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Richard Signore 9311 SW 53rd St Miami, Fl 33165 305-595-3338 Mythic43@yahoo.com

78,163 Words

TOUR 365 by Richard Signore (Tour 365 refers to the military euphemism for one year of service in Vietnam) ***** There must be somewhere out of here Said the joker to the thief Theres too much confusion Cant get no release *** Saigon is sweating in the heart of December, two days before another New Year. We smoke marijuana on a balcony rooftop and watch twenty flares slide down the night. Snuff has counted each one of them. Fireflies dying. The orange

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light - a useless light. The enemy hides like a gnat in the ear drum. Deep inside every word we speak. Snuff is my closest friend. We dont talk much, but we like each other. We smoke marijuana like maniacs. Every so often we take some speed or something like mushrooms in blue and white capsules, and we go kind of crazy and shoot at the flares pretending them to be creatures from out of space. Aliens. Once in a while we look at the fire escape that leads to the street. Its part of our escape plan if the MPs suddenly rush up and catch us violating the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Theyll send us to jail. Long Bien Jail. LBJ. The fool who jailed us all! But we know it wont really happen. Were 9 stories above the city, too far to climb in Saigons muggy nights. Too high to bother anyone. There is a vague moon and slow moving clouds and choppers that growl and search the edges of the city. Their spotlights spin and split open the saw grass where VC burrow into the earth and crawl to the hotels where they can set off explosions that will tear us limb from limb. The hotels are crowded and cramped with soldiers. We smoke. We drink. We buy whores and force them to listen to Hendrix and his squealing music of rockets and bombs bursting in air. We cheat them for sex or like Campbell, a good boy

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from Iowa who volunteered to rid the world of the putrid and poisonous communists, we pretend we have fallen in love and shower them with gifts from the Cholon PX. If the war was up to Campbell hed kill all the men and take all the women home. Snuff agrees with Campbell although he doesnt like the old people who seem to be everywhere rotting and begging or selling their daughters or grandchildren. For cheap! A bottle of good Scotch or a couple of cartons of cigarettes they can sell on the black market. Snuff prefers their daughters because, he says, Theyre not professionals so its less likely youll get a disease. Of course, hes a fool. Listen: Fuck! he says as he leans toward the patios railing - seeds crack, ashes scatter, Fuck! I think Ive got another case of the clap. Youre a fucking fool! When are you going to learn if they fuck you they fuck everyone! I know. I know. He sways on the concrete bench and drinks out of his plastic canteen. The water smells like chlorine from a swimming pool. This is the third time! Burns like hell. Youd think Id find just one pussy who

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was clean enough to fuck. Just one. But no, I stick in my dick and out comes a disease. He rolls a tiny ball of hair between his fingertips. He has a bad habit of pulling hairs out of his moustache and, with a small amount of spit, rolling the hair into a tiny spitball. Theyre his secret logo. He leaves them everywhere: on the rims of chairs, beneath dinner trays, between teletype keys, inside shirt pockets and underneath the shot glasses of bar-girl teas. He even left one underneath Colonel Pearsons glass desk cover, directly over a picture of the colonels twin teenage sons and his nine year old daughter who, unfortunately, looks just like Pearson. Pointy nose. Wide forehead. Small, blue bullet eyes. In fact, they all look alike, standing at attention, the boys with white gloves and tightly creased pants. The girl in a stiff dress. Shit, theyll never get the clap, Snuff says. Id bet anything the fucking colonel shoves broom handles up their asses just to make them stand up straight. Sirens scream in the streets, whine to the rooftop of this bleak and smelly hotel built and then abandoned by the French in 54. The sirens are a reminder of curfew. After 12 oclock the city is a bluster of silence and anyone

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found roaming the streets can be shot. Or so they say. An old woman who lives in the courtyard below cooks a dank smelling meat on a small, outdoor grill. A dog sniffs at her cuffs and yelps when she slaps him with a stick. The dog bites the stick, tugs, then pulls it away and runs into the tenement hotel across the street. The hotel is filled with dwarves and amputees. They perch on window sills and call out: GI wan numba one blow job! GI wan go all night! Light bulbs hang like tiny moons in their bedrooms. Their Venetian blinds turn yellow. One of the dwarves bends out of her window and squeezes milk out of one of her breast. She yells from across the street, GI wan numba one tea. I should have fucked one of them, Snuff says. What could they have? Who would fuck them? Theyve got to be disease free. Artillery thuds near the river. I hope those guys are okay, Snuff says, thinking about our compound, an old French mansion turned into a control center for the movement of ammunition. The mansion is located along the river, and the enemy from their trash hovels across the water - watches the ships vomiting tons of bullets out of

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their engorged bellies. The river is an oily slime that twines past ashes and tree stumps and a no mans land of herbicides and bull dozer tracts. The grey river washes against the gray ships where the grey sailors tug and yank gray mammoth crates and stack them like building blocks in a stock yard surrounded by barbed wire and gray military guards. The sailors wander after work into the wrong parts of the city, and some of them end up bloated corpses floating like boats in the water. Sometimes they have bullets in their heads. Sometimes they have knife holes in between their ribs. Sometimes theyve been stripped clean, and sometimes their heads are half shaven and they are turning green. Another thud and Snuff wonders who is standing guard at the mansion. I think Shea is there. Hea a;ways taking someones guard for cash. Sheas disappeared. Again. Again? I just saw him maybe the other day. Dont care. Hes gone. And this time I heard there are going to court martial him when he comes back. If he comes back.

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A dumb fuck if you ask me. Hes alright. After all, he sold me this guitar for ten bucks. Cant beat that. He probably needed money for his whore. So what. I got a guitar out of it. Snuff lit another joint. Deep sighs of sucking down smoke. Deep swallows. Deep, raw coughing. So what, Snuff says. Sing that song about when you fucked Mrs. Murphy. I never fucked her. I wanted to but she wouldnt even look at me. I was a kid. She was thirty. Sing about her anyway. **** Oh, Mrs. Murphy I wanted your flesh I wanted your feet I wanted your breast, But all I got was Vietnam A dream of you and a big hard on **** My cheap guitar is out of tune. The neck is warped and out of shape. The strings quickly rust. Quickly snap. Humidity. Dampness. Sweat. Ping! Everything gives in to the oozy wetness. Shea told me. He stood in the lobby of the

Dainam Hotel, woozy and dizzy from the wet haze of heat and said I cant keep the damned thing from rusting. Maybe you

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can. This damned humidity ruins everything. His uniform was clotted with perspiration. Patches of salty wetness stained his underarms, his collar, the center of his back. He wiped his face with a wet handkerchief. Ive got to pay my whore, he whined. She said shell never leave the bar if I dont give her more money. She needs to live and I dont want her fucking anyone else. Just me. Look, ten dollars. I bought the fucking thing for fifty. Besides, Ill never learn how to play it. My whore is into tarot cards. I want to tell her about the future. Blond, bland Shea. Tall as a tower. Chaotic and contradictory. Hates the war. Loves the war. Hates America. Loves America. Hates his parents. Loves his parents. Hates the whores. Loves the whores. Now obsessed with a prostitute half his size. In a month hell want to shoot her. He pushed the guitar against my body, and as soon as I gave him the ten dollars , he disappeared again into the streets and back to the whore. Hes always getting lost, always going AWOL, and no one really cares. *** Louie, Louie Me gotta go Louie Louie Me gotta go now

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*** Street corners are busy with the bleeders of disease. Rituals of purgation. They apply hot bamboo tubes to the throats and necks of sick people. They grin at the QC, White Mice, who look for draft dodgers and AWOLS and VC. The bleeders manipulate each tube, making a spiked collar that makes purple splotches that look like birthmarks. *** Oh Mrs. Murphy, Im so alone Singing here in the burning grass, All I want to do is go home And put my face in the middle of your ass. *** Snuff lives in Elmira with self-indulgent parents and a pinto dog named Virgil. A seventeen year old girl named Susie wants to marry him and have five children and live in a country house somewhere in upstate New York. He tries to write to her once a week, but as the months pass, he forgets her more and more. He carries a curl of her pubic hair on top of her picture in his wallet. They fucked once, the week before he was shipped out, but Snuff doesnt remember much about it. I was too drunk! All I know is she kept on telling me that she wanted to get married when I got back. Now, I dont want to marry anyone! Under his metal cot he keeps a collection of letters and

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cassettes stuffed in a cardboard box. One of the tapes is from his Aunt Lucy who says she lights candles and blesses his picture with holy water. Another is from his mother

who talks while she prepares supper. In the background he can hear dishes clanking and water running while she goes on about how long she waited for his father to come home form World War II; and then, ten years later, she wished he had never come home at all. He turned into a monster. Beat on her. Beat on the kids. Beat on strangers in the bar rooms. Beat on the police who threw him into jail and eventually had to beat on him. He became a mad alcoholic. We hear his mother close the kitchen cabinets as she notes shes out of coffee. She wonders if he is eating right, and if hes lost a lot of weight. Snuff likes the background noises on her tape. Especially when she opens her kitchen window and he can hear someone starting a car, or birds making noise or the wind in the oak trees. *** Bobbing in the river: a body beaten, a body drowned. Pale green flesh. Head half-shaven. Face down, staring at the murky bottom. Like a lost buoy, it drifts to the oily shore where a crowd of onlookers point at the spot where an ear was cut off.

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*** TUCK-A-TUCK-A-TUCK-A-TUCK-A-TUCK-A. A red cross helicopter chugs through the darkness on the way to the Third Field Hospital. Snuff stands and yells at its flickering lights, Hey you fuckers, stay away from me. Im going home in 3 days. Im short! TUCK-A-TUCK-A-TUCK-ATUCK-A. The copter tilts forward as if to acknowledge

Snuffs request, rises and glides over the rooftop. A foul odor suddenly saturates the night. Dead animals? Sour food? The old lady's cooking a fucking dog, Snuff says.

He blows a stream of smoke into the air. God I hate that smell. I use to smoke cigars in basic. When we went to the latrine and everyone was shitting and pissing at the same time, I almost gagged to death. I put a book in front of

my face and smoked a cigar to keep out the smell. It always worked.. Marijuanas better. He sucks in a long breath of smoke, hold it in his lungs and then exhales with a cough. It takes you where you want to go. **** Moonlight fondles the dead men sinking in the delta mud

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kisses eyebrows and moldy places with a breath of yellow love

**** Shea was afraid that Death followed him everywhere. The old woman selling rice on the sidewalk outside the hotel was waiting to throw a grenade into his lap. The skinny creature with a boa constrictor wrapped around his arm was planning on strangling him. The boy on a bicycle with fluttering chickens tied together at the feet was really a VC who would shoot him when he got the chance. Death was his shadow, and the longer he lived with his bar girl, he was convinced Death was sliding around him like a mist. She told him so because she saw it in the Tarot cards. Twice a day, morning and night, Shea said, she laid out the Tarot cards and told him about the future. When the cards predicted hed be safe for the next 24 hours, Shea would stay with the bar girl in her alley way room. But if the cards suggested danger: the hanged man, a skeleton walking, pentacles and swords clashing, Shea would devise schemes to disappear for sometimes over a week. Once he even went as far as swallowing a handful of malaria tablets and come up with such a severe case of diarrhea he was unable to leave his hotel room. Of course, he failed to

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tell the medics that the Tarot cards predicted he would die in a bomb blast at six in the evening of the following day. When six the next evening came and went with nothing exploding except Sheas bowels, he returned to his bar girl and wrote a letter to his mother that a bomb blast had occurred and that she, in the event of it happening again and taking away his life, should give away his Angora cat to his sister who always showed so much love for it. *** Snuff sings: Shea is a friend of mine He resembles Frankenstein, When he dances on the tables, He resembles Betty Grable. He laughs and lights another joint. *** 365 days are slow and thick and seem to last forever. My life is cargo statistics, reports on ammunition, the tracking of ships up and down the river, and standing guard on the rooftop of the old French mansion we use as headquarters, surrounded by the dirty river and hundreds of sandbags stacked around the doorways and foundation. Most of my time is spent in memory, thinking about flowered bed sheets and soft women. ***

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On guard with Nelson, plump, read-headed, crouched behind the sandbag barrier along the river. Nelson wants to go home and be a lawyer. He is nervous and worries that a VC will sneak up in the middle of the night and slit our throats. Did you know, he says, aiming his rifle at the row of shacks across the river, that all our problems, that is societys problems, can be solved with politics? His impish body swallowed in a steel helmet and flack jacket, bloats with confidence. After he gets his law degree, he wants to be a congressman. Politics is the only way were going to solve this damned war and everything its done to ruin America. The lights from cargo ships glisten on the river. I turn on the tiny radio hoping to quiet Nelson, Mean Mr. Mustard sleeps in the park Shaves in the dark, trying to save paper Sleeps in a hole in the road but nothing stops Nelson. He corners you with his theories. He slashes you with his opinions. You dont believe in politics? Youre like the rest of them! Whine and cry about how the country is run but

you do nothing about it! Im right, arent I? Saving up to buy his clothes Keeps a ten bob note up his nose

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Such a mean old man, mean old man I know, I know, he goes on, you dont want to talk about it. All you care about is music and smoke. You must have some idea about how we got to where we are? Dont you? Dont you? God. God!? Yeah, God! You dont really mean that? What God? The world has so many. You just cant believe it. His sister Pam works in a shop She never stops, shes a go-getter Takes him out to look at the Queen God has nothing to do with the way we are. Its politics, dont you get it? Politics! In the dark across the river, wirey figures crawl through tall grass wanting to kill us. Nelson lights a cigarette, squints into the darkness, sees nothing. He is on a roll now. His mind is immune to the sweltering air, the drone of the ship generators, the whirr of small motor cycles in the city behind us. Well then tell me, Sig, why the hell do you think were here if it isnt politics? Money. Money!? Only place that hes ever been

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Always shouts out something obscene Such a dirty old man, dirty old man Nelson shakes his head and ticks his tongue on the roof of his mouth. His dark rimmed glasses slip down the rim of his nose, and he pushes them back with his middle finger. Money was nothing more than a way to finance politics. The black market. The money changers. The whores waiting outside the bars on TuDo street. The pimps with their bony fingers imploring you to consume some flesh. All are victims of politics. Look, he says, I know how you guys make money selling your beer and cigarette rations to the slopes. What do you make, triple the money? Im not stupid. But all you do is give money to the slopes so they can give it to the VC and the VC can kill us, one by one, not because of money, but because of their politics. We need a new order! A new social order run by politicians who understand that order is more important at times than an individuals freedom. You got that? If everyone did what they wanted to do, the world would be in chaos! Such a dirty old man, dirty old man I know you dont care, but I do. I do. Nelson reveals that he cares so much he has sent on onion skin letters to 33 Senators and 94 Representatives, the

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presidents entire cabinet, the Vice-President,

William f.

Buckley, Jr. and Barry Goldwater, giving them a list of 25 solutions for ending the war and restoring order to America. One day Im going to use them when I enter politics. Thats after getting my law degree. I dont want to be a lawyer, but thats the only way.... I turn off the radio and stretch toward the river. There is a noise out there. An unusual noise. Nelson quickly jumps and slips down behind the sandbags What do you hear? Listen! A sampan putters softly over the water. They are not suppose to be on the river at this time of night. We have orders to fire on any of them if they come close to the compound. We listen but the putter slowly disappears and I can see nothing on the river. The water laps against the bunker. Electrical generators hum further down the dock. Out there! Out there! I just saw a light skimming under the water. Nelson pointed to a spot near one of the cargo ships disgorging jeeps down a metal ramp. Maybe the slopes are trying to blow up that ship. I strain to see. I squint hard hoping to see the light and the VC swimming under water and crawling out of the

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water and up the anchor of the ship. But there is only the reflection of the ships lights. Nothing else. But I know I saw something. They do these kinds of things, you know. What if they blow up that ship and all we did was sit here and watched. No one is going to blow up that ship. Theyve got too much to lose. What would happen to all their televisions and motorbikes? Nelson shudders. His porcine eyes pinch at the darkness, searching out confirmation of what he saw. God damn, dont be an ass. I saw a light under the water. Someone is trying to sabotage that ship. This could be the real thing. That ship is in danger. Fine. So what do you want to do about it? I think you should tell the sergeant-of-the-guard. Hell laugh at me! If the ship blows up, you can say you were right, and if it doesnt, we wont be two assholes. Are you crazy? Lives are in danger! If that ship blows up theres no telling how many people will die. I say we tell the sergeant-of-the-guard. Okay. Go tell him. Im not going to wake up his stupid ass. Nelson is disappointed. Small rolls of flesh bunch on his forehead. He once said that when he looked in the mirror

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his face showed interesting contours and bumps that gave him character. It was, he said, the kind of face a person could trust. He rubs his face and gas grumbles in his stomach. Hes convinced that he has seen the enemy. He despises my indifference, and fumes that I wont go tell the sergeantof-the-guard. Something lurks behind his disappointment. Lessons in military codes of conduct. He inhales and puffs out his chest and then deflates. He says, You know I dont want to have to report you for insubordination. But if I have to I will. What are you talking about? Youre forgetting who out ranks who. I asked you to notify the sergeant-of-the-guard, and you refused the request. If I give you a direct order and you refuse, then that is going to be insubordination. And you know what that means? No, I dont know what that means. He bites his bottom lip. He is the schoolboy who has been appointed class monitor while the teacher rushes to the bathroom and no one in the class listens to him. Refusing a direct order? You dont want to make me do it. And Im not going to tell the sergeant anything.

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You asked for this. You know that. You asked for this. He pauses and tries to stare me down. I...I order you to go and inform the sergeant-of-the-guard that we have a possible encounter with the enemy. And Im telling you that theres no way an E-5 is going to tell an E-4 what to do so he can avoid the responsibility himself. Remember, you saw the light. I saw nothing. He scowls and sulks. He doesnt know what to do. His politics has failed him. You really shouldnt have said that, he says. I never did anything to you. I wasnt asking much for you to go and tell the sergeant what I saw. You shouldnt have let it go this far. Thats why you should go and tell the sergeant. Nelson doesnt know what to do. He glares at me. Shakes his head, regretfully. Orange ship lights turn his skin brown and sickly. He needs to make a decision. Then at least keep an eye on the river until I get back. You can do that, cant you? He places his steel helmet on top of the sandbags and rushes to the mansion to tell Sergeant Evans of what he saw. I watch him leave and rest my chin on the burlap sandbags we spend so much time filling. Hated sandbags.

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Weekly spilled and refilled, spilled and refilled for no purpose but to remind us that sergeants have power over privates, and lieutenants have power over sergeants. I wish Nelson would stay away and leave me alone for the rest of the night. I hold my steel helmet in front of my face and talk to myself. Home. Friends. Women. One dream after the other. Nelson is a fool. Mind rot. The river is as quiet as a dead man. Mrs. Murphy I dream of you Your round ass and the things you do The silent room where your husband lies Lost in the sweetness of your thighs. I wait in the dark, half watching, half dreaming, every so often aiming my rifle at the spot where Nelson saw the light under water. Maybe he saw a ghost. Thousands have to be haunting this country. The river must be filled with them sailing under water. Swallowed. Eaten by fish and covered in mud. Night thoughts in day dream. Nelsons voice approaches me, dejected. Shaky. I cant believe it, he says, I just cant believe it. Its as if no one thinks theres a war going on. Its unreal. Unreal! Ship lights leap off the glare of his glasses. Glisten on his oily nose. How many more times in his life will he appear the fool. Absurd. Tilting at an angle as if the world is out of round?

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You know what Evans told me? You know what that stupid ass said? Dont be such an asshole and get back on duty. You believe that? He told me to forget it! Evans is full of shit, I say, trying in some strange way to comfort Nelsons ego. Not only that! He said the next time I leave guard duty for such a stupid reason, hed make sure I got a court martial. Me! A court martial! I cant believe it. I just cant believe it. You probably woke him up. Hell forget about it in the morning. Thats not the point. Were in a war. I was doing what they told me to do. Were in an occupation, and never do what the Army tells you to do. He presses against the sand bags and coils his arms around his rifle. He stares at the river, the dark, the lights that reflect the ghostly enemy. He says nothing. Hears nothing. In all probability, wishes he could just disappear. But later, inside the air-conditioned conference room on the top floor of the mansion, guard duty over, two hours before we have to return to the ships and the sailors who sit on decks, smoking cigarettes and waiting to return to

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the open sea,

we lay on the floor surrounded by

innumerable statistics on plexi-glass boards, written in different colors of crayon, and drink stale, bitter coffee. Nelson hasnt said anything for over an hour. Somewhere inside him is dead. I try to resurrect him. How long have you been married, Nelson? I ask, attempting to bring him out of his death. Two years, he says automatically. It must have been hard on you both when you were drafted? We didnt like it, but we both knew I had a duty. I would hate being away from someone I loved for such a long time. It wasnt easy. But now that Im short, it doesnt bother me anymore. Short. I wish I were short. You will be. We all get to leave this shit-hole. He finishes his coffee and wraps himself in a green sheet. What sign are you? he asks, as he makes a pillow with his shirt. Libra. Thats a good sign. Not too political, but not a bad sign. Eisenhower was a Libra. He was a great president. If he were president now, we wouldnt be here. Thats for

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sure. For sure. He got us out of Korea. He knew what war was all about. And then he says nothing. He lies there, not sleeping. Separate. Distant. A stranger. But just as I begin to drift into a sleep, he almost moans, I still cant believe that asshole, Evans. Some day someone will die because of him. I know it. I know it. *** Get this: Nelson waiting to board his flight back to the world. He is bent to one side by his overstuffed duffle bag, and he holds out a gift. It is the I Ching, the Book of Changes. Use it, he says. It brought me good luck. Maybe itll do the same for you. *** Oh, what a lucky man he was. Oh, what a lucky man he was. *** Snuff sucks down another cloud of smoke. He weaves back and forth and says that one day he wants to try LSD. Maybe when he gets back to Elmira and to the girl who wants to have children and set up house and live happily ever after. I bet some acid would make you live happily ever after, he says, then passes the joint and tells me to see how long

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I can hold in the smoke. Thats all the I Ching I need, he says. Take my head and place it somewhere else bedsides here. *** I Ching. Whisper the words when sitting next to Snuff. He says the book is nothing more than confusions. A bunch of lines telling the future. Youve got to be kidding. It tells you about the future. Who gives a shit. I dont give a shit about the future. If you could show me it for real, then I might believe you. But the only future I got is right here. A lot of people take it seriously. You talk too much, Sig. Smoke some more. Thatll take your mind off things. *** Moonlight fondles the faces half sunken in the river mud. It kisses their eyebrows with yellow lips. It reads the pictures in their pockets. It has done this before. Many times before. *** When I was drafted I was sent to Fort Gordon,

Georgia. The middle of August. Red sun. Red dirt. Red heat. Red recruits crowded into moving vans with tiny windows.

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Crushed and gagging for air. T-shirts soaked in sweat. A landscape of bald heads with nicks and bumps and scars. We screamed! Let me out of here. Im no animal. This aint a fucking concentration camp. Im suffocating to death. A boy with huge glasses sucked on blue candy and coughed out blue saliva. His humid arm stuck against me. He whimpered. They drafted me out of college. Werent you deferred? Yeah, but I He hacked out another glob of blue saliva. I failed all my classes. I hated college. I really want to be a carpenter. His name was Schulz and he smelled like new shoes. He stared at his new boots and wondered why they were so heavy. Shit, he said, I hope they send me to helicopter school. I want to kill me some gooks. He sprayed an arc of imaginary bullets with an imaginary machine gun. God, thats got to be a good ass feeling. We spilled out of the moving van bus and on to a barren

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red field. Schultz imagined a field of dead bodies. Bodies piled on top of each other. Heads splattered. Arms cut off. Legs dangling from the hips. Explosions. Machine gun fire. Just like in the movies. Shit man! he said, Ive got every reason in the world to want to kill someone. Look what that mother fucking private did to my arm. On the inside of his arm was a patchwork of purple bruises and swollen clots. Stab holes from needles and inoculation guns.. His skin was very white and the bruises looked deadly. The asshole couldnt find my vein. He almost took my arm off. Look at this one. He jabbed me five times five times! before he found any blood. Stupid ass. A thunderclap shook the air and a light rain fell on our shoulders. Rain streamed down Schultzs face and bubbled on his lips. And you know what that Sergeant said, Schultz continued, spitting rain in all directions, Just let me pull out his cock and Ill find blood! Im lucky he

didnt stab me in the jugular vein. Shit! The word sloshed in his mouth. Shit! I moved away to avoid being smothered in his foul breath and green teeth. I stood by a

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colony of ant hills and watched red ants skitter over the top of my boots as they tried to avoid drowning in the rain. Bees swirled around a trash barrel of empty soda cups and candy bar wrappers. The rain came down harder, and I was weighed down by the soaked t-shirt and the shaved head and the thought that later, in the dark of the barracks, the bunk bed creaking with every turn of my body, all Id do was think of home. My room of books and music. My

grandmothers Bible and Gaugains women holding plates of fruit ripe as their breasts. A platoon of men tromped behind a rigid sergeant who carried a banner with the head of a white eagle surrounded by an arc of stars. They splattered the rain and shouted in cadence: I want to be an airborne soldier I want to go to Vietnam I want to be an airborne soldier I want to kill a Viet Cong. Schultz admired their efficient tempo as the rain let up and a large horse fly landed on his cheek. He squashed it and a pimple of blood popped between his fingertips. The next time they ask for blood, Ill give them this.

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And later, in the citadel of a bathroom, I sat next to Schultz who in turn sat on a toilet in the crowded latrine, pale as death and smoking cigarettes. Schultz sighed, a sigh that seemed to shake the skin on his face. You know, he said, Ive been in this army for two days and I still dont know what Im suppose to fucking do. No one does. Just wait for orders. Schultz pulled the roll of toilet paper and made a pile on his lap. A sparrow flew through an open window, panicked and knocked against the ceiling as it tried to find a way out. Schultz yelled for someone to snap it with a towel, but the bird suddenly dove toward the sinks and darted back out the window. Quick little mother, Schultz said. If I hadnt been shitting I would have caught it. Im good at catching things. He pulled up his pants. His belt buckle jangled. Hey man, did you hear about those guys fucking each other in the ass? No shit! They were caught in the shower

by the first Sergeant. I guess thats one way of getting out of the army. Maybe the cook should have put more

saltpeter in their food. They never would have gotten a hard on then.

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He laughed, wandered over to the wall of urinals, and spat into it. I never get hard-ons, he continued. I think there may be something wrong with me. Right before I left home I tried to fuck this girl who lived next door. She wasnt very good looking but she had great tits. She said she'd suck my cock as a going away gift, so we went to her cellar and she sucked me for an hour. Nothing happened. My dick was like a little worm. It flopped around in her mouth until I gave up. Imagine that! Giving up a blow job

because you couldnt get hard. I still dont get hard, not even in my dreams. *** Look over yonder What do you see Sun is arising Most definitely *** I never thought Id get drafted, Snuff says. I thought I was safe. But then, my number came up. He laughs. A cocky laugh. He doesnt seem to care about a thing. Why should I, he says, it only gets you in trouble. Snuff is not his real name. He cant remember who

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nicknamed him Snuff, but the nickname seems right because it reminds everyone of a funny cartoon character. Although he was adopted, he likes to think of himself as an orphan. Someone who was just dropped off at the doorsteps of a couple who needed to have a child. Once I tried to find my real parents. That was a trip! I wanted to know why I looked the way I did. I mean, how did I get this fucking face with a ski nose and no eyes. I didnt know where to start, so I just drove around places I thought they may be. You believe that? One night I got so frustrated I drove my car into a telephone pole at sixty miles per hour. I almost killed myself. I took it as a message that I shouldnt look for anyone. Little over a year later Im here and nothing I did seems to matter. A cluster of ashes falls on his collar and tumbles down to his lap. He wipes it off and laughs. Marijuana has burned holes in almost all of his clothes. He wants to see how many holes he can get away with. You know, Sig, one day we should go back to Bangkok. This time not for the dope or whores, but really to see what the fucking place was like. The statue of the dying Buddha. Reclining on his elbow. Layered in gold leaves. Smiling. We smoked our fucking brains out, Snuff says, and I

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cant remember anything but the whores. They were beautiful. Beautiful. I cold use a couple of them right now. Theres always Gummers. Gummer gives a hummer Of a blow-job to the boys, sticks her thumb up their holes, keeps them rigid as a pole, Gummer gives a hummer of a blow-job to the boys. *** A sour odor rises to the rooftop. Again. It could be Schultz decaying in the rice fields or under the streets or where ever he went after his training. I bet the old lady is cooking a rat, Snuff says. The old lady lives in the courtyard below. She lives inside a box of cardboard and wood. She cooks on a small grill and most of the time the food smells rancid. She picks at the coals with a short stick and rocks back and forth on her haunches. She looks up when she hears a voice howling from the transit barrack on the floor directly below us. The men howl a lot. Their voices echo in the courtyard. They scream: Stay away. Bastard. Go back, or

My eyes are burning. My eyes are burning. My skins on fire, or Get off my back. or Im drowning in fire. When one voice stops, another begins until the entire floor

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is a calamity of screams. And then, just as quickly as the shouting begins, it suddenly stops, as if all the men in the transit barrack are carried away to another part of the war. The transit barrack is really an old ballroom of tessellated tile, tall windows, and narrow cubicles divided by white bed sheets. Men stay there while they await orders to another part of the country. When it is windy, the wind wails through the large hall and the men curl on the thin cots unable to sleep. One night I wandered through the barrack looking for Shea. I silently walked between the hanging sheets and the men sleeping or staring at the ceiling or trying to read a book. I saw a Sergeant in jungle fatigues, his hat cocked over his forehead, his mouth half opened, teeth cracked, teeth missing, snoring. I saw a soldier with a scar across his chest and a tattoo of an eagle on his stomach. I looked at all of them, waiting to get out of Saigon, unglue themselves from the humid city and the center of the war. Most of them slept soundly, but by the doorway I met a man whose eyes glistened like two dimes. I cant sleep, he said. This place is too hot. Id rather be out shooting gooks then sitting here in the

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middle of hell. A light went on in one of the cubicles casting a blue color and silhouetting a rotund figure bent over and looking for something under his bed. He pulled out a boot, held it above his head, turned it over and over as if he were looking for a message, then slid the boot back under the bed and turned off the light. What was that about? the man with the money eyes asked. Hes probably looking for something poisonous. Every night I go to bed hoping some insect doesnt crawl into my boots. Most of the time I forget to look at them in the morning. A friend of mine found a scorpion once. Almost got him good. Ive got to get out of this city, the man said. Ive never hated a place more in my life. I dont even like the whores. Where you headed. Hell if I know, Im still awaiting orders. I hope I get back into the jungle. I love it there. No bullshit. No assholes. Just the war. You stationed here. Movements. Along the river.

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A crock of shit? A crock of shit. I figured. In the distance we heard a quick burst of rifle chatter. A painful cry. Someone shot in the street below. Another cyclo driver or shoeshine boy or deaf mute catching a stray bullet in the right eye and straight out the back of the head and bleeding all over the sidewalk or on the ultra-polished boots of the Marine guard who huddled inside the concrete turret in front of the officers hotel. THUNK! The red tracer split open the night and the bullet struck the shoeshine boy who worked in front of the hotel. Brown flecks of polish scattered to the ground when he buckled over. The Marine guard thought the boy was playing and yelled Get the hell out of here, slope! but when he realized the boy was dead, he crouched down and wondered why he hadnt heard the bullet hit. Death is silent, the man with the money eyes said. Maybe thats why I like the jungle. You can hear animals and smell the earth and you dont feel so alone. ****

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All is loneliness Loneliness before me Loneliness before for me. Loneliness

**** Three old men join the woman in the courtyard . They squat in a circle, shuffle a deck of cards and arrange them in the shape of a cross. One of the old men looks up and waves at me. He pokes his friend and they all motion for me to come downstairs. You want your fortune told? Snuff asks. Theyll do it for nothing. They did it for me and scared the shit out of me. That small guy there. He picked up a card and said it meant Ill die in a very hot place. Not here, but somewhere hot. He said a blood clot in my brain would kill me because I drink too much. Or something like that. Its hard to really tell what they say. All they do is cluck like a bunch of hens and move their hands all around. The smallest man tilts backwards and drinks from a beer bottle. The old ladys shrill voice sings as the other two sway and pat each other on the shoulder. The one drinking the beer suddenly throws the bottle across the courtyard and seems to collapse backward against the wall. Everyone tries to console him.

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*** Out there, toward Long Bien, helicopters slide under low hanging clouds. Artillery flashes while money changers gather outside the barbed wire compounds and taunt the guards in their wooden towers. At Long Bien the earth is hard and treeless, and new arrivals stand at attention on concrete basketball courts scanning the horizon for Viet Cong. Theyve been told the VC are everywhere. Theyve just got off a bus with thick wire mesh covering the windows so no one can throw in a bomb. The buses lurk through the morning dimness until the wooden guard towers of Long Bien Reception Center come into view. Spirals of barbed wire tangle on top of tall fences,

shiny and sparkling when the sun comes out in the morning. The men stand quietly on the concrete court. A Sergeant with a tight fitting uniform and rings of sweat under his arms slaps a clipboard against his thigh and shouts: You call this a formation? Gentlemen, let me see some order. Lets dress it up. Dress it up. He is tall and thin and looks like hes been in the army for centuries, although hes no older than thirty. He licks a white cream that protects his lips from blisters

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and paces in front of the patchwork of new arrivals. He stares. Surveys their postures. Looks at their faces. He stiffens and announces with intense precision: Gentlemen, welcome to Vietnam. No one applauds but this doesnt seem to bother the Sergeant. The air fills with a faint drumming from somewhere outside the base, but the Sergeant seems unaware of it. A small Puerto Rican nervously twitches around and whispers Sounds like someones getting ready to bomb us. Gentlemen, the Sergeant continues, this reception center will be your home for one or two days. For some of you, you may be here longer. Well try to assign you to a unit somewhere in-country as quickly as we can. Until then, you will have to wait and remember that youre still in the army. Feet shuffle. Someone coughs. The Sergeant stares as the sun becomes hotter and hotter. Burning. Outrageous. Now if you men want to stay in this limbo for the rest of your tour, do something stupid; but, if we fail to get you out of here that means we fail to take the war to the enemy and, gentlemen, that means defeat. Defeat! And gentlemen, I for one am not ready to accept defeat without a fight, and you men are my battle. Is that understood?

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Behind the Sergeant a large canvas water bag is suspended from a cross board. A small Vietnamese woman in a white shirt and black pants that looks like pajamas stoops to pour a cup of water. The Sergeant notices her and gestures for her to go back to work. The woman bows and hobbles off while the Puerto Rican whispers How does he know shes not a VC? The Sergeant continues. Because some of you men have already been processed back in the states, you already know where youre going. The rest of you will be assigned to barracks to wait for orders. But that doesnt mean vacation, gentlemen! When you hear a formation called, you better be here and ready to get your orders, no matter where you are. Another Vietnamese woman waddles by carrying two buckets on a pole. Her hat is shaped like a cymbal and she tilts it over her eyes to keep out the sun. She looks like a VC, the Puerto Rican insists. How can you tell? Look at the way shes looking at us. I bet shes got a grenade or something in her pussy. All she has to do is pull it out and then its over for all of us. I tell you

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man, I can just tell shes a VC. On the rim of a low hill bulky trucks growl and spin up dust. A vague figure stands in the dust next to two smaller figures bent over and scraping the ground. The standing man points at black smoke rising out of oil drums. The oil drums are filled with shit and the shit is burning. The smoke plumes into the sky and swirls when a trio of helicopters pass over, their wrinkled shadows skidding over the earth and towards the Sergeant who ignores everything. He raises his clipboard and follows a list of names with his index finger: The following men have been assigned to the 101st Airborne Brigade: Hector Gonzalez, Richard Camilla, Howard White.. An abrupt list. The Sergeant stops for a moment because his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He pushes a cherry colored candy through his lips then flips to another page on the clipboard. He grins and surveys the leftover men in front of him. Once you men put you gear away, report back here for the following details. He looks around and points. You, you and you, report back here to sweep out the transit barracks. You four men, I need some sandbags filled. And

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you two report to the mess hall. He points to the Puerto Rican who is shading his face with the palm of his hand. You! Pick another man. Fast. The Puerto Rican quickly touches my arm. You two men go to the mess hall right over there, and fill up two barrels with ice, then bring them to the colonels trailer. Over there. Nested against a communications tower, beige and dirty from the reddish dirt, is a long trailer with a wooden porch, a patio table and chairs. The colonel needs that ice right away. So move it. The Puerto Rican expects an emergency. The ice is needed to freeze a wound, preserve a limb, or soothe someones pain, but after dragging the barrels of ice over the red dirt, we find a colonel lounging under a patio umbrella drinking a cup of coffee bolstered with vodka. The bottle of vodka is almost empty, and a number of cigarette butts surround his lounge chair like white worms. He stands when he sees us struggling with the large barrels, offers us help but falls back down in the lounge chair. Just leave them there, he says. Want a drink?

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No sir. No sir. He smiles, aware of our awkwardness with his rank. He pours the last of the vodka into his coffee cup and plinks

his finger against the bottle.. Dont worry, he says, Ive got more where that came from. He swallows the entire cup of coffee. So where are you two boys from? Boston, sir. New York, sir. Im from Rome myself. Rome, New York. He laughs. Site of the famous Rome State School for Mental Defectives. My father use to run the place. Wanted me to be a psychologists and take over the school. I couldnt do it, just couldnt do it. I hate crazy people. He lights a cigarette and adjusts the umbrella to cover him with more shade. A thick silence spreads over everything, as if the entire camp has suddenly discovered it had no reason to be awake. In the distance a muted Red Cross helicopter floats over the sun, a quiet servant carrying body fragments to hospitals. The colonel picks at a thread hanging form his collar and looks around as if

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hes in an alien land and has no idea of how to free himself. What do you boys think of the war? Youre not one of those hippie protestors, are you? Those little mother fuckers. Theyre the reason we cant win this war. Every time we drop a bomb somewhere, they whine about it. The Puerto Rican nods in agreement. I think hes trying to win the Colonels favor. But, the Colonel ignores him and keeps right on talking. Can you imagine anyone protesting the D-Day invasion? Shit! They would have been shot as traitors. Shit, what the hell am I talking about? I use to believe in virtue. That it was happiness. And wisdom, courage and justice, these things mattered. Especially justice. Without it the wrong doers prevail. But look, look at this hole in the world. Unprotected. Open to any invaders. No justice. No honor. I drink to it. No. No, I drink to them, the enemy, those fucking cockroaches!. He closes his eyes and appears to fall asleep. We stand there, quiet, motionless, watching him breathe. Beads of sweat pop up over his lip. Gnats jump on and off his forearms. Sir, the Puerto Rican shakes the colonels shoulder.

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Sir, what would you like us to do with the ice? The colonel groans. Oh, leave it there. Just leave it there. The pool partys been cancelled. Just go back to your barracks. Go back. Pool party, the Puerto Rican hisses as we start back to the barracks. Here I am half way around the world, worried that someone will throw a bomb in my lap, and he tells me the pool party has been cancelled. What the fuck! We take some ice in our hands and rub it over our faces. A small Vietnamese girl carries a wash bucket filled with clothes. The Puerto Rican watches her intently, whistles, snaps his fingers and squeezes his crotch. Not bad for a slope, he says Tight little ass. Id like to fuck her. No, what the fuck am I talking about? I dont want to fuck any of them. All I need is to bring home one of their diseases. You know they carry some pretty weird ones. I heard about a guy whose cock was rotting off because he screwed one of them in the boonies. Had to be sent to Japan. Hell of a way to get out of here! No, Im going to stay away from that shit. I didnt come here with anything, and Im not going to bring anything back. And later two, three days in a slated outhouse with wood toilets constructed over oil drums, the smell so

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putrid we smoke cigars to keep from choking, the Puerto Rican shakes his shirt by the middle button and sings Mother, mother , mother Theres too many of you crying; Brother, brother, brother, Theres too many of you dying. Shit, he says, I wish I had my guitar. Id really sing then. But its so fucking hot my strings would rust away. A slice of sun burns through the slats and divides the Puerto Rican in two. I havent stopped sweating since we got here. They should pick better places to have a war. San Juan. Rio. Not some place where you sweat your balls off. *** Snuff sucks in the last of his marijuana and flips the butt over the railing. It falls like a tiny firecracker into the courtyard and lands next to the old lady who is now alone. She doesnt notice it. I was scared shitless when I got here, Snuff says Fucking Charlie was mortaring the airfield when I landed and the people on the ground acted like nothing was happening. They didnt want to scare you. Bull shit! They didnt know what to do. They made us

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hide behind a pile of sand bags until the attack was over. I thought I was going to get killed my first day in country. That would have really shit. **** Some folks inherit star spangled eyes, oh they'll send ya down to war. But when you ask 'em how much should we give, They'll only answer, more, more, more. ****

The evening was charcoal on the highway to Saigon. The wide asphalt road cut through the saw grass and rice fields leading away from Long Bien. And then another bus surrounded me like a green prison. The vinyl seats were slit. The arm rests were freckled with rust. Bayonet knives had scratched on the inside walls: Fuck The Army. all Gooks. Short. Kill

A bull of a black sergeant sat next labyrinth of

to me. He read a magazine article on the

underground tunnels outside of Saigon. The light became too dim so he finally stopped reading. He wheezed, Saigon. Sir? Saigon. You know anything about Saigon?. It has a zoo. Yeah.

