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for my father . . .

“if anything happens to yoko and me, it wasn’t an accident.” john lennon

the captive and the dead

Patrick Fealey

    he and the kid are singing and playing guitars in the enlisted men’s club. they have a regular following among the betrayed men. they are the entertainment the 364 nights of the year bob hope is not there.

    the sergeant is buying the beer. he is a lifer and short-timer. he’s going home. he’s loose.

    “vietnam, as you know, was a colony of frogs. the communists made the frogs leap out of the pot, and in came howdy doody to support a puppet government in saigon. the leader of this shaky howdy doody government is famous for being assassinated by people in sandals and straw hats, though i forget his name because I am drunk. i’d like to make a toast to president kennedy, the son-of-a-whore who put me in vietnam: eternal shame!”

    the explosions rock the enlisted men’s club. he drops his guitar and runs for the bunker with the others. mortars and rockets coming from outside the perimeter. the marines fire back into jungle blindly, it’s today’s hit-and-run attack from the heart of freedom. he is in the bunker, watching a centipede crawl past through the sandbags. it’s legs are fast and mechanical and it is almost a foot long. i wanna go home. i wanna sleep with my wife, not ten thousand miles.

    the earth shakes.

    the general was visiting. the colonel showed him around. the men were having a blast. see, war ain’t so bad. the general smiled at the men and the men smiled back. the general lost his face when he heard the words to a song. the colonel grabbed his sleeve and took him to the o club, where the drinks were stronger and so was the lie.

    if I were free to speak my mind, i’d tell a tale to all mankind . . .

    budweiser kept him alive. he was singing that sweet lament. if i were free. death is all this is. let me choose. i wanna go home. i wanna sleep with my wife, not Phu Bai.

    there was this hill. america had wanted to build a new road and install drainage ten thousand miles from home, where roads and drainage were highly valued. the army corps of engineers had attempted to use the hill of gravel for the road, but the vietnamese shot at them with machine guns and mortars every time they started the bulldozers. they didn’t want drainage. all the army corps accomplished was the digging of giant pits to hide their equipment and their asses. the army corps gave up and gave the gravel to the seabees. the seabees were a tough lot, combat engineers who trained with the marines. when they looked at a hill of gravel, they saw potential energy. when the seabee commanders looked out at the vietnamese, they saw wrenches and tommy guns. and this is how the nation came to call on him to go out and survey the hill.

    the hill was outside the concertina wire. the hill was composed of fine gravel.

    he drove out in a jeep with two other seabees. he had joined the navy in order to avoid vietnam, but he was yanked from this dream when he arrived to his assigned base, where he was told the first day: “you’re going to vietnam.” the base was in quonset, road island, and the many car dealerships there thrived off young recruits and their checks. later, nixon would shut down this base because the citizens of rhode island voted democratic during the presidential election. nixon pledged to get the u.s. out of vietnam, but it would take him four years, during which time b-52 bombers dropped more bombs on the people in straw hats and sandals than were used by all countries combined in world war two. between three and four million vietnamese men, women, and children were killed. this holocaust made kissinger a great diplomat. (“peace with honor”)

    he drove the jeep out to the hill. he steered around bodies bloating in the tropical heat. there were always corpses blackening on the road outside camp, even when the marines had not killed any.

    the hill rose about 30 feet above ground level. he didn’t ask why the army corps was trying to build a road into enemy territory, just as he had tired of wondering if he was in the navy. he suspected the u.s. expected to someday hold this area, a hope which did not come to fruition. the kid climbed to the top of the hill and stood straight. he cupped his hands and shouted into the jungle: “shoot me!”

    they surveyed the hill. it was round at the base, generally cone-shaped through it’s height. they moved positions and took notes throughout the day, attempting to establish how many cubic yards this hill was. when they knew this, they could determine how many dump truck trips would be required to move it. he didn’t see what it mattered how many dump trucks it would take because they were going to move it, whatever it was. some of these assignments happened because someone had to give an order because he existed to give orders and was being paid to give orders and someone had to follow that order because he existed and was paid to transcend rage.
    a squad of marines came through and asked them why they were standing around a tripod in a hot zone.
    “we’re building an interstate,” he said.
    a marine said, “you shouldn’t be here.”
    it was tedious work standing around smoking for 12 hours and by the time the sun was setting, they were not done with the job.

