The Throat

toward the door of the hut. I did not know what Poole and I had seen, but I knew it was not a Field Interrogation Post, Torture, Use Of, highly indicated, unless the Vietnamese had begun to interrogate monkeys. It occurred to me that the writing on the wall might have been names instead of poetry—I thought that we had stumbled into a mystery that had nothing to do with the war, a Vietnamese mystery.

For a second, music from my old life, music too beautiful to be endurable, started playing in my head. Finally I recognized it: 'The Walk to the Paradise Gardens,' from A Village Romeo and Juliet by Frederick Delius. Back in Berkeley, I had listened to it hundreds of times.

If nothing else had happened, I think I could have replayed the whole piece in my head. Tears filled my eyes, and I stepped toward the door of the hut. Then I stopped moving. A boy of seven or eight was regarding me with great seriousness from the far corner of the hut. I knew he was not there—I knew he was a spirit. I had no belief in spirits, but that's what he was. Some part of my mind as detached as a crime reporter reminded me that 'The Walk to the Paradise Gardens' was about two children who were about to die and that in a sense the music was their death. I wiped my eyes with my hand, and when I lowered my arm, the boy was still there. I took in his fair hair and round dark eyes, the worn plaid shirt and dungarees that made him look like someone I might have known in my childhood in Pigtown. Then he vanished all at once, like the flickering light of the Zippo. I nearly groaned aloud.

I said something to the other two men and went through the door into the growing darkness. I was very dimly aware of the lieutenant asking Poole to repeat his description of the uprights and the bloody chain. Hamnet and Burrage and Calvin Hill were sitting down and leaning against a tree. Victor Spitalny was wiping his hands on his filthy shirt. White smoke curled up from Hill's cigarette, and Tina Pumo exhaled a long white stream of vapor. The unhinged thought came to me with absolute conviction that this was the Paradise Gardens. The men lounging in the darkness; the pattern of the cigarette smoke, and the patterns they made, sitting or standing; the in-drawing darkness, as physical as a blanket; the frame of the trees and the flat gray-green background of the paddy.

My soul had come back to life.

Then I became aware of something wrong about the men arranged before me, and again it took a moment for my intelligence to catch up to my intuition. I had registered that two men too many were in front of me. Instead of seven, there were nine, and the two men that made up the nine of us left were still behind me in the hut. A wonderful soldier named M. O. Dengler was looking at me with growing curiosity, and I thought he knew exactly what I was thinking. A sick chill went through me. I saw Tom Blevins and Tyrell Budd standing together at the far right of the platoon, a little muddier than the others but otherwise different from the rest only in that, like Dengler, they were looking directly at me.

Hill tossed his cigarette away in an arc of light, Poole and Lieutenant Joys came out of the hut behind me. Leonard Hamnet patted his pocket to reassure himself that he still had his mysterious letter. I looked back at the right of the group, and the two dead men were gone.

'Let's saddle up,' the lieutenant said. 'We aren't doing jack shit around here.'

'Tim?' Dengler asked. He had not taken his eyes off me since I had come out of the hut. I shook my head.

'Well, what was it?' asked Tina Pumo. 'Was it juicy?'

Spanky and Calvin Hill laughed and slapped hands.

'Aren't we gonna torch this place?' asked Spitalny.

The lieutenant ignored him. 'Juicy enough, Pumo. Interrogation Post. Field Interrogation Post.'

'No shit,' said Pumo.

'These people are into torture, Pumo. It's just another indication.'

'Gotcha.' Pumo glanced at me and his eyes grew curious. Dengler moved closer.

'I was just remembering something,' I said. 'Something from the world.'

'You better forget about the world while you're over here, Underhill,' the lieutenant told me. 'I'm trying to keep you alive, in case you hadn't noticed, but you have to cooperate with me.' His adam's apple jumped like a begging puppy.

