The Things They Carried By Tim O’Brien
The Things They Carried
First  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  carried  letters  from  a  girl  named Martha,  a  junior  at  Mount  Sebastian  College  in  New  Jersey.  They  were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in  plastic  at  the  bottom  of  his  rucksack.  In  the  late  afternoon,  after  a day's  march,  he  would  dig  his  foxhole,  wash  his  hands  under  a  canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers,  and  spend  the last  hour  of  light  pretending.  He  would  imagine  romantic  camping  trips into the White Mountains in New Hampshire. He would sometimes taste the  envelope  flaps,  knowing  her  tongue  had  been  there.  More  than anything,  he  wanted  Martha  to  love  him  as  he  loved  her,  but  the  letters were  mostly  chatty,  elusive  on  the  matter  of  love.  She  was  a  virgin,  he was almost sure. She was an English major at Mount Sebastian, and she wrote  beautifully  about  her  professors  and  roommates  and  midterm exams, about her respect for Chaucer and her great affection for Virginia Woolf.  She  often  quoted  lines  of  poetry;  she  never  mentioned  the  war, except  to  say,  Jimmy,  take  care  of  yourself.  The  letters  weighed  10 ounces.  They  were  signed  Love,  Martha,  but  Lieutenant  Cross understood  that  Love  was  only  a  way  of  signing  and  did  not  mean  what he sometimes pretended it meant. At dusk, he would carefully return the letters to his rucksack. Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among  his  men,  checking  the  perimeter,  then  at  full  dark  he  would return to his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin.
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The  things  they  carried  were  largely  determined  by  necessity.  Among the necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat  tabs,  wristwatches,  dog  tags,  mosquito  repellent,  chewing  gum, candy,  cigarettes,  salt  tablets,  packets  of  Kool-Aid,  lighters,  matches, sewing  kits,  Military  Payment  Certificates,  C  rations,  and  two  or  three canteens  of  water.  Together,  these  items  weighed  between  15  and  20 pounds,  depending  upon  a  man's  habits  or  rate  of  metabolism.  Henry Dobbins,  who  was  a  big  man,  carried  extra  rations;  he  was  especially fond  of  canned  peaches  in  heavy  syrup  over  pound  cake.  Dave  Jensen, who  practiced  field  hygiene,  carried  a  toothbrush,  dental  floss,  and several hotel-sized bars of soap he'd stolen on R&R in Sydney, Australia. Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried tranquilizers until he was shot in the  head  outside  the  village  of  Than  Khe  in  mid-April.  By  necessity,  and because it was SOP, they all carried steel helmets that weighed 5 pounds including  the  liner  and  camouflage  cover.  They  carried  the  standard fatigue  jackets  and  trousers.  Very  few  carried  underwear.  On  their  feet they  carried  jungle  boots—2.1  pounds—and  Dave  Jensen  carried  three pairs  of  socks  and  a  can  of  Dr.  Scholl's  foot  powder  as  a  precaution against  trench  foot.  Until  he  was  shot,  Ted  Lavender  carried  6  or  7 ounces  of  premium  dope,  which  for  him  was  a  necessity.  Mitchell Sanders, the RTO, carried condoms. Norman Bowker carried a diary. Rat Kiley carried comic books. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, carried an illustrated New Testament that had been presented to him by his father, who taught Sunday  school  in  Oklahoma  City,  Oklahoma.  As  a  hedge  against  bad times,  however,  Kiowa  also  carried  his  grandmother's  distrust  of  the white  man,  his  grandfather's  old  hunting  hatchet.  Necessity  dictated. Because  the  land  was  mined  and  booby-trapped,  it  was  SOP  for  each man  to  carry  a  steel-centered,  nylon-covered  flak  jacket,  which  weighed 6.7  pounds,  but  which  on  hot  days  seemed  much  heavier.  Because  you could  die  so  quickly,  each  man  carried  at  least  one  large  compress bandage,  usually  in  the  helmet  band  for  easy  access.  Because  the  nights were  cold,  and  because  the  monsoons  were  wet,  each  carried  a  green plastic  poncho  that  could  be  used  as  a  raincoat  or  groundsheet  or makeshift  tent.  With  its  quilted  liner,  the  poncho  weighed  almost  2 pounds,  but  it  was  worth  every  ounce.  In  April,  for  instance,  when  Ted Lavender  was  shot,  they used his poncho to wrap him up, then to carry him  across  the  paddy,  then  to  lift  him  into  the  chopper  that  took  him away.
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They were called legs or grunts.
To  carry  something  was  to  hump  it,  as  when  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross
humped  his  love  for  Martha  up  the hills and through the swamps. In its
intransitive  form,  to  hump  meant  to  walk,  or  to  march,  but  it  implied
burdens far beyond the intransitive.
Almost everyone humped photographs. In his wallet, Lieutenant Cross carried  two  photographs  of  Martha.  The  first  was  a  Kodacolor  snapshot signed  Love,  though  he  knew  better.  She  stood  against  a  brick  wall.  Her eyes  were  gray  and  neutral,  her  lips  slightly  open  as  she  stared  straight-
on  at  the  camera.  At  night,  sometimes,  Lieutenant  Cross  wondered  who had  taken  the  picture,  because  he  knew  she  had  boyfriends,  because  he loved  her  so  much,  and  because  he  could  see  the  shadow  of  the  picture-
taker  spreading  out  against  the  brick  wall.  The  second  photograph  had been  clipped  from  the  1968  Mount  Sebastian  yearbook.  It  was  an  action shot—women's  volleyball—and  Martha  was  bent  horizontal  to  the  floor, reaching,  the  palms  of  her  hands  in  sharp  focus,  the  tongue  taut,  the expression  frank  and  competitive.  There  was  no  visible  sweat.  She  wore white gym shorts. Her legs, he thought, were almost certainly the legs of a  virgin,  dry  and  without  hair,  the  left  knee  cocked  and  carrying  her entire  weight,  which  was  just  over  100  pounds.  Lieutenant  Cross remembered  touching  that  left  knee.  A  dark  theater,  he  remembered, and  the  movie  was  Bonnie  and  Clyde,  and  Martha  wore  a  tweed  skirt, and  during  the  final  scene,  when  he  touched  her  knee,  she  turned  and looked at him in a sad, sober way that made him pull his hand back, but he  would  always  remember  the  feel  of  the  tweed  skirt  and  the  knee beneath it and the sound of the gunfire that killed Bonnie and Clyde, how embarrassing  it  was,  how  slow  and  oppressive.  He  remembered  kissing her  good  night  at  the  dorm  door.  Right  then,  he  thought,  he  should've done something brave. He should've carried her up the stairs to her room and  tied  her  to  the  bed  and  touched  that  left  knee  all  night  long.  He should've  risked  it.  Whenever  he  looked  at  the  photographs,  he  thought of new things he should've done.
What  they  carried  was  partly  a  function  of  rank,  partly  of  field specialty.
As  a  first  lieutenant  and  platoon  leader,  Jimmy  Cross  carried  a compass,  maps,  code  books,  binoculars,  and  a  .45-caliber  pistol  that
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weighed  2.9  pounds  fully  loaded.  He  carried  a  strobe  light  and  the responsibility for the lives of his men.
As  an  RTO,  Mitchell  Sanders  carried  the  PRC-25  radio,  a  killer,  26 pounds with its battery.
As a medic, Rat Kiley carried a canvas satchel filled with morphine and plasma and malaria tablets and surgical tape and comic books and all the things  a  medic  must  carry,  including  M&M's  for  especially  bad  wounds, for a total weight of nearly 20 pounds.
As a big man, therefore a machine gunner, Henry Dobbins carried the M-60, which weighed 23 pounds unloaded, but which was almost always loaded.  In  addition,  Dobbins  carried  between  10  and  15  pounds  of ammunition draped in belts across his chest and shoulders.
As  PFCs  or  Spec  4s,  most  of  them  were  common  grunts  and  carried the  standard  M-16  gas-operated  assault  rifle.  The  weapon  weighed  7.5 pounds  unloaded,  8.2  pounds  with  its  full  20-round  magazine. Depending on numerous factors, such as topography and psychology, the riflemen  carried  anywhere  from  12  to  20  magazines,  usually  in  cloth bandoliers,  adding  on  another  8.4  pounds  at  minimum,  14  pounds  at maximum.  When  it  was  available,  they  also  carried  M-16  maintenance gear—rods  and  steel  brushes  and  swabs  and  tubes  of  LSA  oil—all  of which weighed about a pound. Among the grunts, some carried the M-79 grenade  launcher,  5.9  pounds  unloaded,  a  reasonably  light  weapon except for the ammunition, which was heavy. A single round weighed 10 ounces.  The  typical  load  was  25  rounds.  But  Ted  Lavender,  who  was scared, carried 34 rounds when he was shot and killed outside Than Khe, and he went down under an exceptional burden, more than 20 pounds of ammunition,  plus  the  flak  jacket  and  helmet  and  rations  and  water  and toilet  paper  and  tranquilizers  and  all  the  rest,  plus  the  unweighed  fear. He was dead weight. There was no twitching or flopping. Kiowa, who saw it  happen,  said  it was like watching a rock fall, or a big sandbag or something—just  boom,  then  down—not  like  the  movies  where  the  dead guy  rolls  around  and  does  fancy  spins  and  goes  ass  over  teakettle—not like  that,  Kiowa  said,  the  poor  bastard  just  flat-fuck  fell.  Boom.  Down. Nothing else. It was a bright morning in mid-April. Lieutenant Cross felt the  pain.  He  blamed  himself.  They  stripped  off  Lavender's  canteens  and ammo,  all  the  heavy  things,  and  Rat  Kiley  said  the  obvious,  the  guy's dead, and Mitchell Sanders used his radio to report one U.S. KIA and to request  a  chopper.  Then  they  wrapped  Lavender  in  his  poncho.  They
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carried him out to a dry paddy, established security, and sat smoking the dead  man's  dope  until  the  chopper  came.  Lieutenant  Cross  kept  to himself.  He  pictured  Martha's  smooth  young  face,  thinking  he  loved  her more  than  anything,  more  than  his  men,  and  now  Ted  Lavender  was dead  because  he  loved  her  so  much  and  could  not  stop  thinking  about her.  When  the  dustoff  arrived,  they  carried  Lavender  aboard.  Afterward they  burned  Than  Khe.  They  marched  until  dusk,  then  dug  their  holes, and that night Kiowa kept explaining how you had to be there, how fast it was, how the poor guy just dropped like so much concrete. Boom-down, he said. Like cement.
In  addition  to  the three standard weapons—the  M-60,  M-16,  and  M- 79—they  carried  whatever  presented  itself,  or  whatever  seemed appropriate as a means of killing or staying alive. They carried catch-as- catch-can. At various times, in various situations, they carried M-14s and CAR-15s and Swedish Ks and grease guns and captured AK-47s and Chi- Coms  and  RPGs  and  Simonov  carbines  and  black  market  Uzis  and  .38- caliber  Smith  &  Wesson  handguns  and  66  mm  LAWs  and  shotguns  and silencers  and  blackjacks  and  bayonets  and  C-4  plastic  explosives.  Lee Strunk  carried  a  slingshot;  a  weapon  of  last  resort,  he  called  it.  Mitchell Sanders  carried  brass  knuckles.  Kiowa  carried  his  grandfather's feathered  hatchet.  Every  third  or  fourth  man  carried  a  Claymore antipersonnel  mine—3.5  pounds  with  its  firing  device.  They  all  carried fragmentation grenades—14 ounces each. They all carried at least one M- 18  colored  smoke  grenade—24  ounces.  Some  carried  CS  or  tear  gas grenades. Some carried white phosphorus grenades. They carried all they could  bear,  and  then  some,  including  a  silent  awe  for  the  terrible  power of the things they carried.
In  the  first  week  of  April,  before  Lavender  died,  Lieutenant  Jimmy Cross  received  a  good-luck  charm  from  Martha.  It  was  a  simple  pebble, an  ounce  at  most.  Smooth  to  the  touch,  it  was  a  milky  white  color  with flecks  of  orange  and  violet,  oval-shaped,  like  a  miniature  egg.  In  the accompanying letter, Martha wrote that she had found the pebble on the Jersey  shoreline,  precisely  where  the  land  touched  water  at  high  tide, where things came together but also separated. It was this separate-but-
together  quality,  she  wrote,  that  had  inspired  her  to  pick  up  the  pebble and  to  carry  it  in  her  breast  pocket  for  several  days,  where  it  seemed
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weightless, and then to send it through the mail, by air, as a token of her truest  feelings  for  him.  Lieutenant  Cross  found  this  romantic.  But  he wondered  what  her  truest  feelings  were, exactly, and what she meant by separate-but-together.  He  wondered  how  the  tides  and  waves  had  come into  play  on  that  afternoon  along  the  Jersey  shoreline  when  Martha  saw the  pebble  and  bent  down  to  rescue  it  from  geology.  He  imagined  bare feet.  Martha  was  a  poet,  with  the  poet's  sensibilities,  and  her  feet  would be  brown  and  bare,  the  toenails  unpainted,  the  eyes  chilly  and  somber like the ocean in March, and though it was painful, he wondered who had been  with  her  that  afternoon.  He  imagined  a  pair  of  shadows  moving along the strip of sand where things came together but also separated. It was  phantom  jealousy,  he  knew,  but  he  couldn't  help  himself.  He  loved her  so  much.  On  the  march,  through  the  hot  days  of  early  April,  he carried  the  pebble  in  his  mouth,  turning  it  with  his  tongue,  tasting  sea salt  and  moisture.  His  mind  wandered.  He  had  difficulty  keeping  his attention on the war. On occasion he would yell at his men to spread out the  column,  to  keep  their  eyes  open,  but  then  he  would  slip  away  into daydreams,  just  pretending,  walking  barefoot  along  the  Jersey  shore, with  Martha,  carrying  nothing.  He  would  feel  himself  rising.  Sun  and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.
What they carried varied by mission. When  a  mission  took  them  to  the  mountains,  they  carried  mosquito
netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and extra bug juice.
If a mission seemed especially hazardous, or if it involved a place they knew  to  be  bad,  they  carried  everything  they  could.  In  certain  heavily mined  AOs,  where  the  land  was  dense  with  Toe  Poppers  and  Bouncing Betties,  they  took  turns  humping  a  28-pound  mine  detector.  With  its headphones  and  big  sensing  plate,  the  equipment  was  a  stress  on  the lower  back  and  shoulders,  awkward  to  handle,  often  useless  because  of the  shrapnel  in  the  earth,  but  they  carried  it  anyway,  partly  for  safety, partly for the illusion of safety.
On  ambush,  or  other  night  missions,  they  carried  peculiar  little  odds and  ends.  Kiowa  always  took  along  his  New  Testament  and  a  pair  of moccasins  for  silence.  Dave  Jensen  carried  night-sight  vitamins  high  in carotene.  Lee  Strunk  carried  his  slingshot;  ammo,  he  claimed,  would never be a problem. Rat Kiley carried brandy and M&M's candy. Until he was  shot,  Ted  Lavender  carried  the  starlight  scope,  which  weighed  6.3
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pounds  with  its  aluminum  carrying  case.  Henry  Dobbins  carried  his girlfriend's  pantyhose  wrapped  around  his  neck  as  a  comforter.  They  all carried  ghosts.  When  dark  came,  they  would  move  out  single  file  across the  meadows  and  paddies  to  their  ambush  coordinates,  where  they would  quietly  set  up  the  Claymores  and  lie  down  and  spend  the  night waiting.
Other  missions  were  more  complicated  and  required  special equipment.  In  mid-April,  it  was  their  mission  to  search  out  and  destroy the  elaborate  tunnel  complexes  in  the  Than  Khe  area  south  of  Chu  Lai. To  blow  the  tunnels,  they  carried  one-pound  blocks  of  pentrite  high explosives,  four  blocks  to  a  man,  68  pounds  in  all.  They  carried  wiring, detonators, and battery-powered clackers. Dave Jensen carried earplugs. Most  often,  before  blowing  the  tunnels,  they  were  ordered  by  higher command  to  search  them,  which  was  considered  bad  news,  but  by  and large  they  just  shrugged  and  carried  out  orders.  Because  he  was  a  big man,  Henry  Dobbins  was  excused  from  tunnel  duty.  The  others  would draw  numbers.  Before  Lavender  died  there  were  17  men  in  the  platoon, and  whoever  drew  the  number  17  would  strip  off  his  gear  and  crawl  in headfirst  with  a  flashlight  and  Lieutenant  Cross's  .45-caliber  pistol.  The rest of them would fan out as security. They would sit down or kneel, not facing  the  hole,  listening  to  the  ground  beneath  them,  imagining cobwebs  and  ghosts,  whatever  was  down  there—the  tunnel  walls squeezing  in—how  the  flashlight  seemed  impossibly  heavy  in  the  hand and  how  it  was  tunnel  vision  in  the  very  strictest  sense,  compression  in all  ways,  even  time,  and  how  you  had  to  wiggle  in—ass  and  elbows—a swallowed-up  feeling—and  how  you  found  yourself  worrying  about  odd things:  Will  your  flashlight  go  dead?  Do  rats  carry  rabies?  If  you screamed,  how  far  would  the  sound  carry?  Would  your  buddies  hear  it? Would  they  have  the  courage  to  drag  you  out?  In  some  respects,  though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination was a killer.
On  April  16,  when  Lee  Strunk  drew  the  number  17,  he  laughed  and muttered  something  and  went  down  quickly.  The  morning  was  hot  and very  still.  Not  good,  Kiowa  said.  He  looked  at  the  tunnel  opening,  then out  across  a  dry  paddy  toward  the  village  of  Than  Khe.  Nothing  moved. No clouds or birds or people. As they waited, the men smoked and drank Kool-Aid,  not  talking  much,  feeling  sympathy  for  Lee  Strunk  but  also feeling the luck of the draw. You win some, you lose some, said Mitchell
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Sanders,  and  sometimes  you  settle  for  a  rain  check.  It  was  a  tired  line and no one laughed.
Henry  Dobbins  ate  a  tropical  chocolate  bar.  Ted  Lavender  popped  a tranquilizer and went off to pee.
After  five  minutes,  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  moved  to  the  tunnel, leaned down, and examined the darkness. Trouble, he thought—a cave-in maybe.  And  then  suddenly,  without  willing  it,  he  was  thinking  about Martha.  The  stresses  and  fractures,  the  quick  collapse,  the  two  of  them buried  alive  under  all  that  weight.  Dense,  crushing  love.  Kneeling, watching the hole, he tried to concentrate on Lee Strunk and the war, all the  dangers,  but  his  love  was  too  much  for  him,  he  felt  paralyzed,  he wanted  to  sleep  inside  her  lungs  and  breathe  her  blood  and  be smothered. He wanted her to be a virgin and not a virgin, all at once. He wanted  to  know  her.  Intimate  secrets:  Why  poetry?  Why  so  sad?  Why that  grayness  in  her  eyes?  Why  so  alone?  Not  lonely,  just  alone—riding her  bike  across  campus  or  sitting  off  by  herself  in  the  cafeteria—even dancing, she danced alone—and it was the aloneness that filled him with love. He remembered telling her that one evening. How she nodded and looked  away.  And  how,  later,  when  he  kissed  her,  she  received  the  kiss without  returning  it,  her  eyes  wide  open,  not  afraid,  not  a  virgin's  eyes, just flat and uninvolved.
Lieutenant  Cross  gazed  at  the  tunnel.  But  he  was  not  there.  He  was buried with Martha under the white sand at the Jersey shore. They were pressed  together,  and  the  pebble  in  his  mouth  was  her  tongue.  He  was smiling.  Vaguely,  he  was  aware  of  how  quiet  the  day  was,  the  sullen paddies,  yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  worry  about  matters  of security.  He  was  beyond  that.  He  was  just  a  kid  at  war,  in  love.  He  was twenty-four years old. He couldn't help it.
A  few  moments  later  Lee  Strunk  crawled  out  of  the  tunnel.  He  came up grinning, filthy but alive. Lieutenant Cross nodded and closed his eyes while the others clapped Strunk on the back and made jokes about rising from the dead.
Worms, Rat Kiley said. Right out of the grave. Fuckin' zombie.
The men laughed. They all felt great relief.
Spook city, said Mitchell Sanders.
Lee  Strunk  made  a  funny  ghost  sound,  a  kind  of  moaning,  yet  very happy,  and  right  then,  when  Strunk  made  that  high  happy  moaning
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sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right then Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken. There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye.
The  cheekbone  was  gone.  Oh  shit,  Rat  Kiley  said,  the  guy's  dead.  The guy's  dead,  he  kept  saying,  which  seemed  profound—the  guy's  dead.  I mean really.
The  things  they  carried  were  determined  to  some  extent  by superstition. Lieutenant Cross carried his good-luck pebble. Dave Jensen carried  a  rabbit's  foot.  Norman  Bowker,  otherwise  a  very  gentle  person, carried  a  thumb  that  had  been  presented  to  him  as  a  gift  by  Mitchell Sanders. The thumb was dark brown, rubbery to the touch, and weighed 4  ounces  at  most.  It  had  been  cut  from  a  VC  corpse,  a  boy  of  fifteen  or sixteen.  They'd  found  him  at  the  bottom  of  an  irrigation  ditch,  badly burned,  flies  in  his  mouth  and  eyes.  The  boy  wore  black  shorts  and sandals.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  had  been  carrying  a pouch of rice, a rifle, and three magazines of ammunition.
You  want  my  opinion,  Mitchell  Sanders  said,  there's  a  definite  moral here.
He put his hand on the dead boy's wrist. He was quiet for a time, as if counting  a  pulse,  then  he  patted  the  stomach,  almost  affectionately,  and used Kiowa's hunting hatchet to remove the thumb.
Henry Dobbins asked what the moral was.
Moral?
You know. Moral.
Sanders  wrapped  the  thumb  in  toilet  paper  and  handed  it  across  to Norman Bowker. There was no blood. Smiling, he kicked the boy's head, watched  the  flies  scatter,  and  said,  It's  like  with  that  old  TV  show—
Paladin. Have gun, will travel.
Henry Dobbins thought about it.
Yeah, well, he finally said. I don't see no moral.
There it Is, man.
Fuck off.
They  carried  USO  stationery  and  pencils  and  pens.  They  carried Sterno,  safety  pins,  trip  flares,  signal  flares,  spools  of  wire,  razor  blades,
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chewing  tobacco,  liberated  joss  sticks  and  statuettes  of  the  smiling Buddha,  candles,  grease  pencils,  The  Stars  and  Stripes,  fingernail clippers,  Psy  Ops  leaflets,  bush  hats,  bolos,  and  much  more.  Twice  a week,  when  the  resupply  choppers  came  in,  they  carried  hot  chow  in green mermite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a 2-gallon capacity. Mitchell  Sanders  carried  a  set  of  starched  tiger  fatigues  for  special occasions.  Henry  Dobbins  carried  Black  Flag  insecticide.  Dave  Jensen carried empty sandbags that could be filled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion. Some things they carried in common. Taking  turns,  they  carried  the  big  PRC-77  scrambler  radio,  which weighed  30  pounds  with  its  battery.  They  shared  the  weight  of  memory. They took up what others could no longer bear. Often, they carried each other,  the  wounded  or  weak.  They  carried  infections.  They  carried  chess sets,  basketballs,  Vietnamese-English  dictionaries,  insignia  of  rank, Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts, plastic cards imprinted with the Code of Conduct.  They  carried  diseases,  among them malaria and dysentery. They carried lice and ringworm and leeches and paddy algae and various rots  and  molds.  They  carried  the  land  itself—Vietnam,  the  place,  the soil—a  powdery  orange-red  dust  that  covered  their  boots  and  fatigues and  faces.  They  carried  the  sky.  The  whole  atmosphere,  they  carried  it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity. They moved like mules. By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was just the endless march,  village  to  village,  without  purpose,  nothing  won  or  lost.  They marched  for  the  sake  of  the  march.  They  plodded  along  slowly,  dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts,  soldiering  with  their  legs,  toiling  up  the  hills  and  down  into  the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it  was  automatic,  it  was  anatomy,  and  the  war  was  entirely  a  matter  of posture  and  carriage,  the  hump  was  everything,  a  kind  of  inertia,  a  kind of  emptiness,  a  dullness  of  desire  and  intellect  and  conscience  and  hope and  human  sensibility.  Their  principles  were  in  their  feet.  Their calculations  were  biological.  They  had  no  sense  of  strategy  or  mission. They searched the villages without knowing what to look for, not caring, kicking over jars of rice, frisking children and old men, blowing tunnels, sometimes setting fires and sometimes not, then forming up and moving on  to  the  next  village,  then  other  villages,  where  it  would  always  be  the
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
same. They carried their own lives. The pressures were enormous. In the heat  of  early  afternoon,  they  would  remove  their  helmets  and  flak jackets,  walking  bare,  which  was  dangerous  but  which  helped  ease  the strain. They would often discard things along the route of march. Purely for  comfort,  they  would  throw  away  rations,  blow  their  Claymores  and grenades,  no  matter,  because  by  nightfall  the  resupply  choppers  would arrive  with  more  of  the  same,  then  a  day  or  two  later  still  more,  fresh watermelons  and  crates  of  ammunition  and  sunglasses  and  woolen sweaters—the resources were stunning—sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored  eggs  for  Easter—it  was  the  great  American  war  chest—the  fruits of  science,  the  smokestacks,  the  canneries,  the  arsenals  at  Hartford,  the Minnesota forests, the machine shops, the vast fields of corn and wheat— they  carried  like  freight  trains;  they  carried  it  on  their  backs  and shoulders—and  for  all  the  ambiguities  of  Vietnam,  all  the  mysteries  and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry.
After  the  chopper  took  Lavender  away,  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  led his men into the village of Than Khe. They burned everything. They shot chickens  and  dogs,  they  trashed  the  village  well,  they  called  in  artillery and watched the wreckage, then they marched for several hours through the  hot  afternoon,  and  then  at  dusk,  while  Kiowa  explained  how Lavender died, Lieutenant Cross found himself trembling.
He  tried  not  to  cry.  With  his  entrenching  tool,  which  weighed  5 pounds, he began digging a hole in the earth.
He  felt  shame.  He  hated  himself.  He  had  loved  Martha  more  than  his men,  and  as  a  consequence  Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.
All  he  could  do  was  dig.  He  used  his  entrenching  tool  like  an  ax, slashing, feeling both love and hate, and then later, when it was full dark, he sat at the bottom of his foxhole and wept. It went on for a long while. In  part,  he  was  grieving  for  Ted  Lavender,  but  mostly  it  was  for  Martha, and  for  himself,  because  she  belonged  to  another  world,  which  was  not quite  real,  and  because  she  was  a  junior  at  Mount  Sebastian  College  in New Jersey, a poet and a virgin and uninvolved, and because he realized she did not love him and never would.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Like  cement,  Kiowa  whispered  in  the  dark.  I  swear  to  God—boom, down. Not a word.
I've heard this, said Norman Bowker.
A pisser, you know? Still zipping himself up. Zapped while zipping.
All right, fine. That's enough.
Yeah, but you had to see it, the guy just—
I heard, man. Cement. So why not shut the fuck up?
Kiowa  shook  his  head  sadly  and  glanced  over  at  the  hole where Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  sat  watching  the  night.  The  air  was  thick  and wet.  A  warm  dense  fog  had  settled  over  the  paddies  and  there  was  the stillness that precedes rain.
After a time Kiowa sighed.
One thing for sure, he said. The lieutenant's in some deep hurt. I mean that crying jag—the way he was carrying on—it wasn't fake or anything, it was real heavy-duty hurt. The man cares.
Sure, Norman Bowker said.
Say what you want, the man does care.
We all got problems.
Not Lavender.
No, I guess not, Bowker said. Do me a favor, though.
Shut up?
That's a smart Indian. Shut up.
Shrugging,  Kiowa  pulled  off  his  boots.  He  wanted  to  say  more,  just  to lighten  up  his  sleep,  but  instead  he  opened  his  New  Testament  and arranged  it  beneath  his  head  as  a  pillow.  The  fog  made  things  seem hollow  and  unattached.  He  tried  not  to  think  about  Ted  Lavender,  but then he was thinking how fast it was, no drama, down and dead, and how it  was  hard  to  feel  anything  except  surprise.  It  seemed  unchristian.  He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive.  He  liked  the  smell  of  the  New  Testament  under  his  cheek,  the leather  and  ink  and  paper  and  glue,  whatever  the  chemicals  were.  He liked  hearing  the  sounds  of  night.  Even  his  fatigue,  it  felt  fine,  the  stiff muscles and the prickly awareness of his own body, a floating feeling. He enjoyed  not  being  dead.  Lying  there,  Kiowa  admired  Lieutenant  Jimmy Cross's capacity for grief. He wanted  to share the man's pain, he wanted
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
to  care  as  Jimmy  Cross  cared.  And  yet  when  he  closed  his  eyes,  all  he could  think  was  Boom-down,  and  all  he  could  feel  was  the  pleasure  of having his boots off and the fog curling in around him and the damp soil and the Bible smells and the plush comfort of night.
After a moment Norman Bowker sat up in the dark.
What the hell, he said. You want to talk, talk. Tell it to me.
Forget it.
No, man, go on. One thing I hate, it's a silent Indian.
For the most part they carried themselves with poise, a kind of dignity. Now  and  then,  however,  there  were  times  of  panic,  when  they  squealed or wanted to squeal but couldn't, when they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said Dear Jesus and flopped around on the earth and fired their weapons blindly and cringed and sobbed and begged for the noise to stop and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves  and  to  God  and  to  their  mothers  and  fathers,  hoping  not  to die.  In  different  ways,  it  happened  to  all  of  them.  Afterward,  when  the firing  ended,  they  would  blink  and  peek  up.  They  would  touch  their bodies,  feeling  shame,  then  quickly  hiding  it.  They  would  force themselves  to  stand.  As  if  in  slow  motion,  frame  by  frame,  the  world would  take  on  the  old  logic—absolute  silence,  then  the  wind,  then sunlight,  then  voices.  It  was  the  burden  of  being  alive.  Awkwardly,  the men  would  reassemble  themselves,  first  in  private,  then  in  groups, becoming soldiers again. They would repair the leaks in their eyes. They would  check for casualties, call in dustoffs, light cigarettes, try to smile, clear  their  throats  and  spit  and  begin  cleaning  their  weapons.  After  a time  someone  would  shake  his  head  and  say,  No  lie,  I  almost  shit  my pants,  and  someone  else  would  laugh,  which  meant  it  was  bad,  yes,  but the  guy  had  obviously  not  shit  his  pants,  it  wasn't  that  bad,  and  in  any case  nobody  would  ever  do  such  a  thing  and  then  go  ahead  and  talk about it. They would squint into the dense, oppressive sunlight. For a few moments, perhaps, they would fall silent, lighting a joint and tracking its passage  from  man  to  man,  inhaling,  holding  in  the  humiliation.  Scary stuff,  one  of  them  might  say.  But  then  someone  else  would  grin  or  flick his  eyebrows  and  say,  Roger-dodger,  almost  cut  me  a  new  asshole, almost.
There were numerous such poses. Some carried themselves with a sort of  wistful  resignation,  others  with  pride  or  stiff  soldierly  discipline  or
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
good humor or macho zeal. They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it.
They found jokes to tell.
They  used  a  hard  vocabulary  to  contain  the  terrible  softness.  Greased they'd  say.  Offed,  lit  up,  zapped  while  zipping.  It  wasn't  cruelty,  just stage  presence.  They  were  actors.  When  someone  died,  it  wasn't  quite dying, because in a curious way it seemed scripted, and because they had their  lines  mostly  memorized,  irony  mixed  with  tragedy,  and  because they  called  it  by  other  names,  as  if  to  encyst  and  destroy  the  reality  of death itself. They kicked corpses. They cut off thumbs. They talked grunt lingo.  They  told  stories  about  Ted  Lavender's  supply  of  tranquilizers, how the poor guy didn't feel a thing, how incredibly tranquil he was.
There's a moral here, said Mitchell Sanders.
They  were  waiting  for  Lavender's  chopper,  smoking  the  dead  man's dope.
The moral's pretty obvious, Sanders said, and winked. Stay away from drugs. No joke, they'll ruin your day every time.
Cute, said Henry Dobbins.
Mind  blower,  get  it?  Talk  about  wiggy.  Nothing  left,  just  blood  and brains.
They made themselves laugh.
There  it  is,  they'd  say.  Over  and  over—there  it  is,  my  friend,  there  it is—as if the repetition itself were an act of poise, a balance between crazy and  almost  crazy,  knowing  without  going,  there  it  is,  which  meant  be cool,  let  it  ride,  because  Oh  yeah, man, you can't change what can't be changed, there it is, there it absolutely and positively and fucking well is.
They were tough.
They  carried  all  the  emotional  baggage  of  men  who  might  die.  Grief, terror,  love,  longing—these  were  intangibles,  but  the  intangibles  had their  own  mass  and  specific  gravity,  they  had  tangible  weight.  They carried  shameful  memories.  They  carried  the  common  secret  of cowardice  barely  restrained,  the  instinct  to  run  or  freeze  or  hide,  and  in many  respects  this  was  the  heaviest  burden  of  all,  for  it  could  never  be put  down,  it  required  perfect  balance  and  perfect  posture.  They  carried their  reputations.  They  carried  the  soldier's  greatest  fear,  which  was  the fear  of  blushing.  Men  killed,  and  died,  because  they  were  embarrassed not  to.  It  was  what  had  brought  them  to  the  war  in  the  first  place,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
nothing  positive,  no  dreams  of  glory  or  honor,  just  to  avoid  the  blush  of
dishonor.  They  died  so  as  not  to  die  of  embarrassment.  They  crawled
into  tunnels  and  walked  point  and  advanced  under  fire.  Each  morning,
despite  the  unknowns,  they  made  their  legs  move.  They  endured.  They
kept humping. They did not submit to the obvious alternative, which was
simply  to  close  the  eyes  and  fall.  So  easy,  really.  Go  limp  and  tumble  to
the  ground  and  let  the  muscles  unwind  and  not  speak  and  not  budge
until  your  buddies  picked  you  up  and  lifted  you  into  the  chopper  that
would roar and dip its nose and carry you off to the world. A mere matter
of falling, yet no one ever fell. It was not courage, exactly; the object was
not valor. Rather, they were too frightened to be cowards.
By and large they carried these things inside, maintaining the masks of
composure. They sneered at sick call. They spoke bitterly about guys who
had  found  release  by  shooting  off  their  own toes or fingers. Pussies, they'd  say.  Candy-asses.  It  was  fierce,  mocking  talk,  with  only  a  trace  of
envy or awe, but even so the image played itself out behind their eyes.
They  imagined  the  muzzle  against  flesh.  So  easy:  squeeze  the  trigger
and  blow  away a toe. They imagined it. They imagined the quick, sweet pain,  then  the  evacuation  to  Japan,  then  a  hospital  with  warm  beds  and
cute geisha nurses.
And they dreamed of freedom birds.
At  night,  on  guard,  staring  into  the  dark,  they  were  carried  away  by
jumbo  jets.  They  felt  the  rush  of  takeoff.  Gone! they yelled. And then velocity—wings and engines—a smiling stewardess—but it was more than
a plane, it was a real bird, a big sleek silver bird with feathers and talons
and  high  screeching.  They  were  flying.  The weights fell off; there was nothing  to  bear.  They  laughed  and  held  on  tight,  feeling  the  cold  slap  of
wind  and  altitude,  soaring,  thinking It's over, I'm gone!—they  were
naked,  they  were  light  and  free—it  was  all  lightness,  bright  and  fast  and
buoyant, light as light, a helium buzz in the brain, a giddy bubbling in the
lungs  as  they  were  taken  up  over  the  clouds  and  the  war,  beyond  duty,
beyond gravity and mortification and global entanglements—Sin loi! they
yelled.  I'm  sorry,  motherfuckers,  but  I'm  out  of it, I'm goofed, I'm on a space  cruise,  I'm  gone!—and  it  was  a  restful,  unencumbered  sensation,
just  riding  the  light  waves,  sailing  that  big  silver  freedom  bird  over  the
mountains  and  oceans,  over  America,  over  the  farms  and  great  sleeping
cities and cemeteries and highways and the golden arches of McDonald's,
it was flight, a kind of fleeing, a kind of falling, falling higher and higher,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
spinning  off  the  edge  of  the  earth  and  beyond  the  sun  and  through  the vast,  silent  vacuum  where  there  were  no  burdens  and  where  everything weighed  exactly  nothing—Gone! they screamed. I'm  sorry  but  I'm gone!—and so at night, not quite dreaming, they gave themselves over to lightness, they were carried, they were purely borne.
On  the  morning  after  Ted  Lavender  died,  First  Lieutenant  Jimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned Martha's letters. Then  he  burned  the  two  photographs.  There  was  a  steady  rain  falling, which made it difficult, but he used heat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire,  screening  it  with  his  body,  holding  the  photographs  over  the  tight blue flame with the tips of his fingers.
He realized it was only a gesture. Stupid, he thought. Sentimental, too, but mostly just stupid.
Lavender was dead. You couldn't burn the blame.
Besides,  the  letters  were  in  his  head.  And  even  now,  without photographs, Lieutenant Cross could see Martha playing volleyball in her white  gym  shorts  and  yellow  T-shirt.  He  could  see  her  moving  in  the rain.
When  the  fire  died  out,  Lieutenant  Cross  pulled  his  poncho  over  his shoulders and ate breakfast from a can.
There was no great mystery, he decided.
In  those  burned  letters  Martha  had  never  mentioned  the  war,  except to say, Jimmy, take care of yourself. She wasn't involved. She signed the letters Love, but it wasn't love, and all the fine lines and technicalities did not  matter.  Virginity  was  no  longer  an  issue.  He  hated  her.  Yes,  he  did. He hated her. Love, too, but it was a hard, hating kind of love.
The  morning  came  up  wet  and  blurry.  Everything  seemed  part  of everything else, the fog and Martha and the deepening rain.
He was a soldier, after all.
Half smiling, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross took out his maps. He shook his head  hard,  as  if  to  clear  it,  then  bent  forward  and  began  planning  the day's  march.  In  ten  minutes,  or  maybe twenty, he would rouse the men and  they  would  pack  up  and  head  west,  where  the  maps  showed  the country  to  be  green  and  inviting.  They  would  do  what  they  had  always done.  The  rain  might  add  some  weight,  but  otherwise  it  would  be  one more day layered upon all the other days.
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He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach. He loved her but he hated her.
No more fantasies, he told himself.
Henceforth,  when  he  thought  about  Martha,  it  would  be  only  to  think that  she  belonged  elsewhere.  He would shut down the daydreams. This was  not  Mount  Sebastian,  it  was  another  world,  where  there  were  no pretty  poems  or  midterm  exams,  a  place  where  men  died  because  of carelessness  and  gross  stupidity.  Kiowa  was  right.  Boom-down,  and  you were dead, never partly dead.
Briefly,  in  the  rain,  Lieutenant  Cross  saw  Martha's  gray  eyes  gazing back at him. He understood.
It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.
He almost nodded at her, but didn't.
Instead he went back to his maps. He was now determined to perform his  duties  firmly  and  without  negligence.  It  wouldn't  help  Lavender,  he knew that, but from this point on he would comport himself as an officer. He would dispose of his good-luck pebble. Swallow it, maybe, or use Lee Strunk's slingshot, or just drop it along the trail. On the march he would impose  strict  field  discipline.  He  would  be  careful  to  send  out  flank security, to prevent straggling or bunching up, to keep his troops moving at  the  proper  pace  and  at  the  proper  interval.  He  would  insist  on  clean weapons.  He  would  confiscate  the  remainder  of  Lavender's  dope.  Later in  the  day,  perhaps,  he  would  call  the  men  together  and  speak  to  them plainly.  He  would  accept  the  blame  for  what  had  happened  to Ted Lavender.  He  would  be  a  man  about  it.  He  would  look  them  in  the  eyes, keeping  his  chin  level,  and  he  would  issue  the  new  SOPs  in  a  calm, impersonal  tone  of  voice,  a  lieutenant's  voice,  leaving  no  room  for argument  or  discussion.  Commencing  immediately,  he'd  tell  them,  they would  no  longer  abandon  equipment  along  the  route  of  march.  They would police up their acts. They would get their shit together, and keep it together, and maintain it neatly and in good working order.
He  would  not  tolerate  laxity.  He would show strength, distancing himself.
Among  the  men  there  would  be  grumbling,  of  course,  and  maybe worse, because their days would seem longer and their loads heavier, but Lieutenant Jimmy Cross reminded himself that his obligation was not to
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
be  loved  but  to  lead.  He  would  dispense  with  love;  it  was  not  now  a factor.  And  if  anyone  quarreled  or  complained,  he  would  simply  tighten his  lips  and  arrange  his  shoulders  in  the  correct  command  posture.  He might  give  a  curt  little  nod.  Or  he  might  not.  He  might  just  shrug  and say,  Carry  on,  then  they  would  saddle  up  and  form  into  a  column  and move out toward the villages west of Than Khe.
Love
Many years after the war Jimmy Cross came to visit me at my home in Massachusetts, and for a full day we drank coffee and smoked cigarettes and  talked  about  everything  we  had  seen  and  done  so  long  ago,  all  the things  we  still  carried  through  our  lives.  Spread  out  across  the  kitchen table were maybe a hundred old photographs. There were pictures of Rat Kiley and Kiowa and Mitchell Sanders, all of us, the faces incredibly soft and young. At one point, I remember, we paused over a snapshot of Ted Lavender,  and  after  a  while  Jimmy  rubbed  his  eyes  and  said  he'd  never forgiven himself for Lavender's death. It was something that would never go away, he said quietly, and I nodded and told him I felt the same about certain things. Then for a long time neither of us could think of much to say.  The  thing  to  do,  we  decided,  was  to  forget  the  coffee  and  switch  to gin,  which  improved  the  mood,  and  not  much  later  we  were  laughing about  some  of  the  craziness  that  used  to  go  on.  The  way  Henry  Dobbins carried  his  girlfriend's  pantyhose  around  his  neck  like  a  comforter. Kiowa's  moccasins  and  hunting  hatchet.  Rat  Kiley's  comic  books.  By midnight we were both a little high, and I decided there was no harm in asking  about  Martha.  I'm  not  sure  how  I  phrased  it—just  a  general question—but Jimmy Cross looked up in surprise. "You writer types," he said,  "you've  got  long  memories."  Then  he  smiled  and  excused  himself and  went  up  to  the  guest  room  and  came  back  with  a  small  framed photograph.  It  was  the  volleyball  shot:  Martha  bent  horizontal  to  the floor, reaching, the palms of her hands in sharp focus.
"Remember this?" he said.
I nodded and told him I was surprised. I thought he'd burned it.
Jimmy kept smiling. For a while he stared down at the photograph, his eyes  very  bright,  then  he  shrugged  and  said,  "Well,  I  did—I  burned  it.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
After  Lavender  died,  I  couldn't  .  .  .  This  is  a  new  one.  Martha  gave  it  to me herself."
They'd  run  into  each  other,  he  said,  at  a  college  reunion  in  1979. Nothing had changed. He still loved her. For eight or nine hours, he said, they  spent  most  of  their  time  together.  There  was  a  banquet,  and  then  a dance, and then afterward they took a walk across the campus and talked about  their  lives.  Martha  was  a  Lutheran  missionary  now.  A  trained nurse,  although  nursing  wasn't  the  point,  and  she  had  done  service  in Ethiopia  and  Guatemala  and  Mexico.  She  had  never  married,  she  said, and probably never would. She didn't know why. But as she said this, her eyes  seemed  to  slide  sideways,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  there  were things  about  her  he  would  never  know.  Her  eyes  were  gray  and  neutral. Later, when he took her hand, there was no pressure in return, and later still,  when  he  told  her  he  still  loved  her,  she  kept  walking  and  didn't answer and then after several minutes looked at her wristwatch and said it  was  getting  late.  He  walked  her  back  to  the  dormitory.  For  a  few moments  he  considered  asking  her  to  his  room,  but  instead  he  laughed and told her how back in college he'd almost done something very brave. It was after seeing Bonnie and Clyde, he said, and on this same spot he'd almost picked her up and carried her to his room and tied her to the bed and put his hand on her knee and just held it there all night long. It came close, he told her—he'd almost done it. Martha shut her eyes. She crossed her  arms  at  her  chest,  as  if  suddenly  cold,  rocking  slightly,  then  after  a time  she  looked  at  him and said she was glad he hadn't tried it. She didn't  understand  how  men  could  do  those  things.  What  things?  he asked, and Martha said, The things men do. Then he nodded. It began to form.  Oh,  he  said,  those  things.  At  breakfast  the  next  morning  she  told him  she  was  sorry.  She  explained  that  there  was  nothing  she  could  do about it, and he said he understood, and then she laughed and gave him the picture and told him not to burn this one up.
Jimmy shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he finally said. "I love her."
For  the  rest  of  his  visit  I  steered  the  conversation  away  from  Martha. At the end, though, as we were walking out to his car, I told him that I'd like  to  write  a  story  about  some  of  this.  Jimmy  thought  it  over  and  then gave me a little smile. "Why not?" he said. "Maybe she'll read it and come begging. There's always hope, right?"
"Right," I said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
He got into his car and rolled down the window. "Make me out to be a good  guy,  okay?  Brave  and  handsome,  all  that  stuff.  Best  platoon  leader ever."  He  hesitated  for  a  second.  "And  do  me  a  favor.  Don't  mention anything about—"
"No," I said, "I won't."
Spin
The war wasn't all terror and violence.
Sometimes  things  could  almost  get  sweet.  For  instance,  I  remember  a
little boy with a plastic leg. I remember how he hopped over to Azar and
asked  for  a  chocolate  bar—"GI  number  one,"  the  kid  said—and  Azar
laughed  and  handed  over  the  chocolate.  When  the  boy  hopped  away,
Azar  clucked  his  tongue  and  said,  "War's  a  bitch."  He  shook  his  head
sadly. "One leg, for Chrissake. Some poor fucker ran out of ammo."
