FREEDOM
By Jimmie von Tungeln
He was thinking that it wasn’t fair
and the thought pricked at him like a bad memory on a restless night. The whole
damned thing wasn’t fair. He sniffed. Even the smell wasn’t fair. He slapped at
a mosquito and heard a voice behind him. He stiffened and raised his rifle.
“Livingstone,” it said, “curly pubic
hair. It’s me, Shaeffer. I’m coming up behind you.”
The rifle came to rest. The man
spoke back, without moving his head or taking his eyes off the rice paddy
spread before him, a growth-quilted blanket, reminding him of the blankets the old
women once sewed, their wrists nipping and drawing, conversing with soft
voices, while the men played dominos and spoke of politics. Back home.
“Come ahead,” Livingstone said. He
felt, more than heard, a body sliding along the grass behind him. When a head
appeared beside him, he asked, low, without looking, “Curly pubic hair? Who the
hell thinks up these passwords?” He spoke slightly above a whisper.
“The El Tee,” Shaeffer said. “He
thinks they’re cute.”
“And if he thinks they are, who can
say they aren’t?” Livingstone said. “What’s up?”
“Just checking on the outposts.
How’s everything?”
“How the fuck do you think
everything is?”
Shaeffer scanned the view before
them. Far away, the rice fields, visible in the full-moon, rose near the base
of a mountain some 3,000 feet in height. He listened, then spoke. “Let me take
a guess,” he said. “Crappy?”
“It’s not fair.”
“What?”
“All of it.”
“Ain’t you happy with the food? We’ll
get all the milk we want to eat when we get back to base.”
Livingston didn’t answer. Instead,
he pointed to the bulge where the jungle greens
covered the bandages around his shoulder. “I should have
gone out on the last chopper. You know that,” he said.
“Yeah well,” Shaeffer said. “There
just wasn’t room.” He touched the hard metal end of Livingston’s rifle.
“Besides,” he said, “you can still shoot.”
“Why did we leave there and come
down here?” Livingston asked, pointing toward the mountain. “after the
shit-storm we went through taking it.”
“I’ll ask General Westmorland next
time we have cocktails,” Shaeffer said. “Other than that, may I report back to
him that all is well with your soul?”
“It stinks here,” Livingstone said.
“Why this spot? Wasn’t there a place to camp upwind?”
“Question is,” Shaeffer said, “Why
all the dead bodies that are causing the stink?”
“Ask the godammed Americal Division
boys. Way I heard it, they told the gooks in the village to choose sides, and
when they came back, lo and behold.”
“Lo and behold what?”
“They were hiding some rice,”
Livingstone said, “so rat-a-tat-tat. No more VC sympathizers in the vil’ and
the VC are going hungry. The gook kids ain’t though. Mama-sans. Papa-sons. I
heard they wasted them all.”
“Tough break,” Shaeffer said. “Why
didn’t they didi mau? They know what we do to villages that choose the wrong
side.”
“Where would they go? They’ve lived
in the same spot forever.”
“Sin Loy,” Shaeffer said. “Too
fucking bad.”
“I wasn’t even supposed be
drafted,” Livingston said. “I had been accepted into grad school.”
“Sin fucking loy,” Scaeffer said.
“The rain falls on the just and the unjust. I was going to be a preacher and make some real fucking money.”
“I have friends who got exempted
for grad school.”
“It all depends on your draft
board. I can’t imagine that you would have pissed them off or anything like
that.”
“Up yours,” Livingston said. “Don’t
you have something to do?”
“My job is to bring comfort,” he
said. “Here’s something for you.” He reached into a front pocket and retried a
piece of paper folded into a packet. He put it to his nose, sniffed, and handed
it to Livingstone. “Here,” he said.
“What’s is it?”
“A bit of muscle rub,” he said. Put
a dab in each nostril and it will keep out the smell of the dead gooks for a
while.”
Livingstone smelled the paper. “Okay,”
he said. “Do you know when we pull out from here?”
“When we’ve killed all the gooks.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh,” Shaeffer said, “I’m supposed
to remind you.”
“Remind me of what?”
“The Brass thinks we need to spend
some money tonight. Budget talks are stalled.”
