Men in Green Faces (14 page)

“Truk spotted a VC targeting me from the rear. Shoved me, took an AK-47 round in the hip.”

The PBR can in Gene’s hand buckled slightly. “He buy it?”

Willie shook his head. “He’s been medevacked to Binh Thuy. It looked to be a bad wound, but he’s hanging on.”

“Get the VC?”

“We got him. Yes. We surely did.”

”Damn.” Gene scanned the KCS camp on the bank in front of them. Truk, the village chief, had been the loyalest, been there the longest, and had earned Gene’s respect. And he had a family. “Damn.”

“I agree,” said Willie.

“So what happened to your arm?”

“Shrapnel nick. Nothing important.”

“Doc check it?”

“Not yet. I haven’t seen him.”

Gene grinned. “He will, you know.”

Willie smiled. “Mercy. I do believe I’ll put on a long-sleeved shirt. Doc can get sure enough testy.”

“Tell me about it.” He grinned again, remembering Doc’s reaction to their two-man op, then sobered. “Dammit, Willie, you’ve got no business whatsoever going out on patrol. You’re too short. You’re about to go back to The World and get married, dammit.”

Willie jumped up. “I’ll have you know I’m a very decent height, sir. Five ten is not considered short. Now Brian, Brian is
short
.”

Gene couldn’t help but laugh. Damned banty rooster. He stood up and looked down at Willie. “You’re short.”

Willie snorted. “No need to show off over a two-inch difference. Have a little modesty.”

“I’d be pleased if you’d just stay the hell off patrols and stay on Seafloat until your time is up, Willie.”

“I’ll be careful, my friend, but like you all, I have to do what’s right and needed.” He rested his hand on Gene’s shoulder. “You understand.”

Gene nodded. No sense in carrying on with Willie. No amount of argument or persuasion would change the southerner’s mind, but if anything happened to him, he’d—he didn’t want to think about it. “When did all this occur?”

“While you and Doc were out.”

So that’s why Willie hadn’t been there to see him off or welcome him back. “You think Truk will be all right?”

“I wish I could say. He lost a lot of blood. We had to carry him out. He saved my life. I owe him.”

So did he, Gene thought, so did he. Truk had proved his loyalty more often than any human should ever have to. Now he’d saved Willie’s life. Time to let him know they cared.

Three hours later, having received Jim’s okay, Gene stepped off an Army “Slick” before the blades stopped whirling at Binh Thuy’s airfield. The creases in his cami shirt and pants were sharp, his jungle boots immaculately clean. Though his camis bore no insignia of any kind—SEALs never wore anything that would identify them as SEALs—he had all the authority needed. A Swedish-K slung from his shoulder and the 9mm pistol belt-holstered under his waistband and hidden by the cami shirt ensured that.

Binh Thuy spread wide over a good deal of terrain, with the airfield and Third Field Hospital on one side of the Main Public Road and the naval base reaching to the river on the opposite side. Multiple rows of drab-green Army Quonset huts housed people based there as well as the UDT Detachment, the MSSC Detachment, the Acey-Deucy Club, and other operations. About ten miles from the base lay Binh Sumoi, its two-story buildings well furnished with bars, restaurants, rooms, and prostitutes. The town was fat with military money.

He caught a jeep for the short ride from the airfield to the hospital. Nothing much changed. This road ran straight to the hospital. They turned right at the intersection on another that ran directly through the Navy’s base to the river on the far side. Still, hot, humid, dusty air pressed down on it all.

At the second Quonset on the right, the MSSC Detachment, he jumped off the jeep. Inside, he went straight to the small bar in the corner for a quick cold beer, then left for the hospital and the ward where Truk would be.

It was cool and white inside the Quonset and smelled like every other hospital ward he’d ever been in. He hated that smell. It meant loss of control, elimination of choice. He stood silent, just inside the double doors, looking and listening. Men moaned, talked. One screamed endlessly, horribly.

There were two long rows of narrow beds, one against each wall, their ends forming the aisle. In every one lay a man tied to tubes tied to machines. Where was Truk? He took a deep breath and started down the aisle, then stiffened. He caught a whiff of something rare, faint but distinct. Something clean and fresh like a sun-drenched meadow. Shampoo? He whirled.

