THERE BE DRAGONS (6 page)

“Are you freelance?” asked Jacobs.

“In a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s complicated,” said Maxwell.

“You could always try to explain.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“All you need to know is like I said before, I’ve got friends in high places.” Maxwell was stern for the first time.

“I’ve got to admit I find your presence to be added pressure,” said Jacobs.

“You mean, if you foul up, will I report it?”

“Yes. That.”

“What about this? Will your girl back home see a picture of you in the local paper? Will it scare her to see you in the jungle, to see you carrying a rifle, a weapon … an instrument of death? Maybe she will see a picture of you standing over body bags. Over body bags filled by your platoon members. Or maybe she will see a picture of your own body bag. The zipper not pulled up enough to cover your face. Maybe that will be how she’ll learn of your death.”

“I—yes—some of that.” Jacobs stuttered his words out.

“I report what I see,” said Maxwell.

“What are you hoping to see? The things you mentioned? Body bags filled with our dead?”

“No. I’ve seen enough of that. I’ve hundreds of those kind of pictures,” said Maxwell.

“Then what?” stressed Jacobs.

“I want to see something that will change the world. I want to make a discovery. To be the first person to get a picture of one of them.” Maxwell smiled.

“The dragons?”

“Yes. Have you seen one?” The reporter was giddy now.

“No. I’ve just been hearing stories of them since getting here,” said Jacobs.

“Yes, the flying demons are becoming quite well known.”

“You expect to see one near my platoon?”

“Have they not told you?” Maxwell frowned.

“Told me what?” asked Jacobs.

“Your platoon is based near the main sightings area.”

• • • • •

The chopper followed colored smoke to the high ground; it had already been cleared of trees and undergrowth.

“Trees are another casualty of war in Nam,” said Jacobs. “The sergeant, Stephens, has already radioed the chopper with the confirmation of what color of smoke to land at. It’s been learned, by error in the field, that the enemy will wait until smoke is popped, then follow the path of the chopper so they can open fire while it’s vulnerable because of the landing. So now, a few different colors of smoke get popped and the chopper is informed by radio which to land at.”

Jacobs couldn’t help but smile at the colors below him, red, white, and blue. He could also see foxholes guarding the perimeter and some ponchos turned into a makeshift tent. “That’s a field bivouac,” he said.

Maxwell made some more notes, then clicked a few shots with his camera out the side of the chopper. “Thanks, LT. All useful information.”

The chopper touched down.

Jacobs grabbed his kit and jumped out. Maxwell followed.

• • • • •

Two men from the platoon unloaded supplies amongst the swirling leaves and clouds of orange dust, before the chopper joined the sky again.

Maxwell took pictures of them at work. They started to pose. Smiles beaming.

“I’m Teacher, and this is Smith. Make sure you make a note of that.” Teacher was skinny, his collarbones prominent. He was caked in dirt, and looked like he hadn’t washed for weeks. The bottom row of his teeth was black, and a few of them broken.

Maxwell let his camera hang and started to write in his pad. “Tell me about yourself, Teacher.”

“Well, I guess you’d call me a farm boy. That’s got something to do with me being issued this pump-action shotgun, which is now slung over my shoulder. I got good with a shotgun back home on my father’s farm.” He winked at Maxwell. “I keep it with me at all times,” he continued. “It’s my best friend out here. I love the art of creating a buckshot-filled corpse from a dink soldier. My father raised me by himself. My mother left for another man when I was young. Is that the kinda thing you wanted?”

“That’s great. Have you spoken to a reporter before?” asked Maxwell.

“Yeah, I’m surprised how many of you guys are around. Fighting in this war is like being in a Hollywood movie.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“Sure. Remember I’m Teacher and he is Smith.” He jerked his chin at Smith.

“I’ll remember.” Maxwell’s pencil scribbled across the pad. “Tell me about yourself, Smith.”

Smith was shaven and washed, tanned and handsome. He fixed his hair with a black plastic comb before answering. “I’m from the opposite spectrum to Teacher. I’m from a stable home, a middle-class family, but a family that doesn’t take it too easy on me, they don’t spoil me. I’ve had to work hard for everything I’ve acquired in life. Not that that matters now, in Nam.”

“Thanks for your time, soldiers.”

“Maxwell, follow me,” said Jacobs. “Teacher, Smith, get back on it. You’ve had your fun.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sure thing, sir.”

Jacobs and Maxwell walked farther into the LZ.

“It’s going to be useful having you here, Maxwell.”

“Why is that?” he asked.

“You’re a good way to find out who these guys really are. You’ll save me time.”

“It’s good to know I’ll be of some use.”

“What struck you about those two soldiers you spoke to?”

“Nothing new. They remind me of so many men out here,” said Maxwell.

“They’re both so young, younger than me, and I’m considered young for an LT. But they’re only kids,” said Jacobs.

“Like most of the people dying over here, sir,” the reporter said. “The average age of the men serving in Vietnam is twenty-two.”

The platoon sergeant met Jacobs with a handshake. “Stephens, sir.”

Maxwell held a hand out to Stephens, but it wasn’t taken.

Stephens was a small man but built with muscle. He had a bull neck and his shoulders were broad and rock solid, his arms pumped. His face was sun damaged and his hair dark grey, his cheeks prominent and his lips thin. His knuckles where covered in scabs. He had Native American blood in him; it showed in the hue of his skin.

The rest of the platoon were scattered about easting C-rations. Their fatigues were torn and stained with mud and blood. More jungle pirates.

