Shadebringer: Book One: The Land of Irgendwo

PART I

METAL ALLUVION

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

—DYLAN THOMAS

CHAPTER 1

THE MAN

I believe the destiny of your generation—

and your nation—is a rendezvous with excellence.

—LYNDON B. JOHNSON,

36TH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

"THE SOUTH VIETNAMESE ARE HUNGRY for democracy—dying for freedom from those godless commie scum." The recruiter’s sharp, featureless face perfectly matched his sharp, trimmed body and tailored uniform. He sat at his perfectly organized desk with a single picture showing God’s own vision of a nuclear family. Across from him sat an angst-filled young man in an oil-stained T-shirt with shaggy hair that grazed his eyeballs. That sonofabitch was yours truly.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I said as I counted cars through the window. Freedom, democracy, and the American way. I had already made a decision but was playing my cards close to get the best possible deal from Uncle Sam. I spun a pen in my hand and tried to appear noncommittal. The uniformed apparatchik clenched his jaw and sighed through flaring nostrils whenever my attention drifted away, but he always managed to press a smile over those sharp teeth. His quarry was near, and I’m sure he didn’t want to spook it.

I see a strong young man in need of structure and a thousand more calories per day, he said.

I smiled and grabbed a model Sherman tank from his desk like I owned the fucking thing.

His hackles sprang up, and he pursed his lips over those pearly razors, trying to hold a smile. This bastard did not have a poker face. With all the sage he could muster, he leaned back in his chair and tapped his index fingers together. The Sherman was the main battle tank that won us the war in Europe. I would know; I fought in one.

I spun the treads with my index finger, testing the faithfulness of the replica. Seventy-five or seventy-six-millimeter smoothbore main gun and a Continental R975 radial engine. I spoke to the tank as if it were alive.

Irritation momentarily extinguished, the recruiter furrowed his brow and nodded. Outstanding, son. How did you know that?

My mom couldn’t afford presents on Christmases and birthdays, so she’d just steal library books and wrap them up in old paper bags. I ran the more memorable titles through my mind—all stamped with PUBLIC PROPERTY in big red letters. Also, I don’t guzzle Schlitz and fuck my sister like most of the inbred meat you shuttle through here on a regular basis.

The negotiations heated up; the recruiter pulled a corner of his lip back and snorted. If you’re so goddamn smart, why aren’t you going to college?

Because I’m poor white trash with no way out of here and no hope otherwise, so I figured I’d try my hand at killing commies rather than my stepfather. Besides, I feel like I owe this county for all my free books. Of course, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the books, but I didn’t feel like explaining why my life was otherwise meaningless.

Ah, problems at home. I hear ya, he said. We’ll give you a new family.

One who won’t call me a pussy for reading Jane Austen and writing poetry on stagnant summer days? I fluttered my eyes like Marilyn Monroe and spun the pen faster.

Yeah, sure, smartass. Sign the fucking papers. He grinned and shoved the pile in front of me, confident in his kill.

I snatched up the block-printed bureaucratic mess and began to read. Not bad, aside from fucking up my name. Everything we had discussed was dutifully reflected in the contract, and he had even double-underlined my signature spaces. Robbins is spelled R-O-B-B-I-N-S, dumbass. I shook my head, corrected the errors, and struck my signatures across each block. After a final goodbye to freedom, I bunched up the papers and slid them back.

The recruiter glanced at every page then up to me, his eyes narrowing. A lupine grin spread across his face.

Game on.

I hadn’t even stepped off the bus before a pile of shit fell in my lap. On our way to the reception station, some fuckhead from New York decided to get froggy, so I split his upper lip. After my first introduction to military-style punishment for misbehavior—a flurry of backhands from a motivated drill sergeant—boot camp commenced in earnest.

The old saying the military will tear you down and rebuild you is mostly true. However, it’s more on point for some men than others. Some guys came crashing down in hunks of porcelain and candy, while others took everything in stride. In a way, I pitied the tough guys more than the pussies; I could only imagine that they ended up like junkyard dogs—obedient and vicious. I was somewhere in between. Not bright enough to just play the game and keep my head low, I often had something smartass to say. This deficit really upped my misery, but at the end of the entire eight-week ordeal, I could crush rocks with a new set of pecs.

