For All Their Lives (19 page)

It wasn't the Ritz, he thought tiredly. Hell, it wasn't even a flea bag. But he could make it more comfortable for himself. He made up the one empty cot with damp sheets and blanket. He hung his dress uniform on a length of cord stretching from one end of the tent to the other. The rest of his clothing went into his footlocker. He'd used up three and a half minutes unpacking. The small, framed picture he set on top of his footlocker, along with his shaving gear, was of Sadie, Benny, and himself. “When I write to you guys, I don't think I'm going to be able to tell you what this is
really
like,” he muttered.

Jesus, he'd thought it was going to be a little more civilized. He'd expected a certain amount of heat and humidity, but nothing like this. He hadn't expected the stink either.
That
was bothering him, but he noticed he was no longer breathing through his mouth. Phil Pender was almost a relief. He'd expected a Phil Pender. He was sure he could whip Pender into shape in a heartbeat. Finding Casey was going to be something else. Hope, the poet said, springs eternal.

Stripped to his underwear, Mac sat down on his cot. He gave in to fear then, his shoulders trembling, his hands sweating. Had he done the right thing by volunteering to come here? The reality of his circumstances had mule-kicked him. He was competent, he was capable. He'd graduated in the top percentile of his class. He'd done his best at playing desk jockey in the Pentagon. He could think on his own and act on his own decisions. But was he good company-commander material? Could he cut it? Would he be able to gain the respect of his men, or would he be just another Pentagon pussy to them? He shuddered. It would be his job to ensure the safety of his men. He
had
to cut it. When he walked away from the army, he wanted to walk with his head high and his shoulders back. Not for his old man, not for the brass, but for himself.

The fear gripping him now was normal. It was a wise man who understood fear. One of his instructors at the Academy had told him that. But how to deal with it? Gut it out, Mac supposed. Another instructor had told him that in war a good soldier had buddies, and buddies looked after one another. A good soldier did not make friends, because friends had a way of dying on you and that was something a good soldier didn't have time to deal with. No friends. Only buddies. He could handle that. He hoped.

“Towels, Captain,” Pender said through the flap opening in the tent. “And they're almost dry.” He handed over a stack of khaki towels. “There's no one in the shower now, if you want to use it. I'll be in the club. If you come over, I can introduce you to some of the men.”

“Thanks, Pender. Which way is the club?”

“To the left. We have a piano with six missing keys. You'll hear the music. Just follow your ears. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Yeah, Pender, tell me about Colonel Morley. Off the record.”

Pender eyeballed the captain, weighed the possible consequences, and decided to put his money on him. “Well, sir, it's like this. He hasn't endeared himself to the men, and that's as it should be. He's not running in a popularity contest. He's been known to change his mind . . . changing his orders three or four times before he makes a final decision. It seems the men . . . ah, what the men say is he's . . . what he is is . . . Jesus, Captain, are you gonna make me say it out loud?”

Mac pretended to be puzzled. “Are you saying our full bird is indecisive, doesn't put his ass on the line, and makes sure his own is always covered? Shit, those attributes fit half the United States Army, Pender. Is there something else?”

“He's lost a few good men, sir, because he was . . . uncertain . . . He turned tail and ran is what he did,” Pender said indignantly. “I don't know this for a fact, sir, it's scuttlebutt.”

Mac digested the information. “Thanks, Pender.” When Pender had gone, Mac flopped back on the cot. He wondered again if he'd made a mistake in coming to Southeast Asia. “Shit,” he muttered.

He thought about Casey then and his mood changed immediately: it darkened. He had a vision of the two of them sending messages and never making contact until they met stateside after their tours were over.

“Bull
shit
!” he said, getting up, stomping his way to the makeshift shower. He sang lustily, even angrily, as the tepid water sluiced over him. When he stepped out, he didn't feel any cooler.

He envisioned a map of Southeast Asia in his mind. Some way, somehow, he was going to Qui Nhon. If he had to, he wasn't above pulling some strings, providing he could find the strings to pull.

