THE SECOND COMING

Part One

By Jimmie von Tungeln

                                                                                                

Now the reason that I got involved in this in the first place was because of my second cousin Clifton who was two years older than me. And the reason I don't mind talking about it when there are so many people who for all those years didn't mention it hardly at all and if they did they almost always said it didn't happen the way someone heard it did and even then usually lied and said they weren't there, is because I don't owe anyone in Hog Eye Bend, Arkansas one blessed thing. The only one I would have protected anyway was Clifton who got killed in the Second World War though they wouldn't take him at first because he couldn't pass the IQ test.

                Mama was to say later that it turned out Clifton was just smart enough to get himself killed but that's not the way I looked at it. I sort of idolized him, him being older and everything, and I felt he had a good mind. It took a good mind to stand out in those days. And Clifton stood out as far as I was concerned.

                “Fun is where you find it,” – Clifton used to say, and I agreed. “Fun is just about better’n  anything’” he  would add. “It keeps us from bein’ mules or such.”  I mean, does that sound like the philosophy of a person who couldn't have passed an IQ test if he had wanted to? Really wanted to?

                Anyway, fun was what we were looking for and it was fun that brought us to where we ended up, which brought us to have a front row seat at the most exciting thing to ever happen in or about our little settlement, and which revealed so many things about so many people. You could say that it was part of the folklore of the Arkansas delta, even if it was recorded by two boys scarcely old enough to realize what was happening, much less old enough to attach much meaning to it.

                I was ten at the time, and Clifton was twelve, he being twenty-one when they hit Pearl Harbor and not living long past that. It was in August when the crops were laid by, that being another reason why so many people got involved. Had it had happened any other time of the year, most people would have been in bed and would never had even known about it.

                "I got it all figured out," Clifton announced one day, no warning, just out of the wild-blue. Just like that.

                "What?"

                "You know anything about girls?"

                "What?"

                "You know!"

                "Oh yeah," I lied.

                "Ever see one nekkid?"

                "Oh my God!  Who?"

                "You won't believe it."

                "Who?"

                "Geehaw."

                "Gehaw?"

                "Geehaw."

                "Why would anyone want to see that?"

                "Cause she's a girl, stupid!"

                "Oh."

                Until that moment, I had never thought of Gehaw as a girl, or as anything else for that matter.  I didn't even know her name except that her last name was Ratliff and she was one of the Ratliff's from south of Pine Bluff - the means ones - the ones that Papa said married one another. I hadn't even heard her talk except to her Daddy's mules which she drove from sunup until sundown every day and all she said to them was "Gee" and "Haw." Of course that's where she got that name.  She was about eighteen, I suppose, real tall and real skinny as I remember.

                "You kiddin'?" I asked.

                "I got it all figured out."

                "What?"

                "How'd you like to watch her take a bath tonight?"

                I tell you I was stunned by the prospect of an escapade of such magnitude. Clifton sensed it. I could tell by the way he looked at me.

                "Take a bath?"

                "That's right!"

                "How do you know she does?"

                "Hell, everybody takes a bath."

                "I mean how do you know she will tonight?"

                "She does every Saturday night, right before dark. Fish Johnson told me and Chester's Gracie told him.

                Now I wouldn't bank a whole lot on what Fish Johnson said but Chester's Gracie was about as reliable a person as you found in Hog Eye Bend. She shared that common first name with a bunch of other girls about her same age as a result of the Lady Evangelist Gracie Throughgood who had held a week long meeting in Kingsland about twenty years earlier. She must have made quite an impression on the local people, for almost any girl born the next three years was named Gracie. Since they were mostly related, there was considerable confusion until they started getting married at which time they took their husband's first name as an identifier. We had, in addition to Chester's Gracie: Newt's Gracie, Jesse's Gracie, Neddo's Gracie, and Ed's Gracie just on our road alone. And my Grandmother, who was given the name half a century before this all happened, was called “Papa's Gracie” the last few decades of her life.

                Anyway, I never thought at the time about how Chester's Gracie might have come by this information because I was considerably troubled by Clifton's plan. I knew from past adventures that he tended to underestimate both the degree of difficulty as well as the time required for execution. "First you got to get started and then you jest play 'er as she goes," was his tactical battle plan for most undertakings. And his plans tended to get larger and more complicated as we got older.

This one presented a pretty good step up, even for Clifton.

                "You mean we just slip up and watch her?" I asked. 

                "As easy as that," he said and he got that blank look on his face like he did when he was thinking. He hadn’t said so yet but I knew we were off on an adventure.

                Now this discussion took place on Saturday about noon and we were supposed to embark about an hour before dark. Normally, this would have been simple since Clifton and I stayed with Uncle T.J. and Aunt Hallie, his grandparents, most of the summer. But, as I said, the crops had been laid by and Papa used this time of year to make whiskey and that was a problem. 

                The making of the whiskey wasn't the problem as much as the testing of it, a job which Papa trusted to no one else and which often rendered him unpredictable by Saturday night. Once he made a particularly bad batch and became convinced that the "White Russians" were coming after us, whoever they were. That night we all huddled in a corner while he sat in a chair in the living room with a deer rifle across his knee, waiting for the attack.

                "I'll shoot the goddam monkeys," he kept saying all night while Mama kept up a steady line of prayer. It turned out later that he didn’t even have bullets in the gun. That would have been lucky for any intruders, I suppose.

                That was when I began staying with Clifton whenever I could. You never knew when whiskey and imagination might collaborate to create a new enemy for Papa. That might, of course, keep me at home and I sure didn't want that to happen tonight.

Thinking back on it, I don't think it was so much to get to see Geehaw take a bath as it was for the honor of being asked to by a man much older and wiser man than I. That has moved more men than me to stranger adventures, I’d be willing to bet.

                "What happens afterwards?"  I assumed a logical continuity.

                "Nothin’”. We may tell Fish but we may not. He talks too much."

                "What happens if we get caught?"

                Clifton looked at me as serious as death and drew an imaginary knife across his throat.  "Old man Ratliff would kill us I reckon."  Then he looked at me suspiciously. "You in this with me?"

                "Sure," I said and in the saying of it I felt the metallic taste of the knife blade. I had always taken it for granted that, if I were to be killed, it would during some great brave act, like protecting my family for instance … say from an onslaught of White Russians. Only my respect for Clifton could have forced me to face such a sacrifice as the price of watching Gehaw Ratliff take a bath.

                But I was game and this adventure was as good as underway.

                My fears were realized. Papa had tied one on by the time I came home, but luckily for me he had sailed right past belligerence and was nearing a state of bewilderment as Mama tore into him. I could hear them when I reached the front yard.

"You low down sorry outfit."

Silence

“You ain't fit to live!"

                Finally a response: "Shut up for Christ's sake," Papa was struggling to keep his balance. He kept reaching for the garden fence and every time he did he grabbed a handful of blackberry vines.

                “Damn it to godalmighty hell,” he yelled.

                "Blasphemer!" Mamma shouted.

                "Yes, goddammit!" Papa countered, "Now get out of here and leave me alone." I had walked up and noticed the green cast to his skin. "I don't feel good," he said weakly. He tried to look past Mamma to me.

                "No wonder," Mama shouted right into his face.  "You been swillin' rotgut whiskey all day and now git ready for the Lord's turn." Then she looked around at me. "Bobby you get over here and help me pray."

                "I was going over to Uncle T. J's," I said.

                "You get your hind-end over here and pray." Mama said. Then she dropped to one knee.

                "All of you leave me alone - just get away!" Papa shouted. Then his jaw went slack. "I'm gonna be sick," he announced, not to any particular person. He just announced it like it was of some importance to the world at large.

                "You get out of my sight then," Mama said although she needn't have bothered, for Papa had already lurched around the corner of the house. Then she turned to me. "I hope you're satisfied."

                "Me?"

                "You should look after him. You know how sorry he is."

                Papa was making awful noises. Sort of like the gurgling sound that a hog makes when it's stuck, I thought, only much louder and with a lot more thrashing around. I didn't want to draw attention from him so I played it contrite. "I ain't done nothin'."

                "Hush," Mamma said, to my relief. She was listening for Papa, who wasn't making any noise at all now. I looked at her and I could see real concern in her face.

                "You think he passed out?" I asked.

                "You shut your little smart mouth!" Mamma said. I had forgotten that criticizing Papa was a privilege that she reserved for herself.  "He may have died for all you know.  A man that works all day and all week for you and who don't ask nothin, who ain't never done nothin' but smell the backside of a mule all his life and ain't got a nickel to his name for it because he spends it to keep you fed and who you ain't never once offered to help, even once when his back was bent over and breakin', not once, just always off with Clifton doin' God knows what."

                She could have gone on like this for hour or so if she had wanted to. I've seen her. But Papa had walked up so quietly that we hadn't noticed. He stood by the back door and he looked worse than before.

                "I think maybe you had better pray after all," he said softly, his eyes meeting Mamma's.

                "Halleluiah!" she said and forgot all about me.

                It was settled then, I was cleared for action. I changed shirts; that's the only thing I could thing of that might add dignity to the affair.  It was true that the shirt I changed to was exactly like the one I discarded, and that my dress was the same overalls and blue shirt that every young boy in the county wore, but I felt that the impending activities required some sort of special attention, no matter how modest.

