Going After Cacciato (11 page)

Motioning for silence, the lieutenant crept across the chamber and leveled his rifle against the man’s neck.

“Move,” the lieutenant growled, “and it’s auld lang syne.”

But the man moved. Swiveling on his stool, he smiled and reached out with his right hand.

“Welcome,” he said. “It is a pleasure you dropped in.”

His name, he said, was Li Van Hgoc—just Van was fine—a major, 48th Vietcong Battalion. Standing, the man came just barely to the lieutenant’s shoulder. His skin was sallow and he squinted when he smiled. The squinting produced wrinkles around his eyes.

Bowing, ignoring the leveled weapon, the man led them into an adjoining chamber where candles lit a large banquet table filled with pots of rice and meats and fish and fresh fruit.

“So,” Li Van Hgoc smiled. He poured brandy from an amber decanter. “So now we shall talk of the war, yes?”

Again there was a falling feeling, a slipping, and again Paul Berlin had an incomplete sense of being high in the tower by the sea. It was a queasy feeling, a movement of consciousness in and out.

He had never seen the living enemy. He had seen Cacciato’s shot-dead VC boy. He had seen what bombing could do. He had seen the dead. But never had he seen the living enemy. And he had never seen the tunnels. Once he might have: He might have won the Silver Star for valor, but instead Bernie Lynn went down, and Bernie Lynn won the Silver Star. He had never seen the enemy or the tunnels, or the Silver Star, but he might have.

Drowsy now, and yet still excited, he felt himself falling. The fear was gone.

   How, he asked Li Van Hgoc, did they hide themselves? How did they maintain such quiet? Where did they sleep, how did they melt into the land? Who were they? What motivated them—ideology, history, tradition, religion, politics, fear, discipline? What were the secrets of Quang Ngai? Why did the earth glow red? Was there meaning in the way the night seemed to move? Illusion or truth? How did they wiggle through wire? Could they fly, could they pass through rock like ghosts? Was it true they didn’t value human life? Did their women really carry razor blades in their vaginas, booby traps for dumb GIs? Where did they bury their dead? Which of all the villages were VC, and which were not, and why were all the villes filled with old women and kids? Where were the men? Did he have inside information on the battle at Singh In in the mountains? Had he been there? Did he see what happened to Frenchie Tucker? Was he present when Billy Boy Watkins expired of fright on the field of battle? Did he know anything about the time of silence along the Song Tra Bong? Was it really a Psy-Ops operation?
Which trails were mined and which were safe? Where was the water poisoned? Why was the land so scary—the criss-crossed paddies, the tunnels and burial mounds, thick hedges and poverty and fear?

“The land,” Li Van Hgoc said softly.

And sipping his brandy, the officer smiled.

“The soldier is but the representative of the land. The land is your true enemy.” He paused. “There is an ancient ideograph—the word
Xa
. It means—” He looked to Sarkin Aung Wan for help.

“Community,” she said. “It means community, and soil, and home.”

“Yes,” nodded Li Van Hgoc. “Yes, but it also has other meanings: earth and sky and even sacredness.
Xa
, it has many implications. But at heart it means that a man’s spirit is in the land, where his ancestors rest and where the rice grows. The land is your enemy.”

Stink Harris was snoring. The lieutenant and Oscar and Eddie and Doc Peret had moved to a row of cots, where they slept with their boots on.

“So the land mines—”

“The land defending itself.”

“The tunnels.”

“Obvious, isn’t it?”

“The hedges and paddies.”

“Yes,” the officer said. “The land’s own slough. More brandy?”

With Sarkin Aung Wan’s help, they spent many hours discussing the face of Quang Ngai, whose features told of the personality, but whose personality was untelling. The underground, the smiling man said, was the literal summary of the land, and of mysteries contained in it; a statement of greater truth could not be made.
Xa Hoi
, the party, had its vision in
Xa
, the land. The land is the enemy.

“Does the leopard hide?” asked Li Van Hgoc. “Or is it hidden by nature? Is it hiding or is it hidden?”

