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