                I stopped by a window before I left to make sure that Mamma and Papa were going to be occupied for awhile, and, sure enough, they were going at it in earnest.  Mamma had Papa on his knees with his head in both hands and tears were streaming down her face, which was, of course, raised toward the Savior.

                "Lord, look at this poor drunk sinner." she began.

                "Wait!" Papa cried. "Wait just a goddam minute!"

                "A blasphemer and a drunkard," Mamma expanded.

                "Wait," Papa said again and he tried to rise but Mamma had him in salvation's grip. He simply rolled over on his back.

                "You be still, "Mamma said, and she raised her face once more toward heaven. "Lord, this drunk sinner needs forgiven. I wouldn’t do it if it was me, but you’re a better person, I think."

                This time Papa prevailed. "Don't tell Him I're drunk, dammit, tell Him I're sick!"

                "I can't lie to the Lord," Mamma said, and she raised Papa's head up until his eyes met hers. "I won't lie to the Lord, even for you."

                "Just tell him I're sick, then, that part's the truth. Just don't mention the drunk part."

                "I can't Homer, not even for you."

                "Oh please just this once. Who’ll know?"

                I listened to them go on like this for a few minutes and I guess you could say that Papa finally got his way, for as I left for Clifton's house I could hear Mamma's voice drifting out over the cotton fields. It was sort of musical, like some misty plea for mankind itself.  "Help this poor sick sinner, Lord.  He ain't worth a ten cent bucket of lard, but could you help him please?  He ain't much, but he's sick and he's all we got."

                I skedaddled before Papa got his strength back.

 

Of Times and Tides

By Jimmie von Tungeln

             The man awoke before daylight entered the barracks. He had been dreaming, and his first task was to remember where he was. In the dream, he had been trying to walk, but couldn’t because his feet didn’t touch the ground. Nor could he crawl. Staring into the dark, he recalled that, in the dream, neither could flapping his arms enable him to move. He was only human. In the stillness, it came clear to him. He was still in this place.

            He sat upright in his bunk and swung his feet around to touch the floor. The linoleum was cold and he reached to his left for the socks stashed under the head of his mattress. Cursing the cold, he put the socks on his feet as he continued to gain focus. Outside, the false dawn would soon come and daylight would follow. As he turned his head toward an open window, a morning breeze carried in the first smell of the ocean like a playful puppy bringing a toy. He took a deep breath and smiled.

It would be a cool morning marked by overcast skies until the sun dissolved the clouds to reveal a deep blue sky. The sky would end in a teasing horizon, a simple straight line between the sky and an ocean that had drawn humans to it since first they had begun recording time. Then the wind moving inland from the cold waters of Monterey Bay would circle the deserted streets of the forgotten parts of the city and maintain a pleasant nip in the air, washing the city with the smell of rotting fish and drying vegetation. It would be a good day for walking, maybe a great day for walking—without doubt a good day for thinking. Would it be a good day for making decisions? He would see.

The barracks was a nondescript block building seemingly dropped at random among the historic masterpieces that once housed the Del Monte Hotel. Now those old structures, and newer ones, served as the United States Naval Postgraduate School, a learning center for promising officers. For most of the enlisted personnel, it was a temporary berth, offering easy duty before a permanent assignment. He had found no cause for complaint there. Now he had orders to leave.

He moved to a bank of lockers. As quietly as possible, he removed a chain from around his neck and found a key between two dog tags. He opened his locker, took out his travel kit, and replaced the lock, making little noise as he turned toward the lighted “head.” Inside, he completed his morning ritual of shaving, brushing his teeth, and running a wet hand over the short stubble that protruded like tiny rays of golden light from his head. When he had finished, he placed his belongings in the kit and moved quietly back toward his bunk. The barracks hummed with the sounds of men breathing, snoring, and turning restlessly in their sleep. A pair of eyes opened in an upper bunk and stared at him as he passed. They were dark and wide, receiving, but not comprehending, the figure moving before them. For a brief second, the man could see the darkness of humanity lurking behind those eyes and he felt fear. Then their owner broke wind, closed his eyes and returned to that warm place where men linger and feel safe in the false dawn of life. The man moved on.

Soon, he had dressed in civilian clothes, including a handsome and serviceable corduroy coat, and was ready to leave. He walked from the sleeping area into a dimly lighted hallway and then through a day room. Stopping before a bulletin board, he checked the orders of the day for August 12, 1967. After affirming that he was not listed for duty, he left the building and greeted the day. A faint rim of red sky emerged from the eastern horizon and the air was heavy with a morning chill. He walked toward a soaring flagpole, stark and bare in the morning sky. He stopped and studied it. There was something proud about a naked flagpole, ready to serve, standing its singular vigil in the night, loyal but not needed. He saluted the spire and walked on past the majestic buildings of the campus.

He was surprised to find a sentry at the main gate. Normally, it was manned only during working hours, primarily for the purpose of furnishing information to visitors. This morning, he found a young Seaman Apprentice named Wells, from somewhere in South Texas on watch. As the man approached, Wells came from the guardhouse and greeted him with a smile. “Man,” he said, “am I glad to see you. You got a cigarette?”

“Don’t tell me you came on the mid-watch without cigarettes,” the man said. He fished into his coat pocket the produced a partial pack of Marlboros. “Will these do?”

“Hell yes,” Wells said, taking one from the pack. He lit it, inhaled deeply, exhaled, and said, “I had some, but goddam this has been a long watch.”

“Why do they have a guard tonight?”

“A cruiser docked in the harbor and some of its crew came over to the EM Club. Some of their officers came over too, to hobnob with the brass I guess. They got into a big fight with some of our guys, the enlisted men did. Didn’t you hear about it?”

“No, they gave me a couple of days off and I got back from San Francisco last night and went to bed real early. Why were they fighting?”

“Hell, nobody knows. Just wanted to fight I reckon. Ain’t that the way it usually is?”

“Anybody hurt?”

“They were all too drunk to hurt anybody.”

“So what happened?”

“They sent a vehicle from the Presidio and took them back, the ones that was fighting. I was on duty so they put me out here to make sure they didn’t come back.”

“Did they?”

“No, but I’ve been worried about what I’d do if they did.” He patted his pistol. “They gave me this, but they didn’t give me no bullets. It ain’t hardly right to put somebody in danger without any foresight is it?”

The man ignored him. “Any trouble?”

“One of them cruiser boys nearly puked on me when they left, some of those who weren’t involved in the fight and stayed around. Not an officer but some Bosun’s Mate striker. His buddies got him going again. I guess they made it back. I don’t give a shit one way or another.”

“Here,” the man said, handing Wells the cigarettes. “You keep them.”

“All of them? What’re you gonna do?”

“I can buy some more,” the man said. “I’m stopping for something to eat, anyway.”

“What the fuck are you doing up this time of morning?”

“Just out for a walk,” the man said.

Wells started to say something but stopped. He drew from his cigarette and exhaled. He adjusted the pistol holster he was wearing and then said, “Don’t guess I blame you.”

“You keep our base safe,” the man said. “America is depending on you.”

“Anchors aweigh,” Wells said. As the man began to walk away, Wells yelled after him, “Hey Hinson.”

The man stopped and turned around. Wells said, “That’s some goddam shitty deal they gave you.”

Hinson nodded and said, “Yeah, a real goddam shitty deal.” He gave Wells a mock salute, then turned and disappeared into the morning fog.

He reached Del Monte Avenue and turned to the west. There were few cars out and they made a muffled roar as they sped by in the fog. A pair of gulls flew overhead, teasing and taunting one another with fierce, happy squeals. During a quiet moment, he heard the sounds of seals from the direction of the bay. It was a still, lonely time, and he wished he had kept a cigarette for himself. As the sky began to light, he felt a chill. Thrusting his hands into his coat pockets, he walked on.

He stopped at a service station and purchased a fried pie and a Coca-Cola. He sat in a small park and ate his breakfast. Finishing, he leaned back and watched as the sky continued to grow lighter in the east. The east … somewhere out there, his family was up and tending to the farm. Closing his eyes, he conjured the smell of bacon drifting and felt the hot summer breeze announcing another day in the Delta, the Arkansas Delta. Then he shook his head, opened his eyes, and kicked the grass in front of him. He stood and took a deep breath, turned sharply, and continued west.

Daylight had come as he drew near Alvarado Street.  Before he reached its sad desolation, he heard the sound of equipment roaring to life. It was an odd sound, so early in the day. He hurried do the dusty street, lined with empty buildings, and turned in the direction of The Keg.

Then he saw it. A giant construction crane was moving in a swivel, swinging a massive wrecking ball toward the building that housed The Keg, a favorite place of his. In horror, he saw the ball tear into brick and wood and a huge portion of the building stood no more. He could only stare as the crane swung the ball around and the steel tracks move the apparatus a few feet forward. The next swivel took out another portion of the wall. He couldn’t watch anymore. When he turned his head, something caught his eyes in the grass to his right. He walked over and looked. A case of liquor had been dropped and left alongside the walk. What was left was a pile of broken bottles, the glass glistening in the morning light with the sharp smell of whiskey floating upward like siren’s call. He kicked at the glass and saw one unbroken bottle of bourbon whiskey amid the ruble. He bent over and lifted. I was an expensive brand that he had rarely tasted and he carefully brushed away the shards of glass still clinging to its surface.  He wedged the bottle into the pocket of his coat and turned back to what was left of the building.

