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  Goodwin’s platoon sergeant, Ridlow, exploded. “If they’d fly in some fucking water maybe we’d be more likely to clean up.” His gravelly voice faded off into a mutter about how fucked up it was to always be short of water in a fucking monsoon, and how fucking fucked up the fucking country was. He spat at the ground and wiped a week’s growth of beard with the back of one large hand. His other hand rested on his hip next to his Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum revolver. The first thing Goodwin had done when they’d been introduced was ask to see it; they’d hit it off immediately.

  Hawke was looking at the sky, letting Ridlow get it out of his system. “Well,” he said, “since there’s no pertinent comments, I guess that’s about all I’ve got. Oh, yeah, get your needs lists in to Gunny Cassidy so when the birds do start bringing in the arty battery we can get some supplies. Gunny Cassidy?”

  “Nothing, sir,” Cassidy said. “Just you people give me your head count before you leave.”

  “Senior Squid?” Hawke asked.

  “Uh, no, sir. Just make sure the platoon corpsmen get their medical supply needs down on your lists so I can get the battalion aid station to put them on the chopper.”

  Bass snorted. “They do that automatically.”

  Sheller looked at Bass and pressed his lips together tightly. In the moment of hesitation Hawke cut in. “OK, any bitches, gripes, grievances, needs, or solicitations before the skipper goes?”

  “Mallory wants to request mast again,” Bass said. “Says he’s got a headache that won’t go away and the squids are fucking with him by keeping him in the bush.”

  “If the puke didn’t play that goddamned jungle music so loud he wouldn’t have a sore head,” Cassidy muttered.

  “That’s Jackson with the music,” Bass said. “From my herd. He’s a good Marine.” Cassidy looked steadily at Bass, and Bass looked steadily back at Cassidy. Cassidy said nothing more but gave an almost imperceptible nod that said, If you say it’s so, Sergeant Bass, then it’s so. Mellas, his antennae up, knew instantly that these two men were cut from the same green cloth.

  “Maybe we ought to just do Mallory a favor and break his head all the way for him,” Ridlow muttered. He looked quickly at his platoon commander, Goodwin, and then broke into a cackle. The other sergeants and Goodwin did as well. Mellas smiled, although he didn’t like the overtones.

  Fitch sighed, realizing he’d have to deal with it. “I’ll talk to Mallory,” he said. “But you warn him, Mellas, that he’d better have a good story.”

  “Mallory’s already up for the Pulitzer Prize for fiction with his last story,” Hawke said. Hawke looked around. “Anything else?” No one said anything. He turned to Goodwin. “Try and keep your machine gunner, China, busy. OK? The less visiting time he has the better.”

  Cassidy snorted. “They want to see black power? Tell them to look down the black barrel of my fucking Smith & Wesson Model 29.” Ridlow cackled again.

  Hawke looked wearily at Cassidy and Ridlow. “China may be a dumb kid, but I’d take him seriously.” Ridlow glanced sideways at Goodwin, then over to Cassidy. No one said anything. “It’s all yours, Skipper,” Hawke said.

  “Right.” Fitch’s head came up. He’d been sitting on a log, dangling his feet. His small, handsome face looked tired. “Big John Six went bugfuck over the radio again about the gook machine gun.” Big John Six was Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, the battalion commander and Fitch’s boss. He’d promised his own boss, Colonel Mulvaney, the regimental commander, that Mulvaney could move a howitzer battery to a secure zone. Losing the supply chopper after he said the zone was safe was embarrassing enough, but he’d then promised he’d fix the problem pronto and it was now two full days after the promised date and the zone was still not secure.

  “What’s he going to do?” Ridlow boomed out. “Cut your hair off and send you to Vietnam?”

  Fitch laughed politely at the standard retort, looking down at his swinging feet. “I suppose he could banish me to Okinawa.” Okinawa was universally known as the worst possible place to get for R & R. Relations with the Japanese had gotten so tense that the brass had forbidden nearly every activity for which anyone went on R & R. When the laughter died down, Fitch pointed into the fog that swirled over the trees to the southwest and said, referring to the enemy, “I think Nagoolian is going to head over to that ridgeline tomorrow. He used it on the first day, and he’s never used the northwest one, so he probably figures we’ll be looking on the northwest one for him. Bass, you were down there. What’s that southwest finger look like?”