And later, while the others slept their endless sleep, Li Van Hgoc led Paul Berlin on a tour of the tunnels.

Chamber to chamber they went, exploring the war’s underground. Bats nested in beams like pigeons in a hayloft; the walls were lined with tapestries and mosaics of tile and stone; among winding roots and tubers were the makings of an army: kegs of powder and coils of fuse and crates of ammo.

The chambers were linked by narrow passageways, one to the next, and at last they returned to the operations center.

Smiling, Li Van Hgoc led him up to the chrome console.

“Wait,” he said.

The little man pushed a series of buttons. The periscope whined and began to rise. When it clicked into position, he pulled up a stool and motioned for Paul Berlin to look.

“What is it?”

“Ah,” said Li Van Hgoc. “You don’t know?”

Peering into the viewing lens, squinting to see better, Paul Berlin couldn’t be sure. Several men appeared to be grouped around the mouth of a tunnel. The forms were fuzzy. Some of them were talking, others silent. One man was on his hands and knees, leaning part way down into the hole.

“What?” Paul Berlin said. “I can’t—”

“Look closer. Concentrate.”

T
hey heard the shot that got Frenchie Tucker, just as Bernie Lynn, a minute later, heard the shot that got himself.

“Somebody’s got to go down,” said First Lieutenant Sidney Martin, nearly as new to the war as Paul Berlin.

But that was later too. First they waited. They waited on the chance that Frenchie might come out. Stink and Oscar and Pederson and Vaught and Cacciato squatted at the mouth of the tunnel. The others moved off to form a perimeter.

“This here’s what happens,” Oscar muttered. “When you search the fuckers ‘stead of just blowin’ them and movin’ on, this here’s the final result.”

“It’s a war,” said Sidney Martin.

“Is it really?”

“It is. Shut up and listen.”

“A war!” Oscar Johnson said. “The man says we’re in a war. You believe that?”

“That’s what I tell my folks in letters,” Eddie said. “A war!”

They’d all heard the shot. They’d watched Frenchie go down, a big hairy guy who was scheduled to take the next chopper to the rear to have his blood pressure checked, a big guy who liked talking politics, a great big guy, so he’d been forced to go slowly, wiggling in bit by bit.

“Not me,” he’d said. “No way you get me down there. Not Frenchie Tucker.”

“You,” said Sidney Martin.

“Bullshit,” Frenchie said. “I’ll get stuck.”

“Stuck like a pig,” said Stink Harris, and some of the men murmured.

Oscar looked at Sidney Martin. “You want it done,” he said, “then do it yourself. Think how good you’ll feel afterward. Self-improvement an’ all that. A swell fuckin feeling.”

But the young lieutenant shook his head. He gazed at Frenchie Tucker and told him it was a matter of going down or getting himself court-martialed. One or the other. So Frenchie swore and took off his pack and boots and socks and helmet, stacked them neatly on a boulder, cussing, taking time, complaining how this would screw up his blood pressure.

They watched him go down. A great big cussing guy who had to wiggle his way in. Then they heard the shot.

They waited a long while. Sidney Martin found a flashlight and leaned down into the hole and looked.

And then he said, “Somebody’s got to go down.”

The men filed away. Bernie Lynn, who stood near the lip of the tunnel, looked aside and mumbled to himself.

“Somebody,” the new lieutenant said. “Right now.”

Stink Harris shrugged. “Maybe Frenchie’s okay. Give him time, you can’t never tell.”

Pederson and Vaught agreed. The feeling of hope caught on, and they told one another it would be all right, Frenchie could take
care of himself. Stink said it didn’t sound like an AK, anyway. “No crack,” he said. “That wasn’t no AK.”

“Somebody,” the lieutenant said. “Somebody’s got to.”

No one moved.

“Now. Right now.”

Stink turned and walked quickly to the perimeter and took off his helmet, threw it down hard and sat on it. He tapped out a cigarette. Eddie and Vaught joined him. Doc Peret opened his medic’s pouch and began examining the contents, as if doing inventory, and Pederson and Buff and Rudy Chassler slipped off into the hedges.

