Reaching Page 4

  "Yeah," he growled.

  "Easy," said Mac. He sipped his beer slowly. "I never thought you dudes would get Patty out here."

  "I'm just having a few drinks, that's all," said Patty.

  "Right," said Camp. "What more could he want?"

  "Enough," said Patty. "Frank, what's that about the kids?"

  "Nothing," answered Frank morosely.

  "They got a lot of little bastards here," said Camp. "They're always begging for shit. It can get on your nerves after a while."

  "They're hungry," said Mac.

  "It still gets on your nerves," said Camp.

  "Screw this.” Frank grabbed a six pack and walked out. His girls and Frenchie followed him.

  "Hey, French, where you going," yelled Mac.

  "Big Mac, you come quick," she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders and followed her.

  "What's with Frank?" said Patty to Camp.

  "One of these days you'll have to make a decision.” Camp sipped his beer. "You're either a killer or you're not."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You'll figure it out one day. When a hard choice comes, it'll hit you. And if you're tough and land on the wrong side, you won't like it, and you won't like yourself either."

  "I don't know what you mean," said Patty.

  "Forget it. Concentrate on the squirrel. The war's over for today."

  Patty looked at Tranh and was drawn to her.

  "You all very serious, yes?" she said.

  "No," answered Camp. "Just stupid. Sitting here being stupid. Come on, Wyn," he said to his girl. "Let's dance."

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her from the table. He squeezed her to him, and they were like one person, barely moving to the slow music.

  "Everybody angry, yes?" said Tranh.

  "Yeah.” Patty smiled. He sipped his beer.

  "Why angry?"

  "I don't know.” Patty shrugged.

  In the background, the music was wispy and sad. " . . . Honey, I miss you, and I'm feeling blue . . . I long to be with you . . . "

  Patty looked reflectively at the girl. "Been here long?"

  "Yeah, Red, I been here long."

  "You like it?"

  "Yeah, Red, I like it just fine. You sad man. Where you come from?"

  "Philadelphia."

  "I get tea now, yes?"

  "Sure," said Patty. He called to the mama and she brought over the tea.

  "Why you no laugh? You drink beer. We play, and I make you plenty happy."

  Patty snapped open another beer and took a long pull.

  "Philadelphia is nice, yes?"

  "Sure. I like it fine."

  "You take me there. I make good wife."

  "I thought you liked it here," said Patty.

  "I like it fine," said Tranh.

  "I already have a girl. I'm going to marry her when I get back home."

  "American girls no work."

  "She'll work. She's a secretary."

  "Not like Vietnam girl."

  "She's okay for me.” Patty finished his beer and popped open another one.

  "You got family, yes?" said Tranh.

  "Sure. You want to see my pictures?” He pulled his wallet out and dropped it in a puddle on the table. "Brothers, sisters, girlfriend, everything you want to know is in there. Everything, 'cept how straight I shoot. I'm a straight shooter, that's me. Just like in the westerns."

  She thumbed through the wallet as Patty drank.

  "I'm a red-blooded American hero," said Patty. "I ain't messing with you. No slant stuff when I'm engaged to be married."

  The girl looked at him. "I nice girl. You talk nice. Yes? Please?"

  "I'm sorry. I'm getting drunk.” He lapped some more beer. "You never killed nobody, did you?"

  The radio chimed three times. ". . . This is Armed Forces Radio Network. We interrupt this broadcast for a news bulletin, a speech direct from the White House. The President of the United States."

  Camp stood on the dance floor and glared at Mama-sahn. "Turn that bastard off."

  The tinny voice crackled from the radio. "Tonight I want to speak to you of peace in Vietnam and Southeast Asia . . . "

  "Wait," said Camp. He walked over to the bar and leaned heavily on his hands, listening to the voice of hope on the radio.

  "Who is it?" called Patty from the table.

  "Johnson," said Camp. "He's talking about peace."

  The word was magic. Soldiers, buttoning their shirts, crowded into the room and gathered around the little radio.

  Johnson spoke cleanly of the failure of the Tet Offensive.