Somewhere along the way, the powers-that-be saw something in me I didn’t know existed, despite my often-shitty attitude. Whether it was motivation, hate, or a combination of the two, it didn’t matter. They funneled me into an advanced leadership training course called the Noncomissioned Officer Candidate Course in hot-as-balls Georgia. I took the extra five months of ass kicking knowing it would keep me out of Vietnam a little longer. Honestly, I kinda enjoyed the tactics, combat drills, and patrols under the watchful eyes of Rangers and crusty old infantry guys. They even had a replica gook village to make the experience as authentic as possible; we were only missing the whores in those funny triangle hats.

Graduating at the top of my class, I slammed on the rank of E6—staff sergeant. Pretty goddamn quick for a dipshit private to reach sergeant in the same year he went through basic. After pinning on our new ranks, we got a polite summons to collect our orders, which contained our unit assignments and report dates. Nearly all of us got a one-way ticket to Vietnam, except the businessman’s son who got some detail at the Pentagon pouring coffee and polishing ball sacks.

Regardless, the whole process was unceremonious, and when it was time to go, it was basically get your gear, say goodbye to Mom, and get on the plane. The MAC daddies—Military Airlift Command—provided the smooth-as-corn-in-a-lump-of-dog-shit airlift to my new home away from home, which shook loose a few fillings and had me spraying my meals out of both ends. Dozens of hours later, we landed, and I almost prayed when the cargo bay fell open.

This is Vietnam, I muttered as I stepped off the big ugly fat fuck of a plane happy to breathe fresh air. It was February 1969. Squealing jet engines and C130 props filled my ears just as they had when I left the US. Green men flowed out of the birds and spread across the tarmac in a torrent. The heavy duffle sank into my shoulder while I scanned the tarmac and the infinite green beyond it. Our little patch of concrete and iron couldn’t hold a candle to the world enveloping it—enveloping me. We were alien specks in a hostile, primordial, wet land.

Let’s give it a try. I looked around for HQ and walked over to check in. From that point, home in the US of A ceased to exist. And why shouldn’t it? There was nothing for me back there, and, for better or worse, I had cast my lot with thousands of others just as desperate and directionless as me.

CHAPTER 2

SON OF PERDITION

Give him a chance, Clyde. Nobody in this house is without sin.

—JANE ROBBINS

LUSH HAIR, LONG LEGS, FLOWERY DRESS, bare feet—she couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old, but she stood outside the base access point giggling and flirting with the boyish military police who blocked her way into Long Binh. A veritable playground for the REMF types—rear echelon motherfuckers—who supported the ground pounders, Long Binh was behind the lines, ahead of the times, and crawling with gonorrhea. And it was my duty to check in before heading into the shit.

Little darlin’, you know I can’t let you in here without a vendor pass, said an MP in a thick Southern drawl. A sheen of pubescent grease on his face gleamed red as the girl begged and whined and twirled her dress.

Fruit, fruit, yum, she said and shook her basket of durians. Feed GI, help family.

Just let her go, man. What’s she gonna do—blow up the fucking PX? The other MP winked at the girl and waved her through despite his buddy’s protests. She squealed and tottered in, hugging the basket.

I stood beneath the droopy eave of a rundown bar, dragged down a Lucky Strike, and watched as her look hardened—the smile now a line—and she strode with a purpose. Mornin’, I said when she passed.

Her eyes shifted to me for brief acknowledgment but not a speck of emotion or any words came back. She picked up the pace and gripped the basket.

A slight twist in my gut urged me forward, and I set off after her.

She must have known I was following her, because her walk became a jog. She turned down a street and homed in on a gaggle of soldiers milling outside the PX—the post exchange. She paused for a moment to root around in her basket. The twist in my gut intensified.

Hey, stop! I shouted.

Startled, she looked back at me then broke into a sprint toward the soldiers.

Fucking stop! I bolted and gripped my 1911 pistol.

