Hooligans (50 page)

The captain has real dark eyes, like he needs sleep and could use a week or two in the sun, and he got

a kick out of that.

“I mean, how do
you
feel about the war politically,” he says.

“I don‟t know about that,” I say to him. “I‟m not interested in political bullshit. I‟m here because I

was sent here. I don‟t even know what the hell we‟re doing over here, Captain. Right now it looks like

all we‟re doing is getting our ass kicked.”

“Does that concern you? I mean, that we seem to be getting our ass whipped?”

“You some kind of shrink or something?” I ask him.

He laughs again and says no, he‟s not a shrink.

So I say to him, “Nobody‟s over here to lose.”

Then he asks me how old I am and I tell him I‟m twenty-one and he says to me, “You‟re a damn good

line soldier.”

“I‟ll tell you, Captain, I‟m almost a short-timer. I got six months left to pull and I got two objectives

in life. Get me back whole, get my men back whole. I don‟t think about anything past that. There isn‟t

anything past that. You start thinking about what‟s past that and you‟re a dead man.”

“I‟m going to field-commission you,” he says, just like that.

“Shit no,” I says. “Don‟t do that
to
me, Captain. Gimme a break. What
do
you want from me?”

“I need a lieutenant on that squad and you‟re the best man for the job”

“Look, gimme six stripes, okay, that way I outrank anybody else on the squad. I‟ll
stay
right there, do

the same shit I been doing, but I don‟t want a goddamn bar, man. Bars get you killed. I‟m walking

away from this, Captain. I‟m not dying in this swamp. You hand a bar to me, it‟s like a fuckin‟ hex.”

So he gives me six stripes and a night on the town, which is kind of a joke, and the next day I‟m back

at
Hi
Pien and nothing is changed.
It‟s
the same old shit.

The 287th day:
We had this nut colonel who came up on the line. He was an old campaigner, you

could tell. He knew all the tricks and he just ignored them. He didn‟t even make a lot of sense when he

talked. I don‟t think he
was
wrapped real tight anymore.

Later in the day he was going to grab a medevac out and we‟re standing on the
LZ
on top of this knoll

and he takes a leak right down the side of the hill, and just like that the VC start popping away at us. I

don‟t know where they came from, and he‟s laughing, and I‟m telling him, “Colonel, you better watch

out, we seem to have Charlie all
over
the place.”

“Piss
on „em,” he says.

All of a sudden 9-millimeters were busting all around us. They must‟ve busted fifty caps and the

ground around his feet was churning up like little fountains. He finished, zipped up, and shot them a

bird. Then the Huey comes in and he climbs aboard and they dust off. I thought, There‟s a guy needs

to get off the line, bad.

“That crazy son of a bitch‟ll get somebody killed,” Doe says. “He doesn‟t give a shit anymore.”

“What the hell‟re they gonna do with him?” I say. “He‟s too crazy to send back to the World.”

“I don‟t know, send him to the crazy colonel place,” Doe
says,
and we all laugh about that.

The 306th day:
Gunner was over in Saigon for a week off. and F. and he meets this ordnance guy

and they hang out and get drunk and raise some hell. Anyway, the ordnance guy shows Gunner how

to take the timer out of a hand grenade and when Gunner comes back, he sits around every night,

taking the timers out of M-4‟s and then loading them into ammo packs. He puts five or six to each

bag.

A couple of nights later we‟re sitting on this LZ and the VC jump us. Gunner says follow him. He

leaves the bags behind, we give them about thirty meters, hole in, and when they take the position we

start a counter. Next thing I know there‟s hand grenades going off all over the place, gooks

screaming, all this chaos. Then we went back and jumped them and took the position back. We wasted

about twenty. Half of them only had one arm.

We did this a couple of times, moving off
LZ‟s
and what have you. Gunner keeps a couple of bags of

these grenades around all the time now. Every time we move out we leave a couple behind. It‟s like

our trademark. Fuckin‟ monkeys never learn. It works like a charm every time.

The 332nd day:
We had this ARVN assigned to us. I don‟t trust Vietnamese, not even the southerners.

They have a tendency to run when things get hot. I know that‟s a generalization, but over here,

sometimes generalizing keeps you alive. Anyway, this ARVN scout was on point and he runs into a

sniper. One lousy sniper but this crud leaves the point arid comes running back to report. What it

was, he didn‟t have the guts to cream the fucking gook.

So he comes running back and the sniper pops off three men, one, two, three, just like that. We get up

there and I get around behind the sniper and I empty halfa clip into him.

When we get back to base I radio it upriver and tell them I‟m sending this creep ARVN back to them, I

can‟t use him.

“Keep him,” they say. “It‟s politics.”

Poli-fuckin‟ -tics. Jesus! Politics my ass.

Tonight we‟re camped out in the bush, he heads back into town to see his lady friend. I take off my

shoes and follow him. He‟s going to the river to hop a ride and I jump him before he gets to the dock

and slit him ear to ear with my K-bar, just drop him in the fucking river.

That‟s one son of a bitch isn‟t getting any more of my people killed.

The 338th day
:
This time when I went down to Dau Tieng, it was the captain and this lieutenant

named Harris, who looked like he didn‟t take shit from anybody, and we met in this bar which

everybody jokingly calls the Café Society. 1 figure it‟s about the
ARVN.
They probably found him,

he‟s some asshole‟s brother or something. It doesn‟t even come up.

“You know the trouble with this war,” the captain says. “We get these people for a year. Just when

they‟re getting good enough to stay alive and take a few tricks, they go home.”

And I says to myself, Uh-oh.

The lieutenant says to me, “You got a real handle on what it‟s all about, Sergeant.”

And I laugh. I don‟t know what‟s happening two miles away and I say so.

