365 Days (22 page)

“Hey, Cramer! Cramer!” the Corporal turned his head. “Better let the Old Man know that S-2 just called. Gunship and a loach got lit up near Qui Nhou.”

The Corporal waved and turned back to Herman.

“I think Sergeant Kowlow DEROS’ed back to the States almost two months ago,” he said.

“Who replaced him?”

“Sergeant Brown.”

“Brown?” Herman thought for a second. “Thomas Brown?”

“Sorry,” the Corporal shrugged. “I don’t know what Sergeant Brown’s first name is.”

“Is he in?”

“He might be. His office is the first one on the right.”

Herman turned away. Last year, he thought, as he walked sweating down the corridor. Even the money wouldn’t make it worth another. He reminded himself to send part of this month’s money to his second bank account. It was always good to be a little cautious. It wouldn’t do for his and his wife’s joint account to get too far out of hand.

He found Sergeant Brown in his office, sitting at his desk, a huge air conditioner blowing in over him.

“London...Herman London.” Brown said good-naturedly. Herman nodded and walked into the room. Brown, his wide face spread even wider, kept smiling, though he didn’t bother to get up from behind his desk. They had met each other over a year ago when Herman was up in I Corps, building the harbor at Danang, and Brown was working in the NCO clubs. They had hardly known each other. Herman was impressed that Brown remembered.

“Your kids are getting a bit more hard-nosed than they used to be,” Herman said wearily, putting the box down on the desk.

Brown stared at the box for a moment and then, motioning to the only other chair in the office, leaned back. “It’s not ’67,” he said, taking two cigars out of his pocket. Herman wondered about his pallor, but then he could not remember ever seeing him suntanned, even down in I Corps.

“No thanks,” Herman said, sitting down. The sweat was drying, making his clothes stick to him.

“I asked one of your pilots going up near Quin Yon to deliver that box to some of the boys working up near there, and he almost spit on me.”

Lighting his cigar, Brown nodded sympathetically. “It’s a different kind of war,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What happened to Kowlow?”

“He wanted to get out. He’d had enough.”

“How long was he here for?” Herman asked.

“A little over two years.”

“NCO clubs the whole time?”

Brown shook his head. “No, the last year he was working with the PX’s. Tape recorders, tape decks, turntables, that kind of thing.”

“Almost as good as construction work,” Brown said, giving Herman a small conspiratorial smile.

Herman let it go. “Do you think you could help me with that?” he asked, pointing toward the box. Brown put the cigar in the ashtray.

“I think so,” he said, moving his chair closer to the desk. Herman reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette.

“I offered the chopper pilot two hundred to take it up to Ton Bi.”

“What’s in it?” the Sergeant asked, sliding the box a bit closer to him.

“Couple of fifths of scotch. They ran out and they’re having some kind of party up there tonight. They radioed down, and I promised I’d get it to them.”

“Who’s up there?” Brown said.

“Supervisors from AM and D. Doing some kind of on-site inspection.”

“Ton Bi,” the Sergeant said. “Hmmm, that’s pretty far.... Well,” he said, pushing back his chair, “I think I should be able to do something for you.” He put his hands on his knees as if he were about to launch himself out of his seat. “What were you offering again?”

“Two...three hundred.” Herman corrected.

“Good,” Brown said, standing up. “Be right back.”

“We’ll have to wait a couple of minutes,” he said when he returned to the office. “Don’t worry. I’m sure it will be OK.”

“Fine,” Herman said, getting up. “Listen, I have a friend out near the gate; I’ll tell him what’s happening.”

“Oh, London?”

“Yeah?”

Brown was still standing by the desk, next to the box. “Got any extra generators at your place? Not for good, just for three or four days?”

Herman could feel the heat from the corridor fighting to get past him into the room. “They’re tough to get hold of. They power this whole damn country.” He looked toward the big air-conditioning unit stuck into the window. “They’re like gold, only worse.”

Brown nodded soberly. “I really need one. I sort of promised...a real promise.” He sat down on the desk. “I move a lot of stuff around here. It would be worth your while.”

“OK,” Herman said. “We can always have one break down and have to ship it somewhere to get it fixed. You do fix generators here.”

Brown grinned. “We fix everything here.”

