 
Harry and Bo

and Other Stories From A Rambling Mind

By Danny Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Published by MilSpeak Books

A Division of MilSpeak Foundation

33 Winding Way

Beaufort, SC 29907

Copyright © 2010 Danny Johnson

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

For permissions, contact editor@milspeak.org.

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This book contains quotes excerpted in brief form and used in accordance with fair use interpretation of U.S. Copyright Law and the Digital Millennial Copyright Act. Every attempt has been made to attribute and credit excerpted material correctly; any errors or omissions should be brought to the attention of the publisher and will be corrected in future editions of the book. This book is a work of fiction that does not represent actual persons living or deceased, and represents only the author's opinions, not those of any other organization, institution, or persons.

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Acknowledgements

I have studied with well-known writers Clyde Edgerton, Besty Cox, Lynn York, Paul Mihas, Tommy Hays, and Kevin Watson. An active member of North Carolina Writers Network, and also a member of Raleigh Write 2 Publish, an ongoing group of writers that meet regularly to read and support other members, I am grateful for my readers who have made publishing this collection possible. I am also an active member of the Raleigh Veterans Group which supports Vets with programs to deal with Anger Management, PTSD, Confrontation Resolution, and a great many other issues that Vets from Korea to Iraq experience. Welcome Home, brothers and sisters, and thank you for your service.

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Table of Contents

Harry and Bo

American War Story

The American Dream

When the Rooster Crows at Night

The Learning Curve

And the Winner Is

The Bus to Hell

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Harry and Bo

Harry Wilson was tired. He dragged himself off the subway, dragged himself the four blocks to his apartment building on the Lower East side, dragged himself up the five flights of stairs to his one room, five-hundred square foot, run-down apartment that cost him nine hundred bucks a month. He keyed open the three deadbolt locks he had installed to keep the crack-heads from taking what little stuff he had. It was dark wintertime in New York and cold as the haughty women he worked around in the accounting department at Philas Brothers Investments on Wall Street. Harry was but a lowly accountant, shuffling papers around millionaires. He had seen fortunes made and lost by the wet-haired, Hollywood-style day-old-bearded young wolves that would sell their mother if the money were right. He had kept his job by laying low, never attracting attention. He called it the Wilson duck-and-slide method of self-preservation. The fifty grand a year they paid him was less than most of them would spend for a good-sized dinner party, so, mostly, they left him alone in his little office in the back.

Harry shrugged off his heavy overcoat, his brown sports jacket, and ripped the tie from around his neck. He left the overcoat where it lay, but hung up the jacket because he only had two, the tweed brown and the tweed blue. He drooped the tie over a lamp shade, thought better about it and hung it on the rack screwed to the inside of his closet; he was down to five of these if he didn't count the ones with grease stains on them. He picked up the remote and clicked on the television that only got six stations since he couldn't afford cable. He walked the ten feet to the refrigerator, opened it and took inventory of the pitiful amount of items in it. Grabbing a soda, he looked into the overhead cabinets until he found a can of sardines packed in mustard sauce and a box of saltines. Harry sat down at the counter on his one barstool, opened the can and the crackers. The sardines were okay, but the crackers were so stale he could almost bend them. He left them lay on the counter and finished the fish and drank most of the soda.

He swiveled on his stool and watched Brian Williams give the daily depressing news about the economy, terrorism, and the latest crooked banker or politician who had screwed the taxpayer out of millions. The sound was off, but he didn't need to hear the commentary because it was the same old crap every day. Harry, at forty-five, had thought long and hard about ditching this world, maybe take a bus to Florida or California, but each time he thought he might do it, there would be news of a hurricane or an earthquake or some other disaster that scared him.

Harry finished off the sardines and tipped the can to his lips to drink the rest of the sauce.

"Hey."

The voice startled Harry, making him spill some of the juice on his shirt. He turned to look at the television. The sound was still off as best he could tell. He looked around the apartment carefully, and then got up to ease open the door to his bedroom, thinking maybe somebody had managed to get through his locks and hide there. Seeing nothing, he walked back to the counter and sat back down, eyeing the television suspiciously.

"Hey!"

This time Harry jumped off the barstool. He pinched himself, making sure he was awake. He walked around the room again. Coming back to the soda, he finished it off as the hair on his neck rose, wondering if there was a ghost here with him. Maybe it was his long gone mother, come back to visit.

"Hey!" The voice came again, louder this time.

"Hey?" Harry squeaked, fear in his heart. "Who are you?"

"Down here you dummy. Look down."

Hesitantly, Harry looked down, ready to bolt for the door if he saw any ghouls. His eyes covered the floor from the back wall to where he sat. Just below his feet sat a very large rat. Leaping towards the space beside the refrigerator, he grabbed his broom, ready to do battle with the rodent. He raised it and slammed the straw end towards the invader.

The rat dodged under the stool. "Stop it, you hit me with that thing and I promise you'll not get another nights sleep in this apartment." The rat was on his hind legs waving his front ones at Harry. "I got the plague and I'll give you such a bite they'll have to burn your body."

Harry looked closer. The rat was grey on the bottom side, black on the top, and wore a little red tam on his head. "How are you talking to me?" He questioned, raising the broom once more, wondering if the sardines had been spoiled and he was having delusions.

"The same dang way you're talking to me, you idiot."

"Are you my mother come back to haunt me?"

"Fool, do I look like your mamma?"

"But rats can't talk." Harry felt really stupid, standing here with a broom having a conversation with a rat.

"How do you know, you ever tried to talk to one?" The rat relaxed, still standing on his hind legs but resting his back against the leg of the stool. He pushed his hat up a little.

"No."

"Well there you go. Like most humans, you just assume what you don't know."

"Why are you here?" Harry lowered the broom, still not believing what was happening.

The rat looked around the room, spreading his arms to encompass the surroundings. "Just lucky I guess. Why else would you think somebody would come to this room at the Ritz?"

"Then why don't you leave?"

"To tell you the truth, Harry; here sit down on the sofa so we can talk without me getting a crick in my neck." With that the rat scooted over to the couch and hopped up on the arm. "Come on, don't be shy, I'm not going to hurt you." He patted the back of the couch.

Still in a daze, Harry did what the rat asked and went to take a seat near him, still holding on to the broom. "How do you know my name?"

"Reading your mail."

"You can read too? How can a rat read?"

"Jeez, you got so much to learn, Harry. You people think you're the only ones who've got a brain. I learned while I hung out in the walls of a school back home. Trust me, it ain't all that hard."

"I see," said Harry. He looked around the room again, this time around the ceiling, sure he was on candid camera, and positive somebody was playing a cruel joke on him. "What kind of rat are you?"

"I'm what's called a black rat, Harry, Rattus Rattus because I'm a male black rat in the family of true rats. My ancestors came from Asia, and I'm what's known as a commensal because I live near humans.

"Have you really got the plague?"

"Heck no, Harry, I was just messing with you. That was back in the fourteenth century, and it wasn't the rats, it was the Tropical rat fleas that carried yersinia pestis organisms and fed on us, and of course we gave it to the humans. Quite a big mess back in the day. Hardly ever see it anymore though."

"Well that's a relief."

"Tell me about it. Listen, Har, I've been hanging around here for about a month watching what a poor simpleton you are. I'm about starved to death to tell you the truth. Think you could get me one of those crackers you left on the counter?"

Harry walked over and brought one back. He watched the rat nibble on one end. "These are some terrible saltines, Harry, I got to tell you. Don't you ever buy any cheese or fruit? Surely, you can afford some kind of decent food."

"Well, I'm sorry," defended Harry. "I didn't know I was having guest. I'll be glad to open the door and you can find lodging elsewhere."

"Don't get your panties in a wad, Harry. Now that you know I'm here, I'm sure you will try and do better."

"Why should I provide your meals?"

"Think about it, Harry. How many other people do you know that have a talking rat as a friend?"

"I didn't know we were friends." Harry leaned back on the sofa, figuring since he was sure he must he in a dream, he would try and enjoy it.

"Absolutely, we're going to be great pals. You're lonely, I'm lonely, what better match could you have. I'm a great conversationalist, I don't eat much, and I'll do my pooping in the guy's room next door. I won't cause you any butt-pain, Harry, and all you have to do is be considerate with the chow." He smiled wide, his two big buckteeth gleaming; sure he had made a sensible offer.

"Why am I so honored with your presence? You could go to any other room in the building, so why me?"

"To tell you the truth, Har, I don't really know. You seem like a nice guy, stupid and simple, but nice. And I figured you could use the company. I haven't seen you with a single visitor since I've been here."

"How kind of you," Harry sarcastically replied. "And what should I call you other than rat?"

"You can call me Bo."

"Are you spelling that B E A U?"

"No, B O, short for Bosephus. I'm originally from New Orleans."

"How did you get here?"

"It's a long story and I'll be glad to tell you all of it sometime, but suffice for the moment that I got tired of eating fish and jambalaya leftovers; the spices got to working on my digestive system. So, one day I hopped a barge up to St. Louis, then worked my way across the country until I caught a ride to the docks on the East River. That was two years ago and I've been here ever since."

Harry looked down at Bo who had reclined his back on the upper part of the sofa arm, crossing his front legs over his stomach in a relaxed pose. "You've been in this building for two years?"

"Oh heck no. I got a gig down at Carnegie's Deli in the first month, couldn't take that sewer life. Now those Jews, they know how to feed a guy."

"How come you left?"

"Mexicans, they're all over the city now, hundreds of them piling in every day. They ganged up on us and we had no choice but cut and run. We even offered the Italians a cut of our take if they would provide protection, but they weren't interested; said they were having enough problems keeping them out of Little Italy. There's a real rat war going on out there, Harry, guys dropping all over the place."

"I see what you mean."

"Yeah, I tried a few other joints, but I'm getting too old to fight like I used to, just looking for the simple life now." Bo broke off another piece of the cracker. "Say, Har, do you suppose you could put a little water in a saucer for me, this stuff is making my mouth as dry as a popcorn poot."

Harry got up and fetched Bo some water in a flat dish. "Let me get this straight, Bo. You are going to lay up in my place and I'm supposed to feed you and look after you?"

"That's what I'm thinking. Listen, Har, look at it this way. A rat at best only lives about four years, most of the time less. What's the problem?"

"And what are you going to do for me?"

"I promise to keep any other rats out. I'll keep an eye on the place for you, and let you know what's going on in the rest of the building."

"How would you stop somebody from breaking in?"

"Can't, but I can be a heck of an eye witness, let you know who did the dirty."

"I'll think about it."

"Good idea. Want to watch some television?"

"What would you want to see?"

"I don't know, how about CSI? I worked around one of those labs once. You got to be dang careful what you nibble on in there."

Harry got up and changed the channel, turning up the sound so they could hear. He looked over at Bo who had changed positions, and was now lying on his side, propping up his head on an elbow. He watched him remove the red tam and stifle a big yawn. Harry was sure when he woke up, he would find this all to be some kind of weird dream, maybe from the kraut he had on the hotdog at lunch. By the time the program was over, he could hear little snores and saw Bo was sound asleep. He got up from the couch, picked up the remains of the cracker and threw them away, and went to his bedroom to get undressed and crawl between the sheets. It had been a crazy day and he was worn out. He fell asleep almost immediately.

The next morning Harry woke up just as dawn was peeping in his window. He lay watching the ceiling, thinking about another crappy day at his crappy office. Then he remembered Bo. Knowing it must have been a nightmare; he got up and tiptoed into the living room. Sure enough there was no rat on the sofa. Good, he didn't think he had gone completely nuts yet.

"Morning, Har."

Harry froze in his tracks. He looked around the floor. "Where are you?"

"Back here in the bedroom."

Harry turned to look around, seeing Bo resting on the comforter at the foot of his bed. "Did you sleep there last night?" Harry had the urge to scratch, feeling the heebie-jeebies.

"Nah, you were already asleep when I woke up so I just crawled into one of your extra blankets and zonked out. Slept very well, how about you?"

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Okay, I guess."

"Listen, Har, there's a good bakery just down the street. Think you could run over and get us a bagel?"

Quite sure he had gone completely insane, Harry figured why not. He got on some clothes and shoes and started for the door. "Don't forget the cream cheese," reminded Bo. Harry just waved as he went out.

It took Harry about a half hour to get down the stairs, down to the bakery, and back up the stairs. He reached into his pocket and discovered he had forgotten his key. He pounded on the door.

"Who is it?" Harry heard Bo's voice coming from the crack under the door.

"It's me," announced Harry. "I forgot my key."

"How do I know it's you?"

"Open the door now," Harry fumed.

"Where do you keep the key?"

"It's in my overcoat pocket. Hurry up."

"Hold your water." Bo scrambled on the sofa and stuck his head in the pocket and then reached in to grab the key. Back at the door, he yelled at Harry, "I'm sliding it under."

Outside, Harry reached down to retrieve the key about the time his neighbor, Mrs. Marburg, walked by. Harry nodded, "morning." She eyed him suspiciously and kept walking without a reply.

Quickly, Harry got the door open and slipped inside.

"What kind of bagel did you get?" Bo followed Harry to the counter, hopped on the trashcan and leaped onto the Formica. "Wait, let me guess," Bo stuck his nose to the entrance of the bag and sniffed loudly. "Blueberry. One of my favorites. Cut me off a piece Harry, I'm starving."

Harry took out a paring knife, thought for just a moment about stabbing the rat and ending this charade, but changed his mind and lopped off a good-sized bite and put it in a saucer. "How's that?"

Bo was already busy with a mouthful of bagel and cream cheese, so he just nodded his approval and gave Harry thumbs up. In his case, it was a leg up.

The two of them sat and ate quietly until Harry was finished, leaving Bo a last piece. "I've got to get to work." Harry headed to the bathroom and a shower. He decided on the blue tweed today, and wore some matching grey slacks and a red tie. He put his heavy coat on, checked the pockets to make sure he had keys and his wallet.

When he opened the door to leave, he saw Bo back on the arm of the couch, reclining and watching television. He heard a loud burp. "See you tonight, Harry. Have a nice day." Bo gave him an over the shoulder wave.

Harry just shook his head and left.

At seven that night, Harry exited the subway, walked a couple of blocks, and stopped in at the corner deli. He bought some fresh bread and a pound of corned beef. When he got to the apartment, he unlocked the door and headed to the kitchen counter, looking around for the Bo. Seeing nothing, he got out a plate and unwrapped the sandwich meat, sliced off two pieces of the dark rye bread and got some mustard from the fridge. He heard a shuffling noise from the bedroom, and turned to see Bo coming across the floor.

"What's that I smell, Har? Couldn't be corned beef, could it? I would kill for some corned beef." Bo scampered up, sliding to a halt in front of the plate. "Oh, Harry, you are my hero."

"What were you doing in there?

"Where?"

"In the bedroom."

"Nothing, I was just getting back from looking around the rest of the floor, seeing if anybody had left anything out to eat. I'm going to have to do something about that cat Mrs. Marburg has. He almost got me today, hiding behind the door like the sneaky jerk he is. Good thing for me he's stupid. You going to make me a sandwich or not?"

Harry proceeded to put a good-sized pile of the beef between the bread and cut off some for Bo. They sat and chewed in silence. Harry drank a soda and poured some in a dish for Bo. When they were finished, he put the leftovers in some plastic and stuck them in the refrigerator.

By the time Harry got to the sofa to watch the news, Bo was already stretched out in his usual place. Bryan did a story about another arrest of a Wall Street crook that ran a Ponzi scheme and cheated old folks and widows out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. "Now that's some rotten deeds," offered Bo. "Do you ever buy any stock, Harry?"

"Nope. The only people making real money on that stuff are the inside boys that know what's coming and can manipulate the values. They're pros, Bo. The average Joe is happy to make four or five percent on his investments, while those guys are making millions using his money. I'm not among the privileged few that know how to play the game."

"Really? Tell me as much as you know about how it works. Surly you have learned something as long as you've worked there."

Bo and Harry sat, and Harry told him what he knew about how the game was played, about how the muckity-mucks in the company all met in the board room at least twice a week to plan their strategy which was based on what each of them had managed to learn about various companies through the inside sources they carefully manipulated for information. In relating it to Bo, Harry was actually surprised at how much he had managed to accumulate over the years.

"Dang, Harry, you do know how that stuff works, don't you?"

"I guess I do."

"And you've never speculated on any stocks?"

"No, never wanted to draw any attention to myself, and never have trusted anybody in the business."

"Let me ask you something, Har. Have you managed to save any money over these years?"

"Why?"

"Just curious. Don't worry I'm not going to rob you or anything. Besides, what good would money do me? What do you think would happen if a rat waltzed up to the corner deli and flashed a wad of bills for a sandwich? They'd beat me to a pulp."

"I've got about twenty-five thousand saved up. I'm trying to have something for my old age."

"I hate to be the one to break it to you, old buddy, but twenty-five Gs ain't going to get you much living. You'll be down there on the street living in a box with me."

"Well, I'm doing the best I can." Harrys' feelings were hurt.

"Don't get me wrong, Harry. I think you're doing okay. Let me give you a suggestion, how about taking me to work with you tomorrow?"

"How would you suggest we do that, and why would you want to go?"

"Easy. I saw you have a backpack in the closet, just stick me in it and nobody will know the difference. I can get out at your office and nose around a while, see what I can see."

"You know if anybody spots you, they will bring in the pest control guys and it'll be an ugly death."

"Don't worry about that, Harry. I've been at this game a long time. You'd be surprised at the spaces I can get in and out of. I've had some close calls, but nobody's got me yet."

"I guess it's okay with me, but if you're caught you're on your own. I will swear I've never seen you before."

"That's good, besides who's going to believe a talking rat?" Bo grinned wide, showing his front buckteeth, and the whiskers around his nose twitched in anticipation.

The next morning Harry showered while Bo snacked on some of the leftover corned beef and rye. He dressed, bundled in his overcoat and pulled out the old backpack, which he hadn't used in years. "Ready to go Harry?" Bo asked.

Harry still had difficulty believing he was developing a relationship with a rat, but he thought he would play it out and see where it went. He opened the zipper and gently picked up Bo and put him inside. "Don't you dare make any noise where people can hear us, or else I'll toss you out in the sewer."

"Don't worry, Har, I'll be quiet as a mouse, err, rat." Bo laughed at his own joke, more of a squeal than a laugh.

Harry made the journey down to the subway, jostling and bouncing with the other passengers, concerned that Bo might get squashed in the crowds. During the ride, he snuck open the zipper and felt inside to be sure Bo was okay. Bo confirmed by giving Harry a light nip on the finger.

When Harry got to his cubicle in the back office, he gently set the backpack down and unzipped the pocket. Bo stuck his head out and looked around. "This is it? I have to tell you, Harry, you're a long way from the top," Bo whispered.

Harry frowned at him. "Get out if you're going, I've got work to do."

"Okay, okay. Jeez, Harry, you've got to get a better sense of humor. I'll be back around lunchtime. Do you usually eat in or out?"

"Out, usually down at the hot dog stand on the corner." Harry shoved off his overcoat and hung it on the extra chair beside him.

Silently, Bo eased out of the backpack, edged over to the cubicle opening to look out, and then, in a flash, was off towards the maintenance room at the end of the hall. He hid in a corner until someone came along and swung open the door. Bo scooted in just before it slammed shut, dashing under a mop bucket just inside. He sat and eyed the janitor while he gathered his cleaning tools and went back out. In the darkness, Bo moved around cautiously, letting his eyes adjust. He sniffed and moseyed about, getting a good feel for the place. It wasn't long before he spied what he was looking for, the ventilation duct at the top of the ceiling. It was high up, but there was no air register covering the opening, making it simple once he climbed his way there.

Inside the metal duct, it was easy going as Bo followed it down, investigating the twist and turns, pausing at each air register to look and listen. He discovered several offices occupied by what he assumed were brokers, pushing their spiel over the phones, urging whoever was on the other end to take advantage of what they were sure would be big moneymakers. If only the folks on the other end of the phone could see the advisors as they stood up waving their hands, giving the client the finger when they obviously got resistance, grabbing their crotch in non-described wishes for them, and cursing them out when the call was finished. Bo just shook his head.

He took a right turn down a round pipe that angled off from the main square to peek into the room at the end. When he looked down, it was the men's bathroom. Bo watched as guys came in, used the facilities, several of them taking time to stick a short straw up their nose and suck a little white powder. They would carefully check in the mirror to be sure no residue was left. It was a curiosity to Bo, a ritual he'd never seen before.

Back up and across the main line into another round pipe, Bo watched the women's bathroom for a while. He didn't see any sucking white powder, but he did see a human man and woman come in, lock the door, and perform the mating ritual against the sink. Bo had seen this before but not in a bathroom, and was surprised at their agility.

Bo went back and followed the main trunk line to the end. There he looked in on what he figured must be the big room Harry had described. Sitting around a huge table, there were five older human men talking. He settled down to listen. They were describing a stock they planned to sell short, whatever that meant, and make a bundle when it fell. Bo didn't understand all of what they were describing, but he would remember it and talk to Harry later.

Bo messed around until lunch, then had to find a way through one of the bathroom vents because the maintenance door was closed and nobody came to open it after he had waited thirty minutes. He dodged his way back to Harrys' cubicle, avoiding spiked high heels and heavy-footed men. Harry wasn't in his space when Bo got back, and since he couldn't open the zipper, he just jumped into one of the pockets on Harrys' overcoat.

Harry came back from washing up in the restroom, and not seeing Bo around, grabbed his coat and headed outside. He was on the elevator when he stuck his hand into his pocket. Bo gave him a love nip and it scared Harry so bad he jumped backwards, stepping on a lady's toe. He apologized for the next four floors of the ride. When he went through the rotating door, Harry gave a slap to the outside of his coat pocket and heard an umpf from inside it. He smiled to himself.

Harry found his favorite vendor on the corner and got a hot dog sans kraut, settling for relish instead, and a soda, and went over to occupy a bench in the park nearby. It was cold out, but the sun was shinning. As he slowly consumed his food, occasionally Harry would pinch off a little piece of the wiener and bun and slide it nonchalantly into his pocket, then listen for little chewing noises. When he finished eating, he dropped the wrapper and plastic soda cup into the trash and headed back to the office. As he neared his building, Harry could hear Bo chattering about something, so he gave him another tap to the pocket, and he got quiet.

By the end of the day and after getting off at his stop on the subway, Harry shopped at the same little deli as the day before. This time he got a wedge of cheese, an apple, and some salami. By the time he unlocked his door, Bo was already trying to climb out of his coat pocket. He had discovered it was a lot warmer in the wool than in the plastic backpack. "Man, Harry, get me out of here. You are my hero, dude. Cheddar cheese, apple, and salami, I can't wait. Let's eat."

Harry lifted Bo out and sat him on the counter. "You'll have to wait until I change clothes. Be patient." He sat the grocery bag out, and then changed his mind and put it in the refrigerator; concerned Bo wouldn't be able to control himself. He changed into some old jeans and a sweatshirt, relieved himself, and then came back to the kitchen. Harry made a good salami and cheese sandwich and cut the apple into small bites, sharing with Bo.

They both enjoyed their meager meal before relaxing on the sofa to let digestion take place. "Really enjoyed that apple, Harry. I've been clogged up for a week and I think a little fruit will do the trick."

Harry gave him a disgusted look. "Good to know. Just remember your promise to relieve yourself elsewhere."

"No worries. As a matter of fact, I think I better be scooting over to the apartment next door right now. I'll be back in a few, want to talk to you about what I heard today." Bo jumped from the sofa and scurried into the bedroom and out the rat hole he used.

He was back in a few minutes. "Feel better?"

"Thank you, yes I do. I needed that."

"What did you want to talk about?" Harry was at the point he no longer felt weird talking to Bo. It just seemed like normal conversation with another person.

Bo started into recounting his scouting mission that day, telling Harry about the mating ritual he witnessed and the human men sucking the white powder up their nose. Finally, he got to the part about seeing the older humans in the big room. "Tell me, Harry, what does a short sell mean?"

Harry looked surprised to hear Bo using stock trade lingo. "Well, it means you trade on margin, meaning you buy stocks you are sure will go down in value, the brokerage firm lends you most of the money, sells the stock for you at the market price, and uses the stock as collateral. That's opposed to a cash account where you buy and pay for the stock up front."

"How do you make money when a stock goes down?"

"Let's look at it this way. You buy a hundred shares of stock XYZ at sixty-five dollars for a total investment of sixty-five hundred dollars. Later, when you need to close the short sell, you have to replace the same hundred shares the brokerage lent you, but now the stock value has dropped to forty dollars a share, so you buy the replacement at four thousand dollars and you make a profit of two thousand five hundred dollars."

Bo was giving Harry his rapt attention. "That seems too easy."

Harry smiled the smile of the all-knowing. "It's not easy at all, a person should only play that game if he is a professional. If the stock goes up to say ninety dollars, then you're out not only the difference, but now you suffer the loss of the security, meaning you're out ninety thousand dollars.

"Wow, that's what I call gambling. So, these guys are sitting around picking a target they think is going to suffer a significant drop in value and betting on the come?"

"That's exactly right. The difference in them and Joe Public is that they have got spies and insiders all over the place to keep them informed when a company might be in trouble, and they move in with millions of dollars."

"They really clean up, huh?"

Harry nodded confirmation. "You want to know what caused the recession, it was exactly that, selling mortgage securities they knew were worthless, and waiting for them to fall."

Bo's whiskers were really twitching; Harry could see excitement in his eyes. "So, if a fellow knew what was coming, he could get rich pulling off one of these?

"That's the theory."

"Tell you what, Harry, I'm going to think some more on this and, now that I understand better what they are talking about, I will see what I can learn."

Harry patted Bo on the head, dismissing his innocence. It was a complicated world most smart men couldn't understand completely, much less a rat. But, he was coming to enjoy the conversations, he felt much less lonely now, and he was eating better since he had a dinner partner.

For the rest of the week, Harry slipped Bo into his coat pocket and took him to work. Bo spent his days moving around the firm, listening and learning what he could, and each night he would get Harry to explain what he didn't understand. On Saturday morning, they both slept in late and when Harry finally got up; he went down to the bakery and got some donuts. He and Bo munched at the counter, Harry getting a laugh at the sight of Bo's face with powdered sugar all over it.

They went to sit on the couch and Harry tuned in to the Public Station, and watched his favorite how to shows on building stuff and fixing up a room. Bo watched for a while with him. "Harry, turn off the box for a few minutes, I want to talk to you about something."