The girl glanced back again, her face a canvas of fear and desperation, and she tumbled to the ground. A pained squeak left her body as she bounced and durians flew from the basket. But something else clanged against the asphalt. She charged, hand over foot in a frenzy, at the round, light yellow object and leaped upon it.

The gaggle of soldiers jogged to her, shouting obscenities at me and laughing.

She stood and turned to me, clutching something to her breast, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her tiny hands gripped a painted M67 hand grenade with an index finger twirled around the pin. She locked eyes with me and a faint smile creased her lips.

Help family, she said.

I drew the 1911 up, staring down my arm and pistol sights. My body shook as every fiber of my humanity resisted the trigger squeeze. I had been in country two weeks and was yet to kill anyone. Was my first really going to be a sobbing teenager clutching a goddamned grenade?

She popped off the safety clip and her finger blanched white against the grenade’s pin.

Electricity surged through my heart. My mind sharpened. Time stood still.

And I fired.

The act of killing wasn’t natural, but it came quick and definitely wasn’t what I expected. I had shot a sixteen-year-old girl with a Colt 1911. There was no glory or greatness in this. There was no pride. After she hit the ground, I ran over to her and squeezed her hand gently until her hold on the grenade—and this Earth—passed. I could only watch the life run from her body as tears ran from mine. I cried as if she were my own daughter bleeding out in my arms.

Soldiers stood around us and glared down at the spectacle in silence. Their mouths were agape, even the grizzled grunts with thousand-yard stares. An eternity passed until they stirred.

Hard. Fucking. Core. A master sergeant gripped my shoulder.

Buddy Holly here just saved our asses, said another younger buck—a corporal.

Apparently, I looked like the guy, and the round had struck the girl’s heart. In any other circumstance, I’d be on my way to a concrete box for the rest of my life or an execution. Here, I got a nickname.

I thought of her parents: Would they wonder why she never came home? Did she have brothers and sisters? Maybe a boyfriend? I’ll never know, but one thing I did know: I couldn’t have let her pull the pin. But Christ, I shot a kid, myself barely old enough to be called an adult. Was this going to be my legacy?

No. Bloodlust didn’t bring me to Vietnam, nor did any form of hatred. I was pushed here. I needed to come here for meaning, for something greater. And I found that meaning in a moment of horror—in those beautiful young eyes that I consigned to an early grave, a life, among countless others, snuffed for naught but the machinations of evil men thousands of miles away. I wanted so badly to save the innocent, the vulnerable, the meek while I stood watch in this nightmare. But, no, a single simpleton from Pennsylvania stood little chance against the forces at hand. Story of my life, I guess. Regardless, I was determined to try. I finally had direction.

One day can change everything.

Give it here, fuckhead, I said, snatching the rifle away from the nameless runt who had—seconds before—been tugging at it, sloppy and unsure. Fucking draftees. I rolled my eyes and broke the upper and lower receivers apart in seconds and stripped off the plastic handguards like husking a stalk of corn. I arranged the pieces into neat squares on the tarp and waved my hands over them like a magician before gutting out the bolt carrier. Next came the firing pin and the retaining pin, which I pinched between my fingers.

Don’t lose this, I said with heavy emphasis on each speck of metal. Otherwise, the whole fucking thing is as worthless as you.

Wide-eyed, maybe a bit too eager, the kid nodded and fidgeted with the toy-like parts as I watched.

I gave the bastard a full thirty seconds before heaving a disgusted sigh, snatching the parts back, and jamming the reassembled weapon into his chest. Jesus Christ, what bucket of cum did these dipshits swim out of?

Don’t have time for this shit, I said under my breath, but I couldn’t abandon the boy to his ignorance. I looked down at him with a hard stare. Keep it clean. Keep it neat. Keep practicing. You didn’t come here to die because you can’t care for your fucking weapon. You came here to kill. With a slap to the boy’s shoulder, I waved him away and moved to a new area of the hooch where another group sat waiting.

This here’s the pig, I said and ran my hand over the barrel of the M60. My voice swelled with pride, and it carried the soldiers under my command—I could tell by the tight spines—and the thought made me smirk. The pig’s a high-quality killing machine well worth humping its fat fucking bulk around for the nasty sonofabitch lucky enough to kill with it.

