Norwegian by Night (16 page)

The real trick to a search-and-rescue mission was getting to the downed plane before the Viet Cong. The VC were murderous arseholes, but it
was
their country, and they had a demonstrable knack for knowing where things were. So when a plane went down, they just headed on over. The Riverines, on the other hand, had to find the way.

That was the Monk's job as skipper. As they all puttered up the river, there really wasn't much to do other than train the M60 into the woods and think of jokes and the girls they'd surely never have sex with. Not in person, anyway.

The rain came down steadily as the boat grunted through a estuary about twenty metres wide. Local boats passed by under the rifle barrels of the men, but none stopped, and no one even looked up as they passed.

Trevor sat behind the Monk in a manner that Sheldon found tense, as though he was prepared to spring from the bench and … something. It was hard to sense what would happen. Jump overboard, maybe? Tackle the Monk?

Sheldon sat far back in the boat, snapping pictures. Taking in the jungle. Trying to understand the terrain, the men, this war. It was so different from Korea. In Korea, the communists attacked the South with Soviet backing, and the United Nations passed a resolution while the Soviet ambassador was in the bathroom, and so the whole to-do was pretty straightforward. This one was all rather less straightforward. And, of course, the big trick in Korea was that the Southern ones wanted us there. Over here, not so much.

After three hours on patrol, the boat came to a rest by a small pier. The Monk didn't move. He just tossed a radio to Saul and looked at Herman. Ritchie, who outranked them both, then said, ‘Witzy and Williams. Go.'

That's what they called Saul. ‘Witzy'. Because ‘Horowitz' was too long, and ‘Saul' was too old-fashioned.

Why these two? Witzy and Williams? Because who can avoid saying it, that's why.

‘I'm going, too,' said Sheldon. No one replied. It was as though, for the first time on the trip, Sheldon wasn't really there.

Saul handed a letter he'd been writing to Ritchie. ‘Mail it for me if I bite it.'

Ritchie said, ‘OK.' That's all he said: ‘OK.'

Saul stepped up to the pier with his M16 in one hand and the radio in the other. He said to Ritchie, ‘My girl's pregnant. Does that just take the cake or what?'

‘You should go home,' he said unexpectedly.

‘I probably should,' Saul said, and then he started hoofing it up the pier with Williams.

They walked through a very small village that seemed deserted. Four thatched houses were clustered together on a patch of brown, muddy ground. A bicycle wheel rusted in the rain. A basket of rotten vegetables sat overturned on a table. Sheldon photographed them, and walked on.

Saul took point, followed by Williams and then Sheldon. Saul was a good soldier. He paid attention, didn't allow small things to distract him, and didn't talk while they walked. But he was also in his early twenties, and so didn't walk slowly enough, didn't pay close-enough attention, and didn't talk softly enough when he did open his mouth.

As the jungle opened into a small rice paddy, Saul took out a compass, took a bearing, and then pointed a little off to his left. He turned and looked behind him, right past Sheldon, and got a sense of the terrain they would see on their way back. This was a valuable lesson that Sheldon had been taught in Korea. Once again, his drill sergeant's voice came back to him: ‘The reason nothing looks familiar when you're heading back is because it isn't. You've never seen it before, have you? If you don't turn around, how will you know what to look for? Huh? You! Shithead! What's the answer?'

On that day, it was another shithead. But it could have been Sheldon, and often was. By the time his own day came at Inchon, he'd be glad for the lessons he'd learned.

They smelled the plane before they found it. The F-4 had only been halfway through its bombing mission, and so went down with lot of fuel that burned with a different smell than napalm, rice paddies, cattle, and people. According to Herman, it was only a two on the ‘gag-o-meter', whereas the rotting corpses of children in the hot sun was a nine.

A ten was saved for the smell of letters received from bureaucrats.

Saul couldn't tell from the smell which direction they needed to travel. But soon they started to find pieces of the plane on the ground. Just little scraps at first, like bolts, and bits of twisted metal, but enough to know they were getting closer.

Sheldon looked at his watch. They'd only been in the jungle for fifteen minutes.

Saul directed them towards a small rise up the side. It was a good idea, because it gave them a more commanding view of the grid. Before they reached the top, Williams gave a whistle and said, ‘Over there. Check it out.'

Saul and Sheldon turned to their left, and there, about a half-click away across easy ground, were large chunks of the plane.

‘Anyone see the shithead pilot?' Williams asked.

Saul pointed off to the left. ‘That could be the parachute.'

‘Right, then. Let's go see if there are any pink bits in the cockpit first,' said Williams.

As they were walking down the hill towards the jet, Sheldon made out an incongruous figure leaning against a tree by the side of the footpath. Saul walked right past him, as though he weren't even there. As Williams approached, Sheldon shouted, ‘Herman, on your right.'

‘Oh, that's just Bill. Forget about him. Fucker shows up all the time. Never helps, though.'

When Sheldon caught up, he saw that it was indeed Bill Harmon, his friend from New York. Bill was wearing shabby trousers, penny loafers, a blue button-down, and a Harris Tweed jacket. Bill did not show up during these trips between 1975 and 1980. It was only after he died that he popped up and chimed in. Only Sheldon wasn't sure that Bill was really Bill. He looked like Bill. He had the same stupid things to say that Bill did, but he didn't feel like Bill. His presence was both more vast and more juvenile at the same time. Bill, in life, had never left Sheldon feeling perturbed. This guy did.

‘What are you doing here, Bill?'

‘Antiquing.'

‘What?'

