Based on a true story told to me by my grandfather.
1
Plaiku Air Base, Vietnam, 1969.
Bummer lay on his bunk, trying to read an outdated copy of the funnies he’d bought in town earlier that morning. He’d just realized it was a French newspaper—he’d mistaken the familiar Roman letters for English.
But the trip to town hadn’t been a total loss, Bummer thought as he folded the paper into his pocket. The merchant was a guy with a scar on his nose, close to Bummer’s age, 19 or 20. Bummer saw through his act a mile away: the kid played dumb, hiding his sharpness, refusing to haggle while flashing a toothy, vacant grin.
The young man sold old porno mags and useless, outdated foreign newspapers, but everyone came to him for something special: OJ’s—opium joints. They were packs of American cigarettes with the tobacco swapped for marijuana, a strip of opium running down the length. GIs cleaned him out every day at the same busy market corner next to Thu Hà Café. Bummer bought a pack of regulars and a pack of OJ’s for himself. The gook called them Thai Sticks. Bummer said he didn’t care if it was gutter grass. The salesman caught his Brooklyn accent loud and clear, smiled, and said, “Good!” with a thumbs-up.
Scarecrow lay on his cot, hands behind his head, big black feet dangling off the end, swinging to a blues tune on the radio. Jimmy sat in the corner bunk, writing a letter home on the back of a dictionary propped against his leg.
“Hey, Bummer, what you think about smokin’ one o’ them OJ’s?” Scarecrow drawled, eyes closed, feet still swinging.
“I was thinkin’ that. Maybe behind the latrines so the smell’s covered,” Bummer replied.
“Not on base,” Jimmy cut in, leaning forward, knee to chest. Tan with sun-bleached blond hair and a slight buck to his front teeth, he added, “I got two days left at base camp, and I’m not riskin’ it.”
“Hero’s right,” Scarecrow said.
“Everyone smokes out there,” Jimmy nodded in a vague direction, his southern Virginia drawl thick. “I know a lieutenant who might be sniffin’ the stuff. A man like that better watch his back—and you two as well. Slackin’ off is fine, but lose your wits for a second, and you’re dead.”
Bummer looked down, fiddling with his shirt buttons to distract himself. He caught something in Jimmy’s gray-blue eyes—something savage, instinctual, like a Doberman backed into a corner. One wrong move, and Jimmy might “turn it on.” But Jimmy “turned it off” and continued, “Takes one geek to ruin a good time, and they got plenty o’ geeks on base. You guys are cool. I’ll introduce you to some people in a bit, where it’s safe for new guys to smoke.” He cleared his throat, and Bummer refocused. “Them OJ’s can be a quick path to snortin’,” Jimmy went on, thumbing his chest. “I’m on stand-down for a few days, so I might get a sniff or two. But you’d be smart to stick to grass till you’ve been in the shit. You need to build some instincts.” He pointed at Bummer, who nearly shit his pants.
“You can sell them OJ’s or smoke ’em in the field. You’ll get so stoned tonight off the regular stuff, you might as well be a hophead.”
That evening, Jimmy took the other two across base. On the way, he explained why he was hanging around: he’d been walking point on the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the Central Highlands and ambushed a small NVA squad. He’d killed five on his own with an M60 and grenades, earning a three-day stand-down.
Bummer asked who was the worst to fight, assuming the VC, but Jimmy corrected him. “Red Chinese, by far,” he said. The story sank deep into Bummer’s mind, and he wanted to go home. His lip bled from anxious biting. He’d rather sleep on the streets again than go “out there.” He’d dodged violence all his life—except when he was on the rough end of it. Jimmy and Scarecrow started comparing southern customs—jelly on sausage biscuits, stuff Bummer didn’t know or care about. His mind churned with dread.
The three entered a corner of a bigger bunk, a storage closet partitioned by two ponchos clipped together for privacy. About twelve guys cycled through the smoking circle—different ranks, races, and time served. Jimmy watched Bummer take two drags off an OJ. His eyes sank, his body slouched, releasing a lifetime of bad luck and shame. Two hands later, Jimmy hit the OJ; Scarecrow passed, sticking to a regular joint. Jimmy didn’t expect much from Bummer after that. He always treated him square and never dragged him into a firefight. Beneath Bummer’s aloofness simmered bitter nerves and fear. He could hold a grudge for years, his only payback a dropped coffee mug in a haze of resentment. The slyly aggressive have a knack for accidents. Within two hours of meeting, Jimmy saw it all—high or sober, the jungle gave you a sense for death.
Scarecrow came from a Georgia farm. Well-mannered and quick to wise up, he shed his mother’s pandering attitude fast. Six months into his first tour, he jumped from a Huey and caught a punji stick through his left thigh, another—nearly fatal—through his abdomen. His Alice pack took most of the damage, but he’d wear a colostomy bag for life.