A sea of blank faces stared back when I offered a lucky grunt the opportunity to pull it apart. Silence. Eyes darted away like frightened puppies.

OK, fuck it. I scoured the sea of ugly mugs and pointed at a private: The kid had something to him, maybe an innocence, that put a sickly unease in the pit of my stomach. His eyes were green, bright but mournful, set in a face of such youth that I wondered if he had faked his enlistment age. Boys playing at war.… Gonna have to take ’em down a notch.

Show me how you break it down and reassemble it.

The young soldier nodded and maneuvered over the iron and wood device. Every movement was perfect. Every click and clang of its metal body had a purpose, and in less than five minutes, it was ready to kill.

Outstanding, I said, momentarily impressed. Private Thibodeaux, eh? What’s your human name?

Claude, Sergeant, said the private as he stood from the weapon.

Well, Private Claude Thibodeaux, where ya from? As if I had to ask.

Louisiana, Sergeant.

Well, hot damn! We got us a bayou boy right here.

Some soldiers glared at him with envy, but the rest clearly wanted to imitate his success.

Why the fuck they got you carrying a 60, son? You can’t be more than a hundred and twenty pounds and a few potatoes.

Fate, I guess, Sergeant. His shrug was quicker than his smile, which didn’t quite come.

I laughed and rubbed my chin. There was something about him that gave me pause. He was wise beyond his years and capable. War didn’t deserve him; he didn’t deserve war. I could only come to one conclusion.

You’re gonna die here, boy.

My tone hadn’t changed, but the kid could sense my discomfort. He looked at me, waiting for a punch line, but none came; I didn’t sugarcoat my wisdom. In my mind, some bureaucrat had already stamped KIA in big red letters on his personnel file.

Why’s that, Sarge? His voice was sturdy. He had heart.

You’re competent, thoughtful, and really good at your fucking job, I said. That’s just the nature of war, son. God can’t make it too tough on our enemies. It’s not sporting.

Oh, said the private. The nice white ranch split-level with the perfect picket fence was probably in flames in his head.

Also, let me guess. I sized him up further, arms across my chest and head to the side like I was solving a math problem. You just got married to your high school sweetheart, and you got a kiddo on the way.

The private, deep in thought, nodded. Good guess, Sergeant.

His pending nonexistence took on a fresh and palpable reality. I wondered how his bastard-to-be would throw a baseball alone. A flicker of sadness sprang from my heart, but I snuffed it, smashed it, and tried to forget it. I would not let myself get attached to these fuckers. Not here. Not now.

Thought so. I was pleased my intuition still served me. God’s gotta fucking sick sense of humor, son. You’ll see. Just keep your head down and prove me wrong for Little Jimmy’s sake.

I left Bayou Boy to his thoughts and pulled a cigarette from my vest before trudging to the next group.

So much fucking ignorance around here, I mumbled around the flame. I took a quick drag and swept over the soldiers until I found my next target.

Hey shitbag, you’re doing it wrong.

Clyde, your father and I miss you terribly. My eyes darted across Mom’s cursive on the crinkled stationery as I puffed a cigar. I dipped the ass-end of the cigar in a small tin of brandy, took a heavy drag, and cursed the letter with intermittent mutterings of bullshit, fuck, and liar. The others looked at me with every volley but said nothing: Papa bear being papa bear.

A large Black man turned from his duffel and shot me a disgusted look. Man, at least you get mail regularly, motherfucker. Sergeant Collins was a fast replacement after another NCO stepped on a mine a week back. I ignored the unwelcome comment and kept reading.

Your stepfather is so proud of you—a particularly egregious lie that packed my gut with hate. Horseshit! That motherfucker can stick his pride in the same place he stuck his draft deferrals. I snorted and put a round in his head in my imagination. Satisfying.

The rest of the letter detailed taxes, the neighbors, war protests on television, my sick Aunt Minnie, the ex-girlfriend, corn, fishing, and our usual dire financial straits. I finished the letter, flipped it over to look for additional bullshit, crumpled it into a ball, and set it alight. It billowed another layer of smoke into the crowded hooch, mixing with all sorts of others.