At the edge of the scene, a man wearing a construction hat watched silently, smoking a cigarette and holding a clipboard. He leaned against a truck and nodded as Hinson approached and said, “What in the world is going on?”

“Progress,” the man said with an air of disgust, “they say.”

“Why are you tearing down The Keg? I was the only business left on the street.”

“I’m just following orders,” the man said. “It ain’t my idea.”

“Did someone buy it?”

“The city bought it,” the man said. He turned and reached in the truck and produced a cardboard poster 11 by 14 inches in size. “Welcome To a New Monterey,” was emblazoned across the top. Smaller letters read, “Watch as we build Monterey’s historic past into a new future.” Below it was an artist’s rendering of a modern hotel complex.

The man took the poster from Hinson and pitched it back into the truck. “Urban renewal,” he said. The then spit and flipped his cigarette butt toward the wreckage.

“I was just in there last week. The place was full of soldiers from Fort Ord,” Hinson said.

“Gone,” the man said.

“The soldiers were having a great time shooting pool with some hookers.”

“Gone,” the man said.

“What happened to the old guy who ran the shoeshine stand across the street during the day? The one who came over and played the piano at night?”

“Gone,” the man said. “Gone, gone, gone.” He looked at Hinson and studied his face. “You from around here?”

“No,” said Hinson. “Navy. I’m from Arkansas.”

“John Steinbeck and Ed Ricketts used to drink together in there,” the man said. “All gone.”

“Why are you here so early?”

The man laughed. “City fathers got worried that someone might remember how great this place was and start protesting to stop progress.”

“Oh,” said Hinson, “I see.” But it was apparent to the other that he didn’t.

“So they called ‘Daybreak Demolition’ to make sure the building was gone before the people woke up. It just fell my lot.” He looked at the remains of the building and saluted.

The two stood in silence as another portion of the building disappeared into a pile of rubble. As the last walls began to fall, the man said, “I was born in this town.” When Hinson didn’t reply, he said. “It’s gonna be a sad night for me, but what the hell. I’ve already almost lost my job over it.”

Hinson nodded and reached for the bottle protruding from his pocket. He handed it to the man. “Here,” he said, “I found this. Have a drink tonight for all of us who have had to watch things we love disappear.”

The man looked at the bottle, then took it and said, “Thanks.” He raised it toward Hinson. “Here’s to fair winds and a following sea.” Hinson nodded in understanding as the two watched the crane move forward a few more feet for the sake of progress.

When the demolition was complete, Hinson used the opposite sidewalk to walk past what had once been a happy place where friends met, drinks were shared, music was enjoyed, and business transacted, now all gone. He walked away and didn’t look back.

He continued along Alvarado, passing the empty buildings now coated with the dust from demolitions. He came to the Drake Avenue intersection where the Del Monte Express hit and killed Ed Ricketts in 1948. He descended on to Cannery Row, a desolated forgotten street covered in patches and lined with the metal buildings in which a major fishing industry had once thrived.

He walked along the street, studying the overhead walks that spanned it. At a low, wooden building, he stopped and contemplated “Doc’s Lab” of literary fame. He sat on the curb in front of its redwood walls and long row of windows. He closed his eyes and imagined the street full of activity, with people entering and leaving functioning businesses. His mind drifted in and out of reality and fantasy seeing “Doc” in his mind crossing the street for a quart of beer.

            A voice startled him from his reveries. “Hey mister,” it said.

            He opened his eyes and saw a shabbily-dressed man standing in front of him. He was of indeterminate age, with a week-old stubble of gray beard and stringy, unkempt hair. Though he was standing three feet or so in front of Hinson, the man’s foul odor defeated all the other smells of tide and land. Hinson stared.

            “You got a dollar for an old bum?” the man said. “Just a dollar for something to eat?”

            Hinson continued to stare. The man stared back and neither spoke for a full minute. Then Hinson said, “You live around here?”

            The man nodded. “You ever read that book, ‘Cannery Row’ before?” he said. He pronounced it “Can-ree.”

            Hinson nodded. “Several times. Have you?” he said.

            “Hell, Mister, I was in it.”

            Hinson made a face. The man nodded gravely. “At book was all about me and my pals,” he said. “I was called ‘Mack’ in it. That’s me, Andy, but in the book they called me Mack.” When Hinson didn’t respond, the man continued. “We didn’t make a penny off it, the book I mean. But it was all about us and some whores. Of course we was all younger then and and the whores left a long time ago.”

            Finally Hinson gained his voice. “You mean you were the person that the character ‘Mack’ was based on?”

            “At’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you,” the man said. “Now ain’t meetin’ somebody that famous worth a dollar?”

            “You knew the author?”

            “Oh,” the man said, “I knew Mr. John Steinway real good. Me and him was close.”

            “You and John ‘Steinway’ were close.”

            “I even helped him think up some of the names,” the man said. “Now ain’t that sumpthin’?”

            By god, that’s something all right. How much did you say you wanted?” Hinson reached for his wallet.

            “A do…,” the man said before he stopped himself. “At least a dollar. For somebody that knows John Steinway personally, it might even be worth more.”

            “You’re goddam right it might be,” Hinson said. “Let me see how much I have here Mack—or Andy—whoever the hell you are.”

            “All them other boys are gone,” the man said quickly. “Dead, in jail, moved on, lost with no forwarding … I’m the only one left.” He peered, with hope in his eyes, as Hinson opened his wallet.

            “Let’s see,” Hinson said, pulling out several bills. “Looks like I’ve a ten, one five, and three ones. Is that enough for such a famous person,”

            “I reckon it would be,” the man said. He cast a suspicious look at Hinson. “You mean all of it?”

            “Every goddam bit,” Hinson said, handing the bills over to the man. “No, wait,” He said. The man drew the bills to his pocket quickly. Hinson stood and the man stepped back. “I’ve some change, too. He reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins, much to the relief of the other, who took and crammed the change into the pocket with the bills.

            “Bless you mister,” the man said. “People ain’t as good to us old bums as they used to be.”

            “You’ll use it wisely, I presume,” Hinson said.

            “I would never do otherwise,” the man said. He took two more steps back in case Hinson experienced a sudden change of heart.

            “Tell you what I’ll do,” Hinson said.

            “What’s that?”

            “If I ever happened to meet Mister …uh… Steinway, I’ll tell him we met and you said say ‘hello.’”

            “Oh,” the man said, his eyes suddenly darting from side to side, “now it’s been a while ago.”

            “Oh,” Hinson said, “He’d never forget a friend like you. I’ll tell him I met his ‘Mack’ and that he was doing well.”

            “You do that,” the man said and turned to hurry off. After a few steps, he turned his face back toward Hinson. “You do that,” he yelled, and soon disappeared behind a building. Hinson laughed and walked away to his right and underneath a lattice-covered walkway.

            The northwestern end of Cannery Row was blocked by a large, deserted, building announcing itself as property of the Portola Company. Hinson continued around the end of the row and past Monterey Boat Works, its large white building flanked by boats raised on elevated frames and supported by leaning timbers. Hinson stopped, studied an elevated boat, and considered how something looking so frail and ungainly on land could be so graceful in its true element, the bright blue ocean visible in background.

            He was soon walking along Ocean View Boulevard. He stopped once to rest and watch the fishing boats moving through the bay. They danced over the waves like ducks in a shooting gallery, joyful in the eternal optimism of those who set forth to fish. The sight warmed him as did the morning sun that was beginning to chase away the chill. He took off his coat and continued with it draped across one shoulder. He began to round the northern end of the headlands and sank into deep thought. As he rounded the point, Ocean View Boulevard became Sunset Drive. When he looked around, the Point Pinos Lighthouse soared above him on his left. He knew he was almost to the place where his life would change.

            In a few minutes, he was there. The Great Tide Pool stretched before him. Being at full flood tide, the water stood with only the tops of the larger rocks showing. He knew that soon the waters would recede, capturing the rich life of the Pacific in the small pools of water left between the rocks. It was an ideal place to observe life and make decisions. He threaded his way among the dry rocks until he came to an outcropping near the water’s edge. He stopped and reached into the inner portion of his coat. He produced a fat, white envelope and held it away from the water as he folded his coat into a cushion and placed in on the smooth surface of a stone. Then he sat and opened the envelope.

            Inside were several pages of folded pages. As the ocean lapped around his feet, he viewed the topmost sheet. He scanned the now familiar words: “Naval Security Forces … weapons training …Naval Support Activity … Da Nang … Vietnam.” He raised his eyes and stared across the Tide Pool, toward the open sea and to the west.  For several minutes, he didn’t move. Then he took that sheet and placed it under the rest.

            Next were several pages of small, lined, paper covered in a finely executed hand. It began, “Dear Son.” He skipped the opening paragraphs filled with family news that a mother would deem important.  He turned to the next page, skipped down to where he read, “I know you don’t want to be like your Uncle Harold and make such a fool of yourself that they would let you out. There is always a life to live after the navy. And we want to be able to live it proud with you and not have to explain ever time we seen somebody. Our family has always had the respect of others. We ain’t had no money but we had respect. Ha ha.  I don’t like them orders at all but you just have to trust in yourself and believe that it will be alright in the end. I’ll close. He says he’s writing something so I’ll put it in with mine. Son, take care. It was signed simply “Mother.”

