The Village (17 page)

Arriving at the fort, the students stood outside in the courtyard, and when McGowan came forward to meet them, one began in English to denounce the U.S. presence in Vietnam, while another translated for the crowd. Pointing to PFC Richard Williams, the chief spokesman asked how a black man could fight in a war denounced by Martin Luther King.

McGowan had not read a news magazine in six months, and Williams was no better informed. It was the first time they had heard the charge. The student followed up his lead with a half-dozen more questions: Why did the Marines not help the Vietnamese people in their moral uprising in 1966? Why did Westmoreland prop up the tyrant Ky? Why did President Johnson not listen to Senator Fulbright?

McGowan was at a loss.

“Look,” he said, “you want to know what we're doing here? Ask Suong. Ask Khoi. Ask anyone. Ask the VC. We're here to fight VC. We're here to help people who seem to be friends of yours. If you don't like what I've done here, or what my men are doing, O.K., let's have it. But don't yell at me about General Westmoreland or Senator Fulbright. My job is in this village. I'm not a general, and I'm not a politician.”

A student translated the remarks, referring to McGowan by the pronoun “it.” The sergeant was growing angry and embarrassed. Suong came forward and whispered to the student leader, who listened intently. Then the student turned to McGowan and suggested they continue the conversation some other time. When the villagers left the fort, Suong lingered behind.

“What did you say to him, Suong?” McGowan asked.

“I said many Marines have died here with us,” Suong replied. “And that you were a violent man. Even in the Phu Longs they are afraid of the Marines. It was not good to provoke you.”

“Well, you keep them away from here, and I'll keep the Marines out of the village until they leave. I don't want anyone else put down like I was.”

“They are only students. They have the attitude of Hué.”

“Maybe that's because they've never had to fight.”

“But they are most smart.”

“You mean, smarter than me,” McGowan laughed. “Well, it looks like you're right.”

Out of respect for Suong, or because of what the villagers said, or both, the students were more friendly toward the Marines their second day in the village. They were staying only a few days to campaign for Ho Yan Trao, who the PFs asserted would be elected village chief.

Trao did not look like a leader. He was a tall, thin young man who wore old clothes, owned one buffalo and a few scrawny cows, and farmed a half-acre of land. Although he had little formal education, in six months he had learned how to speak and even how to write enough English to send a letter to Sergeant White's family. Trao was the elected chief of one of the Binh Yen Noi hamlets, and the PFs had urged him to run for village chief. Known for his honesty and humility, he seemed sure to win.

His opponent was a man named Buu, who owned a large fishing fleet in My Hué, a villa in Saigon, a house near the district headquarters and another home in Binh Yen Noi. An impeccable dresser with an aloof manner and extraordinarily long fingernails, Buu visited Binh Nghia only a few times a week. He had been appointed village chief through political influence but was content to let the village council, of which Trao was the elected chief, handle the daily administrative matters.

Trao and Buu were enemies, thanks to the Americans. In January an American captain had several times driven to the marketplace and indiscriminately tossed out food and clothing to the villagers. Trao had complained to McGowan that, although the captain had good motives, his handouts had disrupted the assistance projects of the village council, undercut the authority of the hamlet chiefs and eroded the discipline of parents. Those who lounged around the market drinking and who gathered the scraps others dropped had organized into gangs. They were the ones who clung to the captain's jeep and smiled and pawed at him while pushing other villagers aside.

McGowan had brought the matter to the attention of the commander of the 7th Marine Regiment, who called a staff meeting at which he forbade all his Marines to enter the village and ordered that all aid be channeled through the combined unit. The colonel's command was at first enforced a little too strictly, and a shipment of cement, which had been requested for the village through Vietnamese channels by Mr. Buu, was delivered to the fort. By the time Buu collected the cement, McGowan had counted the bags and told his men to keep track of how they were used. The sergeant had acted as much from his old habits as a bartender as from suspicion, since neither Trao nor the PFs would discuss Buu.

But when Buu used the cement to build a well in front of his house, McGowan complained to the district advisers, who agreed to send future aid materials to the village council and not to Buu. When he heard of the new arrangement, Buu was certain Trao had supplied the Americans with their information.

Buu struck back by declaring Trao's home hamlet of Binh Yen Noi Number 3 ineligible to vote in the village elections due to procedural irregularities. Trao did not wish to contest the ruling because he lacked the political power. He and the PFs were organizational orphans. Although they were fighting for their village and their homes, their political ties stopped at the village gate. While they hated the Viet Cong, they also strongly disliked both factions of the VNQDD. Their only source of political leverage lay in the presence of their American allies, since they could not rely upon the government of South Vietnam to treat them fairly, as should have been the case if all South Vietnamese elements opposed to the Viet Cong had shared the same ideological frame of reference. They were not judged according to their competence to ward off the Viet Cong and to govern the village justly.