“Not my fault.”
“We all must bear the burden of
guilt,” Shaeffer said, “but you will may yet be cleansed of your
transgressions.”
“How?”
“Shooting gooks, or at least
shooting at them.”
“Weren’t you supposed to tell me
something?”
“Oh,” Shaeffer said. “Death from on
high tonight.”
“Where?”
“Shaeffer pointed at the mountain.
“There.”
“Where we just left from?”
“The very place.”
Livingstone thought. “Do you think
the NVA has moved back up there?”
“I doubt it. That ain’t it at all. The
Air Force just needs to expend some fireworks so their budget won’t get cut.
Spend it or lose it. They have no choice. They are caught in this endless cycle
of beg and justify. No way they can quit and let the Navy have their money.”
Livingston stared at the mountain,
then said. “I think I understand now why we’re here in this stink hole.”
“Why?”
“If the flyboys chase the gooks off
the mountain this time—if there are any gooks there —Brass thinks they will
flee this way and we can ‘crocodile’ them as they go by.”
“That would send them straight to
Jesus,” Shaeffer said.
“Except for the fact that they are
probably back across the DMZ by now. If not, what if they don’t flee, but come
right at our little piece of paradise? Have you noticed there’s a jungle
directly behind us?”
“Details. Details,” Shaeffer said.
Privates ain’t supposed to worry about details. That’s for corporals like me
and above. You just respond.”
“I responded by walking point for
three straight days,” Livingston said. “It’s not fair.”
“The El Tee trusts you.”
Livingstone ignored him. “The air was a lot nicer up there,” he said, pointing at the mountain again. “I thought that’s why we took it, to have some fresh air. This whole damn country smells like rotten fruit when you’re stuck in the bottoms."
"The air show starts at zero-three-three
zero,” Shaeffer said.
“Speak English out here,”
Livingston said. “What time?”
“Three-thirty in the morning. Don’t
panic when it wakes you up. You might start firing and give our position away.”
“As if there is a person in this
fuckin’ country that doesn’t know exactly where we are.”
“Be seeing you,” Shaeffer said.
“It’s been nice.” Livingston didn’t look, but felt the other turn on side and
look behind them. “By god,” he said, “there is a jungle back there. Don’t you
dare let them get past here.” With that, he was gone.
Livingston stared at the top of the
mountain. When the order came to move out, his company had only been there two
days. The men grumbled, but obeyed. They packed with sullen silence and
assembled in tactical formation. In strict order of march, they began their
descent. With each step downward, the air grew heavier and as the temporary feeling
of relief abandoned them. From above, they could survey the countryside. From
that position, it was a beautiful place. Shades of green, some of it checkered,
some of it smooth, and some of it stippled by the jungle, combined to offer a peaceful
view from the top. It was hard, from there, to imagine the dangers and
conflicts waiting for them below.
Halfway down, someone spotted some
sort of ape nestled in a tree. It nodded in cadence as they passed, like a
sentry taking a count. Someone spread the word. The men began to salute the
creature as they passed. It made no sign that their efforts made an impact. He continued
to nod, and stared as if they were just the most recent of a forever of intruders.
When the last man had passed, the ape picked a leaf and began to chew it, still
nodding as if he were digesting facts as well as food.
At the bottom of the mountain, they
Lieutenant had turned them toward the noxious smell blowing from the east and
ordered them into patrol formation. He placed Livingston on point. They marched
into the smell, slowing as they came closer to the jungle. Just as the air
became unbearable, orders came to stop. An hour later, they waited, having dug
in and consumed a supper of C-rations with sullen and silent comradeship. As
night fell, they manned outposts. That was earlier. Now, Livingston scanned the
area under his responsibility and thought again, “It’s not fair.”
He remembered the packet Shaeffer
had given him. Retrieving it, he opened it and spread half the ointment into
each nostril. The scent freed him from the smell of death. He smiled and
wished, for a mere second, that he had thought to thank Schaeffer.
Thinking of Shaeffer made him think
of the time. He moved his hand below the breastwork he had dug and, shielding
his wrist, removed the small flap that covered the dial of his watch. The
numbers shone faintly in the night … three twenty-seven. He covered the flap
and moved his hand to his ammunition belt. He removed two clips and slapped the
business edge of each on the palm of his hand. He blew on their tops and placed
them in front of him on the edge of his foxhole, just six inches from the
barrel of his rifle. He checked the safety and waited.