            Underneath these sheets was a single page of yellow paper, taken from a Big Chief tablet. In pencil were these words:

            Son, jist a note to let you know I am fine. That cow that wus jist a heffer when you were here had her first calf this week. Big bull calf. Both are fine and she is proud of it. You remember Bob Ashcraft dont you? His grandbaby got kilt. She was playing in Bob’s garage and a can of lawn moer gas got knocked over beside the hot water heeter. He’s not doin well atall. If you wus here you could  take him fishing like you used to and git his mind offn it maybe. He’s not in good shape atall. I reckon I’ll try to rite more when you git where your going. Your mama bawls a lot.”

            It was signed by his father using his full formal name. Hinson smiled and placed both letters in the back of the stack.

            Single-spaced typing filled the last sheet. He studied it carefully, stopping often to view the ocean. Words floated in and out of his thoughts. “Will complete your route to Canada… proceed from San Francisco … your decision will be final … duty to avoid this illegal war … we cannot be held responsible for your decision … free will … unlikely that you would ever be allowed to return.”

            He folded the pages and held them as he studied the Tide Pool. The flood tide had peaked and the waters had begun to recede. The ebb tide was beginning to form life-teeming pools that would sing the endless songs of the sea. He watched the foam ringed pool near his feet and he searched for an activity that might untangle his thoughts. He locked on a tiny octopus fighting for its life. With its tentacles flashing, it sought escape from the confinement of the pool. One tentacle caught hold and pulled the rest, along with the body, over the ring of rocks forming the pool and the creature scudded free into the great ocean. Hinson smiled.

            He continued to watch. Some creatures fled confinement before the sea moved away. Others lay captured. Some would die in the sun. Others would survive until the next flood tide. Hinson nodded and said audibly, to himself, the organisms around him, to the Great Tide Pool, and to the Pacific Ocean itself, “It’s just a great big goddam dance after all, isn’t it though?”

            He pulled one sheet from the stack of papers and began to shred it into small squares. When he had made the squares as small as he could, he tossed them into the receding tide. He watched the typewritten lines disappear as the paper turned a dark gray from the waters of the tide pool. He placed his orders and his letters from home back into the envelope and stood. He reached for his coat—his prized piece of civilian attire. As his hand touched it, he suddenly drew it back.

            “No,” he said, thrusting the envelope into his pants pocket. He turned, leaving the coat on the rock where it had cushioned him, and walked away from the Great Tide Pool toward whatever the future promised.

           

 No Vacation for a Pirate

By Jimmie von Tungeln

             The following happened in different times. Not ancient times, just different times. Most mothers were home all day then. Most fathers were away working. Children followed their own instincts and must have been particularly annoying. Mothers missed no opportunity to be shed of them for a few hours, or even all day. As I was to learn, it was also a time set aside for my religious instruction, specifically for a consolidation of my vague images of Hell, in form of a particularly nasty institution known as—one can still almost hear thunder and the neighing of horses at the mere mention of the word—Vacation Bible School

            Perhaps the ill-timing of it all fueled my extreme reaction. They seem always to plan these things in summertime and this was a particularly bad bit of scheduling. It seemed to be set out purposely to interfere with the duties of a group of ten-year-olds who had no other mission than protecting both the physical and reputational well-being of their community. We had, over the last few months, coalesced into the sort of group about which folk songs were written during the Dark Ages. We were heroic. We were virtuous. We were protective of our lands and people. In short, we had responsibilities, and they didn’t include religion.

            A group of invaders from north of Bayou Bartholomew, for example, was in the process of building a raft with which to ravage the settlements to the south. This was the established territory of our little band of privateers. Who would stand between the invading hordes and our men and women folk if we were to be called away? There were forts to be built, traps to be laid, and counter-offensive craft to be built.

            The alternative spelled utter disaster. Ben Shannon explained it to us as we gathered around a hastily built campfire near the bayou’s edge. He was not our leader, per se, just older and more educated. “They’ll come rapping and pillaging our women,” he said. “At tar’s pure histry.”

            We shuddered at the thought as our blood ran hot and fired our anger like an open circuit suddenly lighting a darkened room. Rapping and pillaging indeed! (As adults, when we absorbed the difference between rapping and raping, many of us would come to think we would prefer the latter, but that’s a story for another day.)

            Pirates were only a part of our problem. At the same time, a group of rustlers from the Union Community had begun to range perilously close to our hideout on Ferdinand Thompson’s land. We had to settle affairs with them once and for all and it wasn’t going to be a sight that innocent folks should witness.

            On top of that, a group of semi-professional baseball players from the Hog-eye Bend area was threatening to descend upon the field on the edge of Ridgway’s dairy land and issue a challenge to any locals brave, or dumb, enough to meet it. We weren’t the type of fellows to back away from anyone, even from a team that reportedly fielded a player who could re-wrap a baseball with electrical tape so tight that it hit almost like a new one. We’d knock his fancy ball right back in his face.

            In the midst of all this, the two Hester boys, O.G. Stanford, Bobby Joe Benson, his brother Robert, and I all heard the sentence pronounced.

            “Unity Baptist Church is having a two-week Vacation Bible School and I have signed you and your sister up,” my mother said. She said it so softly and matter-of-factly that she might have only been stating we were having leftovers for supper. It failed to even register in a mind that was filled with sword-fights, running gun battles and strikeouts.

            “That’s nice,” I heard myself say, not realizing the doom to which I had just sentenced myself.

            I forgot it all until the next Sunday evening. I had lived through another Sabbath and was preparing to assume my duties as the gang’s quartermaster the next day. In my kit, I had packed a penny-box of matches and a book of cigarette papers filched from my father’s grocery store. Eddie Holland had been swiping pinches of Bull Durham from his daddy for weeks now and we had the goods to provide a swell smoke for the entire gang. I also packed away a five-cent package of firecrackers left over from Christmas and a picture of a Marilyn Monroe in a bathing suit that I had torn from a Parade Magazine. I had my Uncle Jack’s survival knife from the Korean War and a magnifying glass that was useful for starting fires, and also for frying ants. It was going to be a good Monday.

            Then I heard my mother yell from the living room, “Jimmie get in there and lay out some clothes for Bible School in the morning. Misses Cochran’s coming at 8:30 and you better not make her wait.”

            My blood froze. Bible School? Was she kidding? I answered back immediately in my best pirate voice. “Huh?”

            “You heard me.”

            “Did you say something?”

            “Now don’t even think about opening that little smart mouth of yours to me. You get ready.”

            “Aw momma.” Did she want to be rapped and pillaged?

            “Don’t you ‘aw momma’ me. I gave them a love offerin’ and you’re goin’.”

            “But Sonny Averitt has a new snake and he said we could come over and look at it in the …”

            “Don’t make me have to come in there.”

            So, the gang of prisoners dutifully reported outside the church next morning. There were five of us. Bobby Joe had rubbed some mustard in his eyes and convinced his mama that he might have the “chicken pops.” True pirates are born to embrace suffering.

            Anyway, we lined up as if we were awaiting the boat to Devil’s Island outside the church door. They let all the girls in first, including my sister who was older than the rest of us and ended up being a sort of guard for the duration, in addition to her normal job of reporting my every movement and utterance to the authorities at home. There were about 10 of us boys in the group, and not a happy face among them.

            Finally, our teacher, a Misses Krebbs, appeared at the door and bade us enter the foyer. Once that far inside, she stopped us and, as we huddled in a tight bunch near the coat racks and tables piled with offering plates, taught us the daily prayer we were to utter before we entered the church each morning.

I am a sinner, let me pray,

God has given me this day.

At every step, I’ll stop and say,

He will guide me all the way. Amen

            I think she made it up herself because she seemed mighty pleased with it. After a dozen or so tries, we got to where we could say it together and she allowed us in the church.

            Miss Krebbs was a stout little woman with reddish hair pulled into a bun. She had obviously been through this before, for the first thing she did after she sat all the boys down in the back of the room—the girls were already up front singing songs—was to single out the baddest looking boy in the room. He was a big boy, older than the rest of us, named Terry Clayton and was from the east side of town where they raised the tough ones. We learned later that he was in Vacation Bible School as an alternative to reform school, so he was prepared to endure a good deal of unpleasantness. It started immediately. Miss Krebbs brought him to the front of our little group. He turned and faced us with magnificent defiance, and we all envied his “look.” She then presented him as the type that would reap great benefits from the coming experience. She patted his back. He turned a crimson red, and those of us who were experienced in the ways of the truly fearsome saw dead bodies and raw bloody veins swirling in his head.

            Next, she looked at him and asked, “What do you expect to get from coming to vacation bible school,” she asked.

            Well, she might have just as well asked him what he thought of the philosophy of Immanuel Kant. Here was a boy who had never planned even a half-step beyond his immediate existence in his life. He turned even redder and finally looked at the floor.

            Miss Krebbs made him suffer for what seemed like minutes before she sat him down, broken and humiliated. Then she asked, “Who in here loves Jesus?”

            Every hand shot into the air.