I  remember  Mitchell  Sanders  sitting  quietly  in  the  shade  of  an  old banyan  tree.  He  was  using  a  thumbnail  to  pry  off  the  body  lice,  working slowly,  carefully  depositing  the  lice  in  a  blue  USO  envelope.  His  eyes were tired. It had been a long two weeks in the bush. After an hour or so he  sealed  up  the  envelope,  wrote  FREE  in  the  upper  right-hand  corner, and addressed it to his draft board in Ohio.
On  occasions  the  war  was  like  a  Ping-Pong  ball.  You  could  put  fancy spin on it, you could make it dance.
I  remember  Norman  Bowker  and  Henry  Dobbins  playing  checkers every  evening  before  dark.  It  was  a  ritual  for  them.  They  would  dig  a foxhole and get the board out and play long, silent games as the sky went from  pink  to  purple.  The  rest  of  us  would  sometimes  stop  by  to  watch. There was something restful about it, something orderly and reassuring. There  were  red  checkers  and  black  checkers.  The  playing  field  was  laid out in a strict grid, no tunnels or mountains or jungles. You knew where you  stood.  You  knew  the  score.  The  pieces  were  out  on  the  board,  the enemy  was  visible,  you  could  watch  the  tactics  unfolding  into  larger strategies. There was a winner and a loser. There were rules.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I'm forty-three years old, and a writer now, and the war has been over for  a  long  while.  Much  of  it  is  hard  to  remember.  I  sit  at  this  typewriter and  stare  through  my  words  and  watch  Kiowa  sinking  into  the  deep muck of a shit field, or Curt Lemon hanging in pieces from a tree, and as I  write  about  these  things,  the  remembering  is  turned  into  a  kind  of rehappening.  Kiowa  yells  at  me.  Curt  Lemon  steps  from  the  shade  into bright sunlight, his face brown and shining, and then he soars into a tree. The  bad  stuff  never  stops  happening:  it  lives  in  its  own  dimension, replaying itself over and over.
But the war wasn't all that way.
Like  when  Ted  Lavender  went  too  heavy  on  the  tranquilizers.  "How's the  war  today?"  somebody  would  say,  and  Ted  Lavender  would  give  a soft, spacey smile and say, "Mellow, man. We got ourselves a nice mellow war today."
And like the time we enlisted an old poppa-san to guide us through the mine  fields  out  on  the  Batangan  Peninsula.  The  old  guy  walked  with  a limp, slow and stooped over, but he knew where the safe spots were and where you had to be careful and where even if you were careful you could end  up  like  popcorn.  He  had  a  tightrope  walker's  feel  for  the  land beneath  him—its  surface  tension,  the  give  and  take  of  things.  Each morning we'd form up in a long column, the old poppa-san out front, and for  the  whole  day  we'd  troop  along  after  him,  tracing  his  footsteps, playing  an  exact  and  ruthless  game  of  follow  the  leader.  Rat  Kiley  made up a rhyme that caught on, and we'd all be chanting it together: Step out of line, hit a mine; follow the dink, you're in the pink. All around us, the place  was  littered  with  Bouncing  Betties  and  Toe  Poppers  and  booby-
trapped  artillery  rounds,  but  in  those  five  days  on  the  Batangan Peninsula nobody got hurt. We all learned to love the old man.
It  was  a  sad  scene  when  the  choppers  came  to  take  us  away.  Jimmy Cross  gave  the  old  poppa-san  a  hug.  Mitchell  Sanders  and  Lee  Strunk loaded him up with boxes of C rations.
There  were  actually  tears  in  the  old  guy's  eyes.  "Follow  dink,"  he  said to each of us, "you go pink."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
If you weren't humping, you were waiting. I remember the monotony. Digging  foxholes.  Slapping  mosquitoes.  The  sun  and  the  heat  and  the endless  paddies.  Even  in  the  deep  bush,  where  you  could  die  in  any number of ways, the war was nakedly and aggressively boring. But it was a  strange  boredom.  It  was  boredom  with  a  twist,  the  kind  of  boredom that  caused  stomach  disorders.  You'd  be  sitting  at  the  top  of  a  high  hill, the flat paddies stretching out below, and the day would be calm and hot and utterly vacant, and you'd feel the boredom dripping inside you like a leaky  faucet,  except  it  wasn't  water,  it  was  a  sort  of  acid,  and  with  each little  droplet  you'd  feel  the  stuff  eating  away  at  important  organs.  You'd try to relax. You'd uncurl your fists and let your thoughts go. Well, you'd think, this isn't so bad. And right then you'd hear gunfire behind you and your  nuts  would  fly  up  into  your  throat  and  you'd  be  squealing  pig squeals. That kind of boredom.
I feel guilty sometimes. Forty-three years old and I'm still writing war stories.  My  daughter  Kathleen  tells  me  it's  an  obsession,  that  I  should write  about  a  little  girl  who  finds  a  million  dollars  and  spends  it  all  on  a Shetland  pony.  In  a  way,  I  guess,  she's  right:  I  should  forget  it.  But  the thing about remembering is that you don't forget. You take your material where  you  find  it,  which  is  in  your  life,  at  the  intersection  of  past  and present. The memory-traffic feeds into a rotary up on your head, where it goes in circles for a while, then pretty soon imagination flows in and the traffic  merges  and  shoots  off  down  a  thousand  different  streets.  As  a writer,  all  you  can  do  is  pick  a  street  and  go  for  the  ride,  putting  things down as they come at you. That's the real obsession. All those stories.
Not  bloody  stories,  necessarily.  Happy  stories,  too,  and  even  a  few peace stories.
Here's a quick peace story:
A guy goes AWOL. Shacks up in Danang with a Red Cross nurse. It's a
great  time—the  nurse  loves  him  to  death—the  guy  gets  whatever  he
wants  whenever  he wants it. The war's over, he thinks. Just nookie and
new angles. But then one day he rejoins his unit in the bush. Can't wait to
get back into action. Finally one of his buddies asks what happened with
the nurse, why so hot for combat, and the guy says, "All that peace, man,
it felt so good it hurt. I want to hurt it back."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I remember Mitchell Sanders smiling as he told me that story. Most of it  he  made  up,  I'm  sure,  but  even  so  it  gave  me  a  quick  truth-goose. Because  it's  all  relative.  You're  pinned  down in some filthy hellhole of a paddy,  getting  your  ass  delivered  to  kingdom  come,  but  then  for  a  few seconds everything goes quiet and you look up and see the sun and a few puffy  white  clouds,  and  the  immense  serenity  flashes  against  your eyeballs—the  whole world gets rearranged—and  even  though  you're pinned down by a war you never felt more at peace.
What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end:
Norman  Bowker  lying  on  his  back  one  night,  watching  the  stars,  then whispering  to  me,  "I'll  tell  you  something,  O'Brien.  If  I  could  have  one wish, anything, I'd wish for my dad to write me a letter and say it's okay if I don't win any medals. That's all my old man talks about, nothing else. How he can't wait to see my goddamn medals."
Or  Kiowa  teaching  a  rain  dance  to  Rat  Kiley  and  Dave  Jensen,  the three  of  them  whooping  and  leaping  around  barefoot  while  a  bunch  of villagers  looked  on  with  a  mixture  of  fascination  and  giggly  horror. Afterward, Rat said, "So where's the rain?" and Kiowa said, "The earth is slow,  but  the  buffalo  is  patient,"  and  Rat  thought  about  it  and  said, "Yeah, but where's the rain?"
Or Ted Lavender adopting an orphan puppy—feeding it from a plastic spoon  and  carrying  it  in  his  rucksack  until  the day Azar strapped it to a Claymore antipersonnel mine and squeezed the firing device.
The average age in our platoon, I'd guess, was nineteen or twenty, and as  a  consequence  things  often  took  on  a  curiously  playful  atmosphere, like a sporting event at some exotic reform school. The competition could be lethal, yet there was a childlike exuberance to it all, lots of pranks and horseplay.  Like  when  Azar  blew  away  Ted  Lavender's  puppy.  "What's everybody so upset about?" Azar said. "I mean, Christ, I'm just a boy."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I remember these things, too. The damp, fungal scent of an empty body bag. A quarter moon rising over the nighttime paddies. Henry  Dobbins  sitting  in  the  twilight,  sewing  on  his  new  buck-
sergeant  stripes,  quietly  singing,  "A  tisket,  a  tasket,  a  green  and  yellow
basket."
A field of elephant grass weighted with wind, bowing under the stir of a  helicopter's  blades,  the  grass  dark  and  servile,  bending  low,  but  then rising straight again when the chopper went away.
A red clay trail outside the village of My Khe.
A hand grenade.
A slim, dead, dainty young man of about twenty.
Kiowa saying, "No choice, Tim. What else could you do?"
Kiowa saying, "Right?"
Kiowa saying, "Talk to me."
Forty-three years old, and the war occurred half a lifetime ago, and yet the  remembering  makes  it  now.  And  sometimes  remembering  will  lead to a story, which makes it forever. That's what stories are for. Stories are for  joining  the  past  to  the  future.  Stories  are  for  those  late  hours  in  the night  when  you  can't  remember  how  you  got  from  where  you  were  to where  you  are.  Stories  are  for  eternity,  when  memory  is  erased,  when there is nothing to remember except the story.
On the Rainy River
This  is  one  story  I've  never  told  before.  Not  to  anyone.  Not  to  my parents,  not  to  my  brother or sister, not even to my wife. To go into it, I've  always  thought,  would  only  cause  embarrassment  for  all  of  us,  a sudden  need  to  be  elsewhere,  which  is  the  natural  response  to  a confession.  Even  now,  I'll  admit,  the  story  makes  me  squirm.  For  more than  twenty  years  I've  had  to  live  with  it,  feeling  the  shame,  trying  to push  it  away,  and  so  by  this  act  of  remembrance,  by  putting  the  facts down on paper, I'm hoping to relieve at least some of the pressure on my dreams.  Still,  it's  a  hard  story  to  tell.  All of us, I suppose, like to believe
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
that  in  a  moral  emergency  we  will  behave  like  the  heroes  of  our  youth, bravely  and  forthrightly,  without  thought  of  personal  loss  or  discredit. Certainly  that  was  my  conviction  back  in  the  summer  of  1968.  Tim O'Brien:  a  secret  hero.  The  Lone  Ranger.  If  the  stakes  ever  became  high enough—if  the  evil  were  evil  enough,  if  the  good  were  good  enough—I would  simply  tap  a  secret  reservoir  of  courage  that  had  been accumulating  inside  me  over  the  years.  Courage,  I  seemed  to  think, comes  to  us  in  finite  quantities,  like  an  inheritance,  and  by  being  frugal and stashing it away and letting it earn interest, we steadily increase our moral  capital  in  preparation  for  that  day  when  the  account  must  be drawn  down.  It  was  a  comforting  theory.  It  dispensed  with  all  those bothersome  little  acts  of  daily  courage;  it  offered  hope  and  grace  to  the repetitive coward; it justified the past while amortizing the future.
In  June  of  1968,  a  month  after  graduating  from  Macalester  College,  I was  drafted  to  fight  a  war  I  hated.  I  was  twenty-one  years  old.  Young, yes,  and  politically  naive,  but  even  so  the  American  war  in  Vietnam seemed  to  me  wrong.  Certain  blood  was  being  shed  for  uncertain reasons.  I  saw  no  unity  of  purpose,  no  consensus  on  matters  of philosophy  or  history  or  law.  The  very  facts  were  shrouded  in uncertainty:  Was  it  a  civil  war?  A  war  of  national  liberation  or  simple aggression?  Who  started  it,  and  when,  and  why?  What  really  happened to the USS Maddox on that dark night in the Gulf of Tonkin? Was Ho Chi Minh  a  Communist  stooge,  or  a  nationalist  savior,  or  both,  or  neither? What about the Geneva Accords? What about SEATO and the Cold War? What  about  dominoes?  America  was  divided  on  these  and  a  thousand other issues, and the debate had spilled out across the floor of the United States Senate and into the streets, and smart men in pinstripes could not agree  on  even  the  most  fundamental  matters  of  public  policy.  The  only certainty  that  summer  was  moral  confusion.  It  was  my  view  then,  and still  is, that you don't make war without knowing why. Knowledge, of course, is always imperfect, but it seemed to me that when a nation goes to  war  it  must  have  reasonable  confidence  in  the  justice  and  imperative of its cause. You can't fix your mistakes. Once people are dead, you can't make them undead.
In any case those were my convictions, and back in college I had taken a  modest  stand  against  the  war.  Nothing  radical,  no  hothead  stuff,  just ringing  a  few  doorbells  for  Gene  McCarthy,  composing  a  few  tedious, uninspired  editorials  for  the  campus  newspaper.  Oddly,  though,  it  was
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
almost  entirely  an  intellectual  activity.  I  brought  some  energy  to  it,  of course,  but  it  was  the  energy  that  accompanies  almost  any  abstract endeavor; I felt no personal danger; I felt no sense of an impending crisis in  my  life.  Stupidly,  with  a  kind  of  smug  removal  that  I  can't  begin  to fathom,  I  assumed  that  the  problems  of  killing  and  dying  did  not  fall within my special province.
The draft notice arrived on June 17, 1968. It was a humid afternoon, I remember,  cloudy  and  very  quiet,  and  I'd  just  come  in  from  a  round  of golf.  My  mother  and  father  were  having  lunch  out  in  the  kitchen.  I remember  opening  up  the  letter,  scanning  the  first  few  lines,  feeling  the blood go thick behind my eyes. I remember a sound in my head. It wasn't thinking,  just  a  silent  howl.  A  million  things  all  at  once—I  was  too  good for  this  war.  Too  smart,  too  compassionate,  too  everything.  It  couldn't happen.  I  was  above  it.  I  had  the  world  dicked—Phi  Beta  Kappa  and summa  cum  laude  and  president  of  the  student  body  and  a  full-ride scholarship  for  grad  studies  at  Harvard.  A  mistake,  maybe—a  foul-up  in the paperwork. I was no soldier. I hated Boy Scouts. I hated camping out. I  hated  dirt  and  tents  and  mosquitoes.  The  sight  of  blood  made  me queasy, and I couldn't tolerate authority, and I didn't know a rifle from a slingshot.  I  was  a  liberal,  for  Christ  sake:  If  they  needed  fresh  bodies, why not draft some back-to-the-stone-age hawk? Or some dumb jingo in his  hard  hat  and  Bomb  Hanoi  button,  or  one  of  LBJ's  pretty  daughters, or  Westmoreland's  whole  handsome  family—nephews  and  nieces  and baby grandson. There should be a law, I thought. If you support a war, if you  think  it's  worth  the  price,  that's  fine,  but  you  have  to  put  your own precious  fluids  on  the  line.  You  have  to  head  for  the  front  and  hook  up with  an  infantry  unit  and  help  spill  the  blood.  And  you  have  to  bring along your wife, or your kids, or your lover. A law, I thought.
I  remember  the  rage  in  my  stomach.  Later  it  burned  down  to  a smoldering  self-pity,  then  to  numbness.  At  dinner  that  night  my  father asked what my plans were. "Nothing," I said. "Wait."
I spent the summer of 1968 working in an Armour meatpacking plant in  my  hometown  of  Worthington,  Minnesota.  The  plant  specialized  in pork  products,  and  for  eight  hours  a  day  I  stood  on  a  quarter-mile assembly  line—more  properly,  a  disassembly  line—removing  blood  clots from  the  necks  of  dead  pigs.  My  job  title,  I  believe,  was  Declotter.  After slaughter,  the  hogs  were  decapitated,  split  down  the  length  of  the  belly,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
pried  open,  eviscerated,  and  strung  up  by  the  hind  hocks  on  a  high conveyer  belt.  Then  gravity  took  over.  By  the  time  a  carcass  reached  my spot on the line, the fluids had mostly drained out, everything except for thick  clots  of  blood  in  the  neck  and  upper  chest  cavity.  To  remove  the stuff,  I  used  a  kind  of  water  gun.  The  machine  was  heavy,  maybe  eighty pounds,  and  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling  by  a  heavy  rubber  cord. There  was  some  bounce  to  it,  an  elastic  up-and-down give, and the trick was to maneuver the gun with your whole body, not lifting with the arms, just letting the rubber cord do the work for you. At one end was a trigger; at the muzzle end was a small nozzle and a steel roller brush. As a carcass passed by, you'd lean forward and swing the gun up against the clots and squeeze  the  trigger,  all  in  one  motion,  and  the  brush  would  whirl  and water would come shooting out and you'd hear a quick splattering sound as  the  clots  dissolved  into  a  fine  red  mist.  It  was  not  pleasant  work. Goggles  were  a  necessity,  and  a  rubber  apron,  but  even  so  it  was  like standing for eight hours a day under a lukewarm blood-shower. At night I'd  go  home  smelling  of  pig.  It  wouldn't  go  away.  Even  after  a  hot  bath, scrubbing hard, the stink was always there—like old bacon, or sausage, a dense  greasy  pig-stink  that  soaked  deep  into  my  skin  and  hair.  Among other  things,  I  remember,  it  was  tough  getting  dates  that  summer.  I  felt isolated;  I  spent  a  lot  of  time  alone.  And  there  was  also  that  draft  notice tucked away in my wallet.
In  the  evenings  I'd  sometimes  borrow  my  father's  car  and  drive aimlessly  around  town,  feeling  sorry  for  myself,  thinking  about  the  war and  the  pig  factory  and  how  my  life  seemed  to  be  collapsing  toward slaughter.  I  felt  paralyzed.  All  around  me  the  options  seemed  to  be narrowing,  as  if  I  were  hurtling  down  a  huge  black  funnel,  the  whole world  squeezing  in  tight.  There  was  no  happy  way  out.  The  government had  ended  most  graduate  school  deferments;  the  waiting  lists  for  the National Guard and Reserves were impossibly long; my health was solid; I  didn't  qualify  for  CO  status—no  religious  grounds,  no  history  as  a pacifist. Moreover, I could not claim to be opposed to war as a matter of general  principle.  There  were  occasions,  I  believed,  when  a  nation  was justified  in  using  military  force  to  achieve  its  ends,  to  stop  a  Hitler  or some  comparable  evil,  and  I  told  myself  that  in  such  circumstances  I would've  willingly  marched  off  to  the  battle.  The  problem,  though,  was that a draft board did not let you choose your war.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Beyond  all  this,  or  at  the  very  center,  was  the  raw  fact  of  terror.  I  did not  want  to  die.  Not  ever.  But  certainly  not  then,  not  there,  not  in  a wrong  war.  Driving  up  Main  Street,  past  the  courthouse  and  the  Ben Franklin store, I sometimes felt the fear spreading inside me like weeds. I imagined myself dead. I imagined myself doing things I could not do—
charging an enemy position, taking aim at another human being.
At  some  point  in  mid-July  I  began  thinking  seriously  about  Canada. The border lay a few hundred miles north, an eight-hour drive. Both my conscience  and  my  instincts  were  telling  me  to  make  a  break  for  it,  just take  off  and  run  like  hell  and  never  stop.  In  the  beginning  the  idea seemed  purely  abstract,  the  word  Canada  printing  itself  out  in  my  head; but  after  a  time  I  could  see  particular  shapes  and  images,  the  sorry details  of  my  own  future—a  hotel  room  in  Winnipeg,  a  battered  old suitcase, my father's eyes as I tried to explain myself over the telephone. I  could  almost  hear  his  voice,  and  my  mother's.  Run,  I'd  think.  Then  I'd think, Impossible. Then a second later I'd think, Run.
It  was  a  kind  of  schizophrenia.  A  moral  split.  I  couldn't  make  up  my mind. I feared the war, yes, but I also feared exile. I was afraid of walking away  from  my  own  life,  my  friends  and  my  family,  my  whole  history, everything that mattered to me. I feared losing the respect of my parents. I  feared  the  law.  I  feared  ridicule  and  censure.  My  hometown  was  a conservative  little  spot  on  the  prairie,  a  place  where  tradition  counted, and it was easy to imagine people sitting around a table down at the old Gobbler Cafe on Main Street, coffee cups poised, the conversation slowly zeroing in on the young O'Brien kid, how the damned sissy had taken off for Canada. At night, when I couldn't sleep, I'd sometimes carry on fierce arguments with those people. I'd be screaming at them, telling them how much I detested their blind, thoughtless, automatic acquiescence to it all, their  simple-minded  patriotism,  their  prideful  ignorance,  their  love-it-
or-leave-it  platitudes,  how  they  were  sending  me  off  to  fight  a  war  they didn't  understand  and  didn't  want  to  understand.  I  held  them responsible.  By  God,  yes,  I  did.  All  of  them—I  held  them  personally  and individually  responsible—the  polyestered  Kiwanis  boys,  the  merchants and farmers, the pious churchgoers, the chatty housewives, the PTA and the Lions club and the Veterans of Foreign Wars and the fine upstanding gentry  out  at  the  country  club.  They  didn't  know  Bao  Dai  from  the  man in  the  moon.  They  didn't  know  history.  They  didn't  know  the  first  thing about  Diem's  tyranny,  or  the  nature  of  Vietnamese  nationalism,  or  the
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long  colonialism  of  the  French—this  was  all  too  damned  complicated,  it required  some  reading—but  no  matter,  it  was  a  war  to  stop  the Communists, plain and simple, which was how they liked things, and you were  a  treasonous  pussy  if  you  had  second  thoughts  about  killing  or dying for plain and simple reasons.
I was bitter, sure. But it was so much more than that.
The  emotions  went  from  outrage  to  terror  to  bewilderment  to  guilt  to sorrow  and  then  back  again  to  outrage.  I  felt  a  sickness  inside  me.  Real disease.
Most of this I've told before, or at least hinted at, but what I have never told is the full truth. How I cracked. How at work one morning, standing on  the  pig  line,  I  felt  something  break  open  in  my  chest.  I  don't  know what  it  was.  I'll  never  know.  But  it  was  real,  I  know  that  much,  it  was  a physical  rupture—a  cracking-leaking-popping  feeling.  I  remember dropping  my  water  gun.  Quickly,  almost  without  thought,  I  took  off  my apron and walked out of the plant and drove home. It was midmorning, I remember,  and  the  house  was  empty.  Down  in  my  chest  there  was  still that  leaking  sensation,  something  very  warm  and  precious  spilling  out, and  I  was  covered  with  blood  and  hog-stink,  and  for  a  long  while  I  just concentrated  on  holding  myself  together.  I  remember  taking  a  hot shower. I remember packing a suitcase and carrying it out to the kitchen, standing  very  still  for  a  few  minutes,  looking  carefully  at  the  familiar objects  all  around  me.  The  old  chrome  toaster,  the  telephone,  the  pink and  white  Formica  on  the  kitchen  counters.  The  room  was  full  of  bright sunshine. Everything sparkled. My house, I thought. My life. I'm not sure how  long  I  stood  there,  but  later  I  scribbled  out  a  short  note  to  my parents.
What  it  said,  exactly,  I  don't  recall  now.  Something  vague.  Taking  off, will call, love Tim.
I drove north.
It's  a  blur  now,  as  it  was  then,  and  all  I  remember  is  a  sense  of  high
velocity  and  the  feel  of  the  steering  wheel  in  my  hands.  I  was  riding  on
adrenaline.  A  giddy  feeling,  in  a  way,  except  there  was  the  dreamy  edge
of  impossibility  to  it—like  running  a  dead-end  maze—no  way  out—it
couldn't come to a happy conclusion and yet I was doing it anyway
because  it  was  all  I  could  think  of  to  do.  It  was  pure  flight,  fast  and
mindless.  I  had  no  plan.  Just  hit  the  border  at  high  speed  and  crash
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
through and keep on running. Near dusk I passed through Bemidji, then turned  northeast  toward  International  Falls.  I  spent  the  night  in  the  car behind  a  closed-down  gas  station  a  half  mile  from  the  border.  In  the morning,  after  gassing  up,  I  headed  straight  west  along  the  Rainy  River, which  separates  Minnesota  from  Canada,  and  which  for  me  separated one life from another. The land was mostly wilderness. Here and there I passed a motel or bait shop, but otherwise the country unfolded in great sweeps  of  pine  and  birch  and  sumac.  Though  it  was  still  August,  the  air already  had  the  smell  of  October,  football  season,  piles  of  yellow-red leaves, everything crisp and clean. I remember a huge blue sky. Off to my right was the Rainy River, wide as a lake in places, and beyond the Rainy River was Canada.
For  a  while  I  just  drove,  not  aiming  at  anything,  then  in  the  late morning  I  began  looking  for  a  place  to  lie  low  for  a  day  or  two.  I  was exhausted, and scared sick, and around noon I pulled into an old fishing resort  called  the  Tip  Top  Lodge.  Actually  it  was  not  a  lodge  at  all,  just eight  or  nine  tiny  yellow  cabins  clustered  on  a  peninsula  that  jutted northward into the Rainy River. The place was in sorry shape. There was a  dangerous  wooden  dock,  an  old  minnow  tank,  a  flimsy  tar  paper boathouse along the shore.
The  main  building,  which  stood  in  a  cluster  of  pines  on  high  ground, seemed to lean heavily to one side, like a cripple, the roof sagging toward Canada. Briefly, I thought about turning around, just giving up, but then I got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.
The man who opened the door that day is the hero of my life. How do I say  this  without  sounding  sappy?  Blurt  it  out—the  man  saved  me.  He offered  exactly  what  I  needed,  without  questions,  without  any  words  at all.  He  took  me  in.  He  was  there  at  the  critical  time—a  silent,  watchful presence. Six days later, when it ended, I was unable to find a proper way to  thank  him,  and  I  never  have,  and  so,  if  nothing  else,  this  story represents a small gesture of gratitude twenty years overdue.
Even after two decades I can close my eyes and return to that porch at the  Tip  Top  Lodge.  I  can  see  the  old  guy  staring  at  me.  Elroy  Berdahl: eighty-one  years  old,  skinny  and  shrunken  and  mostly  bald.  He  wore  a flannel shirt and brown work pants. In one hand, I remember, he carried a  green  apple,  a  small  paring  knife  in  the  other.  His  eyes  had  the  bluish gray color of a razor blade, the same polished shine, and as he peered up at me I felt a strange sharpness, almost painful, a cutting sensation, as if
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
his gaze were somehow slicing me open. In part, no doubt, it was my own sense  of  guilt,  but  even  so  I'm  absolutely  certain  that  the  old  man  took one  look  and  went  right  to  the  heart  of  things—a  kid  in  trouble.  When  I asked  for  a  room,  Elroy  made  a  little  clicking  sound  with  his  tongue.  He nodded, led me out to one of the cabins, and dropped a key in my hand. I remember  smiling  at  him.  I  also  remember  wishing  I  hadn't.  The  old man shook his head as if to tell me it wasn't worth the bother.
"Dinner at five-thirty," he said. "You eat fish?"
"Anything," I said.
Elroy grunted and said, "I'll bet."
We  spent  six  days  together  at  the  Tip  Top  Lodge.  Just  the  two  of  us. Tourist  season  was  over,  and  there  were  no  boats  on  the  river,  and  the wilderness  seemed  to  withdraw  into  a  great  permanent stillness. Over those  six  days  Elroy  Berdahl  and  I  took  most  of  our  meals  together.  In the  mornings  we  sometimes  went  out  on  long  hikes  into  the  woods,  and at night we played Scrabble or listened to records or sat reading in front of his big stone fireplace. At times I felt the awkwardness of an intruder, but  Elroy  accepted  me  into  his  quiet  routine  without  fuss  or  ceremony. He  took  my  presence  for  granted,  the  same  way  he  might've  sheltered  a stray cat—no wasted sighs or pity—and there was never any talk about it. Just  the  opposite.  What  I  remember  more  than  anything  is  the  man's willful, almost ferocious silence. In all that time together, all those hours, he never asked the obvious questions: Why was I there? Why alone? Why so  preoccupied?  If  Elroy  was  curious  about  any  of  this,  he  was  careful never to put it into words.
My  hunch,  though,  is  that  he  already  knew.  At  least  the  basics.  After all, it was 1968, and guys were burning draft cards, and Canada was just a  boat  ride  away.  Elroy  Berdahl  was  no  hick. His bedroom, I remember, was  cluttered  with  books  and  newspapers.  He  killed  me  at  the  Scrabble board,  barely  concentrating,  and  on  those  occasions  when  speech  was necessary he had a way of compressing large thoughts into small, cryptic packets of language. One evening, just at sunset, he pointed up at an owl circling over the violet-lighted forest to the west. "Hey, O'Brien," he said. "There's  Jesus."  The  man  was  sharp—he  didn't  miss  much.  Those  razor eyes.  Now  and  then  he'd  catch  me  staring  out  at  the  river,  at  the  far shore,  and  I  could  almost  hear  the  tumblers  clicking  in  his  head.  Maybe I'm wrong, but I doubt it.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
One  thing  for  certain,  he  knew  I  was  in  desperate  trouble.  And  he knew I couldn't talk about it. The wrong word—or even the right word—
and  I  would've  disappeared.  I  was  wired  and  jittery.  My  skin  felt  too tight. After supper one evening I vomited and went back to my cabin and lay  down  for  a  few  moments  and  then  vomited  again;  another  time,  in the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  I  began  sweating  and  couldn't  shut  it  off.  I went  through  whole  days  feeling  dizzy  with  sorrow.  I  couldn't  sleep;  I couldn't  lie  still.  At  night  I'd  toss  around  in  bed,  half  awake,  half dreaming,  imagining  how  I'd  sneak  down  to  the  beach  and  quietly  push one  of  the  old  man's  boats  out  into  the  river  and  start  paddling  my  way toward Canada. There were times when I thought I'd gone off the psychic edge. I couldn't tell up from down, I was just falling, and late in the night I'd  lie  there  watching  weird  pictures  spin  through  my  head. Getting chased  by  the  Border  Patrol—helicopters  and  searchlights  and  barking dogs—I'd  be  crashing  through  the  woods,  I'd  be  down  on  my  hands  and knees—people  shouting  out  my  name—the  law  closing  in  on  all  sides—
my hometown draft board and the FBI and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  It  all  seemed  crazy  and  impossible.  Twenty-one  years  old,  an ordinary  kid  with  all  the  ordinary  dreams  and  ambitions,  and  all  I wanted  was  to  live  the  life  I  was  born  to—a  mainstream  life—I  loved baseball  and  hamburgers  and  cherry  Cokes—and  now  I  was  off  on  the margins of exile, leaving my country forever, and it seemed so impossible and terrible and sad.
I'm  not  sure  how  I  made  it  through  those  six  days.  Most  of  it  I  can't remember. On two or three afternoons, to pass some time, I helped Elroy get  the  place  ready  for  winter,  sweeping  down  the  cabins  and  hauling  in the boats, little chores that kept my body moving. The days were cool and bright. The nights were very dark. One morning the old man showed me how to split and stack firewood, and for several hours we just worked in silence  out  behind  his  house.  At  one  point,  I  remember,  Elroy  put  down his maul and looked at me for a long time, his lips drawn as if framing a difficult question, but then he shook his head and went back to work. The man's  self-control  was  amazing.  He  never  pried.  He  never  put  me  in  a position  that  required  lies  or  denials.  To  an  extent,  I  suppose,  his reticence  was  typical  of  that  part  of  Minnesota,  where  privacy  still  held value,  and  even  if  I'd  been  walking  around  with  some  horrible deformity—four  arms  and  three  heads—I'm  sure  the  old  man  would've talked  about  everything  except  those  extra  arms  and  heads.  Simple politeness  was  part  of  it.  But  even  more  than  that,  I  think,  the  man
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
understood  that  words  were  insufficient.  The  problem  had  gone  beyond discussion.  During  that  long  summer  I'd  been  over  and  over  the  various arguments,  all  the  pros  and  cons,  and  it  was  no  longer  a  question  that could be decided by an act of pure reason. Intellect had come up against emotion. My conscience told me to run, but some irrational and powerful force  was  resisting,  like  a  weight  pushing  me  toward  the  war.  What  it came  down  to,  stupidly,  was  a  sense  of  shame.  Hot,  stupid  shame.  I  did not  want  people  to  think  badly  of  me.  Not  my  parents,  not  my  brother and sister, not even the folks down at the Gobbler Cafe. I was ashamed to be there at the Tip Top Lodge. I was ashamed of my conscience, ashamed to be doing the right thing.
Some of this Elroy must've understood. Not the details,  of  course,  but the plain fact of crisis.
Although  the  old  man  never  confronted  me  about  it,  there  was  one occasion  when  he  came  close  to  forcing  the  whole  thing  out  into  the open. It was early evening, and we'd just finished supper, and over coffee and  dessert  I  asked  him  about  my  bill,  how  much  I  owed  so  far.  For  a long while the old man squinted down at the tablecloth.
"Well,  the  basic  rate,"  he  said,  "is  fifty  bucks  a  night.  Not  counting meals. This makes four nights, right?"
I nodded. I had three hundred and twelve dollars in my wallet.
Elroy  kept  his  eyes  on  the  tablecloth.  "Now  that's  an  on-season  price. To  be  fair,  I  suppose  we  should  knock  it  down  a  peg  or  two."  He  leaned back in his chair. "What's a reasonable number, you figure?"
"I don't know," I said. "Forty?"
"Forty's  good.  Forty  a  night.  Then  we  tack  on  food—say  another hundred? Two hundred sixty total?"
"I guess."
He raised his eyebrows. "Too much?"
"No, that's fair. It's fine. Tomorrow, though ... I think I'd better take off tomorrow."
Elroy shrugged and began clearing the table. For a time he fussed with the dishes, whistling to himself as if the subject had been settled. After a second he slapped his hands together.
"You know what we forgot?" he said. "We forgot wages. Those odd jobs you done. What we have to do, we have to figure out what your time's worth. Your last job—how much did you pull in an hour?"
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Not enough," I said.
"A bad one?"
"Yes. Pretty bad."
Slowly  then,  without  intending  any  long  sermon,  I  told  him  about  my
days  at  the  pig  plant.  It  began  as  a  straight  recitation  of  the  facts,  but
before  I  could  stop  myself  I  was  talking  about  the  blood  clots  and  the
water gun and how the smell had soaked into my skin and how I couldn't
wash  it  away.  I  went  on  for  a  long  time.  I  told  him about wild hogs
squealing in my dreams, the sounds of butchery, slaughterhouse sounds,
and how I'd sometimes wake up with that greasy pig-stink in my throat.
When I was finished, Elroy nodded at me.
"Well,  to  be  honest,"  he  said,  "when  you  first  showed  up here, I
wondered about all that. The aroma, I mean. Smelled like you was awful
damned  fond  of  pork  chops."  The  old  man  almost  smiled.  He  made  a
snuffling  sound,  then  sat  down  with  a  pencil  and  a  piece  of  paper.  "So
what'd this crud job pay? Ten bucks an hour? Fifteen?"
"Less."
Elroy  shook  his  head.  "Let's  make  it  fifteen.  You  put  in  twenty-five
hours  here,  easy.  That's  three  hundred  seventy-five  bucks  total  wages.
We subtract the two hundred sixty for food and lodging, I still owe you a
hundred and fifteen."
He took four fifties out of his shirt pocket and laid them on the table. "Call it even," he said. "No." "Pick it up. Get yourself a haircut." The money lay on the table for the rest of the evening. It was still there
when  I  went  back  to  my  cabin.  In  the morning, though, I found an
envelope  tacked  to  my  door.  Inside  were  the  four  fifties  and  a  two-word
note that said
EMERGENCY FUND. The man knew.
Looking  back  after  twenty  years,  I  sometimes  wonder  if  the  events  of that summer didn't happen in some other dimension, a place where your life  exists  before  you've  lived  it,  and  where  it  goes  afterward.  None  of  it ever seemed real. During my time at the Tip Top Lodge I had the feeling
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
that I'd slipped out of my own skin, hovering a few feet away while some poor yo-yo with my name and face tried to make his way toward a future he didn't understand and didn't want. Even now I can see myself as I was then.  It's  like  watching  an  old  home  movie:  I'm  young  and  tan  and  fit. I've  got  hair—lots  of  it.  I  don't  smoke  or  drink.  I'm  wearing  faded  blue jeans  and  a  white  polo  shirt.  I  can  see  myself  sitting  on  Elroy  Berdahl's dock  near  dusk  one  evening,  the  sky  a  bright  shimmering  pink,  and  I'm finishing  up  a  letter  to  my  parents  that  tells  what  I'm  about  to  do  and why I'm doing it and how sorry I am that I'd never found the courage to talk to them about it. I ask them not to be angry. I try to explain some of my  feelings,  but  there  aren't  enough  words,  and  so  I  just  say  that  it's  a thing  that  has  to  be  done.  At  the  end  of  the  letter  I  talk  about  the vacations  we  used  to  take  up  in  this  north  country,  at  a  place  called Whitefish  Lake,  and  how  the  scenery  here  reminds  me  of  those  good times.  I  tell  them  I'm  fine.  I  tell  them  I'll  write  again  from  Winnipeg  or Montreal or wherever I end up.
On my last full day, the sixth day, the old man took me out fishing on the  Rainy  River.  The  afternoon  was  sunny  and  cold.  A  stiff  breeze  came in  from  the  north,  and  I  remember  how  the  little  fourteen-foot  boat made sharp rocking motions as we pushed off from the dock. The current was  fast.  All  around  us,  I  remember,  there  was  a  vastness  to  the  world, an unpeopled rawness, just the trees and the sky and the water reaching out toward nowhere. The air had the brittle scent of October.
For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  Elroy  held  a  course  upstream,  the  river choppy and silver-gray, then he turned straight north and put the engine on full throttle. I felt the bow lift beneath me. I remember the wind in my ears,  the  sound  of  the  old  outboard  Evinrude.  For  a  time I didn't pay attention  to  anything,  just  feeling  the  cold  spray  against  my  face,  but then  it  occurred  to  me  that  at  some  point  we  must've  passed  into Canadian  waters,  across  that  dotted  line  between  two  different  worlds, and  I  remember  a  sudden  tightness  in  my  chest  as  I  looked  up  and watched  the  far  shore  come  at  me.  This  wasn't  a  daydream.  It  was tangible  and  real.  As  we  came  in  toward  land,  Elroy  cut  the  engine, letting the boat fishtail lightly about twenty yards off shore. The old man didn't  look  at  me  or  speak.  Bending  down,  he  opened  up  his  tackle  box and busied himself with a bobber and a piece of wire leader, humming to himself, his eyes down.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
It  struck  me  then  that  he  must've  planned  it.  I'll  never  be  certain,  of course, but I think he meant to bring me up against the realities, to guide me across the river and to take me to the edge and to stand a kind of vigil as I chose a life for myself.
I remember staring at the old man, then at my hands, then at Canada. The  shoreline  was  dense  with  brush  and  timber.  I  could  see  tiny  red berries on the bushes. I could see a squirrel up in one of the birch trees, a big  crow  looking  at  me  from  a  boulder  along  the  river.  That  close—
twenty  yards—and  I  could  see  the  delicate  latticework  of  the  leaves,  the texture  of the soil, the browned needles beneath the pines, the configurations  of  geology  and  human  history.  Twenty  yards.  I  could've done  it.  I  could've  jumped  and  started  swimming  for  my  life.  Inside  me, in my chest, I felt a terrible squeezing pressure. Even now, as I write this, I can still feel that tightness. And I want you to feel it—the wind coming off  the  river,  the  waves,  the  silence,  the  wooded  frontier.  You're  at  the bow  of  a  boat  on  the  Rainy  River.  You're  twenty-one  years  old,  you're scared, and there's a hard squeezing pressure in your chest.
What would you do?
Would  you  jump?  Would  you  feel  pity  for  yourself?  Would  you  think about  your  family  and  your  childhood  and  your  dreams  and  all  you're leaving  behind?  Would  it  hurt?  Would  it  feel  like  dying?  Would  you  cry, as I did?
I tried to swallow it back. I tried to smile, except I was crying.
Now,  perhaps,  you  can  understand  why  I've  never  told  this  story before.  It's  not  just  the  embarrassment  of  tears.  That's  part  of  it,  no doubt,  but  what  embarrasses  me  much  more,  and  always  will,  is  the paralysis that took my heart. A moral freeze: I couldn't decide, I couldn't act,  I  couldn't  comport  myself  with  even  a  pretense  of  modest  human dignity.
All I could do was cry. Quietly, not bawling, just the chest-chokes.
At the rear of the boat Elroy Berdahl pretended not to notice. He held a  fishing  rod  in  his  hands,  his  head  bowed  to  hide  his  eyes.  He  kept humming  a  soft,  monotonous  little  tune.  Everywhere,  it  seemed,  in  the trees and water and sky, a great worldwide sadness came pressing down on  me,  a  crushing  sorrow,  sorrow  like  I  had  never  known  it  before.  And what  was  so  sad,  I  realized,  was  that  Canada  had  become  a  pitiful fantasy.  Silly  and  hopeless.  It  was  no  longer  a  possibility.  Right  then, with  the  shore  so  close,  I  understood  that  I  would  not  do  what  I  should
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
do.  I  would  not  swim  away  from  my  hometown  and  my  country  and  my life. I would not be brave. That old image of myself as a hero, as a man of conscience  and  courage,  all  that  was  just  a  threadbare  pipe  dream. Bobbing there on the Rainy River, looking back at the Minnesota shore, I felt  a  sudden  swell  of  helplessness  come  over  me,  a  drowning  sensation, as  if  I  had  toppled  overboard  and  was  being  swept  away  by  the  silver waves. Chunks of my own history flashed  by. I saw a seven-year-old boy in  a  white  cowboy  hat  and  a  Lone  Ranger  mask  and  a  pair  of  holstered six-shooters;  I  saw  a  twelve-year-old  Little  League  shortstop  pivoting  to turn  a  double  play;  I  saw  a  sixteen-year-old  kid  decked  out  for  his  first prom, looking spiffy in a white tux and a black bow tie, his hair cut short and flat, his shoes freshly polished. My whole life seemed to spill out into the  river,  swirling  away  from  me,  everything  I  had  ever  been  or  ever wanted  to  be.  I  couldn't  get  my  breath;  I  couldn't  stay  afloat;  I  couldn't tell  which  way  to  swim.  A  hallucination,  I  suppose,  but  it  was  as  real  as anything  I  would  ever  feel.  I  saw  my  parents  calling  to  me  from  the  far shoreline.  I  saw  my  brother  and  sister,  all  the  townsfolk,  the  mayor  and the entire Chamber of Commerce and all my old teachers and girlfriends and  high  school  buddies.  Like  some  weird  sporting  event:  everybody screaming  from  the  sidelines,  rooting  me  on—a  loud  stadium  roar. Hotdogs  and  popcorn—stadium  smells,  stadium  heat.  A  squad of cheerleaders did cartwheels along the banks of the Rainy River; they had megaphones  and  pompoms  and  smooth  brown  thighs.  The  crowd swayed left and right. A marching band played fight songs. All my aunts and  uncles  were  there,  and  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  Saint  George,  and  a nine-year-old  girl  named  Linda  who  had  died  of  a  brain  tumor  back  in fifth grade, and several members of the United States Senate, and a blind poet scribbling notes, and LBJ, and Huck Finn, and Abbie Hoffman, and all  the  dead  soldiers  back  from  the  grave,  and  the  many  thousands  who were later to die—villagers with terrible burns, little kids without arms or legs—yes, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff were there, and a couple of popes, and a first lieutenant named Jimmy Cross, and the last surviving veteran of the American Civil War, and Jane Fonda dressed up as Barbarella, and an  old  man  sprawled  beside  a  pigpen,  and  my  grandfather,  and  Gary Cooper,  and  a  kind-faced  woman  carrying  an  umbrella  and  a  copy  of Plato's  Republic,  and  a  million  ferocious  citizens  waving  flags  of  all shapes and colors—people in hard hats, people in headbands—they were all whooping and chanting and urging me toward one shore or the other. I  saw  faces  from  my  distant  past  and  distant  future.  My  wife  was  there.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
My  unborn  daughter  waved  at  me,  and  my  two  sons  hopped  up  and down,  and  a  drill  sergeant  named  Blyton  sneered  and  shot  up  a  finger and shook his head. There was a choir in bright purple robes. There was a  cabbie  from  the  Bronx.  There  was  a  slim  young  man  I  would  one day kill  with  a  hand  grenade  along  a  red  clay  trail  outside  the  village  of  My Khe.
The  little  aluminum  boat  rocked  softly  beneath  me.  There  was  the wind and the sky.
I tried to will myself overboard.
I gripped the edge of the boat and leaned forward and thought, Now.
I did try. It just wasn't possible.
All  those  eyes  on  me—the  town,  the  whole  universe—and  I  couldn't risk  the  embarrassment.  It  was  as  if  there  were  an  audience  to  my  life, that  swirl  of  faces  along  the  river,  and  in  my  head  I  could  hear  people screaming  at  me.  Traitor!  they  yelled.  Turncoat!  Pussy!  I  felt  myself blush.  I  couldn't  tolerate  it.  I  couldn't  endure  the  mockery,  or  the disgrace, or the patriotic ridicule. Even in my imagination, the shore just twenty yards away, I couldn't make myself be brave. It had nothing to do with morality. Embarrassment, that's all it was.
And right then I submitted.
I  would  go  to  the  war—I  would  kill  and  maybe  die—because  I  was embarrassed not to.
That was the sad thing. And so I sat in the bow of the boat and cried.
It was loud now. Loud, hard crying.
