Reaching Page 3

  Camp grabbed Patty's arm. "Hang on," he said. "There's no doors, remember."

  Patty gripped the white metal and felt the shudder vibration and the heat of the engine. He looked through the bubble at first, then gazed out the open door. The wind whipped past his face. The land faded to green and brown stamps but Patty could still see the leaves on the trees, the thatch roofs on the huts, a brown river, and pockmarked bombed out fields whizzing below.

  "Lean back on my knees and relax, buddy. It's party time in the orient."

  Patty looked around. "I'm Patty," he called over the roar of the engine.

  "I know. Name's Frank. Lean back. I won't shoot you.” He was powerful, blond-haired and broad shouldered, with sleeves rolled up to show his biceps.

  Patty leaned back. Fat Italy shoved him in the ribs. "Shake," he said. "You made it, Philadelphia."

  They shook hands. "Hey, big city," said Italy, "Anytime you want a poker game, you just let me know. No huge stakes. Just a nickel ante and fifty cent limit. Just for fun."

  "Brother, you better watch him. He'll clean you out before you blink. He's sudden death after 2 a.m. I'm Big Mac, best numbers runner Harlem ever had."

  "I'll never get all the names straight," said Patty.

  "It's easy," said Mac. "I'm the dark one."

  "Just wait 'til I get this tan up," said Italy.

  "You'll make one beautiful black dude," said Mac. He turned to Patty. "You watch him, Patty, or you won't even get a smell of your money."

  "Mac, I wouldn't clean out a new man," protested Italy.

  "Man, you'd wipe out your old lady," responded Mac.

  "Not me."

  "Sure, brother, but you'd lend her money 'til payday."

  "At ten percent," added Italy with a wink. Everybody laughed.

  "Welcome to Charley Company," said Italy. "We got a good bunch of guys, and it ain't so bad here."

  "Yeah, it's delicious," called Camp.

  "You'll get used to it," said Italy.

  "Say," said Frank, "I heard a story from the C.O. that you weren't going to fire your rifle."

  "I fired," answered Patty.

  "Yeah, I saw," said Frank.

  "It was just a story," said Patty.

  Frank clapped him on the back. "It's okay, pal."

  They lapsed into silence.

  The helicopter banked right as if to throw Patty out the open door. He felt a twinge of fear in his chest as his soul hurtled from the chopper and smashed into little bits on the ground below. But they flew on. The engine whined. The bank of dials and the pilot in his space helmet, unknown machinery, kept them on course. And Patty flew on in the chopper, leaving something intangible behind, scattered on the ground.

  He closed his eyes and his father seemed to float above him. He could touch the fringe of his gray hair, the smooth top of his head, the four wrinkles in his forehead. The old man looked down sadly through horn-rimmed glasses. He hugged Patty, scraped his white whiskered cheek against Patty's smooth skin.

  Words flashed in Patty's head. Daddy, I'm a good boy. You'll see. When I grow up, I'll always do what's right.

  The old man gazed at Patty with love and tenderness and Patty wanted to explain everything to him, to hold him close forever, to be loved for his goodness, his heroism, his gentleness. Patty squeezed his father's hand and tried to pull his face close but it slipped through his fingers like a ghost in the night as the vision faded.

  Father, listen. Don't leave me. Try to understand. You would be proud of me. I won so many medals, but I never hurt anyone on purpose. I ran through the flames to protect the wounded. I never shot at anyone, not because I was afraid but because I knew it was wrong. I protected the Vietnamese, the dark skinned orphans and women and children in black pajamas. They never understood a word I said, but they followed me. They trusted the gentleness of my voice. Even the enemy could never shoot at a person like me. I stood up, and the battlefield became quiet, the gray smoke of battle hovered above me in the stillness. I explained that it was wrong to kill. A bird sang in the woods. And the V.C. understood and walked away. We let them go without harming them. The other soldiers patted me on the back. Frank put his arm around me and said he wanted to be my friend. Camp and Mac and Italy danced in a circle around me. Everybody applauded. I was always a good boy, dad. Everybody always admired me. Didn't they, dad? Didn't they? Didn't they?

  Patty felt the deep reality of his words. There was no answer, no father. The engine hummed. Its noisy stillness cut like a burning wound.

