Billie Mosiman: Wireman

“Let’s go,” Nick said softly. He touched Daley’s shoulder with a hand that dripped warm blood. “There’s one more. He took off. He’ll bring the whole goddamn North Vietnamese army down on us.”

Daley could not vomit. Nothing would come up. They had been eating powdered eggs and C-ration Spam for days. It sat in his rolling stomach like a malignant tumor, but it would not come up. He had killed his share of the enemy. He had seen men killed. Blood and torn flesh were typical scenes in war. But decapitation was too gruesome. It was one atrocity he had not witnessed in Vietnam.

Nick was striking off through the jungle. He seemed to know instinctively where the other Vietnamese had gone. Daley rushed to catch his brother. Someone had told him… maybe it was the battle-weary sergeant… fear was the healthiest emotion a soldier could feel. Fear caused you to fight longer, and more fiercely. But Daley had pissed himself and he had tried to vomit up his guts. What kind of a real soldier was he? And what kind was Nick?

They were going deeper into the forest. Nick slogged ahead, the garrote swinging from his hand like a yo-yo while Daley followed. He could see the entrance of a cave outlined in the darkness. He could not tell if it was a cave that nature had created or if it was mad-made—bored into the hillside by the Cong. As they neared the opening Daley smelled the scent of the enemy once again, the scent of death riding on the breeze.

Nick did not hesitate for a second. He boldly entered the tunnel. Daley hung back, swallowed, wiped a line of perspiration from his upper lip, then stepped inside.

He was momentarily blinded. He could not see his hand, his brother, or the walls on either side of him.

’’Nick?” Daley whispered.

There was a sharp war cry. The dark boomed with the sounds of human battle. Vietnamese curses tore through the air.

Daley waited, shivering with fear. “Nick!” he called more loudly.

The chilling gurgle of a man being strangled bounced off the damp walls of the cave.

Daley could not wait any longer. The man being strangled could not be Nick. It could not be! If It was, then he had to save his brother, save him somehow…

Daley stumbled forward, his hands outstretched to feel for the shape of a man. Something hot splashed over him and he knew it was blood.

He screamed.

A cigarette lighter flicked on. Daley stopped in mid-stride, his mouth still open from the scream that was fading away with tinny echoes to the back of the cave. Nick stood over the corpse of the last Vietnamese, the garrote dangling from one hand. He looked mad in the tuckering flame. He was covered with blood. Rubies of it nestled in his fine blond hair. Streaks of it ran down both cheeks.

The front of his uniform was darkly soaked, and at his feet the severed neck of a black-suited Viet Cong continued to pump rivers of red over his boots. I’m right here. little brother.” Nick’s voice was calm. His stained lips curved into a gentle smile. He looked like a grim circus clown, chalk-white patches of skin and lipstick-smeared lips. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Daley, I’ll always take care of you.”

Daley could not help himself. He collapsed against the damp cave wall and began to sob. The cigarette lighter flame hissed and threw giant, bobbing shadows behind the two soldiers. They stood that way for a long time: one brother weeping, one brother smiling and holding his light up high against the darkness.

THE TROPICAL SUN was aflame. The temperature and humidity were both in the nineties, making any physical activity a laborious task. Vietnam was the armpit of the world, and the vast armies sweeping across its interior were merely parasites looking for a more comfortable host.

Daley and Nick stumbled forward through green grass that topped their boots. It had taken Daley two grueling days to bring his older brother sixteen miles through rough terrain. All morning they had waded through fields of watery land that had once been planted with rice. Far off to their right they could see a burned and demolished village. Ahead was the ragged edge of another forest Daley thought he remembered. If he was correct, the rear echelon of their platoon was on the other side. They might reach it by sundown.

At first glance the two brothers looked similar because of the American uniforms and their build, but on closer inspection no one would believe they were relatives. Leading the way to the blessed relief of the forest shade was Daley, six feet tall, broad-shouldered, and ruggedly handsome.

During the last months in Vietnam he had let his raven black hair grow long and shaggy. It had a natural wave and curled on the ends in the center of his thick neck. He was the sort of man who would never be teased about the length of his hair by either the other soldiers or his immediate commanders. He had too much self-control ever to come to blows over snide remarks, but no one had the bad judgment to chance any kind of criticism of Daley Ringer.

On the other hand, Nick was blond and fair. From repeated exposure to the sun his skin was peeling layer after layer. Where his brother was swarthy, Nick favored their mother, a lily-white woman who always looked anemic. Nick also did not command as much power of presence as his brother. Only when a joking heckler happened to look into Nick’s blue eyes did he lose his nerve and let his taunts trail into apology. Nick’s stony, unrelenting gaze saved many men from the beating of their lives. It was evident that neither brother could be bullied or broken. Because of this tension they created, they had been a team from the beginning. It was whispered, “Get the Ringer brothers on your side of this war and you got it made. They’re a fuckin’ front-line committee.”

“Come on, Nick. Not far now,” Daley encouraged. He was taking an awful chance camping in the shade and he knew it, but Nick was out of his head, and part of the reason was lack of proper nourishment. They had to brave the danger of an ambush to get something hot in Nick’s stomach.

As the last of the coffee boiled in the coals, Daley poured a box of chicken-and-rice soup into a cup of water. This was the last of their C-rations. If help was not on the other side of the forest, they would be reduced to eating roots or chancing night raids on any village they could find.

Nick began to spit again. First to his left, then to his right. He scrunched up his face, pursed his lips, and spit.

“Quit it, Nick,” Daley said quietly.

“They won’t go away if I quit.”

Daley stirred the soup and set it farther back on the coals to simmer. Ever since leaving the cave he had heard about the horned and ranged demons. He was not only tired of hearing about them and their hideous games, but he was beginning to believe Nick might really see the creatures. He wondered if this meant he too was cracking.

“Coffee’s done.” Daley was trying to keep Nick’s attention focused.

“I don’t want it.”

“There’s some soup too.”

“I shouldn’t eat it,” Nick said.

Daley swiveled on his heels to peer at his brother. This was a new twist. Before Nick had eaten anything he was offered. “Why not?” Daley asked.

“If I eat, they’ll crawl in my stomach and I’ll never get them out.” Nick sounded surprised Daley had to ask such an obvious question.

Daley sighed and turned to watch the instant coffee bubble in the water. “You know that isn’t so.”

Nick spit again. Right, then left. His blue eyes were dull. He was filthy. He had not let Daley wash him in the river they had stumbled upon, and the Cong’s blood was dried on has uniform and face. At night when his sweat evaporated, the cloth grew stiff and creaked as he moved. He stank worse than the enemy.