Black Ice

                                                 

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Black Ice

    Suddenly, I was seized by a blinding red light; an ever-expanding crimson circle, like a dying sun, exploded within my head. I was falling. A cold, sharp pain struck my temple. The dying sun, as if focused by a magnifying lens, contracted into a pinpoint of brilliant white light, burning with intense heat. I caught the faint smell of cherry blossoms just before my world burst into flames, then - darkness.


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    All was quiet as I lay with my head in my tear-stained hands. I was sobbing. The world around me was a world of silhouettes, like a false dawn, filled only with shadows. The eerie silence was torn by the shrieking caws from a murder of crows. They came screaming out of a tall, needle-like monolith, filling the gray sky with their blackness.
   
    At the base of the monolith was a reflecting pool. The water in the pool shone like polished ebony, like black ice. A short distance from the pool stood a train. The train was trapped in the same black ice. It stood immobile in front of me; ashen faces peering at me through the windows, none spoke. Their eyes searched mine. Imploring me. Accusing me? A giant crow, with the head of Jane Fonda swooped down and with a raucous cry, shit all over the train and flew off. All the other crows cackled with delight. The soiled faces inside the train remained passive, anonymous.
   
    I looked up and down the length of the train. Each car was marked with a number and a letter. There were no doors, only windows. I was desperately searching for a particular car, but did not know why or which one. At car 61E I stopped. The windows were jammed with faces - gray, lifeless, haunting faces. Some were passive; others terrified. They looked both at me and through me, and among them were Carl and Bobby.
   
    Bobby's eyes were wide and wondering, like a child's. Carl's were full of shock and disappointment. Carl's lips were trying to form words, but the only sound was a kind of strange, choking gurgle. I pounded on the windows violently with my fists, screaming, "Hold on guys. I'll get you out. Just hold on." The crows had flown off, their hideous laughter trailing in the distance. I began stabbing at the train with my knife, trying to chip away the stone. The knife crumbled into pieces. It was only a pencil. The knife was only a cheap, lead pencil. It had no effect on the solid black ice that entombed my friends. A dizzying feeling of helplessness and shame swept over me. I dropped to my knees at the base of the train, my left arm throbbing with a dull ache. I shivered with a chill; sweat dripped into my eyes. The shadow world began to dissolve - a lighted, fenced-in compound, a jeep, and voices.

                                   
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    "Now this is what I call duty, huh Fonville? No stinking jungle. No stinking tunnels. No stinking, 'Laforese take the point.' No shit man! We got just three and a wake-up and we are didi mau, outta here. Winging off on the freedom bird - back to the 'world.' No body bag for Laforese. No sir! Ain't gonna tag and bag old Bobby."
   
    Bobby was in the driver's seat. Carl was seated next to him. I was laid out in the back. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to stretch the crick in my neck. The pain helped to drag me back from the shadow world. Carl looked up from the clipboard that held the patrol report.
   
    "Man, shut the fuck up and start this jeep, Laforese. Jesus. Fucking hayseed." Carl turned in the passenger seat and tapped the clipboard on my chest. "Hey, Sarge. You gotta fill this out."
   
    I wiped the sweat from my eyes and took the clipboard. I was sweating like a pig and my body was racked with shivers; the nightmarish images still fresh in my mind. The bare bulbs of the security lights were surrounded by halos.
   
    "Jesus, Sarge. You alright? You look like dog shit." Bobby peered at me in the rear-view mirror.
   
    "Start the fucking jeep, Laforese," I said in my best command-voice. I forced a smile, as I tried to focus on the patrol report in my shaking hand.
   
    "Start the fucking jeep, Laforese. Take the fucking point, Laforese. Drop down in that tunnel, Laforese. Man! Three more days and I'll be rid of both you bastards. Who you gonna fuck with then? That's what I'd like to know." Bobby fired up the jeep, popped the clutch, and we lurched out of the motor pool and headed into town.
   
    "Got a pen, Fonville?" Carl passed an O-D green, army issue Bic over his shoulder. I steadied the clipboard on one knee and filled in the date and time: 30 January, 1968, 22:30 hours. Wow. It's almost over. One more nine-hour shift, and pretty easy duty at that, and we would be finished. Two more days to clear post, and on the morning of the third - back to the 'world.' We, all three of us, were lucky to be here. It's funny. I never figured I'd make it, but I was determined to see that Fonville and Laforese did. That's my job. Hell, it's more than that. It's the only thing worth dying for over here. The chills were beginning to subside. My shirt was soaked with sweat. The feverish images of a murder of crows and an ebony train haunted me.
   
    "So, what's this duty all about, Sarge?" Carl asked over his shoulder. Bobby was fitfully negotiating the potholes as we sped along Plantation Road, past the racetrack.
   
    "Well, Fonville, as I understand it, we gotta find a lieutenant Braddock, with Delta Company, 716th Military Police Battalion. He'll put us where he wants us. We do what he says for nine hours, then we hand in our weapons, clear our paperwork, get good and fucked up, and wait for the 'bird' to lift off on the third."
   
    "Wow. The bird on the third - that's fucking poetry, Sarge." Bobby tipped his head back and laughed. "You hear that, Fonville? The Sarge is a fucking poet."
   
