The Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan

by Rufgear

Legendary soldier of fortune Rufgear travels to Vietnam and becomes an immortal warrior in the process.

The Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan

By Captain Roger Cents

Copyright 2006 by Bassett Creek Classics

To Bobbie, Loving you just makes cents.

About the Author:

Captain Roger Cents was born in 1951. He has published over 37 novels including: "War of the Bird Men", "Bird Man regulator", "FBI: Undercover Hardcase", "Bird Men vs. Hawk Patrol", "Lazarus P.I." and "Shelley of the Dinosaur Valley". The Captain currently lives in a house boat on the Mississippi River (The Old Man). The Captain is finishing a screenplay for "Bird Men Haters" and is hard at work on a new Rufgear novel, "Coach: Grecian Vacation"

Additional dialogue and editing by Sir Brandon Chitwood.

A second edit was done by Ms. Bobbie

Chapter 1

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle

The helicopter slowly descended to the ground. It was packed full of soldiers. Every inch of usable space filled with the walking war machines of America. This particular flight held some green newbies as well as a few grizzled veterans.

"Mixed Nuts," Air Force pilot Terry Stroot commented from the cockpit. Private Brazelton laughed hard. It was an apt description of their cargo, and laughs came hard over the jungle.

Private Sloman was one of the newbies. He sat near the rear window trying to concentrate on basic physical tasks. He focused on his hands gripping the side rail. He thought hard about his feet staying planted on the metal floor. He would do anything to quell the nausea that had been planted in his soul. "The sickness of warfare" is what Father Jeff had called it. Father had counseled him to complete his civic duty. Without Father he would have fled to Canada. Sloman wondered what Lisa was doing right now. Probably growing organic vegetables and listening to Rush in the van. He felt vomitus climbing up his talk pipe. He tried to concentrate on retaining his balance as the Huey rocked back and forth on their trip down to Hanoi. The chopper set down gently. Sloman grabbed his hat as the wind created a mini-tornado around the helicopter. He hopped out the exit hatch and tried to survey his surroundings as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

WHAM!

Sloman found himself on the ground with pain shooting through his mouth. He rolled over and saw his blood mixed with his spit dripping to the ground. "Oh my God" he thought, "I've been shot in the mouth." He felt around his lips. A piece of his front tooth was missing. He touched the rest of his face. Everything was there. A strong hand lifted him up by the shoulder.

"You OK, soldier?" a gruff voice barked. Sloman nodded that he was. He noticed that the man's hand was bloody.

"Did you hit me?" he asked.

"Let me see that mouth." The man whispered in his ear. Before Sloman could reply, a large, muscular finger was inside his mouth.

"Your tooth is chipped, but the root appears to be fine. Have Doc Jacobson take a look at this." The man's finger slowly retreated from Sloman's mouth. The soldiers stared at each other for a moment.

"Rufgear," the man said. "Welcome to Vietnam". The bearded man then turned and ran off the helipad. Sloman stood still for a moment. It took a minute for the words to sink in. He had just met Rufgear: the fabled mercenary of the Vietnam jungles; the soldier turned hero, turned earth-bound God. The sting in his mouth felt more like pride now.

The man once known as Captain Rod Addams was no longer. In his place was the legendary killing machine known simply as Rufgear. This is a story of the sacrifice and bravery that led to his creation.

Chapter Two:

Sergeant Lear moved effortlessly through the jungle ahead of Rod.

"This man could run track" Rod thought to himself. Rod loved track. He loved everything about it. The perfection of the running lanes, the chirp of the crowd as runners streaked across the finish line, the sandy beach that was built for long-jumping, the smell of resin from the hands of the shot-putter.

"I ran the 450 in college." Rod mumbled as they hiked through the dense foliage.

"The 450 is for pussies. Real men run cross country" Lear said as he turned and smiled.

"Cross country," Rod repeated with a frown. He knew from experience not to fuck with this man. Cross country runners were crazy. The light started to fade and Rod was feeling the pain of a long run all over his body. He wondered if the hike was planned to wear out new officers.

Rod paused a moment and undid the top button of his pants. He had asked for a size 36 waist back at the base, but he knew he really needed a 38. He could sense the uniform duty officer was looking at him funny. He had to say size 36 twice because the asshole just stood there staring at him. The little bastard was looking at his waist with a cocked eyebrow. His vanity was costing him in the field now. Perhaps that uniform officer knew better. Rod would have to eat some of his pride if he wanted to make it out here.

"Yer pants okay, Cap?" Lear asked with a grin.

"Where's the fucking base? I thought this place was an hour from drop point?" Rod asked, starting to lose control of his cool.

"It's right there," Lear said, motioning to a clearing a few yards away. "I thought you would want to join me for my nightly run, you being a track guy and all." Rod realized they had been running in a circle around the base. He pulled out his knife and slammed Lear to the ground.

"Fucking cross country runners" he said and spit in Lear's face. Rod felt a blow to the back of his head. He rolled over and tried to regain his balance. "What the…."

"Jesus Lear, is this the new Captain?"

Rod shot to his feet. The 4 men snapped to attention and saluted.

"What's the point of attacking an officer?"

"Sir, we thought you were O'Malley beating up Lear again." Rod paused and assessed the situation.

"Captain Addams," he said, returning their salute, "but you can call me Rod".

"Danielson," the first man to talk said, tipping his helmet.

"Melay."

"Goonshaw."

"Prickett."

The motley ensemble led Rod down the trail into base camp. Rod wondered what the hell he had signed up for.

Chapter 3:

Base-camp: a soldiers home in the mess of war. This particular camp was named Alpha X7. This would be Rod's home for the duration of the mission. They were south of the La Drang Valley. Army brass had the great idea of training some sympathetic peasants in the area to defend themselves. Rod was being brought in as a tactical advisor. He had no real authority over any of the operation. The only men that answered to his rank of captain were a small platoon of special Ops soldiers. His small platoon of men lived in the same camp with many of the other soldiers. He walked up to a group of the soldiers sitting around a smoldering fire.

"Hey Pickett, what happened to the last Captain?" Rod asked.

"You mean Rimbaurd? I dunno. He got reassigned in Dien Bien Phu, I think. Colonel Chitwood caught him with a dirty M-36 while on duty."

"The Colonel had him removed?"

"Yea, there was some bad blood there. The Colonel isn't exactly an easy guy to deal with. He's not Army material, if you know what I mean." Rod didn't know what he meant, but he did know when to stop asking questions. The body language classes at West Point were paying dividends in the field now. In addition to Pickett's body language, he thought he heard grumbling about the Colonel from the other men. Rod didn't let the negativity affect him. He knew what a tough job leading men could be. His summer job coaching junior track had taught him some valuable lessons about management. Nobody appreciates a leader. He had worked so hard to make sure every child was learning. He spent extra hours on the track every night, teaching those kids to love and respect track and field. Just because Coach put him in charge, the other boys had to make trouble. It was in man's nature to rebel.

"Colonel gets pretty freaky about protocol and shit," Private Jackson said, stirring the fire with a broken stick.

"REAL freaky," Menendez added.

Rod found himself staring at Private Jackson. The Private shot him a deadly look and snarled: "What are you lookin' at?"

"Are you Soily Jackson?"

"Once upon a time…" he mumbled. The other men were confused.

"You boys have a genuine celebrity soldier here." Rod said, smiling.

"I'm no celebrity. Just ran some fast 800 meters a long time ago." Jackson stared at the ground, obviously enjoying the attention.

"You run track?" Grady asked. "Why don't you ever participate in our tournaments?"

Jackson stood up and spit his toothpick out. "The Government decided I have to be over here fighting some enemy I don't even know. I no more as put two feet on this Godforsaken soil, and my best friend Briggs is blown apart by some sniper. That was the day my heart died. That was the day I stopped running."

Rod wiped his eyes, not sure if it was sweat or emotion that was seeping out of him. "Well, you were a damn fine runner, Jackson. Damn fine."

Jackson pulled a new toothpick out of his breast pocket and began working it between his teeth.

"Captain," Lear said, approaching the fire pit, "In 3 hours, you will make the hike up to Can Tho. There, you'll meet Colonel Chitwood and have a chance to inspect his command base. I suggest you get some shut-eye. If the VC is preparing to attack, as our intelligence suggests, then we are going to get busy here real soon."

"Thanks Lear, maybe I will check out my tent and get unpacked."

"You bring running shoes?" Jackson asked. Rod unzipped his rucksack and pulled out a pair of Saucony jazz nylon suede running shoes. Jackson curled his lips and nodded. "How about a race after you get settled in?"

"You got it. Two hours, and I'll be out here."

"We made a 200 meter hurdle track over by the landing strip." Lear added.

"You up for hurdles, Cap?"

Rod nodded.

"You're alright, Cap." Jackson said. A warm feeling rushed over Rod. He had made his first connection with the men.

"You boys rest easy. Captain Addams has your back." Rod stood up and put his hand on Jackson's neck. "We're a family now, a family of war."

Chapter 4:

It took Rod about 20 seconds to take in all of his sleeping quarters. He wondered what the Privates slept in. His room consisted of a small thatched hut with an assemblage of yellowed pillows that constituted his bed. Rod put his rucksack on the floor and lay down on the pillows. There was a small fridge in the corner that looked liked it hadn't been running in quite a while. He made a mental note to work on that later. He knew he couldn't fall asleep: any good runner knows that a short nap before a run will kill you. Rod stared at the ceiling and thought back to his last visit with Coach….

"God Dammit Rod, this isn't some game! It's not a race, you can't win this thing."

"Coach, I've already signed up. This is something I need to do."

"You're throwing your life away, kid. You're the best 400 meter runner I've ever coached. Your 47.93 at the Clifton field house was amazing. Don't do this Rod. For the love of God, don't do this."

"It's too late, Coach. I ship out for training next week. America needs me."

"America needs its track and field heroes to stay in one piece. America needs you right here, Addams! You can do more for our troops by inspiring them with your athletic prowess. You're going to lose your foot in some booby trap over there."

"Coach… Be proud of me," Rod pleaded.

"Get of here, you damn fool." Rod could see the tears in his coach's eyes.

"Coach, I just wanted to say goodbye." The gymnasium door slammed shut behind Coach. That was his goodbye.

"You ready, Captain?" Miller asked from the flap at the front of his hut.

"Yes. Let me get my Saucony's on and do a little stretching first."

"Are those Jazz nylon suedes?"

"Yes. My coach had them specially made for my thin feet."

"Pretty damn nice," Miller whistled. "What's an expensive shoe-wearing athlete doing in this shit-hole jungle?"

"Just helping out America."

Miller shook his head and spit. "See you out there, Captain. Good luck."

Rod nodded and began stretching out his calves.

Chapter 5:

Twenty or thirty men had gathered around to watch the race. The hurdles were crudely built, but looked close to regulation. Rod bent down and inspected the ground. It was hardened dirt, but it might work.

"Nice shoes. Welcome to 'Nam," a lanky soldier said.

"Captain Addams," Rod said, extending his hand.

"Roberts," the soldier said, keeping his hands at his side. "Lieutenant Roberts," he added, and walked away.

"What his problem?" Rod asked Lear, who had walked up behind him.

"Ahh, he's got a hard-on for rebellion. He gives every officer a bad time. Good tunnel man though, when he's not drunk."

"We can't be having a drunk tunnel man," Rod said. "I want a report on that soldier every night. I'm not going to let the stink of the bottle brown our men out here."

"Yes, sir," Lear said with annoyance.

"Alright men, let's line up!" Rod yelled to the group. Roberts, Jackson and two other men came forward. They put their starting feet on the chalk line.

"When I shoot the gun, you take off," Lear explained.

"Just like Private Verna!" someone from the crowd yelled. The platoon exploded in laughter. The jab at Verna was an undeniable success.

"Ready, set……GO!" Lear yelled, shooting his pistol into the auroral Vietnamese sky. The men flew forward. The sprint offered the men a few blissful moments of peace. The heavy blanket of war was lifted, allowing a brief glimpse of their Mother standing nearby with the board game Candyland tucked under her shoulder. There would be fun, competition and a visit to Gloppy's fudge swamp on this lazy afternoon. The blanket fell back over their heads as quickly as it was lifted. Mom's face disappeared into the smoke of death and everyone was firm in their reality once again. Jackson easily beat the other two men. Rod had kept close, and could have overtaken him if he had been in better condition.

"Nice run," Rod said to the soldiers. Lieutenant Roberts was dry heaving into the bushes nearby. Before Rod could comment, a jeep pulled up next to him.

"It's time to meet the Colonel," the dark-haired private announced. The soldier wore the patch of the motor pool division. He wore glasses and had a thick black handle bar mustache.

"What's your name, driver?" Rod asked.

"Englund. Private Englund."

Rod shook his hand and sat down next to him in the jeep. He saluted the crowd that had assembled for their race. He felt a deep sense of pride in his first day. He had organized a track race in one afternoon, had raced against sprinting legend Soily Jackson, and had almost beaten him! These men were going to respect him, he could feel it.

Chapter 6:

Boromir is friggin awesome. I like

watching people succumb to the One Ring's power – Brandon Chiwood

Englund drove quickly on the barely existent dirt road.

"You take these turns pretty fast, Private. You must know these roads pretty well," Rod observed.

"Yea, I do a little bit of everything out here. Private Tristum got blown up last month, so I shoved into the motor pool. Before that I was a radio man."

"Well it's that kind of pitching-in that's going to make this operation a success." Englund looked uneasy with Rod's statement.

"Have you met the Colonel yet?" he asked.

"No."

"You should reserve your optimism for after that meeting."

"That bad?"

"Just between you and me, the Colonel isn't a soldier. He's a silver spoon book worm who had some friends in high places. The Senator doesn't want his boy's pretty little head to get a scratch on it."

"He's Senator Chitwood's kid? I never thought to connect the two. Well, thanks for the information, Englund." Rod squeezed the Private's arm and smiled. He noticed the sinewy composition of Englund's arm immediately.

"You ever throw a javelin?" Rod asked him.

"Me? Nah, I went to a huge school in New York. Track and Field was for the superstars, I figured, not for an Englund."

"I'm telling you right now that you have arms for throwing a javelin. I can't believe your Coach didn't sign you up. If there's a lull in VC activity, I'll come out to the motor pool HQ and we'll take some throws. Sound good?"

Englund's face beamed. He looked like Santa had laid a golden egg right in his mouth.

"That sounds great, Cap."

Chapter 7:

They were outside an elaborate hut at the north end of the base. Scantily clad women surrounded the tent. Some carried palm leaves, others fresh fruit.

"I sure would like to nail some of those," Rod said, and clapped Private Englund hard on the buttocks. Englund smiled nervously and drove away.

Rod didn't like what he saw at the Colonel's base. Who was this man? So far he didn't seem like much of a soldier. Rod stopped himself before opening the flap to the tent. He smiled and relaxed his muscles. "What if this is another Greg Jones incident?" he thought. Rod sat down on a log outside the tent….

Greg Jones was the meanes,t most unlikable son of a bitch that ever ran track at Longfellow High. Rod first met him when he was a freshman on the Longfellow track team. Jones was a senior who had transferred from the Homer St. Prep School. Everyone knew those prep school kids were spoiled rich homos. Rod decided he should make himself known at the first track practice. During the 400 meter dash he bumped Jones off the track.

"Watch your footing fuckplant." Rod said, and spat next to Jones' shoes. Jones said nothing and stood up. He got back on the track and finished the race. Rod walked over to the bench, where his team-mates slapped his shoulders and congratulated him.

"That's how this team works?" Jones asked, hunched over past the finish line and nearly out of breath.

"That's right, pretty boy." Rod answered.

"Pretty boy? God damn right he's a pretty boy!" a booming gruff voice said. Everyone stood at attention as Coach appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"This pretty boy just showed us what Track and Field is about. You check your ego at the door and run until God's breath turns foul. Rod Addams, stand up!" Rod shot upward.

"Who in the name of all that is holy told you that you didn't have to finish that race?"

"Coach, I…"

"Fuck you. You ever walk off that track again, and you're off the team. You don't pull yer cock out of a woman before she's satisfied, do you?"

No one replied.

"Well I can tell you…you don't! This track is now your woman, so SATISFY her!"

"GO TEAM!" the assembled runners chanted in unison.

"And as for this pretty boy….I'd say he's in line to be our Captain." A murmur of shock rose from the assembled fieldsters. Coach walked over to Jones and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek: the ultimate sign of confidence amongst Track and Field participants. Rod couldn't stand it. He ran full sprint on the track.

"Let's satisfy this woman!" he screamed and re-ran the entire 400 meters. The other runners followed. Even Jergens, the shot-putter, slowly ambled around the track.

That was the lesson of Greg Jones. Rod learned to be careful not to judge by someone else's opinion.

Chapter 8:

I'm probably the best that I know of – Dave Lehnen

Rod stood up and adjusted his uniform. Now he was ready to meet the Colonel. "Greg Jones," he whispered to himself.

The first thing he noticed was how cool the tent was. It was also very dark.

"Come in," a hushed voice said from within.

"Colonel, I can barely see you."

"Your eyes will adjust. Until then, there are other ways of seeing," the Colonel said cryptically. "There is a seat directly in front of you. Just walk forward carefully." Rod moved cautiously and found the chair with his wandering hand. Slowly, his eyes were able to take in the room.

"Magnificent, isn't it?" the Colonel said, as he inhaled a Virginia Slim. Rod smelled a mixture of ozone, menthol and fiberglass through the dank jungle air. The room was decorated like the parlor of a gentleman's club that had long since seen its best days. Chagalls and Maleviches hung uncomfortably on the canvas walls. Rod wondered if they were authentic. A giant gold crucifix hung directly behind the Colonel.

"How do you keep it so cool in here?" Rod asked.

In answer, the Colonel pulled a rope to reveal giant blocks of ice behind a drapery in the corner. Native women were feverishly fanning the ice blocks.

"I had a refrigeration unit shipped in. I just can't stand this heat."

"Is this really the best way for an Officer to live?" Rod asked.

Chitwood kicked his chair out. Rod's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could see the Colonel's eyes flashing at him behind thick round spectacles.

"I wouldn't expect a grunt like yourself to understand the requirements of the officer class, but I do expect a little respect from my underlings." Chitwood shook his head. "The shit they let off Pariss Island these days," The Colonel mumbled. "The war must be going pretty dang bad, when…" The Colonel stared at Rod. "There will be plenty of time for roughing it when we attack the VC. Until that time I intend to live as the Commanders of time before me."

"I guess I'm not up on my history," Rod said dryly.

The Colonel adjusted himself uncomfortably and squinted.

"How did you manage to rise so quickly in rank?" Rod continued. "You do seem rather young to be a Colonel."

Chitwood spread his fingers and drilled the tips of them together rapidly. He then took a rosary from his uniform pocket and began fingering the beads. "I'm sure your men have briefed you. 'Oh my, Colonel Chitwood's Father is Senator Chitwood.' Well. I've lived my whole life under his shadow. I can't start worrying about that now. I know the names they call me: Colonel Silverspoon, Dynamo fidget, Hackslaw Birdnose, The Murderous Mr. Rippington, Slam Dunk Ernest, Leaf Raper, Concubine of the Jessup, Minty McSuckle, The Breast of SuckleShame, Ivy BirdLie, Suckle Stirrups, Line Up and Bend Over, The Deaf Train, Private Wheelchair, Suckly Sherman, WhirlyBird, Cup of Tea, Legs Halitosis, Uncle NiceTalk, Nastitude, Naughty Pine, Clem Hooftop, Butterfly Melvin Blowjob, Pornopopus, Inverse Blowhole, Click, Mouse Face, Jerk Face, Dog Ass, Lady Face Chitwood, Chit, Brambly, Ole Flappy, The Bridge on the River Jerk, Guitar toes, Mississippi John Hurt, Blind Brain, Self Hater, Soda Bottle Jenkins, The Unusable Toy, Machine Blackout, Blue Sky in the Easy, Forget About It Brandon, You Want It When, Button Up Cock Socks, Freebird, Elasticop, Jerk, Pops Misery, Reverse God, Plow the Soil and Rape the Dog, 7 Track Radio Player, Slow in School, Elfy Non-pride, Mirror Crax, Extreme Dumb-ass, Feed the World, Doo Rage, Flask of Urine, Telefunt, Animal Cock, Yor, Little Girl Brain, Woman Hands, Homo-hair, Rock-brain, Poop-brain, Mean Old Grandmas Infection, Bug-eyed Panted Short-stack, Racist, Mr. Toddler, Oh my Badness, Boot-scooter, Bluegrass Country Boy, Pony Boy, Doonesbury, The Whittler, Non-balled Tiger, The Hen, Middle Child, Privately Crying, Apple Turnover, Chicken breast, Loserity, Bearly in Charge, Greenhorn, Dogshaft, Bibelot, Junior-size Cola, Lady Eyes, Make-up Wearing Fop, Slurp, The Dirty Wig, No-fun Reformer, Uptight Cross Man, Humpback Male, The Elephant Girl, Non-shelled Turtle, Ass Smelling Fish Stick, The Human Laxative, The Sorry Maker, Bonkers, Beauty School Drop-IN, 2-lane Blacktop, Shiny Naked, Lameasaurus, Winky, Chuckwood, Shitwood, Talkback Live, Toothache Nelson, The Prussian Helmet, Candysack, Tony Todd, Fuzzyhole….You get the idea. They think I'm some distracted scholar counting angels on pinheads in some Ivory Tower. The truth of the matter is very different. I was tapped to head this mission BECAUSE of my academic training. I know you Ham'n' eggers have little regard for the academy or the life of the mind. It's something you gun-toting gorillas aren't familiar with. And the Lord knows how the ignorant fear what they do not understand. But you might try to think about the actual mission here, Captain. We are training peasants to defend themselves." Chitwood stood, and paced nervously around his desk. The women stared at him as they fanned the ice. "Your average Colonel knows two things: How to chew a man's ass, and how to kill a man's ass. I'm here to train a man's ass. For that you need intellect, linguistic skills, culture, and our Lord Jesus Christ." Chitwood pulled a kneeling board from under his desk and began reciting the Lord's Prayer.

"How does the brass feel about you bringing the Lord into this mess?"

"As long as I put together a fighting machine that they can tell the newspapers at home about, they wouldn't care if I worshiped Baal. Which I don't." Chitwood flashed Rod a nervous scowl. "This is my chance to do something great, Captain. I'm going to teach these peasants how to defend their country, and I'm going to save their souls in the process."

"Let's concentrate on saving their skin first," Rod said.

"Very well Captain, it's been a pleasure meeting you," Chitwood said icily. "There is much to be done today. I suggest you start by learning some of the local dialects, so you may more easily train them to speak Latin."

Rod laughed. "That's not the way this Officer operates, Sir. I have made it a practice of mine not to learn the native language. And Latin! Shit, we aren't in Mexico, Colonel! I only speak one language…Good old American!"

"To each their own," Chitwood said, and opened the flap for Rod. Rod slapped the flap out of Chitwood's hand. The Colonel jumped backward and pulled his revolver out. Rod sprung forward and bit Chitwood's arm. He wrestled him to the ground.

"What in Fanny's Heaven are you doing?" Chitwood gasped.

"No man opens a door for Captain Rod Addams," he said, while emptying the bullets from Chitwood's gun. "You may have read a lot about war, Colonel, but it's not like the books out here. There are real lives walking around us. I'm not going to let you fuck with that."

"Get out!" Chitwood screamed, pushing the Captain off of him.

"With pleasure," Rod spat. He turned to walk out of the tent, but Chitwood held him.

"Let me tell you something about war," Chitwood hissed. "This 'war' is but one battle in the War of Good and Evil, and this world, this universe---why, the very fabric of space and time itself---are but one front in that war. And this battle is as good as lost without the sword of Christ leading the charge. Will you help to steady the scabbard so the sword may be drawn, Captain? Or will you stand behind, and allow yourself to become the tool of the Evil One?"

"Jesus and I have an understanding, Colonel. Don't worry yourself on my account," Rod said, and yanked Chitwood's arm from him.

Chitwood's eyes rolled back into his head. "As we speak here so idly, Old Scratch himself is fortifying Hanoi with his minions. His servant, Ho Chi Minh, sees all. He is cunning, and wizened with evil. He comes and goes at will. A dark power aids him, one that can not be thrown off with crude bombs and napalm. Only an army of the righteous can defeat him. Once I have catechized these savages---both the SVA and these pot-smoking heathens from back home--- then Ho Chi will feel the wrath of his foe. When my men have mastered Aquinas and Augustine, when they have bathed in the divine perplexities of St. Anselm's proof, when the light of the ontological necessity of the Trinity has burned them…then, THEN, we shall march on Hanoi with cross and sword, and no evil will stay us." Chitwood stared dreamily into the foliage. "They shall appoint me Archbishop of The United Republic of Vietnam. Perhaps they will rename Hanoi---that Sodom of the north---after me.….yess...yes…"

Rod stared at Chitwood in disgust. "You're fucking nuts."

"Mens sano, sine meledictus," The Colonel whispered, and made the sign of the cross.

"With all due respect, Colonel," Rod said, turning again to leave, "if you think a little Sunday school is going to make these men into soldiers, you may as well start replacing our tanks with Lamborghinis!" Rod chuckled to himself, and walked off to the mess. It was time for chow.