As a VNQDD, Buu had little to fear in manipulating the election, which he easily won. The outcome infuriated McGowan, who, over the protests of Trao, rushed to district to lodge a complaint. Captain Nguyen Dang, the aggressive district chief, told the irate sergeant to let it go. There were good reasons why Trao was not protesting; he had never served in the Army and, therefore, could be jailed as a draft dodger if Buu turned him in. McGowan showed Dang his notes on the disposition of the cement which had gone to the village. After reading the notes carefully, Dang hopped into his jeep and drove to Binh Nghia, explaining to McGowan en route that it was best for everyone if the sergeant were Buu's accuser. Buu's influence did not include retribution against Americans.

Buu was in the village office when they arrived at the fort. Dang strode in, ordered everyone else to leave, and in a voice which carried into the courtyard upbraided the village chief for his conduct in a shrill monologue which lasted half an hour. When he left, Dang shook hands with McGowan and publicly thanked him for bringing certain matters to his attention.

Shortly thereafter the village chief reported McGowan to district. Thanh had been receiving persistent rumors that the VC across the river were bartering woven mats for rice. Supposedly the wives of the richer farmers in Binh Nghia were quite willing to trade surplus rice to avoid the tedious task of weaving. My Hué was the trading spot. To put a stop to the traffic, Suong ordered all boats pulled out of the water each night, since it was hard to distinguish between three dozen moored boats and one moving. Two nights after the order had been passed, McGowan took a night patrol to My Hué and discovered a large boat moored offshore. It was destroyed with three LAWs.

The next day the village chief came screaming into the fort demanding the Americans pay for his sunken boat. After a heated argument, he came away convinced the sergeant intended to destroy his entire fleet. So he went to district and complained to Captain Dang, who was vaguely sympathetic but who said he could do nothing about the Americans.

After that Buu went to the village less than once a month. His financial affairs were competently handled by his relatives, and Trao assumed chief responsibility for village affairs.

Contrary to what Dang told Buu, the Americans in Binh Nghia would do what he ordered. Corporal Gene Foster, one of the combined-unit soldiers, referred to the district chief by saying: “I'm not exactly afraid of Dang, but I treat him like I would blasting caps—with a hell of a lot of respect.”

A short, stocky man with a crew cut and fierce black eyes, Dang had served the Viet Minh as a battalion commander before breaking with the Communists over policy matters. Although he had a fanatic's belief in the injustice of the Communist cause, he believed their organizational and propaganda tactics were superb, so he copied them. In an indoctrination center, he lectured those villagers who had aided the Viet Cong and he held pep rallies for his district officials.

He was more than just a showman. He organized special three-man assassination teams to seek out the Viet Cong while they rested in their homes. Gracious in victory, he held no resentment against any Viet Cong who rallied to the government side, while he would summarily execute any dedicated enemy leader who, after capture, appeared to be slipping through the lax legal system of the government. He called the dozen Americans at Binh Nghia “his” Marines and everyone understood what he meant. He was their commanding officer, as well as the commander of the PFs. When there were problems no one else could solve, Dang stepped in.

Once an American had a hundred-dollar watch stolen. Thievery of military items such as compasses or grenades occurred from time to time and was tolerated by the Marines, as they in turn would steal from any unit richer than themselves. It was part of the Marine code of “scrounging.” But personal items were different, and when no PF would admit to the theft, Captain Dang came to the fort. While the PFs stood apprehensively straight, he talked to them for an hour, pacing back and forth, the soldier-patriot in simple black pajamas, the ex–Viet Minh battalion commander, the man who wouldn't bend and whom Saigon would not promote.

We are Vietnamese, he told them, and what have we done? We have stolen, and we have stolen not from some rich American who flies a helicopter or who can give away a jeep. No. We have stolen from our brothers—from one of those who came and lived with us and ate our food and went up to My Hué and never took anything from us. What are we, he asked them, if we do such things? Perhaps we should take the rice of each other, and teach our children how to steal schoolbooks, and have our wives become prostitutes. Beggars and thieves, is that what we are?

There was more, some of it appeals to manhood, some of it threats. There was one thing all the PFs knew: Dang was not bluffing. If the thief did not admit his guilt then and there, Dang would kill him if he was discovered later.

Whether from fear or guilt, or both, the thief stepped forward.

“Take down your pants,” Dang said, “and bend over.”

