Declarations of War, page 6
The driver – Dutch Relay – was a plump Negro from Detroit. He’d been a truck-driver in Detroit and continued to be a truck-driver in the army. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t a truck-driver: he’d dropped out of school when he was twelve. Dutch was twenty-four years old; unshaven, dirty and prematurely wrinkled, he could have been mistaken for forty. However, his build and weight made up for his poor physical condition, as could be testified by a P.F.C. in Da Nang who spoke out of turn to Dutch and was hospitalized to the land of the big P.X., as the soldiers referred to the U.S. Dutch had often wondered who got the best of that exchange of blows.
They didn’t look like soldiers. Their fatigues were ill fitting and dirty and their movements slow and casual. They did not have the quickness of eye that shooting gave, nor the precision of men who had stood sentry. Even their skin had the softness of sedentary civilians, for a benign army had contrived to manufacture for its servicemen conditions of life that corresponded as closely as possible to life at home. In some cases it was better.
Even the truck was equipped with mechanical refinements of a sophisticated sort: power braking and steering and fully adjustable seats. On the seat between them there was a transistor radio. Dutch used one hand to search the wavebands for a programme to his taste. Finally he found the U.S. Armed Forces channel. It was playing Country and Western music. Dutch turned the volume very loud and joined in the vocal. It was difficult to reconcile his short-syllabled urban grunts with the yodelled vowels of the show-biz cowboy on the air.
For almost half an hour they drove along the highway, Dutch singing tunelessly and Des Jones of Mohap, Massachusetts, watching the heavy tropical rain fighting the high-speed wipers and roaring down the irrigation ditches alongside the road like a miniature tidal wave. The first time he’d ever seen this country on the map it had looked a tiny place, not much bigger than his home state. He’d expected its roads to be lined with native villages like he’d seen in movies, where slim bare-breasted girls danced and chubby kids sold mangoes and sun-ripened melons for a nickel apiece. The reality was different. You could roll a hundred miles down this highway and seldom catch sight of a human face, except for pale G.I. smudges that peered out of trucks coming the other way. And the green, lush tropical countryside that he’d imagined was buried under grey dust most of the year, except when the monsoons churned it into bottomless mud. Simetimes he’d catch a glimpse of what used to be a native village: trees cleared back from the road, broken pieces of timber leaning against the few remaining uprights and sheets of corrugated iron flapping in the wind.
Sometimes he wondered exactly what had happened to the people in those villages. Some of the lucky ones had been evacuated, the rest had been killed or had fled. Sometimes the infantrymen that he’d drunk with back in the depot at Da Nang had told him horror stories about the fighting. Some boasted of the villages that they’d shot up or fired, but Des didn’t always believe the loudmouths who came looking for an audience among the supply men.
He shifted in his seat and put his paratroop boots up on the dash. His leg was getting cramp. A month ago they used to stop on the road near here. It was very hot then, and they had sat in the cab with the doors open and drunk beer and eaten cold chicken from the Mess. Now that the rains had started they did the journey without stopping. Without even lowering the window a quarter of an inch lest the fever-stinking rain soaked them both.
Dutch reached behind the sun visor and felt for the box of cigars that was tucked behind Stars & Stripes. He lighted it himself and smoked in silence. He didn’t offer Des one; they were so cheap in the P.X. that it was understood that he’d ask if he wanted. He’d only taken a few puffs at the evil-smelling stogie when he dabbed the brakes. They screamed and puffed as the huge truck and its heavy trailer slowed to thirty. The wheels bumped over some pot-holes with enough violence to make both men hammer their heads against the head rests. He hit the brakes again, more violently this time.
‘Whoa,’ shouted Dutch standing on the brakes. They stopped.
‘Je…sus,’ said Des. He’d wound the window fully down, and oblivious of the torrents of rain he leaned out of the cab and peered ahead into the grey afternoon gloom. The low black clouds were moving fast across the ragged trees that whipped and roared with a noise like gunfire. The road zigzagged: about eighty yards of the grey army-laid highway had slipped neatly into the jungle on the left. At each end the errant section was held by only a few threads of wire mesh underlay. Even as they watched, more chunks from the broken part collapsed into the irrigation ditch and pounded away into the dark jungle.