Chapter 9:

Rod decided to jog the three miles back to his tent. He felt good about his handling of the Chitwood situation. He had used his physical prowess to establish some control. The Colonel would not deal with him lightly again. He smiled as he thought about the Colonel's mussed hair and bent glasses.

The jungle terrain was rough, and Rod wasn't really a big fan of cross-country running to begin with. He was looking forward to some sleep when he returned to base. He also hoped there would be some mail there waiting for him. Coach had never been mad at him for this long before. Rod was feeling new emotions. It was hard to figure out where the tension of war began, and the fear of failing Coach ended. He longed for Coach's approval. Until now, he had always been able to find it.

The foliage on the trail back to base camp was a dull, dark green. Rod's mind drifted into thoughts of his sophomore track season…..

Gone were the rookie mistakes that hampered him as a freshman. Rod had spent the fall and winter toning his body. He showed up to the first day of practice looking like a tiger fit to chase down the fastest antelope in the herd. Coach looked Rod over from head to toe. Rod loved the attention. He could feel each of his muscles shine as Coach scanned his body. His whole body tingled when Coach nodded at him.

"Good workouts, Addams. You look ready to run this year." After practice Coach asked Rod to come into his office.

"You got a girlfriend?"

"No Sir."

"Good. Ain't nothin' but a distraction. I had myself a woman once…worst three weeks of my life. A good runner knows what to run from, Rod. Sometimes the finish line can be a REAL destination."

Rod nervously looked around Coach's office as he spoke. The walls were lined with posters, trophies and yellowing sports articles. He took a mental picture and slowly built what would become the bedrock of his personality.

"Anyway," Coach continued, "stay true to the shoe. Just stay focused, and you'll win some races. Some of those races might even be out there." Coach said, motioning to the world around them.

From that moment on, Rod dedicated his life to Track and to Coach. Every minute of his day was spent training. He carried weights in his backpack. He sprinted to classes. He clenched and unclenched his buttocks during lectures. He became chiseled into running perfection. Over this same time, Coach sculpted him mentally.

Rod learned to shut off his emotions. "A rock cannot be hurt" Coach told him. He let Coach's philosophy rule his heart. He never dated a girl twice. Each time he slept with a girl, he left her panties on Coach's desk. They never talked about it, but Rod felt Coach's approval in his icy stare. He was Coach's favorite, and everyone knew it. That's why fighting in this war was hurting him so bad. He could handle anything on earth…anything but the disapproval of Coach.

Rod's thoughts wereinterrupted by the shrill and unfamiliar dialect of a VC soldier.

"Anh khoe khong!" the tiny warrior growled. Rod stopped immediately. He was hunched over as he tried to catch his breath.

"Step aside, Charlie. This road is colored Red, White and Blue!"

The enemy soldier charged with his fist extended. He had apparently lost his weapon. Rod twirled out of his reach and snapped the man's elbow into his spine. The soldier fell to the ground. A trickle of blood ran out the side of his mouth.

"Emphasis on the Red," Rod said, and began his jog back to base camp.

Chapter 10:

After a brief but much needed nap Rod wandered over to The 19th Hole, a make-shift bar the soldiers had constructed. He had yet to shower after his brutal killing of the VC soldier. It would be good for the men to see him bloody and full of war. He had shown them his prowess in the sprinting lanes, now they would see a true warrior among them. Bits of enemy soldier fell off his clothing as he strode to the shack.

"You hit some resistance, Cap?" the bartender asked. The bartender was Private Haugland. He poured the best Trout Martini in all of Asia, and he could turn a tender ear to most of the enlisted.

"That's right, Private. Son of a bitch tried to knife me, over by where the Oum River bends."

"The Oum River?" a loud voice questioned. "Who the hell is walking by the Oum River?" The soldier was obviously intoxicated. His friends were trying to pull him down and make him be quiet. Rod could have let it go, but he thought he recognized the man's voice.

"Roberts….you were assigned to sweep the Oum River bed area for scouts, weren't you?"

Lieutenant Roberts now realized who he had been yelling at. This made him even more belligerent. "That's right. It was clean as a whistle yesterday. What the hell did you drag through my sector?"

"I was attacked along the path by a VC soldier."

"I see. He attacked your jeep?"

"No, I was on foot."

"On Foot! Don't you know the regulations for foot travel between bases south of Hai Phong?"

"Actually I do. I thought a nice run would invigorate my senses, help me to get a clear picture of what's going on out here."

"You broke the code, traitor! I aughtta call General Lehnen down here right now."

"Should we let the General come right now and smell your breath?"

"Fuck you, rule breaker!" Roberts screamed.

Rod pushed Roberts' head onto the rickety wooden table between them. "When you're tunneling through to Charlie country tomorrow, I want you sober. You leave your emotional baggage in your tent, soldier. There are good boys over here, and they need you. Don't do it because I'm telling you, do it for these men!"

"Aaaaaargh" Roberts groaned as he tore away from Addams' grip. Rod left the bar and went to his tent to shower.

Chapter 11:

Rod felt better with the stink of war---and Roberts---off of his body. He decided to radio General Lehnen and get some more specific detail about his mission.

"Captain Addams," Lehnen answered. "Good to hear from you. How is Colonel Chitwood treating you? Has he briefed you on the particulars of your mission?"

"Yes sir, you might call it a briefing. I have to admit I'm a little concerned about his competence as a military commander…."

"Knew you would be. That's why you were sent down there. Stop over and see the Colonel again tomorrow. See what exactly he has planned. You are our eyes and ears down there, Captain. It's a tricky situation we have here, what with the Colonel's Father and all. Don't let this guy fuck-up, Captain. There is a shit-load of PR riding on the success of this mission. Americans want to see these Vietnamese defending themselves."

"Yes sir."

"Have you had a chance to meet the soldiers on your team?"

"Ran a sprint with some of them this morning. Doing my best to get situated."

"They're good men Captain. Let me be straight with you. Chitwood is in command. There's technically not a damn thing you can do about that. You are his tactical advisor. Between you and me, I'd say you should be running this whole shitball. As it is now, you are going to have to do your best to make things work. Get your men trained and ready for action. Give Colonel Chitwood the best advice possible, and get those fucking peasants ready to make war. Over."

"Yes, sir." The radio went dead.

Rod smiled, he could be sure that Colonel Chitwood had been listening in on that transmission. It would help his position tomorrow. He already had some good ideas:

The whole operation was light on daytime scouts. That was what allowed that VC soldier to break through and attack him. He would suggest a rolling shift of two to four men. That way, the entire perimeter would remain safe.

His second idea was going to be met with resistance. Rod thought that Chitwood should allow some of his officers to take over the daily training of the peasants. He knew Chitwood would want complete control, but it would be in the best interest of everyone to leave the military training to his men.

It had been a busy first day. He had won the respect of his men through a capable 400 meter sprint, and through raw killing power. Now he would have to find a way to convince the Colonel to share his vision for training a peasant army.

Chapter 12:

Rod awoke before the morning's cock had crowed---or whatever kind of animal woke the day in the Charlie outback. He decided to do a spot check of the night-time patrols. He was still unfamiliar with much of the local terrain, and thought it would be a good way to immerse himself in the geography. Rod had always jumped in headfirst to whatever he was doing….

When he was seven, he had a terrible fear of the dark. Through broken conversations and snooping in his Fathers desk, he had convinced himself that there was a dead body or a ghost in their basement. Rod didn't sleep for a week. Worse than the fear, was the nauseating feeling of incompetence. He pooped his pants at the dinner table just to create a different feeling of shame one evening. One night as Rod lay awake, he decided to end the fear on his terms. He put on his pajamas and walked downstairs. He left the lights to the basement off, and walked around on the dirt floor cellar in the dark. He explored every inch of the space with his hands and feet. His body was covered in black soot when he came to an opening in the back corner. He put his hand into the opening and slowly pushed his entire body through. His hands touched something curved and hard. He explored the item more and realized he was touching a skull. Rod didn't scream--- he got control of himself. He explored the skull, and discovered it was attached to a skeleton body. He pulled the skull out and returned upstairs. He put the skull on the kitchen table, sat in his chair and crossed his arms. The morning started with a scream as his Mother discovered her son at the table with the skull. She ran back to her bedroom. His Father came down minutes later and took Rod out to the car without explanation. They took a long drive and many things were explained to Rod that day. To summarize his Father's explanation with the written word would be impossible. Some ideas need to be communicated with the human voice, or at least an alto saxophone. There would be enough information to write an entire novel just on what happened on that drive. The most important lesson Rod learned was that he would never let fear control him again.

Rod stepped into a foxhole. The soldier snapped to attention.

"At ease," Rod began, "I've certainly spent more than a few minutes catching some shut-eye in the hole. Who is your point man?"

"Lihutski," he said pointing to another grunt patrolling the perimeter.

"Any action?"

"No Sir. It's been real quiet this week. Too quiet, if you ask me."

"I read you soldier, what's your name?"

"Googer, Private Tre' Googer."

"Where you from?"

"Cleveland, but that seems like 1,000 years ago."

"Amen to that. I ran the 400 meter dash at the Holloway Center in downtown Cleveland. You a Track and Field man?"

"Fuck yea, Cap, I've been running the mile since my diaper fell around my ankles."

"Good enough, Googer" Rod said, and clapped him on the shoulder. Rod saw a C-ration of beef lying on the bottom of the foxhole and picked it up.

"Mind if I take this?" he asked.

"Ummmm"

"Thanks, Goog. I'll see what I can do about the quiet out there." Rod jumped out of the hold and followed the tree line into the peasant village. The sun was starting to rise. It was time to inspect the Colonel's "peasant army".

Chapter 13:

Part of me thinks that is really funny, but most of me thinks that you are lying – Shannon Roberts

The village was silent. This was Rod's first clue that something wasn't right. He knew these men should be drilling on a 24 hour shift. War was not learned over a cup of tea with Sir Paul McCartney. It was learned through practice and instruction, and even then, God might strike the whole thing down. There was no time left for nonsense---soon the VC would be attacking. The United States could only hold their hands for so long.

"Wake up!" Rod screamed. One of the peasants came out of his hut with mussed-up morning hair. His eyes were sleepy, and he looked at Rod suspiciously.

"Day la me," the man said.

"I said wake up, you're a soldier now. Get these men UP!" he screamed again, motioning toward the other huts. The man nodded and went to a hut at the back of the village. This hut had a generator hooked up to it. Rod assumed it was the Commander's hut. The man returned quickly with a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone.

"What the hell is this?"

"Ice Cream," the man said slowly. Rod took the cone and threw it into the jungle. He pulled out his machine gun and blew the cone apart before it hit the ground. The man jumped back and covered his ears.

"What the fuck are you jumping for? Jesus bloody animals…these men are afraid of gunfire!" Other villagers began poking their heads out to see what was going on. Rod walked through the village in disgust. He completed his assessment of their training. He turned to address the villagers.

"D," he yelled to the crowd that had assembled. "I'm giving you a D," he said again. Rod was pretty sure his point was taken. He saw one villager go to a radio. He spoke feverishly: Rod could understand none of it. He smiled, thinking that it was probably a message to Colonel Chitwood.

Chapter 14:

One of the best Christmas songs is Bing Crosby and David Bowie's version

of The Little Drummer Boy. The bridge is very ominous, with Bing

singing: "The children must be made aware/ The children must be MADE TO

CARE (emphasis mine)." You can see from this song that the abusive side

of Bing wasn't without purpose – Brandon Chitwood

Rod was summoned to Chitwood's quarters soon after he returned to base camp. Private Englund was waiting outside in a beat up jeep.

"How the hell do you keep this thing running?" Rod asked as they took off down the familiar dirt road.

"I guess I'm sort of a grease monkey. Some people like their books and learnin'…for me it's gears and engines. Daddy always said I bled oil. I just love making these motherfuckers run."

"I guess that's where you get those strong forearms," Rod commented.

"Guess so. I'm going to take you up on that javelin throwing offer, Captain."

"I haven't forgotten. If the VC still hasn't attacked by next week, I'll set up a field day for interested soldiers."

"Well, you might as well sign up the whole platoon, Captain. What man isn't interested in Track and Field?"

"I figured as much. A man with a cock and running shoes doesn't need much else."

"Amen to that…..here we are, Captain."

Rod walked into the dark of Colonel's lair and sat down. He was confident, and ready for anything. He felt he had more of a handle on the mission, and what needed to be done to win. He also felt like General Lehnen was behind him. Colonel Chitwood was furiously writing something at his desk as he entered.

"Colonel," he said tersely and sat down.

The Colonel's head shot up, as if from a dream. "It's you."

"All that prayin's making you hard of hearing. I could have slit your throat before you would have noticed I came in."

"As you can see, Captain, I am a bit busy here to indulge in your godless antics at present. What do you want?"

"I want you to lay off the God shit long enough so's I can teach these greenhorns how to use their bayonets!" Rod cried. "You got these soldiers so worried about their souls, they can't tell their elbows from their assholes any which way to Sunday!"

"Captain, I'll be brief. You are here as an advisor. When I want your opinion on something, I'll give it to you. When I want you to inspect my troops, I will tell you to." Chitwood stood up. "Do you see this uniform? Look at it closely. It is meant to be a clear sign that you are to do, say, and think as I tell you."

"With all due respect sir…" Rod began.

"Shush," Chitwood said, putting his index finger to his lips. "There is nothing more to say about it."

"Actually there is Sir. I'll be damned if I'm going to sit and let good soldiers and innocent villagers die because you are too damn stubborn to listen. My job is to come here and offer advice. That means I can and will inspect whatever the hell I want. Your peasant army looks pitiful, and your perimeter guard is weak. A VC unit could sweep in here at any time. I'm going straight to General Lehnen with this information as soon as I can."

"You will do no such thing. We will follow the rules of order, per the Army handbook."

Rod spit on the floor. "I don't see any other rules being followed around here. Why don't you just take my suggestion about the perimeter guard? Just let me do my job and we can stay out of each others hair. I know what I am doing, Colonel."

"I will consider your information, as befitting the luxury of my position."

"If any of these men dies because of your arrogance…"

"They are MY men, Captain," Chitwood interrupted. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have an army to train."

Rod walked to the door and turned around before he left. "How will your God feel when the VC smashes through our depleted lines and kills innocent people?"

Chitwood took a sip of wine from a jewel-encrusted goblet before he answered: "Confession."

"Excuse me?"

"Captain, I do wish you would read the catechism I gave you. It is written in plain English. I think you would find the time to study it if you could break yourself away from jibberjawing with the rabble out there. If you took a look at it, you would realize that there are no 'innocent' people."

"Colonel, I'm not really in the mood for one of your sermons…"

"Silence!" Colonel Chitwood motioned to the door. "Come with me, Captain. I have something to show you."

Rod followed Chitwood into the thicket. In the distance, Rod could hear the chugging purr of some machine, and, more ominously, the sound of moaning.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Rod asked.

"Captain, each of us comes into this world with a soul. A soul forged in the pure flames of heavenly love. But when it enters this 'mortal coil'---as Shakespeare called it, it becomes contaminated. It becomes befouled with sin. Sin, Captain! 'O, that this too, too world-weary flesh would melt' because of it---Shakespeare, again. We are born guilty, Captain Rod. There is no escape from it. There is no cure. But there is a treatment…"

They had reached a clearing in the jungle. Inside the glade, Rod saw a circle of soldiers chanting. It sounded like Latin. They surrounded a strange machine that looked jerry-rigged out of spare parts. It looked like a metal sandwich with a person inside of it, and a cockpit attached. Inside the cockpit was another soldier, who seemed to be operating the sandwich part of the machine. Smoke bellowed out of one of the many pipes snaking around the apparatus, and the sandwich was shaking. Rod realized the moans he heard were coming from the person inside the machine.

"I read about this in a book," The Colonel said pleasantly. "It is a most ingenious machine. I have devised this contraption to improve morale and morals among my men."

"It's a form of corporal punishment?"

"If you like. It writes the particular sins and transgressions onto the backs of our wayward soldiers."

"Come again?"

"The sinner is placed between the two boards. Inside the boards are an intricate array of needles and hoses, controlled by the man in the cockpit. The needles inscribe the sin on the back of the soldier, like a tattoo, and the hoses spray off the blood!" The Colonel smiled proudly.

"And what did this soldier do?"

"He was caught eating meat. In this heat, some people seem to forget that it's Lent."

"He was eating meat?" Rod said in disbelief.

"Yes," The Colonel said sadly. "And with all the fish to be had in the river. Such foolishness."

Rod stared at the gruesome ceremony. There must have been twenty soldiers involved. "And this is why the perimeter is so thinly guarded. Colonel, I am going to report this to General Lehnen."

"Please do, Captain. I have nothing to hide." The Colonel removed his shirt. He turned around, and Rod saw inscribed on his back—still bleeding in spots---the words: "PLEASURED SELF, 2/14/71, 14:53" The Colonel turned back around and smiled. "The procedure is quite refreshing, really. Guilt is never to be doubted, Captain, but I have found a way to keep it under control."

Suddenly, the machine stopped. The bouncing sandwich plates stilled, and three tentacular arms pulled the soldier from inside, and deposited him on the ground. He stood up and felt his back. "Fuck!" the soldier screamed in pain.

The Colonel went rigid. "Private Nguyen!" he yelled at the weary soldier. "What have I said about the use of filthy words among enlisted men?" He turned to the man in the cockpit. "Lieutenant, is there still room on his back?"

"Non bonum est, Colonel," the lieutenant replied.

"Very well. I'll see all of you at Vespers, then. Come, Captain," the Colonel said, and they left the clearing.

Chapter 15:

Rod ran back to camp again. He needed to keep his legs in shape if he wanted to impress the men at the Field Day next week. He had a bad feeling that the VC was going to spoil that idea. A soldier was walking along the side of the trail. Rod walked over next to him.

"Good day for a walk!" he said to the soldier.

"Yea," said the man. The two made eye contact and he realized it was Lieutenant Roberts.

"Oh, it's you." Roberts said, and turned away.

"What's your problem, Roberts? Why do you have such a hard-on for rebellion? I'm here trying to save you sons-of-bitches, not cause you any trouble."

"Ahhh, I've heard that song and dance before. I've got bruises from Sergeant Fred Astaire's tap shoes all my over asshole. Just leave me to my work, and I'll stay out of your way."

"You just stay out of that bottle and we'll be fine. I can't have a good soldier like you into the grape. You're the best tunnel rat in this platoon, when you're sober."

Roberts stopped, hunched over and puked into the jungle's edge. "Caught a bug," he offered as an explanation.

"Watch your step, Roberts, you watch your fucking step." Rod said as he leaned over and kissed the Lieutenant's helmet.

Rod started up his jog again. Soon he was back at base camp. It was getting dark out, and the men had made a fire.

"A fire might not be the best idea: intelligence says the VC might be attacking any day." Rod suggested to the men.

"Cool down Cap, there's nothing but easy feelings out here," a long-haired soldier observed.

Rod took notice of the hairy soldier. He had an unkempt beard, tinted glasses and wore a bandana around his neck. Stuffed in the side of his helmet was the tag of a journalist.

"Why the hell would Army brass send a pencil pushing faggot out here?"

"Whoa there, big bull, I'm just here to tell the world about this peasant army. I'm just telling everybody how great everything is. Name's Jose," he said, extending his hand.

"You ever run track?" Rod asked, shaking the man's hand with visible distaste. Jose choked on the smoke from his joint and laughed.

"Track's funny, is it?" Rod growled.

"No, no man, everything's cool. I just never had the knack for that kinda stuff. I'm more of an observer." Rod was about to cuss the journalist out, when Jose pulled out an acoustic guitar.

"Here's a little tune I wrote on the flight over. I call it Wings of the Oppressor." Over some gentle minor chords, Jose began to sing:

Oh the boys in the helmets

Dodging bullets

Like a deformed ballet

Dodging bullets

My heart holds all of you

My hand grips the dove

And we all dodge bullets

Yes we all dodge bullets

Hey, I've had enough

Let me take that trip

Back home, officer man

Rod nodded in approval and wiped a tear from his eye. The dirty hippy's words rang true. "Well said, long hair," he said, and returned to his tent. He walked through his flap and noticed a dark shape inside.

"Hello Captain…" the shape said.

Rod pulled out his knife and had the stranger on his back, gasping for air.

"Let go of me, you idiot! It's Colonel Chitwood." Rod smelled the man's hair. The mixture of honey and falafel signaled that it was, in fact, the Colonel.

"You're lucky I didn't kill you."

"You're lucky I don't court martial you for attacking a superior."

"You think JAG would look upon you trespassing into my tent as a reasonable action?"

Chitwood straightened his uniform and cleared his throat. "Enough of this nonsense," he said. "Let's move on, Captain. I came here to talk about my plan. I've decided to place our force primarily in the village. Our peasants need around the clock training."

"Are you wearing white gloves?" Rod asked, momentarily distracted by the Colonel's gleaming hand wear.

The Colonel pulled his hands protectively to his chest, and eyed Rod suspiciously. "Not everyone is capable of maintaining the standard of cleanliness that I do. This may be the jungle, but it doesn't mean you have to live like a filthy animal."

"How in God's name are you going to fight a war? Have you ever faced the dirtiness of death on a battlefield? Have you ever held a friend's blasted intestines in your bare hands after they've spilled out of a gut-wound ripped open by shrapnel?"

"I've seen a hollow life Captain. I've seen death row. I've watched Finnish cinema. I may not have stuck my hands into the anus of Ares, but I assure you, I am ready to fight." Chitwood straightened his jacket. "I wish I could say the same for my men," he huffed. "If they'd spend less time playing with their guns, and a little more time studying their Imitation of Christ, we'd be at the gates of Hanoi by now." Chitwood shook his head, and pulled a Virginia Slim from his waistcoat. "Fortunately, my extensive education has given me a limitless reservoir of strategic options. In order to speed up my men's training, I have put scarecrows all along the perimeter, so that my men may attend to their studies. You really should see them, Captain. They look just like little soldiers!"

"Scarecrows? Are you telling me you're going to pull our troops off of their patrol?"

Chitwood smiled. "If I don't, who will patrol their souls? Ole' Nick is always looking for a way in!"

"You prick, I'm going to get Lehnen on the horn and have you removed." Chitwood sprang forward like a wild cheetah and snarled within inches of Rod's face. "You keep the General out of this. I know people in high places, Captain. You would be wise to watch your step. I can make the 'Nam a very unpleasant place for you."

"This is war, Colonel! It's supposed to be unpleasant."

The words hit Chitwood hard. He regained his composure, and stiffened. Avoiding Rod's glare, he walked out to the fire pit.

"Hello boys," he said. Muffled laughter and mumbled curse words drifted through the smoke. Chitwood was momentarily reminded of his own childhood, an uneasy union of used cars and peppermint.

"Could I see that guitar, Hippy?" he asked Jose. Jose handed his guitar back. Chitwood began gently finger picking the guitar and singing the Lord's Prayer. The laughter and curse words became quiet, until Chitwood's song filled the air. Even the insects had stopped their endless chatter. The men, tears gleaming in their eyes, broke into a touching sing-along as Chitwood stirred their souls. Rod admired the Colonel's bravery and passion, but found that he just couldn't forgive him for his foolish and self-righteous behavior.

Chitwood's voice rang loud and high as he brought the song to a close. For a moment, Rod could swear he was listening to one of his Glenn Yarborough records.

"I'm not much for organized religion, but that was mighty nice," Jose said.

"I've written some of my own stuff as well," Chitwood said. He strummed aimlessly for a while, and the men drank in their thoughts around the crackling fire. Then he began to strum a vigorous G chord. The men looked up. "I call this one: There's no cleaner clean than the cleanliness of our Lord."

Rod looked at the Colonel's gloves as they picked the strings. They sure were white. Could it be that the Colonel, however insane, was right? Maybe the men did need religion. He saw the stoned look of mindless glee on Jose's face as he tried to sing along with the Colonel. Could this man fight? Could he kill? Rod spat angrily into the fire. Why did men ever learn to kill? Was there ever a time when death was unknown, and the nights were spent without fear, and life was an uninterrupted song (except for sleep)?

Chitwood's song was finished. Jose clapped vigorously, but stopped in embarrassment, when he saw he was the only one doing so. Chitwood laughed, and rumpled his hair. "You liked that one, Hippy? I'm glad." He turned to face all of the men now. "You know, I've heard some of your 'freak-out' music: The Association, Peter Paul and Mary, The Monkees, even Vanilla Fudge! I know these are crazy times, and sometimes that makes people write crazy music." The smile left Chitwood's face. "But I urge you to harden your ears, and your hearts, to such noise, for it is nothing more than the chatter of Satan's locusts!"

There was silence around the fire.

"Well boys," Chitwood said, convivial again, "The night grows old, and we've a lot of reading to do. To your bunks, all of you! Private Phuc---have the scarecrows been deployed?"

"Ita est," Private Phuc replied.

"Perfect! We have those godless commies on the run! Take heart!"

The Colonel marched triumphantly back to his tent, whistling.

Captain Rod shook his head, and stared into the darkness. The fire was nearly dead.

Chapter 16:

I already have so much shit to do, am I going to cram

every fucking millisecond of my day with multimedia?- Jose Ferreira

Rod spent the next day surveying the land in their territory. He was mentally laying out a grid for their Track and Field tournament. He found some light dirt that would work for the long jumping pit. He found 3 clearings for sprints and a nice little spot for shot-putting near the village.

