Deep Woods

By Louis Tridico

The summer of 1969. The moon landing. The Manson murders. A summer of heroes and villains. And in a southern town, a young boy goes missing, days before his P.O.W. father returns home. While the police search goes nowhere, young Sam Bordelon, Lucy Landry and the rest of the neighborhood "Batraiders" turn their last true summer of innocence into a desperate search for the child. To succeed, they'll have to overcome their fears of the unknown and uncover hidden secrets that lie in the deep, dark Louisiana woods. And in doing so, learn that becoming a hero often comes with a high price.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duke Street Press
• Release date: Jan 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215574867

Louis Tridico

Louis Tridico grew up in Louisiana’s bayou and plantation country, listening to the swamp stories his father and uncles told. Some were even true. After graduating from LSU, he began his career in advertising, PR and political consulting. He also served a while as media spokesman for the East Baton Rouge Parish Sheriff’s Department. He currently lives in Texas as a Louisiana expatriate with his wife, two kids, two dogs and one box turtle. They make regular pilgrimages back to the swamps.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It is said that when death is imminent, the senses become heightened beyond measure. The soldiers moving through the tall grass knew nothing of sensory research or studies of the human brain at death. Probably just as well.

The sun was low in the clear blue sky, and they could almost hear the thick, humid air boiling all around them. They caught the crisp scent of a wood fire somewhere in the distance. Not carried by the wind, but somehow mixed with the liquid air like the aroma from a pot of soup on a stove. The grass was wet with the moisture from an earlier rainstorm and shimmered in brilliant shades of green and yellow. But it was their sense of hearing that was tweaked, because what the soldiers were listening for was Charlie, and they could sense that Charlie was very, very close. And today the grunts were going to root him out and kill him. Or die trying.

The men advanced through the grass in a loose line, their green uniforms so soaked with sweat the fabric was nearly black. Each carried an M-16 rifle they used to sweep the grass aside as they carefully and quietly moved through the thick foliage. They had been choppered into the central highlands of South Vietnam near An Khê at dawn and dropped five clicks south of their current position. One team. One mission. But this wasn't just another Army rifle squad made up of luckless draftees. They were the Batraiders, an elite team made up of boys who grew up in the swamps, marshes and rice paddies of south Louisiana. They had been hunting, fishing and trapping since they were in diapers, comfortable with the landscape and attuned to its rhythms. They weren't special forces like the Green Beret, but they were used in a similar manner—seek out and destroy. Shoot, loot and scoot. They had a knack for getting things done, and their kill numbers were off the charts. Yet not a single Batraider had been lost in combat. But that was yesterday. The Grim Statistician always had a fresh notepad and a sharpened pencil ready each day.

No one knew where the name Batraiders originated. An officer had suggested they call themselves the Louisiana Tigers, after an old Confederate outfit from the Bayou State that fought fiercely in the Civil War. Swamp Rats was also proposed, but who wanted to be named after a nutria, those giant swimming rats of the bayou? They nixed both and stuck with Batraiders. They just said it sounded cool.

There was a trail 400 meters to their left that wound its way down a hill and into the valley they now approached. It would have made the going a lot easier. But the Batraiders knew better. Only a bunch of green recruits, or some baby lieutenant fresh out of West Point, would walk down a trail. That's where Death lived. Charlie would have it booby trapped or would have set up an ambush. The VC knew Americans loved an easy walk down a trail. But the Batraiders didn't think quite like Americans. And that scared the shit out of Charlie.

The Raiders were led by lanky Sam Bordelon, a kid out of Baton Rouge who had a sixth sense in the jungle. He hadn't lost a guy yet, and his men worshipped him and hung on his every word. His number two was Glenn Guidry, a tough, fearless fighter who once went hand-to-hand with two VC. Glenn walked away without a scratch. The two VC were now rotting in a ditch somewhere. The rest of the patrol was made up of Alan Picou, the Batraiders' sniper and semi-official comedian—a rare combination; Gary Fletcher, the best tracker the Army had in-country; and the Vidrine twins, John and James, both lean and hungry like young wolves. Nobody could tell them apart and nobody cared.

Sam guessed Charlie was ahead somewhere to their left, watching the trail and waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting American patrol. But not this patrol. Not today. The Batraiders were going to do a little bushwhacking of their own and really ruin Charlie's day. Sam stopped mid step and held up his hand. Glenn Guidry, to his right, did the same, followed by the entire team. They all took a knee and waited. Sam looked over at Glenn, used two fingers to point to his eyes and then pointed them ahead. See what you can see. Guidry nodded and crept forward. Everyone gripped their rifles and focused on the front. It was about to be show time.

