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.