Why you so hard on your family? said Collins, who had now fully engaged himself in my goddamn business for some reason.

Because my mother is an idiot and my stepfather a coward, a druggy, and a liar, but that’s none of your fucking concern, is it?

Collins fell back on his cot and reread his own letters using the tip of a knife to mark each word. That’s no way to talk about the woman who brought you into this world, he said, and my old man would beat my ass ’til I bled for things I hadn’t even done yet, so I don’t know what your cracker ass is complaining about.

Things you hadn’t done yet? I blew the letter’s ashes out of my hand and cocked my head at him.

His giant bloodshot eyeballs shifted to me. Yeah, he said only God could see all the bad shit I did, so Pops would beat my ass just in case he missed anything.

A few soldiers laughed, but his words revolted me. Sounds like Pops is a bigger scumbag than the god he follows.

Collins’ jaw bulged, and he set the stack of letters on his lap. Maybe if your real father had a little faith and stuck around, your confused momma wouldn’t be fucking some needle junkie who’s obviously got your number something good.

I stared hard at him, and he leveled the blade at me. Crimson crust lined the blood gutter of the weapon; it had been recently used and used hard. Neither of us blinked as the other soldiers looked on.

Clyde Robbins, Philadelphia, I said after the tense pause. The sonofabitch had pissed me off like no other, but he spoke a cold truth I couldn’t help but respect. I reached out and shook the crusted blade like it was his hand and spilled a few drops of my own blood. One good turn deserves another.

Bernard Collins, he said, flashing a row of tobacco-stained teeth, Biloxi, Mississippi. Call me Bernie. Fresh blood ran down the blade, and the thought of becoming blood brothers with some gook who had the supreme misfortune of meeting Bernie in the dark made me smirk.

My new acquaintance looked down at my remaining cigar. Got an extra? He licked his lips and pointed at the brandy. I nodded and removed a fresh cigar from my vest, dipped it in the sweet liquor, and handed it to him.

From then on, we were all right. I would have even kept him as a friend if I wasn’t so goddamn sure he was gonna die. Regardless, it’s mighty powerful what one cigar and some brandy can do. If only the assholes in Washington, DC, and Ho Chi Minh City knew that.

CHAPTER 3

KNOCKWURST

Holy hell, what a lightshow!

—SERGEANT MAURICE BEAR TURNER, B-52D TAIL GUNNER

IN A TIME AND SPACE NOT LONG REMOVED from Clyde, the tribulations of others unfolded. A slight People’s Army soldier ducked into the moist vegetation, unsure of what crawled within. He gripped a rusting AK-47 close to his chest and shuddered in the darkness. A comrade tapped his shoulder, and he forced himself forward, lead foot over lead foot. The alternative was a bayonet in the back.

The silent platoon of farm boys blended into the vegetation with such ease they could have been the jungle. The ubiquitous drone of an empire of insects, howling animals in the throes of death, and the pattering of gentle rain easily masked their movements. They carried simple Russian rifles like tigers wielding their claws against the dark unknowns of both man and beast, but few were destined to use them.

The young soldier paused and reviewed a map with his platoon leader, a small honor he had earned with his competence and quick wit. Vietnamese characters decorated the map, each signifying something of military or terrain significance, but the soldier only cared for the unpaved road that took him home. Oh, how far it was! Just two years ago, he had fished with his father on a nameless delta, tended to the fields with his mother, and chased city girls. A year later, he married after a brief and passionate courtship. Now, he was a single cog in the great equality machine.

The December air, cool for Vietnam, chilled him, but adrenaline was more than enough to dull the sensation, and it was a welcomed change from daylight’s swelter. Their path, a torturous shadow even in a place they called home, brought them near a winding riverbank. Their target was anything white or black with green camouflage, but they knew and feared what came with the night—men who emerged from the water to kill and vanish back into it, merciless phantoms mentioned only in whispers.

But this soldier’s death was not to be a quiet one.

A sudden thrill beneath his foot, an anomaly amid the soft muck, spooked him. A mine? A trap? He quieted his mind and stepped. No blast. Just another squick as his foot settled in the mud. But in mere moments, a second thrill shot through both heels.