The next night we had showers, real food, cots to sleep in. Sheets and pillows. Two new guys replaced Tyrell Budd and Thomas Blevins, whose names were never mentioned again, at least by me, until long after the war was over and Poole, Linklater, Pumo, and I looked them up, along with the rest of our dead, on the Wall in Washington. I wanted to forget the patrol, especially what I had seen and experienced inside the hut.

I remember that it was raining. I remember the steam lifting off the ground, and the condensation dripping down the metal poles in the tents. Moisture shone on the faces around me. I was sitting in the brothers' tent, listening to the music Spanky Burrage played on the big reel-to-reel recorder he had bought on R&R in Taipei. Spanky Burrage never played Delius, but what he played was paradisical: great jazz from Armstrong to Coltrane, on reels recorded for him by his friends back in Little Rock and which he knew so well he could find individual tracks and performances without bothering to look at the counter. Spanky liked to play disc jockey during these long sessions, changing reels and speeding past thousands of feet of tape to play the same songs by different musicians, even the same song hiding under different names—'Cherokee' and 'KoKo,'

'Indiana' and 'Donna Lee'—or long series of songs connected by titles that used the same words—'I Thought About You' (Art Tatum), 'You and the Night and the Music' (Sonny Rollins), 'I Love You' (Bill Evans), 'If I Could Be with You' (Ike Quebec), 'You Leave Me Breathless' (Milt Jackson), even, for the sake of the joke, 'Thou Swell,' by Glenroy Breakstone. In his single-artist mode on this day, Spanky was ranging through the work of a great trumpet player named Clifford Brown.

On this sweltering, rainy day, Clifford Brown was walking to the Paradise Gardens. Listening to him was like watching a smiling man shouldering open an enormous door to let in great dazzling rays of light. The world we were in transcended pain and loss, and imagination had banished fear. Even SP4 Cotton and Calvin Hill, who preferred James Brown to Clifford Brown, lay on their bunks listening as Spanky followed his instincts from one track to another.

After he had played disc jockey for something like two hours, Spanky rewound the long tape and said, 'Enough.' The end of the tape slapped against the reel. I looked at Dengler, who seemed dazed, as if awakening from a long sleep. The memory of the music was still all around us: light still poured in through the crack in the great door.

'I'm gonna have a smoke and a drink,' Cotton announced, and pushed himself up off his cot. He walked to the door of the tent and pulled the flap aside to expose the green wet drizzle. That dazzling light, the light from another world, began to fade. Cotton sighed, plopped a wide-brimmed hat on his head, and slipped outside. Before the stiff flap fell shut, I saw him jumping through the puddles on the way to Wilson Manly's shack. I felt as though I had returned from a long journey.

Spanky finished putting the Clifford Brown reel back into its cardboard box. Someone in the rear of the tent switched on Armed Forces radio. Spanky looked at me and shrugged. Leonard Hamnet took his letter out of his pocket, unfolded it, and read it through very slowly.

Dengler looked at me and smiled. 'What do you think is going to happen? To us, I mean. Do you think it'll just go on like this day after day, or do you think it's going to get stranger and stranger?' He did not wait for me to answer. 'I think it'll always sort of look the same, but it won't be—I think the edges are starting to melt. I think that's what happens when you're out here long enough. The edges melt.'

'Your edges melted a long time ago, Dengler,' Spanky said, and applauded his own joke.

Dengler was still staring at me. He always resembled a serious, dark-haired child, he never looked as though he belonged in uniform. 'Here's what I mean, kind of,' he said. 'When we were listening to that trumpet player —'

'Brownie, Clifford Brown,' Spanky whispered.

'—I could see the notes in the air. Like they were written out on a long scroll. And after he played them, they stayed in the air for a long time.'

'Sweetie-pie,' Spanky said softly. 'You pretty hip, for a little ofay square.'

'When we were back in that village,' Dengler said. 'Tell me about that.'

I said that he had been there too.

'But something happened to you. Something special.'

I shook my head.