Gustav Hasford - The Short-Timers

A hand grenade explodes, far away, inside the Citadel.

Rafter Man and I head for the MAC-V, Military Assistance Command--Viet Nam, compound.

"This is a beautiful place," says Rafter Man.

"It was. It really was. I've been here a few times for award ceremonies. General Cushman was here. I took his picture and he took a picture of me taking a picture of him. And Ky was here, all duded up in his black silk flight jacket with silver general's stars all over it and a black cap with silver general's stars all over that, too. Ky had these pearl-handled pistols and wore a purple ascot. He looked like a Japanese playboy. He had his program squared away, that Ky. He believed in a Viet Nam for the Vietnamese. I guess that's why we kicked him out. But he was beautiful that day. You should have seen all the schoolgirls in their ao dai , purple and white, carrying their little parasols..."

"Where are they now? The girls?"

"Oh, dead, I guess. Did you know that there's a legend that Hue rose from a pool of mud as a lotus flower?"

"Look at that!"

A squad of Arvins are looting a mansion. The Arvins of the Army of the Republic of Viet Nam look funny because all of their equipment is too big for them. In baggy uniforms and oversized helmets they look like little boys playing war.

I say, "Decent. Number one. We got some slack, Rafter. Remember this, Rafter Man, any time you can see an Arvin you are safe from Victor Charlie. The Arvins run like rabbits at the first sign of violence. An Arvin infantry platoon is about as lethal as a garden club of old ladies throwing marshmallows. Don't believe all that scuttlebutt about Arvins being cowards. They just hate the Green Machine more than we do. They were drafted by the Saigon government, which was drafted by the lifers who drafted us, who were drafted by the lifers who think that they can buy the war. And Arvins are not stupid. The Arvins are not stupid when they are doing something they enjoy, like stealing. Arvins sincerely believe that jewels and money are essential military supplies. So we're safe until the Arvins start yelling, 'Beaucoup VC, beaucoup VC!' and then run away. But be careful. Arvins are always shooting at chickens, other people's pigs, and trees. Arvins will shoot anything except transistor radios, Coca-Colas, sunglasses, money, and the enemy."

"Don't they get money from their government?"

I grin. "Money is their government."

The sun is gone. Rafter Man and I double-time. A sentry challenges us; I tell him to go to hell.

Fifty-six days and a wake-up.

In the morning we wake up inside the MAC-V compound, a white two-story building with bullet-pocked walls. The compound has been enclosed behind a wall of sandbags and concertina wire.

We gather up our gear and prepare to leave while a light colonel reads a statement made by the military mayor of Hue. The statement is a denial that there is looting in Hue and a warning that looters will be shot on sight. A dozen civilian war correspondents sit on the deck, wiping sleep from their eyes, half-listening, yawning. Then the light colonel adds a personal comment. Someone has awarded a Purple Heart to a big white goose that got wounded while the compound was under attack. The light colonel feels that the civilian correspondents do not understand that war is serious business.

Outside, I point to a wasted NVA hanging in the wire. "Was is serious business, son, and this is our gross national product." I kick the corpse, triggering panic in the maggots in the hollow eye sockets and in the grinning mouth and in each of the bullet holes in his chest. "Gross?"

Rafter Man kneels down to get a better look. "Yes, he is confirmed."

A CBS camera crew appears, surrounded by star-struck grunts who strike combat-Marine poses, pretending to be what they are. They all want Walter Cronkite to meet their sisters. In white short-sleeved shirts the CBS cameramen hurry off to photograph death in living color.

I stop a master sergeant. "Top, we want to get into the shit."

The master sergeant is writing on a piece of yellow paper on a clipboard. He doesn't look up, but jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Across the river. One-Five. Get a boat ride by the bridge."

"One-Five? Outstanding. Thanks, Top."

The master sergeant walks away, writing on the yellow paper. He ignores four skuzzy grunts who run into the compound, each man holding up one corner of a poncho. On the poncho is a dead Marine. The grunts are screaming for a corpsman and when they put the poncho down, very gently, a pool of dark blood pours out onto the concrete deck.

Rafter Man and I hurry down to the River of Perfumes. We talk to a baby-faced Navy ensign who souvenirs us a ride on a Vietnamese gunboat ferrying reinforcements to the Vietnamese Marines.

As we skim down the river Rafter Man asks, "Are these guys any good?"

I nod. "The best the Arvins got. They're not as tough as the Korean Marines, though. The ROK's are so hard that they got muscles in their shit. The Blue Dragon Brigade. I was on an op with them down by Hoi An."

A shot pops from the shore. The bullet buzzes over.

The gunboat crew opens up with a fifty-caliber machine gun and a forty mike-mike cannon.

Rafter Man watches with joy in his eyes as the bullets knock up thin stalks of water along the river bank. He holds his piece at port arms, first to fight.

The Strawberry Patch, a large triangle of land between the Citadel and the River of Perfumes, is a quiet suburb of Hue. We get off the gunboat at the Strawberry Patch and wander around with the Vietnamese Marines until we see a little Marine with an expensive pump shotgun slung across his back, a case of C rations on his shoulder, and DEADLY DELTA on his flak jacket.

I say, "Hey, bro, where's One-Five?"

The little Marines turns, smiles.

I say, "You need a huss with that?"

"No thanks, Marine. You people One-One?"

"No, sir," I say. Officers do not wear rank insignia in the field but snuffies learn to fix a man's rank by his voice. "We're looking for One-Five. I got a bro in the First Platoon. They call him Cowboy. He wears a cowboy hat."

"I'm Cowboy's platoon commander. The Lusthog Squad is in the platoon area up by the Citadel."

We walk along with the little Marine.

"I'm Joker, sir. Corporal Joker. This is Rafter Man. We work for Stars and Stripes ."

"My name is Bayer. Robert M. Bayer the third. My people call me Shortround, for obvious reasons. You here to make Cowboy famous?"

I laugh. "Never happen."

The gray sky is clearing. The white mist is moving away, exposing Hue to the sun.

First Platoon's area is within sight of the massive walls of the Citadel. While First Platoon waits for the attack to begin, the Lusthog Squad is partying.

Crazy Earl points a forefinger at the three of us. "Resupply! Number one!" Then: "Hey, cowpuncher, the Joker is on deck."

Cowboy looks up and grins. He's holding a large brown bottle of tiger piss--Vietnamese beer. "Well, no shit. It's the Joker and his New Guy. Lai dai , bros, come on, sit and share, sit and share."

Rafter Man and I sit down in the dirt and Cowboy throws loose stacks of Vietnamese piasters into our laps. I laugh, surprised. I pick up the brightly colored bills, large bills, in large denominations. Cowboy shoves bottles of tiger piss into our hands.

"Hey, Skipper!" says Cowboy. "Souvenir me spaghetti and meatballs, okay? Every time we chow down I pull ham and mothers--the Breakfast of Champions. I hate fucking ham and lima beans."

The little Marine rips open one case of C's, pulls out a cardboard box, pitches it to Cowboy.

Cowboy catches the box, squints at the label. "Number one. Thanks, Skipper."

Crazy Earl throws another stack of piasters into my lap.