The Staked Goat - Jeremiah Healy (21 page)

Al busted a French national named Giles LeClerc who
was drawing young Gls into a homosexual prostitution ring. LeClerc
had a Vietnamese boyfriend and partner named Tran Dai Dinh who hadn't
been caught. The method was consistent, but a long way and a long
time for a lover's vengeance. I wrote LeClerc and Dinh down anyway.

Al turned in an American captain of intelligence who
had taken too enthusiastically to NP methods of interrogation.
Bradley D. Collier. Disgraced, courtmartialed, convicted, and
sentenced. I fingered a photo of him. Sullen, a look of betrayal. A
strong contender.

I stumbled on a reference to one of Al's combat
assignments. When the infantry came up short on platoon leaders, the
combat colonels would dip into the MP officer pool for fresh blood.

I remembered vividly one combat mission with Al. It
was a three-day, company-strength sweep maneuver skirting the jungle.
The company commander was a gung-ho jerk, with a Kit Carson scout (a
"reformed" North Vietnamese regular) leading the way. I
hated the jungle. I preferred anything, even the rice paddies, to it.

The first day was uneventful. Instead of returning to
base camp, of course, we bivouaced in the bush. The second day was as
quiet as the first. The second night, one of my perimeter guards led
Al up to my foxhole. "Boy," said Al, hunkering down when
the sentry left us, "have I got a great deal set up."

I looked up at him blearily. "A deal?"

Al checked right and left, then whispered, "A
tiger hunt!"

"A what?" I said, well above a whisper.

"Shush." He looked around again. "A
tiger hunt. No shit, John. There used to be a lot of them around here
before the war."

"Al," I said, "there has always been a
war in this country."

"No, no. I mean a long time ago. Before the
Second World War. But there are still some tigers. And an old guy in
that last village said he was a guide. I was there when the scout was
questioning him. Honest."

"So?" I said.

"So," said Al, looking crafty, "for
fifty dollars American, we can get ourselves a shot at a tiger."

I closed my eyes and hung my head. "Why," I
said to the ground, "in the name of God, do you want to shoot a
tiger?"

"Aw, c'mon, John. When are you ever gonna get
another chance like this. A big game safari for fifty bucks!"

"A1, we are pulling out at zero-five-thirty
hours tomorrow."

"Tonight, John, tonight. We'll be gone and back
by midnight."

"Man, do you have any idea how much a tiger
weighs, or do you already have bearers signed up to carry it out?"

He sulked. "Ah, c'mon John. We'll probably never
even see a tiger. It's the thrill. A once in a lifetime chance to
have some sport in this godforsaken stink-hole of a country."

I held up my hand. "Al, I am not going stalking
through a jungle at night after a tiger."

"But that's the beauty of it, John. The guide'll
take care of that. He knows a watering hole that the cats use. It's
close by. He'll lead us there, then bring a goat and stake it out for
us. It'll be like sitting in your living room." .

"Then why do you need me?"

Al sighed. "Because I'm not about to go after a
tiger with just a scout and an old man as back-up. I want a friend I
can rely on."

I thought back to the BOQ brawl when Al jumped in to
help me. "O.K.," I said.

Al clenched his Est, shook it into the air. He rose
up and danced a little jig.

A1 convinced the company commander that Al and I
wanted the experience of setting up a night ambush with the scout.
The commander thought our attitude was "outstanding." We
slipped through our perimeter, advising the guards of our likely
direction and return time.

In the bright moonlight, we moved quickly back up the
trail to the village, a little less than a kilometer. The scout,
whose name was Van, connected us with the guide, who was called Chzia
te', or simply "master" in Vietnamese. Master had a
scraggly, dung-encrusted goat on a rope. I didn't catch the goat's
name.

Through Van, Master asked us for his money. I always
carried real cash, not MPC (Military Payment Certificates), in the
boonies. I once heard that a Finance Corps lieutenant was killed when
he tried to buy his way out of a tight situation with MPC. The locals
wanted real currency, not monopoly money. After the exchange of cash,
Master produced two large-bore antique rifles. He demonstrated how
the breech-loading mechanism functioned, then doled out four bullets
each to Al and me. I gave Al a murderous glare. He pretended not to
notice. There were the sounds of a dog barking and a child crying
from somewhere in the village as we struck off.

The path was narrow, but well worn. I asked the scout
about it. Master explained in Vietnamese, translated by Van, that the
villagers occasionally used the watering hole in daylight hours. We
continued on in silence.

After perhaps two hundred meters, we started downhill
and quickly reached a pool of stagnant, bug-covered water, a quarter
acre at most in size. Master looped the goat's lead around a branch,
chattering in Vietnamese and gesturing at a large tree. Through the
moonlight I could make out a crude platform in a limb crotch halfway
up the trunk. I thought about asking why, if I could see the blind,
the tiger couldn't also. However, Master was already up the tree, and
Al on his way, so I didn't bother. I followed the first two climbers.
After Van handed heavenward all our gear, he joined us.

The blind, sturdy enough in a hand-hewn way, faced
the pond. There were some newer branches and fronds camouflaging the
front. Master explained through Van how the tigers would appear at
the far side of the pond, and where to aim, and so forth. Al was to
have the first shot.

Master scrambled back down the tree and led the goat
around the pond to a point directly across from us, perhaps forty
meters line-of-sight. He tied the goat's lead to a downed limb and
then lightly stepped back around to us. The goat, who I assume by now
was getting the general drift of what was happening, began to bleat.
Incessantly.

Master returned to our platform, a big smile on his
face. He said something to Van, and Van said, "Master say we
wait now."

It took nearly an hour for the goat to cry itself
hoarse, straining against the leash. It took another hour for me to
lose a pint of blood to the mosquitoes. Nothing moved in the bush.