He had a few bad moments when he thought about his file. Inside was a special notation about his ability to pinpoint any given place on a map, but he was not a topographer. The army had tested him, retested him, and tested him some more. He'd even thought about cheating, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. It was all in his file, and if Morley found it, he would capitalize on it. The same way any good officer would.

Not only the stink of the country, but his own smell hit him full force when he walked through the military compound. Jesus, he was dripping wet again. Why in the hell had he even bothered to shower in the stinking water? He was going to have to give some thought to getting some better deodorant. If there was one thing he hated, it was his own body smell. Long ago, when he was a small boy and permitted to play in his mother's room, he remembered her mixing different powders before she sifted them into a fancy crystal bowl. Baking soda, cornstarch, and something else. She'd said her old mammy in South Carolina had taught her how to make it so she'd smell sweet all the time. The humidity in South Carolina had to be almost as bad as it was here. The powder went on his list of things to do. He looked down at the fine hairs on his arms to see at least a hundred gnats stuck in the fine furring. “Shit!” He rubbed at his arms with the damp towel. He choked as he sprayed and rubbed in the insect repellent. Goddamn, now he was sticky. Which was worse, the problem or the remedy?

He wondered how Casey was adjusting to this place. Women, he thought, wouldn't be as tolerant. He closed his eyes trying to imagine the nimbus of gold curls over her head. That night in the damp and fog, her hair had curled all about her face. The face of an angel. Catching fog. He still thought it the silliest, the most endearing thing that ever happened to him. He wished he could reach out and touch her hand. Even here in this awful place they would have things to talk about.

His wife crept into his thoughts along with a vision of his father. In a place like this, Alice would turn tail and run. And she would squawk all the way back to the States. A frown descended over his face when he tried to picture what Alice's sticky, poufy hair would look like in Vietnam's humidity. Then he laughed.

He wiped at his face again before he pulled on his fatigues. Time to meet his fellow officers and bend his elbow a little. Maybe there would be some men who'd been to Qui Nhon, or at least know a little about the area. Something he could store in his mind on his road map to finding Casey. And he
would
find her. This one wasn't going to get away from him. Casey Adams was his dream.

Tomorrow was orientation and after that, training missions. And after
that
he would be on his own. The old do or die thing. That place all men dread where they separate the men from the boys.

 

I
T WAS AN
hour before midnight when Mac made his way back to his tent. He was three sheets to the wind on bad whiskey and sad stories. He'd contributed, blended in. His last conscious thought was that he was going to have a hell of a hangover for his orientation and his first training mission.

The God of Dreams invaded his sleep and took him down the Ho Chi Minh trail a step at a time. At every bend in the trail there were golden-haired nurses with huge red crosses on the bibs of their nursing aprons. Like vampires they were sucking the blood from the Viet Cong, then spewing it out on the trail until he was ankle deep in Vietnamese blood. High in the trees, hidden from all eyes, voices like his father's fell in the thick air. “This is totally unacceptable.” It was a cadence set to fife music.

 

M
AC WAS THE
last to leap to the ground from the Huey. He staggered slightly as he followed his NCO, who suddenly stopped in mid-stride. Mac danced to the side. “You did okay out there, Captain,” the sergeant said out of the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly his tiredness was gone. He
had
done all right, but hearing the sergeant say it aloud made all the difference. “The beer's on me, Sergeant.”

“You got it, Captain,” the sergeant said, sprinting to Colonel Morley's offices.

Thirty days in the bush. Thirty fucking days without a shower or shave. Thirty solid days of itching and sweating. And, he'd dropped fifteen pounds. But none of the above was important. What was important was he'd cut it out there.

He was ready now for his own command.

Mac's step lightened and he started to whistle. Twenty-four hours to do nothing but sleep, eat, and shower. Hot damn.

Mac dumped his field pack and headed for the showers carrying nothing but a towel and his shaving gear. Christ, he smelled.