            I won’t go into great detail about the ordeal that followed. As the remnants of our little band proceeded, without us, to build a raft capable of transporting the band all the way across the bayou to intercept the interlopers, we were cutting out pictures of the prophets to paste on large poster boards. The only part of our day that offered any chance of relief for our tortured mind was singing. It didn’t take long before we discovered that we could change the words of songs ever so slightly without drawing the attention of Misses Krebbs or one of the other guards. Of course my sister was a little more worldly-wise than the adults so we had to be extra careful. She knew the easy ones such as Gladly, the Cross-eyed Bear. We did manage, though, to slip by her such gems as Flour in the Mud.

            But our pleasures were few, all in all. Once, we had to study the Book of Job, which consisted pretty much of a story about how God and the Devil took bets on how this poor guy named Job would act if they played tricks on him. I guess they thought it pretty funny. Actually, we had done the same thing a few times with our gang’s favorite jester, Buddy Austin. We would, for example, twist him up in a bag swing and let it twirl him around a bunch of times and then take bets on how far he could walk before he fell. It was a kid’s game, at best, but I still think we showed more decency than the other two I mentioned.

            The study of poor Job did provide one bit of drama. Toward the end, when the unfortunate man had endured almost more than humanly possible, Misses Krebbs stopped the discussion and asked who could provide an explanation for it all. Well, old Terry Clayton just sat there for a few minutes. We were ten days or so into the sentence by then, and I suppose the imagined peace and manly freedom of reform school were beckoning him like the Sirens of Phorcus.

            He all of a sudden blurted out, it was the first time he had spoken since his opening day humiliation, “I guess it means that when you have nothing to lose, it’s better to be the shooter than the dice.”

            It was the last I saw of him until a number of years later when he stopped me for speeding. He was five years in the police force by then and let me go, a favor from one victim to another.

            On another occasion, they brought in this carpenter who was going to show us how to work with wood. We thought this was going to be really neat until we found that the project would consist of building crosses and not anything useful.

            I immediately got crossways with our instructor because he didn’t like my choice of wood. I was, and still am, partial to the darker woods like walnut. He claimed we should use lighter wood to symbolize the purity of Christ. Jesus!

            After a few days of sawing and bending a number of nails, our crosses began to take a number of shapes, few of them recognizable as the stated intent. On top of it all, the man refused to answer any questions of a practical nature, such as tips on building rafts or stockades for a hideout.

            As the end of our cross-building approached, O.G. Stanford finally asked Misses Krebbs what the finished products would be used for. She didn’t hesitate a second. “You are building them to be donated to the poor nigra churches in town.”

            We just looked at one another. Hadn’t those people suffered enough already?

            The absolute most idiotic thing about the experience was that Misses Krebbs never even learned my name. She knew my sister’s name, and she knew our relationship. But for some reason, she insisted on calling me Jimmie Valentine, for the pure sadistic pleasure of it I suppose. I still have, among my clippings about the Tet Offensive, my photos of a storm at sea, and the results of a tornado which I survived, a small folded certificate stating that Jimmie Valentine had, indeed, survived (it actually says “graduated from”) Unity Baptist Church Vacation Bible School.

            Yes, it, as all ordeals do after what seemed like ten years at least. As always, I am told, it ended with “Boo-Hoo Day.” That’s the day they wrap it up with a children’s sermon from the church’s preacher and, traditionally, all the girls get “saved,” some of them for the fourth or fifth time, boo-hooing louder each time. All the boys declined the honor except for Johnny Staples and that is a complete story in itself. Let’s just mention that he later went to California to become an actor and salvation probably held him in good stead.

            For the rest, we returned to our gang to learn that, in our absence, the remnant members had discovered that rafts made from green pine trees don’t float well enough to support the weight of a pirate gang. To make matters worse, Ferdinand had discovered our cowboy hideout on his land, torn it up, and reported the discovery to my father to whom he handed over the bottle containing a half-inch of bourbon that someone, we denied any knowledge, had been carefully collecting from throwaways for months. Of course the baseball game had to be forfeited and our team was forever known and “The No-shows.”

             A pretty sad experience? Yes, in many ways. The gang never reorganized. The next summer my father secured me a job working on a milk truck and a succession of summer, then part-time, and finally full-time employments followed until one day I awoke to be staring at the face of a grown man in the mirror. Sadly, it was not the face of a pirate. It was a face, however, honed to some degree from raging along the banks of Bayou Bartholomew, once, with a ragtag gang of fierce warriors, protecting an imaginary group of innocent women from the prospect of rapping and pillaging. So I am glad of my youth, even with that summer’s terrifying experience. Outdoor freedoms such as we enjoyed back then seem to have disappeared along with pirate gangs and second-hand baseballs.

Were there lessons learned? There was one, After enduring Misses Krebbs, and vacation Bible school, there was never any doubt in our minds about the true horrors of Hell. That has always provided a little touch of religion in the night.

           

 

In Country

By Jimmie von Tungeln

 For Worm and the Guys

 

            “Hey man, wake up!”

Hinson opened his eyes. The first thing he noticed was the heat and the sweat. Although he wore only his skivvies and lay uncovered on the bunk, he felt a wet film covering his body and the mocking sogginess of the sheet beneath him. Then he sensed the spots where the mosquitoes found him, large welts by now—the amazing product of something so tiny as to beg underestimation. He focused on the intruder. He was a dark-eyed man, tall and tanned, waiting until he was sure that Hinson was conscious. Hinson nodded that he was awake and knew where he was. How could he not know? He was in-country and it was only Day Two and he was somewhere near Da Nang… the Republic of South Viet Nam. Shit!

            He sat upright and rotated his body until his legs dangled from the top bunk where he slept. With effort, he managed a controlled fall to the floor of the barracks, holding the top rail to steady himself.

            “Welcome to the First Naval Infantry,” the other said, “Also known as Naval Security.” Name’s Zimmerman, Wayne or “Worm” if you prefer. What’s yours?”

            “Hinson, Tom Hinson,” he said. He turned his head as he spoke so that a day’s supply of stale cigarette residue didn’t flow toward the man. He fiddled with the combination of a lock on a full-length locker at the head of the bunk. The man who would be called Worm waited behind him, shifting from foot to foot.

            “Why they got you in the supply company barracks?”

            “Waiting for a bunk to open up in the security company barracks is what they told me.”

            “Yeah.” The man looked around. “You don’t want to stay here. Borman’s leaving tomorrow. You can get his bunk.”

            “Yeah, sure,” Hinson said. “Borman… his time’s up?”

            “Twenty-four and a wake-up call,” the man looked Hinson up and down. “Where you from?”

            Hinson rubbed his eyes. “Arkansas,” he said.

            “Really! I’m from Cincinnati.”

            “That’s up north somewhere, isn’t it?”

            “Arkansas. That’s somewhere down south, right?” The man laughed.

            Hinson smiled. “Not so far down south as some places.”

            “Look,” the other said. “The Section just went on the morning watch. They’ll get off at noon. I have to pull headquarters duty this morning so you can make the rounds with me.” He looked in the locker. “You got a weapon yet?”

            “Not yet,” they said check with the Gunner’s Mate today.”

            The man looked at him seriously. “What kind of Commie-fighter you gonna make without a weapon?”

            Hinson looked back at him. The other broke into a smile. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or so with our assignments and we’ll make our rounds.” He spun on his heels and left Hinson standing in the empty barracks. The supply company personnel had been rousted out before daylight but they had left him in his bunk. He felt forgotten and alone and he suspected that he would know this feeling well before his year was up. He grabbed his towel and kit from the locker, eased into his flip-flops, and trudged toward the head.

            Later, they were making their rounds. “Yeah, I thought college was a racket,” Zimmerman was telling him. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses and talked with an endearing eagerness that reminded Hinson of a young boy after his first day at school. “Then after a semester my grades came in and it was pretty damn obvious that me and my buddies had been doing other things than going to classes.”

            They were walking along the main street of the base. It was almost pretty, Hinson thought. The French had built the base during their war with Viet Nam. When they left, the Americans had moved in, seamlessly. It hardly resembled a military base, by American standards. White picket fences separated the public spaces from the barracks areas. Mature trees softened every view. The buildings were low, with clean lines. He marked the clear-stories and the screened bands of open area beneath the soffits built for air-flow. The design of barracks on the military bases he had seen in America sought no compromise with the elements. They resembled great white, two-story bricks with windows that never opened, weather be damned.

            Worm was still talking. “So my Dad took one look at them grades and yanked my money. I put my college career on hold for a chance at freedom fighting. How’d you get here?”

            “I guess I just ran out of places to hide,” Hinson said. “From the draft board.” They walked a few more steps and he added, “I was perfectly content to let freedom fight her battles on her own.”

“Why did you join the Navy?” Zimmerman asked.

“I understood that if you got drafted into the Army, they cut your hair off and sent you to Viet Nam.”

“Please?” A young, pretty Vietnamese cleaning-woman had walked out onto the porch of one of the barracks and distracted Zimmerman.

“What?” said Hinson.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Forget it,” Hinson said.

“Let’s sneak into the Chow Hall and get some breakfast,” the other said. “We don’t have to be anywhere until 0800. Then we get to escort Vietnamese onto the base.”

“Why are the Vietnamese coming on base?” said Hinson as they turned onto a side street.

“Oh, this and that… get medical treatment, apply for work clearances, file complaints, set booby traps, poison our food, draw maps of our positions. You know, regular stuff.”

