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“Shoot a couple.”

“What?” The boy stared at Taylor as if he’d told him to kill his own mother. “You’re kidding.”

“Shoot up two of the bodies. That’s an order, soldier.”

The boy took up his M16, paused, and then fired a burst into one of the dead VC. All the shots in one area. The flesh and the cloth popped, smoked. There was a bad smell. Then, without pause, he did the same to the corpse lying next to it. When he finished he stood with his weapon down, shoulders slightly slumped, staring at Taylor.

“Now see if you can make a few of them dance.”

“Sarge, this is crazy.”

“Crazy is for civilians, son. I’ve got my reasons. Commence firing.”

The boy turned and began riddling the pile of bodies with bullets. As bodies slipped and fell from the top he was able to get their legs and arms jumping with the force of his fire until it looked as if the whole stack of dead men were seizuring uncontrollably.

“Not bad, kid. You’ve got a good feel for the weapon. Now pull out your K bar.” The boy hesitated. “Pull it out!” He showed Taylor his knife. “Okay… bring me back a finger.”

“Sarge!”

“You heard me. Take your time, son. But do it.”

It took the boy awhile to get over to the bodies, but he finally did. He then spent the next twenty minutes hacking away with his knife. Taylor hadn’t figured it would take him that long, so the boy must not have been using his full strength. And every few minutes he’d choke up a little. Taylor was too far away from him to really see how much. But the boy finally returned, his hands and knife covered with blood.

“Mission accomplished, I see. Now clean off your knife, son. I’ll bag this for you. Someday you might ask me for it.”

When the boy was ready Taylor helped him throw the bodies into the river, occasionally tossing him a light one so that he’d get used to the smell of a dead body falling all over you. Boat crews didn’t like them doing that kind of shit—the bodies fouled the props. But Taylor didn’t have to answer to them.

“Did it fine, soldier. Real fine. Maybe later we’ll get you a trophy photo, you holding a gook up by the hair maybe, and cutting his throat so’s he’ll smile real wide for the camera.” Taylor chuckled.

Daniel could feel roach heads watching him from the edge of the jungle.

Taylor hadn’t meant the chuckle—it was for the boy. And at the time it seemed like the right thing to do. Maybe it was necessary. It was all fake—the swagger, the attitude. The things Taylor was saying, they sickened him. But maybe it would help keep the boy alive later on. Taylor knew that war ran best on that kind of cruelty. Young boys came over to Nam with that young cruelty in them, the cruelty that made them set cats on fire and such shit, and the war brought it back out. Not all of the boys, certainly, maybe just a few, but there were times over there when those few set the tone. In Nam an American soldier had the possibility of becoming a god. He could skin a man alive maybe. He could become a “double veteran”—rape some Vietnamese woman, then kill her, then stomp what was left into the ground if he had a mind to. The thing was, the ones that were inclined to that kind of cruelty, they could get away with crap like that.

You weren’t going to fall in love, you weren’t going to be seeing your new baby, or go out drinking with your friends. You couldn’t get any of that shit in Vietnam. The only way you were going to get your blood up was to kill some folk, mess up a few bodies.

CHARLIE COMPANY WAS pushing people to the center of the village. Some of the guys in Calley’s platoon were picking them up, hitting and kicking them, making them move.

One soldier walked away. Another pretended not to see Calley’s urgent gestures to get the gooks in line. The platoon moved with the symbolic deliberateness of dream. The ones who were waking up could not figure out what they should do. The ones who walked away figured they could be shot in the back for desertion. Calley, a few others, moved across the village like heroes of the fucking silver screen. It was hard not to be awed by them.

TAYLOR SAW THE boy live long enough to run over an old lady just because some asshole made a dare, fuck some villager’s wife in front of the gook then blow his head off, shoot a bunch of old men in a rice paddy for target practice. He was killed when a mine ate him from the chest down.

Taylor didn’t initiate Alex into the way of things in Nam, and he wouldn’t let anybody else do it, either. Maybe young Alex could stay basically unchanged. Who the hell knew for sure?

Taylor watched Alex get his gear together for the mission. Watched him for a long time. Taylor had been ready and raring for hours. But he’d made that a habit; he’d come to the point where he felt more at ease in combat than he did just waiting for things to happen. Alex was still pretty unsure of himself—you could tell by the way he was stumbling around with his gear. Taylor hoped there wouldn’t be any sudden noises; the boy was so jumpy he might kill somebody. But right now Taylor figured Alex could handle himself back home a lot better than he himself could.

Once back home you were asked to keep all that meanness you’d learned in the long Vietnam nights at arm’s length. Over here they made you feed it like some kind of junkyard dog—giving itjust enough to swell the hunger—because it kept you and your buddies alive. And that boot-black meanness kept you from going crazy from the things they expected you to do here. But there couldn’t be any spillover back home. And when you got mad at your kid or the dog was yelping too much or the wife was getting in the way without knowing it, you had to keep that meanness under control.

Taylor’d really tried those few months back home; he knew he had. But after you’ve been out in the jungle on patrol, and looked too long into the dark, you start seeing things. You start seeing what’s out there, and you’re ruined for things back home. Sergeant Taylor could feel the changes working on him inside, even now. Roach legs massaged his entrails until his breath tasted like jungle rot.

His squad was pretty far north, and due to go even farther. At the time Taylor had no idea he’d be spending his last days of the war there, deep inside the black heart of Vietnam, so far north it was understood to be okay to shoot anyone on sight, no questions asked. A blank check.

The squad had been assigned to watch an isolated ville. Intelligence had it that it was an important VC way station, or intelligence post, or something. Taylor was soon thinking they must have missed on this one; he’d seen nothing suspicious all the way there, cattle and birds, women and children, a few old men. He didn’t think it was the kind of job combat troops should be doing anyway. They must have been low on spy guys that week.

He would never be sure what it was exactly that happened about two klicks out from that village. He ran the film over and over in his head, but it was like large pieces of it had beencut. They were in thick vegetation, on a trail that looked seldom-travelled, and that fact bothered them all. First thing he would remember was seeing Alex’s face get real white, white as snow, and Alex’s eyes going crazy, looking down, and Taylor saw what Alex was looking at—half his body was blown away.

A lot of screaming, a lot of explosions. Dirt and jungle flying ever which way. Bodies down. Lots of bodies down. Taylor hearing somebody crying, then knowing it was himself crying, bending over all of those bloody pieces that used to be Alex. And thinking maybe this little ville might just be as important as M.I. thought.

CALLEY’S PLATOON HAD gathered a little fewer than 200 villagers. The soldiers herded them to the eastern side of the village near the drainage ditch.

Calley ordered the platoon to start shooting.