His boots came off first. He looked at his feet in awe. It was a miracle his socks came off without taking half his skin. He had blisters, corns, and calluses. Maybe he'd just go barefoot the rest of the day. He tossed his socks in the trash can. He saw Pender do the same thing.

The awe was back on his face as he watched Pender attack his beard with a delicate-looking pair of manicure scissors. He'd been wondering about the best way to remove it. “You do it in degrees, Captain,” Pender said. When he was finished he handed the scissors to Mac.

Four showers, three naps, three shaves, and two meals later, Mac felt like himself.

It was time to go to the club and get shit-faced drunk, something he promised to do the moment he returned to Long Binh. Tomorrow would take care of itself. His heart took on an extra beat when he thought of tomorrow. So, maybe he wouldn't get shit-faced drunk. He'd belt a few with the men, do a little nibbling, belt a few more, and hit the sack.

Mac flopped back on his cot. Tomorrow he would be leading his senior NCO and his men, three-quarters of whom were “cherries,” men new to the bush, just the way he and Pender had been new thirty days ago.

“Enough of this,” Mac muttered. Tonight the drinks were on him. He stuffed money into his blouse pocket.

 

M
AC LOOKED UP
from the piano stool he was sitting on when Pender entered the club. “I don't suppose there's anyone around here who knows how to play ‘Alexander's Rag Time Band,' is there?”

“I can find out, Captain, if you think it's important,” Pender said in a high, squeaky voice that sounded like it came from someone else. Mac's eyebrows shot upward.

“No, it's not important. Is something wrong, Lieutenant?”

“No. Yeah. Well . . . Tomorrow is for real. This other. . . I'm scared, Captain,” he blurted in his normal-sounding voice.

“Guess what, Pender? So am I. If you weren't scared I'd worry about you. Maybe scared is the wrong word here for both of us. Let's just say we're anxious. Sounds a hell of a lot better, doesn't it?” Mac said lightly.

“No, sir, I'm scared. Piss-ass scared,” Pender bleated, his eyes rolling back in his head.

“Listen, Pender,” Mac said quietly, “every man in this army is scared and if he tells you he isn't then he's a damn fool liar. We've been out in the bush for four weeks and in those four weeks I've seen what you can do. The only difference tomorrow is that you answer to me. What it comes down to, Pender, is, do you trust me? On second thought, Lieutenant, see if you can find someone who can play this relic,” Mac said, waving him off. Doing what he did best might take the edge off his fear. At least he hoped so.

Mac plunked at the piano keys. When he'd first arrived there were six missing keys, now a month later there were seven. Did someone steal them? He thought the question crucial and wished there was someone who could give him an answer.

Eventually someone came in and sat down at the piano. He
said
he was playing “Alexander's Rag Time Band.” Mac clapped his hands so loud and long they started to hurt. “And on that note, gentlemen,” Mac said, draining his sixth beer, “I think I'll turn in.”

One by one the men straggled out of the club in the captain's wake, but not before they took a vote as to the captain's capabilities. To a man they said yeah, the captain could cut it.

Pender was the last to leave. “Yeah, but can I cut it?” he muttered. He wanted to cry. Needed to cry. Why the fuck shouldn't he cry? Because, he answered himself, soldiers don't cry. “Fuck that,” he mumbled, tears rolling down his cheeks as he made his way to what he called home. He didn't give a good fucking shit who saw him. He'd bop the first man in the snoot who even looked at him crossways or said one word. His mother always told him if he cried when something upset him he'd feel better. Back then it worked. He crossed his fingers.

Pender slept with his fingers crossed and tears on his cheeks.

 

I
T WAS
3:30 in the morning when Mac bolted from his sleep. “Jesus, Christ!” he muttered as he tried to remember the dream that woke him. He flopped back down on the wet cot. His own sweat dripped from every pore of his body. His head pounded and his stomach roiled. He would not throw up. By God, he just wouldn't. He tightened his stomach muscles and forced the bile back to the pit of his stomach.