  Mac elbowed Patty in the arm. "There she is. Home, sweet home. Set this old crate down. I'm one hungry mother."

  "Gonna get me some ass tonight," yelled Frank. "Want to come, Patty?"

  "No thanks," said Patty. "I got a girlfriend back home."

  "You mean back in the world," responded Frank. "That won't do you any good here."

  Patty leaned out the door as the helicopter descended. The base stretched out like a pioneer town of wood buildings with sloping roofs and dirt streets. All that was missing was the local saloon and a Saturday night shootout.

  The chopper hovered above a bull's-eye on the dirt field on the helipad. Patty felt it suck them down, machine on machine, squeezing out his existence. They landed softly. Little flecks of dirt kicked around the feet of the helicopter. The engine whined higher and the overhead blade slowed.

  "Come on, Patty," yelled Camp. "Get the lead out. We're home."

  Patty jumped out. His legs buckled, and then he was yelling, laughing, running with the group to the edge of the dusty helipad.

  A supply man passed out drinks by a wire fence. "Hey, new guy, beer or coke."

  "I'll take a coke," said Patty. "No, make it a beer."

  "Make up your mind," said the supply man. He pulled a cold dripping can of Budweiser from the cooler and handed it over.

  "Thanks," said Patty.

  "It's my job, buster," the man snapped.

  The can was cold. Patty pressed it to his cheek. Camp sat with his back against the fence. Patty sat down beside him. "Who's the supply guy?"

  "Donner's his name," answered Camp.

  "Not real friendly, is he," said Patty.

  Donner looked around. "You talking about me, buddy?"

  "I didn't mean nothing," said Patty.

  "Well look, short stuff, you shut your lip before I shut it for you.” He turned away and resumed passing out the beer.

  "What's with that guy," whispered Patty.

  "He's alright. You just gotta know him.” Camp got up and walked off.

  Patty drained his beer, squeezed the metal, and tossed the can in the trash. He picked up his gear and followed Camp home. It was evening. The sun balanced on the edge of the land and lit the dusty yellow company street. Patty took the three little steps in a jump and went into the barracks. He shoved his mosquito net aside and sat down on his bed. Men walked by, talking and flicking towels. Patty sat still and looked at Sergeant Thompson's empty bed. He looked down at his boots, felt the heavy slope of his shoulders, leaned forward, and caught the green stench of his body. He undressed slowly, luxuriating in his aches, in the softness of the cot.

  Sleepily, he took his towel from his foot locker and padded off to the shower outside. The line was quiet as if the twilight deadened each soldier. The four big barrels on the roof of the shower shack hung above in silhouette like dark sentinels. When Patty's turn came, he pulled the string and icy water cascaded down, washing away the gray and brown stains of sweat and dirt, and leaving him shivering and clean.

  Patty toweled off and went back to the barracks. He put on a fresh uniform and headed for the mess hall. Someone flicked on a street light. The bare bulb glowed dully. Patty's boots were dust speckled.

  From outside, the mess hall beckoned with warmth and coziness, the tinkle of fork against tray, the whisper of voices. Patty opened the screen door and went in. The door slapped shut behind him. The tables were half empty, the chow line short. The servers slopped beef stew, str
ing beans, and applesauce into his tray without looking.

  Patty poured himself some milk and went to a table. Two other men sat there whispering. As Patty sat down, they got up and left. Patty sat alone at the table and listened to the clatter of the cleanup and the subdued buzz of the few remaining soldiers. He smelled the steam from his tray. He ate slowly and sucked on the applesauce until it tasted nutty. This is it, he thought. This is my new home. Empty yellow tables caught the light, a wooden tray sat alone on a far table.

  A cook tapped Patty on the shoulder. "Buddy, you gonna leave so we can clean up?"

  "Oh yeah. I'm sorry."

  The cook took away the tray and glass even before Patty got up.

  Outside, the company street was dark and cooler. The crickets chirped in chorus. Patty kicked a rock through the dust and walked home.

  Camp, Mac, and Frank stood on the little front porch.

  "Rob's not bad," said Mac. "Whitey and combat make him nervous, that's all. They scare the hell out of me too. Only he's sharp enough to get out of missions."