Harry gave Bo an irritated look, and hit the mute button without turning off the picture. "What is it?"

"I think I have this short sell stuff pretty down pat. I have an idea for us to see if it works. You want to try it?"

"Is it going to cost me any money?" Harry kept one eye on the television.

"No. Here's what I'm thinking. I've listened to the old boys making plans for two days this week, and I know what stock they are going after. What I figured is we will pretend we used your twenty-five grand, pretend we bought on margin, and watch the stock to see what would have happened, check the results without investing anything. If we see it does, next time we follow them and try and make some serious cash."

"What's the stock?"

"Something called EPR Ltd. You know it?"

"No, but I'll look it up in the Wall Street Journal. We could do that just for fun, but I have no intentions of investing my savings."

"We'll talk about that later, first I want to see if these old coots know what they are doing."

"Okay." Harry turned the sound back on and stretched out on the couch. He thought he would entertain Bo and his pretend game, but taking risk had never been his personality. Harry was a slow-as-you-go, slip-and-slide kind of guy who felt safer the more indistinct he was. He had got this far in his life with a safety first attitude, and wasn't about to change now.

On Monday, Harry picked up one of the numerous Journals lying around the office and looked up the stock. The price showed at a hundred and one dollars a share. Bo had told him the old guys had been talking about going in for fifty thousand shares, a little over five million smackers, all bought on margin. Harry couldn't help but admire their courage.

Sure enough, as Harry and Bo followed the stock, it began dropping rapidly over the next few weeks. By the end of the month, it was down to forty-eight dollars per, meaning if the investors bought and repaid the stock shares on that day, they would have made over $2.5 million without putting up any money. Bo let out a low whistle at the size of the numbers. "That is some serious bucks, Harry."

Harry himself was admiring as well. "That's how the big boys play. If you know what's coming, you can sit and wait on it to show up."

Bo sat and looked at Harry in a serious way. "Harry, let's do this."

"What?"

"Let's make a play. I'll get the scoop this week and we'll quietly follow their lead and make a bundle."

"What if we're wrong? We'd be out of a place to live and you'd be back to the sewers."

"Harry, look around you. Is this the best you hoped for when you were young? If you don't take some chances, Harry, this is it for you. You're going to get old with nobody to look out for you, and when all you got is your Social Security, assuming you have any by that time, where do you think you're going to live, and how do you think you're going to live?"

Harry rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger, thinking about what Bo said. It was truer than he wanted to believe. He had no family and didn't own anything, nothing to show for his twenty years at the company. Harry looked out the window and saw the snow was starting to fall again.

Harry gave Bo a long stare, in one way not believing he was about to trust his future to a rat, and in another way figuring he really had nothing to lose. "Okay, Bo, let's do it."

Bo dashed up Harrys' sleeve and gave him a peck on the cheek. "That's the courage I want to see from you. It'll work, Harry, I promise."

On Monday, Harry made an appointment with a lawyer downstairs in his building. When Harry was ushered into his office, he met an older man wearing glasses, sporting a brown Hound's-tooth jacket, and an open collar shirt. He looked nothing like the dragon slayers Harry normally saw coming and going from this office, so Harry figured the old guy was kept around for small clients like him. "Hello, Mr. Wilson. I'm Bill Norris." Norris came from around his desk and shook hands with Harry.

After a little small talk, they got down to business. "What can I do for you, Mr. Wilson?"

"I want to start an LLC," said Harry.

"And why would you want to do that?" Norris questioned.

"I am considering some investments and would prefer them to not be in my name directly."

"I see," said Norris. "You understand a Limited Liability Corporation doesn't exempt you from total liability don't you, especially since I assume you will be the sole owner."

"Yes, I have studied them quite a bit."

Norris reached into his desk and withdrew a legal pad. "Okay, Mr. Wilson, let me get the specifics from you. First, what do you want to call the LLC?"

"Harbo Investments," answered Harry.

Norris continued to question Harry, getting all the pertinent information he needed. "It will take about six weeks for it to come back, but I don't anticipate any issues. Shall I send you a bill or do you want to take care of my fee now?"

"I'll pay you now," said Harry, retrieving his checkbook. "How much?"

"Seven hundred and fifty dollars."

Harry gulped hard and, with an unsteady hand, wrote the check.

When the business was finished, Harry walked out of the building and over to the park. He covered his mouth with his hand so as to not attract attention and whispered to Bo. "You better hope this works."

Bo stuck his nose just out the top of the coat pocket. "Don't worry, Har, I got your back." He ducked back in to get a nap before quitting time.

Sure enough, six weeks later, Harry got the paperwork for Harbo Investments. Having them, he went to his bank, opened a new account in the company name, and transferred all of his twenty-five thousand.

That night he and Bo sat down to discuss their strategy. Bo would spend the entire next week huddled in the vent shaft over the boardroom, and memorize what went on. Then he and Harry would discuss it, investigate the stock they were going after next, and plan the purchase.

On Friday, they splurged on steak and corn on the cob for their supper. Afterwards, they put their heads together and processed the information Bo had gathered and Harry had researched. The stock the old guys were going after was called QRT and was trading at forty dollars per share. With their cash and buying on margin, Harry and Bo decided they would risk buying five hundred shares, thereby not exceeding what they could pay if they lost. On Monday, Harry called a broker at another firm and made the buy.

Just the same way as before, they followed the stock over the next few weeks and it dropped like a rock. By the time they had to buy shares to replace the collateral at the broker, it was selling for ten bucks a share. They bought the 500 shares for five thousand dollars, making a neat profit of fifteen thousand dollars. That night, they toasted each other with some wine Harry had bought. Unfortunately, drinking the whole saucer full wasted Bo, and Harry had to put him to bed early.

Over the next several months, Harry and Bo repeated the process again and again, and each time they at least doubled their money. By the end of summer, the Harbo Investments account had a balance of two hundred and twenty thousand dollars. It was heady stuff and Harry and Bo couldn't help but giggle at themselves at the end of each month.

They were reclining on the couch after a meal of turkey with all the trimmings on Thanksgiving Day, both of them miserable from eating too much. "What do you think, Bo, should we take what we've got and call it a day on this game?"

"I've been thinking about that, Harry. I'm sort of leaning towards one more shot, going for the big one."

"What if we lose? We're doing okay now, we've got plenty of money to live like we want to, even have a nest egg for the day I have to retire."

"Let me ask you this, Harry. If money was no object, what is your dream life?" Bo pushed back his little red tam he refused to get rid of, even though Harry had offered to buy him another, newer one.

"I don't know, Bo. I guess I would want to buy a nice apartment somewhere in the City, have a place to call my own. What about you?"

Bo nodded his head as he listened to Harry. "Pretty much the same, all I've ever wanted was a warm place to live, maybe my own little refrigerator filled with fruit, cheeses, corned beef and stuff. I got no use for money because I can't spend it. All I can do is enjoy the things it can buy." He showed his buckteeth and eyed Harry. "Sounds like we got pretty much the same dream."

Harry knew what Bo wanted him to say, that if he got a nice place, Bo would be able to live with him. "Are you sure you want to risk what we've got? A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush." Harry cautioned against Bo's growing excitement.

"Let's do it, Harry. Let's take our shot at the brass ring. We're as smart as those other guys, besides we got inside information that has proved to be right every single time."

"The difference is," defended Harry, "they can afford to lose. We can't."

The two of them talked into the late night, going back and forth with reasons for and against taking such a gamble. Since Harry was off work on Friday, they spent the rest of the weekend with Bo urging and Harry resisting. Finally, on Sunday night, Harry relented. "Okay, find out what they are going after next and we will go for it one last time."

Bo was jubilant. "Don't worry Harry boy, we're going to clean up."

On Monday, Harry and Bo went to work with a serious purpose. Bo did not dally, scurrying into the maintenance closet and up the wall and into the heat shaft. He ignored his usual entertainment of watching the human bathrooms, and headed straight for the boardroom. Sure enough, in a short while the old guys came in and sat down. First, they congratulated each other on the marvelous year they had had, and passed out checks to each other. Bo couldn't read them from his position, but from the whistles and comments, he was sure there were some very large numbers written on the paper.

After a while, they began to discuss what to do next. A couple of them started to argue for taking long positions since the market seemed to be rebounding. The other three felt differently, citing the fact of how successful they had been to this point. The conversation got to be quite heated at times. Bo listened and began to have his own concerns about going for the big one if these guys, who were a lot smarter than Harry and him, were expressing doubts. His brow furrowed and his whiskers twitched with indecision.

Finally, after a vote of three to two, the agreement was made to go after a stock called AZIT International, a mining company in Australia. Not only were they going after it, they were doing it to the tune of one million shares. Bo figured that was a huge risk, even for these big boys.

That night after they got home, Bo and Harry sat at the kitchen counter and ate some leftover turkey sandwiches. Bo filled Harry in on the stock and the number of shares to be bought. "Wow," said Harry.

"Yeah, I know." He didn't tell Harry how two of the group didn't want to do it, figuring Harry would run for the hills. "What's it going for?"

Harry pulled the Wall Street Journal out of his overcoat pocket and looked it up. "Twenty-eight bucks a share."

"Can we buy a hundred thousand shares?" Bo asked, prepared for Harry to blow his stack.

"Are you nuts? We'd be on the hook for $2.8 million."

"Harry, you've got to stop looking at the glass half empty. If it pays off, think about that apartment you could buy. Think about the life you could have, doing what you wanted, how you wanted, and when you wanted. Think about all the good stuff and don't bring the negative vibes into this."

I don't believe I have the courage, Bo, I really don't. We have been very lucky up to now, and I ave you to thank for that. But, I don't want to go back to where we were or even worse."

"And you think I do?"

Harry covered his face with his hands, rubbing them up and down, trying to clear his brain as it screamed, "don't do it" to him. "I've got to sleep on it, Bo. I can't make a decision like this without thinking about the plusses and minuses."

Bo hopped onto the back of the sofa and came to Harrys' shoulder. He patted him on it, knowing what a major adjustment this was for Harry. Bo knew he could always survive in the back hallways or attics or even the sewers if he had to. But Harry didn't have that option. "Sure, Harry. Sleep on it, take your time, but every day we wait, we could be losing money."

They went to bed early that night. Harry dreamed of monsters chasing homeless people, and saw himself at the head of the pack as they ran and hid to keep from being eaten alive. He tossed and turned, waking up about every two hours, exhausted when his alarm went off.

By Wednesday Harry had decided to give in and agreed with Bo to buy the shares. When he placed the order with the broker he had been using, the guy asked Harry if he was sure he could cover the money if things went south. Harry had a lump in his throat as he stuttered that he could. Harbo Investments purchased and sold a hundred thousand shares of AZIT International for $2.8 million, which was deposited into their account. Now they would wait.

Harry and Bo couldn't wait to grab a copy of the Journal each morning and read it on the subway. Three days after he bought, AZIT went up to thirty dollars a share. Two days later, it went to thirty-two. Harry was sick. He alternately cursed Bo and himself for being so stupid. When the stock went to thirty-five the next week, Harry began looking for bus ticket prices to Florida.

"We're getting killed, Bo. If they call this stock, it's over for us. God, I should never have listened to you."

"It's not over yet, Harry. Let's not panic."

"Shut up. You're just a rat; nobody's going to come after you. You can go back to living in the walls. I'll be lucky somebody in a big black Cadillac doesn't find me and I end up in the East river with cement shoes."

The ugly mood between them continued for another week as the stock rose to thirty-eight dollars a share. Harry resigned himself to being destitute, pledging he would at least kill a rat before it was over.

Things got worse on Friday. The broker called Harry and told him he was calling the collateral, a hundred thousand shares, which now totaled $3.8 million. Harry had a week to deliver the security. He went home that afternoon, trying to decide which way to end it all, jumping in front of a subway train or taking a leap out his fourth floor window. When he got home, he looked out his window and tried to calculate if jump would be sufficient to kill him instantly. He refused to fix Bo any supper that night or the rest of the weekend, planning on how he would do away with Bo before he had to kill himself.

Bo tried but could not overcome Harrys' mood. For the most part, he stayed out of sight, scrounging for something to eat in the other apartments, dodging Mrs. Marburg's cat on several occasions. By Sunday night, he vowed he would leave the apartment after Harry went to work on Monday, knowing he had ruined the only good human relationship he had ever had. He was sad because he would miss Harry and their conversations, the good feelings they had when things were going well, and the fact he was not losing just a good life, but a true friend. He could understand Harrys' feelings, and had only himself to blame.

On Monday morning, Harry left without a goodbye. Slowly Bo went around the apartment, gathering up what few things he had. He found an old handkerchief, bundled his possessions, and went through the bedroom one last time. There was a tear in his eye as he disappeared through the rat hole in the wall.

On the way to work, Harry picked up a Journal but he was afraid to look up the stock, so he stuck it in his pocket without reading. He didn't need any more bad news this early in the morning. When he got to the office, he threw his coat over the chair and tried to absorb himself in the work he had to do. At lunch, he went for his usual hot dog and soda and then went to sit on the bench in the park, agonizing over what he could do to rescue the coming disaster. He concluded there was no way out. Absently, he pulled out the Journal and began reading it. On the bottom of the front page was a small article and the letters AZIT caught his eye. As he read, he began to get some glimmer of hope. It seemed the company was being investigated for improper accounting records, and the Securities and Exchange Commission folks were cautioning investors.

Harry quickly tossed his trash and hurried back to the office. Inside, he went directly to the big board screen in one of the rooms where the company streamed stocks all day. Desperately, he looked for AZIT. When it rolled across, it showed the stock down to thirty-two dollars a share. Harry was still in the losing position, but at least it was going the right way. He sat and watched until he knew he better get back to his work.

When Harry got his apartment unlocked that night, he laid out some pastrami and fresh rye on the counter. He didn't see Bo anywhere. He searched the bedroom and bathroom, calling Bo's name several times. There was no reply. Harry knew he had been hard on Bo and he was sorry. After all he hadn't been forced to do the deal, he had just gotten greedy. Bo hadn't made him do it. He was a grown man and Bo was just a rat.

Harry made himself a sandwich and put a part of it in a saucer and left it on the counter, thinking Bo may be hungry when he got in. He sat and watched television, catching the stock news on PBS. In the midst of all the quotes, Harry caught that Morgan Stanley had changed AZIT from a buy to a sell. It further lifted his hopes. When it got time for bed, Harry again went around the apartment, looking and calling for Bo. He was only met with silence.

In the morning, Harry noticed the meat and bread he had left for Bo had not been touched. Now he was worried. What if Bo had decided to run away from home? What if some disaster had befallen him? Harry picked up the saucer and took it to the bedroom and placed it in front of the rat hole he knew Bo used to move around the building. Maybe the smell of food would guide him back.

That day, Harry slipped in and watched the big board several times. AZIT was going down gradually, ending the day at thirty dollars, closer but not there yet. He would have to produce the hundred thousand shares on Friday and today was Tuesday. The furrows between Harrys' eyes deepened with worry. If the stock stayed above twenty-eight dollars by the end of the business day Thursday, he was screwed.

Wednesday came and went, still no sign of Bo, but the stock fell like a rock, down to twenty dollars, and the Journal was reporting the company to be in deep do-do. Harry took too silent praying at his desk that the value would not suddenly reverse. If investors thought it had dropped to an attractive enough level, they could jump in on a buying spree and force it back up. He not only worried about that, but, just as important to him, there had been no word from Bo. Harry really found himself missing his partner, their nightly conversations, the ability Bo had to look on the bright side of things, and the confidence he had instilled in Harry. He left food every night, but it was just sitting in the same place every morning. Harry would have to quit it because some ants had discovered the plate and he had to dump them into the trash. Before, he would have just sprayed them to death, but, since Bo, he could not bring himself to do away with any creature. Harry even took a slow walk up and down the hall of his floor, whispering Bo's name as he went, thinking he might have hold up in another apartment. As he passed Mrs. Marburg's door, she opened it, and gave Harry a distrustful once over. Harry decided he did look stupid, out searching for a rat, so he went back to his door and slept fitfully as he waited on Thursday.

By midday on Thursday, AZIT's value had dropped to an amazing five dollars. Harry immediately went to the market and bought a hundred thousand shares at a cost of five hundred thousand dollars, called his broker, and transferred the securities back, netting an unbelievable profit of $2.3 million. Harry was dizzy with adrenaline by the time he was finished. His heart palpitated to the point he was afraid he would have a heart attack. Sweat broke out all over him. He knew he couldn't work anymore that day, so, without a word to anyone, he grabbed his coat and left to go home.

Harry wanted to celebrate. He wanted to run down the street screaming. He muttered crazy things to himself as he rode the subway and walked the four blocks home. People moved away from him. Harry frothed at the edges of his mouth, not being able to swallow properly as his mind raced a million miles a minute. He was rich. He could do anything he wanted. He had taken the chance and it paid off. Harry felt like beating his chest and announcing himself king of his world. He stopped in the corner deli and went slightly berserk, buying quantities' of corned beef, ham, salami, pastrami, fruit and potato salad. He and Bo would feast tonight. The realization that Bo was gone hit Harry at the bottom of the steps to his building. He just sat down and looked out onto the cold streets, feeling terribly lonely, not having Bo to share the good fortune. After all, if not for Bo, Harry would still be the same loser as he had been all his life.

Quickly going from elation to dejection, he pulled himself off the steps and wearily climbed the four flights of stairs. Inside his apartment, he took the grocery bags and just put them into the refrigerator, no longer hungry. He sat down on the sofa, looking longingly at Bo's place on the arm. He laid his head back and closed his eyes, drained by the emotions of the last few hours. In a few minutes, he began to doze.

Harry was in the midst of a dream where Bo was calling to him for help, and Harry had been frantically searching for him. He came awake is a rush, sucking in a lung full of air and in a panic. He sat still for a minute, getting his bearings, frightened by the dream. Then he heard it. A soft muted voice calling his name; "Harry help me."

Harry couldn't immediately distinguish from where the sound was coming. He got up and searched the kitchen and the rest of the living room, even opening the door to see if it had come from the hall. Then he heard it again, "Harry, help me." The voice was accompanied by a choking cough.

Realizing now the source of the call, Harry dashed into the bedroom, flicking on the light. He looked toward the rat hole and there he saw Bo. He was lying on his stomach, legs flayed outward, blood pooling around his body. Harry was at his side in a moment. "Bo," cried Harry, almost weeping with relief and fear. "Bo, what happened?"

Bo looked up at Harry with cloudy eyes, forcing a semi smile, "Marburg's cat. He finally got me, Harry."

Not knowing how to handle a hurt and bleeding rat, Harry tenderly picked up Bo and carried him to the kitchen counter and laid him on a throw pillow from the couch. "Bo, what do I need to do for you? Should I take you to a veterinarian? Tell me how to help you."

"It might be too late, Har. I may have bought the farm. I'll just lay here a while if it's okay with you. I know you hate me, but I didn't know where else to go."

"Hate you? Are you crazy? We did it, Bo. We hit the big one. We're rich. We're going to get that place we wanted and you're going to get that refrigerator."

Bo managed a weak grin, showing his bloody buckteeth. "That's great, Harry. I knew you could do it." He groaned in pain.

Harry wet a paper towel and began to lightly swab the blood from Bo's back. He saw one huge scratch down the center and a smaller one in back of Bo's head. "He really took a swipe at you, didn't he?"

"Yeah, just getting old, Harry. Time was I could have run circles around the jackass, but he got me good. He was sitting on a table over my rat hole and jumped me when I came out. I would have never fallen for that trick in my younger days. I guess I've been living the good life too long."

"And you're going to live it again, Bo. Just fight back, don't give up. I'll be right here with you."

"I appreciate that, Harry. Could you get me just a little water, and I don't suppose you have any leftovers in the fridge do you?"

Harry brought Bo a cup of water and a straw and held the straw to Bo's mouth while he drank. He then went to the grocery bag, pulled out some beef and cut it up in very small bits and fed it to Bo a little at a time. Bo managed to get down some of the meat and some of the water without choking. "That's enough for now, Harry." Bo was shivering.

Harry went and got a dry dishrag and laid it over Bo like a blanket. "Is that better?"

"It sure is. I'm just so cold right now."

Harry gently picked up the pillow that Bo lay on, and took it with him to the couch. He sat beside him and let his palm cover Bo, hopefully transferring some body heat. "Are you getting any warmer?"

"I'm good, Harry. I do appreciate this. Tell me again how much money you made?"

Harry started to recount the day, waving his arms with excitement as he explained what he had done, and rejoicing out loud at what a miracle it was. He went on for a good thirty minutes with the story. When he looked over to get Bo's reaction, his eyes were closed. Harry felt coldness in his heart, and a fearsome dread came over him. He touched Bo. When he didn't move, he pushed on him again.

Bo popped open one eye. "Sorry, Harry, I must have fallen asleep."

Harry was so relieved he couldn't stop laughing. "It's perfectly fine, Bo, just close your eyes and get some rest. You'll feel better in the morning."

Not having any experience as a person of money, Harry didn't quite know how to act, so on Monday he went to work as usual. He had nursed and fawned over Bo all weekend and thought he was some better. His back was extremely painful and Harry had put some Neosporin on the deep cut, not knowing if it worked for rats or not. He had even cut up a baby aspirin into tiny bits and dissolved it in water, which he got Bo to drink. That seemed to relieve the pain some. He had again offered to take Bo to a vet, but Bo didn't think he was up to the trip.

Harry went to the bank at lunch and closed the Harbo Investment account and transferred the funds to his checking. He kept looking at the deposit receipt, hoping he wasn't going to wake up and this had all been a dream. He wondered if he should quit his job. He thought about buying a car to avoid the subway, but he had never learned to drive, and he didn't think New York would be the best place to learn. Just for the heck of it, he took a cab from Wall Street all the way home, and tipped the cabbie twenty bucks on top of the sixty dollar ride.

As soon as he got in the apartment, he checked on Bo. "How are you feeling, old friend?" He looked more closely at Bo, noting some places on the cuts had started to scab over. Bo still laid flat on his stomach, but could manage to raise up on his elbows for a while. Harry had taken a Q-tip and cleaned Bo's teeth of the blood so he had a brighter smile.

"I'm feeling better, thanks. Say, Harry, do you think you could look around and see if you can find my hat, I feel naked without it."

Harry searched the bedroom and all around the rat hole, even sticking a pencil inside to try and locate Bo's red tam. He had no luck. He went back to where Bo lay on the pillow. "Sorry, Bo, I don't see it anywhere."

"Oh well, maybe it will turn up one day." He smiled, but Harry could tell he was feeling depressed.

"How about some supper? Do you feel up to something?"

"I'm really not hungry, but I guess I need to keep my strength up. Just a little of whatever you've got will be okay."

Harry set about fixing a ham sandwich, cutting a small piece for Bo and putting it on a saucer with a few tiny bits of cheddar cheese and just a dab of potato salad. Using a miniature spoon he had bought, he fed little bites to Bo, and held a straw while he washed it down. Surprisingly, Bo ate most of it.

When they had settled down to watch television, Bo suddenly let out a burp. "Harry, I've got a problem here."

"What is it?" Harry was immediately concerned.

"You know how I promised not to poop in your apartment?"

"Yeah."

"I think I'm about to break my promise." Bo had a pained look in his eyes.

Harry thought for a minute. "You want some privacy?"

"That would be nice. And you better hurry."

Harry quickly slid a paper towel under Bo and lifted him up and carried him to the bathroom. "Do what you got to do, Bo, and call me when you're finished."

"Okay, close the door please."

Harry went back and waited patiently for Bo to call him. After a few minutes he did and Harry transferred Bo to a clean dishtowel and carried him back to his place on the pillow. He then went back and tossed the mess into the toilet.

When he returned to sit, Bo said, "you're a real pal, Harry. Not many people would do such a thing for another person, much less a rat."

"You're my friend, Bo, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you.

Months passed and Bo continued to improve. By April, he was up to taking walks around the apartment when Harry suggested they go out and sit in the park a while, get some fresh air. Bo agreed and let Harry put him in his sports jacket pocket. They found a bench far from the other folks enjoying the springtime, and sat and watched the new daffodils flower and listened to the happy sounds of kids playing. Bo stood on his hind feet and stuck his head out of the pocket while he and Harry talked about what a glorious day it was.

"So what's next for you Harry?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you are a rich man now, and you can do whatever you want. I was just wondering if you have made any plans."

"To tell the truth, Bo, I haven't had much time to think about it. I was more worried about you surviving than anything else. What do you think we should do?"

Bo caught the "we" in the question. "You mean you are including me in the plans?"

"Why wouldn't I? You are most responsible for us being in this position."

"I don't know. You know you don't have to. I'm just grateful you cared enough to help me get back on my feet."

"You have any family, Bo?" Harry had never asked before.

"Heck, Harry, rats got family everywhere, why do you think there's so many of us. Birth control is not part of our culture."

"So, no one special?"

"Nope. Just you."

"Then that settles it. We are all each other's got. I think I'll go in Monday and quit my job. How does a nice vacation to Florida strike you?"

"Strikes me great, Har. Let's do it."

The two of them sat on the park bench all afternoon, making plans for their trip, not caring when people walked by and looked oddly at Harry as he seemed to be sitting and talking to himself, and laughing.

On Monday morning, Harry went to the human resources department and informed them he was leaving. He hardly got a "wish you well" from the snobs occupying the office. Next he went to a travel agency close by and mapped out a trip to Disney World, choosing to stay inside the Park at the nicest hotel and most expensive room. He called the airlines and got a round trip ticket on Southwest leaving the coming Friday.

On Thursday, Harry went shopping. He bought some new shirts, slacks, shoes, and two new sport coats. He even managed to find Bo a new little red hat in the doll section of Macy's Department Store. Bo was overjoyed at the gift.

They got to Newark Airport three hours early on Friday, trying to give themselves time enough to figure out how Bo was going to get on the plane. Finally they concluded the only way was for Bo to make a dash for it when the airplane off-loaded before they would board. Hopefully, in the rush and confusion, he could slip into the plane and wait for Harry. It worked, and as soon as Harry got a seat, Bo scooted under the chairs and up Harrys' leg and into the pocket of the jacket Harry had draped over his lap. Bo stayed very quiet during the two-hour flight.

When they de-planed in Orlando, Harry retrieved the bags and they caught a cab to their otel inside the Park. After tipping the bellboy generously, they were finally alone in the magnificent room. Bo hopped out, and went over to the window for a look-see. "Wow, Harry, what a view." Harry joined Bo and they gazed out at the postcard picture before them, the Magic Kingdom, the monorail, and off in the distance, Epcot Center.

