Ghosts in Vietnam

Ghosts in Vietnam

James Carter

Cover and Text Copyright held by Robert Henning and James Carter -- 2012

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the author.

Smashwords Edition.

What lies inside the hearts of men?

What lies at their core, behind the signs of rank and education?

The shadows in the jungle

Minh

Phuc

Ngai

Quan

Lanh

The trespassers

Lieutenant Paul Sitrick

Sergeant Tom McCain

Corporal Monte Jackson

Private Victor Bardem

Private Mickey Lewis

Private Pedro Martinez

Private Jed Wilson

Private Wilbur Gosset

Private Jason Zellweger

Chapter 1

Vomit.

Half churned gruel, tinged with specks of blood and the remnants of fear eaten in large doses.

It laced the air with a sour, acidic, repugnant aroma.

So determined to ruin the party, douse the fireworks, spoil the whole fucking parade.

It was goddamn awful, and not because it existed: not because it was there.

No.

It was awful because it only served as a harbinger of things to come: things that would be worse; more painful; more acute; more terrifying.

Sitrick leaned over the stained basin in the cool green light of the tiled lavatory.

Or was it turquoise?

A combination of green and turquoise then, cut up into neat little rectangles of smoothness.

Not one tile was cracked. Not one. It was a miracle of sorts: a bizarre glimmer of hope in the center of a sweltering hot sauna. The shithole was so neat and tidy it even dared to suggest that man was a clean and precise creature.

Who would ever believe that?

Paul focused his eyes on the face in the nearby mirror. It was a face that belonged in a magazine advertisement promoting a glamorous product; maybe Marlboro cigarettes or even a Rolex.

Such a handsome boy; tall, well built, with hazel brown irises and long lashes, skin free from blemishes and a jaw carved by Michelangelo.

Grade A prime beef.

Not something you would put in a meat grinder like Vietnam.

Lieutenant Paul Sitrick…

You fucking idiot!

Look what you've got yourself into: the world's biggest fucking mess.

You deserve to vomit.

You deserve to wade into the steam bath outside and have the will to live sucked from your pores while you curse the humidity in a pitiful way.

You stupid fool: standing there in your cheap army uniform that will supposedly camouflage you; supposedly protect you from bullets that can rip through your flesh and leave bloody holes in your organs.

You deserve to have everything stripped from you, and when it's all gone then you'll see. Then you'll know just how good you had it.

Idiot.

Paul walked out of the lavatory and stood on a wooden deck that overlooked God’s forgotten garden. It was 6 o'clock in the morning and the moisture in the air could still slap a man across the face and make him gasp. Six o'clock and soldiers were already sweating: already reeking of body salts curdled by living bacteria.

Sitrick felt a bead of water run down from his left armpit. Down it trickled, over the skin on the side of his torso, all the way to the tight waistband that held his trousers up.

So much for antiperspirant: what a complete waste of money.

The lieutenant hoisted his backpack over his right shoulder and quietly swore at the sheer weight of it all. It made no sense that a two day mission should require so much fucking crap to lug around. One might as well drag a tank through the mud.

Or maybe… just maybe he was complaining for the sake of complaining. There was hardly a kitchen sink in the pack, or even clean underwear for that matter; certainly no decent food or an interesting book to read before putting out the light at night. Just the bare necessities: things that could keep a man alive, like bullets and grenades and insect repellent.

Stop complaining, Sitrick. You're starting to sound like your mother.

The chopper was waiting in the field, blades spinning in blurs that swept the air up with the force of a giant egg beater: just waiting for its fragile cargo with a noticeable sense of impatience.

Sitrick watched his men run towards the flying machine with a sense of detachment that was almost surreal.

Then again, why should he feel anything at all?

Why should he care about their lives?

He didn't know anything about them as individuals, except that they were the runts of the litter. The people that Sierra Company could afford to do without: the ones that were a headache for the US Army’s 25th Infantry Division.

Oh come on, Sitrick, they can't possibly be the worst of the worst. Lord knows the Army has a big pool of losers to choose from. Practically every man in this camp is a fuckup.

No Paul: these are just the really unfortunate ones.

Wrong place, wrong time.

Sitrick counted the heads. Four in the chopper, another two climbing in, and two waiting their turn amidst the swirl of wind and dust.

Plus him to make nine.

Jesus Christ!

Nine.

That's all, for a fucking mission into the middle of Viet Cong territory.

It had to be some kind of sick joke.

Any minute now a captain would run out into the morning air and holler: Easy guys, easy! Just pulling your legs there!

Surely…

A yawning panic opened up in Paul's stomach. It was the same panic that he had tried to beat down with inside talk: the one that had kicked a bowl of oatmeal out of his guts and splattered a mess along the inside wall of a toilet bowl.

Dear God.

Nine men.

And eight of them are shitfaced losers.

It was some form of punishment to walk into danger surrounded by people you didn’t know or like or trust. And it was some kind of hell to wonder if you would make it out alive. In one piece too, with no perforated insides or damaged goods.

Some kind of hell.

Sitrick ran to the chopper with his M16 clasped firmly in hand, barrel pointed to the sky. The everyman's comforter: the security blanket made from steel and composite plastics. Blowing his brains out was always an option, he knew. One simply had to place the tip of the weapon underneath the chin, and BANG! A 5.56x45mm NATO cartridge would barrel its way through skin, muscle, tongue, cartridge, bone and brain.

So quick and easy.

The only problem would be the mess left behind, and maybe the possibility of his mother finding out.

Diane.

I wonder if she'd understand, and maybe know deep down.

Know somehow and not be judgmental.

Not fucking criticize me for it, or be angry.

I hate it when you cry, mother.

I just hate it.

Sergeant Tom McCain felt the iron lady climb into the sky, climb up and up and bank to the right, whirling and whining and vibrating from side to side.

So alive, so mechanical, so magnificent.

She was the only thing worth admiring right now: the only thing worth marveling at.

McCain ran his gaze over the sorry mob in the aircraft. Everyone one of them was scared of eye contact, and they were all shitting in their pants.

What a bunch of pussies!

What a collection of misfits!

It was a wonder they had made it so far: an undeniable act from some divine power.

And only one of them was even remotely interesting.

Only one.

The new guy shipped in from Saigon: Lieutenant Sitrick.

Well, Jesus Christ, doesn't he look like some pampered brown nose? Some Harvard educated schmuck: and scared too, just like the rest of them.

McCain swallowed a mouthful of acid as he pondered the sorry state of the US Army. Every man above his rank was a sad excuse for a human. They were either over-educated or stupid, and none of them had real balls. They were where they were because they knew certain folks.

It's a fucking club, McCain, and there is no way in hell you'll ever be part of it.

No way!

Never.

Tom leaned back against a gyrating panel and slipped into a sulk that made his forehead ache.

How many times had he ventured into the darkness?

How many men had he seen cut up by a hailstorm of bullets?

He’d lost track a long time ago.

And yet here he was: still alive and still sane, and able to deal with the fear.

But just barely.

Fear was an emotion he'd never fully appreciated before 'Nam. Hell, there was nothing to be frightened of in Arizona: nothing, not even the rattlesnakes.

The jungle was different though.

A man couldn't see where he was going most of the time, and if he couldn't see where he was going then how was he meant to spot danger? One minute you could be alive and a second later