by Tom Wilson
"Shit!" said Red. The dog had nipped him on the leg.
Heave! Slide. Heave! Slide.
"We're halfway."
Heave! Slide. Heave! Slide.
"The guy's getting closer," said Red.
They were both nearing exhaustion.
Heave! Slide. Heave! Slide.
The prow of the boat slid into the water.
The man, possibly the owner of the boat, was shouting at them.
"That's enough!" Puffing, Crawford lifted the old rifle from the boat and waved it about. Then he aimed at the man.
The man ducked down behind a sand dune but kept yelling. The dog continued to bark.
Crawford tossed the gun back into the boat and rejoined Red in his effort. The front of the boat bobbed as a wave washed in, turning the boat sideways.
They both waded in and pushed to turn the boat.
"Push it straight into the waves," yelled Red.
They tried, this time making better progress. The boat bobbed.
"Get in!" yelled Crawford, and Red did. Crawford stayed in the water and pushed, scrambled around to one side to stop the boat from washing back on the beach, then pushed and shoved again. Red jumped out of the boat and helped again. This time they made it farther out, met the next wave squarely, and the boat only came back a few feet. They pushed harder.
"Get in and row!" yelled Crawford.
"You get in, I'm bigger."
"Crawford scrambled, then finally flopped into the boat, banging his shin on a gunwale. His eyes watered with the pain. Red was still trying to keep the boat straight but was making poor progress.
Crawford found an oar, then an oarlock, and tried to get them together.
Red succeeded in pushing the boat out farther. The water came to his chest during the swells.
Crawford couldn't find the second oarlock.
The boat was turning again, so he rowed with the single oar and the boat corrected.
"Way to go!" shouted Red, still pushing. He grabbed the back of the boat and tried to swim and propel it.
They were twenty yards out now, and a big swell was coming.
"Get it squared with the wave!" yelled Red.
"I'm trying." The wave was on the wrong side to use the oar with the oarlock, so he grabbed the other oar and paddled.
The prow of the boat rose high, higher yet, then slid sideways and came back around.
"Shit!" yelled Red, now flailing with his feet to correct the boat as Crawford lost the oar and just tried to hang on.
"It's going over!" Crawford yelled.
The boat teetered on its side, then turned completely over. Crawford felt he would drown before he finally came up, and when he did the free oar bobbed up and hit him hard in the side of the head. He saw stars and almost lost consciousness.
Red grabbed hold of him and pulled him from the surf out onto the beach.
They watched glumly as a wave hit the capsized boat and rolled it over onto its side. The next wave beached it, still rolling up on its side.
They were exhausted.
"Shit," panted Red.
Crawford stood there, hands dangling, mouth open and gasping for air, and watched the boat wash farther onto the beach.
The fisherman was still yelling at them from over the sand dune, standing now since he was no longer threatened by the rifle, which had been lost in the surf.
"Gotta—try—again," panted Red.
They staggered toward the boat and when they got there, stood panting, hardly able to stand.
Yelling in the distance joined that of the fisherman.
The two men pushed the boat over again, tugged it to turn it, and finally got it nosed toward the sea. They pushed and shoved and got it floating. This time both of them held onto the back of the boat and swam, pushing it before them. They made it through a wave, then through another.
Crawford's legs were leaden.
He heard the crack of a gun.
"Fuck 'em," yelled Red.
Another gunshot.
They kept kicking and pushing and Crawford was so tired he began to sob.
The prow of the boat rose, higher and higher, and they kept kicking. The boat was almost on end, only the rear quarter still in the water. It swung wildly then, and as before rolled with the wave's impetus.
As he came out of the surf, coughing and snorting out the water, the soldiers were there before him. Red was still in the water, hunkered over, chest heaving.
They were marched, stumbling and falling, for several miles northward along the beach, then on a roadway. The soldiers didn't smile. The beatings didn't start until they arrived at a house, where they were strung up to the rafters. Pete Crawford had thought he was too tired to care if they beat him. He found that was not true.