"What do you want to do first, Bo?"

"Let's catch the monorail and wander around inside the Park. I want to see what another rat is responsible for." He grinned up at Harry, tugging the red tam down closer on his head.

"Okay, let's go." Again Bo went into Harrys' coat pocket and they took the elevator to the main lobby where they caught the electric train. Harry admired the wonderful ride and the courteous folks who worked for Disney. Upon exiting at the Park, Harry was hit by the blast of heat engulfing him off the asphalt. Harry had endured the summers in New York, but never felt such a level of humidity combined with ferocious heat. He had to stand a moment to get his breathing under control.

Harry began to stroll around, seeing the sights, taking in some of the rides that went through dark buildings so Bo could poke his head out and see the events. After three hours, Harry had sweat running all over him. He whispered to Bo as they came out of the Tea Cup ride, "are you ready to go back?"

"I'm about to suffocate in here," Bo said.

Harry headed back to the boarding platform for the monorail, which fortunately was air-conditioned, and wasted little time getting to the room. Harry peeled off all his clothes and sat in front of the window to cool himself. He poured some water into a small dish he had brought and gave Bo some water. "Dang, Harry, is it always this hot down here?"

"Well there's no winter so I'm guessing it's always going to be pretty warm."

"No snow, no ice skating, no Fall or Spring?"

"Not much changes this far south, although I'm sure it gets cooler than this in winter months."

"I don't know if I could take this year round, Harry. I guess I've been in the City too long."

"I know what you mean." After a shower, Harry ordered room service to bring up a fruit plate and chicken salad. They sat and munched and relaxed watching the big screen television. Bo crawled up onto one of the big pillows on the bed.

"I think I'm going to catch a nap, Harry."

Harry lay down on the bed beside him and stretched out. "I do believe I'll join you." They were both tired from the excitement of their first airplane ride and the venture into the Park, and were asleep in just a few minutes.

Harry and Bo spent the rest of the week sightseeing and suffering through the immense heat in Florida. By Friday, they were ready to head home to New York. Getting on the plane proved easier this time for Bo. Nobody coming off had their heads down; they were too busy looking around, excited about their vacations. When the two of them got off the plane in New Jersey, it was warm, but nothing like the Deep South.

It took two hours to get from the airport to the East Side, and by the time Harry had unlocked the apartment door, both were feeling ragged and worn out. They decided they would just order Chinese for supper, and both crashed on the couch. "Home sweet home, huh Harry."

"Yep. You know, Bo, I don't think I would want to live in Florida. It's too hot, they got lots of bugs, and not to mention snakes. It's pretty and all, but there's nothing like the smell of the City."

"I agree, Harry. The Big Apple, where stuff goes on twenty-four seven; with all it's faults, it's hard to beat."

On Monday, Harry and Bo rode into the Upper East Side and walked over to the streets around Central Park. They sat on benches and took note of the big apartment buildings that surrounded the area. "See anything you like, Bo?"

"I like them all, Harry, anything strike your fancy?"

"Let's go look them over closer." Three hours later, they had surveyed all the places they had the energy to cover. Harry had a note pad and jotted down notices of apartments for sale in several of the buildings.

On Tuesday, he called and made an appointment to meet a realtor for one he thought he might like to see. They met on Wednesday at eleven and the lady gave them a tour. The apartment was on the twenty-first floor and had an amazing view of the city. It was near the park, and she bragged about the security the co-op supplied as part of the monthly maintenance cost. The floors were hardwood, and the two bedrooms were fairly large, as was the living area and kitchen. To Harry it was perfect, the home he had always secretly wished for. "What's the price?" He asked the realtor.

"One million," she answered casually, at the moment wishing she had not made the appointment without checking references first. Looking at Harry, she just didn't get the feel he was a player in this kind of market.

"I'll give you nine fifty for it." Harrys' offer slapped the lady right in the face.

She began to stutter. "How will you cover the financing?"

"None required."

The lady quickly recovered her senses, whipping out a contract. This place had been on the market two years; to the point her company was offering a spiff of ten grand to anybody who moved it. As she pointed to the signature spots for Harry to sign, she quickly did the math in her head, five percent of the sales price, half of which she would get, plus the ten came up to a nice round figure of $33,750 in her pocket. She resisted the urge to kiss Harry.

After they got back home, Bo hopped out. "Whew, that was some serious money we're throwing around. Did you like it that much?"

"I did. Now we'll have a place to call our own, plenty of room, nobody to answer to, and just a short walk from the park. I think it's the best thing I've ever done." Harry beamed broadly at Bo.

Bo had a hard time believing his eyes. When he had found Harry, he was just a step away from being about the most defeated human he had ever seen. Now look at him. Bo was very proud of Harry, and proud of himself that he had some small part in making it happen. Bo walked across the back of the sofa and gripped Harry as much as he could around the neck in a hug. "You're the man, Harry."

On Friday, Harry met the realtor and the closing attorney at their office. He signed the papers, handed over the certified check for just under a million bucks, and they handed him the key. Harry didn't spend any time worrying about getting movers for his stuff. He just went out and bought all new, new beds, new sofas and chairs, new kitchen stuff, lamps, whatever else struck his fancy. He was beginning to take to this new life of having wealth. He even went to the doll shop and bought Bo a real bed. He went to Niemen-Marcus and found a refrigerator with a remote control for easy opening. Bo couldn't believe it when Harry told him about it.

By the next Monday, they were moved in, and relaxing on soft and luxurious furniture, watching a sixty-inch Plasma television. After supper, they went for a walk in Central Park. Harry let Bo out to the ground and he scouted out the place, taking a sip from a discarded soda pop, and a few bites from the remains of a roast beef hoagie. He also found him a place he could do his pooping where he wouldn't be a bother to anyone.

Over the next six months, Harry and Bo came to love their life in their new apartment. They came and went as the mood struck them. Bo spent considerable time exploring the building, discovering that expensive places had rat holes just like the cheap ones. He would sit after supper and tell Harry about all the people who lived around them, and the best part was none of them had cats.

On a Fall morning, Harry got up at eight as usual. He did his bathroom rituals and went in to turn on the coffee. He set out some fruit and cheese and bread for toast, and strawberry jam. Usually Bo was up before him, but this morning Harry hadn't heard him stirring. He walked into the guest bedroom where Bo kept his bed.

"Bo, time to get up. Do you want any juice for breakfast?"

Bo didn't answer. Harry walked around the side of the bed, and could see Bo had the covers pulled up over his head. He picked up an edge of a tiny sheet and pulled it back. Bo didn't move. Harry reached down to give him a shake. Still, Bo didn't move, his eyes remained closed. Harry put the backside of his hand to Bo's skin and it was cold. Harry knew he was dead. "Oh, Bo, I'm so sorry." Harry just sat and stared at his friend for a while, patting his head and stroking his small body.

Harry pulled the cover off Bo and saw he had pooped his bed. "Must have been a heart attack," he muttered to himself. With great care, Harry picked up Bo and wrapped him in a silk handkerchief. He just sat and held him for a long time, reflecting on their life together. Bo had done so much for him, and Harry was grateful. He loved Bo as he would a person, maybe more. He had not enjoyed any relationship in many, many years until Bo came along. Harry began to cry. He was not weeping because Bo had died, he was crying because he would miss him so much. He talked to Bo, telling him all the things he wished he had said before it was too late.

Later that day, when Harry had composed himself, he found a small metal fireproof box he had, and put Bo into it. He covered him with the handkerchief and laid his little red tam on his chest. He got a very large spoon and put it in his pocket, and made his way over to Central Park. Among the blooming daffodils a ways off from the main trail, Harry buried Bo. He had made a little cross with chopsticks and stuck them in the ground above Bo's head. Harry stood and said a silent prayer, thanking God for sending him Bo.

Harry lived on in the apartment for many more years, and for every day of those years, he could be found around lunchtime visiting Bo. As he got considerably older, not having any other family, Harry went to his lawyer and made his will. In it he ordered that all his worldly possessions be sold and the proceeds given to the Animal Protection Society upon his death. He would have given it to the Rat Protection Society if there were one, but he figured this was the next best thing. Harry eventually passed on, his death hardly noticed by anyone other than his attorney. One last thing Harry had ordered from his estate was that the people accepting the money for the Protection Society follow a well-drawn map to a special place in Central Park. There they would find a small cross of wood in amongst the daffodils. They were instructed to dig up the box underneath, and place it in the casket with Harry.

*****

An American War Story

A little known fact in America was that in 1964, the United States turned down a secret offer for peace talks with North Vietnam.

On Wednesday, October 30, 1964, Jessica Miller was preparing for another day at UNC Greensboro. Before leaving for her classes, she decided to call her brother Joe. She listened to the phone ring four times at her house in Charlotte before being answered. "Hello, Miller residence."

"Mom?" Jessica didn't know why she always asked the question, because who else would be answering the phone.

"Hi, Jessica, how are things?" She was cheerful as usual, "everything okay?"

"Yes, all is well. I was calling to see if Joe was home."

"Yes he is. He's upstairs. You want me to get him?"

"If it's not too much trouble. Are you and dad doing okay?"

"Oh, we're fine. Hold on and I'll tell Joe you're one the phone." She could hear her mom walking away and then the echo of her voice as she called up to Joe.

In a minute, he picked up the phone. "Hey, hot stuff. What's going on?"

He always made her smile. She pictured his face as they talked. He was long and thin with brown eyes that could go from playful to intense. She pictured his long frame leaned against the wall and sliding down to sit on the floor, his favorite phone-talking position. "I wanted to see if you would meet me in Chapel Hill tomorrow for Halloween? We could do some partying and you could dress up like the Tinker Bell you are." Jessica laughed at him.

"And I suppose you're going as the football mascot." He took a little stab at her. She had been dating Randy Flannigan who was on the Carolina football team, a person Joe described as a pompous, anal, overgrown idiot.

"Now, let's not be jealous just because you are such a weenie."

"At least I'm a weenie with a brain. That lummox couldn't fine his ass with two hands and a flashlight."

"I'll thank you not to talk shit about the love of my life."

"You are so full of crap."

"Anyway, are you coming down or not?" They had done the Franklin Street thing on Halloween for the last two years and had a ball. Joe was two years older, and took his role as a big brother seriously, too seriously sometimes, especially when it came to Randy. They confided in each other, bounced ideas off each other, and sometimes fought with each other. But, Jessica loved him dearly.

"I don't know. I'll have to argue with dad about using the car and listen to his shit about what not to do. I don't know if it's worth it."

"I'm worth it, you numb nuts. Besides, I'll bring along Katy and Liz so you can have some playthings."

"What? You don't think I can get my own?"

"Frankly, no." She giggled at his faked outrage.

"I guess I can make it." He gave her an exaggerated sigh. "Where should I meet you?"

"Come about lunch and pick me up from school." UNC Greensboro was right on the way to Chapel Hill. "All I've got Saturday morning is the finals of intramural volleyball. In fact you could come in the morning and watch."

"Watch a bunch of girls in those little tight shorts with their boobs bouncing? Hell, I wouldn't miss it. I'll see you then. And tell Liz to wear something extra sexy."

"No problem. I'll ask her to wear her wicked witch of the east costume. It should fit your wicked little mind."

"Bite me."

"Bite me back."

"Okay, see you."

"Bye."

After hanging up the phone, Joe Miller was glad his sister had called him. He had to talk to her and had been putting it off, dreading her reaction. They had been best friends since she was little and insisted he hold her hand everywhere they went. He loved and protected Jessica. They were like two sails against the wind, sticking together no matter what. Now, he was going to change that.

When they hung up, Jessica had to hurry and catch the bus over to the hospital. She had a half-day of lab, then an afternoon of following doctors around. Next year, she would have to make a decision about applying to medical school or finishing her degree in Nursing. She wondered if she had it in her for another four years of higher learning. Besides, she thought, maybe she would marry Randy and live a life of luxury after he signed his pro football contract. Everybody said he couldn't miss. Except Joe, who thought Randy was a putz. Carolina had an away game at South Carolina this coming weekend, and for the thousands that turned out at Halloween, Franklin Street was always a fun, good time party. Jessica made a mental note to call the Carolina Inn when she got back to make a reservation for a couple of rooms so they could just stay in Chapel Hill until Sunday.

The intramural game was set for ten-thirty on Saturday morning, and the team was in the dressing room by nine-thirty. "I swear if my ass gets any bigger I'll look like a pear." Katy stood bare-chested in front of the mirror, dressed only in her navy blue polyester shorts that were too tight to accommodate underwear. She kept pulling at the crotch to loosen the fit. Being pudgy and short but with a very attractive face, she had severe self confidence issues, always seeing herself as half homely rather than half pretty. She and Jessica had been friends since seventh grade, the difference in now and then being she was the pretty one during high school. Now it was Jessica, and she was glad they were still friends and she got to hang in her group, because she attracted so much attention from guys.

"We're not here for you to look good, we're here to win this match." Jessica went to stand beside Katy, towering over by five inches. She admired her own behind. Just a few years ago, she was nothing but elbows and crooked knees and pimples. It was so bad, she never got asked to the Prom in her junior year. She had to get Joe to take her. Then something magical happened over that summer and the next year. All the stuff that was supposed to be full and round had appeared, her face cleared up, and she had to buy all new blouses to fit the newfound boobs. Jessica was suddenly getting lots of attention from the opposite sex. She was good at basketball and softball as well as volleyball, and began to understand that a tall, athletic girl who was aggressive at sports intimidated a lot of guys.

"God, I wish I had your tits," Katy moaned.

Jessica pushed them up with both hands. "Here, you can have them. Where do you want them?" She juggled her breast all in Katy's face.

Katy fended her off, laughing. "Get the hell away from me."

"Well come on then. Let's go warm up. I feel like kicking some butts." They finished dressing and went out to the cold arena. Jessica's nipples popped out from the sleeveless tee shirt, but settled back as they practiced and worked up a sweat.

Besides the other team, there were about twenty people in the stands. Jessica did spot Joe when he came in, and waved at him as he sat down. She took her position as a hitter and Katy served to get the game started. They took the match three straight. Being the tallest player on either team, Jessica had a good time slamming rockets over the net. When it was over, everybody hugged and congratulated each other, and then hit the showers.

Joe was waiting patiently for her when they came out. "Congratulations. You are such a brute." He felt her muscles teasingly. He was wearing a tie-dye tee shirt and jeans topped by a Hounds Tooth sports jacket.

Jessica tugged on the front of his tee. "What's wrong, can't figure out if you are a hippie or a yuppie?"

"Bite me. You ready to go?"

"Yep, let's rock and roll, big boy." When they got back to the dorm, she told him she had gotten two rooms so they wouldn't have to drive back to Greensboro tonight. He asked her whom he was sleeping with, and she wished him well.

Katy and Liz showed up a few minutes later. Katy pulled out an old sheet that she had cut out holes for her head and arms, and sewed up the sides. "What the heck is original about that?" Jessica asked her.

"Cause I'll be naked underneath it." She grinned luridly at Joe.

"I'll vote for that," he leered back at her."

Liz of the bright red hair, set of awesome boobs, and toothpick legs was dressed as, what else, Little Red Riding Hood. "Don't be flashing anybody with those things tonight." The last time she got drunk and pulled that stunt, they had to drag her out of a bar.

"I promise to be guud." She tinkled when she laughed and exaggerated the syllables in her words, reminding Jessica of a character from old Southern movies. Anybody making jokes about dumb blondes had never met Liz.

It was twelve-thirty by the time they got rolling and three o'clock when they checked into the Inn. The four of them pooped around for a while, Joe acting like he was disappointed in finding out he and his sister were sharing a room. She wouldn't have it any other way, looking forward to sitting up until dawn and talking about all the things on her mind. Joe was sort of reserved, not up to his usual playing around.

When dark settled in over the little village that was Chapel Hill, they dressed up and headed out to eat, drink, and have some fun. Just to piss Joe off, Jessica had managed to get a replica of the Carolina Ram mascot head for him to wear. At first he refused to go. The best he would do was a contorted mask of Lyndon Johnson. They hit the Rathskellar first, drinking three pitchers of beer and consuming the best pizza in the world. Outside, they proceeded to hit every bar on Franklin Street, and then all the side streets. All were thoroughly drunk and had to hold each other up as they weaved up and down the blocks. Katy's sheet was a big hit after she got doused with beer, and all her stuff was available for the imagination. Liz accused her of pouring it on herself for the attention, but she denied it. They stopped again at the Rathskeller before heading home, trying to eat enough to absorb the alcohol and sober up some.

After goodnights, Joe and Jessica went to the twin room they were sharing. He pulled out a bag and fired up a joint while they sat front of an open window so the smell wouldn't float all over the place. They wrapped in blankets and smoked in silence, looking out at a full moon that made finger creatures out of tree limbs, perfect for a Halloween night. Finally, Joe spoke up. "I've got something to tell you, Jess." His tone was serious.

She felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the open windows, and pulled the blanket tighter.Jessica looked over at him, checking his eyes that had a dull glaze from the weed. "What's that?"

"You're not going to like it."

"How do you know? You're not going to tell me you're dying are you?"

"No."

"Well, what?"

"I joined the Navy last week."

The bomb lay there, then circled around the room a couple of times before coming back to hit her in the head. "What the fuck for?" Jessica refused to believe him before she stared into his face and realized he was telling the truth.

"I got to find out."

Tears formed in her eyes. "What do you have to find out, Joe?"

"I'm pretty sure this war isn't going to last a long time. I need to find out what it's like."

"Have you completely caught a case of stupid? You are not cut out for the military. What the hell are you going to do in there?"

"I'm going to be a medic. That's what they promised anyway."

"Have you told Mom and Dad?"

"No. I had to tell you first. I'm going to tell them as soon as I get back home Sunday."

"When are you going in?"

"I report for swearing in on Wednesday. Then I go to Illinois for basic."

"I hate you." Tears were streaming down her face.

"I know." He slid his chair over closer and put an arm around his little sister. "I'll be fine, don't worry."

"I'm not worried. You're just an asshole, leaving me here alone. Who will I have to talk to?"

"I will always be there for you, you know that." He sniffled a little himself.

It was pretty evident there was nothing Jessica could do. "Okay. But if you get killed I'm not coming to your funeral."

"Yes you will. And you'll tell everybody there what a wonderful human being I was." He punched her on the shoulder and took his fingers and tried to pooch up her lips into a smile. "I just have one final request."

"What's that?"

"Dump that big baboon and get you a real man."

"Bite me. Just for that, I think I'll marry him."

"Bite me back." He laughed at her scornful look, that big brother laugh that teased her for being such a girl. They hugged and sat and lit up another joint and hugged some more. Jessica trusted he would keep his word and nothing would happen to him.

The next day they dragged their hung-over behinds out of bed by eleven, packed up the costumes for another year, and headed back. Joe dropped them off with a kiss and hug for Katy and Liz, and an extra long one for his sister. "Good luck with Mom and Dad. Should I expect to hear ranting and screaming all the way from Charlotte?" Jessica felt better dealing with it today than last night.

"We'll see. I'll let you know. Call me Monday."

She didn't call Joe, but she called her Mom on Monday morning and found out the house had calmed down since Sunday night when Joe told them the news. Jessica made her promise to come pick her up because she was not going to let Joe leave without seeing him. Her mom was there bright and early the next morning, and they all went out Tuesday evening to a big dinner at Joe's favorite restaurant. He promised to be home before Christmas, and their Dad calmed all of them by saying it would be good for him, get some discipline in his life like it had his when he was in World War Two. Jessie refused to agree, believing her father could stop this if he wanted.

On Wednesday morning, they all cried together and Joe insisted none of them go to see him off. Their Dad called him a cab and they stood on the lawn, waving goodbye as he disappeared around the curve in the street.

Jessica went upstairs to Joe's room and closed the door and cried. She had never experienced such sadness in her short life.

In April 1965, Navy Corpsman Joe Miller was assigned to a Marine unit in Chu Lai, Vietnam. Doc Miller was a replacement for a medic who had rotated out, having served his tour. Doc got an earful from the Gunny running the outfit, instructing him on what to do and not to do out in the bush. His first mission was a patrol on May 14. It was a brightly lit night with a full moon. The Company was spread out over a rice paddy, slogging across. Doc was getting his first experience at what a pain in the ass the countryside could be. He could feel leeches on his legs and stepped up on a dyke to tighten his boot strings to try and better keep them out. He took the opportunity to get a drink from his canteen. Satisfied with the short breather, he started back into the paddy. On his first step, he heard the distinctive click instructors had showed and warned them about. In the magic that only sure death can produce, Navy Corpsmen Joe Miller watched a short mind movie of his life before the hidden explosive ripped him apart. It took over an hour for the rest of the unit to locate and bag all his limbs.

On May 17, 1965, two Naval Officers found the address in Charlotte, North Carolina they were looking for. It was five-thirty in the afternoon. They marched smartly to the front and rang the bell. Rene Miller opened the door, wondering who would be calling so near dinnertime. When she saw the two soldiers, she began to cry, softly at first, then covering her face with both hands and sobbing. Mr. Miller appeared from the dining room disturbed by the noise, and knew immediately why the soldiers were there. He held his wife and spoke to the Officers. The one who was a chaplain offered his condolences, told them that Joe's body would be arriving within a week, and they left quietly. Jim Miller supported his wife as they went into the den and sat down, where they cried together.

On May 18, 1965, Jessica Miller was surprised to have a knock on her dorm door so early. She opened it to find her father, at first thinking he was there to pick her up for summer vacation as they had discussed.

Immediately after she saw the look on his face and when he said Joe's name, she began to back away into the room, clutching her stomach, unable to make a sound, even though she was screaming in her mind. When the sounds did come, they were wailing and agonizing. Katy and Liz heard the awful noises and rushed to Jess's room, alarmed. Mr. Miller told them why he was there, and they all did their best to hold and comfort Jessica. Finally, they managed to get her dressed and out to the car for the ride home. Jessica refused to speak to her father the entire way.

After the closed casket funeral the next week, a Marine officer delivered Joe's personal effects to the house. They included various items such as his watch, his ring, medals, and a letter addressed to Jessie that he never got to mail.

She took it upstairs and closed her door to read it.

Dear Jess:

You were right; I should never have gone to this damn war. I have only been here a short amount of time and I see young guys dying in this shit hole and have a more and more difficult time seeing a clear reason why. The kids put on a brave front and they fight like hell when they have to, but I've cleaned the wounds of some that cried for their mothers, knowing they were going to die, and all I could do was hold their hand.

I am headed out on my first patrol tomorrow where I'll be the only medic. I'm scared, not of getting killed, but of not doing my job and letting somebody else die. When I get out of here, Jessica, I will have a clearer picture of myself, and am determined to do something that will make a difference in the world.

Think about me and pray for me just like I do you each day. If something happens, don't be too sad, because it's just what fate had in store for me. I will always love you and be with you.

It was signed Joe, and he had put in a P.S.—I am enclosing something a little mama-san made for me; it's a "dream catcher." Hang it over your bed to catch your dreams and may they all come true.

The little wooden stick was oval with a long handle, and a string net filled the center. Attached to the net was a bird feather. Jessica found some thread and a thumbtack and hung it over her bed.

*****

The American Dream

CAUTION! What you are about to read can be hazardous to your mental health. I'm going to tell you a story, spin you a yarn, some for you to believe, some not. It begins in a mental state, and ends in one; the time is anytime and the place is yours. Yours, that is, if you're a true child of the flower, a babe of the boom, a member of the class of '65. I know you. You are suffering and need answers. Go see a psychiatrist if you must, but if he has a thing for Leary, he may be as fucked up as you are.

This is not funny, then again it could be. If you want funny, read Andy Rooney or Art Buchwald. Maybe some of it is funny. Maybe some of it is true. The beginning is the middle, the end a beginning. Read on to recognize yourself. If you say this can't be me, you are full of shit.

It was one of those miserable Southern July days when the temperature and the humidity were about the same. Two bodies glistened with sweat as they parried in the withering heat. "But Joe, you know you are going to need it."

"Nah. What the fuck do I need it for; I got all I can use now. There is a recession in case you haven't heard yet." Joe was a greasy swarthy-faced fat man. Beads of brown-stained fluid streaked from his temples in a dash to the edge of his bloated jaws.

"Do it for me, Joe. I've got my ass on the line. I'm a month behind on the mortgage and Dives is busting my balls."

"Why should I give a shit? We all got problems."

I wanted to get a good grip beneath Joe's fat face, except I would have to touch his disgusting body. "I'll tell you what," says Joe. "I'll take it if you'll stay the hell away from here for a few weeks and quit worrying the shit out of me."

"You got it, old buddy." I smiled my biggest and brightness and wrote the order for two thousand dollars worth of heating pipes, then kowtowed all the way to my car. Once inside, I rolled the windows up tight and cranked the air conditioner to full blast. "Joe Blemus, I hate your fucking guts, you fat sonofabitch." My glare shot intense killer darts at the door of Joe's shop, daring him to come back out. I slithered off down the two-lane blacktop in my salesman's standard dark blue Cutlass with silver trim, that matched my gray slacks and Navy sports jacket, that matched my dark blue loafers and dark blue socks.

"Dave Garrick, you are a slimy, low-life, worthless piece of shit. You haven't got enough balls to keep a two-fingered juggler busy." I muttered to myself. I implored the cracked white and blue skies, "God, please don't let this be the way I have to live the rest of my life. Give me a sign." Nothing happened as I braked the car at the stop sign of the country crossroad. Right would lead me to the interstate and home. Left was another customer and more ass kissing. I let go of the wheel and stepped on the accelerator. The tire bounced on a rock and swerved right. Good, the decision was made. It must have been a sign.

My mind wandered, my vision captivated by endless lines of telephone poles and billboards. At the edge of the next town that looked just like all the other towns in the Eastern armpit of North Carolina, I wheeled into the big "M" for a burger. It was three o'clock in the afternoon on a Monday, but somebody was in front of me at the drive-up window. No matter what I did, there was always someone else in front of me.