“I mean out on the line,” the lieutenant says.

“Oh, that,” I says.

“Ever hear of CRIP?” he asks me.

I had heard some vague stories about a mixed outfit made up of North Viets who had defected to our

side and called themselves Kit Carson scouts, plus infantry guys, some leftover French Legionnaires,

and, some said, even some
CIA,
although you could hear that about anything. What I heard was that

they were pretty much assassination squads. Our own guerrillas, like the Green Berets and the

SEALS, which is like the Navy berets. Anyway I said no, because what I heard was mostly scuttlebutt.

“It‟s Combined Recon and Intelligence Platoons. Special teams. We keep them small, four or five

people. You know how that goes, everybody gets so they think like one person. You move around

pretty much on your own, targets of opportunity, that sort of thing. I think it would be just up your

alley.”

“I got ten weeks left,” I said, and I said it like You
must be nuts.

But it was funny, I was interested in what he was saying. I mean, this lieutenant was recruiting me,

asking me to do another tour, and I was
listening
to the son of a bitch. And he went right

“We have a low casualty rate because everybody knows what they‟re doing. You go out, you do your

thing, you come back, everybody leaves you alone.”

“That‟s about what I‟m doing now,” I said.

“That‟s what
I
mean, you‟re perfect for CRIP. We need people like you.”

I‟m getting a little pissed. “What‟s in this for me, Lieutenant? Just sticking my ass out there to get

whacked off for twelve more months? Shitt”

He says, “So what‟s back home? You work eight hours, sleep eight hours. Shit, Sergeant, all you got

left is eight hours a day to live. Tell me this isn‟t better than bowling.”

I told him I‟d think about it and
I
got shacked up for two days and went back down to the squad.

The 347th day
:
We had this kid, a replacement, his first time on the line. I don‟t even remember his

name. Anyway, we‟re rushing this hooch and there‟s a lot of caps going off and the kid twists his

ankle and down he goes and he starts screaming. We all just stay down and all I‟m thinking, as many

times as I told this kid, “You go down, keep your mouth shut no matter how bad you‟re hurt,” and

he‟s losing it all.

They zero in on him but Doc gets to him first and he‟s dragging this kid by the feet, trying to get him

behind something, away from the fire.

I hear the round hit. It goes
phunk,
like that.

I was hoping it was the kid but no such hick. Doc took one round, dead center.

Then the kid freaks out and
runs
for it and they just
cut
him to pieces too.

What a waste, what a goddamn awful fucking waste.

Later on, the GE‟s come in with their body bags. Doc is lying beside a tree. He looks like he‟s taking

a nap and I‟m sitting beside him and this guy comes up with the bag and plops it down beside Doc

and zips it open.

God, how I hate that sound. I hate zippers.

“Don‟t put that on him,” I say, and I grab that goddamn green garbage bag. “Don‟t put that fuckin‟

bag on him.”

“Hey, easy, pal, okay,” the Gunner says.
“He‟s
gone. We lost him. Let them take him back.”

You
can‟t
cry, you
know. Nobody cries up here.
You cry,
everybody thinks you‟re losing it. Doc had

eight days. Eight fucking days to go. All that time, all that experience. All stuffed in a fucking garbage

bag.

The 353rd day:
Ever since, I been thinking a lot about Carmody and Flagler and Jesse Hatch. Doc

Ziegler. Some of the others. The lieu-tenant‟s right; it is kind of a waste, spending a year on the line

and then leaving it just when you really get so you know what you‟re doing. I‟ve never been a pro

before at anything. But I know how to fight these motherfuckers. I feel like I‟m doing something

positive, accomplishing something. You know, in my own way, doing something to turn this thing

around, getting even for Jesse and
Doc
and the lieutenant, all the rest of them.

And one more thing.
I
wouldn‟t want to tell them this, or anybody else. I like it. I‟m going to miss it.
. .

getting a gook in my sights, squeezing off, watching the fucker go down. Shit, man, that‟s a jolt. That‟s

a real jolt. There‟s not another jolt in the world like it.

59

I took a couple of wrong turns before I found DeeDee‟s street. A red Datsun Z sat in the driveway and

there were kids playing hide-and-seek in the yard next door. From the outside of the house,

everything appeared normal. Obviously death had not made its presence known to the neighborhood

yet.

Lark answered the door and ushered me inside. The house was dark, oppressive, silent. The rituals of

passage had not yet begun. There were no flowers, no covered food dishes from the neighbors, no

mourners sitting silently, trying not to stare at the casket.

Lark sat on one of the hard, uncomfortable antiques, her hands folded in her lap, looking at the floor,

unsure of how to act in the presence of tragedy. I could tell it was a role uncommon for her, that she

was accustomed only to the good things in life. Tragedy thus far had passed her by.

“Dee‟s sleeping,” she said, after moments of strained silence. “The doctor gave her two shots before

she quieted down. I don‟t know how long she‟ll -be under. A couple of hours, at least.” She paused,

fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “Mr. Seaborn called. Thanks for telling him. He seemed to be

honestly concerned.”

“I‟m sure he is,” I said, trying to think of something more significant to say. “I just came by to see

how she‟s holding up.”

“Hard to say,” Lark said. “I don‟t know what‟s going to happen when she wakes up. She was in shock

when the doctor got here.” She looked up at me suddenly and asked, almost with desperation, “Was

Tony breaking the law when it happened? I think Dee‟s more worried about that than anything. Not

for herself. She doesn‟t want people to remember him. badly.”

. .

“I can‟t say for sure,” I said, “but it‟s possible.”

“How did he die?”

“I‟m not sure about that either,” I said, and trying to avoid telling her a bald-faced lie, I added, “He