Denis Johnson - Tree of Smoke

Screwy Loot stopped his jeep, signaled to one of the new guys. New guy ran over to the jeep, came back humping two clanking double basic loads of magazines and threw them at James’s feet and ran back toward the jeep, saying, “He’s calling me.”

“What’s all this ammo for?”

“Fuck if I know! He’s calling me!” The new guy returned to Screwy Loot’s jeep, listened, came back humping two jerry cans. “Burn ‘em, burn ‘em, burn ‘em!” “What?” “Burn the hooches! He says we gotta burn ‘em.” “Why?” “I don’t know. Something very fucked-up is going on.” “What do you mean?” “He says there’s an attack!”

“Where?”

“I don’t know!”

James gripped a handle and as panic rode over the back of his skull down his spine and up his ass they both flicked the cans at the nearest hooch and dabbed it with fuel. From somewhere over the hill came deep, repetitive explosions.

The new private pulled a Zippo and the spark blew the vapors and the explosion sent them backward, but it wasn’t as loud as the booming from over the hill. He said, “It’s all a thing, man, it’s all a desperate, fucking thing”

James circled one hooch and then a second, sloshing gas until the can was empty. He tossed the can into a burning dwelling and the flames found it and ignited the vapors inside and it whooshed loudly and whirled and took a hop. “Did you see that?” James shouted, but the roof’s thatch fried so loudly as it burned he couldn’t hear himself talk.

He shouted, “What are we doing this for again?” “Fuck if I know!” “What’s your name again?” “Fuck if I know!” James said, “That’s kind of fucked-up,” but couldn’t make himself

heard. He heard gunfire nearby. A noisy chopper floated past overhead and laid a pair of rockets down on the other side of the draw, out of sight, where James was sure there’d never been any people or structures. Black smoke and orange light leapt out of the earth. Had he ever seen any people there? Maybe somebody was dug in. Tough titty, they were on fire now.

The private yelled, “Psycho-delick!”

The structures collapsed quickly. James looked inside a hut as it burned. It was empty. Not even a piece of trash or an old cigarette pack remained. The roof began falling in, and he drew back.

“This is the shits, man,” he explained to the private, “because we knew them. I mean, I’ve seen those people before. We pass by here a lot.”

“I’ve still got gas.” “Let’s pull back to them hooches over there.” Keeping low, they ran to a copse of huts in a small basin. It was empty of life. “Where’s our guys, goddamn it?” The private said, “Fuck if I know.” “Go tell Sarge.” “I ain’t going over that hill—there’s people shooting over there!” “That where it’s coming from?” “Yeah. They’d just as soon shoot me as Charlie.” “I thought it was coming from around to the east.” “Damn. They’re shooting all over.”

Sergeant Harmon came ducking and running over the lip of the

basin. He stood upright as he came down their side. “I want you two dug in over here.” “What happened? Seems like we were just about in a firefight.” Sarge said, “Did you fire your weapon?” “No.” “Then you weren’t in no firefight.” “Who was it?” “Could have been our own fucking guys!” Sarge said, “This whole mountain’s under attack.” Huge booms from straight up the hill. “What is that?” “Mortars?” From the east boomed something bigger. “What is that?” And from behind them, too close, came more. “Where are they?” “Right around us. Them’s mortars,” Sarge said. “Listen up. I want

you dug in here. You hear me?” “Yes,” the new guy said. “We’re in a mess here. If we do this right we can fall back, we can cut

around west and skedaddle around them up the hill. I want both ends holding while we fall back from the center real quiet and they don’t know. If they flank us on the west, we’re fried. Or east. Either way. You’ve got cover on your west. And you are the cover for the east, you hear me? Charlie comes around that hill, don’t cut and run. You hear me?”

“Yes, yes.” Sarge threw down a bindle of twenty-shot magazines. “Keep your

switch on semi-auto. You hear me?” “Yes. Roger.” “There’ll be more strikes coming. Stay put. Do not move or you’ll get

our own rockets up your ass.” “Roger. Roger.” “If we do this right, we’ll come around from their backside and you’ll

be fine going up the hill. On my flare. When you see my flare from the west, you head up the hill to the LZ. Only on my flare.” He put his hand on James’s shoulder and shook him until James said, “Roger. On your flare.”

The sarge headed back west, over and down into the draw.

On a hooch’s south side, in its shadow, they enlarged a rain ditch with their trenchers, cringing at every boom of mortar and artillery. As big as the biggest thunder James had ever heard.

“I’m doing this a lot faster than I did in training,” the private said. They flopped into the hole, and he said, “Fuck if I know … Gimme an M&M.”

In his web belt, in the place of one of his ammo clips, James carried

a bag of M&M’s candy. “Gimme a handful,” the private said. “I will if you quit saying ‘Fuck if I know’ all the time.” “It’s a habit. I don’t say it that much.” “Say ‘For all I know’ or say ‘Jesus God’ or ‘Kiss my ass.’ Just mix it up

some.” “Roger, Corporal.” “What’s your name?” “Nash.” “Goddamn!” James cried. Rounds tore through the huts, knocking

bits of thatch everywhere.

He’d had basic training, weapons training, jungle training, night training, survival training, evasion and escape; but he now appreciated that no one could train for this in any way that counted, and that he was dead.

He lowered his voice. “Them aren’t 16s,” he said. “Them are AKs for sure.” Zip, zip, zip, the bullets overhead like poisonous insects, zip, zip. Dust and shreds of thatch whirling in the air. Fronds fell from palm bushes only meters away.

“They’re killing everything!” Nash said. “They don’t know we’re here,” James said, “so shut up, okay?” Neither man fired back. A racket of automatic fire erupted from the west. A voice screamed,

“COVER ME, COVER ME, COVER ME, COVER ME!” James rose up and saw Black Man coming down the basin’s west side, now screaming, “SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT,” and James began laying down fire to the east. Black Man carried on his shoulder an M60 machine gun and dragged behind him a fifty-kilo box to feed it from. He dove into their trench right on top of them and blew their eardrums out letting loose with it and yelling, “Nobody gets past this motherfucker!” He raised up on his knees firing, and the dirt splashed off the higher ground ahead of him. He was leveling the basin’s lip like a bulldozer. “Gennemuns, I got ammo enough to kill the human race.”

I will never call nobody no nigger again, James promised in his heart. He thumbed his selector and fired off a full magazine on auto. The

mortars began again up the hill. “Do you believe this shit?” “What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?” “Sarge said this whole mountain’s under attack!” “Folks misbehaving,” Black Man said. “They usually don’t attack in

daylight.” “Goddamn it,” James said. “What is it?” “I don’t know. You’re making me laugh.” “You’re making me laugh.” “Why are we laughing?” They couldn’t stop. The whole thing. It just made you feel so happy

you couldn’t stop laughing. James said, “Fuck if I know!” and reloaded and the three of them laughed and fired until James had gone through two more clips, and Black Man shouted, “STOP STOP STOP CEASE YO FUCKING FIRE.”