13th Valley (43 page)

Cherry had been set off by Moneski's admonition. “If the fuckers would just let you know what your job is beforehand,” he cussed, “I'd be able to do it right. Do they expect me ta be a fucken mind reader?” He was pissed. He was dirty. He was hot. What am I doing here, anyway? he asked himself. I didn't even have to be in the army. I could have beaten the draft. Why didn't I? Cherry pondered that. Was it an act of rebellion against his parents? An assertion of independence? An opportunity for freedom from the city rut get-a-job life? Was he seeking the approval he knew parents and relatives secretly held for soldiers even if they no longer expressed it in 1970 America?

Smitty came up from the gorge. Michaels had already loaded Cherry down with ten quarts of water. Moneski and Hall came up. They looked filthy. Their fatigues were soaked with sweat. It must have been 100% humidity in the well. They saddled up, hefted their equipment and water, and moved out in almost the same order except now Cherry was behind Greer instead of Michaels. Moneski led them, directed them from behind the gun team, horizontally east from the waterhole, across a tiny crest, circling the hillside east then northeast. They stepped deliberately, placing their feet just before or just beyond twigs or leaves. Branches that crossed the narrow path were pushed aside by hand so as not to brush against one's fatigues and make noise. It was completely quiet. Branches were returned to their original position slowly, by hand, so the limbs would not snap back. Where broad brown and dry palm fans overhung the path to the height of only several feet the men gently squatted, then, on hands and knees, slid beneath the vegetation.

Cherry watched Greer closely. He tried to place his feet in Greer's footsteps. Cherry began noticing details about Greer. The man had a list of months written on the back of his helmet cover. In various shades of ink, all faded, even July, Cherry could see the first six months lined through. There was something about that that excited Cherry. Here was this soldier opening up his personal history to Cherry without being asked. Cherry decided he liked the man.

The patrol proceeded horizontally, perhaps registering a slight elevation gain, through thicker and thicker jungle. It was impossible to see five feet to either side. Tree trunks and boughs were choked by solid mats of vines. Some of the vines were as thick as human legs. Some vines had barbs that hooked onto shirts and the soldiers were continuously backing up to untangle themselves. They came through an even denser section then stopped. As Moneski had figured they had intersected the red ball. Again there were fresh signs of enemy activity. The red ball fell to the right gently and was visible for perhaps five meters. It rose to the left very steeply and was visible for perhaps three meters. The patrol froze. Moneski moved quietly to the front. He stepped out, crouched, looked up and down the leafy tunnel and stepped up. Beaford then Smith followed, maintaining an interval of six to eight feet. Between motions the riflemen sat very still on the path. “One at a time,” Smitty signaled Hall. Hall paused for a minute then stepped out. Moneski was moving very slowly, staying in the brush on the left of the red ball. Michaels stepped out, signaled to Greer, “Wait. One at a time.” There was no noise. Greer paused two minutes, stepped out, returned and told Cherry, “Wait one.” On the red ball the detail inched forward.

Cherry sat down again. Through the vegetation he could see the red ball ascending from the right, crossing before him and disappearing up left. He waited for Greer's signal to advance. Nothing came. Greer disappeared. Cherry waited. A twig with two leaves on it was brushing Cherry's left arm. He waited. He turned slowly to the left and with the fingernails of his right hand he pinched the leaves off the twig. Things were so quiet he could hear his joints squeak as he returned his right hand to the trigger assembly of his M-16. His mind wandered. He felt impatient.

There aren't any birds out here, Cherry said to himself. I just noticed that. That really is peculiar. Lots of helicopters but no birds. Maybe they all left because they felt replaced by the mechanical flying machines. Cherry's mind wandered but his eyes were very aware of the red ball. Where the fuck did Greer go? Cherry began thinking about his brother. He thought about their motorcycles. They had once planned on running the moto-cross series at the upstate parks and tracks but then Victor had split for Canada. Cherry thought about some of the girls he knew and about McDonald's hamburgers. His mind would not stay on one thought. He began thinking about girls again. Damn, he was horny. He thought about Cathy and Judy. Then he thought about Linda. Linda. Was she still in Philadelphia? He planned his ravaging of her when he returned. Then he fantasized seducing the stewardess he'd met on the flight from New York to Seattle, seducing her while other passengers discreetly watched. What am I thinking? he thought. That's not me. I'm not like that.

