The cold, hard wood pressed stiffly against the back of Private John Rowley’s head, producing a horrible aching feeling that caused him to wake. John blinked a few times to cleanse his eyes from the thick, blurry glaze and slowly brought his hands to his face, rubbing away the crust that had formed under them.
John’s platoon had set up camp in a small concrete bunker just outside of the Vietnamese village of My Lai and had been ordered to make routine patrols of the area every four hours. He had fallen asleep on a skinny wooden bench in front of a long row of old grey lockers. The lockers were filthy and mostly covered in rust, except for small blotches of their normal color that stood out from the rest of the decrepit pieces of metal. The floor was made up of grey and red tiles-three rows of grey for every one of red. It was extremely hard for John to tell the exact colors however, because the entire floor of the locker room was shrouded with a thick layer of dust, dirt, and debris that had blown in from outside.
“Alright boys, it’s time!” shouted Lieutenant Quail as he walked into the room from outside.
The men all groaned as they sat up and got ready to go out on patrol again.
“This shit never ends,” grumbled Ken, the only black man in the platoon.
“Just put on your damn shoes and saddle up,” snapped the Lieutenant.
John looked out the door Quail had come through, noticing that the clouds had come in while they slept and thick sheets of rain were now pouring down. Great, he thought, lighting one last cigarette before it was too wet.
“Alright, let’s move out!” called Lieutenant Quail.
***
The floor of the jungle was covered in a thick layer of mulch and dead, skeletal leaves from the tall trees above. John’s feet sunk into the dark, moist ground every step he took making the already long and tiring journey even worse. Thick walls of rain struck every part of John’s body, causing his clothes to tighten around his bony structure and making each step incrementally harder with the weight of the soaked cloth. The air was still warm and tropical however, and the sweat expelled from each pore of his body mixed with the damp clothes, creating a horrible stench.
“Fucking shit!” said a voice from behind John.
John turned and noticed that Calvin, who they often called “Vinnie,” had fallen and the entire front of his body was now completely covered in the dark, rank mulch of the jungle floor. Vinnie cleaned his hands on the back of his pants, which had not hit the ground, and then wiped away the dirt that covered his face. Walking over to the boot that had come off his foot and lodged in the mud, Vinnie pulled it vigorously. It took Vinnie about thirty seconds to free the boot, which came loose with just enough force to cause him to loose balance and fall back into the mud.
“You piece of shit!” shouted Vinnie, throwing the boot to the ground beside him.
John and the rest of the platoon laughed.
“Hey Vinnie,” called Adam, his low Brooklyn accent cutting through the sound of the falling rain, “couldja just once try not ta be such a dam retad.”
“Fuck off,” yelled Vinnie, sliding his mud covered foot into the boot.
“Hey!” called Lieutenant Quail. “ Unless you want Charlie on our ass I suggest you shut the fuck up! That’s an order!”
“I thought it was a suggestion,” said Vinnie under his breath
***
There were frequent stops due to the thick vegetation of the jungle. The whole platoon would stop and wait for Adam to pull out his long machete and cut a path through the razor sharp leaves. The platoon traded off machete duty for about a half an hour until they finally made it out of the jungle into a huge plain of Elephant grass. The rain seemed to cease the moment John stepped out of the jungle.
“ s’about fuckin time!” called Adam, “I wuz statin’ to think God had sometin’ agains me.”
“He does,” said Vinnie.
“Ya? Wut?”
“You’re a fuckin’ Jew.”
The platoon laughed and Adam chuckled, punching Vinnie in the shoulder. The field reminded John of home. He remembered the field next to his house in Berkeley, he and his dad called the “Santa Fe Crossing.” The train used to go through it before he was born, but now it was just a long field that the city often waited long periods of time before cutting. John remembered how he and his dad would take his dog Gracie to the field to run around. They figured that it was safe to let her run without the leash because she usually stayed close to them playing with her ball. He remembered one day when he was doing homework, his dad burst in the door crying and holding Gracie’s limp body in his arms, her legs dangling out. He explained that she had been hit by a car and kept crying, “I’m sorry,” over and over again.
***
The patrols often took longer than four hours. They would walk for what seemed like eternity, the relentless heat slowing them down and their large packs weighing them down. They never really knew what they were looking for. They were ordered to “find and kill enemy combatants” but they never knew who the enemy was.
