Vietnam DMZ 1968 - A Flashback

It was over in less than a minute. The fog was mixed with the smell of gunpowder. It’s the kind of smell that gets up you’re nose - puts the hairs on end. Nick’s squad knew, when he threw out the white phosphorous grenade - that’s it - no more fire. A willy peter grenade will light an area up like a circus tent. Wait a few seconds more, for emotions to settle down. Then down to the trail to see what they got. Nick always went first.

My God! Nick realised – four Americans. Under his breath he said, What the fuck are they doing here? This is the DMZ for Christ’s sake. Nobody’s suppose to be here but us. They looked like recon. That’s the problem with this fucking war, no one tells anyone else what the hell’s going on. It turned out to be a Long Range Recon Patrol. They had been out for almost ten days and were’nt aware of the NVA probes around the DMZ because their radio was malfunctioning.

‘Sarge - these are Americans,’ came an excited voice.

‘Hold it down Reb.’

‘We fuckin’ ambushed Americans Sarge.’ Reb rolled one over and opened his shirt. ‘They ain’t got dog tags.’

‘They got tags - look in their boots.’

‘Fucking hell - this one’s Sgt. Jackson from Recon. They’re up on the Rockpile aren’t they?’

‘Yeah - now shut up Mick.’ Nick motioned for the squad to huddle up. They seemed nervous and they were right – it’s not everyday you kill your own people. In the black nights of the monsoon everybody looks the same. ‘Ya’ll listen up - this ain’t over yet. We’re supposed to have ambushed an NVA unit. If they’re still in this area and within a couple of clicks - they heard the ambush. The whole of the fuckin DMZ saw the phosphorous go off. We’re gonna hump these guys out. Josie bring up the rear - make sure nothing gets left behind.’ Nick pointed at his eyes and said it again, ‘Nothing Josie.’ Nick turned and said, ‘T-bone take point - not the trail - up over the ridge.’

‘Sarge - we’re gonna hump these bodies and all this equipment up over the ridge? They must be carrying a hundred pounds each.’

‘You know Mick - I’m startin’ to think you should have joined the Air Force. This life might be too strenuous for your delicate Irish constitution. Yes - we’re gonna fuckin’ hump these bodies up and over the ridge. And before anybody else asks – it’s because I fuckin’ said so. Now everybody except T-Bone and Josie is gonna pick something up.’ Nick turned and grabbed T-Bone by the shoulder, ‘Stop when you get to the McNamara Line - don’t go out in the open. And T-Bone, give me them eyes tonight – don’t walk us into something we can’t handle.’

‘Professor keep your headphones on - no squawk box. Radio Iron Tree we’re bringing in four American KIA. That’s all professor - don’t get into a conversation. Shut the radio off if you have to. All right. Listen up,’ Nick kneeled down and his men gathered closer. ‘No chatter ladies - all the way to the barn. Now move out - Josie keep the rear tight – they’ll be lookin for us.’

Nick lifted Sgt Jackson’s body up onto his shoulder. They played poker on Fridays in the command post bunker down in Dong Ha. Jackson was a country western fan and he couldn’t play poker – his eyes always gave away his hand.

The mist was starting to lift, dawn wasn’t far off. You get a sense of the dawn light to come when the mist and dew drops start to twinkle like diamonds. The most dangerous time of night in the jungle, is just before the dawn. Nothing is moving. Slightest sound travels like a freight train. Good for the hunter – bad for the hunted. It’s over three clicks to Con Thien the nearest forward fire base. Humping four dead over the ridge, then get across the McNamara Line in what will, by then, be broad daylight - came close to being suicidal. Hell, Nick thought, if I wanted it easy, I would have stayed in the Boy Scouts.

San Francisco 1976

Nick’s mind was spinning – instant headache. Dripping with sweat, he tried to claw himself back to reality. Pushing his thumbs hard into his temples he repeated, I’m in my cab – not in the jungle. Damn , he thought, another fucking flashback – are they ever gonna stop? What the hell made me go back to that night? Then he looked around - it was one in the morning and the bottom of Market Street was empty. The fog had settled in a little after midnight – just like Vietnam. The city takes a slow shower - makes everything wet and clean. The marble fronted buildings in the financial district become mausoleums at night. Cable car tracks are shiny silver ribbons neatly laid up the middle of the street. The cobblestones reflect the street lights like scattered diamond dust. San Francisco was asleep. Nick Forrest never sleeps at night – too many terrors to torture his mind. So he drives the graveyard shift for Yellow Cab.

Nick made a U-turn down at the Embarcadero and headed back up Market Street. She stepped off the curb to hail him down - looking well-worn in ragged bell bottom jeans, hemp t-shirt and sack cloth bag. Her ratty and matted long hair was topped by a multi-coloured crocheted floppy brim hat. In Nick’s experience single women at this hour are usually more trouble than they’re worth. Hippies are the worst – they seem to be the new lost generation. She probably had a sad story about how her man dumped her and left her with nothing. Nick scratched his beard and thought, if she doesn’t want to go too far, I’ll drop her off. Call it my good deed for the shift.

Nick pulled the cab over and she got in the back without a word. Nick turned around.

‘Where to ma’am,’ he asked? Nick didn’t see the second one come up on his blind side. He felt the gun barrel push against the back of his head.

‘Ma’am ain’t goin no-where dipstick. Give me your money.’

Nick didn’t turn his head, no sense complicating things by seeing a face. He slowly reached into his writing box on the seat and flipped the lid open. He took out a ten, two fives and six one dollar bills – leaving the loose change. As he handed the bills over his shoulder through the window, Nick mentioned,

‘Not your lucky night man. Just came on shift, it’s all I got.’ The fare got out of the back seat slamming the door.

