Men in Green Faces (33 page)

Since Willie’s death he’d spent many lonely nights looking downriver trying to make sense of it all. Behind him voices floated in the darkness, the normal goings-on of men who’d separated from their families to fight for God and country. He could hear yelling and laughter, the rattle of empty beer cans, the mixture of music—all coming softly, disembodied, through the night.

Hours of sleep, he thought. Three days of oblivion, with no ops, no chance to get to the colonel and take revenge. He hated that fucking Nguyen. He’d just blow him up, or slice his fucking neck clear through his spine if he ever got the chance.

He looked down the Son Ku Lon at the jungle clutching the riverbanks. Its vast blackness seemed to reach out to the edge of the earth like a black hole that sucked all life from those who drew near. Those who dared to venture in might never be heard of again.

Scary. He stared at it. What was he doing here—all of them doing here? He was twenty years old. By law, a man, but inside, lots of times, he felt like he was still a boy. He’d never be a boy again. He used the 60 and the Bowie too well, too often. Not much left of innocence. That was for sure. Not after being thrown into this world of black and white, life and death.

He stared at the jungle. How many thousands had ventured in there to die? And if they lived to come out, how had they survived, going from playing street ball and dreaming of girls to the battlefields of Vietnam, where the playing fields were covered with bodies, blood and bones, killing and being killed?

Maybe it was hating, like he hated the colonel, that saved them, got them through and out. He shuddered. A feeling came over him that maybe he’d gotten too close. Maybe he couldn’t reverse his heading into the mouth of triple-canopied death.

All his life he’d been raised to believe in God and country. And his country had taken him from his mother—who had taught him to love all life—and transformed him into a killing machine, an assassin, a grim reaper for death; Him and Willie. God’s will?

Gene closed his eyes for a moment against the memory of Willie always being there, when he and the squad came in from the bush. Watching and waiting, to see if he was safe. And then the goddamned colonel killed him. He killed him.

Gene spun and went back to the hootch.

Doc, Cruz, Brian, Roland, and Jim were playing cards. Drunk on their asses, he saw. Forty or fifty empty beer cans and a couple of empty liquor bottles lay on the floor around them.

Jim tried to stand, but couldn’t. “Sit in,” he said, and fell backward on an empty bunk. The rest burst into laughter watching him trying to recover.

Gene shook his head. “No thanks, Jim.”

“Aw, come on. We’re going home in seven days.” He laughed. “It’s over. Let’s party.”

“I can’t. I’m just not up for it.”

“Okay then, at least have a couple of beers with us.”

Before Gene could reply, Cruz staggered through the doorway carrying a case of beer and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Gene,” he yelled, “how the hell are you? Here,” he added, shoving the bottle into Gene’s hands, “open it.”

He opened it, watching as Cruz opened the case, and passed out beers. He started to set the bottle on the card table.

“Hold on,” Brian ordered. “You opened it. The first drink is yours.”

“Hoo-Ya!” the rest yelled, in unison.

“No, really, guys. The beer’s fine.”

Jim, holding onto the upper bunk to stand, called, “Come ‘ere.”

Gene went to him.

“Closer,” Jim said, turning his back to the others.

Gene moved in until their arms touched.

Jim rested his head on Gene’s shoulder, and whispered, “Listen to me, you asshole. It’s over. We’re going home. I’m not blind. We’ve been together for a long time. I know you’re hurting. I’ve seen you age overnight. I’ve seen you change ever since…”

Gene stood, stiff, staring at the plywood wall ahead of him.

“Ever since…

“I know, Jim. Ever since Willie.” It hurt to say his name aloud.

“Okay, then. It’s an order!” Jim said, loudly. He picked up the bottle.

Gene took the bottle. “Here’s to you, Jim.” He lifted the bottle high. “And to you guys.”

As it touched his lips, Doc started to sing, “Here’s to Gene, he’s true blue. He’s a wino through and through. He’s a wino so they say. If you don’t go to heaven, you’ll go the other way. So drink, chug-a-lug—” and the rest of the squad joined in. “chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug…”

The way they’d all survived so far, Gene thought. Drink ‘til they passed out. The Eagle had passed out on his last night too. One minute those startling blue eyes had been looking at him, and the next they’d closed, and the Eagle had toppled over. At least he’d got out alive. Not like Willie. He swallowed half the bottle before stopping for air.

