Crossing the Rubicon: A Novel of War

By Patrick Wageman

This antiwar story takes place in 1967-68
in Vietnam. It is about those who crewed the helicopters in an assault helicopter company. There are two main male characters, one poor and one slightly upper middle class. They arrive in their new company on the same day and therefore become friends. Both are 24 years old. There is also an American female character who is in Vietnam with the Red Cross at the beginning of the book but has to return home when her father becomes ill. Her letters to Robert give a female point of view about the war. She is 23.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465325938

Patrick Wageman

In 1967-68 the author flew as a helicopter crew chief with the 1st Cavalry Division. He holds the Air Medal with 52 Oak Leafs. He lives in Texas.

Book preview

CROSSING

THE RUBICON

A NOVEL OF WAR

PATRICK WAGEMAN

Copyright © 2010 by Patrick Wageman.

Cover photo by Patrick Wageman

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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CONTENTS

The Beginning

An Khe

Landing Zone Dog

An Khe

Landing Zone Uplift

The Island

Chu Lai

The Year of the Monkey

Camp Evans

Hong Kong

Return

Operation Delaware

Closing the Gate

The Ending

Dedicated To Those Who Did It

He that dies this year is quit for the next.

King Henry IV, Part II

The Beginning

The lightning ratchets across the sky/

And it’s storming off to the east/

The thunder’s played by a left-handed

    drummer/

And a hard wind’s gonna blow on me

An Khe

What’s going on here?

I’m not sure yet.

I wonder if it’s rabid, the new man was thinking as he watched a large gray rat gamboling over, around and through an old wooden cargo pallet lying in the weeds outside the tent. It was warm and the sides of the 16-by-32-foot dingy-brown General Purpose medium were rolled up. He was dressed in stateside fatigue trousers and a white tee shirt he had dyed green before leaving the States. The green wasn’t an olive drab like the army issued in Vietnam but more the color of new pecan tree leaves in early spring. He also had some tee shirts he dyed black, the color of the holes of the dead.

He was lying on a cot at one end of the tent and had a view out its side or end. Out the side and perhaps 400 meters away was Hong Kong Mountain, the highest point inside Camp Radcliff. It wasn’t really a mountain as mountains go, but a piece of ground that thrust itself up several hundred feet higher than anything else in the camp. Near its top, on the inward side, was painted a huge yellow-and-black 1st Cavalry insignia. Impressive and gung ho, he thought, on first seeing the escutcheon. Real army.

He was apprehensive, not knowing what was in store for him. It was the same way he felt on entering the army. He wondered what kind of company he would be going to. He was pretty sure it would have something to do with helicopters because he had been schooled on them at Ft. Rucker, Alabama. But he’d heard that when the army was hard up for infantry, it would take men with any MOS and stick them there. He doubted they would do that to him, however, because he had joined and not been drafted, although he joined because he was about to be drafted.

He lay on the bare canvas cot on his stomach, hands clasped under his chin, now alternately watching the rat and glancing a couple hundred meters away where men new to Vietnam were rappelling off a wooden tower. Some of those trying it wound up hanging upside down in midair. He could see three men, all standing on the ground, taking pictures. Two used long telephoto lenses. He wondered if they were able to record a man’s facial remarks as he struggled to do the task correctly. He raised his head and wiped a fine layer of sweat off his forehead onto his forearm. Did any of those guys ever fall?

At the other end of the tent someone yelled hot dawg! He and another man were sitting on a cot facing two others sitting on another cot. They had a stuffed-full duffle bag lying on the dirt floor between them, using it as a table. They were playing poker. The one with the accent had just won a large hand. Three dollars, seventy-five cents, he heard the soldier drawl. The new man smiled to himself as the fellow proclaimed to the world that Lady Luck sure was smilin on him.

Everyone in the tent was new in An Khe, flown in that morning from Pleiku, Pleiku being where they first set down in Vietnam. They landed there the day before in a Pan American DC-6 that they boarded at Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines after debarking a 707.

Pleiku had been quick, landing in early afternoon where they were fed, taken to a short orientation, separated as to units or divisions, then issued one dirty army blanket and one dirty white sheet for their first night in the country.

The next morning they were fed a breakfast of powdered eggs and bacon and real biscuits made by army cooks. And the coffee was real too, although greasy, as all army coffee seemed to be.

Then those going to the 1st Cavalry were put back on one of the same olive Japanese busses that brought them from the airfield the afternoon before. There was chain-link fencing over the bus windows to protect against someone throwing a grenade through one of the openings. They were flown to An Khe on a C-123, which made the DC-6 seem modern.

A whistle blew, jolting the new man. It was just as well. He was growing tired of watching guys swinging on ropes; and the rat had disappeared. In the army the police whistle is used to call soldiers to formation. It was used in conjunction with the phrase fall in! In the army whistles were usually blown by sergeants.

He rolled off the cot and put on his fatigue shirt and baseball cap. One never went to a formation without a cap or helmet. One had to be covered. That was the rule, the inculcation.

This was a formation to process these new soldiers into the division, which was part of what the 15th Administration did. Everyone called it 15th Admin. They would soon learn that there was a 15th Medical Battalion, known as 15th Med; and a 15th Transportation Corps, known as 15th TC, in the 1st Cavalry Division (Airmobile), which was known as the 1st Cav or just the Cav. There was esprit de corps in this division, no doubting that. 1967. It was the 400-plus helicopters: the airmobile concept. The new man already felt that. He felt that before he left the States.

Somewhere around 30 of them formed four ranks. The new man stood in the middle of the third rank, behind the Southern boy who had won the big pot. Each was carrying his records, having hand-carried them all the way from Oakland and responsible for not losing them.