10/2015L—Takhli Village, Thailand
Bear Stewart
With the tutorials completed, and with Benny bugging him to get into a better mood, the Bear decided that the bombing pause should be put to better use than to screw around with doing laundry, writing letters, or even to work up improved tactics, like Benny was doing. He ate dinner at the O' Club, refueled with a couple of Scotch whiskeys at the bar, and talked Sloppy Watson into accompanying him to town. Watson came along reluctantly, remembering the awful time he'd had getting rid of the dose he'd been given by the clap-clap sisters.
"Okay," he'd finally said, "but no talk about screwing women. I'm gonna be faithful to the wife. I'm a married man, Bear."
"Thought you two were separated."
"We're back together this week. At least we were the last letter I got from home."
"Sloppy, I will not speak about sex once while we're downtown. In fact I don't plan to partake of their fair maidens either."
Lyle thought about that after they'd boarded the base bus and were making their way toward the main gate. "You used to be the big cocksman. I remember that time at Columbus when my wife and I split up for a while and I met Nurse Marilee. She was telling me how great you were in the sack."
"Smart girl," said the Bear.
"She said she gave you an eight. Said only one guy rated better."
"You, of course."
"Certainly."
The base bus stopped at the Ponderosa, and Dave Persons and Phil Yost, two of the new Weasel pilots, got on. They were followed by Lt John Radkovich, a strike pilot new to the Bear's squadron who went about with a very serious look on his face.
Sloppy went on. "Then when I got here, you were all the time talking about women and how you made out, like the three women in one night in the Philippines."
"It happened."
"I haven't seen you screwing around for a while."
"Hell, I'm cured, Sloppy."
"Cured? Of women?"
"I found one I like a lot."
"Me, too. About a hundred I like a lot."
"You'll find out what I'm talking about some day. That broad you're married to?"
"Jackie?"
"Whatever. She's not the right one for you, Sloppy. You keep breaking up and getting back together all the time. If she was right, you'd be hopscotching on your head just to keep her around."
Lyle thought about that. "Stop calling me Sloppy, okay?" he finally said.
"You've been named. How can you not be called by your name?"
"I'm Super Bear, remember?"
"Bullsh——, damn!"
"What was that about?"
"My girl doesn't like me cussing all the time. If I get in the habit it's hard to stop, so I'm trying to cut down. I'm going to be seeing her pretty soon."
"You're getting to be a regular holy man. You ought to get yourself an orange robe and a cup, like the Buddhist monks here."
"They're saffron-color, not orange. You think I'd look good in one?" he joked.
"If you shaved your head."
They arrived at the gate and watched a full two-baht bus depart for town, so they took samlors. After haggling the drivers down to three baht for the trip, they crawled into th
e seats behind the drivers and were pedaled away toward town.
Lyle got his driver to pull up abreast of the Bear's samlor so they could talk. "So you're really serious about that broad—what's her name?"
"Julie. Yeah I'm serious. No, she's not a broad. And no, I'm not nice about it if anybody calls her anything but a lady."
"So I'm sorry. I'll call her Lady Julie from now on."
They were quiet for a while in the darkness. Both samlors had dim front and tail lights, powered by little generators that rubbed against the tires, but the sliver moon was down low in the sky. A few lights from other samlors were visible in front and behind them, all bobbing along toward Takhli. The samlor drivers' legs made a swish-swish sound as they pedaled. They were both scrawny little guys with big guys in the back, but they made good time.
Lights of the strip hove in the distance.
"Doesn't seem real, does it?" asked Lyle.
"It is though. All of it."
They entered sin-town and went directly to the Takhli Villa, the officers' hangout.
They dismounted and tipped the drivers. "You guys wait here," said the Bear to the two drivers, motioning for them to stay put, "and we'll give you mock-mock tips."
"Good idea," said Sloppy.
"Sort of like having a cab wait for you," said the Bear.
John Radkovich arrived in his samlor, the sad look still on his face.
"How you doing, John?" asked the Bear.
The lieutenant frowned.
