CHAPTER 1

As soon as Manion saw the dog he knew it was a goner. Itwasn't all that big—filthy and emaciated—like everythingelse in Vietnam. But the mottle-haired mutt was enough for afair-sized meal, and that was all that counted.

A Vietnamese man clad in grimy shorts and torn T-shirt,racing through town in his dented, three-wheeled Vespa, spottedthe dog, which had made it halfway across the dirt road, avoidingthe ever-present, chaotic traffic. Drawing a straight bead, the driverheaded for the doomed mongrel, plowing into it broadside, the frontend smashing its back. The twitching animal lodged for an instant,then was jolted loose and run over again with the back wheels. Themotorized tricycle slid to a stop. In haste, the driver half-stumbled,scrambling to the animal. He quickly grabbed the dog by its tail,flung it into the rear of the three-wheeler, and clamored back inside.Ripping the throttle wide open the road hunter sped away, a red cloudof dust veiling his hasty departure.

"Did you see that?" stammered Thompson, slapping theduce-and-a-half through a montage of beat up civilian cars andbicycles intermingled with U.S. military vehicles of all shapes andsizes. "He took that sucker out on purpose."

"His family's going to eat good tonight," replied Manion.

"I'd never eat dog," stated Thompson, curling his lips.

"You'd be surprised what you'd eat if you were hungry enough."

"But a dog? No way!"

"Shit, Thompson," said Manion with a bemused grin. "You'veprobably eaten dog meat and didn't even know it. Beef. Pork. Fishheads. Dog. No difference to the stomach, just the mind. Bet youeven thought it was good."

The kid flashed an annoyed glance at Sergeant John Manionbouncing beside him. Soldiers always like to drive Army vehicles hellbent for leather and PFC Eddie Thompson was no exception to therule. "Not me," he declared, "I'd rather die first."

"You might have a chance to eat those words if you don't get uswiped out first," said Manion. "Slow this truck down. I didn't comeall this way to just to get killed in some stupid-ass accident."

"This whole fucking war's a stupid-ass accident," snappedThompson. "If I slow down we're sitting ducks. Get blown away forsure."

"In Cam Rahn Bay? No one ever gets killed here. Now cut thistruck some slack."

The boy reluctantly eased up on the gas. "What's wrong with thiscountry anyway," he continued, "and why can't these gooks get theirown shit in order?"

"This isn't a country," answered Manion. "It's just a place wherepeople come to fight. And die."

Thompson was sullen. Barely 19 years old, and arriving incountry only the month before, he wasn't ready to hear that kindof talk. Two fire-fights had convinced him that Vietnam wasn't theglorious undertaking he had been led to believe. "I wish I was goingwith you," he said, finality molding his tone.

"Going with me? Hell, you just got here."

"I know and that's what pisses me off."

"Pull up here," Manion said, motioning to a small cluster ofroadside shanties. They were a familiar sight, nothing more thansheets of cardboard tacked to termite-infested wood, wired ontorusted corrugated metal. Yet, these huts had always intrigued him,conjuring up glimpses of his childhood when he used to build forts inhis backyard. But people actually lived in them. How they managedto hold together was anybody's guess.

"What do you want to stop for?" asked Eddie. "I thought youwere in a hurry to ETS."

"I want to buy you a beer."

Thompson eased the truck off the road, bucking to a halt.

"Hey, GI, you want short-time?" yelled a small Vietnamese boy,skipping toward the truck.

"No thanks," said Manion as he climbed down. It was themonsoon season, the air stagnant with a constant sewer smell, aninvisible wet blanket that you could never get out from under. Hetried to adjust his sticky, summer dress fatigues but it didn't help.

"Come on, GI," persisted the boy. "She my sister. Only 13.

Clean, too. For you, only three dollar, MPC."

"Is she a virgin?" joked Manion.

"No, but almost," answered the boy with a toothy grin.

"How about a couple of Balm de Balms?"