There’s a saying in the army that you hurry up to wait. All these new men already knew this. One spends a good percentage of one’s time waiting in line: for chow; for pay; to be inoculated; for clothing issue; to see a post movie; for records processing. So it was now.

They had a roster of all the new men, and they knew which man had what MOS. And where each MOS was needed. So all the new men had already been assigned to their respective companies before any of them ever set foot inside the building. The four ranks became a file, and each man entered at one end, passed before several clerks, then went out the other end.

One clerk took six sets of the new man’s orders assigning him to the division. Another one took his payroll records. A medic checked his shot record. There was a dispensary next to the processing building for anyone who wasn’t up to date on his inoculations. The new man was okay. They handed back the rest of his records and a piece of paper showing the company and battalion he had been assigned to. He was going to B company, 227th Avn. Bn. (AH).

What kind of outfit is this? he asked.

The two-two-seventh is an assault helicopter battalion, replied the clerk.

Those needing shots received them, and then they all fell in again. The sergeant appeared before them once more. He told them that they were about to turn in all of their American money, including all change. In exchange they would be given military scrip, MPC, funny money, as GIs called it. Even nickels and quarters were made of paper. The sergeant, looking and sounding very stern, said that all U.S. money must be turned in, and that possessing any in Vietnam was a court-martial offense. The new man had $53.60. He handed it over in exchange for military payment certificates.

He again boarded one of the busses and took a seat on the right, near the front and up against the window. His duffle bag lay on the floor between his legs, with his suitcase on top of the duffle. The bus filled quickly with men and baggage. He peered through the mesh-covered window, its pane open to let in air. He guessed that there was about an hour of daylight left. He thought about the company he would be joining and his stomach quivered in anticipation. He felt green. Unknowledgeable.

The driver climbed aboard and asked for everyone’s attention. He said he would yell out the name of each battalion they stopped at. Each man had the piece of paper with the company and battalion he was assigned to on it. All he had to do was keep his ears open and he would wind up where he was supposed to. So there would be little talking during the trip.

Okay, said the driver. He dropped into his seat, shut the door and started the rear-engine bus. They pulled onto the road. None of the roads in Camp Radcliff was paved. They had been graded out of the red earth and covered with a black oily substance called peneprime that helped to reduce the dust.

It was a wandering, circuitous route as the driver first seemed to go one way and then the other while dropping off his passengers. The new man observed and thought. Most of the structures were either prefabricated wooden jobs with corrugated tin roofs, or tents. If they were wood they were painted a medium gray, or they weren’t painted at all. Many of the buildings and tents were sandbagged, but not all. There were bunkers for protection in case of mortar attack. There was a real—and to him, powerful—dullness. The trees along the road were dust-covered green, and most everything else—what the army owned—was olive drab: the trucks, jeeps, helicopters, artillery, uniforms.

They passed a huge CH-54 Tarhe, nicknamed Flying Crane, parked on a spot of grass just off the side of the road, its six drooping blades hanging silently. Could that thing really fly? The Sikorsky reminded the new man of a monstrous mantis. There were no other helicopters around, so he decided it was there for dispersal in case of mortar attack.

His mind wandered back 8000 miles to home, his mother and dad and younger brother. Basic training already seemed long ago. Ft. Polk, Louisiana. Practicing the low crawl between the barracks on ground as hard as concrete. Running the mile for time in combat boots. Learning how to take apart the M14 rifle. Learning how to shoot it. The army issued M16s in Vietnam. Finally finishing basic. Leaving Ft. Polk. Everyone called it Ft. Puke. Ft. Rucker was better. They treated you differently after basic. Going to classes. Learning something about helicopters. Not nearly enough, of course. But still. Finishing up at Rucker and then being stuck in a holding company pulling details while the army tried to straighten up one of its screw-ups. No orders had come down on him at the end of AIT. Long time ago.

The bus stopped at the side of the road in front of a large white plywood sign that read:

HEADQUARTERS CO.

227th Avn. Bn.

(ASSAULT HEL.)

On either side of the black lettering was painted a large yellow lightning bolt.

The driver turned in his seat and said Last stop. The three men left on the bus made moves to exit.

I guess this is our new home, said a soldier with a bad complexion as he stepped to the ground.

Beautiful, drawled the Southerner who had won the poker pot.

They were met by a specialist fourth class, a spec/4, who invited them to park their things outside the orderly room and go in. Those inside took what they wanted of the men’s orders and records and then handed back the remainder. The man with the bad face was a clerk and was to stay with Headquarters company. The Southerner was going to C company. The new man, for a reason untold, was reassigned from B company to C company; so he and the Southerner had a kinship of sorts: going to the same company on the same day.

He stepped outside and flinched as he let the screen door slam a little too hard, expecting some voice of admonishment from inside. But none came. One of his face muscles twitched uncontrollably as he looked to the darkening sky. Assault helicopter, he thought. Hueys. He liked Hueys. B-models were what they had been able to touch at Ft. Rucker. The Bell Iroquois was the army’s most numerous helicopter. In Vietnam Hueys were ubiquitous.

He eyed the old guitar lying against the Southerner’s duffle bag. It was cheap looking and had DELUXE written in faded gold letters along the neck behind the strings. There was a worn strap attached to it so that it might be slung over the shoulder, somewhat like a rifle. It had been down some roads, he was thinking, as its owner exited the orderly room.

The Southerner stopped next to the man. Looking straight ahead he drawled, Looks like we’re goin to the same company. Then he held his right hand over in front of the man and added, My name’s Clarence Pepper.

The man glanced at the hand and then at the Southerner, then said, Quint, as he took the hand in his. Bob Quint.

Yeah, I heard inside. Spec four says for us to wait here while he brings a three-quarter-ton around, take us to our new company. Says we got about thirty minutes to make it to the chow hall. What’s your MOS?