Bam. A sharp retort behind them. A single shot. A sniper? Sam dropped onto his belly, and his men did the same. They waited for his command. Sam thought the sound was familiar. Less like a rifle shot and more like...a screen door slamming.

Saaaa-aaammmm!

The shrill cry was like a banshee leading a bayonet charge. It chilled the men to the bone.

Sammmmmm!

Or maybe it was someone else.

Sam stood up. Shit, he said.

The rest of his men also stood up and started laughing. Glenn returned from his recon.

Great, Sam. Your mom just gave away our position to Charlie.

Alan Picou grabbed his chest and fell to the ground. K-I-A by Mizz Bordelon. Ahhhhhh! He lay sprawled in the grass, laughing.

Keeeeeee-ahhhhhhhhh! Johnny and Jimmy Vidrine yelled as one. Killed in action! They, too, dropped to the ground. Twin casualties of war.

Gary Fletcher walked over to Sam. Nice, a-hole. He pointed his plastic replica Mattel M-16 Marauder at Sam, pulled the bolt back and squeezed the trigger. The realistic brrappppp brrraapppp machine-gun sound cut through the thick air. You're fragged.

Thanks, Sam said. He turned around and yelled, Back here, Mom!

Time for dinner! she yelled back. A moment later, the screen door slammed again.

Sam looked at his ragtag men and said, Dismissed!

Alan Picou, still laying on the ground, saluted. Aye, aye, Captain!

That's the Navy, dumbshit, Jimmy Vidrine said.

The boys headed back through the grass to a trail that led to their neighborhood. The small clearing of high grass was the lone treeless area in a vast hardwood swamp and forest that extended east and southeast for 20 miles on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. Louisiana's capital city had been growing steadily since the 1950s, and the big gas and chemical refineries along the Mississippi had been cranking out all the things the American economy—and Vietnam War machine—needed to run. And that meant more jobs. The city was advancing against an effective wilderness, and the boys' neighborhood was the latest boundary on progress's relentless push eastward and south towards New Orleans.  For nine, ten and 11-year-old boys, it was heaven. An unexplored expanse of adventure literally feet from the back doors of their modest three-bedroom, two-bath ranch-style homes.

The troop moved down the trail and into a thick copse of willow oaks, sweet gum, magnolia and live oak. On the other side was Sam Bordelon's back yard. A clothesline filled with drying sheets and pillowcases bordered the dense woods. They all had to duck to get through. On one side of the yard, near the patio, a wobbly redwood picnic table sat under a large beechnut tree. Two gray squirrels were sitting on the table, chomping away on some nuts. They saw the boys and scampered up the tree. The other side of the yard featured a red swing set with a slide, two swings and a glider.

Adios, muchachos, Alan Picou said. He veered off to the right and the side yard that led to the street. The others veered left to do the same and head to their homes.

Sam walked towards the back door and put his rifle down on his dad’s charcoal barbecue pit. Ellen Bordelon opened the screen door and peeked out. She was a pretty brunette with big brown eyes, a sharp nose and a dark complexion. Sam favored her considerably. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

Stop, she said. She looked him over. Leave the shoes out here. What were y'all doing out there?

Sam knew this was a standard question when he and his friends returned from the woods. Like he had to give a debriefing of the day's activities. But there was a weird look to his mother's face. Worried.

Just playing, you know, he said. He felt funny saying the word playing. He was 11 now and staring hard at 12. He liked playing pretend with the guys. In fact, he was pretty much the Great Pretender for them, coming up with the stories and scenarios to make the day more exciting. But more and more, he had to confess to himself that doing so was beginning to sound silly.

Lucy back there with you?

No ma'am. No girls.

She gave him a searching look. Trying to catch him in a lie. Satisfied, she gestured him inside. Wash your hands.

Dad home?

His mother let out a short, cynical laugh. Not a chance. Don't expect him until after eight.

Sam's father was a supervisor at the Esso gas refinery down by the river. He usually had a few beers with the guys at the end of the day.

And check yourself for redbugs, she said. There's some Bactine in the hall towel closet.

Sam had a brief recollection of last summer when redbugs had found their way into his clothes and began making a meal of him. Mostly in his crotch. The little red bites would itch for a week. Only the miraculous medicinal properties of Bactine would save the day.

He made his way to the bathroom, took a leak, checked his balls, washed his hands and headed to the kitchen. It smelled of fried pork chops and simmering green beans in a pot. He sat down at the kitchen table.

Where's Kathy and Lisa? he said. He was making small talk, as the grownups liked to say. He didn't really care where his older sisters were.