2
Central Highlands, Vietnam, 1970.
A charred arm jutted from the wreckage of a smoldering hooch. Only one wall stood after Gator’s M79 grenade launcher hit. Bummer helped Gator lift a collapsed section so Jimmy could retrieve the body for identification. Jimmy grabbed the arm, and with little effort, it tore from the shoulder socket, sending him on his ass. Bummer dropped his side, keeled over, and vomited. Gator let his section fall, unfazed, and said, “I’ll be damned. Bet you don’t have a hair on your ass, Bummer.”
Jimmy kicked the arm into the pool of vomit. He and Gator flipped the bamboo-and-palm-frond roof onto its top side. Bummer wiped his mouth, avoiding the corpse. Gator pulled out Pall Malls for himself and Jimmy. They lit up. Jimmy took a deep drag, pointed with the cigarette, and said, “Bummer, write this down: two VC—male; one female civilian; one male civilian, father and daughter, assumed.”
After patrol that morning, they were back at camp. Mail was being passed out. The lieutenant held a letter, eyeing Bummer. “Bummer, you’re deros state. You’re going home.”
He couldn’t help but smile. Someone shouted, “Hey, Bummer got some good luck for once!” A guy socked his arm; another gave him a noogie. After the congratulations and jokes, Jimmy pulled him aside. “When you get back to Plaiku tomorrow, look for Sgt. Tom Potter. He’ll get you clean before you head home.”
“I’m getting clean—that’s why I puked this morning. The body was nothin’, really,” Bummer said. Jimmy wasn’t convinced but let it slide. “Talk to Tommy. He’ll help you stick to it. You don’t wanna bring a habit home.”
Later that day, the battalion moved north. Bummer and a small group broke off, heading southwest to Plaiku. He’d been off smack for two days, and the shakes were kicking in. The humid jungle air clung to him like divine punishment as he prayed with each step.
Five miles in, they took a break. Groups of five or six sat on their packs, passing joints or smoking cigarettes. Bummer took a hit from a joint—it didn’t help.
They marched another twenty minutes when someone yelled from the front, “We gotta cross!”
The company reached a massive gorge and waterfall, a large tree laid across it. In pairs, the men crossed, using their rifles for balance. Sweat stung Bummer’s eyes; he wiped them with no luck. He watched each man cross without a hitch. Hernandez paused mid-way, grooving like Elvis. Men laughed and cheered.
Bummer’s face stiffened, sweat beading. His eyes hollowed, shell-shocked. Two men before his turn. His heart raced like when he was 16, boosting that Buick with Johnny Ruff. Another guy stepped up. His hands grew clammy, like when he’d stuttered before the cop who’d asked, “Where’d you steal this car? What made you think stickin’ your pencil neck in a Times Square peep show was a good idea?” He’d cried when the cop slapped him—not as hard as his first night in jail, gasping for air. His orphan life had been chaos until that moment, feeling sixteen years of pain and confusion in a cell, his cellmate asleep below. Staring at the ceiling, he wished he had someone to shame. His pain served no one, loved no one. He resented himself. The cop had said, “Your family must be ashamed.” Bummer said nothing. That’s when the dead look settled in—mouth open, pupils alert, mind replaying misfortunes and future failures.
“Bummer!” A voice shouted from behind, a rifle butt nudging his pack. The soldier yelled over the waterfall’s deafening rhythm. “GO!”
Sick and confused, he peered over the cliff, watching the water crash. Mist cooled him, but sweat poured. Seventy-five feet? A hundred? His Adam’s apple dropped, then lodged in his throat. Lord, do I curse you or beg forgiveness?
He wiped his brow frantically with his forearm, stepped onto the teak tree, and hesitated, trying to steady his shallow breaths. Feeling his heartbeat, he took his first step off-beat—trick myself, or I’ll never do it. He crossed with surprising ease, eyes fixed ahead, a smile creeping up. It’d been years since he felt so natural. Mist thickened near the center. His balance wobbled—right, then left. His posture stiffened. His right foot slipped. His left knee buckled under his weight. In a frantic scramble, he lost two fingernails clawing at the bark as he fell, twisting rag-doll-like, screaming until he hit the water.
Men on both sides shouted and scrambled, sprinting down the gorge. They saw him struggling to turn over, his Alice pack pinning him belly-down. “Bummer!” they yelled, coordinating. Gator stopped on a bluff fifteen yards ahead, realizing Bummer wasn’t fighting anymore.
More men slowed, quiet amid the jungle’s roar and rushing water. Gator glanced over his shoulder. Jimmy crouched on the next ridge, placid, pulling a fistful of grass. Bummer drifted around a corner—no resistance. Jimmy’s eyes followed, fixed, letting the grass slip. Wind and mist took it—no resistance.