Reaching Page 5

  Patty's mind drifted as he tapped through the ritual of the night's work. He wondered how long Jackson Taylor would last. Baker and Leigh had worked him over yesterday, but he'd handled them. Baker had called him over. "Hey, Taylor, come on over and introduce yourself."

  If any blacks had been around, they might have warned him, but Patty had been the only witness. He'd just sat on his bunk and watched.

  Baker and Leigh sat side by side on a foot locker. Taylor walked over and introduced himself. "Name's Jackson Taylor. Pleased to know you guys.” He extended his hand. He was a big, broad shouldered man. The three men shook hands.

  "Back home," said Baker, "I'd never shake hands with a nigger, but it's different out here. We all get along so long as everybody knows their place."

  "Wait a second," said Taylor as he leaned over them. "I'm not a nigger. I'm a black man."

  "Same difference," said Baker deprecatingly.

  "No, it's not," shot back Taylor. "A nigger spends his time on his knees. I don't."

  "Forget I ever spoke to you, buddy," said Baker.

  "Listen," said Leigh. "We didn't mean no harm. We was just being friendly."

  "Okay," said Taylor, and walked away.

  Baker and Leigh got up and walked by Patty. Baker spoke loudly, "That's some goddamned nigger.” They walked out the door, and the screen banged shut behind them.

  "Gutless," Taylor yelled after them.

  Patty laughed.

  Taylor turned and glared at him. "What you laughing for?" he snapped.

  "You. You're nice.” Patty smiled. "They don't mean nothing."

  "That's sure.” He looked evenly at Patty. "You got a pen so I could write a letter."

  Patty tossed him his favorite pen. Taylor caught it neatly.

  Patty stopped typing. He leaned back in his chair, looked up at the flies around the light bulb and chuckled. "Have a nice walk, buddy," said Patty to the air.

  The screen door slammed shut, and Patty jumped up, startled.

  Donner sauntered over to the desk. "You always tell jokes to yourself? You look scared."

  "I didn't hear the door open. Thought you were the captain. You surprised me."

  "I surprise a lot of people," said Donner. "What you doing here?"

  "Typing."

  "Yeah. You're lying around laughing, while your buddies are getting their asses shot off."

  "They needed a typist," said Patty.

  "So you got off."

  "I don't see you out there," said Patty.

  "Shove it, Irish. You're just another one of those brainy guys. You ought to be in college with a deferment."

  "I wish I was."

  "Shut up, Patsin. You act like Rob."

  "Donner, you drink too much."

  "Shut up, I told you.” Donner yanked the paper from the typewriter and tore it to pieces. "Now, will you shut up?"

  Patty stood motionless behind the desk. The two men glared at each other. A mosquito buzzed between them.

  Donner leaned on the desk. "Look, Patsin. I don't like soldiers in general, and there's something I don't like about you. One of these days I'm going to beat you.” He paused. "So, be ready."

  "I'm ready," snapped Patty.

  Donner tipped a can of Schlitz to his lips and drained it. "Damn. No more beer.” He crushed the can and tossed it in the corner. "One of these days, man. One of these days."

  The radio sputtered. "Patty, Patty, over."

  Patty picked up the radio hand phone without moving his eyes from Donner. He pressed in the button and spoke. "Charlie Three Oscar here.

  "Patty, they got us. Patty, they got us."

  "Charlie Three Oscar here. What the hell's going on?"

  "They got us."

  Patty and Donner continued to eye each other.

  Patty spoke into the phone. "This is Three Oscar. Listen. Stop whining and tell me what happened."

  The radio crackled with static. "Patty, this is Leigh. They got us with a daisy chain. They got the whole squad. They got us bad. Get us some help."

  "Where's Taylor?" said Patty.

  "He left me with the radio. He's helping the wounded," cried Leigh.

  Patty looked at Donner. Donner looked sick.

  "What's a daisy chain?" asked Patty.

  "It's a booby trap," said Donner. "A half dozen grenades spaced out along a trail. They're hooked together with string or a vine. When you hit the trip wire, it's boom, boom - hello and goodnight."

  Patty felt his palms go sweaty. "I should have been out there."

  The radio crackled. "Charlie Three Oscar, this is Three One Oscar, over."

  "Three Oscar here," said Patty. "That you, Taylor. You all right?"

  "No, man, I'm not. We're hit bad. Send choppers to coordinates 34N, 41E. Make it fast, Patty."

