East LA Chronicles

By Luis Hernandez

Tony Garcia returns to East Los Angeles after serving in Vietnam. He plans to settle down and meets a girl named Kathy. Her brother is a drug dealer who was shot over a book he owns. It contains names of important clients. He asks Tony to get the book to avoid getting killed. Tony finds himself shot at, knocked unconscious, and in car chases because people want the book. The end is a thriller!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Luis Hernandez
• Release date: Sep 3, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301279524

Luis Hernandez

Luis lived in East LA, Compton, and Hollywood, CA while working and attending USC where he received an MBA. After graduating, he worked several years in Anaheim and LA for AT&T in the data division providing IT and marketing services for end users.He was reassigned to Phoenix and began teaching and writing articles for local newspapers. He also wrote several computer textbooks for MAC users. Recalling his life in LA, he began his first novel: East LA Chronicles.

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East LA Chronicles

Luis Hernandez

Smashwords edition, copyright 2013

East LA Chronicles. Copyright © 2012 - 2013 by Luis Hernandez.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Luis Hernandez, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

FIRST EDITION

Acknowledgements

When I first started writing this book, I thought it would be a solitary affair sitting at my desk and spending the early morning hours drinking coffee and writing my greatest novel.

As it turned out, there were many people involved in this creative process, people who encouraged me, critiqued my work, and provided unending support for this endeavor. To all those friends and family; Gracias.

The genesis for this book came from my brother, Nino, who served in Vietnam. Thanks to Nino for providing me with details of that war from a grunt’s standpoint. More importantly, he shared with me the emotional and mental state of soldiers in the heat of battle.

I went to Ed McKenna, who is a writer, to review and edit this, my first novel. Thanks to him, I learned about syntax, word pictures, focus, and many other techniques that make a book more readable and entertaining.

Special thanks to Stella Pope Duarte, a successful writer of several novels, for spending endless hours reviewing my manuscript, making suggestions for character development, and encouraging me to keep writing.

To my longtime friends and new friends discovered during the writing and publishing of this work, thank you for your encouragement.

To the many talented un-published authors waiting patiently to be discovered; keep writing!

Chapter 1

Vietnam

"Charlie—you fucking bastard!" shouted Tony Garcia, as he splashed through the quagmire of slush and mud of the Vietnamese jungle. He was soaked from head to toe with mud and leaves and water. But in spite of the heavy rain and the weight of his water-laden combat gear, he ran through the underbrush as fast as he could.

The rain struck his face like wet pellets, stinging his cheeks and eyelids as he ran forward. Only inches behind him he could hear the bullets as they whistled by his head.

Someone from the nearby hooch was shooting at him. It was about 40 meters to his right but barely visible through the thick jungle undergrowth and the heavy downpour. Still, he kept his cool; he knew it was a Viet Cong shooting at him. The sound of the weapon told him it was an AK-47 assault rifle. It had a distinctive popping sound, very different from his M-16.

He splashed awkwardly through the thick brush, staying low, almost falling over as he did so. The wet undergrowth slapped at his face as he ran, forcing him to squint and spit out leaves. The weight of his gear was a like huge boulder on his back. It caused him to run sluggishly. And in spite of the heavy rain, there was a sweltering heat that was oppressive… stifling! It sapped the energy out of him. But he continued running.

The rest of his squad was scattered all about. He could hear the sound of their weapons as they returned fire in the direction of the hooch.

The jungle, which was peacefully quiet only minutes ago, was now filled with the deafening noise of M-16s, AK47s, exploding grenades, and screaming men. There was so much noise around him that the sound of his boots splashing about and his gasping were hardly noticeable.

His mind was racing but he concentrated on his surroundings, looking for any unusual movement. He could feel the bullets whizzing by his head again, snapping the air as they passed.

God damn you, Charlie, he shouted. "I’m too fucking short for this shit!" He had been in Vietnam almost 11 months now but it seemed as though he had been there forever. He only had a month to go before going back to The World. By Army standards he was officially a short-timer. He had seen so many firefights and so many dead men that he just didn’t care anymore. He just wanted to survive long enough to get the hell back to The World.

His reaction to gunfire was second nature by now. He had to find cover… not just any cover but good cover. He had to stay clear of tunnels and underbrush that Charlie routinely used as hiding places.