His mother looked at the clock hanging above the refrigerator. Kathy's spending the night at Judy's. Lisa's down the street at the Arnaud's. About time for her to get back, too.

Again, Sam noticed a weird look on his mother's face.

She sat down, said a blessing and they began dinner.

Was little Donnie Allen with y'all?

No, Sam said.

Have you seen him at all today? she said.

Sam shook his head.

I know he's not a member of the Batmen or whatever, but y'all do play with him, right?

Batraiders, Sam said a little under his breath. He cringed slightly. Hearing his mother invoke the name of their club, even incorrectly, stole its magic away. Then he said, Sometimes. He'll play football or kickball with us. Ride bikes when we're down that way. Other stuff. Why?

His mother put her fork down. Nobody's seen him all day. His mother has been calling all over asking about him. They were supposed to go buy some clothes after lunch but he never came home. I wonder if he got lost in those woods. Y'all playing back there worries me sometimes. Snakes and who knows what else is back there.

We didn't see him.

She sighed and looked out the window into the backyard and the deepening gloom settling into the woods.

Sam said, Do they know when his dad's coming home?

His mother turned to him. "They're still not sure. I think he was being checked out in a military hospital in Saigon. Then they were to fly him to Guam or someplace like that. Maybe Hawaii, I don't know. More medical checks. The Air Force is going to want to talk to him, I'm sure. What do they call it? Debriefings?  Then back here. So maybe a week or so? I don't know..."

He's gonna get a medal, Sam said. His eyes went wide. Maybe the Medal of Honor! Pretty groovy, huh?

"Yeah, groovy. I'm sure he doesn't care. Four years in a POW camp? Then escapes into the jungle and makes his way back to our guys? I'm sure he just wants to be home with his family."

But he led three of his guys out, Sam said. Kept them alive for a month. He's a hero. John Wayne will play him in a movie one day.

His mom smiled. Wouldn't surprise me. Then her smile faded. I'm really worried about Donnie. He's only ten.

Sam thought his mom might need some reassurance. Hey, summer just started. Everybody's out there doing stuff. He might be down in the creek somewhere catching greenbacks or tadpoles. Or over at the pond.

You think?

Sam just shrugged.

They talked some more about the upcoming summer, finished dinner and began to take the plates back into the kitchen. The phone rang.

Ellen Bordelon snatched it off the cradle on the wall.

Sam put the dishes in the sink. He listened to part of his mother's phone conversation. There were some uh huhs and some no’s. The she said, I asked him. They haven't seen him. There was silence as his mother listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. Finally, she said, Okay, just let me know if you hear anything. She hung up.

Now Sam really didn't like the look on his mother's face.

"He hasn't come home. They called the police.

Chapter 2

The old stump began talking to Clete Godso about an hour earlier. Not long after, there was a full-on conversation happening. There was about four feet left of the once towering willow oak, sawed down by Clete's father almost 10 years before. After the tree was cut up for firewood, the old man had come back and made a smooth cut, leaving a fairly flat work surface about three feet across, mostly for skinning rabbits and squirrels. Those years of butchery had left a permanent red tint to the stump's flat top. One of the tools of that effort—a long, rusty machete—was stuck into the edge, like a cap set at a jaunty angle on a man's head. 

Clete Godso sat slouched in a rickety aluminum lawn chair. Its green-and-white woven slats were frayed and perilously close to breaking, despite Clete's skinny ass. He stared at the stump. It had stopped talking about five minutes ago. Clete had a bit of the shakes, and he was sweating in the humid afternoon sun. Probably wasn't the sun, he thought. Might've been that acid he had dropped earlier. He was pretty sure he was coming off the trip, but when he held his arm up and waved it back and forth in front of him, a gold-and-blue liquid light seemed to flow from his fingertips. Far out, he thought.

Still with me, Cletus? the stump said.

Clete snapped out of his colorful reverie. He hated that the thing called him Cletus. Sounded like his drunken old man, now seven years into being worm food back behind the cabin.

Huh? Yeah, man. I'm here. What's the matter, you can't see me?

I can see you.

I just, well, you know, you ain't got no eyes or nuthin'.

Oh, I can see you, Cletus. Don't you worry about that.

Clete leaned forward to see if the thing did indeed have some kind of stumpy eyes. There were two small knots, set wide apart, that kind of looked like eyes. Below them was a long-healed horizontal scar that might've passed for a gnarled sneer of a mouth. He held his gaze there, praying that the damn stump eyes didn't blink. He'd for sure crap his pants if that happened.

How come you can talk? Clete said.

I could always talk, you idiot, the stump said. Just needed the right kind of person to listen. Someone who knew how to open his ears. Like you.

