The Best of Joe Haldeman

by Joe W. Haldeman

  This is where I usually feel the need to change. It’s natural to adjust one’s mode of discourse to a level appropriate to the subject at hand, is it not? To talk about this “Monster” requires addressing such concepts as disassociation and multiple personality, if only to discount them, and it would be awkward to speak of these things directly the way I normally speak, as Chink. This does not mean that there are two or several personalities resident within the sequestered hide of this disabled black veteran. It only means that I can speak in different ways. You could as well, if you grew up switching back and forth among Spanish, Chinese, and two flavors of English, chocolate and vanilla. It might also help if you had learned various Vietnamese dialects, and then spent the past twenty years in a succession of small rooms, mainly reading and writing. There still be the bad mother fucker in here. He simply uses appropriate language. The right tool for the job, or the right weapon.

  Let me save us some time by demonstrating the logical weakness of some facile first order rationalizations that always seem to come up. One: that this whole Monster business is a bizarre lie I concocted and have stubbornly held on to for twenty years—which requires that it never have occurred to me that recanting it would result in much better treatment and, possibly, release. Two: that the Monster is some sort of psychological shield, or barrier, that I have erected between my “self” and the enormity of the crime I committed. That hardly holds up to inspection, since my job and life at that time comprised little more than a succession of premeditated cold-blooded murders. I didn’t kill the two men, but if I had, it wouldn’t have bothered me enough to require elaborate psychological defenses. Three: that I murdered Duke and Cherry because I was...upset at discovering them engaged in a homosexual act. I am and was indifferent toward that aberration, or hobby. Growing up in the ghetto and going directly from there to an army prison in Vietnam, I witnessed perversions for which you psychologists don’t even have names.

  Then of course there is the matter of the supposed eyewitness. It seemed particularly odious to me at the time, that my government would prefer the testimony of an erstwhile enemy soldier over one of its own. I see the process more clearly now, and realize that I was convicted before the court-martial was even convened.

  The details? You know what a hoi chan was? You’re too young. Well, chieu hoi is Vietnamese for “open arms”; if an enemy soldier came up to the barbed wire with his hands up, shouting chieu hoi, then in theory he would be welcomed into our loving, also open, arms and rehabilitated. Unless he was killed before people could figure out what he was saying. The rehabilitated ones were called hoi chans, and sometimes were used as translators and so forth.

  Anyhow, this Vietnamese deserter’s story was that he had been following us all day, staying out of sight, waiting for an opportunity to surrender. I don’t believe that for a second. Nobody moves that quietly, that fast, through unfamiliar jungle. Duke had been a professional hunting guide back in the World, and he would have heard any slightest movement.

  What do I say happened? You must have read the transcript... I see. You want to check me for consistency.

  I had sustained a small but deep wound in the calf, a fragment from a rifle grenade, I believe. I did elude capture, but the wound slowed me down.

  We had blown the bridge at 1310, which was when the guards broke for lunch, and had agreed to rendezvous by 1430 near a large banyan tree about a mile from the base of the cliff. It was after 1500 when I got there, and I was worried. Winter had been carrying our only radio when he fell, and if I wasn’t at the LZ with the other two, they would sensibly enough leave without me. I would be stranded, wounded, lost.

  I was relieved to find them still waiting. In this sense I may have caused their deaths: if they had gone on, the Monster might have killed only me.

  This is the only place where my story and that of the hoi chan are the same. They were indeed having sex. I waited under cover rather than interrupt them.

  Yes, I know, this is where he testified I jumped them and did all those terrible things. Like he had been sitting off to one side, waiting for them to finish their business. What a bunch of bullshit.

  What actually happened—what actually happened—was that I was hiding there behind some bamboo, waiting for them to finish so we could get on with it, when there was this sudden loud crashing in the woods on the other side of them, and bang. There was the Monster. It was bigger than any man, and black—not black like me, but glossy black, like shiny hair—and it just flat smashed into them, bashed them apart. Then it was on Cherry, I could hear bones crack like sticks. It bit him between the legs, and that was enough for me. I was gone. I heard a couple of short bursts from Duke’s tommy gun, but I didn’t go back to check it out. Just headed for the LZ as fast as my leg would let me.

  So I made a big mistake. I lied. Wouldn’t you? I’m supposed to tell them sorry, the rest of the squad got eaten by a werewolf? So while I’m waiting for the helicopter I make up this believable account of what happened at the bridge.

  The slick comes and takes me back to the fire base, where the medics dress the wound and I debrief to the major there. They send me to Tuy Hoa, nice hospital on the beach, and I debrief again, to a bunch of captains and a bird colonel. They tell me I’m in for a Silver Star.

  So I’m resting up there in the ward, reading a magazine, when in comes a couple of MPs and they grab me and haul me off to the stockade. Isn’t that just like the army, to have a stockade in a hospital?

  What has happened is that this gook, honorable hoi chan Nguyen Van Trong, has come out of the woodwork with his much more believable story. So I get railroaded and wind up in jail.

