‌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 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 fillets of meat 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.

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 l, 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.

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-togetherness. 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 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,” Azar said. “Poof. No fuckin’ 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. 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.

“F**kin’ 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.

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. 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 unblemished leather of his fine new boots, factory fresh, 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 sympathy 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.

“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. “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.

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 chumminess 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 tested his radio, unwrapped a candy bar, and 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 squad of Marines 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 an 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.

“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 gum drop,” 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. It’s as if you’re in a movie. There’s a camera on you, so you 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 measure out your breathing. Eyes open, be alert—old imperatives, old movies. It all swirls together, clichés 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. 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.

I heard myself chuckle.

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 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, 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 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 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 nothing moral in the world. 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.” “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 cheerfully. “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. “You dig playing 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.”

“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 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. 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 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.

“Oooo!” he was chanting. “Star light, 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. He stared out into the dark for several seconds, as if deciding something, then he shook his head and 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’ specimen I ever seen.” He looked out at Jorgenson, then at me. His eyes had the opaque,

spiritless surface of stone. He moved forward as if to help me up. Then he stopped. Almost as an afterthought, he kicked me in the head.

“Sad,” he murmured, 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. 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.

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. 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 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 gave me a half-grin. “Scare him to death, right?” “Right,” I said.

“What a movie!”

I shrugged. “Sure. Or just kill him.”