  “It’s like the rest of the fucking place. Took us three hours to make eight hundred meters. Had to use machetes to get through. Pretty goddamn hard to sneak up on someone like that.”

  “That’s why he’ll be there. Mellas, send a baseball team over the top of the ridge and look around. If you don’t find them, at least it’ll move them out away from the main approach path.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper.” Mellas was jotting down notes in his own green notebook and mentally reviewing the current company radio code, which was often used for direct conversation. A baseball team was a squad of twelve men, a basketball team was a fire team of four men, a football team a platoon of forty-three men. “Can I get some maps for my squad leaders?”

  Everyone burst into laughter. Mellas reddened.

  “Mellas,” Hawke said, “it’d be easier for you to date Brigitte Bardot than to get any more maps than we’ve got. You don’t want to know what I had to trade for the one you’ve got, and I don’t want to have to say it in front of the skipper.”

  “It’s true,” Fitch added. “Maps are in short supply. Sorry. Just another inch of the green dildo.” He quickly went on. “Goodwin?”

  “Yeah, Jack?” Mellas winced at Goodwin’s casualness in addressing the company commander as Jack, especially since that wasn’t his name. If Fitch noticed, he didn’t let on.

  “I want one of your baseball teams out on the south finger, then work up the draw between there and the east ridge. I want you to check out the crashed bird on Helicopter Hill on the way back. See if Nagoolian’s been nosing around. You other two platoon commanders send your red dogs out wherever you want,” he said, using the radio brevity code for any squad-size patrol.

  Fredrickson broke in on the circle, breathing hard. “He’s starting to scream. Lindsey’s got a shirt stuffed in his mouth. It’ll be too loud to keep down in a few minutes. We’re going to have to cut.”

  Mellas looked at Fitch and then over at Sheller, whose throat was working underneath his double chin. Sheller rubbed his hands together as if to warm them. Fitch was looking at him, hard, his lower lip over his upper.

  “It’s got to be done, Jim,” Hawke said quietly.

  Fitch nodded, still looking at the senior squid. “How do you feel, Sheller?” Mellas was surprised to hear the senior squid called by his name.

  “I don’t have a catheter, Skipper, and trying to ram something up the urethra to clean out the leech would just make a mess of it. The only thing I can think to do is cut into the penis from the bottom side. Two cuts. You can see where his urethra’s swollen right up to the leech. Cut one is just up from there on the bladder side to relieve the pressure. I’d try to keep it small. Stick in a piece of IV tubing to keep the cut open and keep him drained until we get him out of here.” Sheller fished into his pockets and brought out a freshly cut piece of tubing. “I’ll need to sterilize it and have some floor space to work on, sir. I can grease it with bacitracin to help it slide into the cut.”

  “That’s only one cut,” Fitch said.

  “Yeah. OK.” Sheller swallowed. “Cut two. I’d cut into the leech to bleed it and kill it. We don’t want it moving upstream.” He looked at the silent group, realizing it was all on him. “I’ll use Fredrickson. It’ll make Fisher feel better if it’s a squid he’s used to.”

  Hawke looked grimly satisfied. Bass kept looking at Sheller and then back to the skipper with no emotion on his face.

  “OK, Squid. Go ahead on it.” Fitch spoke crisply with no hint of doubt. He turned to Hawke. “Ted, go up and tell those guys to move Fisher down here.”

>   Sheller moved off and crawled into the CP hooch without saying anything. He started to clear it out. The others, except Mellas, Hawke, Fitch, and Cassidy, returned to their positions.

  The entire hill was quiet, on the 100 percent alert that happened every dusk and dawn. Mellas watched Fredrickson and Lindsey talking to Fisher as they began to move him off the landing zone on a stretcher made by wrapping a poncho between two tree limbs. Fisher suddenly cried out and Lindsey cursed quietly. Hawke, who was walking alongside the stretcher, quickly stifled Fisher’s cry by placing his hand over his mouth. Mellas walked beside them, figuring it was better to say nothing.

  When they reached the CP they pulled Fisher inside the small hooch. Sheller was laying out his kit and lighting candles. Fredrickson removed Fisher’s filthy trousers and folded them carefully. Outside the hooch the two radio operators huddled next to their equipment while Fitch tried to make the entrance lightproof. Hawke and Cassidy sat on the ground, quietly talking.