‘The French colonials were here for ages. Indochina has some amazing hidden treasures that I can get top dollar for back at the shop.'

‘Are you drunk?'

‘It's two o'clock in the afternoon, and we're in Vietnam. Of course I'm drunk. Want some?'

‘I got to go. We have to find the pilot.'

‘Pilot's dead,' said Bill. ‘They put a bullet in him before his parachute hit the ground. Very unsporting. There's really no need for you to go on.'

‘So I'll tell the guys and we can go back.'

‘They won't believe you.'

‘Why? Are you the ghost of Christmas past?' And without waiting for a reply, Donny shouted, ‘Hey, Williams. Hold up. The pilot's dead. We should go back to the boat.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Bill said so. He knows.'

‘Can't put your faith in Bill, Donny.'

‘But sometimes he's right.'

‘Sure, but who knows when? Besides, it's not my call.'

‘Well, then tell Saul.'

‘Fine.'

And so Herman told Saul, and Saul just shrugged and kept on going. After a few moments, though, he became pensive and stopped. For the first time on the trip, he turned and addressed his father directly.

‘What are you doing, Dad?'

‘I want us to go home. I want you to grow up.'

‘You should have thought of that before suggesting I come here.'

‘You're right, and I'm sorry. But I never said you should go back. This second tour was all your idea.'

‘You don't remember our conversation very well, do you?'

‘I might have said something about America being at war. But if I did, I didn't mean you had to go back. You did your duty. More than most people.'

‘It was your idea to join me here. I can't go back. I can't write a report saying that Bill Harmon appeared in the woods and had the inside scoop on the pilot's whereabouts.'

‘You loved Bill.'

‘Still do. But he's hardly a quotable source, is he?'

‘This is madness!'

‘Your madness. So what's it going to be? You heading back, or do you want to watch this play out?'

‘I want to be with you.'

‘Well, come on then. And be quiet. There are VC around here.'

And so they walked on, leaving Bill behind.

In what seemed like no time at all, they arrived at the plane. It hadn't crashed straight down or managed a controlled landing. It had its bits shot off in mid-air, and it had fallen to the ground with the graceless tumble of a meteor.

The cockpit was somewhat intact, because that is how randomness works. Sheldon took a picture.

Saul, on some impulse, said, ‘Herman? Go check the cockpit. I'm gonna see about that parachute.'

Saul then turned to his father and said, ‘Well? You coming or staying?'

‘I want to be with you.'

What Saul wanted was to bring his shithead brother pilot home. That's what he'd been sent to do, that's what he had been trained to do, and that's what he wanted to do. Because an American shouldn't be rotting in some green pile of Asian compost. He should be home with his family.

The parachute was hanging from a very tall tree just at the end of the marshland that Saul and Sheldon had to cross in order to reach it. The pilot was black, which surprised both of them. You didn't see many black pilots in 1974. And the pilot, like Bill had said, was dead. The poor bastard hadn't even been given a chance to land. The Vietnamese didn't understand the blacks. They had never seen anyone from Africa before. They thought they were white men dyed black as camouflage. There were documented cases of the VC using steel brushes on these men, trying to get their blackness off.

‘Right, that's it. Let's go,' said Sheldon.

‘We've got to get him down.'

‘No we don't.'

‘Yes we do.'

‘No. We damn well don't!'

‘You carried Mario home. You told his parents. His father hugged you and cried.'

‘I was on a secure beach. You're in the jungle alone. This poor man here …'

‘Come on. Help me cut him down.'

‘Saul, be reasonable. The VC know you're coming for the pilot. They know it, and there's a 50-50 chance they got here before you.'

‘Then why not shoot me?'

‘Because an injured man needs to be carried, and that way they immobilise two or three men and not only one.'

‘Why not capture me?'

‘How the hell should I know?'

And then Saul got enraged, and everything came to a head. ‘There's a negro hanging from a tree. A negro who is an American soldier. How do I let him stay there? How do I walk away from that man? Explain to me how I can walk away from him and still be your son, and I'll do it. I swear I will.'

And, at this precious moment, Sheldon had nothing to say. Nothing at all.

So Saul swung his rifle across his chest like a bow, and started climbing the tree.

When he was high enough, he grabbed a branch, and used his service knife to slice away at the cords and silk of the parachute. The pilot's feet were just over six feet from the ground. It wasn't a long fall. Somehow, though, it felt like a slow one. A certain nausea came over Sheldon when the man tumbled to the ground.

As Sheldon watched, the first waves of resignation passed through him. He'd been here ‘on assignment' so many times, watched this event so many times, that he knew both when and how terror comes. It would all happen soon now. In just a moment, Saul would start off down the only path towards the plane, just as Herman came up the same path — having burned some maps and papers to deprive the enemy of intelligence.

He knew what would come. Still, just in this moment, it had not happened yet. He was between the knowledge and the reality of what was to come — just where Cassandra found herself before it drove her mad. It
was
a precious moment. So precious that Sheldon delayed, allowing himself to sleep each night with this knowledge of what would happen.

During this moment — as Saul dropped from the tree and put his knife away, and took off the pilot's dog tags and put them in the upper-left pocket of his own shirt — Sheldon watched as his son became a man.

It was not a grand moment. There were no witnesses to it. There were no heroics. It was merely a small gesture of dignity and respect between one man and another. And in that, for Sheldon, the possibility of a better world was created. All we had accomplished thus far — as little as it may have been — took place in the unseen and forgotten efforts of Corporal Saul Horowitz recovering the mortal remains of Lt Eli Johnson.