Thompson was waiting for him inside the building. “A few more minutes,” Herman said, walking up to him.

Thompson picked his rifle off the bench where he had laid it. “If we don’t leave soon, we’ll be riding back in the dark.”

“Could be,” Herman said.

“Look,” Thompson said seriously, “you do stupid things around here and you’re going to get yourself hurt. Just leave the booze. If they can get it out, fine; if not, we’ll come back and pick it up tomorrow.”

Herman checked his watch. “One minute,” he said.

When he walked back into the office, Brown was on the phone. He motioned Herman into the office. “OK, yeah, sure; give me a call when it’s loaded. And thanks, Grieley; it’s really appreciated.” He put down the phone. “It will go,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “There’s a lot of stuff happening up around Qui Nhou. We’ll probably have to resupply before it gets dark.”

“Sounds good,” Herman said.

“Want something to drink?”

“No thanks,” Herman said. “I just talked to my partner, and he wants to get back. If it would be OK, I’ll leave the box. If you can get it out—fine. If you can’t, we’ll come by tomorrow and pick it up.”

“Sure, anyway you want it.”

“You know, Sarge, that wasn’t the first pilot I tried. Just out of curiosity, how you gonna get it up to Bon Ti? Order one of ’em to take it?”

Brown looked amused. “If I did that, they’d break every bottle one by one.” He reached for another cigar. “They’ll do it, but they have to think it’s worthwhile. I mean, they know where it’s going and what’s there.”

“So?” Herman asked.

“So,” Brown said, lighting his cigar, “I rewrap it, put some stickers on it, and it becomes penicillin, or plasma, or something.” He took a few puffs. “How much did we agree on?”

“Three hundred,” Herman said.

“We’ll have to pass it around a bit.” Herman remained mute. “Well,” Brown added good-naturedly, “it’ll have to do.”

Herman took three hundred-dollar bills from his wallet and handed them to Brown.

“Thanks. Tell me,” he said, “do they give you guys more for two-year contracts?”

“Yeah,” Herman said.

Brown nodded approvingly. “Tax-free, too. Hmmm. With odds and ends I bet you could triple that base salary in two years.”

“We work for it,” Herman said, putting away his wallet. “Anyway, thanks for taking care of the liquor for me.”

“That’s OK,” Brown said. “I’ll be in touch.”

It was only after Herman had left the room that Brown folded the money and put it into his own wallet.

“We should get out of this jungle war.

With our fire power, if we were up

against a regular army we’d wipe them

out. But we’re shooting at trees and

bushes.”

Trooper, 1st Air Cav

Surgical Ward

U.S. Army Hospital, Zama, Japan

Y
OU DON’T WEAR TIGER
stripes in Japan. They’re not authorized. Jungle fatigues, regular fatigues, class-A khakis, summer or winter greens, even Army shorts are OK, but not tiger stripes. With their jagged slashes of black and green, it’s hard to pass them off as being defensive. They’re for the jungle, for tracking and killing without being seen. So to spare the sensitivities of our Japanese hosts, the United States Army had ruled that tiger stripes were not to be worn in that country. Every now and then, though, someone ignores the regulations. Usually, after a little official harassment, he gives in and takes them off. Some, though, don’t. A few, simply because they’ve been through it all and don’t give a shit; others, because even in Japan, their war’s not over; some, a little of both. These are the ones you can’t push around, and if you hassle them about anything—even their uniforms—you’d better be ready to go all the way, because they’ll take you there whether you want to go or not.

Brock noticed the Major glaring at him, but kept right on walking.

“Hey you...you in the camies.”

Camies...! Camies...? Jesus! Without turning around, Brock came slowly to a stop.

“Yes you, soldier.”

Amused, Brock turned around.

“Come here!”

Smiling, Brock walked slowly back down the corridor. He was carrying his bush hat. His short blond hair had been bleached almost white by the sun, and he had the pinched, drawn look of having been outdoors too long. Except for his first lieutenant’s bars and jump wings, there was nothing else on his tiger stripes, not even a unit patch.

“We don’t wear that uniform around here,” the Major said.

“But I’m not from around here,” Brock said pleasantly enough.

“Where you from?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you that.”

