Chapter Two

Vietnam Winter (part two)

After stowing his gear, the first thing Josh did was check out G4, the air-conditioned Naval Hospital just off the runway at Marble Mountain. As a corpsman on medevac duty, he would be treating and transporting the seriously wounded to this facility and/or the large Naval Support Activity Hospital in Da Nang. But no matter how often he prowled around Marble Mountain, Da Nang or nearby China Beach, Josh couldn't seem to find an example of Nixon's "Vietnamization." With all the military aircraft flying overhead and guns firing in the distance, there didn't seem to be much peace either, with or without honor.

Flying on a clear winter day like today beat dodging thunderstorms, Josh thought. He crouched behind Alexander, checked his medical equipment and thought about the helicopter's destination, an unnamed village near Nong San along the banks of the Song Tranh River. Unusual but not unheard of, the call came from a Marine platoon tracking Viet Cong on the opposite bank of the river. The call was for transporting Vietnamese civilians, not American soldiers. In the village, in place of a VC threat, the platoon reported finding a man with appendicitis and a pregnant woman, as they put it, in "difficult" labor. Both of them would be flown to the local Vietnamese hospital in Da Nang.

At corpsman school in Great Lakes, Illinois, the teaching staff had discussed giving Vietnamese medical assistance, even covering labor and delivery in a special session taught by a midwife. But Josh didn't remember anyone taking it seriously.

Well, another case of adolescent damn day-dreaming when I should've been paying attention. Josh leaned against a litter, watched Alexander looking at the jungle rushing by and shook his head. I'm like Prissy in Gone with the Wind, he thought. I don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no babies.

He tapped Alexander on the shoulder. Into the microphone he said, "I hope like hell this lady can hold off till we get back."

Dixon grunted. Alexander shifted and coughed. The Huey droned toward its destination.

Josh thought about the day three weeks before when he had first met his regular chopper pilot and crew chief/machine gunner. It was a typical January afternoon in Quang Nam province—which meant rain and lots of it. Technically, the monsoon season was over but Josh figured its withdrawal orders must have gotten lost because the pilot said the big drops had rarely stopped coming since his arrival in November.

Alexander, Bailey and Dixon. If you said it in one mouthful, the three of them sounded like they ought to be on a shingle together. The pilot's name was Clarence Dixon. The gunner's, Skip Alexander. From the first minute the three of them were introduced, Josh knew this could in no way resemble a typical medevac crew. For one thing, Clarence was black and Josh understood you just didn't find many African-American helicopter pilots in Vietnam. Uncle Sam generally preferred them in the jungle. You know, where they belong, so to speak.

Clarence was a large, ungentle man at first greeting, with huge hands and a voice liked crushed gravel with a bubbly layer of tar holding it together, just barely. Deep within, his heart beat black and proud and sensitive. It was a volatile cocktail and you knew it right away. Somehow, Clarence kept a lid on it, like a sorcerer stirring an explosive elixir.

Skip Alexander's impression registered open and tame, as light and uncomplicated as Clarence appeared dark and intense. Josh looked at Alexander's crooked smile and thought he had never seen anyone who looked less like a machine-gunner.

Captain Clarence Dixon grew up in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Private First Class Skip Alexander's home state was Alaska. When you asked him where, he said "all over." His father, a restless civil engineer from Australia, kept moving around. Josh shook Alexander's hand and realized Skip was the first person he had ever met from Alaska. To medic Bailey it seemed funny that Alexander— tall, blonde and palefaced—looked precisely like he should be from Alaska. But he sure didn't look like a gunner.

After being introduced, the three men walked around the corner to The Rut, a bar for enlisted men. As Skip Alexander had said to his chopper partners, "What the hell else should you do on a day off? Play croquet?" It was either get drunk or go to the beach. And it wasn't exactly a beachy kind of day.

Dixon gulped and cleared his throat, gathering Bailey and Alexander in a wide gaze. "Dicks. Dix. Inspector Fix. Sammy Hot Licks. How about Willis Reed from the New York Knicks? I don't really care how you address me, cause you two white boys ain't nothin' but a couple of redneck hicks from the fuckin' sticks. Only don't call me Clare, as in short for Clarence. Okay?"

"You got it," Al and Josh said in unison.

"Oh, and Dixie. Don't call me Dixie. I forgot about that."

"Yo," said Alexander.

"But let me ask you somethin'. You notice I didn't say, "ax" you somethin', right? Take note of that. That's because I'm an educated nigger." Dixon took a long draught of his cuba libré. The umbrella slid around over his lip and he rolled his eyes. "Don't forget that." He glared at both of them. "Okay?"

"You got it."

"Back to my question," Dixon said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "What I want to know is this. Do they have induction centers in Alaska, Al? I mean, are you sure Alaska is actually a state? I thought it was a commonwealth or something."

"It's a state, all right. A state of confusion, mate."

"No, my friend. This, Da Nang and I Corps and the 17th Parallel and Quang Nam fuckin' province in the beautiful jungle-rot, leech-infested country of South Vietnam—this is a state of confusion. And, if you don't mind me saying so, a sad state of affairs."

"You know what's worse," Josh said. "They don't even want us here in the first place."

