The Things They Carried Tim O'Brien (Full Audiobook)

The Things They Carried
By Tim OBrien 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. 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 boots2.1 Poundsand 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.

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 straighton
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 picturetaker spreading out against the brick wall. The second photograph had
been clipped from the 1968 Mount Sebastian yearbook. It was an action
shotwomen's volleyballand 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 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 gearrods and steel brushes and swabs and
tubes of LSA oilall 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
somethingjust boom, then downnot like the movies where the dead
guy rolls around and does fancy spins and goes ass over teakettlenot
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 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 weaponsthe
M-60, M-16, and M79they carried whatever presented itself, or whatever
seemed appropriate as a means of killing or staying
alive. They carried catch-ascatch-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 ChiComs 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 mine3.5 Pounds with its firing device. They all carried
fragmentation grenades14 ounces each.

They all carried at least one M18
colored smoke grenade24 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-buttogether
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 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 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 therethe tunnel walls
squeezing inhow 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 inass and elbowsa
swallowed-up feelingand 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 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 thoughta 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 aloneriding
her bike across campus or sitting off by herself in the cafeteriaeven
dancing, she danced aloneand 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 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 profoundthe 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, 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 itselfVietnam, the
place, the soila 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 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
sweatersthe resources were stunningsparklers for the Fourth of July,
colored eggs for Easterit was the great American war chestthe 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
shouldersand 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.

Like cement, Kiowa whispered in the dark. I swear to Godboom,
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 jagthe way he was carrying onit 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 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 logicabsolute 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 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 overthere it is, my friend, there
it isas 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, longingthese 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, 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
velocitywings and enginesa smiling stewardessbut 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 freeit 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
entanglementsSin 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, 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 nothingGone! 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. 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 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 itjust a general
questionbut 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 didI burned it.

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 herhe'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. 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 saidand 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. 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 himits 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 boobytrapped
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." 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 timethe nurse loves him to deaththe 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." 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 eyeballsthe whole world gets rearrangedand
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 puppyfeeding
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." 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 bucksergeant 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 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
enoughif the evil were evil enough, if the good were good enoughI
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 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 onceI was too good
for this war. Too smart, too compassionate, too everything. It couldn't
happen.

I was above it. I had the world dickedPhi Beta Kappa and
summa cum laude and president of the student body and a full-ride
scholarship for grad studies at Harvard. A mistake, maybea 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 familynephews 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 linemore properly, a disassembly lineremoving 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, 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 therelike 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 statusno 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. 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 futurea 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-itor-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 themI held them personally and
individually responsiblethe 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 long colonialism of the Frenchthis was
all too damned complicated, it required some readingbut 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 rupturea 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 itlike running a dead-end
mazeno way outit 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 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 outthe 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 timea 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 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 thingsa 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 catno wasted sighs or pityand
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 sharphe 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. One thing for certain, he knew I was in desperate
trouble. And he
knew I couldn't talk about it. The wrong wordor 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 Patrolhelicopters and searchlights and barking
dogsI'd be crashing through the woods, I'd be down on my hands and
kneespeople shouting out my namethe 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 toa mainstream lifeI loved
baseball and hamburgers and cherry Cokesand 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
deformityfour arms and three headsI'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 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 foodsay 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 jobhow much did you pull in an
hour?" "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 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 hairlots 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. 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 yardsand 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 itthe 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 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 ona loud stadium roar. Hotdogs and popcornstadium 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 dievillagers with terrible burns, little kids without arms or
legsyes, 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 colorspeople in hard hats, people in headbandsthey 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.

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 methe town, the whole
universeand 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 warI would kill and maybe
diebecause 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.

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 handsI. Just don't rememberbut 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
stupida missing jackknifebut 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 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
sleepinga skittish feelingalways 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 upa wheelchair woundthe
other guy would automatically find a way to end it. As far as I could tell 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,
reallythey can sew it back onreally." "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 meswear 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.

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? 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 himso 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 treesquadruple canopy, no sunlight at alland 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. 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 narrowwaisted,
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. 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 suspiciousanythingthey'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 youit'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 foglike rain,
except it's not rainingeverything'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
vaporsthe 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.

"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 wildernessno way, it can't be realbut 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 hearingyou won't believe thisthey 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 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 rockit'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? Namit truly talks. "The guys can't cope.

They lose it. They get on the radio and report
enemy movementa whole army, they sayand 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 daysjust
clouds and fog, they're off in this special zoneand the
mountains are absolutely deadflat silent.

Like Brigadoonpure 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 knowwrong
frequencyyou don't even want to hear this. Then they salute the fucker and walk away,
because certain stories you don't ever tell." 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." "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 quietjust 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 beforemany times, many
versionsbut 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 knowno
farms or paddiesbut 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 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." 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 metalfire 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 indifferencea powerful,
implacable beautyand 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 soileverything. 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 selfyour 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 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 feelthe spiritual textureof 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.

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 happenand maybe it did,
anything's possibleeven 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 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 trickor-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 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 batterypowered
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 painhe actually
enjoyed combatbut 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 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
saidlike 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." "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 blondejust a kid, just barely
out of high schoolshe 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, mostlylegs 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 flatcrested 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 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 fastmoving
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. "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 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
itour own little native, they'd saybut 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 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 freshfaced, 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 hereall of uswe
were real young and innocent, full of romantic bullshit,
but we learned pretty damn quick. And so did Mary Anne." 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. 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
somehowtoo 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 boyeighteen 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. "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 sleepthe
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 justI don't knowmaybe 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." 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
Forceshow they used the place as a base of operations, how they'd glide
in and outall 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 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 ambushWhat 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 waywe'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 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 saidpartly 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 hera 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, 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 darknot
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?" "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 animalend 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." 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 musicthe noise,
whatever it wascame 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 noisea short screeching
sound, like a catand 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
soundtribal musicbamboo 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 fleshthe 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 yellowbrown
skin dangled from the overhead rafters. And bones.