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And its suppose to have a lot of whores. Everyones a whore in Saigon. What else? Its the heart of the war. You got that right. Shit, thered be no war if there wasnt Saigon. Filthy city. Smells like dead rats and garbage. This is my third time there. Third time. Fuck yeah! Best tour of duty in the war. Good pay. Quick rank. Anything you want.. It once was called the

Paris of the Orient. You can still get the best French food there. The Vietnamese loved the French. A lot of them still speak the language. Too bad things had to change. He tipped his head against the window and bounced with every bump in the road. Dont get me wrong, I think we should be here. The VC are worse than animals. No conscience. Theyd kill their own children to get what they want. Theyd destroy Saigon and everyone in it just to prove a political point. Were the only ones standing between them and the extermination

of everyone who helps us. He crossed his hands over his round belly, snorted and scratched the skin puffing out of his stiff collar. He

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twined his right leg over his left and contorted in such a way that he looked like he was trying to hold himself together. I hate the VC, he went on. Last year during TET they murdered the girl I was living with. I didnt love her well, you know what I mean, not the way youd love an American girl but we lived together and she was a pretty good girl. She was sixteen and tight. I mean tight. The fuckers didnt have to kill her. The bus slowed down because the road was blocked by an over-turned jeep and a red cross truck with flashing lights. The jeep was mangled and a Korean soldier crouched near the hood wincing and holding his bleeding hands. Looks like someone tried to blow him away, the Sergeant remarked. Everyone hates the Koreans. They call them Zips. Nasty bunch of bastards. They smell like their dried fish, and they stink up the whole country. Anyone could have tried to kill him. Anyone. The bus slowly nudged its way through the clutter of metal. I saw the Korean open his mouth and spit out a stream of blood. The bus shifted into higher gear, and the Sergeant shook my elbow and said Look, see those yellow lights in the distance, theyre the lights of Saigon. He

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lit a cigarette and the smoke from his match curled into five dissolving rings. Were almost there. Thank God. I cant wait to get fucked. I love those little hairless pussies. **** There's a man who leads a life of danger To everyone he meets he stays a stranger With every move he makes another chance he takes Odds are he won't live to see tomorrow **** And its hairless pussy that keeps giving me the White marijuana smoke twines over his

clap, Snuff says.

head, spreads over the roof top and twists around the laundry hanging on lines strung from a flagpole. A gust of wind flaps the empty arms and flaccid legs. A shadow figure reaches up and yanks a pair of pants off the line. Its Francis, Floridos wife. She folds the pants, tucks them under her arm, and waves at us as she returns to her room downstairs. Florido must be nearby, Snuff remarks. She never goes anywhere without him. Theyre almost joined at the hips. Francis is mud skinned, tubular cheeked, and precisely dressed in tailored fatigues. A large, brown comb protrudes

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from her back pocket, and she precisely uses it to part her hair down the middle. Precisely. Small boned and short enough to pass under the clothesline without touching her head, she whistles like a man and lives with her husband, Florido, on the transit barracks floor. She joined the army when Florido was drafted, and when he was ordered to Vietnam, she somehow managed to go with him. Never, no one will ever keep us apart, she said the day he received his draft notice, and she meant it. Ill follow him even into hell. Theyve been in-country for four months, and Florido, true to a promise he made to his mother Ill send you home something ever week. manages to capitalize on his

exile from Trenton, New Jersey, by turning his shabby hotel room into a bulging store of illegal goods and services. In hollowed out stereo speakers bought on the Black Market, he sends back pounds of marijuana to his friend ,Willy, who

lives with his alcoholic step- mother and stays out of the Army because he has a psychiatrist who says he wets the bed at night. In return, Willy sends Florido Greenbacks, American money to trade on the Black Market for four times the value of the military script issued to soldiers. With the greenbacks Florido expanded his business to

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include trade in PX cards, phony IDs - mostly for the black soldiers who deserted their units and now live in a hotel up the street - boots, fatigues, cigarettes and food, and most especially weapons like pistols, rifles and knives. He takes advantage of the inflated value of everything and swears to his wife that when he returns to Trenton, hell have enough money to start a business and buy a home. I want children, too. Lots of them. I want seven, she says. Or maybe more. I always wanted a big family. I only have a brother and we never talk to each other. He blames it on the war, but he never talked to me! In their room next to the transit barrack, they can look down on the street and the spot where Sergeant McKays right arm was blown into two distinct pieces after buying two .38 pistols with shiny leather holsters from Florido. Sergeant McKay had been in-country for only a week. Florido thought he was kind of stupid, but he thought every sergeant was stupid because all they wanted was rank and would do anything to get it. They were swollen with their own importance and many of them liked to think they were in the old West .Theyd buy pistols to wear on their hips, broad brimmed hats and cowboy boots to wear on R&R - all

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supplied by Florido who is an expert at negotiating with the mamasans in the black market. When Sergeant McKay lost his arm and lay in the street sobbing and stunned, Florido, when he had heard about the explosion, immediately wondered how he could confiscate the holsters without being noticed. He didnt care about the . 38s because they were cheap and almost unusable, but the holsters were something else. He thought of running downstairs and stripping the holsters off Sergeant McKays body under the pretense of helping him, but he thought too late and too slowly. Two MPs were already attending to Sergeant McKay who blankly looked up at the Saigon sky and knew he would be heading home. Francis told Florido not to worry because holsters werent as valuable as the marijuana and hashish they stored under their bed. Holsters were too much trouble for the money they brought in return, and, as Florido watched the MPs consoling the wounded Sergeant, still wondering how to get the holsters, Francis carefully cataloged the items they were preparing to sell on the black market and everywhere else: MY LIST 10 stereo speakers. 2 Magnavox televisions 4 Panasonic televisions.

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13 Norelco Carry-Corders. 7 Amplifiers. 12 Toshiba transistor radios. 5 Reel-to-Reel tape decks, Panasonic. 8 35mm Konica Auto-S cameras 6 Polaroid 250 Land Cameras 98 Colgate toothpaste tubes. 29 bottle of Old Spice cologne. 7 Norelco Triple Head shavers Francis loves to make lists, most especially lists of all the items she thinks will make them wealthy. She has lists for everything and pins them on a cork board next to her bed. There are lists for jobs that need to be done, lists of people who are primary clients, list of

places to sell in the streets and lists that tabulate the value of American money on the foreign exchange. Lists of soldiers she hates and lists of soldiers she likes. Lists of relatives to write and lists of friends who never write. Lists of drugs to buy and sell, and drugs that dont sell at all. And the most important list, the list that calculates the amount of money they daily make, weekly make, monthly make and are projected to make by the time they leave Vietnam. Florido admires her organizational skills and ability, but not as much as Colonel Pearson who often daydreams of seducing her on top of his desk, right next to the pictures of his wife and children and Snuffs tiny hairball. Francis doesnt seem to notice the Colonels lust, or. if she does,

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she has an acute sense of Colonel Pearsons sexual weakness and manipulates his daily routine much to the irritation of First Sergeant Stevens. Colonel Pearson hates Florido. He wishes Florido killed by a VC or one of the teenage cowboys who rides motorbikes through the streets and snatches cameras and wallets from unsuspecting GIs. The cowboys are as much an enemy as the VC, and Colonel Pearson imagines one of them running his motorbike into Florido as Florido squats next to a mamasan in the black market. Squash him. Hit him over the head with an iron bar. Shoot him in the stomach. Leave his body among the skinned monkeys hanging in the stalls of the market place. Francis knows Colonel Pearson hates Florido. How many times has she heard him snicker when Florido has to fill sandbags to stack around the building? Or stand guard by the river in the darkest part of night? But she still

ignores the Colonels advances because she fanatically loves Florido. She sits in the colonels cramped office on the top floor of the French villa converted into a military compound and gazes out at the row of shacks across the river. She stares with admiration at dark skinned Florido at the rivers edge, scooping shovels of sand into bags -

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his skin shiny with sweat, his beard shiny with sweat, and the two revolvers on his hips shiny with sweat. She rolls her sleeves above her elbows and thinks of Floridos brother, Herman, who also wants to marry her. She thinks of Hermans face. The cyst under his right eye. His plump finger once inserted into her pussy and almost, almost making her cum. He seems so strange to her now , and she

shudders when she thinks that she could have married him and not Florido. Floridos brother was so angered by Francis rejection, he vowed that one day hed kill both of them.

He called her up in the middle of the night and told her he wanted to stab her in the throat and cut off his brothers balls. He told her he always hated Florido because Florido always got what he wanted. When Francis asked him if he wanted to be drafted, too, all he said was that hed join the army to make sure he could follow the two of them , and some day, some where, kill them both. It was fortunate that he failed the IQ test for the military, Francis thought, or else he just may have carried out his promise. And it was also fortunate that he finally found another woman and married her, although once she received a postcard from him with a short note: I still want you. But I am happy . Dont forget me.

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Florido ignores his brother. Always did. Hes more worried about how much money hes going to steal, or how many ounces of marijuana he can sell. In Vietnam he has found his home and worries about nothing. Not the VC. Not the South Vietnamese. Not even the Vietnamese teenager whos been assigned to help him in the arms room. A frail, wiry boy who was rejected by the ARVN and was given the job by Colonel Pearson when the Colonel finally got tired of him waiting every day at the gate of the compound, begging for food and offering anyone who passed by a good time. The Colonel thought it a brilliant idea to give the boy to Florido. Either the boy would kill Florido or drive him crazy. No such luck! Florido drove the boy crazy, instead.

He worked him to death, made him repeatedly clean and polish every weapon in the armory until they lined up against the wall like glossy metal soldiers. The boy became so worn out and angry. he too started dreaming of ways to kill Florido. Florido wanted to kill the boy, just for the taste of it. He thought of locking him inside the concrete bunker and dropping a gasoline bomb down the air vent. Then he thought of stabbing him with one of the bayonets kept in

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the metal trunk on the floor and throwing his body in the river. But he settled on torturing him. Florido loved being surrounded by all the companys weapons: pistols, rifles, gas masks, ammunition, all under lock-and-key with Florido as their caretaker. He loved the M-16s most of all because they were light and plastic and deadly. He sent one back to New Jersey in bits and pieces, and expected one day to use it if his brother came around and tried to fuck his wife. During alerts the city in danger of sappers and snipers and VC loose in the streets or on the edge of the river Florido not only carried his two pistols, he also slung a web of ammunition over one shoulder and an M-16 over the other. I see one VC, he said, Ill blow him away in a second. I hate the little fuckers. Ill blow out each and every one of their eyeballs. Florido thought that all the Vietnamese were his enemy, even the boy in the armory because he smelled like dead fish and looked like a skeleton. Goddamn slope! Florido told Francis that he was thinking about cutting off the boys thumb just for the hell of it. She accused him of acting just like his brother but said she

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loved him anyway. Florido fucked her and told her he wanted to at least give the kid a heart attack. And one day he almost did. The concrete bunker of the armory was cold and dark. Florido kept the air conditioning on 65 degrees and bragged to everyone, including his wife, that he was the most comfortable person in Vietnam. Cold as hell, thats what I keep it. Im not going to sweat my ass off in this fucking hole of a city. The Vietnamese boy hated the cold dampness, and spent a lot of time shivering as he crouched on the floor and oiled down weapons. The day Florido almost gave him a heart attack, the bunker was extra cold because of the monsoon rains, and the boy couldnt stop his body from shaking. He spread a thick oil over the square barrel of Major Johnsons .45. The oil dripped on the floor into a large puddle. Florido charged across the bunker and screamed. You stupid fucking idiot! You goddamn slope! He threw his half-eaten apple at the boy and hit him on the side of his head. You goddamn slope idiot! The boy jolted and winced when Florido stood over him

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and raised his hand to slap him. He grabbed the pistol from the boy. You mother fucker! You stupid motherfucker! Why the hell did they send you to me? Look at this mess. This floor was spotless! You dumb fuck. Im going to blow your head off. You know that? Im going to put a bullet right through your fucking face. The boy violently shivered and sobbed and Florido swelled and puffed. Florida bent over and dragged his finger through the oil on the floor, then slashed a glob across the boys cheek. Fucking slope! He pulled the boy up, pushed him against the wall and pressed his head into the concrete. You stupid fucking slope! Im going to show you. Im finally going to kill me a fucking gook. The boys sobbing was uncontrollable, but Florido was unaffected. He was busy loading a clip of ammunition into Major Johnsons pistol. GI numba one, the boy finally managed to moan. Numba one, no numba ten. Shut your fucking mouth, slope. Im going to blow

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your fucking ass away. You know that, Im going to blow your head into tiny little bits of slope shit. GI numba one, numba one. Im going to tell them you turned on me. You tried to fucking shoot me. You VC bastard. Thats what you are, a fucking VC bastard.

No VC, no VC. GI numba one. The boy tried to crunch his head into his shoulders as Florido held the pistol up to his temple. He cried. He moaned. His eyelids fluttered. He held his hands close to his chest in a prayer position and rocked his shoulders back and forth. You fucking slope, Florido yelled one last time before he squeezed the trigger of the pistol. BLAM! The noise echoed against the walls as the bullet slammed into the concrete ten inches from the boys nose. The boy jerked and twisted and then collapsed on the floor. Unconscious. Immovable. His skin whitened. His arms spread out. Florido broke out into laughter and jumped around the room in a mock polka. He kicked ammunition boxes in time to his dance and howled in pleasure.

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Stupid fucking slope. He really thought Id kill him. Stupid fucking slope! *** And its one two three, what are we fighting for Dont ask me I dont give a damn, next stop is Vietnam And its five, six, seven, open up the pearly gates Aint no time to wonder why, whoopee were all gonna die *** What did Colonel Pearson do about it? Snuff asks, blowing a smoke ring about his face and then blowing it towards Floridos wife whos taking down the last of her clothes.. Nothing! And what about her? She ever say anything? She loves the bastard. She was probably more worried that Florido would be transferred somewhere where she couldnt go. A weak voice is suddenly heard by the stairwell. Francie. Francie. Come on down now. I miss you, baby.

Its Florido and hes whimpering in a tone of repentance. Im sorry for talking that way to you. You know I really love you, baby. Oh Francie. Francieeeeeee. At the top of the stairwell Florido and Francis

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embrace. One solid shadow. The wind gently blows their clothes on the line. Florido kisses her along the neck and we can hear her whimper. Then they disappear. Theyll die together, Snuff says, and theyll probably go to hell together. If not hell, somewhere close to it. The marijuana makes me dizzy. I slide off the bench

and lay prostrate on the tile. The night is damp with humidity. Soon the dew will smother the entire city. The floor is hard as hell, and for a moment, I have the feeling that I am falling. *** You gotta go where you wanna go Do what you wanna do With whoever you wanna do it with

*** Ashes. Thin flakes swirl in a spiral and climb over the ninth floor carrying more putrid smells. The old woman in the courtyard pokes a burning stick at a piece of meat and tosses it on the ground for her dog. Her dog barks as if it has three throats. Its eyes are red and its beard is greased with phlegm. Its belly is swollen and he claws and tears the piece of meat into shreds. Snuff picks a small

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piece of concrete from a broken statue of a bird and drops it into the courtyard. The dog jumps, looks up and howls. The fucking dog eats like Lieutenant Johnson. Snorting and slobbering. Fucking pig! Johnsons fatter. Johnsons a slob. I dont know why the army ever kept him. Its hard up for lieutenants. Lieutenant Johnson comes from the same city I come from, Chelsea, across from Boston, poor to lower middle class, tenements and wooden porches overlooking the Mystic River. Johnsons father is a doctor, and my father is an alcoholic. His father owns buildings while my father tries to build them. His father is a successful investor, and my father is a bankrupt failure. His father writes him twice a week and mourns his service in Vietnam, and my father doesnt even know Im in Vietnam. I could do without that asshole Johnson, Snuff says. Hes paranoid. Thinks everyone is out to get him. Johnson! Fat thighs. Pink knuckles. Slightly cross eyed. A pin-striped mustache settled over a top lip so swollen it completely smothers any indication of a lower

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lip. Jowls. Three distinct rolls of flesh flutter under his collar whenever he says Saigon. And one passion: mashed potatoes and gravy for dinner, and a bowl of cornflakes soaked in milk-of magnesia for breakfast, especially before he has to be driven through Saigon on official business. Saigon makes him nervous, seeps into his ostentatious eyes like humid poison. The amputated bodies. The sad faces. The clutch of traffic cycles, motorbikes, jeeps and half-tracks strangling the circled streets. The narrow alleys with animals hanging in doorways. The swarm of children pulling at the edge of your uniform, rib thin, suffering from sleepless nights under trucks or on window ledges or beneath the balcony where men in civilian clothes plot out more useless strategies to win the war. Too much clutter. Too many people. I nudge the jeep through a crowd of children playing in the street in a monsoon rain. Just push them aside, Lieutenant Johnson says, Theyre like little mosquitoes. That reminds me, I forgot to take my malaria pill. Shit! Ill die from my own stupidity. The rain is dark gray and we are lost in the confusing

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streets of Cholon. The wetness covers the wind shield and theres no way to see outside through the plastic side windows that are zippered close. A small boy runs next to us, a hazy ghost through the rain soaked plastic. He shouts and waves his arms, then dissolves back into the rain. Dumb little shits, Johnson snickers, Theyre better off dead. He stirs a paper cup of coffee with his finger and takes out two slices of white bread he has been saving from the mess hall. He loves to eat and talk about eating. He claims the one thing he misses most back in the world are the restaurants. His wife, his child a two year old girl , plump, inflated, kept in his wallet next to his

wife who looks like starvation theyre missed, but not, it seems, like the Italian restaurants in North Boston or the hoagie shops in Revere or the drugstore counter in Malden with spicy hot chili and chocolate shakes. Another group of children dance in front of the jeep, their honest bodies slick with rain. You know what I once did, Specialist? Now you cant tell anyone about this. Oh, so what if you do, no one would give a shit. I once gave a couple of kids some of those green olives from the mess hall. You know, those fat salty

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ones with a pit in the middle. They didnt know what they were. They just thought it was food. So, I told these kids to eat them, seed and all. Shit, you should have seen their faces. Scrunched up. Choking. Trying to chew the seed with their rotten teeth. I loved it. Loved it! I turn down a flooded street where people huddle in doorways, pants rolled up to their knees. The sky beats down thick, claustrophobic darkness. The engine sucks in water and stalls in what turns out to be a dead-end alley. Debris from garbage piles drifts in the torrent, and a man with a newspaper umbrella tries to look through the plastic window. Johnson waves him away then eats his last piece of bread. I dont like being stuck here, Specialist. The bread is a mash that bubbles in the corner of his mouth. He paws his holstered revolver and wipes a circle of clarity in the mist of the window. He squints, unable to see anything clearly, and takes out a chocolate bar from his breast pocket. He snaps it into little pieces and pops them all in his mouth. Brown saliva glistens his lips. His cheeks puff out. Any one of these people could get us, Specialist. Were sitting here like ducks in water.

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What do you want me to do, sir? The engine is wet. I know! I know! You dont have to tell me the engine is wet. I know about engines. Ive been around them long enough to know what happens when they get wet. I just dont like it here. Be ready, thats all, be damned ready for anything to happen. Under an open pavilion a group of people stare at us through steam from a kettle of noodles. Theyre on a platform above the water and they look warm and safe. They point at the jeep as if it is a museum piece set down in the middle of their alley. Two small boys suddenly dash naked through the group and cart wheel in the water. One of the boys walks on his hands while the water crests around his head. Johnson scrutinizes their movement and places his revolver on his lap. You remember Revere Beach, Specialist. Suddenly sentimental, as if hes facing the last moments of life on earth. I spent summers there, sir. My friends and I bicycled all the way from Park Ave just to go on the rides. All except the Cyclone ride. I hated the Cyclone. Scared me, too. I heard that a sailor once fell out and killed himself.

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I heard the same story. I once saw a man shot out of a cannon. They called him the Human Bullet. Shot him right through the air and into a net. I always wondered how his feet withstood the explosion. Why werent they destroyed when the cannon went off? Did you ever see the freak show, sir? Freak show! I dont remember that. They had a guy named Pasha, the Frog Boy. He didnt have any bones in his arms or legs so everything flapped and looked like a frog. I had a friend, Jimmy Mulligan, who. Jimmy Mulligan? I went to school with a Jimmy Mulligan. Did he have a hair lip? Right in the center of his mouth. Mulligan. I remember how he ate. Food would get all over his face, like he couldnt find his mouth. He was kind of disgusting. Didnt he have a sister, Grace, or something? Irene. She was pretty good looking. I dont remember. All I remember is that hair lip. It was ugly.

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We probably know a lot of the same people, but I dont remember you? I went to another school. Malden High. My father lived in Malden after my parents divorced. I decided to go there. The rain thunders on the jeeps canvas roof, and Johnson screws his body from side to side in an effort to keep an eye on the alley around us. He bites off another piece of chocolate bar and begins to settle in the seat when a huge form appears out of the rain and starts banging on the hood. Hey Sig, its me, Shea. Let me in! Let me in! Johnson bolts in his seat and drops his pistol on the floor. He scrambles to find it. Two chocolate bars slip out of his jacket pocket and he steps on one of them in a panic. You fucking asshole, the figure in the rain screams. Let me in before they kill me. I start to unzip the window but Johnson stops me. Dont you dare open that window. Specialists. You trying to get us killed? But sir its Shea. I dont care who it is. We dont open these windows

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for anyone. But sir, its not. Two Vietnamese suddenly leap on Shea and struggle to pull him to the ground. Shea, twice their size, throws them off, frantically crawls over the top of the jeep, and runs into another alley. One of the two men chasings him jumps on the hood and presses his face against the windshield. Johnson puts his hands on top of his head in a gesture of surrender, but the man on the hood yells Numba ten fuckin GI, and then he imitates someone injecting heroin into their arm. Numba ten, numba ten. He slides off the hood and with the other man, runs into the alley where Shea has disappeared. We should have killed them, Johnson yells, his pistol safely back on his lap. Arent we going after him, sir? Are you crazy, specialist? Wed never find him now, not in these alleys. If hes smart hell be on the other side of town by now. But its Shea, sir! And like us, he shouldnt be here. Hell get back. He always does. Besides, it looks to me like hes crazy on

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drugs. Didnt you see that, specialist? I couldnt tell, sir. He did recognize us. You. Not me. Ive seen shit like this before. And

Ill be damned if Im going to get killed because of some asshole who cant stay where he belongs. Well report what happened to the MPs. Theyll know what to do. He should know better, anyway. You know that! Johnson holds his pistol against his chest with one hand and finishes a chocolate bar with the other. The rain slackens to a drizzle, patters on the canvas, slips in rivulets along the front window. Water churns around the tires, carrying garbage towards a clogged sewer. Johnson

opens the plastic window enough to stick out his face, gasp and suck in some fresh air as if to purify and amend his action. Why cant Shea ever get with the program, he says as an after thought. Its Shea, sir. He cant get with any program. Ill tell the colonel about him. Somethings got to be done. When he gets back Ill bring him in front of the colonel. Hes not there a lot. He likes to go AWOL. We were

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drafted together. Ah, a draftee. I wonder how he got to this place? Maybe he was lost like us. Maybe. Johnson pauses. Try to start the engine again. I want to get out of here. I crank the engine but its still too wet. We sit in silence. As the rain slackens even more, the Vietnamese

slowly begin to emerge from their shelters. They walk around the dead jeep. Some look in, smile, frown. Some simply walk by as if were invisible. You do know, Specialist, that these people hate us. Any one of them could throw a grenade in here and blow us into hell. They cant be trusted. One day, mark my word, theyre going to turn on us and well be retreating all the way to the ocean like a bunch of mice. Theyll try to kill us all. Theyll steal everything we have: gold teeth, wedding rings, wallets. The last of the rain consents to listen for just a moment, then, unexpectedly, pours out of the clouds again, pounds on the jeep forcing us to close ourselves in again. We sit there until its dark. Saying little. Waiting. The alley dissolves in the rainy night, and our breathing

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steams up the inside of the jeep until its hard to taste the air without gagging. Johnson eats his last candy bar and closes his eyes. He seems to sleep for the longest time. The last thing he says is Sometimes, Specialist, I think were at the end of the world. **** What the world needs now, is love sweet love Its the only thing thats theres just too little of **** Snuff hears a raspy voice at the top of the stairwell. Goddamn little mother fuckers! Its Sergeant Platt. He raps a metal pointer against the rod-iron stairs and swats at a moth hovering by the light of the landing. Hes drunk, as usual. He spends most every night in the Enlisted Mens club drinking rum and beer and feeding coins into slot machines, rows of slot machines as Phillipino rock bands imitate Jimi Hendrix scuse me while I kiss the sky and topless girls pull at their nipples. He isnt really a Sergeant, but he likes to be called Sergeant ever since he made Specialist, 5th Class. Its the same rank as a Buck Sergeant, he said, So all you fuck heads call me Sergeant Platt.

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He stumbles across the patio but stops at the little stage where trios of French musicians once played for tourists from Paris. He stands on the stage and starts to drunkenly sing, off key, What a day for a daydream What a day for a day dreamin boy, Ive been lost in a sweet dream Dreamin bout my bundle of joy.. Stupid ass! Snuff said. His only bundle of joy is the bag of shit he has for a brain. Sergeant Platt finishes his song and waddles toward us. Even in the half-darkness I see his paste white face. His shaved to the skull head. His short arms and the ridiculous metal pointer that expands and collapses according to his moods. He probably uses it instead of his prick when he wants to get fucked, Snuff says just as Platt arrives and sways and aims the metal pointer, fully extended, at Snuffs forehead. I know what you two are doing up here. You cant fool me. None of you can fool me. Youre smoking that shit. Thats what youre doing. Admit it. Snuff blows a puff of smoke in the air. I say nothing. Dont worry, Im not going to tell anyone. Shit! I

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cant blame you. Its this fucking city. Thats what it is. This fucking city. Move over. He collapses the pointer and squeezes in between Snuff and me. He smells of cigarettes and alcohol. I know you guys hate this place. Probably wish you were somewhere else. Nha Trang. Vung Tau. But Ive got to kind of admit that I like it here. He lights a cigarette and throws the match over the side. Shit! All the booze you can drink. All the pussy you can eat. And what, every once in awhile some asshole throws a grenade at you. Shit, more people die in car accidents back in the world than die in Vietnam. Thats right! I read it in Time. He leans into Snuffs face and grins. He looks happy and content in a stupid way. The war is treating him right. Youre lucky youre an orphan, he says to Snuff. You know, adopted and all that shit. There are times I wish I never had any parents. No, its true. Sometimes I

wish my mother had abandoned me, and I was raised in some run-down orphanage. His voice is shaky and saturated with vengeance. He

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leers at Snuff as if passing judgment. Snuff ignores him and looks at the ring of darkness that surrounds the citys border. Danger beyond. A great deal of danger. Im going to tell you guys something that no one else knows. Youve got to promise me that you wont repeat a word of this to anyone. We stay silent. I joined the army to get away from my mother. I know, I know that sounds crazy, but its true. I had to get away from her because shes crazy. Completely fucking crazy! Again he leers at Snuff. Now, theres a reason shes so crazy. I have to admit that, but I still had to get away from her. I still had to get away! He waits for one of us to ask a question. He rests his shoulder against me. We remain silent. Ten years ago.Ten? Yeah, ten years ago my sister Melinda just disappeared. Vanished into thin air. She was 14. Walking home from school someone just snatched her up and she was gone. Can you believe that? One moment she was here and the next moment she was gone. A lot of people said she was taken by the Hells Angels because they were in

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town. They were drinking and doing a lot of drugs in one of the parks, and no one, not even the police, dared to tell them to get out of town. So everyone thought that they had kidnapped my sister but no one had any proof. We searched everywhere. The neighbors and everyone helped us, and then one day the cops came to our house and told my mother that she was probably dead because it had been so long since she was abducted. Well, you can imagine what happened to my mother. She went berserk. 100% crazy. She told the cops that they had no proof my sister was dead, and as far as she was concerned, the Hells Angels had drugged her and kidnapped her and were using her as some kind of a slave. He reaches into his shirt pocket for his cigarette lighter. He flips the top open and shut. Slink. Click. Slink. Click. The noise is irritating. My mother said shed never give up searching for my sister, and for the past ten years thats all shes done. She dressed herself all in black and took off! She went everywhere. North Dakota. Maine, Idaho. Florida. You name it and she went there. Shed come home for a day or two, then some stranger would call and say they had seen one of the fucking flyers she had distributed, and bang, shed be gone again. When my father died a few years ago, she stayed

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home for a few months, but that didnt last long. Before you knew it, she was gone again and I was left alone. The dog in the courtyard is barking again, and growling. Snuff looks over the railing and shouts, Get him, boy. Go get him! He sits down again as if Sergeant Platt is invisible. Most of the time the house was empty. Nothing was ever in the refrigerator and I had to count on neighbors to feed me until I was old enough to get a job. My friends were afraid to come over the house when she was there because she was so weird, and when she wasnt there they were still afraid to come over because it was a house where a person had disappeared. You know, all my sisters things were still the way she left them the day she disappeared. Her room was like a shrine waiting for her to walk in and start her life where she left it. Anyway, one night after my mother had gotten home after being gone for close to a month, I sat in the kitchen with her and tried to talk to her about something besides my sister. I started joking around, you know telling her jokes to make her laugh, but she wouldnt crack a smile. Then I told her a riddle: Why should you always carry a watch when crossing the desert? God, she went off on me. She started screaming that I was

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the Devil and then she threw her cup of coffee at me. The next day I joined the Army and I havent been home since. Four years. I dont even write her. No one said a thing. A breeze the odor of gasoline and garbage swept over the balcony. Why should you carry a watch across the desert, Snuff suddenly asks. What? The watch in the desert. Why? Oh, its simple. Yeah. It has a spring in it. A what? A spring. Get it? Spring. Water. No wonder she threw a cup of coffee at you, Snuff said. That shits! Its stupid! I was only trying to make her laugh. I dont care. Its too dumb to laugh at. Sergeant Platt stands, his back to the railing. He isnt mad, just confused, as if were supposed to feel sorry for him, or something. But he isnt the kind of guy

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you feel sorry for, even if he does have a sister who disappeared and a mother who went crazy. Im going to Fitzmaurices room, he says, fed up with our indifference. Im in charge of making sure that no one steals another thing. Either one of you want to come? No, I like it here, Snuff says. OK. OK. I got it. You two need to smoke. OK. Im out of here. He raps his metal pointer on the railing and melts into the clay darkness. I hear him choke on something. His own anger? His mothers words? A blister in his throat? I think I hate his guts, Snuff says. Every time he says something I want to punch him in the mouth. He cant help it if hes an asshole. Bullshit! You know why hes going to Fitzs room? He wants to steal all the rest of the shit himself. What could be left? Socks and underwear? Not even. Fitz threw away his socks when they told him he had jungle rot. The socks kept in too much moisture and his feet were rotting away. ***

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How can people be so heartless How can people be so cruel Easy to be hard Easy to be cold *** Fitzmaurice was an all right guy before he went crazy and had to be sent to a hospital in Japan. Tall, excruciatingly tall, and bony, excruciatingly bony, his jaw bone jutted out, his cheeks were angular and lumpy, his hair was like a nasty paste and his skin was speckled with red marks, maybe old pimples, but red like measles. He worked in the mess hall as a cooks assistant but was so inept at handling even the most basic military meals, that the mess Sergeant, Sergeant Flakes, kept him busy by sending him every morning to the Saigon market. He shopped for vegetables and fruits and sometimes the fly covered birds and small animals hanging from hooks in the merchant stalls. Hed bring the food back to the mess hall and Sergeant Flakes, never trusting the food wasnt poisoned, would order him to give it to the children who lived in the alley next door. Fitzmaurice liked the children in the alley. They were his friends and gave him a reason for being in Vietnam. He enjoyed throwing them the sliced pieces of fruit and watching them devour it like little cannibals. But most of

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all he absolutely loved a twelve year old girl who he named Little Bird. She was tiny, very tiny - the top of her head came up to his thighs - and she was excitable, very excitable. When Fitz appeared in the alley with his plump basket of food she would spin and spin and play the clown. At first, she acted very shy, but as she got to know him, shed jump on him and wrap around his leg clinging like a small monkey. Fitz treated her very special. He loved her high pitched squeal, her long hair twisted around her neck, her skin smudged with grime. Her small fingers gripping his pants. Beside the food from the market, after meals hed sneak out trays of hot dogs or chipped beef and bring it to the alley where she lived under a tarp with two other children. Like most of the children in the alley, Little Bird was Amer-Asian. Her mother had abandoned her, and her father could be any one of a thousand soldiers who trooped into the Saigon bars and spent their military money on teas and fucking. Fitzmaurice even thought of adopting Little Bird and bringing her to Philadelphia where his mother lived. He thought his mother would love to have a grandchild because the only child she had was him, and he never wanted

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to marry, never planned to marry, never dared to marry. Marriage was not in the cards for him, hed say, and he thought of making the military a career until one night in the EM club he went crazy after a Filipino strip show. Flipped out. Lost his head. Went completely insane. No one knows what happened. Some said the Filipino dancer excited him like he had never been excited before; someone else said that the sperm in his brain finally drowned his brain cells. He should have jacked off more, the Captain confided in Snuff, but really, no one had a clue that he was crazy, or going crazy, or was a closet loon who couldnt hide it any longer. He never twitched or raved or babbled to himself. He never seemed threatening. True, there were strange moments when hed jam his face into yours and imitate John Kennedy And so my fellow Americans, Ask not. and then tighten his voice and imitate Robert Kennedy A journey of a 1,000 miles begins with one small step, and then hed ask if he sounded like them, and although he sounded nothing like them, you praised his imitation because for some reason, maybe his eyes or his sad face, you didnt want to hurt his feelings. But the night he went crazy he stood in the middle of the EM club and shouted that the Jews were a soulless people and that Jesus was the Savior because he not only saved us

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from sin, He saved us from becoming Jews. And when Klien, the Jew, told him he was full of shit because Jews not

only had souls, but were more intelligent then any Goy, Fitz fell to his knees and said that Jesus was entering his body in the shape of a light that traveled from his right shoulder to his left hand and out to his fingertips and would strike all Jews dead. Like lightening, he said. The wrath of Jesus leaps out of my fingertips ready to strike at those who wont believe. Now nothing really happened except that Klien wanted to smash a beer bottle over Fitzmaurices head, but Fitz did go down to the street and into the alley where Little Bird and all the other children slept, and he crawled under the truck where Little Bird was coiled with a pack of half naked children and started singing in a high falsetto voice: Give me a ticket for an airplane One way ticket to my baby again, Lonely days are gone, Im a coming home My baby wrote me a letter All the children started laughing, laughing, - it must have sounded like a party under there but then Fitz said the lightening was coming and started to beat on them with his fists. He slammed their heads against the ground and

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into the trucks metal frame. The children screamed and screamed, and, those who could, scurried out from under the truck and scattered , while the others took the full fury of Fitzs rage and had their bones bashed and their heads squashed into unconsciousness. The noise eventually attracted the QC and the MPs, but not before Fitz had severely hurt an eight year old boy and his six year old sister. The MPs grabbed his long legs and yanked him out from under the truck kicking and shouting and one of the QCs had to fire his .45 into the ground before Fritz calmed down and let them tie his hands and carry him away. Little Bird was never seen again. She disappeared into the city. An easy thing to do. The alley children move from alley to alley. Two of them were sent to the hospital with broken arms and bruised faces. I knew that Fitz was crazy, Snuff says. No one else did, but I knew. I knew. I saw him in a bar once, buying tea after tea for every whore in the place. Then one of them tried to grab his dick and he punched her in the face. Almost knocked her out. I thought every whore in the place was going to kill him. They jumped his ass and scratched the shit out of him with their fingernails. How did he get out of there?

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A couple of infantry guys saved his ass. They loved throwing the tea girls around like they were a bunch of manikins. It was one hell of a fight. *** Breathe the humid air. The sticky air. The damp air, clogging the nostrils, seeping with wetness. The body turns into a syrup, sticking to shirts and underwear and socks, and the armpits stick together like adhesive tape and one day the monsoons will come and therell be more wetness and mold and foot rot and we still will be here. Even after were gone. *** So Fitz was taken away, wrapped and packed into a Medivac by a sweet nurse with licorice breath, and Sergeant Platt ordered Clement and Gardner to pack up all his belongings and ship them back to Philadelphia, care of his mother. Clement, an ex-football player from a junior college in the Midwest had a razor sharp temper and no tolerance for psychos who fuck around with dirty kids who smell like swill and steal your money. Clement wanted to send them all to a pig farm, along with most of all the Vietnamese, because they all smelled. according to him, and their teeth were black and always falling out.

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Clement was an obsessive teeth brusher. He had the whitest teeth except for a brown spot shaped like a donut on one of his front incisors. He tried to scrape it away but was unsuccessful and concluded it must be a left over sin from the days he was an altar boy and a petty thief. His closest friend, Gardner, was obsessed with football -high school, college, pro, running backs, full backs, quarterbacks, those who played and those who really had no future in the sport but, like Clement, pretended they could have gone pro if only their knees hadnt given out. Snuff thought that Gardner sucked Clements cock because they were always together, and Gardner had pudgy lips that were always coated in Vaseline. I know its true, Snuff says. Whenever I get around them I can sense that something else is going on." I was supposed to watch them when they packed up Fitzmaurices room because Sergeant Platt claimed it was in the regulations that a third party had to accompany any two people entering a private residence. I knew that was a crock of shit and that Sergeant Platt, like Snuff, probably thought the two of them were sucking each other off and he didnt want anything going on in Fitzmaurices room, or he wanted some absolute proof as if I would have given it to

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him. So I just sat there. Indifferent as usual. Fitzmaurices tiny room was claustrophobic and stuffed with dirty clothes that smelled sour with sweat and rancid cooking oil. Gardners first reaction was to cover his nose with his soft hand and cough. He had, as he insisted, a delicate nose. He took a small notebook from his breast pocket and wrote: Humid. Warm. Viral conditions. Then put the notebook back into his pocket. What are you doing? I asked. Writing down the atmospheric condition of the room. Hes a records man, Clement explained. Ask him the daily weather since the day he got here and he has it. Show him what the weather is today. Gardner flipped open the book. April 8. degrees. Sunny. Humid. Looks like rain. So what did you write about this room. Gardner looked around and shook his head. Theres probably a virus waiting somewhere in here. This is the filthiest shit Ive ever seen. Yeah, just think, this fucker handled the food we ate, and he was a pig. 0845. 97

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The room was a clutter of green fatigues and t-shirts and underwear crumpled into wads and stuffed in every space available. In an over flowing footlocker. Under the cot. Piled in and on top of a bureau. Most of the clothes were soiled, as if instead of washing them, Fitzmaurice simply rolled them up and wore something different.. Where did he get all these uniforms from? Gardner said, picking up a shirt by his fingertips and throwing it on a pile on the floor. It looks like he stole them. Look, some have his name on them, but others have name tags ripped off. I bet he took them out of the mamasans wash bin. Or maybe they belong to the dead, Gardner added. What do you think, Sig? The mildew and dampness smothered the senses. I felt nauseous and wanted to vomit. I need some air. Go out in the hall. Well take care of this shit, Clement said. Thats okay. Ill survive. This was one hell of a crazy fuck, Gardner added. Maybe we should just burn all this shit. He opened a duffle bag and tipped it upside down. Balls of rolled up

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green socks tumbled out. Like balls of shit! Clement discovered a smaller duffle bag under the bed and placed it on top of the cot. The bag was heavy and for a moment Clement thought he had discovered something valuable like a trove of military script. He unzipped the bag and dumped the contents on the oily sheets. A rain of pornographic photographs, 2 x 2 and semi-glossy, spewed out into a pile. Hundreds of small black and white photos of every possible sex act imaginable: men with women, women with women, women with animals, boys with old men, women tied and gagged and men putting coke bottles, cucumbers and metal rods inside assholes and pussies. The picture cards are sold everywhere in Saigon by shoe shine boys and cab drivers, and Sergeant Platt must have been one of their best customers. Clement held up a batch of pictures tied together by a rubber band and excitedly flipped through them. Teenage girls spread their legs and opened their vaginas as wide as possible. Some of the girls were no older than thirteen. Look at these pussies, Clement gasped. They must be form Hong Kong. They sure dont look Vietnamese. Gardner grabbed the pack and gawked at every picture. Look at this, man, just look at this! Check this out, Sig.

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He held out a picture of a small girl sitting on a chair and pulling her legs up to her shoulders. She doesnt even have tits yet, I said. Thats how I like them, Clement said, grabbing the card away from Gardner. I want this batch. What do you mean? I found them, so I get to keep them. Theyre mine now. Fuck you, Gardner said. They dont belong to anyone, so we split them. Not these. Ill split the rest, but not these. I love teenage girls. I love their little pussies. Gardner grabbed the deck and when he did the cards exploded all over the clothes on the floor. You fucking idiot, Clement shouted and dove after the cards in an effort to grab as many as he could. Gardner dove after him and in the turmoil the two of them managed to mix all the cards together. Youre a mother fucker! Clement pushed Gardner who was squatting over a group of pictures of women pushing metal rods into their pussies. Gardner fell backwards on his hands, but, as he did, he kicked Clement in the shins.

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I watched. I wasnt going to get into the middle of two big jerks beating on each other over dirty picture cards. Clement knuckled Gardner on the thigh, and Gardner, red and furious, kicked Clement again and sent him into a pile of soiled fatigues. Clement started to pull himself up but Gardner was quick and jumped across his chest and slapped him over and over on the side of the face. Clement was stunned by the ferocity. He howled and bellowed and blew up into a large whirl of anger. They churned in a blur of grunts and punches. They choked each other until their faces were red and the fat of their cheeks puffed up, ready to pop, ready to fill the room of soiled clothes with spit and blood and loose teeth. Youre a mother fucker, Clement gurgled, pounding Gardners head on the floor. The pictures are mine. Mine! Gardner squirmed and flailed and managed to pull himself away from Clement. On his haunches, on his hands, he scurried to a corner of the room, spidery and almost sobbing. Clement started to crawl towards him over the sea of filthy clothes. Stop man, lets just stop, Gardner whimpered. Were friends. Remember? Tell him to stop, Sig. Tell him to stop.

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I said nothing but Clement, still breathing heavy, gushed, Youre a mother fucker. I know, I know, Gardner said, but hey man, you can have all the pictures, I dont care. Take all of them! All I want are the young pussies. I dont want the others. Take them all. Take them all. I dont want them all, asshole. Clement crawled around the floor gathering the cards into a pile and making sure he carefully placed the young girls into a separate pile. The stench of the soiled clothes seemed to cloud the room, and an oily sensation seeped over me and I shivered at the thought of touching another piece of Fitzmaurices clothing. Im getting out of her, I said, but Gardner was too busy whimpering and Clement was too busy collecting the cards. Neither one of them heard me. I slipped out of the room and as I closed the door I heard Gardner say Could I have at least a couple of the young pussies? One or two? I didnt hear Clements reply. *** But you tell me, over and over again, my friend

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Ah, you dont believe were on the eve of destruction *** A red flash on the edge of the river. A sputter of chaser bullets. Another quick flash. Then silence. Someone must be trying to get across the river, Snuff says. Probably a slope wanting to steal off the ships. I hate the river. Nothing but an oil sludge. Try swimming in it. The filth will pull you under. When I first got here I thought, great, at least Ill have a place to swim. I went in and almost drowned. I went across it once with asshole Jeans. He wanted to see the other side. For what? Hes an asshole, thats why! Asshole, Snuff hisses. A round cloud of smoke exudes from his mouth and nostrils. The smoke coils and the face of Captain Jeans stretches out over the balcony. A sullen face. Grayish white, with dark bags under the eyes like finger prints. He stands like a pole. His stiff uniform is precisely tucked. Precisely fitted. He wears wire-rimmed glasses that glint in the sun. They flash like lighted

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semaphores. He is the company commander. A fuck head, Snuff says. Captain Jeans thinks he is immune to pain - and even death - because he was raised by a Protestant father who found virtue in the denial of pain. He also believes in wrath. Consummate and all consuming wrath! Like his father, he believes that mans wrath is like Gods wrath: a definite sign of caring. Hate, specialist! Its a form of caring. If we didnt have hate itd mean we didnt care about what happens. When I show my hate, Im saying I hate your sin, just like God hates sin. Hating sin is good. I dont know what to make of his theory of hate. Or what to make of him. On the small boat puttering across the river he told me he wanted to help the Vietnamese because they were sinners. They have to be sinners, just look at their skin color. Its like brown oil. We were taking the boat across the river because Captain Jeans was new and wanted to see a village and not

a city. He thought Saigon distorted your view of the people.