    “whatta ya think?” he asked.
    “apple pie,” the kid said.
    “well give me an answer,” he said.
    “it’s getting dark,” the kid said.
    “now can we get the hell out of here?” said the seaman.
    “load up,” he said.
    “this place is getting spooky,” the seamen said.
    “they could have us if they wanted us,” he said.
    “i suppose they think surveying hills is worse than death,” the kid said.
    “are you questioning orders?” he said.
    “yes.”
    “i thought so.”
    “all we got is forty-fives and one m-16,” the seaman said.
    “don’t forget the jeep,” the kid said. “our most powerful weapon.”

    driving back to base in the closing light, he sped on the winding dirt road. a tank concealed on the roadside fired a round over their heads. his heart tripped and he touched his hat. he was deafened. there was a ringing in his head and pain in his chest. he bet the sonsofbitches fired to bust their nuts.

    word came from the states that his first child had been born. he was a he and he had been born on the day he had predicted, december 19, 1967, which was two days ago. a first son. they drank in the enlisted men’s club while the baby slept in new york city, bonding to its grandfather. he would go home in six months, be state-side for five months, and then turn around and come back for eight more months. counting the days seemed futile. the child would be an infant without him. the child wouldn’t know who the hell he was. cigars were passed and smoked until the rockets started. it was a heavy attack and he did not have time to make the bunker, but instead dove into a fox hole. the sky flashed light upon them. he was in the fox hole with a black corporal who wore a bronze star. the man saw him looking at it and started to cry. “i don’t deserve it. all i did was kill kids. i didn’t do anything. i killed women and kids. they give me this. i can’t keep this medal. i want to kill myself.”

    the sergeant is retiring, out of this latest assignment. he doesn’t like vietnam. all the soldiers look like kids. he didn’t look like that in korea. he didn’t like korea either. he wonders if it’s too late to like the country waiting for him state-side.

    “sorry, jim, but we need you. you’re getting an extension.”
    “what?” the sergeant says. “sir, i’ve got five days. i’ve been in the marines twenty years. i’m down to five days.”
    “i know, i know. i’m sorry. you’re irreplaceable. you know the drill.”
    “sir, i earned this.”
    “we need you to stay on until we can replace you.”
    “when will that be?”
    “i have no idea.”
    “sir, if you don’t mind me saying so, this is fubar.”
    “i don’t mind you saying so.”

    the sergeant stayed in vietnam and one month beyond the day he was supposed to retire and go home, a rocket made a direct hit on his hut while he was running down the front steps for the bunker. he went home with one leg.

    most of his buddies did not appreciate how difficult it was to catch these giant lizards. some just didn’t appreciate a two-foot lizard in the tent. the lizards lived in holes in the sand. they were wary when they poked their heads out. he stood nearby, kneeling behind the jeep he had borrowed from the captain, hanging on to the rope. the noose was around the hole. the lizards were the fastest thing he had ever stalked and the most vicious. upstate new york, he had caught woodchucks and even a rabbit with his bare hands. he was good at this, but the lizards had been around a long time. to catch the lizard, it had to come out of the hole and expose itself. he could not move or wipe the sweat sliding into his eyes. if he moved, the lizard would vanish. they each stood frozen in the glaring sun, staring one another down. he did not blink because in a blink the lizard would be out of its hole. he held the rope and watched the lizard with burning eyeballs.
    he blinked.
    the lizard was out of its hole. it stood 15 feet from its hole, watching him.
    he stood up. the lizard looked at him. he threw up his arms and said “what are you going to do now?”
    the lizard bolted for its hole.
    he pulled the rope. he had it by the middle. on the end of the rope, the lizard’s claws were more dangerous than the north vietnamese.

    he was sitting in the latrine, taking a shit. there were two men down the line, also taking shits. he heard the sound of a large fork-lift approaching. the engine noise grew louder. it can’t be, he thought. the latrine moved. it shook. they were being raised into the air. he looked down through the hole between his legs and saw the lift below. they were changing the buckets. “give us a minute,” a private yelled, saluting the three assholes. he walked out of the latrine to see his shit going up in flames.