Instant quiet infected their corner of the bar. For a time the only nearby sound was the blinking light behind the Budweiser clock, a buzz and a hum behind a red beer wagon. Then Dixon slurped his cuba libré.

Al sniffed. "On second thought, in Alaska, at least you don't have to sit around hot and dripping all day like a whore in a boom-boom hut." They all laughed.

"Don't talk like that," Dixon said. "You get me excited." Alexander downed his pina colada and set it down on the bar with a splat. "If that gets you excited, Clarence, then you're a very excitable boy."

"I am," Dixon said. "But don't call me boy, either. I forgot about that."

"Then I better not call you Dix."

"Naw, don't worry 'bout that. I don't remember getting excited about dicks. At least not that I can recall."

Josh ordered another bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. "From the sound of that," he said, "I think we better keep the boom-boom huts open for old Dix here."

* * * *

Sitting in the doorway of the Huey slick—— it's a "slick" because the helicopter has no built-in rockets or machine guns——Josh's thoughts were jolted by static over the FM band. Barton, the copilot, tuned to the correct frequency and the Marines below reported in with landing advice. Dixon decided to use the village and river as landing guides. He told Barton to tell the lieutenant on the ground not to bother with smoke or a flare. To Barton, Al and Josh, he said, "No need lightin' up the LZ like a stage."

Josh thought about the pregnant woman from the village. In his mind he saw her tilling the soil in the fields by the river and he threshed his brain for every kernel of knowledge on labor phases and delivery. He remembered pictures in a textbook, but not a lot of detail.

"Watch the treeline," Dixon said. Al tensed over the M60, peering into the jungle. Josh forgot about babies and scanned the terrain below.

"Keep your eye on it, Al," Dixon said.

This lady, whoever she is, I hope this is her first baby. I'm no obstetrician but I know babies come faster the second or third time around. Most of all, Lord, I'd like this to be a pleasant, but slow delivery. Something a real doctor can finish on the ground.

GO FORWARD TO Vietnam Winter
(part three—END)

GO BACK TO Vietnam Winter
(part one)

After being introduced, the three men walked around the corner to The Rut, a bar for enlisted men. As Skip Alexander had said to his chopper partners, "What the hell else should you do on a day off? Play croquet?" It was either get drunk or go to the beach. And it wasn't exactly a beachy kind of day.

As usual The Rut was crowded. It looked like half the 1st Marine Division had time on its hands. Josh, being the new guy on the scene, volunteered to buy the first round. He tried to make a joke, something about how he had heard that buying drinks for your buddies was the only thing you should volunteer for in Vietnam.

Dixon and Alexander looked at him. They looked at him like a large insect had flown out of his mouth, chasing the words. Then, glancing back and forth, Josh saw both of his companions nod, and he figured he had simply hatched a little too quickly the comment about "buddies."

His new crew mates concentrated on their drinks for a several minutes. Alexander smacked his lips over a pina colada. Josh wasn't sure why, but Dixon had ordered a cuba libré, specifying twin umbrellas. The pilot took a careful sip and raised his glass to the rafters, umbrellas and all. He nodded at Alexander.

"Well, being a pilot—not that that means so much here or in the real world—it's a credit to you enlisted men that I choose to drink with you rather than waltz over to the officers' club. The fact that I don't like the officers' club has nothin' to do with it. Do you believe that, Bailey?"

"If you say so."

"Alexander?"

"No, mate. I know better."

"Good," said Dixon. "That reinforces what I already thought, that our FNG—fucking new guy known as Bailey—is a complete dumb ass." Dixon paused, spread the umbrellas apart and took a sip from his glass. "The thing is, I like you, Bailey."

"Call me Josh."

"I like you, Josh. You seem nice. In a dumb ass kind of way." Dixon raised his glass. "So here's to you. Welcome to the club." Alexander reached over and slapped Josh on the back so hard his half-raised beer bottle thudded on the bartop and foam bubbled over the neck. "Don't let the Captain get to you, medic. He just leans toward the blunt side of things as a rule."

"Nice," Dixon said, raising his glass again. "Actually, Big Al's right. I was sort of joshin' with you, Josh. Next, I honor a man who doesn't know his own strength, a man from a place many latitudes north...one of the whitest-skinned, blondest-haired guys I've ever seen."

Dixon looked Alexander over, up and down, still holding his cuba libré high. "You must get that way from standing out in the snow and rubbin' it all over yourself."

"You're crazy," Alexander said.

Dixon clicked Alexander's glass. "That's right," he said, "I'm one crazy nigger. How long have we known each other, Al?"

"I think about ten weeks. But, mate, to be honest with you, it seems like thirty. I wish it was thirty, anyway."

Dixon ignored him. "Now listen to this. Here's another toast to the Alexanders of Alaska, may they live long, multiply like snow bunnies and prosper."

"Salute and Happy Days!" Josh said.

"Thank you," Alexander said. "Mighty white of you."

Dixon snickered. "Heh, heh, heh. That's pretty good, really pretty good. I think that's why we get along okay, Al. You don't mind it when I call you Al, do you? I always thought Skip sucks if you want to know the truth. It's a honky kind of name. No offense."

"Hey, Dix, I don't give a shit. As long as I can call you Dix.

"Josh said, "Is that "dicks" d-i-c-k-s, as in plural penises, or "dix" d-i-x as an abbreviation for Dixon?"