The nurse stood two arm lengths away. She had wide brown eyes, hair framing an unsmiling but pretty face, and a firm body under crisply pressed surgical greens. Everything about her told him she was the professional’s professional. Everything except the look in her eyes as they stared at each other. Vietnam, the hospital, the results of combat in her care…the naked ache of it stared back at him.

“May I help you?” she asked. “Are you here to see someone?”

He nodded. “Yes,” and asked for Truk.

“Follow me,” she said. “He’s asleep now. He’s under heavy sedation.”

He followed her, followed the almost-not-there scent of meadows, to the second bed on the left. Truk lay deathly still, looking even older than he was. He looked smaller, cleaner, than Gene had ever seen him. The machine next to his bed made soft noises. He could hear it, even with the screaming from across the aisle. He bent to read Truk’s chart, secured to the foot of the bed.

She talked it, accurately, while he read. Truk slept on, unaware that for the rest of his life, he would never walk unaided. If he walked at all. If he lived. Gene let the chart fall back into position and turned to look at the nurse. “What’s your name?”

“Sara. You’re…?”

He held out his hand. “Gene.”

Her hand was firm and small in his. He fought the urge to keep it there, to lift it to his lips. Instead, he released her. His fingers closed into a fist as if to capture the feel of her hand so the imprint could be kept and carried away and treasured.

“He should be waking soon,” she said. “I’ll be at the nurse’s station if you need me.”

He took a deep breath, watching her leave, but looked away, before she caught him doing so. The KCS chief slept, unmoving. He moved toward the screaming, unwilling, unable to stop himself from crossing the aisle.

He didn’t have to see the chart to know what happened to the eighteen-year-old lying naked on the bed, but he read it anyway. For three days, the man had been like this. Caught in napalm. They couldn’t save him, could try only to stop the pain with morphine. Morphine that wasn’t working, couldn’t work against such agony. Charred black, his skin, cracked in multiple places, exposed fissures of red flesh underneath. Unrecognizable features no mother could ever identify as her son’s. Conscious, unconscious, he screamed, cried unceasingly, and would until he died.

Instinctively Gene reached for the 9mm on his hip. And stopped before his fingers touched it. God, it was the right, the humane thing, the only decent thing to do. But he had no right. Only God…

The new little Bible in his hand opened to the Twenty-third Psalm. He tried to whisper, “The Lord is my shepherd…,” and couldn’t. Why did He allow…?

Suddenly he couldn’t stand the Bible in his hands. Couldn’t stand the touch of it. He jammed it back in his pocket, out of sight, in the face of the inexcusable agony before him. His hand drifted upward on his thigh toward the gun on his hip…

“Gene? Gene?”

He stiffened, took two rapid breaths. His eyes filmed with tears, and he blotted them away with the heels of his fists before turning to her.

“Truk is awake.”

He nodded, followed Sara back across the aisle, leaned over, and took Truk’s hand in his.

“Geeee…”

“It’s all right, Truk. Don’t try to talk. You’re going to be all right.”

“Wil…”

“Willie’s fine. You saved his life. He thanks you. I thank you.” He leaned closer. “Don’t worry about your family. I’ll see to it that they’re taken care of. They’re fine. Willie went to make sure. I’ll go too. Don’t worry. Just—”

He went quiet. Truk slept again. He straightened the sheet that covered him, touched his shoulder very lightly, and left to talk to Sara.

“If he needs anything,” he said, writing his name on the piece of paper she’d given him, “just contact me, and I’ll see that it gets here.”

“I’ll be glad to,” she said, taking the paper. “Not many bother to come see the KCSs.”

“Truk’s special.” He studied her. “How long have you been in Nam?”

”Two and a half months.”

He started to reply, but saw something in her face that said she wanted to say something else. “What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It’s okay.”

“Thanks,” she said, “for not committing the mercy killing a few minutes ago.”

“You saw.”

“Yes. I’ve come close to doing the same. So I watched you.”

He’d never heard such screaming agony as was coming from the bed behind him. He bit down on his lip, tried to think. “What do you think of Vietnam off the base?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t been off the base yet.”

No wonder that look was in her eyes. Two and a half months of pain and nothing else. Would she…He could only ask. “Would you like to go to Binh Sumoi for dinner tonight? You should see some of Vietnam. It’s a beautiful country. It truly is.” He had to be crazy. There wasn’t a prayer she’d go off with him, anywhere. Probably asked twenty times a day.

