Men in Green Faces (23 page)

Gene smiled. “Mornin,’” Jim. How are you doing?”

He ignored Gene’s greeting. “What’s the word, Doc? How is he?”

“Well, he’s got walking pneumonia. I’m sending him up to Binh Thuy.”

“Wait a minute,” Gene said, “I could be up there a week or two. Maybe longer. No way. Can’t you treat me here?”

The doctor shrugged. “Sure. But you’d need to stay dry and get plenty of rest. You won’t do that here.”

“I’ll do anything you say, but keep me here. I promise. Whatever you say.” The endless screaming of the burn victim echoed in his mind. Anything would be better than a repeat of that. And Sara…who had to stay in the past forever…

The doctor looked at Jim, who nodded. Gene sighed with relief.

“Okay,” the doctor said, “but if I see you wet or going out on any ops, I’ll pull you out and have your ass on a medevac so fast…” He turned and crossed the room toward a metal cabinet on the far wall.

“Thanks, Jim. If you hadn’t okayed me staying here, he would have sent me out.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jim replied. “If you don’t do exactly what the doc says, I’ll ship your ass out myself.”

Gene glanced at the returning doctor, then stared at the needle he carried. “What the hell is that for?”

“Penicillin. Bend over and drop them.”

“You gotta be kidding. You treating an elephant?”

Jim chuckled.

“Just drop ‘em. Jesus Christ. For being a big bad-ass SEAL, you’re acting like a baby.”

Teeth set, he dropped his trunks, turned, and felt the doctor swab his skin with something cold and wet.

“You ready?”

Before he could answer, the doctor drove the needle home. Gene yelled, “You hit oil?” and clenched his teeth. Damn, that hurt. Finally the needle was withdrawn.

“That so bad?” the doctor asked, handing Gene more meds. “I want to see you before evening chow. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you get any worse, I’ll have to send you out. If you don’t take care of yourself, it could cost you a lot more than just a few ops.”

“Don’t worry,” Jim said. “I’ll make sure he’s a good boy.” He rubbed the top of Gene’s head.

On the way to the chow hall, Jim laid down the law.

“Don’t screw around. I don’t mind losing you for a few ops, knowing you’ll be back in the bush soon, but if you screw around, I could lose you for a lot longer, and that would piss me off. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t yes me this time. You do exactly what he said. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” Gene snapped back. No doubt that Jim meant it. Anything would be better than being sent to Binh Thuy.

The cook splattered watery powdered eggs on his tray. On second thought, maybe Binh Thuy wouldn’t be so bad. “You eat these, or do you give us straws?”

“Move on,” the cook said. “There’s people behind you.”

Gene took some burnt toast to go with the undercooked potatoes, and a cup of hot black coffee, then crossed the room to join Doc and Cruz. After setting the tray on the table, he pulled out a metal chair and dropped into it.

He shot up.
“Ai-yi!”

Cruz stared. “What’s wrong with you?”

Doc smiled. “He shot you up, didn’t he?”

When he got back to their hootch, still hungry, Gene went to his footlocker, pulled out a can of tuna, an onion swiped from the chow hall the previous meal, and his bowie knife. After opening the can, he chopped the onion into big chunks and began to eat. It was one of his favorite meals. It didn’t do much for his breath, but out here, who cared? Considering the smell of the jungle, the filthy brown river, and all the body odor, onions weren’t really so bad.

Gene was playing poker and had just thrown in his hand when Willie came in.

“Gene, I need to talk to you right away.”

“Okay, my friend.” He stood up. “You-O, put my money on the books.”

“I’ve got hot intel on an op,” Willie said, standing next to Gene’s rack.

Gene put up a hand, seeing Jim come through the door. “Jim, over here,” he called.

Jim came over.

“Ninety NVA are leaving New Nam Cam before dark,” Willie said. “I know where they’ll be going. We can hit them. I’m taking twelve KCSs. I’d like five SEALs to go as well.”

“Sure,” Jim said. “I’ll get four others.”

Automatically Gene pulled the 60 off its rack.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Jim asked.

“Out with you and Willie.”

“Are you nuts? You’re not going anywhere. I’ll find another 60,” he said, and left.

“What’s wrong with you?” Willie asked.

Gene slumped against the racks. “Doctor shut me down for a while. Says I have walking pneumonia.”