“Hoo-Ya!” they yelled, and he passed the bottle to Brian.

“Thanks, guys. Enjoy.” He picked up a six-pack and the beer Cruz had given him. “I’ll take these and leave you party animals alone.”

Outside, the rain came down hard. He couldn’t see the river banks through the downpour and the dark. Opening the single can of beer, he walked slowly around the perimeter of Seafloat, passing sentries on guard duty.

Watching for Charlie trying to swim in and blow us all to hell, Gene thought, tossing the empty can, and starting on the six-pack. He was starting to feel the effects of the Jack Daniels, so he headed back to the helo pad, knowing he’d be left alone there.

How could he forget, he wondered, when he reached his private spot. All the booze in the world couldn’t erase the scars, and he wondered if anything could take away the kind of pain he’d come to feel.

He downed the beer, opened another, and drank it nonstop.

Seven days left, and Jim had said they were shutting down. No more ops. He couldn’t keep his promise to Willie. Time had run out. There was nothing more he could do to stop Nguyen’s carnage. No more ops.

He finished another beer and threw it overboard. The pouring rain covered the sound of its splash into the river. He tipped his head back to take the first drink of a newly opened can, closing his eyes against the rain, and told himself he’d be back. He could make another tour. If he played his cards right, he could be back within three or four weeks for another six months.

And then, he thought, crushing the can in his hand, he’d be able to hunt the colonel down. And when he found him, Nguyen would wish he were dead. He would wish the KCSs had him.

He finished the last of the beers sitting down, leaning against sandbags. The rain washed over him like an endless warm shower. His eyes closed, and he dreamed.

He was in a strange place, in an unfamiliar hootch. Smiling at him, Colonel Nguyen sat tied in a chair. There were voices outside.

“Stop!”

That sounds like Willie, he thought, but that can’t be. Willie’s dead.

“Gene, stop it.”

That is Willie! He ran to the door, and looked out. Nothing. No Willie, nobody around. Just darkness and silence. He turned back, to see the colonel still sitting there, wearing a big smile and chuckling occasionally.

“You sonufabitch! At last we meet.”

“Stop!”

He whirled to find Tong standing behind him. Tears streamed down his face and fell on the dirt floor. He was covered with his wife’s blood.

The colonel laughed. “You stupid Americans. You cannot win this war. You send boys to do a man’s job. Stupid Americans. You care too much for people like him.” He nodded toward Tong.

Gene turned to find Tong gone, and swung back to the colonel. Brian and Cruz stood on each side of him. The colonel’s hands were free, and the chair had disappeared.

“Gene,” Brian said, “Jim said Colonel Nguyen has been found guilty as charged, by a KCS kangaroo court. He’s waiting for you to bring him outside to be executed.”

The sound of a drum roll filled the room. Gene wiped sweat from his eyes. When he looked up, he and the colonel were alone.

“It’s time,” said the colonel, “if you have the guts.” His eyes were black and cold. “Are you willing to die?”

The door flew open. A dozen of the colonel’s men entered.

“Well, you American pig, I’ll let you live if you go now. If not, I’ll kill you where you stand, then cut you up into a thousand pieces, and spread your body over the Mekong Delta.”

He saw the colonel’s men were heavily armed, some holding long knives. The colonel was smiling.

“Okay. Let’s take a walk in hell!” Gene yelled. He ran at Nguyen, kicked him squarely in the chest, heard the thud, and watched him crash into the wall.

The colonel came back fast, hitting Gene twice in the face. He felt blood trickle from his nose. For an instant, he glimpsed Tong’s family and Willie watching, before a kick from the colonel sent him backward. Gasping for air, he tried to stand. The colonel jump-kicked again, hitting him in the ribs.

Gene rolled, and felt another kick in his side. Fighting to catch his breath, he heard the colonel laughing.

“Time to die, American pig,” he yelled, and swung his foot again.

Gene reached to the bottom of his guts to gain the strength needed to stop that kick. Twisting and pushing the colonel away, he regained his feet, spun, and landed three roundhouse kicks to the colonel’s head. With each impact, blood spattered.

The colonel staggered backward.

Nguyen understood they were in a fight to the death, and came at him. With all the force he could muster, he threw a punch aimed at Gene’s face.