Rod was getting more comfortable with the land around him. He was becoming confident of his position as well. Private Dooley was waiting in front of his tent when he came back.

"Captain, still no VC active---" Dooley's words were cut short by a bullet ripping through his mouth. The bottom half of his jaw fell off his face and hit the ground in a bloody clump. Dooley tried to scream as he collapsed into Rod's arms. Rod turned Dooley's body toward the enemy, using it as cover, and retreated into his tent. Dooley's eyes spoke of horror, as his soul passed into the great beyond.

"At least he went quickly." Rod thought to himself, as he threw his bed up to form a blockade. He tried to radio his men, but could get no signal. Rod waited a few minutes and cut a hole through the back of his tent. He carefully observed his surroundings, and then leapt into the brush behind his tent. A barrage of bullets trailed his leap. He rolled into the jungle and quickly found cover. Rod threw a stick into the open and watched where the bullets were coming from. He got Charlie in his sights and caressed his trigger.

"I love America." He whispered, and killed the dirty sniper. Rod moved through the forest and found the VC soldier he had killed. He heard movement coming from the North. He quietly pressed on toward the motion. He came across a seventeen man VC platoon carrying crates. Rod threw a knife into one of the crates, causing the enemy soldiers to panic. He then sprayed them with painful American Justice.

Rod carefully made sure there were no survivors in the area. He opened one of the crates with his Leatherman. Inside were bottles of Maison Brillet cognac. This had to be a delivery to the Colonel. That meant the VC had already been to the village. Rod swore and broke into a run. He hoped he wouldn't be too late to save his men.

Chapter 17:

General Lehnen sat in his Saigon office staring at his radio. He hadn't heard back from Captain Addams, and he was getting worried. He stood up and paced the floor of his office. He wanted to call out for Bravo command, but he knew it might seem needy.

"Fuck," he swore, and lighted a cigarette. Lehnen put on his officer's coat and slammed his door behind him.

"Going running?" Linda, his secretary, asked. Lehnen nodded that he was. It had been uncomfortable in the office since he had slept with her a month ago. She obviously wanted more than the one night trip to Nirvana the General had given her. He moved swiftly through the building and hit the street with a quick but simple stride. Wide-eyed locals laughed and pointed as he sprinted down the boulevard. He was known around the city as "Day la Ba" (translated: the running officer). Lehnen was beyond caring what the foreign culture thought of him. His two month tour in Finland had cured him of that. He only worried about what his family and friends thought of him now.

Lehnen thought back to the cold shores of Finland as he ran…..

How badly he had wanted to impress Kai Nikulainen and the other officers at the Forssa dump site. It had been Lehnen's first assignment after graduating from West Point (the military school). His mission was to organize a Finnish chemical dump in an atomic testing facility. Lehnen thought he had done enough research on the work itself and the local culture to be competent. One night, while playing Marjapussi (the national card game of Finland) with Jussi Karpela and Matti Vanhanen, he made the mistake of entering into an argument about Finnish Cinema. Lehnen knew enough to follow along, but was clearly over his head when the discussion led to an analysis of the Finnish Film Foundation and the State's involvement in film-making.

"Mielestäni teillä on söpö presidentti," Jussi said, and spit at Lehnen's feet. Lehnen bowed his head and was silent. His respect had been lost in a feeble attempt to belong. It was that night that he learned the valuable lesson of not letting foreign contracted officers become his litmus test for success.

He still worried about what his extended family thought of him, though. He was afraid they only saw him as a chiseled specimen of Army philosophy. He wanted badly to hold his nephew Donny, but no one seemed willing to give him a chance. Maybe that would all change when he returned home. Surely even young children would love and revere a war hero. "After we win this war, that's when things will start coming together for General Lehnen," he thought to himself.

Lehnen rounded the corner back to his office and glanced at his watch. "Damn!" he yelled. His time was four seconds longer than yesterday. He would add seventeen sit-ups and five suicides to his regimen as a punishment for his retardation of success.

"Looks like you made good time," Linda commented as he strode briskly back into his office.

"Linda," he said, and put both of his sweaty palms face down on her desk. "It just isn't going to happen. I'm not sorry about our night together. Being inside of you was wonderful, but that's all it can ever be: One night of body pumping ecstacy."

"Thank you for being straight with me, General." Linda said, turning her head to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks.

"I have a wife and thirteen children. Having a war-time girlfriend would just be disrespectful," he added. Linda nodded through her weeping. She understood the game.

"It's okay," Lehnen said, and placed a gentle kiss upon her head. Linda's hand slid around the General's neck and soon the two were joined in passion-filled lovemaking. Scott Joplin's "Combination March" played through the static-filled radio that sat on Linda's desk. After the intercourse, Lehnen was impatient and moody.

"Damnit, Linda, I can't have these distractions! That door wasn't even locked!" he said, looking at the door to her office.

"It was just so natural… I'm sorry, General."

Lehnen brushed off his uniform and radioed Captain Addams at Alpha Base X1. Static was the reply from each of the command centers.

"Are you mad at me?" Linda asked from the doorway.

Lehnen threw a paperweight just to the right of her head. It left a dent in the wall. "I'm getting no response from Alpha Base. Call me a helicopter immediately. I'm flying out there NOW!"

Chapter 18:

I can, however, recommend the movie, "Speed 2". It is action packed, has great dialogue,

and for those viewers with a softer side - the film has a nice little love

story. High entertainment at its best – Shannon Roberts

Lehnen put on his metallic steel sunglasses as the helicopter landed near Alpha Base X1. Four soldiers ran out to greet him. He held back a smile. They had not lost the base….yet.

"What in pansy's dick sock is going on out here?" He screamed to the first man that arrived within earshot.

"General. So good to see you, everything's chaotic. We've got radio contact with all 4 bases. Apparently the VC is attacking in small platoons in several different areas."

"How many patrol guards did we have on our perimeters?" Lehnen asked.

"Four," the soldier said, looking down. Lehnen chewed into his tongue and spit blood. He dismissed the soldier with a salute, and ran forward to the center of the base.

"Get me an X-47," Lehnen yelled, as he strapped on his combat gear. He was excited to enter into the action he had been observing from behind a desk for almost a year. He had forgotten how sweet the taste of war felt inside of him. It wasn't the same thrill as tennis shoes pounding the pavement. That would have to wait until he returned home. For now, the sweet volley of battle would have to fill the void.

Most of the men were happy to have the General there. His confidence was contagious. His slightly dirty helmet and chest full of shiny medals made the men feel like they were fighting for something real. As he ran down the dirt path into the jungle, there was a feeling of relief. The men felt like someone was there to take care of them. Little did they know it was more like St. Paul visiting Satan's bedroom with a condom full of matches.

Chapter 19:

As the light of the day disappeared, Rod moved closer to Alpha Base X1. He cautiously waved his hands in front of him, every inch of his body searching for hidden booby traps. His eyes were on a separate mission. They scanned the perimeter for VC soldiers. His body and mind were working together, like a robot build specifically for the purpose of staying alive in a jungle conflict. This robot might be named "J.U.N.G.L.E." or "Vietnano-bot". Rod wasn't concerned with the name of the robot. He just knew that his body was acting like one, or at least his vision of what such a robot might act like.

Rod heard a twig snap two clicks ahead. He rolled behind a tree and looked through his rifle-scope. The fiendish eyes of a VC soldier stared back at him. Rod pulled the trigger and watched blood spurt from the enemy soldier's position. He had little time to savor his kill, as he heard movement to his left. He drew a knife from his thigh pocket and snapped the death-blade toward the sound with a flick of his wrist. It whistled through the steamy jungle, quietly announcing to all present that death would be arriving shortly. Rod heard a cackle and knew he had landed his target. He moved through the brush, still looking very much like the aforementioned robot. He arrived to find the second VC soldier already dead. A bottle of Mainson Brillet cognac lay on the ground next to him.

"Fucking Chitwood!" he said, and smashed the bottle with his boot. He wasn't a detective, but he could feel the Colonel's hands all over this situation. Everyone knew the VC loved good cognac. Rod couldn't help wondering if these VC soldiers had been tipped off to a shipment. It seemed like an extraordinary coincidence for the VC attack to coincide with the arrival of fine cognac. Rod reached over and pulled his knife out of the man's throat.

"POP!" was the sound it made before it returned to his pocket. Rod loved the "pop" that followed a good blade kill.

Rod trailed back to the first soldier he had shot. To his surprise he found it was one of the peasant soldiers, not a VC enemy. Rod cocked his eyebrow.

"Aaaargh!" he screamed, as a bullet tore through his left shoulder. He fell to the ground, and took cover under the dead peasant soldier. A barrage of bullets tore up the body lying on top of him. When the enemy paused to reload, Rod darted forward. He threw his already bloody knife toward the new target. He heard a familiar thump and a gurgle noise. Rod smiled. Even with an injured shoulder, he had not lost his aim. Rod tied a bandana around his bleeding arm and walked to the fresh kill. He had to be cautious; his detective work with the peasant soldier had almost cost him his life.

"A price I am not willing to pay," He whispered to the jungle. Rod stood over the body for a moment. He caught his breath and reached down to pull the blade out.

"POP!"

Chapter 20:

As I'm writing this, and as the testosterone lowers, I realize how fucking stupid the whole thing was. I know I shouldn't have reacted, and it endangered my safety, but at the time I was steaming. Road rage is killing America – Dave Lehnen

General Lehnen encountered resistance near the Dong Ha mini-base. He came across a group of Captain Addams' men.

"Where are the peasant soldiers? Are they fighting back?" he asked the group.

"We are all Privates here, Sir, but we haven't seen the peasants all day," Private Pretney answered.

"Where is Lieutenant Roberts? Isn't this his sector?"

"He's passed out in the latrine. He, ahhhh, must have caught a bug or something." Pretney said, turning red.

"That son-of-a-bitch! I've heard about his drinking! He puked in a tunnel down in Ngoc Linh."

Pretney laughed.

"That's funny Private? Sergeant Coolits, my best friend in 'Nam, died in another man's puke. It's nothing to laugh about, Private."

"Sorry Sir."

"There's no time for sorry now, where the hell is Charlie sitting?" Pretney gave the General his best estimate of the VC position. Lehnen pulled two grenades from his jacket, and jumped out from their position.

"AAAAHH!" he screamed, and ran toward the enemy position. The return fire started immediately. Lehnen dodged the rain of bullets like a ballet master. He stopped behind a tree, and tossed both grenades in one fluent and beautiful movement. Bodies spewed out from the explosion. An enemy limb careened off his helmet. Lehnen wiped the enemy's blood from his face and stood up. He showered the jungle around him with bullets. The screams of the enemy served as his only feedback, and the feedback was very positive.

"That's a fucking General," Pretney said, and followed Lehnen toward the enemy position. Before he reached Lehnen's position, he saw the General collapse. Lehnen grabbed his leg and crumpled to the ground. The other soldiers fell to the dirt and took cover.

"General, are you OK?"

Lehnen nodded that he was. "Poison dart…" he gasped in reply. Using his remaining energy, he stood up and shot a barrage of bullets in the direction of the sniper. A VC soldier fell from a tree top perch. Pretney and the other men moved forward.

"Need to….see….medic, not…much time." Lehnen croaked. Pretney and the other soldiers lifted the General up and carried him as fast as they could back to Alpha Base 2. That camp was where Doc Chooch and his incredibly beautiful Asian nurse had their clinic set up.

"We'll take you to Doc Chooch," Pretney said to the General.

"If you're lucky, you'll get a bath from his nurse: Bohb Yi. She is incredibly beautiful," Private Mullins added."Ahhhh," Lehnen moaned, succumbing to the dark poison of a crudely fashioned enemy dart.

Chapter 21:

Rod trailed into Alpha Base 2. He was relieved to see his men were in charge. The VC had been pushed back in at least two locations.

"Englund!" Rod yelled, as the Private's jeep drove near him.

"Captain Addams?…..Hey, Medic! The Captain is alive over here."

"Ahh, it's nothing. Enemy caught me with my guard down for a moment." Rod groaned.

"Probably thinking about the Track and Field day," Englund suggested.

"Private, I promised you javelin lessons. This Captain always keeps his word. So don't pull that fishing for information shit with me."

Englund's head hung low.

"And keep your head up, you're a good soldier." Rod saw a four man group carrying an injured man from the other side of the base.

"Is that……General Lehnen?" Rod asked.

Pretney nodded that it was.

"What's wrong with him?"

"He took a poison dart to the thigh." Pretney answered. Rod followed the men and the unconscious General into the medical tent. There, Doc Chooch quickly assessed the General's condition. His fingers massaged the area around the pin prick in the General's leg. Doc's head bobbed down like a seal to a fish, and quickly suckled the venom from the leg. Doc spat the clear liquid into the corner.

"Hasn't the poison spread already?" Rod asked.

"Perhaps you would like to play God today?" Chooch asked the Captain.

"I just…" Rod started.

"Just let God be God. You continue killing, and I'll continue saving your sorry asses." Doc grabbed a syringe and injected a blue liquid into the General's arm. Lehnen's eyes flashed open.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"It's okay, General, Doc Chooch has you now," Doc said, cradling the officer's head in his right hand.

"I like to be called Dave," The General said wearily. Doc Chooch looked at Captain Addams and smiled.

"That dart had thiopental sodium in it. Truth serum is what you monkeys call it. I could taste it when I suckled the wound. It should wear off in a day or so."

"We need to move him to isolation," Rod said. "There is too much sensitive information in that man's head. After this current attack, we can't trust anyone."

Chooch listened to Rod's suggestion, and wheeled the General's bed into a room that had a locked gate around it. A nurse came up behind Rod and gently touched his arm. Rod instinctively pulled back and winced.

"Captain, it appears you have injured your arm. Let me dress that wound for you."

"Oh…thank you nurse."

"My name is Bohb Yi."

"You speak very good American."

"I taught myself using only the sun and stars as a guide. Also, my parents used a combination of whole word and phonetic approaches in my childhood." Rod was impressed. Bohb Yi rubbed ointment on his arm and tenderly tightened a tourniquet around his shoulder.

"Perhaps we could talk more over a drink later?" she asked. The other soldiers turned to listen. Bohb Yi had rejected the advances of every soldier in the platoon.

"That's very kind nurse, but I've got a platoon to lead here." Bohb Yi nodded and left the tent.

"Captain!" the men groaned.

"I've had enough tail to last a lifetime, men. Fact is, I can't be fooling around before a big Track and Field event."

"What are you talking about, Cap?" Private Federline asked suspiciously.

"That's right soldiers. The VC aren't going to take away our God given right to run. Next week Thursday, we are having a Track and Field competition!"

The men clapped wildly. Doc Chooch lit a cigarette in the corner of the med-tent and shook his head.

"I ran once," he whispered to himself. Doc limped outside and inhaled the smoke as he waited for a new delivery of carnage. Once upon a time he had been the fastest runner in all of Wabasha County, Minnesota…..

It was a typical Minnesota winter night. The thermometer on the outside wall of the casino had run out of room to go south. Frank Collins thought he heard someone screaming outside.

Frank Collins was the heartbeat of the Hilltop Casino. He ran the snack bar after midnight, he made change for the gamblers, he was the pit-boss, the owner, and the bookie. If someone wanted to lose their money in Wabasha County, Frank was the man to see. On the night of the scream, Frank was sitting in his office going over the books.

"What's that racket?" he yelled from his office. When no one answered, he walked out onto the casino floor. Staff and customers alike were huddled around the front door. Frank waddled his girth toward the front door.

"What the hell is going on out here?" He asked, pushing his way through the crowd. You see a lot of strange things in the casino business. Frank thought he had seen it all. There was the couple having sex on his hot dog machine, the dog that counted cards, the clown with two cocks and the lady robot from Duluth. Nothing could have prepared him for the tiny package that arrived that night.

Mindy Tomlinson, who had been delivering free drinks to the high rollers, held a tiny baby in her arms.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked Frank.

"God damn, that is one beautiful baby, but why is it stinking up the front of my casino?"

"Someone just left it out there…" she explained. Frank's blood pressure rose. He knew the laws of Wabasha County backwards and forwards. A baby left on the front step of a Casino became the legal property of the casino owner. Without even so much as signing a paper he had become this baby's legal Father.

"Of all the damn luck," he grumbled. "OK then, get some warm towels and one set of pajamas from the gift shop. Does it say what the thing's name is?"

"This thing is a little boy, Frank. He only came with the blanket and diaper he's in." Frank moved closer to the tiny child. He looked it over carefully.

"Chooch." He said.

"Chooch?" Mindy asked, "Why Chooch?"

"He just looks like a Chooch. Now everybody get back to work!" Frank went back to his office. It was going to be a long winter. He sat in his chair and smiled. Deep down, he knew this baby would fulfill his dream of being the fastest doctor in all of Minnesota. Life had a different path in mind for the baby. It was a cruel twist of fate that had Frank breaking the leg of his own son years later. Frank loved his son, but he was a difficult man who lived life by the code of the casino. He wouldn't allow his son to be treated any different than another cheater. When he caught young Chooch counting cards at the blackjack table, he took him out back and ended his running career with a quick swing of a pipe to the shin.

"You've only got one of my dreams left, son. Don't break both my hearts."

Chooch wiped a tear from his eye as he thought about Frank, who had been shot in the back a year earlier. He missed the casino. He missed the blinking lights, the ringing slots, and the smoky depression that filled his childhood home.

Chapter 22:

Pride is one of the Seven Deadly Sins, but it is good to keep in

mind that it is subcategorized as an "excess of love" sin (all sins,

according to the catechism, are imbalances of love). As such, this is a

sin that isn't really much of a sin if practiced in moderation (though

there is certainly room here for debate). A moderate dose of pride is

much healthier than a complete lack thereof, which would then be despair

(which, though not one of the seven deadly sins, is the worst sin of

all, as it reflects an extreme lack of love) – Brandon Chitwood

Rod sat at the General's side all through the night.

"Thank you for being here, Captain. I get scared during these long black Vietnam nights."

Rod tried to comment as little as possible, so that the truth serum wouldn't betray any sensitive information the General might have. Rod knew there were things a soldier was not supposed to know.

"I stole Donny Larson's pencil box in second grade, and then I told Mrs. Peterson that Sarah did it. Damn my sinning hands!" he wailed.

"Rest, General, you need to get your strength back."

Lehnen turned over and looked at Addams. "Where is the Colonel?"

Rod said nothing.

"Don't tell me that Chitwood hasn't surfaced yet!"

"I haven't seen him, Sir."

"Damn his good looking ass! I have always wanted to rub the knuckle of my ring finger down his cheek. Maybe I'll do just that after I strip him of his rank."

"I don't think that will be necessary, General." Colonel Chitwood said, as he strode into the caged hospital room.

Rod glared angrily at the Colonel.

"Settle down, soldiers. My base was ambushed. I've been working my way back to take control ever since. Did you really think I had deserted?"

"I thought maybe you drowned in a bottle of cognac…" Rod muttered.

"What was that, Captain?" Chitwood snapped.

"Nothing, Colonel," Rod said in disgust. "But how is it that you are unscathed? I don't see a mark on you," Rod said, hoping the Colonel didn't know about the General's truth serum.

"I have a secret underground bunker. I hid there until the fighting subsided."

"So you hid underground like a scared little baby?" Lehnen asked.

"I wouldn't categorize it quite like that. Most babies aren't in charge of training a peasant army."

"Most babies don't run scared from a challenge either." Rod added.

"What do you know of babies?" Chitwood challenged.

"I just want to hold my nephew," Lehnen mumbled.

"Ah, General Lehnen," Chitwood said. "Perhaps now would be a good time for us to have a chat."

"I'm actually in quite a bit of pain."

"I think you should leave, Colonel." Rod said.

"Now Captain, is it because you're afraid of what the General might have to say?"

"That's exactly right," Rod said, staring intently at the Colonel. "Any good soldier knows he only needs the information he is given."

"I disagree," Chitwood said, a sly grin stealing over his face. "General, what are the army's plans for Captain Rod Addams?"

"Suicide mission," General Lehnen croaked. "The brass said sending him here would be a suicide mission."

"Stop," Rod pleaded.

Chitwood took no notice of him. "And why send the good Captain on this mission?"

"He's expendable," Lehnen moaned. He twisted in his bed, fighting the drug. "He's the least experienced Captain in 'Nam. The newspapers want to see we're committed to this peasant army. Sending a Captain here makes it look like we mean business."

Rod stood up and pushed the Colonel out of the room.

Chitwood glared at him pop-eyed out of his thick glasses. "You're mad at me about this? I didn't send you on this mission."

"You think I didn't know this is a suicide mission? Every fucking step you take on this damn soil is a suicide mission. The General wasn't telling me anything I didn't know."

"You poor blind pig of a man….step aside." Chitwood angled his wiry frame around Rod and ran to the General's side.

"Have you accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as your savior?" Chitwood asked.

"Don't answer him!" Rod yelled, pulling Chitwood back out of the room.

"No!" the General screamed as an answer, tears running down his face. Rod threw the Colonel out of the med-tent and into the dirt. The soldiers outside stood silent as a dust cloud blew up around Chitwood. Rod stood over the fallen Colonel, regarding him as he would a pile of dung.

Chitwood hissed in rage as he wiped the dust off of him. "You will pay for this." He sneered.

"We're all going to pay for your incompetence, Colonel! If your god were real, he'd kick your ass straight back to the ivory towered fantasy land you came from." Rod spat into the dust. Chitwood felt a drop hit his head. "As it is, seeing you here, I can't believe any just god would let this stand." He turned back to the tent. Back to his fallen general.

"It's too bad you'll never see the Heaven I create out of this jungle, Captain," The Colonel yelled to him. "When you die the squalid little death the brass sent you here to achieve, I'll say a little prayer for you."

"Spare yourself the trouble," Rod said, his back turned.

Rod could hear General Lehnen moaning inside the tent.

"Join me," the Colonel whispered. Rod spun around, and saw Chitwood's gloved hand reaching out to him. The glove was stained with mud. "Become a willing slave to The One True Church and we will rule this sorry land together. We can bring the City of God to these savages---we can make this a Paradise on earth! Swear allegiance to me, Rod, and I will initiate you in the glories of The Faith…"

Rod turned back to the tent. "Find yourself another sucker, Colonel. My general needs me."

Chitwood cursed the Captain's heavy steps long after they stepped into the tent.

Chapter 23:

Rod noticed the long-haired hippy journalist Jose inspecting some of the dead soldiers. "You looking for a keepsake?"

"No Captain, I'm checking the bullets in these soldiers. By my count, the peasant army killed exactly one VC soldier."

"Damn the Colonel," Rod thought to himself. He had suspected this might be the case. He was glad he had equipped his men with autographed bullets. How would he relay this information to Army Brass? The implications of such a suggestion could spell court martial for any involved.

"Are you going to write an article about this? If so, I would suggest getting out of this platoon quickly."

"I don't have a death wish." Jose said with a nasally laugh, "I'm gathering all this information for a book I will write when I return home."

"Make sure you get our sprint times in there: we are having a Track and Field competition next Thursday."

"You're going to run with that injured arm?"

"I've run with worse." Rod said and walked toward the new Omega Base C5, where Chitwood was setting up new quarters. He could feel the reporters respect washing over him as he disappeared into the jungle's trail.

Chapter 24:

"Come in, Captain." Chitwood said languidly.

Rod stepped into the Colonel's den, noting the almost Army-like feel of the Colonel's new tent. "A little less elegant," he observed.

"Yes, well, we're in a real battle now, aren't we?" Chitwood said.

"I'm always in a war, Colonel, that's why I stay alive."

"Whatever that means…" Chitwood sipped cognac from an oversized snifter. Rod could smell Maison Brillet seeping from the Colonel's pores. "Captain," Chitwood continued, "we need to find a way to co-exist out here. I can't have you questioning my every move. I won't tolerate your physical disrespect for me in front of the men either."

"I agree."

"Good, let's start with a clean slate. I will add more men to our night patrols. Does this please you?"

"I think that's a great idea, Colonel."

"I would also like you to talk to Army Brass about how our peasant army successfully stopped the VC attack."

Rod laughed.

"I'm quite serious."

Rod clenched his fists. "Do you realize your poorly trained mass of locals managed to kill only one VC soldier?"

"How could you possibly know that?"

"I just talked to someone who inspected the bullets. We were using autographed ammo."

"Who is this someone?"

"I'm not telling you, you'll just have him removed."

Chitwood stood up. "Damn you Captain! I stretch out my hand in peace, and you slap it."

"I'm not going to lie to save your hide. Train those men like you're supposed to, that's my advice!"

"Get out!" Chitwood screamed. His glasses fogged with anger.

"I know about the cognac!" Rod screamed back and ran out of the tent. He heard Chitwood close behind him.

"What have you heard, Addams," Chitwood panted. "You don't know anything! If you're trying to blackmail me…"

Rod stopped, and spun to face the Colonel. "I know what I know. And I don't want to blackmail you. I want to see that Army Brass learns what I've found out, and ships your sorry ass back home. Colonel."