Sixty-seven N, replied Quint.

That helicopters?

Yeah. How about you?

I’m a commo man. You know, stringin wires and hookin up telephones and stuff. I can do electrical work too. Where you from, Quint?

All over. How about you?

All over? Clarence Pepper smiled. I’m too poor to be from all over, but I been a few places. I’m mainly from Kentucky, though. You know, horses, bluegrass and coal. I was born in a coal town. My daddy died from workin too long in a coal mine. I had to leave that. The army done me a favor when it drafted me. I figure.

Quint was looking at him again. He had figured Pepper was from farther south than Kentucky. He and Pepper were about the same height. Pepper had dirty blond hair and a pug nose. His belly was starting to give a little and wasn’t as muscular as Quint’s, but other than that they were about the same size. You any good with that? nodding toward the guitar.

Somewhere between not bad and pretty good. Course, that’s not my good instrument there. I wouldn’t bring my good one over here. Since this place don’t appear to be some paradise. Does it? He looked at Quint.

In the dimming light Quint could see that Pepper had faded-blue eyes. I never heard anyone call it that, he answered.

The spec/4 had gone out the back entrance of the orderly room to bring the truck around to the front. When they saw him coming, the two men stepped to pick up their belongings. There were to be no fields of clover.

It was about three-quarter’s of a block along the road to C company. Quint and Pepper put their things in back and then crawled up front with the specialist, Quint by the door. Pepper asked the clerk how long he had been in Vietnam. Six big ones. Pepper said that six months seemed like a long time from where he sat. The clerk nodded in agreement as they stopped at the side of the road. This is it, he said. You guys grab your stuff and I’ll show you to the orderly room. Cruik will take you from there.

There was a pathway between a building on the left, which had to be a club because they could hear a blaring TV, and a sandbag bunker on the right. Quint thought that the bunker probably held ammunition of some sort, as there was a large red 4 painted on a piece of plywood on top. They walked past another building on the left that was unlighted, and a latrine on the right. Then the area opened up forming an elongated quadrangle with one row of buildings facing another. Two more buildings closed off the other end of the quad. All these hootches, as they were called, were wood with corrugated galvanized roofs. Just in front of the structure at the far end was a large bunker. This odd-shaped quadrangle was probably 200 feet long and 85 wide. The new men noticed that there weren’t many people around.

The lights were on in the orderly room and two or three other buildings. All the remaining hootches were dark. Behind the orderly room they heard the whine of the generator that provided C company’s electricity. They again left their things parked on the ground outside and followed the specialist in.

Cruik was a spec/5 and quickly introduced himself. He seemed in a hurry, but not because he might be upset with the new men. The mess hall was about to close. He took several sets of their orders and then sat down at the typewriter and typed out meal cards. Quint and Pepper signed the company roster while the clerk typed. Cruik handed them the cards and told them to sign the backside. Then, picking up a big six-volt Eveready flashlight, he said, Let’s go. Just leave your gear where it is; nobody will bother it. The man from Headquarters walked with them as far as the truck, wished the new men good luck, then left.

Everyone was eating at Headquarters’ mess hall across the road from C company because most of the men in the battalion were in the field. There were only a few men in each of the five companies in An Khe, and they were there mainly to pull details. The three crossed a small footbridge that spanned a narrow ditch and entered the mess hall, Cruik telling the cooks that he had a couple of hungry FNGs with him. Quint and Pepper learned from Cruik that an FNG was a fucking new guy. Stars and Stripes called them funny new guys, but everyone knew better. Cruik was a pretty happy fellow. He had ten months behind him and was getting short. He drank a glass of kool-aid while Pepper and Quint ate.

They followed the clerk up the wooden steps into the dimly lit hootch, their new home. Some of the structures that Quint and Pepper had seen were made on concrete slabs, but this one was up on wooden blocks. The floor was made of roughhewn one-by-twelve-inch boards laid longitudinally from one end of the place to the other. There were interstices up to three-quarters of an inch wide between planks.

The three stopped just inside the door and looked around. About a third of the way from each end hung a 60-watt bulb on an electric wire that was wrapped several times around a rafter running across the width of the place. There were 14 metal-framed army bunks, seven on each side, that ran inward from the walls. The ends of the bunks left a four-foot-wide aisle down the center of the hootch.

Most of the bunks had boxes and footlockers piled on their bare springs. Only two beds had mosquito netting strung above them. There was nothing fancy about the room. It was pretty basic. There was a four-foot-high wood wall. Above that was screen wire for another three feet. Each end of the building had more planking above the screen. Pictures of nude women, American icons, cut from various girlie magazines embellished the upper walls at each end of the building. There was another door at the far end, but it was blocked off by a juryrigged cabinet that was fashioned from old ammunition crates. There were hinged flaps on the outside of the hootch that could be let down when it rained. They were simply wooden frames covered with translucent plastic.

Home is where you find it, Quint said as he surveyed the place.

Shucks, man, responded Pepper. This is as good as some of the places I lived in back in Kentucky. In some ways better. I bet the roof don’t leak. All three glanced upward. Course, I bet it’s real noisy when the rain comes poundin down on the tin.

Cruik said, You guys pick vacant bunks and pile your stuff on them. You still have to go over to battalion supply and check out your field gear.

Tonight? questioned Pepper.

Sure. You can’t sleep on those bare springs, can you? They’ll issue you an air mattress so you’ll sleep nice and comfy. You’ll need to take your records with you. On your way back, stop by the orderly room and I’ll take the rest of your paperwork.

Quint and Pepper took the fourth and fifth bunks on the left. When they stepped outside Pepper asked Cruik, What’s that there bunker for?

That’s where you go in case of incoming. We’re lucky the whole company isn’t here because there’s no way we can stuff a hundred and something men in that hole.