  "Right. Check 34N, 41E. Over.

  "Check. Out," said Taylor.

  Patty wound the radio. "This is Charlie Three Oscar calling 41st Med-Evac. Come in. Come in. Over."

  "41st Med-Evac here. How goes the big world, Charles. You got work for me? Over."

  "Yeah," said Patty. "We been hit by a daisy chain. Send choppers to 34N, 41E quick. Over."

  "This is 41st Med. Repeat coordinates. Over."

  "Oscar here. 34N, 41E. Over."

  "We're on our way. Out."

  Donner frowned. "They didn't get you."

  "Yeah. I guess I lucked out."

  "I'll get the C.O.," said Donner. He walked out the door. The screen door slammed shut, and Patty was alone with the radio.

  "Charlie, come in.” It was Leigh.

  "Charlie, here. Over."

  "Patty, don't let me die. Don't let me die."

  "The choppers are coming," answered Patty.

  "Patty, don't let me die."

  "Take it easy, buddy."

  "Where are the choppers?" said Leigh.

  "They're coming."

  "How long?"

  "I'll ring you back," said Patty.

  Patty called back the Med-Evac, then relayed word of a thirty minute wait to Leigh. As he spoke, he heard the men's cries from the darkness.

  Donner slammed back in. "The C.O. said for you to handle it. He sent this over for moral support.” Donner held up a beer. "It's for you, but I'm drinking some. No objections, I hope.” He popped open the can and took a swig.

  "None," said Patty.

  "Take a swig," said Donner.

  Patty took a sip. It chilled his spine.

  "We can't do shit," said Donner.

  The radio crackled. "Charley Three, this is Three One Oscar bringing you play by play on this foggy night. We're down by about ten touchdowns, but as you can hear by the moans of the fans, they're getting used to it."

  "Who's that?" interrupted Patty.

  "This is hamburger helper, better known as Big Mac."

  "Mac, how you doing?" said Patty.

  Donner grinned.

  "Just great," said Mac. "Absolutely terrific. I thought you guys might like a blow by blow account of what's coming down since I ain't got nothing better to do. Italy says to tell you that any tape, rebroadcast, or other use of the pictures and accounts of this game without the express written consent of the commissioner are prohibited.” The voice stopped.

  "God, he's cool," said Donner. "He's clowning to keep the guys out of shock."

  Patty slapped the radio. "Mac, are you there?"

  "Sure, man. I'm not going nowhere without a chopper."

  "Look, the choppers will be there soon," said Patty. "You guys just take it easy."

  "Man, I'm beautiful. I got a nice view. Don't worry, Patty. I got a couple scraps of shrapnel in my leg, that's all."

  "Listen," said Patty. "You should keep the radio line clear."

  "Forget it," said Mac. "Nobody else needs it now. Everybody's on me to keep talking to you, so let me bend your ear a bit. It's a nice night. The stars are lit up like Christmas and the moon is big, kind of nice silver, like change in my pocket back in the world. The li
ght's soft, but we can see each other pretty good. The edge of the wood is behind me, and the paddies are stretched out in front of me."

  "Hey, Mac, listen. This is Patty. You don't want to give your position on the radio or clog up the line."

  "Yeah, man, I do want to, but if you got something better to do, I'll get off the line."

  "No. I didn't mean nothing," said Patty. "Keep rapping, brother. You sound good."

  Donner looked at Patty over the top of his beer can.

  Mac continued. "Frank, lucky bastard that he is, stepped over a dike just before the daisy hit us. He didn't even get a scratch. He and Taylor are out dragging in the wounded. I think Taylor's hit pretty good, but he just laughed when I asked him. That's Leigh crying in the background. He's scared, not hurt. Now ain't this a shame.” He yelled something out into the field. "Here come Taylor with Baker hanging on his shoulder. Man, in a minute I'd leave that sucker there to grow weeds."

  The screen door opened and the captain walked in. Patty jumped up.

  "At ease," said Captain Madison.

  Patty sat back down.

  "You got a list of the dead and wounded yet?" said the C.O.

  "No, sir."

  "Get it, and tell that guy to stop messing with the phone."

  "Yes sir," said Patty pressing the phone button. "Mac, sorry to interrupt you, but the C.O. wants a list of the K.I.A.s."

  "What for?"

  "For the records, I guess."