    Carl looked at Bobby from under his helmet-liner, jerked his head toward the road ahead, "Just drive the fu..."
   
    "I know. I know. Just drive the fucking jeep, Laforese. Sheesh. You guys crack me up. You fucking crack me up." With a falsetto, Tiny Tim voice, he belted out, "The freedom bird lifts off on the third. The Sarge got us through. He kept his word."
   
    A lingering chill shook me. My head ached, and my skin was clammy. We rolled into Saigon about 23:00, and headed for the MACV to find Lt. Braddock. The duty officer at MACV said we'd find him up at the Embassy Hotel. He was just finishing inspecting the shift about to go on duty. The men were lined up at attention. Their khaki uniforms were starched, pressed, and crisp. Pants bloused into spit-shined jungle boots, MP brassards smartly displayed on the left shoulder, bright white helmet-liners with "MP" emblazoned on the front, rakishly tipped down over their eyes. Bobby rolled up to the formation and we waited for the lieutenant, in our monsoon-washed fatigues and ratty boots.
   
    Braddock approached our jeep. "Good evening, lieutenant." I rendered a sloppy salute. "Sergeant Boone, First-Cav, Hue. This is Specialist Fonville and Private Laforese." His return salute was much crisper than mine, more military.
   
    "Good evening, gentlemen. You're assigned to me until 08:00 hours. Is that right, sergeant?"
   
      "That's right, lieutenant."
   
    "Good. Well, it's pretty quiet in town tonight. You're aware the North has declared a ceasefire for the duration of the Lunar New Year, but I'm shorthanded and I need all the eyes and ears I can get on the street. I understand you guys had it pretty rough up north. I could use some experienced men."
   
    "Well, we've never been MPs, but we've seen our share of Victor Charles, sir. We sure as hell have. Put us where you want us, El Tee."
   
    The lieutenant explained that he wanted us to patrol a stretch of town from the U.S. Embassy, to Tan Son Nhut Airbase. He gave us MP brassards to wear on our shoulders, and told us to make the proper entries into the patrol log, and keep a sharp eye. If we encountered any trouble we were to stand aside and radio the shift supervisor. The real MPs would take it from there.
   
    "Sounds easy enough." Carl said, as Bobby turned back onto the highway and headed for the Embassy.
   
    "Easy? You fucking bet it's E-Z. Ride around town and look at women. Drive as fast as I want. Whose gonna give an MP a ticket?" Bobby patted his brassard with pride."Yes sir. It don't get much E Z er." He was winding out the jeep for all it was worth.
   
    The American Embassy compound was situated in the heart of Saigon. It was an ugly concrete pile shielded by thick walls. The six-story chancery building loomed over Saigon. It screamed American presence and power. It was completely out of place among the pastel-colored French Colonial buildings in the neighborhood. The patrol area we had been assigned ran from the MACV annex, out past the Embassy Hotel, around the Base Officer's Quarters #3, then out nearly to the Airbase at Tan Son Nhut. It was unusually quiet, even for a Wednesday night. There were the usual contingent of whores and drug dealers in the area of Phan Thanh Gian Street. One had to look fast to see the drug dealers. As we approached with our MP brassards, they ducked and backpedaled into doorways and alleys. The whores weren't so easily intimidated. They flaunted their wares. Bobby's eyes were popping as his head bobbed on a swivel.
   
    An attractive girl with raven hair and a mini-skirt leaned seductively against the hood of a car, head thrown back, hips gyrating. "Gee Eye. Me so oh knee." She seductively traced her forefinger across her parted lips. Bobby whistled and waved, half standing behind the steering wheel.
   
      "Baby, I'll see you at 08:00 hours, sharp. Gonna take you home to meet my momma. You wanna go States, baby?" Bobby was pointing and laughing.
   
    "You bet, gee eye. States numbah whan." The whore looked interested. "You come, me go. Me luv you long time. Me luv you momma-san too." She smiled lasciviously. Mockingly?
   
    "Sit the fuck down and drive, Laforese." Carl glared from under his helmet.
   
    We turned onto a side street a few blocks from the Phillipine Embassy. At the end of an alley stood a greasy car repair shop. In the yard were a small Peugeot truck and a taxicab. Several young men were carrying large baskets of what looked like tomatoes and rice from a house next door. When they spotted us, the ones closest the house hesitated for a moment, as if they were unsure whether to continue. They looked angry and wary. The others disappeared into the garage. I made a note of the license plate numbers in the patrol report. It was 02:27 hours.
   
    The fever, combined with the tedium of patrol made my head heavy. I slid down in order to rest it on the back of the seat, my M-16 between my legs. Carl turned and smiled. "Won't be long now, Sarge." He turned back around. His thick neck and broad shoulders cut an impressive silhouette. Good old Carl. He was going to join the Black Panthers when he got home to Detroit. Saved my ass a bunch of times. Carl and Bobby. They were the only guys whose first names I knew. I always addressed them as Fonville or Laforese, of course. Nobody used first names over here. Having just last names get killed, that was somehow easier. But in my heart, whether I wished it or not, it was Carl and Bobby. How in hell did we make it this far? I looked at my watch: 02:44. It wouldn't be long now.
   
