that swing in my backyard?”
The permanent Americans glanced at each other. The one in the tweed jacket clapped his hands over his eyes. The ugly one said, “Albertine, you’re the ideal woman. Everybody worships you.”
“Good, then I should get more money.” She wheeled around to go downstairs, and the ugly one sang out, “Izz-unt it roman-tic?” Beneath his sweet false tremulous tenor came the rumble of the disposal truck as it backed toward the entrance.
THE GHOST
VILLAGE
1
In Vietnam I knew a man who went quietly and purposefully crazy because his wife wrote him that his son had been sexually abused—“messed with”—by the leader of their church choir. This man was a black six-foot-six grunt named Leonard Hamnet, from a small town in Tennessee named Archibald. Before writing, his wife had waited until she had endured the entire business of going to the police, talking to other parents, returning to the police with another accusation, and finally succeeding in having the man charged. He was up for trial in two months. Leonard Hamnet was no happier about that than he was about the original injury.
“I got to murder him, you know, but I’m seriously thinking on murdering her, too,” he said. He still held the letter in his hands, and he was speaking to Spanky Burrage, Michael Poole, Conor Linklater, SP4 Cotton, Calvin Hill, Tina Pumo, the magnificent M. O. Dengler, and myself. “All this is going on, my boy needs help, this here Mr. Brewster needs to be dismantled, needs to be
racked
and
stacked,
and she don’t tell me! Makes me want to put her
down
, man. Take her damn head off and put it up on a stake in the yard, man. With a sign saying:
Here is one stupid woman.
”
We were in the unofficial part of Camp Crandall known as No Man’s Land, located between the wire perimeter and a shack, also unofficial, where a cunning little weasel named Wilson Manly sold contraband beer and liquor. No Man’s Land, so called because the C.O. pretended it did not exist, contained a mound of old tires, a piss tube, and a lot of dusty red ground. Leonard Hamnet gave the letter in his hand a dispirited look, folded it into the pocket of his fatigues, and began to roam around the heap of tires, aiming kicks at the ones that stuck out farthest. “One stupid woman,” he repeated. Dust exploded up from a burst, worn-down wheel of rubber.
I wanted to make sure Hamnet knew he was angry with Mr. Brewster, not his wife, and said, “She was trying—”
Hamnet’s great glistening bull’s head turned toward me.
“Look at what the woman did. She nailed that bastard. She got other people to admit that he messed with their kids, too. That must be almost impossible. And she had the guy arrested. He’s going to be put away for a long time.”
“I’ll put that bitch away, too,” Hamnet said, and kicked an old gray tire hard enough to push it nearly a foot back into the heap. All the other tires shuddered and moved. For a second it seemed that the entire mound might collapse.
“This is my
boy
I’m talking about here,” Hamnet said. “This shit has gone far enough.”
“The important thing,” Dengler said, “is to take care of your boy. You have to see he gets help.”
“How’m I gonna do that from here?” Hamnet shouted.
“Write him a letter,” Dengler said. “Tell him you love him. Tell him he did right to go to his mother. Tell him you think about him all the time.”
Hamnet took the letter from his pocket and stared at it. It was already stained and wrinkled. I did not think it could survive many more of Hamnet’s readings. His face seemed to get heavier, no easy trick with a face like Hamnet’s. “I got to get home,” he said. “I got to get back home and take
care
of these people.”
Hamnet began putting in requests for compassionate leave relentlessly—one request a day. When we were out on patrol, sometimes I saw him unfold the tattered sheet of notepaper from his shirt pocket and read it
The permanent Americans glanced at each other. The one in the tweed jacket clapped his hands over his eyes. The ugly one said, “Albertine, you’re the ideal woman. Everybody worships you.”
“Good, then I should get more money.” She wheeled around to go downstairs, and the ugly one sang out, “Izz-unt it roman-tic?” Beneath his sweet false tremulous tenor came the rumble of the disposal truck as it backed toward the entrance.
THE GHOST
VILLAGE
1
In Vietnam I knew a man who went quietly and purposefully crazy because his wife wrote him that his son had been sexually abused—“messed with”—by the leader of their church choir. This man was a black six-foot-six grunt named Leonard Hamnet, from a small town in Tennessee named Archibald. Before writing, his wife had waited until she had endured the entire business of going to the police, talking to other parents, returning to the police with another accusation, and finally succeeding in having the man charged. He was up for trial in two months. Leonard Hamnet was no happier about that than he was about the original injury.
“I got to murder him, you know, but I’m seriously thinking on murdering her, too,” he said. He still held the letter in his hands, and he was speaking to Spanky Burrage, Michael Poole, Conor Linklater, SP4 Cotton, Calvin Hill, Tina Pumo, the magnificent M. O. Dengler, and myself. “All this is going on, my boy needs help, this here Mr. Brewster needs to be dismantled, needs to be
racked
and
stacked,
and she don’t tell me! Makes me want to put her
down
, man. Take her damn head off and put it up on a stake in the yard, man. With a sign saying:
Here is one stupid woman.
”
We were in the unofficial part of Camp Crandall known as No Man’s Land, located between the wire perimeter and a shack, also unofficial, where a cunning little weasel named Wilson Manly sold contraband beer and liquor. No Man’s Land, so called because the C.O. pretended it did not exist, contained a mound of old tires, a piss tube, and a lot of dusty red ground. Leonard Hamnet gave the letter in his hand a dispirited look, folded it into the pocket of his fatigues, and began to roam around the heap of tires, aiming kicks at the ones that stuck out farthest. “One stupid woman,” he repeated. Dust exploded up from a burst, worn-down wheel of rubber.
I wanted to make sure Hamnet knew he was angry with Mr. Brewster, not his wife, and said, “She was trying—”
Hamnet’s great glistening bull’s head turned toward me.
“Look at what the woman did. She nailed that bastard. She got other people to admit that he messed with their kids, too. That must be almost impossible. And she had the guy arrested. He’s going to be put away for a long time.”
“I’ll put that bitch away, too,” Hamnet said, and kicked an old gray tire hard enough to push it nearly a foot back into the heap. All the other tires shuddered and moved. For a second it seemed that the entire mound might collapse.
“This is my
boy
I’m talking about here,” Hamnet said. “This shit has gone far enough.”
“The important thing,” Dengler said, “is to take care of your boy. You have to see he gets help.”
“How’m I gonna do that from here?” Hamnet shouted.
“Write him a letter,” Dengler said. “Tell him you love him. Tell him he did right to go to his mother. Tell him you think about him all the time.”
Hamnet took the letter from his pocket and stared at it. It was already stained and wrinkled. I did not think it could survive many more of Hamnet’s readings. His face seemed to get heavier, no easy trick with a face like Hamnet’s. “I got to get home,” he said. “I got to get back home and take
care
of these people.”
Hamnet began putting in requests for compassionate leave relentlessly—one request a day. When we were out on patrol, sometimes I saw him unfold the tattered sheet of notepaper from his shirt pocket and read it
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