Radkovich had flown his first time in pack six two weeks before, on Ken Maisey's wing. It had been a tough mission and they'd seen a lot of flak, and when they landed, Maisey had quit. Then, the day before the Tet bombing pause was announced, he'd been flying up in pack six with an old head captain named Tom Raymond. They had been shot at by SAMs and during the evasion maneuver the old head captain had been shot down by 57mm flak.
Ever since, Johnny Radkovich had worn his frown. He thought he was a jinx to whomever he flew with.
The three of them went inside and picked a table.
They all talked for a while, and again the Bear heard how Radkovich felt he was responsible for Maisey quitting and for the captain getting shot down.
Radkovich was a skinny, nervous young guy, and the weight of his guilt was heavy.
"You're not responsible," he tried telling Radkovich, who would have none of it. He just sat, staring at the girl singing Moo Reevah, Widah than a miiii, sipping his whiskey sour and looking forlorn. His sad look attracted a bar-girl, who sat with him and conned him out of a dollar bar drink. Takhli bar-girls enjoyed the easy ones like John Radkovich.
Sloppy peered across at Radkovich's girl, and after another drink could no longer stand it. He waved to a bar-girl who looked pretty in the near-total darkness. He bought her a drink and she giggled, sat on his lap, and whispered to him about a fantasm short time. "Fantasm!" she kept saying.
Radkovich told the Bear he'd been a copilot on C-135's, and how he loved the huge airplanes. "We had turbofans on our new birds. Got rid of the gas-guzzler turbojet engines,"
"How the fuck—oops, sorry," said the Bear.
Radkovich looked at him strangely.
"How'd you get in fighters, you like trash haulers so much?" asked the Bear.
Johnny Radkovich didn't know. He shook his head sadly and drank his whiskey sour.
"I'll be back in a little bit," said Sloppy, getting intoxicated and smitten with the saucy farmgirl.
The Bear glanced at him. "Remember the clap?"
Watson bolted to his feet, dumping the girl from his lap. She scurried away, indignantly cursing in loud Thai.
"Bastard," muttered Sloppy to the Bear. "You didn't have to say that." He looked after the girl with a forlorn look.
"I'm saving you for your wife," the Bear reminded him before rising. "See you, Johnny. Why don't you take your girl in back and let her make you feel better?"
Radkovich even looked sad about that.
The Bear walked toward the door, and Sloppy followed.
Outside, Sloppy Watson brooded, then spoke up. "Doc Smith says not many of 'em have the clap."
"Maybe," said the Bear.
They got into the waiting samlors and took off up the street toward the Blue Moon massage parlor.
After a hotsy bath and a couple of beers, they went out to the samlors again, refreshed and getting drunk.
"In back," said the Bear to the samlor driver. He motioned and argued for a moment, and finally the driver crawled in back. The Bear climbed on and started pedaling. He wobbled a little at first, then got the hang of it and pedaled slowly down the street. Shortly Sloppy caught up, also in front and pedaling while his driver rode.
"See the Black Orchid down there?" yelled the Bear, indicating a distant set of lights.
"Yeah."
"Race you there!"
Sloppy didn't wait and dug in so hard that the bicycle wheels of his samlor squeaked, sort of like burning rubber in a street rod. Then they were both pedaling like crazy, neck and neck, first one and then the other drawing ahead.
The Bear won by leaning way out forward and humping away on the pedals.
"Cheat!" cried Sloppy.
They left the belly-laughing samlor drivers and went inside.
The Black Orchid was a hangout for black enlisted guys, and they were the only whites.
They got a table and ordered a drink, then waited a long while for it to come. Larry Hughes, a staff sergeant from pig squadron maintenance, came over and spoke quietly with Sloppy, then left. Their drinks arrived, brought by a pretty Thai waitress.
"What'd he say?" asked the Bear.
"Said most of the guys here don't like honkies drinking in their bar. Said he told 'em who we are and that we're okay."
"Nice of him."
"Sergeant Hughes is a good guy. A good crew chief, too."
