NO SURVIVORS

At five-nine, Henry Small Deer bore a closer resemblance to a human fire hydrant than a soldier.  Thought it was not listed in any military publication, Small Deer possessed one of the most valuable skills in the military:  Scrounger, General Purpose; and it fed the only passion that rivaled his love of weapons, trading for weapons, of every size and type.

Small Deer had developed a special link to the Vietnamese people during his first tour with a U.S. infantry unit in the Central Highlands.  The peasants in the countryside reminded him of his own ancestors trying to scratch out a living on the plans of the American West.

His affection for the Vietnamese and his skill as a wheeler-dealer had gotten him into the army’s Presidio of Monterey Language School.  He finished at the top of his class.  Now, as a result of the training and hard work on his own in Vietnam, Small Deer spoke, read and wrote Vietnamese fluently.  His mastery of their language had earned him the respect of the Vietnamese soldiers he worked with, and meant that he never had to rely on anyone for translations in the field.

Unlike many American soldiers, Small Deer had a healthy respect for his enemy.  Small Deer respected the way the VC lived off the land; their ability to blend into the landscape; to move silently across any kind of terrain, fashioning weapons from tree limbs, vines, the soil, even American discards became traitorous; trash turned into deadly traps.  Of all the advisors, only Morgan shared Small Deer’s respect for the VC.  But then, Morgan could have been born Sioux.

Small Deer stole a glance at his partner of nearly five months now.  He considered Morgan the best grunt, round for round, he’d ever worked with.

Morgan’s psychological age could be measured in multiple lifetimes.  He carried the eerie self-assurance that often comes from surviving a capricious trauma.  A tornado destroys everything in its path, yet leaves a single house without so much as a broken window.  Or, a plane crash kills hundreds, but allows a few survivors to walk away unscratched.  Wisdom gained from nearly two-and-a-half years experience in Vietnam – knowledge from pain.

The bond between Morgan and Small Deer was tempered by fear, pain and constant uncertainty – a combat kinship.  In the old Indian days, such a friendship would have outlived them both and been kept alive by tribal storytellers.  But war managed to exploit even ordinary relationships.  The dangerous distraction of one person’s concern for another offered opportunity to the enemy.

“What are you looking for, Paleface?” Small Deer asked.

Morgan’s glance shot to Small Deer and back to the rice paddy before him like a ricochet.  “You better take a hit off that canteen of yours.  This heat’s getting to you.  I’m looking for tracks, mines, spider holes.  What are you looking for?”

“No, dickhead! I mean,” Small Deer hesitated, suddenly less assertive, “what do you want out of life?”  The Indian’s eyes searched the ground for buried VC surprises like an overzealous prospector.

“Tomorrow’s sunrise,” Morgan answered promptly, not taking his eyes from the next patch of ground.

“I’m looking for the Badge, man,” Small Deer volunteered.  Small Deer was a medic, but in name only.  He desperately wanted the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, in addition to the Combat Medic’s Badge he already wore.  Small Deer kept trying, unsuccessfully, to have his Military Occupational Specialty changed to Light Weapons Infantry, 11B.

“Jesus! We’ve been through this a thousand times, Medicine Man.  You’ve already got the badge.”

“I want a warrior’s badge, not a medicine man’s.”

Only discipline kept Morgan from rolling his eyes.  “Why?  You got nothing to prove to anybody.  That button necklace you’re wearing shows how many coups you’ve taken off the bad guys.”