Elroy  Berdahl  remained  quiet.  He  kept  fishing.  He  worked  his  line with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  patiently,  squinting  out  at  his  red  and  white bobber  on  the  Rainy  River.  His  eyes  were  flat  and  impassive.  He  didn't speak. He was simply there, like the river and the late-summer sun. And yet  by  his  presence,  his  mute  watchfulness,  he  made  it  real.  He  was  the true  audience.  He  was  a  witness,  like  God,  or  like  the  gods,  who  look  on in  absolute  silence  as  we  live  our  lives,  as  we  make  our  choices  or  fail  to make them.
"Ain't biting," he said.
Then  after  a  time  the  old  man  pulled  in  his  line  and  turned  the  boat back toward Minnesota.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I  don't  remember  saying  goodbye.  That  last  night  we  had  dinner together,  and  I  went  to  bed  early,  and  in  the  morning  Elroy  fixed breakfast for me. When I told him I'd be leaving, the old man nodded as if he already knew. He looked down at the table and smiled.
At some point later in the morning it's possible that we shook hands—I just don't remember—but I do know that by the time I'd finished packing the old man had disappeared. Around noon, when I took my suitcase out to the car, I noticed that his old black pickup truck was no longer parked in  front  of  the  house.  I  went  inside  and  waited  for a while, but I felt a bone  certainty  that  he  wouldn't  be  back.  In  a  way,  I  thought,  it  was appropriate.  I  washed  up  the  breakfast  dishes,  left  his  two  hundred dollars  on  the  kitchen  counter,  got  into  the  car,  and  drove  south  toward home.
The  day  was  cloudy.  I  passed  through  towns  with  familiar  names, through  the  pine  forests  and  down  to  the  prairie,  and  then  to  Vietnam, where  I  was  a  soldier,  and  then  home  again.  I  survived,  but  it's  not  a happy ending. I was a coward. I went to the war.
Enemies
One  morning  in  late  July,  while  we  were  out  on  patrol  near  LZ  Gator, Lee  Strunk  and  Dave  Jensen  got  into  a  fistfight.  It  was  about  something stupid—a  missing  jackknife—but  even  so  the  fight  was  vicious.  For  a while  it  went  back  and  forth,  but  Dave  Jensen  was  much  bigger  and much stronger, and eventually he wrapped an arm around Strunk's neck and pinned him down and kept hitting him on the nose. He hit him hard. And  he  didn't  stop.  Strunk's  nose  made  a  sharp  snapping  sound,  like  a firecracker,  but  even  then  Jensen  kept  hitting  him,  over  and  over,  quick stiff punches that did not miss. It took three of us to pull him off. When it was over, Strunk had to be choppered back to the rear, where he had his nose  looked  after,  and  two  days  later  he  rejoined  us  wearing  a  metal splint and lots of gauze.
In  any  other  circumstance  it  might've  ended  there.  But  this  was Vietnam,  where  guys  carried  guns,  and  Dave  Jensen  started  to  worry.  It was mostly in his head. There were no threats, no vows of revenge, just a silent  tension  between  them  that  made  Jensen  take  special  precautions. On  patrol  he  was  careful  to  keep  track  of  Strunk's  whereabouts.  He  dug
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
his foxholes on the far side of the perimeter; he kept his back covered; he avoided  situations  that  might  put  the  two  of  them  alone  together. Eventually,  after  a  week  of  this,  the  strain  began  to  create  problems. Jensen  couldn't  relax.  Like  fighting  two  different  wars,  he  said.  No  safe ground:  enemies  everywhere.  No  front  or  rear.  At  night  he  had  trouble sleeping—a  skittish  feeling—always  on  guard,  hearing  strange  noises  in the  dark,  imagining  a  grenade  rolling  into  his  foxhole  or  the  tickle  of  a knife  against  his  ear.  The  distinction  between  good  guys  and  bad  guys disappeared for him. Even in times of relative safety, while the rest of us took  it  easy,  Jensen  would  be  sitting  with  his  back  against  a  stone  wall, weapon  across  his  knees,  watching  Lee  Strunk  with  quick,  nervous  eyes. It  got  to  the  point  finally  where  he  lost  control.  Something  must've snapped.  One  afternoon  he  began  firing  his  weapon  into  the  air,  yelling Strunk's name, just firing and yelling, and it didn't stop until he'd rattled off  an  entire  magazine  of  ammunition.  We  were  all  flat  on  the  ground. Nobody had the nerve to go near him. Jensen started to reload, but then suddenly he sat down and held his head in his arms and wouldn't move. For two or three hours he simply sat there.
But that wasn't the bizarre part.
Because  late  that  same  night  he  borrowed  a  pistol,  gripped  it  by  the barrel, and used it like a hammer to break his own nose.
Afterward,  he  crossed  the  perimeter  to  Lee  Strunk's  foxhole.  He showed him what he'd done and asked if everything was square between them.
Strunk nodded and said, Sure, things were square.
But  in  the  morning  Lee  Strunk  couldn't  stop  laughing. "The man's crazy," he said. "I stole his fucking jackknife."
Friends
Dave Jensen and Lee Strunk did not become instant buddies, but they did learn to trust each other. Over the next month they often teamed up on  ambushes.  They  covered  each  other  on  patrol,  shared  a  foxhole,  took turns  pulling  guard  at  night.  In  late  August  they  made  a  pact  that  if  one of  them  should  ever  get  totally  rucked  up—a  wheelchair  wound—the other  guy  would  automatically  find  a  way  to  end  it.  As  far  as  I  could  tell
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
they  were  serious.  They  drew  it  up  on  paper,  signing  their  names  and asking  a  couple  of  guys  to  act  as  witnesses.  And  then  in  October  Lee Strunk  stepped  on  a  rigged  mortar  round.  It  took  off  his  right  leg  at  the knee.  He  managed  a  funny  little  half  step,  like  a  hop,  then he tilted sideways  and  dropped.  "Oh,  damn,"  he  said.  For  a  while  he  kept  on saying  it,  "Damn  oh  damn,"  as  if  he'd  stubbed  a  toe.  Then  he  panicked. He  tried  to  get  up  and  run,  but  there  was  nothing  left  to  run  on.  He  fell hard.  The  stump  of  his  right  leg  was  twitching.  There  were  slivers  of bone,  and  the  blood  came  in  quick  spurts  like  water  from  a  pump.  He seemed  bewildered.  He  reached  down  as  if  to  massage  his  missing  leg, then  he  passed  out,  and  Rat  Kiley  put  on  a  tourniquet  and  administered morphine and ran plasma into him.
There was nothing much anybody could do except wait for the dustoff. After we'd secured an LZ, Dave Jensen went over and kneeled at Strunk's side.  The  stump  had  stopped  twitching  now.  For  a  time  there  was  some question as to whether Strunk was still alive, but then he opened his eyes and  looked  up  at  Dave  Jensen.  "Oh,  Jesus,"  he  said,  and  moaned,  and tried to slide away and said, "Jesus, man, don't kill me."
"Relax," Jensen said.
Lee  Strunk  seemed  groggy  and  confused.  He  lay  still  for a  second  and then  motioned  toward  his  leg.  "Really,  it's  not  so  bad,  Not  terrible.  Hey, really—they can sew it back on—really."
"Right, I'll bet they can."
"You think?"
"Sure I do."
Strunk  frowned  at  the  sky.  He  passed  out  again,  then  woke  up  and said, "Don't kill me."
"I won't," Jensen said.
"I'm serious."
"Sure."
"But you got to promise. Swear it to me—swear you won't kill me."
Jensen  nodded  and  said,  "I  swear,"  and  then  a  little  later  we  carried Strunk to the dustoff chopper. Jensen reached out and touched the good leg.  "Go  on  now,"  he  said.  Later  we  heard  that  Strunk  died  somewhere over  Chu  Lai,  which  seemed  to  relieve  Dave  Jensen  of  an  enormous weight.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
How to Tell a True War Story
This is true. I  had  a  buddy  in  Vietnam.  His  name  was  Bob  Kiley,  but  everybody
called him Rat.
A  friend  of  his  gets  killed,  so  about  a  week  later  Rat  sits  down  and writes  a  letter  to  the  guy's  sister.  Rat  tells  her  what  a  great  brother  she had,  how  together  the  guy  was,  a  number  one  pal  and  comrade.  A  real soldier's  soldier,  Rat  says.  Then  he  tells  a  few  stories  to  make  the  point, how  her  brother  would  always  volunteer  for  stuff  nobody  else  would volunteer  for  in  a  million  years,  dangerous  stuff,  like  doing  recon  or going  out  on  these  really  badass  night  patrols.  Stainless  steel  balls,  Rat tells  her.  The  guy  was  a  little  crazy,  for  sure,  but  crazy  in  a  good  way,  a real  daredevil,  because  he  liked  the  challenge  of  it,  he  liked  testing himself, just man against gook. A great, great guy, Rat says.
Anyway,  it's  a  terrific  letter,  very  personal  and  touching.  Rat  almost bawls  writing  it.  He  gets  all  teary  telling  about  the  good  times  they  had together, how her brother made the war seem almost fun, always raising hell and lighting up villes and bringing smoke to bear every which way. A great  sense  of  humor,  too.  Like  the  time  at  this  river  when  he  went fishing with a whole damn crate of hand grenades. Probably the funniest thing  in  world  history,  Rat  says,  all  that  gore,  about  twenty  zillion  dead gook fish. Her brother, he had the right attitude. He knew how to have a good time. On Halloween, this real hot spooky night, the dude paints up his  body  all  different  colors  and  puts  on  this  weird  mask  and  hikes  over to  a  ville  and  goes  trick-or-treating  almost  stark  naked,  just  boots  and balls  and  an  M-16.  A  tremendous  human  being,  Rat  says.  Pretty  nutso sometimes, but you could trust him with your life.
And then the letter gets very sad and serious. Rat pours his heart out. He  says  he  loved  the  guy.  He  says  the  guy  was  his  best  friend  in  the world.  They  were  like  soul  mates,  he  says,  like  twins  or  something,  they had  a  whole  lot  in  common.  He  tells  the  guy's  sister  he'll  look  her  up when the war's over.
So what happens?
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Rat  mails  the  letter.  He  waits  two  months.  The  dumb  cooze  never writes back.
A  true  war  story  is  never  moral.  It  does  not  instruct,  nor  encourage virtue,  nor  suggest  models  of  proper  human  behavior,  nor  restrain  men from doing the things men have always done. If a story seems moral, do not  believe  it.  If  at  the  end  of  a  war  story you feel uplifted, or if you feel that some small bit of rectitude has been salvaged from the larger waste, then you have been made the victim of a very old and terrible lie. There is no  rectitude  whatsoever.  There  is  no  virtue.  As  a  first  rule  of  thumb, therefore,  you  can  tell  a  true  war  story  by  its  absolute  and uncompromising  allegiance  to  obscenity  and  evil.  Listen  to  Rat  Kiley. Cooze, he says. He does not say bitch. He certainly does not say woman, or girl. He says cooze. Then he spits and stares. He's nineteen years old—
it's too much for him—so he looks at you with those big sad gentle killer eyes  and  says  cooze,  because  his  friend  is  dead,  and  because  it's  so incredibly sad and true: she never wrote back.
You can tell a true war story if it embarrasses you. If you don't care for obscenity,  you  don't  care  for  the  truth;  if  you  don't  care  for  the  truth, watch how you vote. Send guys to war, they come home talking dirty.
Listen to Rat: "Jesus Christ, man, I write this beautiful fuckin' letter, I slave over it, and what happens? The dumb cooze never writes back."
The  dead  guy's  name  was  Curt  Lemon.  What  happened  was,  we crossed a muddy river and marched west into the mountains, and on the third  day  we  took  a  break  along  a  trail  junction  in  deep  jungle.  Right away,  Lemon  and  Rat  Kiley  started  goofing.  They  didn't  understand about  the  spookiness.  They  were  kids;  they  just  didn't  know.  A  nature hike,  they  thought,  not  even  a  war,  so  they  went  off  into  the  shade  of some  giant  trees—quadruple  canopy,  no  sunlight  at  all—and  they  were giggling  and  calling  each  other  yellow  mother  and  playing  a  silly  game they'd  invented.  The  game  involved  smoke  grenades,  which  were harmless unless you did stupid things, and what they did was pull out the pin  and  stand  a  few  feet  apart  and  play  catch  under  the  shade  of  those huge  trees.  Whoever  chickened  out  was  a  yellow  mother.  And  if  nobody chickened out, the grenade would make a light popping sound and they'd be covered with smoke and they'd laugh and dance around and then do it again.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
It's all exactly true.
It happened, to me, nearly twenty years ago, and I still remember that
trail junction and those giant trees and a soft dripping sound somewhere
beyond  the  trees.  I  remember  the  smell  of  moss.  Up  in  the  canopy  there
were  tiny  white  blossoms,  but  no  sunlight  at  all,  and  I  remember  the
shadows spreading out under the trees where Curt Lemon and Rat Kiley
were  playing  catch  with  smoke  grenades.  Mitchell  Sanders  sat  flipping
his  yo-yo.  Norman  Bowker  and  Kiowa  and  Dave  Jensen  were  dozing,  or
half dozing, and all around us were those ragged green mountains.
Except for the laughter things were quiet. At  one  point,  I  remember,  Mitchell  Sanders  turned  and  looked  at  me,
not  quite  nodding,  as  if  to  warn  me  about  something,  as  if  he  already
knew, then after a while he rolled up his yo-yo and moved away.
It's hard to tell you what happened next.
They  were  just  goofing.  There  was  a  noise,  I  suppose,  which  must've
been  the  detonator,  so  I  glanced  behind  me  and  watched  Lemon  step
from  the  shade  into  bright  sunlight.  His  face  was  suddenly  brown  and
shining.  A  handsome  kid,  really.  Sharp  gray  eyes,  lean  and  narrow-
waisted,  and  when  he  died  it  was  almost  beautiful,  the  way  the  sunlight
came around him and lifted him up and sucked him high into a tree  full
of moss and vines and white blossoms.
In  any  war  story,  but  especially  a  true  one,  it's  difficult  to  separate what  happened  from  what  seemed  to  happen.  What  seems  to  happen becomes  its  own  happening  and  has  to  be  told  that  way.  The  angles  of vision are skewed. When a booby trap explodes, you close your eyes and duck  and  float  outside  yourself.  When  a  guy  dies,  like  Curt  Lemon,  you look  away  and  then  look  back  for  a  moment  and  then  look  away  again. The  pictures  get  jumbled;  you  tend  to  miss  a  lot.  And  then  afterward, when  you  go  to  tell  about  it,  there  is  always  that  surreal  seemingness, which  makes  the  story  seem  untrue,  but  which  in  fact  represents  the hard and exact truth as it seemed.
In many cases a true war story cannot be believed. If you believe it, be skeptical.  It's  a  question  of  credibility.  Often  the  crazy  stuff  is  true  and the normal stuff isn't, because the normal stuff is necessary to make you believe the truly incredible craziness.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
In  other  cases  you  can't  even  tell  a  true  war  story.  Sometimes  it's  just beyond telling.
I heard this one, for example, from Mitchell Sanders. It was near dusk and  we  were  sitting  at  my  foxhole  along  a  wide  muddy  river  north  of Quang  Ngai.  I  remember  how  peaceful  the  twilight  was.  A  deep  pinkish red  spilled  out on the river, which moved without sound, and in the morning  we  would  cross  the  river  and  march  west  into  the  mountains. The occasion was right for a good story.
"God's  truth,"  Mitchell  Sanders  said.  "A  six-man  patrol  goes  up  into the  mountains  on  a  basic  listening-post  operation.  The  idea's  to  spend  a week up there, just lie low and listen for enemy movement. They've got a radio  along,  so  if  they  hear  anything  suspicious—anything—they're supposed  to  call  in  artillery  or  gunships,  whatever  it  takes.  Otherwise they keep strict field discipline. Absolute silence. They just listen."
Sanders glanced at me to make sure I had the scenario. He was playing with his yo-yo, dancing it with short, tight little strokes of the wrist.
His face was blank in the dusk.
"We're  talking  regulation,  by-the-book  LP.  These  six  guys,  they  don't say boo for a solid week. They don't got tongues. All ears."
"Right," I said.
"Understand me?"
"Invisible."
Sanders nodded.
"Affirm,"  he  said.  "Invisible.  So  what  happens  is,  these  guys  get themselves  deep  in  the  bush,  all  camouflaged  up,  and  they  lie  down  and wait  and  that's  all  they  do,  nothing  else,  they  lie  there  for  seven  straight days  and  just  listen.  And  man,  I'll  tell  you—it's  spooky.  This  is mountains.  You  don't  know spooky till you been  there.  Jungle,  sort  of, except  it's  way  up  in  the  clouds  and  there's  always  this  fog—like  rain, except  it's  not  raining—everything's  all  wet  and  swirly  and  tangled  up and  you  can't  see  jack,  you  can't  find  your  own  pecker  to  piss  with.  Like you  don't  even  have  a  body.  Serious  spooky.  You  just  go  with  the vapors—the fog sort of takes you in ... And the sounds, man. The sounds carry forever. You hear stuff nobody should overhear."
Sanders was quiet for a second, just working the yo-yo, then he smiled at me.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"So  after  a  couple  days  the  guys  start  hearing  this  real  soft,  kind  of wacked-out  music.  Weird  echoes  and  stuff.  Like  a  radio  or  something, but  it's  not  a  radio,  it's  this  strange  gook  music  that  comes  right  out  of the  rocks.  Faraway,  sort  of,  but  right up close, too. They try to ignore it. But  it's  a  listening  post,  right?  So  they  listen.  And  every  night  they  keep hearing that crazyass gook concert. All kinds of chimes and xylophones. I mean, this is wilderness—no way, it can't be real—but there it is, like the mountains  are  tuned  in  to  Radio  fucking  Hanoi.  Naturally  they  get nervous. One guy sticks Juicy Fruit in his ears. Another guy almost flips. Thing is, though, they can't report music. They can't get on the horn and call back to base and say, 'Hey, listen, we need some firepower, we got to blow away this weirdo gook rock band.' They can't do that. It wouldn't go down. So they lie there in the fog and keep their mouths shut. And what makes it extra bad, see, is the poor dudes can't horse around like normal. Can't  joke  it  away.  Can't  even  talk  to  each  other  except  maybe  in whispers,  all  hush-hush,  and  that  just  revs  up  the  willies.  All  they  do  is listen."
Again  there  was  some  silence  as  Mitchell  Sanders  looked  out  on  the river.  The  dark  was  coming  on  hard  now,  and  off  to  the  west  I  could  see the mountains rising in silhouette, all the mysteries and unknowns.
"This next part," Sanders said quietly, "you won't believe."
"Probably not," I said.
"You  won't.  And  you  know  why?"  He  gave  me  a  long,  tired  smile. "Because it happened. Because every word is absolutely dead-on true."
Sanders  made  a  sound  in  his  throat,  like  a  sigh,  as  if  to  say  he  didn't care  if  I  believed  him  or  not.  But  he  did  care.  He  wanted  me  to  feel  the truth, to believe by the raw force of feeling. He seemed sad, in a way.
"These  six  guys,"  he  said,  "they're  pretty  fried  out  by  now,  and  one night  they  start  hearing  voices.  Like  at  a  cocktail  party.  That's  what  it sounds  like,  this  big  swank  gook  cocktail  party  somewhere  out  there  in the fog. Music and chitchat and stuff. It's crazy, I know, but they hear the champagne  corks.  They  hear  the  actual  martini  glasses.  Real  hoity-toity, all very civilized, except this isn't civilization. This is Nam.
"Anyway,  the  guys  try  to  be  cool.  They  just  lie  there  and  groove,  but after  a  while  they  start  hearing—you  won't  believe  this—they  hear chamber  music.  They  hear  violins  and  cellos.  They  hear  this  terrific mama-san  soprano.  Then  after  a  while  they  hear  gook  opera  and  a  glee club  and  the  Haiphong  Boys  Choir  and  a  barbershop  quartet  and  all
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
kinds  of  weird  chanting  and  Buddha-Buddha  stuff.  And  the  whole  time, in  the  background,  there's  still  that  cocktail  party  going  on.  All  these different  voices.  Not  human  voices,  though.  Because  it's  the  mountains. Follow me? The rock—it's talking. And the fog, too, and the grass and the goddamn  mongooses.  Everything  talks.  The  trees  talk  politics,  the monkeys  talk  religion.  The  whole  country.  Vietnam.  The  place  talks.  It talks. Understand? Nam—it truly talks.
"The  guys  can't cope. They lose it. They get on the radio and report enemy  movement—a  whole  army,  they  say—and  they  order  up  the firepower. They get arty and gunships. They call in air strikes. And I'll tell you, they fuckin' crash that cocktail party. All night long, they just smoke those mountains. They make jungle juice. They blow away trees and glee clubs  and  whatever  else  there  is  to  blow  away.  Scorch  time.  They  walk napalm up and down the ridges. They bring in the Cobras and F-4s, they use  Willie  Peter  and  HE  and  incendiaries.  It's  all  fire.  They  make  those mountains burn.
"Around dawn things finally get quiet. Like you never even heard quiet before.  One  of  those  real  thick,  real  misty  days—just  clouds  and  fog, they're  off  in  this  special  zone—and  the  mountains  are  absolutely  dead-
flat  silent.  Like  Brigadoon—pure  vapor,  you  know?  Everything's  all sucked up inside the fog. Not a single sound, except they still hear it.
"So  they  pack  up  and  start  humping.  They  head  down  the  mountain, back  to  base  camp,  and  when  they  get there they don't say diddly. They don't talk. Not a word, like they're deaf and dumb. Later on this fat bird colonel  comes  up  and  asks  what  the  hell  happened  out  there.  What'd they  hear?  Why  all  the  ordnance?  The  man's  ragged  out,  he  gets  down tight  on  their  case.  I  mean,  they  spent  six  trillion  dollars  on  firepower, and this fatass colonel wants answers, he wants to know what the fuckin' story is.
"But  the  guys  don't  say  zip.  They  just  look  at  him  for  a  while,  sort  of funny like, sort of amazed, and the whole war is right there in that stare. It  says  everything  you  can't  ever  say.  It  says,  man,  you  got  wax  in  your ears.  It  says,  poor  bastard,  you'll  never  know—wrong  frequency—you don't even want to hear this. Then they salute the fucker and walk away, because certain stories you don't ever tell."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
You  can  tell  a  true  war  story  by  the  way  it  never  seems  to  end.  Not then,  not  ever.  Not  when  Mitchell  Sanders  stood  up  and  moved  off  into the dark.
It all happened.
Even now, at this instant, I remember that yo-yo. In a way, I suppose, you  had  to  be  there,  you  had  to  hear  it,  but  I  could  tell  how  desperately Sanders wanted me to believe him, his frustration at not quite getting the details right, not quite pinning down the final and definitive truth.
And  I  remember sitting at my foxhole that night, watching the shadows  of  Quang  Ngai,  thinking  about  the  coming  day  and  how  we would  cross  the  river  and  march  west  into  the  mountains,  all  the  ways  I might die, all the things I did not understand.
Late in the night Mitchell Sanders touched my shoulder. "Just came to me,"  he  whispered.  "The  moral,  I  mean.  Nobody  listens.  Nobody  hears nothin'.  Like  that  fatass  colonel.  The  politicians,  all  the  civilian  types. Your  girlfriend.  My  girlfriend.  Everybody's  sweet  little  virgin  girlfriend. What  they  need  is  to  go  out  on  LP.  The  vapors,  man.  Trees  and  rocks—
you got to listen to your enemy."
And  then  again,  in  the  morning,  Sanders  came  up  to  me.  The  platoon was preparing to move out, checking weapons, going through all the little rituals  that  preceded  a  day's  march.  Already  the  lead  squad  had  crossed the river and was filing off toward the west.
"I  got  a  confession  to  make,"  Sanders  said.  "Last  night,  man,  I  had  to make up a few things."
"I know that."
"The glee club. There wasn't any glee club."
"Right."
"No opera."
"Forget it, I understand."
"Yeah,  but  listen,  it's  still  true.  Those  six  guys,  they  heard  wicked sound out there. They heard sound you just plain won't believe."
Sanders  pulled  on  his  rucksack,  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then almost smiled at me. I knew what was coming.
"All right," I said, "what's the moral?"
"Forget it."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"No, go ahead." For  a  long  while  he  was  quiet,  looking  away,  and  the  silence  kept
stretching  out  until  it  was  almost  embarrassing.  Then  he  shrugged  and
gave me a stare that lasted all day.
"Hear  that  quiet,  man?"  he  said.  "That  quiet—just  listen.  There's  your moral."
In  a  true  war  story,  if  there's  a  moral  at  all,  it's  like  the  thread  that makes  the  cloth.  You  can't  tease  it  out.  You  can't  extract  the meaning without  unraveling  the  deeper  meaning.  And  in  the  end,  really,  there's nothing much to say about a true war story, except maybe "Oh."
True war stories do not generalize. They do not indulge in abstraction or analysis.
For example: War is hell. As a moral declaration the old truism seems perfectly true, and yet because it abstracts, because it generalizes, I can't believe it with my stomach. Nothing turns inside.
It comes down to gut instinct. A true war story, if truly told, makes the stomach believe.
This  one  does  it  for  me.  I've  told  it  before—many  times,  many versions—but here's what actually happened.
We  crossed  that  river  and  marched  west  into  the  mountains.  On  the third  day,  Curt  Lemon  stepped  on  a  booby-trapped  105  round.  He  was playing  catch  with  Rat  Kiley,  laughing,  and  then  he  was  dead.  The  trees were thick; it took nearly an hour to cut an LZ for the dustoff.
Later,  higher  in  the  mountains,  we  came  across  a  baby  VC  water buffalo. What it was doing there I don't know—no farms or paddies—but we chased it down and got a rope around it and led it along to a deserted village  where  we  set  up  for  the  night.  After  supper  Rat  Kiley  went  over and stroked its nose.
He opened up a can of C rations, pork and beans, but the baby buffalo wasn't interested.
Rat shrugged.
He  stepped  back  and  shot  it  through  the  right  front  knee.  The  animal did  not  make  a  sound.  It  went  down  hard,  then  got  up  again,  and  Rat took careful aim and shot off an ear. He shot it in the hindquarters and in
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
the little hump at its back. He shot it twice in the flanks. It wasn't to kill; it was to hurt. He put the rifle muzzle up against the mouth and shot the mouth  away.  Nobody  said  much.  The  whole  platoon  stood  there watching, feeling all kinds of things, but there wasn't a great deal of pity for  the  baby  water  buffalo.  Curt  Lemon  was  dead.  Rat  Kiley  had  lost  his best friend in the world. Later in the week he would write a long personal letter  to  the  guy's  sister,  who  would  not  write  back,  but  for  now  it  was  a question of pain. He shot off the tail. He shot away chunks of meat below the  ribs.  All  around  us  there  was  the  smell  of  smoke  and  filth  and  deep greenery,  and  the  evening  was  humid  and  very  hot.  Rat  went  to automatic.  He  shot  randomly,  almost  casually,  quick  little  spurts  in  the belly  and  butt.  Then  he  reloaded,  squatted  down,  and  shot  it  in  the  left front knee. Again the animal fell hard and tried to get up, but this time it couldn't quite make it. It wobbled and went down sideways. Rat shot it in the  nose.  He  bent  forward  and  whispered  something,  as  if  talking  to  a pet, then he shot it in the throat. All the while the baby buffalo was silent, or almost silent, just a light bubbling sound where the nose had been. It lay very still. Nothing moved except the eyes, which were enormous, the pupils shiny black and dumb.
Rat  Kiley  was  crying.  He  tried  to  say  something,  but  then  cradled  his rifle and went off by himself.
The  rest  of  us  stood  in  a  ragged  circle  around  the  baby  buffalo.  For  a time  no  one  spoke.  We  had  witnessed  something  essential,  something brand-new  and  profound,  a  piece  of  the  world  so  startling  there  was  not yet a name for it.
Somebody kicked the baby buffalo.
It was still alive, though just barely, just in the eyes.
"Amazing,"  Dave  Jensen  said.  "My  whole  life,  I  never  seen  anything like it."
"Never?"
"Not hardly. Not once."
Kiowa and Mitchell Sanders picked up the baby buffalo. They hauled it across the open square, hoisted it up, and dumped it in the village well.
Afterward, we sat waiting for Rat to get himself together.
"Amazing,"  Dave  Jensen  kept  saying.  "A  new  wrinkle.  I  never  seen  it before."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Mitchell  Sanders  took  out  his  yo-yo.  "Well,  that's  Nam,"  he  said. "Garden of Evil. Over here, man, every sin's real fresh and original."
How do you generalize?
War  is  hell,  but  that's  not  the  half  of  it,  because  war  is  also  mystery
and  terror  and  adventure  and  courage  and  discovery  and  holiness  and
pity  and  despair  and  longing  and  love.  War  is  nasty;  war  is  fun.  War  is
thrilling; war is drudgery. War makes you a man; war makes you dead.
The truths are contradictory. It can be argued, for instance, that war is grotesque.  But  in  truth  war  is  also  beauty.  For  all  its  horror,  you  can't help  but  gape  at  the  awful  majesty  of  combat.  You  stare  out  at  tracer rounds  unwinding  through  the dark like brilliant red ribbons. You crouch  in  ambush  as  a  cool,  impassive  moon  rises  over  the  nighttime paddies.  You  admire  the  fluid  symmetries  of  troops  on  the  move,  the harmonies of sound and shape and proportion, the great sheets of metal-
fire  streaming  down  from  a  gunship,  the  illumination  rounds,  the  white phosphorus, the purply orange glow of napalm, the rocket's red glare. It's not pretty, exactly. It's astonishing. It fills the eye. It commands you. You hate  it,  yes,  but  your  eyes  do  not.  Like  a  killer  forest  fire,  like  cancer under  a  microscope,  any  battle  or  bombing  raid  or  artillery  barrage  has the  aesthetic  purity  of  absolute  moral  indifference—a  powerful, implacable  beauty—and  a  true  war  story  will  tell  the  truth  about  this, though the truth is ugly.
To  generalize  about  war  is  like  generalizing  about  peace.  Almost everything is true. Almost nothing is true. At its core, perhaps, war is just another  name  for  death,  and  yet  any  soldier  will  tell  you,  if  he  tells  the truth, that proximity to death brings with it a corresponding proximity to life.  After  a  firefight,  there  is  always  the  immense  pleasure  of  aliveness. The trees are alive. The grass, the soil—everything. All around you things are  purely  living,  and  you  among  them,  and  the  aliveness  makes  you tremble.  You  feel  an  intense,  out-of-the-skin  awareness  of  your  living self—your  truest  self,  the  human  being  you  want  to  be  and  then  become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You  want  decency.  You  want  justice  and  courtesy  and  human  concord, things  you  never  knew  you  wanted.  There  is  a  kind  of  largeness  to  it,  a kind  of  godliness.  Though  it's  odd,  you're  never  more  alive  than  when you're  almost  dead.  You  recognize  what's  valuable.  Freshly,  as  if  for  the first time, you love what's best in yourself and in the world, all that might
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the  morning  you  must  cross  the  river  and  go  into  the  mountains  and  do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you  are  filled  with  a  hard,  aching  love  for  how  the  world  could  be  and always should be, but now is not.
Mitchell  Sanders  was  right.  For  the  common  soldier,  at  least,  war  has the  feel—the  spiritual  texture—of  a  great  ghostly  fog,  thick  and permanent.  There  is  no  clarity.  Everything  swirls.  The  old  rules  are  no longer  binding,  the  old  truths  no  longer  true.  Right  spills  over  into wrong. Order blends into chaos, love into hate, ugliness into beauty, law into anarchy, civility into savagery. The vapors suck you in. You can't tell where  you  are,  or  why  you're  there,  and  the  only  certainty  is overwhelming ambiguity.
In  war  you  lose  your  sense  of  the  definite,  hence  your  sense  of  truth itself, and therefore it's safe to say that in a true war story nothing is ever absolutely true.
Often  in  a  true  war  story  there  is  not  even  a  point,  or  else  the  point doesn't  hit  you  until  twenty  years  later,  in  your  sleep,  and  you  wake  up and  shake  your  wife  and  start  telling  the  story  to  her,  except  when  you get to the end you've forgotten the point again. And then for a long time you  lie  there  watching  the  story  happen  in  your  head.  You  listen  to  your wife's  breathing.  The  war's  over.  You  close  your  eyes.  You  smile  and think, Christ, what's the point?
This one wakes me up.
In  the  mountains  that  day,  I  watched  Lemon  turn  sideways.  He
laughed  and  said  something  to  Rat  Kiley.  Then  he  took  a  peculiar  half
step, moving from shade into bright sunlight, and the booby-trapped 105
round  blew  him  into  a  tree.  The  parts  were  just  hanging  there,  so  Dave
Jensen and I were ordered to shinny up and peel him off. I remember the
white bone of an arm. I remember pieces of skin and something wet and
yellow that must've been the intestines. The gore was horrible, and stays
with  me.  But  what  wakes  me  up  twenty  years  later  is  Dave  Jensen
singing "Lemon Tree" as we threw down the parts.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
You can tell a true war story by the questions you ask. Somebody tells a  story,  let's  say,  and  afterward  you  ask,  "Is  it  true?"  and  if  the  answer matters, you've got your answer.
For  example,  we've  all  heard  this  one.  Four  guys  go  down  a trail. A grenade  sails  out.  One  guy  jumps  on  it  and  takes  the  blast  and  saves  his three buddies.
Is it true?
The answer matters.
You'd feel cheated if it never happened. Without the grounding reality, it's just a trite bit of puffery, pure Hollywood, untrue in the way all such stories  are  untrue.  Yet  even  if  it  did  happen—and  maybe  it  did, anything's  possible—even  then  you  know  it  can't  be  true,  because  a  true war  story  does  not  depend  upon  that  kind  of  truth.  Absolute  occurrence is  irrelevant.  A  thing  may happen and be a total lie; another thing may not happen and be truer than the truth. For example: Four guys go down a  trail.  A  grenade  sails  out.  One  guy  jumps  on  it  and  takes  the  blast,  but it's a killer grenade and everybody dies anyway. Before they die, though, one  of  the  dead  guys  says,  "The  fuck  you  do  that for?" and the jumper says,  "Story  of  my  life,  man,"  and  the  other  guy  starts  to  smile  but  he's dead. That's a true story that never happened.
Twenty  years  later,  I  can  still  see  the  sunlight  on  Lemon's  face.  I  can see him turning, looking back at Rat Kiley, then he laughed and took that curious  half  step  from  shade  into  sunlight,  his  face  suddenly  brown  and shining,  and  when  his  foot  touched  down,  in  that  instant,  he  must've thought  it  was  the  sunlight  that  was  killing  him.  It  was  not  the  sunlight. It was a rigged 105 round. But if I could ever get the story right, how the sun seemed to gather around him and pick him up and lift him high into a  tree,  if  I  could  somehow  re-create  the  fatal  whiteness  of  that  light,  the quick glare, the obvious cause and effect, then you would believe the last thing Curt Lemon believed, which for him must've been the final truth.
Now  and  then,  when  I  tell  this  story,  someone  will  come  up  to  me afterward  and  say  she  liked  it.  It's  always  a  woman.  Usually  it's  an  older woman  of  kindly  temperament  and  humane  politics.  She'll  explain  that as a rule she hates war stories; she can't understand why people want to
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
wallow  in  all  the  blood  and  gore.  But  this  one  she  liked.  The  poor  baby buffalo,  it  made  her  sad.  Sometimes,  even,  there  are  little  tears.  What  I should do, she'll say, is put it all behind me. Find new stories to tell.
I won't say it but I'll think it.
I'll picture Rat Kiley's face, his grief, and I'll think, You dumb cooze.
Because she wasn't listening.
It wasn't a war story. It was a love story.
But you can't say that. All you can do is tell it one more time, patiently, adding  and  subtracting,  making  up  a  few  things  to  get  at  the  real  truth. No  Mitchell  Sanders,  you  tell  her.  No  Lemon,  no  Rat  Kiley.  No  trail junction.  No  baby  buffalo.  No  vines  or  moss  or  white  blossoms. Beginning  to  end,  you  tell  her,  it's  all  made  up.  Every  goddamn  detail—
the mountains and the river and especially that poor dumb baby buffalo. None  of it happened. None of it. And even if it did happen, it didn't happen  in  the  mountains,  it  happened  in  this  little  village  on  the Batangan  Peninsula,  and  it  was  raining  like  crazy,  and  one  night  a  guy named  Stink  Harris  woke  up  screaming  with  a  leech  on  his  tongue.  You can tell a true war story if you just keep on telling it.
And  in  the  end,  of  course,  a  true  war  story  is  never  about  war.  It's about  sunlight.  It's  about  the  special  way  that  dawn  spreads  out  on  a river  when  you  know  you  must  cross  the  river  and  march  into  the mountains  and  do  things  you  are  afraid  to  do.  It's  about  love  and memory.  It's  about  sorrow.  It's  about  sisters  who  never  write  back  and people who never listen.
The Dentist
When  Curt  Lemon  was  killed,  I  found  it  hard  to  mourn.  I  knew  him only  slightly,  and  what  I  did  know  was  not  impressive.  He  had  a tendency to play the tough soldier role, always posturing, always puffing himself up, and on occasion he took it way too far. It's true that he pulled off  some  dangerous  stunts,  even  a  few that seemed plain crazy, like the time he painted up his body and put on a ghost mask and went out trick-
or-treating  on  Halloween.  But  afterward  he  couldn't  stop  bragging.  He kept  replaying  his  own  exploits,  tacking  on  little  flourishes  that  never happened.  He  had  an  opinion  of  himself,  I  think,  that  was  too  high  for
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
his  own  good.  Or  maybe  it  was  the  reverse.  Maybe  it  was  a  low  opinion that he kept trying to erase.
In  any  case,  it's  easy  to  get  sentimental  about  the  dead,  and  to  guard against that I want to tell a quick Curt Lemon story.
In  February  we  were  working  an  area  of  operations  called  the  Rocket Pocket, which got its name from the fact that the enemy sometimes used the place to launch rocket attacks on the airfield at Chu Lai. But for us it was  like  a  two-week  vacation.  The  AO  lay  along  the  South  China  Sea, where  things  had  the  feel  of  a  resort,  with  white  beaches  and  palm  trees and  friendly  little  villages.  It  was  a  quiet  time.  No  casualties,  no  contact at all. As usual, though, the higher-ups couldn't leave well enough alone, and  one  afternoon  an  Army  dentist  was  choppered  in  to  check  our  teeth and  do  minor  repair  work.  He  was  a  tall,  skinny  young  captain  with  bad breath. For a half hour he lectured us on oral hygiene, demonstrating the proper  flossing  and  brushing  techniques,  then  afterward  he  opened  up shop  in  a  small  field  tent  and  we  all  took  turns  going  in  for  personal exams.  At  best  it  was  a  very  primitive  setup.  There  was  a  battery-
powered  drill,  a  canvas  cot,  a  bucket  of  sea  water  for  rinsing,  a  metal suitcase  full  of  the  various  instruments.  It  amounted  to  assembly-line dentistry,  quick  and  impersonal,  and  the  young  captain's  main  concern seemed to be the clock.
As  we  sat  waiting,  Curt  Lemon  began  to  tense  up.  He  kept  fidgeting, playing with his dog tags. Finally somebody asked what the problem was, and  Lemon  looked  down  at  his  hands  and  said  that  back  in  high  school he'd had a couple of bad experiences with dentists. Real sadism, he said. Torture  chamber  stuff.  He  didn't  mind  blood  or  pain—he  actually enjoyed  combat—but  there  was  something  about  a  dentist  that  just  gave him  the  creeps.  He  glanced  over  at  the  field  tent  and  said,  "No  way. Count me out. Nobody messes with these teeth."
But  a  few  minutes  later,  when  the  dentist  called  his  name,  Lemon stood up and walked into the tent.
It was over fast. He fainted even before the man touched him.
Four of us had to hoist him up and lay him on the cot. When he came to,  there  was  a  funny  new  look  on  his  face,  almost  sheepish,  as  if  he'd been caught committing some terrible crime. He wouldn't talk to anyone. For the rest of the day he stayed off by himself, sitting alone under a tree, just  staring  down  at  the  field  tent.  He  seemed  a  little  dazed.  Now  and then  we  could  hear  him  cussing,  bawling  himself  out.  Anyone  else
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would've  laughed  it  off,  but  for  Curt  Lemon  it  was  too  much.  The embarrassment  must've  turned  a  screw  in  his  head.  Late  that  night  he crept  down  to  the  dental  tent.  He  switched  on  a  flashlight,  woke  up  the young  captain,  and  told  him  he  had  a  monster  toothache.  A  killer,  he said—like  a  nail  in  his  jaw.  The  dentist  couldn't  find  any  problem,  but Lemon  kept  insisting,  so  the  man  finally  shrugged  and  shot  in  the Novocain  and  yanked  out  a  perfectly  good  tooth.  There  was  some  pain, no doubt, but in the morning Curt Lemon was all smiles.
Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong
Vietnam  was  full  of  strange  stories,  some  improbable,  some  well beyond that, but the stories that will last forever are those that swirl back and forth across the border between trivia and bedlam, the mad and the mundane. This one keeps returning to me. I heard it from Rat Kiley, who swore  up  and  down  to  its  truth,  although  in  the  end,  I'll  admit,  that doesn't  amount  to  much  of  a  warranty.  Among  the  men  in  Alpha Company,  Rat  had  a  reputation  for  exaggeration  and  overstatement,  a compulsion  to  rev  up  the  facts,  and  for  most  of  us  it  was  normal procedure to discount sixty or seventy percent of anything he had to say. If Rat told you, for example, that he'd slept with four girls one night, you could  figure  it  was  about  a  girl  and  a  half.  It  wasn't  a  question  of  deceit. Just the opposite: he wanted to heat up the truth, to make it burn so hot that you would feel exactly what he felt. For Rat Kiley, I think, facts were formed by sensation, not the other way around, and when you listened to one  of  his  stories,  you'd  find  yourself  performing  rapid  calculations  in your  head,  subtracting  superlatives,  figuring  the  square  root  of  an absolute and then multiplying by maybe.
Still, with this particular story, Rat never backed down. He claimed to have  witnessed  the  incident  with  his  own  eyes,  and  I  remember  how upset he became one morning when Mitchell Sanders challenged him on its basic premise.
"It can't happen," Sanders said. "Nobody ships his honey over to Nam. It  don't  ring  true.  I  mean,  you  just  can't  import  your  own  personal poontang."
Rat shook his head. "I saw it, man. I was right there. This guy did it."
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"His girlfriend?"
"Straight  on.  It's  a  fact."  Rat's  voice  squeaked  a  little.  He  paused  and
looked at his hands. "Listen, the guy sends her the money. Flies her over.
This cute blonde—just a kid, just barely out of high school—she shows up
with a suitcase and one of those plastic cosmetic bags. Comes right out to
the  boonies.  I  swear  to  God,  man,  she's  got  on  culottes.  White  culottes
and this sexy pink sweater. There she is."
I  remember  Mitchell  Sanders  folding  his  arms.  He  looked  over  at  me for  a  second,  not  quite  grinning,  not  saying  a  word,  but  I  could  read  the amusement in his eyes.
Rat saw it, too.
"No lie," he muttered. "Culottes."
When  he  first  arrived  in-country,  before  joining  Alpha  Company,  Rat had  been  assigned  to  a  small  medical  detachment  up  in  the  mountains west  of  Chu  Lai,  near  the  village  of  Tra  Bong,  where  along  with  eight other  enlisted  men  he  ran  an  aid  station  that  provided  basic  emergency and  trauma  care.  Casualties  were  flown  in  by  helicopter,  stabilized,  then shipped  out  to  hospitals  in  Chu  Lai  or  Danang.  It  was  gory  work,  Rat said,  but  predictable.  Amputations,  mostly—legs  and  feet.  The  area  was heavily  mined,  thick  with  Bouncing  Betties  and  homemade  booby  traps. For  a  medic,  though,  it  was  ideal  duty,  and  Rat  counted  himself  lucky. There  was  plenty  of  cold  beer,  three  hot  meals  a  day,  a  tin  roof  over  his head.  No  humping at all. No officers, either. You could let your hair grow, he said, and you didn't have to polish your boots or snap off salutes or  put  up  with  the  usual  rear-echelon  nonsense.  The  highest  ranking NCO was an E-6 named Eddie Diamond, whose pleasures ran from dope to Darvon, and except for a rare field inspection there was no such thing as military discipline.
As  Rat  described  it,  the  compound  was  situated  at  the  top  of  a  flat-
crested  hill  along  the  northern  outskirts  of  Tra  Bong.  At  one  end  was  a small  dirt helipad; at the other end, in a rough semicircle, the mess hall and  medical  hootches  overlooked  a  river  called  the  Song  Tra  Bong. Surrounding  the  place  were  tangled  rolls  of  concertina  wire,  with bunkers  and  reinforced  firing  positions  at  staggered  intervals,  and  base security  was  provided  by  a  mixed  unit  of  RFs,  PFs,  and  ARVN  infantry. Which  is  to  say  virtually  no  security  at  all.  As  soldiers,  the  ARVNs  were useless;  the  Ruff-and-Puffs  were  outright  dangerous.  And  yet  even  with
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decent  troops  the  place  was clearly indefensible. To the north and west the  country  rose  up  in  thick  walls  of  wilderness,  triple-canopied  jungle, mountains unfolding into higher mountains, ravines and gorges and fast-
moving  rivers  and  waterfalls  and  exotic  butterflies  and  steep  cliffs  and smoky  little  hamlets  and  great  valleys  of  bamboo  and  elephant  grass. Originally,  in  the  early  1960s,  the  place  had  been  set  up  as  a  Special Forces outpost, and when Rat Kiley arrived nearly a decade later, a squad of six Green Berets still used the compound as a base of operations. The Greenies were not social animals. Animals, Rat said, but far from social. They  had  their  own  hootch  at  the  edge  of  the  perimeter,  fortified  with sandbags  and  a  metal  fence,  and  except  for  the  bare  essentials  they avoided  contact  with  the  medical  detachment.  Secretive  and  suspicious, loners  by  nature,  the  six  Greenies  would  sometimes  vanish  for  days  at  a time,  or  even  weeks,  then  late  in  the  night  they  would  just  as  magically reappear,  moving  like  shadows  through  the  moonlight,  filing  in  silently from  the  dense  rain  forest  off  to  the  west.  Among  the  medics  there  were jokes about this, but no one asked questions.