Rod saw that Chitwood was sweating. "Knowledge," Chitwood said, gasping for breath, "is such a slippery thing. What do we really know? The science of epistemology is as ancient as it is hallowed. We hear and sense things all the time. But can we trust those senses? I know, I know…" Chitwood said, furiously waving his hands, "Descartes told us: cogito ergo sum. But he also thought the seat of consciousness was the pituitary gland. Descartes was weak. Do you know he died of exhaustion simply because Queen Christina of Sweden had him rise early to give her lessons? Who could trust such a fragile specimen?"

Rod stared blankly at the Colonel. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Forgive me, Captain. I've never been much of an Aristotelian. Believe me, I know that one needs a logical ground for any inquiry, and the common conception of phenomenal reality must suffice, I suppose, so long as it is grounded by a suitable transcendental signifier---not that I give any credence to those psychoanalytical French structuralist fops that try to pass themselves off as philosophers these days. I'm only asking you to consider the wisdom of the good Bishop Berkeley: perhaps we really know nothing, that all outside phenomena and sense knowledge is but a dream. I know I'm simplifying---you could even accuse me of misinterpreting---but please, please Captain, consider: isn't it just possible that whatever you heard about the highly illegal cognac racket I am involved in might just be a mistake of the senses on your part? Or, even better, that you never really heard it at all? That it was, so to speak, a rift in the fabric of reality, and that it never really happened?"

Flopsweat cascaded down the Colonel's face like the waterfall Rod had once seen outside of Danang. "I'm pretty confident in reality, Hackslaw. I know what I know. That's what my momma told me, and I never had cause to think otherwise."

"But on a noumenal level, Captain, certainly---" The Colonel saw that Rod would not be moved by reason. Chitwood sighed. He saw in his mind's eye the destruction of the Celestial City, even before he had a chance to build it. "I have twenty dollars and a few ounces of marijuana I confiscated from that filthy hippy Jose. They're yours. We'll just keep this thing between ourselves, right?"

"Colonel Chitwood, where I come from, we don't look kindly on bribes."

"Bribes? Who said anything about a bribe? I mean it as a gift! A gift---a bridge to better understanding!" Chitwood cried.

A group of Chitwood's men began to form around them, drawn by the noise. Chitwood looked at them, wild-eyed. "To your prayers, savages!" he screamed at them. "This is a private council between officers!"

Rod laughed dryly. "Seems I'm not so expendable, after all. It's sad if this is the only way for you to learn to respect someone, Colonel. You keep your money, your weed, and your Descartes, too. It's time for Rod Addams to get some shut-eye."

The Colonel was left alone with his men. "Where has honor fled?" he whispered, to no one. Then he fell on his knees and thrust his fists in the damp night air. "DADDY!" he screamed.

Chapter 25:

Back at base camp, Rod sat down with Private Andrews and started setting up the details for their Track and Field tournament.

"You know I almost ran for the Olympic team." Andrews said.

"I heard about that." Rod said, taking a drag on the Private's cigarette.

"I'm hoping to try out again when I return….if I return…."

"Stay positive, kid. Keep your head in the game and you'll make it back."

"What about Smith and Williams? They were the best two soldiers in our platoon. A trip wire took out both of them last month."

"A good soldier doesn't get taken out with a trip wire, Andrews. Smith and Williams were careless."

"I guess you're right. I sure do miss the Track…."

"You and me both, soldier. You got a good coach back at home?"

"The best. Coach Dahlworth would run our team until we thought we were going to break. I came in 3rd at sectionals, and he urinated on me in the shower once. He just punched me in the face and peed on me while I sat on the shower floor crying. I was always in the top 2 after that."

"How does Coach Dahlworth feel about you fighting this war?"

"I was drafted. We talked about dodging, but he said it would forfeit any chance of future Olympic competition."

"Well I hope that's not the only reason you're out here."

"I wouldn't last very long in prison," Andrews said sadly. Rod looked him in the eye with a harsh glare. "Just kidding, Cap." Andrews said, smiling. The two men laughed heartily. Rod leaned over and tussled the Private's hair.

Chapter 26:

The rest of the week was spent establishing new base camps, cleaning up the carnage, and planning the Track and Field day. The soldiers were more inclined toward hard work with the day off to look forward to in the future. Even as they buried the dead, there was an atmosphere of gaiety about the whole platoon. Rod decided to lay off his detective work until after the tournament. He figured the stinking rat that had cost good men their lives wouldn't be going anywhere in the next week.

Finally, Thursday arrived. The Track and Field day was glorious. It was sunny with very little wind. The soldiers ran from sun-up to sun-down. Even with his injured arm, Rod impressed the men. He handily won every race he entered. He probably would have placed second in the 400 meter hurdles if Soily Jackson hadn't been killed the week prior. He had Garrison, the gay soldier, make bamboo trophies for the winners.

As the night approached, Rod heard an engine revving at the end of the javelin field. He squinted, as the sun was setting right in his field of vision.

"Who is out there?"

"How was the javelin flying today?" A familiar voice asked.

Rod's heart sank. In the aftermath of the battle, he had forgotten to train Private Englund.

"'Don't worry,' you said. 'Trust your Captain'….Just like my Dad, you stinking beer-head!" Englund spit the words out through his sobbing.

"Private, I'm so sorry. There's no excuse. I just got carried away with the planning. Look, let me make it up to you. Next time…."

"Save it." He interrupted, and peeled out in a fog of spraying dirt and mud. The good feelings created by the Track and Field day were now erased. How could he have forgotten about his own soldier?

Chapter 27:

I just saw two construction workers here at work climbing up the stairs and

the second one was holding a caulk gun and making a motion of shoving it up

the other guy's ass – Shannon Roberts

Rod spent the night after the tournament reviewing his situation. It had reached the point where he had to take action. After much soul searching, he came to a decision. He would call together the most trusted men in the platoon. It all came down to what was important. His men were important, and he had to let them know what was happening.

They met by the Red River Delta. The men assembled were confused, wondering why they were meeting without Colonel Chitwood present.

"Look," Rod began, "I trust you men with my life. I gathered us here tonight because I am concerned about how our Colonel is running this operation." The group mumbled in agreement. "I would like us to speak openly tonight. Nothing you say here will be held against you. I simply want to protect our platoon. I'm going to open the floor to anyone who wants to speak about how we can better prepare ourselves for another attack."

Salinger stood up and addressed the group. "We could kill the Colonel," he said, to raucous laughter.

"C'mon men, we only have limited time here. Lets get serious."

"What if we set up our own patrols, and kept a radio channel open for contact only between us?" Salinger suggested.

"Who is us?" Reynolds asked.

"I'm glad you asked that, Reynolds. That is the real reason I asked you all here."

"You mean, you didn't want to hear our ideas?" Smith asked.

"No, I did. I mean, I do. It's just that there is something else I want to ask of you."

"Why didn't you just ask us at the beginning?"

"Yea," Harrison added. "I've got some ideas about inspecting incoming shipments. When are we going to exchange these ideas?"

"Okay, okay, we will get back to the ideas in a minute. I just want to see if you guys are interested in forming a brotherhood."

"Sounds gay," Johnson said.

"Well, if pooling our resources and intelligence to better our odds of survival is gay, then whip your dick out of those fatigues and I'll give you a four star suck."

The room fell silent. Johnson rolled his eyes and laughed.

"I'm just fucking with you, Cap. A brotherhood sounds real cool."

"Good," Rod said, relieved. "I thought we could call ourselves: The Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan. It's that enchantingly beautiful sovereign orchid that grows on the trunks of the very tall trees behind the latrine in Alpha Base C7."

"Kind of like us, Captain: beautiful flowers, stuck in a shit-hole." The men laughed at Johnson, but they felt the sadness beneath his statement.

"Garrison has designed patches for our uniforms. If anyone asks, just say they are trophy patches from the Track and Field tournament," Rod said.

A familiar sobbing figure burst through from the jungle. It was Private Englund. "I guess I won't be needing a patch, then!" he screamed, and ran back into the jungle.

"Wasn't that the jeep guy?" Garrison asked.

"Yes," Rod answered. "I'll deal with him later."

"What if he goes to the Colonel?"

"He won't. He'll be waiting for me back at my tent. I know the Private. Look, let's focus on the Brotherhood for now. Private James has agreed to give us tattoos on our upper fore-arms."

"Awesome!" the men cried in unison.

"Before we move on to discussing ideas for the Brotherhood, I would like to seal this arrangement with our blood. Take your knives out, and cut your fingers now." The men did as instructed.

"Place your finger on the finger of the man next to you. I will now read a poem from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow." Rod cleared his throat, and announced: "The Builders……"

All are architects of Fate,
Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;
Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials filled;
Our to-days and yesterdays
Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;
Leave no yawning gaps between;
Think not, because no man sees,
Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,
Builders wrought with greatest care
Each minute and unseen part;
For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,
Both the unseen and the seen;
Make the house, where Gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time,
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base;
And ascending and secure
Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain
To those turrets, where the eye
Sees the world as one vast plain,
And one boundless reach of sky.

The men exchanged their bloody fingers, as Rod quietly but confidently finished the poem. The rest of the evening was spent exchanging ideas on how to best deal with the Colonel. Mostly, the men complained. Rod listened patiently, much like Coach had done with him…..long before he had disappointed his mentor with visions of war.

After the meeting, Rod went back to his tent. Private Englund was sitting on his bunk.

"Private?" he asked.

"Just leave me alone."

"You're in my tent. How much did you hear tonight?"

"I heard everything. You're starting a Brotherhood, and you're going to usurp the Colonel's power."

"Do you want to join our Brotherhood? We can always use a good man."

"Just like you needed a good javelin thrower for your stupid Field day?"

"I said I was sorry."

"A hundred sorrys wouldn't replace the black spot you've left in my soul."

"I'll only ask one more time, Private…Do you want to join our Brotherhood?"

"No!" Englund answered defiantly.

"I'm sorry then." Rod moved forward in a blur. Seconds later, the Private's left hand was chopped off. Rod flew backward, his bloody knife hanging at his side. The Private's eyes were crazed. He looked in disbelief at his handless stump.

"You try to betray the Brotherhood again, and I'll take your nuts." Rod growled. Englund fell over, unconscious. Rod radioed Doc Chooch, and left without an explanation.

Chapter 28:

Rod stopped to see Private Englund in the hospital. The beautiful and tender Nurse Bohb Yi was tending to his wound.

"Everything OK, Private?"

"Fine." Englund answered through clenched teeth. Satisfied that all was in order, Rod decided to run to G-Belt Base 4, where the soldier's mail was delivered. Lieutenant Roberts had rigged together a generator at the base. This allowed the men to have an actual cold beer. Rod sat down next to Roberts, who was waiting with several other men for the mail call.

"What do you say we make the peace?" Rod asked. Roberts acknowledged the Captain with a sneer. He took a sip from his flask, and turned his back to Captain Addams.

"I told you to take it easy with the booze, Lieutenant. You might be on tunnel duty any day now."

Roberts stood up, and walked away from the Captain without giving an answer. McPherson passed Roberts on his way out, and sat down next to Rod. "Don't take it personally, Captain. That guy hates anyone above his rank."

"So I've heard. What the hell is his problem?"

"I heard he was part of an escort patrol for Jane Fonda when she visited last year."

"Good God."

"It was Roberts and two Privates. On the way to Saigon, they encountered some resistance. Their truck got turned over, and the Privates were killed. Someone told me that Roberts overheard one of the dying Privates trying to radio for reinforcement. Roberts claims that Army brass said they couldn't do anything---that it wasn't worth the risk to send in soldiers. He had to spend 11 days in the jungle with Fonda."

"Jesus H. Christ"

"Fucking right, Captain. He came out of that jungle a changed man. Life just seemed to mean less to him, and he's never trusted an officer since."

"There's always a story behind the man, McPherson. What's yours?"

"Oh, nothing unusual about me. I was running the mile at Kansas State, when my draft number got called. I thought the war would put some muscle on me, maybe make me a better runner. Look at these bones, Captain. I'm just wasting away out here."

"What was your best time?"

"Around 5 minutes."

"Where were you on Field day?"

"I just couldn't do it. I think if I tried running now, it would break my heart. I haven't been able to tell Coach Sutter either, he thinks I'm over here running every day…..like I'll be ready to go the minute I get back. I don't know if there will be anything to run from anymore."

"You've got to be straight with your Coach---that's the one person in the world you don't want to lie to."

"I know." McPherson answered.

"I sure miss old Momma America. I miss having sex three or five times a day. I just can't bring myself to sleep with a woman, with all this war out here."

"I guess I'm okay with the hookers."

"Ah. To each their own, I guess. Still, nothing beats sex with an American woman! Can we drink to that?"

"Amen, Captain," McPherson said, touching his beer can against Rod's.

"Mail Call!" an officer yelled. Rod pretended not to be desperately hoping for a letter from Coach. One by one the platoon received their mail.

"Captain Addams!" the postmaster yelled. Rod shot up and grabbed the letter. His joy turned to sorrow when he saw the return address read: "Gary Addams". It was from his brother Gary. Rod threw the letter into the smoldering fire pit, and jogged back to his tent.

Chapter 29:

Rod was summoned to the Colonel's tent the next morning. Chitwood was playing an album of opera music.

"What is this shit?" Rod asked.

"Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. I find his interpretation of Das Lied von Der Erde most compelling."

"Do you hate Jews also?" Rod asked.

Chitwood shook his head in annoyance. "It would be nice if I could, but Catholic doctrine forces me to love the Christ-killers." Chitwood sighed. "While I would love to discuss opera and anti-Semitism with you, there are other, more pressing matters at hand."

Rod folded his arms.

"How is the General doing?" Chitwood asked.

"I haven't had a chance to get over there."

"I see. We can only hope he will make a full recovery. Still, it was damn foolish of him to come running into battle like a 7 year-old with a hard-on for Marilyn Monroe."

"He was only here because of your incompetence," Rod growled.

Chitwood peered craftily at Rod. "Do you think bonding the men together against me will help?"

"What are you talking about?" Rod asked. He told himself to stay calm. The survival of the Brotherhood was at stake.

Chitwood's eyes flared. "Don't play stupid with me, Captain. I see your secret handshakes, your patches, your tattoos and pricked fingers. I know when there is a Brotherhood being formed!"

Rod offered Chitwood a hollow laugh. "I think you need a vacation, Colonel. You've got it all wrong! I've simply turned the men on to a Christian rock band called Hoa Lan."

Chitwood arched an eyebrow. "You're no Christian."

"How would you know?" Rod grumbled. "That's really not the point anyway. I just happen to enjoy Rock n' Roll that has theological content."

Rod could tell that Chitwood was intrigued, but the Colonel's suspicion remained. "I've got my eye on you, Captain," he said. "You know it could mean a court martial for you if you are trying to usurp my command."

"Yes, Sir," Rod said, and saluted crisply.

Chitwood tapped his fingers. Rod knew the Colonel well enough to see that he was becoming lost in thought. "I would like to hear this Hoa Lan. I love Christian music, as you well know. I've often wondered if there would be a way to mix it with this 'Rock n' Roll.' Could it be possible?"

Rod coughed. "I'll try to get my hands on that recording I heard. Someone in the platoon must have it," Rod lied.

"Please do," The Colonel said eagerly. "The youngsters can't get enough of this Rock and Roll, you know. It drives them wild. I've read stories in the paper: why, they've killed people over it, it brings out such fervor in them! Imagine this rock n' roll, given the structural unity and complexity, of…of opera! Of course, it would require suitable dramatic content…something stirring, like the Oberammergau Passion Play, and….Sweet Jesus, it would change the world! Can you imagine the untrammeled fury of youth, marching to a good Christian opera, rattling with the frenzied rhythms of Rock and Roll? Such an army would be unstoppable! This war would be won within a week, and the cross would be raised high over the rubble of Hanoi!" Chitwood's face bubbled with an ecstasy enjoyed only by the truly mad.

"That would be something," Rod said.

"And don't think that you would not share in the spoils of that blessed day, Captain! As lord of a united Vietnam, I will raise up those who have aided me in this mighty crusade. How would you like to be my man-at-arms, Captain Addams?" Chitwood shook his head furiously, dismissing the thought. "Forgive me, Captain, I would not insult you with such a post. Once secure in my Holy City, I would spread my frothing, rabid hippy army into all the neighboring heathen lands: Cambodia, Laos, even that drowsy, opiated giant, China herself! Yes," he said, nodding his head, "I shall make you viceroy over the good Christian Kingdom of China, Captain, and you would answer only to me."

"I'll see if I can't find that record, Sir."

"Yes, yes, Captain." Chitwood pulled out a bottle of cognac. "Would you join me in a little refreshment, Captain Addams? We'll raise a toast to this Hao Lan!"

Rod could drink to that.

Chapter 30:

Sometimes mistakes lead to greatness – Dave Lehnen

Rod stopped by Jose's tent to see if the hippy journalist had found out any more information about the VC attack and the stolen cognac shipment. He entered the tent without warning, and caught the hippy jerking off into a little patch of bear fur. He was naked, save for a bowtie and a monocle.

"Aaach!" Jose yelled, obviously in the throes of a full release. Rod turned without speaking, and left the tent.

"Captain, wait!" Jose called.

"I don't want to know what the hell I just saw."

"Don't be ashamed, Captain, I'm not."

"Was that bear fur?"

"Yup," Jose said, munching on a carrot as he towel-bathed his body.

"I just came to see if you had found any more information about the attack. I also wanted to talk to you about a stolen cognac shipment." Rod told Jose about the VC soldiers he had found with the cognac.

"I've got some leads, Captain. I'm going back to Saigon next week. Hopefully, I can catch up with your platoon in a month or so. I should be able to give you some answers at that point."

"Let's just pretend I didn't see anything in here, okay, Jose?"

"Your call, but Johnson's run in on me before. Look how well he took it," Jose said, pointing to the locker of his tent-mate. Rod saw a patch of what looked like raccoon fur under the man's bed.

"You men have been in the wild for too long."

Chapter 31:

Rod put together a list of the ideas from the Brotherhood meeting, and went to see Colonel Chitwood the following morning.

"Back so soon?" Chitwood asked offhandedly, his eyes buried in the latest Orchid Fancier's Quarterly.

Rod plopped his list on Chitwood's desk. "I've got a lot of good ideas here, Colonel. Will you give me a chance to go over them with you?"

"Very well, let's hear them." Chitwood smiled.

"Okay," Rod said, pulling out his notes. Rod spent the next half hour going over the exhaustive list of improvements and suggestions. Some of the highlights of this list included:

Latrine clean-up should be divided equally. It seems like the men with barracks near the latrine end up having to clean it more than others.

More feedback on performance. Private Collins and Underham have been in the jungle for over 3 months and no one has told them how they are doing.

Officers need to stop talking down to soldiers during battle.

Most of the soldiers would be interested in doing a Secret Santa gift exchange during the Holiday season.

Would it be possible to have some treats available in the mess hall. Sugar often times signals the brain that a meal is over. This might combat some of the hungry soldiers we see walking around.

More men are needed on the night patrols.

Many of our incoming men are requesting more training on rifle care. Officers are just taking it for granted that our men know how to properly care for their firearm.

The men would like a recycling bin for all the aluminum beer cans we are going through. Let's not punish Mother Nature for this war.

It would be nice to post a big message board in a central location. Perhaps by the big fire-pit in Alpha Base X7 or in the mess hall. This way we could communicate what is going on better. Sometimes information is being lost when the patrol shifts change. This would be an easy way to let everyone know what is going on. Last week Johnson blew off his right foot on a booby trap near the Srepok river landing. Collins and Dickey had flagged the trap earlier in the day. It must have blown away or something, but if this information had been posted maybe Johnson could have saved his foot.

There needs to be a better way of communicating what the soldiers in the field need. One idea might be to use pink colored paper to alert patrol chiefs. These could be mimeographed ahead of time, with various boxes to check. For instance, many times our soldiers need fresh socks. This pink alert sheet could travel back to base with a runner, and then everyone would know exactly what the soldiers need.

The men were hoping we could meet at least one morning a week to talk about strategy. Some of the men are feeling left out of our defense packages. They have input from the field that no one else can offer.

We are needing someone to take ownership of the mess hall. Chef Clancy can't be expected to clean the whole place up every night. This unclean situation is starting to effect the overall physical health of some of our men.

A reward system for men who stay awake during their patrols would be nice. Just simple things like a piece of chocolate or a morning off from duty. Sometimes the "thank you" gets lost in the haze of warfare.

"That's great, Captain. I can tell you and the men really put a lot of time into that," Chitwood said pleasantly. "I wish we were going to be here long enough to try some of those ideas. Unfortunately, orders have just come down from Army Brass for us to move. Because of our overwhelming success at squelching this latest VC attack, we have been assigned to a seek n' destroy mission on the coast of Cay Chuc." Chitwood motioned to a native standing nearby, who was holding a bowl of peanuts.

Rod was furious. "You son-of-a-bitch. You didn't tell them that your pathetic peasant army did nothing?"

"That is NOT TRUE!" Chitwood screamed.

"TRUE!" Rod yelled back.

Chitwood snatched his Rosary and fingered the beads. "Either way, Captain, we are all moving on next week. You have been assigned to continue as the military advisor."

"This won't stand."

"You better believe it will stand. And what's more, I intend to have your ass sent to the front line. It's time you start accepting your position in this man's army, and take your orders like a good soldier."

"It's hard to soar with eagles when you're flying with turkeys," Rod said quietly.

"We will meet tomorrow to discuss the details of this mission." Chitwood said. "By the way, Captain Addams, did you ever locate that Hoa Lan record?"

Rod had to think fast. "You mean the Don Ho record? I think Private Niggle gave it to one of the village whores, Sir."

"Don Ho? Hmmm….I thought we were talking about some rhythm and blues band with Christian overtones. I don't even like Don Ho!"

"Well, you could have fucking fooled me the other night. You wouldn't shut up about him." Rod prayed that the Colonel's increasing dependence on his contraband cognac would fog his memory.

Chitwood sat in thought, visibly disturbed. "Strange…well, as it is with Heraclitus's river, so it is with consciousness: never the same twice!" he said, and dismissed the Captain with a wave of his hand.

Rod gave a lazy salute and walked out. "That numbnuts is going to get us all killed," he muttered to himself. He shot his machine gun into the air in anger. He went into Barluk's tent. Barluk was the Texas rifleman whose tent was next to the Colonel's. He was also a member of the Brotherhood. He told Barluk to start spreading the word about a Hoa Lan meeting for that night.

Chapter 32:

The only brand of cigarettes I smoke is one coming from the guy bumming me the lung rocket – Jose Ferreira

The men met in an abandoned farmhouse by the Bon Tre Ma River. There was tension in the air, as the men wondered why they were meeting again so soon. Some of the more seasoned soldiers, like Galtsy and Paynter, knew that a new mission was on the way. They had been in the shit for soo long, it coated their minds like paste on a four-year-old's finger. There was no gently pulling this paste off. In that sense, it was way worse than paste on a child's thumb.

Rod stood in front of the men and held up his hand. He began the meeting by reading "A Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

The men were silent throughout his reading. Even that Bastard Carlisle was quiet, and he never stopped talking.

"I'm sure you're all wondering why we are here. So I'll get right to it. I spoke with Colonel Chitwood today. I'm afraid it looks like were going to be shipped out on a seek n' destroy mission off near the coast of Cay Chuc."

The men barked loudly in anger. Rod threw up his hand, and they came back to order. Suddenly, the door to the barn burst open. Lieutenant Roberts stumbled into the hall. He was clearly drunk, and the crotch of his fatigues was bleeding.

"So this is the fucking Brotherhood? A bunch of scared boys listening to their older brother tell them how to fuck Mary Jane ice cream pants?"

"Actually we're planning how to save some lives," Rod said calmly. "Maybe your drunk ass wouldn't know anything about that. How did you do during that last battle, Roberts?" Rod asked.

Roberts turned red and sat down.

"Lieutenant, your men didn't ask you to join this Brotherhood. What does that say to you? I think this platoon has given up on you."

"Fuck you, dishrag."

"You're not even making sense. Go home and sober up. When you are done, come back and apologize. You, of all people should be here. There's going to be a whole lot of tunneling where we are headed."

"What are you talking about?" Roberts asked, sobering up quickly.

"I'm talking about our new orders. You're going to be training that God damn peasant army how to tunnel. I can barely sleep, worrying about how you're going to fuck it up."

"I….I'll train 'em, I…" Roberts fell over before he could finish his thought. Whether he passed out from alcohol or loss of blood, no-one knew. Mayes and Fleischer carried him to Doc Chooch. The rest of the men brainstormed with Rod on how they would get this peasant army ready to fight, without the Colonel realizing they were doing it.

"We are going to train these guys, and then the Colonel will get all the credit!" Iverson said.

"I've thought about that, Iverson," Rod said. "I guess at the end of the day, all we can do is save lives. I'm doing my best to let Army brass know what's going on down here. But we all know it's a long road to justice."

The men nodded.

"OK," Rod went on, "the first thing we need to do is get some information on Cay Chuc. Private Rau, can you get us some street intelligence on your next trip into Saigon. Anything we can find out about this place will help."

Rau said that he would do his best.

"Sir, some of us are pretty sure that the Colonel is crooked. If he's not crooked, then someone in that peasant army is. Those VC soldiers attacked us exactly when our guard shifted." Rau added.

"I know, Private. I'm working on it. The best thing you can do for now is keep quiet. Don't trust anyone, unless they have the mark of the Hoa Lan."