He saw a muddy mound toward the end of the hooch and headed toward it. He had seen mounds like this before. They seemed to be everywhere in Vietnam. It was an anthill.

He raced toward the anthill straining to stay ahead of the bullets that sliced at the leaves around him. His helmet bounced around his head as he ran. He was tempted to hold onto his helmet but he didn’t want to let go of his M-16. His helmet teetered and wobbled and finally fell off his head as he ran. It tumbled into a mud puddle with a loud splash. He kept running breathlessly; his boots splashing through the puddles and slippery mud.

His eyes darted to his left when he thought he saw something move in the underbrush. Could it be a tunnel opening with a sniper inside? He didn’t wait to find out. He pointed his weapon in that direction and fired a short burst from the hip as he ran. That’s when he slipped on a wet stump and fell before he could reach the anthill. Damn it! he shouted as he landed with a heavy splash. He extended his arm to break the fall and sprained his wrist in the process but he was so keyed up that he didn’t notice his wrist was sprained!

Bullets whizzed all around him as he lay sprawled out on the ground. His head had hit the ground first when he fell and the mud and wet leaves were spattered over his face and eyes. The mud and falling rain prevented him from seeing clearly, but that was the least of his worries. Right now, he just wanted to get to that mound.

He didn’t bother to wipe off his face as long as he could still see. Beads of mud and water streamed down his face but he ignored them. Staying alive was more important. He was a short-timer, for crying out loud!

He crawled through the clumps of wet bushes, ignoring the muddy water that was now running through his combat fatigues. The anthill was only a few feet away.

The bullets snapped and popped around him as he inched his way closer to the anthill. Charlie knew he was there and Charlie’s bullets were getting very close. Tony could hear the nearby leaves being snapped off by the bullets. Entire branches were being cut down and falling on him.

He was scared as hell but his adrenaline kept him going. And all he wanted to do now was kill that fucking VC. He was scared but he wasn’t going to die without a fight. He was not going to die here, not with four weeks to go. He had seen too many short timers with only days to go, get zapped because they lost their edge. He wasn’t going to do that. He was going to survive no matter what.

The bullets were very close now. One ripped through his uniform but didn’t hit him. He felt the sting anyway. That was close—that was REAL close. He knew the power of an AK-47. He had seen Americans with bodies ripped open by AK-47 bullets. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

Just last week, a black trooper named Bellman, got his arm shot off in a firefight. Back at base camp, Bellman played the blues with a guitar that seemed to moan and cry like it was a part of him. He was always rapping about going back to Chi-town and becoming a famous blues guitarist when he got out. Bellman cried for days when they told him he had no arm. The medics left it in the field when they took him to the base hospital.

The rain kept pouring down hard and Tony could barely see in front of him. But he kept crawling toward the anthill. Despite the downpour and the earsplitting gunfire from all directions, he had to stay alert.

He finally reached the anthill and was able to relax and gather his thoughts. He could hear shouting from the perimeter of the hooch. Most of it was coming from his unit. Their voices were muffled by the rain and the gunfire, but he knew they were his guys.

"Herk, where the fuck is Herk!" shouted one of his comrades. Herk was the nickname they had given him because—they said—he had a body like Hercules.

He didn’t reply just in case a sniper was nearby. If the sniper spotted him, it would be all over.

The shooting from the hooch stopped momentarily. It was just enough time for him to check his M16 and his ammo and decide what to do.

What the hell happened just now, he wondered!

The rain kept pouring down as hard as ever and his fatigues were completely soaked! He wanted to wipe the water off of his eyelids, but his sleeves were covered with mud. He could feel the mud trickling down into his underwear as he waited behind the mound—waiting for his chance to kill that fucking gook.

Suddenly, the VC in the hooch began shooting at him again. Tony could hear the dull thuds of the bullets as they tore holes into the anthill in front of him. He hugged the muddy mound, embracing it, wishing he could get inside it.

He thought again about what just happened. The shit happened so quickly. Someone from the hooch started this firefight by blowing off Joe Abercrombie's head! There was a VC in there and he wasn’t playing!

The crazy thing about this whole episode was that his squad had already swept through this area earlier in the day. It was just a routine patrol like so many others—probe for VC, get some intelligence on them, then return to base—that’s all… just a routine patrol.

