Tatjana Soli - The Lotus Eaters

The Vietnamese trotted along the dikes in textbook perfect formation. The Americans had to lumber along with their packs to keep up, like overly protective parents.

“Sorry, Adams, looks like no pics for you today,” Captain Olsen said. “If they’re eager that practically guarantees the area has been cleared of VC. No action today.”

The Vietnamese troopers stormed the empty ville, M16s sweeping back and forth erratically. They stopped and struck heroic poses against empty buildings as if they were rehearsing a movie. Helen didn’t take a single picture. Excited and trigger-happy, a few of the SVA soldiers shot at a pig, the squeals unnerving Helen. They missed the lucky animal, who escaped. The Americans hung back, not wanting to get caught in the line of fire. As predicted, the place was empty, save for stray dogs and chickens. The sun beat a harsh white off the dirt, the only shade provided by a few old fruit trees, the ground underneath them littered with rotting mangos and papayas that perfumed the air. A few old women, tending children, stood warily in doorways.

The SVA troopers abruptly dropped their guns and declared lunchtime. A dozen chickens were procured, butchered, and cooked over open fires. The Americans stood in a knot, watching, weapons at the ready, until Captain Olsen shrugged and told everyone to take lunch. Then the Americans dropped their packs and opened up cans. A few Vietnamese soldiers came over to bum cigarettes and practice their English, but for the most part the two groups stayed separate. Captain Olsen communicated with his Vietnamese counterpart through hand signals. Captain Tong was small, trim, and finicky, with a wisp of mustache and two gold incisors that flashed in the sun when he smiled.

The Vietnamese troopers took a siesta after lunch that lasted two hours, and as the American soldiers had nothing else to do, they also gratefully stretched out in the shade and went to sleep. The heat was unbearable and made everyone lethargic. Captain Olsen stayed awake with the radioman, communicating with headquarters and asking how to proceed. Orders were to accommodate Captain Tong at all costs.

Out of the corner of her eye, Helen watched an old man in peasant pajamas sidle up from the back of the ville. The guards searched him but found nothing. Had he come from the fields or had he been hiding in one of the huts the whole time? He walked to the main communal square, stared balefully at the pile of feathers and discarded chicken parts, and moved off. A few minutes later, he came back. The guards searched him again, found him clean, and again let him through. Now he seemed agitated, and he talked to himself as he approached the Vietnamese troopers.

Helen turned away until she heard shouting between one of the Vietnamese soldiers and the old man. She asked Captain Olsen what was going on.

“I don’t know what they’re saying, but my guess is that the old guy is unhappy about his ‘donation’ to the war effort. We’ve complained to headquarters about it. We’re under orders not to take anything that isn’t offered. But not to interfere with what the Vietnamese soldiers do. Let them work it out between themselves.”

Helen held up her camera and framed shots as the soldier turned his back on the old man. Insistent, the old man grabbed his shoulder as another soldier approached him. Now the old man talked louder to the second soldier, frenzied, his hands flailing, pointing at the chicken remains when the first soldier spun around and kicked him hard in the leg. The old man was on the ground when Captain Tong strode over and barked some commands. The old man dramatically shook his head.

Unnoticed, Helen moved closer as Tong pulled out a.45 revolver.

The old man struggled to his knees, tears in his eyes, not frightened but agitated, and kept talking and pointing to the chicken remains.

Helen’s heart knocked so hard in her chest that her breath came out shallow and rasping. No way is this happening, she thought. She crept forward, kneeling, as Tong’s soldiers moved away from him, sensing his rage; she got closer to frame the shot when Tong, standing stiff, stuck his right arm straight out, the revolver against the old man’s head. She kept shooting. Surely, she thought, it’s only a threat, surely-until the deafening explosion, the gun fired at close range. She kept shooting-the old man’s head shattered like the carnage of ripe papayas under the trees, body spread-eagled on the ground, thrown by the power of the blast, blood hosed up and down the front of Tong’s pants.

“VC,” Tong screamed at the Americans.

Helen was on automatic, shooting f/8 at 250, everything inside her shut down, no fumbling, just cold, clear, and mechanical. She didn’t realize for the first moment-face behind the viewfinder, vision constricted-that now Tong was shouting and flailing his arms in her direction. He strode over and stood a few feet away from her, aiming his gun straight at her forehead. She fell backward, still in a crouch, framed the muzzle and his apoplectic face above it in the viewfinder, the gold incisors flashing in the sun, and kept shooting. Captain Tong, bent in half, waved the gun wildly in one hand, screamed, and the other Vietnamese soldiers ran over to form a half circle of menace behind him.

She heard Captain Olsen’s voice, a long-forgotten presence, behind her, yelling back at Captain Tong, each in a different language, neither understanding the other.

On a high, Helen kept shooting for what seemed like an eternity but was probably less than a minute. Captain Olsen, still behind her, still yelling over her head, took out his own gun. At that signal the American soldiers jumped up and formed behind him. Olsen took several steps forward, and in one bear-like swipe of his arm knocked the revolver out of Tong’s hand. The screaming continued, Helen kept shooting, frozen to the camera-the tendons in Tong’s neck bulging, his face purpled. The film ended, nothing to do but remain frozen on her knees, camera to her eye, afraid to move. If she removed the protection of the camera’s body so that it no longer shielded her face, she was sure she would be killed. In the far distance, the blowing of a water buffalo could be heard, which meant that Tong had finally quieted. He kicked at the dirt in front of Helen, sending dust flying into her face, spat at her, and turned away.

“Mother of Christ,” Olsen said, grabbing Helen by both arms, dragging her back. “Are you crazy? Trying to get us fucking killed? By our allies?”

All she could think was how unafraid she felt. How gloriously unafraid. “That old grandfather was not VC.”

“Radio for a helicopter now!” Olsen screamed to the radioman. “You are out of here.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” She was thrilled by what she had just done, and it was inconceivable that she would be dismissed.

“Everyone, move out front.”

Away from the Vietnamese soldiers and Tong, Olsen calmed down. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s not fair to send me out.”

“Look, he’s a slimy little bastard. But he’s our bastard. You made him lose face. I can’t vouch that they won’t stage a little ‘accident’ to get you.”

Helen sat on the ground and held her head in her hands. Suddenly thirst was killing her. “Can I have a little water?”

Olsen slapped his thigh. “I don’t want my guys getting killed defending you.”

“Fine. Okay. Water.” The idea of going, against her will, didn’t seem quite as bad as a moment before. She had film to develop.

“Look, you’re one crazy bao chi, okay? You can come back out with me some other time.”

“Put it in writing.”

“I know.” He laughed. “I know you will.”

Despite the heat, Helen shivered, the skin on her arms full of goose bumps, as the helicopter flew her back to Tan Son Nhut. So drained from the patrol and her sleepless night that the danger of the incident with Tong still seemed unreal. Her fatigues were mud-encrusted and smelled; her hair a knotted ponytail; she was proud of herself.