Both soldiers got out of the truck, careless of the driving rain.
‘You think the VC have mined her?’
‘No, mister,’ said Dutch. ‘Either they would have blown the surface more completely than that or they would have waited until we were rolling over her.’
‘Maybe they figured to hijack our load.’ Des looked back to the truck. Its sidelights flickered in the rain, distorting the drops into little spears of yellow water as they passed the lamps. He could still hear the transistor radio playing Country and Western.
‘Vietcong got no use for filing cabinets, man.’
‘Is that what we’re carrying?’
‘Don’t you never read the manifest?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Well, I always do. If it’s something like jackets or food or electric stuff I count her twice. ’Cos those thieving bastards who onload that stuff can make a crate disappear like suds down a gulley. Those studs are the ones you see down in Saigon riding the tinted-glass Caddies with half a dozen go-go girls in the back and a general driving. Those guys can move towns, buddy boy, never mind crates.’
‘Our load’s O.K.?’
‘With Corporal Relay, no sweat, soldier. In fact we made one extra crate of flashlight batteries.’
‘You goddamned gold brick!’
‘The Polish Mafia, son – that Sergeant Bzin treats me like I’m his long-lost son.’
‘But you’re not Polish,’ said Desmond.
The Negro opened his eyes wide and puffed his cheeks in mock fear. ‘But you ain’t going to tell him, are you, Des?’
Desmond punched him playfully. ‘I might at that. What are we going to do, Dutch?’
‘Do – Dessy boy? We’re going to shift arse back on to Route 15 and hit the Delta country from the west.’
‘You know the way?’
‘Bet your life. This section of highway walked into the jungle last year – no, make that six months ago – I found the way that time.’
‘Can you turn her – trailer and all?’
‘Goose me when I’m on the verge, Des.’
Dutch climbed into the cab and gunned the motor. It was a tricky feat of driving, to U-turn the long truck and its equally long trailer on that narrow highway. Dutch could probably have done it, if the edges of the road hadn’t crumbled under the load when the trailer wheels were still three feet from the irrigation ditch.
‘She’s going, Dutch,’ screamed Des. The weight of the combination pulled the truck back, in spite of the four-wheel drive and the skilful way in which Dutch used the accelerator. Still she moved, sliding against the brakes. When the back wheels of the trailer hit the bottom of the ditch the movement stopped, while the torrent of rainwater made a new path that incorporated the twin offside wheels and a part of the power-lift mechanism on the tail.
Dutch got out and cussed quietly.
‘We’ll never get her out now,’ said Des.
‘Tell me something I don’t know, soldier.’
‘Unhitch?’
‘Unhitch.’
‘Suppose the VC come back and take the load away?’
‘So we stay here and the VC take us away, too. Is that better?’
‘No.’
‘So unhitch.’
It was even hotter on the road than it had been in the cab, where they had two five-dollar fans going all the while. By the time they had unhitched the trailer they were not only soaking with warm smelly rain but liberally smeared with oil and grease. And they were up to the ankles in gluey brown mud that almost sucked their boots off.
‘Now let’s go,’ said Dutch. Des Jones stared into the bottom of the irrigation canal. As the dirty water swirled round the deep treads there was still enough daylight to read the word ‘Dunlop’ on the casing. And to see two arms and an army boot poking out of the gurgling stream.
‘I think there are two guys here, Dutch.’
‘Is that right?’ said the plump driver. He was pulling the front wheels past the overhanging roots of a tree and trying to avoid the other ditch. Dutch would have appreciated some help. ‘Dead G.I.s,’ called Desmond.
‘Must have been some kind of war here,’ said Dutch.
‘But, Dutch…’
‘Jump in, kid…and move it, unless you want to hike back.’
He ran to the cab and jumped in. They sped back north along the road they’d come. ‘I wondered why the oncoming traffic had gone dry.’