  Inside, Doc Fredrickson looked at Sheller, whose chin was trembling slightly underneath the fat. Fisher was writhing in pain and trying not to scream. Fredrickson crawled behind Fisher, putting his knees on each side of Fisher’s head. He then leaned over and put his hands and full weight on Fisher’s shoulders. The candles flickered in the draft, casting shadows across the draped ponchos.

  “It’s going to be OK, Fisher,” Fredrickson whispered, bending close to Fisher’s face. “It’s going to be OK.”

  “Oh, fuck, Doc, stop it. Stop it from hurting.”

  “It’s going to be OK.”

  Fredrickson was looking intensely at Sheller, willing him to do it. The senior squid finished lubricating the IV tube, switched it to his left hand, and looked back at Fredrickson across Fisher’s body. He picked up a small knife in his right hand and, using his elbows, he spread Fisher’s legs and crawled between them. He looked up at Fredrickson again. With anguish on his face he silently mouthed, “I don’t know if I’m right.”

  Fredrickson nodded his head in encouragement. “Do it,” he mouthed silently. “Do it.”

  Fisher started moaning again, arching his back, trying to get his bladder and kidneys off the floor. The senior squid put the knife in the candle flame. Then he poured alcohol on it. There was a slight hiss and the alcohol smell filled the hooch. He lifted Fisher’s penis back, pushing it firmly against his stomach. Even that pressure made Fisher scream.

  Fredrickson leaned his whole body over Fisher’s face, muzzling him, pressing down on his shoulders and upper arms.

  Sheller pushed the blade into Fisher’s penis. Fisher screamed and Fredrickson put all of his weight on him to keep him from rolling. Blood and urine streamed over the knife blade, the initial burst spraying Sheller’s hands and chest. Then Sheller pushed the makeshift catheter up the smooth side of the knife into the incision and quickly slipped the blade out. Urine coursed out of the catheter, flowing over Fisher’s hips and crotch, filling the tent with its hot smell, running onto the mud, soaking the nylon poncho liners under Fisher’s body.

  “Goddamn. Goddamn. Oh, goddamn,” Fisher cried, but each “goddamn” lessened in intensity with the lessening force of the coursing urine, until all that could be heard was Fisher’s ragged panting and the deep breathing of Fredrickson and Sheller.

  Fisher broke the silence. “What would I say if this was a movie?”

  Fredrickson shook his head back and forth and snorted a laugh. “Shit, Fisher,” he said. Sheller, still breathing hard, merely nodded at Fisher.

  Fisher winced and took in a shaky breath. He held it, then let it out all at once and turned his head to the side, looking at the floor of the hooch. “Kind of a mess.”

  Sheller nodded. “Yeah. Kind of a mess,” he said. He was covered in blood and urine. He flicked a glance at Fredrickson, who nodded very slightly. Then Fredrickson suddenly bore down on Fisher with his full weight. Senior Squid took Fisher by surprise and quickly punctured his penis again, this time to pierce the leech and kill it.

  Fisher bucked his hips upward, screaming. “Jesus Christ, Squid. What the fuck?” Fredrickson kept his full body weight on him, trying to keep him still.

  “Sorry,” Sheller said. Blood from the swollen leech was running along the flat of the knife. He pulled it out and took a deep breath. Dark blood oozed from the second cut, mixing with the redder blood and urine from the first.

  Sheller sat back on his haunches, his knees under him.

  “You fucking done?” Fisher asked.

  Sheller nodded yes.

  The small hooch, filled with the three young men, the light from the candles, and the warm smell of urine, was quiet.

  From outside they could hear FAC-man, the forward air controller, shouting. “Get him up to the LZ. The bird’s coming in.”

  “Now what?” Fisher asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sheller answered. “They get you to Charlie Med. The usual repair work. Infection’s the main problem around here. We don’t know what got carried in by the leech or on the knife for that matter.”

  “No, I mean . . .” Fisher hesitated. “You know, later. Back home.”

  FAC-man poked his head through the ponchos. “I’ve got the fucking chopper. Get him up on the LZ. What the fuck you waiting for?” He ran off into the dark with his radio on his back, talking to the pilot.