Just before dusk the squad sauntered back through the same area. They were laughing and joking, and generally acting stupid. There had been no sign of trouble, so everyone was relaxed.

It was the rainy season and the rain started coming down hard. As the squad approached the hooch, Joe Abercrombie decided he wanted to go inside where it was dry. It was a careless decision. He walked to the hooch and was joking around with the rest of the guys as 19-year-olds tend to do.

He stuck his head in the doorway and was about to say Anyone in there. He assumed the hooch was empty. He forgot that there were tunnels everywhere and Charlie could pop up from a tunnel anywhere, anytime.

The instant he stuck his head in the doorway, bullets from the AK-47 ripped into him, exploding and tearing his head off with such force it landed several feet away from his body. His lifeless body slumped over and fell to the ground, like a sack of potatoes falling off a truck. It lay still for a few seconds then began twitching and convulsing as though it wanted to get up. Finally, realizing it was useless; the body succumbed to death, its blood slowly trickling into the nearby puddles, turning them red.

Several feet away, Abercrombie’s rain drenched head was staring up at the wet sky, mouthing words that no one could hear. Then the mouth stopped moving and the head fixed its gaze to the sky one last time… and died.

That’s when the shit hit the fan! Charlie started firing again and bullets were flying in all directions, ricocheting, pinging, and snapping all around the clearing surrounding the hooch. The tracer bullets added to the chaos as they cut through the air. Guys spread out and ran for cover.

Tony had been through many firefights before and they were always chaotic at first, not knowing exactly where the gunfire was coming from. There were tunnels everywhere in Cu Chi. Charlie could literally pop out of a tunnel and shoot a grunt, then slide back down the tunnel before anyone knew what happened. It made the cherries—the new guys—very nervous because it was hard to spot the tunnels and sometimes the tunnels were inside hooches.

Charlie was definitely in the hooch but his position inside was hard to pinpoint. Tony did not want to take any unnecessary chances looking for him. Sticking his head up in the air to look for Charlie would get him killed. He had to wait for the right time to make his move.

The rain came down with more intensity and there were gooey puddles everywhere. It muffled some of the noise from the gunfire, but he could still hear Sanchez, his Puerto Rican buddy, on the other side of the hooch, shouting in Spanish and broken English that a VC was on that side as well.

There was muffled screaming from other guys in his squad as well. Some were unintelligible because of the gunfire and the downpour, others were calling out Charlie, a few were simply screaming like wild men.

A grenade exploded nearby and one side of the hooch belched smoke and fire. It surged and gasped, then collapsed grotesquely. Smoke billowed out and swept through the foliage, burning Tony’s eyes.

The VC started shooting at him again. He could feel the flames of lead sizzling by his head, so close that the heat and crackling of the bullets stung his ears. He leaned back and looked in the direction of his helmet but couldn’t see it. He didn’t dare move from the mound.

The VC stopped firing again, probably to reload. That’s when Tony stuck his M-16 around the right side of the ant hill. He fired off a few rounds at what appeared to be a doorway, and then he whirled around to the left side to see if he could catch a glimpse of Charlie.

He saw the VC, the top of his head barely showing through a window opening. Then he saw a grenade flying out of the opening. It was coming directly toward him!

Fuck! he shouted, spitting out the words with anger and contempt. He heard the soft thud of the grenade as it hit the ground but he could not see where it fell. He gritted his teeth and braced himself for the explosion. He didn’t know it, but the grenade plopped on the muddy ground and became wedged there. Luckily for him, the mud prevented it from rolling any closer.

He heard the loud "WHUMP" and felt the ground shudder under him, shaking his jaws so hard he bit his tongue. Giant globs of mud and sizzling, burning twigs were propelled in every direction. The debris rained down on him but the mound took the brunt of the explosion. His adrenaline was so intense; he could not tell if he was hit.

He felt a powerful roar in his ears from the shock wave and the noise of the grenade. He shook off some of the burning debris and stayed low. The roaring in his ears slowly subsided. He was tired and caked in mud. He had been on patrol all day and he just wanted a beer, some fucking hot chow, and a shower, in no particular order. He could smell his sweat, and the acrid smoke of burnt cordite, and that oppressive foulness of the bush. The stench was like a combination of piss and cow shit.