Seconds passed and Livingston
listened for any sound ahead of him. Behind him, the platoon slept, perhaps
unaware of the commotion in store. A faint buzzing filled the night. Livingston
looked to the east.
A stream of fire streaked across
the far horizon … a jet. The stream neared the mountain and then rose quickly.
Almost at once, a ball of fire erupted below it and ran along the mountain’s
rim. Another stream appeared, and another ball of flame. Then another. Livingston
froze, transfixed by the sight and ignoring the firing around him. He watched
the mountain erupt in bursts of roiling fire. Flames moved to the west as the planes
led them along the length of the mountain. After what seemed like an hour of
this, but actually only minutes, the jets disappeared.
As the fires blazed, Livingstone
heard a distant roar, a sound like an ancient engine might make while struggling
to fulfill its duty. Seconds passed before the far away sky began to lighten.
Then he could see the heavy transport aircraft dropping massive parachute
flares. They descended slowly striving to prolong their moment of glory,
drifting with the wind. Soon, they lit the entire surface of the mountain.
Again, the illumination moved from east to west, as if a giant hand was moving
along the surface flipping light switches. Then Livingstone looked to the east
and saw what looked like red hot rivets from flowing in waves from invisible,
but massive, buckets … mini guns.
Livingston laid his rifle on the
ground and leaned forward. The sky was buzzing now with the sound of helicopter
gunships. Their twin guns were each firing nearly 4,000 rounds per minute, each
fifth round a tracer, hence the image of rivets. Livingston couldn’t take his
eyes away. It was if someone had arranged the light show for his enjoyment. Bleachers
from which to enjoy the entertainment would have been appropriate. He folded
his arms on the earth and placed his chin on them.
He felt himself lifted by the
sight. He no longer felt trapped the unfairness of war as he heard the
explosions of rockets adding a staccato under-theme to the majesty of the
mountain’s destruction. The universe was telling him how inconsequential he and
his yearning for fairness and freedom were. As the tracers flowed back and
forth, he felt in rhythm with the night. He shook his head back and forth in
the pure wonderment.
The show ended and the night
passed. The ointment in Livingstone’s nose faded and the smell brought back the
realities of war. No hordes fled from mountain. No waves of NVA troops drove
into the encampment. A private relieved him at zero four-hundred hours and he
slept until revile. The time came to move out. The men packed their belongings,
attended their weapons, and met in formation. The Lieutenant inspected them,
nodded, and shared their new orders. They would move west, away from the
noxious odor, and toward a landing zone where they would join fresh units for new
search and destroy patrols.
This finished, he ordered them into
formation and pointed to Livingstone. “Take point,” he said.
The only thing that moved was the
smoke still rising from the mountain. Only the smell from the village of death reminded
them that life had once existed in that direction. Now, all was dead. The
normal jungle sounds even fell in volume. The silence was broken when
Livingston spoke. “Fuck you,” he said.
“What did you say, private?”
“I said fuck you.”
“Beg pardon?”
“If you want someone to take point,
take it yourself.”
“Are you disobeying a direct
order?”
“Goddamn right.”
The jungle sounds stopped
completely. From the mountain, an audible explosion announced that the night’s
work had not ended. The slow death of the mountain top would continue for days.
The eyes of the entire platoon shifted to the Lieutenant. A battle of wills was
in the offing, and soldiers take entertainment whenever and wherever they can
find it. The Lieutenant glanced at the troops and then at Livingston. “Want to
repeat what you just said?”
Livingstone didn’t flinch. “It’s
not my turn,” he said. “Get someone else, or take point yourself.”
The wind increased and the smell was
making the men nauseated. They could hear the other units moving.
“Baxter,” the Lieutenant yelled.
“Take point.”
As the men assumed formation, the rain began to fall. The drops moved along the length of the platoon and then followed the edge of the jungle. The men started walking to somewhere. The rain increased as if trying to cleanse a small part of the world. Far off, the top of the mountain still smoked.