The burger had a taste to match my mood. While I munched, a sign across the street caught my eye. The painted letters on the wood had lost their battles with sunshine and rain, but I could make out "old books." Chucking the remaining bun to the birds, I moseyed over. A bell tinkled above the painted, peeling doorframe, announcing my arrival as I pushed it inward. The mustiness of old cloth and paper assaulted my senses. It was a comfortable and warm space with books filling every conceivable nook and cranny. Books were stacked on tops of tables, in boxes, scattered on the floor, as if saying "just chuck your troubles at the door and find your peace." Suddenly I was overwhelmed by the power of the written word. It was staggering just to imagine the hours of blood, sweat, and tears expended by the people it took to write all these pages. Writing had always been a secret passion of mine, yet, in the presence of Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, and Conrad, I felt embarrassed to have even considered myself worthy of being in their company. How could I ever dared to consider putting my feeble thoughts into volumes along side them? Yet, the desire to do so was overwhelming, wanting, knowing, believing I must have a true talent for something.

As I strolled amongst the shelves, a little blue book pushed itself out towards me. It had blue clouds on the cover and the title was "As A Man Thinketh." I looked on the spine and the author was James Allen. I thought he should have penned a little more imagination into his name. I flipped open to a chapter called "Visions and Ideals," and began to read.

"The dreamers are the saviors of the world. As the visible world is sustained by the invisible, so me, through all their trials and sins and sordid vocations, are nourished by the beautiful visions of their solitary dreamers. Humanity cannot forget its dreamers; it cannot let their ideals fade and die; it lives in them; it knows them as the 'realities' which it shall one day see and know." The words hit me like a sack of stones, like the writer was talking directly to me, like he knew me and had come into my life at exactly the right time.

The drive home was interminable. I had found my calling. My enthusiasm bubbled. Visions of plaid shirts, blue jeans, a ponytail, and having great intellectual conversations about James Joyce danced in my head. Sybil would not warm to this life right away, but I was sure she would come around.

That night after dinner, the local news, two scotches, and the kid was in bed, I got up enough courage to tell Sybil of my intentions to open a used book store and pursue a writing career.

She was not impressed. "Don't hand me that bullshit. You get your ass back to work tomorrow morning. If you weren't so damn lazy we'd have a new car like Roger and Anne. Books! Shit! You know as much about books as you do about buffalo crap."

Obviously, I had my work cut out for me. Sybil had spent the first five years of our marriage being the childless martyr. Then, after a surprise pregnancy, she had spent the last five wishing she'd take advantage of the first five. I could never understand what it takes to make them happy.

To convince Sybil I had truly found the Holy Grail, I spent many sleepless nights over the next several weeks pounding out the great American novel. Each day I would update her on the brilliance of my Muse, but, now totally convinced I was going insane, she went on binge after binge of insatiable credit-card-o-mania. The tactic was simple, keep him in debt and keep him working.

It took its toll, but I continued to preserver. My new mustache had hardly started to shade my upper lip when I spent eighty dollars at the opticians for proper literary spectacles, rimless of course. Months passed. I got nearer exhaustion, but no nearer anything remotely readable; my ego was taking an ass kicking. What I needed was some encouragement, just a quick fix to renew my depleted confidence. A short story published in some small magazine should to the trick. I whipped out a fast paced Vietnam adventure of three thousand words and zipped it off to Playboy, then sat back and waited for the check. Scenes of me and Sylvester Stallone knocking back a few played in my head. The only thing that would convince Sybil was money, and the check would do nicely. I waited confidently as weeks passed.

One evening I came home from a really shitty day, shaking water from my umbrella at the door. Sybil called to me from down the hall, "you got something from Playboy." Could it be? I dashed along the carpet, nervous pain filling my stomach. Quickly brushing aside the rubber shit pile Sybil had so lovingly sat on top of the brown manila envelope, my heart sank. Sybil had already opened it and drew a smiley face on the mimeographed rejection note.

Since my window was only ten feet from the ground, I opted for a quick pistol shot to the head. Then I remembered I was out of bullets. And it was too rainy to go out again.

"Where's the check, Shakespeare?" Would the woman give me no peace? Maybe I would go buy bullets after all. At least in prison I would have time to write. Upon reconsideration, however, I decided better vengeance would be to cut up her credit cards after she was asleep.

Lying crumpled across the bed, my head buried beneath two pillows, I decided to toss in the towel. My life was destined to be enslaved by others, manacled by debt in order to keep up with Roger and Anne. God, how I hated Roger and Anne.

"What's the matter with daddy?" Our five-year-old Samuel had wandered into the bedroom. "Mummy, why does daddy have his head under the pillows? Is he sick?"

"Yes, dear, your dad has a rare disease. It's called 'dummio assio', and in his case, it's incurable."

Later that night I stumbled down to the basement to preserve my languorous mood with substantial portions of scotch and soda. I pulled out my precious manuscript, and smoothed the pages to read it one last time before casting it to the winds via the fireplace. Soon, however, the papers and I were having a conversation, Silenus and Bacchus. Finally, they won and I extinguished the fire. Sometime later, I passed out.

A peeping sun pried my protesting eyelids open the next morning. An African tribe was beating on drums somewhere inside my temples; they must have started up to let me know a lion had shit in my mouth. I dragged my weary body up the steps and into the bathroom, searching desperately for aspirin. In the pursuit, I knocked over a glass bowl full of scented soap balls.

"Will you shut the hell up you clumsy asshole. If you wake up the child, you're going to regret it." Sybil was not a morning person.

With malice toward all, I chose a large piece of the broken glass whilst an evil smile crept across my face. Saliva foamed at the corners of my mouth. As I turned towards the door, holding my weapon in the stabbing position, a jagged edge ripped into my big toe.

"Son of a bitch! Ow! Goddammit!" When I hopped, another piece plunged itself into my other foot. I was under attack by scented soap and it was beginning to be a bloody battle. In a flash, Sybil was at the doorway, hair rollers askew.

"Stop hopping around and sit down." She always knew how to assume control of any situation. She swept up the glass and applied iodine with a vengeance. Beaten and bloody, I heeled and side-footed to the bed. There was no way I could go to work today. I dialed the phone. "Dives, Dives, and Dives," answered the nasal voice on the other end.

"Shirley, this is Dave Garrick. Let me speak to Dave, Jr., please."

"One moment, Sir." I had worked there ten years and every time I called, she acted like she had never heard of me.

After a short rendition of "The Way We Were," without lyrics, the phone clicked. "Dave Dives here."

"Hello Dave, this is Dave Garrick. I'm calling to let you know I've had a little accident and won't be in today."

"What's the matter, Dave?"

"Well, this is going to sound silly but I've managed to cut both my feet, and I don't think I can wear shoes, much less drive the car."

"Gosh, Dave, I hate to hear that. We really need you out there selling. You're not going to let a little cut keep you down are you?"

"I'm afraid it's more than a little cut, Dave, and very sore."

"I really think you need to be at work, Dave. What happened, drop a glass or something?"

"Actually, Dave, I was on my way home from work late last night when I chanced to see a car had run off the road into the river. Naturally, I stopped to see if I could help. Heck, Dave, it could have been a customer. Anyway, there was a woman and baby trapped inside, so I had to kick out the windows in order to rescue them. The reporters wanted to get my name and picture, but I said no, just doing my duty as a citizen."

"Gee whiz, Dave, that's really something. Go ahead and take some time off, but try to get in by lunchtime. You can work your customers over the phone. I would appreciate it."

"I'll try."

"Goodbye, Dave."

"Goodbye, Dave." I cradled the phone and just sat staring at it.

After a breakfast of soda water and crackers, I settled onto the couch for a dose of Oprah. Naturally, she was interviewing some unknown author who had become an overnight success. That pushed me into a further state of depression, so I waddled into the kitchen. It was time to go for it.

"Sybil," I began, "I'm going to open the bookstore."

"That's it. I've had it. You can take care of the kid; I'm going to check into the hospital. You have finally driven me crazy." She threw the spatula at me.

"Come on, honey. Try a little understanding."

"What I understand is the bills that come in the mail every day, the washing machine that is broken, and Samuel needs braces. What else is it that you want me to understand?"

"That I am not going to live the rest of my life in the shitpile of Middle America, being flushed from one septic tank to another. I'm either going to sink or float, but I'm going to get my ass off the toilet." I was flailing my arms like a Georgia preacher.

A roar of silence swept over us. Our canary stopped chirping for the first time in its miserable life. He was keeping one eye cocked, knowing some heavy shit was going down. Sybil's shoulders slumped noticeably, her head rolled back to crack her neck. "Okay, you want it, you do it."

"Thanks, honey. I won't let you down." I squeezed her tight. She lifted up to give me a peck on the cheek. I couldn't help but wonder if the fact that she never put down the double bladed paring knife was a clue to her real feelings.

For the next several days, I attacked each obstacle to opening my store. First, I found several dealers from whom I could purchase used books. Then I spent afternoons searching for a place to rent. Most of the property owners reminded me of the movie "Deliverance"; they wanted me to spread my cheeks and squeal like a pig. My pressing problem was money, I didn't have any. It looked like it would be mortgage the house or nothing. Since Christmas was only a month away, I decided to wait until after the first of the year to again do battle with Sybil.

December went about as planned, Sybil tried to wear the plastic off every credit card we had. I had alternating days of depression and euphoria, wondering if reality was going to jump up and bite me in the ass. After the holidays, all the sales people were forced to spend a week in the office, making new business plans and getting pep talks and general crappola. Dave Dives enjoyed himself by seeing just how big of an prick he could be. I made it until Friday without serious confrontations. "Garrick, how about letting me see you in my office at eleven." Old Dave had a serious look in his eye.

"Sure, Dave." Oh Jesus, here it comes, I thought. I headed to the coffee pot. By the time I worked my way through five or six cups and I could feel my heart doing the salsa, it was time.

I rapped sharply on Dive's door. "Come in, Garrick." There were a couple of straight back chairs in front of his desk. Most of us believed he had the legs shortened intentionally so he could look down at you while he talked. I sat down in one, and took out my imaginary shovel to start emptying the shithouse.

"Dave," he began, his big nose constantly twitching to support his eyeglasses, "I wanted to talk with you in hopes it would help improve your performance. I don't mind saying we haven't been pleased."

Frustration bolted out of my gut, streaked past my heart, and galloped out of my mouth. "Well fuck it. I've had all this shit I can stand anyway." Was I really saying this?

"What did you say, Garrick?" The fire flush on his face told me he had heard every word perfectly. He just didn't believe it.

"I said I quit. Take your job, your phony bullshit, and shove it up your ass. I'm sick of you and this company."
"Dave, you better calm down. You better think about what you're doing."

"I have thought about it. I've thought about it every time you rage on about some nit-picking shit when you don't have the brains God gave a dog's ass; I've thought about it alright, and, the more I do, I wonder why I don't punch you right in your ugly face."

"Get out!" Dives screamed. "Take your personal effects and get out!"

"I'm going, but before I leave, I'm going to do something I've always wanted to do." I walked over to his desk which he kept neat and wiped down with alcohol the way an anal asshole like him would. He especially kept his phone clean, spending at least five minutes each day wiping and polishing the gold mouthpiece until he was absolutely sure not one germ survived. He was convinced the janitor used it at night, and God knows what kind of disease he might get.

I picked up the receiver while he watched in disbelief, then, slowly, agonizingly, pulled the waist of my slacks away from my stomach, and smiled right in his face as I thrust the receiver into my underwear. He was in physical pain as I rubbed his beloved phone all over my balls, and then rotated it to my backside to gently slide it up and down the crack of my ass. When I finally brought it out, he was clutching his heart.

"Ta, ta, old man." I turned on my heels, strolled through the secretary pool and out the double glass doors to the street. In the bright sunlight, I found a good solid parking meter to steady myself. My knees wanted to buckle. After a few moments, the reality of what I had done sledge-hammered me. Images of Samuel in rags, selling pencils for pennies while Sybil had to fuck the banker in order to pay the mortgage, flashed through my mind.

In times of severe mental anguish, the only alternative is drink; so I walked to Sam's. I figured to have one last lunch before turning in the company Master Card. No two Martini lunch today; today would be Champagne, steak, and drinks for the house. I mumbled to myself as I swayed down the street. People walked in the gutter to avoid me.

Sam's place was dark even in daylight, subtle lighting, dark mahogany wood, dark burgundy booths, and dark thick carpet. It catered to the young executive. As usual, Sam met his customers graciously. "Mr. Garrick, how are you, Sir?"

"Fine, Sam. Say Sam," I paused.

"Yes Sir?"

"Why don't you get some lights? It looks like a goddamn morgue for Chrissake."

"I beg your pardon?" Sam fell back a few steps, flustered by my attack.

"Never mind. Just fucking with you. Let me have a back booth, will you."

"Certainly, Sir. Right this way."

I eased into the booth, ordered a double scotch, and began to mull over the day so far. As I worked on my second drink, I really couldn't understand why I hadn't gone ahead and beat the shit out of Dives. A picture of me and ol' Dave Jr. pounding each other, rolling over desk through the secretary pool, hearing the cheers of the girls, "Garrick, Garrick, he's our man, If he can't do it, nobody can. Yea, Dave." The mind movie caused me to laugh out loud, startling the couple in the next booth. Sam was eyeing me from the front. He made a living by knowing who was on the way up or down, and his nose was quivering with suspicion.

It was three in the afternoon when I stumbled out into the bright sunshine, but three-thirty before I could find my car and get it unlocked. The radio blasted "She works hard for her money," and Sybil's face swept through my dulled senses. Somehow, I managed to get home, although my left eye would probably suffer permanent damage from hanging my head out the window to get a clear view of the road. Fortunately, the house was empty. I passed out in peace.

The smell of sizzling steak woke me from a battle with monsters in which the monsters were winning.

"Did you have a nice nap?" Sybil was standing over me.

"Yeah. Where have you been?"

"I went shopping with Anne. They want us to come over after dinner for a few drinks."

"Please, Sybil, I've had a rough day. I really don't feel up to it."

She turned, tongs in hand, smiled sweetly, and said, "of course you do dear. It'll do you good."

It was amazing how she always knew what was good for me. "Where's Samuel?"

"He's staying at Jonathan's tonight. We have the place all to ourselves." She finished the sentence with a neck nuzzle, implying I was in for big stuff if I behaved. Men will do anything for sex, and with Sybil, it was damn little and damn seldom, so I fondled her butt in agreement. I'd tell her about the job tomorrow.

When we arrived at Roger and Anne's, Roger was his usual humble self. Their house reflected his personality, just the right mixture of under and over statement, blending carefully the essence of modern and antique. Far be it from Roger to offend any of God's children. His hair was tipped with gray at the temples, and he wore college-boy sockless loafers.

"Dave, Sybil, how are you?" We saw one another two or three times a week, but Roger always treated it like the Second Coming, hugging and kissing. "How's the heating and air business, Dave?"

"Just getting along, Roger. How's insurance?"

"Great, couldn't be better." He had a disgusting habit of talking faster than he could swallow, leaving spittle at the corners of his mouth. "Sybil, you've had your hair cut. Looks great."

"Thank you for noticing, Roger. You're always so observant." The over-the-shoulder look I got reminded me of how unobservant I was.

Anne stood at the bar in the den, a toothpick full of olives in one hand and a martini in the other. She was a very well preserved forty-one year old blonde, with a sharp and sadistic personality. I guess that's why she and Sybil got along so well. "Hi, Sybil. Come on over and have a drink."

"Hello, Annie," Sybil returned. "I'll have one just like yours."

"Dave, I suppose you'll have your usual boring scotch and soda?" Anne asked.

I started to request a tequila and tonic with orange slices just for the hell of it, but didn't. "Yes, thank you."

"Men are just so predictable these days, don't you think Sybil?"

"At least the ones we know." Sybil settled onto a barstool.

"I guess we have to be inspired, right Roger?" I looked for a little wingman aid.

Roger fumbled with the ice cubes. "Yeah. Hee, hee." He was such a pussy.

"You want inspiration, Dave? I'll give you inspiration, Fuck you. That inspire you enough?" Anne definitely had a mouth on her.

Roger quickly changed the subject. "Did you buy that stock I told you about, Dave?"

"Nah, I wasn't convinced it would do that well."

"I'm sorry to hear that. It jumped eleven points and split. I made a bundle."

A sonic boom of quiet reverberated around the room. I studied my drink for a long moment. Sybil's eyes bore into my back. I walked slowly over to the bar and set the glass down. Anne's laughter broke the silence. "Missed the boat again, huh Dave."

"Screw you Anne." I drained the scotch. Visions of me and Dives rolling over the desk came back again, and I began to laugh. What happened next was what good lawyers get juries to believe was temporary insanity. I punched Roger right in the face.

His head bounced twice on the plaid carpet, the blood was flowing and I was headed for the door. The women were screaming. I was laughing on the way out.

The first bar I came to was in a Holiday Inn. "Tequila and tonic, please," I told the waitress. By midnight, I had to get a room or call a cab. I chose the room. Clothes lay where they fell as I did a good impression of a handicapped stripper. My swan dive to the bed rewarded me with only one bounce. Determined to get at least two, I positioned the ugly brown chair for my platform and tried to improve my technique. There was a brief moment of glory as I sailed through the air, then a long one of pain when I missed the bed. Blackness mercifully came quickly.

The next morning my body was locked in the fetal position. I tried to move, but the pain was too great. Finally, I crawled to the bathroom, somehow got the water on, and slithered face down into the tub. For an instant I wondered if past guest had pissed into the exact spot my face now occupied. I decided I really didn't care.

After forty-five minutes or so, my brain started to function enough for me to realize where I was. The mirror reflected a red right cheek and a black left eye. Getting into my clothes was fairly easy, finding them had been the hard part. The morning sun was high by the time I located the car. On the way home, I farted, or at least that's what I started to do. You can imagine the rest.

As luck would have it, Sybil was home. "Well, if it isn't Rocky. Where the hell have you been?"

"I slept at a motel."

She used her sing-songy impression of a Chinese laundry woman, "I slept at a motel, I slept at a motel. You smell like you slept in an shithouse."

"Excuse me, Sybil. I have to go change clothes and brush my teeth."

"Think about Roger while you're brushing, he probably doesn't have any. You have embarrassed me to no end. How can I ever face them again?"

Wearily I stopped brushing, spit residue into the sink, and turned to face her. "Fuck 'em." I ran water into a cup to rinse my mouth.

"My, what a wonderful way of expressing yourself, Dave. Fuck 'em. I'm sure you'll sell a million books with that vocabulary."

"I quit my job, Sybil."

"Oh, that's fucking great. Samuel, come see your unemployed father."

Samuel wandered into the bathroom, chewing an oatmeal cookie. "Are you sick again, dad?"

"Sybil, we have to talk."

"Are you sure you want to talk, dear? Maybe you would prefer to punch me out."

I considered it for just an instant or two, and then passed on the opportunity. "We mortgage the house." I had become a man of few words. Maybe I'd make a movie with Clint Eastwood.

"Over my dead body." I swear I only considered it for a minute.

"Sybil, it's the only logical way to get out of debt and get the money to open the bookstore."

"Dave, you are thirty-eight years old. I don't want to start over. I like my new car, my charge accounts, my life insurance, and my dental insurance. How the hell do you think we can live without them?" Her powder-blue eyes were brimming with fright.

The stark realization that neither one of us had any idea who the other really was slapped me like a cold whore's heart. To her, those things were security blankets that kept the evils of life's greater questions at bay. To me, they were the nails that held my coffin shut. After ten years of marriage, we could have been total strangers. "Sybil, you're just going to have to trust me and let me do this my way."

"Have it your way, Dave. You and Frank Sinatra can go fuck yourself." The guest room door slammed behind her.

Around eight that night, I asked Samuel to go see if mom wanted dinner. He returned quickly. "She said to blow it out your ass, dad. Does she mean like when you poot?"

"I don't know, son. You want to go get a little Chinese?"

"Nah, I want a big Chinese. Gotcha. You didn't think I remembered your joke, did you dad?"

"Let's go, smart-alec."

"Blow it out your ass, dad."

A month later, I had the loan, a little shop, and shelves full of second-hand books. It was great fun to go to my very own place in the mornings. The eleven-hour days, six days a week seemed to fly by. Six months passed and I had a sneaking suspicion I was in trouble. The savings had run out and the rent on the store was due again, not to mention my now doubled house payment. That old wolf, reality, wasn't banging on the door; he was kicking the shit out of it. It didn't help when I realized I really didn't know a damn thing about books.

Wallowing in depression and poverty one night, I stood on the sidewalk in front of the shop, and who should appear but old Dave Dives, Jr. "Hello, Dave." I waited for him to attack me.

To my surprise, he stopped and came over to shake my hand. "How are you, Dave."

"Okay I guess. How's the company?"

"Couldn't be better."

"Listen, Dave," I began, "I want to apologize for----"

He cut me off. "No apology necessary; I understand you weren't yourself."

It truly shocked me at first, but in retrospect, I suppose his own super-inflated ego wouldn't allow him to think anyone could dislike him that much. So, naturally, he put it off to some form of mental illness on my part. "In fact, Dave, we haven't hired anyone yet, so, if things don't work out here, give me a call."

"Gosh, Dave, that's really kind of you. I'll keep it in mind." I offered for him to come in the shop, but he took a look at the dusty shelves and declined.

When I pulled into the driveway that night, I got out and looked up at the Big Dipper. Dragging out a smoke, I hitched onto the fender of the car. The air was warm and hazy. Suddenly I wanted to go out and eat at expensive restaurants, go back to my men's store for a new suit, reactivate my Blackberry. The realization that I didn't have any money was very frustrating.

"Admit it, asshole, you aren't going to make it. Hell, Dave wasn't such a bad guy, and selling wasn't all that tough." Peering to the heavens for a sign, all I got was the full moon with shadows looking like a face grinning at me. How could I have been so wrong? I'd pissed our money down the drain, pissed off Sybil, and pissed off all our friends. They ought to make pissing off people an Olympic event. "Fuck it, tomorrow I go see Dave Dives."

It took me two more cigarettes before I was composed enough to go in the house. Sybil was reading in bed. "Hello, cowboy," she said. "I thought I'd wait up for you."

"I'm glad, Sybil." We made soft, passionate love, sweeter than it had been for a long time. Okay, so it really wasn't like that, more like I told her I was going to go get my job back and she could have new credit cards, and what she really said was "make it fast."

The next day I was at Dave Dive's office by eight-thirty. When he ushered me in, he assumed his position behind his large desk. Chancing a glance at his telephone, I didn't know when I'd ever felt smaller. "I must admit I didn't expect to see you this soon, Dave. Things must not be going so well at the bookstore."

"Actually no, Dave," I groveled.

"Well, my policy is never to hold a grudge. However, you must understand it will take some adjustment. My expectations will be high."

At that moment, a familiar haunting pain jabbed me in the stomach. I belched.

"Beg your pardon, Dave?" Dives looked down at me.

"I said 'Fuck You."

Pure hatred flashed from his eyes. "Get out you bastard. Get out and don't you ever come back."

This time I rose calmly and took my time getting to the door. My head was up and my back was straight. I departed.

The sun was hot and bright outside. What was it James Allen said? "The Dreamers are the saviors of the world. It cannot let their ideals fade and die." Yep, I thought, it's going to be a beautiful day.

*****

When The Rooster Crows At Night

She hadn't got her tits yet; she was all knobby knees and pointy elbows with mousy brown hair. She was skinny and in no way resembled the girls in Playboy he and Bobby Lewis snuck a look at in magazines at the drug store. He watched her through the hedge bushes that divided the yard between their houses. She was sitting on her porch swing, legs folded under; nose in a book. He couldn't see what it was, but he bet it was poetry. Once in a while when she was swinging, she would move her legs and he could get a look at her panties.

Her birthday had been in May and he went to the party her momma gave; she turned twelve, a year younger than him. He didn't know why he liked her but he did. She had a dumb smile where she only used the right side of her mouth, and brown eyes that always stared at a person, lik they were deciding if you were full of shit.

"Henry. Henry Lee, supper time." His mother had come out on the back porch.

Sarah lowered her book and peeked over the top to watch Henry leave. She knew he watched her, and she would move her legs from time to time to let him just see slightly up her skirt. She smiled and went back to reading.

What neither Henry nor Sarah had noticed was another set of eyes that watched. They were across the maple-shaded street, hidden beneath a well-worn baseball cap. He watched for a few more minutes before tossing the newspaper. When the five o'clock bus showed up, he boarded and rode until it got downtown, getting off near the rooming house he had been staying for the last few weeks.

It was late summer and the days were long, extending the light until well past eight. After supper Henry Lee went out to sit on the porch. He looked up to the footsteps coming across the yard. "Hey Henry Lee." It was Sarah.

"Hey Rooster." Everybody had taken to calling her that a few years back when she demonstrated a unique ability to imitate the crow of the cock.

"What 'cha up to?" Lots of times they just sat and talked about stuff for hours, letting their imagination substitute for the fact that nothing ever happened in Maplewood.

Rooster liked Henry Lee's crew cut blonde hair and his Paul Newman blue eyes. They had always been friends and she was pretty sure he was whom she would marry when the time came. "Want to walk over to the park?"

Henry was a head taller than Rooster, and he walked on the street side like his momma told him a gentleman should do. When they got to the ball field, a game was going on and Henry saw his friends hanging around the concession stand.

"Hey Henry," greeted Bobby Lewis, a short thin kid with big glasses that made him look innocent, but he had a crazy brain, always coming up with stuff like painting the school house door at night or lighting a bag of dog crap on somebody's porch and ringing the bell.

With him was Big Balls McCracken sucking on a large soda. He was named that because he had nuts the size of trailer hitch balls. The school even had to get his mother and daddy to make him wear a jock strap. "What's up Henry Lee?" Big had a voice deep as a well. "Hey Rooster."

"Hey Big." Together they went up and found a seat on the aluminum benches to watch the game.

On the top level of seats the other set of eyes watched Rooster. The old baseball hat cast a shadow over his face, making his features hard to distinguish. The pinky finger on his right hand was just a nub, the rest of it severed in an accident working on a newspaper press. He had come to Maplewood six weeks before and got hired as a journeyman typesetter. He moved a lot. He had spotted Rooster on the school playground the first week. He was taking his time, savoring her deliciousness.

When the baseball game was over, Bobby, Big Balls, Henry Lee and Rooster walked out of the park together, then split. Neither Henry nor Rooster noticed the old Oldsmobile as it followed them, hanging well back. The driver kept waiting for Rooster to change walking positions because it would make it a lot easier. Finally, he couldn't stall any longer or else they would be turning onto their street. He floored the Olds and cut to a screeching halt in front of Rooster and Henry Lee. They jumped to the yard grass, scared out of their conversation by the crazy driver.

The driver's door came open and he ran over to the kids. "Are you alright? I'm sorry if I cared you."