You fucking gook! he hissed as he rummaged through his muddy pouch until he found two grenades. He pulled the pin on the first one and tossed it toward the doorway. He followed it with the second one, tossing it toward the window opening. He knew that two would be harder to throw back, especially if they were thrown fairly far apart.

The first grenade made it through the doorway. The second grenade bounced off the window opening and landed just outside the hooch. As he waited for the explosions, he could hear Vietnamese voices screaming and someone shuffling excitedly to the doorway. He quickly fired his M-16 at the doorway, the bullets sending chips and splinters flying as they popped and ricocheted.

He kept shooting to prevent anyone from coming out. Then he saw a hand throwing the grenade back out just as it exploded. He ducked down to avoid getting hit with shrapnel.

Almost simultaneously the second grenade rocked the ground, sending more debris in all directions. The stench of cordite and burning twigs filled the jungle air. His nose burned and his eyes watered. The smoke and flying mud barely cleared the air when Tony heard firing from the right side of the hooch again.

Just then the rain slowly subsided and the sun momentarily slid out of the clouds. He could hear the distinctive gravel voice of Sergeant Cooper (Sergeant Rock as everyone called him) screaming orders to stay low.

No one really knew how many VC there were or even where they were located. You never knew where the VC had trap doors leading to tunnels. The trapdoors were so well hidden GIs would unwittingly walk over them. That’s when the VC would open a door just enough to shoot a soldier or two. Then they would disappear back into their tunnels.

Tony fired his M-16 again, a few more bursts into the hooch. He wondered if the VC in there was dead or still alive. He looked at Abercrombie's beheaded body. For the moment he didn’t have the time or the luxury to mourn Abercrombie’s death. Abercrombie’s body was partially buried by the debris, like some morbid scene from a horror movie. It didn't seem like a real human; it was too grotesquely twisted, the white skin was mottled now with bright red blood.

But the flies were already gathering around the body. They were not to be denied their feast. Abercrombie’s head was lifeless and had already gathered its share of flies as well. They buzzed around the bloody head, eagerly feeding on the decapitated neck, the bloody nostrils... the swollen tongue.

He turned his attention back to the business at hand. He heard Sanchez screaming again from the other side of the hooch, Over here, Charlie’s coming out! Bursts from AK-47 fire alternated with M-16 fire. Tony could hear a moan and the rustle of brush from the far left side of the hooch. Obviously, someone was running through the brush. But who was it? Was it our guys or was it Charlie? It was hard to tell from his vantage point.

Another grenade exploded from the other side of the hooch, sending leaves and mud in all directions. Then there was more moaning, and finally quiet. It stayed that way for a few moments but it seemed like an eternity.

The rain suddenly stopped as quickly as it started. The sun burst through like an oven, bringing instant and unbearable heat and humidity with it. The jungle once again came to life. Almost on cue, hundreds of ants crawled out of their holes to intrude into holes and apertures in Tony’s uniform. Flies flew around him at will, buzzing and landing on his face, to his annoyance.

The jungle returned to being hellish heat and stench. But it also told him it was safe to get up. He decided to rush the hooch. He wasn't trying to be John Wayne. He simply knew from experience that it was OK to do so.

Sergeant Rock had the same idea and they both sprinted to the side of the hooch firing inside as soon as they got to the doorway. Bullets ricocheted and both men hit the dirt thinking someone was firing back.

They soon realized it was only their bullets ricocheting and no one was returning fire. Tony laughed first. Sergeant Rock, who at first looked stern and hard-nosed, broke into a smile, then let out a loud guffaw.

The tension of the firefight soon subsided as they relaxed. Then they walked into the hooch. It reeked of cordite, sweat, and rot. It was in complete shambles. What was left of the roof was now sagging and Tony saw sky through a huge hole where part of the roof used to be. An entire side of the hooch was missing. There was no wall there, just an opening large enough to drive a tank through it.

Tony could see in every direction through the holes blasted open during the firefight. He walked around, looking at the devastation around him. It was creepy, wet and dark inside. He stumbled as his boot bumped against the bullet-riddled remnants of a human. It was the VC who tried to throw the grenade out the doorway. His open lifeless eyes revealed his horrible death. Tony stepped over the blood-spattered body. It was missing an arm and the ribs were exposed as if some enraged monster had ripped off the arm and fed off the torso, leaving shattered ribs and severed intestines strewn all about. His face was almost completely ripped off, showing part of his skull and brains.