“Sir,” the Major corrected sharply. “What unit are you with?”

“Sorry, can’t tell you that, either.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that...sir.”

The Major flushed.

“Lieutenant,” he said angrily, “you’re getting yourself into trouble.”

Unmoved, Brock remained silent, offering nothing.

“Who’s your commanding officer!”

“Right now,” Brock said, turning to observe a patient being rolled past him, “I am.”

“Lieutenant,” the Major barked, his voice echoing up and down the corridor, “junior officers stand at attention when they are talking to their seniors.”

With people stopping nearby, he was gathering himself to go on when Brock suddenly turned on him. His whole posture had changed. The calm indifference had vanished, and now the major found himself facing a cold furious young man.

“You!” Brock said contemptuously. “You, senior! A hospital personnel officer.” The change had been so abrupt, Brock’s contempt so brazenly expressed, that for a moment the Major was startled.

“I want you in my office this afternoon,” he stammered, his face purple with fury.

“I won’t be there,” Brock said quietly.

“You’ll be there, dammit, and when you walk into my office, Lieutenant, I want you in class-A khakis, or you’ll go back to Nam in cuffs. Understand?”

Brock didn’t even bother to answer. He simply turned his back on the Major and continued on his way to the admissions office.

The med evacs had already come in for that day and the admissions clerk had just finished typing up the daily census when Brock walked into the office. Ignoring the Corporal’s stare at his tiger stripes, he handed him a piece of paper. “Could you tell me if these men are still here?”

It is not uncommon for an officer if he is in Japan to visit his men. Almost all the wounded from Nam come there. What was uncommon was the Lieutenant’s list. Everyone was ranger-qualified. Everyone was Special Forces. Each had graduated from Recondo School, spent time at the Royal Jungle Tracking School of Malaysia, had been HALO trained—and each had been shot. There was not a frag wound or booby-trap injury among them. In a hospital full of idiotic blunders, miscalculations, and stupid mistakes, it was an extraordinary group.

Brock did not stay long on the wards. His men—though surprised and obviously pleased to see him—were restrained, treating him with a reserve quite uncommon for a first lieutenant. He ignored their wounds, merely thanked them, offered his help if ever needed, and left. They assumed he was going back.

It was only in the intensive-care unit that his smooth routine faltered. Perhaps it was the shock of the room itself. After the drab, dimly lit green of the surgical and orthopedic wards, it was like suddenly turning a corner and walking into a sunspot. Brilliantly lit, with huge banks of overhead lights, spotless and shadowless, its gleaming tiled floors and walls glared at everyone who walked in.

The patients, brown and lean from Nam, lay naked in rows, with their wounds, chest tubes, and catheters exposed; some had their stumps up, oozing on blocks. Brock hesitated in the doorway.

“Yes?” the ward master asked, approaching him.

“Sergeant Ade,” Brock said, his eyes searching the rows of wounded men.

“I’m sorry, sir, but he’s critical.”

“I know, but I haven’t much time. I’d like to see him. He was part of my team.”

The ward master looked at Brock’s tiger stripes and bush hat. “OK, but put on one of those gowns.”

Ade was at the far end of the room. Wearing a white surgical gown Brock walked down the center aisle, and the patients, sunken-eyed, emaciated, barely able to lift their heads, watched him as he passed—boys with amputated arms sewn closed with black thread, like the seams of a purse, kids with abdomens half open, draining pus into liter bottles. A nurse, adjusting an IV, looked up. The smell of sterile soap and rubber was everywhere.

He stopped by the foot of the last bed and waited for Ade to open his eyes, watching the blood dripping slowly out of the bottle into the catheter they had sewn into the patient’s neck. When Ade finally looked up, it took him a while to focus his eyes.

“Made it, huh?” he whispered.

Brock moved closer to the side of the bed. “Yeah,” he said. “Made it.”

“Going back?”

“No.” Brock shook his head. “They offered me another team, but...well, I didn’t want to begin again. I’m going home.”

“You’re gonna be tough in the bars, man.”

Brock smiled. “Yeah—guess so.”

“Still having the same dream?”

“Same one,” Brock said soberly. “Same one, every night.”

Ade closed his eyes against the lights. “Should see somebody about it.”

“Later. How they treating you?”