  Come on now, it’s all in the transcript. I’m tired of telling it. It upsets me.

  Oh, all right. This Nguyen claims he was a guard at the bridge we blew up, and he’d been wanting to escape—they don’t say “desert”—ever since they’d left Hanoi a few months before. Walking down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. So in the confusion after the blast, he runs away; he hears Duke and Cherry and follows them. Waiting for the right opportunity to go chieu hoi. I’ve told you how improbable that actually is.

  So he’s waiting in the woods while they blow each other and up walks me. I get the drop on them with my Thompson. I make Cherry tie Duke to the tree. Then I tie Cherry up, facing him. Then I castrate Cherry—with my teeth! You believe that? And then with my teeth and fingernails, I flay Duke, skin him alive, from the neck down, while he’s watching Cherry die. Then for dessert, I bite off his cock, too. Then I cut them down and stroll away.

  You got that? This Nguyen claims to have watched the whole thing, must have taken hours. Like he never had a chance to interrupt my little show. What, did I hang on to my weapon all the time I was nibbling away? Makes a lot of sense.

  After I leave, he say he try to help the two men. Duke, he say, be still alive, but not worth much. Say he follow Duke’s gestures and get the Polaroid out of his pack.

  When those picture show up at the trial, I be a Had Daddy. Forget that his story ain’t makin sense. Forget for Chris’ sake that he be the fuckin enemy! Picture of Duke be still alive and his guts all hangin out, this godawful look on his face, I could of been fuckin Sister Theresa and they wouldn’t of listen to me.

  [At this point the respondent was silent for more than a minute, apparently controlling rage, perhaps tears. When he continued speaking, it was with the cultured white man’s accent again.]

  I know you are constrained not to believe me, but in order to understand what happened over the next few years, you must accept as tentatively true the fantastic premises of my delusional system. Mainly, that’s the reasonable assertion that I didn’t mutilate my friends, and the unreasonable one that the Cambodian jungle hides at least one glossy black humanoid over seven feet tall, with the disposition of a barracuda.

  If you accept that this Monster exists, then where does that leave Mr. Nguyen Van Trong? One possibility is that he saw the same thi
ng I did, and lied for the same reason I initially did—because no one in his right mind would believe the truth—but his lie implicated me, I suppose for verisimilitude.

  A second possibility is the creepy one that Nguyen was somehow allied with the Monster; in league with him.

  The third possibility...is that they were the same.

  If the second or the third were true, it would probably be a good policy for me never to cross tracks with Nguyen again, or at least never to meet him unarmed. From that, it followed that it would be a good precaution for me to find out what had happened to him after the trial.

  A maximum-security mental institution is far from an ideal place from which to conduct research. But I had several things going for me. The main thing was that I was not, despite all evidence to the contrary, actually crazy. Another was that I could take advantage of people’s preconceptions, which is to say prejudices: I can tune my language from a mildly accented Jamaican dialect to the almost-impenetrable patois that I hid behind while I was in the army. Since white people assume that the smarter you are, the more like them you sound, and since most of my keepers were white, I could control their perception of me pretty well. I was a dumb nigger who with their help was getting a little smarter.

  Finally I wangled a work detail in the library. Run by a white lady who thought she was hardass but had a heart of purest tapioca. Loved to see us goof off so long as we were reading.

  I was gentle and helpful and appreciative of her guidance. She let me read more and more, and of course I could take books back to my cell. There was no record of many of the books I checked out: computer books.

  She was a nice woman but fortunately not free of prejudice. It never occurred to her that it might not be a good idea to leave her pet darky alone with the computer terminal.

  Once I could handle the library’s computer system, my Nguyen project started in earnest. Information networks are wonderful, and computerized ordering and billing is, for a thief, the best tool since the credit card. I could order any book in print—after all, I opened the boxes, shelved the new volumes, and typed up the catalog card for each book. If I wanted it to be cataloged.

  Trying to find out what the Monster was, I read all I could find about extraterrestrials, werewolves, mutations; all that science fiction garbage. I read up on Southeast Asian religions and folktales. Psychology books, because Occam’s razor can cut the person who’s using it, and maybe I was crazy after all.

  Nothing conclusive came out of any of it. I had seen the Monster for only a couple of seconds, but the quick impression was, of course, branded on my memory. The face was intelligent, perhaps I should say “sentient,” but it was not at all human. Two eyes, okay, but no obvious nose or ears. Mouth too big and lots of teeth like a shark’s. Long fingers with too many joints, and claws. No mythology or pathology that I read about produced anything like it.

  The other part of my Nguyen project was successful. I used the computer to track him down, through my own court records and various documents that had been declassified through the Freedom of Information Act.

  Not surprisingly, he had emigrated to the United States just before the fall of Saigon. By 1986 he had his own fish market in San Francisco. Pillar of the community, the bastard.