Y’all get incomin very often? a wariness in Pepper’s voice.

We had some about four nights ago, but it didn’t hit this area. The base gets popped about once a month now. Not bad. Victor Charlie does like to aim for planes and helicopters, though.

They walked toward the orderly room, which was four buildings from the hootch. Quint asked the clerk, Have many people been killed in this company since you’ve been here?

About ten or so, I guess. I think all but one were aircrew members. The one guy who wasn’t was sitting in the latrine up at LZ Hammond one night when a mortar round came through the door and blew off his legs. He bled to death. He was a mechanic and probably thought he had it made. But that’s the way this war is. Just when you think you’ve got it made, it’s liable to reach out and jerk you to the bottom. He paused, then continued. I was here and didn’t see it, but they say it was pretty bad. Blood and flesh and shit everywhere. I’m ready for the World, gents. The World was GI slang for the United States.

They walked past the orderly room to the road, where Cruik pointed to the tent that was battalion supply. It was across the road and they had passed it earlier on the way to the mess hall. He reminded them again as he turned back toward the orderly room: Don’t forget to drop off your records after you finish up over there. I have some other things that I’m supposed to tell all new EM coming into the company.

Each came back carrying a wooden footlocker on his shoulder, crammed full. As they crossed the road in the dark, Quint, who was trailing Pepper, said, Let’s take this stuff on to the hootch, then make the orderly room.

Sounds good to me.

When they came into the hootch, there was a guy lying on one of the two bunks that had the mosquito netting. The sides and ends of the net were lying on its top so the bunk was not enclosed. He was across the aisle from the bed that Quint had taken. He was looking at the pictures in a Playboy magazine.

Pepper and Quint set their footlockers on the floor at the end of their beds as the man on the bunk set the magazine aside and said, You guys just arrive today?

Yeah, I’m afraid so, answered Quint.

The man rose and walked over to Quint and held out his hand. My name’s Sean Moore. He shook hands with Quint and then with Pepper. Three PFCs.

Pepper said, How long you been here?

Two weeks. Been pullin details most of the time since I got back from charm school. Jungle school. That’s a four-day thing that all new people have to go to. Then more details back in the company. I spent today, for instance, at the sandbag point watching gooks fill sandbags. Then there’s KP, guard duty, hoeing weeds, going to the garbage dump, burning shit. Stuff like that, Moore grinned. It’s called the New Action Army.

Quint removed his baseball cap and laid himself on the bare springs of his bunk, folding his left arm under his head. Yeah, I read you, he smiled. New Action Army.

Pepper and Moore sat down on the edge of Pepper’s bunk, facing Quint.

I’m tired, Quint yawned. "And we still need to go back to the orderly room. Was that a Playboy you had, Moore?"

Man, let me show you some nipples. Moore jumped up and brought the magazine back and handed it to Quint. Aren’t those nice? Pointed like that. Ooh! He sat down.

Quint looked at the pictures. They were nice nipples. The areola and the nipple of each breast flowed into a point, giving the breasts a sculptured look.

Those are number threes, Moore said.

Huh? said Pepper as he reached over and took the magazine from Quint.

Number threes. There are three kinds of women’s nipples. Number ones are the most common type. Those are number threes, as defined by Doctor Moore here.

I didn’t know that, Quint smiled faintly. Number threes? Let me see those again, Clarence. Pepper held up the magazine. Hmm, hummed Quint. They are nice. He felt a slight aching in his groin.

Boy, you could really stick one of those in your mouth, gleamed Moore. Lord!

All I ever seen in Kentucky was number ones, Pepper cracked as he studied the pictures. We’re kinda common. And then as an afterthought, Maybe some one-and-a-halfs here and there along the line. He grinned.

Quint said, Maybe we ought to send ole Hugh a letter suggesting that the boys in Nam want to see a few more number threes, or whatever they are, and a few less number ones. But then, what if those aren’t real?

Aren’t real? challenged Moore.

Yeah, Pepper said, they might be just painted on.

"Everybody knows they use the airbrush at Playboy, Quint agreed. That’s why these girls always look so good. Maybe they just made those nipples." He laid the back of his right hand across his eyes.

They wouldn’t do that! Moore snatched the magazine from Pepper’s hands. He stood and walked beneath the bare bulb and looked at the pictures again, the scientist observing. They wouldn’t do that. Naw. They wouldn’t do that.

Pepper said, Quint, we’d better hit the orderly room before Cruik comes after us.

I think you’re right, Quint rising.

Cruik heard them coming through the night. Laughing. What are you guys so happy about? he asked as the two whipped into the orderly room.

Aw, it aint nothin, drawled Clarence Pepper. We were lookin at a funny cartoon in a magazine, that’s all. He handed Cruik his remaining records, then Quint volunteered his.

The clerk told them some of the rules they were supposed to abide by. He told them that reveille was at 0600 hours and breakfast at seven o’clock. After breakfast, at 0800, there was a formation for a company area police call, and that was when the day’s details were assigned. He informed them that they would have the next day to square away their things because the day after they would be going to charm school.

When you have free time you can go to the PX or the Red Cross or Sin City—if that’s your bag, Cruik told them. You’ll be expected to get a haircut when you need one. There’s a barbershop down by the main gate. The barbers are Viets. When you return from school, you should have your name, patches and so forth sewn on your new uniforms as soon as possible. The people who do the sewing are Vietnamese also. There’re down by the main gate. You’re supposed to pay them in piasters—Ps—and not in scrip, but most don’t. Any questions?

Uh, Pepper said, the company’s in the field. Do we go to the field?

