Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

They assigned him to Vietnam. He knew it meant he was dead. He hadn’t applied, hadn’t even asked how you apply, they’d just handed him his fate. Four days out of basic, here he carried his lunch toward a table in the enlisted mess, the steamy odor of reconstituted mashed potatoes rising toward his face, and his legs felt like rubber as he stepped toward a future scattered with booby traps and land mines: they’d be on patrol and he’d be too far ahead of the others in a line of guys in the jungle, he’d be in front and he’d step on something that would just rip the veins right out of him, splash him around like paint—before the noise hit his ears, his ears would be shredded—you just, probably, hear the tiniest beginning of a little hiss. There was no sense sitting here, spooning up hjs lunch off a partitioned tray. He should be saving his life, getting out of this mess hall, disappearing maybe in some big town where they had dirty movies that never close.

Two of the guys came over and started talking about dying in battle.

“Are you trying to get me spooked worse than I am already?” James said, trying to sound humorous.

“The odds are you won’t get killed.”

“Shut up.”

“Really, there’s not that many battles or anything.”

“Did you see that guy over there?” James said, and they had: three tables away sat a very small black man in dress greens, a first sergeant. He didn’t look big enough to join the army, but on his chest he wore many ribbons, including the blue one with five white stars signifying the Congressional Medal of Honor.

Whenever they saw a soldier with decorations, James and the others made a point of passing close to get a look. That was it, wasn’t it?—to be drinking a cup of coffee with this person inside of you hardened and blackened by heroic deeds, and kids walking by with a weak feeling in their stomachs, trying not to stare. But in order to enjoy it, you had to get home alive.

When the others left, James returned to the line for another helping. People complained about the food, and therefore James complained too; but actually he liked it.

The black man with the blue ribbon on his chest beckoned him to

his table. James didn’t know what to do but go on over. “Come on, sit down,” the sergeant said. “You got that look.” “Yeah? What look?” “Just sit down,” the sergeant said. “I ain’t that black.” James joined him. “I says you got that look.” “Yeah?” “The look says I wanted to drive a tank or work on helicopter engines,

but instead they sending me to the jungle and get shot at.” James said nothing, lest he weep about it. “Your sarge told me, Conrad, Conroy.” “Sergeant, yeah,” James said, extremely nervous. “Sergeant Connell.” “Why didn’t you think of something to volunteer for, to get you out

of it?” Now James feared he’d laugh. “Because I’m stupid.” “You’re going to the Twenty-fifth, right? Which brigade?” “The Three.” “I’m from the Twenty-fifth.” “Yeah? No shit?” “Not the Three, though. The Fourth.” “But the Three—are they, are they—you know—fighting?” “Some units are. Unfortunately, yes.” James felt if he could only say, Sarge, I don’t want to fight, he would

surely save himself. “You worried about getting killed?” “Sort of, you know, I mean—yeah.” “Nothing to worry about. By the time The Thing eats you, you all

emptied up, you ain’t thinking. Nothing but jazz happening.”

James couldn’t quite take comfort from this statement.

“Yep.” The small black man hunched forward, touching the fingertips of each hand together rapidly. “Come here. Listen,” he said. James leaned toward him, half afraid the man might grab him by the ear or something. “In a combat zone, you don’t want to be a pin on a map. Sooner or later the enemy’s going to hammer on that pin with a superior force. You want to have some mobility options, don’t you? You want some decision-sharing, don’t you? That means you want to volunteer for a Recon outfit. That’s a voluntary thing. You volunteer for that. After that, you never, never volunteer for nothing, nothing, nothing, not even to jump in bed with a red-hot female, not even James Bond’s girlfriend. That’s rule number one, is don’t volunteer. And rule number two is that when in the foreign land, you don’t violate the women, you don’t hurt the livestock, and if possible not the property, except for burning the hooches, that goes with the job.”

“That’s a Medal of Honor you got there.” “Yes, it is. So you listen to what I say.” “All right. Okay.” “I might be black as coal, but I’m your brother. You know why?” “I don’t guess I do.” “Because you’re going over to the Twenty-fifth as a replacement, ain’t

you?” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t sir me, I ain’t your sir. You going to the Twenty-fifth, right?” “Right.” “Okay. And you know what? I came from the Twenty-fifth. Not the

Third Brigade, the Fourth. But anyway, J could be the one you’re replac

ing. So I giving you the dope.” “Okay. Thanks.” “No, you don’t thank me, I thank you. You know why? It’s me you

could be replacing.” “You’re welcome,” James said. “Now: what I just said, you take all this under your advisement.” “Will do.” James enjoyed the way they talked in the infantry, and he tried to talk

that way too. Mobility options. Pin on a map. Superior force. Under advisement. These were the same phrases a recon sergeant had used while delivering a talk to their barracks just two weeks earlier. Now the phrases rang true, they made sense. One fact stood out clear: if you had to be a grunt, you might as well be recon.

After more than a year in the States, in California—two months at the Defense Language Institute in Carmel, and nearly twelve months at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey—Skip Sands returned to Southeast Asia and, somewhere between Honolulu and Wake Island, flying miles above the Pacific on a 707, came into the shadow of the mystery that would devour him.

After the 707 to Tokyo he went by prop plane to Manila, by train to the bottom of the mountain north of there, by car once again to the staff house in San Marcos, ready for a confrontation with Eddie Aguinaldo, and also happy at the prospect of the major’s pointless sweaty jungle night patrols, only to find that the patrols had been discontinued and Eddie Aguinaldo was nowhere around. The Huks had been declared extinct. Anders Pitchfork was long gone. For company Sands had only the household crew and occasional vacationing staff from Manila, usually overworked couriers^who slept a lot. He waited nearly a month for one of them to bring word from the colonel.

Word arrived in a courier pouch, on a photo postcard of the Washington Monument. A yellow seal pasted to a corner warned, KEEP OFFICIAL BUSINESS UNDER WRAPS COUNSEL CORRESPONDENTS TO USE ENVELOPES THANK YOU YOUR AMERICAN POST OFFICE.p>

Merry Christmas somewhat early. Pack your files, the whole show. Head to Manila. See the Section. I’m in Langley bouncing a desk off the walls. Saw Boston last week. Your Aunt and Cousins send warmest wishes. See you in Saigon. Une FX.

But the files were already packed, or so he assumed. His first day back he’d found, in the closet he’d left them in, three olive army-issue footlockers, the lid of each stenciled with the name BENĘT W.F.—the accent applied by hand with a soft-point pen—and each one heavily padlocked.

Having had no word as to the keys to these treasures, he left that matter for another day and did the next indicated thing, which was to travel to the embassy in Manila in a staff car almost entirely filled with his uncle’s project. There he was instructed to keep the car and travel some forty miles beyond the capital to Clark Air Base, where he’d board military transport for South Vietnam.