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The city people got to be different than the villagers! A lot of men in the city look like fags. They hold hands when they walk down the streets! And they let their women be whores! I think theyre good people, but the city does something to them. The boat puttered across the oily river, slick black and smelling of stench. Captain Jeans sat at the fore and

looked across at the village that was coming out of a morning fog. A fire flared in the center of the village, but it was hard to tell what was causing it, search and destroy or some morning ritual. On the other side of the village another fire flared up and Captain Jeans thought the two fires were like Indian signals. Not far from us a Victory ship was starting its turn around to head back down river towards Vung Tau and then to the Pacific and home. Seaman watched us from the prow of the ship as our small boat rose over the small swells. One of them yelled something but I couldnt hear him, and Captain Jeans wasnt paying attention. When we were about half way across the river he held up his right hand and waved for me to slow down. The motor made so much noise that it hurt my ears and I was glad to slow it down to a purr. Captain Jeans then sliced his

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finger across his throat and pointed to the something in front of him. Look, look over there! A body. Floating! A few feet in front of us a mans body floated face down in the river. His head was half-shaved and his arms were spread out as if he had drowned while swimming. His hands were puffy and extremely white. He wore a blue, Navy shirt and the lower part of his body disappeared in the slimy water. When I cut the engine, our boat drifted toward the body until the bow bumped against his head. Captain Jeans reached over and grabbed the collar of the blue shirt, pulled upward and rolled the body over revealing the mans face. I know that man, sir. Captain Jeans held on to the shirt as we drifted north and farther away from the shore. What are you talking about, Specialist? I think its Angelo, sir. Specialist Angelo. He use to be the Company clerk before you got here. The one who disappeared? Yes sir, the one who disappeared.

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Looks like the VC got him. Could be anyone, sir. The men hated him. The Vietnamese hated him. He was a real prick. An asshole, sir. Dont talk that way about the dead, Specialist! Yes sir, but its true. He was always trying to get someone in trouble. Well, someone got him. Captain Jeans carefully stood in a crouch and dragged the body towards the middle of the boat. The body bobbed as his boots clanked on the metal bottom. The boat rocked back and forth and almost took on water. I cant hold on to him much longer, Specialist. His body must be saturated with river water. Lets try to get him to shore. We cant drag him, sir. The motor will never make it. A PBR emerged from behind the Victory ship now slowly steaming down river. The PBR was about a quarter of mile away and churning up the river into white foam. A PBR, sir. Maybe they can help us. Try to get their attention, Specialist. Wave at them. Stand up and wave at them. I stood up and flailed my arms in the air, but the PBR slid like an arrow away from us.

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Take my .45 and fire it in the air. Take it. Hurry up before they get away. I bent over and took his .45 out of his holster. Ive never fired a .45, sir. Just push up the lever on the side and fire. This lever, sir. Yes! Now fire! But watch out for the kick. I fired the .45 into the sun. The loud blam and the abrupt kick pushed me down and backwards. The boat rocked again, but I managed to hold my balance. Captain Jeans gripped the dead mans collar and used him as ballast. The men on the PBR didnt seem to hear the gunshot so Captain Jeans ordered me to fire again and the same thing happened, but this time the PBR slowed down and noticed us. I waved my arms and a figure on the bow of the PBR waved back. They see us, sir. Good. Any longer and Id have to let the body go. He must weigh a ton. Theyre coming. Theyll know what to do with him. I hope so. Captain Jeans looked at the inflated body. It was

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Angelo, all right. The distorted face and swollen skin couldnt hide his pernicious sneer and hateful pallor. When he disappeared from the company, went into the city and never came out again, no one cared. It took Captain Silver, Captain Jeans predecessor, a week to even report that Angelo was missing. Some of us thought that maybe one of us killed him. We had fantasies. Cutting his throat, biting his jugular vein, smothering him in the middle of the night. But as weeks passed, and then months, three and a half months to be exact, we all forgot Angelo and went about our business and assumed that one day wed hear something about him. We did. The PBR pulled up next to us and the sailor on the bow, an immense man with a solid fat belly and two guns in a holster on his hips, grinned at our efforts to hold on to the dead body. The sailor on the PBR was so large he had trouble leaning over and reaching down. Try to get closer, he yelled to the Chief maneuvering the PBR into a position parallel to our boat. The PBR squeezed against Angelos body forcing Captain Jeans to jump back and let go off the collar. The body slipped under the water as the Captain yelled for them to pull the boat away. The Chief couldnt hear him and kept on

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manipulating his PBR against our boat until Angelo completely disappeared somewhere beneath us. The large sailor stared screaming Pull away! Pull away! but by the time the Chief heard him, Angelos body was gone. Where is he? Where is he? Captain Jeans yelled. Do you see him, Specialist? Hes probably under one of the boats, the large sailor said. Lets drift apart and see if his body pops up. The large sailor indicated to the Chief to cut his engines. The two boats sat quietly in the middle of the river and drifted as we peered into the water looking for Angelos body. The water was ashen gray and reflected our faces stretched over the sides of the boats, unable to see anything beneath the surface. Did you know him? the large sailor asked. He was on his knees and grunting because his size made him uncomfortable. Or did he just pop up in the river. We knew him, Captain Jeans replied. He disappeared from our company a few months ago. We find a lot of bodies in the river. Sometimes theyre VC and we just let the fish and the weather take

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care of them. Sometimes theyre our guys. We cant always take them with us. You know what I mean? Captain Jeans shook his head and stretched even further over the boat. His reflection on the water was white and wavy, and he stirred it up with his hand because he thought his reflection could be stolen by the dead Angelo. He told me that later, after the PBR left because it couldnt wait for Angelos body to pop up again. And once we decided that Angelo sank to the bottom and it was useless to wait around any longer - mainly because it was getting dark and chances were that if we stayed on the river, wed end up like Angelo we started back to the

city side, and Captain Jeans told me his theory of reflections. I dont know what you believe. Specialist, but I believe in God. His force. His power. Everything that is good is His creation. Made with a purpose. But everything

that is evil is made by the Devil, and those things, Specialists are just reflections. Imitations. So when you look in a mirror, you dont see Gods creation, you see the Devils work. Thats why I dont look in mirrors or water or anything that shows the Devils work, Specialist. Its the Devil Im looking at and the Devil will try to steal

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you into Hell. And Ill tell you this, Specialist, Im not going to Hell. Yes sir. But where do you think Angelo went? Hard to tell, Specialist, but it was very strange that we lost his body. Very strange! By the time we reached the shore, it was evening. Two guards were posted on the edge of the river in front of the French mansion that now served as a military compound. They stood inside a sandbag bunker and played cards. One of the guards, Reese, was from California and had the habit of yelling orders at everyone who came toward his guard post, no matter what their rank or association. Identify yourself, he called out as we yanked the boat on to the bank of the river. What the hell are you talking about, Reese? Captain Jeans said. You know who I am. I have orders to request everyone to identify themselves, sir, Reese responded. And I gave you the orders, Reese, now stop acting like an idiot. Sir, I am sorry, but you have to identify yourself. So does the Specialist.

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Captain Jeans shook his head. OK Reese, I am Captain Jeans, 407th Division, TMA-MACV. And you, Specialist. Your friend and fellow asshole, Specialist Sig, 407th Division, TMA-MACV. Thats all I wanted to hear. You two may pass. Captain Jeans sneered at Reese as he walked towards his office, a small concrete bunker next to the main building. The bunker was once a large storage shed that had been converted into the Company office. Captain Jeans hated it but gave up trying to move when he found out that the only other place he could set up the company office was in a large closet in the main building that was being used for Top Secret conversations between officers. He slammed the door that led into the office and disappeared. For a moment, I thought that maybe he would never come out again or that his reflection was stuck inside and his real self had vanished. *** Im going up the country, baby dont you want to go Im going up the country, baby dont you want to go Im going to some place where Ive never been before ***

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Jeans is crazy, Snuff says. A week ago I saw him on TuDo street standing like an idiot in front of a bar window looking at the whores. They were waving at him. Showing their tits. Lifting their skirts. All he did was stare and look crazy. What did you do? Nothing. I watched him for a few minutes. Thats all. What was there to do? Ask him if he wanted to have a beer with me? No fucking way! No fucking way! Maybe he was looking for a church and made a wrong turn. Thats what I think. Instead of going left, he went right, right into Hell. **** Its easy to get lost in Saigon, a city of torturous streets. Just ask Shea who made it back to our unit, even after being chased by Saigon thugs he cheated out of money. He was slick with cards and pool and money changing. Someone always fell for one of his scams and then tried to beat him or kill him or complain to the company commander who paid more attention to Shea being AWOL than any of his cheating ways. Shea was always going AWOL. Hed disappear for a week or two, and then hed show up smiling and telling some

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bullshit story about being captured by VC whores in Cholon or trapped in an underground tunnel near Ton Son Nhut. He didnt care if anyone believed him, and he didnt care about the Article 15 the Captain would slap on him like a traffic ticket. The next time, Shea, the Captain would threaten. The next time what? Shea would reply. Youll send me to Vietnam!!!! Sheas lack of fear protects him. Most of us wish we could be like him.

****

Every once in awhile when Shea runs off I try to look for him. Not for any reason except that we were in basic together and that sort of means something. Maybe one day hell be found dead and then Ill feel guilty that I hadnt tried to find him. What will I write his family? Dear Mr and Mrs. Shea, Your son took off and someone killed him and I never tried to find him even though we were in basic together and we thought of each other as friends. So every once in awhile I look for him so I wont feel too guilty. **** One day looking for Shea I found myself in the

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courtyard of a Cao Dai temple. I thought it was a whore house, and I thought I saw a young girl with snaky hair disappear through the courtyard entrance. I thought she was telling me to follow her but when I entered the courtyard pushing aside a metal gate that screeched on rusty hinges the girl had disappeared. The courtyard reminded me of a church grotto with just enough sunlight to nourish a fountain of flowers in the center of the yard. It was also surrounded by a series of black doors and painted on each door was a pyramid with an eye in the middle and sun rays radiating outwards in a square border. I thought of the pyramid on a dollar bill but found out later it was the Divine Eye of Universal Salvation. The air was silent. The

doors were silent. The red flowers in the fountain were silent. This would be a good place for Shea to hide for a

few days. Maybe the snaky haired girl led him through the gates, and maybe he was behind one of those doors having all the sex he wanted. Yes, it was a perfect place to hide. But he wasnt there. **** Better than the AWOL hotel! Snuff coughs, wildly coughs, hacking from the marijuana smoke, almost choking. Give me some water, he says between coughs, then sloshes down the chlorinated water from his canteen. You dont go

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into that hotel unless you want to stay. Anyone else will be thrown off the roof. Its not a place for visitors. **** The AWOL hotel is near the center of Saigon. Decaying. Run-down. Peeling walls six stories high with a swimming pool on the roof. Anyone who wants to leave the war can go there. It is filled with men who turned their backs on the fighting, on home, on the world. They survive by selling marijuana soaked in opium, stolen ration cards, phony IDs, money orders, and anything else that pays for their airconditioned rooms and protection from the MPs. It is a mini-corporation of mostly black men and Hispanics who realize they have more against the white man than the Vietnamese, so they bury their identities and pay off the QC or White Mice to keep out anyone they think will send them back to the jungle or fire bases or river boats that glide into gunfire with a 50/50 chance of survival. I thought Shea might be one of them. He was crazy enough to abandon any chance of going back to the World. Blonde hair. Blonde eyebrows. Blonde skin. An incongruity among the dark skins. Nevertheless, the idea would have appealed to him because he wanted to be a black man. He said he hated being so white. Like high school composition paper. He wanted to talk like a black man, gesture and joke

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like a black man, walk with a swagger and tell everyone to go and fuck themselves. Just like, he said, a black man. But at the same time he loved the war. He even wanted to drop nuclear bombs on Hanoi. So it was a slim chance that he would have run away to a hotel where everyone thought the war was a white mans war against other races. A slim chance. But there was nothing you could put past Shea. I looked for him anyway.

I stood outside the AWOL hotel facing three White Mice in white shirts and baby blue pants and .45s strapped to their waists on shiny leather belts. They had small, feminine hands hugging the butts of their pistols, but they looked dangerous. When I started towards the entrance of the hotel they pulled themselves together, shoulder to shoulder, and refused to let me pass. You no lib here. No can go in. Im looking for a friend. Go way. No here. The middle one had a whip coiled around his neck like a brown snake. When he spoke the whip slipped off his shoulder and I saw that it was also coiled around his waist. The others grinned and tapped on their chest and said something in Vietnamese that made the middle one

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detach the whip from his belt and laugh. The cluttered traffic in front of the hotel reeked of oil and gasoline. A boy on a bicycle, dead chickens dangling off the back fender, shouted at one of the guards who yelled back then spit. Motorbikes blared. Trucks. Jeeps. A monsoon of noise. More boys bicycled by. They must have known the White Mice were more interested in protecting the men in the hotel than snatching any one of them off their bike and putting them in the army. A girl in an ao dai of liquid silk walked by and distracted the mice. They teased her but she ignored them. I tried once again to talk to the guards. My friend. Blonde. Very white Tall. I stretched my hand above my head but they didnt want to understand me. A bulky black man opened the door to the hotel entrance. I heard a squall of noise, and I saw shadows scattering into rooms while cursing the person who opened the door. Their voices faded as the door shut and the black man yelled back Eat shit mother fuckers. He had a gold tooth that glistened in the middle of his teeth. His shirt sleeves were torn off at the shoulders and his arms were covered with tattoos: AIRBORNE, TROPIC LIGHTENING with a thunderbolt, MOTHER with a black rose. He

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looked at no one but seemed eternally aware of the present. I stopped him. Maybe you can help me. Im looking for a friend of mine. Hes been AWOL and his parents are writing me and want to know if hes still alive. His yellow eyes looked at me, indifferent. So what! All I need to know is if hes all right. You see that door. Everyone behind that door is all right. Its you, mother fucker, who aint all right. Youre out here and out here dont mean shit. Stone face. Solid. And not a show of emotion. I need to find my friend. His mother is dying, I lied. Maybe hed like to get in touch with her before she does. Who is this guy? Shea. Gary Shea. Hes tall, blonde. Talks like he has something caught in his throat. I havent seen anyone like that. Theres only one blonde guy in that building but he doesnt sound like the guy your looking for. Could I go in and see? I wont stay long. I owe it to his parents. He looked in my eyes. His lips turned downward. He looked like he wanted to bite a chunk of skin off my face.

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I thought of ways to make friends with him. Offer him a cigarette. Tell him I probably have black blood in me. Moorish blood. Clotted with history. But I didnt know how to talk to him and he brushed past me and toward a cyclo driver with skinny legs and dirty sneakers. A man without a left arm rushed toward him and extended out his only hand. The black man dropped a crumple of money in his hand, shook his head at me and said You see whats out here? Pimps and cripples. You want to go inside. You go ahead. Maybe youll decide to stay. He nodded at the QC and in an instant one of them opened the front door of the hotel and let me enter. *** I see the bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightnin'. I see bad times today. *** The hallway was dark and humid. Frantic voices whined and moaned and spit. Who turned off the fucking lights? Not again. Someone didnt pay the electric bill! Were going to suffocate if someone doesnt get the air turned on soon! I managed to find a stairway as the end of the hall or what seemed to be the end of the hall and sat down. I

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didnt know if I should go up or simply go back to the streets and the gray sky and the monkeys hanging off meat hooks and the moon ready to rise out of the river . Lights flickered. Two men stood outside their doors trying to light cigarettes with moist matches and wiping sweat off their chest with military green towels. Should I start the count, one said. I give it to 30, the other said. Youre on. OneTwo. When he got to eleven the lights vibrated on and the hallway was a series of bare light bulbs and ribbons of cool air drifted out of open doors and a squall of voices yelled Fuck yes, and feeling very alone I climbed the stairs until I reached a landing and a man with a loud face, unshaven, plump, glasses slipped to the brim of his nose, and Time magazine opened to an essay on Nixons plan to end the war. You going upstairs? His breath stank of sour cheese. His clothes stank of shit. Im looking for a friend? Theres no friends here! He twitched. Waved the magazine in front of his face. Where you from in the world? Boston.

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What part of Boston? When people tell me theyre from Boston they really mean Falmouth or Ipswich, or some place far from the city. Revere. He nodded. Thats close enough. Im from Charlestown. Right near Bunker Hill. You ever go to Charlestown? Every summer. The Charlestown swimming pool. Yeah, I remember that place. You Italian? Sicilian. Im Irish. Most of the time we Irish cant stand you Wops. I lived next door to the Mulligans. We were always fighting. Seems kind of stupid now. Especially here. Yeah! We hated the Jews the most. There was always some jew-boy to kick the shit out of. They always thought they were better than everyone else Want a cigarette? I dont smoke. Anything? Cigarettes. He lit a cigarette and blew the stench of smoke over his head. This hotel is a graveyard. Graves everywhere. I live

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in one. Third floor. Nothing in the room except an old bed that smells of piss and a foot locker. I think, maybe I should go back to the world, but then, go back to what world? He rolled his neck around his shoulders. I heard cracking. Little knots. Each one a misery. I joined this fucking army. Can you believe that? Went to Germany, met a girl and got married. The army was going to let me stay there my entire tour. I even had a kid. A boy. But then I got it into my head that I wanted to see this fucking war. I was with the 52nd Signal Battalion in the Delta. I was there two months when I got word that some Nazi asshole rammed into my wifes car and the baby was thrown against the window and died. I went crazy. I mean really crazy. They gave me orders to go back to Germany but I came here instead. I havent been out of this place for two months. My wife must think Im dead, too. From a shadow nave near the stairwell, a voice

shouted Dont believe the asshole. Hes filled with shit. Pure shit! Fuck you, too! A skeleton shade stood on the landing. Grinning. He too smelled like food. Ham and cheese and mustard and pickles. Hes been here for only a month. He doesnt know

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shit! Another month and hell be crying to go back to the world. All I have to say is Fuck the World. Id rather die in this stink hole than go back. Fuck them all! And as quickly as he appeared, he disappeared, and the boy from Charlestown said Everyone talks shit around here and he aimed his Time magazine at my head and asked Did you hear about the concert in California? Stones The Rolling

and the Hells Angels. They stabbed some poor

fucker in the audience. Assholes! They should come here. They can kill as many people as they want!

**** Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste I've been round for a long long year, stole many a man's soul and face ***** Flies swirled around a light fixture in the hallway. Scooted around, charged with electricity. I tried to leave but he tugged and begged me to stay a little longer. I need someone to talk to. Someone from the outside. Ive got to know whats really going on. Is Nixon stopping the war? Hes a Quaker, you know. Quakers are against war. My wifes against the war, but every one else in my family is for it. Get that! They want me here! Well, fuck them, I

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wasnt there when my kid died, and I wont be there when they die. His shoulders rolled in discontent, and there was no where to turn but back to the grave of his room, the grayness, the small lights, AFVN squawking Paul is Dead, Paul is Dead, its on the album cover, hes the one walking barefoot, hes the walrus, I am you and you are me and he gasped one last gasp before he closed his door and disappeared. *** On the sixth floor landing of the AWOL hotel three men squatted and played a game of hearts in their underwear. Naked chests. Sweaty. Oily. They shouted at each other. Mother fucker, Ive got you by the balls now! Fuck you! Fuck you! No, fuck you!!! When I tried to slip by them they shouted even louder. Hey asshole, get the fuck out of the light! Mother fucker. Who the fuck do you think you are? The one with thick eyebrows and black eyes and effeminate hands, real effeminate hands, stood up and barked You smell like a piece of shit? Are you a piece of

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shit? He stared at me as if through a fog. I shrugged my shoulders and said, We all smell like shit, were in Vietnam. Everyone laughed, twisted and contorted like monkeys and said they couldnt disagree with that and that Koreans smelled worse because they ate fish shit and BLAM, a pistol shot went off in my head and again, again, I saw the Koreans face blown off right before my eyes near TuDo street at three in the afternoon, blown off by a Vietnamese cop who hated Koreans more than he hated the VC. Im looking for a guy named Shea, I said as they continued to howl and fart and shout at each other even louder. You know why we smell like shit? one of them asked. We all lost Jesus. Jesus was my friend. He was with me 24 fucking hours a day. But I lost him. I lost him. Thats right. Thats right. the other two added. You want to know how many villages I burned down? You want to know how many old ladies I kicked in the ribs? I poisoned everything. Stole anything. I even told one old man Id kill him and his entire family if he didnt let me fuck his daughter. She was 15 and he let me. Said nothing about it, either. Shit, I even tried to kill my sergeant,

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but he killed himself instead and saved me the trouble. Everyone stopped laughing and looked at each other. They looked uncomfortable, then one of them broke the pause and said I think we should throw this mother fucker out the window for getting in the way of our game. Leave him alone, the one who lost Jesus replied, Hes just another piece of shit. Thats all. *** On the roof patio two whores sat on bar stools and opened and closed their legs to the rhythm of Sugar, ah honey honey You are my candy girl And you've got me wanting you. A scrawny bartender rolled his head with the rhythm and wiped the bar top with a rag. There was a narrow swimming pool with blue-green water. On the edge of the pool a man in his underwear sat on the pools edge smoking a cigar and drinking beer. His stomach was plump and hairy. He had a tattoo of an eagle on his right chest. A small eagle

wrapped in the American flag and standing on a tree branch. The tattoo looked as if it had faded under the white hot sun. I bought a Vietnamese beer that looked like it had small wooden chips floating in the bottle and tasted like formaldehyde. The whores ignored me. They looked at the man

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by the pool. I could tell they belonged to him. They giggled and wobbled their legs and tried to sing along with the song but their voices sounded like shrieks and the man by the pool yelled Shut your fucking mouths and just sit there. They giggled some more, but their giggling was very self-conscious. Shea was no where to be found. The roof top was empty and seemed to be the under the sole control of the man by the pool. We drank our beers - he from the pools edge, me on the barstool - the whores squirmed and the bar man wiped and wiped. The sun heated up the roof and the pool water seemed to steam. The man by the pool pulled himself up from the pools edge and walked towards me. He scowled and lumbered and left footprints from water behind him. His underwear dripped from the pool water. One of the whores handed him a towel but he threw it back at her. I dont need a fucking towel, he said. I need to know who the hell you are. Im looking for a friend. His name is Shea, I.... Youre CID. I can smell it. CID! Youve got to be kidding me. Im looking for my friend.... Bullshit! Did you hear what I said: Bullshit. Youre fucking CID. I hate you fuckers. You come up here and all

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you want is my pussy and my money. Im just looking.... Get the fuck out of here and tell the rest of those CID mother-fuckers they dont scare me. You see these whores. Theyll cut off your balls and play pool with them if I tell them to. And you see this little fucker who was nice enough to sell you a beer, he has a special way of cutting up body parts. All I have to do is say when and your ass will be floating in the river. You got that! The two whores stared at me, and the bartender whistled a Vietnamese song. The song was a warning. I know it was a warning. *** I see the bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way. I see earthquakes and lightnin'. I see bad times today. *** You should have told the guy to go fuck himself, Snuff says, as he leans over the side and extends his neck to look down in the courtyard where a horde of noise echoes. A bunch of cowboys are fucking with the old people, he says. And sure enough a group of teenagers are shouting and poking at the old people who squat and try to ignore them.

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Leave them alone you assholes, Snuff yells over and over until he gets the teens attention. They stick up their middle fingers and yell back, GI, mudder fucker. Go to hell, GI!! They continue to poke and pinch the old people. Little fucking assholes, Snuff says and takes out his .45 pistol which he always has trouble firing because it either jams or jolts him so badly he misses everything he aims at. This will scare the fuckers, he says, and then fires. Blam! Blam! And the courtyard vibrates with the noise and the boys look up and the old people cower and Snuff fires again, the bullet going nowhere, but the teens dont know it and scream GI, numba ten. They run in all directions. Even the old people. Ducking. Weaving. The courtyard empties and all that is left is the stench of smoke form the food cooking on the small grill. The fucking MPs are gong to come up here if you keep that up. No they wont, Snuff says. Who gives a shit if someone kills another slope. Ill probably get a medal. He shoots again into the deserted courtyard until his clip is empty and a voice is heard shouting from below. It is Hill, the data collector. He keeps tally of how much ammunition is off-loaded at Cat Lai, an ammo dump up river.

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Who the hell is shooting, his disembodied voice calls. Is it you, Walters. Youre a fucking crazy asshole. Snuff snickers and snaps back from the railings edge and says he hates Hill because hes a stupid mother fucker who thinks hes important because he keeps track of ammunition and everyone knows, except the officers, that

he lies about the ammo, makes up his own figures - figures that sound reasonable because, in the long run, no one ever pays any attention to them because the ammo keeps coming and coming. And Snuff hates Hill also because he saw Hill eating a can of Canadian bacon, raw, straight out of the can, and thought that Hill looked like a little pig. Hill yells again from below, Is it you, Walters? Snuff laughs and says theres no need to answer because Hill is too fat and lazy to walk up the stairs to find out who is shooting into the alley. **** Mrs. Murphy had giant teeth That nipped you skin And scarred your cheeks But all in all And with some luck Mrs. Murphy was a damn good fuck. *** Hill sat in his office chair, pudgy, oily, looking out at the river from the second story of the French mansion which is nothing more than old desks, chalk boards,

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rusting typewriters, sandbags and an ice box salvaged from what was once the servants quarters. He rocked back and forth, his hairy hands tangled on his stomach, looking somewhat like a small ape, and coughed up what he called the dirt of the city, the swill of the river. You ever get near one of those fucking Koreans, he said, (BLAM). They smell like fish. Salty fish. I thought

the Chinks in Cholon were bad, but no way. The Koreans smell the worst. He scratched his whiskered face, smudged like shoe polish, and confessed he was going to refuse the medal the army wanted to give him for his year of service. Its a so what kind of thing, I said. You dont get it, do you? Get what? I didnt want to be in this fucking army. Neither did I. Youre different. You dont care. I care. I was in protests marches and all that kind of shit. They got me here just because I didnt want to go to jail. Id be a hypocrite to take an award. His face drooped over a long green record book where he kept his numerical observations like : 2,000 tons ammo Phu Bai or 1,000 tons ammo - Dong Ha - and he erased a set

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of numbers he thought were exaggerated. Fucking army. They always lie. From the day I got into basic until now Ive never heard the truth. Did I ever tell you that they first gave me orders for Germany, but when they found out I was a protestor, they changed my orders for this shit hole. Imagine that. How did they find out you were a protestor. You didnt tell them, did you. No, a fucking traitor told them. Back in basic. His name was Greenfield. It was his third time in basic because he was waiting for the army to give him CO status. He thought by being a conscientious objector hed get out of Vietnam. So, while he was waiting for the army to decide, he was sent through basic three times. He didnt do anything. He just sat in the barracks all day. I thought he was honest. I mean, a guy protesting the war right in the middle of the army. Thats something to admire, dont you think? Hill had the habit of clicking his teeth when he asked you a question. Little clicks. Like a telegraph. Sometimes it would drive you crazy. So we became friends. Not good friends, but we talked about the war and all that shit. He told me about going AWOL. He said he just walked off the base and hitchhiked to

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New York City where he hung out for a month. The MPs picked him up coming out of a movie. He rolled his chair to my desk and slid a postcard of the Empire State Building in front of me. See this? I use to live in the city. Before I was drafted. Before everything. He kissed the card and flipped it on to his desk. So this asshole is brought back to basic by the MPs and hes put in my unit. He tells me all about being CO and how it was going to get him out of the army. He said hed go AWOL again if it wouldnt affect his CO status, We were friends for a couple of weeks, then one night, I dont know why, maybe the pressure of basic, maybe I just didnt want to be in the army, I decided to go AWOL. It was a quick decision. It wasnt planned or anything like that. But I was an asshole to tell Greenfield. I thought I could trust him since he hated the army and the war so much. Dont trust anyone. You can say that again. I took off, just walked off the base and hitchhiked into Augusta. I was gone maybe four hours, hanging around a couple of bars, trying to decide where I wanted to go. But, just as I was about to get on a bus to head out west, the MPs showed up and arrested me. Turns out Greenfield told them where I was thinking of

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going, and they wasted no time in finding me. Man, did I suffer for that. I got extra duty for weeks and they docked my pay an entire month. Whatd you do to Greenfield? Told his fucking ass off. I wanted to kick in his head but I was already in enough trouble. He got his, though, he got his. What happened to him? They gave him CO status alright, but then they sent him to Ft. Hamilton and made him a medic. A medic without a rifle. Asshole. Hes probably dead by now, at least I hope so. *** How can people be so heartless How can people be so cruel Easy to be hard Easy to be cold *** Snuff sways and cackles. A shadow figure in the darkness. Calm. Indifferent. He says, Hill doesnt deserve anyones time. I dont know how you can listen to him. Hes nothing but a bag of nerves. An ugly dude who cant even get fucked by the whores. I have to work with him. Youre upstairs in communications doing nothing but smoking your ass off, while Im downstairs having to listen to his shit. A week

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with him and youd end up cutting off his balls. If the fucker has any balls. *** I am everyday people, yeah yeah *** When Hill first came to Vietnam he decided to think

of himself as a pacifist liberator. I suppose it was a way to deal with his compliance. He wandered through the

Saigon market or strutted by the bars on TuDo street, his M-14 slung over his shoulder, his green hat tipped back, his face smug and superior. He tussled the hair of shoeshine boys who in turn would scream at him because he was waking up their ancestors. He explored the CaoDai temples and was confused by the statues of their favorite saints like Joan of Arc, William Shakespeare and Lenin. was cautious when a CaoDai priest came near. They were different. They only ate vegetables and prayed in front of a triangle with a shining eye in the middle. He thought that they were like the Ku Klux Klan and carried on secret assassinations when no one was looking. He vowed never to turn his back on one of them. He also promised himself that he would stay moral. Walk by the bars on Tu Do street and pretend he didnt hear He

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the caterwauling whores or the pimps with their cheap offers or the money lenders promising profits or the shoe shine boys offering filter-tipped cigarettes of marijuana, some soaked in opium. He was not going to give in to the filth and dirt, no, not him, he was against the war back home and he wasnt going to promote the ugliness of the war now. Or so he said, until the inevitable happened. He met a tiny whore who tugged on his shirt while he tried to keep on walking with his M-14 pointing to the sky and his nose tilted up to the sky. She promised him a blow-job, cheap, numba 1. She promised to jack him off for a little more than a drink in the bar. She promised him a numba one fuck, all night, for as little as his ration card. She promised and promised and he tried to ignore her, stay aloof, but she coiled around him and pinched his stubby cheek and patted his abnormally stiff crew cut and touched, yes, touched his ass. No one had ever done that, ever! So, before he knew it he was sitting in a dark corner of a bar called the Australian and buying her one tea after the other, little shots of caramel colored water that he thought was whiskey, and she rubbed him until he climaxed in his underwear. Her name was Kim, or so she said, and Hill fell in love with her. It wasnt long before Hill began to visit the

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Australian

most every night, and always in the corner Kim

would rub him to a climax as he fell more and more deeply in love. And then one night when he and Shea decided it was time for Kim to do more than rub his dick, the two of them showed up at the Australian only to find that Kim wasnt there, and, in fact, would never be back. What do you mean shell never be back? Hill said to the bartender. She go home. Delta. Her husband die. Husband! She never told me she had a husband. He soldier. He killed by VC. VC numba 10, no numba one. Shea told me that Hill almost collapsed. I dont believe him because it sounds like something Shea would do, but Hill did leave the bar, crushed, despondent, and told Shea that he needed to be alone. Go to your girl, he said. I need some time to think. Hill was gone for two days. Some of us thought he was dead, murdered somewhere in Saigon by Cowboys or VC. Some of us thought he was in some hotel whimpering over his lost love. But as he told it, he left the bar thinking about Kim and immediately went into the Chicago bar and met another girl, but this one was not like conniving. Kim, this one was more

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I gib you numba one fuck, she said, sticking her slippery tongue into Hills ear. Hill squirmed and quickly forgot Kim who only rubbed his cock while it was still in his underwear. Whats your name? he asked, as if her name had anything to do with fucking. My name no name, the whore giggled. My name no name. You numba one GI. Buy no name tea. She crossed her legs, pulled up her skirt and showed Hill her panties. You like no name? she asked. You numba one GI. I gib you numba one fuck. She licked his ear again and tapped her index finger against his crotch. He could feel his cock getting hard. She laughed and put his hand on her leg and told him to feel her pussy. She nodded at the bartender who quickly brought her two teas. She had a brown blemish on her forearm the size of a quarter, and she pulled down the sleeve of her shirt when it was exposed. Hill ignored it. All he cared about was finding another girl to love. Where you from? he asked her. His usual stupidity. Try to get to know the girl as if she were going to be your girl friend. Like home. The pretty girl on the front porch talking to you all night about school and football games and the latest parties. Then, maybe, you get to kiss her

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and touch her tits or, some times, rare times, actually slide you hand up her dress and feel her damp, squishy pussy. Cholon, the girl replied. She sipped the tea and shifty-eyed the bartender who poured two more shot glasses of tea. Im from New York City. You ever hear of New York City? New Jork City numba one. Numba one. Very big. Like titty, she said as she cupped her tits and pushed them together. Numba one titty. GI like? She puckered her lips and made a sucking sound. Hill could hardly control himself. He stuttered. Sweated. Got a hard on. The girl giggled again then grabbed his hand and let him touch her tits. The bartender brought over two more teas and whispered something to the girl. She laughed and shook her head in agreement to something. You pay and we go fuck, she said. Pay? Yes. I pay. Who? Who? Pay bar. You pay bar. Then we fuck. Hill paid the bar man for the drinks, the girl and a room. Excited. Horny. He was finally going to get fucked. No more cock rubbing or kissing in the dark corners. Now he was going to actually feel his cock inside a pussy.

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He followed the girl out the tinted doors and on to the street. He noticed she limped and he couldnt tell if it was a war wound or birth defect. He was too shy to ask and wasnt sure she would be able to explain anyway. The street was crowded and noisy. While they waited for a pedi-cab, Hill exchanged 40 dollars of military script for piasters. He thought it was something hed never do. Month after month the sergeants said that anyone exchanging money was helping the enemy. They took our money and bought weapons on the international market. You were a scum ball, a traitor, the enemy himself, if you exchanged your military script, or greenbacks from the states, for their cheap ass piasters. Hill didnt feel like a scum ball or a traitor, he was a numba one fuck, and the whore in the back street was showing him exactly what that meant. Where we going? he asked when he heard her tell the driver something in Vietnamese. She seemed to know the

driver and he seemed to understand her quick direction. I gib numba one blow job. Blow job! You said numba one fuck. Yes. Yes. Numba one fuck. But now, numba one blow job. She smiled and he couldnt resist relaxing when she opened his pants and slid her purple lips over his prick and sucked. Loudly sucked. As if every sound telegraphed a

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turn down a street, a crawl through an alley. Hill never saw the cluttered slums, the mamasans squatting by open fires toasting bits of meat, gaunt children running next to the cab, the ever increasing darkness. He rolled his head whenever she rolled hers. Moaned when she touched his balls. He wanted the moment to last forever. He was amazed at how good it felt. He grunted and moved his hips as a wave as cum spewed out into the whores mouth. She flapped her hand in front of her face as if she were choking, stuck her head out the window and spat the cum into the night. Hill moaned. Caught his breath. You numba one, co, numba one. Now we go fuck. Yes. He reached over to hug her, but she tapped the cab driver on the shoulder and he abruptly pulled over to the curb. She opened the door and, his pants around his thighs, shoved Hill out. He landed on the street. Dumbfounded. Lost. You numba one GI, she laughed, as she slammed the door and the cab disappeared into the musty alley. Sitting on the sidewalk with his pants around his knees, Hill called out: Hey, come back here. I wanted more. But the cab didnt return, and when Hill pulled up his pants, he discovered that his wallet was gone along with his stash of greenbacks worth five times more than any Vietnamese money.

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Mother fucking slope, he cursed. In a doorway behind him, barely visible, an old mamasan saw what had happened but decided to simply leave the boy on the ground alone. *** Get back, get back Get back to where you once belonged Get back, get back Get back to where you once belonged Get back Jo Jo *** Snuff cackles at Hills misfortune. His name almost gurgles in his mouth. Hes such a dumb fuck, Snuff says. He really hated the slopes after that. He always hated the slopes. Hes like one of those assholes in basic who kept on scaring us about this place. I had a captain who said he had to kill an entire family because they tried to stab him when his back was turned. I had a first sergeant who spent the day screaming at bayonet practice, Never turn your back on a slope. He was always trying to scare the shit out of us. I hate the lifers. All they do is lie and try to scare you. We had one gung ho fucker whod walk around while we were cleaning rifles and tell us how he gave out poison candy bars to kids because he knew they were really

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VC. He was so filled with shit. Theyre all filled with shit! *** Oh-oh-oh-oh (magic) Oh-oh-oh-oh (magic) Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh (magic) Oh-oh-oh-oh (moment) *** Typewriters clack out cargo stats and weights of ammunition. The French Villa. A bureaucracy of soldiers clicking off secret documents and staring out the glassless windows at the jungle across the river where VC - Charlie

- Victor Charles - The Cong - would like to know what we know. The colonel. Colonel Pearson, bald, tough, dirty

lower teeth from chewing tobacco, turns the pages of Time magazine and remembers Korea. The cold. The dirt. The odor of oily jeeps struggling in snow. For him, Korea was a better war, even if his best friend was killed there. Next to him is Major Clark, who Snuff believes likes men a little too much, nibbles the butt of a pencil and worries that Colonel Pearson will say something to him. They dont get along. Major Clark resents the fact that Colonel Pearson is an artillery officer who was placed (or misplaced) in charge of a unit that was in the business of transportation. Across the room is Specialist Nelson. He

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studies a collection of figures - the war on paper - and is determined to win an Army Commendation Medal by the end of his tour. He stays at his desk, an M-14 leaning against the wall and a mock hand grenade as a paper weight. He takes pride in the fact that he never leaves to take a piss unless he absolutely has to. Hill is the prominent one. Maybe because his arms are so hairy, or maybe because he smells like fart, or maybe because he never stops talking and when he talks his voice is loose and loud. But I think its because hes obsessive when it comes to taking sneak peeks at the Vietnamese secretary Kim Wa. She has a double chin and a scar across her forehead. No one knows how the scar got there, although Hill believes it came form the war and Nelson believes its a birth defect. She doesnt do much because she doesnt understand English, so most of the time she slouches behind a book of English grammar and practices her Ts and Ds. Her father also works for the army although no one knows what he does. Once in awhile he visits the colonel and they look at a printout of cargo figures, and then he disappears for a month and comes back to look at another printout of cargo figures. Kim Wa is the fathers gift to the steamy room. Her ao dai flows over the wood floor when she walks and she always

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smiles at you. Some of us think shes flirting, but most of us know shes juts nervous because she doesnt understand what we say. She drifts by Hills desk like a swan, drops a message from the upstairs communication room on his desk then drifts back to her chair and grammar book. Hill snaps his pencil in two and pretends its Kim Was chunky neck. The truth is he wants to fuck her even though he hates her. You remember those World War 2 movies? he asks, while glaring at Kim Wa murmuring to herself. Which ones? The ones where everyone is united and proud to be Americans fighting against evil in the world. That was all bullshit propaganda. Hollywood was a whore for the government and still is. They needed people to fight. Youre fucking crazy! World War 2 was a good war. My father is living proof of that! When the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor he joined up like everyone else. No one ran away to Canada. No one dodged the draft. Everyone did what they were told like good little girls and boys. Bullshit! My Dad joined the Navy. He knew he had to get the Japs.

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Did he? They sent him to the Atlantic. He didnt understand why since he wanted to go to the Pacific. But after seeing a couple of those movies, he knew why he was fighting. Like I said - propaganda. The government can prove

pygmies are a threat to national security. Man, you sound like a commie. You should be investigated. Maybe you should have gone to Canada. I dont like the cold. *** Vietnam. The television production. A daily newsreel at suppertime. Pass the beans, honey. Yes dear. Blam! Look at that, a boy just lost his leg, honey. Blam! They watch the black and white and wait for color. They see boys crouch behind a wall and two shadows running and they can see that the two boys are really SCARED! Blow the commie VC away--you idiot, a sergeant

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screams. Lock and load, ready on the right, ready on the left, ready on the firing line! They see the two boys dive into a bunker without any weapons. Theyre wearing jungle fatigues. They were close to being shot. What was wrong with them? They were a half a squeeze from death? I love the beans, honey, but the steak was too tough. By the way, wheres Johnny? Johnny? Yes, Johnny, our son. Oh, him! Hes over there! Next to the boy with a bullet in his head. **** And it's one, two, three, What are we fighting for? Don't ask me, I don't give a damn, Next stop is Vietnam; And it's five, six, seven, Open up the pearly gates, Well there ain't no time to wonder why, Whoopee! we're all gonna die. *** Youre a fucking traitor, Hill says. Just another fucking traitor. *** Hills fatigues fit him like a road tramp in a

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Depression era movie. He stands at the office window watching the loading and unloading of cargo ships and envies the sailors who pull at heavy chains and prepare to sail down the river into the Indian Ocean and back to the world. San Diego. New Orleans. Anywhere but here! He stares at the gray river and notices two boys splashing in the water. They look like theyre drowning. One of them is trying to get the attention of the sailors on the ships deck, but the sailors dont see them. Hill whispers, I hope they drown. On the edge of the loading dock an MP spots the two boys. He walks to the edge of the dock and shouts at the boys to get away from the ship. The boys flail and flounder. One of them starts to panic and is grabbing on to his friends shoulders. They bob and splash. The MP shouts at them again, but this time he fires his M-16. Bullets splunk in the water, but the two boys are more concerned that they are drowning. A sampan slides out from behind the ship. The men on the sampan ignore the boys as they attempt to gather loose lumber thrown overboard by the sailors. Hill mutters, Monkey assholes. Spend millions of dollars on them and they steal from us. Shoot their asses off! Blow them out of the water! One of the boys desperately grips a large piece of

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floating lumber and manages to stay afloat. The other boy holds on to him. The MP yells, You little bastards, and tries to fire another round at the boys, but his rifle jams. The boys paddle toward the sampan and hold on to the stern. The men on the small boat laugh at them and then laugh at the MP who is slamming his palm against his rifle. The boys and the sampan drift away, and one of the boys raises his middle finger above his head and waves it at the MP. Little fuckers, Hill hisses. I hope theyre chopped into bits by the ships propeller. His eyes widen as the propeller, huge and golden, slowly churns and creates a strong undercurrent. But the boys are too far away to be sucked under and by the time the MP un-jams his rifle, the boys have glided into the middle of the river. They soon disappear. If I had my way, Id kill them all, Hill says. *** When I was seventeen I stood by the window screen Peeking through the blinds at my backyard, And out of her door At the age of thirty-four Came Mrs. Murphy and her cat, Reynard. I watched her ass As she wiggled past Holding in her arms the Monday wash,

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I watched he thighs, She hung her clothes to dry, And I wanted to kiss her puffy twat. *** Snuff work in the communications room - a small attic beneath the concrete dragon that adorns the crest of the roof. The room is cramped with teletype machines and if the VC knew this, one well-placed rocket could destroy our entire operation. Such an idea makes Shea nervous, and Snuff has fantasies of a rocket piercing the wall and exploding in the middle of his chest. He once thought - because Hill had convinced him that Kim Wa was a spy for the VC. Hill said that she was passing on all kinds of information to the VC, such as where the communications post was located, and that the VC were already making plans to take out the post. Now Hill knew that Kim Wa liked Snuff. More than she liked him, in fact. She was always smiling at him and trying to get his attention. Snuff ignored her because he thought she looked like a piglet. The whores on Tu Do street were better. Sexier. Leaner. And they didnt care if they couldnt speak English. Hill hated Kim Was English - which wasnt really English but a collection of phrases from her English book Yes sir, I like to read. Yes sir, I gib to my family. -

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and using Snuff, he decided he would try and get Kim Wa fired. He did it this way: The Vietnamese had no or little toilet paper. They were always scrounging for tissue-like carbon copies or the computer reports generated by MACV at Tan Son Nhut. Most of the time the reports were two or three days old and too outdated to be useful to anyone. The war never looked backward. The reports piled up in a storage room and, although they were marked SECRET, waited six months and then were burned in a perforated barrel by the river. Kim Wa coveted the reports as they stacked higher and higher. Where we saw useless paper, she saw toiler paper. Where we saw inflated statistics, she saw place mats. Where we saw improbable projections, she saw hand towels. And when Hill slowly opened the storage room, he knew Kim Wa was taking count of the growing collection of reports and desiring them. He also knew that she was suspicious of him and never trusted him since the day he had a fit about having to work across form her. What if shes a VC? he protested to Captain Jeans who was in charge of hiring civilian workers. Hill believed Captain Jeans showed little discrimination in choosing who would work around the Villa. After all, one of the people

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he hired ended up killing an MP and then disappearing back into the city. You can trust her, Jeans argued. She comes from a good family. Her father is an ARVN colonel who works in the embassy. He and the colonel have become good friends. That doesnt make her clean. Well, youre going to have to trust me on this one. Shell work here until we can find another place for her. Hill glared at her for weeks. She tried to avoid looking at him because she was afraid of him, but he made sure she saw his hairy arms, his angry eyes, his sneering smile. But she liked Snuff and this afforded an opportunity for Hill to make his move to get rid of her. Snuff was new in-country then, so he knew little of what was going on. When Hill told him Kim Wa was a possible VC, Snuff believed him and went along with Hills scheme. All you have to do, he told Snuff, is to give Kim Wa a couple of reports to take home. She may not want them at first, but tell her its okay to take them. What if she still doesnt want them. Oh she will. She likes you too much. Fuck that shit. She likes your hair. Its blonde. The Vietnamese love

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blonde people because all of them are black heads. Hill laughed at his pun but Snuff didnt get it until later, but he did cooperate with Hill. There was a chance, he thought, that Kim Wa was a VC and he would be doing a service to his unit to get her fired. At first Kim Wa was hesitant to take the reports, but after looking into Snuffs blue eyes and touching his soft, blonde hair for good luck, she took six reports and started to walk off the compound with them in her arms. The MPs immediately arrested her for being a spy. Stupid bitch, Hill said. I showed that stupid bitch. But Kim Was father was a colonel in the ARVN and when he heard of what happened to Kim Wa, he called Colonel Pearson and the colonel, feigning shock, quickly went to the MP station and got Kim Wa released. He lied to the MPs and told them the reports were not SECRET but declassified and useless. He wasnt telling the truth, but his story

worked and a week later Kim Wa was back, sitting across from Hill and reading her English grammar book. She suspected Hill was the evil person behind her arrest, and she wanted him killed by the VC. She wished she knew a VC because she would have paid him to assassinate Hill, and, maybe, Snuff, too.