Stacks of
bonesall 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 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 countrythe
dirt, the deathI just want to eat it and have it there inside me. That's
how I feel. It's like . .

. This appetite. I get scared sometimeslots of timesbut 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 darkI'm on fire almostI'm burning away into
nothingbut 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." 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 BangkokI was on R&R, just
this fluke thingand 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 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 chancesthings 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
altogetherfor 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, odd shapes. Late at night, when the Greenies were out
on ambush, the whole rain forest seemed to stare in at thema
watched feelingand 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, 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." 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 partnot sermons and all thatbut 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. "One thing for sure, I'd look spiffy in those
robes they wearjust 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 everyou knowdid 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 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 muscleda 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 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 downyou 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. Then later he said, "Tim, it's a war.

The guy wasn't Heidihe 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. 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
muscleda 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
killweapon, ammunition, everything." Tiny beads of sweat glistened at
Kiowa's forehead. His eyes moved from the sky to the dead man's
body to 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 hairhe 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 timesome 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 starshaped
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 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
himafraid of somethingand 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 teamsone man on guard while the other slept, switching off
every two hoursand 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 allnone 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 awayjust evaporateand I leaned back and felt my
mind go empty and then felt it fill up again.

I had already thrown the 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
noisenot soft but not loud eithernot what I'd expectedand there
was a puff of dust and smokea small white puffand 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 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, 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 splitlevel 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 prairiethe
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 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'clocktwenty 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
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 stuffjust 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?" "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 muckno 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 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 stopmotion
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 decidedsix 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.

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 rivera dead-fish smellbut 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. "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 waterskiers 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 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
Kiowahe 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 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 everywhereit was inside him, in his lungsand
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 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?" "Rootie-tootie?" "You know, manroot 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 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 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 casenot even any bad dreams. And I
don't feel like anybody mistreats me or anything, except sometimes people act too nice, too polite, like they're
afraid they might ask the wrong question . .

. But I shouldn't bitch. One thing I hatereally 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 thereyou 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 glideno 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 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, Minnesotathe lake, the road, the causeway, the woman
in pedal pushers, the junior college, the handsome houses and docks and
boats and public parksand 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 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 meI.

Was afraid to speak directly, afraid to rememberand
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
incidentour long night in the shit field along the Song Tra Bonghas
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 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.

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, reallya 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 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 shitit'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. 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 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, 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 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. 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.

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 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 jokesI didn't mean anything." "We all say things." "Yeah, but when I saw the guy, it made me
feelI don't knowlike he was listening." "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. 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. 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 ghostsjust 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. 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 wellfar
better than Iand 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." "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 nighta 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, 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. 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 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 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 midDecember, 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. 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 CompanyS-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 courseonce a month
we'd get hit with mortar firebut 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 bloodyou 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
thinkhow 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 himall
of them. Their deep bush tans, the sores and blisters,
the stories, the init-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 feltlike a civilianand
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," 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 fityou 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. "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. 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. Jorgensonhe'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
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 everythingmy
first firefightI 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 vowI'll
get him, I'll get himit 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 shockI'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
spookyshadows 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 shimmeringodd 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
magicalappearing, 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
apologysomething 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
SOPone 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, 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." Psychologythat 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. "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 reela
hot, angry sleepand 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. Thirtytwo
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 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 alertold 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
bunkereight 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 rhythmnoise, silence, noisegradually 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 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
tightI 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 itselfeverything, everywherethe fireflies and paddies, the
moon, the midnight rustlings, the cool phosphorescent shimmer of evil
I was atrocityI was jungle fire, jungle drumsI was the blind stare in
the eyes of all those poor, dead, dumbfuck ex-pals of mineall the pale
young corpses, Lee Strunk and Kiowa and Curt LemonI was the beast
on their lipsI was Namthe 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 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 crynot even a cry,
really, just a short lung-and-throat barkand 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 meI'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." "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 thoughtI'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 bottlelike a cloud of gasI 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 lucidthings were clearbut 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 nowit was that geniehe 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. "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.

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 Birdsyou 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 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 unitalone, you'd thinkand
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. Swarms of mutant bugs, billions of them, they
had him bracketed. Whispering his name, he saidhis actual
nameall night longit 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 voicethat hum
in your earsand 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 legsthat sort of
thing. It was ghoulish, he knew that, but he couldn't
shut off the pictures. 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 likeI don't knowit'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
bugsI can see itI can see the goddamn bugs chewing tunnels through meI
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. 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 desertedno people, no animalsand
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-deedoo,"
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.

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 whileespecially
Jensenbut 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." "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. "TodayI 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 fragilelooking. Even then, at nine years old, I wanted to
live inside her body.

I wanted
to melt into her bonesthat 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 lifea
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 brown eyes and the way she always smiled at
the worldalways, it seemedas 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 windowshe knew what
I meantbut 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 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,
"Mellowa 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, yeahmellow!" 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. 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
bodya 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.

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 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 smileI know my own eyesand 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-threeyear-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 bodyher life. 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 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
eyesnot a child, not an adultjust 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 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 villagealmost stark naked, the story went,
just boots and balls and an M-16and in the dark Lemon went from
hootch to hootchringing doorbells, he called itand 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, Mamasan,'
he goes, real soft like. 'Hey, Mama-santrick 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. Lemonthere'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. 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 waythat 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 jokehoping it was
a jokealmost 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. 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 handsnot thatbut 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 partya
crowded room, I'd think, and a big chocolate cake with pink
candlesand then soon I'd be dreaming it, and after a while Linda would
show up, as I knew she 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 downthe 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. "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..