The CO comes in every two weeks and reviews who we have. How many, what MOS, how many we need here. He interviews everyone, or just about everyone. It depends what specialities are needed in the field as to who goes when. It also depends on what the old man thinks of you. Most everyone goes there eventually. I know you don’t want to pull details, but someone has to. And don’t think there aren’t any details in the field. It’s the army. He looked at the two men—first one and then the other. Like I said, you’ll have tomorrow to get yourselves squared away. I’ll issue you M16s then. There’ll be somebody around who can show you something about the things, if you don’t already know. However, that’s part of charm school. I will tell you that there are no loaded magazines carried in weapons while on the base, excepting guard duty. Any other questions?

Laundry? asked Quint.

Thanks. I should have mentioned that. When you have some time, stop by here and I’ll take ten dollars from you. Vietnamese do our washing. The ten dollars will usually last for about a month. He reached into his desk and brought out a couple of laundry slips. They were written in both Vietnamese and English. Here you go, Cruik said as he handed each a slip. "I take care of the laundry here, but out in the field supply does it. They keep track of your payments out there.

Couple of more things. When you write letters home, you don’t have to use a stamp. Put your return address in the upper left corner of the envelope, and then write the word FREE where the stamp goes.

Just like congressmen and senators, huh? smiled Quint. Franking privileges.

Nice of them, wasn’t it? replied Cruik. The last thing I wanted to mention is malaria. You’ll hear about it over and over again. At dusk, everyone who is outside is supposed to roll down his sleeves. On Mondays, in the mess hall, they dispense a big orange antimalarial pill. They call it M-day, for Monday and malaria. It may sound corny, but it does help people to remember to take the things at regular intervals. Any other questions?

The two new men looked at each other. They were both tired and wanted to go. I don’t guess so, Pepper answered.

Okay, said the clerk, that’s about it. Going through the whole routine with every new man was pretty old. Good luck, he told them.

It was after 2200 hours when they returned to the hootch and began digging through the footlockers for the air mattresses they had been issued. Quint pulled out a new field jacket. I sure wouldn’t think you’d need one of these in the jungle, he said, holding it up.

That’s what I thought. Moore lay on his bed watching them. But this is the central highlands and it can get cool around here at night. You’ll be under your poncho liner by morning.

What’s a poncho liner look like? asked Pepper.

This thing I’m lying on. Most people use them for bed covers, since there seems to be a shortage of blankets. The two new men had not been issued any blankets, only one white sheet and one white pillowcase, along with one floppy feather-filled pillow sheathed in blue-and white-striped ticking.

Quint pulled out the poncho liner, which was camouflage colored and quilted with something in the middle that felt as if it might be cotton. But he knew that it was probably some synthetic. Probably polyester.

Pepper had begun to blow into his air mattress. After only about six or eight deep breaths into the thing he was turning red in the face. He quickly put the palm of his hand over the opening and exclaimed, Goddamn! He looked at the mattress and saw that it had hardly begun to expand. How long does it take to blow up one of these suckers?

Moore was laughing. It takes about five minutes to do mine.

"What do you mean takes?" asked Quint.

They tend to loose air while you’re lying on them. Most of ’em anyhow. And you usually have to refill part of it every night. Pepper had started to blow again. He was watching Pepper. Hey, you’re givin that thing a beautiful blow job, Pepper!

Pepper quickly clasped his hand over the opening and smiling, drawled, "Moe, why don’t you just lay there with your Playboy magazine and suck a paper tit." And then he started to blow again.

Quint had just picked up his mattress when Stuss came wobbling through the door yelling Short! He was all smiles and just on the other side of drunk. Motherfuckers! he exclaimed, as he walked unsteadily toward the three PFCs. I am sheeooort! Short, short, short and double-fucking short! Quint stood in the aisle holding the limp mattress. Stuss stopped in front of him. Two days. He held up three fingers on his right hand, and then looking at them said, Oops! and took his left hand and lowered one of the fingers. Pardon me, soldier, he said and wobbled past Quint and went on to the bunk that was on the other side of Pepper’s. He tore down the mosquito netting as he half fell, half sat down. Piss on the bugs, he mumbled. They bite me tonight, they die from Ballantine poisoning. Two days. Yeow!

Pepper stopped trying to air up the mattress and half turned to look at the guy. You know what I been doin? Stuss looking at Pepper. "I been at the club gettin cold sober drunk—watching Batman. He sat hunched over, his hands cupping his knees. He’s cool, man. I mean he’s so coool—we need him over here. You know that? He picked up his right hand and pointed a finger at Pepper as his tongue ran around the edge of his upper lip. Charlie’d never know who he was cause he wears a mask. He roared with laughter. Can’t you just see the Batmobile rippin across the paddies attacking fortified villages? That’s what this army needs—Batmobiles! I’m so short." All three of the men were watching Stuss intently.

Guys, this is Stuss, Moore said. He’s short. He’s a crew chief. He’s got a Purple Heart.

Moore mentioning the Purple Heart triggered Stuss again. An Lao Valley. Yes it was. I never seen anything like it. I never been so scared. Fire. I promise to swear to you we had tube and ARA and guns and all the slick ships were burnin the barrels right off their M60s, and they—I swear—still had more fire comin outta that place than we had goin in. Both of his arms were waving the air now. We flew into a hornet’s nest, soldiers. They were all down in their holes, and we got stung. I think every ship musta been hit no tellin how many times. I mean the air was poison. Yes sir. The only thing that saved my life was gettin shot in the leg. He stopped—for an instant—as if someone or something had suddenly applied the brakes. And then he took off again. My best buddy Jobac was crewin the bird behind mine. He took a hit in the head. Drove him right into the next century. Went through Rucker together.

He leaned over and untied his boots and removed them. Then, weaving, he stood up and unbuckled his belt and opened his trousers and let them drop to his ankles, somehow kicking out of them without falling. Then he stripped off his shorts and kicked them away. He was standing there in his jungle shirt and socks, unashamed, uninhibited, his flaccid penis dangling. Like a participle, Quint thought. A dangling participle.