Rau drummed a quick beat on his chest and sat down. Some of the men called him "drums" because of his constant finger drumming. Rau promised the men he would show them what he could do with a real drum set when they returned home. Sadly, he would lose both his arms in a jeep accident a few months later. He would wind up drinking the blood from his arm stumps to stay alive. War can be a cruel woman, and Private Rau got slapped in the face…the face of life.

The meeting wrapped up and Rod decided to forego sleep in favor of starting his investigation into Colonel Chitwood and the shipment of Maison Brillet cognac.

Chapter 33:

Rod smeared ox feces on his face and dirtied his fatigues. He snuck into the peasant village while night hung around him. Once Rod was in the village, he wasn't sure what to do. He hadn't really thought about a plan for his detective work, other than to sneak into the village. Rod leaned against one of the huts and yawned. It was incredibly boring to sit out in the Vietnam night. He began taking tiny rocks out of the soil and tossing them toward a hole in the ground a few feet away. He called the game "Rod-Hole," and it became his passion over the next 3 hours. A rock that actually went into the hole would be worth 3 points. A rock within 2 inches of the lip of the hole would be worth 1 point. A game would involve 10 tosses. Rod actually scored 17 points during one game. While tossing a rock, Rod heard movement from the hut behind him. He put his index finger on the trigger and prepared to conduct his first interview.

"Nuoc Suoi?" a peasant villager asked from the darkness.

"Colonel Rod Addams," he said, pointing his gun at the man's head.

"Ay ay ay," the man said holding his hands up, "I am Nong Duch Manh, why are you out here?"

"You speak American?"

"Yes, I learned through my Father's ham radio."

"I'm impressed, Nong. No use beating around the bush out here. I'm looking for a rat."

Nong smiled without understanding.

"I'm trying to figure out who was behind the VC attack." Rod explained.

"Ahh," Nong said. He picked up a pebble and nonchalantly tossed it directly into the "Rod-Hole". "I would suggest you look to your own men," Nong advised.

"Why didn't you little fuckers fight back?" Rod asked.

"Easy, American friend. Sometimes the larger truth is hidden within the spirit of the eagle's flight."

"You speak awful good American for learning on a ham radio," Rod accused.

Nong's face betrayed the truth. He had not learned the world's second greatest language from a ham radio.

"You fucked up, amigo. All that eagle talk has sprung your red flag. You've been working with Sergeant GreyEagle."

Nong's face again betrayed the truth. He had been working with Sergeant GreyEagle.

"I knew it. That damn American Indian soldier is crooked. If GreyEagle is dirty, than the whole 53rd platoon could be dirty, and…." Rod didn't want to say it aloud.

"Keep your nose out of business that doesn't concern you." Nong warned.

"You little prick," Rod said, and pushed the man over. "I ought to kill you right now."

"But your America rules prevent you from executing such a heinous act….don't they Captain?"

In a split second, Rod drew his Bowie knife and cut Nong's head off.

"Damn it," he whispered to himself. Rod knew he had done something wrong. He had just shut off the valve to his only information source. He would have to question GreyEagle now, and he knew that was going to be creepy.

Sunlight began to creep around the edges of the jungle as Rod tossed Nong into a nearby swamp. Rod leaned against a tree, exhausted. What was he going to do? He loved the Native American culture, but GreyEagle had clearly crossed a line. Rod knew how to kill an enemy soldier, but nothing had prepared him for the problems that Vietnam was bringing. He would act with swift justice in the only manner he knew. He would kill GreyEagle in his sleep, post his body on a pole, and write a message of warning to the entire 53rd platoon to stop the dirty cognac black market trading. A calm rushed over Rod, as his direction was now mapped out.

Chapter 34:

I respect Jon's intelligence, but I love his power – Bobbie

Rod slept in late the next morning. GreyEagle's corpse was no longer on the pole when he woke. Still, he would never know for sure if his hardball tactics with GreyEagle had been successful. He did notice a new level of professionalism from the whole platoon. He also detected a new level of respect from Colonel Chitwood, who had probably figured out that Rod was somehow responsible for the killing.

General Lehnen was up and walking around again. The past week was a blur, but he felt quite a bit better. He went down to the mess hall to have a few drinks with the men. Inside, there was a soldier with his helmet on, laying face down on the bar.

"Hello Soldier," Lehnen said.

"Aargh," the soldier replied.

"C'mon son, it can't be that bad."

Lieutenant Roberts lifted his head up and saw the four bars across the General's shirt. He heaved a stream of vomit onto the General's lap.

"Good gravy!" Lehnen yelled. He pushed the vomit off his pants, and pistol-whipped Roberts against the skull. Roberts fell to the floor. Urine soaked through the pants of his uniform as he lay unconscious.

"Someone get this man out of here." Lehnen yelled.

Roberts' bunk-mate Glomski ran in and pulled him arms-first out of the bar. Glomski had become adept at pulling the Lieutenant out of many situations. In return, Roberts made sure that Glomski got the easiest assignments around the base.

Lehnen stopped by Rod's tent on the way to the heli-pad.

"I can't say I'll miss this place. Just talked to HQ---sorry to hear about your new assignment. I'll do what I can to get you outta here."

"Appreciate that, General," Rod said.

"What's with this Lieutenant Roberts character?"

"You've heard about him?"

"He coughed his lunch into my lap at the bar. Where do these soldiers get corn from, anyway?"

Rod smiled. "The man's a menace. He's drunk 24 hours a day. Is there any way we can get him shipped to a different company?"

"I'll see what I can do, Rod. Roberts has been around for awhile. A man like that has a reputation. Probably why he got promoted out to this assignment in the first place."

"Damn this system!" Rod yelled.

"I've heard rumblings about the peasant army. Has it been confirmed that they didn't fire any weapons in the melee?"

"Unofficially. I have to say I thought the Colonel was behind some dirty dealings, but it turned out to be Sergeant GreyEagle."

"The GreyEagle who got skewered on the pole? You didn't….."

"I don't know anything about that." Rod said, and winked.

"You dirty dog. Good work, Captain." Lehnen said with a salute.

Chapter 35:

Every day is crazy rock and roll sock day for me – Brandon Chitwood

It was one week later, and Rod was sitting in the cockpit of a Huey. He put his helmet under his nuts to protect them from enemy fire below. Rod had studied the maps of Cay Chuc. They were going to be dropped into the middle of an uninhabited jungle. From there they would attempt to breach VC tunnels that criss-crossed the region. If they could sabotage the tunnel system, then they could effectively attack the VC base on the shores of Hai Phong. Hai Phong was where the VC was relentlessly pounding American ships with mortar fire.

Rod's plan was to divide the Brotherhood into three groups. Each would be responsible for helping a platoon of peasant soldiers. The Brotherhood would have to act with stealth, though he knew Chitwood would frown upon any covert training. He was also worried about Lieutenant Roberts. The man was a damn fine tunneler, but the bottle had made him a liability.

Rod and the men in his helicopter were set down on a make-shift heli-pad in Qui Nhon. They barely had enough firepower to hold off a minor attack. Rod started the men digging trenches and setting traps immediately. Rod pulled his pants down and pooped into the freshly dug trench that Lieutenant Roberts had been digging. The men were amazed at the quickness of his defecation.

"What are you doing?" Roberts asked.

"I'm filling these trenches with crap. Put on some gloves and rub your shit on these wooden spikes. It's just another precaution. We're going to keep Charlie out of here!" Other men began pulling their pants down and crapping. Roberts ignored the Captain, and continued digging around the poop in his trench.

"That's an order Lieutenant," Rod growled.

Roberts continued digging.

"Lieutenant Roberts! Turn your God damned head around and acknowledge your superior, or this rifle is going to tear you a new asshole!" Rod barked. Roberts dropped his shovel, and turned lazily toward the Captain.

"Pull your pants down!" Rod yelled.

Roberts turned beet red, as other soldiers began to take notice. Rod stepped forward and rammed the butt of his rifle into Roberts' side. Roberts screamed, and grabbed the offended area.

"Pants down!" Rod screamed again.

"Please, Captain," Roberts pleaded.

"The time for begging has passed. You will drop your pants now, or I will break one of your ribs on the next swing."

Roberts pulled his pants down slowly, his eyes welling with tears.

"Underpants also," Rod instructed.

"Captain…" he moaned.

"UNDERPANTS!" Rod yelled.

Roberts was now standing half naked in his trench.

"You will now squat and defecate."

"Captain, I can't."

"Jose doesn't seem to have any trouble, and he's a God damn journalist," Rod observed.

Jose smiled and waved from his defecation hole. Roberts squatted, and made a face that looked like he was trying.

"Maybe all that alcohol has stopped up your shit-hole?" Rod cajoled.

"Captain, please, I haven't eaten anything for a day. There's just nothing in me to poop."

"This whole platoon is just as hungry as you, and yet they found a way to defecate for their country," Rod said. "Are you so fucking important that you can't take one tiny little shit for Lady Liberty?"

"I'm trying, Captain."

"Maybe you need some help?"

"No, no, no," Roberts groaned. Rod jumped into Roberts' hole and began pressing on the Lieutenant's stomach.

"Captain, this isn't working."

"Shit, Lieutenant!" he commanded. A tiny explosion of diarrhea followed the Captain's orders. Rod pushed off, and left Roberts lying in a crying hump of tears and feces.

"You boys see what the bottle can do to you? Who here wants to end up a broken down clown that can't even shit one solid brick for freedom? Roberts! Clean yourself up and meet me in my tent in an hour."

"Yes, sir," he mumbled.

"I went again!" Jose yelled from across the clearing.

Chapter 36:

I have a wool sweater that is basically made from woven guitar licks – Shannon Roberts

Before meeting with Roberts, Rod decided to hike up to a nearby hill, where he could survey his new surroundings. The trek proved fruitful, as Rod spied a VC camp about 3 clicks away to the North. He observed their troops for about an hour, taking detailed notes on all he saw. It didn't look good. Their intelligence had grossly underestimated the strength of this force. They were well armed, and appeared to have twice the number of men predicted. The most shocking development came just as Rod was about to put down his binoculars. From a burgundy striped tent emerged a robed figure. At first he thought it was a VC general, but the giant hexagonal medallion hanging from the man's neck suggested something much more sinister.

"Wizards," Rod whispered. In his combat training at West Point, Rod had been prepped for every possible situation. Almost every possible situation. It was his cousin Kenny who had given him his only taste of knowledge in the realm of the black arts. When he had learned that Rod was going away for a tour in 'Nam, he had called out of the blue and demanded that they meet in person. They had never been close, but Rod had once defended Kenny from a bully at a family reunion. It looked as though the circle of life was turning Rod's way now.

Rod had always found Kenny to be a strange man. Since childhood he had worn the same Easter tie year round. It had pictures of eggs on it. Some of the eggs were cracked, some were whole, one had a tiny chicken poking its head out. On the bottom of the tie it read "I've been a good egg." Adults found the tie adorable, but as Kenny grew older it became more suspicious.

The night before they were scheduled to meet Rod tried to figure out what his cousin could possibly want. He made a mental list of all the information he could remember about Kenny:

He loved to make paper airplanes. As a child he could quickly form and crease an excellent flying machine in under one minute. Rod remembered that he could also build a plane that could do fucking awesome "loop de-loops".

Kenny was motivated by candy. He was constantly being given "treats" by his parents (as an adult he would often order a "Treatzza Pizza" from Dairy Queen just for himself.)

Kenny had many little "ticks" that made him lovable. He would often say "Your welcome" after someone sneezed. He had a low gurgly laugh that people called "gurgly". He would often roll two twenty-sided dice to make decisions. He celebrated Halloween twice a year. He had trouble swallowing soup, and often times coughed it up onto his lap. He could hear the wind whistle through his ears. His right foot was curved inward….his Mother told him it was because he took a steaming hot potato out of a boiling pot when he was a toddler. He would shoot people dead with a pretend gun (his index finger). He never honked his horn. He was unfailingly supportive of Jerry Van Dyke.

Kenny's favorite song was "Two little kids" by Peaches and Herb.

His favorite type of Tabasco sauce was Habanero. He never put it on his eggs. He drip some on a bowl of ice cream once.

Kenny never ate eggs.

In high school he covered his algebra textbook with an Einstein book cover. It was never the conversation-starter that he had hoped for.

His father had hit him in the face with a mountain dulcimer when he was 7. He caught his Mother in bed with a banjo when he was 11. His brother Jerry left home and joined an erotic bluegrass band when he was 12.

He could recite most of Vaughn Meader's album "The First Family" from memory.

He was generous with his hair.

Rod couldn't remember much more, Kenny was an enigma. They met the next morning in a coffee shop, and they talked in hushed tones. Kenny made it clear that the information he was giving Rod was top secret. Many lives had been sacrificed in the journey of the warning. Kenny explained to Rod that our world was one of good and evil, but that darker elements from another plain of existence could seep in. It all sounded pretty far-fetched to Rod, but Coach had always told him to keep an open mind, so he listened.

"Vietnam is one of the windows that these dark forces use to enter our world," Kenny said, leaning in. His hair dangled over his eyes as he talked.

"Vietnam?"

"It's a spiritual place, just like Cleveland used to be. Before our government shut down that portal."

"This is too much information, Kenny. Even if these portals exist, what does it have to do with me? And what exactly comes through these portals?"

"Bah Humbug! Those are two complicated questions, Rod. Let me start by explaining that as a Captain, you might become privy to some top-secret information. I will totally understand if you can't talk to me about it when you come back. That's why I'm telling you all of this. You are going to be responsible for yourself and a platoon of men. The army teaches a lot of strategy and preparation, but almost nothing about necromancy and demonology. I'm going to give you a little bit of information that could save lives, if you happen to run into any of this."

"OK, I'm listening."

"Bah humbug! You wanted to know what's coming through these portals? It's usually harmless: a negative spirit energy, perhaps, or a ghost with unfinished business. They can't really hurt anyone. But in these power centers, like Vietnam, you sometimes have some powerful creatures that are escaping into our world." As Kenny spoke he coughed his soup onto his shirt.

"Is the VC helping these creatures?"

"That's right. They are. That's why the U.S. will never win a war in that country. When we shut down our portal in Cleveland, we turned our back on both good and evil forces. There is no way they will let America get control of Vietnam."

"I don't know, Kenny…"

"It's OK, you can doubt me, just take this information. Bah humbug! Hopefully, you will never have to worry about actually using it." Kenny proceeded to show Rod a series of books and pictures concerning the demons present in Vietnam. By the time they were finished, the coffee shop was closing. Four bowls of half-eaten soup lay on the counter in front of Kenny.

"Thanks, Kenny. I can't say I totally believe in all of this, but I appreciate you putting it all together for me."

"You're a good man, Rod, just get back here in one piece. Remember, you can't win this war---just keep yourself alive."

"And avoid that Cyclops creature with the diamond wings that you showed me!" Rod added.

"If you see a Cycloscorian, you run like hell." The two men bumped fists and left. Rod would never see Kenny alive again.

Chapter 37:

Rod lay back in the grass and looked up at the sky. The medallion on that VC officer was clearly the marking of a level 17 wizard. There was no way Rod could tell the Brotherhood about this. They would run him out of town. This was going to have to be a solo mission.

Rod returned to base, and did his best to accurately describe his findings. He got on the radio to Lehnen, as well.

"There's something fishy about these VC patrols, General. They're much more prepared than our intelligence reported. I'm going to sneak into their camp tonight and find out a little bit more."

"Captain, that's a job for one of your scouts. We need you alive out there. Your men need you."

"I'm expendable," was Rod's only reply. He pretended that the connection was lost. He and the General both knew he would go on the scout mission. Only Lehnen's total respect for Rod prevented him from acting on the Captain's infraction.

Rod slipped out of camp that night. He gingerly moved through the jungle. He found three swing traps on the way to the base. He marked his trail with urine. The men would have a clear path to the enemy, if needed. The jungle was black and silent as Rod moved into the enemy camp. The jungle was never this quiet---Rod knew something peculiar was going on.

Rod was nervous. His mind couldn't handle the possibility of his Cousin Kenny's world existing. He was a trained killing machine, a leader of men, not an Edgar Rice Burroughs character. Rod wiped sweat from his brow and concentrated on what his cousin had told him so many months ago. He quietly slipped his bowie knife from its sheath and cut his finger. He let a drop of blood fall to the ground, and watched it closely. The blood turned bright yellow and began smoking itself out of existence. Rod's heart stopped for a beat. It was exactly like Kenny had described. A wizard was definitely nearby.

Chapter 38:

General Lehnen was on his radio all night trying to make contact with Captain Addams. His call was finally answered, but not by Rod.

"Hello, General. You do know the proper chain of command involves you speaking to me prior to ringing the Captain?"

"Chitwood…." Lehnen snarled.

"Colonel Chitwood", he corrected. "It appears your beloved Captain has gone AWOL. Even Tiny and Luke haven't seen him."

"Then I would suggest you start looking," Lehnen growled. "He's the best soldier you've got. Your only chance at completing this mission is with that man."

"It seems to me that the Army has decided I'm the best soldier we've got. Perhaps you know of a better way to evaluate soldiers than by their actual rank?"

"Listen, Hackslaw. There's only one way I rank my soldiers: I rank the living ones above the ground kissers. So save your cute talk for someone else. I don't know whose cock your daddy sucked to get you this outfit, but I'll bet a nickel to four it was uncircumcised. You've never fought so much as a one-armed girl. You're a pencil pushing Christ lover. If this was my mission, you'd be handing out towels or keeping stats in the bleachers."

"Truth serum hasn't worn off, has it?" Chitwood said.

"Truth serum is nothing to be afraid of if you're not hiding anything."

"Do you not hide the tears that come unbidden on those dew-draped evenings when the loneliness is so thick, you can feel it crushing your chest? Do you willingly display the heartache you feel when you hear the sparrow's song, knowing it is but a discordant note in the monstrous symphony of Chronos? Surely you do not let your soul prance about naked for all to see! Is there really nothing for you to hide, for you to nurse in the marble halls of your deepest self? It must be an empty life for you. Do you remember our talk of faith?"

"Sure I do. It's nothing I'm ashamed of," Lehnen said.

"And that is what you hide. Your shame," Chitwood said triumphantly.

"If giving the best part of your life to the army to defend the lesser races from the specter of international Communism is something to be ashamed of, then I must have just missed that day of school, Silverspoon."

"And yet I hear the anguish in your soul through this radio as clearly as angels weeping. Is your pride so dear to you that you would spurn the gifts of Christ to make eternal bedfellows with your sin?"

"Sweet spoiled pemmican! I've had just about enough of this God-talk!"

"But remember what you said, General!"

"All my answer meant was this: I don't know. What I do know is that you had better find your Captain quickly or I will be down there again on a personal mission. By the way, what the hell are you doing in Captain Addams' tent?"

"When a soldier goes AWOL, I have a duty to investigate."

"You have a duty to keep your unit together!" Lehnen screamed. "You listen to me, Doonesbury: A good officer keeps his unit as tight as a Lebanese hooker. When I see my Colonels getting their Buster Browns in a bundle cleaning up messes that should never have happened in the first place, I see us on the fast track to losing this war. A group of fighting men is a fellowship, a brotherhood. But you have your nose so far up God's ass, I guess you don't see that. Well, you better start seeing it, and you'd better find Captain Addams, or I'll have you pulled out of here so fast, the folks at home will think this country has the clap!"

"Sir, yes Sir!" Chitwood blurted.

The radio went silent. He had never heard the General so angry before. "Damn that Addams!" Chitwood yelled. The Colonel lit a Virginia Slim to calm his frayed nerves.

"'It is a good thing war is so terrible, or we should grow too fond of it'---Robert E. Lee," Chitwood said to one of the natives, who stood by his desk, holding a PA system.

If the native registered his comment, he did not show it.

"Give me that thing!" Chitwood yelled, wresting the PA system from the native's hands. "Now hear this!" he said, trying to make his voice sound as much like Gregory Peck as possible, "Every able-bodied soldier is to search the thicket for Captain Rod Addams." He could hear the echo of his voice booming through the compound. "Look under every leaf and in every fox-hole. Needless to say, kill every VC you encounter, but your first priority is to find Captain Addams! That is all."

Chapter 39:

Rod wasn't confident in his ability to take down the wizard. He hadn't had enough time to absorb all of Kenny's information. Truth be told, he hadn't really believed in any of it anyway. Now he was paying the price. His head was swimming with broken information. It all added up to a shit-storm. The most he could remember about the wizards was that they could travel between both worlds with the power of their medallion. He was convinced that if he could wrestle the medallion away he could overpower the wizard. Rod stretched his body and prepared for attack. Whatever happened, he owed his men an effort. He couldn't believe that his cousin Kenny had been right. He had been fighting an un-winnable war. The forces of dark and light had already decided their fate. He wondered if Johnson or McNamara knew as much. He had to believe in his heart that they didn't. He couldn't fight for a country that would send its men to be killed by wizards and warlocks in a pre-determined battle. Unless they really thought they could win.

Rod shook off his doubts and moved forward. He gripped his blade tightly, remembering that automatic weapons would have no effect on the wizard. It would take a weapon from the old ages to overcome this sorcerer of Asian dark arts.

With the stealth of a ninja, Rod opened the bamboo door to the wizard's hut. He knew its lack of defense spelled trouble. Almost immediately, his body was engulfed in white light.

"Chau Anh, Addams?" the medallion wearing wizard said in a low tone.

"I don't speak that."

"Very good, Captain. You wouldn't want to know much about your enemy."

"I don't see the point in learning your language. I will study your battle, your movements, when you eat and when you shit, but I could care less what you think about my hair."

"HaHa, Captain. Your world view is typically American. How has your foolish western bluster served you today? You are trapped in the white light of a level 17 wizard."

Rod tried desperately to move his body. The wizard was right. He was a helpless captive for the first time in his life.

"Soon you will know true agony," The wizard warned.

"I'm not afraid of pain."

"Typical American, when you hear the word agony, you think of physical pain. That is how a spoiled fat child of America thinks. When I think of agony I think of watching my wife, Odenia, roasting in fire of the Chantificians dragon breath. When I think of agony I remember the people of the Nonwilten Valley. Kind Benball wranglers who made giant rugs for the Kings and Queens of Saileria. One winter the King of Three Horn felt his rug was slightly smaller than that of the Festus of Gallan. Guess who paid with their life's blood? I shall never forget the horror that was carved on their faces as the Kings crux beast flew over their village and doused them with its flesh eating urine."

"How did you survive?"

"That is a different story of agony, in some ways more painful than their death. I appealed to the wizard riding the crux beast. I offered him information about the village's gold deposit in return for my life. Later the wizard took me in and raised me to be his successor. The man who killed my village, my family, became my Father."

"You come from a different world wizard, but there is one thing that still unites all breathing creatures."

"Let this be your last proclamation before I turn your soul against you, before you march back to your army base as a minion of the dark. Soon I, Hernbleu of Talikai, will fill your soul with total darkness. So, what is it that unites us?"

"Strength!" Rod yelled, and broke through the blinding light. Hernbleu was caught off-guard. In all his years of wizardry no one had ever broken free from the curse of the Blinding Albanyeh. His instincts told him to use the portal. His lips began to speak the words of immortal travel. His fingers began rubbing the medallion. Rod jumped on top of him as he spoke the final words.

Rod felt the world implode. His consciousness became a pinprick. Sound rushed through his ears, a wave of sadness washed over his skin, and then the real physical pain began, as he fell back onto hard ground.

It was daytime, and Rod was in a forest. This was not the Vietnam Jungle. Rod jumped to his feet and saw Hernbleu running into the forest to his left. He immediately began pursuit. His chase was cut short by a rope trap.

"Damn!" he screamed, as the rope coiled around his leg and hoisted him to the top of a tree.

"Look wat we git here…a pirty old man. Thankee kindly, spirit o the forest. Me thinks King Tsorres will be most please to see where the likes of yeh came. Are yeh in league with that nasty wizard as well?"

"Let me down from here, and I'll gladly repay you."

"Her Ha! Yeh will hev pleanty o time for deal making in the King's dungeon." The strange man hit Rod over the head with a club. Rod would never have a chance to learn more about his captor. Life moves quickly in an enchanted forest.

Chapter 40:

Rod awoke inside a dungeon. His head pounded as he tried to survey his surroundings.

"Upset the King?" asked a bearded man, who was shackled to the north wall.

"Where am I?" Rod asked.

"You're in the Kingdom of Pythlymuixn. You're dressed awful strange for these parts---where do you hail from?"

"You'd never believe me if I told you. It's a far away land."

"What did you do to end up here?"

"I was just walking in the Forest and some strange man caught me in a leg trap."

"That would be Whipley Cornbeard. He patrols the Snake Forest and gets ten Dallions for every trespasser he can bring in."

"How did you get yourself chained to that wall?" Rod asked.

"I was hoping you would ask. There's nothing to do but talk down here. I haven't had a cell-mate in quite some time. Would it please you to hear the story of One-eyed Bill?"

"Like you said, we've only got time."

"It was twenty years ago that I first met One-eyed Bill."

"You've been hanging from that wall for twenty years?"

"I'll answer your questions at the end of the story, but yes, it's been roughly twenty years since these arms have been below my head."

"I wouldn't think anyone could survive that long."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, it just seems incredible that your body can keep functioning."

"They take me down for bathing."