Cherry looked across the trail, up the trail. He was conscious of his body and of the trail. Where the hell is Greer? They must be taking a break. Cherry turned around. The man behind him was sitting quietly, cleaning his fingernails. Cherry's mind no longer seemed to be functioning properly. He could not maintain a thought. His mind jumped and jittered impatiently. He had, it seemed, ten thoughts working at once, all struggling for dominance and failing. There was the trail. Wasn't he here to discover something about the elusive truths of the Vietnam Conflict? And Linda's body. And Victor. And his shoulders. God, they were sore. Cherry's watch was ticking. He could hear his heart pumping. He was aware of his thinking, thinking about his thinking about all these things. It was exhausting to be thinking so. He at once felt tired, physically and mentally, and yet excited, held in suspense. A twig to his right broke.

El Paso received the mail for the CP and 1st and 2d Plts from Spangler. He sorted it. He handed Brown a letter. There was a
San Francisco Chronicle
for the L-T and the July 27th issue of
Newsweek
for Silvers. He gave Cahalan the mail for 2d Plt and delivered the letters to 1st Plt personally. There was a letter for Jackson and one for Whiteboy and along with the magazine a small package for Silvers. “They didn't get it all sorted in the rear,” El Paso said to Egan. “Maybe on next resupply. Ya know, fuckin REMFs can't do nothing right.”

“They bring in the dogs'?” Egan asked ignoring El Paso's' comment.

“Just one. Brought out another civilian photographer.”

“Good. That's just what the fuck we need.”

“He aint stayin though. Bird's goina come back for him. Most a 3d's still up on the LZ with em.”

“Can't these people ever do any fuckin thing right?”

“Who knows?” El Paso shrugged. “Hey where's the Jew? His mommy sent him a package.” Silvers was close by and he looked up guiltily. He knew what was coming. It came once a month. “Com'on Leon,” El Paso cajoled, “let's see what mommy sent.”

Egan and Jackson and Hoover and everybody close by were laughing and Silvers laughed too. When he had first arrived in-country it had been during the monsoon season. He had sent a description of the rains to his folks along with an explanation about immersion-foot. Immersion-foot was the army updated euphemism for trench-foot, a painful foot disorder resulting from prolonged exposure to wet in which the skin wrinkles and creases then layers begin separating leaving the foot raw. Every month since Leon's description, he had received a soft package from his mother.

“Come on, Leon,” Hoover chimed in, “let's see em.” Silvers tore away the brown paper and held up two pair of bright yellow knee-high socks. He gave a half-hearted smile and sighed, “Mother!”

“Letter for Jax too,” El Paso called. He enjoyed passing out the mail.

Jackson took the letter and looked at the envelope. It was from his brother-in-law. He put the letter in his helmet and returned to his perimeter position. It'll be jest like all them others, he told himself.

Brooks pretended to be studying the topo maps and the reports of contacts and enemy sightings. Things were turning up all around the valley. Charlie Company had found fighting positions with overhead cover on Hill 711 five kilometers west of Company A. Across the valley Bravo had found another red ball with signs of vehicular traffic, that could mean carriage-mounted .51 caliber machine guns or possibly 37mm anti-aircraft cannons or nothing more than a pushcart for rice. Recon was lying low, sending out patrols, not finding recent signs of enemy activity but finding old ARVN NDPs and some questionable material. Licking their wounds, Brooks thought. Only Delta had reported no sightings at all. They had come in on a peak on the north escarpment and had decided to come almost straight off the south face which was a cliff. No one, no NVA, would place positions there, Brooks thought. It would be too easily surrounded and then impossible to escape. And the GreenMan's pilot in the C & C bird with the GreenMan aboard had shot up a sampan on the river with unknown results.

