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....