Jacobs looked to two of his men that were sat nearby on the edge of a foxhole smoking cigarettes. One of the men was black and the other white. Both were shirtless and dripping with sweat.

They scrutinized Jacobs.

“New LT,” said the black man. He inhaled some smoke.

The white man nodded. “Let’s take bets on how long he’ll last.”

“Good idea,” the black man inhaled again.

“You two,” Jacobs said. “What are your names?”

“I’m Jackson,” said the black man.

“I’m Cook,” said the white man.

“I heard everything you said. I don’t like you talking about me that way. Do you want to get off on the wrong foot with your new LT?”

They both shook their heads.

“Then watch what you’re saying,” said Jacobs.

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Jackson,” said Maxwell. “Tell the press something about yourself.”

“I always give my best. It’s important for me to know if I die here, I’d have died giving my all. It would’ve been my best effort. It’s very important for me to know that. I think it’s important for my family to know that too. I’d rather die giving my all, than being subpar. Does that make sense?”

“Perfect sense. Can I quote you?” the reporter asked.

“Sure.”

“That is a great way to look at life, Jackson.” Jacobs nodded.

Jackson nodded back. “Thanks, sir.”

“Cook, what about you? What do you want to share with the press?”

“I love peace, not war. All I wanna do is surf, man,” he said.

“Maxwell,” said Stephens. “Can it, will you?”

“When the men have finished chowing down, I’d like to have a chat with the squad leaders, Stephens,” Jacobs said.

“Yes, sir.” Stephens went to grab some chow.

“Jacobs, could I have a word?” asked Maxwell.

“Yeah, shoot.”

“In private?”

“Sure.”

They walked away from Jackson and Cook.

Maxwell looked around to check he was out of earshot from the other men.

The sun boiled Jacobs’s perspiration. Some ran into an eye. It stung. “Well, Maxwell?” he said.

“I was wondering if you could tell me about yourself?”

“Why did we need privacy for you to ask that?” Jacobs wore an expression of confusion.

“I don’t think the men should be too friendly with their lieutenant. Don’t you think that?”

“I … I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go along,” said Jacobs. “I do know this, though. This is my time. The time I’ve been trained for. These are my men. My platoon. My responsibility. I’ve got to take charge, show no fear, no hesitation. I’ve got to earn their respect fast. It isn’t enough I’m of higher rank. Rank doesn’t carry much weight now. It’s experience that matters here. Real field time. Any negativity I feel starting to creep in, needs to be quelled. That feeling has got to be the ant under my boot. Just like the enemy has got to be.”

“That’s a good speech. I wasn’t expecting that,” said Maxwell.

“Me neither,” said Jacobs.

They both shared a little laugh.

“Can I quote you on that?” asked Maxwell.

“Can you remember it all?” asked Jacobs.

“Yeah, I’m good at that kind of thing.”

“You remember just words well, or details too?”

“Both in equal measure.”

“Much like me then,” said Jacobs.

“Maybe you should be a journalist.”

“Too late for that.”

“It’s never too late,” said Maxwell.

“Do you know how to forget things?” Jacobs’s looked down at his boots. He rocked on his heels then kicked some of the orange mud off his right toecap.

“I wish I did. I’d sleep easier at night if I could.” Maxwell smiled.

“If you figure out how to do it, let me know.”

“You too.”

• • • • •

Jacobs knelt, and Stephens and the four squad leaders joined him.

The squad leaders were of different shapes and sizes. One was black and the others white. One of the white men was older than the rest. He was also the biggest built of them, bigger than Jacobs, bigger than Stephens. Being bigger than Stephens in height was easy, but not with muscle. But this man was.

Jacobs removed his helmet, put his weight on it and spoke. “I know I’m the new guy, the FNG, so I’m going to hang back for a spell. You know your jobs and you’re no doubt good at them. I’ll listen and learn but make sure you understand, I’m still in charge.”

They all nodded.

“Dismissed.”

The squad leaders left except Stephens.

Jacobs saw a private sitting on some sandbags reading from a book. “What’s that soldier’s name?”

“That’s Private Diaz, a religious nutcase,” said Stephens. “He’s our translator. He speaks enemy real good. A gookaniesse expert, you could say. He tends to keep himself to himself. Like now, sitting on his lonesome, reading the Good Book. He’s a capable fighter, though.”

Jacobs watched Diaz as he closed his Bible, made the sign of the cross, kissed the crucifix around his neck, and placed it under the scarf he wore. Diaz then used the scarf to dab some sweat from his cheeks.

Diaz had jet-black hair and was of Hispanic descent. He had a gold tooth, on the top row, to the left. It was flicking off sunshine towards Jacobs and Stephens.

“Seems odd to me, Lieutenant, a man reading the Bible in a hellhole like this. It’s the last place God will be. Out here people are a god unto themselves, they make their own laws.” Stephens snorted, then spat.

“I’m not sure about that, Sergeant,” Jacobs looked to him. “The army has laws.”

Stephens smiled, “You are new here, ain’t you?

“I appreciate what you said, about hanging back; it’s a good idea. There’s a heap to learn. I don’t just mean about the enemy, or terrain. You need to learn about human nature. All these guys here, no matter what background they have, be that poor or rich, city folk or country folk, are now products of war, a war like none before.

“These guys are from a different world than the folks who fought the Nazi. They come from a less innocent time. They are more evolved. And they’re most certainly more evolved than the dinks. These kids now are more in touch with their animal roots. So, you put them in a place like this, and they shine. You need to be prepared to witness, deal with, and allow yourself to understand the true meaning of only the strong survive.”