There in front of the PFs and Americans, Dang whipped the thief with a thin bamboo cane which bit the flesh and left long, red welts on the man's bare buttocks and left a searing memory of pain and shame in the mind of every PF who stood as witness.

Dang then told the thief to retrieve the watch from wherever it was hidden and return it to its rightful owner, who accepted it gingerly, as though uncertain he could prove it was truly his, and frightened about what might happen if he couldn't.

It was not just the PFs who stole. When an American battalion commander came to inspect the fort one day, he saw some U.S. AID material stored in the courtyard. Among the various items was a bolt of oilcloth.

“Who's that for?” the lieutenant colonel asked.

“The villagers, sir,” McGowan replied. “The district advisers left it for Mr. Trao to distribute.”

“I could use that for backing for my mapboards. Put it in the jeep.”

“Sir, it's for the villagers.”

“You heard me, Sergeant—put it in the jeep.”

McGowan looked away and refused to acknowledge the order.

The colonel's driver, sensing a major blow-up was coming, darted forward, loaded the bolt of oilcloth in the jeep and said, “All ready to go, sir.”

Knowing he was in the wrong, and given an out, the colonel left. It was a little thing, materially speaking, just a bolt of cloth. But the Marines had seen the show, and so had Trao and Suong and some of the PFs. In the weeks that followed, many of the PFs helped themselves before doling out materials to the villagers. It was always little things, like soap and candy and other items of which the PFs, in justice, probably deserved a share. But to McGowan the oilcloth was a major setback, and he felt like a hypocrite for running around with his little notebook jotting down what materials the village chief used while an American officer flouted the rules.

The colonel also insisted upon his troops' wearing flak jackets and helmets at all times and had limited ammunition to one hundred rounds per man. Sergeant White had considered both orders absurd. To wear flak jackets while the children went to school and the women to market would have made his men a laughingstock. To limit a four-man patrol to four hundred rounds was foolhardy. In a firefight one man would fire four hundred shots. White had not obeyed the orders; neither had he flaunted his disobedience. He had hidden the extra ammunition supply beneath the floorboards of the squad tent and stockpiled flak jackets and helmets near the marketplace. He had asked the villagers to warn the Marines whenever the colonel visited. Then any Marine out of the fort would don his armor before venturing near the colonel.

McGowan was content to follow White's system until the oilcloth was stolen. After that his men openly disobeyed the order, walking into the company area without helmets and with more than a maximum five magazines. Captain Walker might have been able to reason with McGowan, but Walker had gone home and his executive officer had taken over the company. Exasperated by the CAP (Combined Action Platoon) Marines' swagger and lack of discipline, the exec radioed McGowan to report to him. In defiance, McGowan strolled into the company perimeter bareheaded and in a T-shirt and shorts, carrying his rifle and a sackful of magazines. The exec blew up.

“McGowan,” he yelled, “you are not some Chinese warlord. You are a United States Marine Corps sergeant. And that band of bandits of yours look like they've gone native—with you setting the example.”

“Sir,” McGowan said. “That colonel—”

“McGowan, that colonel happens to be your superior officer. You have been given a direct order. Helmets, flak jackets and ammo. Now I'm giving you that order to your face. I don't care how many generals visit you. You're not God Almighty. You obey or I'm going to relieve you.”

McGowan went back to the fort and hid the extra ammunition under the floorboards and reverted to White's tactic of unobtrusive disobedience. News of his putdown became common gossip throughout the battalion and the district. McGowan stayed in command at Fort Page because to remove him would have risked the wrath of General Walt.

Some of the men wanted to remove the colonel. One Marine, whom McGowan relied upon for his rifle but distrusted for his willingness to use it, approached McGowan with a plan.

“Sarge,” he said, “you remember how the grunts got rid of that platoon commander?”

McGowan remembered. After O'Rourke had left Charlie Company, another lieutenant had moved up to executive officer, and in turn his platoon was given to a new second lieutenant who persisted in donning shiny black gloves before each operation, and carried a walking stick instead of a rifle. The platoon would have forgiven him for his foibles had he proved competent. But he repeatedly blundered into sticky situations and then insisted upon striding straight ahead, ignoring both bullets and common sense. One afternoon the lieutenant set out with a squad on an armored reconnaissance. They ran into some light sniper fire and somehow the lieutenant ended up with a hole in the back of his leg. He was medevaced out with a Purple Heart, and the company never heard of him again.

“We could do the same thing with the colonel,” the Marine argued. “I can borrow a carbine from the PFs and hide in the bushes near the road. The next time the colonel comes by, I ding him and hat it out. It's simple.”