When Tony first came to 'Nam this would have sickened him, but not anymore. He'd seen far more gruesome deaths. What really bothered him was seeing guys with limbs, genitals, or other body parts blown off and somehow, they still managed to survive. These guys had to go on living the rest of their lives like that, just like Bellman. What a way to spend the rest of your life, he thought.

Still, he was pumped up, feeling an incredible high that comes after a firefight. Hey Sanchez, we're inside, pendéjo, he screamed. Wake up and get in the war, stupid! He looked around the hooch searching for a trapdoor. He wanted to find and kill a VC. He found the trapdoor at the far corner of the hooch. It was torn open by the explosions.

Hey Sarge, look over here, he shouted, pointing to the trapdoor. That’s how these guys got in here."

You’re right, replied Sergeant Rock, walking slowly toward the trapdoor, weary of any booby traps or tripwires. There’s some blood leading to that damned thing.

It was a wooden frame trap door entrance someone was just building. The device was about ten-inches wide and fifteen-inches long. Inside the wooden frame a single board was hinged with a piece of heavy wire. The door fit right in with the floor, so that no one would know it was actually a trap door. It was virtually invisible.

Tony and Sergeant Rock carefully poked around the door. They fired a few rounds into the entrance, to kill anyone who might be there. There was no return fire.

Let me go down there! said Tony, still fired up with nervous energy. I’ll fucking kill every one of those assholes!

Naw, fuck it… those gooks are long gone. Besides they may have some booby traps down there.

I’m up for it, Sarge! responded Tony, his eyes bulging with exhilaration that comes after an intense firefight.

Calm down, Garcia! said Sergeant Rock sternly, those fucking slopes don’t give a shit if you’re a thug from East LA. Besides, I don’t need another fucking dead trooper.

EAST LOS, for life! screamed Tony as he thumped his chest! He let out a loud Mexican grito.

Sergeant Rock smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "OK, Ese," he said, using the slang that he had heard guys from East LA use.

He reached into his flak jacket and pulled out a pack of smokes, shaking the pack until one came out. He put it in his mouth and looked around as he pulled out his Bic lighter and fired up the cigarette. He took a long drag, enjoying the smoke as it filled his lungs.

You did good today, Garcia, he said, the smoke seeping out of his nose as he spoke. Then he turned around and hollered Secure!

Gradually, the rest of the troops appeared, seemingly out of nowhere—like ghosts—out of the jungle. They advanced toward the hooch, keeping very alert, looking in all directions for the possibility of another attack. As they approached the doorway of the hooch, they suddenly saw Abercrombie’s grotesquely severed body.

Jesus Christ! cried out one of the soldiers; his face contorted with queasiness after realizing it was Abercrombie’s body. Others turned away in revulsion. A few stared, thankful it wasn’t them, and two of the cherries vomited.

Sergeant Rock walked outside and saw them. All right, ladies, don’t just stand there lookin’ at him, he growled, diverting his men’s attention from the corpse. "Let’s GO… Get your shit together so we can move the fuck out! Sherman and Miller, take care of Abercrombie!"

Tony and several other veterans in his unit had seen many deaths before. They were impervious to seeing Abercrombie like this. It was the new guys that were stunned when they saw a dead body for the first time. One sat on his helmet and cried for his mama, while the other two puked their guts out.

Tony heard someone shouting, Sanchez got it! He hurried outside and saw Sanchez being helped to the area by two other grunts. Sanchez was limping and looking like he just got run over by a dirt truck. His muscular frame was bloody and covered with mud and his thick mustache was caked with dried spittle, grass and mud.

"Been rolling around in the grass again, Ese?"

Hey, give me some skin, Herk, I got me a fucking slope, man!

It looks like he got you, assbite!

"No way, Jose—I zapped the fucker good!"

Sanchez barely finished the sentence when he collapsed. Tony ran over to help the guys who were struggling to lower him. As he did so, he could hear Sergeant Rock on the horn, calling base camp and apprising them of the situation. One dead, two wounded. One VC dead, one apparently wounded badly but no one was going after him to find out.