While the outpost was isolated and vulnerable, Rat said, he always felt a  curious  sense  of  safety  there.  Nothing  much  ever  happened.  The  place was  never  mortared,  never  taken  under  fire,  and  the  war  seemed  to  be somewhere  far  away.  On  occasion,  when  casualties  came  in,  there  were quick  spurts  of  activity,  but  otherwise  the  days  flowed  by  without incident,  a  smooth  and  peaceful  time.  Most  mornings  were  spent  on  the volleyball court. In the heat of midday the men would head for the shade, lazing  away  the  long  afternoons,  and  after  sundown  there  were  movies and card games and sometimes all-night drinking sessions.
It  was  during  one  of  those  late  nights  that  Eddie  Diamond  first brought  up  the  tantalizing  possibility.  It  was  an  offhand  comment.  A joke,  really.  What  they  should  do,  Eddie  said,  was  pool  some  bucks  and bring  in  a  few  mama-sans  from  Saigon,  spice  things  up,  and  after  a moment one of the men laughed and said, "Our own little EM club," and somebody  else  said,  "Hey,  yeah,  we  pay  our  fuckin'  dues,  don't  we?"  It was nothing serious. Just passing time, playing with the possibilities, and so  for  a  while  they  tossed  the  idea  around,  how  you  could  actually  get away  with  it,  no  officers  or  anything,  nobody  to  clamp  down,  then  they dropped the subject and moved on to cars and baseball.
Later  in  the  night,  though,  a  young  medic  named  Mark  Fossie  kept coming back to the subject.
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"Look,  if  you  think  about  it,"  he  said,  "it's  not  that  crazy.  You  could actually do it."
"Do what?" Rat said.
"You know. Bring in a girl. I mean, what's the problem?"
Rat shrugged. "Nothing. A war."
"Well, see, that's the thing," Mark Fossie said. "No war here. You could really do it. A pair of solid brass balls, that's all you'd need."
There was some laughter, and Eddie Diamond told him he'd best strap down  his  dick,  but  Fossie  just  frowned  and  looked  at  the  ceiling  for  a while and then went off to write a letter.
Six weeks later his girlfriend showed up.
The  way  Rat  told  it,  she  came  in  by  helicopter  along  with  the  daily resupply  shipment  out  of  Chu  Lai.  A  tall,  big-boned  blonde.  At  best,  Rat said,  she  was  seventeen  years  old,  fresh  out  of  Cleveland  Heights  Senior High.  She  had  long  white  legs  and  blue  eyes  and  a  complexion  like strawberry ice cream. Very friendly, too.
At  the  helipad  that  morning,  Mark  Fossie  grinned  and  put  his  arm around her and said, "Guys, this is Mary Anne."
The girl seemed tired and somewhat lost, but she smiled.
There  was  a  heavy  silence.  Eddie  Diamond,  the  ranking  NCO,  made  a small motion with his hand, and some of the others murmured a word or two, then they watched Mark Fossie pick up her suitcase and lead her by the arm down to the hootches. For a long while the men were quiet.
"That fucker," somebody finally said.
At  evening  chow  Mark  Fossie  explained  how  he'd  set  it  up.  It  was expensive, he admitted, and the logistics were complicated, but it wasn't like  going  to  the  moon. Cleveland to Los Angeles, LA to Bangkok, Bangkok  to  Saigon.  She'd  hopped  a  C-130  up  to  Chu  Lai  and  stayed overnight  at  the  USO  and  the  next  morning  hooked  a  ride  west  with  the resupply chopper.
"A  cinch,"  Fossie  said,  and  gazed  down  at  his  pretty  girlfriend.  "Thing is, you just got to want it enough."
Mary Anne Bell and Mark Fossie had been sweethearts since grammar school. From the sixth grade on they had known for a fact that someday they  would  be  married,  and  live  in  a  fine  gingerbread  house  near  Lake Erie,  and  have  three  healthy  yellow-haired  children,  and  grow  old
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together,  and  no  doubt  die  in  each  other's  arms  and  be  buried  in  the same walnut casket. That was the plan. They were very much in love, full of  dreams,  and  in  the  ordinary  flow  of  their  lives  the  whole  scenario might well have come true.
On  the  first  night  they  set  up  house  in  one  of  the  bunkers  along  the perimeter,  near  the  Special  Forces  hootch,  and  over  the  next  two  weeks they  stuck  together  like  a  pair  of  high  school  steadies.  It  was  almost disgusting,  Rat  said,  the  way  they  mooned  over  each  other.  Always holding  hands,  always  laughing  over  some  private  joke.  All  they  needed, he said, were a couple of matching sweaters. But among the medics there was  some  envy.  It  was  Vietnam,  after  all,  and  Mary  Anne  Bell  was  an attractive  girl.  Too  wide  in  the  shoulders,  maybe,  but  she  had  terrific legs,  a  bubbly  personality,  a  happy  smile.  The  men  genuinely  liked  her. Out  on  the  volleyball  court  she  wore  cut-off  blue  jeans  and  a  black swimsuit  top,  which the guys appreciated, and in the evenings she liked to  dance  to  music  from  Rat's  portable  tape  deck.  There  was  a  novelty  to it; she was good for morale. At times she gave off a kind of come-get-me energy, coy and flirtatious, but apparently it never bothered Mark Fossie. In  fact  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  just  grinning  at  her,  because  he  was  so much  in  love,  and  because  it  was  the  sort  of  show  that  a  girl  will sometimes put on for her boyfriend's entertainment and education.
Though  she  was  young,  Rat  said,  Mary  Anne  Bell  was  no  timid  child. She  was  curious  about  things.  During  her  first  days  in-country  she  liked to roam around the compound asking questions: What exactly was a trip flare?  How  did  a  Claymore  work?  What  was  behind  those  scary  green mountains  to  the  west?  Then  she'd  squint  and  listen  quietly  while somebody  filled  her  in.  She  had  a  good  quick  mind.  She  paid  attention. Often,  especially  during  the  hot  afternoons,  she  would  spend  time  with the  ARVNs  out  along  the  perimeter,  picking  up  little  phrases  of Vietnamese,  learning  how  to  cook  rice  over  a  can  of  Sterno,  how  to  eat with  her  hands.  The  guys  sometimes  liked  to  kid  her  about  it—our  own little  native,  they'd  say—but  Mary  Anne  would  just  smile  and  stick  out her tongue. "I'm here," she'd say, "I might as well learn something."
The  war  intrigued  her.  The  land,  too,  and  the  mystery.  At  the beginning  of  her  second  week  she  began  pestering  Mark  Fossie  to  take her  down  to  the  village  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  In  a  quiet  voice,  very patiently,  he  tried  to  tell her that it was a bad idea, way too dangerous, but  Mary  Anne  kept  after  him.  She  wanted  to  get  a  feel  for  how  people
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lived,  what  the  smells  and  customs  were.  It  did  not  impress  her  that  the VC owned the place.
"Listen,  it  can't  be  that  bad,"  she  said.  "They're  human  beings,  aren't they? Like everybody else?"
Fossie nodded. He loved her.
And so in the morning Rat Kiley and two other medics tagged along as security  while  Mark  and  Mary  Anne  strolled  through  the  ville  like  a  pair of  tourists.  If  the  girl  was  nervous,  she  didn't  show  it.  She  seemed comfortable  and  entirely  at  home;  the  hostile  atmosphere  did  not  seem to register. All morning Mary Anne chattered away about how quaint the place  was,  how  she  loved  the  thatched  roofs  and  naked  children,  the wonderful  simplicity  of  village  life.  A  strange  thing  to  watch,  Rat  said. This  seventeen-year-old  doll  in  her  goddamn  culottes,  perky  and  fresh-
faced,  like  a  cheerleader  visiting  the  opposing  team's  locker  room.  Her pretty  blue  eyes  seemed  to  glow.  She  couldn't  get  enough  of  it.  On  their way  back  up  to  the  compound  she  stopped  for  a  swim  in  the  Song  Tra Bong,  stripping  down  to  her  underwear,  showing  off  her  legs  while Fossie tried to explain to her about things like ambushes and snipers and the stopping power of an AK-47.
The guys, though, were impressed.
"A real tiger," said Eddie Diamond. "D-cup guts, trainer-bra brains."
"She'll learn," somebody said.
Eddie  Diamond  gave  a  solemn  nod.  "There's  the  scary  part.  I  promise you, this girl will most definitely learn."
In  parts,  at  least,  it  was  a  funny  story,  and  yet  to  hear  Rat  Kiley  tell  it you'd  almost  think  it  was  intended  as  straight  tragedy.  He  never  smiled. Not  even  at  the  crazy  stuff.  There  was  always  a  dark,  far-off  look  in  his eyes,  a  kind  of  sadness,  as  if  he were troubled by something sliding beneath the story's surface. Whenever we laughed, I remember, he'd sigh and wait it out, but the one thing he could not tolerate was disbelief. He'd get  edgy  if  someone  questioned  one  of  the  details.  "She  wasn't dumb," he'd snap. "I never said that. Young, that's all I said. Like you and me. A girl,  that's  the  only  difference,  and  I'll  tell  you  something:  it  didn't amount  to  jack.  I  mean,  when  we  first  got  here—all  of  us—we  were  real young  and  innocent,  full  of  romantic  bullshit,  but  we  learned  pretty damn quick. And so did Mary Anne."
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Rat  would  peer  down  at  his  hands,  silent  and  thoughtful.  After  a moment his voice would flatten out.
"You  don't  believe  it?"  he'd  say.  "Fine  with  me.  But  you  don't  know human nature. You don't know Nam."
Then he'd tell us to listen up.
A  good  sharp  mind,  Rat  said.  True,  she  could  be  silly  sometimes,  but she  picked  up  on  things  fast.  At  the  end  of  the  second  week,  when  four casualties  came  in,  Mary  Anne  wasn't  afraid  to  get  her  hands  bloody.  At times, in fact, she seemed fascinated by it. Not the gore so much, but the adrenaline buzz that went with the job, that quick hot rush in your veins when the choppers settled down and you had to do things fast and right. No  time  for  sorting  through  options,  no  thinking  at  all;  you  just  stuck your  hands  in  and  started  plugging  up  holes.  She  was  quiet  and  steady. She didn't back off from the ugly cases. Over the next day or two, as more casualties  trickled  in,  she  learned  how  to  clip  an  artery  and  pump  up  a plastic splint and shoot in morphine. In times of action her face took on a sudden  new  composure,  almost  serene,  the  fuzzy  blue  eyes  narrowing into  a  tight,  intelligent  focus.  Mark  Fossie  would  grin  at  this.  He  was proud, yes, but also amazed. A different person, it seemed, and he wasn't sure what to make of it.
Other things, too. The way she quickly fell into the habits of the bush. No  cosmetics,  no  fingernail  filing.  She  stopped  wearing  jewelry,  cut  her hair  short  and  wrapped  it  in  a  dark  green  bandanna.  Hygiene  became  a matter of small consequence. In her second week Eddie Diamond taught her  how  to  disassemble  an  M-16,  how  the  various  parts  worked,  and from  there  it  was  a  natural  progression  to  learning  how  to  use  the weapon.  For  hours  at  a  time  she  plunked  away  at  C-ration  cans,  a  bit unsure  of  herself,  but  as  it  turned  out  she  had  a  real  knack  for  it.  There was a new confidence in her voice, a new authority in the way she carried herself.  In  many  ways  she  remained  naive  and  immature,  still  a  kid,  but Cleveland Heights now seemed very far away.
Once  or  twice,  gently,  Mark  Fossie  suggested  that  it  might  be  time  to think  about  heading  home,  but  Mary  Anne  laughed  and  told  him  to forget it. "Everything I want," she said, "is right here."
She stroked his arm, and then kissed him.
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On  one  level  things  remained  the  same  between  them.  They  slept together.  They  held  hands  and  made  plans  for  after  the  war.  But  now there  was  a  new  imprecision  in  the  way  Mary  Anne  expressed  her thoughts  on  certain  subjects.  Not  necessarily  three  kids,  she'd  say.  Not necessarily a house on Lake Erie. "Naturally we'll still get married," she'd tell  him,  "but  it  doesn't  have  to  be  right  away.  Maybe  travel  first.  Maybe live together. Just test it out, you know?"
Mark Fossie would nod at this, even smile and agree, but it made him uncomfortable.  He  couldn't  pin  it  down.  Her  body  seemed  foreign somehow—too stiff in places, too firm where the softness used to be. The bubbliness was gone. The nervous giggling, too. When she laughed now, which  was  rare,  it  was  only  when  something  struck  her  as  truly  funny. Her  voice  seemed  to  reorganize  itself  at  a  lower  pitch.  In  the  evenings, while  the  men  played  cards,  she  would  sometimes  fall  into  long  elastic silences, her eyes fixed on the dark, her arms folded, her foot tapping out a  coded  message  against  the  floor.  When  Fossie  asked  about  it  one evening,  Mary  Anne  looked  at  him  for  a  long  moment  and  then shrugged.  "It's  nothing,"  she  said.  "Really  nothing.  To  tell  the  truth,  I've never been happier in my whole life. Never."
Twice,  though,  she  came  in  late  at  night.  Very  late.  And  then  finally she did not come in at all.
Rat  Kiley  heard  about  it  from  Fossie  himself.  Before  dawn  one morning,  the  kid  shook  him  awake.  He  was  in  bad  shape.  His  voice seemed  hollow  and  stuffed  up,  nasal-sounding,  as  if  he  had  a  bad  cold. He held a flashlight in his hand, clicking it on and off.
"Mary Anne," he whispered, "I can't find her."
Rat  sat  up  and  rubbed  his  face.  Even  in  the  dim  light  it  was  clear  that the  boy  was  in  trouble.  There  were  dark  smudges  under  his  eyes,  the frayed edges of somebody who hadn't slept in a while.
"Gone,"  Fossie  said.  "Rat,  listen,  she's  sleeping  with  somebody.  Last night, she didn't even ... I don't know what to do."
Abruptly  then,  Fossie  seemed  to collapse. He squatted down, rocking on his heels, still clutching the flashlight. Just a boy—eighteen years old. Tall and blond. A gifted athlete. A nice kid, too, polite and good-hearted, although for the moment none of it seemed to be serving him well.
He kept clicking the flashlight on and off.
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"All  right,  start  at  the  start,"  Rat  said.  "Nice  and  slow.  Sleeping  with who?"
"I don't know who. Eddie Diamond."
"Eddie?"
"Has to be. The guy's always there, always hanging on her."
Rat  shook  his  head.  "Man,  I  don't  know.  Can't  say  it  strikes  a  right note, not with Eddie."
"Yes, but he's—"
"Easy does it," Rat said. He reached out and tapped the boy's shoulder. "Why  not  just  check  some  bunks?  We  got  nine  guys.  You  and  me,  that's two, so there's seven possibles. Do a quick body count."
Fossie  hesitated.  "But  I  can't.  .  .  If  she's  there,  I  mean,  if  she's  with somebody—"
"Oh, Christ."
Rat  pushed  himself  up.  He  took  the  flashlight,  muttered  something, and  moved  down  to  the  far  end  of  the  hootch.  For  privacy,  the  men  had rigged  up  curtained  walls  around  their  cots,  small  makeshift  bedrooms, and in the dark Rat went quickly from room to room, using the flashlight to  pluck  out  the  faces.  Eddie  Diamond  slept  a  hard  deep  sleep—the others,  too.  To  be  sure,  though,  Rat  checked once more, very carefully, then he reported back to Fossie.
"All accounted for. No extras."
"Eddie?"
"Darvon  dreams."  Rat  switched  off  the  flashlight  and  tried  to  think  it out.  "Maybe  she  just—I  don't  know—maybe  she  camped  out  tonight. Under the stars or something. You search the compound?"
"Sure I did."
"Well, come on," Rat said. "One more time."
Outside,  a  soft  violet  light  was  spreading  out  across  the  eastern hillsides. Two or three ARVN soldiers had built their breakfast fires, but the  place  was  mostly quiet and unmoving. They tried the helipad first, then  the  mess  hall  and  supply  hootches,  then  they  walked  the  entire  six hundred meters of perimeter.
"Okay," Rat finally said. "We got a problem."
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When he first told the story, Rat stopped there and looked at Mitchell Sanders for a time.
"So what's your vote? Where was she?"
"The Greenies," Sanders said.
"Yeah?"
Sanders  smiled.  "No  other  option.  That  stuff  about  the  Special Forces—how they used the place as a base of operations, how they'd glide in and out—all that had to be there for a reason. That's how stories work, man."
Rat thought about it, then shrugged.
"All  right,  sure,  the  Greenies.  But  it's  not  what  Fossie  thought.  She wasn't  sleeping  with  any  of  them.  At  least  not  exactly.  I  mean,  in  a  way she  was  sleeping  with  all of them, more or less, except it wasn't sex or anything. They was just lying together, so to speak, Mary Anne and these six grungy weirded-out Green Berets."
"Lying down?" Sanders said.
"You got it."
"Lying down how?"
Rat smiled. "Ambush. All night long, man, Mary Anne's out on fuckin' ambush."
Just  after  sunrise,  Rat  said,  she  came  trooping  in  through  the  wire, tired-looking but cheerful as she dropped her gear and gave Mark Fossie a  brisk  hug.  The  six  Green  Berets  did  not  speak.  One  of  them  nodded  at her,  and  the  others  gave  Fossie  a  long  stare,  then  they  filed  off  to  their hootch at the edge of the compound.
"Please," she said. "Not a word."
Fossie took a half step forward and hesitated. It was as though he had trouble  recognizing  her.  She  wore  a  bush  hat  and  filthy  green  fatigues; she carried the standard M-16 automatic assault rifle; her face was black with charcoal.
Mary  Anne  handed  him  the  weapon.  "I'm  exhausted,"  she  said.  "We'll talk later."
She  glanced  over  at  the  Special  Forces  area,  then  turned  and  walked quickly  across  the  compound  toward  her  own  bunker.  Fossie  stood  still for  a  few  seconds.  A  little  dazed,  it  seemed.  After  a  moment,  though,  he
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
set his jaw and whispered something and went after her with a hard, fast stride.
"Not later!" he yelled. "Now!"
What  happened  between  them,  Rat  said,  nobody  ever  knew  for  sure. But in the mess hall that evening it was clear that an accommodation had been reached. Or more likely, he said, it was a case of setting down some new  rules.  Mary  Anne's  hair  was  freshly  shampooed.  She  wore  a  white blouse, a navy blue skirt, a pair of plain black flats. Over dinner she kept her eyes down, poking at her food, subdued to the point of silence. Eddie Diamond  and  some  of  the  others  tried  to  nudge  her  into  talking  about the  ambush—What  was  the  feeling  out  there?  What  exactly  did  she  see and  hear?—but  the  questions  seemed  to  give  her  trouble.  Nervously, she'd look across the table at Fossie. She'd wait a moment, as if to receive some sort of clearance, then she'd bow her head and mumble out a vague word or two. There were no real answers.
Mark Fossie, too, had little to say.
"Nobody's  business,"  he  told  Rat  that  night.  Then  he  offered  a  brief smile.  "One  thing  for  sure,  though,  there  won't  be  any  more  ambushes. No more late nights."
"You laid down the law?"
"Compromise,"  Fossie  said.  "I'll  put  it  this  way—we're  officially engaged."
Rat nodded cautiously.
"Well hey, she'll make a sweet bride," he said. "Combat ready."
Over the next several days there was a  strained,  tightly  wound  quality to the way they treated each other, a rigid correctness that was enforced by repetitive acts of willpower. To look at them from a distance, Rat said, you  would  think  they  were  the  happiest  two  people  on  the  planet.  They spent the long afternoons sunbathing together, stretched out side by side on  top  of  their  bunker,  or  playing  backgammon  in  the  shade  of  a  giant palm tree, or just sitting quietly. A model of togetherness, it seemed. And yet  at  close  range  their  faces  showed  the  tension.  Too  polite,  too thoughtful.  Mark  Fossie  tried  hard  to  keep  up  a  self-assured  pose,  as  if nothing  had  ever  come  between  them,  or  ever  could,  but  there  was  a fragility  to  it,  something  tentative  and  false.  If  Mary  Anne  happened  to
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
move  a  few  steps away from him, even briefly, he'd tighten up and force himself not to watch her. But then a moment later he'd be watching.
In  the  presence  of  others,  at  least,  they  kept  on  their  masks.  Over meals they talked about plans for a huge wedding in Cleveland Heights—
a  two-day  bash,  lots  of  flowers.  And  yet  even  then  their  smiles  seemed too intense. They were too quick with their banter; they held hands as if afraid to let go.
It had to end, and eventually it did.
Near  the  end  of  the  third  week  Fossie  began  making  arrangements  to send  her  home.  At  first,  Rat  said,  Mary  Anne  seemed  to  accept  it,  but then after a day or two she fell into a restless gloom, sitting off by herself at  the  edge  of  the  perimeter.  She  would  not  speak.  Shoulders  hunched, her blue eyes opaque, she seemed to disappear inside herself. A couple of times Fossie approached her and tried to talk it out, but Mary Anne just stared  out  at  the  dark  green  mountains  to  the  west.  The  wilderness seemed  to  draw  her  in.  A  haunted  look,  Rat  said—partly  terror,  partly rapture. It was as if she had come up on the edge of something, as if she were  caught  in  that  no-man's-land  between  Cleveland  Heights  and  deep jungle.  Seventeen  years  old.  Just  a  child,  blond  and  innocent,  but  then weren't they all?
The next morning she was gone. The six Greenies were gone, too.
In  a  way,  Rat  said,  poor  Fossie  expected  it,  or  something  like  it,  but that did not help much with the pain. The kid couldn't function. The grief took him by the throat and squeezed and would not let go.
"Lost," he kept whispering.
It was nearly three weeks before she returned. But in a sense she never returned. Not entirely, not all of her.
By  chance,  Rat  said,  he  was  awake  to  see  it.  A  damp  misty  night,  he couldn't  sleep,  so  he'd  gone  outside  for  a  quick  smoke.  He  was  just standing  there,  he  said,  watching  the  moon,  and  then  off  to  the  west  a column  of  silhouettes  appeared  as  if  by  magic  at  the  edge  of  the  jungle. At  first  he  didn't  recognize  her—a  small,  soft  shadow  among  six  other shadows.  There  was  no  sound.  No  real  substance  either.  The  seven silhouettes  seemed  to  float  across  the  surface  of  the  earth,  like  spirits, vaporous and unreal. As he watched, Rat said, it made him think of some weird  opium  dream.  The  silhouettes  moved  without  moving.  Silently,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
one by one, they came up the hill, passed through the wire, and drifted in a loose file across the compound. It was then, Rat said, that he picked out Mary  Anne's  face.  Her  eyes  seemed  to  shine  in  the  dark—not  blue, though,  but  a  bright  glowing  jungle  green.  She  did  not  pause  at  Fossie's bunker. She cradled her weapon and moved swiftly to the Special Forces hootch and followed the others inside.
Briefly,  a  light  came  on,  and  someone  laughed,  then  the  place  went dark again.
Whenever he told the story, Rat had a tendency to stop now and then, interrupting the flow, inserting little clarifications or bits of analysis and personal  opinion.  It  was  a  bad  habit,  Mitchell  Sanders  said,  because  all that matters is the raw material, the stuff itself, and you can't clutter it up with  your  own  half-baked  commentary.  That  just  breaks  the  spell.  It destroys the magic. What you have to do, Sanders said, is trust your own story. Get the hell out of the way and let it tell itself.
But  Rat  Kiley  couldn't  help  it.  He  wanted  to bracket the full range of meaning.
"I  know  it  sounds  far-out,"  he'd  tell  us,  "but  it's  not  like  impossible or anything.  We  all  heard  plenty  of  wackier  stories.  Some  guy  comes  back from the bush, tells you he saw the Virgin Mary out there, she was riding a goddamn goose or something. Everybody buys it. Everybody smiles and  asks  how  fast  was  they  going,  did  she  have  spurs  on.  Well,  it's  not like that. This Mary Anne wasn't no virgin but at least she was real. I saw it. When she came in through the wire that night, I was right there, I saw those eyes of hers, I saw how she wasn't even the same person no more. What's  so  impossible  about  that?  She  was  a  girl,  that's  all.  I  mean,  if  it was  a  guy,  everybody'd  say,  Hey,  no  big  deal,  he  got  caught  up  in  the Nam  shit,  he  got  seduced  by  the  Greenies.  See  what  I  mean?  You  got these  blinders  on  about  women.  How  gentle  and  peaceful  they  are.  All that crap about how if we had a pussy for president there wouldn't be no more wars. Pure garbage. You got to get rid of that sexist attitude."
Rat  would  go  on  like  that  until  Mitchell  Sanders  couldn't  tolerate  it any longer. It offended his inner ear.
"The  story,"  Sanders  would  say.  "The  whole  tone,  man,  you're wrecking it."
"Tone?"
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"The  sound.  You  need  to  get  a  consistent  sound,  like  slow  or  fast, funny or sad. All these digressions, they just screw up your story's sound. Stick to what happened."
Frowning, Rat would close his eyes.
"Tone?"  he'd  say.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  all  that  complicated.  The  girl joined the zoo. One more animal—end of story."
"Yeah, fine. But tell it right."
At daybreak the next morning, when Mark Fossie heard she was back, he  stationed  himself  outside  the  fenced-off  Special  Forces  area.  All morning  he  waited  for  her,  and  all  afternoon.  Around  dusk  Rat  brought him something to eat.
"She has to come out," Fossie said. "Sooner or later, she has to."
"Or else what?" Rat said.
"I go get her. I bring her out."
Rat shook his head. "Your decision. I was you, though, no way I'd mess around with any Greenie types, not for nothing."
"It's Mary Anne in there."
"Sure, I know that. All the same, I'd knock real extra super polite."
Even  with  the  cooling  night  air  Fossie's  face  was  slick  with  sweat.  He looked  sick.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot;  his  skin  had  a  whitish,  almost colorless  cast.  For  a  few  minutes  Rat  waited  with  him,  quietly  watching the hootch, then he patted the kid's shoulder and left him alone.
It was after midnight when Rat and Eddie Diamond went out to check on him. The night had gone cold and steamy, a low fog sliding down from the mountains, and somewhere out in the dark they heard music playing. Not  loud  but  not  soft  either.  It  had  a  chaotic,  almost  unmusical  sound, without  rhythm  or  form  or  progression,  like  the  noise  of  nature.  A synthesizer,  it  seemed,  or  maybe  an  electric  organ.  In  the  background, just  audible,  a  woman's  voice  was  half  singing,  half  chanting,  but  the lyrics seemed to be in a foreign tongue.
They  found  Fossie  squatting  near  the  gate  in  front  of  the  Special Forces area. Head bowed, he was swaying to the music, his face wet and shiny. As Eddie bent down beside him, the kid looked up with dull eyes, ashen and powdery, not quite in register.
"Hear that?" he whispered. "You hear? It's Mary Anne."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Eddie Diamond took his arm. "Let's get you inside. Somebody's radio, that's all it is. Move it now."
"Mary Anne. Just listen."
"Sure, but—"
"Listen!"
Fossie  suddenly  pulled  away,  twisting  sideways,  and  fell  back  against the  gate.  He  lay  there  with  his  eyes  closed.  The  music—the  noise, whatever it was—came from the hootch beyond the fence. The place was dark  except  for  a  small  glowing  window,  which  stood  partly  open,  the panes  dancing  in  bright  reds  and  yellows  as  though  the  glass  were  on fire. The chanting seemed louder now. Fiercer, too, and higher pitched.
Fossie  pushed  himself  up.  He  wavered  for  a  moment  then  forced  the gate open.
"That voice," he said. "Mary Anne."
Rat  took  a  step  forward,  reaching  out  for  him,  but  Fossie  was  already moving  fast  toward  the  hootch.  He  stumbled  once,  caught  himself,  and hit the door hard with both arms. There was a noise—a short screeching sound, like a cat—and the door swung in and Fossie was framed there for an  instant,  his  arms  stretched  out,  then  he  slipped  inside.  After  a moment Rat and Eddie followed quietly. Just inside the door they found Fossie bent down on one knee. He wasn't moving.
Across  the  room  a  dozen  candles  were  burning  on  the  floor  near  the open  window.  The  place  seemed  to  echo  with  a  weird  deep-wilderness sound—tribal music—bamboo flutes and drums and chimes. But what hit you  first,  Rat  said,  was  the  smell.  Two  kinds  of  smells.  There  was  a topmost  scent  of  joss  sticks  and  incense,  like  the  fumes  of  some  exotic smokehouse,  but  beneath  the  smoke  lay  a  deeper  and  much  more powerful  stench.  Impossible  to  describe,  Rat  said.  It  paralyzed  your lungs.  Thick  and  numbing,  like  an  animal's  den,  a  mix  of  blood  and scorched  hair  and  excrement  and  the  sweet-sour  odor  of  moldering flesh—the stink of the kill. But that wasn't all. On a post at the rear of the hootch  was  the  decayed  head  of  a  large  black  leopard;  strips  of  yellow-
brown  skin  dangled  from  the  overhead  rafters.  And  bones.  Stacks  of bones—all  kinds.  To  one  side,  propped  up  against  a  wall,  stood  a  poster in  neat  black  lettering:  assemble  your  own  gook!!.  free  sample  kit!!.  The images came in a swirl, Rat said, and there was no way you could process it  all.  Off  in  the  gloom  a  few  dim  figures  lounged  in  hammocks,  or  on
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
cots,  but  none  of  them  moved  or  spoke.  The  background  music  came from  a  tape  deck  near  the  circle  of candles, but the high voice was Mary Anne's.
After a second Mark Fossie made a soft moaning sound. He started to get up but then stiffened.
"Mary Anne?" he said.
Quietly  then,  she  stepped  out  of  the  shadows.  At  least  for  a  moment she seemed to be the same pretty young girl who had arrived a few weeks earlier.  She  was  barefoot.  She  wore  her  pink  sweater  and  a  white  blouse and a simple cotton skirt.
For  a  long  while  the  girl  gazed  down  at  Fossie,  almost  blankly,  and  in the candlelight her face had the composure of someone perfectly at peace with  herself.  It  took  a  few  seconds,  Rat  said,  to  appreciate  the  full change. In part it was her eyes: utterly flat and indifferent. There was no emotion in her stare, no sense of the person behind it. But the grotesque part,  he  said,  was  her  jewelry.  At  the  girl's  throat  was  a  necklace  of human  tongues.  Elongated  and  narrow,  like  pieces  of  blackened  leather, the  tongues  were  threaded  along  a  length  of  copper  wire,  one overlapping  the  next,  the  tips  curled  upward  as  if  caught  in  a  final  shrill syllable.
Briefly, it seemed, the girl smiled at Mark Fossie.
"There's  no  sense  talking,"  she  said.  "I  know  what  you  think,  but  it's not... it's not bad."
"Bad?" Fossie murmured.
"It's not."
In the shadows there was laughter.
One of the Greenies sat up and lighted a cigar. The others lay silent.
"You're in a place," Mary Anne said softly, "where you don't belong."
She moved her hand in a gesture that encompassed not just the hootch but  everything  around  it,  the  entire  war,  the  mountains,  the  mean  little villages, the trails and trees and rivers and deep misted-over valleys.
"You just don't know," she said. "You hide in this little fortress, behind wire  and  sandbags,  and  you  don't  know  what  it's  all  about.  Sometimes  I want to eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country—the dirt,  the  death—I  just  want  to  eat  it  and  have  it  there  inside  me.  That's how  I  feel.  It's  like  .  .  .  this  appetite.  I  get  scared  sometimes—lots  of
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
times—but  it's  not  bad.  You  know?  I  feel  close  to  myself.  When  I'm  out there  at  night,  I  feel  close  to  my  own  body,  I  can  feel  my  blood  moving, my skin and my fingernails, everything, it's like I'm full of electricity and I'm  glowing  in  the  dark—I'm  on  fire  almost—I'm  burning  away  into nothing—but  it  doesn't  matter  because  I  know  exactly  who  I  am.  You can't feel like that anywhere else."
All  this  was  said  softly,  as  if  to  herself,  her  voice  slow  and  impassive. She  was  not  trying  to  persuade.  For  a  few  moments  she  looked  at  Mark Fossie,  who  seemed  to  shrink  away,  then  she  turned  and  moved  back into the gloom.
There was nothing to be done.
Rat  took  Fossie's  arm,  helped  him  up,  and  led  him  outside.  In  the darkness  there  was  that  weird  tribal  music,  which  seemed  to  come  from the earth itself, from the deep rain forest, and a woman's voice rising up in a language beyond translation.
Mark Fossie stood rigid.
"Do something," he whispered. "I can't just let her go like that."
Rat listened for a time, then shook his head.
"Man, you must be deaf. She's already gone."
Rat  Kiley  stopped  there,  almost  in  midsentence,  which  drove  Mitchell Sanders crazy.
"What next?" he said.
"Next?"
"The girl. What happened to her?"
Rat  made  a  small,  tired  motion  with  his  shoulders.  "Hard  to  tell  for sure.  Maybe  three,  four  days  later  I  got  orders  to  report  here  to  Alpha Company. Jumped the first chopper out, that's the last I ever seen of the place. Mary Anne, too."
Mitchell Sanders stared at him.
"You can't do that."
"Do what?"
"Jesus Christ, it's against the rules," Sanders said.
"Against  human  nature.  This  elaborate  story,  you  can't  say,  Hey,  by the way, I don't know the ending. I mean, you got certain obligations."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Rat  gave  a  quick  smile.  "Patience,  man.  Up  to  now,  everything  I  told you  is  from  personal  experience,  the  exact  truth,  but  there's  a  few  other things  I  heard  secondhand.  Thirdhand,  actually.  From  here  on  it  gets  to be ... I don't know what the word is."
"Speculation."
"Yeah, right." Rat looked off to the west, scanning the mountains, as if expecting  something  to  appear  on  one  of  the  high  ridgelines.  After  a second he shrugged. "Anyhow, maybe two months later I ran into Eddie Diamond  over  in  Bangkok—I  was  on  R&R,  just  this  fluke  thing—and  he told me some stuff I can't vouch for with my own eyes. Even Eddie didn't really see it. He heard it from one of the Greenies, so you got to take this with a whole shakerful of salt."
Once  more,  Rat  searched  the  mountains,  then  he  sat  back  and  closed his eyes.
"You know," he said abruptly, "I loved her."
"Say again?"
"A  lot.  We  all  did,  I  guess.  The  way  she  looked,  Mary  Anne  made  you think  about  those  girls  back  home,  how  clean  and  innocent  they  all  are, how they'll never understand any of this, not in a billion years. Try to tell them  about  it,  they'll  just  stare  at  you  with  those  big  round  candy  eyes. They  won't  understand  zip.  It's  like  trying  to  tell  somebody  what chocolate tastes like."
Mitchell Sanders nodded. "Or shit."
"There  it  is,  you  got  to  taste  it,  and  that's  the  thing  with  Mary  Anne. She  was there.  She  was  up  to  her  eyeballs  in  it.  After  the  war,  man,  I promise you, you won't find nobody like her."
Suddenly, Rat pushed up to his feet, moved a few steps away from us, then stopped and stood with his back turned. He was an emotional guy.
"Got  hooked,  I  guess,"  he  said.  "I  loved  her.  So  when  I  heard  from Eddie  about  what  happened,  it  almost  made  me  .  .  .  Like  you  say,  it's pure speculation."
"Go on," Mitchell Sanders said. "Finish up."
What  happened  to  her,  Rat  said,  was  what  happened  to  all  of  them. You  come  over  clean  and  you  get  dirty  and  then  afterward  it's  never  the same.  A  question  of  degree.  Some  make  it  intact,  some  don't  make  it  at
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all.  For  Mary  Anne  Bell,  it  seemed,  Vietnam  had  the  effect  of  a  powerful drug:  that  mix  of  unnamed  terror  and  unnamed  pleasure  that  comes  as the  needle  slips  in  and  you  know  you're  risking  something.  The endorphins  start  to  flow,  and  the  adrenaline,  and  you  hold  your  breath and creep quietly through the moonlit nightscapes; you become intimate with  danger;  you're  in  touch  with  the  far  side  of  yourself,  as  though  it's another  hemisphere,  and  you  want  to  string  it  out  and  go  wherever  the trip takes you and be host to all the possibilities inside yourself. Not bad, she'd  said.  Vietnam  made  her  glow  in  the  dark.  She  wanted  more,  she wanted  to  penetrate  deeper  into  the  mystery  of  herself,  and  after  a  time the wanting became needing, which turned then to craving.
According  to  Eddie  Diamond,  who  heard  it  from  one  of  the  Greenies, she  took  a  greedy  pleasure  in  night  patrols.  She  was  good  at  it;  she  had the moves. All camouflaged up, her face smooth and vacant, she seemed to flow like water through the dark, like oil, without sound or center. She went  barefoot.  She  stopped  carrying  a  weapon.  There  were  times, apparently,  when  she  took  crazy,  death-wish  chances—things  that  even the Greenies balked at. It was as if she were taunting some wild creature out  in  the  bush,  or  in  her  head,  inviting  it  to  show  itself,  a  curious  game of  hide-and-go-seek  that  was  played  out  in  the  dense  terrain  of  a nightmare.  She  was  lost  inside herself. On occasion, when they were taken  under  fire,  Mary  Anne  would  stand  quietly  and  watch  the  tracer rounds  snap  by,  a  little  smile  at  her  lips,  intent  on  some  private transaction  with  the  war.  Other  times  she  would  simply  vanish altogether—for hours, for days.
And  then  one  morning,  all  alone,  Mary  Anne  walked  off  into  the mountains and did not come back.
No  body  was  ever  found.  No  equipment,  no  clothing.  For  all  he  knew, Rat  said,  the  girl  was  still  alive.  Maybe  up  in  one  of  the  high  mountain villes, maybe with the Montagnard tribes. But that was guesswork.
There was an inquiry, of course, and a week-long air search, and for a time the Tra Bong compound went crazy with MP and CID types. In the end,  however,  nothing  came  of  it.  It  was  a  war  and  the  war went on. Mark Fossie was busted to PFC, shipped back to a hospital in the States, and  two  months  later  received  a  medical  discharge.  Mary  Anne  Bell joined the missing.
But the story did not end there. If you believed the Greenies, Rat said, Mary  Anne  was  still  somewhere  out  there  in  the  dark.  Odd  movements,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
odd  shapes.  Late  at  night,  when  the  Greenies  were  out  on  ambush,  the whole  rain  forest  seemed  to  stare  in  at  them—a  watched  feeling—and  a couple  of  times  they  almost  saw  her  sliding  through  the  shadows. Not quite,  but  almost.  She  had  crossed  to  the  other  side.  She  was  part  of  the land.  She  was  wearing  her  culottes,  her  pink  sweater,  and  a  necklace  of human tongues. She was dangerous. She was ready for the kill.
Stockings
Henry  Dobbins  was  a  good  man,  and  a  superb  soldier,  but sophistication  was  not  his  strong  suit.  The  ironies  went  beyond  him.  In many  ways  he  was  like  America  itself,  big  and  strong,  full  of  good intentions,  a  roll  of  fat  jiggling  at  his  belly,  slow  of  foot  but  always plodding  along,  always  there  when  you  needed  him,  a  believer  in  the virtues of simplicity and directness and hard labor. Like his country, too, Dobbins was drawn toward sentimentality.
Even  now,  twenty  years  later,  I  can  see  him  wrapping  his  girlfriend's pantyhose around his neck before heading out on ambush.
It was his one eccentricity. The pantyhose, he said, had the properties of  a  good-luck  charm.  He  liked  putting  his  nose  into  the  nylon  and breathing in the scent of his girlfriend's body; he liked the memories this inspired;  he  sometimes  slept  with  the  stockings  up  against  his  face,  the way  an  infant  sleeps  with  a  flannel  blanket,  secure  and  peaceful.  More than anything, though, the stockings were a talisman for him. They kept him  safe.  They  gave  access  to  a  spiritual  world,  where  things  were  soft and intimate, a place where he might someday take his girlfriend to live. Like many of us in Vietnam, Dobbins felt the pull of superstition, and he believed  firmly  and  absolutely  in  the  protective  power  of  the  stockings. They  were  like  body  armor,  he  thought.  Whenever  we  saddled  up  for  a late-night  ambush,  putting  on  our  helmets  and  flak  jackets,  Henry Dobbins  would  make  a  ritual  out  of  arranging  the  nylons  around  his neck,  carefully  tying  a  knot,  draping  the  two  leg  sections  over his left shoulder.  There  were  some  jokes,  of  course,  but  we  came  to  appreciate the mystery of it all. Dobbins was invulnerable. Never wounded, never a scratch. In August, he tripped a Bouncing Betty, which failed to detonate. And a week later he got caught in the open during a fierce little firefight,
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no  cover  at  all,  but  he  just  slipped  the  pantyhose  over  his  nose  and breathed deep and let the magic do its work.
It turned us into a platoon of believers. You don't dispute facts.
But then, near the end of October, his girlfriend dumped him. It was a hard  blow.  Dobbins  went  quiet  for  a  while,  staring  down  at  her  letter, then after a time he took out the stockings and tied them around his neck as a comforter.
"No sweat," he said. "The magic doesn't go away."
Church
One  afternoon,  somewhere  west  of  the  Batangan  Peninsula,  we  came across  an  abandoned  pagoda.  Or  almost  abandoned,  because  a  pair  of monks lived there in a tar paper shack, tending a small garden and some broken  shrines.  They  spoke  almost  no  English at all. When we dug our foxholes in the yard, the monks did not seem upset or displeased, though the  younger  one  performed  a  washing  motion  with  his  hands.  No  one could decide what it meant. The older monk led us into the pagoda. The place  was  dark  and  cool,  I  remember,  with  crumbling  walls  and sandbagged  windows  and  a  ceiling  full  of  holes.  "It's  bad  news,"  Kiowa said.  "You  don't  mess  with  churches."  But  we  spent  the  night  there, turning  the  pagoda  into  a  little  fortress,  and  then  for  the  next  seven  or eight days we used the place as a base of operations. It was mostly a very peaceful time. Each morning the two monks brought us buckets of water. They giggled when we stripped down to bathe; they smiled happily while we  soaped  up  and  splashed  one  another.  On the second day the older monk  carried  in  a  cane  chair  for  the  use  of  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross, placing  it  near  the  altar  area,  bowing  and  gesturing  for  him  to  sit  down. The  old  monk  seemed  proud  of  the  chair,  and  proud  that  such  a  man  as Lieutenant Cross should be sitting in it. On another occasion the younger monk  presented  us  with  four  ripe  watermelons  from  his  garden.  He stood watching until the watermelons were eaten down to the rinds, then he smiled and made the strange washing motion with his hands.
Though they were kind to all of us, the monks took a special liking for Henry Dobbins.
"Soldier Jesus," they'd say, "good soldier Jesus."
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Squatting  quietly  in  the  cool  pagoda,  they  would  help  Dobbins disassemble and clean his machine gun, carefully brushing the parts with oil.  The  three  of  them  seemed  to  have  an  understanding.  Nothing  in words, just a quietness they shared.
"You  know,"  Dobbins  said  to  Kiowa  one  morning,  "after  the  war maybe I'll join up with these guys."
"Join how?" Kiowa said.
"Wear robes. Take the pledge."
Kiowa  thought  about  it.  "That's  a  new  one.  I  didn't  know  you  were  all that religious."
"Well,  I'm  not,"  Dobbins  said.  Beside  him,  the  two  monks  were working  on  the  M-60.  He  watched  them  take  turns  running  oiled  swabs through the barrel. "I mean, I'm not the churchy type. When I was a little kid,  way  back,  I  used  to  sit  there  on  Sunday  counting  bricks  in  the  wall. Church wasn't for me. But then in high school, I started to think how I'd like to be a minister. Free house, free car. Lots of potlucks. It looked like a pretty good life."
"You're serious?" Kiowa said.
Dobbins  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What's  serious?  I  was  a  kid.  The thing  is,  I  believed  in  God  and  all  that,  but  it  wasn't  the  religious  part that interested me. Just being nice to people, that's all. Being decent."
"Right," Kiowa said.
"Visit  sick  people,  stuff  like  that.  I  would've  been  good  at  it,  too.  Not the  brainy  part—not  sermons  and  all  that—but  I'd  be  okay  with  the people part."
Henry  Dobbins  was  silent  for  a  time.  He  smiled  at  the  older  monk, who was now cleaning the machine gun's trigger assembly.
"But  anyway,"  Dobbins  said,  "I  couldn't  ever  be  a  real  minister, because  you  have  to  be  super  sharp.  Upstairs,  I  mean.  It  takes  brains. You  have  to  explain  some  hard  stuff,  like  why people die, or why God invented pneumonia and all that." He shook his head. "I just didn't have the  smarts  for  it.  And  there's  the  religious  thing,  too.  All  these  years, man, I still hate church."
"Maybe you'd change," Kiowa said.
Henry Dobbins closed his eyes briefly, then laughed.
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"One  thing  for  sure,  I'd  look  spiffy  in  those  robes  they  wear—just  like Friar  Tuck.  Maybe  I'll  do  it.  Find  a  monastery  somewhere.  Wear  a  robe and be nice to people."
"Sounds good," Kiowa said.
The two monks were quiet as they cleaned and oiled the machine gun. Though they spoke almost no English, they seemed to have great respect for  the  conversation,  as  if  sensing  that  important  matters  were  being discussed. The younger monk used a yellow cloth to wipe dirt from a belt of ammunition.