“Yes,” she said. “I would like to go to dinner with you tonight.”

He lit up inside. “What time? Where shall I meet you? I’ll get a jeep.“

She checked her watch. “I’m off at 1500 hours. I’ll wait for you here at 1530.” She held out her hand.

He took it in both of his. When she moved her fingers slightly, he instantly released her. “I’ll be here at 1530.”

When the double doors swung closed behind him, the sudden absence of the screaming came as a blessing, even as the relative silence outside emphasized it. He wanted a drink. Several drinks.

He had two hours and a half until Sara was free, until he returned, and ended the burn victim’s pain forever. Death would come quick and clean. A blessing. Nothing could hurt the man like he hurt now. Shaking inside at the horror of it, he headed for the Acey-Deucy Club.

He was sitting at a corner table having a third Seven and 7 when a newly arrived sailor spoke to the bartender, then came his way. A messenger, Gene realized, and took a long swallow of his drink.

“Gene Michaels?”

He nodded.

“I’ve come from the hospital, sir. Found out you were here from the MSSC people. A chopper went down en route to Binh Thuy carrying some members of SEAL Team from Seafloat. Medical would like to know if you will come and try to identify the bodies.”

“Some?”

“It’s pretty bad. Three of the five are charred, but two are not.”

Gene’s stomach twisted. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the messenger was staring down at the floor, waiting. He pushed his chair back and stood.

“I have a jeep outside.”

Gene nodded and followed him out.

At medical, the five bodies lay draped in green sheets atop white metal tables. The first two, unburned, he identified easily. They were not from the platoons on Seafloat, but they’d been stopped down there for a few days before heading to Binh Thuy, then home. The next two were charred beyond recognition. The third caused his eyes to burn with tears he couldn’t shed. It was too damned much to have to take. Terry Taylor, from Delta Platoon, stared up into nothing. Gene closed his eyes with gentle fingers, memories a kaleidoscope in his mind. He’d gone through training, Jump School, SEAL Basic Indoctrination, with Terry Taylor.

He had been so funny, so good for morale. Jump School at Fort Benning, Georgia, he and Terry and three other SEALs, all in dress white Navy uniforms…An Army bar outside the base. They’d stood out like sore thumbs. Having had too much to drink, Terry up and yelling at the top of his lungs, “You bunch of Army pukes, eat donkey shit!” And he’d thrown his chair across the room. A hundred Army personnel and five SEALs. They’d been shit scared. No way could they fight off a hundred at once. But Terry had balls. He’d try. They’d taken him out—punched out his running lights—and apologized, telling the Army he was just drunk. They laid two hundred dollars on the bar and told the barkeep to buy the house a round, then got the hell out of there. But now Terry…

“Terry Taylor, Delta Platoon,” he told them, wheeled, and left. Nobody spoke as he walked away and out.

The messenger stood waiting beside the jeep. Gene checked his watch. Almost 1530 hours. “Call for transportation or walk,” he told the sailor. “I’m taking the jeep.”

By the time he reached the hospital ward, he was late. Sara was waiting.

“Where have you—what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry I’m late. There was a chopper crash and they came and got me to identify. There was another SEAL from…from Seafloat.” He looked away.

“Gene…the burn victim. He passed away minutes after you left.”

He closed his eyes, controlled his breathing, and with it, his emotions.

“Are you all right? Do you want to cancel?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Please. Let’s go.”

Three miles off base, on the road to Binh Sumoi, she said, “You were right. The country is beautiful.”

They talked about Vietnam. He told her about Truk and his family, about riding in the chopper door above the jungle, about rice paddies and the Vietnamese children in the KCS camp, until they reached the two-story building housing the restaurant he had in mind. “Here we are.”

They made their way across the crowded sidewalk and went inside. “It won’t be what you’re used to in The World,” he warned, “but at least it’s not chow hall food, and we’re not on a military base.”

She looked up at him. “So long as it’s not raw.” She laughed.

Prostitutes and military lined the bar. Every table seemed to have women sitting on men’s laps. Music blared from speakers, people danced, laughed, and shouted at each other. Gene put a protective arm around Sara and they followed the waitress to a corner table. When they were settled, she ordered rum and Coke and he a Seven and 7. Eventually they ordered another, and another, before finally deciding to eat. They had plates of noodles with vegetables, along with duck egg and Spam sandwiches, and washed it all down with beer.