Henry Lee looked at the man and got just a glimpse before the fist caught Henry in the head, knocking him sprawling across the sidewalk. Rooster screamed Henry's name just as she dodged the hand trying to grab her. She took off running, hearing heavy footsteps behind her. She cut through the yard between Mr. Hardy and Mr. Phelps's house, careening around bushes she knew were there. She could hear the man curse as he tripped and fell.

Rooster kept running until she found the old oak at the edge of Brind's Creek. She scrambled up the limbs and tried to quiet her heavy breathing. In the moonlight see could see the man searching for her.

Henry Lee recovered from the blow to his head. Since the car was still here, he figured the man was too. He took off running back towards where Big Balls and Bobby lived. They were sitting on the porch at Big Balls' house. Henry ran up out of breath.

"What's the matter?" Big Balls asked.

Henry quickly gave them the lowdown. "Big, get your baseball bat. Bobby, call the police. We've got to help Rooster." Big Balls reached around the porch post and grabbed the wooden Louisville slugger he had left there. "Let's go," said Henry and the two of them took off back to where he lost Rooster.

"Where do you think she went?" Big Balls questioned.

"If I know Rooster, she'll be heading for the tree." Quietly they split up and headed in both directions. Henry would move a few yards and sit quiet, listening for any sign. After a few minutes, he could hear somebody thrashing about behind the Lewis house at the edge of the Creek. Not knowing what else to do, he let out a sorry imitation of a rooster. He got a perfect one back. Just as he suspected, she had gone for the tree. He only hoped Big Balls had heard her too.

Big Balls did hear the cockcrow and began to make his way in the same direction. Henry got to the edge of a row of bushes before an open place that led to the water. He didn't hear anybody moving. He stood up.

When the big arm reached out and grabbed Henry by the shirt collar, he yelled bloody murder and started slinging fist at his captor. "Shut up, you little shit." The man's voice was low and angry. "I ought to snap your skinny little neck." He threw Henry to the ground, and started running, wanting to get back to his car.

Henry heard a loud thump, then a scream of pain. He jumped up and went after the man. He heard two more whacks and more cries before he popped out of the hedge. Standing over the man was Big Balls, waving the bat around. "You want me to hit him again, Henry?"

"Hell yeah, smack the shit out of him."

With that, Big Balls laid another one on him. They could hear the bone crack on his shin. Huffing and puffing, Rooster ran up. "Is that him?" She asked. When they confirmed, she took the bat from Big Balls and, cussing to beat the band, swung with all her might at his head, but missed.

By this time, lights were on all over the neighborhood. Bobby and the police showed up. Henry Lee, Big Balls, and Bobby soon were being called heroes for saving Rooster.

The four of them sat on Henry's porch until the sky got light, talking and reliving the nightmare. It was the wildest thing that had ever happened in Maplewood.

Over the next several years, Henry Lee graduated high school, went into the Marine Corps and was killed in Vietnam. Big Balls became a porn star during the sixties because the rest of him grew to compliment size of his testicles, and then died in 1983 from Aids. Bobby Lewis finally got his overactive brain to focus, became a lawyer, and moved back to Maplewood. And as for Rooster, she still lives in the house her parents left her when they died in a car crash, and raises the son Henry Lee left her with before he went to war.

*****

The Learning Curve

The time of my dying was here. My mind was working but I could make nothing else respond. My brain began to set off explosions of visions, flash images of my life. I supposed this was the final madness, the awareness that one's mind continues to function when the body is dead.

Euphoria began, a loving sense of peace enveloping me like a warm quilt on a cold night. I saw a man coming toward me. He was dressed in a swarth of loose clothes, his hair golden, his beard long and flowing. He was in a casual stroll as if out in the blazing desert for an exercise walk. I called out to him, "please, Sir, can you help me? I need water or I am going to die."

He approached me slowly and squatted down. "I'm sorry my son, I have no water. And if I may be so bold as to point it out, you are already dead."

My mind cried out in agony, but my voice made no sound. 'If I'm dead, how can I see you?"

"I would like to give you a really extensive and mind-blowing explanation, but the simple answer is that your spirit is seeing me. Your body is lost I'm afraid."

"Then, who are you?"

"I'm called many things, God Almighty, Buddha, Mohammed, and, at times, a pain in the ass."

"You mean you are God?"

"If that is your vision of me, yes."

"What are you doing here?"

"You were calling, besides, I haven't been for a walk in this place since the oceans receded."

"So, if you are not here to save me, why did you come?"

"To answer your questions. You lived sixty-two years, surely you have some." He smiled sweetly as he crossed his legs in a sitting position.

"How much time do we have?"

"I have an eternity. Your fate, however, hasn't been decided yet, so I wouldn't waste any if I were you."

I forced myself to calm down. "Okay. Are humans here because of some divine plan or was it all an accident?"

He looked at me with a Lordly, patient smile. "Think about how everything functions in this world, the tedious precision in which all life forms are dependent on each other, and tell me if you really think it all an accident."

"Why do you not show yourself except to the dead?"

"If I did it once, I would have to do it a million times, just to prove it to the people who didn't see it the first time. Folks have just got to have faith that I am here."

"Will my spirit die too?"

"No, your soul will always exist. Where and how it exist depends on what you have learned each time you come back."

"So I'm coming back?"

"Oh yeah, you've got a lot to do. Let's say I have inside information you will be back as something you have mistreated."

"Wait, I've never harmed another human being or an animal."

"That's true, not physically. But, in the way that matters most, you have been very harmful. Do you remember the times anger and hatred and persecution entered your mind, whether you expressed it or not?"

"I see your point. Tell me this. If we are made in the image of God, why are we different?"

"Are you really so different? You are all interwoven by a single strand and ability I provided. Some have done well with it, others not so good. I gave you perfection when you were born, no prejudices, no hate, all the natural instincts you needed. Then you decided you wanted to take the wheel. Look where it got you."

"How did it go so wrong?"

"That's what you must learn. I've got to get on now. Good luck to you." With that he got up to leave.

"Wait. I think I know how we are all the same."

"I'm listening."

"It's our thoughts isn't it?" He turned back with a brief smile and continued walking. It was the last thing I remembered.

A month later, a black woman screamed with pain and labor, and a new baby was born. "Such a shame," said the nurse. "This child's already got a crack habit." Over the next few days, the baby

got stronger thanks to extreme efforts to save him. His Momma looked down and told the nurse, "he still ain't eating much, but I swear he is the most thirsty baby I have ever seen."

*****

And The Winner Is

August 21, 1966

Nguyen Hoa felt sheltered as she walked beside the thirty-foot high stonewall that ran along the west side of the Citadel in the city of Hue. Her waist length black hair bounced down her back, the top of her head covered by a woven reed conical hat. The small, attractive Vietnamese girl moved quickly in the dark, her red top and black pajama bottoms merging well with the shadows. Her workday at the American military club where she served food was over, but she had more schoolwork to be completed before the next day. Her grandmother's house near the Perfume River wasn't far, and Hoa knew she would be worried if she were late in arriving. Grandmother did not trust the American soldiers that continued to pour into their country.

The night air was cool and still; the odor of fermenting dead fish and salt to make nuoc mam wafted from open concrete cylinders, covering the city like a putrid coverlet. Nguyen Hoa thought about her mother and baby sister as she walked, hoping she would get a holiday in another month so she could visit them at their village, Lao Bao, in the mountains to the west. The rains would come soon, making the trip more difficult. She felt in her pocket for the money the Americans had left for her after she served them and cleaned their tables. They were kind that way, allowing her savings to grow, and even being able to send some to her mother.

Hoa's days were long, having been sent to the ancient city of Hue to work and study at Quoc Hoc Upper School. Even though she was only fifteen, she was expected to do what was necessary to improve and provide for herself. The school was hard, and most days she was tired when she arrived at work. But, she constantly smiled at the Americans, hurrying to do their bidding, and they rewarded her well.

Nguyen was an ancient family name, and the clan had ruled the great capital of Hue for two thousand years, spreading their seeds throughout the Thura Thien Providence. Hoa reflected back to the American that came to the club almost every night, teasing and laughing at her. In the last few months, her breast had grown and her body had become shapelier, adding to the beauty of her classic porcelain skin, large black eyes, and elevated cheekbones . The American had noticed, always asking her to be his girlfriend. Hoa enjoyed his playfulness, but dared not overly respond; it would be shameful to her family. She looked up and noticed clouds beginning to wrap the large full moon, making it look long instead of round. She could smell the rain that was coming.

Quickening her steps in hopes of avoiding the shower, she left the protection of the Citadel and decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway she would not ordinarily follow at night. The street was dark, but her grandmother's house was close.

Hoa could hear the far-away sounds of bombing to the West near the valley the North Vietnamese used to carry supplies out of Laos and to the South in their fight against the Americans. She turned down a last street before she would be back where there were people and lights.

She saw two Americans coming toward her; knowing they were American because of their size. Hoa moved over to the side opposite them, keeping her head down as she walked faster. When they moved to her side, she crossed again, a nervous fear building in her stomach. They moved toward her.

"What's the hurry, little lady?" Now, they divided to cut her off.

Hoa looked up at them, not knowing what to do. She held up her hand. "No speak English," she lied. She knew some of the language by practicing it at school, and then listening to conversations while at work in the club.

"You sound like you speaky good English," said the black one nearest to her. The white one came around behind, blocking any escape she would consider. He gripped Hoa by her slim shoulders.

"You're a pretty little thing. You a working girl? I got twenty dollars for you." The white one reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of piasters.

Hoa shook her head emphatically, trying to wrench away from the grip. The black one reached out and grabbed her breast. "Oh, you're just a baby-san. And a pretty one at that." The white one released one of his hands and reached down to grab her crotch.

Hoa began to cry. "Don't cry baby girl, it ain't gonna' hurt but for a minute. Hell, you'll probably like it." The black one grabbed her Ao Dai and began to rip at it. Hoa screamed and struggled with all her strength.

"Shut up," said the white one as he slapped her hard across the face. When she screamed again, he punched her in the head. She felt the darkness of unconsciousness as the two Americans finished tearing at her clothes. "Bend her over."

The white one pushed Hoa's head down between his knees and the black one tried to penetrate her from behind. He tried two or three times before getting frustrated, jamming two fingers into her. As the membrane broke and blood flowed, he rammed into her successfully. Hoa's mind could not process the horror that was happening to her. While the black one pushed into her from behind, the white one grabbed her by the hair and lifted her head, forcing his manhood into her mouth. "You bite me, and I'll kill you for sure." Finally, she welcomed the blackness.

An hour later, headlights turned into the alley. Army MPs on a routine patrol barely saw the body of the girl lying in a heap next to the building. They jumped out of the Jeep and shined big flashlights. "Good God," said the black one.

"Is she alive?" The white one asked. He reached down to feel for a pulse. He felt a faint beat. "Let's get her to the hospital."

They carefully loaded Hoa into the vehicle and took off in a rush to the medical facility on the base, the black one holding and cushioning her body the best he could. Using their radio, they called ahead and prepared the doctors. In the light of the hospital grounds, the black one could see blood covering the girl's face, her eye swollen shut, and dark bruises covered her cheeks. She was mostly naked, so he covered her with a blanket they had in the rear seat. "Man, this is just a child. Who the fuck would do something like this to a kid?"

The doctors and nurses got Hoa onto a stretcher and rushed her inside. After cleaning her face and inspecting the rest of the injuries, the doctor in charge assessed that her jaw was broken as well as possibly her eye socket, and that she had been raped. The staff began to wash her down and injected her with morphine to ease the pain. Hoa tried to open her one good eye, but faded into the darkness once more.

Captain Richard Flynn came on duty the next morning at the hospital where he was a surgeon. As he made his rounds of the newest arrivals, he noticed the Vietnamese girl in one of the curtained off areas. There was something familiar about her, and he picked up her chart to read it. When he took a closer look at the black and blue, horribly swollen face, he reacted with shock. It was the girl that worked at the Officer's Club, the one he always enjoyed teasing and laughing with. He felt sick to his stomach. His heart ached. Back in the US, he had a wife and small daughter, and his imagination would not permit him to think of this kind of thing happening to one of them. All he could do was fix her.

When Hoa's grandmother finally got word of what had happened, she was at first relieved Hoa was alive, then bitterly angered by how it happened. But, as with most Vietnamese, she kept her feelings to herself around the Americans. Instead, she resolved to help the secret enemy of the Americans in any way she could. That night at a clandestine meeting in her neighbor's house, she was instructed how to measure various buildings on the American base. Her information would become valuable during the Tet offensive in 1968.

It took two months, but Hoa slowly recovered physically from the trauma. Her jaws had been wired shut, allowing her only to drink soup and tea, and she lost weight, her face drawn and scarred. The eye socket had not been broken, but the untouched beauty she had before disappeared. Her face accumulated lines of bad memories of her experience. The American doctor visited her every day, but she no longer found any pleasantness being around him. He represented what she was coming to hate. Her grandmother had arranged for her to go back to her village and be with her mother and sister. She would not risk her granddaughter around these Americans anymore.

Hoa arrived at Lao Bao just after the celebration of the New Year in 1967. The village was small, and sat just over the Western edge of the mountain that led down into the valley that divided Viet Nam and Laos. Seldom did American soldiers come to this side, spending most of their time in what they called the A Shau Valley. The nightly bombings would shake the ground but seldom ever fell on their side of the mountain. As the news of what had happened to Hoa spread through the village, distant relatives and friends came to visit and hear the story first hand. Soon, a visitor came with several comrades. They sat and talked to Hoa about their common enemy. She agreed to go with them for a month to be trained by the cadre in the use of weapons, so she would be prepared for things to come.

The training was intense, showing her how to make traps with punji sticks, how to hide mines along a trail, and how to shoot an AK-47. In addition, there was nightly indoctrination on the ways of Communism and the philosophy of their leader Ho Chi Minh. During training, they sang political songs of praise for past heroes of the people, about great events in the history of Viet Nam, all designed to instill the fever of patriotism and hatred for the invaders. At her graduation, she was presented with an AK-47 and one bandoleer of ammunition. She was cautioned to always keep the weapon hidden in case American GIs came looking. Hoa took the responsibility seriously, resolved to fight the foreigners to the death.

When she returned to the village, she called a meeting and informed the people she would now take the role of their protector. Since they were just old men, women, and children, all readily agreed. Thereafter, each morning before sunrise, she would take up a position in one of a series of clumps of bushes that sat along the dike that split the rice paddy they collectively farmed. She would take a bowl of rice, water, and her weapon, making a nest inside the bush, hidden from view, facing the trail up the mountain that cadre used to cross into the valley beyond. The villagers knew she was watching over them, and felt comfort. If the Americans came, she was determined to kill as many as she could before dying herself.

November 10, 1969

U.S. Air Force Capt. Carl "Cowboy" Williams was making his walk-around on his O-2A Skymaster, a converted Cessna 337. He thought he would never get over the smell of this country, from the stink of nuoc mam, fish sauce the Vietnamese put on everything, to the wonderful smell of Army latrines burning shit every morning. As a Forward Air Controller, his duty was to fly slow FAC missions in his Area of Operation, which was between Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, and the A Shau Valley. It was the heat of the day at three in the afternoon, but his flight duty was from now until eleven tonight, when air in the Central Highlands would cool off considerably. He had checked his maps, got his briefing from Operations on where they wanted him to work, and weather expectations, which were actually fairly good for this time of year. He checked to be sure the cowl was locked, checked the yellow spot on the props to be sure of no slippage, checked the nose gear, and checked for fuel contamination. The O-2 was a big improvement over the O-1 Birddogs because they were faster and could carry bigger loads over longer distances. Going back into the A Shau required every advantage he could get. He hung his special version of the M-16, which had a shorter barrel and telescoping stock making it easier to use when taking potshots out the window, on the wall behind his seat. Capt. Williams shrugged into a flak vest that contained his emergency radio, first aid kit, and flares. He threw an extra vest on his seat to protect his butt from ground fire. He checked his .38 to make sure it was fully loaded. The final act was strapping on a backpack parachute.

He started the front engine, got it to idle, and then cranked the rear one. He contacted the tower. "Ground, Ghost 21, taxi."

"Roger, Ghost 21. Altimeter two-nine-nine-six, taxi to and hold short. I have a BOO on short final."

"Two-nine-nine-six holding short." Capt. Williams waited for the C7 Caribou to land. They were usually carrying cadavers, and in the heat of the day, you could smell the rotten odor of death whenever they were around the runway.

"Ghost 21, cleared for takeoff. Winds calm. Traffic on downwind short."

"Two-one." Capt. Williams taxied onto the steel planked runway, lined up on the center, applied power, and departed uneventfully. Sometimes it could be an adventure due to grunts clearing chambers on their M-16s out on the flight line when their choppers landed, leaving rounds that could go off if run over.

The Air Force had moved the flight operations from Hue 8 miles south to Phu Bai, because they needed a longer runway for the new FACs. When flying in South Vietnam, Williams constantly had to be on the look out for ARVN flyers that didn't give a crap which way they went, or were in such a hurry to get there they disregarded conventional flight rules. Fortunately, not too many wanted to go his way, and stayed clear of the A Shau unless absolutely necessary. Capt. Williams climbed out to three thousand feet, staying just under the heavy layer of clouds, finally ridding the rotten stink from the ground. After checking his maps, he contacted Direct Air Support Center to let them know where he was headed. He found a space and goosed the Cessna up to six thousand feet in order to clear the mountain range guarding each side of the Valley. When he judged he was somewhere over the northern end, he dropped through a hole in the clouds, and came down into the twenty-five mile long, J shaped A Shau Valley. He continued to drop in altitude until he was around sixteen hundred feet, and he could make out tracks where vehicles had been along the floor. Most of the Valley was hidden under triple canopy jungle, layers of different hues of green, and Charles very seldom moved in the daylight. All Capt. Williams could hope for was to follow anything that looked recent.

He decided to make a slow weave back and forth over the Yellow Brick Road, a reddish-amber dirt road that ran along the valley and disappeared into the triple canopy at the South end, up to near Base Area 611, which sat behind the mountains from DaNang. It was a major staging site for the North Vietnamese moving materials South. As soon as it got dark, the ants would begin to crawl. It was his job to pick as many targets as possible and relay them to Air Force Tactical Air Control as they planned missions for the night. It was also Capt. Williams job to draw any fire from ground troops on the move in order to request fighter aircraft to roll in and kick the shit out of them. He pulled into a left hand turn, using his binoculars to follow a small tributary that ran off the main river from Laos. As he turned back level to make another run, thinking he might have seen a camouflaged vehicle, the first 12.7mm round popped through the floor, hit the instrument panel ripping off a shard that caught him in the ankle. The burn was excruciating. Several more of the fifty caliber type rounds followed. From the green tracers, Capt. Williams could see they were coming from right below him. An SA-7 missile honed in on the exhaust pipe of the front engine before exploding, killing the front engine and blowing out the entire cockpit window above the instrument panel. The force blew off Williams' helmet.

More 12.7mm rounds pounded into the aircraft. Searing pain went through his left arm, and he looked to see that shrapnel had ripped from his elbow to his shoulder. He pushed the O-2 into a turning climb, forcing all he could get from the one engine, trusting his flying feel to do what he could not see. The wind was blasting into his face at eighty miles an hour, effectively blinding him. He put one hand over his eyes, peeping through his fingers, determined to find a landing place. Capt. Williams knew once his control didn't hear from him on his twenty-minute check, rescue would be out looking.

Knowing he had to do something quickly or he was going to die, he began to whip the O-2A in a series of evasive turns while he was dropping at 200 feet per minute. His leg was burning with pain and his left arm was mostly useless. He was losing a lot of blood. Turning on a sixty degree left bank to keep the shooter guessing, he spotted a small road. Williams knew it was this or nothing. There was no use sending a mayday since he was in the dead zone inside and below the ridge of the Valley. Dark was coming and he wouldn't have another chance. He aimed the nose at the rutted dirt road, pulled back the power and pulled his straps as tight as possible. He tried to hit on the sides above the ruts, hoping to bounce to a stop. He cut the power to his rear engine. His tires did hit above the ruts, but the wheels jammed down into mud. The plane flipped head over heels into waist high elephant grass.

Capt. Williams saw the earth coming at him and then nothing. When he awoke, there was only silence. He could smell fuel leaking around him as he hung upside down. Using his right hand, he unhooked himself; half fell, half crawled out of the plane. He reached back inside and groped for the M-16, pulling it out. He knew the NVA would be all over him in a short amount of time. He dragged one leg and one arm through the high grass as fast as he could, heading up the mountain, hoping to find a hiding place. Night came into the Valley early, giving him some hope of escape. He could hear Vietnamese voices far below as he continued to push upwards. He needed to rest, but couldn't risk it. Just about the time his mind was telling him "no more", he heard the sweetest sound he could think of---bombs from B-52s starting to sweep the A Shau. He heard no more voices from below or behind him. With renewed energy he dragged on up the hill, finally reaching a spot high enough to look back down and witness the devastation being carried out. Silently, he rooted them on.

Williams reached for his emergency radio, knowing somebody would come looking. When he got it out, shrapnel from one of the 12.7 rounds had busted it. Williams cursed his luck, but was thankful it was the radio and not his chest that got ripped open. Soon it was pitch black, and he could see fiery recoils and green tracers from crew-mounted guns all along the Valley as the NVA tried to zero in on the B-52s. Occasionally, the cloud cover above would light up, indicating the antiaircraft had managed to pick off one of the giant planes .

He managed to struggle out of his flak vest and get the Army issue fatigue shirt off. He never wore Air Force flight suits because they were too cumbersome. He tied the shirt around his arm to try and stop the bleeding. Using the pocketknife he always carried, Williams cut strips from the bottom of his fatigue pants and tied them tight around his ankle wound.

Knowing he was not safe where he was, he moved higher up the mountain, sliding out of the high grass, finding the semblance of an old trail, making movement easier. When he could go no farther, he crawled deep into the brush off the footpath, and curled into a thicket of weeds, trying to stay out of sight of anyone who might happen by. Without a working radio, Cowboy Williams knew he might be on his own for a while. He laid back and passed out as clouds rolled in over the Valley.

When Capt. Williams woke up, it was raining. He knew there would be no rescue tonight. He tried to move around, but everything on his body hurt. His arm and leg reacted with sharp pain, so stiff it was impossible to move them. Checking as best he could, it seemed the bleeding from both of them had slowed to a seep. He needed help badly. Williams lay on his back and opened his mouth, trying to answer his body's desperate need for water. He knew the biggest enemy out here was dehydration. After an hour or so, he tried to drag himself back toward the trail leading over the mountain. Just shy of it, and still in the grass, he passed out again.

November 11, 1969

At Camp Evans, located halfway between Hue and Quang Tri, Easy Company of the 101st Screaming Eagles had been on stand-down. They had endured a busy summer. In May was the assault of the Ap Bia Mountain, what was designated as Hill 937 on the map, but what the troopers who spent ten days in the mud and blood knew as Hamburger Hill. They had lost 70 dead, 372 wounded, 2 company commanders, and 8 platoon leaders. The military had dropped 152,000 pounds of napalm and flew 272 sorties in support of the attack. They had killed 630 NVA troops that could be counted on the ground, and probably many others who had been dragged off by their comrades. Amazingly, after such effort and so many bloody deaths, the hill was abandoned in June. In July and August came Operation Kentucky Jumper, followed by numerous assaults into the A Shau Valley.

Sgt. Mack Adams had not been a platoon leader at Hamburger Hill, not even a Sergeant, but he had survived with only a clean shot through his thigh to remind him. He had refused all treatment during the fight, but had spent time in the hospital at Hue afterwards. He had been promoted to Platoon Sergeant upon returning to Easy Company. On November 1st, he became 30 days short, scheduled to rotate out the first of December, and he was ready.

Sgt. Adams looked in a mini mirror at a face unnaturally creased for a twenty-three year old, trying to scrape some whiskers with a damp straight razor. His fatigues hung loose from a steady diet of C-rats, and he stunk from being without a bath for over a week. His eyes were worn and tired, having seen too much death in such a short life. The face he saw in the mirror was not what he remembered a year ago. The only indication of his youth was the recurring puss pimples he endured. Carefully, he moved the blade around them.

Lt. McConnell had come to him late last night and informed Adams they were going back into the A Shau, this time to try and locate a pilot confirmed shot down the day before. As soon as the weather lifted, they would be choppered in. McConnell offered to leave him behind since he was so short, but Adams would not trust his troopers to such a gung-ho asshole. This would be his last trip into Hell, but at least he would leave with a clear conscious that he did everything he could to protect the troops under him. Adams had saved his leave time to get an early out of the Army, and once this trip was over, he was going to use it.

Lt. McConnell was fresh out of West Point and determined to win the war by himself. He wanted to kill gooks. Sgt. Adams hoped this trip got McConnell a belly full of Victor Charley. Maybe then he would learn that out here, death was an unforgiving partner, and he wouldn't be so anxious to go back.

Sgt. Adams stood up to his full height of six foot two. Inside the brown, mud-stained fatigues, his body was lean and hard. He slapped some water on his face and let it burn, then began to decorate it with camouflage stripes, as all Screaming Eagles did. It was time to go to war and he blanked his mind from all other thoughts. If he was going to lead men into battle, they had to have faith the meanest mutherfucker in the Nam was there to show them the way.

When he strode out of his tent he tried to disguise the slight limp he would have for the rest of his life, but he was ready. The rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to lift. Sgt. Adams pushed his people out, and they followed him to the flight line where Hueys were firing up. He had twenty bodies and one dog to load up in three choppers. It was an odd number, more than 2 squads but less than a half platoon. Replacements had slowed down, so they had to do some field restructuring to make things work. After a sufficient amount of griping, they mounted and lifted off. Talk ceased and there was only the sound of the wind.

The Huey drivers came in high and dropped one by one through a hole in the clouds into the A Shau Valley. The pilots picked out a bomb crater about halfway up the Eastern side of mountain, and decided it was where they would put their cargo. They wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible, hoping the LZ wouldn't have any surprises. At these high mountain altitudes, it was very difficult to hold a hover in the thin air, so they went in hard, slamming down on the ground, unloading quickly, then back up, circling to give some protection to the next one. The twenty men were boots on the ground inside of thirty minutes. The most amazing thing to Adams was the fact they had gotten no ground fire.