“Then keep your ass planted. This war will still be here tomorrow and the next day. Y’all have done your share. Just get well.”

“Dammit, Willie, you’ve done yours as well. What the hell are you thinking of, going out when it’s just hours until you can get home?”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

“See you later, my friend. I’ve got to get ready.”

“Okay, Willie.” There was no use arguing. The redhead was stubborn as hell.

Two hours later, he saw Jim and Willie off. It came to him, looking at them, that there stood his two closest friends, both in full combat gear, both in green face, and they looked scary as hell.

Willie patted his shoulder. “See y’all after a bit.”

He watched them walk out the door together, into the rain. It was almost twilight. They’d want to be in position before the NVA passed through. Dark gray and wet outside the rectangle of the door frame, it would be real dark in the jungle. Deep mud. Pouring rain. Shit. He walked slowly back to the card game.

“Marc, do you want to get some chow?”

He looked up, and Gene, once again, felt the impact of those incredibly transparent, light blue eyes.

“No thanks. I’m making a comeback.”

Gene nodded and walked alone to the chow hall. He ate a hamburger and chips, then suddenly weary, returned to his rack and fell asleep. It seemed he’d barely closed his eyes when NILO’s Johnny burst into the hootch yelling for Doc.

“The KCSs got hit…casualties coming in. We’re going to need you in sick bay.”

The SEALs left the hootch running. Gene pulled on his trunks and ran out after them, wondering which KCSs got it, and how bad. He reached the sick bay and met Johnny coming out.

“Let’s go—helo pads. They’re bringing in three KCSs.”

They ran, slipping on Seafloat’s drenched deck.

Marc stood beside him as the first chopper landed. The second they could, they pulled out the closest wounded, using a stretcher. Out cold, and covered in blood, it was Tong. They rushed him to medical, knowing the helos carried the most seriously injured. The other wounded would be brought back aboard the boats with the rest of the patrol.

Looking down at Tong’s bloody face, Gene couldn’t help thinking of how much the man had lost in the war. His wife, his two small girls, his parents, and now, maybe, his life.

In sick bay, they lay him on the only table, under the large surgical lamp. Two corpsmen and the doctor started working on him. Other SEALs carried in two more KCSs.

“Put them on the floor,” the doctor ordered. “Everyone out but medical personnel.”

Gene left to help get stretchers ready for the boats. They’d be arriving within ten minutes. From where they waited, he could see them, far down the river, coming home on step. As they closed, he made out Jim standing on the bow of the first one. Willie must be on the second, he thought, but he didn’t have time to look once Jim’s boat docked.

As Jim helped the wounded KCSs off, the SEALs each took one and walked them over to sick bay. Once there, Gene, like the others, checked his KCS’s bandaged wounds, checked for missed wounds and for signs of shock. He looked up when Tong was brought out on his stretcher. The surgical sheet was partially pulled over his face.

The corpsman shook his head, replying to Gene’s silent question. “We couldn’t save him.”

When the corpsmen moved away, he saw Jim approaching. With him were four SEALs, carrying two body bags on stretchers. Gene went to meet him.

“Jim, what happened?” There was nothing boyish left in the expression on his green-and-black-painted face. Just a sickness and a tiredness beyond words.

“They were waiting for us,” he said, his voice hoarse. “They had to have known. It was an ambush. Before anyone could get off the boats, they hit us with rockets and heavy weapons fire.”

If Loc hadn’t been already gone…Gene looked down at the body bags. “Are any ours?”

Jim nodded.

“Who?” Kneeling, Gene started to open the first bag. Jim grabbed his arm.

“Willie,” he said.

The outline of the body bag blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He felt his body crumple, couldn’t stop it, and dropped to his knees. He tried to speak. Couldn’t. He choked, felt hot tears streaming down his face. Willie…oh, God, Willie…

Jim pulled him up. “Come with me…come with me.”

And he was walking…being walked . .. and they were at the edge of Seafloat. Jim put something in his hand. Gene looked down at the cross Willie always wore on a chain around his neck.

“A rocket hit next to the wheelhouse,” Jim said. “Willie was standing right next to it.” He paused, then continued. “It took almost one-third of his chest out.”

Gene clenched the cross in his fist, crossed his arms tight against himself, and looked at the river, seeing nothing through tears that just kept coming.