You see that scar there? Stuss asked to everyone and no one. He had hold of his left thigh, and the three men could see the bluish-purple spot. That’s where it went in. Bang! SKS or AK round. Then he turned slightly to the left and pointed out another, larger, bluish-purple scar. And that’s where it came out. Got me six weeks in the hospital. And saved my life. They gave me a DFC, but I was a scared motherfucker. I woulda died that day, but I was saved by my leg. Rushed me to medevac—at English—and—that battle was over for me. Over for Jobac too, he said almost soberly. Lots of guys hurt that day, let me tell you. Lots of ’em.

He bent over and picked up his shorts, then sat on his bunk and started to put them on again. He never made it, though. It was as if all the talking had expended him, emptied him out, and the energy required to put them on just wasn’t there. He collapsed back onto the bunk, became entwined in the mosquito net, and rolled over on his stomach, shorts around his knees, bare buttocks shining toward heaven. He was asleep. And he was short.

Pepper said, I think he passed out.

Moore rose and walked over to Stuss’s bunk and looked down on him. Yeah, he’s asleep. He picked up the crew chief’s poncho liner from the floor and covered him, then returned to his own bunk and lay down.

They finished airing up the mattresses and made up their beds using the sheet and the poncho liner, then stretched the mosquito netting over the T affairs affixed to the bunkends. You gonna shower? Pepper asked Quint.

I think I need it. I feel sticky. Think I’ll try one of these OD towels they gave me. Quint had also brought three white towels from the States. They stripped to their shorts and put on their shower thongs and went out the door.

The shower was a wooden building with a concrete floor. The used water ran out a drainpipe into a ditch behind the place. Inside, there was an area to the right that was designated OFFICERS and an area to the left for EM. They went to the left into a room with a couple of wooden benches, a couple of mirrors attached to the wall, and a 60-watt bulb hanging by its wire from a rafter—as in the hootch. The shower was through another doorway. There were a couple of beat-up aluminum pans on a homemade table below the mirrors.

Nifty, Quint said as he picked up one of the pans and examined it. I guess this is what we shave out of.

Yeah. Pepper walked into the shower room. Hey, this shower aint got any roof. You can see the stars. There were a couple of rows of beams across the top of the room on which were sitting three 55-gallon drums. Each drum had a showerhead attached to its bottom, and was open on top. Two of the drums had army gasoline-fired immersion heaters in them. Someone had already shut off the heaters, but the water was still warm.

When they returned to the hootch Moore was asleep, and Stuss was still in the same position he had fallen in. It was close to the turn of the day. Each unscrewed a light bulb. They said good night, crawled onto their bunks and lowered the netting. Both were quickly gone.

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They stood lightly at ease in the back rank of a two-rank formation. Eleven men. It was a little past 0800 hours on this their second morning in Vietnam. The back rank was made up of everyone in the hootch that Pepper and the others were in plus one more man. The six in the front rank were all from another hootch.

Quint had a backache. His air mattress had gone completely flat during his short sleep. He thought he could feel the imprint of the springs on his body. He had awakened on the flat mattress, curled in the fetal position, the poncho liner wrapped around him. Moore had been right about cool nights in the central highlands.

They ate breakfast and swept out the hootches. Now they were back outside for the day’s assignments. Quint and Pepper had already been told they could have the day for themselves. Three of the men were in An Khe to process out of the division, their year over. It was called DEROS, the day most Americans in Vietnam lived for: Date of Estimated Return from Overseas. It was the day they returned to the World. It was the day the Nam was put behind them, at least physically. One man was going on R and R; three were in the company as permanent assignment. One of these three was a clerk, and the other two were considered to have been foul-ups in the field and so had been sent back to pull details. The remaining four, Pepper and Quint included, were new.

He came out of the orderly room putting on his baseball cap. He was a sergeant first class, an E-7. Quint studied the NCO as he stopped in front of the formation. He couldn’t make up his mind if the man was smiling or sneering. He guessed that the sergeant was about thirty-seven years old. His face was pockmarked from the acne of years ago. His eyes were set too close together, taking away all symmetry from his face. He was about five feet nine inches tall and squatty. His arms seemed too long for his body.

Good mornin, drawled the sergeant. I see we have some new faces. I’m Sergeant Shanker. I shouldn’t be in An Khe right now, but I’m havin a little pay problem. Uncle Sam aint givin me all my due. Anyways, since I’m the rankin EM in this here company area I thought I’d just kinda look at what we got. I don’t believe I know some of you fellas. Do I know you? he asked as he smiled at Quint.

Not any more than I know you, Sergeant.

Oh, oh, oh. Tells jokes too. Then the smile turned to a sneer. You aint tryin to be smart, are ya Slick?

My name is PFC Quint, Sergeant.

Shanker was holding a piece of paper. He glanced at it. He had the men’s names and what job or detail they were assigned to for the day. Cruik had made out the assignments and written them down for the sergeant. Quint. I see here you have to go to charm school tomorrow, and you have the day to prepare. You and Pepper. Pepper here? Pepper was standing on Quint’s right. He raised his hand. Sergeant Shanker looked him over, as if he were appraising him. I tell ya what I’m gonna do. Since you boys are gonna have it easy today, we’re gonna let ya clean up the shower and the latrine this mornin. Won’t take long. And Wilson— Wilson was a spec/4 standing in the front rank—knows how to do it, don’t ya Wilson? He can show you fellas the ropes, so to speak. He was smiling again. He read out the assignments for the others. The three who were about to deros were free to do whatever processing still remained for them. He finished with a That’s it, perud. He would give the orders and then say That’s it, perud. He meant period.