  "You think so," said Frank. "I think the guy is chicken, but they'll make him go out on missions when we get on the boat."

  "Cut the b.s.," said Camp. "You want to go to the movie or not."

  "No way," said Frank. "Not with all those whores waiting for me in town.” He drained a beer and flipped the can into the street.

  "Don't let the M.P.s catch your ass again," said Mac.

  "No way," said Frank. He chucked Mac on the back and skipped down the steps. He took off, walking fast and singing, "A hundred bottles of beer on the wall. A hundred bottles of beer. If one of those bottles should happen to fall, ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall . . . "

  "His theme song," said Camp with a laugh.

  "Yeah," said Mac. "Let's make it to the flick."

  "Hey, you guys, wait for me," called a little tow-haired man.

  "Come on, Baby-sahn, if you're coming. I hear it's a western," said Camp.

  Italy walked out. "Two to one it's John Wayne again."

  "Old kick ass Wayne," said Mac. "Let's go."

  They walked off, talking softly.

  Patty stood in the shadows and watched them go. He felt mysterious, so alone and invisible that he couldn't even touch himself. He walked up the steps into the light and looked to see his shadow, broken by three steps and clinging to his feet. He pushed the screen door open and went in. He caught the screen and shut it silently behind him.

  Jimmy Lincoln sat on a foot locker writing a letter. From the far corner of the room came the tinny twang of country music on a radio.

  "Hey, new boy," someone called, "You like country music?"

  "It's okay," responded Patty doubtfully.

  "Come on over."

  Patty walked over.

  "I'm Baker, and this big guy is Leigh."

  Baker and Leigh stood up and shook hands with Patty.

  "Glad to meet you guys," said Patty.

  "The pleasure's ours," said Baker. He pulled a picture out of his shirt pocket. "This is my wife. Ain't she a looker?"

  "Yeah," said Patty. "You'd better hang onto her."

  "She's a good woman. I got no problems there."

  "Listen to that song," said Leigh. "You like it."

  "It's okay," responded Patty. "I'm not a big country fan."

  Baker turned to Leigh. "Guys from the east don't know nothing.” He chuckled. "No offense meant."

  "It's alright."

  "Let me give you some advice," said Baker. He spoke loudly and winked. "There's a lot of riffraff around here, niggers and gamblers, and stuff, so watch your step."

  "Yeah, I will," said Patty uncomfortably. "I got to write a letter. See you later. Okay?"

  "Sure," answered Baker. They turned back to the music. Leigh slapped Baker on the shoulder, "Listen to that one, boy."

  Patty walked away. As he passed down the aisle, Jimmy looked up. "I see you met the Southern Bigots Club.” He smiled. He was short and very dark. His face was warm and genuine and gentle. "They're not so bad. I hope we'll become friends."

  "I hope so too," said Patty. "All this is awfully confusing and scary."

  "We all went through it," said Jimmy. "You'll get used to it."

  "I hope so."

  "Don't worry.” They gazed at each other in silence. "Excuse me," said Jimmy. "I'm writing my parents, and I want to get it done."

  "I'll talk to you later," said Patty.

  "Okay.” Jimmy smiled.

  Patty kicked off his boots and lay down on his bed with his writing tablet. The green mosquito net hid him from the world and the world from him. In the green shadows he began to write.

  'Dear Janet, I'm so alone and lonely, so far from the world. I miss you, your breath on my cheek, and the softness of your voice. I looked at your picture just now. It's so little to hold onto. Today I saw a man die. It seems like a long time ago . . . '

  A mosquito buzzed by Patty's ear. Instinctively, he slapped his cheek. His palm came away with a streak of red, and thin broken legs.

  CHAPTER 3: TOWN

  Patty, Frank, and Camp walked through the woods. Sunlight beamed through the high trees in a dazzle of fine yellow rays. The path was wide, and the woods were bright and chipper. A bird flew overhead and squawked. A squirrel scampered behind a tree. The acrid smell of dried swamp came from the far side of the trail and mixed with the mellow, green smell of the trees.

  "I love this place," said Camp.

  "I like where it goes," responded Frank. "It's about time you're coming, Patty."