"But you said you hadn't put your arms down for twenty years…"

"I meant figuratively."

"Is this One-eyed Bill story a metaphor? Or did it really happen?"

"Don't try to dazzle me with your fancy foreign words. You know what? Just forget it. I'll save the story of One-eyed Bill for the next lucky bastard who drops at my feet."

"Oh c'mon, don't be a baby."

"A baby? I'm just trying to help you pass the time down here."

"Then get on with it, tell the damn story."

"No, I don't even want to tell it now."

"I'm not going to beg."

"Fine."

"I don't even know your name, how can we be having an argument already?" The hanging man offered no reply.

"Well my name is Rod. When you stop being a big newborn baby I would love to hear your One-eyed Bill story."

"You should be so lucky." He muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's probably the best story in the whole world."

"Then tell it."

"May Strugen's blade boil! I will not!"

"You're nuts." Rod said, laying down.

"There's a dragon in the story."

Rod stood up and walked to the bars of their cell. "Guard!" he yelled.

"Good luck with that, idiot. There aren't any guards down here…" The hanging man was cut off by a guard standing at the bars. "Damn you all to hell!" he screamed, and closed his eyes. Rod put his ring and index finger together. He shoved the fingers forward just under the hanging man's ribcage. He felt his hand push through the skin and blood. He moved his hand upward and pulled the man's heart out. He worked with such precision and speed that the man had no time to scream.

"The King wants to see you now," the guard commanded.

Chapter 41:

"Welcome to Pythlymuixn," the King said from atop his golden throne. He held a jewel encrusted scepter in one hand while his other rested on his lap. Rod was amazed by the size of the chamber. It appeared to be about ten thousand square feet of gold plated wall and flooring.

"You have a beautiful palace," he remarked.

"Enough small talk," the King said brusquely. "Tell me how you came to be in the Snake Forest. Where do your strange garments come from?"

"I followed a wizard from my world into yours. That's why my clothing looks so strange."

"Ahhh," the King replied. He chewed a piece of meat off a giant shank and gulped wine loudly from a silver goblet. He wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand and belched. He looked at Rod for a moment, and cried, "I don't believe you. GUARD!" He shouted.

A man in chain mail entered the room with a giant spear.

"Kill this man and throw him into the Tamflock pit," the King decreed.

Before Rod could protest, the spear came flying at him. It drove through his heart with the precision of a German auto engineer. He felt the conscious world slip away. Death's icy skeletal fingers closed around his soul.

He woke up gasping for breath. His whole body hurt. His extremities were numb. He was lying on a dirt floor. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed an odd looking woman sitting over him.

"Where….what…?" he gasped. Her bony finger touched his lips.

"Ssshh," she said. "I am Esmer, the Witch of the Valley of Gold." The woman was hideous to look at. Her eyeballs were milky white. It looked like they might ripple if one were to touch them. Her fingers were covered with jewelry. The room smelt of butterscotch and burnt polaroids.

"Who are you?" Rod asked.

"It's a lot to think about, young man. Do you remember your death?" Esmer moved closer as she spoke. Her teeth moved back and forth as she spoke. They reminded Rod of Viking oarsmen. Rod had to concentrate to answer her question. Did he remember his death? He had been talking to the King. His face indicated that he did in fact remember his death.

"I thought you would. Was it a spear to the heart?"

"Yes."

"You were dead for about a day when the palace guard dumped you in the Tamflock pit. You're lucky I got to you so early. I think you will find you are mostly the same."

"What are you talking about?"

"I raised you from the dead."

"No…."

"Yes! Search your heart and you will find the truth. What was your name?"

"Rod Addams."

"Rod, your name died with your body. A raised soul must begin life anew. From this day forward you shall be called…..RUFGEAR!"

Even though he could barely comprehend the words being spoken, he felt the name settle upon him.

"I am Rufgear." He thought to himself.

"Rufgear, I have brought you back from the other side for a reason. The prophecy of Bliyak spoke of a strangely dressed man being thrown into the Tamflock pit. We believe you are the Drifting Slayer. The promise of Fall shall return to Pythlymuixn!"

"No, I…I must return to Vietnam."

"I will grant you some time to recover, soldier, but believe me when I tell you that you are the chosen one. You shall lead the Grontines of Flup, the Aryuhit, even the Bgip giants shall follow your sword."

"You are mistaken."

"Do not test me, mortal. There is much you need to learn."

"I need to get back to Vietnam and help my men."

"That world is as dead as you once were. How much of your past life do you remember?"

"Coach," was all he could muster.

"Ah yes, you spoke often of this man during your re-birth."

Rod tried to stand up.

"Not yet, Rufgear. In a few days time you will be completely healed. I think you will be pleasantly surprised with some of your new abilities."

"What do you mean?"

"Your strength will be tripled, perhaps more. Most people who undergo the transformation---the rebirth---find they are no longer scared of death as well."

"And what price have I paid for these gifts?"

"That's an excellent question. You see, your mind is healing better than expected! As I said earlier….you were dead for over a day, so there was a little deterioration."

"I thought you said I would be stronger."

"Yes, but I'm speaking about your mind."

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry, Rufgear. I don't know if you were a smart man in your other life. More than likely, you will have lost quite a bit of cognition in this process. Also, your temporal lobe may be a little off."

"How so?"

"You may find it more difficult to control your emotions---specifically, anger."

Rod thought for a moment. He did feel different. He could sense his blood boiling under his skin, he was ready to explode in anger. What damnable world had he entered? What kind of land existed where the rules of life and death held no sway? These thoughts were now out of his reach, and he knew only one response. Anger.

"Aaargh!" he screamed, grabbing the Witches head.

"No Rufgear!" she cackled. "No!"

He was beyond the point of reason. He was about to squeeze the Witch's head, when she spoke her last words.

"The prophecy says you will kill the agent of resurrection, Praise high Bliyak!" she yelled, as her head exploded between his fists like a giant grape. He wiped the blood and chunks of skull onto the dirt floor. Whatever knowledge or help the Witch possessed were gone now. Rufgear found a door out of the hut and walked into the harsh sunlight outside. It was blinding, and he held his hand over his eyes.

Prostrated on the ground before him were thousands of soldiers.

"Praise Bliyak, Hail Rufgear!" the crowd began to chant. Rufgear's new brain couldn't dissect the situation. His first reaction was to run. He ran into the forest behind him. He ran faster than any human being had ever run. He lost this new army quickly, but he was also lost himself. Rufgear stopped. He wasn't even a little winded as he looked at the strange forest around him. He had run at least eleven miles by his calculations.

Rufgear sat down and tried to think through his situation. The only course of action he could come up with was to find the wizard. He had no idea where he was, but he had a feeling that the path would be paved with blood.

Chapter 42:

Rufgear was drinking from an enchanted stream when he noticed a strange creature standing next to him. It was a cat-sized beast that had the body of a giant rat and the head of a trout.

"Glorp Glorp," the creature said.

"What kind of beast are you?"

"Glorp Glorp!" it said, pointing at the stream.

"You can drink too, go ahead," Rufgear said. The creature seemed to understand as it knelt down and cupped some water into its mouth.

"GLORP!" it exclaimed with much satisfaction. The creature, which Rufgear had decided to call Glorp, had a tiny leather satchel around its neck. Glorp reached into the satchel and produced a tiny pink cupcake. He offered it to Rufgear.

"No thanks."

"Glorp," Glorp said sadly, putting the cupcake back. Rufgear began walking away, having spied a trail that led into the dense forestation on the opposite side of the river.

"Glorp?" Glorp asked.

"Can you take me to the wizard Hernbleu?"

"Glorp!" it said, nodding. The unusual pair wandered into the forest together. The trees grew thicker with every step. Soon the daylight was blocked out entirely. Glorp moved easily through the trail, but Rufgear eventually had to crawl to make it through the path. After many hours, they came to a clearing with a tent in the middle.

"Glorp!" Glorp said, pointing to the tent.

"Hernbleu?" Rufgear asked.

"Glorp."

"Thank you, Glorp. Your kindness will not be forgotten." Glorp reached into his satchel, and offered the pink cupcake a second time.

"No, I'm really not hungry."

"Glorp," he said, and put the cupcake back. Glorp laid down on the grass and went to sleep.

Rufgear approached the tent cautiously. He had no weapons with him, so he would have to use the element of surprise. Rufgear silently ran into the tent. There was someone inside, apparently sleeping in. He jumped on the figure laying in the corner. He immediately knew something was wrong when his body fell into a deliciously soft mass of fur. He jumped backward.

"ROAR!" the beast cried. Rufgear ran back out of tent.

"WAIT!" came a booming voice from inside the tent. Against instinct, Rufgear stopped.

"WHO HAS DISTURBED MY SLUMBER?" the voice from the tent asked.

"I thought you were the wizard Hernbleu. My name is Rufgear."

"RUFGEAR? ARE YOU THE WARRIOR FROM THE PROPHECY? THE SOLDIER WHO HAS JOURNEYED TO THE FAR SHORES OF DEATH AND RETURNED TO BRING FALL BACK TO PYTHLYMUIXN?"

"I have been raised from the dead by the Witch of the Valley of Gold, but I am looking for the wizard Hernbleu. It is my mission to kill him and return to my native land."

"FOOL, THERE IS NO LAND FOR YOU TO RETURN TO. YOU MUST BRING FALL BACK TO THIS LAND. WHAT MAN SPITS IN THE EYE OF THE FOUR SEASONS? WHAT MAN IS SO PROUD THAT HE LICKS THE FEET OF ALMIGHTY YIBLLON AND THEN RETURNS WITH NOTHING TO LOVE? IT IS YOUR DUTY TO REPAY THE LAND WHICH BROUGHT YOU BACK. ONLY THEN WILL THERE BE A JOURNEY BACK TO VIETNAM."

"You know this place?"

"HAHAHA, I KNOW ALL PLACES AND TIMES." The flap of the giant tent opened and a huge lion walked forward. Rufgear fell to his knees. The mere sight of the magnificent beast made him weep.

"You are so large and Christ-like," Rufgear said, trembling.

"YES, MY NAME IS ASLAN." The lion roared while putting its giant paw on Rufgear's head.

"I am not worthy of your paw, oh great lion God."

"SOON ENOUGH YOU WILL EARN THE RIGHT TO STAND BESIDE ME IN THE HALLS OF TRIASLINON. IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO BECOME THE GREAT WARRIOR OF THE PEOPLE OF PYTHLYMUIXN!"

"I accept my role," Rufgear said.

"HERE IS THE SWORD OF ONE-EYED BILL. IF YOU ARE TRULY THE CHOSEN ONE, IT WILL NOT BURN THROUGH YOUR HANDS." Aslan roared, and a muscular man emerged from the tent with a giant sword.

"I have journeyed many moons to bring you the sword of One-eyed Bill. My name is Tatanka," the man said.

"Are you from this land? You dress like my old friend GreyEagle."

"TATANKA IS A GREAT FRIEND FROM THE PLAINS OF A FARAWAY LAND. LET ME TELL YOU HIS STORY…..TATANKA IS A FIERCE WARRIOR WHOSE CHAMPIONSHIP BELT COUNT IS FIVE. WRESTLING FANS AROUND THE WORLD HAVE SHOWN THEIR APPRECIATION BY VOTING HIM AS A RUNNER UP FOR PRO WRESTLING ILLUSTRATED'S MOST IMPROVED WRESTLER OF THE YEAR. BORN IN PEMBROKE, HOME OF THE LUMBEE NATIVE AMERICAN TRIBE, TATANKA GOT HIS START IN WRESTLING AT THE MONSTER FACTORY IN NEW JERSEY. THERE HE LEARNED THE SECRETS OF THE TRADE FROM LARRY SHARPE. IN HIS FIRST MATCH EVER HE DEFEATED JOE THUNDERSTORM. IN THE BEGINNING HE WENT BY THE NAME "THE WAR EAGLE" BUT LATER TOOK ON THE NAME "TATANKA". FOR 5 YEARS HE THRILLED FANS WITH HIS EXCITING WAR DANCE, THE LUMBEE TRIBAL WAR CRY, THE FALL-AWAY SLAM KNOWN AS "PAPOOSE TO GO" AND THE TOMAHAWK CHOP OFF THE TOP ROPE MOVE. THROUGH IT ALL TATANKA NEVER TOOK THE FOCUS OFF GIVING HIS FANS, HIS NATIVE AMERICAN BLOOD BROTHERS AND SISTERS AND HIMSELF 100 IN THE SQUARED CIRCLE OF BATTLE. OF COURSE, MANY OF THESE BATTLES OCCURRED IN A FARAWAY LAND, SOME IN THE FUTURE. I GIVE YOU…TATANKA."

The Native American warrior danced forward with the sword of One-eyed Bill. It was an inappropriate dance that made both Aslan and Rufgear feel uncomfortable. Tatanka wore giant gloves that allowed him to handle the magical sword. He placed the mystical weapon at Rufgear's feet.

"NOW WE SHALL SEE IF THE PROPHECY SPEAKS TRUTH!" Aslan roared. Rufgear picked up the sword. He immediately felt it starting to burn his hands.

"Aaaahh!" he screamed, throwing the sword forward. It landed squarely on Aslan's fur, and sizzled through the Lion's mane and through his neck.

"ROAR!" Aslan roared in pain. His head rolled forward and came to a stop at Rufgear's feet.

"WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?" He roared. It would be the last words of the great lion. Rufgear and Tatanka stood silent. Both waited for Aslan to heal himself or something.

"I think you killed him," Tatanka commented.

"I guess I might not be the chosen one."

"How the hell am I supposed to get home now?" Tatanka asked.

Rufgear didn't wait to answer. He sprinted back in the forest.

"Glorp!" Glorp yelled, following behind him.

"Wait!" Tatanka yelled, following Glorp.

Sadly, neither were fast enough to catch Rufgear. Tatanka would spend a lonely lifetime trapped in the strange world known as Pythlymuixn. He would find work in the Wuialk mines of Ianfs. It was depressing work, and the fumes were deadly. Glorp's story is still waiting to be written. His journey into the Eyeball of Flam inspired Triak of Gibbly to write an epic poem. Colquip the Mad made an awesome woodcut of Glorp running through the poppy hiythiniez of the Dripnought Forest. Nothing further has been heard of Glorp, though many await his return.

Rufgear ran with abandon. His face was bloodied, as tree limbs and enchanted plants slapped his quickly moving body. He had no plan, he was simply running. His loss of cognition made it hard for him to think about what to do. He didn't know where he was going or how he would ever get home. He was simply moving forward. An idiot's breeze on the neck of a long forgotten world.

While jumping over a dead tree, Rufgear was nearly hit by a thunderbolt. The bolt shot past him and disappeared over the horizon.

"Aargh!" a man screamed from behind him. Rufgear turned to see the wizard Hernbleu standing in the forest with smoking fingers.

"You!" Rufgear yelled.

"How dare you follow me into this world! You have brought my house great shame!" The wizard snarled.

"How dare you bring your magic into my world!" Rufgear yelled back.

"I was leaving your world. Had you simply left my hut alone, all would have ended as it was written. We only helped the VC get started. It is not in our way to interfere with the affairs of man. But you had to follow me! The circle of wizards is meeting as we speak."

"Okay."

"You have no idea the rain of torment they shall set upon your people. The VC will grow stronger! They will defeat your Army, and that will only be the beginning!"

Rufgear was trying to keep the wizard talking as he struggled to remember Kenny's advice on killing a wizard. Hernbleu finished his threats, and Rufgear remembered what he had to do. He picked up a rock and threw it at the wizard's head. Before Hernbleu could react, the stone slammed into his skull. He fell to the ground and lay motionless. Rufgear walked over and put his arm around the wizards neck. Hernbleu's white beard tickled his arm as he prepared to strangle the enchanter. Strangulation was the only known way to effectively kill a wizard.

Rufgear felt the wizard's life force leaving. A chill went through his body as Hernbleu's frame went limp.

"I killed you," Rufgear whispered in the magician's ear. He yanked the medallion from Hernbleu's neck and rubbed it slowly. A circle of light appeared and Rufgear jumped back into Vietnam.

Chapter 43:

A group of VC soldiers were standing around Rufgear. He had jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

"Day la ba ngoai!" the tallest of the enemy soldiers yelled, pointing a gun at Rufgear's head.

"Magic!" Rufgear yelled, and held the medallion up for all the soldiers to see. The VC soldiers stepped backward. They were familiar with the necklace.

"Friend," Rufgear said and held his hand out. The VC commander cautiously took hold of his hand, the fool. Rufgear pulled the man into his side and disarmed him. He put his own gun up to the man's temple.

"Everybody back!" he yelled, the language barrier not affecting his intent. Rufgear moved to the perimeter of the camp. The VC soldier in his death grip yelled something to his fellow soldiers. Rufgear knocked him unconscious, and ran into the jungle. The enemy soldiers immediately followed. Rufgear's newfound strength allowed him to easily outrun the platoon. He found himself back at base-camp in a matter of minutes. Slovell and Rainer eyed him with disbelief.

"We thought you were dead!" Slowell said.

"From now on…" Rufgear started. He stopped mid-sentence and fired a barrage of bullets into the tree line. Screams echoed out from the shaking leaves. Four VC soldiers ran wildly toward Rufgear. He threw two blades into their respective necks. The other two he killed in hand-to-hand combat. Rufgear jumped two feet to the left as sniper fire shot at him from the tree tops. Rufgear popped a grenade into the jungle as he danced around to avoid the oncoming bullets. The explosion from his grenade toppled a series of trees, and the sniper fire ceased. Rufgear cleared his throat and finished his thought: "From now on…call me Rufgear."

The men exchanged puzzled glances. Was he kidding? What kind of a name is Rufgear?

"Sir?" Slowell asked.

"Rufgear," he repeated and walked away.

Chapter 44:

There are a lot of angel cocks in America, We just have to find the right cock for the job – Shannon Roberts

Rufgear walked directly into Chitwood's office. The time for hesitation was over.

"We need back-up, Colonel. You need to ask for more soldiers out here. I would suggest you attack the VC position tonight." Rufgear stared at the Colonel calmly. Whatever the response, Rufgear was ready.

"Is that so, Captain Addams?" Chitwood asked. "I could have used your resolve while you were out playing hooky. Believe me, Addams, I don't take kindly to---"

"Rufgear, call me Rufgear."

There was a tone in Rufgear's voice that disturbed the Colonel. It sounded as if a natural counterpoint, an internal harmonic, had been added to the Captain's vocal chords. A feeble: "What?" was all the response he could muster.

"It's Rufgear, Colonel. From now on I would like to be addressed as Rufgear."

"Have you contracted malaria? What the hell is wrong with you?"

"I changed out in that jungle, Colonel. There are things that happened to me that you would never be able to understand."

"Where were you? You were gone for almost a whole day."

"It's nothing you could ever imagine. And it's none of your concern. Just call me Rufgear, and let's get this war won."

Chitwood was becoming very nervous. He had to maintain control, he had to master his bladder, which screamed in fear. What would Charleton Heston do, he said to himself. When he found his courage, he spoke. "There's a term of art in the Army Handbook you would do well to acquaint yourself with, Captain Addams. It's called the 'CHAIN OF COMMAND.' Those three words mean many things, but the gist of it is this: your ass belongs to ME. That means you don't go a.w.o.l. without telling me first. That means you don't come marching into my sanctum sanctorum like some Fifth Avenue cockslinger, and think you can tell me what's what. It means you start showing me some goddamn RESPECT." The Colonel gulped. He hoped Rufgear couldn't sense his fear.

In answer, Rufgear whipped out a two foot machete, and stabbed the Colonel's desk with a mighty THWANG! Chitwood stared at the wobbling machete, buried three inches into his desk, in horror.

Rufgear pointed at the knife. "That marks the border of my patience, Colonel. Now, I'll tell you one last time. The name's Rufgear. And it's time to fight."

The Colonel's bladder emptied. "Very good…..Rufgear….I will look into advancing our position."

"I'm warning you, if you don't act soon the VC are going to be on top of us."

"Thank you, Captain….I mean, Rufgear. That will be all."

Rufgear spat and adjusted his crotch. "Let's hope so," he said.

After Rufgear left, Colonel Chitwood played a soothing Farrante and Teischer record. Their version of the theme to "A Summer Place" always brought him comfort. Now, however, he couldn't help brooding. The man who had confronted him today was not Captain Addams, of that he was sure. But who was this 'Rufgear'? Was he man, or demon? It felt like Chitwood's world had been completely turned around. Would Vietnam ever be the same?

Chapter 45:

Rufgear sat around the fire with his men that night. Everyone could sense that the Captain had changed.

"What happened out there?" Serens asked.

Rufgear lit a cigar from the end of a burning stick. He sucked in the smoke with great pleasure before he answered.

"It's a different war out there. You boys are lucky. There's a battle within this battle you couldn't possibly begin to understand."

"Try explaining it to us," Lieutenant Roberts snarled, taking a long gulp from his flask.

"Maybe Captain Addams could've explained it, but I'm Rufgear now."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Roberts asked, swaying as he tried to stand up.

"It means no more fucking shit, Roberts." Rufgear pinned the Lieutenant to the ground, his head inches from the fire.

"Either you dry up and start showing some respect, or I will burn your fucking skull in this fire, comprende?"

"Yes sir," Roberts sniveled.

"Yes, Rufgear," Rufgear corrected.

"Yes Rufgear," Roberts repeated. Rufgear released his grip on the man.

"I'm a different man now men. Stronger and more capable in many ways….but with any gift comes a price…."

The men remained silent.

"I have paid terribly," Rufgear sighed.

"Okay," Private Jenkins said agreeably.

"Seriously, you have no idea."

"We get it, you're not going to tell us what happened, and you paid a terrible price. Why dwell on it any longer?" Jenkins added.

"I wish I could tell you."

"Right, but you're not going to. Is there anything else?" Shepherd, the mine sweeper from Indiana, asked.

"Are you trying to belittle me?"

"No Sir, we just don't know what price you paid in the jungle."

"Was it something to do with your ass?" Collins asked.

"What does that mean?" Rufgear responded with muscles tensing.

"I was just trying to think of the worst thing that could happen, and most of the scenarios involved my ass."

"Nothing happened to my ass."

"But you wouldn't tell us if it did, would you?"

"Nothing happened to my ass." Rufgear repeated.

"Did some kind of weird animal bite you?" Kippler asked.

"Look, it doesn't matter what happened. Just know that things are different for me now. I'm a different man, a different soldier. I'm Rufgear."

"Why Rufgear?" Aquinas asked.

"I can't really talk about that either." This statement was met by a chorus of groans.

"Just know that the Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan will remain strong. Soon you will be called into service. I know some things about our enemy that the Colonel doesn't. It looks like I am going to have to take some matters into my own hands."

"Did you become a Christian?" Brintley asked.

Rufgear stood and walked away from the men. He could feel a gap opening between them. They were unsure of their new Captain. He would change all of that by the morning. There is one thing any man anywhere will respect: brute fucking force.

Chapter 46:

I admit that charisma is important in a president---it was everything for

Reagan, and it did achieve some results---but I would rather have a

clear-headed, intelligent wonk in office than a power-drunk trust-fund loser who

likes to pretend he's a cowboy when he's not on vacation. As Bush has said

numerous times, the presidency is hard work, and it would be nice to have

someone in office capable of doing it – Brandon Chitwood

Rufgear took the bugle from Carlton's case and blew reveille on his own. He was up with the sun, and yelling for his men to follow him into battle. Weary-eyed and confused soldiers stumbled out of their tents.

"Grab your weapons, men. It's time for battle!" He screamed. Assuming it was a drill, some of the men went back into their tents.

"It's now or never!" he yelled, firing his machine gun into the air. Rufgear ran into a seemingly uninhabited jungle. The men looked at each other, not sure how to react to their Captain. They could see and hear Rufgear's progress through the jungle. He was running as fast as humanly possible.

"Is he headed toward the peasant army base?" Henderson asked.

"Is he going to attack the peasants?" Rimly wondered aloud.

"Why would he advance on our position?" Scruits asked.

"Maybe it has to do with what happened to him in the jungle," Nelson offered.

"I guess we could follow him," Cruz suggested.

"Would we be disobeying the Colonel?" Grant asked.

Lieutenant Roberts emerged from his tent, naked. He was oily and flaccid.

"I think I'm finally ready to follow this guy. What do you boys say we give this Rufgear a chance?" Roberts slurred. One by one the men nodded in agreement. They put their hands together in a giant gesture of communion and screamed: "Hoa Lan!"

"I wish there was a way to time him. I think he might be breaking a world sprint record," Kants proclaimed.

"Hold on," Roberts interrupted. "Let me calibrate my wrist watch." Roberts held his watch up to the sun and fiddled with its dials.

"There," he said. Roberts pressed a button on his watch and it beeped. The entire platoon stood silent as the man gauged Rufgear's progress against the movement of time.

"I don't think it's a record, but he is in full fatigues carrying a machine gun."

"What was the time?"

"49.41."

"I'm getting a radio report from the peasant army base!" Thomas yelled from the radio hut. "Rufgear is single handedly attacking a huge and well prepared VC force!"

"Holy Shit! He knew they were coming!" Kreenburg exclaimed.