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*** I regret that ever happened, Snuff says. I was new in-country. I should have shot Hill myself. Here have another joint. He coughs out smoke. We need to be fucked up to go to the whore houses. You sure youll make it? An affectionate grin through his mustache. Just aim me in the right direction and make sure I dont fall off the roof. Ive been pronounced dead once already. I dont want to go through that again. Were both dead. Or might as well be. Not the kind of dead I was. I was drunk as hell and slammed my car into a telephone pole at ninety miles an hour. If I hadnt been drunk, I probably wouldnt have survived. The cops took one look at me and said I was dead. I could never have survived the impact. They covered me with a sheet and were bringing me to the morgue when I fooled them. I rose from the dead right there in the ambulance and scared the fuck out of everyone. He pauses and drags deeply on the marijuana. Shit, Sig. If I were dead I would never have known it. I didnt feel a thing. It was like being asleep. Smoke streams out of his nostrils, turns into mist and dissolves. I had a friend who was an epileptic, he says.

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He had one of those fits and drove his car into a canal. That was two years ago. Before I was drafted. They said three people tried to pull him out of the car, but the car sank before they could get through the window. The car was quickly sucked under and it was ten minutes before they could find his body. They said his face was purple and his eyes were like glass. I had a weird thought then. That while he was drowning I was at home eating or watching some dumb television show. I dont know. Death is weird. Yet its whats supposed to happen. I think about death but now it doesnt seem to matter much. I dont like the idea of just disappearing from the world. Yeah, but in two hundred years most everything here will be gone, and in fifteen million years nothing will be around. Nothing will be remembered You scare the shit out of me. Doesnt scare me. Kind of comforts me. This war, and all wars before it, will melt into a million more events. Everything will have been done for nothing. Snuff fill his lungs with smoke, counts to ten then exhales. Maybe youre right. Then maybe youre not. Smoke another joint and relax. ***

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Smoking. Smoking. Toking. Toking. Ruminating on anything. How the moonlight mellows reason, How the colonels voice did sing. *** Sing! By God, the old bastard can sing! His voice bellows and echoes against the bulky ships as he runs on the gravel road that surrounds our French villa. He runs down the quay where cargo workers unload crates of mechanical parts. He glistens and chants out loud: Chucka, Chucka, Chucka, Wooooo I am running after you. He runs four miles every day. He runs in white silk shorts with a red bandana tied around his head. A towel flaps from behind his shorts. He runs and pretends hes in combat, chasing Charlie through the swampy rice paddies, crawling into trees and calmly waiting to kill the enemy with sniper fire. He runs because he hates Major Clark and wants to cut Major Clarks throat with one of his four bayonets. He runs away from the urge, but the running never works. The image of Major Clark and his swishy walk and girlish voice and thin fingers holding a pencil like a little prick, and his consistent questions: Colonel, do you think our numbers are wrong? Colonel, do you think we should let the enlisted men in the secret closet? Colonel, do you think MACV will

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approve of our travel arrangements? Colonel, do you think we should get more info from Dong Ha? Colonel. Colonel. Colonel. Chucka. Chucka. Chucha, wooo. I am running after you. He runs expecting any day to receive a new assignment. Infantry. Artillery. Any place but here where his face shines like an Indian head nickel and scrunches into expressions of bitterness. He runs away in his heart from what he terms The Unreal Army. The pencil pushers. The statistic makers. The excess luggage that bloats an already bloated army. He runs until he grows fierce and charges toward the sunset daring anyone to stop him. *** Snuff, smoking heavier: Promise me one thing, Sig. When we get back to the world well see each other again. Id like to see you in a few years from now. Id like to see what we become. Maybe well talk about old wounds. What wounds? Weve got to have some. Yeah. the fourteen stitches from the bald whore in Cholon. That should get me a purple heart! **** A month after I arrived in-country, Shea took me to a whore house bar in Cholon. I didnt know what I was doing, but I trusted Shea who talked about Cholon as if it were

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the safest place in Vietnam. I didnt know that most of it was off-limits because it was the first place Charlie attacked in the TET offensive. Its the Chinese district and, from what everyone says, the Vietnamese hate the Chinese. Shea and I rode to the bar in a tiny, blue car that looked like it came out of a Disney cartoon. We went into the bar and bought two bombity-bombs - Vietnamese beer with small chips floating in what looked and tasted like formaldehyde. The bar was a large room with vinyl booths and chrome chairs and shot glasses stacked on tables and ceiling fans twisting smoke in all directions. The room was stuffy and humid. We sat in a red booth and two whores came and stood over us. No fucky, Shea said. We want number one cigarette. One of the whores immediately left while the other grinned and showed she had very few teeth even though she couldnt have been older than eighteen. Numba one cigarette numba ten. I gib numba one blow job. You wan blow job? Go fuck yourself, Shea said. The whore stuck her middle finger in his face and walked away. The marijuana is better out here, Shea went on. Its soaked in opium. Really gets you wrecked!

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We bought two more beers and watched the whores coiling around whoever wanted them: a man dressed in civilian clothes (CID, Shea explained. You can always tell by the short sleeved white shirts.), two Chinese who threw a great deal of money on the bar, and a few stray soldiers who, like us, werent supposed to be there. I want you to try this smoke, Shea said. Soaked in opium! Itll give you a trip. One time I smoked it and ended up in some hotel near the river and I didnt know how I even got there. An unusually tall Chinese girl with a large head of hair came into the bar from a back room. She lit a cigarette, looked at the bartender and clicked her lighter open and shut. It was smoky in the bar but the girl could still watch herself in the mirror behind the bottles of liquor. The smoke smudged most of the faces in the bar, and she had to squint hard to see what she thought she saw: Sheas blonde hair, white skin and jittery hands. There was a jukebox in the back part of the room. A soldier was pounding on its side because he had lost his money. A song started to play Dizzy I'm so dizzy, my head is spinnin' Like a whirlpool, it never ends

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And it's you, girl, makin' it spin You're makin' me dizzy Shit! Shea said. Whats wrong? See that big whore over there? He nodded at the tall whore who plucked at her hair with a small comb. What about her? I used to live with her. Shes big! A great fuck, too. But shes crazy. Real fucking crazy. The girl ordered a beer from the bartender, all the while looking into the mirror at Shea. She chugged the beer like a man. How long did you live with her? About a month. During TET she hid me under her bed for three days. Two VC broke into her room but they were so impressed with her size, they refused to search the room. They probably wanted to fuck her. VC dont fuck. The girl slid off the stool and, with the beer bottle in hand, she started to make a path through the room. Other whores backed out of her way. Men gazed at her, amazed by her size. She wore a red and white polka dot dress and

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swayed with hostile sexuality. Half way across the room she shrieked Shea!!! He pretended to ignore her, but she was hard to ignore. She came up to the table and stared down at him. Why you here, Shea? Go fuck yourself, co! You fuck you. Numba ten mudda fucka. Fuck you! The girl vibrated venom. She screeched in Chinese as she poured beer on Sheas head. You fucking whore, he yelled, and stood up. He was a head shorter than the girl and looked like a little boy in front of a giant. She slapped him on the side of his head, and he slapped her back. They shouted, spat, slapped and charged at each other. The people in the bar crowded around and encouraged them to fight even more. Shea shoved her against a table and swung his beer bottle at her face, You fucking whore! He broke his beer bottle on the edge of the table, turning it into a jagged weapon. The crowd laughed as the girl broke her beer bottle on the edge of the same table. They both half squatted and circled around each other, jabbing the bottle in the air. It was then I decided to play mediator. I was an asshole! I should have walked out, especially when I found out later that

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they fought like this a number of times before. I stood between them and tried to push Shea towards the front door. He was lost in his shouting. Fucking whore! Fucking dumb whore! She shouted back. Numba ten, GI, numba ten!! She jabbed her bottle and nicked the backside of Sheas hand. He lunged at her and missed her belly by inches. The crowd kept on laughing, edging them both on. I grabbed Sheas arm and pulled him to the door. Were getting out of this fucking place. He half-resisted as I pushed him out the door and into the street where a circle of cab drivers shouted for our fare. The big girl stood at the door screaming, and when I looked at her, she grabbed her big head of hair and pulled it off her head. It was a wig! She was bald! Not shaven, but bald! She held her hair in her hand and then she threw it at Shea. When the hair landed on the sidewalk, she threw her broken beer bottle. The bottle missed Shea but hit my elbow. At first, I didnt realize that the bottle had gashed me, but then I got inside the tiny blue cab and saw blood dripping down my arm and covering the back of my hand. Dizzy I'm so dizzy, my head is spinnin' Like a whirlpool, it never ends And it's you, girl, makin' it spin You're makin' me dizzy

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**** A bald whore, Snuff says. Bald as an egg. Shea told me she lost her hair after a B-52 strike. I dont know why. Maybe she had the shit scared out of her. Whatever, she left me with a wound. You can get a purple heart for that. Bullshit! More like an idiots medal. Shea went back to the whore the next night. He spent a week with her then left again. Shes probably looking for him now. Just like us. *** Rubber soles scratch on gravel and Colonel Pearson runs and sneers and snarls in disgust over the latest edition of Time magazine. Another story that lies about

the war. A bunch of traitors! He wishes he were back in Korea. 1951. Life or death. The vehement winters. The cold hills and the thousand evil communist gnomes. He has a scar on his right thigh - the result of a Chinese bullet - and whenever he touches it, secretly when no one is watching, he thinks of youth and coming of age and his sudden, or so it seems, manhood. Back in his office overlooking the river, he drops the magazine on his desk. His tiny metal eyes survey the large glossy map of Vietnam that covers his entire desk. He taps

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his fingertip on the snap shot of his family glued over the city he most despises, Hanoi. His entire family has tiny, metallic eyes. Even his wife. They are tense in front of the camera. Graveyard faces. Solid. Unwavering. His wife could have been a Salem witch burner. She stands at attention behind a maroon couch. Her children sit like department store manikins. There are two boys, twins, overweight, muscular, and a plump girl around thirteen. The sons are impressive. They wear white turtle neck sweaters and US flag lapel pins. Their eyes squint. Their jaws are solid. They resemble Colonel Pearson who doesnt really miss them because he loves the army more. The only trouble is he wants to get back in combat, but the army thinks hes too old. Hes requested transfers to combat groups a number of times, but his request are either ignored or lost in the catacombs of MACV, the mini Pentagon at Tan Son Nhut. So he resents his command and reads the tissue thin pages of his overseas edition of Time magazine and rereads the anonymous reporters account of the battle they are calling Hamburger Hill. *** I found my thrill On Hamburger Hill On Hamburger Hill Where Ill be killed!

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*** He wants to get into the battle. His chair squeaks when he leans back and recalls the smell of bullets. The smell of sweat. The smell of enemy dead. He closes his eyes and imagines the charge, the comrades in arms, the truth of battle, but when he opens his eyes and sees nothing but the chattering officers and enlisted men gathering cargo statistics as if they were bullets, he wants to strip off his uniform and run until his skin falls off. *** Pearson is an asshole, Snuff says. A flaming asshole! He came upstairs yesterday and complained about how long it took to get the morning report. Hes the kind of asshole who cant ask for anything without demanding it first. I told him Id get the report to him when they came in. He looked at me as if he wanted to put a hole in my forehead. Youd do better than that if you know whats good for you. Fucking asshole! He hates us all! And all of us hate him! Snuff flips a cigarette butt over the railing and watches the red ash disappear into the dark. *** You know, Specialist, Colonel Pearson yells from

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across the room with the high ceiling and seven gray desks. His tone is professorial and the entire room gets ready for another one of Colonel Pearsons lectures. COLONEL PEARSONS LECTURE: # 102 SUMMARY: The room is filled with too many exits. Everyone can leave but no one ever returns. This is not the way of war. The dead sing. Memory is bittersweet. There is nothng honorable about every day being the same. Your eyes are meant for crying. You know, Specialists, he says to me, I had a weird

dream last night and you of all people were in it. His eyes glisten. His shiny head flashes like the bottom of an aluminum skillet. I dreamed that you and I were in Korea charging a hill. We were almost to the top when I ordered you to throw a grenade into an enemy bunker. You laughed and threw the grenade, killing everyone inside. When I woke up I thought that maybe I should send you into the field. I can arrange it. Why would you do that, sir. Im happy here in Saigon. I thought you should get the experience of killing someone face to face. To hell with this shit of shooting at shadows on the river. A couple of months in the field and youll like Saigon even more.

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He grins and imagines all of us hiding in the saw grass and waiting for the enemy. He holds up Time magazine and peeks over the edge. He wants us all on our bellies with dirt in our mouths. He wants to glare through battle smoke and find the VC hiding in holes. Sixty days! Sixty days and Id have this entire company ready to level Hue and bring back no survivors. Thered be no pacifist in my company. No wishy-washy chicken asses always changing sides. Ignoring the word of God! Once God was talked about at Harvard, but the last time his name was heard, the janitor had just fallen down the stairs. Godless generation! Tomorrow youll be asking Jesus for salvation from Doomsday while today you sit on your ass! You kids think you know all the answers when youre nothing more than whining babies. First, they gave you the Peace Corps and you brats turned it into an outfit of misfits handing out free candy to people who arent worth it. Then we gave you college and all you do is protest. You scream Love but its in your heads and not in your hearts. All youve got in your hearts is sand. (Colonel Pearson stops for a second and dares anyone to contradict him. His face twitches as Kim Was typewriter clacks out punctuation marks.)

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We were asked to come here by the Vietnamese. Did you forget that? They want us here. (Kim Wa continues typing. She doesnt understand what the colonel is saying.) Diem wanted us here. Thieu wants us here. You cant distort the issue. We kill commies here or we kill them in California. You kids dont get it and thats why this war is taking so long to win. He pauses and looks at his magazine again. He wants to be in 1942 when no one asked questions. Everyone was willing to die. Everything was clear. Life magazine was a catalog of truth and not overstated lies. In 1942 they knew who the enemy was. They knew how to tell the difference. **** YOUR FRIEND FROM YOUR ENEMIES or HOW TO TELL THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN JAPS AND CHINESE Life Magazine, December, 1941 The Chinese are public servants. They walk erect. The Japanese are warriors. They walk with a stoop. The Chinese have eyes that slant up. The Japanese have eyes that slant down. The Chinese have parchment yellow skin. The Japanese have earthy yellow skin. The Chinese have a higher bridge to their nose. The Japanese have a flatter nose.

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The Chinese never have rosy cheeks. The Japanese sometimes have rosy cheeks. The Chinese have scant beards. The Japanese have heavy beards. Southern Chinese have round, broad faces Japanese have more round-faces. Chinese have the rational calm of tolerant realists. Japanese have the humorless intensity of ruthless mystics. **** Colonel Pearson throws his magazine in the trash just as Lieutenant Johnson swaggers to his desk and hands him a report on bright yellow paper. Lieutenant Johnson has a white speck of bread stuck in the corner of his mouth. His shirt is showered with bread crumbs. If Im not bothering you, sir, Lieutenant Johnson whispers, Id like you to look at.... Everyone bother me, Lieutenant. Yes sir, but, I think, ahem, I think you should look at these figures. there isnt enough cargo getting to Hue. Well get it there, Lieutenant. How sir? How? How? Thats your job Lieutenant! I understand, sir, but getting it there.... If you were in combat right now, Lieutenant, would

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you ask me how to shoot at the enemy? No sir. Then Lieutenant just do it! I dont give a damn about your figures. Get the cargo to Hue if it takes carrying a pallet on your back. Yes sir. Lieutenant Johnson squirms and squeezes his baloney thighs together. The colonel disgusts him. Hes unfit to command an administrative post. Unfit to speak. Unfit to think. Unfit to even to make a decision. He should be in the field where he wants to be. He doesnt know how to collect, collate, and examine information. Lieutenant Johnsons three rules of administration. He doesnt understand the importance of the back up men. The brains behind the entire business. Colonel Pearson hands the yellow sheet back to the lieutenant and adds, I know you dont understand me, or my logic, but I dont think thats really necessary. The main point is to remember that a tugboat cant push a ship with its engines working backwards. Lieutenant Johnson isnt sure if hes been insulted or not. He returns to his desk, slips the yellow sheet of figures under his ink blotter and begins to write a letter to his mother. Colonel Pearson leans back and savors his

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parting comment. He admires his witticisms. His quick, incisive remarks. He bloats like a Chinese sage and lodges what he has said to Lieutenant Johnson in a special part of his mind. For years he has been gathering choice sayings with the hopes of one day putting them in a book for eventual publication. They span the circuit of situations people usually find themselves in. A SMALL SAMPLING Well, that looks like Noah saying it looks like rain. What the superior considers wrong, everyone will consider wrong. Everyone has brothers, but I alone have none. The dirt of the country makes the rulers of the world. Flowers are ugly once theyve been walked over. And furthermore, Lieutenant, Colonel Pearson called across the room the moment Lieutenant Johnson wrote in his letter Im having difficulty with this old colonel, Cut an onion under water and youll never cry. The same holds true for war. Lieutenant Johnson politely smiles, but the colonel understands the disdain beneath the lips, the sneer beneath the forehead. He understands the resentment over his position, the anger at his indifference to officer farewell parties, poker games, weekly visits to steam bath houses,

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the whores. But no matter how much the other officers hate Colonel Pearson, he hates them more. **** The colonel runs. Johnson has no balls! Put a gun in his hand and hell shoot his foot off Runs past the villa with the dragon on the roof, the converted rooms of standard green. The villa is in decay and someday will fall down. Already the walls are damp and moldy and the old concrete fence is sliding into the river. But the colonel runs. Muscles tense. His lean body shines. He has white hair on his chest. Runs. Until the twilight turns him into a ghostly runner wishing he could disappear into the darkness. Forever. *** The day I left for the Army I knew I was going to Vietnam. My friends drank to my departure And promised to write me a number of times. And when I got on the airplane I saw them staring at me The observation window was cloudy With tears and sobs of pity The silver eagle was roaring Because I sat on its back There was no palace of pleasure There was only mortars and flack. I think of the crows that were bathing In my backyard during a rain Now I think they were all laughing

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Because I will never again be the same. *** Helicopters with search lights glide overhead: TUCKA-TUCKA-TUCKA-TUCKA They blast our ears and drown our voices. Snuff stands and shakes his fist, You fucking noise makers, but he can hardly be heard. Charlies across the river. Its only us down here! The helicopters glide away, and Snuff rises and bends over the railing. Below the tin roofs clutter around the hotel and reflect the moon. We can see into some of the rooms where the inhabitants sleep on the hard floors smelling like dead fish. Nucmam! Marinated fish oil. A special sauce that covers the odor of rancid food. Marijuana seeds crack. Bright ashes splatter. Wow! Snuff says as the ashes land on his hand. He shakes them off and continues smoking. Tonight were smoking heavier than usual because were going to ride the cyclos around the city. We sit in the basket seats and speed through the city as if we were in our own movie. You see that building over there? Snuff asks, pointing to a four story building we a rooftop garden and French architecture. The Saigon police chief has a mistress on the third floor. Hill saw them together, but I have trouble believing him. I dont think these slopes care

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about sex. The boy selling pictures of a whore with a conch shell in her pussy cares about one thing and one thing only: money! A guy up in Tuy Hoa once told me that he and a few other guys were in town and they couldnt find any whores so they knocked on a door and asked the papasan if he had any women to sell. The guy sold his wife and daughter for ten dollars a piece. Snuff drops back on the bench. Standing stoned is too much for him. These people will sell anything for a dollar. Anything! *** Left a good job in the city, Workin' for the man ev'ry night and day, And I never lost one minute of sleepin', Worryin' 'bout the way things might have been. *** A soft flare lights up a part of the night. Shots are fired. Tracers dash and dissolve above the rooftops. Some Vietnamese soldier firing out of nervousness. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of the noises. Afraid of his own people. They are awkward soldiers. Their steel helmets are too big for their heads. Their flack jackets are too heavy for their bodies. They are suspicious of everyone. They stop people for no reason. Maybe to show they control the war when they

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really are impotent and generally unimportant. Most of us ignore them. Most of us dont care if they die. *** Whoever has seen what I have seen The damp nights when deaf mutes Dance in the streets, their breast oozing milk Whoever has felt what I have felt The fear that someone wants to kill you Slit your throat or put a bullet in your heart, Whoever has dreamed what I have dreamed Nightmares of cemeteries And bodies without hearts Whoever has dressed like I have dressed A baggy uniform with too many pockets And boots with canvas and steel toes Then come out of hiding and tell us now What kind of cowards boys really are and what kind of cowards theyve always been. *** The half-moon lingers on my face. *** Whos that? Snuff whispers, sighting a shadow at the top of the fire escape on the other side of the roof. A squat shadow. It lights a cigarette. Blows smoke into the night. Paces around in a circle. Looks in our direction. Maybe it sees us. Maybe it doesnt. I hide my marijuana but Snuff openly smokes his. Im afraid of someone catching us and sending us to LBJ with its high fence and reputation for abusing pot smokers. I throw my joint over the railing. Sparks flash as it hits a corrugated roof below.

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Wasting good shit, Snuff says, refusing to throw his marihuana anywhere. It looks like Sergeant Evans. Evans is sleeping. How do you know? Hes always sleeping. Even when hes awake. Sergeant Evans hated us and it was easy to imagine him stuttering and rehearsing what to say at our court martial. Y-Y-Yeas sir. On the th-thirteenth of D-D-December I dis-discovered the de-de-defendants sitting on the r=roof top patio and sm-smoking M-M-MARIHUANA. m-m-my recommendation is th-that th-they be dis-dis-dishonorably dis-dis-discharged from the United States Army. Th-Thank you. I think its a zip, Snuff says, cupping his joint and remaining calm. How can you tell? I can smell him. Take a deep breath. Smell the odor of fish. A zip is a Korean. Not many people like them. They are deadly. Some say that they are the most deadly in handto-hand combat and others say they are the most deadly and destructive when they use their fire power. Some people call them Devil Raiders because they have a kill ratio of

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1 to 17. All of them seem to be named Kim. I think the Vietnamese hate them most. They think theyre in the war for profit and nothing else. They live in Saigon because they can buy things cheap at the American PX and sell them to taxi-drivers and black marketers at inflated prices. Some of the taxi drivers dont trust them because they believe that all the Koreans want to do is kill them. The first time I saw a Korean killed was on the road from Long Binh to Saigon. He was driving a jeep when a boy on a motorbike zipped up to him and threw a grenade in his lap. Everything exploded and the jeep rolled into a gully carrying the shrapneled body. His head flopping backwards. His hands flapping in spasms. His life quickly over. The boy slipped away in the sudden snarl of traffic, and all of us, the privates and sergeants, the Vietnamese squashed inside motor scooter buses, the guards on the bridge, the farmers in the rice fields, all of us froze for a second before we thanked whatever powers there be that the boy didnt kill us. *** A KOREAN STORY There was a Korean who lived on the 7th floor with three other Koreans, and he was shot in front of our hotel

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by a Vietnamese policeman. This Korean, I never got his name so Ill call him Kim, loved to walk at night in Saigon. He had no curfew because he was Korean, so he could go anywhere at anytime. He walked the night streets under chattering rain. Walked and walked and walked. Through the tangle of alleys. Along the side streets and near the river. Hed see MPs in front of military hotels talking in quiet conversation. Hed see the reporters and white shirted civilians talking on the patio of the Continental hotel. Hed see a secretive figure looking out a doorway near him and the two would eye each other and say nothing. The rain was the only speech. Dripping off the roofs, splashing in the gutters. Soaking the city in a small monsoon. One night Kim found a dead body by the river. Someone had cut off its hands. He didnt think much of it because it was a Vietnamese. The river was a polluted waste. The buildings were veiled in black and the ship lights reflected on the river as if they came from beneath the water. He hated the river because he thought it brought bad luck. He wasnt wrong. During one of his night walks he encountered a Vietnamese policeman who didnt like to see him walking around Saigon. Saigon was not his city. After ten oclock

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Saigon belonged to the Vietnamese. He ordered Kim back to the hotel but Kim refused to budge. The policeman insisted and nudged Kim in the direction of the hotel. Kim reluctantly gave in and started for the hotel. No one knows why but the policeman decided to follow Kim and when they arrived at the front entrance the two of them started to argue. Maybe it was because the Marine guards were at their post and watching. Or maybe it was because I was smoking a cigarette next to the concrete barrel that protected the hotel from sappers who would drive their bombs into the lobby. Or maybe Kim had decided to finally confront the officer after being followed for two blocks. Whatever it was, Kim decided to argue with the policeman. They shouted at each other although neither knew what the other was saying. They stood nose to nose, waving their arms in all directions, and then, without a pause, the policeman pulled out his pistol and shot Kim directly in his heart. His

body simply dropped. Plopped to the ground. He jerked about for a moment and then became absolutely still. The

policeman gestured for the Marine guards to come out from behind their concrete barrier and take the body away, but they just stood there. One of them called for an ambulance while the policeman wrote in a small pad. None of us wanted to touch the dead body. None of us wanted anything to do

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with the killing. We just waited for an ambulance to carry Kim away. Just waited. *** It's your thing, do what you wanna do. I can't tell you, who to sock it to. It's your thing, do what you wanna do. I can't tell you, who to sock it to. *** The figure at the stairwell stares at us. I see his shadow. The glow from his cigarette. I bet hes smoking a joint, Snuff says. Cigarette. Joint. Cigarette. Who gives a shit, Snuff concludes. Within a few minutes the shadow disappears and Snuff adds, Told you not to worry. No ones going to catch us up here; and if they did, Id deny what I was doing anyway. I light another joint. Lungs wheeze. Throat burns. The two of us become numb and still. We prefer it this way. *** I have only two fears, Nelson said a week or so before he left and returned to the world. Death and going home. Shit! Send me home before I die, I answered.

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I dont think anyone will know me when I get back, Nelson continued. Ill be a stranger. Theyll know me for what I was and not for what I am. Youre fucked up! Me? At least I dont spend my time smoking that shit and trying to forget where I am. You and Snuff are always fucked up. So. Its Vietnam, asshole! Vietnam or not, its the wrong thing to do. One day youre going to be busted, and then whatll you do? Whos going to tell? You? Nelson grunted and turned away because I knew, and everyone else knew, that the one source, maybe the only source, of gossip and rumors was him. For a long time most of us suspected him of being a company spy or simply a gossip who would eventually get someone in trouble. He was always dragging someone aside and spreading the latest gossip. Hey Sig, he said in the bathroom while watching his urine splatter in the toilet. The Captain is wise to you guys. He knows youre smoking dope. Someone gave him a list of those who were buying smoke near the mess hall, and, from what I hear, you and Snuff are on it. Plump, fleshy Nelson! His red hair a flag of false

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warnings. If you looked close enough you could see he was balding and starting to look like an old man. Short and impish, he frowned a lot and expected everyone to panic when he leaned over them and whispered the gossip, yes whispered, as if he was letting you and you alone know that this was a big secret and you were privileged to know what the secret was. Dont you care if the captain knows you smoke.? He believes everyone smokes. You dont care? Nelson was disturbed by indifference. This could be serious. He could have you arrested and send you to LBJ. He stood and looked into a rust spotted mirror. He picked his nose hairs and gazed at the gap between his teeth. You and Snuff better cool it for awhile. Maybe. Then maybe not. For one thing how could the captain prove we were smoking when he never saw us do it? Thats just it. He knows! I was in his office and I heard him tell Sergeant Evans that a CID agent had been planted in the company. Probably to get Evans. That corrupt bastard. Thats what I thought, but I heard the captain say that the army wanted to make an example of marijuana smokers so theyre putting CID agents in all the companies.

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Then he gave a lead on who it may be. And who was that? Major Clark? Dont be funny. The captain said Shea. Shea! Youre crazy. Hes never here. Besides, he was drafted like the rest of us. So he says! Evans saw him on TuDo street with a guy he knew was CID. I dont believe it. Shea? Maybe the way he acts is just a front. Maybe when he disappears hes really writing up reports. Did you ever consider that possibility? Its all bullshit! Shea CID? No fucking way! From that time one Nelson went on a mission to tell everyone that Shea was a spy, but the men ignored him because Shea wasnt around enough to know what anyone did. And then Nelsons gossip backfired. Clement decided that Nelson was the spy and everything he said was nothing more than distraction. He plotted with Gardner to throw Nelson in the river with a concrete block tied to his feet. Gardner liked the idea but preferred instead to smother Nelson with a pillow while he was sleeping. Then they simply decided to shoot him and blame it on the VC, but, in the end, they decided to treat him like he was invisible. BUT - and Clement meant BUT - if one person was busted,

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Nelson was a dead man! Three days after the silence began, Nelson started to go crazy. When hed talk to anyone theyd walk away from him. They forced him to eat alone and forced him to walk the streets without someone on his right or left. When he tried to ask them questions, they made ugly faces and shook their heads as if to say Ask me again and Ill kill you. You know, Nelson said to me one night after guard duty, pushing the end of a chocolate bar into his mouth, teletypes clacking messages, a wall of cryptic papers surrounding us, I dont understand why no one is talking to me. I said nothing. I wanted to stuff his mouth with a towel. I think I even wanted to kill him. Youre not talking, too. Why? What happened? I thought we were friends. I never did anything to you. Did I? Did I? Silence. Alright. Alright. I dont give a damn if no one talks to me. Im short. You can let all of them know that. I dont need their stupid conversations. He sulked and placed a blanket on the floor. Im going to sleep. Fuck you and everyone else. You can think whatever you want of me. I dont give a shit.

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Ive got far more important things to do besides making friends. He took out of his canvas pouch a copy of The Report of the National Advisory Commission on Civil Disorder. This is more important than any shit around here. The worlds going crazy. Mad. It needs to change. This is important. Not some game you guys are playing on my head. Silence. Like I said, I dont care. You may think Im a smart ass. You may think Im strange. Youre all a pile of shit in my eyes. Silence. When I was in high school everyone made fun of the way I looked. My red hair. My white skin and freckles. I didnt care. I knew one day theyd need me because I want to be a lawyer. You understand? A lawyer. I.... His voice quivered and I almost felt sorry for him. But Nelson was hard to feel sorry for because the moment you felt sympathetic, hed say something stupid like You all talk to Shea and hes CID. But you wont talk to me? Assholes. Youll all find out. One way or the other. Asshole? I blurted out, irritated with his incessant chatter. Youre the asshole. Dont you get it? They think youre CID?

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What? You heard me. The teletype machine clacked out a list of USO entertainers visiting the troops in and around Saigon: Martha Raye, The Jackson Brothers, Miss USA.....The roll of paper spilled to the floor while Nelson shivered from the accusation. Me? I was drafted like the rest of you. All I want to do is get back home and become a lawyer. How can anyone say Im CID. I never wanted to come here in the first place. I hate the army! You can say whatever you, but they think youre CID. But why? Why? What did I ever do? Sheas the one! He knows Saigon like the back of his hand. Hes got to be the one. Not me. You have to convince them. they think its you and that all youre doing is diverting the blame to Shea. He twined his fingers together and shook his head in disbelief. I dont know how to convince them Im not a CID agent. They probably wouldnt believe me anyway. Probably. What do you think? Cover your ass. But what if someone gets busted.

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Then youre dead meat. Fuck! Thats all I need. The VC on one side and you guys on the other. He stared at the floor as the teletype clacked out another message: IN THE PAST 24 HRS MACV REPORTS 12 KIA,

34 WIA, 2 MIA. RVN FUGURES NOT AVAILABLE. Nelson glanced at the message and crinkled the pages of his book and said something unintelligible. Outside the small window ship lights flickered on the river. **** A month later Nelson was on his way back to the world. I drove him to Tan Son Nhut at 5 in the morning. His duffle bag fat, full and as big as the back seat of the jeep. It was a warm. sticky morning. It wouldnt be daylight for another hour and Nelson was worried that buried in the darkness was a VC or cowboy who would kill him before he got on the plane. He was unusually quiet. Maybe because he was so afraid. They should have given us someone to ride shotgun, he said. No one wanted to get up this early. Then why are you doing it? I was told to. The rest of the ride was silent. I half hoped a VC

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would come out of the darkness and shoot him. I was tired of his whining voice, his self-love, his intellectual arrogance, his I-am-right-and-you-are-wrong attitude. I pulled the jeep up to the shabby terminal where a Vietnamese guard ordered Nelson in the direction of the security gate. Well, I guess this is it? he said, yanking the duffle bag out of the jeep. He lifted the bag on to his shoulder and wobbled. You know Sig, you and everyone else was all wrong. Wrong? Yeah, about me being CID. I still think its Shea, and maybe before you leave this place, youll find out. Maybe. He stared at me a short while as if he wanted to say something else. Then, Sig, Ive got to tell you something. You should know the truth. Im not CID, but, but....I did tell Captain Jeans about you and Snuff and a few other guys always smoking that shit. I didnt want him to report you, or anything like that. All I wanted him to do was warn you guys to stop before you got into deep trouble. Im sorry. Really sorry. I always knew you were a lying mother fucker. I said I was sorry. Besides, you know what Jeans

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said? He said that if he told you or anyone anything about their smoking, hed have to tell the entire company and he didnt need that kind of shit on his hands. You believe that? Youre still a lying mother fucker. He reached out his hand but I just drove away, wishing someone had beaten his head in. I looked into the rear view mirror and saw him walking towards the security gate, and then I turned the jeep back into the Saigon darkness. *** Red-headed Nelson back in the world Wants to study law, Hell cheat and sneak and squeak and reek But people will hold him in awe. But we all know wherever he goes Hes nothing but a liar, And one day still wed like to steal Everything he desires. *** Sergeant Evans stutters in front of the morning formation. R-R-Right f-f-face! Aw-Aw-awder aums!

His spoon eyes shine like metal. His long nose points at the men in green sticking their rifles at the sky. Rifle bolts ring shut. Hands slap wooden and plastic stocks. The formation stands at attention and waits for Colonel Pearson to emerge from the doorway behind the sandbags. The protected doorway. No one is going to kill Colonel Pearson.

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He struts across the dirt basketball court and orders the colors to be unfolded. Two blocks away a funeral procession begins its slow walk to the graveyard across the bridge. Sergeant Evans stutters A-A-At ease! The formation comes to parade rest and stares toward the city. They are bored. Colonel Pearson kept them waiting and Sergeant Evans - hung over, tongue white, piss in his underwear, another all night drunk in some dirty whore house where rats run under the beds and flesh eating whores suck out your life - tilts and silently curses the colonel who treats him like someone he owns, someone purchased the day Pearson got rank and privilege. In a high window overlooking the basketball court, Kim Wa watches the formation with Floridos wife . They are talking about something. Maybe Colonel Pearsons disgust at the formations sloppy drill and ceremony. Colonel Pearson looks around for Captain Jeans. Jeans should be here and not this idiot Sergeant Evans who wears sandals and white socks because he has the jungle rot. J-J-Jungle r-r-rot, thats wh-what I g-g-got. I-I ccant w-wear my regular b-b-boots or my f-f-feet will r-rrot off!! Colonel Pearson would prefer that Sergeant Evans

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didnt exist. Such men cant exist! he mumbles to himself while Snuff, standing in the front row of the formation, inflates his chest - Snuff, the peacock - and intentionally drops his rifle. The rifle thumps on the dirt court and stuns Colonel Pearson. Horrifies Sergeant Evans who, even with his hang over stupor, wants to start screaming. He comes to attention, spins around on his left heel and violently stutters, Sp-So-Specialist! P-p-pick up your ww-weapon! Snuff picks up the rifle and drops it again. Sergeant Evans twitches. Shakes. Is about to burst. About to explode. S-s-solidier, he yells. Wh-wh-what is wrong ww-with you? Snuff pretends ignorance. He looks Snuff in the face. Snuff leans on one hip and shrugs his shoulders. B-boy you l-lock those heels wh-when you st-stand before m-m-me. Snuff shifts to mock attention. Evans looks deep in his eyes. He doesnt want to yell at Snuff because Snuff reminds him of his Uncle Samuel who saved him from his mother. They looked just alike. The blue eyes. The russet mustache that curled on the ends. The plump but leathery skin. How could he scream at Snuff when it was like screaming at his uncle.

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Its a strange story. Evans was one of four brothers. He never knew his father who deserted the family when he was two, and the desertion, according to Evans mother, was the reason behind Evans stuttering. His brothers, all of them older, died in one way or another before they reached the age of twelve: One of them died when he set himself on fire. His hobby was filling his mouth with lighter fluid and spitting it into the air, igniting it like a liquid bomb. Unfortunately, one day he filled his mouth and started to laugh just as the fluid drooled out of his mouth and on to his flannel shirt that ignited the moment he lit the match. One of them died when he tripped on an old trolley track that hadnt been removed yet. He fell in front of one of the electric buses that had replaced the trolley cars. The brother would have survived since the bus driver stopped in the nick of time, but when the brother crawled out from the front of the bus, a city dump truck hit him and that was that. The last one died when he fell off the roof of his two story home. He was an acrobat of sorts and spent a lot of time jumping from one roof to the other. One day he decided to try what he called the jump-and-return-jump routine., That is, he would jump to one roof, swiftly turn, and

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spring jump back to the previous roof. He performed the trick only once before, but the second time he missed on the return, flipped and fell directly on his head. Sergeant Evans was the last son left and his mother became a neurotic mess to keep him alive. She consumed tranquilizers and bourbon and her long, protective hand locked Evans in the house where he drew bad pictures of landscapes and watched TV westerns. She walked him to and from school and ordered all his teachers not to let him out of the classroom, even for recess. She accompanied him everywhere. Go to the playground and there was Mom sitting on a bench making sure Evans only played in the sandbox. Go to a childrens party and she was there, drunk and tranquilized, but still making sure that no one bullied, touched or sneezed on her son. There was no way that this boy would die. It could have been possible that Evans would never have joined the army had it not been for his Uncle Samuel who suddenly popped into his life at fourteen. Evans could have stayed a sissy forever, stuttering his way through life, but Uncle Samuel, his mothers brother, came home from an eight year enlistment with a tiny Korean wife who washed her laundry by hand and ate hot dogs everyday to prove that she was American. Uncle Samuel was on his way to

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Fort Benning, Georgia, and decided to visit his sister who he thought had gone crazy after the death of her sons, and, he discovered, that his sister, by any measure, had gone crazy. Her house was a shambles. A collection of old magazines and newspapers, dusty books, smelly sheets, sooty screens, shredded carpet, moldy refrigerator, oily stove, liquor bottles, dishes stacked in the sink with dried food stuck to every plate, soiled clothes strewn around stained furniture that gave off the odor of an old wet dog. Everywhere was chaos except in Evans room which, by some natural desire for order, was clean and tidy. His sister was also impossible to talk to. Even his Korean wife tried to reason with her - in Korean, perhaps expecting some kind of understanding, but it was no use. The sister yelled, Go to hell, all of you, and sometimes shed blurt out What are you looking for? In short, she made no sense. So Uncle Samuel focused on little Evans who by now was infatuated with his uncles dress uniform and the ribbons and the medals and the stripes on the sleeves and the shiny shoes and the glistening belt buckle. He listened to every word Uncle Samuel said, and they were words of hope. Boy, Im going to give you something important, he said, my address. When you get older, seventeen, you come

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to me and Ill make sure you become a soldier. You wont have to put up with any of this crap, thats for sure boy. And then Uncle Samuel left and three years later Evans looked him up and soon afterwards he became a soldier. He discovered cleanliness, orderliness, discipline, and, inevitably, the NCO clubs where he could buy cheap liquor and drown out the memory of his childhood, and the last letter his mother wrote to him a week before she died: Dear Son, I am dying because you, like your father and brothers before you, deserted me. What ever you do, where ever you go, anywhere in the world, know this: you killed your mother. What more can I say? Murderer. Love, Mom So Evans stayed in the army, drank and climbed up the ranks. He had already been to Kentucky, Georgia, Germany and now Vietnam where he stands in front of Snuff trying to let Snuff know that, although hes screaming at him, he doesnt really mean it. He just doesnt want Colonel Pearson to send him north where the chances of getting killed are higher that serving in a dilapidated French villa on the Saigon River. W-W-Wipe that d-d-damned smirk off your f-f-face, Evans commands. D-D_Dont be a wise g-g-guy in my c-ccompany. We have no r-r-room for them. He checks out to

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see if Colonel Pearson hears him. Y-Y-You may think youre t-t-too good for this f-f-formation, that you c-c-could be doing other things, but youre not t-t-too good for this or any f-f-formation the army d-d-decides to have. Y-Y-Youre just like the r-r-rest of us. You d-d-dont belong to anyone else. We-We own you and wh-when we t-t-tell you to d-do something, you d-do it. Is that understood? Yes. Yes wh-what? Sir. N-N-Now lets t-try that a-a-again. Snuff inflates his chest and shouts at the top of his lungs YES SIR!!! His voice cracks and crumbles into a whine. The formation laughs while Colonel Pearson gnashes his teeth and wants to spit. He walks over to Evans, pushes him aside and addresses Snuff. Listen here, Specialist. You had better straighten up. Im giving you one warning. Ill have you out of here every night doing rifle drills, and if that doesnt work, Ill ship your ass to the boonies. You can get your balls shot off at the DMZ. Is that understood? Yes sir, Snuff slowly but sincerely replies. Colonel Pearson looks at Evans as if to say Thats the way you handle these men, and returns to the center of the court.