Brooks stared at the maps and repeated the reports but now he was not aware he was doing it. He was thinking of Lila again, of their conflict and of conflict in general. He tried not to think about her. He attempted to supplant it with thoughts of the here and now but it didn't work. There was Lila and there was that thing bothering him and there was racial tension and there was war. They were all conflicts and he wanted to think about conflict causation but under it all there was that thing. The thing in Hawaii. Perhaps it had really begun with their first fight and with what happened afterward. Maybe, he thought, that was the origin of the Hawaii thing. It goes back a lot farther than those divorce papers, he said to himself. Farther back even than Hawaii or even than getting married. Man, he thought, so your gal's off with some Jody. So what. When you get back to the World you can slip into his AO and set up an MA. It won't mean a thing. How does Egan always say it? ‘Don't mean nothin. Just say fuck it and drive on.' Yeah, it don't mean nothin. Goddamn Lila. Goddamn you. Goddamn, it's a lot easier to get into a woman's pants than it is into her head. Goddamn she knows how to hurt a person. She has the power to make me feel like shit. It's not her, Rufus, it's you. The conflict came with you. You brought it to this marriage. You bring it with you wherever you go. The causes of conflict between two people are the same as the causes of racial violence and of war. Goddamn, I wonder if that's true.

He could not get hold of his thoughts. Concepts began to crystallize then vanished. The thought production element of his brain was pumping out work faster than the analyzer element could handle it and a backup of ideas overwhelmed him. He recognized what was happening. He relaxed, took a few deep breaths. It was a perfectly beautiful day in the jungle. Well, maybe it was too warm. “Rufus,” the lieutenant said to himself, “we must back up on our thoughts, back up on theory development, back up to the beginning and take this one step at a time. Think carefully. Be patient. The goal should be to develop a framework theory for conflict by careful elucidation of the concepts, correct analysis of the information available and patient resolving of the problem.”

That thought made him feel very good. It gave him a clear guideline for his thinking task.
An Inquiry into Personal, Racial and International Conflict
, he titled it in his mind. Then, he said to himself, we'll get down to this Hawaii thing.

Shortly after Rufus and Lila met, he persuaded her to spend a weekend with him. She had refused to be at or near his school or with his jock friends—” like that Italian creep,” she had scoffed—and that, perhaps was the real beginning. Brooks had been nearly broke. Lila was singing and painting and earning and had far more money left over after expenses than he did even with his assistance, ROTC pay and scholarship. And trying to get a date with this lady had been near impossible. She was always out with dudes with bread. “I've got two tickets to …”—what concert had it been—he began after finally catching her home. She said yes to it all much to his surprise. “Meet you at Keystone Korners at seven Friday,” she said. And that had been that.

Dinner was delightful, the concert superb, all of it costly. Rufus had let one of his teammates reserve rooms for him. “It's gotta be cheap,” he had told his friend, “but it can't look cheap.” Rufus took Lila to the Kennedy Hotel down on the Embarcadero. It was the cheapest place in town. Rooms began at $7 and that was for a week. Not that his friend registered them for the cheapest room. He had paid $7 for two nights. Rufus and Lila came in late, through the darkened lobby, a ten-foot-square room with a desk, up the dimly lighted stairs and down the dark narrow hallway. He half carried her as she nuzzled her nose into his ear. He opened the door. Without turning on the light, with only indirect lighting from the street coming through the window, he undressed her and she tore his clothes away. She was a madwoman, a crazed woman. He could not get enough of her or she of him, especially she of him. After, as he slept, tried to sleep, she stirred and moaned faintly and stimulated herself.

“This isn't a bad place,” he joked and laughed the next morning, happy, cheerful, anticipating the morning, afternoon and night to come.

“This is a filthy trap,” she had growled getting her first good look around. There wasn't even a shower in the bath. She hadn't noticed that before. The showers were down the hall. She went to inspect them and returned yelling, “This stinking hole's filled with bums and fags.” She scurried away from his outstretched hands. “No way college boy. You bring your hookers here.” She was indignant. He couldn't understand it. It caused their first fight. She called a cab and left.

Rufus had paid for the room for two nights. He stayed. Indeed the hotel proved to be infested with cockroaches and frequented by homosexuals. That night, alone, depressed, he allowed a man to pick him up. It was the first and last time. The man was a short-order cook. He invited Rufus to a birthday party at the Club 77. “Hey, I'm game,” Rufus said. He could not believe what he saw. Not the guys kissing and squeezing so much, that he expected, but the food. The club was closed except to regulars and their dates. The bar was open, booze flowed freely, and in back the buffet was two eight-foot tables end-to-end stacked with mounds of food. In the center of the table there was a cake Rufus would swear was five feet in diameter and four feet high. All this just for allowing some white fag to rub his buns.