“We had to break contact before we could help,” Jim said. “Once clear, I went to Willie first.” He touched Gene’s shoulder. “He didn’t seem to be in pain. He reached up and pulled on his cross. I started to render aid—” His voice broke. He took a deep breath and went on. “He said, ‘I’m dead. Take care of my men.’ “

Beside him, Gene drew in a long, sobbing breath.

Jim wiped at tears and continued. “I looked him in the eyes. He wanted you to have his cross, said he loved you. I was holding his hand…Jim drew a shuddering breath, .. and his grip went limp, and he…died.”

Jim’s voice broke again, and he went silent. Gene touched him on the shoulder, clenched the cross tight, and walked away. At the far east end of Seafloat, he faced the jungle, blind with tears. Willie…Willie…He cried until he couldn’t cry anymore.

A long time later, he entered the hootch and went to his rack. Lifting his pillow, he removed Karen’s letters and the Bible, put them in his footlocker, and turned the key. Still holding Willie’s cross, he lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling with cold, dry eyes.

If he’d been there, Willie might still be alive. They could have used his 60…But no. They’d been ambushed, Jim had said. The enemy had known. How? Loc? Rage churned within him. But he didn’t know that Loc—they’d operated together, for God’s sake. God?

It was after chow. The rain had stopped. The other SEALs, abnormally quiet, were getting ready for the movie. Seafloat was not quite back to normal.

Part of his life had been taken away. He lay cold and empty. Nothing had meaning. He felt nothing.

“Gene,” Jim said beside him, “you okay?”

He nodded.

“The doctor wants to see you in sick bay. He wants to listen to your lungs.”

Silently Gene dropped to the floor. Tong’s blood still covered his hands and arms. He walked to sick bay.

“How do you feel?” the doctor asked.

He shrugged, stood silent, his fists clenched, while the doctor examined him.

“I want you to come back in the morning. Here. Take these.”

Gene accepted two pills and a canteen.

“They’ll help you sleep tonight. You need rest.”

Without replying, he returned to the hootch and climbed back up on his rack. He opened his fist then and looked again at Willie’s cross before putting it in the back pocket of his trunks. Eventually he slept.

For two days, he spoke to no one, not aware of keeping silent. When talked to, he just shrugged, shook his head, or nodded briefly. The other SEALs, sensing he wanted to be left alone, backed off. He ate by himself, walked by himself, and spent hours staring, rigid with anger, down the Son Ku Lon or out over the jungle. On the evening of the fourth day, he went to sick bay.

The doctor sat him down, listened to his chest, and took his temperature. “You sound good,” he said. “No fever. Give it one more day and you can go back out.”

Gene stood. The doctor looked up at his face and, startled, took a sudden step back.

Without a word, Gene left, going to stare again downriver into the dark night. Within him stirred a rage beyond anything he had ever known. Willie’s cross cut into his palm. He’d get them for Willie. He’d get all of them. Hundreds for one. They wanted war, he’d bring them hell!

N
OT INTERESTED IN SLEEP
once given the word he could go back out, Gene set to work getting his equipment ready. It had lain dormant for almost a week, and the time he had left in Vietnam was growing shorter, just as Willie’s had. He ached to take revenge.

He started with a new case of M-60 ammo. Pulling out the first box of two hundred rounds, he took each belt apart and removed the tracers that were every fifth round. After four boxes totaling eight hundred rounds, he had fifty tracers. He set them aside. He then cut an X in the nose of each of the other belted rounds with his bowie knife. When the round hit its target, it would spread—mushroom. The 60 was devastating as it was, but X’d ammo meant certain death for the target. And death was exactly what he intended for every NVA or VC he could get in his sights.

Gene put down the bowie and reached for the tracers. He oiled each one before it was reconnected with the snap links that held the ammo together. The grouped tracers were put at the front of the first belt he would fire. Finished, he linked all four belts. They totaled eight hundred rounds.

Standard operating procedure for other outfits was six hundred, and a second person carried the ammo. It was not SOP for the SEALs. They had only what their M-60 man could carry by himself. Gene always carried a full eight hundred, and sometimes more.

He picked up the bowie knife and began working on it. Every stroke of the blade over the sharpening stone was a slice through an enemy throat. After an hour, he wet the hair on his forearm, placed the blade at a forty-five-degree angle, and stroked upward. It shaved without the slightest pull and left no stubble. Then he cleaned and checked the rest of his gear, replaced everything in its resting place, and went silently outside.