"What about you?" Dobbins said.
"How?"
"Well,  you  carry  that  Bible  everywhere,  you  never  hardly  swear  or anything, so you must—"
"I grew up that way," Kiowa said.
"Did you ever—you know—did you think about being a minister?"
"No. Not ever."
Dobbins laughed. "An Indian preacher. Man, that's one I'd love to see. Feathers and buffalo robes."
Kiowa  lay  on  his  back,  looking  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  for  a  time  he didn't speak. Then he sat up and took a drink from his canteen.
"Not  a  minister,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  like  churches.  The  way  it  feels inside.  It  feels  good  when  you  just  sit  there,  like  you're  in  a  forest  and everything's really quiet, except there's still this sound you can't hear."
"Yeah."
"You ever feel that?"
"Sort of."
Kiowa made a noise in his throat. "This is all wrong," he said.
"What?"
"Setting up here. It's wrong. I don't care what, it's still a church."
Dobbins nodded. "True."
"A church," Kiowa said. "Just wrong."
When  the  two  monks  finished  cleaning  the  machine  gun,  Henry Dobbins began reassembling it, wiping off the excess oil, then he handed each of them a can of peaches and a chocolate bar. "Okay," he said, "didi
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
mau, boys. Beat it." The monks bowed and moved out of the pagoda into the bright morning sunlight.
Henry Dobbins made the washing motion with his hands.
"You're  right,"  he  said.  "All  you  can  do  is  be  nice.  Treat  them  decent, you know?"
The Man I Killed
His  jaw  was  in  his  throat,  his  upper  lip  and  teeth  were  gone,  his  one eye  was  shut,  his  other  eye  was  a  star-shaped  hole,  his  eyebrows  were thin  and  arched  like  a  woman's,  his  nose  was  undamaged,  there  was  a slight  tear  at  the  lobe  of  one  ear,  his  clean  black  hair  was  swept  upward into  a  cowlick  at  the  rear  of  the  skull,  his  forehead  was  lightly  freckled, his  fingernails  were  clean,  the  skin  at  his  left  cheek  was  peeled  back  in three ragged strips, his right cheek was smooth and hairless, there was a butterfly on his chin, his neck was open to the spinal cord and the blood there was thick and shiny and it was this wound that had killed him. He lay  face-up  in  the  center  of  the  trail,  a  slim,  dead,  almost  dainty  young man.  He  had  bony  legs,  a  narrow  waist,  long  shapely  fingers.  His  chest was  sunken  and  poorly  muscled—a  scholar,  maybe.  His  wrists  were  the wrists  of  a  child.  He  wore  a  black  shirt,  black  pajama  pants,  a  gray ammunition  belt,  a  gold  ring  on  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand.  His rubber  sandals  had  been  blown  off.  One  lay  beside  him,  the  other  a  few meters  up  the  trail.  He  had  been  born,  maybe,  in  1946  in  the  village  of My  Khe  near  the  central  coastline  of  Quang  Ngai  Province,  where  his parents farmed, and where his family had lived for several centuries, and where,  during  the  time  of  the  French,  his  father  and  two  uncles  and many neighbors had joined in the struggle for independence. He was not a Communist. He was a citizen and a soldier. In the village of My Khe, as in all of Quang Ngai, patriotic resistance had the force of tradition, which was  partly  the  force  of  legend,  and  from  his  earliest  boyhood  the  man  I killed  would  have  listened  to  stories  about  the  heroic  Trung  sisters  and Tran  Hung  Dao's  famous  rout  of  the  Mongols  and  Le  Loi's  final  victory against  the  Chinese  at  Tot  Dong.  He  would  have  been  taught  that  to defend  the  land  was  a  man's  highest  duty  and  highest  privilege.  He  had accepted  this.  It  was  never  open  to  question.  Secretly,  though,  it  also frightened him. He was not a fighter. His health was poor, his body small
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and  frail.  He  liked  books.  He  wanted  someday  to  be  a  teacher  of mathematics.  At  night,  lying  on  his  mat,  he  could  not  picture  himself doing the brave things his father had done, or his uncles, or the heroes of the  stories.  He  hoped  in  his  heart  that  he  would  never  be  tested.  He hoped  the  Americans  would  go  away.  Soon,  he  hoped.  He  kept  hoping and hoping, always, even when he was asleep.
"Oh,  man,  you  fuckin'  trashed  the  fucker,"  Azar  said.  "You  scrambled his sorry self, look at that, you did, you laid him out like Shredded fuckin' Wheat."
"Go away," Kiowa said.
"I'm just saying the truth. Like oatmeal."
"Go," Kiowa said.
"Okay,  then,  I  take  it  back,"  Azar  said.  He  started  to  move  away,  then stopped  and  said,  "Rice  Krispies,  you  know?  On  the  dead  test,  this particular individual gets A-plus."
Smiling at this, he shrugged and walked up the trail toward the village behind the trees.
Kiowa kneeled down.
"Just  forget  that  crud,"  he  said.  He  opened  up  his  canteen  and  held  it out for a while and then sighed and pulled it away. "No sweat, man. What else could you do?"
Later,  Kiowa  said,  "I'm  serious.  Nothing  anybody could do. Come on, stop staring."
The trail junction was shaded by a row of trees and tall brush. The slim young  man  lay  with  his  legs  in  the  shade.  His  jaw  was  in  his  throat.  His one eye was shut and the other was a star-shaped hole.
Kiowa glanced at the body.
"All  right,  let  me  ask  a  question,"  he  said.  "You  want  to  trade  places with him? Turn it all upside down—you want that? I mean, be honest."
The star-shaped hole was red and yellow. The yellow part seemed to be getting  wider,  spreading  out  at  the  center  of  the  star.  The  upper  lip  and gum  and  teeth  were  gone.  The  man's  head  was  cocked  at  a  wrong  angle, as if loose at the neck, and the neck was wet with blood.
"Think it over," Kiowa said.
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Then  later  he  said,  "Tim,  it's  a  war.  The  guy  wasn't  Heidi—he  had  a weapon,  right?  It's  a  tough  thing,  for  sure,  but  you  got  to  cut  out  that staring."
Then he said, "Maybe you better lie down a minute."
Then  after  a  long  empty  time  he  said,  "Take  it  slow.  Just  go  wherever the spirit takes you."
The  butterfly  was  making  its  way  along  the  young  man's  forehead, which  was  spotted  with  small  dark  freckles.  The  nose  was  undamaged. The  skin  on  the  right  cheek  was  smooth  and  fine-grained  and  hairless. Frail-looking, delicately boned, the young man would not have wanted to be  a  soldier  and  in  his  heart  would  have  feared  performing  badly  in battle.  Even  as  a  boy  growing  up  in  the  village  of  My  Khe,  he  had  often worried  about  this.  He  imagined  covering  his  head  and  lying  in  a  deep hole and closing his eyes and not moving until the war was over. He had no stomach for violence. He loved mathematics. His eyebrows were thin and arched like a woman's, and at school the boys sometimes teased him about  how  pretty  he  was,  the  arched  eyebrows  and  long  shapely  fingers, and  on  the  playground  they  mimicked  a  woman's  walk  and  made  fun  of his smooth skin and his love for mathematics. The young man could not make himself fight them. He often wanted to, but he was afraid, and this increased  his  shame.  If  he  could  not  fight  little  boys,  he  thought,  how could  he  ever  become  a  soldier  and  fight  the  Americans  with  their airplanes  and  helicopters  and  bombs?  It  did  not  seem  possible.  In  the presence of his father and uncles, he pretended to look forward to doing his patriotic duty, which was also a privilege, but at night he prayed with his  mother  that  the  war  might  end  soon.  Beyond  anything  else,  he  was afraid  of  disgracing  himself,  and  therefore  his  family  and  village.  But  all he  could  do,  he  thought,  was  wait  and  pray  and  try  not  to  grow  up  too fast.
"Listen to me," Kiowa said. "You feel terrible, I know that."
Then he said, "Okay, maybe I don't know."
Along  the  trail  there  were  small  blue  flowers  shaped  like  bells.  The young  man's  head  was  wrenched  sideways,  not  quite  facing  the  flowers, and  even  in  the  shade  a  single  blade  of  sunlight  sparkled  against  the buckle  of  his  ammunition  belt.  The  left  cheek  was  peeled  back  in  three ragged  strips.  The  wounds  at  his  neck  had  not  yet  clotted,  which  made him seem animate even in death, the blood still spreading out across his shirt.
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Kiowa shook his head.
There was some silence before he said, "Stop staring."
The young man's fingernails were clean. There was a slight tear at the
lobe of one ear, a sprinkling of blood on the forearm. He wore a gold ring
on  the  third  finger  of  his  right  hand.  His  chest  was  sunken  and  poorly
muscled—a  scholar,  maybe.  His  life  was  now  a  constellation  of
possibilities. So, yes, maybe a scholar. And for years, despite his family's
poverty,  the  man  I  killed  would  have  been  determined  to  continue  his
education  in  mathematics.  The  means  for  this  were  arranged,  perhaps,
through  the  village  liberation  cadres,  and  in  1964  the  young  man  began
attending  classes  at  the  university  in  Saigon,  where  he  avoided  politics
and paid attention to the problems of calculus. He devoted himself to his
studies.  He  spent  his  nights  alone,  wrote  romantic  poems  in  his  journal,
took pleasure in the grace and beauty of differential equations. The war,
he  knew,  would  finally  take  him,  but  for  the  time  being  he  would  not  let
himself think about it. He had stopped praying; instead, now, he waited.
And as he waited, in his final year at the university, he fell in love with a
classmate, a girl of seventeen, who one day told him that his wrists were
like  the  wrists  of  a  child,  so  small  and  delicate,  and  who  admired  his
narrow waist and the cowlick that rose up like a bird's tail at the back of
his  head.  She  liked  his  quiet  manner;  she  laughed  at  his  freckles  and
bony legs. One evening, perhaps, they exchanged gold rings.
Now one eye was a star. "You okay?" Kiowa said. The body lay almost entirely in shade. There were gnats at the mouth,
little flecks of pollen drifting above the nose. The butterfly was gone. The
bleeding had stopped except for the neck wounds.
Kiowa  picked  up  the  rubber  sandals,  clapping  off  the  dirt,  then  bent down  to  search  the  body.  He  found  a  pouch  of  rice,  a  comb,  a  fingernail clipper,  a  few  soiled  piasters,  a  snapshot  of  a  young  woman  standing  in front  of  a  parked  motorcycle.  Kiowa  placed  these  items  in his rucksack along with the gray ammunition belt and rubber sandals.
Then he squatted down.
"I'll tell you the straight truth," he said. "The guy was dead the second he  stepped  on  the  trail.  Understand  me?  We  all  had  him  zeroed.  A  good kill—weapon,  ammunition,  everything."  Tiny  beads  of  sweat  glistened  at Kiowa's forehead. His eyes moved from the sky to the dead man's body to
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the  knuckles  of  his  own  hands.  "So  listen,  you  best  pull  your  shit together. Can't just sit here all day."
Later he said, "Understand?"
Then  he  said,  "Five  minutes,  Tim.  Five  more  minutes  and  we're moving out."
The  one  eye  did  a  funny  twinkling  trick,  red  to  yellow.  His  head  was wrenched  sideways,  as  if  loose  at  the  neck,  and  the  dead  young  man seemed  to  be  staring  at  some  distant  object  beyond  the  bell-shaped flowers along the trail.
The  blood  at  the  neck  had  gone  to  a  deep  purplish  black.  Clean fingernails, clean hair—he had been a soldier for only a single day. After his years at the university, the man I killed returned with his new wife to the  village  of  My  Khe,  where  he  enlisted  as  a  common  rifleman  with  the 48th  Vietcong  Battalion.  He  knew  he  would  die  quickly.  He  knew  he would see a flash of light. He knew he would fall dead and wake up in the stories of his village and people.
Kiowa covered the body with a poncho.
"Hey,  you're  looking  better,"  he  said.  "No  doubt  about  it.  All  you needed was time—some mental R&R."
Then he said, "Man, I'm sorry."
Then later he said, "Why not talk about it?"
Then he said, "Come on, man, talk."
He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay with  one  leg  bent  beneath  him,  his  jaw  in  his  throat,  his  face  neither expressive  nor  inexpressive.  One  eye  was  shut.  The  other  was  a  star-
shaped hole.
"Talk," Kiowa said.
Ambush
When  she  was  nine,  my  daughter  Kathleen  asked  if  I  had  ever  killed anyone. She knew about the war; she knew I'd been a soldier. "You keep writing  these  war  stories,"  she  said,  "so  I  guess  you  must've  killed somebody."  It  was  a  difficult  moment,  but  I  did  what  seemed  right, which was to say, "Of course not," and then to take her onto my lap and
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hold her for a while. Someday, I hope, she'll ask again. But here I want to pretend  she's  a  grown-up.  I  want  to  tell  her  exactly  what  happened,  or what I remember happening, and then I want to say to her that as a little girl she was absolutely right. This is why I keep writing war stories:
He  was  a  short,  slender  young  man  of  about  twenty.  I  was  afraid  of him—afraid  of  something—and  as  he  passed  me  on  the  trail  I  threw  a grenade that exploded at his feet and killed him.
Or to go back:
Shortly after midnight we moved into the ambush site outside My Khe. The  whole  platoon  was  there,  spread  out  in  the  dense  brush  along  the trail,  and  for  five  hours  nothing  at  all  happened.  We  were  working  in two-man  teams—one  man  on  guard  while  the  other  slept,  switching  off every two hours—and I remember it was still dark when Kiowa shook me awake for the final watch. The night was foggy and hot. For the first few moments I felt lost, not sure about directions, groping for my helmet and weapon.  I  reached  out  and  found  three  grenades  and  lined  them  up  in front  of  me;  the  pins  had  already  been  straightened  for  quick  throwing. And  then  for  maybe  half  an  hour  I  kneeled  there  and  waited.  Very gradually, in tiny slivers, dawn began to break through the fog, and from my position in the brush I could see ten or fifteen meters up the trail. The mosquitoes  were  fierce.  I  remember  slapping  at  them,  wondering  if  I should wake up Kiowa and ask for some repellent, then thinking it was a bad idea, then looking up and seeing the young man come out of the fog. He  wore  black  clothing  and  rubber  sandals  and  a  gray  ammunition  belt. His  shoulders  were  slightly  stooped,  his  head  cocked  to  the  side  as  if listening for something. He seemed at ease. He carried his weapon in one hand, muzzle down, moving without any hurry up the center of the trail. There  was  no  sound  at  all—none  that  I  can  remember.  In  a  way,  it seemed,  he  was  part  of  the  morning  fog,  or  my  own  imagination,  but there  was  also  the  reality  of  what  was  happening  in  my  stomach.  I  had already  pulled  the  pin  on  a  grenade.  I  had  come  up  to  a  crouch.  It  was entirely automatic. I did not hate the young man; I did not see him as the enemy;  I  did  not  ponder  issues  of  morality  or  politics  or  military  duty.  I crouched  and  kept  my  head  low.  I  tried  to  swallow  whatever  was  rising from  my  stomach,  which  tasted  like  lemonade,  something  fruity  and sour.  I  was  terrified.  There  were  no  thoughts  about  killing.  The  grenade was to make him go away—just evaporate—and I leaned back and felt my mind  go  empty  and  then  felt  it  fill  up  again.  I  had  already  thrown  the
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
grenade  before  telling  myself  to  throw  it.  The  brush  was  thick  and  I  had to lob it high, not aiming, and I remember the grenade seeming to freeze above  me  for  an  instant,  as  if  a  camera  had  clicked,  and  I  remember ducking  down  and  holding  my  breath  and  seeing  little  wisps  of  fog  rise from  the  earth.  The  grenade  bounced  once  and  rolled  across  the  trail.  I did  not  hear  it,  but  there must've been a sound, because the young man dropped his weapon and began to run, just two or three quick steps, then he  hesitated,  swiveling  to  his  right,  and  he  glanced  down  at  the  grenade and tried to cover his head but never did. It occurred to me then that he was  about  to  die.  I  wanted  to  warn  him.  The  grenade  made  a  popping noise—not  soft  but  not  loud  either—not  what  I'd  expected—and  there was  a  puff  of  dust  and  smoke—a  small  white  puff—and  the  young  man seemed to jerk upward as if pulled by invisible wires. He fell on his back. His rubber sandals had been blown off. There was no wind. He lay at the center  of  the  trail,  his  right  leg  bent  beneath  him,  his  one  eye  shut,  his other eye a huge star-shaped hole.
It  was  not  a  matter  of  live  or  die.  There  was no real peril. Almost certainly the young man would have passed by. And it will always be that way.
Later,  I  remember,  Kiowa  tried  to  tell  me  that  the  man  would've  died anyway.  He  told  me  that  it  was  a  good  kill,  that  I  was  a  soldier  and  this was  a  war,  that  I  should  shape  up  and  stop  staring  and  ask  myself  what the dead man would' ve done if things were reversed.
None of it mattered. The words seemed far too complicated. All I could do was gape at the fact of the young man's body.
Even now I haven't finished sorting it out. Sometimes I forgive myself, other  times  I  don't.  In  the  ordinary  hours  of  life  I  try  not  to  dwell  on  it, but now and then, when I'm reading a newspaper or just sitting alone in a  room,  I'll  look  up  and  see  the  young  man  coming  out  of  the  morning fog.  I'll  watch  him  walk  toward  me,  his  shoulders  slightly  stooped,  his head  cocked  to  the  side,  and  he'll  pass  within  a  few  yards  of  me  and suddenly  smile  at  some  secret  thought  and  then  continue  up  the  trail  to where it bends back into the fog.
Style
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
There  was  no  music.  Most  of  the  hamlet  had  burned  down,  including her house, which was now smoke, and the girl danced with her eyes half closed,  her  feet  bare.  She  was  maybe  fourteen.  She  had  black  hair  and brown  skin.  "Why's  she  dancing?"  Azar  said.  We  searched  through  the wreckage  but  there  wasn't  much  to  find.  Rat  Kiley  caught  a  chicken  for dinner. Lieutenant Cross radioed up to the gunships and told them to go away.  The  girl  danced  mostly  on  her  toes.  She  took  tiny  steps  in  the  dirt in front of her house, sometimes making a slow twirl, sometimes smiling to  herself.  "Why's  she  dancing?"  Azar  said,  and  Henry  Dobbins  said  it didn't  matter  why,  she  just  was.  Later  we  found  her  family  in  the  house. They  were  dead  and  badly  burned.  It  wasn't  a  big  family:  an  infant  and an  old  woman  and  a  woman  whose  age  was  hard  to  tell.  When  we dragged them out, the girl kept dancing. She put the palms of her hands against  her  ears,  which  must've  meant  something,  and  she  danced sideways  for  a  short  while,  and  then  backwards.  She  did  a  graceful movement with her hips. "Well, I don't get it," Azar said. The smoke from the  hootches  smelled  like  straw.  It  moved  in  patches  across  the  village square,  not  thick  anymore,  sometimes  just  faint  ripples  like  fog.  There were  dead  pigs,  too.  The  girl  went  up  on  her  toes  and  made  a  slow  turn and  danced  through  the  smoke.  Her  face  had  a  dreamy  look,  quiet  and composed. A while later, when we moved out of the hamlet, she was still dancing.  "Probably  some  weird  ritual,"  Azar  said,  but  Henry  Dobbins looked back and said no, the girl just liked to dance.
That  night,  after  we'd  marched  away  from  the  smoking  village,  Azar mocked  the  girl's  dancing.  He  did  funny  jumps  and  spins.  He  put  the palms of his hands against his ears and danced sideways for a while, and then  backwards,  and  then  did  an  erotic  thing  with  his  hips.  But  Henry Dobbins,  who  moved  gracefully  for  such  a  big  man,  took  Azar  from behind  and  lifted  him  up  high  and  carried  him  over  to  a  deep  well  and asked if he wanted to be dumped in.
Azar said no.
"All right, then," Henry Dobbins said, "dance right."
Speaking of Courage
The  war  was  over  and  there  was  no  place  in  particular  to  go.  Norman Bowker  followed  the  tar  road  on  its  seven-mile  loop  around  the  lake,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
then  he  started  all  over  again,  driving  slowly,  feeling  safe  inside  his father's  big  Chevy,  now  and  then  looking  out  on  the  lake  to  watch  the boats  and  water-skiers  and  scenery.  It  was  Sunday  and  it  was  summer, and the town seemed pretty much the same. The lake lay flat and silvery against  the  sun.  Along  the  road  the  houses  were  all  low-slung  and  split-
level  and  modern,  with  big  porches  and  picture  windows  facing  the water. The lawns were spacious. On the lake side of the road, where real estate  was  most  valuable,  the  houses  were  handsome  and  set  deep  in, well  kept  and  brightly  painted,  with  docks  jutting  out  into  the  lake,  and boats  moored  and  covered  with  canvas,  and  neat  gardens,  and sometimes  even  gardeners,  and  stone  patios  with  barbecue  spits  and grills, and wooden shingles saying who lived where. On the other side of the  road,  to  his  left,  the  houses  were  also  handsome,  though  less expensive  and  on  a  smaller  scale  and  with  no  docks  or  boats  or gardeners. The road was a sort of boundary between the affluent and the almost affluent, and to live on the lake side of the road was one of the few natural  privileges  in  a  town  of  the  prairie—the  difference  between watching the sun set over cornfields or over water.
It was a graceful, good-sized lake. Back in high school, at night, he had driven around and around it with Sally Kramer, wondering if she'd want to  pull  into  the  shelter  of  Sunset  Park,  or  other  times  with  his  friends, talking  about  urgent  matters,  worrying  about  the  existence  of  God  and theories  of  causation.  Then,  there  had  not  been  a  war.  But  there  had always  been  the  lake,  which  was  the  town's  first  cause  of  existence,  a place  for  immigrant  settlers  to  put  down  their  loads.  Before  the  settlers were  the  Sioux,  and  before  the  Sioux  were  the  vast  open  prairies,  and before the  prairies there was only ice. The lake bed had been dug out by the  southernmost  advance  of  the  Wisconsin  glacier.  Fed  by  neither streams  nor  springs,  the  lake  was  often  filthy  and  algaed,  relying  on fickle  prairie  rains  for  replenishment.  Still,  it  was  the  only  important body  of  water  within  forty  miles,  a  source  of  pride,  nice  to  look  at  on bright  summer  days,  and  later  that  evening  it  would  color  up  with fireworks.  Now,  in  the  late  afternoon,  it  lay  calm  and  smooth,  a  good audience  for  silence,  a  seven-mile  circumference  that  could  be  traveled by  slow  car  in  twenty-five  minutes.  It  was  not  such  a  good  lake  for swimming.  After  high  school,  he'd  caught  an  ear  infection  that  had almost kept him out of the war. And the lake had drowned his friend Max Arnold, keeping him out of the war entirely. Max had been one who liked to  talk  about  the  existence  of  God.  "No,  I'm  not  saying  that,"  he'd  argue
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
against the drone of the engine. "I'm saying it's possible as an idea, even necessary  as  an  idea,  a  final  cause  in  the  whole  structure  of  causation." Now  he  knew,  perhaps.  Before  the  war  they'd  driven  around  the  lake  as friends,  but  now  Max  was  just  an  idea,  and  most  of  Norman  Bowker's other friends were living in Des Moines or Sioux City, or going to school somewhere,  or  holding  down  jobs.  The  high  school  girls  were  mostly gone or married. Sally Kramer, whose pictures he had once carried in his wallet,  was  one  who  had  married.  Her  name  was  now  Sally  Gustafson and  she  lived  in  a  pleasant  blue  house  on  the  less  expensive  side of the lake road. On his third day home he'd seen her out mowing the lawn, still pretty  in  a  lacy  red  blouse  and  white  shorts.  For  a  moment  he'd  almost pulled  over,  just  to  talk,  but  instead  he'd  pushed  down  hard  on  the  gas pedal.  She  looked  happy.  She  had  her  house  and  her  new  husband,  and there was really nothing he could say to her.
The town seemed remote somehow. Sally was remarried and Max was drowned and his father was at home watching baseball on national TV.
Norman Bowker shrugged. "No problem," he murmured.
Clockwise, as if in orbit, he took the Chevy on another seven-mile turn around the lake.
Even  in  late  afternoon  the  day  was  hot.  He  turned  on  the  air conditioner,  then  the  radio,  and  he  leaned  back  and  let  the  cold  air  and music  blow  over  him.  Along  the  road,  kicking  stones  in  front  of  them, two  young  boys  were  hiking  with  knapsacks  and  toy  rifles  and  canteens. He  honked  going  by,  but  neither  boy  looked  up.  Already  he  had  passed them  six  times,  forty-two  miles,  nearly  three  hours  without  stop.  He watched  the  boys  recede  in  his  rearview  mirror.  They  turned  a  soft grayish color, like sand, before finally disappearing.
He tapped down lightly on the accelerator.
Out on the lake a man's motorboat had stalled; the man was bent over the  engine  with  a  wrench  and  a  frown.  Beyond  the  stalled  boat  there were  other  boats,  and  a  few  water-skiers,  and  the  smooth  July  waters, and  an  immense  flatness  everywhere.  Two  mud  hens  floated  stiffly beside a white dock.
The  road  curved  west,  where  the  sun  had  now  dipped  low. He figured it was close to five o'clock—twenty after, he guessed. The war had taught him to tell time without clocks, and even at night, waking from sleep, he could usually place it within ten minutes either way. What he should do, he  thought,  is  stop  at  Sally's  house  and  impress  her  with  this  new  time-
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
telling  trick  of  his.  They'd  talk  for  a  while,  catching  up  on  things,  and then  he'd  say,  "Well,  better  hit  the  road,  it's  five  thirty-four,"  and  she'd glance  at  her  wristwatch  and  say,  "Hey!  How'd  you  do that?"  and  he'd give  a  casual  shrug  and  tell  her  it  was  just  one  of  those  things  you  pick up.  He'd  keep  it  light.  He  wouldn't  say  anything  about  anything.  "How's it being married?" he might ask, and he'd nod at whatever she answered with, and he would not say a word about how he'd almost won the Silver Star for valor.
He  drove  past  Slater  Park  and  across  the  causeway  and  past  Sunset Park.  The  radio  announcer  sounded  tired.  The  temperature  in  Des Moines  was  eighty-one  degrees,  and  the  time  was  five  thirty-five,  and "All you on the road, drive extra careful now on this fine Fourth of July." If  Sally  had  not  been  married,  or  if  his  father  were  not  such  a  baseball fan, it would have been a good time to talk.
"The Silver Star?" his father might have said.
"Yes, but I didn't get it. Almost, but not quite."
And his father would have nodded, knowing full well that many brave men do not win medals for their bravery, and that others win medals for doing  nothing.  As  a  starting  point,  maybe,  Norman  Bowker  might  then have  listed  the  seven  medals  he  did  win:  the  Combat  Infantryman's Badge,  the  Air  Medal,  the  Army  Commendation  Medal,  the  Good Conduct  Medal,  the  Vietnam  Campaign  Medal,  the  Bronze  Star,  and  the Purple Heart, though it wasn't much of a wound and did not leave a scar and did not hurt and never had. He would've explained to his father that none  of  these  decorations  was  for  uncommon  valor.  They  were  for common  valor.  The  routine,  daily  stuff—just  humping,  just  enduring—
but  that  was  worth  something,  wasn't  it?  Yes,  it  was.  Worth  plenty.  The ribbons  looked  good  on  the  uniform  in  his  closet,  and  if  his  father  were to ask, he would've explained what each signified and how he was proud of  all  of  them,  especially  the  Combat  Infantryman's  Badge,  because  it meant  he  had  been there as a real soldier and had done all the things soldiers do, and therefore it wasn't such a big deal that he could not bring himself to be uncommonly brave.
And  then  he  would  have  talked  about  the  medal  he  did  not  win  and why he did not win it.
"I almost won the Silver Star," he would have said.
"How's that?"
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Just a story."
"So tell me," his father would have said.
Slowly  then,  circling  the  lake,  Norman  Bowker  would  have  started  by
describing the Song Tra Bong. "A river," he would've said, "this slow flat
muddy  river."  He  would've  explained  how  during  the  dry  season  it  was
exactly  like  any  other  river,  nothing  special,  but  how  in  October  the
monsoons  began  and  the  whole  situation  changed.  For  a  solid  week  the
rains never stopped, not once, and so after a few days the Song Tra Bong
overflowed  its  banks  and  the  land  turned  into  a  deep,  thick  muck  for  a
half mile on either side. Just muck—no other word for it. Like quicksand,
almost,  except  the  stink  was  incredible.  "You  couldn't  even  sleep,"  he'd
tell  his father. "At night you'd find a high spot, and you'd doze off, but
then later you'd wake up because you'd be buried in all that slime. You'd
just  sink  in.  You'd  feel  it  ooze  up  over  your  body  and  sort  of  suck  you
down. And the whole time there was that constant rain. I mean, it never
stopped, not ever."
"Sounds  pretty  wet,"  his  father  would've  said,  pausing  briefly.  "So what happened?"
"You really want to hear this?"
"Hey, I'm your father."
Norman  Bowker  smiled.  He  looked  out  across  the  lake  and  imagined the  feel  of  his  tongue  against  the  truth.  "Well,  this  one  time,  this  one night out by the river ... I wasn't very brave."
"You have seven medals."
"Sure."
"Seven. Count 'em. You weren't a coward either."
"Well, maybe not. But I had the chance and I blew it. The stink, that's what got to me. I couldn't take that goddamn awful smell."
"If you don't want to say any more—"
"I do want to."
"All right then. Slow and sweet, take your time."
The road descended into the outskirts of town, turning northwest past the  junior  college  and  the  tennis  courts,  then  past  Chautauqua  Park, where  the  picnic  tables  were  spread  with  sheets  of  colored  plastic  and where picnickers sat in lawn chairs and listened to the high school band playing Sousa marches under the band shell. The music faded after a few
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
blocks.  He  drove  beneath  a  canopy  of  elms,  then  along  a  stretch  of  open shore,  then  past  the  municipal  docks,  where  a  woman  in  pedal  pushers stood  casting  for  bullheads.  There  were  no  other  fish  in  the  lake  except for  perch  and  a  few worthless carp. It was a bad lake for swimming and fishing both.
He  drove  slowly.  No  hurry,  nowhere  to  go.  Inside  the  Chevy  the  air was cool and oily-smelling, and he took pleasure in the steady sounds of the  engine  and  air-conditioning.  A  tour  bus  feeling,  in  a  way,  except  the town he was touring seemed dead. Through the windows, as if in a stop-
motion  photograph,  the  place  looked  as  if  it  had  been  hit  by  nerve  gas, everything still and lifeless, even the people. The town could not talk, and would not listen. "How'd you like to hear about the war?" he might have asked,  but  the  place  could  only  blink  and  shrug.  It  had  no  memory, therefore  no  guilt.  The  taxes  got  paid  and  the  votes  got  counted  and  the agencies of government did their work briskly and politely. It was a brisk, polite town. It did not know shit about shit, and did not care to know.
Norman Bowker leaned back and considered what he might've said on the  subject.  He  knew  shit.  It  was  his  specialty.  The  smell,  in  particular, but also the numerous varieties of texture and taste. Someday he'd give a lecture  on  the  topic.  Put  on  a  suit  and  tie  and  stand  up  in  front  of  the Kiwanis  club  and  tell  the  fuckers  about  all  the  wonderful  shit  he  knew. Pass out samples, maybe.
Smiling  at  this,  he  clamped  the  steering  wheel  slightly  right  of  center, which  produced  a  smooth  clockwise  motion  against  the  curve  of  the road. The Chevy seemed to know its own way.
The sun was lower now. Five fifty-five, he decided—six o'clock, tops.
Along  an  unused  railway  spur,  four  workmen  labored  in  the  shadowy red  heat,  setting  up  a  platform  and  steel  launchers  for  the  evening fireworks. They were dressed alike in khaki trousers, work shirts, visored caps, and brown boots. Their faces were dark and smudgy. "Want to hear about  the  Silver  Star  I  almost  won?"  Norman  Bowker  whispered,  but none  of  the  workmen  looked  up.  Later  they  would  blow  color  into  the sky.  The  lake  would  sparkle  with  reds  and  blues  and  greens,  like  a mirror, and the picnickers would make low sounds of appreciation.
"Well, see, it never stopped raining," he would've said. "The muck was everywhere, you couldn't get away from it."
He would have paused a second.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Then  he  would  have  told  about  the  night  they  bivouacked  in  a  field along the Song Tra Bong. A big swampy field beside the river. There was a  ville  nearby,  fifty  meters  downstream,  and  right  away  a  dozen  old mama-sans ran out and started yelling. A weird scene, he would've said. The  mama-sans  just  stood  there  in  the  rain,  soaking  wet,  yapping  away about  how  this  field  was  bad  news.  Number  ten,  they  said.  Evil  ground. Not a good spot for good GIs. Finally Lieutenant Jimmy Cross had to get out his pistol and fire off a few rounds just to shoo them away. By then it was  almost  dark.  So  they  set  up  a  perimeter,  ate  chow,  then  crawled under their ponchos and tried to settle in for the night.
But the rain kept getting worse. And by midnight the field turned into soup.
"Just  this  deep,  oozy  soup,"  he  would've  said.  "Like  sewage  or something.  Thick  and  mushy.  You  couldn't  sleep.  You  couldn't  even  lie down,  not  for  long,  because  you'd  start  to  sink  under  the  soup.  Real clammy. You could feel the crud coming up inside your boots and pants."
Here,  Norman  Bowker  would  have  squinted  against  the  low  sun.  He would have kept his voice cool, no self-pity.
"But the worst part," he would've said quietly, "was the smell. Partly it was  the  river—a  dead-fish  smell—but  it  was  something  else,  too.  Finally somebody  figured  it  out.  What  this  was,  it  was  a  shit  field.  The  village toilet. No indoor plumbing, right? So they used the field. I mean, we were camped in a goddamn shit field."
He imagined Sally Kramer closing her eyes.
If  she  were  here  with  him,  in  the  car,  she  would've  said,  "Stop  it.  I don't like that word."
"That's what it was."
"All right, but you don't have to use that word."
"Fine. What should we call it?"
She would have glared at him. "I don't know. Just stop it."
Clearly,  he  thought,  this  was  not  a  story  for  Sally  Kramer.  She  was Sally  Gustafson  now.  No  doubt  Max  would've  liked  it,  the irony in particular, but Max had become a pure idea, which was its own irony. It was just too bad. If his father were here, riding shotgun around the lake, the  old  man  might  have  glanced  over  for  a  second,  understanding perfectly well that it was not a question of offensive language but of fact. His father would have sighed and folded his arms and waited.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"A shit field," Norman Bowker would have said. "And later that night I could've won the Silver Star for valor."
"Right," his father would've murmured, "I hear you."
The  Chevy  rolled  smoothly  across  a  viaduct  and  up  the  narrow  tar road. To the right was open lake. To the left, across the road, most of the lawns  were  scorched  dry  like  October  corn.  Hopelessly,  round  and round, a rotating sprinkler scattered lake water on Dr. Mason's vegetable garden.  Already  the  prairie  had  been  baked  dry,  but  in  August  it  would get  worse.  The  lake  would  turn  green  with  algae,  and  the  golf  course would  burn  up,  and  the  dragonflies  would  crack  open  for  want  of  good water.
The  big  Chevy  curved  past  Centennial  Beach  and  the  A&W  root  beer stand.
It was his eighth revolution around the lake.
He  followed  the  road  past  the  handsome  houses  with  their  docks  and wooden  shingles.  Back  to  Slater  Park,  across  the  causeway,  around  to Sunset Park, as though riding on tracks.
The two little boys were still trudging along on their seven-mile hike.
Out on the lake, the man in the stalled motorboat still fiddled with his engine. The pair of mud hens floated like wooden decoys, and the water-
skiers looked tanned and athletic, and the high school band was packing up  its  instruments,  and  the  woman  in  pedal  pushers  patiently  rebaited her hook for one last try.
Quaint, he thought.
A  hot  summer  day  and  it  was  all  very  quaint  and  remote.  The  four workmen had nearly completed their preparations for the evening fireworks.
Facing  the  sun  again,  Norman  Bowker  decided  it  was  nearly  seven o'clock. Not much later the tired radio announcer confirmed it, his voice rocking  itself  into  a  deep  Sunday  snooze.  If  Max  Arnold  were  here,  he would  say  something  about  the  announcer's  fatigue,  and  relate  it  to  the bright  pink  in  the  sky,  and  the  war,  and  courage.  A  pity  that  Max  was gone.  And  a  pity  about  his  father,  who  had  his  own  war  and  who  now preferred silence.
Still, there was so much to say.
How  the  rain  never  stopped.  How  the  cold  worked  into  your  bones. Sometimes  the  bravest  thing  on  earth  was  to  sit  through  the  night  and
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
feel the cold in your bones. Courage was not always a matter of yes or no. Sometimes  it  came  in  degrees,  like  the  cold;  sometimes  you  were  very brave up to a point and then beyond that point you were not so brave. In certain  situations  you  could  do  incredible  things,  you  could  advance toward enemy fire, but in other situations, which were not nearly so bad, you  had  trouble  keeping  your  eyes  open.  Sometimes,  like  that  night  in the  shit  field,  the  difference  between  courage  and  cowardice  was something small and stupid.
The way the earth bubbled. And the smell.
In a soft voice, without flourishes, he would have told the exact truth.
"Late in the night," he would've said, "we took some mortar fire."
He  would've  explained  how  it  was  still  raining,  and  how  the  clouds were  pasted  to  the  field,  and  how  the  mortar  rounds  seemed  to  come right  out  of  the  clouds.  Everything  was  black  and  wet.  The  field  just exploded. Rain and slop and shrapnel, nowhere to run, and all they could do  was  worm  down  into  slime  and  cover  up  and  wait.  He  would've described the crazy things he saw. Weird things. Like how at one point he noticed  a  guy  lying  next  to  him  in  the  sludge,  completely  buried  except for his face, and how after a moment the guy rolled his eyes and winked at  him.  The  noise  was  fierce.  Heavy  thunder,  and  mortar  rounds,  and people yelling. Some of the men began shooting up flares. Red and green and silver flares, all colors, and the rain came down in Technicolor.
The field was boiling. The shells made deep slushy craters, opening up all  those  years  of  waste,  centuries  worth,  and  the  smell  came  bubbling out  of  the  earth. Two rounds hit close by. Then a third, even closer, and immediately,  off  to  his  left,  he  heard  somebody  screaming.  It  was Kiowa—he knew that. The sound was ragged and clotted up, but even so he knew the voice. A strange gargling noise. Rolling sideways, he crawled toward  the  screaming  in  the  dark.  The  rain  was  hard  and  steady.  Along the  perimeter  there  were  quick  bursts  of  gunfire.  Another  round  hit nearby,  spraying  up  shit  and  water,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  ducked down  beneath  the  mud.  He  heard  the  valves  in  his  heart.  He  heard  the quick, feathering action of the hinges.
Extraordinary,  he  thought.  As  he  came  up,  a  pair  of  red  flares  puffed open,  a  soft  fuzzy  glow,  and  in  the  glow  he  saw  Kiowa's  wide-open  eyes settling down into the scum. Briefly, all he could do was watch. He heard himself moan. Then he moved again, crabbing forward, but when he got
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there  Kiowa  was  almost  completely  under.  There  was  a  knee.  There  was an arm and a gold wristwatch and part of a boot.
He  could  not  describe  what  happened  next, not ever, but he would've tried  anyway.  He  would've  spoken  carefully  so  as  to  make  it  real  for anyone who would listen.
There were bubbles where Kiowa's head should've been.
The  left  hand  was  curled  open;  the  fingernails  were  filthy;  the wristwatch  gave  off  a  green  phosphorescent  shine  as  it  slipped  beneath the thick waters.
He would've talked about this, and how he grabbed Kiowa by the boot and  tried  to  pull  him  out.  He  pulled  hard  but  Kiowa  was  gone,  and  then suddenly he felt himself going, too. He could taste it. The shit was in his nose  and  eyes.  There  were  flares  and  mortar  rounds,  and  the  stink  was everywhere—it  was  inside  him,  in  his  lungs—and  he  could  no  longer tolerate  it.  Not  here,  he  thought.  Not  like  this.  He  released  Kiowa's  boot and  watched  it slide away. Slowly, working his way up, he hoisted himself  out  of  the  deep  mud,  and  then  he  lay  still  and  tasted  the  shit  in his mouth and closed his eyes and listened to the rain and explosions and bubbling sounds.
He was alone.
He had lost his weapon but it did not matter. All he wanted was a bath.
Nothing else. A hot soapy bath.
Circling  the  lake,  Norman  Bowker  remembered  how  his  friend  Kiowa had disappeared under the waste and water.
"I  didn't  flip  out,"  he  would've  said.  "I  was  cool.  If  things  had  gone right, if it hadn't been for that smell, I could've won the Silver Star."
A good war story, he thought, but it was not a war for war stories, nor for  talk  of  valor,  and  nobody  in  town  wanted  to  know  about  the  terrible stink.  They  wanted  good  intentions  and  good  deeds.  But  the  town  was not  to  blame,  really.  It  was  a  nice  little  town,  very  prosperous,  with  neat houses and all the sanitary conveniences.
Norman  Bowker  lit  a  cigarette  and  cranked  open  his  window.  Seven thirty-five, he decided.
The lake had divided into two halves. One half still glistened, the other was  caught  in  shadow.  Along  the  causeway,  the  two  little  boys  marched on.  The  man  in  the  stalled  motorboat  yanked  frantically  on  the  cord  to his  engine,  and  the  two  mud  hens  sought  supper  at  the  bottom  of  the
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
lake, tails bobbing. He passed Sunset Park once again, and more houses, and the junior college and the tennis courts, and the picnickers, who now sat  waiting  for  the  evening  fireworks.  The  high  school  band  was  gone. The woman in pedal pushers patiently toyed with her line.
Although  it  was  not  yet  dusk,  the  A&W  was  already  awash  in  neon lights.
He maneuvered his father's Chevy into one of the parking slots, let the engine  idle,  and  sat  back.  The  place  was  doing  a  good  holiday  business. Mostly  kids,  it  seemed,  and  a  few  farmers  in  for  the  day.  He  did  not recognize  any  of  the  faces.  A  slim,  hipless  young  carhop  passed  by,  but when he hit the horn, she did not seem to notice. Her eyes slid sideways. She  hooked  a  tray  to  the  window  of  a  Firebird,  laughing  lightly,  leaning forward to chat with the three boys inside.
He  felt  invisible  in  the  soft  twilight.  Straight  ahead,  over  the  take-out counter,  swarms  of  mosquitoes  electrocuted  themselves  against  an aluminum Pest-Rid machine.
It was a calm, quiet summer evening.
He  honked  again,  this  time  leaning  on  the  horn.  The  young  carhop turned  slowly,  as  if  puzzled,  then  said  something  to  the  boys  in  the Firebird  and  moved  reluctantly  toward  him.  Pinned  to  her  shirt  was  a badge that said EAT MAMA BURGERS.
When  she  reached  his  window,  she  stood  straight  up  so  that  all  he could see was the badge.
"Mama Burger," he said. "Maybe some fries, too."
The  girl  sighed,  leaned  down,  and  shook  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  as fluffy and airy-light as cotton candy.
"You blind?" she said.
She put out her hand and tapped an intercom attached to a steel post.
"Punch  the  button  and  place  your  order.  All  I  do  is  carry  the  dumb trays."
She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment.  Briefly,  he  thought,  a  question lingered  in  her  fuzzy  eyes,  but  then  she  turned  and  punched  the  button for him and returned to her friends in the Firebird.
The intercom squeaked and said, "Order."
"Mama Burger and fries," Norman Bowker said.
"Affirmative, copy clear. No rootie-tootie?"
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"Rootie-tootie?" "You know, man—root beer. "A small one." "Roger-dodger.  Repeat:  one  Mama,  one  fries,  one  small  beer.  Fire  for
effect. Stand by."
The intercom squeaked and went dead.
"Out," said Norman Bowker.
When the girl brought his tray, he ate quickly, without looking up. The
tired  radio  announcer  in  Des  Moines  gave  the  time,  almost  eight-thirty.
Dark was pressing in tight now, and he wished there were somewhere to
go.  In  the  morning  he'd  check  out  some  job  possibilities.  Shoot  a  few
buckets down at the Y, maybe wash the Chevy.
He finished his root beer and pushed the intercom button. "Order," said the tinny voice. "All done." "That's it?" "I guess so." "Hey, loosen up," the voice said. "What you really need, friend?" Norman Bowker smiled. "Well," he said, "how'd you like to hear about—" He stopped and shook his head. "Hear what, man?" "Nothing." "Well,  hey,"  the  intercom  said,  "I'm  sure  as  fuck  not  going anywhere.
Screwed to a post, for God sake. Go ahead, try me."
"Nothing." "You sure?" "Positive. All done." The  intercom  made  a  light  sound  of  disappointment.  "Your  choice,  I
guess. Over an' out."
"Out," said Norman Bowker.
On  his  tenth  turn  around  the  lake  he  passed  the  hiking  boys  for  the
last time. The man in the stalled motorboat was gone; the mud hens were
gone.  Beyond  the  lake,  over  Sally  Gustafson's  house,  the  sun  had  left  a
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smudge  of  purple  on  the  horizon.  The  band  shell  was  deserted,  and  the woman  in  pedal  pushers  quietly  reeled  in  her  line,  and  Dr.  Mason's sprinkler went round and round.
On  his  eleventh  revolution  he  switched  off  the  air-conditioning, opened  up  his  window,  and  rested  his  elbow  comfortably  on  the  sill, driving with one hand.
There was nothing to say.
He  could  not  talk  about  it  and  never  would.  The  evening  was  smooth and warm.
