Thoughts of the old woman, the girl. “They all believe that?”
“Most of them. It’s an old Buddhist thing. Every year, they celebrate Vu Lan Day, an absolution for the soul, allowing all the wandering souls to come home if the remains are recovered and returned. They make shrines, set them free on the water.”
“The river on fire…”
Chapel nods. “We recorded a tape in Hanoi, calling in engineers from all over, sound effects experts, theater people, actors and actresses. Some old Hollywood buddies. Big production. Lots of eggheads and spiritualists brought in as consultants. Once the script was written, we put it on tape, with the voices of ghosts warning the VC that if they died away from home, in Laos, let’s say, their souls would wander, and they’d never find peace in the afterlife. The tape was good. One of the finest creations of the Central Intelligence Agency. It worked in small numbers, controlled tests on apartment blocks, villages, then we went wide with it at Nui Ba Den Mountain in ’70. Rooted out a hundred and fifty die-hard NVA without firing a shot. That’s what gave me the idea. When something works small, you build it out and it can work big. Scaling-up. It’s the nature of chemistry, business, cooking, whatever. A precisely controlled increase dedicated to a fixed ratio. You drop poison gas on three people, they die. You drop poison gas on a thousand people, they die just like the three.”
“It wasn’t poison gas we were letting loose out there.”
“It was worse. It was nightmares. A destruction of heaven.”
“Charlie didn’t seem to agree.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, tactical error.”
“More like a technical one.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“Why did the tape stop?” I ask the question that’s festered inside me for half a decade.
“Pardon?”
“The tape. It stopped. Why did it stop?”
He looks at me with those gray eyes. In the low light of the hut, I think I see him smile. “Technical error,” he repeats.
I get to my feet. “So that’s it, huh? That’s the story? Stupid plans goes to shit and all your men slaughtered, with the ending being you living up here like some great white god? Charming the native with baubles and trinkets? Sky magic and nightmares on tape?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You know me better than that.”
“No, actually I don’t. I don’t know you at all. I thought I might have, but realized I don’t know a fucking thing about you. If I did…”
“What? You would have stayed in that cell? Been shipped back stateside for a nice court martial for cowardice in the field and dragged ass to your hometown in shame?”
“So you did me a favor?”
“I allowed you to do yourself a favor.”
“Did you do a favor to Render? To Medrano? To Darby?”
“And to McNulty and Morganfield, too. I allowed all of you to fight for something right, for something that had value, meaning.”
“And to die like sheep. Scared and confused and overrun by wolves come down from the mountain.”
“To die with honor.”
“There’s no honor in dying. Just death.”
“But not in your case,” Chapel says, eyes narrowing. “You’re afraid to die.”
“I am. But not for the reason you think.”
“No, I think it is for the reason I think.”
“You don’t know shit,” I say, the tears welling again. This time born from the frustration of unending fear that no one can see.
“You’re shaking,” he says, in that tone I remember. “You’ve been shaking since you got here.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t help it. My limbs need chemicals, and they’re not getting the proper amount. They’re rebelling.
He looks into my face. “But you’re not afraid.”
“Not of you.”
“What happened to you?” he says, voice hushed with some weird sense of curiosity and wonder. Still the boy who needs to know. To see. “Afterwards, I mean.”
“I brought a dog back from the jungle,” I say, holding up my other hand, clutching what was in my other pocket. “And this is its bone.”
Chapel isn’t sure what I mean, but leans forward to learn.
“I need to bury it for him.”
39. Moons at Your Door
Chapel and I stand in the village clearing, each of us with a pack of gear at our feet. I wonder if this place has a name, or appears on any map, but knowing Chapel, I realize the question is ridiculous.
Aside from Sua, who speaks a few low, terse words to Chapel and then walks away without a look in my direction, no one comes out to see us off. Not a sound comes from any of the huts.
I look down to the far end of the village. All the windows and doorways and porches are empty. Not a human or dog in sight. It’s a ghost town.
“Where’s your wife?” I say.
He sighs. “She won’t come out.”
“Why?”
“Because she doesn’t believe that I’m coming back. If she doesn’t say goodbye, I’ll never have left.”
I think about this for a few moments. “Is that what marriage is like?”
“It is for me,” he says with a grin. The radio in his hand crackles. He speaks into it, muttering a few words in Hmong.
“What was that?” I say.
“Our rides are coming.”
“Chopper?”
“Not quite.”
“Jeep?”
He smiles at me again. “Tanks.”
40. The Fire in our Throats Will Beckon the Thaw
We ride on the backs of mountains, each of us, moving as the mountain moves. I am astride an elephant, and it feels like a dream. This was the mode of eastern kings, and for a brief second, I close my eyes, fill my lungs, and feel like one.
When I allow my eyes to open, we are far into the wilderness again. An ocean of trees and clouded blue skies broken occasionally by farms and patches of ruined ground, dead trees that stand out like burnt bones arranged against a blanket of green that slowly tries to cover it out of slow-motion sadness. It’s impossible to forget the war here, in a country where it wasn’t officially fought, no matter how hard all of us involved might try.
To my left I see the partially buried wreckage of a burned-out American bomber jutting up at the edge of an abandoned rice paddy not yet reclaimed by the land. The jungle licked at the crumpled outer hull, tasting it and deciding to come back to it later. Long swaths of moss cover the jagged parts that stick out into the air, giving shaggy beards to twisted metal.
“One of ours?” I say.
Chapel nods. “Douglas B-66. One of our Easter bunnies, sent to drop all the eggs.”
“Eggs?”
He gestures to a tiny farming village adjacent to the field, just up from the path. Children play, while others stand in a line, watching us with fascination. Some smile and call out, holding up two fingers. Others, the ones leaning on crude crutches or absently itching at a stump that stops at their elbow, shoot us hard looks. It’s impossible to forget the war here.
“What happened to them?” I say.
“Cluster bombs. The country is covered with them, buried in the ground, waiting to go off, like hidden Easter eggs.”
Our two mountains carry us past the children. Those that can run give chase. The others turn their backs.
“Every day, someone steps on one, or digs it from the ground and plays catch, maybe a little soccer. Then…” Chapel gestures toward them. “That’s our legacy in Laos, Broussard. That and a hundred thousand wandering souls.”