The Bear looked sad. "We lost our bird, you know?"
"What's that?"
"We had number two-seven-seven. Sergeant Tiehl's our crew chief. He'd just painted two SAM missiles on the side of the airplane. Ries and Janssen were flying our bird when they went down. Sergeant Tiehl is still upset about it."
"You don't have an airplane now?"
"We're changing to three-fifteen. Sergeant Tiehl said it's a good bird, like two-seven-seven was, and today he had our names painted on the canopies and the two missiles on the side, one for each site we've bombed."
"I've gotta get a missile painted on our airplane like that."
"Yeah, makes you feel good, seeing the kills displayed there like that. Anyway, Sergeant Tiehl says he doesn't like other people flying our airplane."
Sergeant Hughes came over again, and this time he sat. "You gentlemen mind if I join you?"
"Not at all. And thanks for putting in the good word, Sarge," said the Bear.
Hughes leaned forward. "How long's this bombing halt going to last, sir?"
Both of them said they didn't know.
"I'd like it to be a long one," said Hughes. "I get tired of seeing birds not come home."
The Bear shook his head. "Yeah, maybe. But I like it when I'm flying every day. We get to know the defenses that way, know where the sites are and how they're acting."
Sloppy agreed. "I wonder what kinda surprises they're cooking up for us right now."
"I dunno," said the Bear, "but you can be sure there's something. Of course, we'll be laying some surprises on them too. Benny and Pudge have been working hard on their tactic. You know the one I'm talking about."
Sloppy nodded.
Hughes frowned. "I was just hoping you officers would know more about when we'll be flying again, so we could plan some. My airplane has a lot of delayed discrepancy work. Mainly just little things, but it'd be nice if I knew I could plan some down time, maybe a couple days of not flying so I could take care of them."
The Bear thought. "Today's Friday, Sarge. We won't be flying in Vietnam until Monday, for sure. Maybe a sortie or two to Laos, b
ut nothing heavy. You could take tomorrow and Sunday for your work."
"Thanks," said Hughes, rising. "You guys have a good time. Nobody's gonna bug you. They give you trouble, I'll come over." He nodded and left, then wrapped his arm around the pretty waitress who had served them and whooped it up with a couple of his buddies at the bar.
They left after another drink, got back into the driver's seats of the samlors, and cruised down toward the main part of town. They stopped at a sleazy little bar they found on a back street of Takhli old-town, near the market. This time they invited the drivers inside, for it was that kind of place, not a GI hangout like on the sin-town strip. Here the clientele were very poor Thais and no one spoke English.
They bought drinks for the bar, drank Singha beer, and chased it with rotgut Mekong whiskey. The place smelled bad, like old sweat and bad booze.
"Whoo-ee," exclaimed Sloppy.
When they had ordered again, the Bear confided. "I'm getting married in three weeks."
Sloppy Watson stopped cold, his jaw drooping. "You?"
"Yeah. Thought I'd mention it, you being a good buddy. Even Benny doesn't know."
Sloppy was still dumbfounded. "You're kidding me, aren't you?"
"Nope."
The second rounds arrived and they saluted the samlor drivers in the room. "Numbah one," exclaimed one of the drivers, a mean-looking guy whose nose had been squashed flat on his face in some sort of accident.
Sloppy was shocked. "Married! God, Bear, that sounds awfully final for someone who enjoys his freedom like you. Why?"
The Bear shrugged. He sat, brooding.
"You better think it over good. Damn, man, you can get serious without getting married."
No response.
Sloppy shook his head. "You wanna talk it over?"
No response.
"Mal!"
The Bear jolted, came awake.
"You sleeping?"
"Naw." The Bear blinked his eyes, then drank his beer and chaser, realizing he couldn't feel his toes. "I'm gonna puke."
He went outside and made it a few steps farther before vomiting up the booze, beer, and part of his dinner. Sloppy came out, watched for a moment, then turned and also puked.
They stood, bent over, heaving and drooling.
"Shit," said the Bear.
