Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

Skip remembered Anne Sands squatting flat-footed on the sidewalk in a checkered sun suit, bouncing a tiny red ball and scooping up jacks from the pavement; he could summon effortlessly the picture of Anne skipping rope, braids flapping, devoting herself to chants and flying footwork. To hear of her letter made him angry, but her loss of patriotism was secondary—her offense was in passing beyond the clichés of girlhood … A mulatto beatnik?

“Now,” the colonel said, “let’s cheer up, and meet someone.”

He pointed to this someone as he approached, a skinny young man in army fatigues from the waist down, yet sporting a colorful box-cut madras shirt, open and displaying his olive undershirt.

“Sergeant Storm,” Skip said.

“You know him?”

“He met me at the airport last night.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the colonel said. “Jimmy, sit down. Do you want a drink, either of you?”

Skip said no and Jimmy said, “American beer.” Skip was seeing Jimmy for the first time by daylight. A sun-browned face and bright, small, earnest eyes, the same color as Skip’s own —categorized on his IDs as “hazel.” He had spectacular tattoos and a couple of teeth. Stenciled on his undershirt: STORM B.S.

The colonel signaled for a waiter and ordered a beer and a highball and said, “Well, now, here’s a respectful gesture: Jimmy’s buttoning his shirt for us. I think you’re committing a brig offense with that shirt.”

“I’m fashionably insane.” “And you’re appearing in public with your pant legs unbloused.” “I’m not in uniform.” “I think that’s the offense.” Storm said, “Did you eat already, Skipper?” “Not as yet,” Skip confessed. “Skip says you were there to welcome him last night. I thank you for

that.” “Not a problem.” “And Skip says he met Voss. Voss found him at Clark before he even

got here.” “Don’t ruin my beer with funny talk,” Jimmy said. “Voss asked him about an article I’ve been working on.” To Skip the

colonel said, “I’ve withdrawn that piece. It lacked an organizing theme, to say the least. I was just flailing at the pond of my notions with a fat paddle and going in circles. Making much spray. What did he talk about?—Voss.”

“I kind of shook him off before much got said.” “Did he describe the article?” “No, he didn’t. Can I get a look?” “Why don’t you help me write it?” “I don’t know. If I see the draft—” “If I can find the draft. It was a garbled mess. I picked it up after a

year in a drawer, and I couldn’t follow my own ideas.” “Well,” Jimmy said, “that’s what you get for spending a year in a drawer.”

“Look, I didn’t submit that draft to the journal. Voss undertook that

on his own.” “Isn’t that overstepping?” “Goddamn right it’s overstepping. It’s an act of sabotage. What else

did he say? I mean at Clark.” “Well, let’s see,” Skip said. “He talked about your interest in a football game.”

“Notre Dame-Michigan State. Incredible game. Very instructive. I’m trying to get some film of it and work up a lecture. I’d like to take it around to the troops. Morale in this theater is dismal. The land itself sends up a scent that drives you crazy. Skip, it’s not a different place. It’s a different world under a different God.”

“This is getting to be a regular philosophical obsession,” Jimmy said. Skip said, “Philosophical obsessions win wars.” “Touché,” Jimmy said. Sands said, “Touché?” “How’s the French coming?” the colonel asked. “I’m always at it,” Sands assured him. “Skip and I got to reminiscing,” the colonel said. “I haven’t briefed

him.” Jimmy said, “Can I get some of this chow first?” “Go to it. I’ll visit the gents’.” Both men excused themselves, and Jimmy soon returned with a plate

in one hand and a large bread roll in the other. While Storm tried to eat, Skip quizzed him in the Agency’s sweat-room style: let your man have a cigarette, but ask questions so fast he can’t smoke it.

“Where are you from, Jimmy?” “Carlyle County, Kentucky. Never going back.” “Your name is B.S. Storm?” “Correct. Billem Stafford Storm.” “Billem?” “B-I–L-L-E-M. It was my grandfather’s nickname. My mother’s father,

William John Stafford. It doesn’t really solve the puzzle, man, it just puts in a crazy piece that doesn’t fit. You start out confused and end up mystified.”

“And they don’t call you Bill.” “Nope.”

“Or Stormy.” “Jimmy’s good. Jimmy gets you a response.” Skip said, “Are you army Intelligence?” “Psy Ops. Just like you. We want to turn those tunnels into a zone of

psychological mental torture.” “The tunnels?” “The VC tunnels all over Cu Chi. I’m thinking: odorless psychoac

tive substance. Scopolamine. LSD, man. Let it seep through the system. Those bastards would come swarming out of those holes with their brains revved way past the redline.”

Gee.

“Psy Ops is all about unusual thinking, man. We want ideas blown up right to where they’re gonna pop. We’re on the cutting edge of reality itself. Right where it turns into a dream.”

“Rick Voss isn’t Psy Ops, is he?” “Nope.” “But you deal with him as a regular thing?” ” ‘Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.’ ” “Who said that?” “The colonel.” “Well, but he’s quoting somebody.” “He’s quoting himself.” “He usually is.” “Voss is an evil prick.” “Then it’s good he’s on our side.” “Whose side? In a liquid situation, the sides get stirred together.” “He’s quoting Attila the Hun, or Julius Caesar.” “Who?Voss? — Oh.” “The colonel.” “Right. So those files, man. Is that the whole kaboodle? The whole

Tree of Smoke?” “Oh, a little of everything.” Skip let him eat. Storm was having the crab, and thin, delicate fries,

which he ate with his fingers. He broke a small silence by saying, “Do you think the guys who dropped the bomb on Hiroshima, did they ever feel bad about it later?”

“No, they didn’t,” Skip said quite confidently.

“Here comes the chief.” As the colonel rejoined them Skip said, “Jimmy tells me he’s interested in tunnels.”

The colonel held a can of Budweiser and an empty glass. He carefully poured one into the other and sucked the foam away and took a long draught before saying, “Right-o. Now for the skinny. Sergeant Storm is the Psy Ops liaison with CDCIA, and I am the CDCIA liaison with Psy Ops. Together the sergeant and I run a very small, tight program called Labyrinth. Mapping tunnels. I’m sure you know about the VC tunnels.”

“Sure.” “Today they’re VC tunnels. When we have them mapped, their status

changes.” “Mapping. That sounds more like Intelligence. Or Recon.” “Well, now,” the colonel said. “I describe Labyrinth as tight, but our

mission parameters are very elastic. I’d say we’re operating without bene

fit of any clear parameters at all.” “But-Psy Ops?” “Matter of fact, we do have a Recon platoon. And a permanent LZ,

which we’re not allowed to call a base.” “Who does?” “I do. And a real nice bunch of infantry looking after it.” Skip’s blood leapt. “Naturally I’m at your service.” His hands tingled,

and suddenly he wasn’t sweating at all.

“William, I believe we have something in process now that you’ll be a very important part of. A crucial part of. But your part doesn’t begin anytime soon. I’m afraid what I’m going to ask you to do right now involves a whole lot of waiting.”

“Waiting where?” “We’ve got a little villa in the boonies.” Skip’s joy died in his heart. “A villa.” “This is something I wouldn’t ask anyone else to do.” Skip forced himself to say, “I’ll go where you put me.” “I think we like this guy,” Jimmy said. “We’ll have you all set up within the month. In the meantime, if any