"Only beer?" the boy said in disbelief, tagging along behindManion toward the small group of shanties. A rat, the size of afull-grown feline, scurried underneath the makeshift wooden palletfoundation, eyeing them both suspiciously. A young girl poked herhead out between ragged curtains. Wearing a dingy, see-throughblouse, dark-brown nipples beginning to protrude, she smiled anautomatic money smile. The boy waved her back inside, as shefrowned her displeasure in retreat.

"Two beers," demanded the kid to the old mama-san squattingbehind an open Coca-Cola ice cooler.

She reached into the lukewarm water, retrieved two bottles ofbeer, setting them on a rickety, three-legged table. The boy signaledher to open them. She flashed a wide betel nut smile, the color ofdeep ochre, as she quickly complied. The youngster took the bottles,handing one to Manion.

"Fifty cent, MPC," he said, holding out his hand, palm up.

"That's kind of cheap."

"Each," clarified the boy. "I take this to friend in truck. Alwayscollect myself. That way get money."

Capitalism with a capital C, thought Manion. "You'd better let mepay for them both then," he said. "It's my treat."

"OK, GI. You pay. I deliver. Fifty cent more."

Manion handed him the extra money. "Smart kid you got here,"he said to the old mama-san.

The lady smiled again.

"She no speak English. Just dumb old woman," called the boyover his shoulder, running toward the truck, beer foaming from thebottleneck.

Manion shook his head. He never could understand why Asianwomen took so much abuse from their men. Then again, there werea lot of things about the Orient he still didn't understand. Probablynever would.

"He's not a bad child," whispered the old lady in perfect English.

The statement caught Manion off guard. "I thought you couldn'tspeak English."

"That's what he thinks, too," she chuckled. "When we wereunder French control I spoke French. Now you Americans are here,so I speak English. But he doesn't know. That way it gives him a senseof pride. He needs that. He's the only man we have left."

"I'm sorry," Manion offered in apology, not quite knowing why.

She looked down, curtailing further conversation.

"You go home?" asked the boy, returning from the truck.

"How did you know?"

"Wearing khakis. No gun."

Manion felt foolish for asking the obvious.

"Better hurry or you miss plane." The boy turned to the woman,saying something in rapid fire Vietnamese.

The old lady held up two fingers signifying a "V" for victory andsaid in halting English, "American ... GI, numbah one. VC, numbahfucking ten."

Manion looked at her sad, brown eyes, fully aware of the factthat if it weren't for the women of South Vietnam the whole damnplace would have gone to hell in a hand basket long ago. Themama-san, aged and bent, but by no means broken, was a livingtestament to their courage and durability. "Thank you for the beer,Ma'am," he said.

She bowed, knowing her secret was secure.

Manion headed in the direction of the truck, the little boy quicklyscampering by his side. "Where did you learn to speak English?" Johnasked.

"From all GI. I be interpreter."

"Why an interpreter?"

"Because when Charlie win war I show I speak good English. Goto college. Be rich like American. Buy grandmother and sister realhouse. BIG LAND!"

"Big land, huh? And what happens if Charlie doesn't win?"

"He win," assured the boy, fully confident of his statement."America too nice. If VC had your plane and gun he use them. But hebeat you with bamboo. Give him time. You see."

"Got it all figured out," Manion said. He hauled himself backinside the truck shaking his head.

"Sure do," said the kid. "And one more thing."

"What's that?"

"American trust everybody. Charlie doesn't trust nobody."

"Anybody," said Manion, playfully correcting the buddingentrepreneur's English.

"That what I said."

"I suppose it was."

A jeep full of soldiers, eager to spend their money, pulled up frombehind and piled out.

"More customers," proclaimed the boy happily. He wavedgoodbye and ran to the jeep, yelling, "Hey, GI, you want short-time?"

"What was that all about?" Thompson asked, edging the truckback onto the road.

"You got me," admitted Manion.

