The Fearless Man: A Novel of Vietnam Hardcover - 2004

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Mac and Paul

Sit down, Mac," said the 5.

The only seat available was an artillery fuze box and Mac sat on that. He had no idea why he'd been summoned but he expected the worst. Probably somebody in the operations shop had gone to the 5 begging for a change in the plan. Having spent hours arguing for the plan in its present form, and having already been forced into one major concession, Mac went on his guard. But the 5 had something else in mind.

"Mac," said the 5, "you're coming up for R and R. A week out of the mud. Bangkok, Hong Kong, Japan, take your pick."

"Honolulu," said Mac instantly.

"Oh yeah, there too. If you went to Hawaii your wife could meet you. I remember her, yeah, by all means, Honolulu!"

"We're counting on it," said Mac. "We're going to start a family."

"By God! By God! Little redheads running around the kitchen whistling the Marine Corps Hymn! I remember your wife," said the 5. "We met at the Marine Corps Birthday dance at Lejeune two years ago. A real lady. I said to Jeannie, my wife-"

"Sir, I remember her."

"I said, 'There's a young couple for you, there's a man-wife team, Kid, a man and what a wife, by God.' Ha!"

"Yes sir. Thank you."

They were sitting under a big lightbulb in a little tent. The 5's field desk was piled with as much paper as if he'd been working in the bowels of the Pentagon-except that it's been said the Pentagon has no bowels, only brains. The Pentagon is pure brains.

"So Mac, I'll tell the One to find you a Honolulu slot after this little caper's done. O.K.?"

"Sir, that's more than O.K. That's my main fantasy."

"Yeah. So-how do you feel about the operation?" He pounded a rolled-up map on his desk and it made a bong bong sound. "Ready for it?"

The 5 did not talk with his mouth only, or even his eyes. He had a long, drooping, mobile face, pale as dishwater, and the whole creation expressed itself when he spoke. He awaited Mac's answer as if he were dying for it.

"I feel damned good about it," said Mac. "And we're ready, yes sir."

"You've got some good people. How's Hitchcock working out? Kind of a rough son of a bitch but a- How's he doing?"

Gunnery Sergeant Hitchcock was Mac's company gunny, the man above all others who made the right things happen.

"We're lucky," said Mac. "I'd hate to think the other side had anybody like Hitchcock."

"Yeah, yeah. We've sent you some good people. I wish we had more."

"The company's tightening up, sir. It's coming along."

"Yeah, but Honolulu! Start a family! God if I-but listen, Mac-keep your eye on the ball, O.K.? This little excursion's no walk in the sun and we've got a whole goddamn battalion just waiting for you to whistle. Then we pile on, by God, and spin the fuckers like tops. So Honolulu and the arms of your beloved and little babies and whatnot-that's for later, way later. Eye on the ball, Captain. Concentrate. Light up your whole board. You'll be all alone out there and nobody to tell you what to do cause we don't friggin know what to do. See?"

"Yes sir, I see."

"That's why the Six said, 'Send Clare.' He had his eye on you when you were the Three Alfa up here. He said, 'I want Clare on this one.' It wasn't my idea although I fully concur. No, it was the Six. I thought you should know."

"Thank you sir," said Mac, who had seldom heard sweeter words.

"Yeah, but Mac, new subject. Did you ever see a chaplain humping the boonies?"

"No sir."

"Don't be offended if I say I've been in this outfit since you were a pup, and I never have either. I heard about one at Chosin. You should have been at the Frozen Chosin, Mac."

"No thank you, sir."

He gave Mac a long, sympathetic stare. His pallid features were lit from above but it was still possible to see he was smiling down there among the craggy shadows.

"But wouldn't you think a chaplain belongs out in front with the troops? Or would you say he should limit his flock to the rear-echelon pogues in places like this? People eating A rats and drinking cheap booze; safe people. What would you say?"

"Obviously, forward, sir."

"Forward." The 5 brightened a little when Mac gave the right answer. "And who do you think just flew in from Da Nang?"

"A chaplain?"

"And what do you think this chaplain, who is nothing but a civilian who just put on a uniform, who was in San Diego a couple days ago-what do you think he said to me five minutes after he got here?"

"I don't know sir."