  "Tell him I said to shove the records."

  The captain grabbed the mike out of Patty's hand. "Charlie here. Buddy, I don't care how bad you're wounded. You're a soldier, so act like it. Now give that list to my C.Q. ASAP. You understand. Over."

  "This is Three One Oscar. We can't tell in the dark, maybe nobody."

  "Charlie here. Get the wounded lined up and ready for the choppers. Only put the badly wounded on the chopper. The rest of you can walk back in. Over."

  "Right. Out."

  The C.Q. turned to Patty. "Have a typed casualty report on my desk in the morning. I'm going to sleep now. Good night.” He hesitated. "Don't take it too hard, Patsin. Hey, Donner, that beer is Patsin's."

  "Yes, sir," Donner answered. He stood up and put the can on the desk.

  The C.O. walked out the door. Donner looked at Patty.

  "It's okay. Take it," said Patty, motioning to the beer.

  "It tastes good on a bad night," said Donner.

  "Yeah, sure.” Patty pressed the mike on the radio. "Mac, how you doing?"

  "Just lovely. Would you believe Taylor's patching up that bastard Baker?"

  "Yeah. I'd believe it."

  "Well, you better 'cause it's true. Hey, I can hear the choppers. Don't they sound nice? Frank just sent a red flare. Those flashing lights sure is pretty. Right on the money. Windy bastards. I got dust in my eye. Oh, man . . . ."

  The radio went dead. Patty slapped the receiver. "Mac, come in. Come in. Over."

  "Mac here. I got bad news, buddy. Taylor's full of shrapnel. He helped those other bastards on the chopper and couldn't get in himself. Frank and Doc just put him in. He's bad, Patty."

  "How many wounded you got?" said Patty.

  "Five," said Mac. "The choppers are away. The rest of us are walking in. See you soon, Patty. Out."

  Patty looked up at Donner, and Donner passed him the beer can.

  "You look down, kid," said Donner. "Just laugh. That's all you can do. You just got to laugh."

  "Thanks," said Patty. He took a sip of beer. It was tasteless.

  "Don't thank me," said Donner. "I still don't like you. Just remember that, buddy."

  Patty picked up a piece of typing paper and patted carbon and another sheet of paper behind it. He slid the papers into the carriage and lined everything up. In the file, Patty found the Army Manual of Reports, page 361, Report of Casualties - Killed in Action, Missing in Action, Wounded in Action. He began to type.

  Donner sat on the edge of the desk and sipped his beer. The room was quiet and neat except for a crumpled piece of paper beside the trash can and a beer can in the corner. Patty heard a hum above his head and looked up. Another fly was stuck to the fly paper. Rat-a-tat, Patty typed.

  The radio busted in on the typing. "Charlie Three, this is 41st Med-Evac. Over."

  "Three Oscar here."

  "Jackson Taylor is dead. You have four lightly wounded: Baker, Leigh, Lincoln, and a guy who says his name is Baby-sahn."

  "Roger. Out."

  Donner flipped his beer can into the corner. A little beer spattered the floor like spittle.

  "What do I tell Mac when he gets here?" said Patty.

  Donner smiled hard. "Nothing. He's used to it."

  He walked out the door. It clicked shut behind him.

  CHAPTER 5: THREE MEN

  Patty leaned forward in his chair. He had C.Q. again. There were no missions out, no orders to type, and nothing special going on. The flypaper had caught all the flies, and the room was as still as the sticky, night air. Patty hunched over the typewriter and thought. His brow wrinkled but the words didn't come. He looked at the paper. It read: April 15. Dear Janet.

  And the words wouldn't come.

  He knew Janet would want a tender, reassuring letter, but there was only sarcasm and bitterness inside him. Words pinged through his mind. How's the real world, baby? You ought to be over here getting laid and getting your ass shot off like me. Jackson Taylor was an ace of spades.

  Patty felt close to tears. He tried deep breathing, but nothing helped. The woman at the other end of the paper seemed a stranger from a different world, and he hated her for the normalcy and the happiness she represented, for the possibilities that he felt he'd never live to see.

  He closed his eyes, and he could smell her clean soaked body with barely a hint of perfume. He pulled her close in his mind's eye. Her swelling breasts pressed against his chest. He buried his face in her silky brown hair and tasted the sweat from her armpits. They slid together, sweat on sweat, oiling the friction of their bodies.

