Authors: Thom Nicholson
The old NCO didn’t hesitate a second. “Me and Ell-tee McMurray. The Yards all love Lieutenant Mac, and he’ll fit in real good. I’ll lay on some troops for the escort. Most of them are from Bon Hai, and will welcome a chance to visit their families.”
“Make Pham the NCOIC,” I said. “He’s a cousin to the dead man and besides, he can translate for us.”
“Hell, sir, all these Yards are kin. Just ask ’em.” The old NCO laughed.
We were all waiting on the macadam tarmac heliport at ten o’clock the next morning. The casket containing our dead striker was covered with the yellow-and-red-striped flag of South Vietnam. Pinned to it was a small medal dangling from a bright red ribbon. I remember thinking the little piece of metal wasn’t much of a trade for the dead man inside. For just an instant, I saw myself returning to my family the same way, but I swiftly pushed the morbid vision away. Death was the one thing you never wanted to dwell on around there. You simply trusted to fate and tried to do your job. What happened, happened.
The sacrificial cows were securely caged in their transport pens, mournfully mooing their displeasure at the tight confines. After we lifted off the tarmac, the pen would be slung beneath the chopper, and the doomed animals would ride the whole way like caged birds on a string. It would be uncomfortable, but a lot better than what was in store for them when they touched earth again.
I heard the
wop, wop, wop
of the Huey helicopter long before I saw it crossing the river from the Da Nang airfield. As we squinted against the sand kicked up by its whirling blades, the casket was loaded in, and we scrambled on board.
In a few seconds, the chopper lifted off, and tilting the nose to pick up speed, we zipped over the junkyard across the road from camp and climbed into the warm air, our dinner dangling below.
The flight over the war-torn country was visually intriguing. The greens and browns of the low mountains seemed serene from where we were, yet I knew that down below, men were hunting other men. Their throats dry, their palms sweaty with fear and tension, they must envy us so remote above them. I loved flying up there, cool and safe, like an omnipotent overseer.
I envied the flyboys in the war; they flew above the dust and sweat of the ground, zooming along in their magnificent flying machines. But I also felt some disdain. Up there, they were beyond the ground pounder’s ever-present fear of meeting a bad guy around the next bend of the trail and the gut-wrenching sound of bullets cracking past your ear. Of course, I’m sure the flyboys would give me a passionate argument about the hazards they faced.
McMurray was laughing and talking to one of the Yard soldiers, who probably didn’t understand a word he was saying. Fischer was asleep, resting up for the coming party, I figured. I remained quiet and watched the passing countryside, reveling in the view. That whole part of South Vietnam was covered by rice paddies cut out of the jungle, criss-crossed by trails and dirt roads. Countless bomb craters filled with rainwater reflected the sun’s rays as we flew over them. The ground below would be red someday as the steel shrapnel rusted back into the earth.
The village came into view, and the pilot banked the chopper as he lined up for his landing. It was a typical Yard village, eighty to a hundred grass huts built in a circle around an open, central area. The construction was standard design. Every hut had grass-covered sides and roof and was raised about four feet off the ground. Underneath were pens for chickens and pigs. The slash-and-burn fields adjoining the
village had been planted in corn and sugarcane. More an orange-red clay then dark brown dirt, the ground didn’t look very rich. Several scruffy dogs began to bark excitedly at our approach. The pilot banked over the village, and the local residents quickly congregated, awaiting whatever the flying machine was bringing them.
The pilot skillfully grounded the caged cows then slipped a few yards to the side before settling down and cutting his engine. As the turbine whine died, Pham jumped out and ran to an older man. He respectfully spoke to the old Montagnard, who wore a faded blue shirt, a loincloth, and flip-flop sandals. His headband was made from numerous bright strings woven into a sort of rope. He was short and worn down by time and his hard life. His mouth lacked most of the usual number of teeth. His lips were the deep red of a longtime betel nut chewer. The dark colored skin on the old man’s face was wrinkled and creased.