"He said, 'Colonel, this is the rear with the beer, am I right?' And I said, 'Rev, you are a fast learner.' And what I didn't say was he's also a tough-looking little boxer or wrestler kind of guy, an Italian made out of re-rod and cement. And no worries about rank either. Next thing I hear is, 'I'm not staying here. I'm going out where the troops are.'

"So I gently informed him that people in this regiment, Navy and Marine Corps alike, go where the Six tells them, and he said he understood fully, which I thought was very open-minded of him. And then: When could he meet the Six? I congratulated him again on how quick he's picking up the language-Six equals commanding officer-and he laughed and said, 'Thank you, Five,' and then told me in so many words, 'Take me to the Six.'

"I guess if God is your copilot you're not awed by a mortal man with little dead birds on his collar. So I took him to the colonel and they spent an hour together, and in that hour this civilian wearing a Navy lieutenant's railroad tracks got further with the colonel than the president of the United States could in a year. Of course the president is a prick.-But you're wondering."

"Yes sir, I am," said Mac.

"O.K. here it is. The guy's waiting for you at the O Club. Go down there and get him. His name is Paul Adrano, lieutenant, Chaplain Corps, U.S. Naval Reserve, and he's more Catholic than the Pope.

"The colonel told him about your little caper." The 5 bounced the rolled map on his desk with a bong bong bong. This map outlined the area of Mac's search in the jungle. "And of course," the 5 continued, "Father Adrano likes the sound of it, 'recon' and all that-jumping off day after tomorrow-and he says, 'That's for me.' But the Six is thinking, 'Company-size, he'll be relatively safe while believing he's struggling against the forces of darkness.' And the Six, I have to tell you, is also kind of happy that the officer leading this thing has got an Irish name like Clare and is therefore undoubtedly a Catholic."

Said Mac, "I am not, sir. I never paid any attention to that."

"Careful talking like that around here, Mac. The regimental staff is crawling with Catholics. We've got two kinds of officers in this regiment: believers and wild men. We've even got some Protestant believers if you can believe that.

"Well there's a third category too, the guys who want advancement in rank with physical safety. But what do you mean, you pay no attention? Were you born a Catholic or not?"

"How can you be born a Catholic?" Somehow Mac failed to put a "sir" on that.

"Look Mac," the 5 said almost pleadingly, his features assuming two or three expressions, all of them full of tolerance, regret, and insistence-"Look, can it. For me it's enough the Six thinks he's putting this guy in the hands of a capable officer who also happens to be a Catholic, O.K.? Is it enough for you?"

"Yes sir, it's enough."

"Good. Now another thing. I said he looks tough, unlike some of the Herbie Popnecker types the Navy sends us, but even if he's the Pope's welterweight champion he is not accustomed to the climate, and he is minimally trained-classroom trained, totally inexperienced. Never humped the boonies a mile and doesn't know a howitzer from a hydrogen bomb.

"I said to him, 'Father, do what the troops do. The guy in front of you hits the deck, you hit the deck.' He says he certainly will. I said, 'By God, you better.' He says, 'By God, I will.' I says, 'Woops, took the name of the Lord in vain.' He says, 'No sweat.' I say, 'Exactly how long have you been in the Navy? No sweat, for Christ's sake.' He says, 'About nine weeks. You did it again but I'm sure you are forgiven under these wartime conditions.' I said, 'Woops, sorry about that.' He says, 'If you're Catholic I'll confess you. If not, you're going to hell anyway. Ha ha ha!' Man, has he got a devil of a laugh. I couldn't tell, was he mad? Will he curse me in his prayers tonight? I say again, he looks like some kind of tough bastard for a priest.

"Incidentally, the Six said it's up to you, but of course he means: Take the guy along and don't let him get killed."

"Yes sir, I'll take him if he can walk."

"Yeah, well, I thought about that. Can he keep the pace?" The 5 lifted his thin white eyebrows mournfully and gave a smile that creased his whole face.

Just to show he had some rights, Mac said evenly: "If he falls behind, we medevac him out."

"Right," said the 5, "but-you hear me? But." Meaning: Don't let it happen.

The 5's face was even older than his body. He was old enough to have fought at Okinawa and in Korea, and looked old enough to have fought at Belleau Wood. He was waving the rolled-up map around as he no doubt used to wave his swagger stick in the Old Corps.