Though it was hardly a platoon, Shanker raised his voice and said, "Patoon—tench-hut. The eleven men came to attention. Before I dismiss y’all, I’m gonna march ya up to the road there where I want you to spread out facin back this way. Huh? We’re gonna have a police call. Don’t let nothin get by ya. Cigarette butts, paper, cola cans, what have ya. They are the enemy. I don’t care if you smoke or not. You see a butt, you bend down and pick it up. Understood? Understood. Left—face." They did a left face and marched, if sloppily, to the road.

They spread out and began working their way back though the company, the sergeant exhorting them to do a good job. Quint didn’t smoke, so he had a thing about picking up someone else’s trashed cigarette. He managed to grind one into the dirt without Shanker noticing. He did pick up a gum wrapper and a beer can someone had tried to crush. When they reached the other end of the company, the NCO formed them up again, everyone holding what he had picked up, and marched them back to where they had started. He gave them at ease.

Okay, I’m gonna dismiss you men. Put yore trash in the can. He pointed to the 55-gallon drum outside the orderly room that was used for such purposes. Things need to be done, let’s do ’em. A group of men cannot be dismissed from the at-ease position. They have to be called to attention first. "Patoon—tench-hut. He looked them over. Don’t you three forget to burn that shit and clean that shower. He was pleased. He knew, and they knew, who was in control. Fall out."

Quint had read or heard somewhere that in World War Two they dug trenches for it. Maybe, maybe not. In Vietnam they burned it. No maybes about it.

First goddamn mornin in the company and we hafta burn shit, protested Pepper as they headed in that direction. There aint no justice.

Maybe sometimes, Clarence, Quint offered.

Well, I been in this world twenty-four years so far, and I sure aint seen very much of it—if any. I mean, that baboon looked like he really enjoyed tellin us to go burn shit. You notice the way the fucker smiles? Shit-eatin smile. Maybe we oughta save that beady-eyed bastard a bowl of it. Then he laughed and slapped his hands together at the thought of Shanker eating the stuff. With a cherry on top! he grinned.

They cleaned the showers quickly. There wasn’t much to it: just picking up a few discarded razor blades, a couple of their wrappers, an empty shaving-cream can. They drained some water from the showerheads into the aluminum pans, poured it on the floors, swept it down the drains. They did both the officers’ and the EM’s. It didn’t take ten minutes, even with the talk that is concomitant with details of this sort. And then they were initiated.

Sometimes it was called the latrine. Some of the time it was called the shithouse. This particular one sat next to the shower, to its right as one faced the buildings. It was the embodiment of simple efficiency. As it was simple necessity. The building itself was constructed from a framework of two-by-fours, with walls of plywood. The floor was plywood, set up on wooden beams to keep it off the ground. The roof sloped from front to rear and was made of corrugated tin. At one time the place had been painted gray on the outside; however, the paint was now half gone. Weathered. There was a plywood partition down the center to separate the enlisted men from the officers. Again, as in the shower, the officers’ side was on the right. Quint wondered if that meant anything.

At each corner of the building was a crudely made screen-covered door. A spring nailed from door to door jamb, as prescribed by some physical law, kept each door shut. The doors provided two of the three air entrances into the place. The other was a 12-inch-high screened area across the front and just below the roof. Inside, it was similar to the country outhouse. Each side had two cheap pale-blue toilet seats. But instead of a hole being dug beneath the seats, there was a truncated 55-gallon drum under each. From a wire on a rafter, on each side of the partition, hung the amazing 60-watt light bulb. There would be light. But not too much.

Quint had noticed it earlier during the police call but hadn’t really thought about it. He did now, however. On the side of the building—on the officers’ side—was a six-foot-long pole sticking up above the roof. On the pole, in the limp morning air, was a limp Texas flag. He knew it was a Texas flag because, among other reasons, he had lived part of his life in Texas. He also knew that a lot of Texans were earthy, and he supposed flying the Texas flag above an outhouse might be considered earthy by some. Still, it wasn’t the same as flying it above the Alamo. Hey, he said to Pepper and Wilson as they walked around to the backside of the building, you think they let Mexicans in?

What? puzzled Pepper.

This is it, Wilson said. Wilson was one of the foul-ups. One could just look at him and tell it was so. There was no denying it, not even by Wilson. He was badly overweight. Jowl hung off his neck like an add-on feature, and his face was perpetually red—as if he had been working hard even when he had not. A good walk would make him sweat profusely.

There was one in almost every company. In basic training, he would be the first to give up and drop out when the company went on its morning pre-breakfast run. The drill sergeant would pick on him, scream at him, call him a pussy, and even give him a shove every once in a while—always in front of the rest of the men. But to no avail. He could do so little physically that he wouldn’t even lose much of the excess weight he usually had, that the army said all overweight men would lose while in basic training. Sometimes the army would make a man back up for a couple of weeks, but eventually it would pass him through basic or discharge him.

Wilson had been the one in his basic-training company. But he had very early on become resigned to the treatment he received. He’d never cried, as some did. He told his sergeants that he was no good and he knew it. He told them he would do the best he could under his handicap—which was plainly too much fat. After all, it was the army that had drafted him. There had been, however, one way in which he had very pleasantly surprised his sergeants. It had come along toward the end of basic, and therefore he had received only a slight respite from all the vilification. He qualified expert with the M14 rifle. Expert was the highest qualification. Out of a couple hundred men in the company, only thirty or so had shot expert with the rifle. His platoon sergeant had been amazed. Wilson had overheard him tell another sergeant, That fat boy can just shoot the shit out of that rifle. Wilson’s last two weeks in basic hadn’t been all that bad. He had still dropped out of the morning runs, but the sergeant would say something like, Com’on, Wilson, you can make it. And he had. He made it through basic training in the prescribed eight weeks. An anomaly: a fat boy who could shoot the shit out of the M14 rifle.