Oh, yeah. Like me.

Your old man couldn't hear me for shit, the stump said. When that mean bastard lopped off the top 80 feet of me, I was screaming something crazy.

Oh, man, that musta hurt.

You wouldn't believe.

But I watched him cut you down. Didn't hear you either, Clete said. He wiped his sweaty face with his hand.

Too young then, the stump said.

Right. I was about 12 or 13, I think.

Got your old man back for that, though the stump said.

Clete thought the thing's mouth shifted into a knowing smile.

How so?

Well, since you buried him back behind the cabin, my roots have been suckin' juices off his corpse. Keeps me real chatty, you know?

Clete swallowed what spit was left in his mouth. He felt his Adam's apple slide up and down his long, bird-like neck. He turned his head and look back behind the old cabin he called home. Back near the tree line was a rotted wooden cross where he buried his father after the old man croaked in the middle of the night after a drinking binge. Couldn't afford a funeral or a real cemetery. And his father didn't work or have any real friends. His mother had run off when he was five. So Clete had grabbed a shovel and dug a grave out back the next morning. He had kept checking to make sure the old man was dead before he dropped him into the hole. Clete was pretty sure he was dead when he covered him with dirt. Pretty sure.

Your father tasted pretty good, the stump said. Ain't much left now. Feel free to bury somebody else. Gettin' a little hungry, you know.

Clete chose to ignore that comment. A change of subject seemed to be a pretty good idea.

So...you been out here for years. How come you started talkin' to me today? Clete said.

The stump seemed to ponder this question for a moment. At least Clete thought it had a pondering face. An uncomfortable minute dragged on. A crow's loud cry echoed through the nearby woods. At first, Clete thought it was the stump, and he jumped a bit. Finally, the stump spoke.

Well, Cletus, it's like this. You got yourself quite the little operation going here, and I want to make sure you don't mess it up.

Clete looked around, making sure no one was in earshot. Truth was, there was no one around in any kind of shot. The old cabin he called home was deep in the woods at the end of a narrow gravel road. It was a wide trail, really, overhung with thick branches and hanging moss. It ended in a wide clearing that held the old cypress wood structure, now gone to gray, a small shed that leaned precariously to one side, and an ancient outhouse he still put to good use. The stump was in the wide side yard between the cabin and the even-deeper Louisiana hardwood forest.

I'm not gonna mess it up, Clete said. He tried to muster an indignant tone, but it came out whiny.

Mess is your middle name, Cletus, the stump said. Look at yourself.

Clete sat up in the lawn chair like he had gotten called out for slouching in church. He took stock of his condition. He wore ratty old jeans despite the hot, humid summer air. His feet were stuck in a pair of faded biker boots that had lost all their color. A grease-stained blue t-shirt covered his emaciated chest. If he stretched, it was possible to count his ribs with ease. He unconsciously put his hand to his face and stroked the mess he called a beard. Long dark greasy hair hung to his shoulders. Someone had once told him that with his gaunt face, he looked a little like Jesus. Just after the Romans had beaten him to a pulp and hung him on a cross. So no real compliment there.

The stump's eyes or knots or whatever seemed to bore into him. Got you a nice little crop of home-grown back up in the woods. Got a good stash hidden away in your little hidey holes, too. What else you got back there? Some black beauties.? A little orange sunshine, maybe?

Clete had definitely been into the orange sunshine. He could still see it coming off his fingers.

The stump continued. You're kind of wasted right now, aren't you? Brother, you got to sell more than you consume, can you dig it?

On this Clete agreed. His drug operation was a big part of his cash flow. Pretty much the only part. The only other source was his crappy job as a laborer on a parish road crew. He'd walk the two miles up the gravel road to the highway in the morning, get picked up and head to work. He was a no-show more often than not. Clete was that kind of dedicated employee.

Anyway, the stump said. Time to move that stuff on the market. Get it to your buyer over in Plaquemine.

Yeah, Jimmy Wayne. He's a good customer, Clete said.

Jimmy Wayne, the stump affirmed. But the longer you keep that shit around, the better chance the fuzz is going to roll up and bust your ass. Next time you do time, brother, it's long time.

Clete winced a bit at that comment. He'd spent six months in the parish prison already. It wasn't hard time by any means, but it had messed with his head.

Nobody's gonna find my stuff, Clete said. Got it so hidden back there you could be standin' three feet from it and not see anything.

Uh huh, said the stump. "Ain't like it was when your old man was around, when you were deep in the wilderness. Civilization is coming your way. You better be protecting what's yours, know what I mean?"

Yeah, yeah. You right about that.