"He won't hack it," said the 5 gloomily. "How could he? The heat, Jesus. But let me tell you, Mac, be thankful. You get a choice of a war in a hot place or a cold place like Chosin, take the hot one, buddy. Good luck on this caper"-and he bong bong bonged the map on his desk.

His sagging eyes followed Mac out.

Mac ducked through the flaps and stood outside waiting for his eyes to adjust. He listened to the stuttering sound waves running up the valley from a diesel generator down below. The sky was closed over with blocked moonlight. Had his wife been standing beside him and taken his hand she could not have been more intensely present. Honolulu! Sarah! He did not see her naked, but dressed for sunshine and beach breezes. He didn't actually see her clothing, but the wind pressed against her figure.

For a moment he dwelt on this illusion, this vision. Then he started carefully down the path, trying to see its boundaries. He passed the 5 and 6's outhouse, then the 4's tent, which was dark as the outhouse but smelled better, then the comm tent, where the flaps were half open and the light shone out, and men were laughing and one man shouted something about how stupid somebody was-and at length he reached the bottom, where the surface changed to sand.

Here he had to pump along, lifting his knees and leaning ahead. He passed tents on either side now. These were the staff quarters, pyramidal tents called "prams," poking their black points up against the sky. He passed the one where he'd lived during his assignment as assistant operations officer, or 3 Alfa. Dead ahead lay the Officers' Club with its latticework sides releasing a delicate diamond pattern of yellow light. He could hear the "truck-drivin son of a gun" singing his happy song about "six days on the road and I'm a gonna make it home tonight."

Mac thought: "I'll be satisfied to make it back to Delta Company."

He was still with Sarah. Sarah was with him.

"He cometh! The quiet Commie killer."

"A man, a forked mammal with balls."

"Beware of Captain Clare."

"Dirt pile Delta Six!"

Mac had worked with these men until about two months ago, and had known some since Basic School. He shot back an insult or two and hung his pistol belt on a nail, then advanced toward the bar, toward a short chesty man with bulging shoulders in a too-tight set of jungle utilities, who faced him with a self-confident smile.

"Father Adrano," said Mac, holding out his hand.

The other's hand slapped into Mac's and took it in a vigorous yet slow, hard grip. "Captain Clare, I presume."

"Mac. Call me Mac."

"And you call me Paul, please."

Paul's utilities were straight out of the box. They stretched over his chest and shoulders and clung tight around his biceps. His trousers were bloused at the boot-top in Marine Corps fashion but his haircut was too long. The glistening black hair swept to one side. His face was surprisingly big on top of his short body. It was a hatchet-shaped face, pale, and marked at the eyebrows by sharp streaks of black. His eyes were even blacker, and sharp, hard, not completely serious. Maybe he was amused at the ridiculous idea of wearing the bars of a Navy lieutenant on one lapel and a cross on the other.

The handshake was going on a bit longer than usual-Adrano's forearms were bare, white, covered with black hair. When they broke, both men were still looking at each other.

"We've got to roll," said Mac.

"I'm ready."

"But first I need a drink."

Mac ordered a Hennessy from the man behind the bar, a staff NCO working for wages, who could be trusted to keep the secret that some of the officers on the regimental staff were fools, drunks, and chronic gripers.

Paul Adrano went behind the bar and came back carrying a seabag over one shoulder and a small haversack on the other. Mac took the haversack. He threw back his head, scorched his throat, and glimpsed the lightbulbs strung on a wire along the ridge pole. He closed his eyes and saw orange spots turning yellow-green. He ordered another and drank a glass of cold water. He put down fifty cents in military payment certificates, looked at Paul, and downed his second cognac. He jerked his head toward the door.

A man called: "Hey Mac, have another drink, buddy!"

"Can't," said Mac. "Got to fight the war."

"Lord! Don't kill anybody!"

"Kill a Commie for Christ," a man called out, then cried: "Yikes! Sorry, Chaplain."

Mac stopped for his gun belt. He put it on with a twist and a click of the locking device, then went back to the bar and asked for another glass of water. It was cold-cold water! He drank, and asked for another. A major at his side said: "Either leave or take off that pistol."