“No. We weren't sent down here to shoot colonels. Besides, you can't blow a guy away just because he's an asshole.”

“I'll just hit him in the leg. Hell, with his helmet and flak vest all buttoned I couldn't kill him if I wanted to.”

“No, man, I'm telling you no. We'll wait him out. We'll be here after he's gone.”

McGowan's strained relations with higher headquarters showed in other ways as well. The combined unit was accustomed to receiving only first-class volunteers as replacements for any casualties or for men who rotated home. Late one afternoon in mid-March a supply truck jounced down the narrow track to the fort. As it pulled into the courtyard, Corporal Ed Gallagher looked closely at five Marines sitting on their duffel bags in the open bed.

“These guys are going to stay with you,” the driver called out.

While the truck was slowly turning around, Gallagher ran to the tiny messhall.

“Sarge,” he burst in, “I know three of those guys. They were shitcanned from Charlie Company after the last op.”

“I know the other two from battalion headquarters,” Swinford added. “They're supply pogues. They've never been outside of camp.”

McGowan walked outside. The others followed.

“You people hold it right there,” he said. “Don't even bother getting off the truck, because you're going right back wherever you came from.”

The radio yelps from battalion came in as soon as the truck had driven back. By then McGowan had down a pat story: there was not enough room for more Americans. District would not allow it, and the fort was a PF outpost. When queried, Captain Dang confirmed the story.

Had the replacements seemed halfway decent, McGowan would have accepted them, since messages were coming in at a furious rate warning of an attack upon the fort. Like White, however, McGowan refused to allow squads from the line units to enter the boundaries of Binh Nghia. Yet one night it happened.

A squad left Charlie Company to rendezvous with two amtracs which were to ferry them to an ambush site far upriver. Dusk had fallen by the time the ambushers reached the river, where they found no amtracs waiting. The corporal in charge radioed headquarters for instructions. For some reason never fathomed, a voice without a brain told him to set up an ambush for a few hours in the nearest hamlet rather than return to the company position.

The ambushers were then at the edge of the Binh Yen Noi hamlet complex, and the squad members argued with the corporal, telling him the men from Fort Page covered the Binh Yen Nois like a blanket and that it was suicide to obey. The corporal called headquarters back and said he was concerned about friendly patrols. Headquarters assumed the ambush team was across the river and gave the coordinates of the nearest known friendly ambush—on the other side of the river.

“See?” said the corporal. “It's all clear in there. We can go in.”

He convinced nobody. The members of his team wanted no part of the trespass, headquarters or no headquarters. Finally, the corporal gave them a direct order.

“I'm not going to lose my stripes over this,” he said. “We've been told what to do, and we're going in there. I'll take point myself.”

And so he died. Among the houses beside a black section of the trail, two Marines and two PFs from Fort Page lay in wait. Their leader heard movement, saw a figure loom up in front of him on the trail and fired. The corporal from Charlie Company died instantly, and the curses in English from the other ambushers told the combined-unit Marine of his tragic mistake.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” he screamed. “It's us from Page. Who are you?”

“Charlie Company.”

“Oh, God Almighty.”

He stood up, walked the few feet to the fallen corporal, looked down, and slowly sobbing, shot himself in the foot. It was reported that he was wounded in a fight with the Viet Cong, during which another Marine was killed, and so he was evacuated to the United States and would never again have to carry a rifle.

Shortly afterward the combined unit lost another American, when he tried to murder the villagers. Proficient at patrolling, a member of the unit from the beginning, hand-picked by Beebe for his expert weaponry, the man was hard on everybody—himself, the other Americans, the PFs and the villagers. He rarely smiled and seldom relaxed. He was most content when out on patrol and savored those special moments when he could demonstrate his remarkable accuracy with a LAW. Once in October he had consumed half a bottle of the local rice wine and had torn about the fort like some demon fiend. It had taken five Marines to subdue and tie him up, and the next day when he was sober, White told him he was through at the fort if he touched hard liquor again. White had warned McGowan about the man and his drunken rages.

Still, when it happened again, there were no warning signs. The man quietly left the fort one morning alone and was gone for several hours. In the afternoon he suddenly appeared, reeling through the gate, saying nothing, turning and stumbling toward the machine-gun bunker, manned only at night. The few PFs and Marines who had seen him enter the fort had smiled that tolerant, pitying smile reasonable people reserve for drunks and had gone about their business. Suddenly it hit them as they watched him grope his way behind the handles of the long, sinister, black 50-caliber machine gun: he was intent on murder. As he fumbled to cock the weapon, startled cries in English and Vietnamese filled the fort and floated out to the paddies.