  Sheller rolled out of the way as Fitch and Hawke came through the opening of the hooch and grabbed the stretcher. He didn’t answer Fisher, using the interruption as an excuse. What would scar tissue do? Infection? Had he cut tubes he didn’t even know about? He honestly didn’t know what would happen and was fully aware he might have doomed Fisher to be not only childless, but impotent.

  Mellas watched the shadows moving back up the hill. The familiar washboard thumping could be heard in the valley below them as the chopper fought for altitude, skimming over the tops of trees beneath the low cloud cover. Then the NVA .51 opened up. It was followed almost immediately by the chopper’s two .50-caliber machine guns, firing blindly into the dark jungle to try to suppress the fire. The chopper loomed out of the darkness and slammed into the zone; its crew chief immediately jumped out and yelled at the Marines to get the stretcher on board.

  Cassidy, Hawke, Fitch, and FAC-man run across the LZ with the stretcher and up the ramp of the chopper, the sound of the NVA .51’s bullets cracking through the air. Mellas crouched to the ground, thankful he was just below the lip of the LZ, defiladed from the fire. The chopper was moving before the four stretcher bearers were even out of it. It was already airborne as the last dark figure jumped for the ground and ran for the lip of the LZ.

  The shadowy bulk of the chopper merge into darkness, the faint glow of its instrument panel disappearing with it into the night. The firing stopped. Mellas rose to a half crouch and glanced back inside the CP hooch. The senior squid was still kneeling over the now deserted space, the front of his utility shirt soaked with urine and blood, his knife in his hand. He was crying and praying at the same time.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The light died. Voices were silenced. Darkness and fear replaced light and reason. The whisper of a leaf scraping on bark would make heads turn involuntarily and hearts gallop. The surrounding blackness and the unseen wall of dripping growth left no place to run. In that black wet nothingness the perimeter became just a memory. Only imagination gave it form.

  Mellas shivered in his hooch and listened to the whispers of the company communications network. Through the mud he could feel Hamilton shaking but couldn’t see him, curled up in a greasy nylon poncho liner. Mellas’s own wet undershirt clung to him. At home, he’d snapped at his mother for dyeing it too pale a color. “I’ll be spotted a mile away.” She had bit her lip to hold back the tears. Mellas had wanted to hug her but didn’t.

  He had hole-check at 2300 and 0300 to make sure those on watch were awake. Meanwhile, he sat like someone who needs to urinate but doesn’t want to leave a warm bed. A rat crept through the vegetation, and Mellas could hear it rustling through discarded C-ration containers. He imagined it draggin
g its wet belly on the ground. He watched the minute hand on his watch creep its luminous route toward eleven. At exactly eleven, far to the east, he heard what he surmised was an Arc Light mission, B-52s from Guam, flying far to the east and so high they couldn’t be seen, dropping hundreds of 500- and 1,000-pound bombs. The bombing could make a small area of suspected enemy troop concentration a furnace of pain and death, but to Mellas it seemed like only sterile thunder without rain. He watched the minute hand creep past eleven. The inner voice of duty won. He strapped on his pistol, put on his helmet, and crawled outside.

  Invisible rain struck his cheeks. The warmth from his poncho liner drifted away like a thin cry over stormy water. He headed downhill, slipping in the mud. Then, after groping his way for what seemed far too long a time, he grew frightened that he would overshoot the lines and be killed by his own men. He tripped face forward over a root, grunting, hurting his wrist as he broke his fall. Cold water from the mud worked through his clothing. Blinded, he crept forward on hands and knees, hoping to find the machine-gun position directly downhill from his own hooch. He tried to imagine its occupant, Hippy, who had questionably regulation hair and wore, hanging from his neck, a silver peace medallion that looked curiously like a passenger jet.

  A voice, barely audible, floated through the darkness: “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me,” Mellas whispered. “Character Mike.” He was afraid that if he said “lieutenant” a North Vietnamese soldier lurking just outside the lines would fire on him.

  “Who the fuck’s character Mike?” the voice whispered back.

  “The new lieutenant,” Mellas responded, frustrated and realizing that he’d probably made enough noise to be shot anyway. Mellas crawled toward the voice. Suddenly his hand encountered freshly turned clay. He must be near a fighting hole. He felt, rather than saw, a shadowy shape inside his small circle of awareness, barely a foot from his eyes.