If  it  had  been  possible,  which  it  wasn't,  he  would  have  explained  how his friend Kiowa slipped away that night beneath the dark swampy field. He was folded in with the war; he was part of the waste.
Turning  on  his  headlights,  driving  slowly,  Norman  Bowker remembered how he had taken hold of Kiowa's boot and pulled hard, but how the smell was simply too much, and how he'd backed off and in that way had lost the Silver Star.
He wished he could've explained some of this. How he had been braver than  he  ever  thought  possible,  but  how  he  had  not  been  so  brave as he wanted to be. The distinction was important. Max Arnold, who loved fine lines,  would've  appreciated  it.  And  his  father,  who  already  knew, would've nodded.
"The truth," Norman Bowker would've said, "is I let the guy go."
"Maybe he was already gone."
"He wasn't."
"But maybe."
"No, I could feel it. He wasn't. Some things you can feel."
His  father  would  have  been  quiet  for  a  while,  watching  the  headlights against the narrow tar road.
"Well,  anyway,"  the  old  man  would've  said,  "there's  still  the  seven medals."
"I suppose."
"Seven honeys."
"Right."
On his twelfth revolution, the sky went crazy with color.
He  pulled  into  Sunset  Park  and  stopped  in  the  shadow  of  a  picnic shelter.  After  a  time  he  got  out,  walked  down  to  the  beach,  and  waded
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into  the  lake  without  undressing.  The  water  felt  warm  against  his  skin. He  put  his  head  under.  He  opened  his  lips,  very  slightly,  for  the  taste, then  he  stood  up  and  folded  his  arms  and  watched  the  fireworks.  For  a small town, he decided, it was a pretty good show.
Notes
"Speaking  of  Courage"  was  written  in  1975  at  the  suggestion  of Norman  Bowker,  who  three  years  later  hanged  himself  in  the  locker room of a YMCA in his hometown in central Iowa.
In  the  spring  of  1975,  near  the  time  of  Saigon's  final  collapse,  I received a long, disjointed letter in which Bowker described the problem of  finding  a  meaningful  use  for  his  life  after  the  war.  He  had  worked briefly as an automotive parts salesman, a janitor, a car wash attendant, and  a  short-order  cook  at  the  local  A&W  fast-food  franchise.  None  of these  jobs,  he  said,  had  lasted  more  than  ten  weeks.  He  lived  with  his parents,  who  supported  him,  and  who  treated  him  with  kindness  and obvious  love.  At  one  point  he  had  enrolled  in  the  junior  college  in  his hometown,  but  the  course  work, he said, seemed too abstract, too distant, with nothing real or tangible at stake, certainly not the stakes of a war. He dropped out after eight months. He spent his mornings in bed. In the afternoons he played pickup basketball at the Y, and then at night he drove around town in his father's car, mostly alone, or with a six-pack of beer, cruising.
"The  thing  is,"  he  wrote,  "there's  no  place  to  go.  Not  just  in  this  lousy little town. In general. My life, I mean. It's almost like I got killed over in Nam  .  .  .  Hard  to  describe.  That  night  when  Kiowa  got  wasted,  I  sort  of sank down into the sewage with him . . . Feels like I'm still in deep shit."
The letter covered seventeen handwritten pages, its tone jumping from self-pity  to  anger  to  irony  to  guilt  to  a  kind  of  feigned  indifference.  He didn't  know  what  to  feel.  In  the  middle  of  the  letter,  for  example,  he reproached himself for complaining too much:
God,  this  is  starting  to  sound  like  some  jerkoff  vet  crying  in  his  beer. Sorry  about  that.  I'm  no  basket  case—not  even  any  bad  dreams.  And  I don't  feel  like  anybody  mistreats  me  or  anything,  except  sometimes
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people  act  too nice, too polite, like they're afraid they might ask the wrong question . . . But I shouldn't bitch. One thing I hate—really hate—
is  all  those  whiner-vets.  Guys  sniveling  about  how  they  didn't  get  any parades.  Such  absolute  crap.  I  mean,  who  in  his  right  mind  wants  a parade?  Or  getting  his  back  clapped  by  a  bunch  of  patriotic  idiots  who don't  know  jack  about  what  it  feels  like  to  kill  people  or  get  shot  at  or sleep  in  the  rain  or  watch  your  buddy  go  down  underneath  the  mud? Who needs it?
Anyhow, I'm basically A-Okay. Home free!! So why not come down for a visit  sometime  and  we'll  chase  pussy  and  shoot  the  breeze  and  tell  each other old war lies? A good long bull session, you know?
I  felt  it  coming,  and  near  the  end  of  the  letter  it  came.  He  explained that he had read my first book, If I Die in a Combat Zone, which he liked except  for  the  "bleeding-heart  political  parts."  For  half  a  page  he  talked about  how  much  the  book  had  meant  to  him,  how  it  brought  back  all kinds  of  memories,  the  villes  and  paddies  and  rivers,  and  how  he recognized most of the characters, including himself, even though almost all of the names were changed. Then Bowker came straight out with it:
What  you  should  do,  Tim,  is  write  a  story  about  a  guy  who  feels  like  he got zapped over in that shithole. A guy who can't get his act together and just  drives  around  town  all  day  and  can't  think  of  any  damn  place  to  go and doesn't know how to get there anyway. This guy wants to talk about it, but he can't. . . If you want, you can use the stuff in this letter. (But not my  real  name,  okay?)  I'd  write  it  myself  except  I  can't  ever  find  any words,  if  you  know  what  I  mean,  and  I  can't  figure  out  what  exactly  to say.  Something  about  the  field  that  night.  The  way  Kiowa  just disappeared into the crud. You were there—you can tell it.
Norman  Bowker's  letter  hit  me  hard.  For  years  I'd  felt  a  certain smugness  about  how  easily  I  had  made  the  shift from war to peace. A nice smooth glide—no flashbacks or midnight sweats. The war was over, after  all.  And  the  thing  to  do  was  go  on.  So  I  took  pride  in  sliding gracefully  from  Vietnam  to  graduate  school,  from  Chu  Lai  to  Harvard, from one world to another. In ordinary conversation I never spoke much about the war, certainly not in detail, and yet ever since my return I had been  talking  about  it  virtually  nonstop  through  my  writing.  Telling
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stories  seemed  a  natural,  inevitable  process,  like  clearing  the  throat. Partly  catharsis,  partly  communication,  it  was  a  way  of  grabbing  people by  the  shirt  and  explaining  exactly  what  had  happened  to  me,  how  I'd allowed  myself  to  get  dragged  into  a  wrong  war,  all  the  mistakes  I'd made, all the terrible things I had seen and done.
I  did  not  look  on  my  work  as  therapy,  and  still  don't.  Yet  when  I received Norman Bowker's letter, it occurred to me that the act of writing had led me through a swirl of memories that might otherwise have ended in  paralysis  or  worse.  By  telling  stories,  you  objectify  your  own experience.  You  separate  it  from  yourself.  You  pin  down  certain  truths. You  make  up  others.  You  start  sometimes  with  an  incident  that  truly happened,  like  the  night  in  the  shit  field,  and  you  carry  it  forward  by inventing incidents that did not in fact occur but that nonetheless help to clarify and explain.
In  any  case,  Norman  Bowker's  letter  had  an  effect.  It  haunted  me  for more  than  a  month,  not  the  words  so  much  as  its  desperation,  and  I resolved finally to take him up on his story suggestion. At the time I was at  work  on  a  new  novel,  Going  After  Cacciato,  and  one  morning  I  sat down  and  began  a  chapter  titled  "Speaking  of  Courage."  The  emotional core  came  directly  from  Bowker's  letter:  the  simple  need  to  talk.  To provide a dramatic frame, I collapsed events into a single time and place, a car circling a lake on a quiet afternoon in midsummer, using the lake as a  nucleus  around  which  the  story  would  orbit.  As  he'd  requested,  I  did not  use  Norman  Bowker's  name,  instead  substituting  the  name  of  my novel's  main  character,  Paul  Berlin.  For  the  scenery  I  borrowed  heavily from  my  own  hometown.  Wholesale  thievery,  in  fact.  I  lifted  up Worthington,  Minnesota—the  lake,  the  road,  the  causeway,  the  woman in pedal pushers, the junior college, the handsome houses and docks and boats and public parks—and carried it all a few hundred miles south and transplanted it onto the Iowa prairie.
The  writing  went  quickly  and  easily.  I  drafted  the  piece  in  a  week  or two,  fiddled  with  it  for  another  week,  then  published  it  as  a  separate short story.
Almost  immediately,  though,  there  was  a  sense  of  failure.  The  details of Norman Bowker's story were missing. In this original version, which I still conceived as part of the novel, I had been forced to omit the shit field and  the  rain  and  the  death  of  Kiowa,  replacing  this  material  with  events that  better  fit  the  book's  narrative.  As  a  consequence  I'd  lost  the  natural
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counterpoint  between  the  lake  and  the  field.  A  metaphoric  unity  was broken. What the piece needed, and did not have, was the terrible killing power of that shit field.
As  the  novel  developed  over  the  next  year,  and  as  my  own  ideas clarified, it became apparent that the chapter had no proper home in the larger  narrative.  Going  After  Cacciato was a war  story;  "Speaking  of Courage"  was  a  postwar  story.  Two  different  time  periods,  two  different sets  of  issues.  There  was  no  choice  but  to  remove  the  chapter  entirely. The  mistake,  in  part,  had  been  in  trying  to  wedge  the  piece  into  a  novel. Beyond  that,  though,  something  about  the  story  had  frightened  me—I was  afraid  to  speak  directly,  afraid  to  remember—and  in  the  end  the piece  had  been  ruined  by  a  failure  to  tell  the  full  and  exact  truth  about our night in the shit field.
Over the next several months, as it often happens, I managed to erase the  story's  flaws  from  my  memory,  taking  pride  in  a  shadowy,  idealized recollection  of  its  virtues.  When  the  piece  appeared  in  an  anthology  of short fiction, I sent a copy off to Norman Bowker with the thought that it might please him. His reaction was short and somewhat bitter.
"It's  not  terrible,"  he  wrote  me,  "but  you  left  out  Vietnam.  Where's Kiowa? Where's the shit?"
Eight months later he hanged himself.
In August of 1978 his mother sent me a brief note explaining what had happened. He'd been playing pickup basketball at the Y; after two hours he  went  off  for  a  drink  of  water;  he  used  a  jump  rope;  his  friends  found him hanging from a water pipe. There was no suicide note, no message of any  kind.  "Norman  was  a  quiet  boy,"  his  mother  wrote,  "and  I  don't suppose he wanted to bother anybody."
Now,  a  decade  after  his  death,  I'm  hoping  that  "Speaking  of  Courage" makes  good  on  Norman  Bowker's  silence.  And  I  hope  it's  a  better  story. Although  the  old  structure  remains,  the  piece  has  been  substantially revised, in some places by severe cutting, in other places by the addition of  new  material.  Norman  is  back  in  the  story,  where  he  belongs,  and  I don't  think  he  would  mind  that  his  real  name  appears.  The  central incident—our  long night in the shit field along the Song Tra Bong—has been restored to the piece. It was hard stuff to write. Kiowa, after all, had been  a  close  friend,  and  for  years  I've  avoided  thinking  about  his  death and  my  own  complicity  in  it.  Even  here  it's  not  easy.  In  the  interests  of
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truth,  however,  I  want  to  make  it  clear  that  Norman  Bowker  was  in  no way  responsible  for  what  happened  to  Kiowa.  Norman  did  not experience  a  failure  of  nerve  that  night.  He  did  not  freeze  up  or  lose  the Silver Star for valor. That part of the story is my own.
In the Field
At  daybreak  the  platoon  of  eighteen  soldiers  formed  into  a  loose  rank and  began  wading  side  by  side  through  the  deep  muck  of  the  shit  field. They  moved  slowly  in  the  rain.  Leaning  forward,  heads  down,  they  used the butts of their weapons as probes, wading across the field to the river and then turning and wading back again. They were tired and miserable; all they wanted now was to get it finished. Kiowa was gone. He was under the mud and water, folded in with the war, and their only thought was to find him and dig him out and then move on to someplace dry and warm. It  had  been  a  hard  night.  Maybe  the  worst  ever.  The  rains  had  fallen without  stop,  and  the  Song  Tra  Bong  had  overflowed  its  banks,  and  the muck  had  now  risen  thigh-deep  in  the  field  along  the  river.  A  low,  gray mist  hovered  over  the  land.  Off  to  the  west  there  was  thunder,  soft  little moaning  sounds,  and  the  monsoons  seemed  to  be  a  lasting  element  of the war. The eighteen soldiers moved in silence. First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross went first, now and then straightening out the rank, closing up the gaps.  His  uniform  was  dark  with  mud;  his  arms  and  face  were  filthy. Early in the morning he had radioed in the MIA report, giving the name and  circumstances,  but  he  was  now  determined  to  find  his  man,  no matter what, even if it meant flying in slabs of concrete and damming up the river and draining the entire field. He would not lose a member of his command  like  this.  It  wasn't  right.  Kiowa  had  been  a  fine  soldier  and  a fine  human  being,  a  devout  Baptist,  and  there  was  no  way  Lieutenant Cross  would  allow  such  a  good  man  to  be  lost  under  the  slime  of  a  shit field.
Briefly,  he  stopped  and  watched  the  clouds.  Except  for  some occasional  thunder  it  was  a  deeply  quiet  morning, just the rain and the steady sloshing sounds of eighteen men wading through the thick waters. Lieutenant  Cross  wished  the  rain  would  let  up.  Even  for  an  hour,  it would make things easier.
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But then he shrugged. The rain was the war and you had to fight it.
Turning, he looked out across the field and yelled at one of his men to
close  up  the  rank.  Not  a  man,  really—a  boy.  The  young  soldier  stood  off
by  himself  at  the  center  of  the  field  in  knee-deep  water,  reaching  down
with  both  hands  as  if  chasing  some  object  just  beneath  the  surface.  The
boy's  shoulders  were  shaking.  Jimmy  Cross  yelled  again  but  the  young
soldier  did  not  turn  or  look  up.  In  his  hooded  poncho,  everything  caked
with mud, the boy's face was impossible to make out. The filth seemed to
erase  identities,  transforming  the  men  into  identical  copies  of  a  single
soldier,  which  was  exactly  how  Jimmy  Cross  had  been  trained  to  treat
them,  as  interchangeable  units  of  command.  It  was  difficult  sometimes,
but he tried to avoid that sort of thinking. He had no military ambitions.
He  preferred  to  view  his  men  not  as  units  but  as  human  beings.  And
Kiowa  had  been  a  splendid  human  being,  the  very  best,  intelligent  and
gentle  and  quiet-spoken.  Very  brave,  too.  And  decent.  The  kid's  father
taught Sunday school in Oklahoma City, where Kiowa had been raised to
believe  in  the  promise  of  salvation  under  Jesus  Christ,  and  this
conviction  had  always  been  present  in  the  boy's  smile,  in  his  posture
toward  the  world,  in  the  way  he  never  went  anywhere  without  an
illustrated  New  Testament  that  his  father  had  mailed  to  him  as  a
birthday present back in January.
A crime, Jimmy Cross thought.
Looking  out  toward  the  river,  he  knew  for  a  fact  that  he  had  made  a
mistake  setting  up  here.  The  order  had  come  from  higher,  true,  but  still
he  should've  exercised  some  field  discretion.  He  should've  moved  to
higher ground for the night, should've radioed in false coordinates. There
was  nothing  he  could  do  now,  but  still  it  was  a  mistake  and  a  hideous
waste. He felt sick about it. Standing in the deep waters of the field, First
Lieutenant Jimmy Cross began composing a letter in his head to the kid's
father,  not  mentioning  the  shit  field,  just  saying  what  a  fine  soldier
Kiowa  had  been,  what  a  fine  human  being,  and  how  he  was  the  kind  of
son that any father could be proud of forever.
The  search  went  slowly.  For  a  time  the  morning  seemed  to  brighten, the  sky  going  to  a  lighter  shade  of  silver,  but  then  the  rains  came  back hard and steady. There was the feel of permanent twilight.
At  the  far  left  of  the  line,  Azar  and  Norman  Bowker  and  Mitchell Sanders waded along the edge of the field closest to the river. They were
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
tall  men,  but  at  times  the  muck  came  to  midthigh,  other  times  to  the crotch.
Azar kept shaking his head. He coughed and shook his head and said, "Man,  talk  about  irony.  I  bet  if  Kiowa  was  here,  I  bet  he'd  just  laugh. Eating shit—it's your classic irony."
"Fine," said Norman Bowker. "Now pipe down."
Azar  sighed.  "Wasted  in  the  waste,"  he  said.  "A  shit  field.  You  got  to admit, it's pure world-class irony."
The  three  men  moved  with  slow,  heavy  steps.  It  was  hard  to  keep balance.  Their  boots  sank  into  the  ooze,  which  produced  a  powerful downward suction, and with each step they would have to pull up hard to break the hold. The rain made quick dents in the water, like tiny mouths, and the stink was everywhere.
When  they  reached  the  river,  they  shifted  a  few  meters  to  the  north and  began  wading  back  up  the  field.  Occasionally  they  used  their weapons to test the bottom, but mostly they just searched with their feet.
"A classic case," Azar was saying. "Biting the dirt, so to speak, that tells the story."
"Enough," Bowker said.
"Like those old cowboy movies. One more redskin bites the dirt."
"I'm serious, man. Zip it shut."
Azar smiled and said, "Classic."
The  morning  was  cold  and  wet.  They  had  not  slept  during  the  night, not  even  for  a  few  moments,  and  all  three  of  them  were  feeling  the tension  as  they  moved  across  the  field  toward  the  river.  There  was nothing  they  could  do  for  Kiowa.  Just  find  him  and  slide  him  aboard  a chopper. Whenever a man died it was always the same, a desire to get it over  with  quickly,  no  fuss  or  ceremony,  and  what  they  wanted  now  was to  head  for  a  ville  and  get  under  a  roof  and  forget  what  had  happened during the night.
Halfway  across  the  field  Mitchell  Sanders  stopped.  He  stood  for  a moment with his eyes shut, feeling along the bottom with a foot, then he passed  his  weapon  over  to  Norman  Bowker  and  reached  down  into  the muck. After a second he hauled up a filthy green rucksack.
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The three men did not speak for a time. The pack was heavy with mud and  water,  dead-looking.  Inside  were  a  pair  of  moccasins  and  an illustrated New Testament.
"Well,"  Mitchell  Sanders  finally  said,  "the  guy's  around  here somewhere."
"Better tell the LT."
"Screw him."
"Yeah, but—"
"Some  lieutenant,"  Sanders  said.  "Camps  us  in  a  toilet.  Man  don't know shit."
"Nobody knew," Bowker said.
"Maybe so, maybe not. Ten billion places we could've set up last night, the man picks a latrine."
Norman  Bowker  stared  down  at  the  rucksack.  It  was  made  of  dark green nylon with an aluminum frame, but now it had the curious look of flesh.
"It wasn't the LT's fault," Bowker said quietly.
"Whose then?"
"Nobody's. Nobody knew till afterward."
Mitchell  Sanders  made  a  sound  in  his  throat.  He  hoisted  up  the rucksack, slipped into the harness, and pulled the straps tight. "All right, but this much for sure. The man knew it was raining. He knew about the river.  One  plus  one.  Add  it  up,  you  get  exactly  what  happened."  Sanders glared  at  the  river.  "Move  it,"  he  said.  "Kiowa's  waiting  on  us."  Slowly then,  bending  against  the  rain,  Azar  and  Norman  Bowker  and  Mitchell Sanders  began  wading  again  through  the  deep  waters,  their  eyes  down, circling out from where they had found the rucksack.
First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross stood fifty meters away. He had finished writing  the  letter  in  his  head,  explaining  things  to  Kiowa's  father,  and now  he  folded  his  arms  and  watched  his  platoon  crisscrossing  the  wide field. In a funny way, it reminded him of the municipal golf course in his hometown in New Jersey. A lost ball, he thought. Tired players searching through the rough, sweeping back and forth in long systematic patterns. He wished he were there right now. On the sixth hole. Looking out across the  water  hazard  that  fronted  the  small  flat  green,  a  seven  iron  in  his
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
hand,  calculating  wind  and  distance,  wondering  if  he  should  reach instead  for  an  eight.  A  tough  decision,  but  all  you  could  ever  lose  was  a ball.  You  did  not  lose  a  player.  And  you  never  had to wade out into the hazard and spend the day searching through the slime.
Jimmy Cross did not want the responsibility of leading these men. He had  never  wanted  it.  In  his  sophomore  year  at  Mount  Sebastian  College he  had  signed  up  for  the  Reserve  Officer  Training  Corps  without  much thought. An automatic thing: because his friends had joined, and because it was worth a few credits, and because it seemed preferable to letting the draft take him. He was unprepared. Twenty-four years old and his heart wasn't in it. Military matters meant nothing to him. He did not care one way  or  the  other  about  the  war,  and  he  had  no  desire  to  command,  and even after all these months in the bush, all the days and nights, even then he did not know enough to keep his men out of a shit field.
What  he  should've  done,  he  told  himself,  was  follow  his  first  impulse. In the late afternoon yesterday, when they reached the night coordinates, he should've taken one look and headed for higher ground. He should've known.  No  excuses.  At  one  edge  of  the  field  was  a  small  ville,  and  right away  a  couple  of  old  mama-sans  had  trotted  out  to  warn  him.  Number ten,  they'd  said.  Evil  ground.  Not  a  good  spot  for  good  GIs.  But  it  was  a war,  and  he  had  his  orders,  so  they'd  set  up  a  perimeter  and  crawled under  their  ponchos  and  tried  to  settle  in  for  the  night.  The  rain  never stopped.  By  midnight  the  Song  Tra  Bong  had  overflowed  its  banks.  The field turned to slop, everything soft and mushy. He remembered how the water  kept  rising,  how  a  terrible  stink  began  to  bubble  up  out  of  the earth.  It  was  a  dead-fish  smell,  partly,  but  something  else,  too,  and  then later  in  the  night  Mitchell  Sanders  had  crawled  through  the  rain  and grabbed him hard by the arm and asked what he was doing setting up in a  shit  field.  The  village  toilet,  Sanders  said.  He  remembered  the  look  on Sanders's  face.  The  guy  stared  for  a  moment  and  then  wiped  his  mouth and whispered, "Shit," and then crawled away into the dark.
A stupid mistake. That's all it was, a mistake, but it had killed Kiowa.
Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  felt  something  tighten  inside  him.  In  the letter to Kiowa's father he would apologize point-blank. Just admit to the blunders.
He  would  place  the  blame  where  it  belonged.  Tactically,  he'd  say,  it was  indefensible  ground  from  the  start.  Low  and  flat.  No  natural  cover. And so late in the night, when they took mortar fire from across the river,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
all  they  could  do  was  snake  down  under  the  slop  and  lie  there  and  wait. The field just exploded. Rain and slop and shrapnel, it all mixed together, and  the  field  seemed  to  boil.  He  would  explain  this  to  Kiowa's  father. Carefully,  not  covering  up  his  own  guilt,  he  would  tell  how  the  mortar rounds made craters in the slush, spraying up great showers of filth, and how the craters then collapsed on themselves and filled up with mud and water,  sucking  things  down,  swallowing  things,  weapons  and entrenching  tools  and  belts  of  ammunition,  and  how  in  this  way  his  son Kiowa had been combined with the waste and the war.
My own fault, he would say.
Straightening  up,  First  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  rubbed  his  eyes  and tried to get his thoughts together. The rain fell in a cold, sad drizzle.
Off toward the river he again noticed the young soldier standing alone at the center of the field. The boy's shoulders were shaking. Maybe it was something  in  the  posture  of  the  soldier,  or  the  way  he  seemed  to  be reaching  for  some  invisible  object  beneath  the  surface,  but  for  several moments  Jimmy  Cross  stood  very  still,  afraid  to  move,  yet  knowing  he had to, and then he murmured to himself, "My fault," and he nodded and waded out across the field toward the boy.
The young soldier was trying hard not to cry.
He, too, blamed himself. Bent forward at the waist, groping with both
hands,  he  seemed  to  be  chasing  some  creature  just  beyond  reach,
something  elusive,  a  fish  or  a  frog.  His  lips  were  moving.  Like  Jimmy
Cross,  the  boy  was  explaining  things  to  an  absent  judge.  It  wasn't  to
defend himself. The boy recognized his own guilt and wanted only to lay
out the full causes.
Wading  sideways  a  few  steps,  he  leaned  down  and  felt  along  the  soft bottom of the field.
He pictured Kiowa's face. They'd been close buddies, the tightest, and he  remembered  how  last  night  they  had  huddled  together  under  their ponchos,  the  rain  cold  and  steady, the water rising to their knees, but how  Kiowa  had  just  laughed  it  off  and  said  they  should  concentrate  on better  things.  And  so  for  a  long  while  they'd  talked  about  their  families and  hometowns.  At  one  point,  the  boy  remembered,  he'd  been  showing Kiowa  a picture of his girlfriend. He remembered switching on his flashlight. A stupid thing to do, but he did it anyway, and he remembered
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Kiowa  leaning  in  for  a  look  at  the  picture—"Hey,  she's cute,"  he'd  said—
and then the field exploded all around them.
Like  murder,  the  boy  thought.  The  flashlight  made  it  happen.  Dumb and dangerous. And as a result his friend Kiowa was dead.
That simple, he thought.
He  wished  there  were  some  other  way  to  look  at  it,  but  there  wasn't. Very  simple  and  very  final.  He  remembered  two  mortar  rounds  hitting close  by.  Then  a  third,  even  closer,  and  off  to  his  left  he'd  heard somebody  scream.  The  voice  was  ragged  and  clotted  up,  but  he  knew instantly that it was Kiowa.
He  remembered  trying  to  crawl  toward  the  screaming.  No  sense  of direction,  though,  and  the  field  seemed  to  suck  him  under,  and everything  was  black  and  wet  and  swirling,  and  he  couldn't  get  his bearings,  and  then  another  round  hit  nearby,  and  for  a  few  moments  all he could do was hold his breath and duck down beneath the water.
Later, when he came up again, there were no more screams. There was an  arm  and  a  wristwatch  and  part  of  a  boot.  There  were  bubbles  where Kiowa's head should've been.
He  remembered  grabbing  the  boot.  He  remembered  pulling  hard,  but how the field seemed to pull back, like a tug-of-war he couldn't win, and how finally he had to whisper his friend's name and let go and watch the boot  slide  away.  Then  for  a  long  time  there  were  things  he  could  not remember.  Various  sounds,  various  smells.  Later  he'd  found  himself lying  on  a  little  rise,  face-up,  tasting  the  field  in  his  mouth,  listening  to the  rain  and  explosions  and  bubbling  sounds.  He  was  alone.  He'd  lost everything.  He'd  lost  Kiowa  and  his  weapon  and  his  flashlight  and  his girlfriend's  picture.  He  remembered  this.  He  remembered  wondering  if he could lose himself.
Now,  in  the  dull  morning  rain,  the  boy  seemed  frantic.  He  waded quickly from spot to spot, leaning down and plunging his hands into the water. He did not look up when Lieutenant Jimmy Cross approached.
"Right here," the boy was saying. "Got to be right here."
Jimmy  Cross  remembered  the  kid's  face  but  not  the  name.  That happened  sometimes.  He  tried  to  treat  his  men  as  individuals  but sometimes the names just escaped him.
He  watched  the  young  soldier shove his hands into the water. "Right here," he kept saying. His movements seemed random and jerky.
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Jimmy  Cross  waited  a  moment,  then  stepped  closer.  "Listen,"  he  said quietly, "the guy could be anywhere."
The boy glanced up. "Who could?"
"Kiowa. You can't expect—"
"Kiowa's dead."
"Well, yes."
The young soldier nodded. "So what about Billie?"
"Who?"
"My girl. What about her? This picture, it was the only one I had. Right here, I lost it."
Jimmy  Cross  shook  his  head.  It  bothered  him  that  he  could  not  come up with a name.
"Slow down," he said, "I don't—"
"Billie's  picture.  I  had  it  all  wrapped  up,  I  had  it  in  plastic,  so  it'll  be okay  if  I  can  .  .  .  Last  night  we  were  looking  at  it,  me  and  Kiowa.  Right here. I know for sure it's right here somewhere."
Jimmy  Cross  smiled  at  the  boy.  "You  can  ask  her  for  another  one.  A better one."
"She  won't  send another one. She's not even my girl anymore, she won't. . . Man, I got to find it."
The boy yanked his arm free.
He  shuffled  sideways  and  stooped  down  again  and  dipped  into  the muck  with  both  hands.  His  shoulders  were  shaking.  Briefly,  Lieutenant Cross  wondered  where  the  kid's  weapon  was,  and  his  helmet,  but  it seemed better not to ask.
He  felt  some  pity  come  on  him.  For  a  moment  the  day  seemed  to soften.  So  much  hurt, he thought. He watched the young soldier wading through  the  water,  bending  down  and  then  standing  and  then  bending down again, as if something might finally be salvaged from all the waste.
Jimmy Cross silently wished the boy luck.
Then  he  closed  his  eyes  and  went  back  to  working  on  the  letter  to Kiowa's father.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Across  the  field  Azar  and  Norman  Bowker  and  Mitchell  Sanders  were wading alongside a narrow dike at the edge of the field. It was near noon now.
Norman  Bowker  found  Kiowa.  He  was  under  two  feet  of  water. Nothing showed except the heel of a boot.
"That's him?" Azar said.
"Who else?"
"I don't know." Azar shook his head. "I don't know."
Norman  Bowker  touched  the  boot,  covered  his  eyes  for  a  moment, then stood up and looked at Azar.
"So where's the joke?" he said.
"No joke."
"Eating shit. Let's hear that one."
"Forget it."
Mitchell Sanders told them to knock it off. The three soldiers moved to the  dike,  put  down  their  packs  and  weapons,  then  waded  back  to  where the  boot  was  showing.  The  body  lay  partly  wedged  under  a  layer  of  mud beneath  the  water.  It  was  hard  to  get  traction;  with  each  movement  the muck  would  grip  their  feet  and  hold  tight.  The  rain  had  come  back harder  now.  Mitchell  Sanders  reached  down  and  found  Kiowa's  other boot,  and  they  waited  a  moment,  then  Sanders  sighed  and  said,  "Okay," and they took hold of the two boots and pulled up hard. There was only a slight  give.  They  tried  again,  but  this  time  the  body  did  not  move  at  all. After the third try they stopped and looked down for a while. "One more time,"  Norman  Bowker  said.  He  counted  to  three  and  they  leaned  back and pulled.
"Stuck," said Mitchell Sanders.
"I see that. Christ."
They  tried  again,  then  called  over  Henry  Dobbins  and  Rat  Kiley,  and all  five  of  them  put  their  arms  and  backs  into it, but the body was jammed in tight.
Azar moved to the dike and sat holding his stomach. His face was pale.
The  others  stood  in  a  circle,  watching  the  water,  then  after  a  time somebody said, "We can't just leave him there," and the men nodded and got  out their entrenching tools and began digging. It was hard, sloppy
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
work. The mud seemed to flow back faster than they could dig, but Kiowa was their friend and they kept at it anyway.
Slowly,  in  little  groups,  the  rest  of  the  platoon  drifted  over  to  watch. Only Lieutenant Jimmy Cross and the young soldier were still searching the field.
"What we should do, I guess," Norman Bowker said, "is tell the LT."
Mitchell  Sanders  shook  his  head.  "Just  mess  things  up.  Besides,  the man looks happy out there, real content. Let him be."
After  ten  minutes  they  uncovered  most  of  Kiowa's  lower  body.  The corpse  was  angled  steeply  into  the  muck,  upside  down,  like  a  diver  who had  plunged  headfirst  off  a  high  tower.  The  men  stood  quietly  for  a  few seconds. There was a feeling of awe. Mitchell Sanders finally nodded and said,  "Let's  get  it  done,"  and  they  took  hold  of  the  legs  and  pulled  up hard,  then  pulled  again,  and  after  a  moment  Kiowa  came  sliding  to  the surface. A piece of his shoulder was missing; the arms and chest and face were  cut  up  with  shrapnel.  He  was  covered  with  bluish  green  mud. "Well,"  Henry  Dobbins  said,  "it  could  be  worse,"  and  Dave  Jensen  said, "How, man? Tell me how." Carefully, trying not to look at the body, they carried  Kiowa  over  to  the  dike  and  laid  him  down.  They  used  towels  to clean  off  the  scum.  Rat  Kiley  went  through  the  kid's  pockets,  placed  his personal effects in a plastic bag, taped the bag to Kiowa's wrist, then used the radio to call in a dustoff.
Moving  away,  the  men  found  things  to  do  with  themselves,  some smoking,  some  opening  up  cans  of  C  rations,  a  few  just  standing  in  the rain.
For all of them it was a relief to have it finished. There was the promise now  of  finding  a  hootch  somewhere,  or  an  abandoned  pagoda,  where they could strip down and wring out their fatigues and maybe start a hot fire.  They  felt  bad  for  Kiowa.  But  they  also  felt  a  kind  of  giddiness,  a secret  joy,  because  they  were  alive,  and  because  even  the  rain  was preferable  to  being  sucked  under  a  shit  field,  and  because  it  was  all  a matter of luck and happenstance.
Azar sat down on the dike next to Norman Bowker.
"Listen," he said. "Those dumb jokes—I didn't mean anything."
"We all say things."
"Yeah, but when I saw the guy, it made me feel—I don't know—like he was listening."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"He wasn't." "I  guess  not.  But  I  felt  sort  of  guilty  almost,  like  if  I'd  kept  my  mouth
shut none of it would've ever happened. Like it was my fault."
Norman Bowker looked out across the wet field. "Nobody's fault," he said. "Everybody's."
Near  the  center  of  the  field  First  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  squatted  in the  muck,  almost  entirely  submerged.  In  his  head  he  was  revising  the letter  to  Kiowa's  father.  Impersonal  this  time.  An  officer  expressing  an officer's condolences. No apologies were necessary, because in fact it was one  of  those  freak  things,  and  the  war  was  full  of  freaks,  and  nothing could ever change it anyway. Which was the truth, he thought. The exact truth.
Lieutenant  Cross  went  deeper  into  the  muck,  the  dark  water  at  his throat, and tried to tell himself it was the truth.
Beside  him,  a  few  steps  off  to  the  left,  the  young  soldier  was  still searching for his girlfriend's picture. Still remembering how he had killed Kiowa.
The boy wanted to confess. He wanted to tell the lieutenant how in the middle of the night he had pulled out Billie's picture and passed it over to Kiowa  and  then  switched  on  the  flashlight,  and  how  Kiowa  had whispered,  "Hey,  she's  cute,"  and  how  for  a  second  the  flashlight  had made  Billie's  face  sparkle,  and  how  right  then  the  field  had  exploded  all around  them.  The  flashlight  had  done  it.  Like  a  target  shining  in  the dark.
The boy looked up at the sky, then at Jimmy Cross.
"Sir?" he said.
The rain and mist moved across the field in broad, sweeping sheets of gray. Close by, there was thunder.
"Sir," the boy said, "I got to explain something."
But  Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  wasn't  listening.  Eyes  closed,  he  let himself  go  deeper  into  the  waste,  just  letting  the  field  take  him.  He  lay back and floated.
When  a  man  died,  there  had  to  be  blame.  Jimmy  Cross  understood this. You could blame the war. You could blame the idiots who made the war.  You  could  blame  Kiowa  for  going  to  it.  You  could  blame  the  rain.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
You  could  blame  the  river.  You  could  blame  the  field,  the  mud,  the climate.  You  could  blame  the enemy. You could blame the mortar rounds. You could blame people who were too lazy to read a newspaper, who  were  bored  by  the  daily  body  counts,  who  switched  channels  at  the mention  of  politics.  You  could  blame  whole  nations.  You  could  blame God.  You  could  blame  the  munitions  makers  or  Karl  Marx  or  a  trick  of fate or an old man in Omaha who forgot to vote.
In  the  field,  though,  the  causes  were  immediate.  A  moment  of carelessness  or  bad  judgment  or  plain  stupidity  carried  consequences that lasted forever.
For  a  long  while  Jimmy  Cross  lay  floating.  In  the  clouds  to  the  east there  was  the  sound  of  a  helicopter,  but  he  did  not  take  notice.  With  his eyes  still  closed,  bobbing  in  the  field,  he  let  himself  slip  away.  He  was back  home  in  New  Jersey.  A  golden  afternoon  on  the  golf  course,  the fairways lush and green, and he was teeing it up on the first hole. It was a world without responsibility. When the war was over, he thought, maybe then  he  would  write  a  letter  to  Kiowa's  father.  Or  maybe  not.  Maybe  he would  just  take  a  couple  of  practice  swings  and  knock  the  ball  down  the middle and pick up his clubs and walk off into the afternoon.
Good Form
It's time to be blunt. I'm  forty-three  years  old,  true,  and  I'm  a  writer  now,  and  a  long  time
ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier.
Almost everything else is invented.
But it's not a game. It's a form. Right here, now, as I invent myself, I'm
thinking  of  all  I  want  to  tell  you  about  why  this  book  is  written  as  it  is.
For  instance,  I  want  to  tell  you  this:  twenty  years  ago  I  watched  a  man
die  on  a  trail  near  the  village  of  My  Khe.  I  did  not  kill  him.  But  I  was
present, you see, and my presence was guilt enough. I remember his face,
which  was  not  a  pretty  face,  because  his  jaw  was  in  his  throat,  and  I
remember feeling the burden of responsibility and grief. I blamed myself.
And rightly so, because I was present.
But listen. Even that story is made up.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I  want  you  to  feel  what  I  felt.  I  want  you  to  know  why  story-truth  is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
Here  is  the  happening-truth.  I  was  once  a  soldier.  There  were  many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then and I was afraid to  look.  And  now,  twenty  years  later,  I'm  left  with  faceless  responsibility and faceless grief.
Here is the story-truth. He was a slim, dead, almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My  Khe.  His  jaw  was  in  his  throat.  His  one  eye  was  shut,  the  other  eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him.
What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
I  can  look  at  things  I  never  looked  at.  I  can  attach  faces  to  grief  and love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again.
"Daddy, tell the truth," Kathleen can say, "did you ever kill anybody?" And I can say, honestly, "Of course not."
Or I can say, honestly, "Yes."
Field Trip
A  few  months  after  completing  "In  the  Field,"  I  returned  with  my daughter  to  Vietnam,  where  we  visited  the  site  of  Kiowa's  death,  and where I looked for signs of forgiveness or personal grace or whatever else the  land  might  offer.  The  field  was  still  there,  though  not  as  I remembered  it.  Much  smaller,  I  thought,  and  not  nearly  so  menacing, and  in  the  bright  sunlight  it  was  hard  to  picture  what  had  happened  on this ground some twenty years ago. Except for a few marshy spots along the  river,  everything  was  bone  dry.  No  ghosts—just  a  flat,  grassy  field. The place was at peace. There were yellow butterflies. There was a breeze and a wide blue sky. Along the river two old farmers stood in ankle-deep water,  repairing  the  same  narrow  dike  where  we  had  laid  out  Kiowa's body after pulling him from the muck. Things were quiet. At one point, I remember,  one  of  the  farmers  looked  up  and  shaded  his  eyes,  staring across  the  field  at  us,  then after a time he wiped his forehead and went back to work.
I  stood  with  my  arms  folded,  feeling  the  grip  of  sentiment  and  time. Amazing, I thought. Twenty years.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Behind  me,  in  the  jeep,  my  daughter  Kathleen  sat  waiting  with  a government  interpreter,  and  now  and  then  I  could  hear  the  two  of  them talking  in  soft  voices.  They  were  already  fast  friends.  Neither  of  them,  I think, understood what all this was about, why I'd insisted that we search out  this  spot.  It  had  been  a  hard  two-hour  ride  from  Quang  Ngai  City, bumpy  dirt  roads  and  a  hot  August  sun,  ending  up  at  an  empty  field  on the edge of nowhere.
I took out my camera, snapped a couple of pictures, then stood gazing out at the field. After a time Kathleen got out of the jeep and stood beside me.
"You know what I think?" she said. "I think this place stinks. It smells like . . . God, I don't even know what. It smells rotten."
"It sure does. I know that."
"So when can we go?"
"Pretty soon," I said.
She  started  to  say  something  but  then  hesitated.  Frowning,  she squinted out at the field for a second, then shrugged and walked back to the jeep.
Kathleen  had  just  turned  ten,  and  this  trip  was  a  kind  of  birthday present,  showing  her  the  world,  offering  a  small  piece  of  her  father's history. For the most part she'd held up well—far better than I—and over the  first  two  weeks  she'd  trooped  along  without  complaint  as  we  hit  the obligatory  tourist  stops.  Ho  Chi  Minh's  mausoleum  in  Hanoi.  A  model farm  outside  Saigon.  The  tunnels  at  Cu  Chi.  The  monuments  and government offices and orphanages. Through most of this, Kathleen had seemed to enjoy the foreignness of it all, the exotic food and animals, and even  during  those  periods  of  boredom  and  discomfort  she'd  kept  up  a good-humored tolerance. At the same time, however, she'd seemed a bit puzzled. The war was as remote to her as cavemen and dinosaurs.
One morning in Saigon she'd asked what it was all about. "This whole war," she said, "why was everybody so mad at everybody else?"
I shook my head. "They weren't mad, exactly. Some people wanted one thing, other people wanted another thing."
"What did you want?"
"Nothing," I said. "To stay alive."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"That's all?" "Yes." Kathleen sighed. "Well, I don't get it. I mean, how come you were even
here in the first place?"
"I don't know," I said. "Because I had to be." "But why?" I  tried  to  find  something  to  tell  her,  but  finally  I  shrugged  and  said,
"It's a mystery, I guess. I don't know."
For  the  rest  of  the  day  she  was  very  quiet.  That  night,  though,  just before  bedtime,  Kathleen  put  her hand on my shoulder and said, "You know something? Sometimes you're pretty weird, aren't you?"
"Well, no," I said.
"You  are  too."  She  pulled  her  hand  away  and  frowned  at  me.  "Like coming  over  here.  Some  dumb  thing  happens  a  long  time  ago  and  you can't ever forget it."
"And that's bad?"
"No," she said quietly. "That's weird."
In  the  second  week  of  August,  near  the  end  of  our  stay,  I'd  arranged for  the  side  trip  up  to  Quang  Ngai.  The  tourist  stuff  was  fine,  but  from the  start  I'd  wanted  to  take  my  daughter  to  the  places  I'd  seen  as  a soldier. I wanted to show her the Vietnam that kept me awake at night—a shady  trail  outside  the  village  of  My  Khe,  a  filthy  old  pigsty  on  the Batangan Peninsula. Our time was short, however, and choices had to be made, and in the end I decided to take her to this piece of ground where my  friend  Kiowa  had  died.  It  seemed  appropriate.  And,  besides,  I  had business here.
Now,  looking  out  at  the  field,  I  wondered  if  it  was  all  a  mistake. Everything was too ordinary. A quiet sunny day, and the field was not the field I remembered. I pictured Kiowa's face, the way he used to smile, but all I felt was the awkwardness of remembering.
Behind  me,  Kathleen  let  out  a  little  giggle.  The  interpreter  was showing her magic tricks.
There  were  birds and butterflies, the soft rustlings of rural-anywhere. Below,  in  the  earth,  the  relics  of  our  presence  were  no  doubt  still  there, the  canteens  and  bandoliers  and  mess  kits.  This  little  field,  I  thought,
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
had swallowed so much. My best friend. My pride. My belief in myself as a  man  of  some  small  dignity  and  courage.  Still,  it  was  hard  to  find  any real emotion. It simply wasn't there. After that long night in the rain, I'd seemed  to  grow  cold  inside,  all  the  illusions  gone,  all  the  old  ambitions and  hopes  for myself sucked away into the mud. Over the years, that coldness  had  never  entirely  disappeared.  There  were  times  in  my  life when I couldn't feel much, not sadness or pity or passion, and somehow I blamed this place for what I had become, and I blamed it for taking away the person I had once been. For twenty years this field had embodied all the waste that was Vietnam, all the vulgarity and horror.
Now,  it  was  just  what  it  was.  Flat  and  dreary  and  unremarkable.  I walked up toward the river, trying to pick out specific landmarks, but all I  recognized  was  a  small  rise  where  Jimmy  Cross  had  set  up  his command  post  that  night.  Nothing  else.  For  a  while  I  watched  the  two old  farmers  working  under  the  hot  sun.  I  took  a  few  more  photographs, waved at the farmers, then turned and moved back to the jeep.
Kathleen gave me a little nod.
"Well," she said, "I hope you're having fun."
"Sure."
"Can we go now?"
"In a minute," I said. "Just relax."
At  the  back  of  the  jeep  I  found  the  small  cloth  bundle  I'd  carried  over from the States.
Kathleen's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"Stuff," I told her.
She  glanced  at  the  bundle  again,  then  hopped  out  of  the  jeep  and followed  me  back  to  the  field.  We  walked  past  Jimmy  Cross's  command post, past the spot where Kiowa had gone under, down to where the field dipped into the marshland along the river. I took off my shoes and socks.
"Okay," Kathleen said, "what's going on?"
"A quick swim."
"Where?"
"Right here," I said. "Stay put."
She  watched  me  unwrap  the  cloth  bundle.  Inside  were  Kiowa's  old moccasins.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I stripped down to my underwear, took off my wrist-watch, and waded in. The water was warm against my feet. Instantly, I recognized the soft, fat feel of the bottom. The water here was eight inches deep.
Kathleen  seemed  nervous.  She  squinted at me, her hands fluttering. "Listen, this is stupid," she said, "you can't even hardly get wet. How can you swim out there?"
"I'll manage."
"But  it's  not  ...  I  mean,  God,  it's  not  even  water,  it's  like  mush  or something."
