his shoulder. The boy was still drawing, grinning, alone in the still-smoking hamlet.
They marched for another hour and reached a bamboo thicket. Slash removed a machete from his utility belt and set to work cutting through it. The thicket terminated on the ridge of a deep, wide valley spread with breadfruit and other dark-leafed trees.
“Hunker down,” Oddy said. “Chow.”
The men unshouldered their packs. Zippo cleared a spot in the wet earth, lit a cube of incendiary C4, and set a pot of water atop the smokeless flames. They boiled rice and mixed it with tinned beef, Spam, or whatever c-rations they had. None of them could cook worth a shit and their dishes possessed all the flavor of wet napkins.
“Tastes like ripe ass,” Gunner said.
“What would you know?” Crosshairs said. “All the amphetamines you been jamming, I’d be surprised you got a tastebud left in your head.”
“Gotta stay sharp.”
Oddy slapped Gunner on the shoulder and said, “Keep jamming on those little pink pills and you’re gonna wind up sharp as a balloon.”
The soldiers ate in defiance of the food’s flavor, needing the nourishment. Nobody talked about the dancing boy. Best to forget and move on. Memories like that didn’t do anyone any good.
Afterwards, Crosshairs produced a deck of cards from his helmet’s webbing and he and Slash played poker by the light of the dying sun. Gunner and Zippo leaned together against a shattered tree trunk and talked of the haunts they would frequent on their next visit to Ho Chi Minh City, which whores they intended to fuck, and in which orifices. Answer sat on a decomposing stump far from the others. Oddy and Tripwire crouched near the valley ridge, smoking Luckies.
“How far you think we got to go before hitting this village, Sarge?”
“The Viet told Answer what—ten, twelve klicks?” Oddy said. “Getting close.”
Tripwire said, “You think he might’ve been lying?”
“You remember anyone feeding Answer a lie?”
Tripwire chewed on it for a moment before saying, “I guess not, no.”
“Boy could make Satan himself roll over.”
Oddy lit a fresh Lucky off the butt of the last and passed the pack to Tripwire.
“Does it make sense to you?” Tripwire said. “VC stockpiling arms in a pissant village miles from the hot zones?”
Oddy rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not to get overly philosophical, son, but nothing about this conflict has ever made much sense.”
Tripwire nodded. It was all he could do when Oddy got in this frame of mind. “Logistically, though, it’s a mindfuck. Transporting the weapons alone…”
“I know what you’re saying,” Oddy said. “Very un-Charlie. Then again, he’s always doing what’s least anticipated, uh?”
They sat in silence, staring out over the Vietnamese landscape. Lush and vibrant, the valley’s green canopy etched in ebbing sunlight, the sky now a dull orange, a lingering band of copper tracing the Earth’s curve. The knowledge that he could call an airstrike and destroy acre upon acre of this beautiful countryside filled Oddy with a gnawing melancholy.
Then, deep in the valley heart, a flash of light.
“Gunner,” Oddy said. “Toss me your specs.”
Gunner retrieved a pair of Bushnell high-powered binoculars and handed them to Oddy. “See something, Sarge?”
Oddy put the binoculars to his eyes. The rest of the unit made their way over to the ridge. They squinted down into the valley, trying to spot what had twigged their Sergeant.
“The village is down there,” Oddy said. “Almost missed it.”
He handed the binoculars to Tripwire and pointed out the village’s location. It was about one-thousand yards down-slope, in the base of the valley. A small circle of thatched huts, two outlying longhouses, a central fire pit. It seemed to be deserted: the fire remained unlit despite the evening’s chill, no smoke rose through the vents in the huts, nobody congregated in the village
They marched for another hour and reached a bamboo thicket. Slash removed a machete from his utility belt and set to work cutting through it. The thicket terminated on the ridge of a deep, wide valley spread with breadfruit and other dark-leafed trees.
“Hunker down,” Oddy said. “Chow.”
The men unshouldered their packs. Zippo cleared a spot in the wet earth, lit a cube of incendiary C4, and set a pot of water atop the smokeless flames. They boiled rice and mixed it with tinned beef, Spam, or whatever c-rations they had. None of them could cook worth a shit and their dishes possessed all the flavor of wet napkins.
“Tastes like ripe ass,” Gunner said.
“What would you know?” Crosshairs said. “All the amphetamines you been jamming, I’d be surprised you got a tastebud left in your head.”
“Gotta stay sharp.”
Oddy slapped Gunner on the shoulder and said, “Keep jamming on those little pink pills and you’re gonna wind up sharp as a balloon.”
The soldiers ate in defiance of the food’s flavor, needing the nourishment. Nobody talked about the dancing boy. Best to forget and move on. Memories like that didn’t do anyone any good.
Afterwards, Crosshairs produced a deck of cards from his helmet’s webbing and he and Slash played poker by the light of the dying sun. Gunner and Zippo leaned together against a shattered tree trunk and talked of the haunts they would frequent on their next visit to Ho Chi Minh City, which whores they intended to fuck, and in which orifices. Answer sat on a decomposing stump far from the others. Oddy and Tripwire crouched near the valley ridge, smoking Luckies.
“How far you think we got to go before hitting this village, Sarge?”
“The Viet told Answer what—ten, twelve klicks?” Oddy said. “Getting close.”
Tripwire said, “You think he might’ve been lying?”
“You remember anyone feeding Answer a lie?”
Tripwire chewed on it for a moment before saying, “I guess not, no.”
“Boy could make Satan himself roll over.”
Oddy lit a fresh Lucky off the butt of the last and passed the pack to Tripwire.
“Does it make sense to you?” Tripwire said. “VC stockpiling arms in a pissant village miles from the hot zones?”
Oddy rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Not to get overly philosophical, son, but nothing about this conflict has ever made much sense.”
Tripwire nodded. It was all he could do when Oddy got in this frame of mind. “Logistically, though, it’s a mindfuck. Transporting the weapons alone…”
“I know what you’re saying,” Oddy said. “Very un-Charlie. Then again, he’s always doing what’s least anticipated, uh?”
They sat in silence, staring out over the Vietnamese landscape. Lush and vibrant, the valley’s green canopy etched in ebbing sunlight, the sky now a dull orange, a lingering band of copper tracing the Earth’s curve. The knowledge that he could call an airstrike and destroy acre upon acre of this beautiful countryside filled Oddy with a gnawing melancholy.
Then, deep in the valley heart, a flash of light.
“Gunner,” Oddy said. “Toss me your specs.”
Gunner retrieved a pair of Bushnell high-powered binoculars and handed them to Oddy. “See something, Sarge?”
Oddy put the binoculars to his eyes. The rest of the unit made their way over to the ridge. They squinted down into the valley, trying to spot what had twigged their Sergeant.
“The village is down there,” Oddy said. “Almost missed it.”
He handed the binoculars to Tripwire and pointed out the village’s location. It was about one-thousand yards down-slope, in the base of the valley. A small circle of thatched huts, two outlying longhouses, a central fire pit. It seemed to be deserted: the fire remained unlit despite the evening’s chill, no smoke rose through the vents in the huts, nobody congregated in the village
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