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For a second he glances at the long funeral passing by the compounds front gate and winding towards the river. *** Oh Captain, My Captain, Listen to what I say, The dead watch out formation As they plod along their way. Ringing bells in the morning, Drumming a thunders chant They ignore the men in formation They ignore the colonels rant. They follow a small covered casket, Clouds dressed in white, Another child taken to the graveyard, Where it is always night. *** The formation stiffens on the basketball court. Floridos wife puts on a scratchy record that plays the call to colors through a speaker in the window. Seventyfive men stand like poles and salute the flags of two countries. The sergeant salutes the colonel. The colonel salutes the sergeant. The formation salutes the flags. The funeral procession ends with a boy clashing a cymbal, and a girl drifting by in a flowing white Cao Dai and long black hair. She is crying Colonel Pearson ignores them. He climbs on top of a small box and announces in a voice that tries to drown out the clashing cymbals: This morning I have a few medals to present.

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*** You made me so very happy I'm so glad you came into my life You made me so very happy You made me so so very happy baby I'm so glad you came Into my life *** The army loves medals. They have hundreds of them. They have the Department of Defense Distinguished Service Medal and the Legion of Merit Medal and the Defense Meritorious Medal and the Meritorious Service Medal and the Joint Service Commendation Medal and the Army Commendation Medal and the Army Good Conduct Medal and the National Defense Service Medal and the Vietnam Service Medal and the Republic of Vietnam Defense Medal and the Republic of Vietnam Training Service Medal and the Humanitarian Service Medal and the list goes on and on and on...... ***

Fuck the lifers and their medals, Snuff says. They try to give me one and Ill tell them to shove it up their ass. Youll freak Evans out if you refuse one of his medals. Who gives a shit! Give me a medal for sitting at a teletype and writing messages that dont mean shit? You

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crazy? Give me a medal for all the whores who gave me a five dollar blowjob. Give me a medal for the number of times I got gonorrhea. Give me a medal for all the pot Ive smoked. That deserves some recognition. *** Smoking. Smoking. Smoking. A toke before breakfast. A toke before guard. A toke on the road to Long Binh. A toke before getting laid. If the VC want our typewriters. our computer reports on tissue thin paper, our adding machines, our damp desks, our sand bags, everything and anything, they can have them. We dont give a damn! Were numb and dumb and it aint shell shock. Its smoking. Smoking. Smoking. *** Beyond the city another firefight erupts. Red tracers scribble across the darkness and suddenly end. Where? Into the ghost of the Frenchmen lying in the graveyard outside of Tan Son Nhut? One hundred tombstones white and glaring in the middle of a traffic circle with one empty grave saved for the first American to die in Vietnam. The first death of an American serviceman in Vietnam occurred Sept. 26, 1945. OSS Major A. Peter Dewey was killed in action by the Communist Vietminh near Hanoi. Some say it happened later. 1959. Whatever. The ghosts are everywhere and the

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firefight finds one after the other. One of them could be Jim. His shadow rising out of his body, envying Snuff and me. *** Jim was a gem of a guy - ghost - we met in a Bangkok hotel. R-and-R. Six days and no war. A nineteen year old shape-shifter who in a flash became a Mexican, an Egyptian, an Italian, and once - we were very high - a German. We chased whores in strip clubs where they gathered like luscious cattle on a dance floor in bikini bottoms with numbered cards dangling around their necks. I want number 12. No, number 16. No, number 25. And the whores sat with us and drank Coca-Cola and sold their specialties, and some of them wanted us to buy them for a week so we could pretend they were girlfriends - just like home - but Jim wanted nothing to do with that. Only Snuff bought a girl who was erotic Indian. And we traveled from massage parlors where naked girls soaped us down in small tubs and rinsed the war from every crevice to hotel rooms where we set the AC so cold we thought - we were very high - thought it was snowing in Bangkok. Yes, Jim was a gem of a guy - ghost - who saw the horror, the horror, and twitched and scratched and spoke so softly we had to put our ears close to his lips when hed

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say things like I dont care what anyone says, were no better than animals. Maybe theyre even better. They dont make war, or I hate the fucking army, but Id never desert my buddies. The VC can kill me, but I wont let them kill my buddies. And Jim loved the whores - tall, short, plump, skinny - he had to have a different one every night, and one of them drank so much beer she drenched Jims bed in piss, but it didnt bother Jim who gave her extra money because he thought she could use a doctor. But he never tried to talk to any of them. None of us did - we were very high - and they would prattle on in broken English, wanting money. Wanting clothes. Wanting jewelry. Wanting to go to America. And every so often Jim would silence them by smashing a beer bottle against the wall, and they would cower and then Jim would laugh, laugh - we were very high - and the girls would take up the laughing, and soon everything would be back to normal, but we all knew there was a shadow person inside Jim, a layer of fog beneath his skin. Look close enough and you could touch its see-through shape. A ghost ready to rush out of every pore at once and pounce on you. And the afternoon we visited the statue of the Golden Buddha, Jim said I hate the truth. Death is always here. Right next to me. Sometimes crawling on my back and resting

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on my shoulder. The statue was five and half tons of solid gold, fifteen feet high and smiling beyond the three of us looking up and wondering how they kept the gold from being stolen over the past eight hundred years. But the statue made Jim think of other things, like death, and Snuff and I didnt know what to say so we said nothing. The VC know what they want, Jim went on, the shining Buddha behind him,. All we want is to go home, and all they want is to kill us until we do. And it was back to the cold hotel room and more whores and more smoke and more beer and by four in the morning everyone was asleep except Jim and me, and I thought my body was floating towards the balcony - we were very high when Jim decided to talk before he returned to Phu Bai. **** JIM TALKS You know a lot of people make fun of me because Im a Mexican, like thats supposed to mean Im not American or something, but, fuck, Im more American than most people,

and I know Im more American than any Cuban. Theyre just a bunch of runaways who are waiting for daddy to let them go back to Cuba. They dont give a fuck about America. My family moved to California in 1910. You believe that. Shit, theyre immigrants who havent lived in America that long.

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We moved to the valley and worked our asses off. Still do. Shit my family probably put more food on your table than your own father. We hate the work but we believe in America. More than those fuckers who spit on us. You know that. Spit on us. A friend of mine wrote me that when he got home some hippie mother fuckers spit on him while he was waiting for a bus. Shit, he almost killed them. But then some old bag called him a baby killer. We never killed any babies. Who the fuck are they talking about? Mother fuckers! My family fought in all the wars. My grandfather was one of the first to sign up for World War I. My father fought in World War Two and Korea. When they sent me a draft notice it didnt bother me. I knew Id be okay. I come from a family of survivors. Were all soldiers. Always was and always will be. My grandmother told me we may even go farther back than World War One. My great-grandfather fought in the Mexican-American War. He was at the famous battle of Monterey, and he was in Mexico City when the US attacked the city and forced a surrender. We were really Mexicans then. My favorite uncle fought in the Pacific during World War Two. He wrote comidos, story songs. about being in the Pacific. One of them was

I dont remember much about it

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except two lines: I sing my death on sands of doom/The sun burns my face, the bullets burn my soul. Or something like that. Ive grown up a lot since Ive been in the army. Im young but Im now a man. I used to be a lot of trouble. Id suddenly flip out and rage. Id break things or try to find people I could beat the shit out of. My school made me go to a therapist. I was 14. The therapist was one of those touchy-feely mother fuckers who was a guy but really a girl underneath. I told him to fuck himself and he said I was angry because I thought white people hated me as much as they hated black people. Everything for that asshole was black and white. When I told my dad he sent me to our priest. Now there was an asshole. Some Irish fag with freckles all over his face and these big puffy lips that said I love to suck cock. He told me that it was evil to be violent and that the devil had got inside me and I had to fight the devil with my spirit. I didnt know what the fuck he was talking about. He was nothing but a crock of shit. Fuck man, Gods more violent than any man could ever be. We make atom bombs, but God drowns the entire world because people are having a good time. I knew theyd put me in the infantry when I was

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drafted.

Remember all those tests they gave us when we psycho ones? I could tell by

first got in the army? The

the way the questions were that theyd see how violent I could be and put me in the infantry. Im glad they did. I dont think I could do some desk job or shit like that. I couldnt just sit around and wait for someone to blow me up. Thats something my brother could do. Hes that kind of guy. Sit around and do nothing. And, believe it or not, hes my twin brother. Thats right. Twin brother. You want to know how strange the fucking world is. They took me to the psych because they thought I was violent, and I was, but Im not anything like my brother. Hes a fucking sadist. But he does it quietly. No one knows, except me. You know what he did one time. He took two cats and tied their tails together, then he hung them over a clothesline and watched them claw each other to death. He found an old mangy dog once and took it to the field and shot it, just to see what shooting something was like. When our cat had kittens he froze them to death in the freezer. Im telling you a fucking sadist! He goes out

with thirteen and fourteen years old girls because he can control them with his little mind games. Cruel games. He knows how to make them feel so bad theyd do anything to feel good again. One of them even let him carve his name on

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her shoulder blade. I always wondered how he got away with that. Now hes one mother fucker who should have been drafted, but hes home, doing nothing, hanging around the house, smoking weed and driving my parents crazy. Fuck man, Im talking as if Im never going to talk again. I guess I need to get some shit off my chest. Getting stoned is good for that. Makes you want to talk about everything. Well, maybe not everything. I still have trouble talking about Hamburger Hill. Fucking slaughterhouse. My platoon was a blocking force on the other side of the hill. We were told to wait there and not let one gook off the fucking hill. We were going to have a real victory. One to show the news people and the rest of America. Fuck! It was a mess. We were on that hill for nine fucking days. In the rain. Eating fucking K-rations and smelling each others shit. But we were lucky. The fuckers on the other side had to climb that fucking hill and chase those bastards down to us. They were fucking dying! But they took that fucking hill. Theyre mean mother fuckers when they want to be. When they got to the top of the hill and the CO tried to chopper in, they wouldnt let him land. They threw everything at him: rocks, frags, everything. They knew it was all for nothing. They knew that theyd go back down the hill and the next day Charlie would own it

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again. All the while we waited on the other side. In the fucking rain. Shooting at anything that moved. I think, and dont you ever fucking repeat this or Ill find your ass and kill you, I think I shot one of our own men. Not on purpose. But it was dark. Real dark. I thought everyone was behind me. I thought the noise was Charlie trying to sneak up on us. It was raining. It was dark. I couldnt see shit. I shouldnt have panicked but fuck, I wasnt the only one.

Three of us started firing at noise. Man, did we let it rip. The next morning it was still raining, but we could see in front of us and there was this guy from another platoon curled up on the ground. We looked at each other and said wed never say a thing about it. Ever. Now youre the only one who knows and you wont ever say a thing. Right? Right? *** Right! I saw the pale bodies in plastic bags. The body bags under the sun. The crowded air strip at Phu Bai. The metal containers overfilled with the dead from the A Shau valley, Hamburger Hill. I saw the dead as I sat in a jeep headed

north to Dong Ha. One of them was probably the guy that Jim and his friends killed. But there were so many they all looked alike.

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*** I never saw Jim again. One night he disappeared in Bangkok and never returned to his room. A ghost. Evaporating into thin air. He probably went AWOL, Snuff says, flipping the tip of a smoke over the railing. Saigon chokes on smoke everywhere. Car fumes. Jeep fumes. Motorcycle fumes. Marijuana fumes. Lots of marijuana fumes. The smoke saturates everything. Fish carcasses.

Skinless monkeys hanging in the market place. The crowded market place where Hill, sweat rings under his arms, sniffed the air like a dog and declared that the smoke will smother the entire city. And they deserve it. They dont know how to take care of their own land. . They dont want to take care of their own land. I hate them and once youre in-country long enough, youll hate them, too. Its easy to do. Thats one thing Hill was right about, Snuff says. They are easy to hate. I cant wait to get away from them. How often do you think of going home. I think about it all the time. I do, too. I get so sick of counting days, but I cant help it. And I know, shit, I know that once I get back all this shit will be like it never happened. Well

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read some history book and itll sound like a war we never were in. Ten years, twenty years from now theyll write about this war and forget how much we never wanted to come here in the first place. Theyll make it sound like we all wanted to be here to fight for freedom. Politicians. Historians. I hate them both. *** What goes up must come down Spinnin' wheel got to go 'round Talkin' 'bout your troubles it's a cryin' sin Ride a painted pony let the spinnin' wheel spin *** Sitting like a statue. The mind a Buddha. The Golden Buddha. Smirking smile. I know something that you dont know. Bombs. Thundering bombs. Every night they surround the city. Flashes of cloudy light. Rumbling. Rumbling. Light another joint and watch the show. Boom. Down comes the front of an apartment building. Boom. Hundreds of holes in the ground. Big as swimming pools. Boom! The ammo dump at Cat Lai like the fourth of July. Boom! The old French mansion shakes and the dragon on the roof vibrates and Snuff turns white as a sheet. And Brickell runs down the stairs with his pants around his knees because he was taking a shit the moment the BOOM came down and he did more

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than shit. I thought my entire asshole was coming out! Boom! An oil dump blows and black smoke drifts like a plague over the river. Boom! And angels and demons are everywhere. Inside the bowl of my steel helmet. Their voices echo: Get out of here....get out of here....get
here. out of

And BOOM mosquitoes slide down my sweaty cheeks,

starving because of bloodless skin, and BOOM Captain Jeans, jittery and afraid, orders Snuff and me to drive at two in the morning where BOOM is everywhere. Drive to the officers hotel to pick up Colonel Pearson and Major Clark and bring them back to the villa because, jittery and afraid, he thinks that one more rocket and one more mortar and therell be no more villa, and Captain Jeans doesnt want to make any decisions about all the facts on the plexi-glass board, or the secret documents locked in the glass fish tank contraption where AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY are allowed to open secret messages and convey with a look the seriousness of the document. And BOOM the colonel and the major nervously crouch behind the Marine and the concrete pill box, and when we arrive, Snuff, the driver, myself the shotgun, my M-14 smelling of cleaning oil, unlocked and loaded, shouts at Snuff to drive back to the villa as fast as he can, so Snuff smashes the accelerator and pops the clutch, and the colonel and the major bump and

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bounce against each other. The majors helmet rams into the colonels jaw and the major yells Fuck this shit! Slow down, Specialist! But the colonel yells back, Ill court martial your ass if you slow down, so we speed through the streets and BOOM the major yells Well have to evacuate the compound, and the colonel yells back Fuck if we will! And the jeep swerves and jolts and BOOM another building is hit by a rocket, concrete crumbles, stairways collapse, just as we turn into the compound, all of us feeling important because this is war and were in the middle of it and this is what makes us men and we scurry behind the sandbags that hide the doorway that hides the bureaucratic rooms that hide the facts and more facts and BOOM Snuff says Maybe theyll blow the whole fucking place up, because hes afraid. Were all afraid. BOOM! *** Im Captain Jeans of the horse marines I feed my horse on rice and beans, Whenever some one looks my way, I feed my horse a clump of hay. *** Captain Jeans shiny boots clack on the conference room floor. This is TET, he says to the colonel. The VC are at it again. The men in the room, especially Colonel Pearson, say

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Ahem! This year, Captain Jeans continues, we are ready. The South will be defended. No more repetitions of 68. We will not be caught off guard. Ahem. Ahem. Everyone: Ahem. Captain Jeans paces in front of the plexi-glass board, takes a short breath, and points at his briefing charts: illuminated numbers and foreign destinations: Vung Tau, Phu Bai, Cat Lai, Long Bien. And right here, he indicates with the pointer, we already know that enemy activity around the Saigon area has increased three fold in the last forty-eight hours. Ahem. Ahem. Colonel Pearson speaks. Im not totally convinced that these figures compel us to act in any extraordinary way to protect the compound. We keep our guards on twentyfour hours a day. And besides, were strategically useless to the VC. Captain Jeans twitches his nose. What is wrong with Colonel Pearson? Didnt he just spend a night with mortar and rockets? Is he a fool? One rocket hitting a ship on the

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river and thered be no way another ship could get up the river. The VC hate us, colonel, Captain Jeans argues. They dont care about what we do. They care about who we are. In our general vicinity, right now, the enemy has conducted three terrorist attacks upon the civilian population, There is no hiding the fact: we could be next! Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. We could be next, the colonel repeats. Maybe the captain is right, he thinks. Maybe the enemy is about to

attack. Visions of battles bristle his imagination. The enemy at the gates. The enemy storming through the offices and killing the defenseless men. No! He cant have that! Captain Jeans taps on what he considers the most important figure. Seventy percent of all the compounds in the Saigon area are now under red alert, sir. They know the importance of being prepared, and, needless to say, we too know that necessity. In short, sir, TET 69 has arrived. The enemy is close. Too close. We need to act now. Colonel Pearson has seen TET 68 - on the news back home in Georgia. Walter Cronkite showed him the enemy overtaking the US Embassy. The tanks in the street. The VC

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in a checkered shirt taking a bullet in the head. And when he got to Saigon he drove through Cholon, the Chinese section of the city where the VC attacked first. He saw the demolished buildings. He saw the walls with hundreds of bullet holes. It could happen again, and Captain Jeans, in spite of his jittery, jerky self, could be right. I suggest, colonel, we go to red alert! Red alert. Ahem. You consider this that serious? Yes sir, I do. You suggestions, captain? Well, colonel, I have a few but perhaps you have some that I may not have though of. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. Yes, captain. First, ahem, we double the guard. How many men to we have on duty now? Six, sir. Make it twelve. And I want them to search every person who enters this compound, and I mean search them. Even our own personnel, sir. Those we dont know, captain. Yes sir. If were going to do this wed better do it right and take absolutely no chances.

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Yes sir. Also, all men on guard will wear flack jackets and steel pots. Ive caught too many of you men without helmets on and that can be very dangerous. If Charley decides to rocket one of those ships out there, therell be one hell of an explosion. Any soldier not wearing a helmet could get his head blown off. Yes sir. Captain Jeans scribbles the colonels orders into a pocket notebook. Listed inside are also the men he most dislikes. At the top of the list is Shea. And captain, I want as few Vietnamese workers around here as possible. They can take a vacation for the time being. I dont want one of them to turn out to be a VC all this time and have it known that we hired him. Even Kim Wa, sir? Even Kim Wa. I trust her but I think its better she stay home. Yes sir. Do you have any suggestions, captain? Well, sir, I think wed better keep the men on a schedule of 36 hours on and 12 hours off. That insures that most of them will be here instead of in their rooms. In 68 most of them men were confined to their hotel rooms and

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unable to protect this place. There was no attack on the compound, but the enemy did get a block away. This year they could get closer. Ahem. Ahem. Ahem. And, sir, I think it may be time to come down on Shea. Hes gotten away with his games for too long now. Maybe we can lock him up in the communications room where he can do some good. Lock him up? Just for the time being, sir. Personally, I think he should be court-martialed, but thats your call, sir. Colonel Pearson looked around the room of ahems. The major and lieutenant didnt know what to say. The company clerk held his pencil over his clipboard ready to write down the order. Captain Jeans awaited an answer. Yes, captain, Shea has been a problem. Lets find him and assign someone to keep an eye on him. But I dont think we should lock him up. That wouldnt be good for morale. Yes sir. Ill put him on guard duty where he wont even think of leaving. Thats good captain. Ahem.

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Ahem. Ahem. ***

MEMO CAPTAIN JEANS PROWLS THE COMPOUND IN THE DARK. CHUBBY LT. JOHNSON FOLLOWS HIM. THEY SPEAK IN WHISPERS. THEY PEEK BEHIND TRASH BARRELS AND SAND BAG MOUNDS. THEY WANT TO KILL A VC. OR MAYBE THEY WANT TO KILL SHEA.
*** SNUFF SPEAKS: And there I was on guard duty, walking back and forth on the balcony, smelling the fucking swill-hole river, talking to the concrete dragon on the roof. TET 69.! Shit! Made me wonder if Id ever get through the Sixties. I had this idea that someone would blow my head off the last night of 1969, but I was so fucking bored walking guard that the idea kept on running out of me and down my shoe like piss. I tried everything to stay awake. I counted the number of steps from the north side to the south side of the balcony. Did you know theres 58 steps, toe to heel. I even counted the number of fucking sandbags piled against the iron railing. Ninety-eight. Believe that shit? Ninetyeight sandbags. And everyone was one I filled. And then I thought I must have filled about a thousand of them because

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the sandbags are everywhere. It was a black night. I think I saw a little piece of the moon, but the river was dark except for the lights from the cargo ships. I could hear the drone of their generators and their hum made me sleepy. I mean sleepy! Shit, Id been on guard for three hours already. And you know what that means. Three hours of holding my steel helmet in front of my face and making noises to keep me awake. Brooooom. Broooooom. Cluck. Fuck. Shit like that! Anything to stay awake. But nothing was working. I couldnt stop yawning. The air was filled with smells: garbage, dead fish, diesel oil, smog and smoke. I closed my eyes and that was all I had to do. I went right into a dream. A strange one! I was lying on a castle floor, stripped naked to the waist. Deaf mutes surrounded me and grunted animal noises. A

severed hand appeared above my head and began to grow in size. I tried to crawl out of the circle of deaf mutes, but they kept me trapped. Grunting and jumping on my back. I could feel their hands pulling at my arms. I thought they wanted to strangle me, but then, I said to myself, oh shit, those arent dream hands. Their real hands. Fuck! I woke up to Captain Jeans yanking on my arm, and Lieutenant Johnson eating a fucking candy bar and smirking. Wake up, soldier, Jeans yelled at me in one of those

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loud whispers. Sir? I muttered, still half asleep. The captain smelled of lime cologne. The lieutenant smelled of chocolate. They glared at me with rabbit eyes. I swear they were stoned. It looks like you were sleeping, specialist. Isnt that right, Lieutenant? Yes sir. Youre right. Lieutenant Johnson the kissass said. The chocolate dripped out of his mouth and he sucked it back in. I put the steel helmet back on my head. I could feel it bumping on my skull. I was asleep but fuck if I was going to admit it to them. So I said, No sir. I was just staring at the river. It makes me daydream. Thats all! Weve been standing here for almost a minute, specialist, and we saw you sleeping. Like I said, I was just staring at the river. Captain Jeans and those shiny boots understand the river. Hes addicted to watching it. There were mornings I saw him climb to the balcony and look up and down the river and select possible targets he thought the enemy would destroy. He studied the ripples and currents. The oily patches. The floating debris. Hes sure the river is a dangerous pace.

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You know, specialist, somewhere under that shit and scum the enemy could be sneaking up on us in a midget submarine! Arent I right, lieutenant? Asshole Johnson would have agreed with anything the captain said. He ate that fucking candy bar and bobbed his head up and down. I want you to stop and think of this, specialist, the captain went on. I really thought I was in a dream now. Imagine frogmen sneaking underwater and planting satchel charges on our live support generator. Or on one of those cargo ships tied up to the dock. If one of those would sink, this river would be clogged for weeks. Maybe months, Lieutenant Johnson spit out. Yes, maybe months, the captain said. I dont know if you realize it or not, but we are at war. The enemy is everywhere and anywhere! Right now he could be creeping into our compound. He could be crouching right over there in the shadows. Waiting. Just waiting for you to fall asleep. Any second now he could sneak up on us and slice our throats. Arent I right, lieutenant? Yes sir, Johnson said, his cheeks bloated with candy. Here on the roof? I asked. I mean, come on. We were three stories above the ground and Charlie would have to kill everyone inside before he reached us. But Jeans

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didnt see it that way. No, he went on. Right here on the roof, specialist! Right now he could be downstairs quietly cutting everyones throat. Do you realize the consequences of falling asleep? The three of us. Just us! Wed be left to fight the enemy off. I knew he was thinking Alamo. I even think he wished everyone downstairs was being killed so he could be a hero. You know, stand face to face with Charlie, bayonet and .45 in each hand. Shouting God bless America and all that crap! He a stupid mother fucker and I really think he thought the enemy could be killing all the men downstairs. I knew he wanted me to care, but fuck, my mind kept on drifting off to up state New York. The trees on the side of the mountains. The girls in my high school. I even thought of the summer I dug telephone pole holes. I got boils on my back from too much sun. I just couldnt keep my mind on Captain Jeans who, by know, got so excited he really did think he heard someone on the river. Do you hear that, lieutenant? Listen! It was the first time I saw Lieutenant Johnson stop chewing his candy. What exactly, captain? That! Dont you hear that? Like someone rowing. Lieutenant Johnson wrapped his fingers around the rod iron railing and leaned his plump body towards the river. I

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knew he didnt hear anything, but he didnt want to disappoint the captain. Yes, I hear it now, the dumb fuck said. Its most likely a river boat, sir. I said. I know its a river boat, specialist, but which way is it going and whos in it? I had no fucking idea! Pitch dark. Couldnnt see a thing. All I could hear was a boat puttering. One of those dinghies. I tried to see where it was but fat-assed Johnson, panicked and said, There! Look closely. Its there! And still I couldnt see anything. Maybe a tiny light. Maybe. But only those two assholes pay attention to shit like that. I mean, how many times do you see little boats on the river? Morning, noon and night! Lieutenant Johnson stretched even further over the railing, erect, like a see-saw., balancing his chubby body on his chubby stomach. He was trying to impress the captain. All I had to do was touch his head and he would have lost his balance and fallen straight down on his head. The asshole! There it is again, captain, the lard ass announced. Do you hear it? I hear it, lieutenant! And the two of them were now leaning over the railing

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and pointing to a spot somewhere in the river. I still couldnt see anything. Everything was still dark as hell. And then, shit, the captain turned to me and said, Specialist, fire in that direction. Fire in that direction? I asked, What direction. I dont see any thing. And Lieutenant-Kiss-Ass-Johnson said When the captain orders you to fire at something, specialist, you fire. You dont ask any questions. You dont hesitate. But I dont see anything, I said. What am I firing at? That, the captain said pointing at the river and the darkness. Right there. Theres a light and I think someones trying to sabotage one of the ships. So fire right there, specialist. Shit! You know how many times I fired my rifle. Zero. Zip. None. So here I was aiming into the darkness and wondering if the fucking thing would even go off, and then, blam, a clip of ammo emptied out like it was nothing, I saw the tracers hit the water and I heard some splashing. I couldnt believe what I had just done. Then the captain said, Good work, specialist. If there was anyone there, theyre not there now. That was one hell of a good round of ammo.

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Put in another clip and try it again, Lieutenant Johnson said. He was excited like a little fish over how fast the rifle went off and the danger in the dark. I shrugged my shoulders, I mean, what was I suppose to do. If these assholes wanted me to fire into the black water where I couldnt see a thing, then shit, what could I do about it. Besides - and Ive got to admit it - it felt good laying down a line of fire like that. It was the first time I felt like I was a real soldier. You know, a guy who is really in the war and not just watching it happen around me, waiting for someone to shoot me in the head because I didnt see anything coming. The three of us waited there. I think the captain expected to hear a dead man moan or someone yell that they were wounded but when everything returned to normal silence, the captain said that if I hadnt followed orders he was ready to court martial me, just like he was going to court martial Shea who hadnt shown up for duty and was somewhere in Saigon fucking his whore and forgetting his obligations. The lieutenant agreed with the captain and said it would be a good day when we got rid of Shea and sent him to LBJ for being an AWOL asshole, and all I wanted to do was shove the butt of my rifle in the lieutenants face because when he said that he shoved another candy bar in his mouth and reminded me of

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this kid I knew in the tenth grade who used to whine about everyone picking on him, and he was the fattest fuck I had ever seen and all he had to do was stop eating for awhile, but no, he'd whine and every time he did there was something gross in his mouth like cookies or candy or some shit like that. I thought the lieutenant was a fat ass with a bigmouth so I said that I had seen Shea and that I thought he was downstairs and that no he didnt go to his whore in Saigon and yes he was fixing one of the jeeps we took to Long Binh every day to pass messages back and forth and other kinds of shit like delivering a transit to his company. For a second the captain and the lieutenant believed me, but then the captain remembered that he called roll no more than four hours ago and there was no Shea. So he got mad at me for trying to cover Sheas ass, and then he said that he was going downstairs to call port security to make sure we killed someone and warned me that I would be court-martialed for lying but it would have to wait until after TET 69 was officially over, and we all retuned back to normal, Well, sure as shit the captain forgot all about it, and the lieutenant forgot all about it because he wanted to eat his fucking food and nothing more. But I

still remember those fucking words the captain said before he went downstairs. Now specialist, if you take your eyes

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off the river just once, youll have your ass sent to LBJ as fast as you can say Im sorry., and then he left and all that went through my mind as he spun around on those fucking shiny boots was Fuck the army! Thats right. Fuck the army. *** F. T. A. FUCK THE ARMY *** F. T. A. Graffiti of disgust and anger and rebellion over marching drills and shaved heads and sweaty boots and soggy food. Angry letters penciled on memos and instruction manuals or carved on the walls of latrines or on desk tops and barrack sidings and the bathroom door where Sergeant Evans sits on the toilet, squeezes and struggles with constipation, but still is angry enough to stutter F-F-FT-T-T- A!!! He grunts and pushes his bowels down and nothing happens. But F. T. A. still stares him in the face, insulting him and the putrid food that rots into a brick deep inside his intestines. And below that another message

delightfully carved into the wood: L. I. F. E. R. little idiot fuckers eating rotten

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S.

shit

Sergeant Evans leans over his knees and runs his fingers over the letters. He catches a splinter in his forefinger and curses, Th-the f-fucker who w-wrote this sh-should b-be court m- martialed. He turns red, squeezes hard, and a quick blast of shit erupts from his rectum. His toes curl. His teeth gnash. His jaw ripples. F-F- T-T A! I w-want to k-kill th-this mmother f-fucker! It m-must b-be Shea! All the years of service. Korea. Germany. Ft. Dix. Vietnam. Honor. Pride. Dignity. And now to end like this! Sitting on the toilet trying to rub insults off doors! He lifts his ass off the toilet and resolves to take action, to nail Shea - yes, Shea - against the wall! No one was going to get away with destroying government property on his watch. Hell order every door in the building removed, sandpapered, repainted and replaced. The men will rebel. Theyll know its Shea who got them into this! Theyll take care of him on their own. And who will benefit? Evans didnt dare say it aloud, but he envisions himself winning a commendation for such action. He snaps his belt together, wipes his sleeve over the brass buckle and doggedly walks to Captain Jeans office . Jeans will love his plan. He could see his face now!

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*** Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in, the sunshine in Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in, the sunshine in Let the sunshine, let the sunshine in, the sunshine in *** What Sergeant Evans didnt know as he walked down the wooden stairs, clunking like his stutter, sweating from his long repast in the bathroom, was that Captain Jeans was writing a long memo filled with personal observations about Sergeant Evans, who, he decided needed to be sent back to the states for mental observation or, at least, a drying out. *** THE MEMO TO: Colonel Paul Pearson, TMA-MACV, 407tth Trans Group FROM: Captain Ronald Jeans, TMA-MACV, 407th Trans Group

SUBJECT: SERGEANT EVANS BEHAVIOR Sergeant Evans has been under our command since July 15, 1969. During his time in our company I have observed a number of peculiar characteristic that may suggest we return Sergeant Evans to the states for observation. The following is a brief summary of observations I have made regarding his behavior: 1. Sergeant Evans occupies the E-6 slot in the motor pool. He knows little about motor vehicles, however, since he was assigned to our unit I felt that the motor pool was the best place for him. However, the men have had problems with him. In his first month of duty he declared that Jesus Christ had come to him in the night in the form of a light that traveled from his left shoulder to his right, and then down his center. He informed Specialist Watson, motor pool maintenance, that Jesus Christ intended another visit, and, at that time, he would advise Sergeant Evans of his mission

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in life. After a week he announced that Jesus Christ had visited him in a bar on TuDo street and told him his mission was to save the prostitutes and throw out all the money changers. Although he hasnt yet begun to act on this vision, he continues to talk about methods by which he could accomplish the tasks. He plans, for instance, to set up as many prostitutes in an apartment building where he would watch over them nightly. Specialist Watson complained about working for such a loony, that his work became shoddy because, he said, he had to worry about Sergeant Evans. That is why I shifted Sergeant Evans to the arms room with Specialist Florido. 2. Although it is lighted and air-conditioned, Sergeant Evans complained about the position due to his phobia for small, crowded places, and his intense dislike of Specialist Florido. I ignored his phobia - it is best to face fear than run away from it - I was forced to transfer Sergeant Evans to acquisitions because of an incident that broke out between Sergeant Evans and Specialist Florido. Sergeant Evans accused Specialist Florido of selling weapons on the Black Market. Specialist Florido took great offense to this and started smashing empty ammunition boxes against the wall while Sergeant Evans screamed that he would have Specialist Florido court-martialed. Needless to say, Sergeant Evans had no proof of Specialist Florido selling any weapons on the Black Market and simply made the allegations because he, Sergeant Evans, came to work drunk. Sergeant Evan admitted to drinking but only because of his phobia, but Specialist Florido claimed that Sergeant Evans had been drinking every day and quite heavily. I have a tendency to believe Specialist Florido. A number of times I have smelled alcohol on Sergeant Evans breath - a stench of alcohol at that. 3. I finally reassigned Sergeant Evans to my office where he performed a number of insignificant details. I had the opportunity to observe him closely where I noticed he spent a great deal of time going to the PX in Cholon. I suspect Sergeant Evans may be the one selling to the Black Market. however, I have no proof. This suspicion, however, should be investigated. 4. Finally, Sergeant Evans has a great deal of conflict with Vietnamese nationals. Recently, in preparation for the upcoming IG inspection, I placed Sergeant Evans in charge of a number of Vietnamese nationals to clean up the

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compound area. I specifically put Sergeant Evans in charge of sand bag detail and trash burning. I viewed Sergeant Evans taunting and ridiculing the Vietnamese nationals and even going as far as accusing them of loving Ho Chi Minh more than they loved the United States. The nationals try to ignore him, but Sergeant Evans is extremely aggressive towards them and, in fact, should be removed from any association with the Vietnamese. It is on these grounds that I think it would be better for Sergeant Evans to be reassigned to a company state side and possibly undergo some from of counseling. I believe it would be extremely advantageous for Sergeant Evans to undergo such therapy. I have already made plans to replace his position with another NCO from the ranks, quite possibly Sergeant Platt. Captain Ronald Jeans cc: Major David Clark Lieutenant Ralph Johnson *** Captain Jeans reread his memo. He wants to add more but doesnt want to sound too prejudiced towards Evans. After all, the pale, needle-nosed sergeant stands outside the door watching the captain slip the memo under his desk blotter, having no idea that the memo is about him and his removal from the company. Captain Jeans nods his head to allow Sergeant Evans to enter. M-M-May I have a w-w-word with you, s-sir? Captain Jeans hates the stuttering. He wants to choke Evans until it stops or slap him on the back and shout Come on, jackass, sit it out!!!! Instead he tries to shorten the conversation before it even starts.

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I havent much time, sergeant. Ive got to go out to MACV. Cant this wait? Ah-ah-ah itll only t-take a m-minute, sir. You sure? Y-yes sir. Then what is it? Its th-the bathroom d-doors, s-sir. The what? The b-bathroom doors. What about the bathroom doors, sergeant? Theyre d-dirty, sir. D-dirty writing all o-over them, sir. Then get some men to clean them sergeant. Why do I need to know about them. I th-think I know w-who did it, sir. And who do you think it is, sergeant? Sh-Shea, sir. I j-just know he d-d-did it. I can ttell by the writing. There is no way to really know that, sergeant. Just have some men wipe off the writing, or something. B-But I would like to g-give the de-de-detail to Shea, sir. He de-deserves it. Then give it to Shea. If you can find him. Captain Jeans stands and brushes by Sergeant Evan

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before Evans can get out his THANK YOUs because hes excited with the idea of snapping up Shea and exacting a bit of his old revenge like taking down the doors and sanding down the foul language until it disappears somewhere inside the wood and then re-painting the doors with a glossy green that looks like the jungle in midafternoon. *** Come on people now Smile on your brother Everybody get together Try to love one another Right now *** It wasnt long before Captain Jeans got rid of Sergeant Evans but not back to the world for psychiatric help or mustered out and sent home to his loon mother with her little batch of poisonous letters - one for each day he was in Vietnam:

Dear Son, Do you even think Im still alive? How many more nails do you want to put in my coffin. Maybe I should die. Youd probably be happier then. Wouldnt you? Wouldnt you? Love, Mom. No, Evans was sent to Dong Ha on the DMZ where he

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lives in a sandbag bunker with another sergeant who has a diagonal scar across his face (hand-to-hand in the Korean War) and a deep hatred for draftees and officers. And in return Dong Ha sent Sergeant Rodriguez to us. A 52 Cuban who smells like cigars with a Groucho Marx mustache and thick, rectangular glasses tinted light brown and I Hate Castro tattooed on the top of his right hand . He says he was one of the upper class in Havana before that bastard Fidel took our business and money and forced him to flee to Miami where he lived behind a small grocery store with his uncle and family who had come to Miami when Baptista threw him out. I joined the army, he says, because I want to kill communist. Any communist. If they want me to go to China I will. I hate the communist. Every fucking communist bastard deserves death. That mother fucking Kennedy. He was the biggest communist of them all. Im glad my people killed him. I would have pulled the trigger myself if I had been in Dallas. *** Man he really hates Kennedy, Snuff says, blowing smoke into the humid wind. The lights from the whore house across the street flicker. Naked dwarves in quick silhouette. Arms flailing. Shrieks.

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We probably wouldnt be here if Kennedy had never been shot. Dont be too sure about that! Snuff says. *** I liked Kennedy. I remember when he was shot. They let us out of school and everyone was crying and no one could understand what had happened and then there was Oswald and he didnt really look like someone who wanted to kill a president and then there was Ruby and he looked more like the kind of guy who would have shot Kennedy but then it was all over and no one seemed to care much about what happened because life goes on and power is power and there is no way anyone can shake the greedy bastards out of the trees and drown them all, once and for all. *** SNUFF SPEAKS: Talking to Rodriguez is like talking to a wall of shit! Talks out of his asshole. Cuba this and Cuba that. Kill Castro. Drop bombs on Havana. Nuke them. Invade them. Like we should give a shit. You know what he said to me? Just because I talk to you that doesnt mean were friends. I wanted to push the little fuck out a window or run over him with a jeep. The asshole. Asshole!

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But then he goes on and on about his family! Like I give a shit!. He trapped me in the communication room and I was too nice to tell him to shut the fuck up. All night duty with an asshole who never stopped talking. He told me his parents and sister were crazy. He said even the dogs in his house were crazy. It was leaving Cuba that did it, he said. Now, what does a dog know about Cuba? And yet he kept on saying they all were mad because they had to leave their home. Bullshit! Bullshit! He said his mother kept him dressed like a girl until he was six, and then she had a little girl and started dressing him like a soldier. He hates his sister. Says shes the ugliest thing that ever came out of Cuba. Hairy. Fat. She even has a mustache! Told me no one but a monkey would ever fuck her, and then again he had his doubts that a monkey would even fuck her. Shit head! Suck in smoke. Blow out smoke. A steam pipe mouth. Repeat. Shit head! He came over from Cuba in 59. He was 15 and his parents told him that theyd be going back as soon as Kennedy helped them. But then there was the Bay of Pigs! It was all Kennedys fault. Kennedy left the men on the ground and Kennedy never gave them air support and Kennedy

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promised the army would help and Kennedy, Kennedy, Kennedy!!! He almost pissed his pants with happiness when Kennedy was killed. But get this, he doesnt think Oswald did it. He says Cubans did it. They wanted to get even for the Bay of Pigs. They thought Johnson would invade Cuba or at least try to assassinate Castro. Now he thinks Nixon will because hes a Republican. Republicans have balls! He thinks when Nixon ends this shit hell get rid of Castro. They probably killed Bobby Kennedy, too. This fucker would kill anyone related to JFK. Hes just as crazy as Evans. At least Evans didnt run at the mouth all the time. This guy never stops talking. And its always about Cuba. In Havana you could get anything you wanted before Castro. He makes it sound like Saigon. And still, with pussy everywhere, he told me about an uncle who fucked the cows on his farm outside of Havana. You believe that! Everyone liked to fuck cows, he said, and thats why Castro came to power. He wanted to stop all the Cubans from fucking their cows and get back to fucking their wives. And ass-fucking! Forget about it. Every virgin in Cuba has been ass fucked because theyre trying to save their pussies for marriage! So Rodriguez likes to butt fuck people?

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Count on that. Well wish Evans was still here. He promised he was going to make everyones life miserable if we didnt shape up. What the fuck is he talking about? Marijuana. And Shea! He swears hes going to get Shea for something and put him in LBJ for at least a month. And I dont think this guy is kidding. I mean, anyone who fucks a cow is going to fuck you. You got that! **** Those were the days my friend We thought they'd never end We'd sing and dance forever and a day We'd live the life we choose We'd fight and never lose For we were young and sure to have our way **** SIG SPEAKS EXTREMELY STONED: There is war, Vietnam and I am skinny and morose and hating America, I stabbed at dummies stuffed with cotton in Georgia as bees swarmed over their leathery skin and I shot at treetops in the damp swamps of Virginia where the mothball fleet waited in the white mist of the St. James River and I sleep on rooftops in Saigon on the other side of the world knowing my soul will never go home again. There is war, Vietnam, Part of the lie. A Mongol invader. and I knew the boy who hung himself and the boy who carried frogs on the end of his bayonet

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and the boy who pretended to be a conscientious objector and the boy who would loose both his legs in a mortar attack and the boy who deserted into Canada and and and and and and the booby traps ripping out of trees punjab sticks ripping through the feet the best way to hide in the jungle the best way to die in an ambush the slow march to burn down a village the admonition Dont touch the women and children.

and the city of skinless monkeys and the silent rockets dropping out of the sun, and bodies floating in the Rung Sat River, hands pointing to TuDo Street and the moneychangers, legless pimps, and the dwarf whores with tits filled with milk and the bargirls crowded at plate glass windows: Buy me tea, GI, buy me tea, and metal stairways to steam bath rooms, hand jobs, blowjobs, jack offs, and fucking above the narrow alleyways where the steel faced Korean smelling like a dead fish was shot in the face by white mice and the whores voice behind a gauze curtain whispered so her father couldnt hear: GI numba one, no numba ten. Oh! Johnson promised Rolling Thunder and Nixon promises Niagara Falls, and the monsoon rain is metal and fire and men pray all the targets are found and Sergeant Fowler burns trash by the river secret papers about the war swirl of ashes in the gray sky, but nothing like his fear: If they win, theyll cut off our fingers, steal our rings, and let us bleed. Vengeance for a belt of shriveled ears, extracted teeth and bits of bones!, and plump Melvin Laird, missile head, races through the streets to Tan Son Nhut, the only one to go home before his own bombs fall on him.