She  pinched  her  nose  and  watched me wade out to where the water reached  my  knees.  Roughly  here,  I  decided,  was  where  Mitchell  Sanders had found Kiowa's rucksack. I eased myself down, squatting at first, then sitting.  There  was  again  that  sense  of  recognition.  The  water  rose  to midchest,  a  deep  greenish  brown,  almost  hot.  Small  water  bugs  skipped along  the  surface.  Right  here,  I  thought.  Leaning  forward,  I  reached  in with  the  moccasins  and  wedged  them  into  the  soft  bottom,  letting  them slide  away.  Tiny  bubbles  broke  along  the  surface.  I  tried  to  think  of something  decent  to  say,  something  meaningful  and  right,  but  nothing came to me.
I looked down into the field.
"Well," I finally managed. "There it is."
My  voice  surprised  me.  It  had  a  rough,  chalky  sound,  full  of  things  I did  not  know  were there. I wanted to tell Kiowa that he'd been a great friend, the very best, but all I could do was slap hands with the water.
The  sun  made  me  squint.  Twenty  years.  A  lot  like  yesterday,  a  lot  like never.  In  a  way,  maybe,  I'd  gone  under  with  Kiowa,  and  now after two decades  I'd  finally  worked  my  way  out.  A  hot  afternoon,  a  bright  August sun,  and  the  war  was  over.  For  a  few  moments  I  could  not  bring  myself to  move.  Like  waking  from  a  summer  nap,  feeling  lazy  and  sluggish,  the world collecting itself around me. Fifty meters up the field one of the old farmers  stood  watching  from  along  the  dike.  The  man's  face  was  dark and  solemn.  As  we  stared  at  each  other,  neither  of  us  moving,  I  felt something go shut in my heart while something else swung open. Briefly, I wondered if the old man might walk over to exchange a few war stories, but instead he picked up a shovel and raised it over his head and held it there for a time, grimly, like a flag, then he brought the shovel down and
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
said  something  to  his  friend  and  began  digging  into  the  hard,  dry ground.
I stood up and waded out of the water.
"What  a  mess,"  Kathleen  said.  "All  that  gunk  on  your  skin,  you  look like  .  .  .  Wait'll  I  tell  Mommy,  she'll  probably  make  you  sleep  in  the garage."
"You're right," I said. "Don't tell her."
I pulled on my shoes, took my daughter's hand, and led her across the field toward the jeep. Soft heat waves shimmied up out of the earth.
When  we  reached  the  jeep,  Kathleen  turned  and  glanced  out  at  the field.
"That old man," she said, "is he mad at you or something?"
"I hope not."
"He looks mad."
"No," I said. "All that's finished."
The Ghost Soldiers
I was shot twice. The first time, out by Tri Binh, it knocked me against the  pagoda  wall,  and  I  bounced  and  spun  around  and  ended  up  on  Rat Kiley's  lap.  A  lucky  thing,  because  Rat  was  the  medic.  He  tied  on  a compress  and  told  me  to  ease  back,  then  he  ran  off  toward  the  fighting. For  a  long  time  I  lay  there  all  alone,  listening  to  the  battle,  thinking  I've been  shot,  I've  been  shot:  all  those  Gene  Autry  movies  I'd  seen  as  a  kid. In fact, I almost smiled, except then I started to think I might die. It was the  fear,  mostly,  but  I  felt  wobbly,  and  then  I  had  a  sinking  sensation, ears  all  plugged  up,  as  if  I'd  gone  deep  under  water.  Thank  God  for  Rat Kiley.  Every  so  often,  maybe  four  times  altogether,  he  trotted  back  to check me out. Which took courage. It was a wild fight, guys running and laying down fire and regrouping and running again, lots of noise, but Rat Kiley  took  the  risks.  "Easy  does  it,"  he  told  me,  "just  a  side  wound,  no problem  unless  you're  pregnant."  He  ripped  off  the  compress,  applied  a fresh one, and told me to clamp it in place with my fingers. "Press hard," he  said.  "Don't  worry  about  the  baby."  Then  he  took  off.  It  was  almost dark when the fighting ended and the chopper came to take me and two
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
dead  guys  away.  "Happy  trails,"  Rat  said.  He  helped  me  into  the helicopter  and  stood  there  for  a  moment.  Then  he  did  an  odd  thing.  He leaned  in  and  put  his  head  against  my  shoulder  and  almost  hugged  me. Coming from Rat Kiley, that was something new.
On the ride into Chu Lai, I kept waiting for the pain to hit, but in fact I didn't feel much. A throb, that's all. Even in the hospital it wasn't bad.
When  I  got  back  to  Alpha  Company  twenty-six  days  later,  in  mid-
December, Rat Kiley had been wounded and shipped off to Japan, and a new medic named Bobby Jorgenson had replaced him. Jorgenson was no Rat Kiley. He was green and incompetent and scared. So when I got shot the second time, in the butt, along the Song Tra Bong, it took the son of a bitch  almost  ten  minutes  to  work  up  the  nerve  to  crawl  over  to  me.  By then I was gone with the pain. Later I found out I'd almost died of shock. Bobby  Jorgenson  didn't  know  about  shock,  or  if  he  did,  the  fear  made him  forget.  To  make  it  worse,  he  bungled  the  patch  job,  and  a  couple  of weeks later my ass started to rot away. You could actually peel off chunks of skin with your fingernail.
It  was  borderline  gangrene.  I  spent  a  month  flat  on  my  stomach;  I couldn't  walk  or  sit;  I  couldn't  sleep.  I  kept  seeing  Bobby  Jorgenson's scared-white  face.  Those  buggy  eyes  and  the  way  his  lips  twitched  and that  silly  excuse  he  had  for  a  mustache.  After  the  rot  cleared  up,  once  I could think straight, I devoted a lot of time to figuring ways to get back at him.
Getting  shot  should  be  an  experience  from  which  you  can  draw  some small  pride.  I  don't  mean  the  macho  stuff.  All  I  mean  is  that  you  should be able to talk about it: the stiff thump of the bullet, like a fist, the way it knocks the air out of you and makes you cough, how the sound of the gunshot  arrives  about  ten  years  later,  and  the  dizzy  feeling,  the  smell  of yourself,  the  things  you  think  about  and  say  and  do  right  afterward,  the way  your  eyes  focus  on  a  tiny  white  pebble  or  a  blade  of  grass  and  how you start thinking, Oh man, that's the last thing I'll ever see, that pebble, that blade of grass, which makes you want to cry.
Pride  isn't  the  right  word.  I  don't  know  the  right  word.  All  I  know  is, you shouldn't feel embarrassed. Humiliation shouldn't be part of it.
Diaper rash, the nurses called it. An in-joke, I suppose. But it made me hate  Bobby  Jorgenson  the  way  some  guys  hated  the  VC,  gut  hate,  the kind of hate that stays with you even in your dreams.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I  guess  the  higher-ups  decided  I'd  been  shot  enough.  At  the  end  of December,  when  I  was  released  from  the  91st  Evac  Hospital,  they transferred  me  over  to  Headquarters  Company—S-4,  the  battalion supply  section.  Compared  with  the  boonies  it  was  cushy  duty.  We  had regular  hours.  There  was  an  EM  club  with  beer  and  movies,  sometimes even  live  floor  shows,  the  whole  blurry  slow  motion  of  the  rear.  For  the first  time  in  months  I  felt  reasonably  safe.  The  battalion  firebase  was built into a hill just off Highway 1, surrounded on all sides by flat paddy land, and between us and the paddies there were reinforced bunkers and observation  towers  and  trip  flares  and  rolls  of  razor-tipped  barbed  wire. You  could  still  die,  of  course—once  a  month  we'd  get  hit  with  mortar fire—but  you  could  also  die  in  the  bleachers  at  Met  Stadium  in Minneapolis, bases loaded, Harmon Killebrew coming to the plate.
I  didn't  complain.  In  an  odd  way,  though,  there  were  times  when  I missed the adventure, even the danger, of the real war out in the boonies. It's  a  hard  thing  to  explain  to  somebody  who  hasn't  felt  it,  but  the presence  of  death  and  danger  has  a  way  of  bringing  you  fully  awake.  It makes  things  vivid.  When  you're  afraid,  really  afraid,  you  see  things  you never saw before, you pay attention to the world. You make close friends. You  become  part  of  a  tribe  and  you  share  the  same  blood—you  give  it together,  you  take  it  together.  On  the  other  hand,  I'd  already  been  hit with two bullets; I was superstitious; I believed in the odds with the same passion  that  my  friend  Kiowa  had  once  believed  in  Jesus  Christ,  or  the way  Mitchell  Sanders  believed  in  the  power  of  morals.  I  figured  my  war was  over.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  the  constant  ache  in  my  butt,  I'm  sure things would've worked out fine.
But it hurt.
At night I had to sleep on my belly. That doesn't sound so terrible until you  consider  that  I'd  been  a  back-sleeper  all  my  life.  I'd  lie  there  all fidgety and tight, then after a while I'd feel a swell of anger come on. I'd squirm  around,  cussing,  half  nuts  with  pain,  and  pretty  soon  I'd  start remembering  how  Bobby  Jorgenson  had  almost  killed  me.  Shock,  I'd think—how could he forget to treat for shock?
I'd  remember  how  long  it  took  him  to  get  to  me,  and  how  his  fingers were all jerky and nervous, and the way his lips kept twitching under that ridiculous little mustache.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
The  nights  were  miserable.  Sometimes  I'd  roam  around  the  base.  I'd head  down  to  the  wire  and  stare  out  at  the  darkness,  out  where  the  war was, and think up ways to make Bobby Jorgenson feel exactly what I felt. I wanted to hurt him.
In March, Alpha Company came in for stand-down. I was there at the helipad  to  meet  the  choppers.  Mitchell  Sanders  and  Azar  and  Henry Dobbins  and  Dave  Jensen  and  Norman  Bowker  slapped  hands  with  me and  we  piled  their  gear  in  my  jeep and drove down to the Alpha hootches. We partied until chow time. Afterward, we kept on partying. It was  one  of  the  rituals.  Even  if  you  weren't  in  the  mood,  you  did  it  on principle.
By midnight it was story time.
"Morty Phillips used up his luck," Bowker said.
I  smiled  and  waited.  There  was  a  tempo  to  how  stories  got  told. Bowker peeled open a finger blister and sucked on it.
"Go on," Azar said. "Tell him everything."
"Well, that's about it. Poor Morty wasted his luck. Pissed it away."
"On nothing," Azar said. "The dummy pisses it away on nothing."
Norman  Bowker  nodded,  started  to  speak,  but  then  stopped  and  got up  and  moved  to  the  cooler  and  shoved  his  hands  deep  into  the  ice.  He was naked except for his shorts and dog tags. In a way, I envied him—all of them. Their deep bush tans, the sores and blisters, the stories, the in-
it-togethemess.  I  felt  close  to  them,  yes,  but  I  also  felt  a  new  sense  of separation. My fatigues were starched; I had a neat haircut and the clean, sterile smell of the rear. They were still my buddies, at least on one level, but once you leave the boonies, the whole comrade business gets turned around. You become a civilian. You forfeit membership in the family, the blood fraternity, and no matter how hard you try, you can't pretend to be part of it.
That's  how  I  felt—like  a  civilian—and  it  made  me  sad.  These  guys  had been my brothers. We'd loved one another.
Norman  Bowker  bent  forward  and  scooped  up  some  ice  against  his chest,  pressing  it  there  for  a  moment,  then  he  fished  out  a  beer  and snapped it open.
"It  was  out  by  My  Khe,"  he  said  quietly.  "One  of  those  killer  hot  days, hot-hot,  and  we're  all  popping  salt  tabs  just  to  stay  conscious.  Can't
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
barely  breathe.  Everybody's  lying  around,  just  grooving  it,  and  after  a while  somebody  says, 'Hey, where's Morty?' So the lieutenant does a head count, and guess what? No Morty."
"Gone," Ealasaid. "Poof. Novocain' Morty."
Norman  Bowker  nodded.  "Anyhow,  we  send  out  two  search  patrols. No dice. Not a trace." Pausing a second, Bowker poured a trickle of beer onto  his  blister  and  licked  at  it.  "By  then  it's  almost  dark.  Lieutenant Cross,  he's  ready  to  have  a  fit—you  know  how  he  gets,  right?—and  then, guess what? Take a guess."
"Morty shows," I said.
"You  got  it,  man.  Morty  shows.  We  almost  chalk  him  up  as  MIA,  and then, bingo, he shows."
"Soaking wet," said Azar.
"Hey, listen—"
"Okay, but tell it."
Norman  Bowker  frowned.  "Soaking  wet,"  he  said.  "Turns  out  the moron  went  for  a  swim.  You  believe  that?  All  alone,  he  just  takes  off, hikes  a  couple  klicks,  finds  himself  a  river  and  strips  down  and  hops  in and  starts  doing  the  goddamn  breast  stroke  or  some  such  fine  shit.  No security, no nothing. I mean, the dude goes skinny dipping."
Azar giggled. "A hot day."
"Not that hot," said Dave Jensen.
"Hot, though."
"Get  the  picture?"  Bowker  said.  "This  is  My  Khe  we're  talking  about, dinks everywhere, and the guy goes for a swim."
"Crazy," I said.
I  looked  across  the  hootch.  Twenty  or  thirty  guys  were  there,  some drinking,  some  passed  out,  but  I  couldn't  find  Morty  Phillips  among them.
Bowker  smiled.  He  reached  out  and  put  his  hand  on  my  knee  and squeezed.
"That's the kicker, man. No more Morty."
"No?"
"Morty's  luck  gets  all  used  up,"  Bowker  said.  His  hand  still  rested  on my knee, very lightly. "A few days later, maybe a week, he feels real dizzy. Pukes  a  lot,  temperature  zooms  way  up.  I  mean,  the  guy's  sick.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Jorgenson  says  he  must've  swallowed  bad  water  on  that  swim. Swallowed a VC virus or something."
"Bobby Jorgenson," I said. "Where is he?"
"Be cool."
"Where's my good buddy Bobby?"
Norman  Bowker  made  a  short  clicking  sound  with  his  tongue.  "You want to hear this? Yes or no?"
"Sure I do."
"So listen up, then. Morty gets sick. Like you never seen nobody so bad off.  This  is  real  kickass  disease,  he  can't  walk  or  talk,  can't  fart.  Can't nothin'. Like he's paralyzed. Polio, maybe."
Henry Dobbins shook his head. "Not polio. You got it wrong."
"Maybe polio."
"No way," said Dobbins. "Not polio."
"Well, hey," Bowker said, "I'm just saying what Jorgenson says. Maybe fuckin'  polio.  Or  that  weird  elephant  disease.  Elephantiasshole  or whatever."
"Yeah, but not polio."
Across the hootch, sitting off by himself, Azar grinned and snapped his fingers.  "Either  way,"  he  said,  "it  goes  to  show  you.  Don't  throw  away luck on little stuff. Save it up."
"There it is," said Mitchell Sanders.
"Morty was due," Dave Jensen said.
"Overdue," Sanders said.
Norman  Bowker  nodded  solemnly.  "You  don't  mess  around  like  that. You just don't fritter away all your luck."
"Amen," said Sanders.
"Fuckin' polio," said Henry Dobbins.
We sat quietly for a time. There was no need to talk, because we were thinking the same things: about Morty Phillips and the way luck worked and  didn't  work  and  how  it  was  impossible  to  calculate  the  odds.  There were  a  million  ways  to  die.  Getting  shot  was  one  way.  Booby  traps  and land mines and gangrene and shock and polio from a VC virus.
"Where's Jorgenson?" I said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Another  thing.  Three  times  a  day,  no  matter  what,  I  had  to  stop whatever I was doing. I had to go find a private place and drop my pants and smear on this antibacterial ointment. The stuff left stains on the seat of  my  trousers,  big  yellow  splotches,  and  so  naturally  there  were  some jokes.  There  was  one  about  rear  guard  duty.  There  was  another  one about  hemorrhoids  and  how  I  had  trouble  putting  the  past  behind  me. The others weren't quite so funny.
During the first full day of Alpha's stand-down, I didn't run into Bobby Jorgenson  once.  Not  at  chow,  not  at  the  EM  club,  not  even  during  our long booze sessions in the Alpha Company hootch. At one point I almost went looking for him, but my friend Mitchell Sanders told me to forget it.
"Let it ride," he said. "The kid messed up bad, for sure, but you have to take  into  account  how  green  he  was.  Brand-new,  remember?  Thing  is, he's  doing  a  lot  better  now.  I  mean,  listen,  the  guy  knows  his  shit.  Say what you want, but he kept Morty Phillips alive."
"And that makes it okay?"
Sanders  shrugged.  "People  change.  Situations  change.  I  hate  to  say this, man, but you're out of touch. Jorgenson—he's with us now."
"And I'm not?"
Sanders looked at me for a moment.
"No," he said. "I guess you're not."
Stiffly, like a stranger, Sanders moved across the hootch and lay down with a magazine and pretended to read.
I  felt  something  shift  inside  me.  It was anger, partly, but it was also a sense  of  pure  and  total  loss:  I  didn't  fit  anymore.  They  were  soldiers,  I wasn't.  In  a  few  days  they'd  saddle  up  and  head  back  into  the  bush,  and I'd  stand  up  on  the  helipad  to  watch  them  march  away,  and  then  after they  were  gone  I'd  spend  the  day  loading  resupply  choppers  until  it  was time  to  catch  a  movie  or  play  cards  or  drink  myself  to  sleep.  A  funny thing, but I felt betrayed.
For a long while I just stared at Mitchell Sanders.
"Loyalty," I said. "Such a pal."
In the morning I ran into Bobby Jorgenson. I was loading Hueys up on the  helipad,  and  when  the  last  bird  took  off,  while  I  was  putting  on  my shirt, I looked over and saw him leaning against my jeep, waiting for me.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
It was a surprise. He seemed smaller than I remembered, a little squirrel of a guy, short and stumpy-looking.
He nodded nervously.
"Well," he said.
At  first  I  just  looked  down  at  his  boots.  Those  boots:  I  remembered them from when I got shot. Out along the Song Tra Bong, a bullet inside me, all that pain, but for some reason what stuck to my memory was the smooth  unblemished  leather  of  his  fine  new  boots.  Factory  black,  no scuffs  or  dust  or  red  clay.  The  boots  were  one  of  those  vivid  details  you can't  forget.  Like  a  pebble  or  a  blade  of  grass,  you  just  stare  and  think, Dear Christ, there's the last thing on earth I'll ever see.
Jorgenson  blinked  and  tried  to  smile.  Oddly,  I  almost  felt  some  pity for him.
"Look," he said, "can we talk?"
I  didn't  move.  I  didn't  say  a  word.  Jorgenson's  tongue  flicked  out, moving along the edge of his mustache, then slipped away.
"Listen,  man,  I  fucked  up,"  he  said.  "What  else  can  I  say?  I'm  sorry. When  you  got  hit,  I  kept  telling  myself  to  move,  move,  but  I  couldn't  do it, like I was full of drugs or something. You ever feel like that? Like you can't even move?"
"No," I said, "I never did."
"But can't you at least—"
"Excuses?"
Jorgenson's lip twitched. "No, I botched it. Period. Got all frozen up, I guess.  The  noise  and  shooting  and  everything—my  first  firefight—I  just couldn't  handle  it  ...  When  I  heard  about  the  shock,  the  gangrene,  I  felt like ... I felt miserable. Nightmares, too. I kept seeing you lying out there, heard  you  screaming,  but  it  was  like  my  legs  were  filled  up  with  sand, they  didn't  work.  I'd  keep  trying  but  I  couldn't  make  my  goddamn  legs work."
He made a small sound in his throat, something low and feathery, and for  a  second  I  was  afraid  he  might  bawl.  That  would've  ended  it.  I would've  patted  his  shoulder  and  told  him  to  forget  it.  But  he  kept control.  He  swallowed  whatever  the  sound  was  and  forced  a  smile  and tried to shake my hand. It gave me an excuse to glare at him.
"It's not that easy," I said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Tim, I can't go back and do things over."
"My ass."
Jorgenson  kept  pushing  his  hand  out  at  me.  He  looked  so  earnest,  so
sad and hurt, that it almost made me feel guilty. Not quite, though. After
a  second  I  muttered  something  and  got  into  my  jeep  and  put  it  to  the
floor and left him standing there.
I hated him for making me stop hating him.
Something  had  gone wrong. I'd come to this war a quiet, thoughtful sort of person, a college grad, Phi Beta Kappa and summa cum laude, all the  credentials,  but  after  seven  months  in  the  bush  I  realized  that  those high, civilized trappings had somehow been crushed under the weight of the  simple  daily  realities.  I'd  turned  mean  inside.  Even  a  little  cruel  at times.  For  all  my  education,  all  my  fine  liberal  values,  I  now  felt  a  deep coldness inside me, something dark and beyond reason. It's a hard thing to  admit,  even  to  myself,  but  I  was  capable  of  evil.  I  wanted  to  hurt Bobby Jorgenson the way he'd hurt me. For weeks it had been a vow—I'll get him, I'll get him—it was down inside me like a rock. Granted, I didn't hate him anymore, and I'd lost some of the outrage and passion, but the need  for  revenge  kept  eating  at  me.  At  night  I  sometimes  drank  too much.  I'd  remember  getting  shot  and  yelling  out  for  a  medic  and  then waiting  and  waiting  and  waiting,  passing  out  once,  then  waking  up  and screaming  some  more,  and  how  the  screaming seemed to make new pain,  the  awful  stink  of  myself,  the  sweat  and  fear,  Bobby  Jorgenson's clumsy fingers when he finally got around to working on me. I kept going over  it  all,  every  detail.  I  remembered  the  soft,  fluid  heat  of  my  own blood.  Shock,  I  thought,  and  I  tried  to  tell  him  that,  but  my  tongue wouldn't make the connection. I wanted to yell, "You jerk, it's shock—I'm dying" but all I could do was whinny and squeal. I remembered that, and the hospital, and the nurses. I even remembered the rage. But I couldn't feel  it  anymore.  In  the  end,  all  I  felt  was  that  coldness  down  inside  my chest.  Number  one:  the  guy  had  almost  killed  me.  Number  two:  there had to be consequences.
That afternoon I asked Mitchell Sanders to give me a hand.
"No  pain,"  I  said.  "Basic  psychology,  that's  all.  Mess  with  his  head  a little."
"Negative," Sanders said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Spook the fucker." Sanders shook his head. "Man, you're sick." "All I want is—" "Sick." Quietly, Sanders looked at me for a second and then walked away. I had to get Azar in on it. He  didn't  have  Mitchell  Sanders's  intelligence,  but  he  had  a  keener
sense  of  justice.  After  I  explained  the  plan,  Azar  gave  me  a  long  white
smile.
"Tonight?" he said.
"Just don't get carried away."
"Me?"
Still smiling, Azar flicked an eyebrow and started snapping his fingers.
It  was  a  tic  of  his.  Whenever  things  got  tense,  whenever  there  was  a
prospect  for  action,  he'd  do  that  snapping  thing.  Nobody  cared  for  him,
including myself.
"Understand?" I said. Azar winked. "Roger-dodger. Only a game, right?"
We  called  the  enemy  ghosts.  "Bad  night,"  we'd  say,  "the  ghosts  are out." To get spooked, in the lingo, meant not only to get scared but to get killed. "Don't get spooked," we'd say. "Stay cool, stay alive." Or we'd say: "Careful,  man,  don't  give  up  the  ghost."  The  countryside  itself  seemed spooky—shadows and tunnels and incense burning in the dark. The land was  haunted.  We  were  fighting  forces  that  did  not  obey  the  laws  of twentieth-century  science.  Late  at  night,  on  guard,  it  seemed  that  all  of Vietnam was alive and shimmering—odd shapes swaying in the paddies, boogiemen  in  sandals,  spirits  dancing  in  old  pagodas.  It  was  ghost country,  and  Charlie  Cong  was  the  main  ghost.  The  way  he  came  out  at night.  How  you  never  really  saw  him,  just  thought  you  did.  Almost magical—appearing,  disappearing.  He  could  blend  with  the  land, changing form, becoming trees and grass. He could levitate. He could fly. He  could  pass  through  barbed  wire  and  melt  away  like  ice  and  creep  up on you without sound or footsteps. He was scary. In the daylight, maybe, you didn't believe in this stuff. You laughed it off. You made jokes. But at night you turned into a believer: no skeptics in foxholes.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Azar  was  wound  up  tight.  All  afternoon,  while  we  made  the preparations,  he  kept  chanting,  "Halloween,  Halloween."  That,  plus  the finger snapping, almost made me cancel the whole operation. I went hot and cold. Mitchell Sanders wouldn't speak to me, which tended to cool it off,  but  then  I'd  start  remembering  things.  The  result  was  a  kind  of numbness.  No  ice,  no  heat.  I  just  went  through  the  motions,  rigidly,  by the  numbers,  without  any  heart  or  real  emotion.  I  rigged  up  my  special effects,  checked  out  the  terrain,  measured  distances,  collected  the ordnance and equipment we'd need. I was professional enough about it, I didn't make mistakes, but somehow it felt as if I were gearing up to fight somebody else's war. I didn't have that patriotic zeal.
If  there  had  been  a  dignified  way  out,  I  might've  taken  it.  During evening  chow,  in  fact,  I  kept  staring  across  the  mess  hall  at  Bobby Jorgenson, and when he finally looked up at me, almost nodding, I came very close to calling it quits. Maybe I was fishing for something. One last apology—something public. But Jorgenson only gazed back at me. It was a  strange  gaze,  too,  straight  on  and  unafraid,  as  if  apologies  were  no longer  required.  He  was  sitting  there  with  Dave  Jensen  and  Mitchell Sanders  and  a  few  others,  and  he  seemed  to  fit  in  very  nicely,  all  smiles and group rapport.
That's probably what cinched it.
I went back to my hootch, showered, shaved, threw my helmet against the  wall,  lay  down  for  a  while,  got  up,  prowled  around,  talked  to  myself, applied some fresh ointment, then headed off to find Azar.
Just before dusk, Alpha Company stood for roll call.
Afterward  the  men  separated  into  two  groups.  Some  went  off  to  write letters  or  party  or  sleep;  the  others  trooped  down  to  the  base  perimeter, where, for the next eleven hours, they would pull night guard duty. It was SOP—one night on, one night off.
This was Jorgenson's night on. I knew that in advance, of course. And I  knew  his  bunker  assignment:  Bunker  Six,  a  pile  of  sandbags  at  the southwest  corner  of  the  perimeter.  That  morning  I'd  scouted  out  every inch  of  his  position;  I  knew  the  blind  spots  and  the  little  ripples  of  land and  the  places  where  he'd  take  cover  in  case  of  trouble.  But  still,  just  to guard  against  freak  screw-ups,  Azar  and  I  tailed  him  down  to  the  wire. We  watched  him  lay  out  his  poncho  and  connect  his  Claymores  to  their firing  devices.  Softly,  like  a  little  boy,  he  was  whistling  to  himself.  He
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
tested  his  radio,  unwrapped  a  candy  bar,  then  sat  back  with  his  rifle cradled to his chest like a teddy bear.
"A  pigeon,"  Azar  whispered.  "Roast  pigeon  on  a  spit.  I  smell  it sizzling."
"Except this isn't for real."
Azar  shrugged.  After  a  second  he  reached  out  and  clapped  me  on  the shoulder, not roughly but not gently either. "What's real?" he said. "Eight months  in  fantasyland,  it  tends  to  blur  the  line.  Honest  to  God,  I sometimes can't remember what real is."
Psychology—that  was  one  thing  I  knew.  You  don't  try  to  scare  people in  broad  daylight.  You  wait.  Because  the  darkness  squeezes  you  inside yourself,  you  get  cut  off  from  the  outside  world,  the  imagination  takes over. That's basic psychology. I'd pulled enough night guard to know how the fear factor gets multiplied as you sit there hour after hour, nobody to talk  to,  nothing  to  do  but  stare  into  the  big  black  hole  at  the  center  of your own sorry soul. The hours go by and you lose your gyroscope; your mind  starts  to  roam.  You  think  about  dark  closets,  madmen,  murderers under  the  bed,  all  those  childhood  fears.  Gremlins  and  trolls  and  giants. You try to block it out but you can't. You see ghosts. You blink and shake your  head.  Bullshit,  you  tell  yourself.  But  then  you  remember  the  guys who died: Curt Lemon, Kiowa, Ted Lavender, a half-dozen others whose faces you can't bring into focus anymore. And then pretty soon you start to ponder the stories you've heard about Charlie's magic. The time some guys  cornered  two  VC  in  a  dead-end  tunnel,  no  way  out,  but  how,  when the tunnel was fragged and searched, nothing was found except a pile of dead rats. A hundred stories. Ghosts wiping out a whole Marine platoon in  twenty  seconds  flat.  Ghosts  rising  from  the dead. Ghosts behind you and  in  front  of  you  and  inside  you.  After  a  while,  as  the  night  deepens, you  feel  a  funny  buzzing  in  your  ears.  Tiny  sounds  get  heightened  and distorted. The crickets talk in code; the night takes on a weird electronic tingle.  You  hold  your  breath.  You  coil  up  and  tighten  your  muscles  and listen, knuckles hard, the pulse ticking in your head. You hear the spooks laughing.  No  shit,  laughing.  You  jerk  up,  you  freeze,  you  squint  at  the dark.  Nothing,  though.  You  put  your  weapon  on  full automatic. You crouch  lower  and  count  your  grenades  and  make  sure  the  pins  are  bent for quick throwing and take a deep breath and listen and try not to freak. And then later, after enough time passes, things start to get bad.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Come on," Azar said, "let's do it," but I told him to be patient. Waiting was  the  trick.  So  we  went  to  the  movies,  Barbarella again, the eighth straight  night.  A  lousy  movie,  I  thought,  but  it  kept  Azar  occupied.  He was crazy about Jane Fonda. "Sweet Janie," he kept saying. "Sweet Janie boosts  a  man's  morale."  Then,  with  his  hand,  he  showed  me  which  part of  his  morale  got  boosted.  It  was  an  old  joke.  Everything  was  old.  The movie, the heat, the booze, the war. I fell asleep during the second reel—a hot,  angry  sleep—and  forty  minutes  later  I  woke  up  to  a  sore  ass  and  a foul temper.
It wasn't yet midnight.
We hiked over to the EM club and worked our way through a six-pack. Mitchell Sanders was there, at another table, but he pretended not to see me.
Around closing time, I nodded at Azar.
"Well, goody gumdrop," he said.
We  went  over  to  my  hootch,  picked  up  our  gear,  and  then  moved through the night down to the wire. I felt like a soldier again. Back in the bush,  it  seemed.  We  observed  good  field  discipline,  not  talking,  keeping to  the  shadows  and  joining  in  with  the  darkness.  When  we  came  up  on Bunker  Six,  Azar  lifted  his  thumb  and  peeled  away  from  me  and  began circling  to  the  south.  Old  times,  I  thought.  A  kind  of  thrill,  a  kind  of dread.
Quietly,  I  shouldered  my  gear  and  crossed  over  to  a  heap  of  boulders that  overlooked  Jorgenson's  position.  I  was  directly  behind  him.  Thirty-
two  meters  away,  exactly.  Even  in  the  heavy  darkness,  no  moon  yet,  I could  make  out  the  kid's  silhouette:  a  helmet,  a  pair  of  shoulders,  a  rifle barrel.  His  back  was to me. He gazed out at the wire and at the paddies beyond, where the danger was.
I knelt down and took out ten flares and unscrewed the caps and lined them  up  in  front  of  me  and  then  checked  my  wristwatch.  Still  five minutes  to  go.  Edging  over  to  my  left, I groped for the ropes I'd set up that  afternoon.  I  found  them,  tested  the  tension,  and  checked  the  time again.  Four  minutes.  There  was  a  light  feeling  in  my  head,  fluttery  and taut  at  the  same  time.  I  remembered  it  from  the  boonies.  Giddiness  and doubt and awe, all those things and a million more. You wonder if you're dreaming.  It's  like  you're  in  a  movie.  There's  a  camera  on  you,  so  you
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
begin acting, you're somebody else. You think of all the films you've seen, Audie Murphy and Gary Cooper and the Cisco Kid, all those heroes, and you  can't  help  falling  back  on  them  as  models  of  proper  comportment. On  ambush,  curled  in  the  dark,  you  fight  for  control.  Not  too  much fidgeting.  You  rearrange  your  posture;  you  try  for  a  grin;  you  measure out  your  breathing.  Eyes  open,  be  alert—old  imperatives,  old  movies.  It all  swirls  together,  cliches  mixing  with  your  own  emotions,  and  in  the end you can't tell one from the other.
There  was  that  coldness  inside  me.  I  wasn't  myself.  I  felt  hollow  and dangerous.
I  took  a  breath,  fingered  the  first  rope,  and  gave  it  a  sharp  little  jerk. Instantly there was a clatter outside the wire. I expected the noise, I was even tensed for it, but still my heart took a hop.
Now, I thought. Now it starts.
Eight  ropes  altogether.  I  had  four,  Azar  had  four.  Each  rope  was hooked  up  to  a  homemade  noisemaker  out  in  front  of  Jorgenson's bunker—eight ammo cans filled with rifle cartridges. Simple devices, but they worked. I waited a moment, and then, very gently, I gave all four of my  ropes  a  little  tug.  Delicate,  nothing  loud.  If  you  weren't  listening, listening  hard,  you  might've  missed  it.  But  Jorgenson  was  listening.  At the first low rattle, his silhouette seemed to freeze.
Another rattle: Azar this time. We kept at it for ten minutes, staggering the rhythm—noise, silence, noise—gradually building the tension.
Squinting  down  at  Jorgenson's  position,  I  felt  a  swell  of  immense power. It was a feeling the VC must have. Like a puppeteer. Yank on the ropes, watch the silly wooden soldier jump and twitch. It made me smile. One  by  one,  in  sequence,  I  tugged  on  each  of  the  ropes,  and  the  sounds came  flowing  back  at  me  with  a  soft,  indefinite  formlessness:  a rattlesnake, maybe, or the creak of a trap door, or footsteps in the attic—
whatever you made of it.
In a way I wanted to stop myself. It was cruel, I knew that, but right and wrong were somewhere else. This was the spirit world.
I heard myself laugh.
And  then  presently  I  came  unattached  from  the  natural  world.  I  felt the  hinges  go.  Eyes  closed,  I  seemed  to rise up out of my own body and float  through  the  dark  down  to  Jorgenson's  position.  I  was  invisible;  I had no shape, no substance; I weighed less than nothing. I just drifted. It
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
was  imagination,  of  course,  but  for  a  long  while  I  hovered  there  over Bobby Jorgenson's bunker. As if through dark glass I could see him lying flat  in  his  circle  of  sandbags,  silent  and  scared,  listening.  Rubbing  his eyes.  Telling  himself  it  was  all  a  trick  of  the  dark.  Muscles  tight,  ears tight—I  could  see  it.  Now,  at  this  instant,  he'd  glance  up  at  the  sky, hoping  for  a  moon  or  a  few  stars.  But  no  moon,  no  stars.  He'd  start talking  to  himself.  He'd  try  to  bring  the  night  into  focus,  willing coherence,  but  the  effort  would  only  cause  distortions.  Out  beyond  the wire,  the  paddies  would  seem  to  swirl  and  sway;  the  trees  would  take human form; clumps of grass would glide through the night like sappers. Funhouse  country:  trick  mirrors  and  curvatures  and  pop-up  monsters. "Take  it  easy,"  he'd  murmur,  "easy,  easy,  easy,"  but  it  wouldn't  get  any easier.
I could actually see it.
I  was  down  there  with  him,  inside  him.  I  was  part  of  the  night.  I  was the  land  itself—everything,  everywhere—the  fireflies  and  paddies,  the moon, the midnight rustlings, the cool phosphorescent shimmer of evil—
I  was  atrocity—I  was  jungle  fire,  jungle  drums—I  was  the  blind  stare  in the  eyes  of  all  those  poor,  dead,  dumbfuck  ex-pals  of  mine—all  the  pale young  corpses,  Lee  Strunk  and  Kiowa  and  Curt  Lemon—I  was  the  beast on their lips—I was Nam—the horror, the war.
"Creepy," Azar said. "Wet pants an' goose bumps." He held a beer out to me, but I shook my head.
We  sat  in  the  dim  light  of  my  hootch,  boots  off,  listening  to  Mary Hopkin on my tape deck.
"What next?"
"Wait," I said.
"Sure, but I mean—"
"Shut up and listen."
That  high  elegant  voice.  Someday,  when  the  war  was  over,  I'd  go  to London  and  ask  Mary  Hopkin  to  marry  me.  That's  another  thing  Nam does to you. It turns you sentimental; it makes you want to hook up with girls  like  Mary  Hopkin.  You  learn,  finally,  that  you'll  die,  and  so  you  try to  hang  on  to  your  own  life,  that  gentle,  naive  kid  you  used  to  be,  but then after a while the sentiment takes over, and the sadness, because you
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
know  for  a  fact  that  you  can't  ever  bring  any  of  it  back  again.  You  just can't. Those were the days, she sang.
Azar switched off the tape.
"Shit, man," he said. "Don't you got music?"
And  now,  finally,  the  moon  was  out.  We  slipped  back  to  our  positions and  went  to  work  again  with  the  ropes.  Louder  now,  more  insistent. Starlight  sparkled  in  the  barbed  wire,  and  there  were  curious  reflections and  layerings  of  shadow,  and  the  big  white  moon  added  resonance. There  was  no  wind.  The  night  was  absolute.  Slowly,  we  dragged  the ammo cans closer to Bobby Jorgenson's bunker, and this, plus the moon, gave a sense of approaching peril, the slow belly-down crawl of evil.
At 0300 hours Azar set off the first trip flare.
There  was  a  light  popping  noise,  then  a  sizzle  out  in  front  of  Bunker Six.  The  night  seemed  to  snap  itself  in  half.  The  white  flare  burned  ten paces from the bunker.
I fired off three more flares and it was instant daylight.
Then  Jorgenson  moved.  He  made  a  short,  low  cry—not  even  a  cry, really,  just  a  short  lung-and-throat  bark—and  there  was  a  blurred sequence  as  he  lunged  sideways  and  rolled toward a heap of sandbags and crouched there and hugged his rifle and waited.
"There," I whispered. "Now you know."
I  could  read  his  mind.  I  was  there  with  him.  Together  we  understood what  terror  was:  you're  not  human  anymore.  You're  a  shadow.  You  slip out  of  your  own  skin,  like  molting,  shedding  your  own  history  and  your own  future,  leaving  behind  everything  you  ever  were  or  wanted  or believed  in.  You  know  you're  about  to  die.  And  it's  not  a  movie  and  you aren't a hero and all you can do is whimper and wait.
This, now, was something we shared.
I felt close to him. It wasn't compassion, just closeness. His silhouette was framed like a cardboard cutout against the burning flares.
In the dark outside my hootch, even though I bent toward him, almost nose to nose, all I could see were the glossy whites of Azar's eyes.
"Enough," I said.
"Oh, sure."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Seriously." Azar gave me a small, thin smile. "Serious?" he said. "That's way too serious for me—I'm your basic fun
lover."
When  he  smiled  again,  I  knew  it  was  hopeless,  but  I  tried  anyway.  I told him the score was even. We'd made our point, I said, no need to rub it in.
Azar stared at me.
"Poor, poor boy," he said. The rest was inflection and white eyes.
An  hour  before  dawn  we  moved  in  for  the  last  phase.  Azar  was  in command now. I tagged after him, thinking maybe I could keep a lid on.
"Don't  take  this  personal,"  Azar  said  softly.  "It's  my  own  character flaw. I just like to finish things."
I didn't look at him. As we approached the wire, Azar put his hand on my  shoulder,  guiding  me  over  toward  the  boulder  pile.  He  knelt  down and  inspected  the  ropes  and  flares,  nodded  to  himself,  peered  out  at Jorgenson's bunker, nodded once more, then took off his helmet and sat on it.
He was smiling again.
"You  know  something?"  he  said.  His  voice  was  wistful.  "Out  here,  at night,  I  almost  feel  like  a  kid  again.  The  Vietnam  experience.  I  mean, wow, I love this shit."
"Let's just—"
"Shhhh."
Azar put a finger to his lips. He was still smiling at me, almost kindly.
"This  here's  what  you  wanted,"  he  said.  "Displaying  war,  right?  That's all this is. A cute little backyard war game. Brings back memories, I bet—
those happy soldiering days. Except now you're a has-been. One of those American Legion types, guys who like to dress up in a nifty uniform and go out and play at it. Pitiful. It was me, I'd rather get my ass blown away for real."
My lips had a waxy feel, like soapstone.
"Come on," I said. "Just quit."
"Pitiful."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Azar, for Christ sake."
He patted my cheek. "Purely pitiful," he said.
We waited another ten minutes. It was cold now, and damp. Squatting
down, I felt a sudden brittleness come over me, a hollow sensation, as if
someone  could  reach  out  and  crush  me  like  a  Christmas  tree  ornament.
It  was  the  same  feeling  I'd  had  out  along  the  Song  Tra  Bong.  Like  I  was
losing  myself,  everything  spilling  out.  I  remembered  how  the  bullet  had
made a soft puffing noise inside me. I remembered lying there for a long
while, listening to the river, the gunfire and voices, how I kept calling out
for  a  medic  but  how  nobody  came  and  how  I  finally  reached  back  and
touched  the  hole.  The  blood  was  warm  like  dishwater.  I  could  feel  my
pants filling up with it. All this blood, I thought—I'll be hollow. Then the
brittle sensation hit me. I passed out for a while, and when I woke up the
battle  had  moved  farther  down  the  river.  I  was  still  leaking.  I  wondered
where  Rat  Kiley  was,  but  Rat  Kiley  was  in  Japan.  There  was  rifle  fire
somewhere  off  to  my  right,  and  people  yelling,  except  none  of  it  seemed
real  anymore.  I  smelled  myself  dying.  The  round  had  entered  at  a  steep
angle,  smashing  down  through  the  hip  and  colon.  The  stench  made  me
jerk sideways. I turned and clamped a hand against the wound and tried
to plug it up. Leaking to death, I thought. And then I felt it happen. Like
a genie swirling out of a bottle—like a cloud of gas—I was drifting upward
out of my own body. I was half in and half out. Part of me still lay there,
the  corpse  part,  but  I  was  also  that  genie  looking  on  and  saying,  "There,
there,"  which  made  me  start  to  scream.  I  couldn't  help  it.  When  Bobby
Jorgenson  got  to  me,  I  was  almost  gone  with  shock.  All  I  could  do  was
scream.  I  tightened  up  and  squeezed,  trying  to  stop  the  leak,  but  that
only  made  it  worse,  and  Jorgenson  punched  me  and  told  me  to  knock  it
off. Shock, I thought. I tried to tell him that. I tried to say, "Shock," but it
wouldn't  come  out  right.  Jorgenson  flipped  me  over  and  pressed  a  knee
against my back, pinning me there, and I kept trying to say, "Shock, man,
treat for shock." I was lucid—things were clear—but my tongue wouldn't
fit  around  the  words.  Then  I  slipped  under  for  a  while.  When  I  came
back,  Jorgenson  was  using  a  knife  to  cut  off  my  pants.  He  shot  in  the
morphine, which scared me, and I shouted something and tried to wiggle
away,  but  he  kept  pushing  down  hard  on  my  back.  Except  it  wasn't
Jorgenson  now—it  was  that  genie—he  was  smiling  down  at  me,  and
winking,  and  I  couldn't  buck  him  off.  Later  on,  things  clicked  into  slow
motion.  The  morphine,  maybe.  I  focused  on  Jorgenson's  brand-new
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
boots,  then  on  a  pebble,  then  on  my  own  face  floating  high  above  me—
the last things I'd ever see. I couldn't look away. It occurred to me that I was witness to something rare.
Even now, in the dark, there were indications of a spirit world.
Azar said, "Hey, you awake?"
I nodded.
Down at Bunker Six, things were silent. The place looked abandoned.
Azar  grinned  and  went  to  work  on  the  ropes.  It  began  like  a  breeze,  a soft  sighing  sound.  I  hugged  myself.  I  watched  Azar  bend  forward  and fire  off  the  first illumination flare. "Please," I almost said, but the word snagged, and I looked up and tracked the flare over Jorgenson's bunker. It exploded almost without noise: a soft red flash.
There was a whimper in the dark. At first I thought it was Jorgenson.
"Please?" I said.
I bit down and folded my hands and squeezed. I had the shivers.
Twice  more,  rapidly,  Azar  fired  up  red  flares.  At  one  point  he  turned toward me and lifted his eyebrows.
"Timmy, Timmy," he said. "Such a specimen."
I agreed.
I  wanted  to  do  something,  stop  him  somehow,  but  I  crouched  back and watched Azar pick up a tear-gas grenade and pull the pin and stand up  and  throw.  The  gas  puffed  up  in  a  thin  cloud  that  partly  obscured Bunker Six. Even from thirty meters away I could smell it and taste it.
"Jesus,  please,"  I  said,  but  Azar  lobbed  over  another  one,  waited  for the hiss, then scrambled over to the rope we hadn't used yet.
It  was  my  idea.  I'd  rigged  it  up  myself:  a  sandbag  painted  white,  a pulley system.
Azar  gave  the  rope  a  quick  tug,  and  out in front of Bunker Six, the white sandbag lifted itself up and hovered there in a misty swirl of gas.
Jorgenson began firing. Just one round at first, a single red tracer that thumped into the sandbag and burned.
"Oooo!" Azar murmured.
Quickly,  talking  to himself, Azar hurled the last gas grenade, shot up another flare, then snatched the rope again and made the white sandbag dance.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Oooo!" he was chanting. "Starlight, star bright!"