He assembled his men along the top of a ridge where they could keep eyes out, and have a firing advantage if Uncle Charles decided to come up after them. By the time the soldiers got settled, it was getting close to night, and not even McConnell had any urge to go sneakin' and peakin' in the dark. They would wait for first light. Guards with night scopes were set up around the perimeter. Adams went to every fighting hole the men had dug, reminding them to tape dog tags and anything else that would rattle. "Sleep tight, girls," he said to his last visit. McConnell was walking around in full battle gear, steel pot, flak jacket, grenades hanging from his chest, oblivious to the fact he looked like a complete idiot. To grizzled veterans, steel pots were for pussies, and a flak jacket had never saved anybody whose time was up.

November 11, 1969

The evening meal had been finished, and the air was cool and it looked to be a clear night. Nguyen Hoa carefully wrapped her AK-47 and the bandoleer in a blanket, and left it in her hiding place in the house where she lived with her mother and younger sister. She was bored, and had decided she would follow the old trail that lead from beyond the rice paddy up the mountain, where she could sit and watch the American bombs as they flashed and boomed across the valley. It was a very long walk, but, in a strange way, peaceful in that she could feel a part of the war. Many Vietnamese people had died, but their determination to drive the invaders from her country was strong. Her father had been a partisan, killed in a battle with the French years before.

Darkness arrived by the time she came over the crest of the mountain, and she moved off the trail to find a place to sit and watch. Hoa stepped on Capt. Cowboy Williams' hand before she saw him. She jumped backwards with a shriek. Looking closer, she could make out the rest of the American. She pushed him with her foot. When he didn't move, she assumed he was dead. Hoa knelt down, trying to make out his features in the dark. She put her hand on his arm and pushed again. When he groaned, Hoa jerked with fright and turned to flee. After a few steps she stopped. Cautiously, she retraced her steps to the body. This time she saw the rifle lying beside the man. She picked it up. It was not a weapon she was familiar with, but knew it to be what the American soldiers carried. She aimed the barrel at the American's head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Maybe she would bash in his head with it. She poked at him with the barrel. He groaned again, this time opening his eyes.

"Help me, please." His raspy voice was barely loud enough for her to hear. Hoa stood back, afraid to get any closer. It was obvious the soldier was hurt and could probably do her no harm, but she was not taking any chances.

"Can you give me some water, please?" The voice was begging and sorrowful.

Hoa squatted down and looked at him closer. He reminded her of the American doctor who tried to help her after she had been beaten and raped. She began to have some sympathy for him. She knew what he was saying, but it didn't help, because she had no water. "No have water," she said.

Cowboy managed a smile. "That's okay. Thank you."

"You can walk?" Hoa asked him.

"I don't know. I will try if you can help me get up." Williams put out his hand.

Hoa started to pull on his arm, but he cried out in pain. She dropped it. Looking around as her eyes adjusted to the dark, she found a sturdy limb and brought it back. With her help and the support of the wood, Williams managed to get to his feet. Together they struggled back to the trail and over the top. Hoa knew there was a cave part of the way down, and she would try to get the American into it. There was no way she could carry him back to her village.

At least going downhill, the walking was easier, although they stumbled several times over the rocky ground. Hoa guided him off the road again when they got to the hidden place. She stood him up outside while she went in and made enough noise that any animals would flee. Satisfied, she went back and helped him, making a place as comfortable as possible for him to sit.

She looked at him very close in the face. "You stay. Make no sound. I come back, bring you water." The American nodded his understanding, and Hoa went out, pausing to pull branches and grass to cover the opening to the cave.

Hoa hurried down the rest of the way, and across the dike to her village on the other side. Quietly, she filled a small pot with water, and took a shirt and blanket off the line where they had been left to dry. Noiselessly, she made the return trip to the cave.

Cowboy heard the quiet rustling of the brush covering the cave. Since he had no weapon, all he could do was watch. It was the girl. He didn't know why she had chosen to help him, but was thankful she had.

"Here, nouc for you." Hoa held out the pot of water. Williams drank so fast he spilled as much as he got down. She reached into her shirt and produced a small glass bottle filled with alcohol and a wick, lit it, and held it up to Williams' face, then his arm where his wound was bleeding. Tearing at the shirt she brought, she unwound the one he had tied, and replaced it with the clean one. Looking at the depth and ugliness of the place the bullet had ripped open, she was surprised he had been able to walk this far. "Keep clean. Maybe you lose arm."

"Yes, I know. Do you have sulfur? Do you have medicine?" It was obvious the girl did not know what he was talking about. "Are there other Americans here?"

She did understand that part. "No, no GI here. You be quiet, VC find you, they kill you." She unfolded the blanket for Williams. "You stay. I come back tomorrow. Bring you food."

"Okay, I stay. Thank you so much for you help. I am named Cowboy. What is your name?"

Hoa stared at him. If he thought he would get any sympathy from her, he was wrong. This was simple repayment for the doctor saving her life; she would never forget what happened to her. "My name VC. You be quiet or maybe I kill you myself." The coldness of her eyes shocked him, and he stayed silent.

Hoa turned to leave, picking up the American rifle on the way out. Back at the village, she picked a special place to hide it. Maybe she could learn how to shoot it one day.

November 12, 1969

Hoa slept fitfully that night, waking up on and off, wondering if she should just go to the cave and bash in the American's head. If she were caught helping him, there would be only one punishment for her. Before daybreak, she silently rolled up her sleeping pallet, retrieved her rifle, filled a bowl with leftover rice from the night before, grabbed an old canteen she had found months ago, and filled it with water. To anyone watching her, she would simply be going to do what she did every day; take up her watch on the rice paddy. Except today she didn't stop at any one of her hiding places. She moved at a quick pace across and up the trail to the cave. Cautiously, she moved into the opening, not knowing what to expect. She saw the GI laying wrapped in the blanket she had left for him. She could see his eyes were open.

"Hello," he said. Hoa didn't bother to answer, just set about checking his wounds and giving him the canteen to drink from. When she handed him the bowl of rice, he hungrily shoved it into his mouth. "Thank you, thank you," he muttered between mouthfuls.

She prodded around the blanket, wanting to move him as little as possible, trying to make him more comfortable. When her black eyes caught his brown ones, hers were not quite so hard anymore. She watched as he finished the rice. He tried speaking to her again. "I am from North Carolina in America."

"Why you come here from Norse Carolina? You come here to die? Why you want to kill my people?" Hoa needed to hear some validation for what she was doing.

"I'm a soldier. I must do what I am told." Capt. Williams voice was a raspy whisper.

"They tell you to come Vietnam and die, and you do?" Hoa gave him an unconvinced look. "You are stupid American."

Cowboy would have laughed at the fire in the eyes of this tiny little girl if he didn't think she was deadly serious. It was the same fire the US military had so underestimated. Frankly, at the moment, he could think of no good reason he was here. He was probably going to die in this cave, and end up being just more fertilizer spread among the rice plants. "You are right, VC girl. I am one stupid American." He let his eyes close.

Hoa watched as his breathing got heavier and he drifted off to sleep. She covered him the best she could, concealed the opening with brush, pausing to look back at the image of the cruel American she had grown to hate. He didn't look so powerful now. If he were still alive tonight, maybe she would bash his head in. She turned and disappeared into the coming dawn, again taking her position along the dike.

November 12, 1969

Cooking fires sprinkled the village as evening came, and the smell of food rode the breeze out to welcome Hoa home, making her stomach growl. After eating herself, she would sneak out later and carry some to the American. Her mother and little sister, nicknamed Tee-Tee because she had been so small at birth, squatted by the fire in front of her house, the sing-song voices of conversations running across the bare ground of the village. Hoa looked at her sister. She had reached fourteen and was too starting to fill out. Her mother chewed beetle nut and relaxed from a long day in the field. They ate in silence, each with their own thoughts. Hoa hated the fact her young sister was beginning to experience disillusionment, no longer being excited by the fantasies of childhood. Theirs was a hard life, and the only future they looked forward to was another day of the same.

Suddenly, from the other end of the village, they heard excited jabbering from the neighbors. The three of them jumped to their feet and went to see about the clamor. The villagers had encircled a small group of Vietminh, the people's army. The Vietnamese men dressed in a variety of black, and were equipped heavily with weapons as they sat under the banyan tree. Most carried the same AK-47 Hoa used, but some had American guns like the one she had hidden. Each carried as much ammunition in packs as they could shoulder, including an assortment of Russian grenades and mortar rounds. The burden of weaponry left little room for rations. That was why they were here, to eat and refresh. It was not an uncommon occurrence for soldiers to pass through on their way in or out of the Valley beyond.

The group of twelve was led to the thatch-covered long house and bade to sit and share the food. Everybody wanted to hear news of how the war was progressing from comrades who were fighting it. The leader told them they were indeed headed over the mountain to look for a pilot who had been shot down yesterday. If one of the villagers found him, they would be in for a nice reward. Hoa thought about how much her mother and sister could benefit from having money. She sat silently for a few minutes, wrestling with the decision. Finally, she spoke up. "I found an American rifle."

The commander immediately came to her. "Where did you find this?"

"Just over the ridge, there." She pointed toward the tall hill. "It was off the trail, laying in the bushes."

"Show me the gun." The leader pulled her to her feet. "Where is it?"

Hoa lead him behind her house, and pulled it from its place. Handing it to the man, she said, "I don't think it works. I could not fire it."

Laughing at her ignorance, the cadre leader expertly pulled the cocking mechanism back, sliding a round from the clip into the chamber. He pointed the gun up and pulled the trigger. When the gun went off, he turned and gave a glad shout to his troops. "You just did not know how to work it," he smiled with broken and stained teeth. "I will teach you if you want."

Hoa explained she had been trained by their North Vietnamese brothers to protect her village, and she had an AK-47 that was good enough for what she had to do. He praised her for her good fortune and dedication to the cause. He reached into his pocket and handed Hoa three hundred piaster's, explaining that while he and his men were going to look for the pilot, they would also try and ambush any Americans they could. The comrades in the North paid a handsome bounty for patches from birdmen uniforms, meaning the hated Eagles of the 101st.

The commander inspected her rifle and was pleased to find it well oiled and clean. He gave her a new clip of ammunition, and told her he would remember her should they need fresh recruits. She was quite pretty, and he liked fresh young girls, before they got old and ugly like her mother. His eyes even lingered on the handshake of the younger sister.

The villagers sat and listened to the stories of the men for several hours. By the time it approached midnight, the soldiers were sated with food and drink. Hoa, her sister, and mother made their way back to their house. Hoa's mother was joyful with pride at her eldest child. They would have money now for the purchase of sugar and better tea, perhaps even some new clothes for the two children. Hoa walked silently, her thoughts drifting to the GI in the cave. She knew all she had to do was turn him in to the comrades and get even more money. But, she wouldn't do it now. Better to wait. She had not liked the way the commander had ogled her and persistently caressed her arm while congratulating her; above all, she did not like it when did the same to her sister. The three slipped under blankets against the chilly night air. She heard the rain start to patter on the hard ground outside. Hoa was tired from the mental strain of the day. She was asleep in minutes, the pelting rain giving a sense of security. She dreamed of better days.

A murky silhouette paused outside the house containing Hoa and her family. It sidled close to the overhanging roof, trying to duck the giant raindrops. Silently, it slipped to the curtained doorway, pausing to hear the muffled snores of the occupants. Satisfied, it quickly moved inside. It peeked around each of the three curtains until finding its target.

Hoa's eyes flew wide open when the hand clamped down over her mouth. She could see the dark figure and smell his bitter breath. When her eyes focused, she saw it was the cadre commander. In the dim light she could make out his face, the decayed teeth exposed by receding lips pulled back in a leering smirk. She shook her head to force his hand away, but his grip was strong. He put his finger to his mouth, warning her to be silent. Hoa's eyes searched for help from her sister or mother. Then, just as suddenly, she stopped. There was no uncertainty about what she was in for. If she made a fight and woke up her sibling, Tee-Tee could be in for the same treatment. That she would not allow. She relaxed her body. Did he want her here or outside? When he ran his coarse, callused hand between her legs, she got her answer.

Hoa stopped struggling. She raised her hips and allowed him to pull her cotton underwear down. Roughly, he began to manipulate her, spitting on his fingers when her wetness did not immediately come, inserting them again. Hoa stared at the straw ceiling and did not move. Men were the same, American or Vietnamese. Women were simply something to be used, like a pig or chicken. Finally, he forced her legs away from each other, griped his small penis in his hand and entered her. Hoa felt nothing. He could not hurt her like the Americans. When he finished, he simply retucked and strode out the door like an arrogant bantam rooster. It took a long time before Hoa pulled up her clothes. She would not cry.

In the opposite corner of the room, her mother had awakened to hear what was happening. She had not moved. The child was eighteen, and had been forced to know the ways of men by what the Americans had done to her. She could not risk angering the commander. He had given them money after all. She would buy something special for Hoa. The girl had to understand it was her sacrifice for the family. By not resisting, she had surely saved her sister. Tomorrow the fighters would be gone, and, with any luck, the Americans would kill the commander. It would serve him right. Tears welled in her eyes and drifted down her cheek. What life was this for human beings? They were of no more value than the buffalo tied in the field, maybe less. She closed her eyes and desperately tried to sleep.

November 13, 1969

As the predawn glow stretched into the valley, the people in the village began to stir about, preparing a light morning meal, making tea. The soldiers were also up, and Hoa watched them from a distance. The commander did not approach her. Hoa took her weapon and went to her post along the dike. Today, she took the closest one to the village. Sitting in her nest, she caressed the rifle, snapping in the new curved clip. In time, she heard noise from the cadre as they began to cross the dike. Their path would take them worryingly close to the cave where she had hidden the American. She hoped none of the group would get inquisitive, or knew about the concealed spot. They were unaware of Hoa as they passed by. When she spotted the commander, she followed his back with the AK-47. It would be so easy to kill him. She didn't pull the trigger, however, and watched until they vanished into the tall grass on the other side, fading like whispers into the wind. Unexpectedly, she had an urge to follow them.

What was battle truly like? Maybe killing the enemy in a fight was different than killing them like a frightened pig, the way she could do the American. Hoa eased out of her hiding place, and quickly crossed the dike, looking up at the side of the hill leading out of her valley. Periodically, she could see a black hat bobbing where the foliage cleared. If they caught her, she would just profess her desire to fight for the cause. Hoa began to race back towards the village. She had to let her mother know she may not be back until tomorrow, so she wouldn't panic when she did not show up for the evening meal. She filled the canteen with water and packed the bowl she carried with rice.

When she stopped at the cave, she laid the canteen and rice near the American. His eyes were closed and his breathing was quiet. The color in his face was improved today. When his eyes flicked open, Hoa held her finger to his lips. "You be quiet. VC near." Without waiting for a discussion, she slipped back through the opening.

Cowboy heard the girl and watched her disappear without speaking. He continued to be puzzled as to why she was helping him, if what she was doing could be considered help. Bringing a doctor would be what he could consider help. He wondered if she was going to kill him in the end. He thought of his wife and two children and his heart throbbed, filling his eyes with water. The pain and fear he felt overwhelmed him.

He had to piss really badly. Since he couldn't get to his feet by himself, he had no choice but to let it go where he lay. Cowboy was beginning to be fairly sure he would never get out of this cave. He closed his eyes and started to pray. He prayed for the war to end, he prayed for himself, and he prayed he would not be afraid when the end came. He wanted God to let him die without pain. It had been a long time since Carl Williams prayed, but now it provided comfort, helped his hands quit shaking. He felt a warmness come over him, and he was sure God was in this cave, giving him some peace. He went back to sleep.

Hoa followed the group of men for an exceptionally long day. They crested the hill, and headed down into the Valley on the other side. The rocky slope and heavy brush made walking hard, and she thought the American must have been very motivated to make it as far as he had. They kept a steady pace, and only stopped briefly now and again for a rest. The ancient trail was indistinguishable to people not familiar with this land. Heavy canopy overhead covered much of the trek, and in the open spaces, elephant grass was taller than a man. They walked without a great fear of being seen from the air. While the Americans had come into this valley and killed many Viet Cong and North Vietnamese Army soldiers, and bombed seemingly every night, this valley still belonged to the people fighting for the freedom of the South.

By late afternoon the cadre reached the floor of the Valley where it intersected with a small stream by which they made their evening camp. The soldiers made a small sheltered fire to heat water and cook rice. They would make beds in the grass to sleep. Hoa's stomach rumbled from lack of food. She should have brought something for herself. But, it wouldn't be the first time she had gone hungry, she could endure that. She would, however, need to make her way down to the water. Hoa circled way to the south of the encampment and found the stream. She went to a place where the water ran fastest over the rocks, and dipped her hands into the cool liquid. After drinking her fill, she washed the sweat and dirt from her face and neck. Where the water made a small clear pool, she peered at her reflection. She could see the lines that were beginning to form along a face that was turning from youthful to old. How long would it be until she had the face of her mother?

She retied her long, jet-black hair into a single ponytail behind her neck. By the time she replaced her non la, the conical hat she wore, she was feeling refreshed. Carefully, she made her way back around the cadre to a spot high above them, from where she could monitor what happened. In the distance beyond the stream and up the opposite hillside, Hoa could see lights from small fires dotted about. She guessed that was where the Americans must be, the birdmen the commander talked about; the fiercest fighters the Yankees had, according to the guerillas. Excitement ran down the back of Hoa's neck. Could she be so close to seeing the real war? The sense of expectation of a possible coming battle was hard to throttle. She laid her gun across her chest and made herself comfortable for the night ahead. She had a feeling the morning was going to be unlike anything she had ever witnessed.

A bit before dawn, Hoa jerked awake from a frightful nightmare. She had seen the faces of her American, her sister, and her mother screaming as they fled bullets of American soldiers. She had felt the pain of the wounds in her chest as she foresaw her own death. Sweat drenched her shirt. When she sat erect and let her eyes adjust to the light, she could see the Vietnamese fighters stirring about already. They seemed in no hurry; perhaps knowing the Americans did not rise so early.

From the corner of her eye, she caught movement coming towards the group. Fearfully, she gripped her weapon, ready to fire a warning shot in case it was the enemy. When the people moved into the open, she could clearly see they were Vietnamese, not American. There were four of them clad in regular Army uniforms of the North. The commander rose to meet them, as if he had been expecting their arrival. They came together at the edge of the stream and exchanged greetings all around. The commander and a man who was the apparent leader of the other group, squatted and talked.

During the discussion, the commander stood and pointed back in the direction of Hoa. She was fearful they had somehow discovered her. But, with the expended pointing, she realized he was telling the other man about her village. A cold chill swept through Hoa. The other group must be searching for the American pilot as well. Hoa slowly moved in her nest, preparing to sprint back the way she had come.

The two men squatted back down, showing no immediate inclination to return up the hill. Hoa relaxed a bit. She would wait until they gave her the opportunity, then she would go back and kill the American and remove any evidence she had helped him. The group below now numbered sixteen, and they gathered around the commander near the water. He seemed to be drawing something on the ground. After a while, they all seemed to be in agreement about whatever it was, and began gathering weapons. Maybe this was the attack they had planned.

Three of the members crossed the creek and started up through the high grass towards where Hoa had seen the lights the night before. The rest spread out along the banks of the stream, some climbing into the trees, positioning themselves along either side, creating a crossfire position. If the Americans came through this point, it would be devastating.

November 13, 1969

Sgt. Mack Adams squatted and smoked a cigarette in the early dawn light. He stared out into nothing, what vets called the thousand-yard stare. A man got it when he had been in the jungle too long. Adams's blue eyes were sunk far back in the sockets and never appeared to blink. He was tired and too short to be out here in the fucking boonies again. His only goal was to live thirty more days, and keep as many of his troops alive as he could. Then, they would belong to somebody else. He had all of this man's war he wanted. He'd spent so much time in the Ah Shit Valley it felt like home, as if God had picked this particular piece of ground for him to have his own private war.

Sgt. Adams began rousting his men. "Get off your butts, time to mount up cowboys. Uncle Charlie's out there waiting for you. He wants to wear your Eagle on his ass." He approached Anderson, the dog man. "Take that big mutt, Carson, and Peepers, and have a look-see down that hill a ways. Let's be sure there ain't no greeting party waiting for us." The dog licked his handler and looked back at Adams.

Anderson ran his fingernails down the big Sheppard's back. "Don't be afraid of the big ugly Sergeant. You can eat him later."

"I swear the two of you are starting to look alike," laughed Adams. He knew Anderson loved that animal like a child. The dog had saved them more than once. He was a big male, and when he went after something, he didn't play. "You be careful out there."

"No problem, Sgt.," replied Anderson. "We'll be just fine." He pushed to his feet and gathered his 12-gage sawed off shotgun, strapping it over his shoulder. The dog started hassling with eagerness.

"Let's go, Carson," Anderson yelled to a big black man lying on a rucksack near by. "Peepers, get your sorry behind up here." Peepers was called that because of the black, ugly Army-issue glasses he wore. His nose was always raw from them constantly having to be pushed up over the bridge of his giant boney hook. Peepers flipped Anderson the finger.

The three, plus the dog, started out to the edge of the camp. Lt. McConnell passed them on his way to worry the shit out of Adams. "We heading out, Sgt.?"

"Nah, Lt. Just having a little survey done. They'll be back in a while."

"What's the hold up? I'm ready to get it on," demanded McConnell. He was primed to the hilt. Adams just stared at him. Even his uniform was green.

"Have a little patience, LT. We don't want to be running out there blind. Charlie ain't going anywhere." He squatted back down near his pack, making sure nothing would make a noise when he walked. It was also the reason he didn't use shaving lotion, Charles could smell like a bloodhound. The Lieutenant moved about his troops, reviewing their readiness for his war. They ignored him.

Mack Adams was lighting a smoke when he heard the first AK pop. There was no sound like it. The dog screamed once, then M-16s on full automatic responded, and were answered by more AK-47s. Adams was running at full speed within three strides. He didn't have to look back to know every man in his unit was right behind him; he could hear steady clicks of rounds being chambered. He heard the shotgun blast twice.

As he neared the perimeter he had laid out the day before, an eerie silence fell over the jungle. The only sound he could hear was the whining of the dog. "Anderson," he yelled out in a half whisper. "Peepers! Where are you?" His eyes searched the morning mist, peering between each opening in the bush. Behind him, McConnell was crashing through the jungle like a bulldozer.

When McConnell reached Adams, he flopped down with a clamor. Adams looked over at him with disgust. "LT, you're going to get me and you killed."

"Where are the Gooks?"

"I don't know. I was trying to listen until you ran up here like a bull in a china shop."

Adams turned to each side, surveying the others in his platoon spread out like they should be, waiting for him before they moved. The dog continued the saddest moan he had ever heard. He fixed on the sound, hand signaled the others to stay put, and started to crawl towards it. He turned back to McConnell, "stay here." The anger in his eyes emphasized his message. McConnell stayed put.

By the time Adams reached the dog it was dead. So was Anderson. He lay with his arm across the Shepherd, his face into the fur, the back of his head a bloody mess of bone and brains. Adams rose to a squat position and began searching for the other two. He found Carson about a hundred feet away; eyes wide open, staring at the great beyond, his neck torn apart. He reached down to close the eyes and said a little prayer for his soul. Moving again, he called out for Peepers. "Peepers, you out here?"

"Sarge," came a weak-voiced reply. It took Adams another two minutes to find him. Peepers had slid up to a tree and managed to hide in the heavy growth around it. His left arm dangled and part of his shoulder was missing. His blood was soaking the ground.

"How you doing, boy?" Adams asked.

"I'm hurting real bad, Sarge." Peepers tried to push himself upright. "I couldn't change the magazine with one hand like you show'd us. I'm sorry Sarge."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Don't mean nothing. I'm going to get you out of here, okay? You just try to help me all you can. You're on your way back to the World, just keep that thought."

He got on Peeper's right side and hefted him to his feet. Peepers groaned with pain. "Where are they?" Adams asked, not wanting to risk running into the VC.

Peepers nodded towards where Adams had found Anderson and the dog. "They were laying for us. I don't think there were more than two or three. The dog locked on them and they lit us up." He began to cry. "Jesus, Sarge, the killed Carson too."

"Knock it off," Adams said roughly. "You ain't going to dishonor them by blubbering like a fucking baby. You're a man, a Screaming Eagle. You're going back to the World and be done with this cluster fuck."

Adams began to drag Peepers back towards the others. "Doc," he yelled out, "get up here." They all came running. He handed Peepers off to Willis, the corpsman, and assigned two others to help get Peepers back to the camp and call in a Dust-Off. The rest he gathered around him, including McConnell.

"Peepers says he thinks there were only a few of them. They probably were reconning the hill, coming up just like Anderson and them were doing going down. Spread out, but stay in sight of one another, and see if we can find them or their bodies. If there were some, there are probably others on the way. Until we know how many, let's not do anything stupid."

Lt. McConnell felt it was his time to speak up. "We're going to get some payback right now. I want some bodies. These bastards are not going to kill my men without recourse. Let's go." He started off into the jungle leading down the hill. Not another soul moved until Adams nodded. The thirteen of them fanned out and began the sweep.

It didn't take long to find the first body. He had caught a full load of double ought buck shot right in the face. He lay in the undergrowth twenty feet from Anderson and the dog. A second one had headed back down the hill but didn't make it a hundred yards. He had two M-16 rounds through his lower back. Adams searched him. He was a typical VC, scraggly and dirty, with little value to anyone but himself.

To his right, Adams heard one of his troops call out. "Blood trail." That's all he said. Everyone else stopped and got silent. Adams worked his way to the soldier. So did McConnell. Adams saw Waters hunkered down, staring intently through the bush. Adams squatted beside him, following his gaze. Waters whispered and pointed, "see the leaves over there?" The fresh blood spatters on the leaves of the broad ferns were plainly visible as they bent in the direction the VC had obviously taken. He was hurt and moving fast.

Adams stood up to try and get a better view. The gook was headed back down the hill. He wondered what could be waiting for them if they followed. "Radio- man, get up here." He called out.

Adams called back to base camp on the Prick. "Blackwater One, this is Blackwater Two, over." The radio crackled back. "Blackwater One, go." Adams responded, giving his coordinates, "request air cover. We have a blood trail, and we don't know where it might lead, over."

Silence followed for a minute, and then was broken. "Roger that. Angels departing. ETA your grid two five minutes, over." Adams responded, "Roger that. Out."

Lt. McConnell wanted to take charge. "We're going to stay on this blood trail until we find the sonofabitch. I want him alive if we can." He eyed each trooper, daring them to face him back.