    “join the navy before they send you to vietnam,” his mother had advised. “join the navy before they send you to vietnam. join the navy before they send you to vietnam.” ten years later she denied saying this. she denied any involvement, she denied vietnam, she denied her oldest son, and she voted for ronald reagan, who had been one of the war’s hardest proponents. he knew reagan was the governor of california, where numerous defense contractors were located. reagan was a homicidal paranoiac who despised john lennon and activated the national guard when students said what they were thinking. he gassed and bullied with bayonets the freedom of speech.

    he is crossing the street in chu lai and he bumps shoulders with a guy. they look at each other. they are childhood friends from the same neighborhood in new york.

    he sold his martin to the kid for $50. the kid was getting good and deserved a better guitar. a soldier on his way home had sold him the martin for $50. he was passing it along. he had a silvertone he had bought before the war and played that.

    night watch duty was unavoidable. he was ordered to guard a pallet of budweiser all night. his non-com rank should have spared him the job, but this is what lyndon johnson and the united states of america asked him to do with his education and training. fuck it, in college he wouldn’t have hesitated to spend a night with a pallet of budweiser. he showed up with his m-16 and wearing his helmet. he was also frustrated by the duty because the guys were having a big party tonight and he would miss out. he guarded the beer. he sat atop the pallet and heard the voices and laughter of the men he wished he was with. he guarded the beer, wondering which direction the enemy would attack from. he didn’t have enough firepower to stop a really thirsty offensive. a seabee from the party arrived with a drink for him. he drank it. a while later, a marine came out with another drink for him. he wasn’t totally missing the party. throughout the night, his buddies arrived with drinks and he drank them. in the morning he was awakened by the rain. it was falling into his open mouth. he was lying atop the pallet of budweiser on his back with his head thrown back and his open mouth filling with water. he choked awake. he found his helmet and weapon spilled into a puddle. none of the beer was missing.

    it was a hospital. they were going to build a hospital for the vietnamese. it was a public relations project which was supposed to bring the civilians into the fold. these would be the civilians who had not been vaporized by b-52s. the site, 40 miles south of chu lai, somewhere in the jungle near quang tri, was encircled with concertina wire. about 25 men were assigned to the job. they would sleep on site because it was far from camp to commute. they cut the jungle down. they placed one roll of concertina next to another and put a third roll on top of those two, creating a six-foot pyramid of steel barbs. mines were laid and they began surveying. a few men who were ordered to fill sand bags questioned the location, but these fucked-up-beyond-all-belief-jobs were common. most were unbothered and went along because their senses and ability to have ideas had been worn down by the repetition in duties. there was no beer, but they’d brought their guitars.

    the vietnamese attack the hospital site at night. muzzles flash and grenades pop. the vietnamese come and come. it is a swarm from all directions. he never knows how many he has shot. there may be hundreds of them. he is on the .30 cal and cuts them three and four at a time. when gooks get through the fence he has to drop the machine gun and use his .45. before dawn, there is the sound of suffering as the vietnamese recede into the green shadows. bodies drape the concertina like dead fish in a net. Those alive receive a mercenary bullet. now and then a burst into the earth. there are vietnamese inside the wire, bled out on the ground. he looks around to see who is still alive. he isn’t the only one doing this. the men drift in the sulfur and look at one another. eleven of them have made it. he doesn’t see the kid. there are two wounded, the rest killed. some were wounded and died unattended. he walks the site looking for the kid. they are enclosed by a circle of sacrifice. he sees the kid lying face down with his brains feeding the morning flies. the martin is under him. he doesn’t turn the kid over. the silence of the birds is the sound of shame.

    “what kind of gun are you looking for?”
    “the enemy is too close for a rifle,” he said.
    “you know you’ll have to pass the state test before i can sell you a handgun.”
    “how about this test?”
    “so, vietnam. you’ve come prepared. what kind of pistol are you looking for? a revolver, an automatic?”
    “a colt forty-five.”
    “for home defense?”
    “ . . . yes.”
    “i can recommend the thirty-eight special. it’s powerful enough and easier to handle than the forty-five. this snub-nose would be perfect for the bedside table.”
    “i’ll take the forty-five.”

    he sits in a reclining chair in the dark unfinished basement for ten years with a beer by his side. he doesn’t touch his guitar. he doesn’t teach his son how to play it. he hears his wife repeat her threats. he can’t do anything about it. the struggle to stay alive is no longer the question. the question is wanting to stay alive. he sees that he is ceasing to misunderstand existence. president ronald reagan is trying to convince america that ketchup qualifies as a vegetable in the school lunch program. john lennon is not around for this or el salvador. they had forced him into a delusion. the rich used him. the politicians used him. the killers had used him. anyone who wants to control another person is deluded and afraid. the fear of death the root of all evil. he knows warriors are needed because the world is not what it could be, but his war lacked a war. when you cease to misunderstand existence, you lose the need. paradox. when you cease to need life, you cease to need death. reason in paradox: more paradox. his life is no dream. he is paralyzed. he lives with the imperative of the gun.

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