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Oh Melvin Laird, Melvin Laird, I have a story thats a lie about you, crawl into the back of your limousine and watch the ashes stick to you window. *** Those who know me, please forget me. I am no longer the person you think I am. Scratch out my name from your address book. Pretend you met someone else. *** Im going to take a piss, Snuff says. rising from the concrete bench and dissolving into the soft night. Alone. Below me the city. Motorcycles puttering. Brakes squealing. Music from a distant rooftop: You never give me your number..... City lights flicker and beyond flashes of artillery, B-52 bombings, and a sea of shacks squeezed around Saigon like too many coffins. Saigon was built for 600,000 people but millions of refugees attach to the core of the city like insects to a corpse. They live in shacks and under old canvas and inside abandoned cars or under trucks and buses that move away by morning. There is a refugee camp in Cholon but no one cares about the bleak faces or puffy bellied children. They make my stomach jitter. ***

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I was born in World War II. On the day I was born the headlines said

8TH ARMY LANDS BEHIND GERMANS.

My father was in the Phillipines getting drunk and dancing with girls with naked tops. He got so drunk he fell out of a jeep at 40 mph and twisted his knee. To this day he gets a 20% disability from the government. He gave me one line of advice before I shipped out: Try to ignore what you see. He tried although the images of dead Japanese on Iwo Jima never left his mind, especially when he heard the song Ill Never Smile Again. Thank God I never hear that song much anymore, he said. At one time it nearly drove me crazy. *** If I close my eyes and hold my eyeballs still, close my senses and run my fingers around the inside of my skull, I can shrink into a man the size of gnat crawling through the cellar window screen and disappearing in the garden behind our house. A man without morals. A man who stays away from his mind. I wasnt always like this. Three years ago I sat on a window sill in a friends New York City apartment overlooking a crowded street in Greenwich Village. Hes an artist whos against the war and

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sculptures small, twisted figures of people who have been killed by napalm. He tangles the hard clay figures into different shapes then scorches them with an acetylene torch. He hasnt sold many, maybe two or three, but he cant stop configuring and reconfiguring the tortured shapes as if he alone is doing penance for the charred corpses. I told him I would never let them send me to Vietnam. Id go to Canada or hide in the city or simply refuse and suffer the result. I lied to myself. The draft notice came and I submitted to their anal examinations and piss tests and throat explorations and verbal insults until three nights ago the man who was supposed to go to Canada or hide in that deadly city stretched himself on a massage table and got a blowjob from a woman who said her husband was a soldier in the Delta. And when she brought him to a climax and then spit him out, he asked her how long had her husband been fighting. Six year. VC? he asked. No VC. VC numba ten. He fight for American. Kill many VC. You see him? When? I no see him two year. He gib me no money. I sucky American They hab money. Gib numba one blowjob. Yes?

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She grinned and wiped her mouth with a towel. You give number one blowjob. Yes! She slipped behind another curtain where another soldier was waiting for a blowjob or hand job but no fucking because she only did number one blowjobs and hand jobs and there was no way she was going to let an American cock inside of her, some of them were too big and some of them were too dirty and some of them were just not worth the money. *** HUE! Across the rice field on a small road in a small jeep I saw dead oxen rotting in the sun, and the outskirts of the city smoking, and I turned to Colonel Pearson and

asked Will we be safe in there? and he just looked straight ahead, probably wondering how the two of us got stuck driving into Hue a little over a six months after the city had been destroyed and all we had was an M-16 and a . 45 and the obligation to find a way north to Cua Viet where there was a small outpost for the movement of materials down the northern rivers. Colonel Pearson wanted to find out if the outpost was necessary and if someone else could do the job because the eight men we had there seemed to be doing nothing but sending messages back to

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Saigon that they had nothing to do but collect statistics that someone else was collecting. HUE! Scattered hamlets and men fishing for food and finding scarred bodies and women crouching and washing clothes in buckets and burial mounds on flat ground and the intense heat boiling the rice fields and the buildings ahead useless with bullet holes and everywhere the mountains like Chinese paintings, mist covered, serene until the huge trucks roll and thunder and cross the broken bridges where an old guardsman picks his nose in a metal tower while he tries to read an English primer and...... *** You okay, Snuff says as he returns from the bathroom. You looked like you were really flying. I was just talking out loud. Youd better watch yourself or someone is going to think youve gone crazy. He sits next to me and lights up another joint. I am what they call totally wasted but in more ways than one, but Snuff believes we should smoke until we can hardly walk. I was thinking about writing a story, he says, about all the people I know who smoke marijuana. When I first started smoking this shit I thought I was alone, but

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now, fuck, everyone I know smokes.

Ill call the story The

Uncountable Sum. You think thats a good title? The sum meaning some of us smoke, but there are so many of us that I cant count them all. What would the story be about? Smoking. What else? Ill write about all the guys who came over here good little boys and turned into potheads. Like me. Like us. *** Can you Can you Surry down Surry down surry, can you picnic surry, can you picnic to a stoned soul picnic to a stoned soul picnic ***

Colonel Pearson in the conference room with Captain Jeans and 22 enlisted men. Todays topic: Military Justice and Letting Out Secrets.. The conference room is the war room, is the locked-and-bolted chart room, is the coldest room in the building. The conference table has a shiny plastic top soiled with fingerprints, and the walls are covered with plexi-glass chart boards. When the room is dark, grease-penciled numbers in red , green and white are illuminated by neon lights. They show the war with numbers attached to straight lines, triangular lines, horizontal

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lines and some lines that make no sense. One chart presents the total weight of rock moving from Vung Tau to Saigon to build a road through the jungle. Another line rises and falls and then rises again showing the number of bananas reaching the Saigon ports in a months time. The most important line tells how many ships are in-country, although the line is a lie since no one cares how many ships are in-country just so long as everyone gets what they need, and theres so much shit brought to Vietnam its hard for anyone to go without a thing. We all stand around the conference table as Colonel Pearson squirms in his leather chair. He may have hemorrhoids. He places a yellow pad on the table and announces he has some rules and regulations that we need to know. The men shuffle and lean against the chart boards, smudging some of the numbers. Captain Jeans coughs a delicate cough. The air-conditioner, on full blast, whirrs and still finds it hard to cool down the stuffy room. Colonel Pearson rubs his bald head and sees his reflection in the table top. changes expression. Gentlemen, he says, I have a few items I need to address to you. First, Captain Jeans informs me that the jeeps are at the lowest level of maintenance since He smiles at himself then quickly

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Christmas inspection. This is a serious matter, gentleman. If any one of those jeeps broke down between here and Long Bien, or even Tan Son Nhut, any one of us could be in serious trouble. I want this problem solved by the end of this week. His order was direct and Captain Jeans smiled because it was really his order but no one was paying much attention to Captain Jeans and his obsession with the jeeps. Now, secondly, we are still having a problem with the burning of trash! Gentlemen, trash, all trash, must be burned. Every piece of paper that leaves this building must be burned in the barrels outside. I dont want to find some mamasan taking our reports home for toilet paper. The wrong Vietnamese may wipe his ass with them, if you know what I mean! The room snickers although Captain Jeans doesnt see anything funny with what the Colonel says. There were spies out there! Tiny old mamasans whove been caught with typed reports stuffed under their black pajama shirts. Sure, the reports were meaningless - cargo statistics, promotions, even a list of enlisted mens birthdays - but just the fact that the MPs caught them did not make the unit appear very vigilant. Remember gentlemen, we didnt make those burn barrels

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for nothing. You cram everything paper in them and spin those barrels until every ash has floated over the city of Saigon. Colonel Pearson shuffles the papers in front of him. Before going on to the most important point today, I would like to remind you men of what it means to go AWOL. This does not apply to all of you, but those of you it does apply to better listen up. Hes obviously talking about Shea who squats against the wall. He has found another Chinese girl friend in Cholon and swears she looks more American than even American girls. The girl is half his size but has large breast, something unusual in the Chinese. He says she likes to walk on his back and can even spin around while sitting on his dick. This time, he says, dont think Colonel Pearson cares. The colonel continues: Any one in the army, or for that matter, anyone in the armed forces, who leaves his duty post, can, and must be court-martialed. Add on to that failure to obey an order or regulation and that person is in one hell of a problem. So, if any of you are thinking of leaving, or for that matter, know anyone who is thinking of leaving, youd better think twice about it because its serious business. hes really in love. I

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No one is thinking of leaving. We only dream of getting back to the world and out of the Saigon shit-hole. We keep calendars of little squares on drawings of naked girls, and we block out each square to mark the number of

days left in-country. Square 365 is directly in the middle of the girls pussy. We all know we have to wait - thats what war is all about. maybe, Shea. Now for the most important item on todays agenda, and I stress important! By now you all know that the president has begun his program of troop withdrawal. This is an important step that could be easily upset by inaccurate or exaggerated information. Newsman will eventually be prowling around hoping to get information on our unit and whats happening to it. Theyre sneaky bastards! Like cockroaches! So gentlemen, if any one of them comes up to you wanting information, keep your mouth shut! A fly in the milk can ruin the whole drink. Any information you give an asshole reporter will be corrupted and sent back to the world as truth. If anyone gives out information, Ill be forced to take the necessary action and have that man court-martialed under article 94 which is sedition, gentlemen, out and out sedition. Releasing classified information is illegal. Is that understood? None of us are going AWOL - except,

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The colonel scans the stoic faces. The room is hopelessly silent. He expects dissent. The men are mostly draftees. Hippies and protestors who had long hair and walked around in sandals. A few chairs squeak. Some boots shuffle. But nothing is said. Colonel Pearson repeats, as if daring someone to speak: I asked if you understood? From the corner where he squats and sucks on his top lip, Shea raises his hand. Sir. Colonel Pearson wants to ignore him but Shea repeats even louder, Sir! What is it you want, and Colonel Pearson almost spits, Specialist Shea? I dont get it. Get what, specialist? Should we be silent if some newsman wants to know our opinion about the war. After all its just an opinion. Colonel Pearson shifts in his chair and twitches his cheek. His nerves seem to be shaking beneath his uniform. Thats just the point, specialist. We dont want them to know your opinion because they dont need to know you opinion. Theyre blood suckers who want us to loose this war. In fact, some of them are communist sympathizers. They hate America. Theyll use your opinion to warp how Americans see the war. They dont need to know anything! Yes sir, but I think.....

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Think? Colonel Pearson interrupts. Think? He stiffens his body and looks at Captain Jeans who is also stiffening his body. You know, specialist, maybe you think took much. Now Im not the smartest man in the world, in fact, I barely finished college, but I know enough not to talk about my country when what I say hurts my country. I never even think about saying anything. You may call it

blind obedience, but I call it cheerful obedience. How else can an army function? Especially when its at war? No, youve got a job to do and orders to obey. I suggest you do them both. Yes sir, but.... But what? You, specialist, are damned lucky you havent already been court-martialed. Your ass has been on the line for awhile with all your Chinese girlfriends and staying away from work for so long. Both Captain Jeans and I can attest to that. So, if you want to express your opinion, I suggest youre heading for more trouble and maybe, even, a court-martial. I hate court-martials. Did you know that I was in the army for ten years before I even heard of a special court-martial. Ten years! Now theyre common as hell. And why? Because of people like you who think they know more than the government. Ive seen privates talking back to sergeants, and specialist thinking

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they know more than lieutenants. Lower ranking men talking back to higher ranking men! Disgusting! Id sooner send a man to jail then let him get away with talking back to his superiors. Now I told you not to talk to newsmen, and for you that should be reason enough. Colonel Pearson squints at Shea, daring him to speak. I can see Shea holding back. Is this the time to tell the colonel what he really thinks? Would it be worth it? Or is the Chinese whore in Cholon more important. The colonel waits for Shea to say something, but Shea smiles, a smirky smile, and says nothing. The whore is more important. *** One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do Two can be as bad as one It's the loneliest number since the number one No is the saddest experience you'll ever know Yes, it's the saddest experience you'll ever know *** My tongue is dry. My tongue is thick. I elbow Snuffs ribs and worry about the future. Last night I cast the I Ching but it had nothing to say. The hexagrams were mildew, like my feet, rotting from sweat and fungus. I am dumb from too much marijuana. I think of home. Pleasant letters from girls I knew. Some talk about being pregnant, loneliness, some talk about the latest movies and family. I carry vague connections.

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When I got my draft notice, I tell Snuff, I should have them. You would have gone to jail. Think so? Shit yeah. Jail is their best threat. I say fuck them all, but not all the way. I say fuck them all, all the way. I sing: Mrs. Murphy had giant teeth That snapped at your lips And scared your cheeks, But all in all And with some luck Mrs. Murphy was a pretty good fuck. *** Snuff is grinning. I can see his teeth. He swallows a waft of smoke and lets out a wheeze. Can you imagine living in Saigon for the rest of your life? He cringes. We are anxious to get out of our past, the things we have seen. The old lady dying from grenade shrapnel, next to her, a skinny soldier already dead. Children weeping. Noise every where. You should be glad it wasnt you, Snuff says. It could have been you. That would have shit. If anyone should die around here its them. Its their war. They wanted it. written FUCK YOU across the page and sent it back to

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*** The morning after I first saw someone die in this war, Hill stuffed a pancake into his mouth and acted disgusted by my reaction. Havent you ever killed anything? he asked. Its the easiest thing to do, and real easy once youve done it a couple of times. Hill considered himself an authority on killing things - most especially small animals. When he was a boy he spent weekends hunting with his father. He loved the excitement of hunting. Hills memory: I remember the day I shot my first deer. I hid behind some brushes in the woods and waited for one to come into view. I waited for an hour when suddenly, right before my eyes, I saw this big, golden deer. It stood in this opening in the forest. I think even God wanted me to kill it because it was the only place the sun was shining. I was so nervous I thought Id stop breathing. But deer are dumb and it stood there like no one was around and then, get this, it bent its rear legs and took a shit. I never thought about deer shitting. It looked kind of funny. Even pathetic. It was so caught up in its shitting that it didnt even notice me aiming my rifle and imagining where I

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was going to put the first bullet. Imagination has a lot to do with hunting. You just dont pull the trigger like some of these assholes around here. You put an image in your head and imagine where the bullets will go and how it will penetrate the animal and then what the animal will look like after its shot. At first I imagined Id shoot him right between the eyes, but I wasnt that good a shot yet, so I waited for the deer to come a little closer and turn sideways. It seemed like hours before it turned, but then, BLAM! and that little fucker dropped faster than a lead ball. I was surprised by how fast it fell, but I kept my cool and pumped a few more rounds into its belly to make sure it was dead. Afterwards, I felt kind of high, you know, my head was light and I felt a little dizzy. I didnt think it would be that easy. I still got the head. My father stuffed it and put it in his garage next to the head of the first dear he shot. Hill finished his breakfast and lit a small, almost black cigar. Smoke clouded his unshaven face. He blew his nose into a napkin then vigorously wiped his nose clean. Theres nothing like hunting to cure your fear of killing someone. In a way it makes you feel good. Alive. One summer a bunch of us got cases of beer and went hunting for ground squirrels. We got so drunk we shot so many

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squirrels they filled up the entire back of the truck. By the time we got home the next day, the little fuckers were smelling so bad their stink was all over us. No one wanted to get near us. My girlfriend almost vomited when we pulled up to her house to show her all the squirrels. She made me throw the clothes I was wearing into the garbage. What did you do with the squirrels? We threw them away. Theyre no good to eat. You hunt them for fun. And I mean fun! For one thing, theyre sharp and hard to outsmart. If youre alone you cant kill them. You need a couple of guys. One guy hides and the other chases the squirrel right into where youre hiding, then Wham!, you shoot them as close as ten, maybe twenty feet. Its funny as hell to see their reaction when they discover its a trap. They freeze, so its hard to miss. Becomes a carnival shooting gallery. In a way theyre like slopes: easy to kill when you really want to kill them. He rose from the table, turned and strutted out of the mess hall. Ribbons of cigar smoke followed him. Ribbons. *** We're caught in a trap I can't walk out Because I love you too much baby Why can't you see What you're doing to me

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When you don't believe a word I say? We can't go on together With suspicious minds And we can't build our dreams On suspicious minds *** SNUFF SPEAKS: Before they sent me here I was an honor guard in Georgia. I helped carry coffins to the graveyards. Bad duty. Depressing. After awhile I got good at guessing how much of a guys body was inside the coffin. Sometimes I could feel a body bumping and sliding around. No arms. No legs. Sometimes nothing but arms and legs. Once we were carrying a coffin over a muddy road to a brand new graveyard. There was only open field, and the guy who was inside was going to be the first person buried there. It was really strange. All morning it sprinkled rain so the casket handles were slippery wet. then there was the family crying and screaming and his wife wailing and throwing her body across the coffin. Every time she did I thought we were going to drop the coffin. The worst came when we got to the grave site and one of the guys standing on the edge of the grave fell on top of the coffin when the earth gave way. Then we all started slipping and the coffin hit the ground and I could feel the guys body bounce

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inside. It was a mess. After that every one kept on slipping in the mud. The chaplains prayer book fell in the mud and got soaking wet. He had to make up the ceremony from memory. I couldnt look at the family. I thought the mother was going to throw herself into the grave. Her husband held her back but she kept on sliding around in the mud. Tell the truth, I was glad they gave me orders here. I dont think I would have survived that duty. *** Shadows grow inside the two of us, seep out of our mouths and walk behind the refrigerated coffins where volunteers and draftees sleep forever. Do they have the right arms and legs? Are their dog tags jammed behind their teeth? Was their uniform starched and pressed? Were their boots polished to a shine? Boots! And the feet sweat. The feet burn. The feet sing: Hey, look my toes are falling off, Must be I got the Jungle Rot! Every one, one two three, Grab your partners and sing with me: Do the Jungle Rot, Do the Jungle Rot Wipe your feet with dirty socks And do the Jungle Rot.

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So we sit on bar stools in old Saigon , our feet rotting off while on the TV above the bar Ricardo Montalban warns us not to sell our military script because it helps the enemy buy AK47s. But do they have the Jungle Rot? Or are their feet clean or not? *** What the hell are you talking about? Snuff asks as he pushes my shoulders and shakes me. Come out of it! Youre too stoned. We need to go on a cyclo ride. What time is it? Nine. Why? I thought it was the middle of the night. I really thought it was the middle of the night. I need Gummer, Snuff says. Im tired of this shit box roof top. I can smell the Frenchmen who died here in the fifties. Snuff is anxious to descend the stairwell down the side of the hotel. It spirals down the street and leads to the alleyway. I rise from the bench and search for the money I received from selling my beer ration to a taxi driver. The driver grunted when he lifted the cases of Budweiser. You numba one GI, no numba ten. He didnt know what he was talking about. Im like everyone else. If anyone in the

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world saw me now they would say they never knew me. I find the money and follow Snuff across the patio. Another cyclo ride to the bars and whore houses and the black alleys and the wide streets and the along the docks and out to Cholon. Mounted in a plump basket in front of a motor bike, we are carried like children through the city. We find our way to the top of the stairwell. Snuff grabs the railing because hes afraid of losing his balance. We begin our descent. I look up and see a small part of the white moon. Beneath me a dark ocean of city where sane-less men can easily drown. *** Maybe were all drowning. Maybe we already drowned and are walking under the ocean. Maybe when we return home Snuff will drown in more drugs and overdose in a Florida motel while he waits for his girlfriend to come out of a shower. Our descent is noisy with the clanking of our boots. Nine stories down and on every floor we can look into the cramped rooms of bunk beds and posters of naked women and stacks of uniforms washed and pressed by tiny old ladies with large hats and thin blouses. Shea lives on the eighth floor. When hes there. The room is empty now. I can see a

small light and a stack of black and white porno pictures

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and a uniform laid out on

the bottom bunk

waiting for

someone to wear it. No one shares a room with Shea. Thats how Captain Jeans wants it. Hed be a bad influence on the other men. Drinks too much. Smokes too much. Has no respect for authority. If Captain Jeans had his way Shea would be in jail, but its Vietnam and the only jail is here and everywhere. *** Theyre all fucking assholes, Shea said as he was ordered by Captain Jeans to take the early morning guard duty shift or suffer severe consequences. Ever since the episode with Green, Specialist Green as Shea called him, Shea has been afraid of guard duty. But stop, tell the story: I had guard duty on the roof-top of the old French mansion with Specialist Green. The roof is flat except for the flag tower thats used as a communication room. Teletypes, telephones and a top secret telephone booth were stuffed into the cramped tower when they first converted the mansion into the headquarters of the transportation group, but the most obvious structure is the green and white dragon thats coils like a guardian on the spine of the roof. The Japs built the dragon in 43, a symbol of domination, I think. It curls and sneers at the Saigon let Shea

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river and, late at night, I think it screams at the dark. But thats just my imagination at work. That night I wanted to be with my whore, but instead I spent the night with Specialist Green and his neurotic bullshit. I tried to ignore him and the dragon, but

Specialist Green said the dragon was a symbol of bad luck and that Id better be careful about what I said. Specialist Green said the dragon reminded him of the Jesus picture his mother had on her living room wall. The Jesus eyes followed him around the couch and chair, behind the television and to the entrance to the hallway that led to his bedroom. Green came from San Francisco, and he said his soul hung outside his body like a wrinkled handkerchief turning black because he hated the Jesus picture so much he wanted to destroy it. I like guard duty at six in the evening because the city is still noisy with the noise of the street markets and whore bars. The workers along the river are still unloading supplies and you can hear the sailors laughing and playing cards on the decks of the old Victory ships. In the evening no one seems to worry about dying or getting rocketed, but at night, everything is different. The worst shift is from two in the morning to daybreak. The city is very quiet then, and its easy to be

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afraid of every sound. A motor scooter suddenly becomes a guerilla on the prowl, and music from a juke box in the bar a block away sounds way too lonely. Specialist Green hated the bars and the whore. He even predicted that he would die between two and six in the morning while a whore gave a hand-job to the MP who guarded the entrance to the mansion gate. Green imagined that the MPs throat would be quietly slit as the MP ejaculated all over the girls hand, and he asked me to shoot him if I found him with his throat cut open and still alive. I promised him I would shoot him - it didnt matter to me - but then again, I always make promises I dont keep. Every whore I meet I promise to take back to the world. Sometimes the promise gets me a free piece of ass and marijuana. Sometimes it gets their trust and they want to move in with me. One of the girls, a refugee from a village in the Delta, trusted me enough to take me to her alleyway home. We fucked in a small room where the entire family slept on the floor. No one awoke as we spread a grass mat in a corner. Her grandfather slept next to use and I saw his shadowy figure and the hole of his open mouth wheezing. I even promised the girl Id take her grandfather back to the world, too; the old man shuddered in the dark and almost woke up. Then, his vibrating snore suddenly

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stopped. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. His eyes never blinked, and he never turned to see fucking his granddaughter. He closed his eyes, turned his back to us, and never woke again. I was lucky that night because thirty minutes after I left, a rocket from across the river destroyed the alley and killed everyone in the girls family except a brother and a small baby who were sleeping under a window ledge. Rockets attack Saigon without any warning. They sail in from the low fields across the river, without sound or any specific direction. Most of the time they explode in the overcrowded tenement buildings jammed with refugees sleeping in hallways and cluttered rooms. They rarely hit the bars on TuDo street, or the cargo ships docked along the river. One of the rockets almost killed Specialist Green. The attack came at five it the morning when the two of us were standing guard. I was on one side of the roof balcony talking into my steel helmet and trying to stay awake. Green was on the other side of the balcony staring at the dragons eyes and plotting to cover them with black paint. He thought the black paint was the only way to stop the eyes from moving and following him around; besides, he said, a blind dragon was a symbol of good luck. Anyway, the

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rocket that almost killed Green exploded in front of the sandbag bunker directly below us. The night turned a sudden whiteness. The old mansion shuddered, and Green was thrown against the towers wall, right beneath the dragons jaw. Something left his body because he suddenly went very pale. His pores opened all at once, and the ghost that lived inside him flew out like water through a sieve. Green said it was a ghost that had been living inside of him ever since he was a boy. The first time he felt it was at his next door neighbors funeral. The neighbors casket had been placed in the living room for everyone to view the body. Green said that the body smelled sweet and when no one was looking he poked the neighbors face and felt powder on his fingers. Nothing moved. Not even the purple lips he had once seen smoking a needle thin pipe. Green felt weird so he hid in a corner, but he said he saw the neighbors ghost get up and smile and drink a glass of wine. The ghost said nothing and simply watched Green back out of the room and hide behind his mother and her large, leather purse. Green knew from that day on we all had ghosts inside our bodies and that the ghosts were always waiting to be released. He said it didnt always mean death when they got out of your body, but something was suddenly missing from inside the body and it didnt

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take long for you to figure it out because youd walk around feeling an emptiness inside of you. After the rocket attack Green spent the next day at the infirmary under observation. They wanted to see if blood would spurt out of his nose and ears from internal bleeding. He tried to tell them that his real insides had already escaped , but they didnt believe him and sent him to a psychiatrist who told him it was a reaction to the rocket blast. When Green told him that he had lost his soul, the psychiatrist just looked at him and sent him back to duty. When Green came back to guard duty, his hatred for the dragon was driving him mad. It was nothing but bad luck. A guide for rockets. It even gave him visions. He swore he could see the rockets whenever and wherever they

were fired. Clear as needles. And he saw where they landed. One night he saw them land on Bien Hoa. Another night he saw them destroy a bridge outside of Cholon. Now that my soul has left me, he said, my ghost is wandering out there without me. Thats why I can see rockets. After that I decided I needed to go AWOL for a couple of weeks. I had a whore in Cholon and sure enough she told me that there had been rockets exploding near her home, the same rockets that Green had told me about. When I got back,

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Jeans put me on extra guard duty, and I was back on the roof with Green who had turned into a real nut. He sat beneath the dragon, cross-legged and said he could see war everywhere in the world. I saw a death in Africa, he said, just the other night. A man reached over to drink from a canvas bag and a mortar went through his back. The visions are spreading. Theyre going to eat me alive. His visions spread into European back streets, the old buildings, emergency vehicles and screaming bodies falling out of the sky. He saw a woman in New York City in a cellar, half naked, her head on a pin-striped pillow, a bullet between her eyes. He saw a car explode in Miami and a Cuban blown into pieces, his cigar flying into the front room where Greens mother was writing a letter with the Jesus eyes watching her. He even got a letter from his mother who said people were dropping bombs everywhere. The neighbors car was cherry-bombed and gutted by fire. She had to leave Baltimore. She had to hide somewhere safe. She hated the news because someone she knew could be among the daily list of the dead and assassinated. She had to go north but she had no money. Only debt. Lots of debts. The letter drove Green over the edge. He walked from

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one end of the balcony to the other promising to get home somehow. Shea. I need you t help me on this one, he finally said. Ive got to get out of here. Now? At three in the morning? I said. Nam. Ive got to get out of Nam. He slumped against the dragons foundation and propped his M-14 against the wall. I want you to smash my kneecap. Are you crazy? Theyll never be able to repair a kneecap. Youll be crippled for life. I cant take these visions anymore. Theyre like bad trips. Real bad trips. What makes you think theyll end once youre out of this place? Its this place! This dragon. This city This war. Ive got to get out of here and youve got to help me. A flare burst over the river and hissed. Green looked beyond the sparkling light and said if I didnt crush his kneecap, hed throw himself off the roof. I would have let him but I also wanted to hit him. Green was an annoying asshole. Whining about everything from food to how much it cost to have a whore. If they catch me Ill go to jail, I said.

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Ill tell them I fell. They wont know anything. Just help me. I thought about it and then decided to end his whiny voice. I gave him my green handkerchief and told him to crumple it in his mouth and bite down hard. He wadded it into a ball and pushed it between his teeth. We waited for the flare to fade and burn itself out in the river. He looked at the tip of his left boot, wiggled it side to side, and told me I was an angel. Me an angel! More like a fucking devil! I lifted the M-14 by the moist barrel and, like a baseball hitter, aligned the rifle butt to this knee. The flares almost out, I said. Hold your breath, bite down and dont scream. The hiss of the flare sputtered. The light dimmed and the night got very black. I swung the rifle at Greens vague figure and felt the soft jolt of wood to bone. Greens voice suffocated behind the green handkerchief. He didnt even moan. He was taken to the same hospital that treated him for shock. I caught up with him the next evening and found him asleep by a window that overlooked a helicopter pad. Red Cross choppers thundered around him. Up and down. Up and down. I thought hed wake up but he stayed sleeping.

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Like he was almost dead. I left and went back three days later but he was already gone. A nurse told me that all the doctors were busy the night he came in - there had been a pretty bad firefight nearby -so they simply amputated Greens leg because they had no time to repair it. They sent him back to the states the afternoon before my visit. I got only one letter from Green three months later. The letter said nothing about his leg. He said his mother had died of a heart attack shortly after he returned home. He tried to spread her ashes over the Chesapeake Bay, but a policeman stopped him and told him he had to go out to sea to do that. It was against the law to spread someones ashes along the shore. He decided to keep her ashes in a metal jar in the back of his refrigerator. He ended by inviting me to Baltimore. Said I could get a lot of good smoke there, and that he had a next door neighbor who was beautiful and would fuck me. He said he still had visions. One was about a Vietnamese boy standing by a light pole and pissing out blood. A nurse told him to stop but the boy couldnt stop pissing and pissed out so much blood that the gutters were flooding. Blood was up to everyones ankles, and then, get this, he saw me floating face downward towards TuDo street. He said the vision came to him while he was driving over a bridge near Chesapeake

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Biscayne to watch a sunrise. He said the vision meant I should be careful or else something bad was going to happen to me. I read the letter and decided to go AWOL with my girl for a few days. I needed to get away. I think thats when Captain Jeans really decided to court martial me. He wanted me to check out some jeeps in Bien Hoa but I was nowhere to be found. And, to tell you the truth, I really didnt give a shit. *** Do you know the way to San Jose I've been away so long I may go wrong and lose my way Do you know the way to San Jose I'm going back to find some peace of mind In San Jose *** I spiral down the metal stairs, Snuff far in front of me. He almost runs down because he is afraid of falling, but I am caught in the spiral. I grope the railing like a blind man. One slip and I could fall to the ground and wake the mamasan sleeping on the cobbled alley floor next to her grandson. They sleep on a straw mat under an army canvas. In the daytime the boy sells marijuana in wrapped cigarette packages - 20 for a dollar. Theyre called Park Lane and they come with filter tips. Others are soaked in opium and also neatly wrapped. Theyre 20 for a dollar, too. They

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knock your head off. One moment youre sitting in a bar and the next moment youre in a hotel lobby across town in Cholon talking to a papasan who serves formaldehyde beer and smirks at your rolling eyes and bobbing head. All you want to do is lie down - anywhere - and watch the spinning darkness and the naked whores massaging your neck and holding a tube to your mouth and more opium more opium more opium until you dont even know if youre dead. Ill wait for you in the front of the hotel, Snuff yells from the alley. I watch one foot follow the other. Im a spider crawling down a net woven to the wall. I can spy into each window where men clutter in bunk beds and smoke and drink and wait to go back to duty, the mindless duty of war offices and guard posts and driving officers to meetings where the war is going well. If you can believe it! In a pale green room on the eighth floor, I can see Sergeant Rodriguez lying on his small bed, his right arm across his face, his left arm dangling off the side of the bed, a book on the floor. He must have fallen asleep reading because he has his boots and pants on . And then again, its Rodriguez and hes always prepared for something. Hes all determination and focus. A small volcano with sporadic eruptions.

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I got my energy from living with my family. Everyones crazy in my house. My mother - she lives on tranquilizers and hates living in America. My father hates me because I didnt join some secret organization to overthrow Castro. My sister - my poor sister - shes very sick. Always sick. Has some emotional disease. The last time I was home she told me not to ever come home again or else one day the house would trap me like it trapped her and Id never leave again. Even the dog is crazy! Thats what they do. Drive everything crazy! In his sleep Rodriguez looks at peace. I think its funny that in the room right below him, Brickel, the company clerk, is holding one of his queer parties with a group of Marines. In fact, he could be sucking a cock right now as Sergeant Rodriguez snores. *** Sergeant Rodriguez on homosexuals: I hate fags! All of them. Fairy boys! Swizzle wrists! Butt fuckers! I hate them all! I cut one with a knife once. In New Jersey. He gave me a ride home and tried to touch my leg. I cut his cheek with my pocket knife. The fucker! I should have stabbed him in the ear. I hate Castro but hes doing one thing right: getting rid of all the fags! ***

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Brickel is a queer Brickel is a queer He loves the smell of underwear Brickel, Brickel, Brickel is a queer *** I knew from day one that Brickel was a queer. He tried hard to hide it, but the soft way he typed up ration cards and leave papers and walked around his desk touching his little glass paper weight or opening his mail with a stiletto knife - all too fluid, all too feminine. I dont know if Sergeant Rodriguez suspected him, but Captain Jeans knew something was different about him because the good captain treated him with tremendous care. Hes the best company clerk is this part of Vietnam, was his excuse, but I think he enjoyed Brickels feminine touch in the cramped closet of the company office. No, he didnt get blowjobs! He just gave Brickel free range over company matters - who was going on R and R first, who was going to accompany the colonel when he inspected Dong Ha or Cua Viet or Danang, who was going to get an extra ration card (under the table) because Captain Jeans thought the person was doing a good job. Now Captain Jeans was also pretty dumb when it came to reading people, and, in spite of Brickels girlish gestures, Jeans was determined to believe that Brickel was

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a family man who was married and had two children back in Washington D.C. Brickel would receive tapes from home and everyone who was in the office would have to listen to the little kids squealing and saying how much they missed him. They never called him Daddy, or anything like that, Snuff said. And notice, you never hear a wife talking. Hes got to be a fag. Just the same the tapes were there and they convinced Captain Jeans - and most everyone else - that Brickel was as much a man as anyone else in the unit and would probably kill anyone for saying something else. But I found out. I found out. *** I can see Snuff in the alley. A shadow. Smoking and cackling and talking to the shoeshine boy and his grandmother. Hes probably buying more smoke. Im on the seventh floor and I can see into Brickels room and although its dark I know something is going on because Brickel -in his own words - loves to give blow jobs. *** Whole Lotta Love Whole Lotta Love You need Loving *** Brickels room is above mine. Im on the sixth floor.

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His room has a small balcony that overlooks the courtyard and on many nights music floats out his window, echoes against the chipped walls and old paint, and slides like dark prophecies through the window blinds: Mother, mother, we dont have to escalate..... A silk voice. A reminder that the war is everywhere. The music is clear. Brickel has the best sound system in the hotel - except for Florido. I sometimes wonder if the two of them have their own little black market. It would be an odd combination. Grumpy and Picky. Macho and Sissy. The night I found out Brickel was queer I was lying on a canvas cot alone on the rooftop and sweating from the Saigon heat. I spit in the air and let it fall like a spray on my body. My elbow was hurting from the beer bottle gash and the pain only made me think about the time in my childhood when Jimmy Mulligan beat me to a pulp for calling his father a cripple. Mulligan was 12 and I was nine. He was in love with my sister. She was fourteen and the color of a brown beetle. Her skin glistened and she had a birthmark the shape of a quarter moon on the back of her neck. Whenever Mulligan saw her, he wanted to touch the birthmark. Mulligan lived across the street where his father sat

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in front of the living room window, immovable and mostly mute. His spine was broken from an auto accident. Most of his body, from neck to toe, was useless. His head flopped sideways and when he tried to talk there was only a gurgling sound. Mulligan started the fight. He liked to pull my hair while spinning me around, calling me pussy boy or little turd. I usually took it, but one day he pulled my hair so

hard I thought he was going to yank it out in clumps, I screamed, Youre a dump cripple like your dad. He stopped spinning me, but then he proceeded to pound on my body and threw me against an abandoned car my father had left in the front yard. My face hit the side mirror and I smashed my ear until it bled. I was in pain for at least a month, and Mulligan never talked to me again. So hating pain, hating heat, sweat all over me, Ray Charles drifting to the rooftop Georgia, Georgia, the whole day through..... his voice an invitation to visit Brickels room, just an old sweet song.....I walked down the three flights of stairs in a t-shirt and underwear.

Rubber flip-fops slapped against my feet. The smell of fried fish from the Koreans room.....keeps Georgia on my mind....I knocked on Brickels door....Georgia, Im say Georgia....and there was Brickel in his underwear holding a

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beer, his chest shiny from humidity. Panting. Out of breath......a song for you....What are you doing here? he said, behind him ghostly shadows swayed to....comes as sweet and clear....I heard the music and thought Id stop by, I said. A black light laminated the room with purple shade. The ghostly shadows pressed against each other....as moonlight through the pines....Come in. Come in. I just never expected a visit from you. I always thought you didnt like me. What are you talking about? I asked, knowing I didnt like him because he acted like a little bitch delivering messages for the captain, posting them on a cork board and happily underlining each mans duties for the week. I heard the music from the roof. Were having a little party, he giggled. You can come in if you dare. Ray Charles groaned into Barbara Streisand...People, people who need people....and Brickel led me into his room and said The beer is in the bathroom then disappeared into the crowd of dancing ghosts...are the luckiest people in the world.....I stood next to a black light poster of Jimi Hendrix, a halo shivering around his puffy head, his presence out of place..... Everyone in their underwear. Unfamiliar shadows. Dog tags glittered pale yellow. They

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paid little attention to me, the awkward watcher, gawking as I made my way toward the bathroom for a beer....we're children, needing other children...on one side of the room beds were pushed against the wall, and shadows lolled on them rubbing, squirming, laughing.....and yet letting our grown-up pride hide all the need inside....a long arm reached out of the black light and wrapped around my shoulder. It belonged to a tall shadow with a squealy voice. Hi! Im from Long Binh. Wanna dance? I didnt know what to say. Men dont ask other men to dance. I slid out from under his arm and said I was told there was beer in the bathroom. My goodness! Theres lots of things in the bathroom, he twittered. Would you like me to take you there? I think I can find it. I live upstairs, I said as that gave me secret knowledge of every room in the hotel. Ok, the shadow replied and he mingled with the dancers....Acting more like children than children.....who were hanging over each other and swaying. The bathroom door was closed, and when I knocked no one answered. I opened it and found Brickel on his knees sucking a large olive cock and masturbating himself. When he saw me from the corner of his eyes he seemed to grin and pushed the cock deeper into his mouth. I was curious to see

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Brickel swallow the entire cock, but I was also uncomfortable, so I turned around and weaved my way out of the party....Lovers are very special people.

The next day Brickel gave me an extra ration card. He didnt tell me not to tell anyone what I had seen, but he did say he knew I liked to sell things on the black market, and that it was ok with him and he wouldnt tell anyone like Captain Jeans or the colonel, and thats the way it should be because everyone in Vietnam was doing something he didnt want other people to know about. Thats most people everywhere, I said, and he smiled and explained that half the men the night before were Marines from Long Binh who got a weekend in Saigon for having an exquisite number of KIAs when they were up on the DMZ. Marines? Yeah. A pretty tough bunch of mother fuckers if you ask me. We never talked much after that, but, once in awhile, Brickel would slip me an extra ration card to keep me illegal; and, without hesitation, Id go to the PX in Cholon and buy cigarettes and beer and small appliances and immediately sell them on the black market.

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*** How can I be sure In a world that's constantly changin' How can I be sure Where I stand with you *** I wonder if the bolts will pop free of the wall, and the metal stairs will collapse under my feet. Anxiety. I exaggerate the distance to the ground. Panic. My head buzzes like a tiny electric motor. I hear my brain humming. It has a falsetto pitch of tones. I am nine years old and standing next to my father who sits on a high stool in a barroom drinking down his wages. He flirts with a chubby barmaid and leaves her tips that should have paid the electric bill or gas bill or any other bill we had piling up on the kitchen table and haunting my mother like war. My father drove himself into madness with alcohol and lust. Twining down the stairs. My legs moving quickly. My father disappears into his invisible death and the Woodlawn cemetery where snow and rain turn his ground placard green. I arrive at the second floor landing. Snuff yells, Youre almost here, asshole. Twenty , more steps! Run down the mother fucker! Like a swimmer preparing to swim a long distance under water, I inhale and exhale through my teeth. Here I come,

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mother fucker, I yell back. If I fall, dont pick up the pieces. I rush down the last twenty steps. Metal rattles. The stairway shakes. Round and round. Twining and twining. I am dizzy, but when I make it to the final steps, I leap to the ground and almost fall on my face. Some day youll run down all the stairs like that, Snuff says. Its quite a rush! Fuck no! Fuck yes! *** THE CYCLO The cheapest way to travel in Saigon is in a threewheeled contraption called the cyclo. There are two kinds: one is a carriage with a cushioned chair attached to the back of a bicycle and used for short journeys from home to market. GI tourists love their slow, quiet rides around plazas and traffic circles, the giant statue of two soldiers perpetually attacking an enemy, or the stiff ancient warrior hero pointing at the tawdry city. We rarely ride them and prefer the motorized version. It sits two in a wide carriage with a vinyl seat attached to a noisy motor scooter engine that vomits oily smoke as it nudges in and out of traffic. Next to tiny Honda motorcycles and

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bicycles, cyclos dominate the streets, bouncing soldiers over the bumpy brick roads but moving fast through the claustrophobic traffic. Cyclo drivers are usually skinny and are always smiling beneath a floppy hat or a safari hat or a ball cap or, when they can get them, an army jungle hat. They gather like drones around the military hotels dressed in white, short-sleeve shirts, black shorts or pajama bottoms and rubber thongs. Some of us worry theyre really VC waiting to drive us into an alley to cut our throats (Nelson), but most of us know theyre the guides to an underworld of sexual pleasure, smoke, or anything illegal you want to do. They take you to the pimps and whores and money changers and small boys who lead you to their sisters or mothers. They argue with you about the cost of everything and say things like beau coup or you numba ten, Gi, no numba one, or I gib you ti-ti. They are cunning and smart and

are good at conniving extra money out of drunken soldiers stumbling around TuDo street like lost children. Sometimes theyre unlucky. Like the time Hiam, a six foot four giant from Montana, got so tired of listening to a cyclo driver whine about the cost of carrying him around the city, he picked up the cyclo and the driver and flipped them on their side. Dont fuck with me, he shouted as he threw

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his beer bottle against a light pole. Im tired of being fucked by you little bastards. *** The alley leads to Hung Dao Street where the cyclo drivers gather under glaucous streetlights playing cards and smoking cigarettes. When Snuff and I appear the small shoeshine boy who lives in front of the hotel opens his shoeshine box stuffed with packs of marijuana. Packages of Park Lane. Cellophane wrapped. Filter tipped. Some soaked in opium. GI buy numba one cigarette, he nags, tugs at the edges of our fatigue jackets and follows us to the cyclos. A skinny driver pushes the boy aside and plants himself in front of us. His breath smells like vegetables and cigarettes. You wan numba one girl? he asks. I hab numba one mamasan. She gib you numba one fuck. Ten dolla. You have numba ten fuck, Snuff snaps back. The driver looks confused. He squints through one good eye. The other a wrinkled scar. No, numba one. No numba ten. You like, no pay. No like, no pay. His head bobs. He smiles and smiles and smiles until my face hurts from his smiles and smiles and smiles. Lets see what hes got, Snuff says. Maybe well find another Gummer.