Hinson looked to see if he was kidding but the man showed no sign, one way or the other.

After breakfast, they walked to one of the security company barracks and Zimmerman picked up his weapon, cartridge belt, and a helmet announcing his official capacity as base security. He slung the shiny black M-16 onto his shoulder and placed his helmet square on his head. “Do I look like a born killer?” he asked.

“I’d sure as hell peg you for one,” Hinson said. The other smiled.

They walked in silence toward the camp’s main entrance, slowly after such a large breakfast. The morning heat descended on the camp like the onset of a fever. Hinson noticed that the air became more difficult to breath, heavy and sullen, as if promising a long, protracted battle for the simple exchange of oxygen. With the heat and the heaviness came the smell… an odor of rotted fruit permeated the place.

“I guess a person gets used to this place after awhile,” he said.

“Oh sure,” said Zimmerman. “They say after you been back stateside for a couple of weeks you don’t even notice it no more.”

“That’s comforting to know,” Hinson said.

As they neared the front gate, Hinson saw what appeared to be a middle-aged Vietnamese woman standing by the guard shack with one of the gate guards. She wore black undergarments covered by a white silk ao dai, the additional overlay worn on formal occasions. A flattened cone of straw— the ubiquitous Vietnamese hat—covered her head and strings secured it under her chin. She held a bundle wrapped in soft clothing to her breast. The guard attempted to talk to her but she stared ahead as if listening to another voice. Then he pointed toward Zimmerman and the woman nodded.

“Oh shit,” Zimmerman said. “Not right after breakfast.”

“What’s up?” asked Hinson.

“You’ll see,” said Zimmerman and he quickened his pace.

“What is she holding?” Hinson asked.

“A baby,” said Zimmerman as they reached the gate. “She’s holding a baby.”

They reached the gate and a tall “brother” carrying a 45 caliber pistol on his side turned to Zimmerman. He wore the same type helmet and held a sawed-off pump shotgun loosely in one hand.

“My man,” he said.

“Are you qualified for all that firepower?”

“Try my black ass,” the man said. From inside the guard shack, another sailor laughed. Zimmerman smiled and tossed off a fake salute.

“You got somebody here for me I see,” he said.

“Sick-call Mama-san.” The sentry said. “Same, same.” He walked to the guard shack and retrieved a paper. He came back and handed it to Zimmerman and said: “All in order. You know the drill.”

“I do,” he said. He turned and pointed. “This here is Hinson. He’s a newbie just flew in from the United States of America.”

The guard nodded. “I’ve heard of the place.”

From inside the gate shack, the other sentry asked: “How long you been in-country.”

“Two days,” Hinson said.

“Man, you’re still shittin’ stateside chow,” he said, a phrase Hinson was destined to hear often for the next three months.

The inside of the guard shack was dark and Hinson could just make out the silhouette of the man, who continued talking.

“You must be some kinda fuck-up to land here. How did you piss them off?”

“I turned down their offer for officer candidate school”

Hinson could see the man nod his head. “That would do it alright. Don’t worry though, just drink lots of beer and don’t fall in love with any of the local ladies and you’ll do fine.”

The first guard interrupted. “Take this woman on before she starts jabberin’.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Zimmerman said and turned to the woman. “Cao Ba,” he said. The woman flashed a large smile and nodded her head. “Lai dai,” he said, motioning for her to follow him.

“Lai dai, du,” said the man from inside the guard house and the one outside told him to shut up.

Zimmerman placed the woman between him and Hinson and the three started back along the main street toward the heart of the base. As they walked, Hinson noticed that Zimmerman had ceased talking. Hinson looked at the woman, who was staring straight ahead and still held the baby tight against her body, as if every tree and every building wanted nothing more than to snatch it from her.

“The baby sick?” he asked.

Zimmerman shook his head and walked on a few steps. “Blown up,” he said.

“Blown up?”

“A stray rocket hit her house in the village and blew the baby into a fire pit.”

“A stray rocket? Was it VC?”

“Nobody knows. What difference does it make?”

Hinson turned to the woman who appeared to him to be past the age of having an infant. “Is it her baby?”

“Yeah, it’s hers,” Zimmerman said, pointing with a thumb. Before he could say any more, the woman realized that they were talking about her. She showed concern and turned toward Zimmerman. He wouldn’t look at her so she turned to Hinson. He made the mistake of showing an interest.

The woman, in order, it appeared, to justify being on the base, relaxed her grip on the baby and lowered it, supporting it with one arm near her stomach. As Hinson watched, she gently unwrapped the cloth that covered the child and motioned for Hinson to look.

The child’s face consisted of a continuous red scab except for a large blister that still covered one cheek. Stitches began near one ear and continued beneath its clothing. Both hands extended from the body and were wrapped tightly. It was apparent that one was shorter than the other. A patch of white gauze, lifted away from the face by cotton swabs covered one eye while the other stared ahead without moving, almost accusingly. Scabs covered the lower lip. Blood stains showed through most of the bandages. The woman shook her head and smiled at Hinson eagerly, so he would understand that she belonged here.

Breakfast bacon rebelled and roiled in Hinson’s stomach. He stifled a retch, then another. He looked at Zimmerman who had never looked down. “Jesus, god,” Hinson said quietly. The woman covered the child once more in the soft clothing and pulled it tight against her breast. The three walked together each struck silent by emotions beating against the morning heat like wild birds fighting the bars of a cage. They were silent until they reached Sick Bay.

They deposited their charges and were told to return for them just before noon. Zimmerman said they should stay away from Company Headquarters where they would surely be given a “shit detail.”

“We’ll tell them there was a crowd at Sick Bay,” he said. “Come on, I’ll give you a tour of your new home.” He started at a diagonal toward a corner of the base enclosure. “You’ll take turns standing guard in one of the towers or bunkers spread around the edge of the base,” he said. We pull six-hour shifts.”

“Six hours just staring out at that village?” Hinson tried to imagine how many hours that would represent during the year he would spend here. “Can you do anything but just sit there?”

“Well, you can shoot at people if they shoot at you first. That breaks the monotony.” Zimmerman turned to him. “Besides, you don’t spend all your time staring at the village. On the back side you spend it staring into the jungle.” He motioned toward a bench on the back side of a barracks, out of the view of most of the base traffic. He led Hinson to it where he took off his helmet and unloosed the rifle from his shoulder. They sat and lit cigarettes. Neither spoke for awhile. The heat lay upon them heavier than ever and Hinson felt the first rivulet of sweat on his back.

“How long you been here?” he asked.

“Three months.”

“You haven’t gone “stir-crazy” yet?”

 “You get used to it.” Zimmerman blew a smoke ring into the heat.

“I can’t get over that baby.”

“You better had,” said Zimmerman and then changed the subject. “You have family?”

“Oh yeah. They all live on a farm in Arkansas. How about you?”

“We’re Catholics,” the other said, as if establishing a point of departure. “So I have three brothers and two sisters.”

“I only have a brother.”

“I can’t imagine not having a big family.” Zimmerman studied his cigarette. “I plan to have one.”

They smoked in silence. Then Zimmerman turned to Hinson and asked, “Do you like Thanksgiving?”

“I suppose so.”

“Thanksgiving is great. I’ll miss that more than Christmas.” He blew another smoke ring. “Our whole family gets together for Thanksgiving. This will be the first year that someone misses it. Next year, in ’68, we should all be together again.”

“Does your family worry about you?”

“Hell no man, they worry about the VC more than they worry about me,” and he laughed. Then he added. “My dad, I think he worries. But my sister has been coming in from out of state every other weekend to be with them so that takes some of the edge off.”

“Yeah,” Hinson said.

“Well hell sailor,” Zimmerman said, mimicking John Wayne, “You paid for this tour so let’s make sure you get your money’s worth. He flipped his cigarette toward the perimeter then rose and assembled his gear. They continued walking the base.

At 1000, they reported to the Headquarters. The NCO on duty checked Hinson’s record and told him he would be standing his first watch that night, the midwatch, between midnight and 0600. Being new, he would catch two break-in watches before standing one alone. Zimmerman could be his first break-in man. He told Zimmerman to take Hinson to the armory and have the Gunner’s Mate issue him a weapon. “Have him issue him one that works,” he said. “We save the others for the officers.”

“Can do,” he said. “How’s about I check out a grenade launcher? We could use one of those on the back perimeter.”

“And have you blow up the whole base? Right.”

“It would make us even more fearsome than we are now.”

“Didi mau,” the NCO said, waiving him off. The two left.

As they walked, Hinson asked about the NCOs and officers.

“They’re okay,” Zimmerman said. “I get along with them. The trick is to stay out of sight.”

“Is there anything you don’t like about this place?”

“Hey man, you gotta be somewhere, right?” They walked farther. “The thing about this duty… you get up on time, stay out of sight, don’t fall asleep on watch, and go to bed when they tell you to. A little beer, some boom-boom with one of them girls in the village ever once in awhile, and zap—365 and a wake-up call and you are back amongst the round-eyes. It ain’t bad for a war zone.”

They were interrupted by a loud commotion at the entrance to a large metal building just off the main street. Two sailors were leading a third, who was obviously drunk, from the building amidst loud threats and curses. Zimmerman stopped, and then said quietly, “Holiman.”