  Patty closed his eyes. In a dizzy fog, he visualized a white, bullet-pocked school building in My Tho and a little girl lying like a broken red doll.

  The heavy drone of Johnson's voice broke through the vision.

  “Tonight, I renew the offer I made last August: to stop the bombardment of North Vietnam. We ask that talks begin promptly, that they be serious talks on the substance of peace. We assume that during those talks, Hanoi will not take advantage of our restraint. We are prepared to move immediately toward peace through negotiations. So tonight, in the hope that this action will lead to early talks, I am taking the first step to de-escalate the conflict. We are reducing – substantially reducing – the present level of hostilities, and we are doing so unilaterally and at once.

  “Tonight I have ordered our aircraft and our naval vessels to make no attacks on North Vietnam, except in the area north of the demilitarized zone where the continuing enemy build-up directly threatens allied forward positions and where the movement of their troops and supplies are clearly related to that threat . . .”

  "What's that stuff about peace?" somebody yelled.

  “It's just a line to keep you listening."

  "Shut up."

  A fight started. Frank grabbed two men and threw them out in the street.

  Patty sipped his beer and looked across the table at Tranh. "You know who Johnson is?"

  "He your President."

  "Do you think he'll bring peace?" said Patty.

  "Maybe"

  "What do you think?" said Patty.

  Tranh looked down and shook her head. "No."

  "I'm sorry," whispered Patty.

  "It not your fault. We fight before you come. We fight my whole life.” She shook her head and didn't look up.

  “. . . One day, my fellow citizens, there will be peace in Southeast Asia. It will come because the people of Southeast Asia want it – those armies are at war tonight; those who, though threatened, have thus far been spared.

  “Peace will come because Asians were willing to work for it and to sacrifice for it – and to die by the thousands for it.

  “But let it not be forgotten: peace will come also because America sent her sons to help secure it . . .

  Frank tapped Mac on the arm. Their eyes held for a moment. A rivulet of sweat slid down Mac's dark arm. He wiped it and looked away.

  "Mac," whispered Frank, "I could take that radio and smash it into a million pieces."

  Mac shook his head. "It wouldn't do no good."

  “. . . I believe that a peaceful Asia is far nearer to reality because of what America has done in Vietnam. I believe that the men who endure the dangers of battle there, fighting there for us tonight, are helping the entire world avoid far greater conflicts, far wider wars, far more destruction, that this one.

  “The peace that will bring them home someday will come. Tonight, I have offered the first in what I hope will be a series of mutual moves toward peace . . .”

  The room was wavy with cigarette smoke and filled with heat and the stench of sweating bodies. Soldiers pressed in above Patty and Tranh. Patty felt trapped, suffocated. He squeezed his wet beer can until the metal bent.

  Johnson droned on.

  “. . . What we won with all of our people united must not now be lost in suspicion and distrust and selfishness and politics among any of our people. And believ
ing this as I do, I have concluded that I should not permit the Presidency to become involved in the partisan divisions that are developing in this political year.

  “With American sons in the fields far away, with America's future under challenge right here at home, with our hopes and the world's hopes for peace in the balance every day, I do not believe that I should devote an hour or a day of my time to any personal partisan causes or to any duties other that the awesome duties of this office - the Presidency of your country.

  “Accordingly, I shall not seek and I will not accept the nomination of my party for another term as your President. But let men everywhere know, however, that a strong and a confident and a vigilant America stands ready tonight to seek an honorable peace; and stands ready tonight to defend an honored cause, whatever the price, whatever the burden, whatever the sacrifice that duty may require.

  “Thank you all for listening. Good night and God bless you all.”

  "This has been an Armed Forces Radio Network special report live from the White House."

  A disc jockey came on. "Wow, that was a heavy trip."

  Soldiers grumbled and cleared out. Patty wiped sweat from his face.

  Camp came over. "Looks like we're rid of that s.o.b. Johnson for good."

  "I liked him," said Mac as he spun a chair around and sat down backwards. "What you know, Patty?"

  "Nothing. Who cares?"

  "You don't look too good, buddy," said Mac.

  "I'm sick.” Patty lurched to his feet.

