she just had more in the tit department.

  They rode for ten minutes though the town's congested center. Residential streets were crowded with a variety of homes: large stucco Spanish-style homes topped by red tile and frameworks of wrought iron to protect the windows; others less ornate, but still sporting the iron-framed windows; poorer homes built of plywood, with neither wrought iron nor fanciness; makeshift hovels crowded into the alleys.

  They passed small buggies with drivers who tapped their crops on the haunches of small ponies, harnesses festooned with tassels and bits of bright metal. Esther called the gaudy buggies calesas.

  The sun had dropped to the horizon, filtering red hues through the western sky. Evening shadows were invading the streets when they stopped. Esther paid the driver with change offered by the men and they crawled down. She led the way down a side street to a modest house identical to a thousand others they had passed. Hers was obviously not a prosperous family.

  She opened the door and shouted, Americanlike, that they were there, then beckoned for them to follow. The clean, barren home consisted of three or four small rooms. Esther's mother, slender and graceful, greeted them warmly. She clucked and hovered, then shooed Esther to the kitchen to fetch bottles of San Miguel beer. The Bear fished around in the sack from the BX and presented her with the jewelry box and candy. She acted like it was Christmas, nodding her head at her good fortune and grinning, showing gaps in her teeth.

  The mother showed the gifts to a white-haired man with a worn and deep-lined face. He was seated in a chair fashioned of frayed bamboo, clutching a gnarled walking cane. He smelled old, his breath sweet, reminding the Bear of his Uncle Miles. His chicken's neck was corded and wrinkled, and a dark scar ran diagonally across his Naugahydelike face. He spoke slowly, savoring and measuring his words.

  "I am honored that you visit us," he said. "My daughter called. Our neighbors have a telephone," he added proudly.