I started to say something humorous. Master hissed
and Van said, "All quiet now."

Another half an hour of nothing. I closed my eyes and
thought of back home: summer Sundays on Carson's Beach in Southie or
Crane Beach in Ipswich, the Yankees against the Red Sox at Fenway
Park, the (back-then-realistic) rivalry between Boston College and
Holy Cross in football.

A stand of high grass rustled off to our right. Four
heads whipped over there, live counting the goat's. The bait had no
more voice, but resumed hopping and tugging against the lead for all
it was worth.

"Cop," whispered Master. No need for
translation now. Tiger.

More rustling, then a pause, then more rustling, then
a pause. The unseen creature moved around the perimeter of the pond.
Al tensed and eyed his weapon. I was to have the second shot, but I
had no intention of firing unless the cat was coming straight at . .
.

A stumble and crunch in the bush as the creature
neared the virtually hysterical goat. Al seated the rifle butt
against his shoulder. The creature cried out, not a roar, not a
growl, just a simple word.

A seven- or eight-year-old girl, yelping what was
probably the goat's name, rushed up to it and began hugging it.

Master cursed. Van said, "That is the girl from
father that Master buy goat." I remembered the child's voice
crying back at the village. The girl started trying to untie the
goat's lead.

A1 said, "Jesus," and lowered his rifle.
Master, still muttering curses, drew a knife and put it between his
teeth. He started down the trunk.

"Van," I said. "Tell Master that if he
touches the girl I will kill him."

Master, who had probably heard the English word
"kill" often enough, nodded vigorously as if to confirm
that was the goat's, and possibly the girl's, immediate destiny.

A1 said, "John . . ."

"Tell him," I snapped at Van.

Master had started around the pond. Van spoke to him
in Vietnamese. Master stopped, turned, and protested. Van said to me,
"American pay for tiger hunt, American get tiger hunt."

I said, "Tell Master he can keep the money. The
girl keeps her goat, and the Americans go back. N0ow."

Van translated. Master shrugged, sheathed his knife.

I said, "Now tell the girl. Call to her. Tell
her the Americans give her back her goat."

Al said, "John, for chrissakes, there may be VC
within earshot."

"Tell her," I repeated.

Van called over to the girl. She succeeded in untying
the goat, then bowed down to us as she led it off around the way she
came.

She got maybe five meters when a mine exploded. The
top half of her somersaulted through the air toward us. Head, arms,
trunk to her waist. It splashed into the pond, scattering a roomful
of insects. A few branches and clumps of grass and goat followed her
trajectory into the water.

Al bit his lower lip, then lowered and shook his
head. Van showed a tear. Master, who had hit the deck at the
explosion, was standing up, brushing himself off.

"Let's go," I said, and climbed down out of
the treehouse.

As we walked back to our perimeter, I wondered what
kind of funeral the little girl would have. Not a military one. No
flag-covered coffin, surely, the Stars and Stripes whipped down and
tucked securely around the base.

The first time I remember seeing an American flag
around a coffin was President Kennedy's funeral. On television. A
cold, blustery November Saturday. The riderless black horse,
John-John saluting, the older males in the family walking solemnly
uphill in mourning coats, their path lined by Green Berets with
weapons at "present arms," bagpipes skirling. My strongest
memories, however, are of other military funerals. Or wakes, if you
will; I guess the funerals took place back home. The wakes were in
Vietnam, though. Three filthy, stinking GIs, standing over a sealed
green body bag at some impromptu Graves Registration Point,
alternately dragging on a joint and saying, "Shit, man."

It is, I think, the greatest irony of our time, at
least of my time. A President I thought I understood and would have
died for dropped us into a war in a country which none of us
understood and where nobody should have died.
 

Seventeen
-•-

I REACHED THE POINT WHERRE AL SHIPPED HOME. We had a
short-timer's party for him at the Officers' Club, and I could barely
walk for two days afterward. Al promised he would stay in touch. And
he had. I closed the last file. I tossed down the last of the ice
water and reviewed my list.

Twenty-three names. Most Americans, some French and
Vietnamese. Maybe one of them lives in Boston, maybe not. Maybe he's
still using his real name, maybe not. Maybe he killed Al, maybe not.
Maybe something to show for the afternoon, maybe not.

I stood up, folded the list like a business letter
and slid it into my jacket pocket. I wedged all the files back into
the drawers of the cabinet. I stiffly donned my jacket, thinking I
could call J .T. tomorrow and ask him to put the names through the
computer to see if there was anything current on them.

I opened the door. Ricker stood up. I didn't see his
L'Amour novel. The clock said 19:15, 7:15 P.M. real time.

"Yessir?"

"I'm all finished, Sergeant. Colonel Kivens said
I'd need you to lead me out of here."

Ricker grinned broadly. "Yessir. It's a real
maze out there. Me, I was lost for weeks when I first drew duty
here."

He went to a coat rack and got a regulation,
olive-drab trench.

"Sir, you got transportation here?"

"No. Thought I'd just grab a cab."

Ricker chuckled. "These cabs, sir, they're tough
to get out here sometimes. Where're you headin'?"

"Marriott, Key Bridge."

"Aw, hell, sir,'° said Ricker as he turned out
the lights and closed the door. "That's right on my way. Let me
give you a lift."

"Thanks, Sergeant, but I've already held you—"

"Please, sir, my pleasure, I insist."

I yielded gratefully. We threaded our way out down
corridors dark and deep.

Ricker's vehicle was a spotless customized Ford
pick-up, shiny even in the dark. We maneuvered through the vestiges
of rush-hour traffic.

"Have you spent much time in Washington, sir?"

"No, not much. Weekend here or there."

"Fine city. Proud and powerful. But I'm a
country boy myself. Four more years and out."