said to Lieutenant Brice, the team’s sniper. Ben put his scope on the figure and saw that it was just an old woman filling water jugs. He informed the major. “Then take her out,” the major said. “But, Major, she’s a noncombatant. She’s so old, she probably can’t even see we’re Americans.” The major looked at him, shook his head, and said, “Move out.” Thirty minutes ago, Ben Brice had felt good about saving the old woman’s life.
The two captains return. “Charlie’s gonna eat some lead,” Captain Smith says with a grin. The captains emplaced claymore mines behind their escape route; when the VC give chase, the claymores will stop them in their tracks. A small rectangular plastic box, its business side embossed with FRONT TOWARD ENEMY so some doped- up draftee doesn’t take out his entire platoon, the M18A1 claymore antipersonnel mine is a particularly effective killing device; upon detonation by remote control or tripwire, the claymore sprays seven hundred steel balls in a sixty degree pattern, killing anyone within fifty meters. The balls can literally cut the typical hundred-pound Vietnamese Communist in two.
The major loads new clips into his twin. 45s. The veterans of the team pull two hand grenades each. As tracer rounds zip through the darkness overhead like a fireworks show, Brice and Dalton look at each other and nod nervously.
“Let’s kill some gooks,” the major says. From his backside, he hurls two grenades. The others follow his lead. The noise of the grenades exploding is deafening; the surrounding jungle is suddenly shrouded in white smoke. Every other grenade was a Willie Pete, a white phosphorus grenade. They were warned in training against throwing phosphorus grenades where the burning smoke could envelope them, but apparently there is an exception when surrounded by the enemy.
The Green Berets are suddenly up and running all-out to the west, directly at the VC, who can’t see them coming; Major Charles Woodrow Walker is leading the charge with a. 45 in each hand and Brice and Dalton tight on his ass. As they hit the enemy line, they unload on the startled VC; the major fires both. 45s simultaneously. Ben fires his backup weapon, the Uzi. They hear the claymores detonate behind them and the death cries of the Viet Cong.
No one looks back. The Americans run through the dark night, barely able to see the man in front of them, following only the sound of hard breathing and boots pounding the turf. For fifteen minutes they run.
“Halt!”
The major’s voice penetrates the dark. His hands grab Ben and yank him out of the path of the incoming. The others arrive and take cover. No one laughs; no one talks. Ben silently thanks God for the major, then his heart skips a beat: Where’s Roger?
The major’s thoughts aren’t far behind. “Where’s Dalton?” he whispers to Ben.
“He was right behind me.”
“Jacko,” the major says, “check it out.”
Captain Smith nods and disappears into the night. Thirty minutes later, he returns.
“They got him, Major. Heading north.”
“Goddamnit!” The major stands. “Saddle up.”
They head back to the ambush point, their minds playing out the consequence of violating one of the three absolute rules drilled into every SOG team member from day one: never let yourself be captured by the VC.
They track the VC through the jungle and into a hamlet. Entering the hamlet, it is apparent the VC were here; the fear shows on the peasants’ faces. The Americans sweep the hamlet, searching every hut and hiding place for signs of Dalton or the VC. The peasants huddle together; mothers clutch their children. They are cooperative but tense, as one would expect when confronted by eleven big and heavily armed American soldiers in the middle of VC territory.
“No VC! No Yank!”
In the center of the hamlet, an old man stands next to a big pot cooking over an open fire; it is the community pot of nuoc mam, a pungent fish sauce the Vietnamese pour over rice. He stirs the sauce with a long wood utensil. He seems scared to death and is barely moving his utensil. The Americans find neither Dalton nor VC.
Captain Smith’s voice rings out. He’s picked up the VC’s tracks leading out of the hamlet and into the adjacent jungle. The Green Berets give chase, aware they’re probably running directly into another ambush or booby traps or “Holy shit!”
— Dalton.
Ben Brice brings up the rear and comes upon his teammates standing shoulder to shoulder, their backs to him. One thought captures his mind: it must be Roger. He prepares himself to face death again, then he pushes his way through to the front. And in that moment, his life is forever changed. His romantic West Point notions of war and warriors are forever dispelled. His childlike vision of good and evil is forever altered. His innocence is lost. And so it is, when one confronts the evil in man.
Lieutenant Roger Dalton, U.S. Army Green Beret, hangs from a tree by his ankles, naked and disemboweled, his intestines hanging down into the small fire the VC built so the Americans could better see their handiwork. His genitals are missing. As is his head. The only sound is that of the fire sizzling with each drop of his bodily fluids. They know it’s Dalton by the fresh Viper tattoo on his left arm and the dog tags intertwined in the laces of the boots sitting below the body, a typical precaution in case you stepped on a land mine and had a leg blown off; the dog tags allowed the medics to rejoin man and leg, if not literally at least for the body bag. But it was not a precaution against decapitation by the VC. The major’s face is grim.
“This is why we kill gooks.”
After a long moment, Warrant Officer Nunn asks in his Southern drawl, “But where’s his head, Major?”
The major’s expression changes as if he had a revelation.
“Goddamnit!”
He pivots and runs back toward the hamlet. His men exchange confused glances, then they chase after their leader. Ben Brice looks at what remains of his best friend and throws up.
The major and nine angry, armed, adrenaline-charged Green Berets arrive back at the hamlet and run directly to the old man at the community pot of nuoc mam. He heard them coming; he is crying, for he knows his fate. The major shoves the old man aside and grabs the wooden utensil. He stirs in the pot then uses the utensil and his razor-sharp eleven-inch Bowie knife to fish an object out: Roger Dalton’s head, his eyes wide open, his mouth wider and stuffed with his genitals.
The major’s face contorts in rage and he lets out a feral scream that echoes against the jungle walls surrounding the hamlet. Then he turns to the old man and yells, “No VC? No VC?” His hand flashes past the old man’s face, as if he were going to strike him but missed. The old man’s face registers surprise, then blood appears along a thin line across his throat. He falls. The major slit the old man’s throat with the Bowie knife.
Lieutenant Ben Brice is using his Bowie knife to cut his best friend’s body down and blaming himself-if he had obeyed the major’s orders and taken the old woman out, Roger would still be alive-when he hears gunfire from the hamlet. It’s as if God whispered in his ear: he knows instantly what is happening.
He leaves his friend and runs backs to the hamlet, fighting his way through the hot steamy jungle, until he comes upon a massacre he cannot stop and a china doll he cannot save.
John’s tears stained the smooth Alpaca beige leather.
He had pulled the Land Rover off the highway shortly after Ben had begun retelling the massacre at Quang Tri. Now his forehead rested on the steering wheel.
“The major was the greatest man I’ve ever known,” Ben said. “Brilliant, natural born leader, completely without personal fear, an absolute belief that America was destined to defeat Communism in the world. He could have been one of the greatest soldiers in history.”
A deep sigh.
“Maybe when a man fights evil every day for so many years, he becomes evil. Maybe a man can’t be around that much hate without hating. I fought the hate. The major… the hate consumed him. He became the evil he was fighting.”
“Where is he now, the major?”
“He’s dead.”