~

It was a week later. Tony and his unit straggled in to base camp from yet another patrol. This one was 2 kilometers to the west of base camp. They were attacked by snipers who came out of hidden tunnels in a coordinated attack. They shot Sergeant Rock and a cherry from Deshler, Ohio named Dijkstra. In the firefight that ensued, a guy from Las Vegas named Martinez stepped on a claymore mine and got his body blown in half. It happened so quick, he didn’t make a sound.

Sergeant Rock was severely wounded but he was a tough old bastard. He already had two Purple Hearts. The wounds were severe enough that he was taken to a military hospital in Japan. Dijkstra was not so lucky. The poor guy was just 18 years old and barely out of high school when he got drafted. He was in ‘Nam less than three weeks when he was killed.

Tony had no feelings about this war when he first came to ‘Nam but now he hated it and hated his government for pursuing it. But mostly, he hated the VC. In fact, he trusted no Vietnamese. His mother would kill him if she heard him say that. She always taught him to treat everyone equally and never hate anyone. But war had changed him and he was not the same person that came to ‘Nam almost a year ago.

He remembered a Vietnamese woman who did laundry and shined shoes for the troops. They paid her well, and many gave her food for her kids, cigarettes for her and her husband, and even presents for her family for Christmas.

One day a patrol went searching for Viet Cong tunnels that seemed to be popping up all around Cu Chi. They came upon one with Viet Cong hidden inside and a firefight ensued. When it was over two Americans and five VC were dead. Two of the dead VC were the laundry woman and her husband.

Tony was worn out and filthy and needed a shower as he dragged his butt to his hooch. But he decided he wanted a beer first. He walked by a bunch of guys who had just completed an LRRP patrol. He knew some of them. They were loud and rowdy as they sat around screaming and laughing and shucking and jiving. Some were smoking joints while others were drinking beer. He walked past a soldier who was already wasted. He was tokin’ on a joint.

Hey Herk, looks like you need a toke, Ese, the soldier said, offering the joint to Tony.

Thanks man, said Tony. He took a long drag and then passed it back. Acapulco Gold, man, he said with a grin, Right on!

Fucking A! replied the soldier with a lethargic face and glazed eyes. His voice trailed off as he took another drag from the joint.

Tony kept walking and passed some guys from another unit who also had a bad day. They lost three guys from mortar attacks that landed inside the base. The guys got hit while sleeping in their bunks.

Tony pondered the thought of guys getting hit like that. Getting killed in your bunk… now that’s fucked up! There is no safe place in ‘Nam.

He walked past a soldier who was downing reds and was so fucked up; he could barely keep his eyes open. He offered Tony some. Tony stopped for a moment and looked at the guy. Fuck it; he took a couple of reds. They helped him forget this fucking shit.

He was still keyed up from the firefight. When will this shit ever stop, he thought to himself. He went to an ice bucket someone had filled with lots of ice and plenty of beer. He pulled out a chilled bottle of Coors. He rubbed the cold bottle across his forehead before opening it then headed for his tent when Sanchez caught up with him.

They got Sergeant Rock and Martinez, man, said Sanchez grimly. Just 2 clicks away, man! We could hear The Shit from here!

Yeah, I was there, remember! said Tony, annoyed—not at Sanchez but at the circumstances he was in. He took a long swig of his beer. "Whose idea was this fucking war, man? he asked no one in particular, kicking the ground. Another fucking Chicano got zapped, man… and for what? So some rich fuckers can make more money!!"

It ain’t just Mexicans, man, said Sanchez, reminding Tony of the other guys. "There’s lots of Boricuas and Blacks and Chucks getting killed too. That poor bastard Dijkstra, man, he was just a poor farm kid, only here three weeks man… three fucking weeks!"

You’re right, man, replied Tony. He knew Sanchez was right… it wasn’t just Chicanos getting killed. He was angry at himself for thinking only about the Mexican kid. His parents would not approve of his behavior!

But this fucking war was changing him. He didn’t like that so many minorities were getting killed in disproportionate numbers. They got the most dangerous jobs and went on more patrols than white soldiers. The whole thing sucked.