  Tranh hooked his arm and led him away. He vomited in the doorway, and Tranh pulled him outside. The sun flashed like great shining waves. Patty stumbled forward, and Tranh held him up. Patty gagged and spit. Sour ropey saliva hung from his mouth. Tranh wiped it away with a handkerchief.

  "You come with me," she said.

  He leaned on her arm and they walked together.

  "I'm pretty stupid, huh?"

  "You soldier. You okay."

  "I like Johnson," said Patty. "He's a good man."

  "Who good man?"

  "Johnson, the President. He's a good man."

  "Sure. Everybody good man," said Tranh.

  "No. He's special. He helped the poor people and the black people."

  "He President. President help everybody.” She stopped. "I live here.” Tranh pointed to a low mud doorway. "You come in. Sleep."

  "Okay," said Patty.

  She helped him duck through the doorway into her little hut. It was a dark room with brown mud walls, and a little alcove of thickened mud in the back that served as a bomb shelter and a hiding place for pots and trinkets. The only adornments were a little cross hung on one wall beside a magazine picture of Jesus. The only furniture was an army folding cot. Tranh helped Patty onto it.

  He lay heavily on his back and closed his eyes. "You stole this from the army," he mumbled.

  "No," said Tranh. "G.I. give me."

  "Sure. Santa Claus is coming . . . " The words trailed off into heavy, open mouthed snores.

  Tranh loosened Patty's belt and unbuttoned his shirt. She pulled his boots off, placed them neatly under the bed and folded Patty's green unwashed socks inside them. She went outside and walked to the stream. The sun glistened in her silky hair. She floated her handkerchief in the brown water, squeezed into the proper moistness, and returned to her hut. Gently she washed Patty's face and chest. She gazed happily at his pale skin, the vulnerable hairless chest, and little pink nipples. He was like the frail Jesus on the wall. She touched his chest with her fingers and drew back as Patty stirred. She took his socks outside and washed them in the still, dark water. A hot, late afternoon breeze played with her hair and rustled the brown grass with a sound like distant calling.

  Patty slept lightly, vaguely aware of Tranh's comings and goings as flickering shadows of light and warmth, hints of the passage of time. When he opened his eyes, she was squatting by the head of the bed, polishing his boots with her hands, but never taking her eyes from his face. Patty reached out and touched her soft, dark hair. He ran his fingers along her cheek and stroked her flat nose. Up close, he saw the tired wrinkles around her eyes. She leaned forward until her head rested gently on Patty's chest. Patty pulled her to him and they held each other close, safe for an instant from the war, hidden for a moment from the cold facts of different cultures, differing worlds.

  "Tranh, I'm not a good person," whispered Patty.

  In answer, she kissed Patty's chest, nuzzled his neck and ear.

  "I don't know who I am," said Patty, "and I'm scared to find out."

  Tranh wrapped her arms around him and held him close. "Too much think, no good. You number one man, Mister Red."

  Patty kissed her. Her little breasts pressed against him. His pulse throbbed hard in his neck. The backs of his thighs tightened.

  "I want you," whispered Patty.

  "Yes," whispered Tranh.

  Patty tugged at her thin white shirt and the buttons popped. They slid quickly out of their clothes. He held Tranh's little buttocks in his palms and pulled her onto him. He slid into the warm, wet cave of her body like a drop of water falling to the bottom of an endless pit. Down. Down. Acrid smell of drowning corpses, writhing, sweating snakes, and cigarette butts. Patty burst and the room swam. Dizzily, bleary-eyed, Patty came up. He kissed her hand gratefully.

  "Thank you," he whispered.

  She smiled. They dropped off to sleep together.

  When Patty awoke, it was early evening. Tranh slept peacefully beside him. He slid slowly from the bed, but the movement awakened her. Tranh gazed up at Patty and smiled. He smiled back self-consciously. He turned away and quickly dressed.

  "Hello," she said.

  "Hello," said Patty. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and laced on his boots.

  Tranh ran her fingers along Patty's back. Patty trembled and leaned forward as he worked on his shoes.

  "You are happy, yes?"

