Another Man's Moccasins

A spec 4 on the helicopter ride had asked where I was going and watched as I’d tried not to throw up on the dead that were stacked in the cargo area of the Huey. I wasn’t sick because of the bodies; I’d seen a lot of those. I just didn’t like helicopters. The men had been in a truck that had hit a mine—fi rebase support in the DMZ for Khe Sanh. They were wrapped in plastic ponchos because the army had run out of body bags. They had run out of food, ammo, and medicine, too—the dead were one of the few things of which there always seemed to be plenty. The spec 4 had shaken his head and told me not to worry. He said that if I got hurt, they could have me in a base-camp hospital in twenty minutes, real bad and they would have me in Yokosuka, Japan, in twelve hours. He had gestured to the plastic-wrapped bundles behind him. Like them, they would have me home in a week.

Later, I studied the chromate green interior of the Quonset hut as a lean air force investigative operations officer squinted up at me through his thick glasses and the sweat. He was studying my utility cap, so I yanked it off my head and returned to attention. I was sweating, too. Specifically, we were there to win over hearts and minds, but mostly what we did was sweat. I had been fighting the feeling that, since arriving in Vietnam coming up on six months earlier, I was melting.

He made me wait the commensurate amount of time to let me know that I had performed a breach of military decorum with my cover and that the major was not pleased. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”

The majority of the humidity in my body was draining between my shoulder blades and soaking the waistband of my fatigues. “Not sure, sir.”

“What the hell is a MOS 0111?”

“Marine police, sir. Investigator.”

He continued to shake his head. “Yeah. I got the directive from MAF. Your papers cleared the provost marshal at Chu Lai, so I guess battalion headquarters has decided that you’re my problem now.” He looked up at me. He had the look, the look I’d seen a thousand times in the short period I’d been in-country. He was old—an age that had snuck up on him in the place would stay with him for the rest of his life. The event had him, the war was his religion, and his youth was gone with his eyes. “Marine inspector?”

I remained silent and focused on the corrugated wall in an attempt not to stare at the photo of DeDe Lind, Playboy’s Miss August 1967, that was hung there.

It was December.

The major looked back at my duty papers, rustling them in disbelief. “Inspect? Hell, I didn’t even know you jarheads could read.” He flipped the page, and I figured the real trouble was about to begin. His eyes came up slowly. “English major?”

“Ball, sir.” I’d found it best to downplay higher education in the armed forces, and football was always a quick and successful diversionary tactic.

He blinked behind the glasses and frowned an acceptance that I might not be the complete wastrel he’d first imagined. “What’d you play?”

“Offensive tackle, sir.”

“The trenches? Outstanding. I played a little in high school.”

With a leather helmet, I figured. “Is that right, sir?”

“Halfback.”

“Yes, sir.” Backup, no doubt.

He studied my papers some more. “I didn’t play much.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stood there with my mouth shut, another method I’d learned in dealing with military hierarchy. “Look, somebody owes somebody a favor and that’s why you’re here.” He leaned back in his green metallic chair, which almost matched the chromate walls, and finally remembered that I was still at attention. “At ease.” He dropped my papers and concentrated on me as I took a quarter step to the side and placed my hands behind my back. I was still holding my hat. “We’ve got a little drug smuggling problem on the base, but nothing big. We’ve already got some very good men working on the situation. I’m only guessing, but I’d say the provost marshal wants one of his brand-new MOS 0111s to get his feet wet.”

He continued to consider me, and I guessed that he wanted a response. “Yes, sir.”

“Why mother-green-and-her-mean-machine can’t police her own messes, of which there are plenty, is a mystery to me, but you’re here and we’ll just have to make the best of things.” He glanced back at the papers on his desk. “You are new, and it won’t take long for everyone to figure out why you’re here. So the best thing you can do is keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told. You got me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All of the work you’ve done in the past has been under the direct supervision of navy investigators; now, however, you will be working with air force security personnel and central intelligence detachment, who, I am sure, you will find infinitely more capable than the swabos.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m putting you with Mendoza, who is our own 377th, and Baranski of central intelligence division. They’ve been working the case for about five weeks, and you will provide the muscle.”

“Yes, sir.” If he belched, I was going to yes-sir it.