He finished the rest of his beer with one long chug-a-lug, then threw the bottle angrily to the ground. He hated that he was changing. Growing up in East LA, he was always rough around the edges, but the war was changing him. Or maybe it was teaching him that there were bigger gangs in the world, with more guns and power to do whatever they pleased.

There were governments that were run by assholes who took land and killed people from weaker countries, just because they could. They were worse than any gang in East Los. And Tony’s job as a soldier was to be the enforcer. That was fucked up!

He slapped Sanchez on the back and they went for more beer. They each took two bottles and pulled up a couple of chairs near the beer cooler.

They talked about the war and the anti-war marches in the states. They talked about the escalating American deaths, and about the guys going back to the world and being called baby killers. Soon several Chicanos gathered around Tony and Sanchez. They talked about everything from their girlfriends to the war. When they spoke, they easily moved from English to Spanish and back to English. It was natural for most of them.

It was not unusual for Latinos to hang together when they were at base camp. Blacks did the same thing as did the white soldiers. The segregation wasn’t forced; it was simply that each group felt most comfortable with his own kind.

A guy named Deleon was from Wisconsin and couldn’t speak Spanish very well. He blamed the Wisconsin educational system which he said only taught French or German as foreign languages. He liked hanging with Latinos who spoke Spanish. He had rediscovered his culture and loved it. He was a Tunnel Rat and liked to think of himself as a great Aztec warrior.

He was relating his most recent episode as several vatos gathered around him.

So I scooted down this tunnel, he said, All I took was a knife and a flashlight. I crawled about 15 meters and then I saw this huge room that looked like a cafeteria. It smelled like garlic and sweat, man!

Everyone laughed when they heard that.

Don’t tell me it was your jefita cooking! shouted one of the vatos, and they all laughed again.

No man, it wasn’t my mother! he shouted over the hoots and the laughter. So anyway, I looked around and saw this guy was cooking!

So what did you do? asked Tony.

Well the gook had no gun so he starts rattling something in Vietnamese and his eyes light up like he was really scared, you know! But I couldn’t shoot him because I didn’t have a gun either, so I start going after him to stab him.

The guys laughed harder as they pictured the scene.

Deleon looked around as though he was telling a secret. So the guy sees I have a knife and not a gun, so he throws a metal plate at me and hits me on the head. Now I’m mad and start chasing him, but the little fucker knows his way around so he scoots into this small tunnel that a fucking rat couldn’t get through… but he does.

The laughter turned into outright howling as the guys imagined a little man wiggling through a small hole in the wall.

Now Sanchez chimes in. Coño, you shittin’ me, right… What’s the matter with you? I mean, why you going down there without a gat anyway?

Then Sanchez started laughing along with everyone else.

Well let me finish, screamed Deleon. So this gook squeezes through this small tunnel and he makes it all the way in, which really pisses me off. And as he makes it through, he says something, probably making fun of my ass. He kicks at me and as he does so, I poke at him and accidently stab him right in the ass!

Everyone breaks out laughing and slapping Deleon on the back. A few guys are lying on the ground from laughing so hard. Someone pinches him in the ass and Deleon jumps as a natural reaction. This causes more laughter. Even Tony is laughing and slowly coming out of his funk. Gradually he stops thinking about Sergeant Rock, Dijkstra, and Martinez. But he still hates this war. He is still laughing as he stumbles over to get another Coors.

Chapter 2

Freedom Bird

It was a great day for Tony Garcia. His year in Vietnam was up! His last week in-country had gone by quickly. He had spent part of the week being processed and turning in his gear. When he had the opportunity, he said goodbye to everyone from his unit and friends from other units. He also called his parents in East LA. It was going to be great to be back to East Los! He couldn’t wait to see those fine brown hinas again, hanging out with his family and drinking beer with all the vatos from the neighborhood! YES!

Just before leaving on the Freedom Bird, he was transported to Bien Hoa where he received a new uniform, a final inspection, and an assignment to a flight manifest. And now he was on the airplane everyone leaving ‘Nam called the Freedom Bird!

He had been concerned about getting killed up to his last day in ‘Nam. Even after he had boarded the airplane, he was uneasy about getting rocket attacks on the runway before they took off. He only felt that things would be okay after the Freedom Bird was in the sky.

He was headed for Oakland, California. He had not been in the states in a