‘I fuckin told you Lenny, they change shifts at midnight. We should’ve done this shit a couple of hours back man. But no - you wouldn’t leave the damn saloon would you. Now how we gonna get to LA? You tell me Lenny – huh.’ Lenny grabbed the money from Nick’s hand and told him,

‘This is your lucky night man - I got enough problems dealing with this bitch.’ Lenny thought for a second, then turned towards Nick and said,

‘Get out of the cab man, you got the night off.’ Then he turned and shouted, ‘Angie get in the front seat and shut the fuck up.’

Lenny pushed the gun harder against Nick’s head to make his point - then pulled it away. He took a step back to let Nick out. Nick whispered, ‘Stay girl,’ then he put the gear shift in park and clicked open the door. Suddenly and with all his strength he pushed the door into Lenny and caught him square - knocking him off his feet. Nick saw the pistol skid down the street. Lenny wasn’t moving. He had the wind knocked out of him and his ankle looked broken. Nick got out and bent down to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. Angie had opened the front door to discover Georgia Mae, a Bulldog–Rottweiler mix, rolled up in the front seat floor. A short gutter growl from Nick’s partner and Angie slammed the door.

Nick heard the wooden sole earth shoes on the cobblestones running fast up behind him from around the back of the cab. He stood up and put his right arm straight out. Angie ran into his fist with her face. Her legs flew out from underneath her body and she hit the ground harder than Lenny did – out cold.

Nick looked at the two of them lying there moaning and thought, what a pair they are, couple of life’s losers. Nick wasn’t going to stick around. There would be too many questions. Georgia Mae was up on the seat looking out the driver’s window down at the carnage. Her stump of a tail was slowly wagging. Nick reached in Lenny’s shirt pocket and took his money back. Then he reached into his other shirt pocket and took out the rest of Lenny’s money – thirty-five dollars. Holding the money up, he said to Georgia,

‘Evidence like this has a way of disappearing down at the station house Georgia.’ Angie started moaning and it looked like she may be coming to. Nick kicked the pistol to the side of the street and got back in his cab. As he drove off towards the freeway entrance Georgia got back down in the floor and gave Nick a sideways quizzical look. He looked back at her and said,

‘Now that’s irony for you girl. These two characters set out to rob us and we ended up robbing them. Life does play funny tricks on some folks. Don’t like leaving a woman lying in the street like that – still; she chose her fate. You know why I like talking to you girl – cause you’re a good listener.’ Georgia settled down and let out a silent creeper. When the smell hit his nose, Nick said in disgust,

‘Damn Georgia – what if we had a fare on board?’ Nick thought for a moment and couldn’t remember Georgia ever passing wind when they had a fare in the cab.

Nick and Georgia Mae drove out to the airport with all the windows open and got in the cab line. That would keep them out of the city for an hour or more. Time enough for San Francisco’s finest to clean things up. He could use a good strong coffee and maybe a Ruggalach pastry. The Russian drivers always kept an old Trans-Siberian Railway samovar going at the airport all night and someone would have a tray of pastries for sale. These immigrants liked their traditional food. It would be the next generation that would snack on junk food. There was always a bowl of fresh water for Georgia. She knew all the drivers – they gave her too many treats.

Nick opened the glove compartment and sat his glass cup of coffee on the lid. He reached in the writing box and took out his fountain pen and a journal. Sitting in the airport line gave Nick a little time with his journal. He’d been keeping a journal since junior high school. It was tough to write in Vietnam with all the wet, but he managed to keep a pretty complete record of what went on over there. He figured, some day when I’m old I’ll write my memoirs. Don’t know who would want to read the ramblings that spill out of my mind. Nick always used the same kind of notebook he had in school, the hard grey and black cardboard cover type with lined paper. He filled a few dozen through his junior and high school years. He felt sad because they were all lost now. As he screwed the pen lid off he remembered when he first got the old sabre.

The summer before starting junior high school, he found an old leather pouch in a box car one night in the rail yard where he grew up. It must have been dropped by a free loader passing through. It contained an old black Parker 51 fountain pen and a bottle of India ink. He turned it into the yard office lost and found. The yard master was an old guy named Carroll. Funny names those people in Mississippi give their children. He told Nick to check back in ninety days and if no one had claimed it, the pen was his. Nick checked every week – same answer, ‘Nobody claimed yet Nick.’ At the end of the three months he went to the yard office and Carroll handed him a package all wrapped up in special paper. Carroll had sent the pen away to the Parker Pen Company in Wisconsin to be completely rebuilt and gave it to Nick as a birthday present from the men in the yard. It even had a new gold nib. He told Nick to keep writing. Nick had written a short story on what it was like to grow up in a rail yard – how the men looked after him, and how he wouldn’t have wanted any other place to grow up. Nick’s English teacher had sent it to the newspaper and they published it in the Sunday paper. That article was cut out and pinned up on every yard bulletin board from Chicago to New Orleans. Carroll must have sent that pen off the day Nick turned it in. There was never going to be any body to claim. Nick has used the pen ever since. He had it repaired at the jewellers down on Market Street and it writes smooth - no leaks. The jeweller offered him fifty bucks for it – no way. It’s got a narrow nib and a nice large ink bellows. As he held the old pen in his hand, Nick was convinced, writing with a fountain pen makes me think about the words I’m writing and the way I write them. There wasn’t a teacher in school that didn’t appreciate receiving my work written in black fountain pen ink. Beat the hell out of a pencil. I probably got higher marks just because of the ink pen.

As Nick put into words what had happened in the city, he figured he could catch up with Bonnie and Clyde in the afternoon Enquirer. The Police Beat reporters for the Chronicle would be too late – the paper was already printing the morning edition. Besides - there was a package being delivered later that morning at the end of his shift, from Cincinnati, Ohio and Nick felt uneasy.