Chapter 47:

Rufgear sprinted through the peasant base, yelling at the peasant soldiers that they were going to be attacked. No one moved a muscle during his journey through the maze of tents. They had been conditioned to take orders from the Colonel, and the Colonel did not seem interested in attacking anyone.

Moments later, Rufgear was in a clearing on the edge of the peasant base, shooting his gun into the wall of trees that began the jungle. The peasant soldiers began to take notice when screams starting responding to the Captain's gunfire. Little by little, the hidden VC army came out of their hiding places. The peasant soldiers begrudgingly took their posts. They had no choice but to support the bearded wild man who stood before them.

It was a few minutes before the Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan arrived.

"Captain!" Janowitz yelled from behind a tree. "You're a genius. This VC force would have ambushed us!"

Ruf nodded. The solitary "rightness" of his decision hung upon his body with ease. He whistled and motioned for Janowitz to secure the forward position. A sniper's bullet whizzed through Janowitz's neck, and dropped him to the ground in a lifeless heap.

"God damn war," Ruf muttered. His new body seemed to instinctively know where the sniper was hiding. He took out a small throwing blasé and twirled it out from behind his tree cover. Moments later, the gurgling death gasp of an enemy sniper came from somewhere in the jungle.

Rufgear noticed another change within himself. An aura surrounded the dead sniper. It was a black circle that hung around the man's space. It was coupled with a putrid stench. Rufgear didn't know how he knew, but he felt deep inside his soul that this fallen enemy soldier was a bad man. He looked back at Janowitz and noticed a golden light around the man's dead body.

"This is going to make killing a whole lot easier," he thought to himself. He was starting to think his journey to the darkness of the afterlife might have been worth it. Rufgear lit a cigar and propped it up in his tree. He laid on the ground and waited for VC soldiers to take his bait.

His super-hearing could barely make out some whispering in the brush nearby. Rufgear couldn't hear what they were saying, but he imagined it had something to do with a stupid American soldier and his love of tobacco. Rufgear smiled at their foolish stereotyping. It would be their death.

The VC soldiers, six of them, moved forward. Rufgear could smell the putrid stench of their badness as they neared. These were definitely bad men. He would kill them without remorse. Rufgear descended on their position like a ballet of violence. Bullets and flying blades signaled his arrival. Each man was quickly gutted and be-headed. Rufgear was about to shove a sharpened stick through the last soldier's eye when he noticed a gold aura.

"You're…..you're good," Rufgear said. He lowered his stick. The man reached into his pocket and slowly pulled out a picture. It was a photograph of his wife and their young son.

"Co buon ngu khong," The man said. Rufgear didn't know what to do. This man was the enemy, but he was also a human being with a golden aura. Before he could make a decision the man began to sing in broken English:

"Jingle Bell, jingle bell, jingle all way home."

Rufgear smiled. He had always loved Jingle Bells. He held his hand out and motioned for the man to give him his weapon. The soldier did as directed, and then ran into the jungle. Rufgear knew he had betrayed his army, but he had stayed true to himself. He was a new kind of soldier, a better soldier. If it meant the army could no longer call him its son, then so be it. He would worry about it no longer.

You might be interested to know that the soldier Rufgear let go was Dr. Lei Mei, who cured the Condalarian Flu. He ended up saving thousands of American lives.

Chapter 48:

Paul McCartney is an asshole, Bill Gates is an asshole, Rockefeller is an asshole. The only one that wasn't was Carter and look what happened to him – Jose Ferreira

The peasant army had pushed the VC force back. Their surprise attack had assured them another couple of days with a secure position. Rufgear leaned against one of the vacated VC mortar cannons. It was a moment of peace, a time to bask in the blood-tinged sunset of victory. His calm was rippled by the arrival of Colonel Chitwood.

"I think perhaps you forgot who is in charge here?" The Colonel said.

Rufgear noticed a slight stink that hung around the Colonel, like his soul was hanging in the balance. The Colonel had no idea how lucky he was. Rufgear would have shot him dead on the spot if his soul had stunk. This world had no place for evil, not with Rufgear on patrol.

"Looks to me like I just saved this whole fucking platoon. Did you see the weapons Charlie was carrying?" Rufgear asked, pulling a machine gun from the grasp of a dead VC soldier. "This is a DP 7.62 mm. These soldiers are being supplied by the top. You said we were attacking fucking guerillas."

"Settle down, Captain. My plan all along was to attack," Chitwood said, wiping sweat off his brow. "Because your attack was so successful, I won't have you court-martialed."

"You were planning to attack? The only thing I've ever seen you attack are your books and those God damn panini sandwiches. You're a disgrace to this man's army."

"Watch your tongue, soldier. It looks to me like this mission is directly on course."

"Only because I kept it there," Rufgear shouted. Other soldiers began to take notice of the confrontation.

"Pride goeth before the fall, my friend. Guards." Chitwood said calmly, motioning two MP officers. The officers came forward and grabbed Rufgear by his arms.

"Let me go," He growled, and broke free of their grasp. He put his hands down and followed the soldiers to a make-shift cell. Rufgear knew the process was for show. Chitwood had to save face in front of his men. What the Colonel didn't know was that Rufgear had changed. This "show" was not going to solve anything.

Chitwood stood outside Rufgear's cell in the middle of the night. The clicking of his lighter woke Rufgear up.

"Why do you smoke those girly cigarettes?" Rufgear asked, referring to the long, thin Yves Saint Laurent cigarette the Colonel held between his fingers.

"I smoke for pleasure of the taste," Chitwood laughed. "It just so happens that women generally understand that concept better than we men do."

"Is that why you run your army like a damn woman?"

"Perhaps you've heard of Queen Hatshepsut? She was an eighteenth dynasty pharaoh who crowned herself king. Her funeral temple still stands today as a tribute to her incredible power."

"Thing is, I don't see Queen Hotsenputs out here. I see Mary Jane suck-cock, who apparently runs and hides from every fucking battle."

"Be careful Captain." Chitwood warned.

"Why should I be careful? I'm Rufgear now. This war is going to stain my hands with blood. I can't let your incompetence run from the jar any longer."

"How do you plan to carry out your mutiny from inside this cell?"

Rufgear laughed long and deep. He let out a long sigh. "Are you planning to move forward our position tomorrow?" Rufgear asked.

"Yes."

"Then we shouldn't have anything to argue about."

"Our scouts have found the next mile or so is heavily booby-trapped. The whole area is filled with VC tunnels. In about an hour, we are going to have your OPS team leader take the peasant army out to sweep for mines and possibly enter the tunnel system."

"Henderson and Kohl?"

"Yes, and Lieutenant Roberts. He is our only tunnel man."

Rufgear nodded. "Were going to have to pray he's ready."

"He's been talked to. He's already on foot and moving toward the tunnel entrance we discovered. Some of the peasant soldiers received some training from him earlier this year. They are scheduled to meet in the entrance at 0500 hours."

"God Bless their souls."

"Amen," Chitwood said, and kissed the wooden cross that hung around his neck.

Rufgear spent the rest of his confinement dreaming about the Track. He knew he could break every running record known to man. It all meant nothing to him now. He wondered if Roger Bannister, the man who broke the four minute mile, had also returned from the dead.

"Coach," Rufgear whispered to himself. With all that had happened, he had barely thought about the man. His mood soured the more he thought about it. Why couldn't the old man at least write him a letter? "I'm over here risking my life and that old bag of bones can't even raise an eyebrow to card?" Ruf thought. He pulled his Bowie knife out and pushed it into the skin of his arm. The pain stimulated the production of endorphins, and he calmed down. He knew his anger was irrational, but he just didn't have the patience to deal with his insecurity anymore. There was only one way to calm his mind now: brute fucking force and the killing of rotten-souled soldiers.

Rufgear stood up and kicked through the thrice reinforced bamboo walls that held him. The MP's stared at him in disbelief.

"The Colonel was letting me out in the morning anyway. Don't make this your war, boys." Rufgear warned.

The men nodded and sat down. Rufgear walked back to his camp and assembled the Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan.

"It's time for the Brotherhood to come together. History books might tell another story of our battle. Your family, your friends, your fellow soldiers might never know your sacrifice. This is going to be Colonel Chitwood's war."

Grumbles met the Captain's speech.

"But we're not fighting for history. We are the last true freedom fighters left on this planet. We are going to march into those woods and show these VC soldiers what an American force is!"

Rufgear loaded his machine gun and walked into the jungle. Slowly, the other men followed.

Chapter 49:

Lieutenant Roberts drug himself out of bed.

"Jesus, Roberts," Pulverson said from the other side of the tent.

"Aaargh," Roberts sighed. He had shit his bed again. He scooped his bedding into a pile and took it outside. He heaved the festering ball into the river that ran just south of their tent. He walked over to Private Yakuma's tent and stole his bedding.

"That looks like Yakuma's stuff," Pulverson commented when Roberts returned with clean bedding. Roberts noticed the Monogrammed Y on the pillow case he was holding.

"Fuck," he said, walking outside. He threw Yakuma's pillow case into the river. He then noticed that his brown sheets had become caught on a branch in the river about fifty feet downstream.

"Cocksucker!" he yelled, and waded into the water. He was up to his neck when a strong current pulled out his footing. He tumbled underwater and gasped for breath. His open mouth was filled with cloth and feces when he finally surfaced. The bedding was pulled free from the branch, but had attached itself to a wildly active Lieutenant Roberts. A ball of brown and white thrashed through the water. It was a mile or so before Roberts was able to pull himself to the bank of the river. He washed himself off as best he could. He rolled over on the grass, exhausted. His alcoholism had ravaged his body. There was a time when his lanky frame had been able to withstand 400-500 laps of daily swimming. Now he was winded from a mile stroke of shit-sheet tumbling.

"Damn you, Fonda!" he cursed.

"You okay there, buddy?" came a soft voice from the brush. Roberts pulled out his soaking pistol and aimed it at the stranger. As his beer stained retinas adjusted, he realized he was looking at Jose.

"Jose?" he asked. The air was heavy with patchouli.

"What are you doing down there?" Jose asked.

"You'd never believe it." He said, and laughed. Jose had a way of making everything seem better.

"It's a beautiful day, man," Jose said, and sucked in a powerful hit of Vietnamese ganja. "You want some of this?"

"I've got my own demon killers," Roberts answered, and dug for his flask. He smiled nervously as his hand passed over the area where he kept his flask.

"It's no problem, brother."

"Oh, this is a problem," He said with agitation. Jose walked over to Roberts. Roberts was too busy searching for the flask to notice.

"Shannon," he whispered. Roberts continued to search, browsing the stream and tall grass where he had washed up.

"Shannon," Jose said again, this time putting his hand on Roberts' shoulder. Roberts stopped and looked at the journalist. The sunlight poked through the Hippy's hair. His smile was so warm. Roberts felt his anger drifting away. It seemed like Jose's head was growing. The world disappeared and their lips came together.

Fireworks exploded in Shannon's brain. It was like a giant weight had been lifted from his groin.

"Shannon," Jose whispered again as the two men embraced.

A rustle of grass from nearby made the men jump apart quickly.

"What are you two lovebirds doing down here?" Collins asked. "Rufgear is already advancing on the enemy. Roberts, you've got two hours until your rendezvous with those peasant soldiers in the tunnel. Jose, get your pencil and camera ready for whatever the hell it is you do."

"Yes sir," Roberts said, and began walking away. He turned and caught Jose's eye before they both left. It would be their last shared glance.

Chapter 50:

It's a hell of a lot funnier than "The Sorrow of

War," by Bao Ninh – Brandon Chitwood

There was no war in Chapter 50. The soldiers listened to Christmas music. Both sides put down their weapons and sang along with American hymns. Even the VC agreed that our holiday songs were superior to their muckity-muck songs.

Chapter 51:

I don't think a guy who comes in and redoes Ringo's drums without telling

him is a nice guy. A perfectionist maybe, but that's definitely on the

asshole chart – Jose Ferreira

Roberts sobered up quickly in the jungle heat. He stopped back at base to pick up a new flask. For the first time in a decade, he considered leaving the alcohol behind. He noticed his shaking hand as he considered his options.

"When this war is over, this drinking is over." He said to himself. The hole in his heart would no longer need to be filled with whiskey. It would be filled with Jose.

Shannon took a swig of the sweet delicious juice of the gods and prepared his gear. He humped his equipment halfway to the tunnel entrance and sat down. He laid back on a grassy mound, and took a few more hits from his flask. It was another hour until he had to meet the peasant soldiers. He decided he would catch a few winks before the real shit started. In his mind he could see Jose gently plucking the strings of his guitar, smiling as usual.

Roberts slept deeply, his usual dreams of robots replaced by these new feelings of love. When he awoke it was night, and it was far past the rendezvous time.

"Shit fuck!" he yelled, sitting up. He looked around and could see battle fire coming from the jungle. Those poor peasant bastards were in that tunnel system without him. He knew it was too late to help them. Maybe he could break through to the tunnel command center before the rest of the platoon reached the VC base. He ran through darkened jungle and made it to the entrance in about 10 minutes.

"Where the fuck you been?" Andrews asked, spraying cover fire around the area as Roberts prepared to enter the tunnel. Roberts didn't reply. He was "in the zone" now. He stripped himself naked and covered his body with a home-made oily paste.

"What the fuck is that?" Andrews asked. Roberts slid into the tunnel without an answer. Inside the tunnel, he moved quickly. The paste helped him maneuver, and it kept the sticky Vietnam clay off his lean body.

He needed no light. Roberts had an instinctive feel for the tunnel. He was born with tunneling in his blood. At the rendezvous point, he found the peasant soldiers dead. There was no time for guilt. He disabled the simple mud trap and moved on. Had he arrived on time, these men would have survived. That truth lived in his heart now. He had never moved through a tunnel with such wild abandon. It was exhilarating. His life no longer mattered. With that certainty came new ability, and a confidence he had never experienced.

VC traps seemed to call out their location. He killed two VC scouts with his bare hands and teeth. Within a few minutes he had discovered the core of the tunnels. He peered into the cavernous room and assessed his situation. There were about seven soldiers in the room. The reason this tunnel operation was so important was because of the personnel and equipment that were present in this room. It was also where they stored their surplus ammo.

The VC general, or "Lai Xas," as his men called him, was one of the soldiers present. Amidst the maps and soldiers were huge piles of ammo. Roberts didn't hesitate very long. He slid into the room quietly, and snapped the neck of the first soldier. He took the man's gun as he fell to the ground. The other soldiers noticed him, but they paused a second too long. The VC soldiers stared at Roberts' enormous erect penis. This gave Roberts enough time to fill the room with bullets. One by one, the soldiers fell into their own pools of blood. Shannon's erection grew stronger with each kill.

Unfortunately, he didn't see General Lai Xas. The General slid inside an ammo box during the melee. Roberts secured the room as best he could. He sat down and cried tears for the men who lost their lives because of his drinking. He would never drink again---of this he was certain.

The tunnel leading out of the bunker looked tricky. It immediately forked into six different tunnels. He had to find a different way out. He looked at the dirt ceiling and knew what he had to do. He pushed boxes of ammo together and created a tower that reached to the top of the bunker. He furiously dug upward at an angle. His lubricated body made it difficult to gain initial entry. Once he was in, he slid easily through the dirt. It was a matter of minutes before his hands poked out into the wet grass of the Vietnam soil. He wasn't sure who he would find above, but there wasn't enough time to really worry about it. He had to get word to Rufgear. He smiled, and dirt filled his mouth as he thought about the Captain. He realized he loved the man like a Father. He suddenly felt like the son who had just grown up.

His head emerged from the earth to find machine guns pointing at him. He quickly realized that these were American rifles.

"Thank God," he said.

"Roberts?" Steiner asked.

"Get the Captain," Roberts said. A couple soldiers gathered around and tried to pull him out of the hole. His erection was making it difficult.

"Just give me a second," Roberts said, trying to think about a football game he had played in as a teenager.

"What's going on here?" Rufgear asked, striding confidently forward.

"I found the command center," Roberts huffed, still struggling out of the hole. "They're all dead down there. It's just below me."

"That's great news Roberts. Where are the other men?"

"They didn't make it, Sir." Roberts lowered his head. The shame was overwhelming. "They didn't make it because of me."

Rufgear stared at Roberts coldly.

"I'm done with the drink, Captain. I swear I'll never touch another drop."

Rufgear looked closely at Roberts. He noticed a golden aura now surrounded the man.

"I believe you," he said, and held out his hand. Shannon would never get his hand out of the hole to participate in this final hand-shake. The ground rumbled below them, and Shannon's brow furrowed.

"What the hell?" Rufgear cried. He backed up as he spoke. Roberts' body started moving out of the earth, but he wasn't pushing. A loud explosion filled the air as Shannon's body exploded up and into the sky above them.

General Lai Xas had set the ammo room on fire. He had killed himself in the process, but he denied the infidels access to their war plans and ammo.

The bottom half of Shannon's body had been burnt off in the launch. He was still conscious as he hovered about the jungle for a moment.

"Choose love!" he screamed before his final descent. Both armies stopped their fighting to watch the half-man with no clothes on fall back to Mother Earth.

Jose snapped a picture from the other side of the jungle. He had no idea it was his soul-mate that was up there, hovering a split second in the still air, before plummeting to the earth in a grisly benediction. Roberts hit the ground, and exploded onto the men around him. They wiped his carnage from their faces, and got back to the job at hand: killing bad enemy soldiers.

Chapter 52:

An old man moved slowly through his house. It was a cold Minnesota winter and his back ached. He made a cup of hot cocoa in the microwave. He hated the taste of the quickly made drink. Ever since Gail died, he had lost the desire to cook anything on his own. He now weighed 37 pounds. Life had been a series of disappointments for Jose. His beavery had gone bankrupt in 1977. He met Gail the following year. It was a solid marriage, but his homosexuality made if difficult for their relationship to flourish. As the years piled on, Jose retreated further and further into the hole of his guitar.

The cocoa warmed his bones and gave him the energy to walk down into his basement. He sat down in his woodshop. The walls were crowded with decades of his woodwork. The giant "G" he had carved from the base of the oak tree in the front yard lay against the south wall. Gail had always touched the "G" before their failed attempts to make love. On the west wall hung a photograph of their house, framed with boards. "Jose's House" was burned into the bottom frame. Hanging on the wall in front of him was a framed photograph. It was hard to make out exactly what was in the picture. It looked like a little black chunk of dirt in the night sky. It was blurry and dark. The man touched his finger to the glass covering the photo and began to cry.

"Shannon," he whispered. It was a prayer and a curse.

Chapter 53:

Rufgear saluted the pile of meat that was once Lieutenant Roberts.

"Lets show this soldier some respect and beat these fucking VC back a few yards!" he yelled. He moved forward in a barrage of bullets and throwing stars. He jumped into an enemy trench, and quickly gutted the two bewildered VC soldiers in his path. Their black putrid souls dissipated with each of his death-blows. His men followed behind him. His tour de force of slaughter was inspiring the platoon. Even some of the peasant soldiers were attacking, almost in spite of themselves. Rufgear noticed a group of his own men stuck behind a tree, talking. He whistled the Brotherhood signal and moved to their position.

"What's the hold up?" he asked.

"Jose's gone crazy. He's walking toward the enemy without taking cover," Taylor explained. The men were taking turns running forward and covering the journalist.

"Jose!" Rufgear yelled. The man just kept walking, like a zombie. Rufgear ran out and tackled him. Finally the hippy's eyes held recognition.

"Get off of me!" he cried.

"What the fuck are you doing? You are compromising our flank position. These soldiers are risking their lives to give you cover."

"I told them to leave me alone," Jose howled in despair.

"We are soldiers, Jose. We're not wild dogs on a trash can hump. When you move, we move, just like that."

"Damn," Jose muttered, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"What is wrong with you?" Rufgear growled with furious pity.

"Nothing, Captain. I will….fall in." Rufgear clapped his back and moved to cover. He didn't know what was eating at the hippy, but he did recognize that there was obvious emotional pain living in the man.

Chapter 54:

I'm not saying Paul McCartney is a saint, and redoing Ringo's drums was

definitely not "choosing love," but everyone makes mistakes. McCartney never

killed anyone, and he served with pride in Vietnam – Brandon Chitwood

On the other side of the action, Thompson and Yanni moved through the peasant army positions into the softening VC flank. Soon the two platoons met. They had clearly moved the VC lines back, not to mention destroying their tunnel command bunker in the process.

Rufgear lit a cigar and took a moment to revel in the victory.

"God damn, we killed us some bad men out there," he said with a smile.

"They're just soldiers like us," Conklin commented.

"Yeah?" Rufgear asked, cocking his head.

"Yes, they just happen to be the enemy. To them we probably seem just as evil."

"That's great, Conklin. While you're spreading your ass for the enemy, I'm going to spit some more freedom from my red-hot barrel."

"That is so typical of our military mindset. I wish I didn't have to kill anyone, but look at you….Bloodthirsty for carnage, in a land where justice will never survive."

"You live your life how ever you want, Conklin. I know a bad man when I see one. We just plowed through a whole lot of bad men."

"How exactly do you know?" Conklin spat.

"Well now, that's why I'm a certifiable killing machine and you're a panty-waist Private."

"So the army promoted you because of your innate ability to discriminate good men from bad?"

"I didn't start this way. Rufgear was forged upon the irons of time."

"Am I to believe that there are no good men in the VC army? Are all of our men good?"

"This is war, but I won't kill a good man."

"What if that 'good' enemy soldier holds the key to victory?" asked a new voice.

"Colonel," Rufgear said.

"So you would sacrifice our mission to save a good soul? Sounds almost Christian of you…."

"I don't know anything about your damn religion. I only know good and evil."

"It must be wonderful to live in a world of black and white," Chitwood said.

"It certainly makes killing a whole lot easier."

"What if you came across a bad man on our side of the gun?"

"I'm a soldier. I'm not sure what I will do when that happens. I hope to God it doesn't. Speaking of attacking, we better move this line forward soon. Those VC soldiers are going to have fresh replacements by daybreak."

"I've got the situation under control. We will attack after a full day's rest."

"The fuck we will."

"Everything is on target. There is no need for your input any longer. I will tell HQ to relieve your duty as soon as I get a chance."

"Every man out here knows you're an idiot, Colonel. Your peasant army followed me into battle. Not because of any training you've given them. They followed me because of my giant war-hammer balls. If you fail to advance on their position immediately, it will cost the life of every man here." Rufgear spoke loudly so that his message would spread to the platoon.

"A wonderful speech, Rufgear. However, I am in command. I'm sure your heroic actions will go down in history. But you seem to forget that it is I who have commanded these battles. I have done this in spite of your mutinous actions. The time for your dismissal has come. I am hereby relieving you of your command."

"You fucking idiot," Rufgear said, loading his machine gun. Two MP's dropped him to the ground before he could finish. "Tell the Brotherhood to radio General Lehnen!" Rufgear yelled, struggling under the weight of the MP's.

Colonel Chitwood kicked Rufgear in the mouth with his polished brown leather boot. "Anyone caught using a radio without my permission can expect a full court martial!" Chitwood screamed. He ran his fingers through his hair and regained his composure.

"We will rest tonight. Dig in," he instructed, and left for his tent.

Chapter 55:

Jose no longer cared. He ran to the nearest radio and sent a signal to General Lehnen. When the General got word he was furious. He said he would chopper down immediately.

It was a quiet night. The VC were most likely preparing for their advance the following day. It was hard for Rufgear to sit in the make-shift prison. Rufgear was never a calm man before his transformation. Now the silence and immobility was heart breaking.

"Surely you men understand the importance of attacking tonight?" he pleaded with the MP's. "It's basic strategy!"

"Shut it," Jenkins said.

Rufgear slumped back against the bamboo. Perhaps Coach had been right. What hadn't he just stayed home? There would still be a Rod Addams if he hadn't flown to this God forsaken land. It had been 2 weeks since he had slept. Finally the black calm of lady slumber covered his body.

"Hey Jenkins, Sleeping Beauty finally gave in." Private Herhily sniggered.

Chapter 56:

You've got to be shitting me! I was never a Colonel? Fuck! I must have an over-inflated sense of self worth – Shannon Roberts

General Lehnen jumped out of his chopper a few hours later. The Heli-pad was empty, save for a few soldiers.

"General, what are you doing here?" Kryzak asked.

"Which way to the camp?" he barked. Kryzak pointed to a trail leading into the jungle. Lehnen didn't stop to explain his actions. He slung a machine gun over his shoulder, and entered the war zone.

Lehnen couldn't understand why the landing strip was so under-manned. He knew Rufgear would never have agreed to that. He quickly turned to his right and blew the heads off two VC soldiers. Their brains splattered onto the trees behind them, but Lehnen didn't even notice. He moved forward like a bulldozer coming to knock down Grandpa's farm.

Chapter 57:

I'm glad I had 400 emails to read through when I got back to my computer ready to maul down a Country Glazed Ham Shop Meatball Bomber – Dave Lehnen

When the MP's woke up the next morning, Rufgear was gone. A hole had been dug under the bars of the make-shift prison cell.

"That son-of-a-bitch tunneled his fucking ass outta there?" Clark exclaimed. Herlihy nodded. He had nothing more to add to the statement.

"I respect that man," Clark added.

Herlihy nodded again. The two men were totally in sync with each other. That's what made them such great MP's. Other than Rufgear escaping, they had very little in the way of blemishes on their careers. Herlihy took great pride in his ability tokeep calm in the most trying of situations. Clark was known for his brute force.