Gene blocked, wrapping his arm around Nguyen’s, pinning his left arm in his own armpit, then snapping the arm upward, breaking the elbow joint backward.

The break was loud, Nguyen’s scream louder. The colonel fell to his knees screaming, “Kill me, kill me! I’m a warrior. Let me die like a warrior.”

Gene looked down at him. “I’d grant your wish and kill you quickly if you were a warrior, but you’re nothing more than a sick animal. You torture and murder little girls, you rape and kill innocent women just for fun. No, you’ll not die yet.”

There came a knock on the door. Gene opened it to find Tong’s small daughters covered in dried blood. The four-year-old held out her fist, opened it, and inside was Willie’s cross.

Gene reached in his pocket where the cross had stayed since Willie’s death, but it was gone. The girls disappeared.

“Gene. Hey, Gene. Wake up buddy. You sleep here all night?”

“Where am I? Where is…” His head hurt. “Man, what a nightmare. I guess I passed out.” He sat, held his head, and heard the Sea Wolf pilot walk away, saying something about chow time.

Stiffly, Gene got to his feet. The morning sun was rising. Its warmth felt good. Still wet from the rain, he headed to the hootch for dry clothes, and from there to the chow hall.

Nothing being served looked appetizing. Carrying two slices of bread and a cup of coffee, he joined Roland and Cruz.

“Where’d you split to last night?” Cruz asked.

Gene yawned. “Went down to the helo pad. Guess I passed out.” He shook his head. “Had this nightmare. Seemed so real.”

“Let’s go.”

He turned to see Brian and Doc.

“Jim and Johnny want us all in the briefing room.”

Cruz frowned, surprised. “We going out?”

“No way,” Roland said. “We’re shut down. After last night’s drunk, nobody can go out in the bush.”

Gene took a last bite of bread, and stood up to walk out with them. “Wait one, guys. I need a refill.”

They waited, then left together.

“Why the meeting?” asked Brian, and then answered himself. “Maybe it’s just a debrief before returning to The World.”

“Or maybe,” Roland said, “it’s the first step of being deprogrammed before getting back to civilization.”

Doc scratched at his mustache. “Hell, man, who knows? Let’s just get it over with.”

“And party,” Cruz said.

“Sounds good to me,” Brian answered.

“You guys are crazy,” Gene said. “I don’t want to see another beer until I hit the States.”

They rounded the corner to see two men from Tommy Blade’s platoon, armed and standing guard over the briefing room.

Doc blurted, “Oh, shit! We’re going out! I know it!”

Behind him, Gene paused just long enough to look down the Son Ku Lon and into the jungle, shrouded in shadows and waiting. He followed Doc through the door.

G
ENE FOLLOWED
B
RIAN,
C
RUZ
, and Doc into the briefing room and took his usual chair next to the door. Up front, Jim and Johnny were studying the maps. As they settled down, Johnny took a few steps toward center front, looked around, and said, “You guys all look like shit.”

Doc grabbed his head. “Not so loud. My skull is going to explode.”

Johnny, tall and straight, his uniform so clean and well pressed he looked like a Ken doll, smiled slightly. “I’m sure you’re all aware that you’ll be going home in six days, counting today.”

In the silence, Gene noticed Roland’s shoulders hunch just the slightest, as though he were about to be hit.

“And that Jim’s given you orders to shut down operations.

However,” Johnny continued, “I’ve just received information on a big operation. It’s been confirmed by three sources.”

Gene sat up a little straighter in his chair. Johnny was turning his class ring around and around on his finger with his thumb like he always did when he was uncomfortable.

“We must act within six hours from now to ensure the success of the mission. I felt you people should have first choice—if you want to go out one last time.” He drew a breath. “If not, I’ll give it to Tommy Blade’s squad. No matter what you decide, this information cannot leave the room. The choice is strictly yours.”

Brian and Cruz glanced at each other, then back at Gene. Doc stared straight ahead, scratching his mustache.

“Your squad,” Johnny said, “has one of the highest, if not the highest, success rates on all operations, in spite of the fact that over ninety-eight percent of them have included heavy combat.”

“It’s gonna be a dick-dragger,” Doc muttered.

“I want you all to know that it’s not going to be a Cakewalk. In fact, it may be costly. The odds will be against you, and you’ll be on your own during most of the op.”