‘Dutch, what about those bodies? Maybe they were cops sent there to flag us down.’
‘Same thought occurred to me, buddy boy.’ He pressed the accelerator pedal to get more distance between him and the incident. The transistor radio was still playing loudly. Desmond turned the volume down. ‘What you do that for, Dessy?’
‘I can think better when it’s quiet.’
‘So can I, Dessy,’ agreed Dutch and turned the volume up again.
‘How much longer you got, Dutch?’ said Des. His voice was thin. He cleared his throat with a loud cough.
‘Ninety-three days. You?’
‘Over six months. You think we’ll ever lick the Commies?’
‘Who knows?’ said Dutch.
‘What do you think it would be like: Communism?’
‘Communism is like being in the army for ever, man,’ said Dutch.
‘I suppose,’ agreed Des. ‘In this war, Dutch, we are the Redcoats.’
‘How’s that?’
‘We’re the Redcoats and the VC are the settlers. I mean, you’ve got to hand it to the VC: they’ll tackle a tank with a slingshot. Half their weapons are built from junk. They’ve got the know-how and we’ve become stuffy like the British. It’s the world turned upside down.’
‘Well, next time you see a squint-eyed little Paul Revere – yell real loud, man!’
Dutch had no doubt about the turn-off. There was a ruined building that had once been a café or a shop or something. Behind it were half a dozen rusting motor-car bodies. This road was narrower than the major highway they’d been on so Dutch was a little relieved that he’d lost the trailer. He was mentally composing the accident report that he would file. They went about thirty miles due west before getting to a crossroads with a battered yellow signpost SERIES G REPLACEMENT BATTALION with an ornate badge and a list of the units that were there.
Dutch heaved a sigh of relief and turned to follow the arrow. They went about three miles up that road, the trees converging more and more until it was little better than a track.
‘They’ve got to be kidding,’ said Dutch.
‘The sign must have been wrong.’
‘It meant straight on,’ agreed Dutch. He was so relieved about the chance to gas up and eat that he hardly swore at all at having to reverse the truck for three-quarters of a mile before finding a clearing. Even then they didn’t take any chances about getting stuck. Dutch did a twenty-five-point turn, using only the very centre of the roadway.
‘That’s funny,’ said Des.
‘Ha bloody ha,’ acknowledged Dutch when they had travelled five miles on the clock. They still had not seen the yellow sign.
‘There was a fork.’
‘There were three, but I would have sworn this was the way we came.’
‘Haven’t got a compass, have you, Des?’
‘Nope, and there’s not even a glint of sunlight to navigate by.’
‘That’s dandy, boy. That’s real dandy.’
‘We’re lost?’
‘Oh no – just don’t know where we are, that’s all.’
Dutch flicked the switch on the radio. There came a sudden burst of solo guitar before he twisted it off again. ‘What do we do, Dutch? Sleep in the cab?’
‘Looks like.’
‘You think there could be Cong about here?’
‘Cong is everywhere. Don’t you know that yet?’
‘Jesus, Dutch. Let’s roll on until the gas gives out.’
‘And wind up down some arse-hole alley like that one we had to back-out of?’
‘Roll on until the reserve light comes on.’
‘You got a deal. Left or right?’
They had come to a T-junction. There were no signposts or people, and no huts, not even wrecked ones; just the rain-swept jungle growing darker by the minute.
‘Right for guesses – but don’t get mad.’
‘Right it is, buddy boy.’
This road was wider than the previous one, and after only a few minutes they saw a sight that gladdened their hearts as few other things could have done. The verges had been cleared of large trees so that a fifteen-foot wire fence could be seen beyond the grass and mud. Every hundred yards there was a sentry tower and a long way away – perhaps a mile or more – there was enough light left in the low cloud to shine upon the gleaming silver metal of three U.S. Air Force transport planes. Even from as far away as this they looked impressive; inanimate representatives of another world as different to this mess of jungle as any man-made object could be. It was another half mile before they came upon an entrance gate to the compound and even then it was a small access gate to the airfield instead of the main gates.