Bobby  Jorgenson  did  not  go  nuts.  Quietly,  almost  with  dignity,  he
stood  up  and  took  aim  and  fired  once  more  at  the  sandbag.  I  could  see
his profile against the red flares. His face seemed relaxed, no twitching or
screams.  He  stared  out  into  the  dark  for  several  seconds,  as  if  deciding
something, then he shook his head and smiled. He stood up straight. He
seemed  to  brace  himself  for  a  moment.  Then,  very  slowly,  he  began
marching  out  toward  the  wire;  his  posture  was  erect;  he  did  not  crouch
or  squirm  or  crawl.  He  walked  upright.  He  moved  with  a  kind  of  grace.
When  he  reached  the  sandbag,  Jorgenson  stopped  and  turned  and
shouted  out  my  name,  then  he  placed  his  rifle  muzzle  up  against  the
white sandbag.
"O'Brien!" he yelled, and he fired. Azar dropped the rope. "Well,"  he  muttered,  "show's  over."  He  looked  down  at  me  with  a
mixture  of  contempt  and  pity.  After  a  second  he  shook  his  head.  "Man,
I'll tell you something. You're a sorry, sorry case."
I was trembling. I kept hugging myself, rocking, but I couldn't make it go away.
"Disgusting," Azar said. "Sorriest fuckin' case I ever seen."
He  looked  out  at  Jorgenson,  then  at  me.  His  eyes  had  the  opaque, polished surface of stone. He moved forward as if to help me up. Then he stopped  and  smiled.  Almost  as  an  afterthought,  he  kicked  me  in  the head.
"Sad," he murmured, then he turned and headed off to bed.
"No big deal," I told Jorgenson. "Leave it alone." But he led me down to the bunker and used a towel to wipe the gash at
my forehead. It wasn't bad, really. I felt some dizziness, but I tried not to
let it show.
It  was  almost  dawn  now,  a  hazy silver dawn. For a while we didn't speak.
"So," he finally said.
"Right."
We shook hands. Neither of us put much emotion into it and we didn't look at each other's eyes.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Jorgenson pointed out at the shot-up sandbag.
"That was a nice touch," he said. "It almost had me—" He paused and
squinted out at the eastern paddies, where the sky was beginning to color
up.  "Anyway,  a  nice  dramatic  touch.  You've  got  a  real  flair  for  it.
Someday maybe you should go into the movies or something."
I nodded and said, "That's an idea." "Another Hitchcock. The Birds—you ever see it?" "Scary stuff," I said. We  sat  for  a  while  longer,  then  I  started  to  get  up,  except  I  was  still
feeling the wobbles in my head. Jorgenson reached out and steadied me.
"We're even now?" he said.
"Pretty much."
Again,  I  felt  that  human  closeness.  Almost  war  buddies.  We  nearly
shook  hands  again  but  then  decided  against  it.  Jorgenson  picked  up  his
helmet,  brushed  it  off,  and  looked  back  one  more  time  at  the  white
sandbag. His face was filthy.
Up at the medic's hootch, he cleaned and bandaged my forehead, then we went to chow. We didn't have much to say. I told him I was sorry; he told me the same thing.
Afterward, in an awkward moment, I said, "Let's kill Azar."
Jorgenson smiled. "Scare him to death, right?"
"Right," I said.
"What a movie!"
I shrugged. "Sure. Or just kill him."
Night Life
A  few  words  about  Rat  Kiley.  I  wasn't  there  when  he  got  hurt,  but Mitchell  Sanders  later  told  me  the  essential  facts.  Apparently  he  lost  his cool.
The  platoon  had  been  working  an  AO  out  in  the  foothills  west  of Quang  Ngai  City,  and  for  some  time  they'd  been  receiving  intelligence about  an  NVA  buildup  in  the  area.  The  usual  crazy  rumors:  massed artillery  and  Russian  tanks  and  whole  divisions  of  fresh  troops.  No  one
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
took  it  seriously,  including  Lieutenant  Cross,  but  as  a  precaution  the platoon  moved  only  at  night,  staying  off  the  main  trails  and  observing strict field SOPs. For almost two weeks, Sanders said, they lived the night life.  That  was  the  phrase  everyone  used:  the night life. A language trick. It  made  things  seem  tolerable.  How's  the  Nam  treating  you?  one  guy would ask, and some other guy would say, Hey, one big party, just living the night life.
It  was  a  tense  time  for  everybody,  Sanders  said,  but  for  Rat  Kiley  it ended  up  in  Japan.  The  strain  was  too  much  for  him.  He  couldn't  make the adjustment.
During  those  two  weeks  the  basic  routine  was  simple.  They'd  sleep away  the  daylight  hours,  or  try  to  sleep,  then  at  dusk  they'd  put  on  their gear  and  move  out  single  file into the dark. Always a heavy cloud cover. No  moon  and  no  stars.  It  was  the  purest  black  you  could  imagine, Sanders  said,  the  kind  of  clock-stopping  black  that  God  must've  had  in mind when he sat down to invent blackness. It made your eyeballs ache. You'd shake your head and blink, except you couldn't even tell you were blinking,  the  blackness  didn't  change.  So  pretty  soon  you'd  get  jumpy. Your nerves would go. You'd start to worry about getting cut off from the rest  of  the  unit—alone,  you'd  think—and  then the real panic would bang in  and  you'd  reach  out  and  try  to  touch  the  guy  in  front  of  you,  groping for  his  shirt,  hoping  to  Christ  he  was  still  there.  It  made  for  some  bad dreams.  Dave  Jensen  popped  special  vitamins  high  in  carotene. Lieutenant  Cross  popped  NoDoz.  Henry  Dobbins  and  Norman  Bowker even  rigged  up  a  safety  line  between  them,  a  long  piece  of  string  tied  to their belts. The whole platoon felt the impact.
With Rat Kiley, though, it was different. Too many body bags, maybe. Too much gore.
At  first Rat just sank inside himself, not saying a word, but then later on,  after  five  or  six  days,  it  flipped  the  other  way.  He  couldn't  stop talking.  Weird  talk,  too.  Talking  about  bugs,  for  instance:  how  the  worst thing  in  Nam  was  the  goddamn  bugs.  Big  giant  killer  bugs,  he'd  say, mutant  bugs,  bugs  with  fucked-up  DNA,  bugs  that  were  chemically altered  by  napalm  and  defoliants  and  tear  gas  and  DDT.  He  claimed  the bugs  were  personally  after  his  ass.  He  said  he  could  hear  the  bastards homing in on him.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Swarms  of  mutant  bugs,  billions  of  them,  they  had  him  bracketed.
Whispering  his  name,  he  said—his  actual  name—all  night  long—it  was
driving him crazy.
Odd  stuff,  Sanders  said,  and  it  wasn't  just  talk.  Rat  developed  some
peculiar  habits.  Constantly  scratching  himself. Clawing at the bug bites. He  couldn't  quit  digging  at  his  skin,  making  big  scabs  and  then  ripping
off the scabs and scratching the open sores.
It was a sad thing to watch. Definitely not the old Rat Kiley. His whole
personality seemed out of kilter.
To an extent, though, everybody was feeling it. The long night marches
turned  their  minds  upside  down;  all  the  rhythms  were  wrong.  Always  a
lost  sensation.  They'd  blunder  along  through  the  dark,  willy-nilly,  no
sense of place or direction, probing for an enemy that nobody could see.
Like a snipe hunt, Sanders said. A bunch of dumb Cub Scouts chasing the
phantoms.  They'd  march  north  for  a  time,  then  east,  then  north  again,
skirting the villages, no one talking except in whispers. And it was rugged
country, too. Not quite mountains, but rising fast, full of gorges and deep
brush and places you could die. Around midnight things always got wild.
All  around  you,  everywhere,  the  whole  dark  countryside  came  alive.
You'd  hear  a  strange  hum  in  your  ears.  Nothing  specific; nothing you could  put  a  name  on.  Tree  frogs,  maybe,  or  snakes  or  flying  squirrels  or
who-knew-what.  Like  the  night  had  its  own  voice—that  hum  in  your
ears—and  in  the  hours  after  midnight  you'd  swear  you  were  walking
through some kind of soft black protoplasm, Vietnam, the blood and the
flesh.
It  was  no  joke,  Sanders  said.  The  monkeys  chattered  death-chatter.
The nights got freaky.
Rat Kiley finally hit a wall.
He couldn't sleep during the hot daylight hours; he couldn't cope with
the nights.
Late  one  afternoon,  as  the  platoon  prepared  for  another  march,  he
broke down in front of Mitchell Sanders. Not crying, but up against it. He
said he was scared. And it wasn't normal scared. He didn't know what it was:  too  long  in-country,  probably.  Or  else  he  wasn't  cut out to be a medic.  Always  policing  up  the  parts,  he  said.  Always  plugging  up  holes.
Sometimes he'd stare at guys who were still okay, the alive guys, and he'd
start to picture how they'd look dead. Without arms or legs—that sort of
thing. It was ghoulish, he knew that, but he couldn't shut off the pictures.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
He'd  be  sitting  there  talking  with  Bowker  or  Dobbins  or  somebody,  just marking time, and then out of nowhere he'd find himself wondering how much  the  guy's  head  weighed,  like  how  heavy it was, and what it  would feel  like  to  pick  up  the  head  and  carry  it  over  to  a  chopper  and  dump  it in.
Rat scratched the skin at his elbow, digging in hard. His eyes were red and weary.
"It's not right," he said. "These pictures in my head, they won't quit. I'll see  a  guy's  liver.  The  actual  fucking  liver.  And  the  thing  is,  it  doesn't scare me, it doesn't even give me the willies. More like curiosity. The way a  doctor  feels  when  he  looks  at  a  patient,  sort  of  mechanical,  not  seeing the real person, just a ruptured appendix or a clogged-up artery."
His voice floated away for a second. He looked at Sanders and tried to smile.
He kept clawing at his elbow.
"Anyway,"  Rat  said,  "the  days  aren't  so  bad,  but  at  night  the  pictures get to be a bitch. I start seeing my own body. Chunks of myself. My own heart,  my  own  kidneys.  It's  like—I  don't  know—it's  like  staring  into  this huge black crystal ball. One of these nights I'll be lying dead out there in the  dark  and  nobody'll  find  me  except  the  bugs—I  can  see  it—I  can  see the  goddamn  bugs  chewing  tunnels  through  me—I  can  see  the mongooses  munching  on  my  bones.  I  swear,  it's  too  much.  I  can't  keep seeing myself dead."
Mitchell Sanders nodded. He didn't know what to say. For a time they sat watching the shadows come, then Rat shook his head.
He said he'd done his best. He'd tried to be a decent medic. Win some and lose some, he said, but he'd tried hard. Briefly then, rambling a little, he  talked  about  a  few  of  the  guys  who  were  gone  now,  Curt  Lemon  and Kiowa  and  Ted  Lavender,  and  how  crazy  it  was  that  people  who  were  so incredibly alive could get so incredibly dead.
Then he almost laughed.
"This whole war," he said. "You know what it is? Just one big banquet. Meat, man. You and me. Everybody. Meat for the bugs."
The next morning he shot himself.
He took off his boots and socks, laid out his medical kit, doped himself up, and put a round through his foot.
Nobody blamed him, Sanders said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Before  the  chopper  came,  there  was  time  for  goodbyes.  Lieutenant Cross  went  over  and  said  he'd  vouch  that  it  was  an  accident.  Henry Dobbins  and  Azar  gave  him  a  stack  of  comic  books  for  hospital  reading. Everybody stood in a little circle, feeling bad about it, trying to cheer him up with bullshit about the great night life in Japan.
The Lives of the Dead
But this too is true: stories can save us. I'm forty-three years old, and a writer  now,  and  even  still,  right  here,  I  keep  dreaming  Linda  alive.  And Ted Lavender, too, and Kiowa, and Curt Lemon, and a slim young man I killed,  and  an  old  man  sprawled  beside  a  pigpen,  and  several  others whose bodies I once lifted and dumped into a truck. They're all dead. But in a story, which is a kind of dreaming, the dead sometimes smile and sit up and return to the world.
Start  here:  a  body  without  a  name.  On  an  afternoon  in  1969  the platoon  took  sniper  fire  from  a  filthy  little  village  along  the  South  China Sea.  It  lasted  only  a  minute  or  two,  and  nobody  was  hurt,  but  even  so Lieutenant  Jimmy  Cross  got  on  the  radio  and  ordered  up  an  air  strike. For  the  next  half  hour  we  watched  the  place  burn.  It  was  a  cool  bright morning,  like  early  autumn,  and  the  jets  were  glossy  black  against  the sky.  When  it  ended,  we  formed  into  a  loose  line  and  swept  east  through the  village.  It  was  all  wreckage.  I  remember  the  smell  of  burnt  straw;  I remember broken fences and torn-up trees and heaps of stone and brick and  pottery.  The  place  was  deserted—no  people,  no  animals—and  the only confirmed kill was an old man who lay face-up near a pigpen at the center  of  the  village.  His  right  arm  was  gone.  At his face there were already many flies and gnats.
Dave  Jensen  went  over  and  shook  the  old  man's  hand.  "How-dee-
doo," he said.
One by one the others did it too. They didn't disturb the body, they just grabbed the old man's hand and offered a few words and moved away.
Rat Kiley bent over the corpse. "Gimme five," he said. "A real honor."
"Pleased as punch," said Henry Dobbins.
I  was  brand-new  to  the  war.  It  was  my  fourth  day;  I  hadn't  yet developed a sense of humor. Right away, as if I'd swallowed something, I
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
felt  a  moist  sickness  rise  up  in  my  throat.  I  sat  down  beside  the  pigpen, closed my eyes, put my head between my knees.
After a moment Dave Jensen touched my shoulder.
"Be  polite  now,"  he  said.  "Go  introduce  yourself.  Nothing  to  be  afraid about, just a nice old man. Show a little respect for your elders."
"No way."
"Maybe it's too real for you?"
"That's right," I said. "Way too real."
Jensen kept after me, but I didn't go near the body. I didn't even look at  it  except  by  accident.  For  the  rest  of  the  day there was still that sickness  inside  me,  but  it  wasn't  the  old  man's  corpse  so  much,  it  was that awesome act of greeting the dead. At one point, I remember, they sat the  body  up  against  a  fence.  They  crossed  his  legs  and  talked  to  him. "The  guest  of  honor,"  Mitchell  Sanders  said,  and  he  placed  a  can  of orange  slices  in  the  old  man's  lap.  "Vitamin  C,"  he  said  gently.  "A  guy's health, that's the most important thing."
They  proposed  toasts.  They  lifted  their  canteens  and  drank  to  the  old man's  family  and  ancestors,  his  many  grandchildren,  his  newfound  life after death. It was more than mockery. There was a formality to it, like a funeral without the sadness.
Dave Jensen flicked his eyes at me.
"Hey,  O'Brien,"  he  said,  "you  got  a  toast  in  mind?  Never  too  late  for manners."
I  found  things  to  do  with  my  hands.  I  looked  away  and  tried  not  to think.
Late in the afternoon, just before dusk, Kiowa came up and asked if he could  sit  at  my  foxhole  for  a  minute.  He  offered  me  a  Christmas  cookie from  a  batch  his  father  had sent him. It was February now, but the cookies tasted fine.
For a few moments Kiowa watched the sky.
"You  did  a  good  thing  today,"  he  said.  "That  shaking  hands  crap,  it isn't  decent.  The  guys'll  hassle  you  for  a  while—especially  Jensen—but just keep saying no. Should've done it myself. Takes guts, I know that."
"It wasn't guts. I was scared."
Kiowa shrugged. "Same difference."
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"No,  I  couldn't  do it. A mental block or something . . . I don't know, just creepy."
"Well,  you're  new  here.  You'll  get  used  to  it."  He  paused  for  a  second, studying  the  green  and  red  sprinkles  on  a  cookie.  "Today—I  guess  this was your first look at a real body?"
I  shook  my  head.  All  day  long  I'd  been  picturing  Linda's  face,  the  way she smiled.
"It sounds funny," I said, "but that poor old man, he reminds me of... I mean, there's this girl I used to know. I took her to the movies once. My first date."
Kiowa looked at me for a long while. Then he leaned back and smiled.
"Man," he said, "that's a bad date."
Linda  was  nine  then,  as  I  was,  but  we  were  in  love.  And  it  was  real. When I write about her now, three decades later, it's tempting to dismiss it as a crush, an infatuation of childhood, but I know for a fact that what we felt for each other was as deep and rich as love can ever get. It had all the  shadings  and  complexities  of  mature  adult  love,  and  maybe  more, because  there  were  not  yet  words  for  it,  and  because  it  was  not  yet  fixed to  comparisons  or  chronologies  or  the  ways  by  which  adults  measure such things.
I just loved her.
She  had  poise  and  great  dignity.  Her  eyes,  I  remember,  were  deep brown  like  her  hair,  and  she  was  slender  and  very  quiet  and  fragile-
looking.
Even then, at nine years old, I wanted to live inside her body. I wanted to melt into her bones—that kind of love.
And so in the spring of 1956, when we were in the fourth grade, I took her out on the first real date of my life—a double date, actually, with my mother  and  father.  Though  I  can't  remember  the  exact  sequence,  my mother had somehow arranged it with Linda's parents, and on that damp spring night my dad did the driving while Linda and I sat in the back seat and  stared  out  opposite  windows,  both  of  us  trying  to  pretend  it  was nothing  special.  For  me,  though,  it  was  very  special.  Down  inside  I  had important things to tell her, big profound things, but I couldn't make any words come out. I had trouble breathing. Now and then I'd glance over at her,  thinking  how  beautiful  she  was:  her  white  skin  and  those  dark
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
brown  eyes  and  the  way  she  always  smiled  at  the  world—always,  it seemed—as if her face had been designed that way. The smile never went away. That night, I remember, she wore a new red cap, which seemed to me  very  stylish  and  sophisticated,  very  unusual.  It  was  a  stocking  cap, basically,  except  the  tapered  part  at the top seemed extra long, almost too long, like a tail growing out of the back of her head. It made me think of  the  caps  that  Santa's  elves  wear,  the  same  shape  and  color,  the  same fuzzy white tassel at the tip.
Sitting  there  in  the  back  seat,  I  wanted  to  find  some  way  to  let  her know how I felt, a compliment of some sort, but all I could manage was a stupid comment about the cap. "Jeez," I must've said, "what a cap."
Linda smiled at the window—she knew what I meant—but my mother turned and gave me a hard look. It surprised me. It was as if I'd brought up some horrible secret.
For  the  rest  of  the  ride  I  kept  my  mouth  shut.  We  parked  in  front  of the  Ben  Franklin  store  and  walked  up  Main  Street  toward  the  State Theater.  My  parents  went  first,  side  by  side,  and  then  Linda  in  her  new red cap, and then me tailing along ten or twenty steps behind. I was nine years  old;  I  didn't  yet  have  the  gift  for  small  talk.  Now  and  then  my mother  glanced  back,  making  little  motions  with  her  hand  to  speed  me up.
At  the  ticket  booth,  I  remember,  Linda  stood  off  to  one  side.  I  moved over to the concession area, studying the candy, and both of us were very careful  to  avoid  the  awkwardness  of  eye  contact.  Which  was  how  we knew about being in love. It was pure knowing. Neither of us, I suppose, would've thought to use that word, love, but by the fact of not looking at each  other,  and  not  talking,  we  understood  with  a  clarity  beyond language that we were sharing something huge and permanent.
Behind me, in the theater, I heard cartoon music.
"Hey,  step  it  up,"  I  said.  I  almost  had  the  courage  to  look  at  her.  "You want popcorn or what?"
The  thing  about  a  story  is  that  you  dream  it  as  you  tell  it,  hoping  that others  might  then  dream  along  with  you,  and  in  this  way  memory  and imagination  and  language  combine  to  make  spirits  in  the  head.  There  is the  illusion  of  aliveness.  In  Vietnam,  for  instance,  Ted  Lavender  had  a habit of popping four or five tranquilizers every morning. It was his way
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
of  coping,  just  dealing  with  the  realities,  and  the drugs helped to ease him  through  the  days.  I  remember  how  peaceful  his  eyes  were.  Even  in bad  situations  he  had  a  soft,  dreamy  expression  on  his  face,  which  was what  he  wanted,  a  kind  of  escape.  "How's  the  war  today?"  somebody would ask, and Ted Lavender would give a little smile to the sky and say, "Mellow—a nice smooth war today." And then in April he was shot in the head outside the village of Than Khe. Kiowa and I and a couple of others were  ordered  to  prepare  his  body  for  the  dustoff.  I  remember  squatting down,  not  wanting  to  look  but  then  looking.  Lavender's  left  cheekbone was gone. There was a swollen blackness around his eye. Quickly, trying not  to  feel  anything,  we  went  through  the  kid's  pockets.  I  remember wishing I had gloves. It wasn't the blood I hated; it was the deadness. We put  his  personal  effects  in  a  plastic  bag  and  tied  the  bag  to  his  arm.  We stripped  off  the  canteens  and  ammo,  all  the  heavy  stuff,  and  wrapped him  up  in  his  own  poncho  and  carried  him  out  to  a  dry  paddy  and  laid him down.
For  a  while  nobody  said  much.  Then  Mitchell  Sanders  laughed  and looked over at the green plastic poncho.
"Hey, Lavender," he said, "how's the war today?"
There was a short quiet.
"Mellow," somebody said.
"Well,  that's  good,"  Sanders  murmured,  "that's  real, real good. Stay cool now."
"Hey, no sweat, I'm mellow."
"Just  ease  on  back,  then.  Don't  need  no  pills.  We  got  this  incredible chopper on call, this once in a lifetime mind-trip."
"Oh, yeah—mellow!"
Mitchell Sanders smiled. "There it is, my man, this chopper gonna take you  up  high  and  cool.  Gonna  relax  you.  Gonna  alter  your  whole perspective on this sorry, sorry shit."
We  could  almost  see  Ted  Lavender's  dreamy  blue  eyes.  We  could almost hear him.
"Roger that," somebody said. "I'm ready to fly."
There  was  the  sound  of  the  wind,  the  sound  of  birds  and  the  quiet afternoon, which was the world we were in.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
That's what a story does. The bodies are animated. You make the dead talk. They sometimes say things like, "Roger that." Or they say, "Timmy, stop crying," which is what Linda said to me after she was dead.
Even now I can see her walking down the aisle of the old State Theater in  Worthington,  Minnesota.  I  can  see  her  face  in  profile  beside  me,  the cheeks softly lighted by coming attractions.
The  movie  that  night  was  The  Man  Who  Never  Was.  I  remember  the plot  clearly,  or  at  least  the  premise,  because  the  main  character  was  a corpse.  That  fact  alone,  I  know,  deeply  impressed  me.  It  was  a  World War Two film: the Allies devise a scheme to mislead Germany about the site  of  the  upcoming  landings  in  Europe.  They  get  their  hands  on  a body—a  British  soldier,  I  believe;  they  dress  him  up  in  an  officer's uniform, plant fake documents in his pockets, then dump him in the sea and  let  the  currents  wash  him  onto  a  Nazi  beach.  The  Germans  find  the documents;  the  deception  wins  the  war.  Even  now,  I  can  remember  the awful splash as that corpse fell into the sea. I remember glancing over at Linda,  thinking  it  might  be  too  much  for  her,  but  in  the  dim  gray  light she  seemed  to  be  smiling  at  the  screen.  There  were  little  crinkles  at  her eyes,  her  lips  open  and  gently  curving  at  the  corners.  I  couldn't understand it. There was nothing to smile at. Once or twice, in fact, I had to  close  my  eyes,  but  it  didn't  help  much.  Even  then  I  kept  seeing  the soldier's  body  tumbling  toward  the  water,  splashing  down  hard,  how inert and heavy it was, how completely dead.
It was a relief when the movie finally ended.
Afterward,  we  drove  out  to  the  Dairy  Queen  at  the  edge  of  town.  The night  had  a  quilted, weighted-down  quality,  as  if  somehow  burdened, and  all  around  us  the  Minnesota  prairies  reached  out  in  long  repetitive waves  of  corn  and  soybeans,  everything  flat,  everything  the  same.  I remember  eating  ice  cream  in  the  back  seat  of  the  Buick,  and  a  long blank  drive  in  the  dark,  and  then  pulling  up  in  front  of  Linda's  house. Things  must've  been  said,  but  it's  all  gone  now  except  for  a  few  last images. I remember walking her to the front door. I remember the brass porch  light  with  its  fierce  yellow  glow,  my own feet, the juniper bushes along  the  front  steps,  the  wet  grass,  Linda  close  beside  me.  We  were  in love. Nine years old, yes, but it was real love, and now we were alone on those front steps. Finally we looked at each other.
"Bye," I said.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
Linda nodded and said, "Bye."
Over  the  next  few  weeks  Linda  wore  her  new  red  cap  to  school  every day.  She  never  took  it  off,  not  even  in  the  classroom,  and  so  it  was inevitable that she took some teasing about it. Most of it came from a kid named  Nick  Veenhof.  Out  on  the  playground,  during  recess,  Nick  would creep  up  behind  her  and  make  a  grab  for  the  cap,  almost  yanking  it  off, then  scampering  away.  It  went  on  like  that  for  weeks:  the  girls  giggling, the guys egging him on. Naturally I wanted to do something about it, but it  just  wasn't  possible.  I  had  my  reputation  to  think  about.  I  had  my pride. And there was also the problem of Nick Veenhof. So I stood off to the  side,  just  a  spectator,  wishing  I  could  do  things  I  couldn't  do.  I watched Linda clamp down the cap with the palm of her hand, holding it there, smiling over in Nick's direction as if none of it really mattered.
For  me,  though,  it  did  matter.  It  still  does.  I  should've  stepped  in; fourth  grade  is  no  excuse.  Besides,  it  doesn't  get  easier  with  time,  and twelve  years  later,  when  Vietnam  presented  much  harder  choices,  some practice at being brave might've helped a little.
Also,  too,  I  might've  stopped  what  happened  next.  Maybe  not,  but  at least it's possible.
Most of the details I've forgotten, or maybe blocked out, but I know it was  an  afternoon  in  late  spring,  and  we  were  taking  a  spelling  test,  and halfway into it Nick Veenhof held up his hand and asked to use the pencil sharpener. Right away the kids laughed. No doubt he'd broken the pencil on purpose, but it wasn't something you could prove, and so the teacher nodded  and  told  him  to  hustle  it  up.  Which  was  a  mistake.  Out  of nowhere  Nick  developed  a  terrible  limp.  He  moved  in  slow  motion, dragging himself up to the pencil sharpener and carefully slipping in his pencil  and  then  grinding  away  forever.  At  the  time,  I  suppose,  it  was funny.  But  on  the  way  back  to  his  seat  Nick  took  a  short  detour.  He squeezed  between  two  desks,  turned  sharply  right,  and  moved  up  the aisle toward Linda.
I  saw  him  grin  at  one  of  his  pals.  In  a  way,  I  already  knew  what  was coming.
As  he  passed  Linda's  desk,  he  dropped  the  pencil  and  squatted  down to get it. When he came up, his left hand slipped behind her back. There was  a  half-second  hesitation.  Maybe  he  was  trying  to  stop  himself; maybe then, just briefly, he felt some small approximation of guilt. But it
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
wasn't  enough.  He  took  hold  of  the  white  tassel,  stood  up,  and  gently lifted off her cap.
Somebody  must've  laughed.  I  remember  a  short,  tinny  echo.  I remember  Nick  Veenhof  trying  to smile. Somewhere behind me, a girl said, "Uh," or a sound like that.
Linda didn't move.
Even now, when I think back on it, I can still see the glossy whiteness of  her  scalp.  She  wasn't  bald.  Not  quite.  Not  completely.  There  were some  tufts  of  hair,  little patches of grayish brown fuzz. But what I saw then,  and  keep  seeing  now,  is  all  that  whiteness.  A  smooth,  pale, translucent  white.  I  could  see  the  bones  and  veins;  I  could  see  the  exact structure  of  her  skull.  There  was  a  large  Band-Aid  at  the  back  of  her head, a row of black stitches, a piece of gauze taped above her left ear.
Nick Veenhof took a step backward. He was still smiling, but the smile was doing strange things.
The  whole  time  Linda  stared  straight  ahead,  her  eyes  locked  on  the blackboard, her hands loosely folded at her lap. She didn't say anything. After  a  time,  though,  she  turned  and  looked  at  me  across  the  room.  It lasted  only  a  moment,  but  I  had  the  feeling  that  a  whole  conversation was happening between us. Well? she was saying, and I was saying, Sure, okay.
Later on, she cried for a while. The teacher helped her put the cap back on,  then  we  finished  the  spelling  test  and  did  some  fingerpainting,  and after school that day Nick Veenhof and I walked her home.
It's  now  1990.  I'm  forty-three  years  old,  which  would've  seemed impossible  to  a  fourth  grader,  and  yet  when  I  look  at  photographs  of myself  as  I  was  in  1956,  I  realize  that  in  the  important  ways  I  haven't changed at all. I was Timmy then; now I'm Tim. But the essence remains the same. I'm not fooled by the baggy pants or the crew cut or the happy smile—I  know  my  own  eyes—and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  Timmy smiling  at  the  camera  is  the  Tim  I  am  now.  Inside  the  body,  or  beyond the body, there is something absolute and unchanging. The human life is all one thing, like a blade tracing loops on ice: a little kid, a twenty-three-
year-old  infantry  sergeant,  a  middle-aged  writer  knowing  guilt  and sorrow.
And as a writer now, I want to save Linda's life. Not her body—her life.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
She died, of course. Nine years old and she died. It was a brain tumor. She  lived  through  the  summer  and  into  the  first  part  of  September,  and then she was dead.
But  in  a  story  I  can  steal  her  soul.  I  can  revive,  at  least  briefly,  that which  is  absolute  and  unchanging.  In  a  story,  miracles  can  happen. Linda  can  smile  and  sit  up.  She  can  reach  out,  touch  my  wrist,  and  say, "Timmy, stop crying."
I needed that kind of miracle. At some point I had come to understand that  Linda  was  sick,  maybe  even  dying,  but  I  loved  her  and  just  couldn't accept  it.  In  the  middle  of  the  summer,  I  remember,  my  mother  tried  to explain  to  me  about  brain  tumors.  Now  and  then,  she  said,  bad  things start growing inside us. Sometimes you can cut them out and other times you can't, and for Linda it was one of the times when you can't.
I  thought  about  it  for  several  days.  "All  right,"  I  finally  said.  "So  will she get better now?"
"Well,  no,"  my  mother  said,  "I  don't  think  so."  She  stared  at  a  spot behind  my  shoulder.  "Sometimes  people  don't  ever  get  better.  They  die sometimes."
I shook my head.
"Not Linda," I said.
But  on  a  September  afternoon,  during  noon  recess,  Nick  Veenhof came up to me on the school playground. "Your girlfriend," he said, "she kicked the bucket."
At first I didn't understand.
"She's  dead," he said. "My mom told me at lunch-time.  No  lie,  she actually kicked the goddang bucket."
All  I  could  do  was  nod.  Somehow  it  didn't  quite  register.  I  turned away,  glanced  down  at  my  hands  for  a  second,  then  walked  home without telling anyone.
It was a little after one o'clock, I remember, and the house was empty.
I  drank  some  chocolate  milk  and  then  lay  down  on  the  sofa  in  the living room, not really sad, just floating, trying to imagine what it was to be  dead.  Nothing  much  came  to  me.  I  remember  closing  my eyes and whispering  her  name,  almost  begging,  trying  to  make  her  come  back. "Linda,"  I  said,  "please."  And  then  I  concentrated.  I  willed  her  alive.  It was a dream, I suppose, or a daydream, but I made it happen. I saw her coming down the middle of Main Street, all alone. It was nearly dark and
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
the  street  was  deserted,  no  cars  or  people,  and  Linda  wore  a  pink  dress and shiny black shoes. I remember sitting down on the curb to watch. All her hair had grown back. The scars and stitches were gone. In the dream, if  that's  what  it  was,  she  was  playing  a  game  of  some  sort,  laughing  and running up the empty street, kicking a big aluminum water bucket.
Right then I started to cry. After a moment Linda stopped and carried her water bucket over to the curb and asked why I was so sad.
"Well, God," I said, "you're dead."
Linda  nodded  at  me.  She  was  standing  under  a  yellow  streetlight.  A nine-year-old girl, just a kid, and yet there was something ageless in her eyes—not a child, not an adult—just a bright ongoing everness, that same pinprick  of  absolute  lasting  light  that  I  see  today  in  my  own  eyes  as Timmy smiles at Tim from the graying photographs of that time.
"Dead," I said.
Linda smiled. It was a secret smile, as if she knew things nobody could ever know, and she reached out and touched my wrist and said, "Timmy, stop crying. It doesn't matter."
In  Vietnam,  too,  we  had  ways  of  making  the  dead  seem  not  quite  so dead. Shaking hands, that was one way. By slighting death, by acting, we pretended it was not the terrible thing it was. By our language, which was both  hard  and  wistful,  we  transformed  the  bodies  into  piles  of  waste. Thus,  when  someone  got  killed,  as  Curt  Lemon  did,  his  body  was  not really  a  body,  but  rather  one  small  bit  of  waste  in  the  midst  of  a  much wider wastage. I learned that words make a difference. It's easier to cope with  a  kicked  bucket  than  a  corpse;  if  it  isn't  human,  it  doesn't  matter much  if  it's  dead.  And  so  a  VC  nurse,  fried  by  napalm,  was  a  crispy critter. A Vietnamese baby, which lay nearby, was a roasted peanut. "Just a crunchie munchie," Rat Kiley said as he stepped over the body.
We  kept  the  dead  alive  with  stories.  When  Ted  Lavender  was  shot  in the  head,  the  men  talked  about  how  they'd  never  seen  him  so  mellow, how  tranquil  he  was,  how  it  wasn't  the  bullet  but  the  tranquilizers  that blew  his  mind.  He  wasn't  dead,  just  laid-back.  There  were  Christians among  us,  like  Kiowa,  who  believed  in  the  New  Testament  stories  of  life after  death.  Other  stories  were  passed  down  like  legends  from  old-timer to  newcomer.  Mostly,  though,  we  had  to  make  up  our  own.  Often  they were  exaggerated,  or  blatant  lies,  but  it  was  a  way  of  bringing  body  and
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
soul  back  together,  or  a  way  of  making  new  bodies  for  the  souls  to inhabit. There was a story, for instance, about how Curt Lemon had gone trick-or-treating  on  Halloween.  A  dark,  spooky  night,  and  so  Lemon  put on  a  ghost  mask  and  painted  up  his  body  all  different  colors  and  crept across a paddy to a sleeping village—almost stark naked, the story went, just  boots  and  balls  and  an  M-16—and  in  the  dark  Lemon  went  from hootch  to  hootch—ringing  doorbells,  he  called  it—and  a  few  hours  later, when  he  slipped  back  into  the  perimeter,  he  had  a  whole  sackful  of goodies to share with his pals: candles and joss sticks and a pair of black pajamas  and  statuettes  of  the  smiling  Buddha.  That  was  the  story, anyway.  Other  versions  were  much  more  elaborate,  full  of  descriptions and  scraps  of  dialogue.  Rat  Kiley  liked  to  spice  it  up  with  extra  details: "See,  what  happens  is,  it's  like  four  in  the  morning,  and  Lemon  sneaks into  a  hootch  with  that  weird  ghost  mask  on.  Everybody's  asleep,  right? So  he  wakes  up  this  cute  little  mama-san.  Tickles  her  foot.  'Hey,  Mama-
san,'  he  goes,  real  soft  like.  'Hey,  Mama-san—trick  or  treat!'  Should've seen  her  face.  About  freaks.  I  mean,  there's  this  buck  naked  ghost standing  there,  and  he's  got  this  M-16  up  against  her  ear  and  he whispers,  'Hey,  Mama-san,  trick  or  fuckin'  treat!'  Then  he  takes  off  her pj's.  Strips  her  right  down.  Sticks  the  pajamas  in  his  sack and tucks her into bed and heads for the next hootch."
Pausing  a  moment,  Rat  Kiley  would  grin  and  shake  his  head.  "Honest to God," he'd murmur. "Trick or treat. Lemon—there's one class act."
To listen to the story, especially as Rat Kiley told it, you'd never know that Curt Lemon was dead. He was still out there in the dark, naked and painted up, trick-or-treating, sliding from hootch to hootch in that crazy white ghost mask. But he was dead.
In  September,  the  day  after  Linda  died,  I  asked  my  father  to  take  me down  to  Benson's  Funeral  Home  to  view  the  body.  I  was  a  fifth  grader then;  I  was  curious.  On  the  drive  downtown  my  father  kept  his  eyes straight  ahead.  At  one  point,  I  remember,  he  made  a  scratchy  sound  in his throat. It took him a long time to light up a cigarette.
"Timmy," he said, "you're sure about this?"
I nodded at him. Down inside, of course, I wasn't sure, and yet I had to see her one more time. What I needed, I suppose, was some sort of final confirmation, something to carry with me after she was gone.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
When  we  parked  in  front  of  the  funeral  home,  my  father  turned  and looked  at  me.  "If  this  bothers  you,"  he  said,  "just  say  the  word.  We'll make a quick getaway. Fair enough?"
"Okay," I said.
"Or if you start to feel sick or anything—"
"I won't," I told him.
Inside,  the  first  thing  I  noticed  was  the  smell,  thick  and  sweet,  like something sprayed out of a can. The viewing room was empty except for Linda  and  my  father  and  me.  I  felt  a  rush  of  panic  as  we  walked  up  the aisle.  The  smell  made  me  dizzy.  I  tried  to  fight  it  off,  slowing  down  a little,  taking  short,  shallow  breaths  through  my  mouth.  But  at  the  same time  I  felt  a  funny  excitement.  Anticipation,  in  a  way—that  same awkward  feeling  when  I  walked  up  the  sidewalk  to  ring  her  doorbell  on our  first date. I wanted to impress her. I wanted something to happen between  us,  a  secret  signal  of  some  sort.  The  room  was  dimly  lighted, almost  dark,  but  at  the  far  end  of  the  aisle  Linda's  white  casket  was illuminated by a row of spotlights up in the ceiling. Everything was quiet. My  father  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  whispered  something,  and backed  off.  After  a  moment  I  edged  forward  a  few  steps,  pushing  up  on my toes for a better look.
It  didn't  seem  real.  A  mistake,  I  thought.  The  girl  lying  in  the  white casket  wasn't  Linda.  There  was  a  resemblance,  maybe,  but  where  Linda had  always  been  very  slender  and  fragile-looking,  almost  skinny,  the body  in  that  casket  was  fat  and  swollen.  For  a  second  I  wondered  if somebody  had  made  a  terrible  blunder.  A  technical  mistake:  like  they'd pumped  her  too  full  of  formaldehyde  or  embalming  fluid  or  whatever they  used.  Her  arms  and  face  were  bloated.  The  skin  at  her  cheeks  was stretched  out  tight  like  the  rubber  skin  on  a  balloon  just  before  it  pops open.  Even  her  fingers  seemed  puffy.  I  turned  and  glanced  behind  me, where my father stood, thinking that maybe it was a joke—hoping it was a  joke—almost  believing  that  Linda  would  jump  out  from  behind  one  of the curtains and laugh and yell out my name.
But she didn't. The room was silent. When I looked back at the casket, I felt dizzy again. In my heart, I'm sure, I knew this was Linda, but even so  I  couldn't  find  much  to  recognize.  I  tried  to  pretend  she  was  taking  a nap,  her  hands  folded  at  her  stomach,  just  sleeping  away  the  afternoon. Except  she  didn't  look asleep. She looked dead. She looked heavy and totally dead.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
I remember closing my eyes. After a while my father stepped up beside me.
"Come on now," he said. "Let's go get some ice cream."
In the months after Ted Lavender died, there were many other bodies. I  never  shook  hands—not  that—but  one  afternoon  I  climbed  a  tree  and threw  down  what  was  left  of  Curt  Lemon.  I  watched  my  friend  Kiowa sink  into  the  muck  along  the  Song  Tra  Bong.  And  in  early  July,  after  a battle  in  the  mountains,  I  was  assigned  to  a  six-man  detail  to  police  up the enemy KIAs. There were twenty-seven bodies altogether, and parts of several  others.  The  dead  were  everywhere.  Some  lay  in  piles.  Some  lay alone.  One,  I  remember,  seemed  to  kneel.  Another  was  bent  from  the waist  over  a  small  boulder,  the  top  of  his  head  on  the  ground,  his  arms rigid, the eyes squinting in concentration as if he were about to perform a handstand  or  somersault.  It  was  my  worst  day  at  the  war.  For  three hours we carried the bodies down the mountain to a clearing alongside a narrow  dirt  road.  We  had  lunch  there,  then  a  truck  pulled  up,  and  we worked  in  two-man  teams  to  load  the  truck.  I  remember  swinging  the bodies  up.  Mitchell  Sanders  took  a  man's  feet,  I  took  the  arms,  and  we counted  to three, working up momentum, and then we tossed the body high  and  watched  it  bounce  and  come  to  rest  among  the  other  bodies. The  dead  had  been  dead  for  more  than  a  day.  They  were  all  badly bloated.  Their  clothing  was  stretched  tight  like  sausage  skins,  and when we  picked  them  up,  some  made  sharp  burping  sounds  as  the  gases  were released.  They  were  heavy.  Their  feet  were  bluish  green  and  cold.  The smell was terrible. At one point Mitchell Sanders looked at me and said, "Hey, man, I just realized something."
"What?"
He  wiped  his  eyes  and  spoke  very  quietly,  as  if  awed  by  his  own wisdom.
"Death sucks," he said.
Lying in bed at night, I made up elaborate stories to bring Linda alive in  my  sleep.  I  invented  my  own  dreams.  It  sounds  impossible,  I  know, but  I  did  it.  I'd  picture  somebody's  birthday  party—a  crowded  room,  I'd think,  and  a  big  chocolate  cake  with  pink  candles—and  then  soon  I'd  be dreaming  it,  and  after  a  while  Linda  would  show  up,  as  I  knew  she
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
would,  and  in  the  dream  we'd  look  at  each  other  and  not  talk  much, because  we  were  shy,  but  then  later  I'd  walk  her  home  and  we'd  sit  on her front steps and stare at the dark and just be together.
She'd  say  amazing  things  sometimes.  "Once  you're  alive,"  she'd  say, "you can't ever be dead."
Or she'd say: "Do I look dead?"
It  was  a  kind  of  self-hypnosis.  Partly  willpower,  partly  faith,  which  is how stories arrive.
But  back  then  it  felt  like  a  miracle.  My  dreams  had  become  a  secret meeting  place,  and  in  the  weeks  after  she  died  I  couldn't  wait  to  fall asleep at night. I began going to bed earlier and earlier, sometimes even in  bright  daylight.  My  mother,  I  remember,  finally  asked  about  it  at breakfast one morning. "Timmy, what's wrong?" she said, but all I could do was shrug and say, "Nothing. I just need sleep, that's all." I didn't dare tell  the  truth.  It  was  embarrassing,  I  suppose,  but  it  was  also  a  precious secret, like a magic trick, where if I tried to explain it, or even talk about it, the thrill and mystery would be gone. I didn't want to lose Linda.
She  was  dead.  I  understood  that.  After  all,  I'd  seen  her  body,  and  yet even  as  a  nine-year-old  I  had  begun  to  practice  the  magic  of  stories. Some I just dreamed up. Others I wrote down—the scenes and dialogue. And  at  nighttime  I'd  slide  into  sleep  knowing  that  Linda  would  be  there waiting  for  me.  Once,  I  remember,  we  went  ice  skating  late  at  night, tracing loops and circles under yellow floodlights. Later we sat by a wood stove in the warming house, all alone, and after a while I asked her what it  was  like  to  be  dead.  Apparently  Linda  thought  it  was  a  silly  question. She smiled and said, "Do I look dead?"
I told her no, she looked terrific. I waited a moment, then asked again, and  Linda  made  a  soft  little  sigh.  I  could  smell  our  wool  mittens  drying on the stove.
For a few seconds she was quiet.
"Well, right now," she said, "I'm not dead. But when I am, it's like ... I don't know, I guess it's like being inside a book that nobody's reading."
"A book?" I said.
"An  old  one.  It's  up  on  a  library  shelf,  so  you're  safe  and everything, but the book hasn't been checked out for a long, long time. All you can do is wait. Just hope somebody'll pick it up and start reading."
Linda smiled at me.
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
"Anyhow,  it's  not  so  bad,"  she  said.  "I  mean,  when  you're  dead,  you just  have  to  be  yourself."  She  stood  up  and  put  on  her  red  stocking  cap. "This is stupid. Let's go skate some more."
So I followed her down to the frozen pond. It was late, and nobody else was  there,  and  we  held  hands  and  skated  almost  all  night  under  the yellow lights.
And then it becomes 1990. I'm forty-three years old, and a writer now, still  dreaming  Linda  alive  in  exactly  the  same  way.  She's  not  the embodied  Linda;  she's  mostly  made  up,  with  a  new  identity  and  a  new name,  like  the  man  who  never  was.  Her  real  name  doesn't  matter.  She was  nine  years  old.  I  loved  her  and  then  she  died.  And  yet  right  here,  in the spell of memory and imagination, I can still see her as if through ice, as  if  I'm  gazing  into  some  other  world,  a  place  where  there  are  no  brain tumors and no funeral homes, where there are no bodies at all. I can see Kiowa,  too,  and  Ted  Lavender  and  Curt  Lemon,  and  sometimes  I  can even  see  Timmy  skating  with  Linda  under  the  yellow  floodlights.  I'm young  and  happy.  I'll  never  die.  I'm  skimming  across  the  surface  of  my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and  spins,  and  when  I  take  a  high  leap  into  the  dark  and  come  down thirty  years  later,  I  realize  it  is  as  Tim  trying  to  save  Timmy's  life  with  a story.
The End
Christine Taylor Riendeau     Thursday, February 16, 2012 11:56:25 AM ET