But by some ungodly stroke of misfortune, Wilson had received orders to go to cooks’ school after basic training. (The schooling after basic was called AIT, advanced individual training.) He had quickly regained what little weight he had lost. But he was already resigned to being fat. He had been fat ever since he could remember. He would do his two years and he would forget about the army. Then came Vietnam. He had gone to the field almost immediately after finishing jungle school. And almost immediately he had gotten off on the wrong foot with the mess sergeant. The mess sergeant hadn’t liked Wilson for the same reason that other sergeants hadn’t liked him. He was fat. Wilson couldn’t understand the mess sergeant’s apparent antipathy since he wasn’t exactly the Thin Man either. But he was fifteen or twenty years older and so had an excuse.

Of course Wilson had helped things along when, on his second day in the field, he accidentally knocked over a ten-gallon pot of iced kool-aid. Right to the ground; right before the start of the noonday serving. And then two days later he had knocked three large cake pans, each containing a large cake, right onto the dirt of the ground. The three cakes were sitting on a bench cooling, and of course the bench had gone over too. That had really upset the mess sergeant. Everyone took the evening meal without any desert. Early on Wilson had broken the camel’s back. That was eight months back. In those eight months he had burned a lot of shit. He didn’t like it, but he was resigned. That’s the way he was.

He stopped next to a 55-gallon drum and rested his right hand along the rim. This stuff is diesel fuel, he smiled and patted the top of the drum. This is what we burn with. It’s nowhere near as dangerous as gasoline or JP-4. It’s harder to start it burning, so it’s a lot safer.

The two virgins listened as Wilson explained. Along the back of the building were two plywood covers. They were about two feet high measured from the ground, and were hinged from their top edges. Each cover enclosed two of the shortened drums. Wilson picked up two pairs of heavy work gloves lying on top of the drum and said, Put on the gloves. When I raise the flap, you guys reach in and yank out the shit cans. Okay? He held out the gloves to the two men, and they, looking at each other with some trepidation, took the dirty things and put them on their hands.

Wilson lifted the first cover, and Quint and Pepper reached in and, together, started to pull out the first can. Pepper was particularly queasy, and when he caught a glimpse of what was in the can he let go of his side.

God! protested Quint, as Pepper’s letting go almost caused Quint to loose his grip on the can. Damn, Clarence! Quint huffed as he dragged the drum out to the ground. What did you do that for? That stuff could have splattered me.

Pepper just stood there, not answering directly, pale in the face, gazing down at the contents of the can, feeling as if he were going to vomit his breakfast. Wouldja look at that shit! he cried. He wasn’t thinking in puns either. They don’t put this on the army posters!

There’s a lot they don’t put on the posters, Quint said, a tinge of ridicule still in his voice.

Wilson, in a tone of superiority, grinned and said, "You are what you eat."

The Philosopher King! Quint shot back.

So there it was: part of man. It was obscene: a mixture of diesel fuel, human excrement, urine and toilet paper. Where were the trenches they dug in World War Two? thought Quint.

It’s a heavy brew, isn’t it? offered Wilson, beaming wickedly. But we can’t spend the day here. There’re three more to pull out. Try not to drop them, Pepper. You’re just gonna hafta get used to it because the low men do the burning. And right now there’s nobody any lower. Pull out the rest of the cans and pour them into the first one. Cook it all in one pot, he grinned. War is hell.

Pepper tied his handkerchief around his mouth and nose and tried to put his mind somewhere else, tried to think of Kentucky: back home where everything was poor, but where he still had never burned crap.

There was always one extra can behind the latrine, so that while one was being fired, there would still be the required number of pots available to go back in place. They did it. Everything went into one drum and then more diesel fuel was added. Wadded up toilet paper set on fire was dropped into the mix. Slowly it started to burn. Black smoke curled its way into the still morning air, to join other black ribbons that were beginning to wend their way skyward all over the base. It’s a ritual, Wilson said. They’re burning shit all over Vietnam right now.

Cruik caught them as they were on their way back to the hootch and had them come to the orderly room and sign a divisional lightly wounded form. It gave an individual the option of having next of kin notified or not notified if he was lightly wounded. Any serious wound or illness and that person’s next of kin would be informed automatically. Both men opted not to have anyone notified in case of a light wound.

There was a rack of M16s in one corner of the orderly room. Cruik unlocked it and removed two. He wrote down the serial numbers and then had each man sign for his weapon. When you return to the hootch the clerk told them, write down your serial number and put it in your wallet in case you should get the thing mixed up with someone else’s. He gave each three 20-round magazines and three white twenty-round cardboard boxes containing 5.56mm ammunition, then reiterated the rule about magazines in weapons. You’ll fire and zero them at charm school. Compared to the M14 with its wood stock and conventional look, the black, plastic-stocked M16 was a piece of exotica, an item of Buck Rogers futurity, here today.

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Remember in basic how they used to call you dipshit? Well, we’re still dipshits. We’ll probably be dipshits as long as we’re in this man’s army, bemoaned Pepper as he unbuttoned his fatigue shirt and removed it. Quint was already shirtless. It was only 9:30, but the sun was already hot.

They had signed into the jungle school and been taken to a barracks where they left their things. Now they were a short distance behind the barracks preparing to help build forms for cement. The school was going to put up two prefab buildings to use as a museum to display weapons that the Viet Cong used, some of them homemade and very ingenious. Quint and Pepper and perhaps 40 others were going to be the layers of foundations.

Someone sang out, Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam. And someone else replied, But not water buffalo, goddammit!

They worked and sweated until 1200 hours, then broke for lunch. They went back to work at two o’clock and worked