divert to extradite
ARVNs at Phu Loi."
"Negative. Continue
with mission," was the immediate reply.
Howton regarded me
sourly. He glanced upward—the sky was filling with jets, F-lOOs.
He began a rapid
upward climb.
"Your nursemaids
are here. Time to take the high road."
"Wish I knew what
the hell it is you do," said Howton. "You're becoming an itch I can't scratch."
We gained a fairly
high altitude, paced by the gunships on each side and the ever-present jets.
"You're a
short-timer," I said to Howton. "Your wife, Annie, loves you very much."
"Don't recall
mentioning her name, Chief. Somebody brief you on me or what? Maybe you're one of those psychic
types?" Howton regarded me with cynical distrust.
"I just know
things," I said.
"Not in this case,
partner," said Howton, hunched over the controls. "I've got a big four hundred and thirty-eight
days to go. A long hard winter and a
long hard summer and another goddamn winter to boot. Sort of like a two-for-one sale."
At times like this,
when I know too much, I find myself growing quiet and cold and remote from life. Remote and cold
because there is nothing I can do for those around me. Knowledge of what is yet to be is not
always a way to change what is about to become.
I knew in less than
ten days Lieutenant Colonel J. N. Howton would die in a fiery helicopter crash. I knew his wife,
Annie, who hated war, would slowly drink herself to death and would know no other men in her
life. And so, two lives would burn in the crash of a helicopter in this place of
shadows.
Howton spoke into
his headset, talking to the bay-door gunner. "What's the good word from the back of the
bus?"
"This is Doctor
Death, in basic black, here, talking the stuff at you, big pilot. I got zero unfriendlies. I got
Rattlers on my sleeves and we is A-fine and Butt Ugly." Doctor Death was a huge black with gold
teeth. Huge muscles threatened to burst the shoulders out of his olive-drab T-shirt. He wore a
baseball cap decorated with chicken feathers and a huge button that said, I LIKE IKE. HE'S DEAD.
"That's the meanest
son of a bitch who ever squatted over a quad 7.62 machine gun. They tell me he shot his mother.
Claimed she was a VC infiltrator."
"He'll survive the
war but not the heroin," I said and then wished I hadn't said it. I hadn't meant to.
Howton shook his
head. "You are a little too weird to live, if you ask me, Big Chief. How about you do me and mine
a favor and lay off the heavy gloom and doom."
"Sure." I grinned
at him. "Maybe it's just Indians are naturally pessimistic. Probably has something to do with
losing a whole continent."
"Hey! How come I
gots to ride shotgun on this here wild-ass chicken? The damn thing just bit the hell out of me!"
said Doctor Death.
"That's an eagle,
numb butt! It's on the cargo manifest and it's classified top secret, so keep your paws off it!
It's worth more than you are on this mission," snapped Howton.
I could tell Howton
wanted to ask me about the eagle but perhaps he knew I couldn't tell him anything.
"Listen, since I am
going to be the last to know, maybe you can tell me what kind of traffic we're heading for?"
asked How-ton.
"I know even less
than you do. All I know is, I'm to join up with a unit called the 145th, at a place called Phu
Loi."
"You ain't been out
to fight no war yet, Big Chief. You smell green to me. So where do they get off calling you a
secret weapon? You some kind of superskunk? Is that it, Big Chief— you lift your legs and squirt
smell juice on old Uncle Ho Chi Minh?"
"I've donated blood
on a battlefield on another world," I said, but I knew it was not something I could
explain.
"Yeah, well you're
a freaking Martian and I'm Doctor Death's toothless old mother," said Howton, scanning the
horizon. "This is it. Our landing zone."
"Where are we
exactly?"
"As the cootie
flies, we're northwest of Saigon, near the Michelin Rubber Plantation, if that tells you
ARVNs at Phu Loi."
"Negative. Continue
with mission," was the immediate reply.
Howton regarded me
sourly. He glanced upward—the sky was filling with jets, F-lOOs.
He began a rapid
upward climb.
"Your nursemaids
are here. Time to take the high road."
"Wish I knew what
the hell it is you do," said Howton. "You're becoming an itch I can't scratch."
We gained a fairly
high altitude, paced by the gunships on each side and the ever-present jets.
"You're a
short-timer," I said to Howton. "Your wife, Annie, loves you very much."
"Don't recall
mentioning her name, Chief. Somebody brief you on me or what? Maybe you're one of those psychic
types?" Howton regarded me with cynical distrust.
"I just know
things," I said.
"Not in this case,
partner," said Howton, hunched over the controls. "I've got a big four hundred and thirty-eight
days to go. A long hard winter and a
long hard summer and another goddamn winter to boot. Sort of like a two-for-one sale."
At times like this,
when I know too much, I find myself growing quiet and cold and remote from life. Remote and cold
because there is nothing I can do for those around me. Knowledge of what is yet to be is not
always a way to change what is about to become.
I knew in less than
ten days Lieutenant Colonel J. N. Howton would die in a fiery helicopter crash. I knew his wife,
Annie, who hated war, would slowly drink herself to death and would know no other men in her
life. And so, two lives would burn in the crash of a helicopter in this place of
shadows.
Howton spoke into
his headset, talking to the bay-door gunner. "What's the good word from the back of the
bus?"
"This is Doctor
Death, in basic black, here, talking the stuff at you, big pilot. I got zero unfriendlies. I got
Rattlers on my sleeves and we is A-fine and Butt Ugly." Doctor Death was a huge black with gold
teeth. Huge muscles threatened to burst the shoulders out of his olive-drab T-shirt. He wore a
baseball cap decorated with chicken feathers and a huge button that said, I LIKE IKE. HE'S DEAD.
"That's the meanest
son of a bitch who ever squatted over a quad 7.62 machine gun. They tell me he shot his mother.
Claimed she was a VC infiltrator."
"He'll survive the
war but not the heroin," I said and then wished I hadn't said it. I hadn't meant to.
Howton shook his
head. "You are a little too weird to live, if you ask me, Big Chief. How about you do me and mine
a favor and lay off the heavy gloom and doom."
"Sure." I grinned
at him. "Maybe it's just Indians are naturally pessimistic. Probably has something to do with
losing a whole continent."
"Hey! How come I
gots to ride shotgun on this here wild-ass chicken? The damn thing just bit the hell out of me!"
said Doctor Death.
"That's an eagle,
numb butt! It's on the cargo manifest and it's classified top secret, so keep your paws off it!
It's worth more than you are on this mission," snapped Howton.
I could tell Howton
wanted to ask me about the eagle but perhaps he knew I couldn't tell him anything.
"Listen, since I am
going to be the last to know, maybe you can tell me what kind of traffic we're heading for?"
asked How-ton.
"I know even less
than you do. All I know is, I'm to join up with a unit called the 145th, at a place called Phu
Loi."
"You ain't been out
to fight no war yet, Big Chief. You smell green to me. So where do they get off calling you a
secret weapon? You some kind of superskunk? Is that it, Big Chief— you lift your legs and squirt
smell juice on old Uncle Ho Chi Minh?"
"I've donated blood
on a battlefield on another world," I said, but I knew it was not something I could
explain.
"Yeah, well you're
a freaking Martian and I'm Doctor Death's toothless old mother," said Howton, scanning the
horizon. "This is it. Our landing zone."
"Where are we
exactly?"
"As the cootie
flies, we're northwest of Saigon, near the Michelin Rubber Plantation, if that tells you
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