One day they were passing through a village and a farmer made his way over to the platoon. He kept repeating the words “thank you” in broken English and bowing his head courteously. He handed Robby a basket of rice, fruit, and cheese and bowed again. Rob bowed back and as the farmer walked away, dug his hands into the cheese. The explosion sent shrapnel into Rob’s face, blinding him and cutting off his right ear. He was lucky for living and even luckier for getting to go home.
The next day the platoon made its way through the village shooting men, women, and children, killing cattle, and burning huts. The sight of the screeching, burning bodies flying out of the huts into the water of nearby river affected John like nothing else ever had. But the platoon could now see this as “justifiable” because they now saw the village as “the enemy,” every man, woman, and child. That was the problem with the war.
***
The platoon made its way across the field, scanning the ground carefully for “booby traps,” (extremely thin wire laced around two trees that when “tripped” would trigger an explosion), and keeping the lookout for Vietcong hidden in the surrounding jungle. There had been frequent sightings of enemy troops moving through the area and raids on the nearby village. The patrols were designed to try and not only terminate the enemy forces but to also find where they were coming from. If the rouge squad of Charlie were linked to a bigger company then the platoon would have to call in more forces and probably an air raid.
“Hey Lieutenant,” called Vinnie, “like what are the Gooks anyways-Christian?”
“Well there’s a bunch of different religions,” replied Lieutenant Quail, “ some are probably Christian but I think the majority are Buddhist and Taoist-the old Chinese religions.”
“The Taoist’s are those nature fucks right? You know, ‘be like the water and flow over the rock’ kinda shit.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
“Huh. You know I haven’t really thought about the Gooks as like…people you know? ‘Till now they’ve always just held this weird image in my mind. I don’t know how to explain it, they’ve just been…things I’m supposed to put a bullet in,” Vinnie trailed off and looked into the trees.
“Vinnie,” said the Lieutenant.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
***
John’s boots were starting to rub against the back of his heel and he could feel he skin starting to peel off. He had tripped on a rock a few meters back and had pulled something in his back, and with the weight of his pack, the pain was unbearable. He had felt dirty the night before and decided to shave, but now realized the stupidity of it as streams of sweat maneuvered down his face causing a horrible burning feeling each place they touched.
He tried to take his mind off the pain and gazed at the trees in front of him. The trees swayed around with the wind and seemed to make things easier. He felt himself moving with them, each inch of his body rippling like leaves, and tingling like it had fallen asleep. They helped John get away.
As John watched the trees he noticed something glowing. It looked like metal reflecting the sun. John opened his mouth to tell the platoon, but the words refused to come out. Then came a loud crack and Adam fell to the ground. There was a moment of calm as the rest of the platoon turned around to notice that half of Adam’s head had just been blown away. The birds stopped singing and the wind seemed to cease. It felt like everything stopped.
The mortar blast sent John flying backwards ten feet onto his back. There was a loud ringing in his ears and his legs felt like they were on fire. John reached down and touched his right leg. Instead of feeling the cold starchy cotton of his army fatigues he felt something more like a hamburger patty that just came off the grill.
John looked to his right as the trees to his side lit up with the blasts from the numerous riffles hidden by the brush. The bullets ripped through the air, tearing through the rest of the platoon. He watched as Ken stumbled to the ground, trying to keep his insides from falling out into the fine red dirt of the field. Lieutenant Quail lay on the ground staring at John with blank eyes, a small stream of blood running down his cheek. Vinnie stood up after reloading his gun and was immediately pinned by a bullet in his jaw, blowing it clean off his face and sending him careening to the ground.
***
The cold, hard wood of the bench pressed stiffly against the back of Private John Rowley’s head, producing a horrible aching feeling that caused him to wake. John blinked a few times to cleanse his eyes from the thick, blurry glaze and slowly brought his hands to his face, rubbing away the crust that had formed around his eyes.
John looked around, bewildered to find the platoon sleeping on the ground around him. Lieutenant Quail walked into the room from outside. John looked out the door noticing that the clouds had come in while they slept and thick sheets of rain were now pouring down.
“Alright boys, it’s time!”