Young Man In Vietnam Part 4

You had been to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington and the Punchbowl in Hawaii and Cemetery Ridge at Gettysburg. But they were just places. Places that stirred boyish visions of charging horses and flas.h.i.+ng sabers and rattling musketry - of honor and heroes and glory. You looked at their crosses and thought of the living - of yourself. At Fort Bonifacio you look at the crosses and think of the dead. And you think of Vietnam.

You think of your grandfather - who fought in the Philippines at the turn of the century. And of your father and uncles who had come through here in World War II. You think of all the Americans who had come through, and here at twilight of those who stayed.

Jack goes up to the main chapel. You walk alone through the rows of crosses, pausing every now and then to straighten a clump of gra.s.s or clod of earth that seems out of place.

You wander - not really looking for anything in particular - just reading the names and ranks and dates on the crosses. At the end of one of the rows you find yourself staring at a cross. Suddenly, you realize the name on the cross is your own.

You want to run and show the cross to Jack. You want to heap it with flowers. You want to cry out that this one - that bears your family name - is special. But there is probably one there with Jack's name too. And a floral wreath would wither in a few days. And no grave is special - only the people in them.

You walk very slowly up a flagstone path to the main memorial and join Jack. Two crescent archways meet at a small chapel. The columns supporting the crescents bear the names of all those Americans who died in and for the Philippines in World War II. There are mosaics of state seals and mosaics depicting major battles in the Pacific. Your steps echo sharply as you walk to the chapel. You buy some candles and light them and place them in the iron holders near the door.

When it is too dark to see the white crosses anymore you go back to your cab. You don't speak. The driver asks softly if you have found the names of your relatives. Yes, you tell him, but he wouldn't understand.

You go to the most expensive restaurant in Manila for dinner - the Madrid. You keep thinking of olive-drab tins of C rations as the table is set with silver and linen and crystal. You order steaks and the wine helps to brighten your mood. Jack buys a couple of Tabacalera cigars and over coffee you talk about where you will go after dinner. You mention several bars you know of from past experience - Pauline's, the Club Oro, the East Inn - and you talk of the girls you have known - Esther, Big Ida, Norma.

Then, as if you have no control over your own voice, you tell Jack you're going to catch the plane back the next day. "I know," he says, "I know."

It is different coming into Vietnam this time - maybe because you have chosen to return. You and Jack arrange for a jeep to take you back to your outfit. The sergeant at the flight terminal keeps shaking his head. He can't understand why you returned five days early. Neither can you.

Strange war. But then you've never known any other war.

7 THE PRISONERS.

The Viet Cong prisoners sit against the hut. It is an old mud-walled hut, and bits of straw stick out from it where it is beginning to crack. It is hot and though the wind blows hard it offers no relief.

Two Marine sentries sit on empty water cans at each end of the hut and watch the prisoners with casual interest. They are discussing their last liberty in Da Nang and one of them is talking-about a girl they'd both known.

The other laughs and stands up slowly. The water can topples in the dust, and the enemy soldiers look first at the can and then at the Marine.

There are five prisoners squatting against the hut. They have been stripped naked and are sitting silently a few meters apart. They remain impa.s.sive as one Marine flicks his cigarette away, clicks off the safety, and swings the muzzle of his rifle at them.

"Don't get too comfortable, gook," he says and fires a round into the hut above their heads.

There is a solid smack as the bullet hits the wall, and a puff of dried mud showers the Vietnamese. They don't look too comfortable.

"Christ's sake, don't do that," the other sentry says. "Now we'll have the lieutenant over here."

"Got to keep them in shock," the shooter replies. "That's what the book says."

"But you know what the lieutenant says."

"h.e.l.l, who cares. Besides, the one on the end looked like he was going to run."

"The h.e.l.l he did."

"But the lieutenant don't know that, Peters."

"No, I guess not."

You have heard most of the dialogue and seen what happened. But one of your superiors is certain to ask about it, and you'll have to tell him something. So you walk over to the guards to hear their explanation.

The sentries see you coming and stand up as you approach.

"The one on the end looked like he was going to make it, sir," the shooter says.

The other sentry nods.

You know what has happened. The sentries haven't been in Vietnam very long, but you don't bother to question them further. You think to yourself that you'd better get them rea.s.signed before they kill one of the prisoners.

"h.e.l.lo, Dai Wi," you greet Captain Binh, the Vietnamese interpreter attached to your battalion. Binh had been with you a few weeks earlier on a sweep near Que Son, and he earned your respect by enveloping an enemy machine gun alone and killing four Viet Gong. Binh is a good soldier. But like good soldiers who have played at war too long, he also likes to kill.

Binh pulls out a pack of Gauloises and offers you one. You take it and light his cigarette and then your own. Binh inhales deeply and blows the smoke toward the sky.

"Who shoot?" he asks.

"One of my sentries wants to shoot your VC," you say and smile.

"Good idea," Binh smiles too. "Why you don't kill VC?"

"They're prisoners," you tell him.

"The VC kill eight - ten - of your men today," Binh says and waves his arm toward the prisoners. "Why you don't kill them?"

You shake your head. You and Binh have had this discussion before.

Binh looks at you and says, "We wear same uniform, but we different men."

He crushes his Gauloise against a palm tree and takes a step as if to depart. He hesitates and looks back. "You learn," he says, "you learn." And he moves off to the S-2 tent.

Late in the afternoon one of the rifle companies sends back three more prisoners. Two of the prisoners are women. They are very old and wrinkled and they walk hunched over. Their mouths are stained a reddish brown from years of chewing betel nut. One of the women is yelling something at the

Marine guard who prods her along. A Vietnamese interpreter-interrogater hits the old woman in the face hard with his closed fist and she stops yelling. You tell the battalion intelligence officer that Golf Company has sent back more Viet Cong suspects and then tell your company gunnery sergeant to post another sentry. You want the women segregated from the men and you tell one of the sentries to make sure they keep them separated.

"Can we strip the women too, Lieutenant?" one of the sentries asks.

"Save it for Da Nang, Peters." "I go for that old stuff, sir." "You don't need to strip the women. Just search them."

When Captain Binh returns to the battalion area he takes two of his interrogator team to the compound to question the prisoners.

Binh starts with the men, and it isn't pretty to watch. All the talking is in Vietnamese, but screams don't need translation. Binh and his men take a prisoner out of sight of his fellows, but not out of earshot. They ask the prisoner questions and beat him about the face and head with stout bamboos when they don't get the answer they want. After a few minutes they return the used prisoner and start on another. The bamboo doesn't break bones, but it leaves welts and the prisoners' faces are badly swollen when they are returned.

The women are quiet during the beatings and they watch with apparent resignation as their turns approach. When Binh approaches the women and motions, one of them - the older - gets up very slowly. As she stands she pulls a hand grenade from under her coa.r.s.e peasant's ao dai and pushes it at Binh. There isn't time to do anything but watch Binh and the old woman dissolve in a hail of shrapnel. The sentries and Binh's men empty their automatic rifles into the remaining prisoners and the noise is deafening.

The old woman was able to kill Binh because you hadn't stripped her. If you had stripped her, Binh would be alive now - and so would the prisoners. You are sick. You are embarra.s.sed and you feel ashamed.

As you turn toward the CP and start 4o walk back you remember Binh's words. "You learn," he had said. And you think of the drinking song the troops sing and of the last lines:

"We're using a theory, we've used it before;