“What?” said Hinson, who had stopped to watch. The drunk was feebly swinging at the other two and trying to get back in the building.

“Holiman,” Zimmerman said, as if that were explanation enough. “He’s at it again.”

“At what?”

“That’s the Enlisted Men’s Club. He must have been in there since he got off watch.”

“The Enlisted Men’s Club? Is it open now?”

“It’s open all the time, just like everything else here. Freedom fighting never stops.”

“He looks as if he never stops either,” said Hinson as Holiman cursed his two tormentors and tried to get back into the club.

“He probably won’t,” Zimmerman said. He said it in a quiet, meaningful way that made Hinson look at him.

“A couple of months ago while his section was on watch, they had an alert on the back perimeter. One of the guards saw somebody trying to get through the wire. They sent Holiman to check on it and he screwed up pretty bad. He’s been this way ever since. They need him or else they would send him back stateside.” He stopped talking and watched as the two finally subdued Holiman and led him away.

“Screwed up how?”

Zimmerman spit and reached for a cigarette. He lit it, took a drag, and exhaled. Hinson waited.

“It was just a couple of kids from the village trying to get into the base and steal stuff. Everyone knew them. We usually just chased them back. Holiman found them and pointed his rifle to scare them back through the fence. He’s not a bad guy if you get to know him.”

“That’s all he did? Just scare them away?”

“No, he did more,” Zimmerman said, drawing on the cigarette again.

“More?”

“He was locked and loaded and he thought the safety on the rifle was on. He had been playing with his weapon while he was on watch and he shifted it to full automatic. Then he tripped”

“Oh shit.”

“Oh shit is right. It went off and nearly cut those two kids in half. Scattered blood in a ten foot circle. A real mess. Since then, we can’t lock and load on watch unless there is an alert or someone shoots first.”

“Did they punish him?”

“What for? Killing gooks? Ain’t that what we’re here for?” He looked to see if anyone was watching and flipped his cigarette away. “Anyway, he needs help and the only place he finds it is in the EM Club. Come on.” He walked away from the scene and Hinson followed.

The armory was a large metal container box behind a small office where the Gunner’s Mate kept the records. It served its purpose since only the security personnel and selected officers were issued weapons. Zimmerman left Hinson in the company of a First Class Gunner’s Mate and promised to see him at midnight. “Don’t go back near the headquarters hut or they’ll give you some crap to do. Just check in before you go to bed and let them know where you are.”

The Gunner’s Mate outfitted Hinson with a rifle, cartridge belt and ammunition. Instead of an M-16, Hinson received an older M-14. “We don’t have enough M-16s for everyone yet,” the man told him. We’ll get you one later, In the meantime, this one will actually shoot if you need it to. Them boys like the M-16s ‘cause they’re light to carry. For my money, take this baby in a firefight anytime. Of course the gooks won’t use one because it knocks them down when they fire it. It’s dependable, though.”

He gave Hinson some cleaning fluid, oil, and rags then had him sign for the weapon and promise that he wouldn’t shoot himself with it. “We had a boy shoot himself with one of my weapons last year and I ain’t done fillin’ out the goddam paperwork yet. If’n you got to shoot yourself, buy a gun from the gooks to do it with. You won’t need the money no more anyhow.”

“I don’t plan to shoot myself,” Hinson said, not knowing whether or not to take the man seriously.

“That’s my baby,” the other said. “Good luck.”

It was easy enough to avoid the headquarters since the supply barracks was two buildings away. The heat and the morning’s events had killed Hinson’s appetite so he avoided the mess hall. He spent part of the afternoon cleaning and checking his weapon and the remainder in catching up with some letters home. After 1800, the supply personnel drifted in. He visited with some of them and found that they worked 12 hour shifts and were off 12 hours. Most worked at the deep-water piers unloading everything from tanks for the marines to merchandise for the PXs spread around the I-Corps area. Every week or so they would get a day off. Most of them had expensive cameras, radios, or tape recorders—the big Akai reel-to-reels. A fringe benefit of freedom fighting, Hinson mused.

Hinson accompanied a couple of them to supper and afterwards checked in with headquarters. The headquarters personnel took note of where his bunk was and promised to wake him up in time for the midwatch. They issued him a flak jacket, canteen, bayonet, helmet liner and “piss pot” and made him sign for those. They made sure he had a weapon and told him not to go to the EM Club before going on watch. They assumed he knew that the village was off-limits and infested with disease and Viet Cong. He assured them that he understood and that he was simply going to try and get some sleep.

He tried. It proved difficult as the supply boys were active and noisy, particularly upon returning from the EM Club. Around 2200 they were mostly in their bunks and Hinson was able to sleep without interruption until a messenger awakened him at 2330.

He dressed himself and strapped on his cartridge belt. He placed his helmet on and joined the messenger outside the barracks. The night sky sparkled as Hinson had not seen it in ages. The stars seemed to prance in the sky like fiery young ponies. The sight of their brilliance distracted him momentarily and took him back to the Arkansas delta and simpler times. The moon lay overhead with a boastful fullness and lit the base with a glow that in another place would have said welcome. “Where’s Zimmerman?” he asked.

“I’m supposed to show you where to stand watch,” the messenger said. He motioned for Hinson to follow him.

“This is my first watch and Zimmerman was supposed to meet me.”

“Man, I don’t know no Zigger Man. I’m not even in your section. I was just ordered to take you to Bunker Five before I could get off duty. You holdin’ me up.” He guided Hinson between the last two buildings and toward the jungle.

“Are you just going to leave me there?” Hinson asked.

“I ain’t stayin’ out here with your crazy ass.”

Hinson followed without talking. They were nearing the perimeter now. Coils of concertina wire lay three high on either side of a fence. Less than 50 feet inside the fence sat a bunker made of sand bags. On the base side was a small entry and on the sides and the face toward the jungle were fire ports. When they had reached it and relieved the man on watch, the messenger turned and told him this post was his responsibility now. “I will tell you one thing,” he said before he left. “Don’t never go inside one of these bunkers, no matter how much it rains or how cold that wind blows or who might be shootin’ at your ass.”

“What do you mean, don’t go inside? Hinson asked.

“Rats and snakes,” said the other. “They a whole lot worse than any goddam VC.”

Hinson was confused. “If you can’t go inside them, what are they good for?”

“Targets,” said the messenger and he disappeared into the night.

The night and the jungle sounds closed around him. The moon played on-and-off riffs behind some thin clouds, teasing him with alternate patterns of light and dark. Behind, him, the rest of the base lay in darkness, having forgotten all about him. All the connections that he had ever had with the world seemed to be falling away. He stood at the corner of the bunker and stared out into the jungle.

He began to orient himself. As his eyes adjusted to dark, he could see that a pair of wires led from the post nearest him on the right to a field phone that lay on top of the bunker. Another set led to the left. He had no idea if the phone worked or not. Even if it worked, he didn’t know the protocol to use it. Also, he had been in the military long enough to know that an individual established his reputation during the first few days of a new assignment. He didn’t want to call attention to himself by appearing nervous. He would wait. He moved to the side of the bunker that lay in shadows and eased to the front portion, nearest the fence. He checked his weapon to see that the magazine was seated properly. He cradled it in his arms and leaned against the bunker.

Hinson began to sweep back and forth across the scene in front. Beyond the fence, the area had been cleared for fifty yards or so. Then the jungle began. It sloped immediately and then rose quickly to cover the side of a mountain, the top of which he couldn’t see. He tried to estimate its height by remembering that the tallest mountain in Arkansas was around 1,200 feet in height. This one appeared to be at least twice that high, so maybe it was 3,000 feet or so. He had no idea what was on the mountain. As far as he knew, it might be the end of civilization, a land so dense and elevated that the world avoided it. Then he thought that was not likely since it afforded such a view of the entire peninsula. He hoped it was occupied by friendly forces. Who knew?

The moon shifted its position, creating fearful shadows among the rocks and trees. Hinson looked left and right, but couldn’t see the adjoining posts. He only assumed that they were there, searching the shadows for movement as was he. He quickly learned not to focus too long on any one shape, for it would soon appear to move. He shifted his weapon to the other shoulder and continued to scan the scenes before him. A slight chill began to settle upon the night. He squatted and leaned against the corner of the bunker, still watching the mountain.

The jungle sounds rose and fell in volume. Hinson remember nighttime on the delta, when the sounds of insects would roar through the night with a hellish sound that could keep a person awake who wasn’t used to them. The sounds he heard tonight were similar in their intent, just different in execution. He considered how far he was now from familiar sounds and voices. This thought led in turn to images of friendly faces. They floated between him and jungle, reconnecting him with the world beyond. He relaxed and began to think he might sneak a cigarette.

As he was thinking, a voice from beyond the fence and far out into the jungle pierced the night and slammed against Hinson with the force of a squall. It said clearly and with a high-pitched voice: “Fuuuck Youuu!”

Hinson fumbled with his weapon and dropped it in the sand. It fell with a loud clank, giving away, he supposed, his location. He picked it up and felt sand covering the bolt, sticking to the fresh oil.

He eased behind the bunker and stared into the jungle. There was no movement, just the echo of voice that had sent an electric charge through the top of his mouth and now froze him in indecision. He wiped the sand from the bolt of the rifle with his shirt, trying to make as little movement has possible. He focused on the scene before him. The stillness sneered back at him.