    We turned onto Gian Street a few blocks from the Embassy. Just as we approached the intersection, two vehicles sped by in front of us. It was a Peugeot truck and a taxi. They were driving without headlights.
   
    "Bobby, step on it." I straightened up and secured my weapon. "Follow that truck."
   
    Bobby downshifted and accelerated through the intersection, ignoring the stop sign. "What's up, Sarge? He asked, peering in the rear-view mirror. Carl jammed a banana-clip into the action of his M-16, locked and loaded.
   
    "Something's not right." I said. "Kill your lights and stay back. Let's see what they're up to."
   
    As they approached the Embassy the taxi swung way over to the left and discharged its passengers without even coming to a stop. Two men in black pajamas with armbands struggled with what looked like an ammo box, two A-K-47s slung over their shoulders. They scrambled from the cab and ran hunched over into an alley. The truck made a sweeping turn and stopped directly in front of the Embassy compound. The taxi pulled along side. "Pull over here, Bobby. Something's fucked up." We coasted to a stop at the entry to an alley a half-block from the two vehicles. There was a small unit of ARVN Security Police milling around outside the gate, and two MPs on guard duty at the gate. Everyone looked at the truck and the taxi. None of what I saw made any sense. It was 02:46.
   
    Several men jumped out of the truck. They all carried weapons. What the fuck? Charlie? In Saigon? One of the men on the ground screamed at the ARVN policemen and leveled his weapon. They scurried off like so many rats. A tarp in the back of the truck was thrown back revealing a 30 Cal. The 30Cal immediately opened up. The two MPs convulsed as the rounds ripped through their bodies, and dropped in a heap. Two others inside the compound swung the gate closed and secured it. Everything seemed to take place in slow motion. I tried to contact Braddock on the radio, but by now there was so much radio traffic I couldn't get through. It seemed all of Saigon was as surprised and confused as we were.
   
    Two sappers in black pajamas with yellow cords around their waists stormed the wall with satchel charges. There was a huge explosion. They blew a four-foot hole in the wall and they all poured through. The MPs inside the compound, along with a detachment of marines, engaged them in a heavy firefight. Small arms fire, punctuated with the occasional thud of a grenade, rattled throughout the compound. One of the MPs who had been hit initially was crawling along the wall, dragging his useless legs behind him.
   
    "You guys hold right here," I ordered. I jumped out of the jeep and ran toward the bleeding soldier. When I reached him he was nearly finished. His legs were mangled from the blast and he had a sucking-chest wound that was pumping out his blood by the liter. All I could do was hold him. He pleaded with his eyes. I shook my head and held him tighter. He shuddered so that it shook his whole frame, and just exhaled. As I reached to close his eyes something kicked me in the shoulder. I looked down to see my left arm hanging from its socket, moist white bone, glistening meat, blood gushing. Muzzle flashes from the roof across the street marked the kicker: the two snipers I had seen exiting the taxi. I held onto the dead kid and tried to slide down behind him. His body took two more rounds. The new wounds didn't bleed. There was no blood left.
   
    I heard the carburetor of the jeep kick-in down the street. Bobby and Carl drove up and positioned the jeep between the snipers and me. "I told you guys to stay." I yelled. Bobby jumped up on the seat. "Get the fuck down, Laforese!" His head exploded. He waivered for just a moment and fell backwards into the street. Carl was out and bending over me, trying to get me out from under the dead guy.
   
    "Jesus, Sarge. Your arm. Jesus. C'mon, Sarge, You gotta make it to the jeee...ck." The round caught him right in the throat. He put his hand to the wound, took it away and looked at the blood in his hand. He looked down at the front of his blood-soaked shirt. He looked pissed. Tried to talk. Then dropped in a heap on top of me.
   
    It was 02:48. My shoulder screamed with pain. The pool of blood that the three of us shared smelled sweet, sticky-sweet. Not sweet like weed. Not like that at all. The shadow world was returning.

                                         
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    The pain in my shoulder diminished to a dull ache. A fresh breeze cooled my face, carrying on it the faint smell of cherry blossoms.
   
    "You all right, mister? Hey, mister."
   
    A girl of about nine with blond hair and a yellow dress was gently tapping me on my good shoulder. I shook my head, a dull pain above my left ear. "I don't know, little girl." I reached over to my shoulder and touched the stump, felt the empty sleeve neatly rolled and pinned to my shirt.
   
    I was flat on my back at the base of The Wall.
   
    "You fell down." She knelt beside me. "You were scratching on this piece of paper and you fell down. The wind blew it away, but I got it for you."
   
    As I struggled to sit, she handed me the rubbing I had been making before I passed out and hit my head. On a single piece of paper were the rubbed letters of two names: Fonville, Carl J and Laforese, Robert R.
   
    "I got a scratching too," she said, showing me her piece of paper: Randal, Frederick M. "It's my daddy. Mommy says if I scratch his name on this piece of paper I can take daddy home with me. You taking them home with you?"
   
    "Yes, sweetheart. Yes I am."