Thompson took a swig of beer and cringed. "I'll never get used tothis shit. You know it's got formaldehyde in it?"

"I know."

"Well, the next time you offer to buy, remind me not to stop."

"Hell, I paid for it, didn't I? Quit your bitching."

"My dying ass," retorted Thompson. "I'm the one who gave thatlittle shithead fifty cents."

Sergeant Manion looked out the window and laughed. "Yep, realsmart kid."

* * *

"That's it," Manion said, pointing to a long gray Quonset hut.He read the sign, "Out Processing," and smiled. "Those sure are sweetwords."

"You got that right," agreed Thompson.

"Drop me off where those guys are standing," said John, pointingto a group of soldiers milling about.

Thompson nodded, winding the truck through the mazeof soldiers. "Here you are," he said, stopping in front of theout-processing building.

Before Manion climbed down he looked at Thompson, thenshook his hand. "Take it easy, Eddie. And remember, when you getback in the bush, keep your head down."

"You won't forget to call my mom and dad when you get home,will you?"

"No sweat GI," assured Manion. "Telephone number's in mywallet." He got out of the truck, went around to the rear, retrieved hisduffel bag, then walked back to where Eddie was sitting.

"If you'd tell them there's nothing to worry about, I'd appreciateit," said Thompson.

"I'll do that," Manion promised, slamming the passenger doorclosed. He started to walk away when something prompted him toturn around. When he did, he saw PFC Eddie Thompson staringback at him. He was struck by how young the boy looked, almost asif he were a small child sitting behind the steering wheel pretendingto be old enough to drive. Manion smiled one last time and waved.Thompson ground the truck into first gear and roared off.

"How do I get out of here?" asked Manion, facing one of thesoldiers.

"Step inside and yell, SHORT! They'll take care of you," said aman with a thick southern drawl. "Then all you have to do is hurryup and wait."

"Take very long?"

"About eight hours but we just got our orders and we've beenmanifested for the next flight out. We are what you'd call mighty short."

"Hell, I'm so short I got to look down to see up," proclaimedanother trooper nearby. They all laughed.

Manion thanked them, wished them good luck and steppedinside.

* * *

"Are you coming or going?" asked a gruff-voiced master sergeant,sweat rippling off his frowning forehead.

"Going," Manion said.

"Get a lot of guys who can't read the sign," snorted the sergeant."OK, give that man your orders and 201 file." He gestured to a youngkid furiously hammering away at a typewriter, wind from a big fanbehind him rippling the papers on his desk. "Then go to the financesection, change your MPCs and Ps into greenbacks. When you'redone go outside and wait until your name is called. And don't go—Irepeat—don't go walking all over the area. Nobody fucks up myprogram. You got that, trooper?"

Manion wondered why lifers, especially the ones in the rear,always tried to act like such hard-asses. "Yes, sergeant," he replied.

* * *

Back outside, Manion found the mood somewhat strange, almostfestive, yet oddly subdued. Locating an empty bench, he sat down.Two soldiers were talking behind him.

"I can hardly wait," said one.

"Yeah, man," returned the other, "Stateside and round eyes."

"You got it," said the first GI, "and I bet they'll be playing, WhenJohnny Comes Marching Home Again."

Manion smiled inwardly. He was just as anxious to get back, seethe cheering crowds, flags waving, arms clamoring to give a hug and ahearty welcome home.

The wind shifted, sending the stench of a shit-burning detailfurther putrefying the already foul, tepid air. Opening his duffel bagManion pulled out a fifth of Jim Beam. He'd planned on saving ituntil boarding the plane but decided that a little taste wouldn't doany harm. He drank almost half the bottle, curled up with his duffelbag as a pillow and fell asleep.

* * *

The blaring loudspeaker pried Sergeant Manion back to reality. Itseemed like he had drifted off only a short while, but in fact had beenout for nearly five hours. The 18:00 manifest was in full swing. Hepulled himself up, listening as names reeled off.