“Look,” Sidney Martin said. He was tall. Acne scars covered his chin. “I didn’t invent this sorry business. But we got a man down there and somebody’s got to fetch him. Now.”

Stink made a hooting noise. “Send down the gremlin.”

“Who?”

“The gremlin. Send Cacciato down.”

Oscar looked at Cacciato, who smiled broadly and began removing his pack.

“Not him,” Oscar said.

“Somebody. Make up your mind.”

Paul Berlin stood alone. He felt the walls tight against him. He was careful not to look at anyone.

Bernie Lynn swore violently. He dropped his gear where he stood, just let it fall, and he entered the tunnel headfirst. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, “fuck it.” Bernie had once poured insecticide into Frenchie’s canteen. “Fuck it,” he kept saying, going down.

His feet were still showing when he was shot. The feet thrashed like a swimmer’s feet. Doc and Oscar grabbed hold and yanked him out. The feet were still clean, it happened that fast. He swore and went down headfirst and then was shot a half inch below the throat; they pulled him out by the feet. Not even time to sweat. The dirt fell dry off his arms. His eyes were open. “Holy Moses,” he said.

S
o you see,” said Li Van Hgoc as he brought down the periscope and locked it with a silver key, “things may be viewed from many angles. From down below, or from inside out, you often discover entirely new understandings.”

Bowing once, the officer escorted Paul Berlin into a brightly lighted chamber made up to resemble a patio at midmorning. Birds chirped and butterflies fluttered above wrought-iron tables. The others were there having breakfast.

Afterward Li Van Hgoc escorted the lieutenant through his deep fortress, beaming, answering questions about military matters, shop talk, explaining the functions of various dials and buttons and blinking lights on his chrome console. Corson was impressed. The two officers got along splendidly.

When the tour was over they took chairs in the sitting room. The lieutenant accepted a cigar.

“So,” the old man sighed. He let the word linger. “So this is how the other half lives. Very enlightening.”

The two men talked for a time, mostly of military matters, then the lieutenant glanced at his watch and carefully cleared his throat.

There was a pause.

“Yes, it’s a nifty setup you got here,” Lieutenant Corson said. “A real sweet BOQ.” Again he looked at his watch. “But I hate to say it’s time we were moving on. Miles to go and all that.”

“You can’t stay longer?”

The lieutenant shook his head. “Afraid not. Honest, I wish we had a week to—you know—to compare notes. But it’s time we hit the dusty trail.”

“Nicely said.”

Corson nodded. “So maybe you’ll show us the door? Point the way and we’ll be off.”

Li Van Hgoc still smiled, but he seemed troubled. “Difficult,” he said. “It is not an easy thing.”

“No?”

“I fear not. You see, there is a certain problem.”

“I’m listening,” the lieutenant said.

Li Van Hgoc removed his pith hat, rubbed his scalp a moment, then placed the hat back on his head.

“A very sticky problem,” he repeated, groping for the right words. He gazed at the ceiling fan as if searching for something just out of sight. “You see … you see, according to the rules, I fear you gentlemen are now my prisoners. You see the problem? Prisoners of war.”

Quiet fell in the room. Sarkin Aung Wan, her gunmetal legs tucked up on the sofa, stopped clipping her fingernails. Stink Harris rose partly out of his chair then sank back again. Paul Berlin felt himself reaching for his weapon.

“I see,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I see.”

He tapped his teeth with his index finger. The quiet returned. Bashfully, Li Van Hgoc studied his own hands.

“Yes,” the lieutenant finally sighed. “Now I’m beginning to see the stopper. I think I see it. POWs, you say?”

Li Van Hgoc bowed.

“And … and I suppose the rules can’t be stretched?”

“Not easily.”

“Of course.”

The little man smiled. “Elastic rules are a poor man’s tools.”

Paul Berlin had the odd feeling of breathing at the very top of his lungs, short little breaths that left him dizzy. One moment happily on the road to Paris, then buried back where it started, a prisoner of war. He was conscious of a clock ticking. A sense of compression and heat.