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*** Gummer gives a hummer of a blowjob to the boys! Without a trick She gives a lick and makes us all her faithful toys! *** THE CYCLO RIDE The traffic on Hung Dao street is a tremor of noise. Trucks and jeeps and motorcycles push each other through an oily smog. The cyclo driver perches on his plump seat, rolls his shoulders and tips his head. His hand twitches on the handle-bar controls , and his foot presses the metal gears that cluck as the cyclo cuts into the traffic. I take you TuDo. Numba one mamasan. The engine loudly mutters and a surge of sudden power lurches us backward. A green military bus covered in protective screen roars next to us like an elephant. A soldier behind the screen smokes a cigarette and looks straight ahead. He looks new in-country. Afraid to look anywhere but forward. Afraid of the thunderous vibration of traffic. Hes been warned that the VC are everywhere. Under trucks. Riding sideways on the backs of motor bikes. Theyre even the long haired girls in white ao-dais flowing like flags. They wear pure white to stand for purity. The older unmarried ones wear shades of soft pastels. The

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married ones wear vibrating colors over white and black pants. They seem to hate the Americans. The cyclo driver curses the bus for pulling in front of him. He leans and turns the cyclo around the back of the bus but immediately hums up to a cluster of motorcycles puttering in idle because two jeeps have collided. A Vietnamese soldier is yelling at two American sergeants who are too drunk to notice that their jeeps bumper is locked into the bumper of the Vietnameses jeep. The cyclo driver, annoyed by the delay, spits and shouts and finds a way to slice around the traffic when he spots a small opening between the street and sidewalk. Cylinders vibrate. The left wheel of the cyclo rolls up on the sidewalk, and we all tilt sideways, squeezing around the traffic clog until we are on the open boulevard speeding towards TuDo street. The cyclo rattles in ecstasy. Take us to the pussy, Snuff sings as he lights a joint, cupping his hand around his lighter. You want numba one cigarette he asks the driver who grins and shakes his head no. We ride on a street of air. Glide over cracked concrete. Girls with long black hair stare at us, their ao dais blossom around them. A boy on a bicycle carries chickens on his back fender. An old woman squats in a

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doorway, a bright light blinding her. A Vietnamese soldier yawns next to her. Mustard faces. Two dogs chew on something red. Bald monks in yellow robes walk inside an aura. A woman sits on a stool with bamboo tubes stuck to the back of her neck. The tubes are hot and suck out disease. Fish cook on an outdoor grill. A man with one leg walks on crutches like a wounded spider. The cyclo speeds by them until we stop at a streetlight, and Snuff pulls out a fourth of July sparkler from under his fatigue jacket. He lights it and the sparkles sprays in all directions. He raises it above is head. This should show us the way, he says, and the driver laughs and we are no longer on a main street but on a narrow street of crowded slums and refugees jammed together over small televisions watching an astronaut bounce on a black and white moon courtesy of the Armed Forces Vietnam Network! The sparkler lights our faces. A blinding brilliance. No shadows. The night is shapeless. There is only the vibrato of the cyclo and a sudden brrrrrrrrr. Two small Honda motorcycles zip next to us. A boy shouts GI! GI! and one of them grabs the sparkler out of Snuffs hand and pulls ahead of us. The night of shadows slowly reappears and I see that the boy on the other Honda is waving a small pistol at us. GI. GI. Kill GI. He cackles with laughter

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and swerves in front of us. The sparkler waves in a circle and the boy yells So long, GI! and the two of them cut down a side street and disappear. The cyclo idles and the driver is frozen. I sorry, GI! I sorry. He doesnt want us to blame him. No VC. Cowboy. No VC. he says about the boys. Why in the hell did they do that? Snuff asks. They just wanted to scare us. Shit, if they had asked I would have given them all my sparklers! *** All the world over, so easy to see People everywhere just wanna be free Listen, please listen, that's the way it should be Deep in the valley, people got to be free *** The cyclo swings out of the side street and nudges through a crowded market place. Friday night. Crowds mob a multitude of food stands. Hawkers with ripe vegetables and luminous fruits. Dead animals hanging from hooks. Dead monkeys. Dead birds. Dead pigs. Dead dogs. Half-cut carcasses. Red and gray. Flies swelter. The sellers whip at them with rags. Kettles of boiling noodles. Columns of steam rise as small girls bend under plump rice bags. A lady with the right side of her face missing carries two

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squirrel monkeys on her forearm. A man with a snake wrapped around his throat. A boy swings a cage of multi-colored birds. Another boy carries three jittery roosters by their claws and jokes at a bald priest in orange robes. The priest holds a bowl in one hand and an umbrella in the other. On a corner a small group of men drink a formaldehyde beer and watch a magician produce flowers from under a handkerchief. An acrobat bends his rubber body backwards and bites a metal cup and drinks the water inside without a drop spilling from the side of is mouth. An amputee with no legs slides around on a tray with wheels. The people ignore him. Hes a bad omen. Giant loudspeakers located on high roofs whine atonal songs in high-pitched Vietnamese. I think of the song I read by Ho Chi Minh. When the prison doors are opened, the real dragons will fly out. As we nudge free of the stifling traffic and meandering crowds, the driver takes another side street passing the wall of assassinations. It was near here a Vietnamese general put a bullet in the head of a suspected VC. The photo made the world news. The VC in a plaid shirt with his instant grimace. The general with his casual indifference. Or so it seemed.

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*** It was Captain Jeans who pointed out that this was the famous spot that probably changed a lot of minds about the importance of the war. Driving back from a meeting of company commanders, he almost excitedly pointed at the wall and said, Thats it! Look! Thats it! Thats what? I asked. I had a case of dysentery and was squeezing the cheeks of my ass together hoping my bowels wouldnt explode and bubble out shit. Thats the wall. A lot of people were shot there. Tet 68. There isnt a person in Saigon who wont remember how scared shitless they were. The VC were everywhere. They even crawled out from under the old race track near Cholon. I was on the docks and they fired at us from across the river. I wanted to yell at them: Stupid fuckers, this is the crap you buy on the black market! I never want to go through something like that again! I tried to quickly maneuver through the traffic. The shit kept on trying to come out of my asshole. Captain Jeans chattered away, oblivious to the waves of chills that shivered my bowels. Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. As if he were the official historian of the Tet offensive.

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No one expected TET. Everyone thought the war was almost over. I was having trouble listening to Captain Jeans. My stomach trembled and a small amount of liquid seeped out of my ass. He went on talking anyway. Who knew the VC would pull a major attack on Saigon. They like to play tricks. Its their nature. A rumble of gas groaned in my lower gut. I was a first lieutenant then. I had been in-country for two months. Me and this other fellow, Ted Braddis. Poor fucker! The turmoil in my stomach went quiet. I thought maybe the last of the dysentery and passed out of me in that small stain of liquid. Captain Jeans continued, his mind landing somewhere else. Did you know that medieval peasants who tried to get rid of the plague, stuck their heads in urinals thinking theyd escape death? What happened to your friend, sir? Friend? What friend, specialist? The one you were just talking about, he came over with you. Oh, Braddis! He wasnt a friend. I didnt know him long enough to be his friend.

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Oh, sorry. Hes the one who is sorry. He was in-country two months. One morning he decides to get some water from the blister bag hanging outside our hooch and Bam!!!! a mortar round came in and blew off his legs and left arm. Bad luck! Worse. He got hepatitis from the blood transfusions, and the last I heard he was at some hospital in the states still bleeding at his stumps. Can you imagine leaving

parts of your body in this fucking sweat hole? I dont even want to leave my fingernails here. We drove down the street where a few years before a Buddhist monk soaked himself in gasoline and burned himself to a crisp. Jeans said, And right over there in TET I was shooting at anything that moved on the street. I hid behind those trees and just kept on firing without even looking. I kept on saying to myself Im not supposed to be doing this. I belong in an office! Damn! It was a good thing I took my basic training seriously. We turned on to TuDo street where bar girls in short skirts fanned themselves in bar room doorways and rolled their hips and shouted GI, Numba one! One of them ran toward the jeep at a stop light and touched Captain Jeans arm.

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Hey GI, where you go? Get your hands off me! the captain exploded. The bar girl shrugged her shoulders and hissed. GI numba ten. Numba ten. My bowels grumbled. I thought Id have to run into one of the bars before shitting all over myself. I ignored the captains reaction although I could see that he was uncomfortably self-conscious. Sir, I need to go to.... You need to get us back to base. Thats what you need. But sir, I.... Do as I say specialist. I turned the jeep off of TuDo street and drove along the river where small boats loaded large cargoes for transport to villages in the south. I wanted to swerve and watch Captain jeans fall out of the jeep just as I blew shit all over myself. The captain was unaware. He was lost in thought until he asked Tell me, specialist, did you ever go to bed with one of them? One of whom, sir? Those girls. Those bar girls. Once or twice. Once or twice!

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Yes sir. Dont you have a girl back home. specialist? Kind of. Yes sir. Dont you have any feelings for her? Some sir. He rubbed his palms on his knees. Did you think of her when...when you....you..... No sir. Not one thought.? I dont remember sir. Dont remember. She must not be much of a girlfriend if you dont remember. There were other things on my mind, sir. Other things! We slowed down and motor cycle fumes almost gagged the captain who had no idea that I was squeezing my ass so tightly I thought the shit would blow out my pores. Werent you afraid of getting a disease? Kind of. I guess. Did they ask questions about what you do. A lot of them are really VC or VC sympathizers. You know that! No sir. No one said anything. We never even talked. He paused and looked at me as if I were a freak of nature.

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I dont get it specialist. Are they that good? Pretty good sir. Especially the ones from the Australian bar. I dont want to hear any more of this, specialist. Im not married, but I do have a girl back home and I wouldnt want to bring her back some strange disease. Me neither sir. The captain fell into a trance of silence while I concentrated on containing the storm in my bowels. I sped up the jeep, shuttled around traffic and managed to reach a bathroom before the shit inundated my pants. *** Captain Jeans, the little machine, is really a man inside; he surely adores the Saigon whores but whenever hes near them he hides. *** We all want to hide. Slip into a safe coat of flesh. Become wind. Rain. Scattered ashes whirling through the burning villages. Beneath the coats our ricket bones change into rubber. We walk like deadly scarecrows. *** The cyclo bounces. Snuff yells at the driver to go faster as he partly stands and shouts Look Ma, no hands! and almost falls out. I pull the edge of his jacket, and he

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drops back into the seat. You trying to kill yourself? He sings: Back to back, belly to belly, I dont give a damn cause Im done dead already. The cyclo bounces over brick streets and rusting railroad tracks. Bounces and bounces and bounces. Snuff remembers roller coaster rides. His balls tingling. Whiplash. Almost falling out of the open car as it careened toward an abyss. I remember Revere Beach and the Cyclone and my drunken father dragging me toward the monster ride and calling me a little chicken bird for not wanting to ride with him to the top where a sailor fell out just as the cars dove down, down and up, up and the fright searing through me and my father laughing at me because I was so afraid to go downnnnnnnnnn! Youll go crazy being afraid of so many things. You think thats why Fitzmaurice went crazy. Fitzmaurice was born crazy. He was a pervert. They still made him a sergeant. They make anyone a sergeant! The army likes to do two things: give out rank and give out medals to every asshole that walks. Well you must be an asshole because they keep on wanting to give you a medal.

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Yeah, for sitting in a communications tower and jacking off! *** ARMY MEDALS So youre just sitting there looking out at the heat and the rain and the dark river where you have seen dead people floating and Sergeant Evans or Sergeant Rodriguez or Sergeant Fowler who is as small a Mickey Rooney walk in and hands you a medal and orders you take it because there are a lot of medals to go around and he says he has at least ten for service and you laugh because you have that dinky service medal you got for finishing boot camp and Sergeant Fowler frowns at your sarcasm and hands you a little box with a blue and green and white ribbon and says this is a JOINT SERVICE COMMENDATION MEDAL just for you and you dont know what you did to get a JOINT SERVICE COMMENDATION MEDAL so you toss the box with the medal and ribbon into a small drawer where there are other medals. Medals and more medals. Medals galore. They squeeze next to each other like little coffins. We have THE MEDAL OF HONOR THE SILVER STAR THE ARMY DISTINGUISHED SERVICE MEDAL THE BRONZE STAR THE PURPLE HEART THE JOINT SERVICE COMMENDATION MEDAL THE ARMY COMMENDATION MEDAL

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THE GOOD CONDUCT MEDAL THE NATIONAL DEFENSE SERVICE MEDAL THE VIETNAM SERVICE MEDAL THE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM CAMPAIGN MEDAL THE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM PRESIDENTIAL UNIT CITATION VIETNAM GALLANTRY CROSS UNIT CITATION and 62 more kinds of medals to pin on our living or dead bodies. *** Come on people now Smile on your brother Everybody get together Try to love one another Right now *** I told Evans to shove the medal up his ass, Snuff says as the cyclo putters on to TuDo street. He wanted to shoot me. He said I was hanging around with Shea too much. I told him the only thing I wanted from the army was my discharge papers. So he ordered me to talk to the captain. I guess he cant believe someone doesnt want his piece of shit medal. *** Somewhere in Dong Ha, stuffed like a sandbag in a smelly bunker, Evans must be stuttering hate and

indignation. His red face must be burning his yellow hair and the freckles on the back of his hands must be frying. Hes probably dreaming of getting rid of all the draftees, snapping their spines in twos, dipping their heads in vats

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of wax and sending electrical shocks into their ass holes. Hes probably screaming to himself but no one listens because he screams with a stutter. *** The cyclo jolts and stops on a corner at the end of TuDo street. Snuff finishes the marijuana. Smokes it down to the brown filter then flips it against a bar window where whores cackle and taunt and stick out their tongues like snails. Small. Straight black hair. Thick make up. They squeal and coo and cuss and stab long fingernails at the night and chant GI, buy me tea. GI numba one! GI! GI! GI! Along the length of TuDo street, tree trunks are cut and burning. The smoke mixes with the gasoline smog. The eyes sting. At one end of the street an immense statue of a soldier charges an invisible enemy. At the other end of the street the Virgin Mary smirks at the pimps and whores and money changers and the soldiers prowling the tea rooms and the infinity of bars. A street of thieves. A street of whores. A street of pimps. One of the pimps, his black mouth the smell of vegetables and cigarettes, escorts us off the cyclo and asks You wan numba one girl? I hab numba one mamasan. She gib you numba one fuck. Ten dolla. You have number ten fuck! Snuff replies, pushing the

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pimp aside. The pimp looks confused. He squints through one good eye. The other eye a wrinkled scar of flesh. No, numba one. No numba ten. You like, you pay. No like, no pay. His head bobs. His shoulders stoop. A slope Steppin Fletchit! Snuff laughs. Lets see what hes got. Maybe well find another Gummer. The pimp is excited and leads us into an alley of small lights and shadowy doorways. The alley is unpaved. Dirt and dust and so many angles we easily loose our sense of direction. Left. A woman crouched in front of a television watching a Vietnamese soap opera. A high-pitched actress weeps. Another left. And another. A man with no legs sits on a mat pushing strings of noodles into his mouth. A small child in underwear wraps his arms around the amputees neck. Hey papasan! Where you taking us, Snuff asks, but the pimp bends forward, shakes his head and mutters Numba one fuck. Numba one! Another turn and the alley narrows. There is less light but more people. Quiet people. Mostly staring. Some with hands reaching out. Some with heads looking down. And as we pass, a soft noise of song comes out of the dark. Where the hell are we? I ask.

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Fuck if I know. Maybe we should have gone to Gummers. It would have been easier. Hear that? We were close to the song now. Sounds like someone dying. Or someone making love. On a small stool a blind girl in a blue ao dai sits in a circle of light. Her skin looks like beige silk. Her hands are in a prayer position. She slowly rocks back and forth. Her song sounds sad. Isolated. Mythological. The pimp pats her on the shoulder as we pass, but she ignores him and continues singing. We turn into another alley and the pimp calls out in a shrill voice. We cant understand him. After one more turn it seems we have reached the end of the alley. Sitting in a doorway, silhouetted and small, an old woman drinks soup and slithers a long noodle into her mouth. She snorts. Mamasan hab numba one girl, the pimp says. They gib numba one fuck. You like. You pay. You no like. No pay. The mamasan slurped the soup and kept on snorting. How much? Snuff asks. Ten dolla short time. Twenty dolla long time. Reallll long time. Too much, Snuff argues. Five dollar long time. Five dolla? No. No. Ten dolla. Short time.

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Lets see what they got, I say. Then we can talk money. The pimp chatters and the mamasan grins. Black teeth. A black hole in her mouth. She stands up, all four feet of her, and holds the bowl of food against her stomach. You come. Numba one girl. Numba one. She shuffles into a smoky hall with yellow lights and the smell of artificial cherry syrup. A liquid spray from Hong Kong to mask the odor of body sweat and semen. In doorless rooms soldiers fuck and grunt, naked asses pump against small girls who stare at the ceiling and moan Ohhhhhh baby, Ohhhhh baby. The mamasan leads us to the end of the hallway and to a small room where five girls no older than 15 sit on pinstriped mattresses soaked in the stench of urine. Two of the girls are naked and playing cards. The others in grayish pajamas simply sit with their knees against their chests, gazing blankly and scratching insect bites.

This place smells like piss! Snuff says. Now Snuff isnt the kind of person wholl turn down a cheap whore, and he doubts that we would have to pay any more than five dollars for any of the whores, maybe even less. But the rooms were rancid and reeked and Snuff was sure that hed catch another dose of clap or maybe even something worse.

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One of the girls - the smallest, the thinnest, the one in gauze pajamas dotted with small birds - slides off the bed and unbuttons her top. Her face is powder white, but the rest of her is colorless. She grabs my hand and jerks my fingers. Numba one,GI. Ten dolla short time. I like GI. The other girls ignite into a frenzy and bounce on the bed. Numba one fuck, GI. No numba ten. I gib number one sucky. GI wan numba one pussy? The sweatiest girl shifts to the edge of the bed, curls up her legs and opens her pussy. Another girl rubs her belly, and another pushes her fingers into her vagina and squeals. The overhead light flickers - somewhere near Saigon a B-52 is dropping bobs. The ground rumbles, slightly vibrates. The girls laugh. Its all too much for Snuff. Fuck you, he says, I wouldnt fuck any of you with a steel prick. I start to leave but the mamasan stands in the doorway and shoves her empty soup bowl against my stomach. She

insists we look more closely at the girls. Have one of them. Two or three of them. Five dolla, she yells. Five dolla. Fuck you, Snuff says, and bumps the mamasan against

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the doorjamb. Her bowl falls and breaks on the floor. Its times like this you want to erase the last hour of two of your life. Go back in time. Create an alternative future. No escape! The tiny girls turn into vicious spiders when the mamasan wails and tried to pick up the pieces of the shattered bowl. Angry banshees. They leap on to our backs. Claw our necks. Rip at our clothes. Slap our heads. Snuff tosses them off like stuffed dolls, but the one with the small birds on her pajamas, is wild and determined to scratch off my flesh. She crawls over my back, shrieking, cawing, cursing. Her fingernails catch my ears and one of them slices my earlobe. Snuff sees the trouble Im in and tries to yank her off my back, but she wraps around my neck even more and wont let go. I swing in a circle, but she still clings to my shirt. Only when I back up and squash her against the wall does she let go and drop to the floor. Lets get the fuck out of here, Snuff yells and runs into the alley way where it seems like a thousand shadows emerge out of the dark shaking their fists with vengeance. Holy shit!

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And we run in the direction we came from. Panicked. Not looking back. We can hear the mamasan screaming like a siren alerting the world of our sins. The small girls scream. The alley people scream. The dogs scream. The cats scream. Even the rats scampering across the shit piles scream. And we keep on running. Caught in the maze of alleys. Forgetting landmarks. Without a guide. Two little green rats. Frantic. Foolish. How the fuck are we going to get out of here? Fuck if I know. Just keep on running. The alley voices are everywhere shouting, calling, telegraphing our running presence to everyone. We push aside any shadows that stand in our way. Stumble over pots and pans and beggars and small children holding out cigarettes. But we are running nowhere. We cant find TuDo street, or any street, only the interminable alleys. We are wheezing and sweating and ready to let loose with cries of panic, cries of shame, when a familiar voice calls out from one of the alley doorways. In here, you dumb fucks. Get in here! In the hazy doorway, in underwear and smoking a cigarette, standing like a savoir, is Shea. *** SHEA: The alley was filled with rats and mosquitoes. I was

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covered in mosquito bites. I scratched until each dot bled. I had a seventeen year old girl then. A great little fuck. She loved getting on top of me and twisting around in a circle. Anyway, I heard a lot of screaming outside of the room I was in and when I went out to see what was going on, I saw Sig and Snuff running like two scared chickens. SNUFF: I think I sweated off five pounds running down that

alley. I was like one of the rats, except I was probably more scared. Everyone looked like a deadly shadow, so when I saw Shea, standing under this little outside light and grinning, I thought I was seeing a mirage. All I could do was ask him what the fuck was he doing there. SIG: I was afraid someone would shoot me and leave me in that alley for the rats to eat. But when I saw Shea, the first thing I thought was wasnt he supposed to be on guard duty. Funny the things you think of in the middle of a crisis. SHEA: I didnt give a shit about guard duty. All I cared about was pussy, especially Hoas pussy. She was my flower and that night was our last night together and I knew we would never see each other again. SNUFF: Sheas girl friend was a beauty. A real beauty. SHEA: Her pussy was tight and she had never sucked a dick before she met me. There were a lot of girls like that.

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Young ones. Old ones. Theyd do anything for you because they hoped youd fall in love with them and bring them back home to the world. I got to admit I felt something for

each one of the girls I lived with but bring them back to the world? Never. Never. SIG: His girlfriend was all over him. Her blouse was open and I could see her small tits. She had a birthmark on one of them. A big brown spot that looked out of place. SHEA: I told them to get inside my room. The crowd looked pretty mad, but I figured theyd cool off once those two guys were inside. I was wrong. SIG: The room was small. Like a closet. I couldnt figure out how Shea could live in such a primitive place. There was only candle light. A thin, I mean thin, mattress on the floor. A couple of empty rice bowls and a bottle of Scotch. SHEA: I was in love, or I thought I was in love. Hoa was quite a girl and I maybe I would have taken her home to the world if the army hadnt threatened me with a court-martial. SNUFF: Shea told me he paid ten dollars for the room, and the mamasan who owned it - or rented it, I never did understand Vietnamese ownership, slept outside while Shea screwed this young girl. SIG: Shea never cared about anything. Or so it seemed. I could hear the small crowd outside the room. I thought they

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were going to charge in and drag us out, but Shea, true to himself, lit a joint and told us to smoke some to quiet down. SHEA: I loved smoking dope. Especially in Vietnam, Their grass is the best. Gets you higher than hell and its fun to fuck on. SNUFF: I smoked the grass and thought about getting back to the world and selling it for a lot of money and becoming rich. I have friends whod die for this kind of weed. Two hits and you start making an entrance into paradise. By the time youre finished, youre on the other side of paradise. SIG: Theres nothing like Vietnamese grass! SHEA: The crowd outside quieted down. I really didnt want to keep them in there for long because it was the last night I was going to be with Hoa. Sergeant Rodriguez was fucking me over. He was pushing Pearson to court martial me. Too many AWOLs. He wanted me court-martialed for abandoning my post or something like that. I mean, man, the charges were serious. SIG: I didnt think Rodriguez would go as far as courtmartialing Shea. Rodriguez was an asshole, a real asshole, but who would they have to blame if they locked up Shea. Just didnt make any sense. SNUFF: We sat there smoking for awhile. I liked Hoa. She

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had these big brown eyes and a sweet giggle that made you want to take her home to the world. SIG: I smoked but I was still worried about the crowd outside. There were probably ten of them and they werent leaving. They were waiting us out. I know they were. SHEA: Hoa was a beauty, I tell you. She was from the Delta. She had been in Saigon for only a month. I found her in a bath house. She was the towel girl. I knew from the moment I saw her I had to have her. 17! Ripe! Beautiful! I even thought it wouldnt be too bad to take her back to the World. But after Rodriguez got through with me, Id either be in Na Bhe or LBJ. He wanted to get rid of me one way or the other. SIG: I didnt think theyd do anything to Shea. The army doesnt work that way. Most of the time it covers up its fuck-ups. Makes the Colonel look bad who makes the major look bad who makes the captain look bad and so on and so on. SNUFF: The crowd outside got smaller, mostly a bunch of teenagers who hadnt been drafted yet, but they got noisier, too. Shea had Hoa stick her head out the door and see what was up. She came right back in. They were saying that we had beaten up some mamasan and they were going to get us for that. They also wanted to beat up Hoa because

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she was a whore for the Americans, but it was probably because she was from the Delta. The people in Saigon thought the people from the Delta were a bunch of hicks. SIG: Hoa got real scared. She scrunched in a corner and started to whimper. Shea had to hold her and tell her everything was going to be ok. We just had to figure a way to get out of there. SHEA: They were a bunch of teenage cowboys who would have cut off our balls for a dollar. I tried to comfort Hoa but she thought Sig and Snuff were just evil because they wanted to buy little girls. SIG: I couldnt believe everything got so turned around. The old mamasan sold dirty little girls for profit and lied about us because we didnt want to buy them. Could you think of anything more crazy! SNUFF: Everything had gotten crazy! I wished I had brought the .38 Florido had sold me because I would have shot my way out of that alley. Just like a western movie. Guns blazing. Everyone ducking. Riding out of the canyon like I was some sort of John Wayne. SHEA: I wanted to help those guys but everything was getting out of hand. Hoa wanted nothing to do with them. I wanted them to get out because it was probably my last time with Hoa, but we couldnt figure out a way of getting them

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around the cowboys. Outside the crowd of them were getting pretty worked up and I thought that any second they were going to come charging in and rip us all into pieces. Not pieces. They couldnt have done that because I would have blown a couple of them away. Shit, can you imagine what the news people would have done with that story. MASSACRE IN SAIGON and all that kind of shit happened because of a good reason. SNUFF: And then all the yelling stopped and all we heard was an old mans voice shrieking and sounding angry. Hoa stopped crying and Shea said That old son of a bitch! SHEA: It was the old man I called TuDo because he would buy and sell you anything, just like the street. Have twenty dollars green and hed exchange it. Military script? No problem. Money orders back to the state. You got it. Anything illegal TuDo had it or could do it. He was the first one to sell me heroin, but I didnt like it. I like speedy drugs because Im basically lazy. TuDo didnt like anyone getting in the way of his business, most especially the teenage cowboys who could ruin an alley by scaring away GIs who were always looking to buy something. And even though he was half French, he had the respect of the people and that mattered in the back alleys where they depended upon men like TuDo.

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SIG: Thank God for TuDo, thats all I got to say. SHEA: When I looked out I saw TuDo standing in front of the boys - there were like twelve of them - while all the other people disappeared. He held one of the boys by his shirt collar and was saying something like he would get them drafted in an hour if they didnt get out of the alley. He told one hed have their fingers cuts off. My Vietnamese wasnt too great because I could never get the pitch right, so sometimes I heard things that had little or no meaning. The boys panicked! They begged him to let their friend go and when he did, they beat it out of the alley. SNUFF: I bought some smoke from TuDo after that and told him anytime I needed to exchange money Id look him up. He smiled. He had a gap between his front teeth. SHEA: TuDo told me the old lady was always trying to cause trouble with her little girls, and he decided he was going to shut her down and take over her business. He didnt like selling prostitutes but this wasnt the first time some GIs got stuck in the alley because of her. When it came to business, TuDo didnt like anyone screwing with his, not even his own people. SIG and SNUFF: Thank God! SHEA: Yeah! Thank God! ***

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Only the strong survive Only the strong survive Hey, you gotta be strong You gotta hold on I said don't give up, no don't *** WHAT SNUFF AND I HAVE IN COMMON - Marijuana. The smell. The taste. The tingling head. The distortion of time. The seeds popping like firecrackers. The I dont give a shit attitude. - Led Zeppelin and a Whole Lotta Love, Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah! Sex in echoes and chiming symbols. - Hating the corruption in South Vietnam and the government that betrayed its people when they let Americans occupy their country. - The girls on motorbikes with ao dais floating like flags and their straight backs sitting nobly erect. - The money changers who exchange our monopoly looking military script for the piasters we take to the Chinese whores in Cholon. (Snuff) - Keeping a level head when talking to the MPs. Snuff treats them like lost friends: Hey, mother-fucker, hows your They taste better than slopes.

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family doing back in the world? - The steam bath houses and the tiny girls who lather up your body until you look like a snowman smothered in bubbles. - The truth: theres no such thing as the future. Where is it? Can you touch it? Fuck no! its all in your head the deadliest place to be. So why worry about anything. (Snuff again.) - The Beatles. We think theyre over-rated, especially songs like I want to Hold Your Hand and She Loves You, Yeah, yeah, yeah. What kind of dumb, teeny bop shit is that? They should have stayed in Liverpool. And what kind of name is Liverpool? A pool of liver! I think of a bloody piece of liver floating in a bowl of water. I hate liver! I hate the Beatles! - Having no regrets! Or maybe one: coming to Vietnam. I should have gone to Canada. Hell, I live close enough. But I thought I was doing the right thing. I didnt want to be like those self-righteous fuckers who wanted to know why I

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let myself get drafted because they never would have let themselves be drafted. And I say, Yeah, sure. And they say theyd run to Canada, and then they tell me their draft number is something like 335 and Id want to put my fist through their faces but Id act like a killer instead. Id tell them I couldnt wait to get to Vietnam because I wanted to zap me a Cong. That really shut them up. It even scared them! (Snuff, one more time) - The belief that psychiatrists are a waste of time. When you try to do something for your head, you always do it more damage. - Bangkok, Thailand. R and R. The best week of our lives. The bar girls with wallet sized cards that guaranteed their pussies were clean. The two midget Mexicans who sold the best tacos and fajitas. The ivory carved trinkets and bridges with laced handrails. The kings white elephant chained to a post at the zoo. The marijuana! Five dollars a pound. Green and without stems. The kings life-sized cardboard cut-out waving on every corner. The statue of the golden Buddha. The Buddha before enlightenment. The Buddha everywhere. Everyone suffers. Everyone has pain. - the 3x5 porno pictures we send home to friends with brief messages on the back like: You dont know what youre

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missing, or Having fun in sunny Vietnam. - the Chicago bar because all the whores know who we are. *** THE CHICAGO BAR isnt really a bar but a second floor walk up with a damp, dilapidated stairway the stench of urine. The bar is a room with small tables and wooden folding chairs and a plywood bar top with bins of ice and cans of Budweiser. Across the hall an old couple lives in another small room and collects 50% of all the profits made from the tea girls and money changing. The bar has only seven regular tea girls who are watched over by an obsessive mamasan. She counts every dollar more than once and smokes black cigarettes that smell like cabbage. The tea girls wear short skirts and no bras and suck down white strings of noodles slathered in a sauce of decayed fish - when theyre not hustling drinks. Snuff ate the noodles once and spent most of the night puking into an aluminum sink. Dao, the bartender, is a middle-aged Cantonese with wire-rimmed glasses and a wheeze in his lungs. He reads poetry and is always friendly. My friend. My friend. Dao no see you long time. You wan beer? And without waiting for an answer, he opens two can of Budweiser and slaps them

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on the bar. GI no come long time. GI work too much maybe? Dao loves to ask about what we do. Snuff thinks he may be a VC, but the army thinks everyone is a VC. I think he just likes to be friendly. He tried to teach me Chinese characters because he said they are pictures that mean more than words can say. He taught me

which means

PEACE.

You better start making all the money you can while theres still time, I tell Dao. The words out that Nixon will have us all out of here by next year. He wants to look good for re-election. Dow frowns. His face creases. GI go, Vietnam big trouble. VC kill Chinese. They no like Chinese. He pokes a towel in a glass and twists it around. GI money keep people alive. GI go. Bar girl hungry. Family hungry. Everyone hungry. Sad day GI go home. Snuff swallows half his beer. They should never have let us come here in the first place. Now that were leaving, everything is going sour. Money. Food. Clothing. You name it. Everything will be hard to get. The people wont know how to live.

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Vietnam no place to live, Dao replies. I live here all my life. Never see happiness. You never know. The Vietnamese have been around for a long time and theyve managed to survive everyone. Maybe French come back. Saigon happy when French here. The French are a bunch of tongue sucking perverts, Snuff says. You help them and they love you, but when you ask them for help they hate you. Bunch of perverts. Nothing more. Dao says he likes the Americans better than the French, but I think hes lying. He recites a poem he wrote

and says its about the French. It translates like this: The French are like air Fake dragons Tiny lizards They crawl under wet logs Puff up to fight But run when the fields are on fire! They leave dead insects behind! I think youre talking about the Americans, Snuff says. His eyes widen. No! No! Americans numba one, no numba ten. Dao doesnt want to make us mad. He hunches over the bar and pats Snuffs hand. French very bad. Americans very good.

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The bar is mostly empty. Aside from the two of us, there are only three other soldiers in the bar. Two are holding girls on their laps and rubbing their backs One is drunk asleep on a table. In the corner, unseen but powerful, the queen bee, the old mamasan, counts small piles of money and chastises one of her girls for not keeping a previous customer drinking. The girl is crying and asking forgiveness. Next to the record player that Dao keeps alive playing the same five albums over and over and over -she came in through the bathroom window a couple presses together

and pretend they are lovers while the other girls cross their legs, chew gum, smoke black cigarettes, and gaze at the empty doorway hoping to hear someone coming up the stairs. Some of them are attractive, although they powder their skin white and their red lips are sticky wet. One of the girls plays cards with an obsessive concentration. She

reminds me of Ling, the eighteen year old refugee from the Delta. **** I met a gin-soaked, bar-room queen in Memphis She tried to take me upstairs for a ride She had to heave me right across shoulder ' Cause I just can't seem to drink you off my mind

LING

****

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called herself Ann and sometimes Grace. She was liked because she tried hard to look like and talk like an American. She studied English with a Red Cross nurse who

tried to keep her out of the bars, but there was more money, much more money, in being a tea girl. Tea Girls are not prostitutes although prostitutes are tea girls. Tea girls will sit and talk to you, depending on their English. Theyll stroke you, comfort you, admire you, hold you, praise you, and even try to make you think youre not in Vietnam. The charge? Two dollars for a shot glass of brown tea thats supposed to look like liquor. As long as you keep on buying the shots the tea girl can stay at your table for as long as you want. Ling was strictly a tea girl. She didnt do anything but play girlfriend. Sometimes someone would try to get her to give a hand job, and she would simply excuse herself and tell them to find some other girl in the room. She hated being a tea girl. Baiting soldiers. Poaching them like plump eggs. Touching them. Especially the hairy ones. Her mother disowned her because of her occupation. Called her dishonorable. Threatened to tell her boyfriend who was fighting in the Delta. Only rich people can afford to be honorable, Ling

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said. They have money. No need be a tea girl. Ling was small, but in her flowing ao dai , her black hair streaming over her shoulders, her confidence when walking, her arrogance when smiling, she looked tall and lean. She was proud of how she looked, and, unlike other tea girls, she never lowered her face even when sad. She thought of herself as a creature beyond the forces of war. Ling someday leave Vietnam, she proclaimed. Go to United States. Become someone. Vietnam very ugly. Not for Ling to live. She thought Snuff and I were a possible passport to the states. She liked Snuff better because he had blond hair and blue eyes. On slow nights she would spend time asking questions about where we were from, and we would buy her teas and talk about the Atlantic Ocean in the summer and snow storms in Boston and Christmas dinner and driving to New York City to see the Empire State building and dancing to loud music in warehouses with multi-colored lights and the floor like liquid gel and swimming in the Miami River and almost drowning in the wake of a tour boat taking tourists to see the Indian village along the river and girlfriends and drive-in movies and just lying on the beach with the sun searing you and days after your skin peeling off as if it were burned by napalm.

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Ling wanted to know about our girlfriends. What they liked to wear. Where they liked to go. What they talked about and if they went to school and what kind of houses did they live in and the department stores they shopped in and the food they ate, the movies they saw, and if they were happy. Always: were they happy! She lost herself in our world, our inaccurate world, warped by distance and fragmented memories. She wanted to know everything and we would try to tell her but it was impossible because we often wondered if that world still existed. She would whimper. Ling want to know. Ling want to know. And Snuff would go on about snow storms smothering the earth with silence, and a tornado he once went through, it ripped off his garage door, and what autumn looked like with falling leaves red and brown and dead. And on napkins he drew crude pictures of New York state, the houses and skyscrapers. The mountains and lakes. Details he didnt even know he remembered. Oh sad eyed Ling. Little bird trapped. We wanted to take you home with us. Another nest. Another cage. We heard your sad, sad words: Ling hate Vietnam. Someday go to United States. Vietnam bad dream. Nothing more, and we

asked you about your family and wouldnt they miss you if

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you moved to the United States and you said Most of my family die. My brother die in the war. My father leave to the north. My mother sick in refugee camp. My boyfriend far away. I tea girl. I learn English. Someday I go United States. Study in school. Be very happy. I would like to see you happy, Snuff said. I thought with Ling he was unusually tender. I suspected he was almost falling in love with her. Or maybe he was just trying to make her happy for a short moment because he knew and I knew shed never get to the United States. Snuff noticed a string tied around her forefinger. You want to remember something? Remember nothing. Mamasan put on finger. Make headache go away. I hope so, Snuff said. I sure hope so. Snuff kept on seeing Ling for over a period of three months. Sometimes he saw her as much as three times a week. He fantasized that he could get her back to the world. She could be my mistress, man. Can you imagine that? Ill have a wife and a mistress. Could you ask for anything more? But then like vapor Ling disappeared. No one knew where she had gone. She simply disappeared. Some said she

moved to Danang where her mother lived in a refugee camp. Some said she became a massage girl in the Delta to be near

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her boyfriend. Some said she found a rich soldier who took her back to the United States. Some said she was a VC and wanted to get back to killing Americans. Months passed and she faded from Snuffs mind and then one day when the monsoon rains swallowed the streets and Snuff and I sat in the dampness on the Chicago Bar, rain dripping off the window eaves, Dao sitting on a soda crate, the place empty except for one girl staring out the window singing a Vietnamese song about the world crying, that day, unbearably humid, Dao told us that Ling was in a hospital up north. She was visiting her village in search of her sister - we never knew she had a sister - when the South Vietnamese or North Vietnamese or the Americans, Dao didnt know exactly who, attacked the village with napalm. Half of Lings body was burned but she would survive. The person who told Dao the story also said Ling was going to be sent to the US for treatment. She must have been burned pretty bad, I said to Snuff who wasnt saying anything. He was as quiet as the rain. For a long time. And then out of nowhere, he said She finally got to go to the world. Hell of a way to get there. *** Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be,

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Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be, Way down below the ocean where I wanna be she may be. Etc. *** A tea girl plays solitaire and looks up to see if there are any new customers. She smiles at us, but she knows we wont buy her tea. Snuff wants to go elsewhere.. Im horny! he said. Lets get out of here. He tips Dao and reminds him of the scheme they have planned for the following afternoon. Dao is to meet him with enough money to purchase two Akai tape decks. Dao smiles and agrees. Well all make some money on the deal. Snuff from Dao. Dao from the black market. We rumble down the wooden stairs, singing You never give me your money..... *** On the street two MPs sit in their jeeps and watch the parade of money lenders and whores and cyclo drivers and GIs laughingly drunk and mamasans with large hats carrying food baskets across their shoulders and motorcycles whirring and always the girls in the ao dais flowing by like silk flags. Hey Snuff, why dont we walk the other way. One of those fuckers may want to search us. Ive got a lot of

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grass on me. Paranoia. Itll destroy ya. The MPs sneer and glare and are almost erotic with their authority. Snuff says, You show them fear and theyll bite like dogs. Just relax! Relax? One MP rubs his shiny red-white-blue helmet with a handkerchief and olds it up with admirations, but the other notices Snuffs pants and orders him to stop walking. Say soldier, you know the regulation about pant cuffs, dont you? Snuff is unmoved and calm. He looks at his pant cuffs and agrees that theyre not tucked into is boots. Sorry, he says, grinning, I forgot. You know how it is. War and all that! Well tuck them in and keep them in, the MP insists. Or else Ill have to fine you. Snuff unlaces his boots, tucks in his cuffs, then relaces his boots. For a moment I half expect the MPs to order us against the wall and empty out our pockets, but as soon as Snuff finishes his last cuff, the MP holds up his helmet next to his friends and the two of them prattle on about how the Vietnamese appreciate the way we stay dressed and neat because..... His lecture is interrupted by a scratchy voice over

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his jeep radio. He picks up the mike. Say over again. Thats right. I think we have a couple of potheads. POTHEADS!!!!!! Flashes of LBJ! Long Bien Jail! Angry MPs smashing heads behind a high fence covered with canvas. I grab Snuffs elbow and pull him across the street. What the fuck is wrong with you, he asks, jerking away from my hand. Theyre going to fucking bust us! But the MPs havent moved! One is still on the radio and the other still admires his helmet. What the fuck is going on with you, Sig? Didnt you hear them? Hear them? What are you talking about? That guy said we got a couple of potheads. You must be going deaf! You heard their call signals. You know, one popa two charlie, or something like that. Youve got to be kidding? No man. Youre fucking up tight. I just cant seem to get my head together. So. I smoke and my mind just chatters out of control. I cant think straight. I try to think of home but all I get are crazy pictures of a gym class in school and falling

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asleep in history class. I hated history. Its never true anyway. Yeah, but I like history, but I cant remember anything I learned. Im like senile. An old man in a young body. You need some smoke man. No, it makes me.... Makes you what? Relax. Dont be an asshole. I guess youre right. I light a joint and pass it to Snuff. Seeds pop. White ashes speckle our uniforms. Our shadows glide over shop windows where the intricate ivory statues and porcelain dragons pose for the outside world. In one of the windows a finely carved ivory bridge extends over a garden, and a slight lady, perhaps lamenting a lost lover, crosses the bridges crest, a tiny parasol on her shoulder. Id like to be walking with her right now, Snuff says. Be like Alice or Mary Jane and shrink myself into a 3 inch boy and walk across the bridge to....to paradise. *** Magic sand, Magic sand, Make me small at my command *** We wander pass the bars and steam bath houses. We have been down this street many times before, but, no matter how

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many times we pass the doorways and windows, no one remembers us. We are and will always be strangers. Only the Indian tailor, his black-purple skin, his tape measurer wrapped around his neck, his big teeth, his prayerful hands, only he seems to recall our faces. He limps and whistles and nods at us. Someday, Snuff says, Ill have him make a suit for me. Hes supposed to be very cheap. I want to go home looking good. None of that uniform shit for me. I want to be dressed like a fucking movie star. What are you going to do? Pretend you were on a vacation? I just want to look good. Better than going home looking like a bag of bones. I want to arrive in style! A boy with one leg hobbles on crutches. An old woman squats in a doorway. A man with one eye stuffed with cotton bicycles by with dead chickens tied to his waist. A bald Buddhist in an orange robe smiles at his bowl of rice. Leather faces. Pimps. Soldiers. Wire-rimmed glasses. Trimmed fingernails. The dilapidated hotels cramped with officers and sergeants and privates. We want to shout Were going to Gummers but they wont hear us. They sit in their rooms where the VC cant find them. Colonel Pearson. Sergeant Rodriguez. Sit there and read books about

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the Civil War or hunting magazines. Colonel Pearson wishes he had been born a hundred years earlier. He believes he was at the battle of Gettysburg , even believes the picture he saw of a Union soldier standing next to a row of Confederate corpses was him, his soul time traveled or was always living through one war or another. This war Vietnam - he leads no real soldiers, finds no glorious death, honorable death. His death is the death of pushing papers from one part of his desk to another, morning meetings about ammo deliveries and rotten food on ships that lost refrigeration, or some young punk throwing a grenade at a soldier on his way to the mess hall down the street, or the death of sending Shea to Nha Be rather than court-martial him like Sergeant Rodriguez wants. The colonel doesnt want a court martial on his record. So he reads and reads and reads, hears the muffled explosions in the distance and when he looks out the window of his 6th floor room he sees white flashes like beacons that call him to a battle hell never fight. Never fight. After this tour hell go home, retire to his family and backyard barbeques, VFW dinners and talk about the war, the terrible war, the one they could have won if the politicians had just left everything alone. Win what?