As Pham talked, I saw the old eyes look into the side door of the chopper at the flag-draped casket. The old man turned back to the assembled people, and Pham ran back to where I and the others were standing by the dark shape of the helicopter. The metal popped and cracked as it cooled, but the silence after the noise of the trip was intense. I led the other Americans with me to where the old man waited. He bowed politely and spoke to me in the Bru dialect. I motioned for Pham to translate.
Pham spoke to us. “My father says you are welcome. He says you are to wait at his house while he takes the body of my cousin to the house of his brother.” Pham led the way, and I followed with Pete and Sergeant Fischer.
The houses were all very similar, about twenty-by-forty, and off the ground far enough for the pigpens and chicken coops to fit under them. The doorway was reached by a notched log used as a stairway from the ground. A brightly colored cloth was the doorway’s only barrier to the elements and that was tied back, allowing easy access to people, dogs,
and flies. Although it was already quite warm, every hut had a small fire going, the smoke of which had to filter through the grass roof, but it kept most of the bugs out. It also saved on matches when supper time arrived.
The ever-present smoky fire in the confined space of the huts gave Montagnards a distinctive odor, especially when they were sweating. It reminded me of a barbecue odor from summer nights long ago, back home in Arkansas, when my dad was cooking steaks on the grill. I loved the smell of the Yards and never grew tired of it. The body odor you might have expected of an unwashed “savage” just wasn’t there.
We stopped at the central hut of the village where the chief lived, and paused while the coffin was carried past. The pallbearers were followed by several sobbing women and many villagers. On impulse, I ordered the hand salute so that we could honor the fallen soldier on his last journey and, incidentally, improve our stature in the eyes of the grieving villagers.
After the crowd passed by, we climbed up the log steps. I asked Pham, “Is your father chief of the village?”
With a shy bob of his head, Pham indicated yes. He then told us how the tribe had arrived there. “We once lived many miles over there.” He pointed to the mountains in the west, in northern Laos. “My village chose to fight with the Americans from many years ago. Before you ever came to South Vietnam. When your soldiers left, my father moved across the border to the Special Forces camp at Lang Vei. We fought there when it was overrun last year. Then we move here to Bon Hai, and I join Special Forces army, and now fight for you,
Dai Uy
Nicholson.”
Sergeant Fischer had told me the story. When the camp at Lang Vei fell to a determined assault by North Vietnamese soldiers in February of ’68, what was left of the villagers had moved on to Khe Sanh. Then, the NVA attacked the Marines there, and the villagers were forced on to this place. Now, the remnants of the once-proud people were trying to stay alive by growing what little would flourish in the poor soil and
taking handouts from U.S. AID (Agency for International Development) workers. They made what money they could by renting their sons to the American Special Forces as mercenaries.
Pham and the other Yard soldiers soon had their pants and shoes off, replacing them with loincloths and flip-flops, like the rest of the men in the village. When the old chief got back, Pham introduced us to him, his mother, his two younger sisters, and a small brother. The females had all put on blouses, which none were wearing when we arrived. I suppose they had experienced the reaction of Americans to bare breasts. Only a few very old women stayed in custom and left their breasts bare.
Every woman over sixteen had her two front teeth filed off flush with their gums, making them look, to me at least, like aborigine vampires. Everyone, man and woman, chewed betel nut, which colored their teeth jet black and made their lips and tongues crimson red. Their feet were as wide as they were long, with splayed toes and horny soles; more than likely none had ever worn shoes. Still, the women had a natural beauty and grace and were delighted to see Pham and welcome us to their home.
Pham quickly presented loincloths to me and my comrades, which we reluctantly put on. Our white legs caused many a giggle among the brown-skinned locals, but we endured the embarrassment out of respect for their culture and in the cause of good relationships, just as our training back in the States had emphasized.
With Pham’s help, I made my pitch for new recruits, and the old chief promised ten. At Pham’s nod, I passed over the VN bounty, about fifty thousand Vietnamese piasters. The official exchange rate made the transaction worth about fifty dollars in U.S. money. It certainly didn’t seem like much for their sons, but times were hard and lives cheap in South Vietnam in those days. The chief promised to have the “volunteers” ready for pickup when we left, and we concluded our business.