  Patty shrugged.

  "You no like Tranh?"

  "No," said Patty, groping for words. "I don't like me."

  "You are angry with me?” Tranh sat up.

  "Johnson," said Patty, "He used to talk about the Great Society. Now all he ever talks about is Vietnam."

  "I do not understand."

  Patty finished tying his shoes and stood up. "No. Of course you don't.” He reached into his pocket. "How much money you want?"

  "No. No money."

  "You don't understand," said Patty as he looked at the bomb shelter in the corner. "I'm getting married."

  "I know," she said.

  Patty threw a wad of bills on the bed. "I have to go."

  "No money, please," she called.

  But Patty was already out the door, and the words trailed behind him. Tranh looked at the shadows in the doorway and the bright colored bills littering her bed. Her cheeks felt warm. She lay back down and the money fell against her face. "Goodbye, Mister Red. I sorry for you," she whispered to the money.

  Patty walked back to the bar quickly, as though he were afraid Tranh would come running after him.

  "Hello, Mister Red," said the mama-sahn at the door. "You happy, yes?"

  "Sure. Why not. Where are my friends?"

  "This way, stud," yelled Mac, waving from the corner table.

  Patty walked over.

  "Give me five, my man," said Mac. They slapped palms.

  "How's the stomach?" said Camp.

  "I'll live. Give me a beer.”

  Camp handed Patty a beer.

  Patty frowned. "When we getting the hell out of here?"

  "What's your hurry?" said Camp. "You anxious to get back to the war?"

  "Anything for a change of scenery.” Patty pulled out a chair and sat down.

  "You don't look real happy, stud," said Mac.

  "Yeah. Well, that's life," snarled Patty.

  "That slant stuff doesn't agree with you, huh?" said Camp.

  "It's okay," snapped Patty.

  "You sound like you want to
apologize for something," said Camp.

  "She's a nice girl," said Patty.

  "They all are," said Camp.

  "I don't need to apologize for nothing," said Patty. "I'm a soldier."

  "Then what are you apologizing for?" said Camp.

  "Nothing," said Patty. "Where the hell's Frank? I want to get out of here."

  "He ain't coming," said Mac. "He always spends the night."

  "Well then, let's go," said Patty. He crushed his beer can, dropped it on the table, and walked out the door.

  In the twilight, the village looked ramshackle and vulnerable. The music still poured out but now it jangled. He wanted to throw a grenade, to stop the sounds. He gazed up at a sliver of the moon and pictured Janet. Anger welled over him.

  Mac and Camp came out into the early evening light.

  "You ready, hero?" said Mac.

  "Sure," said Patty.

  "We have to go through the swamp," said Camp. "So the MPs don't catch us."

  CHAPTER 4: C.Q.

  The radio sputtered, and out came Jackson Taylor's voice. "Charlie, this is Charlie Three-One Oscar. Over."

  Patty pressed the radio phone to his ear and spoke. "Charlie Oscar, here."

  "All quiet out here. Don't drink too much beer. Over."

  "There's no such thing as too much beer," said Patty. "Have a good walk."

  "Enjoy the quiet. Out."

  The radio fell silent. Patty kicked his feet up on the desk and leaned back, happy to be on C.Q. while the rest of his squad sweated out night patrol. Patty looked up at the bare light bulb on the ceiling. The flies dog-fought around it. The room was clean and quiet. Crickets buzzed outside. Patty stretched and laughed to himself as he thought about the men walking cautiously through the dark fields.

  Jackson Taylor was a new black guy, and perimeter patrol was a lousy mission to get baptized on. They walked around all night looking for mortar fire near the base. It was lonely and scary in the dark. Each man stuck close to the shadow in front of him so he wouldn't get lost, and so he could step in familiar footsteps and not trip a booby trap. Every couple of minutes, the sergeant whispered the word back through the line. "Spread out a little bit. One big booby trap will get us all.” So they walked on, and the shadows slid further apart.

  Patty stretched once more, slid his feet back down under the desk, hunched over the typewriter, and went back to work typing out tomorrow's orders, reports of fake body counts, and another medal for Frank.