sacredness.
Xa
, it has many implications. But at heart it means that a man’s spirit is in the land, where his ancestors rest and where the rice grows. The land is your enemy.”
Stink Harris was snoring. The lieutenant and Oscar and Eddie and Doc Peret had moved to a row of cots, where they slept with their boots on.
“So the land mines—”
“The land defending itself.”
“The tunnels.”
“Obvious, isn’t it?”
“The hedges and paddies.”
“Yes,” the officer said. “The land’s own slough. More brandy?”
With Sarkin Aung Wan’s help, they spent many hours discussing the face of Quang Ngai, whose features told of the personality, but whose personality was untelling. The underground, the smiling man said, was the literal summary of the land, and of mysteries contained in it; a statement of greater truth could not be made.
Xa Hoi
, the party, had its vision in
Xa
, the land. The land is the enemy.
“Does the leopard hide?” asked Li Van Hgoc. “Or is it hidden by nature? Is it hiding or is it hidden?”
And later, while the others slept their endless sleep, Li Van Hgoc led Paul Berlin on a tour of the tunnels.
Chamber to chamber they went, exploring the war’s underground. Bats nested in beams like pigeons in a hayloft; the walls were lined with tapestries and mosaics of tile and stone; among winding roots and tubers were the makings of an army: kegs of powder and coils of fuse and crates of ammo.
The chambers were linked by narrow passageways, one to the next, and at last they returned to the operations center.
Smiling, Li Van Hgoc led him up to the chrome console.
“Wait,” he said.
The little man pushed a series of buttons. The periscope whined and began to rise. When it clicked into position, he pulled up a stool and motioned for Paul Berlin to look.
“What is it?”
“Ah,” said Li Van Hgoc. “You don’t know?”
Peering into the viewing lens, squinting to see better, Paul Berlin couldn’t be sure. Several men appeared to be grouped around the mouth of a tunnel. The forms were fuzzy. Some of them were talking, others silent. One man was on his hands and knees, leaning part way down into the hole.
“What?” Paul Berlin said. “I can’t—”
“Look closer. Concentrate.”
Fourteen
Upon Almost Winning the Silver Star
T hey heard the shot that got Frenchie Tucker, just as Bernie Lynn, a minute later, heard the shot that got himself.
“Somebody’s got to go down,” said First Lieutenant Sidney Martin, nearly as new to the war as Paul Berlin.
But that was later too. First they waited. They waited on the chance that Frenchie might come out. Stink and Oscar and Pederson and Vaught and Cacciato squatted at the mouth of the tunnel. The others moved off to form a perimeter.
“This here’s what happens,” Oscar muttered. “When you search the fuckers ‘stead of just blowin’ them and movin’ on, this here’s the final result.”
“It’s a war,” said Sidney Martin.
“Is it really?”
“It is. Shut up and listen.”
“A war!” Oscar Johnson said. “The man says we’re in a war. You believe that?”
“That’s what I tell my folks in letters,” Eddie said. “A war!”
They’d all heard the shot. They’d watched Frenchie go down, a big hairy guy who was scheduled to take the next chopper to the rear to have his blood pressure checked, a big guy who liked talking politics, a great big guy, so he’d been forced to go slowly, wiggling in bit by bit.
“Not me,” he’d said. “No way you get me down there. Not Frenchie Tucker.”
“You,” said Sidney Martin.
“Bullshit,” Frenchie said. “I’ll get stuck.”
“Stuck like a pig,” said Stink Harris, and some of the men murmured.
Oscar looked at Sidney Martin. “You want it done,” he said, “then do it yourself. Think how good you’ll feel afterward. Self-improvement an’ all that. A swell fuckin feeling.”
But the young lieutenant shook his head. He gazed at Frenchie Tucker
Xa
, it has many implications. But at heart it means that a man’s spirit is in the land, where his ancestors rest and where the rice grows. The land is your enemy.”
Stink Harris was snoring. The lieutenant and Oscar and Eddie and Doc Peret had moved to a row of cots, where they slept with their boots on.
“So the land mines—”
“The land defending itself.”
“The tunnels.”
“Obvious, isn’t it?”
“The hedges and paddies.”
“Yes,” the officer said. “The land’s own slough. More brandy?”
With Sarkin Aung Wan’s help, they spent many hours discussing the face of Quang Ngai, whose features told of the personality, but whose personality was untelling. The underground, the smiling man said, was the literal summary of the land, and of mysteries contained in it; a statement of greater truth could not be made.
Xa Hoi
, the party, had its vision in
Xa
, the land. The land is the enemy.
“Does the leopard hide?” asked Li Van Hgoc. “Or is it hidden by nature? Is it hiding or is it hidden?”
And later, while the others slept their endless sleep, Li Van Hgoc led Paul Berlin on a tour of the tunnels.
Chamber to chamber they went, exploring the war’s underground. Bats nested in beams like pigeons in a hayloft; the walls were lined with tapestries and mosaics of tile and stone; among winding roots and tubers were the makings of an army: kegs of powder and coils of fuse and crates of ammo.
The chambers were linked by narrow passageways, one to the next, and at last they returned to the operations center.
Smiling, Li Van Hgoc led him up to the chrome console.
“Wait,” he said.
The little man pushed a series of buttons. The periscope whined and began to rise. When it clicked into position, he pulled up a stool and motioned for Paul Berlin to look.
“What is it?”
“Ah,” said Li Van Hgoc. “You don’t know?”
Peering into the viewing lens, squinting to see better, Paul Berlin couldn’t be sure. Several men appeared to be grouped around the mouth of a tunnel. The forms were fuzzy. Some of them were talking, others silent. One man was on his hands and knees, leaning part way down into the hole.
“What?” Paul Berlin said. “I can’t—”
“Look closer. Concentrate.”
Fourteen
Upon Almost Winning the Silver Star
T hey heard the shot that got Frenchie Tucker, just as Bernie Lynn, a minute later, heard the shot that got himself.
“Somebody’s got to go down,” said First Lieutenant Sidney Martin, nearly as new to the war as Paul Berlin.
But that was later too. First they waited. They waited on the chance that Frenchie might come out. Stink and Oscar and Pederson and Vaught and Cacciato squatted at the mouth of the tunnel. The others moved off to form a perimeter.
“This here’s what happens,” Oscar muttered. “When you search the fuckers ‘stead of just blowin’ them and movin’ on, this here’s the final result.”
“It’s a war,” said Sidney Martin.
“Is it really?”
“It is. Shut up and listen.”
“A war!” Oscar Johnson said. “The man says we’re in a war. You believe that?”
“That’s what I tell my folks in letters,” Eddie said. “A war!”
They’d all heard the shot. They’d watched Frenchie go down, a big hairy guy who was scheduled to take the next chopper to the rear to have his blood pressure checked, a big guy who liked talking politics, a great big guy, so he’d been forced to go slowly, wiggling in bit by bit.
“Not me,” he’d said. “No way you get me down there. Not Frenchie Tucker.”
“You,” said Sidney Martin.
“Bullshit,” Frenchie said. “I’ll get stuck.”
“Stuck like a pig,” said Stink Harris, and some of the men murmured.
Oscar looked at Sidney Martin. “You want it done,” he said, “then do it yourself. Think how good you’ll feel afterward. Self-improvement an’ all that. A swell fuckin feeling.”
But the young lieutenant shook his head. He gazed at Frenchie Tucker
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