  "Yeah, I guess," said Patty. "You know I've been here three months."

  Frank winked at Camp and threw his arm around Patty. "You're not a real veteran until you get some slanted stuff."

  "I told you," said Patty, "I'm engaged. I'm just going to check it out."

  "Right," said Frank. "That's all we want you to do. Check it out.” He pulled a can of beer from under his shirt.

  "Where did you get that?" said Camp.

  "Heaven. God is on my side 'cause pretty people cannot be denied."

  "A poet," said Patty.

  Frank bowed. "I hate to admit it, but it comes from Mac, who unfortunately already beat us to town, and is more than likely messing with my Frenchie.” He popped open the beer, sucked up the foam, and handed the can to Camp.

  Camp held it out. "To Mac the black, a poet who doesn't know it."

  Frank booed. Camp drank, and passed it to Patty.

  "To being a veteran," said Patty. He drank deeply and passed the can back to Frank.

  Frank finished the beer in two gulps. "To nothing.” He tossed the can into the ditch and started singing. "A hundred bottles of beer on the wall, a hundred bottles of beer . . . "

  Camp and Patty joined in.

  The song preceded them into the village. When they arrived at the clearing, the girls were already scurrying to meet them.

  Frank laughed. "That's why I sing. They know my voice."

  The girls gathered around him, and he called them by name and hugged and kissed each of them.

  The village was a happy place. Bright red and blue and green clothes drying on lines strung between tumble-down shacks gave the village a festive air. Little transistor radios blared tinny music from every doorway. Women squatted on the edge of a muddy stream and gossiped and giggled as they did their washing. The light sound of their voices floated above the music.

  A girl squeezed Patty's hand. "Frank say you number one fine fella."

  "Not him," said Camp. "He number ten. I'm number one."

  She giggled and shoved Camp away. "You number ten."

  Patty looked down at the girl holding his arm. She was pretty, small and dark with long wavy hair, laughing brown eyes, a tiny nose, and wide lips. The outline of her child's breasts barely peaked against her white shirt. Patty gazed at her, and his breath caught in his chest. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. Patty blushed.

  "Look," said the girl. "He red like f
lower.” She giggled, and the laughter spread among the girls.

  "Hey, Red," said Frank, "You're a hit."

  Patty looked at the girl and smiled. "My friends call me Patty."

  "You Mister Red," she said, and giggled.

  "Okay," said Patty. "You win. I'm Mister Red. What's your name?"

  "I Tranh, from My Tho."

  Patty nodded.

  "You come," she said.

  She took his hand and led him into a small room crowded with people and noise, and crude tables and chairs. An old woman greeted them at the door with a curtsey.

  "Patty," yelled Mac. "Come here."

  They walked over. Mac stood up and extended his palms. Patty slapped them.

  "Welcome to Saigon South," said Mac.

  A tall, pale girl stood up beside him. "This is Frenchie," he said with a wink.

  They sat back down. Camp, Frank, and three girls came in and joined them at the table.

  "Hey, mama-sahn," called Frank. "Two cases."

  The woman who had greeted them at the door went out to get the beer from the stream.

  Joan Baez whined from the radio. "Five hundred miles, five hundred miles. Lord, I'm five hundred miles away from home."

  Frank winked at Mac. "I see you got my sweetheart."

  "Just keeping her warm for you, brother.” Mac smiled and leaned back until his chair clicked against the wall.

  Mama-sahn came back in and dumped a dripping case on the table. "One enough now. Okay Fearless Frank?"

  "Okay, mama-sahn," said Frank. He squeezed her hand. "You know you're still the most beautiful."

  The chunky old woman laughed. "Fearless Frank, long time no see. Where you been?"

  "Nowhere," answered Frank.

  He pulled a half dozen chocolate bars and two packs of cigarettes out of his pockets. "Mama, see that the kids get the chocolate. You can sell the cigarettes. I couldn't get no milk."

  "You good man, Fearless Frank.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek.

  "Cut that," he said.

  "I keep the kids away like you say. They all go when Mac say you come."

  Frank nodded. He grabbed a beer, opened it savagely, and drained it. Quickly he opened another.

  "You number one fine fella," said one of his girls.