"SP4 Chavez, Larry Avila, SP5 Abbott, Ronald." The list went onand on but his name wasn't called. Every once in a while a soldierwould let out a whoop when his name came up. Manion waited andlistened. "Staff Sergeant Montgomery, Oscar."

"Oscar Montgomery," repeated Manion in disbelief. He started toscan the sea of unfamiliar faces.

Soldiers were gathering at the out-processing window to receivetheir DD 201 files and the long-awaited orders sending them back toCONUS. Manion didn't see anyone he knew.

The whole place was now a mass of semi-controlled confusionas returning soldiers crowded the window to secure their papers andload their belongings onto the waiting buses that would take them tothe airfield.

"SP4 Hernandez, Ricardo, Sergeant Manion, Jonathan,"continued the roll call. More names rattled off before it struck Manionthat his name had been announced. He flipped his duffel bag closed,stuffed the whiskey bottle under his belt and tucked his shirt in.Readjusting his green beret he stood up and looked around once again.

"Hey, Manion, what's happening?" came a voice from behind. Heturned to see Staff Sergeant Oscar Montgomery strolling toward him.

"Sarge!" yelled Manion, "I heard your name called. I was lookingfor you."

"I was in the latrine," said Montgomery with a broad smile. "Badcase of the GIs." They shook hands and laughed.

"We made it," said Montgomery.

"Almost," replied Manion.

"Uh, huh. Almost."

"Getting out?" Manion asked in disbelief.

"Think so," replied Montgomery, only half convinced that he hadmade the right decision to leave the Army.

"I ETS the day I get back," said Manion. "Let's sit together onthe plane."

Without saying anything further they collected their 201 files andboarded the lead bus.

* * *

Riding out was eerily quiet, as if everyone was recalling all thethings that had gone down during their tour of duty. For JohnManion, the war had been a kaleidoscope of unrelated events, totallyconfusing, yet still oddly interwoven into his very being. He didn'thave an inkling as to how much he had changed.

After being wounded during the Tet Offensive, he had beenevacuated to Tripler Hospital in Hawaii. When sufficiently recovered,he was informed that he would be sent to Fort MacArthur, about 10miles from where his mother was living in Torrance, California. Notwanting to serve Stateside duty while the war was still going on, Johnhad requested for his third extension in Vietnam.

He had been assigned a position at Headquarters Company withthe Staff Judge Advocate, a job he soon grew to despise. It was in therear that Manion had gotten a view of the war from a totally differentperspective, and what he saw disgusted him to the point of not evenconsidering re-enlistment. He slowly began to alter his plans as heobserved first hand the graft and corruption so prevalent in the rearechelon.

Manion received the Purple Heart, CIB, and VN Jump Wings forwhat he did in the field and the Army Commendation Medal for thejob performed at Headquarters. But what he had done was minisculecompared to his friend sitting next to him.

Staff Sergeant Oscar Montgomery had over 40 missions, someof which entailed going "over the fence" into Laos and Cambodia.Besides being an explosives expert he was also well versed in lightweapons and better than average in martial arts.

As with most heroes, they just happen to be in the right place atthe wrong time and either rise to the occasion or don't. Montgomeryhad risen.

Having just completed an eight-day mission into Laos he wastaking a short rest before returning to his unit when the first barrageof mortars hit the Special Forces Command and Control Detachmenton the outskirts of Da Nang. Montgomery instinctively grabbedhis weapon and ran outside to assess the damage. The officer'sbarracks had taken a direct hit and was on fire. There were close to30 Americans and ARVN troops in the compound when everythingcame down, but the element of surprise had worked against them.

Montgomery, assuming command, set up a perimeter of defenseand started concentrated fire at the advancing NVA who were staginga simultaneous three-pronged attack. He directed machine gun andmortar fire on the ground, calling in artillery from a dead radioman'sequipment pack.