of mine."
The drunken major shrugged and put the .45 back on the table. His
eyelids had nearly closed. "I don't care about football," he said, but
he kept his hand off the weapon.
"Buy the sergeant a drink," said the haggard officer. John Ransom
quickly moved to the bar and reached for a glass, which the confused
Mike put into his hand. Ransom went through the tables, filled his
glass and mine, and carried both back to join me.
We watched the major's head slip down by notches toward his chest.
When his chin finally reached his shirt, Ransom said, "All right, Jed,"
and the other man slid the .45 out from under the major's hand. He
pushed it beneath his belt. "The man is out," Jed told us.
Ransom turned back to me. "He was up three days straight with us,
God knows how long before that." Ransom did not have to specify who he was. "Jed and I got some sleep, trading off, but he just kept on
talking." He fell into one of the chairs at my table and tilted his
glass to his mouth. I sat down beside him.
For a moment no one spoke. The line of light from the open space
across the windows had already left the mirror and was now approaching
the place on the wall that meant it was going to disappear. Mike lifted
the cover from one of the lamps and began trimming the wick.
"How come you're always fucked up when I see you?"
"You have to ask?"
He smiled. He looked very different from when I had seen him
preparing to give a sales pitch to Senator Burrman at Camp White Star.
This man had taken in more of the war, and that much more of the war
was inside him now.
"I got you off graves registration at White Star, didn't I?" I
agreed that he had.
"What did you call it, the body squad? It wasn't even a real graves
registration unit, was it?" He smiled and shook his head. "The only one
with any training was that sergeant, what's his name. Italian."
"Di Maestro."
Ransom nodded. "The whole operation was going off the rails." Mike
lit a big kitchen match and touched it to the wick of the kerosene
lamp. "I heard some things—" He slumped against the wall and swallowed
whiskey. I wondered if he had heard about Captain Havens. He closed his
eyes.
I asked if he were still stationed in the highlands up around the
Laotian border. He almost sighed when he shook his head.
"You're not with the tribesmen anymore? What were they, Khatu?"
He opened his eyes. "You have a good memory. No, I'm not there
anymore." He considered saying more, but decided not to. He had failed
himself. "I'm kind of on hold until they send me up around Khe Sanh.
It'll be better up there—the Bru are tremendous. But right now, all I
want to do is take a bath and get into bed. Any bed. I'd settle for a
dry place on level ground."
"Where did you come from now?"
"Incountry." His face creased and he showed his teeth. The effect
was so unsettling that I did not immediately realize that he was
smiling. "Way incountry. We had to get the major out."
"Looks like you had to pull him out, like a tooth."
My ignorance made him sit up straight. "You mean you never heard of
him? Franklin Bachelor?"
And then I thought I had, that someone had mentioned him to me a
long time ago.
"In the bush for years. Bachelor did stuff that ordinary people
don't even dream of—he's a legend. The Last Irregular. He fell on punji
sticks and lived—he's still got the scars."
A legend, I thought. He was one of the Green Berets Ransom had
mentioned a lifetime ago at White Star.
"Ran what amounted to a private army, did a lot of good work in
Darlac Province. He was out there on his own. The man was a hero.
That's straight."
Franklin Bachelor had been a captain when Ratman and his platoon had
run into him after a private named Bobby Swett had been blown to pieces
on a trail in Darlac Province. Ratman had thought his wife was a
black-haired angel.
And then I knew whose skull lay wound in rope in the back seat of
the jeep.
"I did hear of him," I said. "I knew someone who met him. The Rhade
woman,
The drunken major shrugged and put the .45 back on the table. His
eyelids had nearly closed. "I don't care about football," he said, but
he kept his hand off the weapon.
"Buy the sergeant a drink," said the haggard officer. John Ransom
quickly moved to the bar and reached for a glass, which the confused
Mike put into his hand. Ransom went through the tables, filled his
glass and mine, and carried both back to join me.
We watched the major's head slip down by notches toward his chest.
When his chin finally reached his shirt, Ransom said, "All right, Jed,"
and the other man slid the .45 out from under the major's hand. He
pushed it beneath his belt. "The man is out," Jed told us.
Ransom turned back to me. "He was up three days straight with us,
God knows how long before that." Ransom did not have to specify who he was. "Jed and I got some sleep, trading off, but he just kept on
talking." He fell into one of the chairs at my table and tilted his
glass to his mouth. I sat down beside him.
For a moment no one spoke. The line of light from the open space
across the windows had already left the mirror and was now approaching
the place on the wall that meant it was going to disappear. Mike lifted
the cover from one of the lamps and began trimming the wick.
"How come you're always fucked up when I see you?"
"You have to ask?"
He smiled. He looked very different from when I had seen him
preparing to give a sales pitch to Senator Burrman at Camp White Star.
This man had taken in more of the war, and that much more of the war
was inside him now.
"I got you off graves registration at White Star, didn't I?" I
agreed that he had.
"What did you call it, the body squad? It wasn't even a real graves
registration unit, was it?" He smiled and shook his head. "The only one
with any training was that sergeant, what's his name. Italian."
"Di Maestro."
Ransom nodded. "The whole operation was going off the rails." Mike
lit a big kitchen match and touched it to the wick of the kerosene
lamp. "I heard some things—" He slumped against the wall and swallowed
whiskey. I wondered if he had heard about Captain Havens. He closed his
eyes.
I asked if he were still stationed in the highlands up around the
Laotian border. He almost sighed when he shook his head.
"You're not with the tribesmen anymore? What were they, Khatu?"
He opened his eyes. "You have a good memory. No, I'm not there
anymore." He considered saying more, but decided not to. He had failed
himself. "I'm kind of on hold until they send me up around Khe Sanh.
It'll be better up there—the Bru are tremendous. But right now, all I
want to do is take a bath and get into bed. Any bed. I'd settle for a
dry place on level ground."
"Where did you come from now?"
"Incountry." His face creased and he showed his teeth. The effect
was so unsettling that I did not immediately realize that he was
smiling. "Way incountry. We had to get the major out."
"Looks like you had to pull him out, like a tooth."
My ignorance made him sit up straight. "You mean you never heard of
him? Franklin Bachelor?"
And then I thought I had, that someone had mentioned him to me a
long time ago.
"In the bush for years. Bachelor did stuff that ordinary people
don't even dream of—he's a legend. The Last Irregular. He fell on punji
sticks and lived—he's still got the scars."
A legend, I thought. He was one of the Green Berets Ransom had
mentioned a lifetime ago at White Star.
"Ran what amounted to a private army, did a lot of good work in
Darlac Province. He was out there on his own. The man was a hero.
That's straight."
Franklin Bachelor had been a captain when Ratman and his platoon had
run into him after a private named Bobby Swett had been blown to pieces
on a trail in Darlac Province. Ratman had thought his wife was a
black-haired angel.
And then I knew whose skull lay wound in rope in the back seat of
the jeep.
"I did hear of him," I said. "I knew someone who met him. The Rhade
woman,
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