Sgt. Adams let his head droop before he spoke up. "LT, I think we should wait for the choppers. We have no idea what's down there."

"We'll use the choppers to chase them if we have to. But right now, I'm not about to wait. This is the 101st, son. We don't take ass-kickings, we give them. If we can find more than this one slant-eyed bastard, we're going to harvest some souls. Now spread out and let's go. Waters, you take the point."

Again, nobody moved. This was one of those moments where the rubber met the road. Adams could trust his instinct and buck the Lieutenant, but suffer the consequences later. "Hell with it," he thought, "thirty days and I'm outa' here." He got to his feet.

"You heard the LT. Keep your noses to the wind. Anything jumps up; don't wait for the spirit to move you. Waters, you keep them beady eyes and ears open. Let's go."

November 13, 1969

Back up on the opposite hillside, Hoa heard the gunfight. She even managed to spot one of the Vietminh making his way back down the hill to where the rest waited hidden in the jungle around the small stream. She saw him stumbling and caring little about concealment as he hurtled towards the bottom.

She pulled the AK-47 into the comfort of her arms and squatted to watch what would happen next. Her stomach quivered in anticipation. Search as hard as she could, she could not spot the others in hiding, yet she knew they were there.

Suddenly, breaking from the heavy bush below the tree line high on the far hill, she saw the first American. He was cautious in his movement, obviously on the trail of the Vietnamese soldier. The American slipped steadily through the grass, taking refuge every several yards. Twice he took aim with his gun on the cadre, but each time lost the target when it fell or stumbled out of sight. Right behind the first American, she could now make out the movements of many more, spread out like the wings of a giant bird, pursuing its prey. Did the rest of the ambush party see them as well? She was sure they must, so she resisted the overpowering urge to signal them.

Death was on the approach. The air was thick with tension. Hoa knew many would not survive this day. She had never felt as alive as this moment. The hillside became barer near the bottom; the stumbling, lone Vietnamese soldier came into the open for a few yards. American rifles exploded in a series of rapid pops, echoing across the Valley. The last member of the threesome that went up the hill, fell at its base. His body flopped for a few seconds, and then was still. The Americans behind the first one began to rush down to claim their prize. The first one did not move, and was soon joined by a second.

November 13, 1969

"LT! LT, get down." Adams screamed at the top of his lungs, but to no avail. McConnell started an avalanche of troops down the hillside, and Adams couldn't stop it. Waters was the only hold back.

"Those stupid fucks," said Waters. "There could be a whole company down there."

"No doubt," said Adams. "You stay here. Coordinate the choppers when they come in."

Waters looked up at his Sergeant. "Be nice if I had a radio to do that with." He peered down the hill. "I'd say it's down there about a hundred yards." He reached in his pocket, pulled out a tobacco plug and ripped off a chaw with his teeth. "But, if it's all the same to you, I'll still rest here."

"Okay, but if there is a company of Charlies down there and I get killed, you make sure that stupid LT rides back with me." With that, he was off down the hill.

"No problem, Sarge," grinned Waters. "It'll be my pleasure." He laid back on his elbows, letting the early morning sun warm his face. He thought about the fact that it was November, and back home in Kentucky it wouldn't be long before the first snowfalls would begin. With any luck, he hoped to be home before spring.

By the time Adams got to where his men surrounded the dead VC, he was red-faced and pissed to the max. "What the stupid hell are you idiots thinking? Get out of this open space and spread out. Regroup by that cluster of trees down there by the creek. You never saw a dead Gook before?" The platoon scattered and began working their way towards the water.

"LT, you are going to get my people killed dead 'ern hell. This ain't a movie and you ain't John Wayne!" Adams vented all over McConnell while he searched the dead man's pockets, finding nothing. "Don't you get it? This is a typical move to draw us out in the open. I know they taught you that shit in training."

McConnell stood straight up, not taking kindly to Adams' attitude. "You better remember who you are talking to, Sergeant. So far, we got three bodies. If there are more of them out here, I want 'em to show. Then, we're going to kill the rest."

"Well be my guest and keep standing there. If one's out here, you're going to find him real soon. Now, with your permission, let's get over to those trees and figure out what to do next." Adams began to run in a squat position. McConnell stood straight as an arrow and walked calmly after him, like he was on a morning constitution.

From her position, Hoa would see the battle beginning to close. The Americans had done just what the cadre wanted. Now all they had to do was cross the stream and they would be in a killing crossfire. She waited, and while sitting there, thought about her GI in the cave. If he wasn't dead when she got back, she determined to kill him and be done with it. She turned her attention back to the drama beginning to play out in front of her.

When the 101st troops gathered under the cover of the trees, McConnell took charge. The men had watched him stride right across the open. They admired his courage, but seriously questioned his judgment. It was Peterson who called him Iron Nuts first. "Okay, men. We're going to scout out this area. See if there are any more of these little slant-eyed bastards hiding in the bushes. It's definitely free fire. Anything moves, pump its ass full of lead."

"Sgt. Adams, you get somebody out front and let's recon that hill on the other side. Any questions?" He stared at Adams, daring him to disagree. "None? Okay, let's go."

Adams rose and looked up and down the short bank, trying to see signs of a trail where others might have crossed. "Peterson, get up here and let's work across the creek. One at a time. Keep your spacing. Watch for wires. Radioman, get your dumbass and that Prick back up the hill and coordinate the gunships when they come in. And tell Waters I said to get the hell down here."

The radioman gladly hurried back. When he reached Waters, he relayed the message from Adams. "Man, I'm glad I ain't going to be down there. It just don't smell right. My pucker factor's about a hundred."

Waters had the same feeling. "I'll give 'em five minutes, and if they ain't in the shit then, I'll go down. If they are, I'll have their backs." Waters sat and watched until he couldn't see any movement from his side. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his side pocket, and scanned the area intently. Slowly, he moved his field of vision up the opposite hillside. The lens had moved passed the conical hat in the grass halfway up before he realized what it was. Quickly he went back to it. The radioman was talking to the Hueys.

At the creek, six of the eleven remaining troops had crossed, and a seventh was in the middle. McConnell insisted on wading over right after Peterson. Adams' eyes constantly surveyed the surroundings as he directed the maneuver from his side. All he could hear was the trickling sound of the water, no fussing birds, no frogs, nothing. Adams knew they were out here somewhere. He wanted to scream at the ones on the other side not to crowd together. All of them should know better. But, scared kids were like flies on shit, they felt safer in a group.

Waters peered intently at the hat until he saw it raise and a face come into view. It was a girl, and when she squirmed to change position he saw the AK sitting in her lap. He knew he couldn't reach her from here, but short of yelling, he couldn't think of anything else to do. Maybe he could kick enough dust so the others below could spot her, or at least cover.

As he took dead aim, Waters said quietly to the radioman, "tell them choppers to hurry." When he squeezed off the first round, he followed it with nine more.

Hoa didn't hear the report from the M-16 until the rounds began to splat a few yards in front of her. She slithered into the grass and belly-crawled as fast as she could. By that time, hell had been unleashed below her.

Adams heard the fire from behind. His first thought was that the VC had backtracked them. But, before he could gather his thoughts, withering AK-47 fire attacked like angry, deadly bees. The soldier in the middle of the creek was staining the water with the blood pumping from where his face had been. The six on the other side were getting slaughtered, even as they tried to cover and return fire. The trouble was, they had no idea in which direction to shoot. The resounding echo of the AKs was coming from all around them.

Sgt. Adams began to spray into the trees as he felt the heat of bullets coming from everywhere. He began to fire to his right even as he felt more coming from his left. The sudden noise was deafening. Grown men were screaming for their mommas as they died. As Adams flipped his clip and resumed, the only stupid thing that came to his mind was part of the Lord's Prayer, "Yea though I walk through the Valley of Death..." He was unaware he was releasing awful, blood curdling sounds from his mouth, as his mind was preparing him for death. When he heard the whoop, whoop unmistakable sound of Huey, he was briefly cheered. Maybe they would have a chance after all.

Hoa turned her head towards the sounds from up high and to her left. The flying machines appeared out of the mist atop the Valley, three of them side by side. They turned in unison toward the American side of the hill and came low towards the tree-lined creek. All fighters feared these death birds. Once they reached the battle site they unleashed ungodly havoc.

The radioman was yelling into the mouthpiece, "they are in the creek. Do something, goddammit, they are getting murdered!"

Waters had already begun running to the action. He considered staying where he was only briefly. He was snapping in a fresh clip as he ran. Tobacco juice was the only wet thing in his mouth. He spit out the chaw as he reached the tree line. A round caught him just below the belly button. It exploded his pelvis, ricocheted off his hipbone and came out above his groin, blowing his intestines to the outside of his body. He made a grab for them as he fell, holding them until he died.

The gunships began pouring .50-caliber machine gun fire into the area around the creek. Full-grown trees were turned to stumps. Tracers came so rapidly they made a solid sheet of red. The only trouble was, the good guys and the bad guys were closely mixed, and it was nearly impossible to distinguish them. As they came in over the treetops, the pilots and door gunners tried very hard to make out the Americans. Bodies lay everywhere. They made one pass and pulled up to view the results. When metallic pangs beat on their bottoms, they roared in for another run, this time starting with rockets.

On the ground, Adams had gone into the water trying to avoid the storm of fire from above. "Jesus," he cried. "Stop it!" He covered his head and pushed his body into the bank as hard as possible. Right in front of his face a giant rat leaped from a hole in the creek bank. On reflex, Sgt. Mack Adams recoiled and jumped straight up. After eleven months earning a Masters Degree in Jungle College, he failed the final test. A .50 caliber round left him with only a stump above his shoulders. His mind continued to function for a few seconds as his head floated down the creek.

Up on the hillside, Hoa watched the horror below. The Americans had been caught just as the Vietnamese had planned. What they had not planned was the American helicopter gunships. The remaining few that survived the initial assault now began scattering in her direction. They did not escape the eyes of the birdmen. The giant machines swooped in on them and fired rockets that shook the ground so hard she couldn't stand. When they soared up again nothing on the ground moved. Hoa absolutely did not dare even quiver, praying they could not see her from above.

The radioman lay speechless in the grass, not wanting to believe what he had just witnessed. 'Blackwater Two, this is One over," the radio that lay beside him crackled, breaking the overwhelming silence. The call came three times before he could answer. "Blackwater Two."

"What's your sit-rep, over?"

The radioman answered softly, his mind refusing any sane thoughts. "They're all dead. Can I go home now?"

"Blackwater Two, say again. Who is dead?"

Bile rose in his gut. His reality recovered. "Our guys, you dumb sonofabitch. All our guys are dead." He was screaming into the handset. The radio was silent. Then it crackled again. "Do you need Dust-off Blackwater Two?" The radioman started to laugh insanely. He stood up and slung the radio as far down the hill as he could, continuing to rant and jabber mindlessly as he made his way back up the hill toward the camp they had left only an hour ago.

"Blackwater One, Angels One, over," the helicopter commander, a twenty-five year old Warrant Officer, called back to his base. "Blackwater One, go," came the reply.

"Blackwater One, I don't see anything moving down there. Do you have Dust-off on the way?"

Again the reply, "roger that, ETA two zero minutes." The young Warrant Officer responded, "Blackwater One, Angels One. Do you need us to stick around?" The radio was silent for a few moments.

"Negative, Angels One. We have relief on the way, Dust-offs and the Calvary." The lead chopper swooped down for one last look at the killing zone below. "Roger that. Angels out." The three crews came up to fifteen hundred feet and turned north. In minutes they disappeared in a forty-five degree ascent through a hole in the building clouds.

Hoa saw the metal beast rise up and head back through the Valley away from her. She sat in wetness from not being able to control her bladder. She looked down the hill. Nothing moved. She knew the Americans would be back. They always came back. They would not leave their dead behind.

Summoning bravery on unwilling legs, she scrambled down the hillside, parting the heavy grass as she went. She came upon one sickening sight after another. Limbs blown off, blood soaking the ground everywhere, American and Vietnamese lay near each other, their faces locked in the death stare.

By the time she reached the creek, Hoa had passed no one alive. In the water lay a headless American and a cadre within a few feet of one another. The blood from their two bodies mixed as it flowed downstream, forever to be dried and diluted somewhere at the creek's end. It would unite into the soil of her country, ever intertwining this day and this place in what would become only an insignificant component of the history of this war. She cried at the sight, and then vomited.

Her mind told her she had to move quickly lest she be caught in this place of death. She forced herself to search the pockets of the Americans. Finding some MPC among the various items they carried, she stuffed the money into her bra. Each of them carried sulfur and morphine shots, which she gathered in a shirt pulled from a body. She rapidly tied the uniform shirt into a bundle, and started back up the hill towards her village. She was tempted to pick up one of the American rifles, but discarded the idea, instead confiscating a pistol from the side of a thick American with a single bar insignia on his shirt collar and half a face. Again she fought the nausea from the smell of blood and the release of bodily functions of the freshly dead. The open wounds smoked in the early morning.

Just as she passed the last of the dead soldiers, her ears caught the sound of a moan. Hoa stopped and squatted immediately. She heard it again, forcing herself not to run. The third time she heard the voice she knew it was Vietnamese, not English. Reaching hand over hand through the grass, she inched towards the sound. Parting the grass, Hoa immediately recognized the commander who had raped her in the village.

His eyes were open, shocked when he saw the girl's face. He held out his hand. "Help me," he pleaded. The hole in his chest spurted blood each time he breathed. The hatred in her gut for this man and what he had done to her overcame the fear in her head. She stood erect over him. "I will help you," she said. Hoa raised the AK-47 to where the barrel was inches from his groin. She looked in his eyes as she pulled the trigger. She did not wait to gloat.

Running as long as she could at a time, she reached halfway to the crest of the hill before she looked back, and heard the roar of more helicopters over the Valley floor. They came into sight from the direction of where the earlier three had disappeared. This time there was not just three. Like a flock of enraged metal hornets, they came, armed and ready to kill anything that gave them a target. Hoa counted twelve as they buzzed the creek and circled over the little battlefield.

After a few minutes, one by one, they began to drop and unload cargo. More birdmen. The soldiers spread like locust over the hillside. Some of the machines had big white crosses on their bellies, and they came last and searched for a flat spot to land. The others resumed circling, protecting their flock. The Americans swarmed over the trees where the dead lay. Soon, they began carrying them out, loading black bags onto the waiting transportation.

From her position, Hoa watched curiously as the deadly business was performed. She sat hidden behind a large outcrop of rock, her taste for battle replaced by a sense of despair and sorrow. So much waste of lives. She imagined how many brothers and sons lay in that place. There would be a flood of tears from mothers on both sides. American tears that could have been better spent, Vietnamese tears for the cost of freedom. Hoa was determined to leave her hate at this bloody scene. She turned and continued over the mountain.

November 13, 1969

On the opposite hillside, Capt. Charles Pleasants, a portly, tough Army veteran of twenty-five years, surveyed the gore. Almost an entire platoon wiped out, ambushed like fish in a barrel. He had known Sgt. Mack Adams since the cluster at Hill 937, and could not imagine how he would get himself into such a shit storm. Adams was a seasoned veteran. "What a waste," he muttered to himself yet again.

It took two hours to bag and tag the dead. During that time, Pleasants made his way back to the bivouac higher up, where Adams' outfit had camped the night before. He found the medic first. "What happened out there?" Pleasants screamed at the corpsman. James "Doc" Willis was a tired looking twenty-year old E4 who sat with his head propped on his fist. He kept repeating to himself, "don't mean nothing" over and over, like a mantra to help keep him sane.

"They was chasing Gooks," said Willis. "Three of our guys got ambushed this morning, and they managed to get a couple of them. The LT was determined to get some. I guess he did." Willis then began to weep uncontrollably. "That dumb bastard. Adams tried to get him to slow down and wait for help, but he wouldn't listen."

Capt. Pleasants gripped the medic by the shoulder. "Get yourself under control, son. You get on that medevac and haul your ass back to Eagle. Nothing else you can do for them now." His voice broke some from the lump in his throat. He pulled Willis to his feet and pushed him toward where the choppers continued to load bodies. "Damn fine young men were being destroyed out here," he thought, "and for what?" Pleasants pondered on that as he walked back to where his soldiers continued to pull dead men from the trees and creek. The more he watched, the angrier he got. Somebody was going to pay for this shit.

Pleasants ordered the VC corpses searched and stacked. He then took several pictures for the record, and body count statistics he was required to keep. Lastly, he had his men retrieve fuel bladders from the choppers. They poured gasoline over the bodies of the enemy soldiers, and then torched the entire stack. The stench started to fill the Valley; a strong breeze carried the unmistakable odor up the high mountain walls on each side, where Pleasants knew many more of the enemy lay in tunnels and spider holes, hiding by day so they could open the Ho Chi Minh Trail by night. He wanted them all to know he was burning their comrades. He wanted them to know he was coming for them next. If it were up to him, he would drop a nuke right square in the middle of this Valley of Death. Just be done with it. It wasn't worth any more lives.

While standing there looking up at the hills surrounding him, he suddenly let out a Tarzan yell and thumped his chest like an ape. Right at that moment, Capt. Pleasants knew he was at his rational breaking point. He couldn't stand any more of watching his country's children die for nothing. It was time for him to call it a career. It was universal knowledge that there is an inexpressible line in war where some men crossed from sanity to soulless evil. Those that stepped across that line gave up all rationale and humanity, becoming concerned only with killing.

He had witnessed unbelievable bravery and courage from nineteen and twenty-year olds, and would be proud to stand with them in any battle. But, deep inside, he knew this was one they were not going to win. Not because they couldn't, but because politicians wouldn't let them. They were just sacrificial goats, expendable for some idiot's conception of the greater good. Well, he was done. He had long ago passed the time he could file his retirement, and if the Lord let him live long enough to get back to Camp Eagle, he was filing the papers. "Fuck it," he muttered to himself, "don't mean nothing."

November 13, 1969

Hoa struggled for the better part of the day to get back across the mountain. It was growing dark and the sun was setting, sinking behind the opposite mountain into Laos. She paused to rest and watch. Why had this war picked her country instead of theirs? She guessed it was fate. Soon black crept down the mountain into the Valley. Within an hour's time, she noticed dots of light beginning to crawl all along the floor of the forest, like illuminated ants, followed by devastating blast of sound and fire as American planes flying high above, not able to be seen by the human eye, dropped bombs that ripped holes in the canopy of the jungle. The lights below went dark, and from the hillsides came replies from big guns that were rolled into place each night. Green tracers flashed across the sky as they fired back at the unseen aircraft.

Rather than risk moving at night, Hoa decided to sit and watch the astonishing show being acted out before her. After several hours, the noise died down, and she supposed both sides were done with the nightly ritual. So was she. She snuggled beneath a Banyan tree off the trail, pulled some of the high grass over herself and curled against the cold of the night air.

By dawn, she was on the move down the hill, anxious to get back to her village. Strange, but she also felt a need to check on her American. He would probably be dead by now. If not, she would give him some morphine and sulphur. Better to let him die without so much pain if she could.

In the cave, Cowboy Williams was alive. He was surprised to be alive each time he woke up. He was also, oddly enough, at peace. His dreams were mostly of God, and he felt a presence in the darkness with him. No longer was he afraid of dying. He wondered what had happened to the girl, and hoped no harm had come to her. Before he died, he wanted to thank her for what kindness she had shown him. She was just a victim like him; puppets guided by the hands of sightless men who had no perception of what horror they wreaked, nor what never-ending effects such a circumstance would have on the lives of so many.

November 14, 1969

The mid-day sun was hot by the time Hoa's village came into view. She was tired and hungry and dirty. Her only goal now was to get back to the village and resolve in her mind all the things she had seen. She debated about whether to even stop at the hiding place, fearful of what she might find. Finally, at the last minute, she determined she would.

Warily, she approached the opening, careful to see if the camouflage had been disturbed since she left. It was not. Pulling back the brush covering, she stopped to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. After a few moments, she could see him still lying where he should have been, and the sound of his raspy breathing pleased her to know he was not yet dead. Noiselessly, she came to his side and watched as his eyes flickered open. They were strangely peaceful, but soon became watery.

Cowboy recognized the girl and was overcome by emotion, surprised at the power of human contact, especially since he had resolved himself to his own death. Feebly, he reached his hand out to her. "I am glad to see you. Are you okay?"

Even more incredible was that Hoa responded to his reach by taking the ends of his fingers in her own, and squeezing them kindly. "Shhh," she scolded. "You rest now. I have medicine for you." Reaching into the bundle she carried, finding the sulfur and one of the morphine shots. She decided to ease his pain first, and jabbed the secrette into his thigh. The relief was almost immediate on his face. Hoa then removed the crude bloody bandage she had tied on him, and covered the wound with the sulfur, trying to stop any infection. When she finished, she looked down at the American again. "You sleep now. I come back later with food." Again, she surprised herself when she reached over to brush some dirt from his forehead.

Cowboy watched the girl with wide eyes. What had changed her? The look in her eyes was different. Whatever it was, he was grateful. His tears stopped, but there was fullness in his heart for her. "Thank you. Thank you. God bless you." He wanted her to stay, to hold his hand some more and not let him die alone. But, she left.

When Hoa crossed the dike to her village, she was startled when her younger sister stepped out from the first bush. The fourteen-year old had a serious look on her face and a three-foot, slicked tree limb in her hands. "Bang, you dead," she deadpanned. She broke into a wide grin; pleased she had surprised her sister. That made the sharp slap she received hurt even more.

"You stupid child. Do you think killing is some kind of game?" Hoa was flush with anger. "Get to your house," she yelled again, whacking the youngster on the rear with the stick. Howling for all to hear, her sister ran to find her mother.

Hoa's mother was relieved and happy to see her eldest daughter. She was even happier when Hoa gave her the MPC she had scrounged from the dead Americans. Carefully, they hid the money a rice pot. Hoa did not tell her mother about the final disposition of the commander.

Soon, she apologized to her sister, and lay down for a deserved rest while the other two prepared the evening mean. She had instructed her mother and sister not to reveal where she had been to the rest of the village. It would serve no purpose for them to know the soldiers they had fed and housed just two nights ago, were now dead.

November 15, 1969

Back in camp on the hillside of the Valley, Capt. Pleasants regrouped his troops, doubled the claymores on the perimeter, and set up guard post. He spent most of the evening going from position to position, like a cowboy settling his heard on a stormy night. With any luck, they would be airlifted out in the morning. He tried not to allow himself to think about going home, but it was next to impossible. It would feel like a father leaving his children while they were drowning in an ocean. But, he couldn't take the responsibility any more.

At first light he had the radioman cranking up the Prick. "Blackwater One, this is Red Dog One, over." The radio blasted back, "Blackwater, go." Pleasants answered back, "Red Dog. Request ass and trash for my troops, over." After a long silence, Pleasants called again. "Blackwater, do you copy?"

This time a different voice came across the airwaves. "Red Dog, Blackwater. That you Capt. Pleasants?"

"Roger that." Pleasants immediately recognized Maj. General Vince Kysenki's voice. This could not be good. "Listen, Captain, we have decided to send in company reinforcement to assist in sweeping that area. We still have a missing pilot. Over."

Pleasants head dropped and his mouth gagged open. "You mutherfuckers," he muttered. "Roger that, Sir. Are you coming out to head up the sweep?" He could almost hear Kysenski laughing.

"Negative. I'm sending Capt. Atwater. You will follow his lead, over."

"Roger. What is the ETA, General?"

"Should be able to lift off approximately 1300 hours. We will designate this Operation Payback, over."

"We'll be here. Red Dog out." Capt. Pleasants had the unpleasant duty to inform his soldiers of the change in the mission. He pulled the forty-five troops together in a circle and stood in the center.

"Alright you Bluelegs, listen up. Our father who art back at base camp has given us a mission. Rest up and check up, crosschecks on everybody. Pots and body armor will be mandatory. I don't want anymore of the kind of cluster fuck we had to clean up yesterday. We should be out of here in one or two days, and I don't want your trip back to be in a plastic bag. I want forward points rotated every three hours the rest of today and tonight. Keep the green-eyes on after dark. Let's don't have any bogeyman surprises."

Capt. Pleasants dismissed the men and called the squad leaders in. "They want us to sweep this shit hole and look for the FAC pilot. We'll wait for the rest of the company to get here. In the meantime, make sure your people are in the best shape they can be. I'll get you back here when I know what's going on. I want Alpha-Alphas set on the perimeters by 1800."

They knew Capt. Pleasants was seriously pissed. It would take a lot of work to set up trip-wires and battery mechanisms required for automatic ambushes. Even more work to take them down in the morning.

By 1400, the LZ Capt. Pleasants had laid out was flooded with Slicks. Unloading ninety troops with nervous drivers was in itself an exciting operation. It didn't take long for the North Vietnamese to catch what was going on. They tried to pop them out of the sky with 23mm guns, the tracers looking like a series of green golf balls flying through the air. They got three before the airlift was complete. Air Force rescue spent the rest of the afternoon trying to pull out any crews that survived.

Capt. Lewis Atwater had come in on the first wave. Pleasants met him at the LZ and walked him back to the camp. "What are we up to now, Lewis?" Pleasants had known his counterpart since they both had served as Butter Bars near the DMZ in Korea. Atwater was on his third tour in Southeast Asia. He was a good man, all Army, but not to a fault.

"The General wants us to work up both sides of this draw; see if we can find the pilot, and root out any bad guys in hiding. What I thought we'd do is you take the other side of the creek and work up, and I'll take either side of you working out, but both of us close enough to cover in case we hit the shit." Capt. Atwater was a slow talking, grizzled black man from Alabama. Even though he diligently shaved each morning, he always looked furry gray by noon. He had been through Operation Apache Snow, Hamburger Hill, just like Pleasants. They had had many conversations about what they witnessed during ten days that brought out the beast that lay beneath the surface in all men. When the stars are aligned just right, and a desperate situation is pushed upon desperate men, heroes are born, and true madness is revealed. That's what it had been like on Hill 937.

"When this is over, Lewis, I'm outta' here. I'm going for the duffle bag drag and bowl of corn flakes." Charles Pleasants leaned forward as he sat on the ground, looping his arms around his knees and clasping his hands. He was referring to his last meal at Ton Son Nhut Airbase before catching the big bird back to the World. "You know we're not going to win this war, not the way we're fighting it."

