And then a gunnery sergeant welcomed Strader into the USMC cubicle. His shoes shone like they were coated with glass, and the creases in his dress blue trousers and khaki shirt looked like they could slice bread. Rows of colorful ribbons were stacked so high above one breast pocket that they threatened his collarbone. Two marksmanship medals dangling over a pocket flap proclaimed him an expert with both rifle and pistol. The sides of his head were shorn close with a crew top. And he exuded confidence. Behind him on the wall was a portrait of Lyndon Johnson and, next to it, a large photo of the sergeant shaking hands with a Marine officer with enough stars on his shoulders to qualify as a constellation. Strader noticed that none of the men on the wall looked worried. In fact, judging for self-assurance, competence, and strength, the president came in a distant third.
“Don’t pay any attention to anything those numb nuts next door told you,” the sergeant said. “They couldn’t say shit if they had a mouthful.”
Strader was impressed. Here was a no-nonsense man who would give him some experienced advice—direct, straightforward, and ready to be carved into granite as soon as Raymond C. scribbled his name on a promise of two years of servitude.
Fifteen minutes later Strader left the building a future Marine private and feeling the master of his life again. It would be weeks before he realized that his life was actually like a car careening out of control, and he wasn’t even the one driving.
Waves of heat shimmered above the clearing, and Franklin and the Chief shed their packs and flak jackets as they worked at the bases of the condemned trees. Soon, in a pyrotechnical blink of an eye, the jungle’s efforts to reclaim the clearing would be erased. The Chief’s helmet was upended at his knees, and the remains of a block of C-4 sat on the webbing inside the helmet liner, the plastic wrapping partially torn away. Franklin watched as the Chief kneaded the pliable explosive into a pancake and folded it around a knotted loop of det cord. Rivulets of sweat ran through the bristles of the Chief’s close-cropped hair and down his neck until his dog tag chain and a leather cord suspending a small pouch interrupted the flow. The pouch looked old. Bright beads sewn to the leather depicted the abstract figure of a small man running below a silver circle. Franklin watched the bag swing back and forth as the Chief leaned into his work.
“What you got in that bag, man?”
The Chief molded the C-4 pancake to the trunk of one of the trees, but it wouldn’t stick to the slick bark.
Franklin pointed. “That thing around your neck. What you got in there?”
The Chief grabbed the stag-horn handle of his knife and in one quick move brought the heavy blade down on the trunk at an angle, opening a flap like a bird’s mouth. The tree seemed to shudder, and clear juices flowed.
Franklin shifted a few inches back from the Chief’s reach. “Then again, it ain’t none of my business what you got in there.” He busied himself with his own equipment. “You could have a million dollars in there. It ain’t my business.”
“How’d you know there’s money in there?”
Franklin took on the look of the unjustly accused. “Just a lucky guess.” He stowed unused chunks of his own C-4 in his bag. “You’re shittin’ me, right? You really got money in there?”
The Chief looked up with a wry smile. “Honest injun.”
It was difficult to tell where the Chief’s mood was going, so Franklin weighed treading lightly against his natural curiosity. “How much you got in that bag?”
“One penny.”
Franklin wanted to ask if it was an Indian head penny but decided not to press his luck. “Like I said, it ain’t my business.”
“A shaman gave it to me.”
Franklin gave the Chief a look like he knew he was being had. “A shaman. You mean like a witch doctor? So it’s a magic penny?”
The Chief’s look said the time for sharing was over.
It was the first time Franklin had spoken to the Chief at any length. “Yes” and “no” answers generally ended their conversations. He decided to press a little. “A lot of bag for one penny,” he said, stealing glances so he would know to duck if he had to.
“There’s more,” the Chief said, not looking up from his work.
“Like what?”
The Chief attached the pull-ring igniter to the C-4 stuffed into the tree gash. Both Marines stood and hauled their gear back toward the CP.
“My honor,” the Chief said, slipping an arm through one side of his dangling flak jacket.
“What?” Franklin struggled with his hands full.
The Chief touched the leather bag and his eyes seemed to soften. “The spirit bag. It carries my honor.”
“That a fact?” Franklin said, looking at the pouch suspiciously.
“That’s right. It’s a fact.” The softness was gone.
“Whatever you say, man.” The Chief was always unpredictable, and Franklin knew it was best to walk softly and live to fight another day, preferably against another enemy.
Private First Class Franklin came from the streets of Detroit, where every other building in his neighborhood was slated for demolition. Like most black families in the area, his found frequent moves necessary. He had mocha-colored skin and, at six-three, towered over most of the members of his squad. His tall, lithe body gave him a stride that kept the platoon scrambling when he was on point; at rest he looked like an unfolded chaise longue, full of angles and joints. With his three-year enlistment, he would be a civilian back in Michigan before he was old enough to vote.
As Strader worked his way back through his squad, a young Marine with a tattoo of a helmeted bulldog on his arm held out a worn photo for him to see.
“Hey, Reach. Take a look at Deacon’s wife.”
Strader slung his rifle over his shoulder and took the picture. “Damn,” was all he could say.
“Damn straight,” the tattooed Marine said. “I’d lay comm wire across the DMZ bare-ass naked just to hear her fart over a field phone. I shit you not.”
Another Marine stepped up and grabbed the photo. The left leg of his jungle trousers was torn from the front pocket down past the thigh, and his knee popped out as he walked. With only seven weeks in-country, Private Deacon was working hard to overcome the FNG label attached to fresh replacements, but most of the old-timers in the platoon still referred to him as a fuckin’ new guy and hadn’t bothered to learn his name.
“Did Bronsky put in a requisition for me? I’m droppin’ shit everywhere. If I don’t get new drawers I’ll be walkin’ around in my skivvies.”
“I put in the order yesterday,” Strader said. “And I thought I told you to shit-can the skivvies. The doc ain’t gonna send you back to the rear for a case of crotch rot, no matter how bad it gets.”
The tattooed Marine made a grab for the photo and missed. “Come on, man. Let me have another look. You think you’re special because you’re the only one in the platoon dumb enough to have on underwear?”
Deacon tucked the photo into the bulging cargo pocket on the untorn pant leg. “Maybe I need extra support,” he said, cupping his scrotum in one hand.
The Marine with the bulldog tattoo picked up his M16 and held it out with one hand. “This is my rifle,” he said, then grabbed his own crotch with his free hand. “This is my gun.”