‘Welcome to Series G Replacement Battalion!’ said Dutch. He laughed and switched on his radio again.
‘You think that’s what we’re at?’
‘Work it out for yourself. Three Boeings that have just delivered a cargo of Cong-fodder and are waiting to rotate some old and weary vets. Look!’
Through the driving rain they saw a big sign on the perimeter track: WELCOME TO VIETNAM. It was placed exactly where the transports would stop to unload soldiers, before taxiing on to the Maintenance Sheds on the far side of the complex. On the nearest building there were more signs – plentifully provided with crests and badges and enormous coloured arrows – R. & R. MEN REPORT HERE, A.T.C. CREWS ONLY, FIREARMS PROHIBITED BEYOND THIS POINT, BAGGAGE CENTER D. There was the whole complex machinery of modern war, painted to look like a supermarket special.
‘Looks like we could just take off with the whole parade, Dutch.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dutch. His voice registered a new fear: perhaps he’d been a little hasty in abandoning several thousand dollars’ worth of military supplies and a new trailer out on that jungle road. He was preparing some really frightening stuff for the top sergeant and embroidering Des’s discovery of the dead soldiers into a heroic retreat under fire.
‘Where in Christ is everyone?’
‘Let’s find out,’ said Dutch. He stopped the truck outside a building marked E. M. MESS HALL. HAVE
YOUR CHIT READY.
‘We didn’t see a living soul since pulling out.’ ‘They stopped the war, that’s for why. They waited till we was on the road and then they shipped every mother-loving son of them Stateside. You and me, Dessy, are the only people still fighting.’
‘Should we open negotiations for peace?’ Des wanted to join in with Dutch’s joke, but he didn’t feel much like it. Even before they were halfway up the path of the Enlisted Men’s Mess they knew what they’d find inside.
‘Empty, good goddamn!’
They looked around the stoves and into the cupboards. They found five gross of plastic spoons and a dozen eggs. Des cracked one of the eggs – it was a big Stateside type of egg – and the smell chased them out of the kitchen. ‘This place ain’t been used in an age.’
‘It’s the pull-back. Who needs a dozen E. M. Messes any more. Let’s go chase up another one. Failing that I breeze into the Officers’ Club, right?’
‘Right.’
Dutch took the road through the depot but most of the buildings were just warehouses for air freight. On the other side of the base road – Westmoreland Avenue – there were barrack huts. All of those were empty, too, their windows smashed and in some cases the roof caved in.
Dutch turned back up Main Street – the sight of that street sign made him feel better – as far as the control tower and then turned to drive along the taxi-way towards the transport planes. The wind across the airfield was so strong that it made the truck veer alarmingly. Dutch laughed grimly.
They were gigantic aircraft, half a city block in length with tailplanes several storeys high. Aeroplanes, big or small, have a characteristic smell. It’s a compound aroma of canvas, battery acid, leather, hydraulic fluid, rubber and high-octane fuel. These aeroplanes didn’t smell like that. These were dead aeroplanes, abandoned after Vietcong rockets had blasted their tailplanes. Air force engineers had taken away the jet motors so that the cowlings hung down and clattered in the wind like muffled drums.
The two soldiers went through the inside of the planes. The seats had been taken, and so had removable fittings like flashlights, radios and radar sets. They had both hoped that the inside of the plane would be comfortable, but the thin metal skin was icy and there were enough holes in it to let the wind through the cabins.
‘Don’t worry, kid, we’ll find somewhere.’
‘I sure hope so, Dutch. This place gives me the creeps.’
They went back to the truck and Dutch drove round the whole airfield. There was just a chance, he said, that there would be a small guard unit left here. Dutch was wrong; there was no living human anywhere. When they got to the west end of runway 90 Dutch turned off along the taxi-way to get straight back to Main Street. He touched the brakes a little too firmly and the truck began to slide.
‘Easy does it, Dutch.’
But already the big fellow had corrected the skid and put her into a new skid just for the fun of it.
