Читать книгу Allied Zombies for Peace - Craig Nybo - Страница 12

Chapter 5

Nam veterans stood in clumps: clicks divided by unit, platoon, and political affiliation. Some had come in dress uniform, polished boots, and stern expressions. Others had come with tattered fatigues, tennis shoes and mutton chops: a fatal cross-section of the factions that had recently returned from the most bloody war on the books of the American executive branch.

Two men played cards: hearts. They sat on a bus stop bench across from one another, eyeing their hands, considering their strategies. Chuck Abernathy pushed his bomber sunglasses up into his long, unkempt hair. He shot a glance at his opponent, Dan Hastings whom he had known through two tours in Nam. Most of the time since coming home, Chuck wore the sunglasses as a kind of field between he and everyone else. However, he had developed the habit of pushing them up on top of his head when he came across a fellow soldier; he didn’t mind looking someone who had lived through the same hell as he right in the eyes.

Chuck wore his uniform shirt like an over-jacket, unbuttoned with a white t-shirt underneath. He hadn’t bothered wearing his combat boots or cargo fatigues to the parade. Instead he had opted for cowboy boots and a pair of jeans. Dan, on the other hand, had picked up his dress uniform from the dry cleaners that morning for the parade. With his shaved, pale head and service pistol clipped to his waist, he appeared combat ready.

Chuck laid a card on the trick between them, the four of clubs. “Cronkite is a son of a bitch. I think he’d sell this whole country down the river if he could.”

“He’s just reporting it the way he see’s it,” Dan said, tossing the eight of clubs on the trick.

“He has an agenda; it’s obvious.”

“Are you saying we shouldn’t keep our politician’s in check?”

“He wasn’t there,” Chuck said, “at least in an American uniform with gook guns aimed at him from the bushes.”

“Neither was LBJ.”

“Yea, but LBJ gets our shit reports every day. Cronkite just sits in his courtside seat and shouts foul.”

“He never shouted foul.” Dan sloughed off a four of hearts. Chuck moved the trick of cards to the bench between his legs.

”I know exactly what he said, I memorized it: ‘to say that we are closer to victory today is to believe, in the face of the evidence, the optimists who have been wrong in the past.’” Chuck spat the words out like acid. “Let’s consider the evidence. We kicked their asses on Tet. Sure, we lost six thousand guys, but they lost eighty-five thousand. And as for their so-called peasant uprising? The whole thing was a turkey shoot; other than Kue and Khe Sanh, we were dropping them like flies. I think if it wasn’t for Cronkite diatribing his leftist propaganda, making the whole thing out to be an American fiasco, that Ho Chi Minh might have even thrown in his little, red towel.”

“Yea, but do you just want to keep on fighting forever? I mean, I’m tired; I just want to rest,” Dan said.

Dan paused from the game and looked Chuck straight in the eye. “How many times you been called baby-killer since we got back?”

Chuck clenched his teeth and ran his fingers through his hair. “We ain’t baby-killers; how many babies did you kill out there in the field?”

“America’s got some pretty serious wounds. It’ll take time to heal,” Chuck said and resumed the game, leading with a king of spades. “I’m not going to be the one to lick blood from America’s cuts and bruises. I did my duty: two tours. I served honorably. But because Cronkite puts a bunch of pictures of our boys dragging dead gooks through the streets up on the TV, suddenly we are baby killers.”

Dan rolled his eyes. Here it came again, Chuck’s old grind.

Chuck continued his rant: “That fat-cat news SOB should run pictures of the VC aiming their guns at us. He should broadcast pictures of our friends being blown to hamburger just because they stepped in the wrong place. Where are the pictures of North Vietnamese soldiers executing U.S. G.I.s in the streets of Hanoi.” Chuck huffed then took a couple of deep breaths to calm down.

“You should lighten up; it’s a holiday for the love of joy,” Dan said as he trumped the game with a 4 of hearts.

“It’s a new age; wars aren’t won with grit anymore. It’s not a matter of how much power you put in the field. It’s not about honesty or taking the high ground. What matters is which pictures you put in front of the people. Cronkite knows his arsenal and he’s damn well winning the war for Ho Chi Minh and his little, red pip squeak parade.”

Something caught Dan’s attention. He looked up from the game over his friend’s shoulder. “Well this isn’t going to make your day; here comes the freedom brigade.”

Chuck craned his neck around so he could see what Dan had spotted. A group of young men and women peeled out of the crowd, decked in bell-bottoms, sunglasses, and hair. “Damn hippies,” Chuck said.

“At least there’s one thing we can agree on. You think they’re going to cause a scene?” Dan said.

“Look at them; they’re already causing a scene.”

One of the hippies wore a pair of pants made from a soiled American flag. Chuck glared at the kid. The hippie raised his hand and aimed a gun-barrel pointer finger at him. Then, just before popping off a pantomime shot, the hippie pointed to the sky and opened his hand, flapping his fingers as if they were the wings of a dove.

“Spoiled brat,” Chuck spat on the ground. “His daddy’s probably the CEO of some fat cat corporation. Kid’s probably never even seen a draft card.”

“I hate them too, but it’s best to ignore them. They’re all talk anyways.” Dan threw the ten of hearts into the game.

“I’ll only ignore them if they go away.” Chuck tossed the queen of spades on the trick. Dan swore; it would cost him thirteen points. But that November 11th in 1968 would cost both him and his best friend, Chuck, a lot more than points. The game they were about to play would be for keeps.