Atwater looked off into the distance. "No doubt, Charles. For guys like you and me, winning is not the point. What are you going to do? Go back and get some kind of mindless job, come home every night to listen to the old lady bitch, and wonder what you would be doing out here? Nah. Not for me. Every time I go home for leave, I'm ready to kill some loud-mouthed, red-necked cocksucker before it's over. I had nothing but hard clay and fire ants glued to my ass all my life until I got in the Army. This is what life is about, Charles. Look around you." He gestured out to the high mountains filled with lush green and dotted with bomb craters. "This'll all grow back someday, long after we're gone. You see, it doesn't matter what we accomplish here. It only matters that this is our destiny, yours, mine, and every swinging dick out here at this particular time and place. God has honored us with the sweet smell of life while we dance on a razor blade. Trust me, old son, you will never feel this alive again."

Atwater pulled his six foot four inch rawboned body to a standing position. "Let me tell you a story, Charles. One time when I was a kid in Alabama, I was sitting on the edge of a pond catfishing. It was hot as shit, even the catfish didn't want to move. I started watching this dragonfly on the top of the water. He was flapping his wings to beat all hell. At first I thought he was drowning, felt sort of sorry for him. But the more I watched, I couldn't figure out if he was drowning, or having the time of his life." Atwater cackled like a hen. "Living is just a fantasy of your mind, Capt. Pleasants. You make your own world by how you think. Now, I think, I'm going to get my ass some rest, and tomorrow we're going out in the bushes and hunt the elephant. Alive or dead is just a matter of what consciousness you happen to find yourself. Let's get together about 1800 and put a plan together."

With that Capt. Atwater walked off down the hill to see to his men. Capt. Pleasants remained sitting, wondering what all that shit was about. He was pretty positive Atwater had crossed the line long ago.

As night fell, Charlie didn't risk any manpower probing up their hill. Instead, they lobbed mortars and long-range shells at the encampment. Accuracy wasn't necessarily their intent, just keeping the Americans from interfering with the real work going on throughout the Valley. Arc Light operations continued through most of the night, preventing sleep to all except the most determined.

November 16, 1969

By dawn, breakfast sounds consisting of popping C-rat cans could be heard throughout the camp. Atwater found Pleasants using some C4 to heat a can of ham n' mutherfuckers. "Nothing like the sweet smell of lima beans," joked Atwater.

"Fuck you, Lewis," said Pleasants. "At least when you joined up, this kind of shit was an improvement on your diet. Sorry, I don't have any chitlins for you." Pleasants grinned at him good-naturedly.

Capt. Atwater farted to show the proper appreciation. "Let's be ready to walk by 0700." He didn't wait for an answer. "Plenty of ammo, boys," relayed Atwater as he mixed among the soldiers. "Make sure your bladder bags are full. Docs, make sure you got full packs; the Gooks are going to need your help as soon as we find them." He strolled along like a reassuring father.

Cork broke out all around and faces were striped. In an hour the group of 101st Screaming Eagles were scary to look at. Squad leaders met with the two Captains and assignments were gone over. Capt. Pleasants would take his outfit straight across the creek where the ambush occurred two days ago. Capt. Atwater's two platoons would split to either side, making "Y" as they fanned across the opposite hillside and up the mountain.

When the platoon leaders returned to their people, point men were assigned and details were relayed. Camp trash was buried and one hundred thirty five men were spread out and making their way down the hill. Capt. Atwater had brought along six Yard scouts to go ahead of the force, and they left a half hour before the rest. The mountain tribesmen now waited in the coolness of the shade of the trees along the stream. As the lead elements of the American troops worked their way down, the natives crossed and proceeded into the heavy brush.

November 16, 1969

Back at her village, Hoa had gotten up early, taken cooked rice and water across the paddy and up to the American. She took time to clean his wound and apply sulphur again, and give him another shot of morphine. This time he was able to get down the watery mush she had prepared. Again, Hoa was surprised at the American's strength and will to survive. She actually was starting to think that if he had a proper doctor, he could live.

She sat without speaking and held his fingers for a while. He seemed to be satisfied with that. He dozed off to sleep, and after watching him for a few minutes, she slipped the pistol she had taken from the dead birdman soldier out of the waistband of her Ao Dai. She hid it carefully near him under the blanket. If he got too filled with despair, he could take his own life; she could not. Silently, she exited the cave and went to her hiding place nearest the village. There she sat and pondered what, if anything, she could do for the soldier. There was no doctor near the village. Besides, it was only a matter of time until more cadres would come through here, and she could not hide him forever.

The only answer was to find the Americans and return him. She could not believe these thoughts actually were being entertained by a mind so long filled with hatred for the invaders of her country. Maybe he would die or kill himself and save her the fretfulness of such a decision. She did not feel old enough or wise enough to consider all the possible consequences. Finally, she resolved, she would leave it in the hands of fate. Whatever destiny brought, she would accept. At eighteen, it was all she could do.

November 17, 1969

After a day of winding through the heavy undergrowth, following the Yards, the troops of the 101st made camp at nightfall. Capt. Atwater passed word to all concerned that there would be no fires, and the smoking lamp was absolutely out. He and Pleasants communicated via radio to make sure their people did not end up shooting at each other, or stumbling over trip wires laid out on the perimeters.

Darkness fell and the Valley quieted enough to hear animals sing night songs. However, not a soldier would sleep, still keyed up after the horror they saw in the death of their fellow soldiers. From their high position, they watched as lights began to move in the valley below. There was little danger of the Viet Cong coming up this way; the mountain was too high for the loads they carried. Once again this night, bombs from high places began to fall, and green tracers filled the sky with an answer.

At first light, the Montanyards were scouting the rest of the mountain. They had found the trail Hoa and the cadre used, following it upwards to the gap where they could cross. It took all of another day for the troops to get to the top. They had found nothing of the pilot, not that they were looking all that hard. They simply wanted to endure the mission and get the hell out of this place. If Charlie didn't want a piece of them, they were only too happy to let well enough alone. High up the mountain, the night was cool and drying sweat made it down right cold. By this second night, guys were taking turns laying under ponchos and smoking. The rumor was that once they crossed the hill tomorrow, they would be lifted out. The mood was upbeat,

November 18, 1969

On the morning of the next day, Hoa made her usual trip to the cave. When she entered, she found herself looking at the business end of the pistol she had left. She froze in her tracks. As her eyes adjusted, she could see the GI looking at her. Was he going to shoot? She watched him slowly lower the barrel. "I wanted to be sure it was you," he smiled weakly. Hoa quickly approached him and moved the guy away.

"You sure you not want to shoot me?" She asked. How could she blame him if he did?

"No. You are my angel," replied Cowboy. Secretly, he had given it a moment's thought, but quickly ignored it with the reality of what would he do then. He certainly couldn't get up and walk out. He moved a little, trying to get his body in a different position. The pain was excruciating. He moaned.

Hoa laid her hand heavily on his head "No move." He was burning up with fever. Efficiently, she went about cleaning the wound on his arm again. This time she fixed his food before giving him the morphine. She squatted beside him, helping him get the bowl to his mouth and back. "You stink," she smiled, holding her nose.

Cowboy laughed as best he could and replied, "I'm sure I do. I can even smell myself." Whatever body elimination had been necessary for the last several days had no choice but to find it's own level.

"Maybe I wash you later," said Hoa, thinking she could bring water and some lye soap back tonight.

"Thank you," said Cowboy. "I wish I could pay you for your help."

"No pay. Just you go home, not come back," responded Hoa. "No more war."

Cowboy studied this young beautiful girl. "Okay, VC, I go home and never come back. When do we leave?" He chuckled at his humor, knowing he would never walk out of this cave.

"Right now," replied Hoa, pulling out the morphine shot. "Dream yourself away." She jabbed the needle into his leg and waved an imaginary wand over him. She smiled at Cowboy, wishing the game could be true, that she could just walk away from him. She wished for him to go home and live. It would be a sad day when she would have to dig his burial place. She held his hand until the medicine took effect and he drifted off to sleep.

The Yard scouts came over the mountain at daybreak. Within two hours, they spotted the rice paddy and the village beyond. One went back to bring Capt. Atwater forward. With binoculars Atwater and Pleasants watched the activity around the settlement. They saw mostly old men and women and kids. It was a typical village, stone sided, thatched hootches, and a few goats and pigs. "What do you think?" Pleasants asked Atwater.

Atwater thought for a few moments. "If I could think, old son, I'd have my fucking feet propped up at a white sand beach holding a cold beer. Other than that, I think I smell VC. Maybe not here now, but maybe use this place for resupply."

"What do you want to do?" Pleasants asked.

"Bring up the troops and spread them out along this ridge. We'll hit them at nightfall."

The three platoons made their way over the gap and into position by mid afternoon. The word was passed that they would take the village at dark. In the meantime, they rested. They stilled their minds of fear, and chilled their hearts for what killing might lay ahead. As the light faded, Atwater and Pleasants continued to plan the attack.

Together, they decided the best way was speed straight across the berm, be on top of them before they could react. If there were VC in the village, surprise would be their best weapon. One of the Yard scouts poked Atwater on the shoulder, and handed him the glasses and pointed. Raising the binoculars to his eyes, Atwater immediately spotted the girl exiting one of the clumps of bushes along the dike and heading for the village. He also noted she was carrying an AK-47. After watching the jiggle of her rear-end in the black pants for a moment, he said to Pleasants, "looks like there's at least one bad guy in there. Only it's a girl."

He handed the glasses over to Pleasants. "I wonder if there are any more surprises hiding in those bushes?"

"We're going to find out shortly," responded Atwater. Light was beginning to be sucked out of the small valley, reeling itself up the mountain. Atwater gave instructions to the Yards. He indicated for them to make their way down to the dike and, as soon as it was dark completely, move across and inspect the four bushes leading to the village. If they were empty, take up positions inside. If not, kill whoever was occupying them, and the rest would come running.

Within an hour, it was completely dark. Evening meal fires could be seen through the trees around the houses. Atwater sent out the scouts. The rest of the troops gathered and worked into position near the dike.

Capt. Pleasants turned to the first squad leader, "pass the word, no fucking body better be clanking when we start across." The whisper was passed and gear was rechecked.

After sufficient time, and hearing no response from the scouts, Atwater and Pleasants trailed two point men as they started across, moving low and swift, but not running. The troops followed. It was amazing how silent that many men could be in such a situation. As they reached the first hiding place, a Yard scout poked his head out and gave them the circle finger okay sign.

Upon reaching the end of the dike, they were still a hundred yards or so from the village. Squad leaders began dispersing men to the left and right, taking positions. In a matter of minutes, they were ready.

Atwater pulled a flare gun from his pack and fired it straight up. The Screaming Eagles of the 101st Airborne charged like a pack of enraged animals.

When the flare went off, it was at first a curiosity to the villagers. When it was followed by the most god-awful sounds they had ever heard from humans, and the striped faces began to appear like beast out of the dark, people began to wail and weep.

As afraid as they were, they knew not to run. Fortunately, most of the M-16 fire was over their heads, followed by yells of Dung Lai and Lai Dai. The terrified people definitely did not move, nor were they about to go anyplace other than where they lay or sat.

Hoa and her mother and sister were frozen in place as they squatted in front of their house. Hoa did not wail or weep. She watched intently, wondering if she could get to the gun hidden inside. Very soon, however, she realized it would be a pointless effort. American soldiers swarmed all over them, grabbing individuals up by the shoulders and dragging them into the center of the village.

One American soldier was already questioning an old man, screaming at him. "Where VC? Where VC?" The old man could say nothing even if he knew anything. He was being slapped and punched all the time the GI was bellowing at the top of his voice. Suddenly, the soldier put his rifle to the old man's head. "Tell me where VC or I'll blow your fucking brains all over this dirt." The old man had no idea what he was saying. Fortunately, a tall black soldier, obviously in charge, stepped between the two.

"That ain't going to get us anything, son. Just calm down." Atwater moved the soldier aside and picked the elderly man up.

In the meantime, Hoa watched the birdmen as they searched every house, firing off weapons if something did not look right to them. They set some on fire so they could see the rest better. The villagers increased their wailing at the sight of their possessions being destroyed.

The tall black man walked around the circle of Vietnamese, as if he were searching each face for something. When he got to Hoa he said, "you speak English?" Hoa just stared at him, not willing to allow that she understood. He took her arm and turned around looking at her from the back. "Yep. It was you."

Reversing her back to face him, he leaned down and peered right into her eyes. "Where's the gun?" Again Hoa would not acknowledge him. "That's the way you want to play, huh?" The angular soldier turned around and looked down at Hoa's sister. In one motion he scooped her to a standing position and stuck the barrel of his gun into her mouth. "Where's the fucking gun? I ain't going to ask you again." Hoa looked into his coal black eyes and knew he was serious. She relented.

Without speaking, she led the American to her house and, once inside, pointed to where the AK-47 lay hidden underneath her sleeping mat.

Atwater nodded to a soldier to retrieve it, being careful not to set off any booby traps. "Where's the rest of the guns?" He put his flat nose just inches from her own. When she didn't answer, he asked again. "Tell me where the rest of the fucking guns are or I'm going back out there and drag that little girl in here, and this time I won't wait for an answer. I'll stick my dick so far up her ass, her nose will bleed." He grabbed his crotch for emphasis. "And you get to watch." He then grabbed her crotch.

"No more guns," Hoa replied. "Only one." She jerked away from his hand.

"Well, well. You do speaky English, don't you? Where VC?" He was again back in her face, his breath stinking like buffalo shit.

Hoa tried to be as forceful as she could with her answer. "No VC here. You no see VC do you?"

"No, but I know they've been here, haven't they? Where are they now?"

Hoa decided to try part of the truth. "They come four maybe five days ago. They go that way." She pointed toward the A Shau Valley.

"You're a fucking VC aren't you? Where did you get the gun? I saw you hiding in the bushes. You are trying to kill Americans." He slapped her face. "Where are the VC?"

Hoa simply stood and stared back at the American soldier. All the good feelings she had allowed to come over her at the cave dissolved, the hateful bile for what this man represented rose again into her throat. This time she would not cry or cower. "I am not VC. I guard my village against whoever wants to cause us harm." Her coal black eyes peppered Atwater's face with killer darts. She would kill this man if she could. This arrogant invader would not shame her.

"You are VC. I know you are, you little cunt. And if you don't tell me what I want to know, I'm going to burn every hootch in this village, and take you back for a little question and answer session with some really friendly ARVN interrogators." Atwater returned her glare. She just thought she was tough. By the time they got through with her back at Camp Eagle, she would be telling shit if she had to make it up. Body counts were good, prisoners were better. He grabbed her by the arm again, pulling her with him back to where the others sat.

When he got her there, he held her up in front of the rest of the people. "Is she VC?" He yelled. When no one answered, he went back to the old man and pulled him up by his neck. "Who VC? Him or her?" He pointed to each one as he screamed. Atwater pulled the forty-five from his holster and stuck it against the old man's head. "Who VC?"

No person moved, each waiting to see how this horror would play out. Hoa looked down at her little sister. She saw herself at the same age. The innocence would soon turn to hate and the cycle would begin again. It was more than she felt she could bear any longer. Somewhere it had to end. She spoke up. "I am VC." She was calm and no longer afraid. Better to save her family and the rest any more heartache. What would it ccomplish letting the Americans burn the village and destroy what little they had?

Atwater let the old man drop and turned back to the girl. "Well now, that's more lke it. Any more VC here?"

Her reply was simple. "No, I am only one." She indicated the rest of the people. They are just women and children and old men. They can do you no harm."

"You show me where VC went?"

When the girl nodded her head yes, Atwater gave orders to set up a perimeter, and keep the people together for the rest of the night. In the morning, they would complete the search and call for evacuation. Soldiers began spreading out, finding cover on the outside of the village. After a head count, the Vietnamese were herded into the community building and made to sit nose to neck while guards kept watch outside and inside.

Pleasants joined Atwater and the two of them, along with two squad leaders, escorted the girl back towards the berm. Atwater addressed her. "You show where the VC."

Again she nodded. "No other VC here. I show you something else." Hoa began walking slowly back across the dike. The others followed. When they reached the entrance to the cave, Hoa stopped and pointed at the concealed opening.

Pleasants spoke this time. "VC in there?"

Hoa shook her head slowly. "American."

"You better be shitting me," said Atwater. "What do you mean American? Are you telling me there's an American soldier in there?"

Hoa nodded again.

Atwater reached and got a solid grip on Hoa's long hair in his right hand. With his left, he motioned the two enlisted men to move the brush aside. Warily, with weapons locked on automatic, the first man poked his head into the cave. When he turned on his flashlight, all of them sucked breath at what they saw. And smelled. It was an American all right and his eyes were open. Quickly, they approached him. It was apparent he was hurt bad. Atwater sent one of the men running. "Get a doc up her fast."

He tuned his attention to the GI. "Old son, who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing her? Wait a minute, are you the FAC pilot we've been looking for the last two days?"

Cowboy could hardly speak. They gave him some water. "Capt. Carl Williams, Sir. I am that pilot. And I am mighty glad to see you. This girl here helped me, saved my life." Cowboy started crying. "I never thought I would live to get out of here. She fed me and cleaned my wounds. I think I'm hurt pretty bad," he sobbed. He could not believe he was actually talking to Americans. All the praying he had done was for his soul, being rescued never entered his mind.

November 18, 1969

Capt. Atwater turned to face the girl. "You helped this man?" Hoa only stood back and glared at him. She would not speak, fearing her voice would reveal the extreme sadness in her heart. This is what fate had determined for her.

"I'm sorry if I hurt you before," apologized Atwater. Still, Hoa would not acknowledge him. She was tired of being a pawn in this war. From somewhere in the darkness of the trees, Hoa heard the call of the revered owl, her call to destiny.

Outside, the medic arrived with the runner and they carried a stretcher. Inside, Atwater had released the girl and she stood back against the cave wall as the men attended to the American. After examination, the corpsman announced Cowboy was indeed badly hurt, but the treatment he had received had probably saved his life. If they could get him on a Dust-off and back to Eagle, it was possible he would make it. The doc redressed the wound on his arm and leg, applying as much pressure as possible to prevent any more bleeding. "If you could just not breathe for about an hour or so, it would help," joked the medic. He turned to Atwater and Pleasants. "Let's get him out of here and call in some help." He popped two morphine shots into Cowboy's leg.

The two enlisted, along with Atwater and Pleasants, lifted Cowboy as carefully as possible onto the stretcher. Hoa still hadn't moved, standing in the shadows behind the group. Weakly, Cowboy motioned her to him. When he looked into her eyes, he thought he had never seen such sadness. He gripped her hand. "God bless you. And I will keep my promise." Cowboy referenced their agreement that he would go home and never come back.

Hoa submitted to a smile for this person she had once wondered if she should kill. She waved her imaginary wand over him. "You go home Norse Carolina, GI." At least he would escape; she would never have such an opportunity. The other American soldiers were moved by the gentle moment. Only these two knew what connection they had made.

Atwater allowed the corpsman to replace him on the end of the stretcher. He addressed the girl once again. "Now, what am I going to do with you? You admit you are a VC, yet you have obviously helped save that man's life. Do I take you back or let you go?" He stood tall before her, arms folded like a stern teacher to an impudent student.

Hoa ignored him and began to roll up the filthy blanket she had made for Cowboy. The others were out of the cave and headed down the hill to cross the dike and get him sent to a hospital. She felt the gun where she had hidden it under the blanket. Hoa closed her eyes, a tear forming at each corner. This destiny that fate had chosen for her was not as easy to accept in reality as it was in theory. Nevertheless, it was here. The owl hooted again.

In one motion she whipped the forty-five up and put the barrel as close to Capt. Lewis Atwater's face as she could reach. Before he could react, Hoa pulled the trigger. Skull fragments, brains, and blood splattered all over the inside of the cave.

Cowboy, hearing the blast of the pistol, was bleary from the morphine, but in his mind he screamed. "No, no!"

When Pleasants reached the opening, the girl was coming out, the forty-five clearly visible in her hand. In an instant of automatic M-16 fire, Hoa's despair for herself and her country came to an end. The pistol went off again as she slammed against the rocks, knocked backwards by the force of the barrage.

For a moment, the group stood, stunned at what had transpired. Recovering quickly, they ran past the dead Vietnamese girl and into the cave. Pleasants had seen a lot of dead bodies before, but it didn't keep him from puking. He squatted outside the opening, trying to get some air in his lungs. "Jesus, what are we doing?" He had to get a grip on himself; otherwise he was afraid he would just take off running into the darkness.

Upon hearing the sound of the gunshots, at least twenty of the soldiers in the village came in a dead run over the berm to where Capt. Pleasants and the others stood. Most of them were from Capt. Atwater's outfit. When they learned what had happened, they were first shocked, then distraught, then angry. One of the enlisted men came out of the crowd to Capt. Pleasants. "With your permission, Captain, we're going into that village and get some for Capt. Atwater."

Pleasants understood their desire to make somebody pay for what had occurred. Hell, a year ago, he would have helped them. Now, he was just tired of the futility of it all. It was like a Hatfield and McCoy feud. They kill ours, we kill theirs, then they kill some more of ours, and we kill some more of theirs. If the American objective was to win the war, this was not the way to do it.

"What I want you to do, soldier, is go back and bring two stretchers up here and pick up these bodies. That's all I want you to do. Going down there and killing those old people and children isn't going to make one damn thing any better for Capt. Atwater. Burning this village is not going to bring him back." Pleasants stared down the striped-faced soldier. "Any questions?"

"No, Sir," replied the angry young man. He turned and led the rest back down the hill. Pleasants helped lift the stretcher on which the pilot lay, and they followed.

When they got back to the center of the little village, Cowboy was put into a hootch, and the medic continued to work on him. Capt. Pleasants got out his map, figured the coordinates of the area where they were, and called in a Medevac. At first, the choppers wanted to wait for daylight, thinking the outfit was in the A Shau Valley. When Pleasants assured them they were not, and it would not be a hot LZ, they agreed to come. Within an hour, a Huey was landing in an open area between the village and the rice paddy.

Cowboy was loaded along with the plastic body bag containing Capt. Atwater. By noon the next day, a full extraction of the three platoons had been completed and they were returned to Camp Eagle. Within another week, Capt. Charles Pleasants was sitting at the terminal in Ton Son Nhut Airbase, waiting to board a Continental Airlines flight home.

He was done. As the moment came, and the giant airplane lifted off the runway, all Pleasants could feel was relief. During the twenty plus hour trip, he began to file away the faces and names and pictures of war into a place far back in the recesses of his mind. He would not let them out again for many years, but eventually they would come back to visit over and over. First it would be smells, then faces, and then he would be haunted by the fact he could not remember the names that went with the faces.

He would also come to realize that Lewis Atwater had been right; Charles Pleasants would never have a true grip on the meaning of all he had experienced. He would never be able to figure out if he had been drowning, or having the time of his life. And he would commit suicide at the age of fifty-three.

December 20, 1969

A month after the episode, a squad of North Vietnamese soldiers came through Lao Bao village. They heard the story of the heroic exploits of their loyal Hoa. The soldiers praised the courage of such a person of the people, saying it was the kind of dedication it would take to help them repel the hated imperialist. As a reward, the soldiers left the village another AK-47 to be used for their protection. As they marched out and up the mountain heading towards the A Shau Valley, the people quietly went back to their day-to-day routine.

That afternoon, Tee-Tee went to visit her sister. The grave had been dug in soft earth near the rice paddy. She put fresh incense in the small vase inside the makeshift temple her mother had helped her build in Hoa's honor.

Early the next morning a figure could be seen leaving the village and walking across the dike in the rice paddy. Soon it entered the clump of bushes furtherest from the village. After arranging the nest inside to her liking, Tee-Tee parted the reeds in order to get a full view of the trail coming from the other side. She settled down for a long stay. That same morning, FAC pilot Capt. James Dorsey made his walk-around on his O-2A, preparing to work in the A Shau Valley. In Camp Eagle, newly promoted Sergeant Troy Powell of the 101st Airborne began to stripe his face, preparing to lead his troops into another operation in the A Shau Valley.

*****

The Bus To Hell

I had only read sketches of Mark Twain, but this was surely the way Huck Finn came to be. Nineteen and on my way to freedom. A clean shirt on my back and pressed pants, both now stinking of diesel fuel as I waited to board the bus. A great adventure was beginning.

Pop stood beside me, wanting to do something other than look about sheepishly. Looking down at this short, tough farmer I hadn't known for years, I was sorry I didn't know what to do either. Touching as a display of affection was not a family trait. So, we simply stood until it was time.

"I'll see you, Daddy." I said.

The black-framed thick glasses rose on a squinted nose; his lips parted to display a row of separated, tobacco-stained teeth in desperate need of repair. He only had eight left; if there was trouble he simply yanked them out. His beard was rough, and the coarse, thick hair was cut as close as my mother could do it. His hands were calloused and hard as unrefined leather. A bull of a man who had missed WWII because of his poor eyesight, his confidence had never recovered. Maybe that was why, even after the great gap had formed between us, he bragged of his son joining the Marine Corps. He was a simple Southern man who liked John Wayne and hated niggers, unless they happened to be his friend, but even then he would use their name in vain whenever he needed an example of someone dumber than himself. They were convenient, like dogs or chickens.

When we had moved to the city, he killed my dog, the dog that had protected us, loved us, and once chased an escaped convict away from our house. Yet, we couldn't have a dog at the city apartment in the government housing project, so he killed him. That was ten years ago and it was the beginning of the end with us.

"Do what they tell you and you'll be alright. Write to your mother." He made an attempt to impart wisdom.

My mother wouldn't come to the station, but I knew she had cried. We hadn't hugged, only patted each other's arm; loving words weren't spoken in our family either. Her permanent tiredness wasn't relieved by one leaving her coop. I had been gone a long time already. At least now she would know where I was and that Uncle Sam would be looking out after me. After all, she liked John Wayne too. "I will, daddy."

My empty seat was by the window, and we waved when the bus finally pulled away from the curb, engulfing the wavers in smoke. I didn't look back again. My raft was this bus and the open highway was my river, leading me to adventure.

I was sure what happened to Willie would never happen to me. After all, I had never seen a war movie where there wasn't a happy ending, coming through the fight and being a hero when it was over. That was going to be me, do my time, kill the bad guys, and come home to a parade. It was December 1965 and it was my destiny.

*****

Danny Johnson served in the USAF 1965-1969. He earned the Distinguished Flying Cross for actions in combat, 1969. He is an active member of the North Carolina Writers Network. Danny and bride Sandra have been married 40 years.