  Eighteen years of exemplary behavior and I worked my way down to minimum security. It was a more comfortable and freer life, but I didn’t see any real chance of parole. I probably couldn’t even be paroled if I’d been white and had bitten the cocks off two black men. I might get a medal, but not a parole.

  So I had to escape. It wasn’t hard.

  I assumed that they would alert Nguyen, and perhaps watch him or even guard him for a while. So for two years I stayed away from San Francisco, burying myself in a dirtpoor black neighborhood in Washington. I saved my pennies and purchased or contrived the tools I would need when I eventually confronted him.

  Finally I boarded a Greyhound, crawled to San Francisco, and rested up a couple of days. Then for another couple of days I kept an intermittent watch on the fish market, to satisfy myself that Nguyen wasn’t under guard.

  He lived in a two-room apartment in the rear of the store. I popped the back door lock a half hour before closing and hid in the bedroom. When I heard him lock the front door, I walked in and pointed a .44 Magnum at his face.

  That was the most tense moment for me. I more than half expected him to turn into the Monster. I had even gone to the trouble of casting my own bullets of silver, in case that superstition turned out to be true.

  He asked me not to shoot and took out his wallet. Then he recognized me and clammed up.

  I made him strip to his shorts and tied him down with duct tape to a wooden chair. I turned the television on fairly loud, since my homemade silencer was not perfect, and traded the Magnum for a .22 automatic. It made about as much noise as a flyswatter, each time I shot.

  There are places where you can shoot a person even with a .22 and he will die quickly and without too much pain. There are other sites that are quite the opposite. Of course I concentrated on those, trying to make him talk. Each time I shot him I dressed the wound, so there would be a minimum of blood loss.

  I first shot him during the evening news, and he lasted well into Johnny Carson, with a new bullet each half hour. He never said a word, or cried out. Just stared.

  After he died, I waited a few hours, and nothing happened. So I walked to the police station and turned myself in. That’s it.

  So here we be now. I know it be life for me. Maybe it be that rubber room. I ain’t care. This be the only place be safe. The Monster, he know. I can feel.

  [This is the end of the transcript proper. The respondent did not seem agitated when the guards led him away. Consistent with his final words, he seemed relieved to be back in prison, which makes his subsequent suicide mystifying. The circumstances heighten the mystery, as the attached coroner’s note indicates.]

  State of California

  Department of Corrections

  Forensic Pathology Division

  Glyn Malin, M.D., Ph.D.—Chief of Research

  I have read about suicides that were characterized by sudden hysterical strength, including a man who had apparently choked himself to death by throttling (though I seem to recall that it was a heart attack that actually killed him). The case of Royce “Chink” Jackson is one I would not have believed if I had not seen the body myself.

  The body is well muscled, but not unusually so; when I’d heard how he died I assumed he was a mesomorphic weight lifter type. Bones are hard to break.

  Also, his fingernails are cut to the quick. It must have taken a burst of superhuman strength, to tear his own flesh without being able to dig in.

  My first specialty was thoracic surgery, so I well know how physically difficult it is to get to the heart. It’s hard to believe that a person could tear out his own. It’s doubly hard to believe that someone could do it after having brutally castrated himself.

  I do have to confirm that that is what happened. The corridor leading to his solitary confinement cell is under constant video surveillance. No one came or went from the time the door was shut behind him until breakfast time, when the body was discovered.

  He did it to himself, and in total silence.

  GM:wr

  ~ * ~

  INTRODUCTION TO “THE HEMINGWAY HOAX”

  For some reason I was not, unlike most people in my generation, overexposed to Ernest Hemingway in high school. I didn’t study him as an undergraduate, either—majoring in physics and astronomy, to which he contributed little—and so when my first novel came out, I was amused when critics talked about the obvious influence Hemingway had had on my writing. My only exposure had been “The Old Man and the Sea,” in junior high school, which I hadn’t liked much.

  The influence was secondary, but still strong. The postwar science fiction that I’d devoured since childhood was heavily influenced by Hemingway, as was mos
t popular fiction of the time.

  I put in the back of my mind that I’d better read some of this guy before somebody exposed my ignorance. After my first novel came out,

  Gay and I took a summer vacation in Europe, starving-student style. Our Spanish rail pass covered the ferry over to Morocco, and we couldn’t resist that. I ran out of reading material in Marrakesh, and in the sunbaked souk found a table full of books. One of the few in English was Fiesta, the British title of Hemingway’s first novel, which we call The Sun Also Rises.

  I read it with admiration and an unusual degree of identification: like Jake Barnes, I was a young American fiction writer trying to deal with the horror of war, still recovering from a serious wounding. (Mine considerably less serious than Jake’s loss of his most important digit.)

  Over the next year and a half I sought out and read almost every word that Hemingway had published. I also read a lot of critical and biographical material, fascinated by the curious links between his work and his life. (Such links rarely exist in mine: I’ve never been to Mars or annihilated an entire planet.)