Damn right I'm right. In fact, I'm getting some bad vibes right now. Why don't you grab that machete you got stuck in the side of my head and head back up in there and check your inventory.

Now?

Hell yes, now!the stump screamed.

Clete flinched at the outburst and turned his head. I'm kinda still trippin', I think. Can I wait a few minutes?

It's best you don't, the stump said.

Clete thought the thing shifted its eyes towards the deep woods and squinted. It looked back at him.

"Something's out there you're going to have to deal with."

Chapter 3

Donnie Allen sat with his back to the big sweetgum tree and tried his best to stop crying. Snot and tears streamed down his dirty face, and his curly brown hair was wet with sweat—but at least he'd gotten the sobbing under control. He looked around again at the darkening woods as the colors began to leach out of the lush green forest. The same word kept coming up in his ten-year-old brain: foolish.

That was his mother's word. While everyone else might say dumb or stupid, she loved the word foolish. If she said you were foolish, it was worse than dumb. It was as if being foolish was a disease, with all kinds of symptoms and lasting effects on your body. And your future on this planet.

Yep, Donnie thought. I am most definitely foolish.

He reached into his green canvas backpack that had U.S. Army stenciled on it. It wasn't Army surplus, just something his mother had bought at Goudchaux's Department Store. But it looked real, and that's all that counted. He had wanted an Air Force one, but apparently Air Force guys didn't wear backpacks. He grabbed another vanilla Moon Pie and peeled off the wrapper. He took a big bite of the sweet treat. The sugar calmed him a bit, a taste of home and comfort hitting his tongue and firing through that foolish ten-year-old brain of his.

Another thought kept trying to take root there, and he fought it as much as he could, but was failing miserably. He was lost. Not a Lost Boy like in Peter Pan. Those kids had a plan. Nope, he was just plain old lost in the deepest scariest woods he could imagine. And it was getting darker by the minute. The summer sun had dropped almost vertically past the horizon. No piddling around there, not like in winter when it kind of dragged itself across the edge of the earth, slowly dialing out the light. Nope, God was hitting the light switch in June. Donnie was trying to remember something about June and the sun. Something his teacher said in science class, but he couldn't remember.

Donnie had often played in the woods with the neighborhood kids, but he had gotten turned around and probably started walking in the opposite direction of home. The kids had a way of describing the woods in three parts: there was the front woods, the back woods and the deep woods. The front woods were where they all normally played. It had established deer trails that they all knew. Behind that was the back woods, where the trails, if they could be found, were less known. Only the older kids would go back there. And he wasn't one of them. The deep woods? Well, that was off limits to all of them. That's where the seriously scary shit lived. Those deep woods went on forever. No trails. No landmarks. Just miles and miles of trees and swamps and things that could eat you.

Donnie was pretty sure he was in the deep woods.

This was also where the Owl Man lived, or so they all theorized. And legend had it he would most definitely eat a kid. That thought made Donnie stop chewing. He took a swig out of his nearly empty canteen—also U.S. Army—he didn't know how Air Force guys drank water.

That's when he heard something. The sound of leaves crunching and twigs snapping. Something big moving through the woods. At first, he couldn't tell the direction of the sound. He stood up and looked around until his ears could get a fix. Definitely behind him. He put his backpack on and cinched it tight, trying to identify the thing coming towards him. The weak gray light wasn't helping. He was hoping it was a deer, but he didn't think they made much noise. Maybe a bear. That would be bad. Nobody had ever seen a bear in the woods, but then again, nobody had been in the deep woods. One kid had told him there were panthers back here, too. Donnie had a cat and had seen it rip a mouse to shreds and eat it. But cats were sneaky, and whatever this was, it wasn't sneaky.

Donnie's heart was pounding now. He wanted to run, but he needed to know what he would be running from. Now he heard talking. And that meant people. And that meant people looking for him, and that meant home. Where a foolish boy would most certainly be welcomed, and probably punished, but definitely not eaten.

He was about to shout out, Here!!! when he finally saw who was coming.

The Hippie. Clete Godso.

Donnie snapped back behind the tree and tried to melt into it. He could hear the Hippie talking, but no one else was there. He was talking out loud to himself apparently. The Hippie was a drug fiend. Crazed. On dope and LSD. The older kids had talked about that stuff. For some reason, they said it stood for Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Whatever that meant. It didn't make sense to him, but not much did for a little kid in the summer of 1969.

Donnie was absolutely sure the Hippie wasn't part of a search party, so those hopes dwindled. He thought about running, but the dope fiend was too close. He'd run down Donnie in seconds. And Donnie knew drugged-out hippies