honor,” the Chief said, slipping an arm through one side of his dangling flak jacket.
“What?” Franklin struggled with his hands full.
The Chief touched the leather bag and his eyes seemed to soften. “The spirit bag. It carries my honor.”
“That a fact?” Franklin said, looking at the pouch suspiciously.
“That’s right. It’s a fact.” The softness was gone.
“Whatever you say, man.” The Chief was always unpredictable, and Franklin knew it was best to walk softly and live to fight another day, preferably against another enemy.
Private First Class Franklin came from the streets of Detroit, where every other building in his neighborhood was slated for demolition. Like most black families in the area, his found frequent moves necessary. He had mocha-colored skin and, at six-three, towered over most of the members of his squad. His tall, lithe body gave him a stride that kept the platoon scrambling when he was on point; at rest he looked like an unfolded chaise longue, full of angles and joints. With his three-year enlistment, he would be a civilian back in Michigan before he was old enough to vote.
As Strader worked his way back through his squad, a young Marine with a tattoo of a helmeted bulldog on his arm held out a worn photo for him to see.
“Hey, Reach. Take a look at Deacon’s wife.”
Strader slung his rifle over his shoulder and took the picture. “Damn,” was all he could say.
“Damn straight,” the tattooed Marine said. “I’d lay comm wire across the DMZ bare-ass naked just to hear her fart over a field phone. I shit you not.”
Another Marine stepped up and grabbed the photo. The left leg of his jungle trousers was torn from the front pocket down past the thigh, and his knee popped out as he walked. With only seven weeks in-country, Private Deacon was working hard to overcome the FNG label attached to fresh replacements, but most of the old-timers in the platoon still referred to him as a fuckin’ new guy and hadn’t bothered to learn his name.
“Did Bronsky put in a requisition for me? I’m droppin’ shit everywhere. If I don’t get new drawers I’ll be walkin’ around in my skivvies.”
“I put in the order yesterday,” Strader said. “And I thought I told you to shit-can the skivvies. The doc ain’t gonna send you back to the rear for a case of crotch rot, no matter how bad it gets.”
The tattooed Marine made a grab for the photo and missed. “Come on, man. Let me have another look. You think you’re special because you’re the only one in the platoon dumb enough to have on underwear?”
Deacon tucked the photo into the bulging cargo pocket on the untorn pant leg. “Maybe I need extra support,” he said, cupping his scrotum in one hand.
The Marine with the bulldog tattoo picked up his M16 and held it out with one hand. “This is my rifle,” he said, then grabbed his own crotch with his free hand. “This is my gun.” He shook the M16. “This one’s for fighting.” Then he pulled up on his crotch. “And this one really wants to see that photo again.”
“Screw you, Karns,” Deacon said, turning away.
Strader shook his head and moved on. When he passed a Marine sitting against a tree and opening a small cigarette pack from his C rations, he stopped long enough to say, “The smoking lamp is not lit, Laney. And get your fire team squared away. We’re deep in the Arizona. Charley owns this place, and he don’t like visitors. We got less than two days left on this op, and if we can get back across the river with our asses intact, I’ll consider it a victory.”
Laney snapped the cigarette pack under the band around his helmet.
Strader waited. “You think you can do that?” he said.
Laney shrugged and said, “Kohng biet.” Like most Marines he had no practical knowledge of the Vietnamese language, but he had heard those words a thousand times in dozens of villages in the Quang Nams. Whenever a Marine asked for the location of any VC, the nervous villagers would nod their heads and repeat the phrase over and over. Marines new to the boonies thought they were saying, “Cong bad,” affirming that these villagers were friendly—or at least sympathetic—instead of the words’ actual meaning, which was simply, “I don’t know.”
“Well, you better find out before Chuck rains beaucoup shit on our heads.”
“Don’t sweat it, Reach. We got it together.”
Strader knew there was no time now to put Laney’s head right, so he went on, wondering what the young Marine’s parents were going to buy with his military life insurance.
Beyond his squad Strader passed into Corporal Middleton’s 2nd Squad. Middleton stood at the top of the embankment and watched as two of his men filled canteens in the creek. “Put halizone in those canteens,” Middleton was saying. “If you don’t have enough, ask one of the docs for more.”
The innocuous-looking little pills changed the local water into a medicinal-tasting fluid, palatable only if extreme thirst forced your hand. Given enough time, halizone pills could kill the microorganisms that racked your bowels and played havoc with your internal thermostat, but they also killed any desire to put the liquid into your mouth. Strader once asked Doc Garver if the pills made the water sterile. The corpsman laughed and said that the only thing sterile to drink in the bush was your own urine. Strader thought that was a disgusting concept, but from then on he couldn’t help looking at his own stream as though he were pissing lemonade.
Middleton caught Strader as he passed. “Reach, can you smell that?” Middleton had a little over nine months in-country and considered himself short. Over six months gave you delusions of shortness, but over nine made it official for purposes of bragging. You were on the home stretch, short for sure.
“What?” Strader said.
Middleton tipped his head back and sniffed the air. Strader did the same.
“I don’t smell anything,” Strader said.
Middleton sniffed again. “Yep, I can smell your woman’s panties.”
“You’re not that short, and keep you nose out of my love life.”
Middleton had once been a member of Strader’s squad, and he credited his old squad leader for teaching him the ropes and keeping him alive when he was too new to do it himself. He was closer to Strader than to anyone else in the platoon.
“You know what I’m going to do first when I get home, Reach?” Middleton said.
“No, what?”
“I’m going to fuck for six solid hours,” Middleton said.
“Sounds like a plan. What will you do second?”
Middleton seemed lost in thought. “Probably put down my seabag.” He slapped Strader on the shoulder as he left.
Strader reached the CP as Bronsky pushed the radio handset up under the rim of his helmet and clapped a hand over the other ear to block out the ten million invertebrate voices that made the jungle seem to vibrate. The radioman stepped