Doubts set in. Had he really heard it? If he had, then surely the adjacent sentries had as well. Would they call for help? Perhaps he had dozed and dreamed the whole thing. Or was someone watching him now and laughing to himself? In his imagination, the shadows began to dance and swirl in a jungle that itself seemed to march toward him. He waited.

He heard the voice again. “Fuck you.” Something surely made the sound and directed it toward him. It seemed to come from even clearer this time and higher up the mountain. Was there more than one source? Shit! He considered locking and loading his weapon. Then he saw the telephone again and moved toward it. All he had to do was turn the crank and someone should answer. He kept a watch on the area beyond the fence, and, cradling the rifle, reached for the phone.

Before he could act, another voice drifted to him, this one from his immediate right and nearer the fence.

“Nuuu Gyyyyy!”

“Nuguy?” Indecision fled his body like a cockroach fleeing the light. He swirled toward the new sound and drew the bolt back on his weapon in a single fluid motion. He released it and with a sharp, unmistakable sound, charged the weapon.

“Nuuu Gyyyy!”

Hinson leveled his weapon.

“Don’t shoot goddamit.”

He raised his weapon slightly and focused his sight toward the sound.

“New guy! It’s Dawson. Don’t shoot.”

Then a figure emerged from the night. It appeared to be an American dressed as he was and it yelled again, “Don’t shoot.”

Hinson stepped into the shadows and allowed the figure to approach the bunker. It was a sailor, without a weapon or a helmet, walking erratically. The man said, “I’m Dawson, your break-in man.”

Hinson relaxed and said with an exhalation of breath, “Shit.” He raised the muzzle of the weapon toward a laughing moon.

“Jesus Christ,” the man said as he approached. “You scared the shit out of me when I heard you “rock and roll.” His speech was slurred and he held onto the bunker for support. “I’m Jerry Dawson.” He leaned against the bunker to catch his breath. It was obvious that the man had been frightened. Hinson waited.

When he thought the man had caught his breath, Hinson said, “I’m Tom Hinson, you scared the shit out of me too.” The man nodded. “It’s my first watch and I was supposed to have someone with me. I thought you were Vietnamese when you yelled, ‘new guy.’”

“I was in the goddam village man,” the other said. “I was supposed to have the night off.”

Hinson waited. This war was shaping up to be much different than he had expected. Dawson continued.

“They started looking for me after supper,” he said. “to tell me I had to spend the watch with you. When they couldn’t find me, they figured I might be in the ‘vil.’ Somebody finally found Little Jimmie Brown the VC boy standing by the fence and sent him after me.”

“The VC boy?”

“I’ll tell you about it later.” He waited a moment. “I guess it was a little scary out here all by yourself for the first time.”

Then Hinson remembered. “I think there is somebody out there,” he said.

“Out where?”

“Out in the jungle. It keeps yelling “Fuck you.”

Dawson laughed. “Jungle’s talking to you, huh?” He pointed toward the mountain. “That’s just a ‘fuck-you bird.’ They say it’s really a lizard but we all call it a ‘fuck-you bird.’ That’s the noise they make. Sounds real, don’t it?”

Hinson looked at him carefully. Experienced sailors have a long history of having a laugh at the expense of new ones. He had learned to question all advice. “I thought the village was off-limits,” he said.

Dawson looked at him as if he was beyond hope. “Yeah, it is.” Then he continued. “So I had gotten there, man, and had just ‘dipped my wick’ the first time when Jimmie Brown came running in telling me I had to go back. I went over to Tower Two where the hole in the fence is and they told me I had to do a break-in watch. So here I am, still horny.”

“Hinson looked at him. “You mean you were having sex in the village.”

“Hell yes,” Dawson said. “It ain’t quite like my old lady but it’ll do until I get home.”

“You’re married?” Hinson said.

“Married and a kid on the way,” said Dawson. “That’s the result of R and R in Hawaii.”

Hinson leaned against the bunker. “This Jimmy Brown, is he really VC?”

“When it suits him,” Dawson said. “Then when it don’t, he can be your best friend. He’s sort of bi-sexual that way—fucks both sides, same-same.” He paused. “But he can be useful.

Hinson started to ask how but didn’t get the chance.

“Oh shit,” Dawson said. He moved around Hinson and reached for the phone. “I forgot to let them know I got here.”

He held the body of phone and spun the crank. He held the receiver to his ear and spun again. Then he nodded his head and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Dawson here. Bunker Five secure.” He waited, then spoke again. “Well bite my ass. I was supposed to be off in the first goddam place.” He slammed the phone receiver back into the cradle. He turned to Hinson. “Do me a favor, will you?” He looked around. “Don’t tell anybody that I showed up without a weapon”

Hinson nodded.

“Man, I’m fucked-up,” the other said. I’ve got to get some shut-eye.”

“You mean sleep on watch?”

“Just a nap. You’ll cover for me won’t you?” He used the sandbags to climb atop the bunker and sat on the edge facing Hinson. He looked down at Hinson and said, “I’m hungry. You got any food with you?”

Hinson shook his head. “No, I didn’t think about it.”

“Shit,” the other said. “Then excuse me while I get some rest.”

“What’ll I do if someone comes?”

“Yell ‘Halt, who goes there?’ as loud as you can.’” If they don’t answer, shoot the motherfuckers.”

Hinson looked at him.
            “Just kidding.” Dawson laughed. Do challenge them but then just make sure you wake me up.”

Hinson had dozens of questions he wanted to ask.

“Don’t worry,” Dawson said. “They won’t be by to check on us until around four o’clock in the morning. Wake me up about three.” He lay flat on the bunker.

“Dawson?” Hinson looked out into the jungle. “What happened to Zimmerman.? I thought he was supposed to stand watch with me tonight.”

Dawson rose and leaned on an elbow. “Man, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Zimmerman’s gone stateside.”

“Stateside? No, I was just with him this morning.”

Dawson looked down at him. “Zimmerman’s sister got killed in a plane crash somewhere in West Virginia. They sent him out of here this afternoon as soon as they got the news.” He leaned back. “Shitty break.”

Hinson turned and leaned against the bunker. He stared back toward the base, forgetting for the moment the jungle, the mountain, the night sounds and his circumstances.

Oh, by the way,” Dawson said. “Undo your rock and roll. I don’t want to get shot.”

Hinson released his weapon’s magazine and laid it on the bunker. He pulled the bolt back until the seated cartridge released and he caught it with his free hand. He slid the bolt back and released it several times and pulled the trigger. The soft click evaporated into the night. He returned the cartridge to the magazine and jammed it back in place with the palm of his hand. “Dawson?”

“What?”

“Is there much danger out here?”

“Not much,” the other said. “You can go a long time here and not encounter a casualty.” He rolled over and leaned on an elbow. “Oh,” he said, “I did forget to tell you about the snakes.”

“Snakes?”

“Snakes. All kinds.” He drew his face closer to Hinson. “They’re what you really need to look out for.” He counted on the fingers of his free hand. “Let’s see. There’s the nine-stepper.”

“The what?”

“Nine-stepper. It bites you and you take nine steps and then drop dead.” He looked off

and nodded. “That’s really the best one …quick and easy.”

“Quick and easy?”

“Yeah, better than the spitting cobra. It just blinds you. You’ll be okay once you

reach stateside. You just won’t be able to see. You’ll have to depend on someone to take care of you.”

            “Any others?”

            “Pythons. They just squeeze the life out of you if they catch you sleeping. If you do survive, you’ll never be able to breathe right again.”

            “That’s all of them?”

            “No, the worst is the ‘nerve-buster.’”

            “Oh shit. I don’t think I want to hear about it.”

            “You’ll never know it bit you until years from now when you start falling apart. The poison just gets in your system and waits until you are real happy and settled. Then zap!”

            Hinson slid down beside the bunker and cradled his rifle. Then he jumped up. “Dawson,” he said. “Are you just shitting the new guy about the snakes?”

            “No,” Dawson said. “It’s all true. And you want to know the worst part?”

            “I thought maybe I had.”

            “No, it gets worse. They don’t treat you a lot for snakebite like they do a sucking chest wound. You don’t even get a Purple Heart.”

            Then Dawson rolled onto his back and before long began a peaceful snoring that married the jungle sounds to produce a calming hum. Solitude seeped in and covered the scene like the ocean rolling over a sinking ship, spreading uniformly across the night with neither notice nor pity.

Hinson walked to the front corner of the bunker and stared at the jungle. Overhead, the moon cast a sonorous glow over all: the mountain, the jungle, the fence, and the bunker area as well. Hinson raised his face toward the sky and the glow covered his face. He opened his mouth, allowing the glow to penetrate the inside of him. He closed and opened his mouth as if to taste it and then looked back towards the jungle. His thoughts were of peaceful things now. He felt them rise and join the contemplative sky.

Overhead, the circling mosquitoes observed the scene, waiting with patience for opportunity—waiting for the calm to disarm the two still figures. They circled closer to the earth, guided by ancient impulses. Then they felt a challenge to the balance of the universe below their orbit as though armies clashed beneath them. They tensed and waited.

“Day two,” said the sailor.
            “Fuck you,” said the jungle.

 

February 18, 2007