Doesnt matter. We could have won. Bombed them back to the

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stone age, seared them, burned them, crushed them, every single fucking one of them, not one slope body left. Bulldoze them into their stinking muddy ditches along with their water buffalo and mosquitoes. Instead, hell read more books about other wars and know that he was in all of them but this one was a souls mistake, a war where he led phony men, draftees, conscientious objectors and hyperactive sergeants like Sergeant Rodriguez who demands and demands that they court-martial Shea who isnt a real soldier but a sham! Sergeant Rodriguez flips through the pages of Argosy

and also wishes he was in the jungle but not with the VC, he saw enough of them, but in the Amazon searching for exotic animals to kill and stuff and hang in his study with brown paneling and a leather chair. Yet, at the same time, in the front of his mind is Shea, coming and going when he pleases, living with whores in off-limit rooms, ignoring every order hes given, disappearing, appearing, disappearing, here today, gone tomorrow. How many times had the company wasted time looking for him in some whore house or alley shack? Yes! Its about time the company stopped putting up with such insubordination. And then there is Snuff, refusing a medal, telling him that medals dont mean shit in this war. Sergeant

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Rodriguez wanted to strangle him for that, instead, he ordered him to see Captain Jeans who really didnt know what to do about Snuff or Shea or, for that matter, anyone who didnt want to follow an order. Everyone had the same reply: What are you going to do, send me to Vietnam? *** Snuff didnt want the medal because he thought it was stupid. He hadnt done anything for a medal except sit in a communication tower and teletype messages to other companies who in turn teletyped messages back to him and then he typed back to them and them back to him and so on

and so on. What kind of medal do you get for that? Snuff wanted to know. I should probably get a medal for getting the clap so many times. Nevertheless, Snuff was ordered to appear in front of Captain Jeans who sat in his tiny office, the fan spinning above his greasy hair, and Sergeant Rodriguez sweating U rings under is armpits. I dont understand you men, Captain Jeans said, shaking his head. I really dont. Here we are giving you an award for being in this hell hole and you dont want it. Thats right, sir. I dont get it. Theres nothing to get, sir. I just dont want a

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medal. I didnt kill anyone or save anyones life. I just send messages. But the army appreciates your work and they want you to know that. But a medal? Write a letter to my mother. Maybe shell appreciate it more than me. We had a ceremony ready and everything. Im sorry sir. Theyll be others at the ceremony. You dont need me But everyone will know that you dont want the medal. Thats embarrassing enough. No one cares, sir. I mean no one. Your wrong about that soldier. I care. The colonel cares. Sergeant Rodriguez cares. This isnt just any award. Its means loyalty. Accomplishment. Respect from your countrymen. Dont you want respect? Asking Snuff if he wants respect is like asking Snuff if he wants another dose of clap! Sir, I lost my respect in high school, Snuff replied. What are you saying, soldier? When I was in the eleventh grade I was sleeping in the back of my English class, drooling all over my self and dreaming about sex. I was woken up by the guy sitting next

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to me because the teacher had called me to the board to diagram a sentence. One, I didnt know what the hell a

diagramed sentence was and two, I had a hard-on a big as a banana. She knew it, too. I know she knew it because she said I either got up to diagram the sentence or got up and go to the deans office. I got up and went to the board and everyone looked at my hard on and I knew they were laughing and I said to myself, I dont give a shit! I probably lost more respect because I didnt even know where to start the diagram. Thats quite a story, soldier, but what does that have to do with now. Just take the medal. Itll do you good. No sir. Is that your final decision. Yes sir. Well, I dont like this happening in my company, and neither will the colonel. But if you dont want the award, we wont give it to you. Sergeant, erase him from the ceremony. Yes sir, Sergeant Rodriguez said. I would like to add one thing, sir. And whats that? Id like to say that this man doesnt understand

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freedom. He should live in Cuba for a year, and then maybe he would understand what this war is all about. I am upset by his decision, sir, but I will erase him from the ceremony. Captain Jeans agreed with the sergeant and they dismissed Snuff who decided to teletype a message to all the units in-country. It read: God bless America, but dont let the Cubans know. *** Sergeant Rodriguez notices an advertisement in the back of the magazine for a Caribbean cruise on an old sailing boat. St. Croix. St. Thomas. San Juan. Islands without slaves. Not like Cuba with that bastard Castro who lied when he said he was bringing freedom from tyranny and jobs for everyone. Everyone except Sergeant Rodriguez uncle who was jailed and had to smuggle out poems in pen holders. Or his father who owned a furniture company one day and nothing the next. Sergeant Rodriguez wanted to kill Castro and sometimes, he had to admit, he wanted to kill Shea for his disobedience and Snuff for his indifference. *** Snuff and I walk by their hotel barracks sticking our middle fingers in the air and wishing Pearson and Rodriguez bad luck. Snuff tells me Sing your song about Gummer.

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Im tired of it. Im not. Come on, sing it. The song: with dry throat, dry tongue, dry lips, off key. Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Gummer gives a hummer of a blow-job to the boys, picks them out and stuns them with the vibration of her voice. Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Spits them out one by one whenever her mouth fills with cum shes an angel to the deaf and dumb and in Vietnam thats everyone Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom Broom *** Gummer isnt her real name. None of us know her real name. Destroys the fantasy. The story goes that when the war was young and there were fewer Americans and more competition, Gummer developed the extraordinary gift of sucking cock so smoothly it felt better than a pussy. She never bit, nipped, or nibbled the tip, and she could suck a cock right down to the bone of the crotch. Some customers insisted she had no teeth, while others insisted her teeth were so small they allowed her lips to easily slip up and done. In the dark its hard to tell, but, whatever the truth, she became so popular she opened what amounted to a

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blow-job clinic. In one large room she has four beds divided by calico curtains with O rings that noisily open and close. The minute she finishes with one bed, she spits their sperm in a bucket and goes to the other bed and the other bed and then the other bed and then back to the first bed whish is always immediately occupied. Her steam bath house is next to the MP and QC stations, so its a good bet that she gives a cut of her money to Madame Nhu. She is tiny, small boned, and her hair hangs don to her lower back. She never takes off her clothes and always wears a white shirt, pajama pants, and sandals that make a scraping noise as she shuffles from one bed to the other. She talks very little, perhaps because she instinctively knows that talking will get in the way of our erotic fantasies. Like: --GINA LOLABRIDGIDA STRIPPING OFF A SEQUINED TRAPEZE LEOTARD BEHIND A FOLDING SCREEN or --SOPHIA LOREN ERUPTING OUT OF THE SEA WITH WET NIPPLES AS LARGE AS THUMBS or --JAYNE MANSFIELD STRUTTING DOWN A NEW YORK STREET WITH TITS AS LARGE AS ARTILLERY SHELLS or

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--SANDRA DEE, CUTE AND SKINNY, SURFING IN FRONT OF A PHONY OCEAN WITH IMMENSE WAVES or --SUSIE WOOTEN, THE GIRL NEXT DOOR, SMELLING SWEET AND STEAMING UNDER THE PALMS OF THE HANDS

and, all the while, the unsmiling Gummer slurping as the steam bath fills with a mist the odor of mint, clouds of mist until Gummer fades away and there is

--JUDY MORGAN, PLUMP AND BIG BREASTED, AND I AM SNEAKING INTO HER BEDROOM AS HER PARENTS SLEEP IN THE NEXT ROOM, AND OH! SHE FELT SO GOOD AND FLESHY AND

Gummer sucks and squeezes my balls and

--ESTHER WILLIAMS DIVES NAKED INTO A SWIMMING POOL AND SPREADS HER LEGS AND INVITES ME TO WALLOW INSIDE HER

steam hisses and Gummer kisses my swollen cock and Snuff calls from the bed behind the curtain Hey Sig, you there? Dont bother me now. Sorry man. And there is a flicker of her tongue and a long vibrating

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hum and an earthy eruption. Gummers mouth is muffled and full. She turns to her bucket, spits me out, rinses her mouth at the sink, then slashes open the curtain where Snuff is waiting. She grins as she wipes her hand with a little towel. The dim, overhead light halos her smooth hair. Her face is all in shadow. She approaches Snuff and recognizes him. Ahhh, GI! You like. You come back! And without saying anything more she unbuckles his pants as he lies like a patient on a hospital gurney. Hey Sig, you got anymore smoke? he asks, but before I can answer she closes the curtain and turns him on his stomach. She knows he likes his back rubbed before getting a blow-job. It makes it easier for him to cum. She pulls

the skin along his spine and brushes her hair over his back. She blows lightly on his ass. Hey Sig, Snuff says, you have any extra money if I need it. Dont worry. Its slow tonight. Shell do you for five. She turns Snuff back over and shakes baby powder on his chest and stomach. She scratches his pubic hair and whistles over his balls. But Snuff is having trouble getting hard.

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No get hard, GI? More, he moans. She licks him and licks him until her tongue begins to make him hard. She tickles his cock with a teasing lick then holds out her hand and says Ten dolla. Five dolla, Snuff says. No, five dolla. Ten dolla. Gummer has been known to go as low as four dollars since she has a business logic that says volume is more important than price. She probably averages seven dollars a blow job which, in the course of one night, could mean close to three hundred dollars or, in Vietnamese money, close to nine hundred dollars. Pay offs to police and pimps and Madame Nhu and she most likely comes close to making half that, which, in Vietnam, is still very decent money. So her inclination is to accept whatever a regular customer gives provided its not insultingly low. Five dolla, no more, Snuff tells her. Five dolla hand job, Gummer says trying one last time to make a bargain. Hand job numba ten, Snuff tells her. Five dolla blow job. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled pile of pink military script and hands it to Gummer.

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No American dolla? Not tonight. Ok. I gib blow-job, she says, abruptly. She lies him back down on the table and her feathery tongue licks the base of his cock. Her body rises and falls, up and down, she squeezes his penis, rolls it between her thumb and forefingers. GI cum? Ill try, just dont stop. Gummer is determined to make it quick. Something worth fiver dollars. Up and down. Up and down. She drags her fingers over his buttocks and lightly touches his asshole. Its a maneuver she knows always works. She pushes his

penis deep in her mouth and hums. Snuff cant resist the vibration and dissolves into spasms of orgasm. Gummers mouth puffs up with sperm and when her mouth is full she spits it into the aluminum basin on the floor, leans over a small sink and gargles with water. River water. Grey. Dirty. Tasting of oil and floating bodies and sewage and history. The water splashes out of the sink and Gummer turns off the spigot, fixes her pants and hands Snuff his pants. GI, numba one. Co numba one. She pinches his thigh and opens the next calico

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curtain. Steam pipes rattle inside the damp walls as if to say there is more money to be made. Hey Snuff, isnt she the best! Its Hiel, potato plump, smiling on the table in his briefs and tank top. The best, Snuff says as he buckles his belt and tries for a quick exit. He looks at Hiels hairy arms and shoulders and thighs and wonders how anyone could touch him. Gummer must be a machine, he thinks, how else could she touch such an ugly creature. Say, did you hear what happened to Shea? Hiel asks. No, what happened now? The fuckers gone. He really got screwed this time I thought they were sending him to Nha Be? Oh, hes in Nha Be, alright, but theyre sending him to a special hospital in the Phillipines. Or at least thats what I heard. Who told you that? Rodriguez. That mother fucker. Was it heroin? No, it was something real fucked up. Something bit him on the face and his head and eye swelled up like a fucking balloon. He couldnt even see out of his right eye. Rodriguez said the eye was swollen shut and oozing out a

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green pus. Rodriguez did something to him. I know it. He hated Shea. Whatever it was it got in his blood and when they sent him to a hospital here they didnt know what to do. They popped the eye and more shit came oozing out, but the next day the eye was just as swollen. So there must be a hospital in the Phillipines that knows how to deal with that kind of shit. Rodriguez probably set the whole thing up. I wouldnt put it past him, Hiel says. Hes out to get you next. What the fuck you talking about? He and Captain Jeans are pissed you wont take their award. Even the fucking colonel is pissed. Fuck them all. Thats what I say, but expect the colonel to be pissed at you. I know hes going to call you in. Who gives a shit? Youre right, who gives a shit? The only thing I give a shit about now is a blow-job. And with that Gummer closes the curtain and Snuff hears Hiel tell Gummer Suck the shit out of me you fucking whore. I love you.

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*** Captain Jeans and Sergeant Rodriguez were so upset that Snuff didnt want their award, they told the colonel who pretended to care but really didnt care because this was no longer the army his father told him about or the army his grandfather told him about or the army he joined all those years back in Korea where the snow and the cold and the smell of fish were so overwhelmingly gross he decided hed go to Officer Candidate School and become a higher up instead of some NCO like Rodriguez who he couldnt really stand because of his Latin accent more

than anything else. So when Jean and Rodriguez dragged Snuff to the colonels office, the colonels head had already been filled with Jeans saying Sir, you cant let some insignificant specialist get away with this because the rest of the company may do the same, and then, then what do we do? And Rodriguez with, Sir, after Evans left it took me months to shape up this company, we cant let this happen. Now Colonel Pearson wasnt an idiot. He knew that Rodriguez was a pile of Cuban shit that liked to make himself more important than anyone else. He was really a coward, Pearson thought. Maybe because of running away from Cuba and feeling guilty that he sat on his ass in Miami

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pretending he would go back to Cuba and fight when really he wouldnt. Pearson would have stayed and fought. Dug underground, lived in tunnels, constructed booby traps and riled the entire population until Castro and his band of baloney bullshiters were sent back to the hills to pick bananas and cut sugar cane. So he listened to Jeans and Rodriguez with a grain of salt and asked them What do you want me to do about it? I can do something or I can do nothing. I can give him hell or tell him hes done a good job and I dont care if he doesnt want the award we still want to give it to him. But sir, Rodriguez replied, stewing, his almost chocolate face reddening, this soldier cant get away with saying no. Why? asked the colonel. Its only an award. And you shouldnt have recommended him for one in the first place. But theres no turning back now, sir, Rodriguez told him. Give in to him now and well have to give in to others later. Give in to him. Who cares? I dont. Hell be out of here soon and another soldier will replace him and if hes smart you can give him the award. But we want to give it to him, Captain Jeans insisted.

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Leave it on his teletype table. The colonel was tired of the issue already. Hell take it. Just dont hand it to him. I cant do that, colonel, Rodriguez said. What did you say, sergeant? No? Isnt that what youre bothered by with this solider? Its different, sir. I can see that you wont let this dog lie dead or even get up and run., the colonel said. If you think my talking to him will solve anything, then Ill talk to him., But understand this, Im not going to force him to take the medal, or even try to convince him its the right thing to do. You got that? Captain Jeans and Sergeant Rodriguez immediately agreed to the conditions and went up stairs to the communication room and ordered Snuff to report to the colonels office. Colonel Pearson sat in front of an open window with a small fan blowing in his face. Outside the noises of Saigon: motorbikes and taxis and ship horns and steel

clanging and thuds very far away, tremors from B-52 bombings around the city. It was hot and muggy and the colonel was sweating under his arms and across his chest. Sergeant Rodriguez sat in a chair at one end of the desk

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and Captain Jeans sat in a chair at the other end of the desk. The colonel was uncomfortable with their presence, felt they were watching what he said. If he could he would have dismissed them altogether, throw them out the window or lock them in the ammo room where it was dark and dank. He hated being put into meaningless situations. Snuff stood in front of the colonels desk, absolutely calm, absolutely indifferent, absolutely looking beyond the colonel at the street beyond where a small funeral was marching toward a graveyard. I guess you know why youre here, specialist? the colonel asked. Not really, sir, Snuff said to him, knowing really why he was there but not wanting to give Jeans or Rodriguez any satisfaction. The captain and the sergeant tell me you dont want the medal they want to give you. Oh that sir. I forgot all about it. Forgot is to not remember, but they remember and you should remember. Youre in the military, son. its not often the military wants to give someone a medal for sitting at a teletype. Thats what I said, sir, Snuff replied. Thats exactly what I said. Its not like I shot anyone or saved

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someone. I just sit there sending and receiving messages. Then they must think youre pretty good at it if they want to give you a medal. They give everyone medals. Except Shea. Rodriguez seemed to squirm when Snuff mentioned Sheas name. Smirk. Pleasure himself. The colonel noticed and Snuff noticed but Captaion Jeans was busy trying to rub a spot out of his shirt with spit. The colonel looked at his hands as if a list of questions were posted on the palms. Where you from., Specialist. Elmira, sir. New York. I know where Elmira is. Im from Dallas, by the way.

Ever been there. Hot as hell in the summer, but not as hot as this place. I was there when Kennedy was killed. I was two blocks from Dealy Plaza. Cant say I was that upset. I thought Kennedy was a disaster. If he had played his cards right we could have been out of this place by in 62. Anyway, that doesnt matter. What was I saying? Oh, yes, youre from Elmira. Never been there. Never want to go there. But dont you think the people of Elmira would be proud to see you brought back medals from the war. Wouldnt your parents? Not really, sir. I dont know many people in Elmira

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and my parents are against the war. They think its stupid. Snuff paused knowing that what he said next would disable Sergeant Rodriguezs hostility. They think that if we want to fight the commies we should invade Cuba. After all, Cuba is only 90 miles from our country. And its probably not so hot as this hell hole! Snuff could almost feel Sergeant Rodriguezs approval glowing from his face. The colonel was unmoved and Captain Jeans wrestled with his stain. You could be right, and then you could be wrong. Cuba isnt Vietnam and Vietnam isnt Cuba. The cat runs away from the dog but he still respects the right of the dog to chase him. There is really nothing I can do about this, specialist. If you dont want the award then you dont have to take it. I probably dont respect you for your decision, but I do respect you for making a decision. want to add Captain Jeans? Captain Jeans stopped rubbing his stain and looked at Rodriguez who pinched his lips together as if he were swallowing the entire Star Spangled Banner and shook his head no. I do want to add one thing, specialist. I want you to remember this moment when youre my age. You may regret your decision. Youll have kids. Theyll want to know what Anything you

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you did in the war. And what are you going to say. I sat on my ass and did nothing! This medal would redeem you. You understand? Redeem you. Snuff remained passive and Colonel Pearson smirked and said, Youre dismissed.

When Snuff left the colonels office, Captain Jeans and Rodriguez were silent for a moment. The three of them were uncomfortable. Rodriguez rose first, shook his head back and forth but then told the colonel, Sir, I hated Kennedy, too. If it werent for him, Castro would be dead now and I would be in my home in Mayaguez. *** I wait outside the steam bath house, smoking and pushing little children away. They beg for money and cigarettes. Theyre in dirty underwear. Skinny ribs. Skinny arms. Skinny legs and large heads that make them misshapen. When Snuff comes out, they run to him and he throws them a handful of coins. You made it, I say. I thought you were going to be in there all night! I would have if Gummer hadnt used her magic finger. My asshole still feels it. Youll be sorry in the morning. Itll be worth it.

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A cyclo pulls up and we jump into the basket. Dainam Snuff tells the driver, and we cut through the side streets and alleys for the short ride back to the hotel. It is almost curfew. The streets are nearly empty except for MPs and armored trucks growling toward the outskirts of the city where the noise of explosions can be heard. The wheels of the cyclo slide against the curb in front of the hotel. Outside the concrete guard-post a cluster of dwarf whores are dancing for the MP standing guard inside the bunker. Tiny gnomes who survive on blow jobs and petty thefts. The MP jokes with one of the girls: My dick will bust your mouth open. and she laughs because she really doesnt understand what he says. When they see us they circle around us and start a strange and awkward dance. Fuck this shit! Snuffs says, and bolts into the hotel, but the dwarves manage to hold me in their circle, squawk, squeal, and clump on one foot and clump on the others and stomp their feet in a rhythm-less dance. They gurgle and swirl with me in the center, and they yank my shirt and pull my hands. One of them, the smallest, jumps on a concrete barrel, opens her blouse and shows off a plump breast filled with milk. She massages the nipple until white droplets appear, and laughs as one of the other

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dwarves pinches her nipple and makes it squirt. They push me toward her tit but I manage to force my way through the circle and join Snuff who is sitting on the stairway that leads to our room. Weird little fuckers, he says. Did you see the tits on that little one? Huge! The MP says she gives a damned good blow-job, too. She doesnt even have to kneel! No ones better than Gummer. No one *** Snuff closes the door to our room and plays with the light switch. CLICK! A pale green room. CLICK! A poster of Bob Dylan CLICK! Metal bunk beds that are about to rattle apart. CLICK! A beaten up bureau with colognes and a jar of coins. CLICK! A hot plate! CLICK!

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Leave the fucking lights on, I tell him. He laughs and touches all the Playboy posters. Each month for good luck. Miss August hides her pubic hair. Miss September bends over with a tangled scarf. Miss November coils out her ass. Miss December squashes her tits against a mirror. Every month glued to the wall. Naked reminders of how long weve been in-country. Snuff has taped to the back of the door a photograph of a Chinese whore. It is the size of a playing card and the girl straddles a man on a pin-striped mattress, sucks another standing on the mattress in front of her and masturbates two others standing by her side. Snuff likes it because it annoys the little mamasan who comes to clean the laundry. Hiel believes the picture symbolizes a womans tyranny over a man. Lets smoke one last joint Snuff says, already stripped to his snot-green underwear. He lights the joint, drags in a ball of smoke and blows it out like a jet of steam. You think well smoke this much when we get back to the world? If we dont, were crazy, I tell him. Well make sure someone sends us a pound a month. I dont want to go back and live straight. Fuck no! Not in a world that sent me here!

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I may try some other things, says Snuff. Maybe some heroin. Fuck! Shooting heroin is just like killing yourself. Killing myself doesnt bother me. It bothers me! Youve never thought of killing yourself? Not really. Well I have, he says. I like to think of different ways to kill myself. Poison. Hitler did it. Killed him in seconds. Or a shotgun to my mouth. I have a friend whos a cop and he said he saw a guy who had shot himself in the mouth with a shotgun. He was sitting in a chair and blew the top of his head right off. His brain was dripping from the ceiling. Must have been a crazy fucker. I dont know. I dont think you have to be crazy to kill yourself. You never asked to be here, so why not fuck it all up by making your own exit. The way I would do it is get on a motorcycle, naked as a new born baby, take it up to 120 miles per hour and smash into a concrete wall. Splat! Like stepping on a fucking cockroach! I think Id rather just stay high. Maybe youre right. Getting high changed a lot of things for me. I dont give a shit about much anymore.

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Except getting out of here. I think thats why I dont feel right going back to Everyone I know is straight, or at least was.

the world.

My family wont know who I am. Theyll think, Oh look, hes back. Isnt he a good boy. Serving our country. He always did the right thing. Fuck them! I sit on the floor, cross my legs, and play my cheap guitar. The strings lightly ping as I sing True love, true love, Dont lie to me, Tell me where did you sleep last night. I slept in the pines Where the sun never shines And I shivered when the cold wind blows. You think youll ever try acid? Snuff asks. I pluck the bass string. Brummmmm. If marijuana gets me this high, imagine what acid will do. Snuff stretches out on his squeaky bed. I knew a guy who took acid 42 times. Once he spent an entire day sitting in his backyard holding on to the ground like it was a bed sheet. He said he could feel the earth breathing and trying to throw him off into space. Ill stick to marijuana, I tell him. The bass string vibrating against my huddled chest. Sing your history song, Snuff asks. I want to take a trip.

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*** SIGS HISTORY SONG in the key of G I was born at the end of World War II My body as big as my fathers shoe The atom bomb fell out of the sky and for three weeks my mother cried Thats the way of the world, boy Thats the way of the world I saw my uncle come back from Korea Without an arm and paranoia He told me it was a wonderful war fought for the rich, fought by the poor Thats the way of the world, boy. Thats the way of the world. By the time I was ten I was pretty obscene jacking off after drinking the polio vaccine In a smelly old school I ducked under desks but I got the chance to look under Grace Morans dress Thats the way of the world, boy, Thats the way of the world. I loved Little Richard and the Moonglows, too, but the Beatles arrived and they were through. I cried the day Kennedy was shot, But it was only the beginning of the entire lot. Thats the way of the world, boy, Thats the way of the world. And now Im in Vietnam I hope I never loose my arms But when I get home Ill tell them all They can take this war and go to hell. Thats the way of the world, boy, Thats the way of the world! *** I like that song best, Snuff says, pulling the bed sheet over his body. Its stupid!

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You kidding me? It makes me think of being a kid. A small kid. I remembering worrying about Sputnik. Remember Sputnik? Everyone thought the Russians were going to be able to destroy us from outer space. I have a crazy uncle, Uncle Joe. Whenever he talks his eyes always look up in another direction. Hes a meat packer and always smells like raw steak. Anyway, he says that when they shot up Sputnik, he could sit on his back porch and see it traveling across the sky. The fucking thing was no bigger than a basketball.! No shit! But Uncle Joe swore he saw it and that it was shooting x-ray beams to earth. But then he also thinks

that Hitler never killed himself, just moved to Russia and now runs Russia. Hes the kind of guy who believes aliens are out there to get us, too, I suppose? Worse. He thinks my cousin Joyce, his step-daughter, is an alien. Youve got to be kidding? No shit! He thinks she came from a planet behind Pluto and that she was on earth conducting experiments on his brain. What does she say about that? For all I know she is conducting experiments on his

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brain. If you saw her youd think she was an alien. She and her mother, my aunt Flo, moved out on Joe when he started that shit. What happened to Joe? Snuff asks, indifferently. Hes still a meat packer. Tell you what, though, he used to bring home the best steaks Ive ever had. Thick and juicy. The kind you only get in a restaurant. Shit, youre giving me the munchies. We got anything to eat? Do I have something to eat, he says, cheerfully. He drops out of bed and crawls half way under his bunk. Youre going to love this! He groans and squirms and drags out a shoe box wrapped in aluminum foil with a red, white and blue ribbon wrapped around the edges. I got this from Brickel who owes me for covering his ass hundreds of times. He rips off the aluminum foil and shakes off the cardboard top. Inside is a bulging assortment of cookies and candies, some homemade, some store bought. Tell me this isnt a gold mine, Snuff says. On top of the mail box is a letter written on pink paper. Snuff shakes it. Its from the Pink Berets, he says. You want to hear it? Why not, I say as I bite into a soft, buttery cookie

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that tastes like vanilla. Snuff reads: Dear Serviceman, This package has been sent to you with love and concern from the Pink Berets of Butte, Montana. It is our way of saying thanks to you all and reminding you that we here back home admire the job youre doing. We know how hard it is to be away from home, and we know it takes great courage to serve our country. We love you and respect you, no matter what any one else says or does. So from us to you: KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK!!! GOD BLESS AMERICA! Sincerely, THE PICK BERETS P.S. If you know anyone who doesnt get packages from home, please let us know. Well be honored to send one. Snuff smirks and stuffs a chocolate cookie into his mouth. Then another and another. Crumbs drop all over the floor. You want to write them back and thank them? I ask. What if theyre a bunch of old ladies who sit in a church basement with nothing else to do in their lives except let their sons go to war. They cant help that. Bullshit! Bunch of hypocrites who go to their sons funeral and cry the rest of their lives when they could

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have done something to stop it What could they have done? Theyre just old ladies. Stand outside the White House or the Pentagon or anywhere and throw rocks at the assholes who sent us here. Piles of rocks. Like a good old rock fight when we were kids. Sure! What, sure! Slap their husbands and cut of their cocks when theyre sleeping. A few cocks cut off and see how fast we get out of here. But they dont really give a shit! They comfort themselves with sending cookies and candies and pretending they care. He bites into a Snickers bar and the chocolate sticks to his mouth. I say, he mumbles, that we write them a letter in return. A real letter. Saying what? Thanks for the munchies, we really enjoy them when were stones. Absolutely. Why let them kid themselves? He goes to his footlocker and takes out a pad of yellow paper and a pencil. You write. You have better handwriting than me. I dont want to write. Fuck, I can hardly open my mouth to eat. Come on, he says and hands me the pad and pencil. I

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reluctantly write down his dictation. Dear Pink Berets, Thank you for the goodies. Every night while the cannons thunder and the bullets fly, we pray well make it home to the good people like you who think of us during these hard times. With your support we can honestly say...... Help me out here, Snuff asks,. Im stuck. Say whatever comes to your mind. I have nothing to say. Alright fucker. Snuff says, . ...we can honestly say that this war isnt worth a fuck! And although your cookies are good, you must be a bunch of assholes for putting up with this war and letting your sons die fighting it. Maybe you all will get off your fat asses and instead of making cookies go blow up the White House to show those dumb fucks you dont want your sons to die. Meanwhile, your cookies are terrific, especially when were stoned out of our minds. Next time, send some brownies!! Hows that for a letter? Oh theyll love it. Just love it. *** And so I climb spider-like, skinny from a spit of dysentery, food and drink in-one-end-and-out-the-other, climb to the creaking top bunk and the thin mattress I stole from a room downstairs because the other was thin as paper and smelled like someone pissed on it over and over, climb for an uncounted time as if I really belong in this bed. (This is home. This is forever.) Climb and clap on white stereo headphones as large as ear muffs, smoke the

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last of the joint and melt into a liquid sleep where only my dreams scare me and the music is loud: You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin' I'm gonna send ya back to schoolin' Way down inside, a-honey, you need it I'm gonna give you my love I'm gonna give you my love, oh and the music shimmers my skin, vibrates high velocity, connects my head to my body, heals my hemorrhoids and stomach pains, my raw throat from too many cigarettes and the oily white smoke from engine exhausts Wanna Wanna Wanna Wanna whole whole whole whole lotta lotta lotta lotta love love love love

and the singer orgasms, his mouth wide open sending sex into the center of my body, and out jumps a woman who promises to eat my heart and suck out my soul if I dont paint a picture of her on a ceiling where centuries will admire her, but only centuries You've been learnin' And baby, I been learnin' All them good times Baby, baby, I've been discernin'-a A-way, way down inside A-honey, you need-a I'm gonna give you my love, ah I'm gonna give you my love, ah I cant take my mind out of my body and I cant take my body out of my mind. I travel back to an attic room where I

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coiled around myself crying for protection. The attic room in the wooden house along the Miami River, a tiny church with pine beams and a cathedral window, the only spot for outside light to enter, and the ceiling was so low I thought it would squash me flat, and I could hear in the lightless corners scorpions and lizards scurrying after cockroaches, and mice running across the floor, and I told my father I wanted to sleep in my sisters room, and he was so enraged Youre twelve. Your sisters and 14 and 16. What are you? A pussy? He locked me in the attic room to ensure I wouldnt sneak down to my sisters room, but then, thank God, he deserted our family four months later and although my mother seemed to miss him, my sisters and I were happy and they let me sleep by their bed on the floor where I could hear termites eating the floorboards, but it was still the only time I felt safe. Oh, whole lotta love Wanna whole lotta love Wanna whole lotta love Wanna whole lotta love I don't want more The headphones smother me with music, the room is a thick haze of marijuana. I can feel Snuff jostle on the bottom bunk, he can fall asleep at the drop of a dime. There is a muffled BROOOOOOM and the walls of the room seem to vibrate, probably another B-52 bombing on the outskirts of

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the city, or a rocket landing somewhere nearby. It happens all the time and theres nothing you can do abut it, so the BROOOOOOM doesnt mean anything, besides, theres the music

You've got to bleed on me, yeah Ah, ah, ah, ah Ah, hah, hah Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah ah, ah, ah,ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah No, no, no, no, ah Love, love, low-ow-ow-ow-ove Oh, babe, oh but the door violently opens and I can see an MP screaming but I cant hear what hes saying because of the music. All I can think is Im busted! and by tomorrow morning Ill be locked in some cage out at Long Binh, coiled on the floor in my underwear, pissed off at myself, pissed off at pot, waiting for a court martial and a sentence that will keep me in Vietnam for who-knows-how-long, and the MP raps his night stick against the door against the door frame and Snuff is jumping out of bed and grabbing my headphones, You've been coolin' And baby, I've been droolin' All the good times, baby, I've been misusin'-a (Oh) A-way, way down inside I'm gonna give ya my love (Ah) I'm gonna give ya every inch of my love (Ah) I'm gonna give you my love (Ah) Yes, alright, let's go (Ah) and he is yelling something but I wont let go of the headphones because I dont want to hear Im busted but

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Snuff yanks the headphones off as the MP disapears and Led Zepellin fades into tiny voices

Wanna Wanna Wanna Wanna

whole whole whole whole

lotta lotta lotta lotta

love love love love

and Snuff is yelling They bombed the hotel. They bombed the fucking hotel! We got to get out of here! I can see men in t-shirts and underwear running in the direction of the main staircase, and the hall is a haze of smoke and everyone, everyone seems to be shrieking, shouting, calling the VC Mother fuckers!!! and Snuff is putting his boots on without socks and shouts Get off

your fucking ass! I jump to the floor, jab my feet into straw sandals, and look around for something to take with me, a book, a letter, but the haze whitens and there is the stink of metal so Snuff and I join the herd running to the stairs, moo cows and pigs and ducks - the entire goddamn farm,!!! - and we rapidly run through the lobby where MPs are waving their hands toward the street and someone is yelling that one of the rooms is on fire, Clement and Gardeners, and I wonder if the bomb got them, but I spot the two of them by the main guard post, their faces smudged from smoke and ash, and I wonder if theyre thinking about

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all the stuff they stole when Fitzmaurice went crazy, and the firemen point their fire hoses like rifles, and once we find a safe place across the street, we can easily see the hoses spraying the outside walls of the hotel and the movie theater a foot away next door. The waters mist sprays us all, and the fire feasts on the wall joints and window sills and a janitor who cleans the theater late at night, but tonight is bad luck for him, and someone says that Charlie snuck a satchel charge into the movie theater, probably hoping the wall would crumble and wed all fall down, bit its mostly fire and all I can think of are the crowds that wont see any more samurai movies from Hong Kong, and theyll be no more pretty girls carrying mesh bags of fruit and candy, and no more soldiers sitting on top of the concrete filled barrels flirting with the young girls who sneer and look like they hate us. I didnt even hear it, Snuff says. I must sleep like a dead man. I thought we were being busted. Shit! Theyd have to bust most everyone in the hotel. And the firemen fiddle around as if they were invisible. Whos in control? One man runs into the smoking moving theater and quickly runs back out. Smoke oozes out of the theater lobby and settles like fog on the street.

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Sneezing. Coughing. Choking. The air is immovable. Snuff wheezes, This is the third movie theater theyve hit since Ive been in-country. Soon theyll be no more left. A tiny woman with elephantitis brushes by us. The right side of her face is swollen and looks like a clump of purple grapes. She says something in Vietnamese, laughs and fades into the fog and smoke, but who-knows-how a soft breeze from who-knows-where quietly sweeps away the smoke and the theater no longer pours out smoke, just some short gasps and puffs, and it isnt long before the MPs are yelling that the hotel is secure except for a couple of rooms on the first floor, and we are ordered back to our rooms without questions of protests, and back in our room there is haze and the window opens only half way so we flap our green towels until Snuff gets tired and says Fuck it! I need to smoke something better, and we light up and sit there, numb, stupid, still, wondering what the hell just happened, and Snuff says, Fucking VC assholes! All they do is kill their own people! And I say, If they keep it up theyll have an empty country once we leave. And Snuff says Maybe itll be better that way, and we seem to make sense although our eyes are burning slits, and I laugh at how silly we look, crunched on the floor in sweaty t-shirts and underwear, and just as Snuff says When I get back to

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the world Ill never be for war again! And just as I slouch against the edge of the bunk and start to disagree with him BROOOOOOOOOOM!!!! and then another BROOOOOOOOOOM!!!! And Snuff shakes What the fuck? and the floor sways and the door opens on its own and this time the hallway is white with smoke and vague shapes rush by and scream The fucking place is going to collapse!!! and I dont want to die!!! and I lost my glasses. Where are my glasses? Snuff grabs my t-short and yells Weve got to get out of here!! and we swim our way into the hallway, but this time everyone is moving towards the back stairs, sightless, blind, groping the metal hand rail, all of us looking like ghosts, a clutter of panic rushing to the back alley and wondering why the building isnt falling on us. The alley is a mess of trash and large oil trucks filled with potable water the odor of chlorine, and we skinny past the garbage and reach the front of the hotel. There are firemen in t-shirts spraying directly into the lobby of the movie theater. They too thought there was only one bomb, but someone says There were two more bombs inside. They must have been on timers. and someone else

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says, Fuck if Im going back to my room! ***** Oh, a storm is threat'ning My very life today If I don't get some shelter Oh yeah, I'm gonna fade away War, children, it's just a shot away It's just a shot away War, children, it's just a shot away It's just a shot away ***** We sit on the curb across from the hotel, 60 or 70 of us,. The damp night and the fire hose spray chills us, and the midget whores bring us thin blankets and small pillows and rub our backs and heads. GI, numba one, no numba ten, and a truck of MPs, heavily armed, pulls up to the hotel, and they jump out ready to shoot at someone, but there is no one to shoot, only smoke, and one of the midget whores stands behind Snuff and tells him he can spend the rest of the night with her, but Snuff shivers her off his back, but she doesnt care. She gives him a cushion to sit on, then sits next to him and leans against his arm because she is kind. I tell him he should go to her room and he tells me to let it go. Hell spend the night right where he is, and if the hotel collapses, hell be there to see it all. But then he wonders what hell do if all his shit is buried under rubble. I tell him theres nothing I want, not

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even the stereo from Japan, my M-14, the pile of porno pictures and letters from home; and he agrees, except for the porno pictures. A shoeshine boy offers us a pack of marijuana and Snuff says We should sit right here and smoke all night, but MPs are everywhere and theres no way we want to go to jail. ****** Its five in the morning, the fire is unending, the movie theater is turning to embers. The smoke is a ghost now, crawling in windows, as Snuff and I return to the roof. The midget whores have departed. Theyre back in their rooms with the stink of burnt wood and concrete that smolders. And we are shadows covered in ashes, too tired to talk and too tired to sleep. We smoke marijuana until we are floating, and Snuff wants a song to put him to sleep. My tongue is swollen, dry and like chalk, my words are like matchsticks without any flame. But I rasp out a song without much off a tune.

THE TUNELESS SONG We stare across the Saigon River a powder of dust seething with mold a music of sweat melting our skin. I can not breathe. I can not breathe. Our rifles are rusted, dead from murder, the hoods of our jeeps steam when it rains. Ten thousand miles away from home!

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The enemy lives to cut off our hands and steal our rings to bring to their wives. They leave our bones on the sides of the roads so we build walls of barbed wire and concrete barrels to keep everyone out except ourselves. And the people watch our formations, hanging our weapons on limbs of the trees. We wipe clean out bayonets, stick them in sandbags while our leaders dont know what to do. They walk by the river cursing the war, they hate those who talk but are always silent. So no one, no one comes to our rescue, no one cares if we live or die. Yes, we stare across the Saigon River, where there isnt one light on. not one light at all. ***** What kind of shit is that? Snuff asks. The best I can do. Im pretty fucking tired. If I were you Id never sing it again. Its real shit! Fuck you! You sing something then. You know I cant sing. I sound like a goat. Then take what your get. Just give me something to fall asleep to. How can you fall asleep sitting up? Watch me! When I was in basic I learned to fall asleep standing up. So sitting is easy. All Ive got is my knife song. Sounds better than what you just sang - or tried to sing.

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Fucker! ***** IF - THE KNIFE SONG If you eat when a man is sharpening his knife, your throat will be slit in the middle of the night. If a bloody knife is tossed into a fire, a wounded man is sure to expire. If you touch a knife then whisper a lie within a week youre guaranteed to die. If you throw a knife into the wind a witch will die because of her sins. If you sharpen a knife after someone is dead, their soul will be severed from their burial bed. If you point a knife up at the sky youll cut Gods face and an angels eye. If you drop a knife and then you curse, your soul will no longer be attached to earth. If you go to war without a knife, you can bet, my friend, youll loose your life. ***** Snuff is asleep now. His shoulders hunch over. His chins on his chest, he snorts and he snores. The morning is misty, gray and ungracious, the sun is invisible and hard to see. I can hear the cranking of motors, jeeps and trucks growl in the streets. Motorbikes and cars whirr like small children as a tank creaks pass the hotels and alleys. In the court yard below the old lady is curled on a blanket, her dog nestled against her. They both look dead. Off in the distance, on the edge of the city, a B-52 drops a shudder of bombs. Far away, two Hueys glide over rooftops. One of then has the red cross on its side. A hell

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of a way to leave Vietnam. Often I wonder if Ill ever go home. I think of my body walking through the neighborhood where I was a boy who felt everything: the neighbors with worries, the friends without love, the stars, the sky, the red leaves falling in gutters. Ill be a stranger to them now. Ill buy back ambition, look for achievement, marry someone who wont know that Im lost. Ill take summer vacations to parks that amuse me, buy comfortable cars and a house Ill never own. But itll only be my body carrying a brain, while in the middle of the night, the house in darkness, Ill sit on a sofa and know that my soul - my self - is still sitting on this rooftop looking at the sunless horizon where only the ghosts are real. ***** Riders on the storm Riders on the storm Into this house we're born Into this world we're thrown Like a dog without a bone An actor out alone Riders on the storm