“Now village will sacrifice cow and have big feast,” Pham announced with a grin. The tall Montagnard boy led us to the village square, for want of a better term, where one of the cows we delivered was staked out, stoically awaiting its fate. The entire village, save for the home in mourning, was there. The people surrounded the cow, the men closest, then the women and children intermixed. By the time everyone had assembled, it made quite a crowd.
The old chief stepped out and made a welcoming speech to us and had all of us Americans led to small stools next to where he would sit. Several men carried out huge clay pots, a green banana leaf tied over the top of each one. These were set around the circle formed by the assembled villagers.
“What’s that?” I whispered to Sergeant Fischer. I watched uneasily as the top covers were removed and buckets of cool spring water poured into the wide mouths of the jugs. A profusion of black bugs scurried out.
“Just the Vietnam equivalent of cockroaches,
Dai Uy,
” Fischer chuckled. “Don’t worry, they left plenty for us.”
“Plenty of what?” I grumbled, as the men produced slender, five-foot-long bamboo shoots which had been converted into straws. The men rammed the straws down through the oily-looking water. With much gusto, they sucked long swallows from the bottoms of the pots and pronounced the stuff fit to drink.
Belching in appreciation, the old man passed me his straw. With bravado overcoming my apprehension, I took a hard pull on the bamboo tube. A foul-tasting, highly alcoholic concoction burned its way down my throat and exploded into a fiery ball in my stomach. “Wow,” I finally managed to gasp. “That stuff sure packs a wallop.”
Sergeant Fischer laughed and reached for my straw. “Beats anything you can buy in the NCO club, for a fact.” He sucked mightily and passed the straw on to the next man in line. Across the way, I saw Lieutenant McMurray happily tapping another pot and resigned myself to the inevitable. It was
going to be a drunken afternoon. Just that once, I’d bend my vow to lay off the hard stuff forever. I sure hoped Paul Potter would understand my breaking my vow to him.
After a couple of passes around the circle of thirsty men, the jug was nearly empty. I had high hopes that I’d seen the last of the local “white lightning.” Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The last man to drink just poured in some more water, and presto, another round was ready. My head was getting light as a helium-filled balloon. I missed the first part of the chief’s speech, although Pham was translating it into my ear. His voice just added to the buzzing in my head from the potent brew I was sucking down.
The old chief brought out the new volunteers for my unit, and introduced them to me one by one. They were just kids, most likely fifteen to seventeen years old. They all smiled and bowed politely, pride and a manly determination visible on their young faces. I shakily got to my feet and welcomed them to the American Army. “The Bru are strong fighters,” I intoned, Pham rapidly translating at my side. “Together, we will kill many VC.” My translator must have jazzed up my little speech, because the crowd let out a mighty yell when I finished. It wasn’t until much later that I realized that most of these boys would be dead before I finished my tour. I doubt if half of them ever returned to the village in one piece. Most likely, their only way home was just like the one for the boy I’d brought with me, in a wooden box, with a gaudy little trinket for his grieving family to mark his passing.
The village medicine man now got up and led the cow into the circle of villagers. One of his assistants skillfully slit the animal’s throat and another put a big metal pot underneath the dying animal’s neck to catch the gushing blood. After a mournful “moo,” the unfortunate animal keeled over. That resulted in a robust cheer from the onlookers. The pot of blood was passed around, and everyone took a sip. The taste of the warm fluid should have sickened me, but I guess the effects of the home brew numbed my senses enough to overcome it. I
smiled a bloody grin at Sergeant Fischer as he carefully took a tiny swallow and passed the pot on to the next man.
“Guess we’re honorary members of the clan now,” I told him as I reached for another swallow of the wine. Fischer just smiled and nodded, sucking mightily on his reed straw. I had moved up a tiny notch in his opinion.
Village women stacked piles of brush around the dead cow and set it ablaze. For a while we all drank and watched the fire burn. My body was numb, my tongue thick, and my head spinning. Surprisingly, I was also famished. I made small talk with the village men, using Pham as my translator, occasionally speaking in the pidgin English and Vietnamese they might possess. I flirted outrageously with Pham’s older sister, who looked better and better the more wine I drank. Each time, my dashing smile was returned in full by black teeth, filed gap visible, before she shyly covered her face with her hands and giggled helplessly.