  Never again, thought Patty. A shattered skull and putrid intestines dripping in the slime swamp of the delta. That was tomorrow.

  The door clicked open, and Frank popped in.

  Patty looked at him. "Man, you're a mess."

  Frank weaved his way over and sat down on the desk. "Just a little drunk. What you know, shmo?"

  "Not a whole lot," said Patty. He shook his head. "I been daydreaming about Janet and feeling bad."

  "Forget it, buddy," said Frank. "It don't count over here. And when we go to the boat, nothing counts. Here, have some medicine."

  He handed Patty a half empty bottle of scotch.

  Patty took a hard pull and inhaled the warmth right down to his stomach.

  "God, that's good," said Patty. "Where did you get it?"

  Frank frowned. "Who cares?” He grabbed the bottle back and took a swig. "Mouthwash, that's what it is.” He gargled and swallowed it. "I'm in heaven.” Frank sang and kissed the bottle. "Every time you're near, I'm in heaven."

  "Thanks, man," said Patty.

  Frank nodded and slid into a chair in front of the desk. "Shit," he said. "You know the last time I was drunk, I gave Frenchie and Mama-sahn all my medals."

  "I thought you didn't like 'em," said Patty.

  "It's not that. I just don't like 'em selling them to some rich Vietnamese twerp. And there's another thing I don't like.” He banged his bottle on the desk. "The next time those MP's touch me, I'm gonna kill those mother fuckers. They can keep all the damn medals, and they can take my stripes, but if any MP ever touches me again, so help me, I'll kill him."

  "Easy, Frank," said Patty. "We don't need any more killing."

  Frank nodded.

  Patty leaned back in his chair. "They're gutless. That's why they don't like grunts."

  "Yeah," said Frank. "Gutless. You got to do it just like they taught you."

  "Do what?" said Patty.

  Frank's eyes glinted. "Squeeze the t
rigger slowly."

  Patty frowned. "Frank, why do you always let the MPs catch you in the woods when you're coming back from town?"

  "I get stupid drunk, that's all. What do you think?"

  Patty looked thoughtfully at Frank. "Camp says you do it on purpose, that you want the MPs to beat you for being the kind of guy who can squeeze the trigger slowly."

  Frank took a swig of scotch and smiled. "Fuck Camp. What's he know? He's a medic, not a goddamn shrink."

  "He might be right," said Patty.

  Frank shrugged. "Who cares? We all got problems.” Frank eyed the bottle intently. "It's the slow days that get you."

  "Yeah," said Patty. "I need to write Janet something gentle and nice, but I'm so full of --- I don't know what. I could smash this typewriter."

  "Yeah," said Frank.

  "Well, I guess we each have to just stand in our holes and make it. Every dude alone," said Patty.

  "Not me," said Frank. "I got my good buddy Johnnie Walker to keep me company.” He took a swig from the bottle. "You going to be sad all night?"

  "I'll make it," said Patty.

  Frank slid the bottle along the desk.

  "No thanks," said Patty. "Hey, what happened on the street before?"

  "Nothing," said Frank. "Donner got pissed at me for letting the MPs nail me all the time."

  "What'd you do?" said Patty.

  "I told him it was none of his goddamned business."

  "What did he do?" said Patty.

  "He bought me a beer."

  "He's a real hard ass with me," said Patty. "I wish I knew why."

  "Everybody hates everybody around here," said Frank. "Blood lust.” He laughed. He leaned back and closed his eyes. A little rivulet of sweat dripped off his nose onto his moustache.

  "Come on," said Patty. He leaned his elbows on the desk.

  Frank opened his eyes. "I seen how he bugs you. He leaned forward. "You know, it's not you, it's him. It has to do with something that happened before you even got here. When we was on the boats.” He paused and looked at Patty. "Did you ever wonder why he never goes out on missions, how he got to be a supply clerk?"

  "No, I always figured he lucked out."

  "You and everybody else. But, believe me, he got that job the hard way. He only went out on one mission but it was enough.” Frank took a sip of scotch. "He was new in the unit and laughed a lot. The way fat guys do when they're scared and don't know if they can do the job or if they're gonna be liked. I remember it was the end of the day. The ground was baked like rock. The air was filled with dry dust and you felt like you'd been eating clay all day. The sun looked orange because all the dust in the air filtered your view of it, but that didn't make it any less hot, maybe 120 degrees."