After this tour they would both return home. They shared so much in the jungle, and yet they never talked again. The jungle can change a man. Herlihy would sell his civil war bullet collection when he got back. Before the war it was his passion. Clark disappeared in later years. Eventually, he died in a Russian roulette competition somewhere in Asia. It just makes you think….

Chapter 58:

Do I really have a drinking problem in your book? – Shannon Roberts

Rufgear moved through the sleeping base camp with great stealth. He had one last piece of business to take care of before he left the area. He slipped quietly into Private Englund's tent. The Private had quit the motor pool, and had requested front line duty. His missing hand was covered with gauze as he lay in bed. Rufgear pressed his hand over the Private's mouth to stifle his scream.

"Now just listen," Rufgear whispered. "There has been a misunderstanding between us. I am very fucking sorry I forgot to include you in our Field day. I'm human. It was not a lie when I told you I would help you with the javelin."

Englund's eyes rolled beneath Rufgear's grasp.

"Just stop it," Rufgear said, trying to stop Englund from squirming. "I'm here to bring you along with me. I've got one chance to keep this VC patrol from killing every man in our outfit. Colonel Chitwood is not going to budge. I am going to win this battle on my own. I need another man. I can't cover every point on my own. I'm going to let go of your mouth now, ok?"

Englund nodded.

"Are you with me?"

"I never left, Captain," Englund answered, saluting Rufgear with his stump.

"I'm sorry about the hand."

Chapter 59:

Lehnen wasn't counting, but he had killed roughly thrity-seven VC soldiers on his trek to Rufgear's position. He found an American soldier holding a radio face down in a creek. He grabbed the radio from the dead man's clutches and tried to contact Colonel Chitwood. After several minutes of static, the Colonel himself answered.

"General, so good you could make it down," Chitwood said pleasantly.

"Lets take our condoms off and fuck rough, Colonel. What sort of jack-ass operation are you running down here?"

"I'm running an operation that is exactly on target."

"My reports indicate that you are only on target because Captain Addams has been keeping you on target."

"I'm sure that's what your reports say, but your reports come from Captain Addams, don't they? There's something positively Rashomon-esque in the lines of communication in this war. One wonders if Themistocles had to endure such farce on the plains of Thermopolae. I'm well aware of Captain Addams' ability to charm people to his side of things, but I tell you, the man's a menace! You know he's called Rufgear now…."

"We don't know what happened to him out in that jungle, Colonel. No one called you out when you converted to Christianity."

"Your comparing the love of our Savior to some mountain-top jungle experience? Oh, how the heathen rage! If only Eusebius was still taught in our schools…" Chitwood moaned. "Remember General, I know where you stand when it comes to the Lord. Get thee behind me!"

"If I make it to your position and find one ounce of truth in Rufgear's story, you can kiss your ass goodbye. I will find a way to make you die painfully in the jungle, and no one will know what happened. Keep your eyes open all night Colonel: General Lehnen just assigned himself to making your life a living hell."

The radio went dead in Chitwood's hand.

Chapter 60:

Rufgear and Englund moved through the jungle cautiously. They had waited for the sun to come up before advancing. The VC wouldn't be expecting them in the daylight, but they felt vulnerable under the sunlight.

Rufgear whistled, and motioned for Englund to advance to his position. They sat down behind a tree. Rufgear opened his backpack and handed a tinfoil covered sandwich to Englund.

"Seriously? Thanks man," Englund said in gratitude.

The two men devoured the sandwiches and stared silently into the jungle before them.

"You stay here, Private. There are about nineteen VC scouts just over that hill."

"How can you tell?"

"I can smell them," Rufgear said, and jumped forward. Englund watched Rufgear move through the foliage.

"He's so damn quick," he said to himself. Moments later, he heard gunfire. There was a short silence, then a rustling in the bush. It was Rufgear. He had been shot in the leg.

"Captain!"

"It's okay, I tied it off already. Anyway, the trail ahead is clear."

Chapter 61:

There are those that say a good Ranch dressing is a thick Ranch dressing. There

are those that would sacrifice flavor for consistency, those who think Ranch

dressing is just a glorified version of sour cream, people of little subtlety or

substance who view the distinction between "dip" and "dressing" as a narrow one

at best, though more often than not see no distinction at all. To them I say:

"Chili's has a table open in non-smoking!" Let them go. Let them leave me in

peace, free to bathe my taste buds in the thin, watery---yet savory, oh so

savory---Ranch dressing on offer at D. Brian's. Would I be strengthening my

point if I mentioned that extra portions of the dressing come free of charge?- Brandon Chitwood

Chitwood paced the jungle floor nervously. He didn't like the tone of the General's voice. He had heard that tone before, in the voice of a Benedictine Monk. They were the craziest fucking monks in the whole world of monkdom. He had learned early on during his faith journey not to fuck with the Benedictine monks. He still had the ankle scars to remind him….

How had it come to this? Brother Chitwood asked himself, as he pulled the round stones out of the boiling pot, and dropped them into his boots. Welts were forming on his fingers, but he was quickly learning to find pleasure in the pain, just as Brother Ignatius had said he would. Besides, whatever his fingers felt now would be nothing once his feet were in those boots. Surely some of the scorpions Father Nicodemus had put in there would survive the boiling stones, only to expend what was left of their life in biting Chitwood's burning feet. With much trepidation, Chitwood inserted his feet into the boots. Father Nicodemus looked on, nodding with approval.

Chitwood never thought that forming the Yale Nietzsche Society would have such disasterous results. Like many of his classmates, college had been an invitation to free thought. The words of the great German syphilitic had inspired him, and he only wanted to share his joy with the rest of his ivy league peers. But his father, Senater Chitwood of Tennessee, had a Christian constituency to please, and he was already on thin ice because of his Catholicism. Most of the hillbillies called him "Senator Papist" behind his back. The senator told his son in no uncertain terms that he would not lose the upcoming election due to the godless antics of his rebellious son.

The next thing he knew, he had been shipped off to the tundra of central Minnesota, to the scholastic monks who kept the hallowed traditions of Catholic education alive. When his father dumped him off at the door of St. John's Abbey, Senator Chitwood never even kissed him goodbye. The only words the senator had were for Father Nicodemus, and they were these: "Get some God into my boy, and get it in him quick!"

The monks had taken Senator Chitwood at his word, and Chitwood the Younger soon found God coming into him from every direction. It seemed like Yale had only been a dream. But after three years, he had endured much, and learned much, in his time here with these crazy monks, and it seemed now that he could almost see the distant light of Heaven, when he stared into the rose window during mass.

"Your initiation into the holy mysteries is almost complete," Father Nicodemus had said to him. Chitwood could hear the pride in his voice, but he knew it was tempered by the knowledge that he had yet to filfill his eight credit Theology requirement necessary for graduation.

As he walked over the hot coals, nearly losing his balance from the distraction of the hot stones and biting scorpions in his shoes, Chitwood smiled, for that requirement was nearly complete. This was his last test, and if he survived it, he would show his Bachelor of Arts diploma to his daddy with pride. As he crossed the last step of coals, Chitwood felt himself falling. Father Nicodemus was there, and caught him in his arms. Yes, these monks were fucking crazy, but wasn't that what Love was all about?

"Let's advance to Rufgear's position," Chitwood said, assembling the platoon. As he thought back on those happy days of youth, the picture of the rose window came back to him, and the many colors that swimmed through its fractured glass. There are many sides to the story, many colors in the rainbow, he thought, but it's all one story, and it's all one rainbow. "I may not always agree with the man, but we're not going to leave a soldier alone out there," he said to his men.

The men packed up their gear in confusion. This did not sound like the Colonel Chitwood they had come to know. But they were happy to be leaving, no matter what the reason was. Most agreed with Rufgear that their current position was suicide.

Chapter 62:

Each of Lehnen's hands shared time spitting destruction and murder. His left hand moved like a windmill chugging throwing stars, small knives and hand grenades. His right hand effortlessly fired and reloaded his MC11 machine gun. If all went as planned, he would arrive at the Colonel's position by nightfall.

Even while dealing out his own personal brand of justice, Lehnen couldn't stop thinking about home. He had always been able to shut off his obsession with running---maybe that's why he moved past his peers so quickly. All the other soldiers could think about was lacing up their running shoes and hitting the track. Lehnen had always kept the focus on killing his enemy. It had been that way since he was a child.

His Father, Dr. Lehnen, was a strict behaviorist who had raised his son to be the perfect soldier. His Father's webbed toes had kept him out of the Army, but that hadn't kept him from devising a plan for his son. As an infant, he cut the baby's webbed toes apart each evening. By adolescence the abnormality was no longer visible. With the physical vessel clean, Dr. Lehnen turned his attention to the mind and soul. Unwanted emotion was met with an air horn. Fear was punished with hot spoon applications. Daydreaming was interrupted by jazz records. Thoughts of running track were driven to extinction with fish oil enemas. These punishment procedures, in conjunction with a positive reinforcement program involving colorful stickers, created the mold for a new type of soldier: An intelligent killing machine that wasn't preoccupied with running track.

General Lehnen later taught himself how to play the electric guitar. His fingers were bruised and hardened from killing and rocking. This was not part of his Father's plan, but the father learned to love his son's diamond licks.

Chapter 63:

Rufgear and Englund continued moving forward. Did you know that a shark never stops moving forward? Rufgear and Englund were capable of moving backward, and that is what makes their achievement more impressive than a shark. Private Englund had always loved the shark as a child. He admired its ferocity and its beautiful gray-blue coloring. He was more than a little disappointed when he learned that the shark could not stop moving. He thought it was the shark's choice to keep moving. He cried when he learned that it was a physical necessity for the shark to keep moving. His underwater hero had forever lost its shine. It would be years later when Englund would question why the women in his life felt the same urge to keep moving.

By Rufgear's estimation and by the smell of the area, they would hit the VC stronghold very soon. That was the plan, but then all hell broke loose.

Chapter 64:

Chitwood and the rest of the platoon moved through the path of destruction that Rufgear had created.

"Good God," the Colonel remarked, sprinkling holy water on the fallen soldiers that lay around them. He stopped and put the water away when Jose came into his field of vision.

"Jose!" he yelled. Jose turned and acknowledged the Colonel.

"You are going to be court-martialed for insubordination when we get out of here," Chitwood said calmly.

"In that case, you better watch your back." Jose answered. It was the first threatening word the Colonel had ever heard come of the dirty hippy's mouth. Jose cocked his gun and blew a kiss toward Chitwood.

"Did everyone hear that?" Chitwood asked. "Jose threatened my life!"

"Let 'im be, Colonel. Something ain't right with him today." Johnson suggested.

"Something ain't right with him all right: he's the Caine Mutiny walking around with a gun." Most of the soldiers ignored Chitwood and kept marching.

Just a few feet in front of the Colonel, an explosion tore apart seven of his men. Riley, Holmes, Senetaro, Ichyll, Lee, Rundy and Caruthers were blown into bits. The force of the blast blew the Colonel and several other men down to the ground.

"Good Jesus!" Chitwood yelled, and wiped a chunk of meat off of his face. He held his fist up to signal the other men to be silent. He whistled and motioned for Arens and Hill to check the perimeter. Almost immediately, Arens reported back that the area was crawling with VC activity.

"Dig in," Chitwood commanded. His men made the best cover they could. They took advantage of a ravine that crossed through their current location. They placed themselves back to back and fell silent. Arens and Hill continued to scout the area.

"I'm not sure how many are out there," Hill reported. "It sounded like a full platoon in every direction."

"Are they advancing?" Chitwood asked.

"Very slowly. I don't think they have our exact position yet. The blast made them scatter. It must have been an old trap."

"Well that's good news for us, but not for Riley, Holmes, Senetaro, Ichyll, Lee, Rundy and Caruthers." Chitwood took out a small, beat up catechism from his front shirt pocket. "Get me the radio." He ordered Tollefson.

Chapter 65:

Rufgear and Englund entered what should have been the VC stronghold. Instead they found a ghost town.

"God damnit." Rufgear whispered.

"What happened here?" Englund asked.

"They doubled back. They're taking out our old position. Chitwood and the base camp are going to be ambushed."

"But I thought you could smell them here?"

"I thought so too, I'm not sure what's going on. I can still smell great evil in this area."

The ground fell out from beneath Englund as he walked forward.

"Aaargh!" he screamed. He toppled down into a deep hole. His descent ended with an ear-splitting howl of pain and depression. Rufgear cautiously peered over the side of the hole. He could barely make out Englund's form in the bottom of the hole.

"Englund?" he called down.

"Captain…" he murmured. Rufgear could see that the Private had landed on a razor sharp stick, one of many that lined the bottom of the hold.

"Damn, damn, damn," Englund cursed from his eventual grave.

"Just sit still. I'm going to take care of you."

"Oh God Captain, it hurts! How will you get me out of here? This stick is stuck right through my innards."

"Call me Rufgear," he said, and put a bullet through Englund's skull. Rufgear could have sworn he saw a smile cross over the Private's lips as his soul gently rose through the damp Vietnam jungle.

Rufgear had no time for regret. The man had clearly stuck himself in the innards, known to many soldiers as the worst way to die. He had done the man a favor---the ultimate favor.

Rufgear turned to return to Chitwood's position. It didn't take very long for the two advancing officers to meet. Rufgear slipped through the Colonel's perimeter guard and sat down next to him in the ravine. The two men stared at each other. It was a railroad crash of ego. Catholicism and raw human rage circled each other in a dangerous dance of alpha power.

"What are you doing out here?" Rufgear asked.

"I'm trying to save our platoon. You will never fight in this man's army again, Captain. I will make sure of that if we make it out of here. But I'll be damned if I'm going to leave a soldier to die alone out in this leaf-covered hell. We came out here to save Private Englund."

"Call me Rufgear. And I don't buy one fucking ounce of that bullshit."

"Just shut your mouth. It's your fault our whole platoon is fifteen clicks off position, standing out in the middle of nowhere, completely off mission!"

"If you hadn't come out here to help me, you'd all be laying dead as we speak."

Chitwood coughed out a wafer and giggled.

"That's funny is it?" Rufgear asked.

"I just love how you turn this fucked up situation, which is completely your fault, and try to make it sound like you've saved everyone."

"In about five minutes, you're going to see exactly what I'm talking about."

"Am I? Somehow I doubt it." The Colonel said, and crossed his arms. "And where is Private Englund?"

"He didn't make it. There was a ground trap up at the VC base camp."

"VC base camp? How close are we?"

"I thought you wanted to know more about Private Englund?"

"Don't change the subject. I love all these men, but my ass is on the line to complete this mission. Pardon me for skipping the burial rites and getting right to the information that may save all these soldiers."

"Very well, your holiness. Seems strange you've decided to become a leader at this late stage of the game. If you will wait just a few more seconds…."

BABOOSH!

A few miles away a cloud of smoke shot into the sky. Most of the men, including the Colonel, took cover. Rufgear stood upright and smiled.

"That blast is your former position. Your entire position was set to be destroyed."

"How could they get the mines in there?" Chitwood asked.

"You've got a rat in your platoon."

"I've got no rat," Chitwood said with the certainty of a latter-day Johannus Scottus.

"Then you explain to me how the VC planted enough explosives in our former position to light it up like a firecracker."

"I don't know yet. But all knowledge that is knowledge is knowable, as its existence proceeds from its essence---if that pantheistic Christ-denier Benedictus Spinoza is to be believed."

"Did you know about the Maison-Billet cognac?"

"I had nothing to do with that! At least, very little. I offer to The Lord my ignorance, as proof of my innocence."

Rufgear eyed the Colonel suspiciously, and growled.

"I'm serious, Rufgear. GreyEagle gave me some bottles as a gift. How was I supposed to know he was dirty?"

"Mark my words, there is a rat amongst these men. Whatever the reason, you should really be wondering about why there were no soldiers in the VC stronghold I just came from."

"The one you visited with Private Englund?" Chitwood added.

"Do you want to talk about the Private now? I thought you were too busy trying to get information to save your men. Make up your mind, Colonel!"

"Before you kill any more of my men I want you to take me to this VC base."

"I would love to Colonel, but I'm afraid we are totally surrounded by the VC now."

"I see. One explosion has you hiding like a ninny," Chitwood said.

Rufgear pushed Chitwood over and held him against the ground. He put his lips against the Colonel's ear and spoke with a quiet ferocity.

"I've never, ever run from anything in my life. The only running I do is to the finish line. In this case, the road to the finish line does not involve leaving our current position. It you want to gamble a man's life by doubting my word, you go ahead, but don't ever, ever, ever question my machismo again, understood?"

Chitwood nodded that he did. Rufgear pulled away and stood up.

"Did everyone see that?" Chitwood cried. He pulled a tiny civil war era revolver from a sheath around his shoulder. None of the soldiers in the platoon replied.

"Gambon, Edwards! Secure that trail for our platoon," Chitwood commanded.

"You damn idiot!" Rufgear said, shaking his head.

"Do it!" Chitwood screamed. He fired the antique pistol into the sky. Its tiny pop seemed anti-climatic, but it got the soldiers moving. A few minutes later, the platoon heard the screams of two men being gutted and fed to feral cats in the encircling jungle.

"Any more gambling today?" Rufgear asked.

Chitwood fell to the ground. He beat the dirt with his fists and cried. His body shook with shame.

"Get yourself together, Colonel." Rufgear instructed. "There is still time to salvage this mission."

"We're all dead." He sobbed.

"If you do as I say, we might have a chance of getting out of here. It's going to take a leap of faith from this whole platoon. Are you with me?"

The men nodded.

"I need you on board, Colonel. Will you help your men?"

Chitwood looked at Rufgear. The man---if such he could be called---reminded the Colonel of a large, Christ-like lion he had read about as a child. "I will," Chitwood said, standing up. "I will help."

"Men, do as Rufgear tells you," Chitwood added. His body language spoke volumes to the men. It was as if someone had cut the long black locks of hair that dangled over his brow---the defining feature of his character. His slumped frame and open mouth told them that he had conceded power. At least for now.

Rufgear sprang into action. The men were his now, body and soul, and he wasted no time in telling them what they had to do. "Howard and Insly, I need you to gather the longest palm leaves you can find. I need six of them. Don't go more than ten feet outside our current position. This place is crawling with VC activity."

Howard and Insly began searching immediately.

"Evans, use your knife to cut out six poles. They should be two inches in diameter. I want three sets made to fit the arm length of myself, the Colonel and Sergeant Bauman."

Evans saluted and started cutting.

"The rest of you men need to tie together your shoelaces and find whatever is in this Godforsaken jungle that might work as twine. Lets go!"

The men snapped to attention and began working. The tasks gave them something to focus on. Something to take their mind off of the certain death that awaited all of them.

Chapter 66:

General Lehnen cursed the foul Asian sky. He was lost. How would he explain this to his men? He knew he would have to lie. Something about evading enemy fire, they would buy that. Lehnen exhaled. His stature among his men was what fueled his life. The very thought of their disapproval made his bowels ache.

He looked at his map and tried again to decipher his position. Lehnen had a case of raging dyslexia, so it made reading the army maps almost impossible for him. He had learned to compensate by memorizing the tables of the moon and stars. For some reason, his usual methods of direction didn't work. It was almost as though some sort of mystical interference hung about this area.

Chapter 67:

"I'm not complaining, but what the hell are we making?" Chitwood asked.

"Just let me do my job. You don't want to know what this is until it's done anyway."

Chitwood was laying on the ground as Rufgear tied the long wooden poles to his arms. He was also applying the palm leaves to various parts of Chitwood's arms and shoulders. He was sticking the leaves on with some sort of gluey mix he had made from gun powder and mud.

As the sun descended, Rufgear declared that the Colonel was finished.

"Arnolds, I want you to make Bauman and myself look exactly like….this." Rufgear said and stood back so that the men could see the Colonel. Chitwood stepped forward and looked down at himself in disbelief.

"He….He…He's a giant…birdman," Sullivan said. The palm leaves and wooden supports had been fashioned into giant wings.

"What the fuck are we doing, Rufgear?" Chitwood asked again.

"We are going to fly out of this position and attack their rear flank. That will buy our men enough time to hold out for reinforcement."

"We're going to fly? You can't be serious…"

"I'm deadly serious. I made a similar flying apparatus when I was a child vacationing in Alberta. It worked beautifully then, and I have no doubt it will work tonight."

"You were a child then," Chitwood argued. "You saw through a glass, darkly."

"I've adjusted for our weight and the air humidity."

"How do we take off?"

"You just flap like hell."

Chapter 68:

Lehnen moved blindly through the blackened jungle. He was hoping to hit a stream marked in square B3 of his map. By his calculation, he should have already run into the meandering water.

A split second later, the General was riding a rope escalator to the top of a tree. He quickly used his free hands to remove his General's stripes and then ate them. It was the first course of action for any high-ranking officer in this situation.

He dangled from the tree. The rope was secure around his right ankle. His headache worsened as blood ran down to his head. He had only one option left. From his chest pocket he removed a flare bullet. He loaded it into his handgun and fired a purple streak into the sky. He prayed one of his men could see the flare.

Chapter 69:

Did I tell you all that I saw Don Shelby yesterday? Not on TV either. He

walked right PAST ME. I'm still shoveling the shit out of my shorts from the

shock of it all – Brandon Chitwood

It took about an hour for all of the bird-man suits to be constructed and applied. Chitwood and Sergeant Bauman stood next to each other uncomfortably. They were not confident in Rufgear's plan.

"Watch me: when you're airborne, make sure you keep flapping at a steady rate. Use your feet as a rudder. Try not to separate your feet. We're each going to take a position behind the VC line. I've plotted our landing points on a map for each of us." Rufgear was interrupted by a purple flare flying high into the cruel Vietnamese sky.

"Lords of Hollywood, that's General Lehnen's distress flare!" Berman yelled.

"Change of plans," Rufgear said without skipping a beat. "My position will now be on top of that flare. You two keep your original positions. The General and I will fight our way back to this position," Rufgear said, pointing to his original drop point on the map.

"What if you don't make it?" Bauman asked.

"There's a good chance none of us will make it…..but our hearts will pump their last blood with an extra ounce of courage." Chitwood and Bauman put their hands out. The three men cupped their fists and then saluted.

"Follow my lead boys!" Rufgear said, and began flapping his winged arms furiously. At first it looked as though he would be too heavy. The men's hearts began to sink.

Then a miracle happened. Rufgear's feet slowly lifted off the ground. Soon his entire body was hovering over the platoon.

"You can do it Colonel---just believe!" Rufgear called from the sky above.

Chapter 70:

The General's purple flare did not result in his immediate rescue, but it did alert a roving VC patrol to his position, who quickly took the great soldier captive. Nevertheless, Lehnen was happy to be out of the tree. His body was exhausted from hanging for so long.

After a short hike through the jungle, Lehnen found himself in a bamboo cage. He had been beaten and spit on for the last five minutes. He wondered where his rescue team was. With no translator among his captors, there was little they could do but beat and spit on him.

Chapter 71:

The three bird-men soared above the jungle.

"I feel so free!" Bauman whispered to the heavens around him.

"I can't believe were doing this!" Chitwood added.

"Lets stop sucking each others dicks and take our positions," Rufgear commanded. He began flapping toward the area where the flare went off.

A mile into his flight-plan he heard the rustling of palm leaves behind him. "What are you doing?" Rufgear asked the Colonel.

"I'm coming with you. There's no way you can get the General out of there alone."

"Just like there's no way a man can fly with palm leaf bird wings?"

"Point taken. Rufgear, I'm done fighting with you. I was wrong about everything. I'm just a confused man living in a world that makes no sense. I took my anger out on you. I realize now I was fighting myself. When I wrote that song 'How Do You Sleep?', I think I was really writing about myself, even though it seemed like it was meant to hurt you. Today, I punched through the mirror. I'm ready to fight your war, Captain. I'm a Rufgear man." Chitwood held out his fist as he flapped.

Rufgear put his hand around the Colonel's and squeezed. "Lets kill some bad men," He said.

Chapter 72:

Lehnen watched from behind bars as his VC captors squirreled busily around their make-shift camp. He watched the line of trees around him for a sign of Rufgear. He hoped he had seen his flare. He prayed the Captain was alive.

"What am I doing here?" Lehnen wondered to himself. He didn't even know if he had a wife to return to. What kind of life was waiting for him? Sometimes he hoped an enemy bullet would just take him down, that way he could find out once an for all about heaven. His celestial curiosity was a bottomless pit.

A bird call from the tree line snapped his attention back to its military center. He cupped his hand and whistled back. It was Rufgear. From the wet dark jungle of Vietnam came a savior.

Chapter 73:

Rufgear and Chitwood surveyed the VC camp that held General Lehnen.

"Looks like about four guards," Rufgear said. "We're lucky, this must be a roving patrol."

"Luck's a funny lady," Chitwood commented.

"Are you ready for this?" Rufgear asked.

"I am now. I'm a soldier. There was one thing all the books in the world couldn't teach me…."

"What's that?"

"Courage and discipline."

"I've got your back Colonel," Rufgear said. "You've earned that."

"I know you don't agree with my faith Rufgear, but when we get out of here, you should sit down with me. We could just talk about your spiritual journey. There might be something my books and learning can teach you that war and carnage can't."

"Agreed, if we get outta here alive….I'll take you up on that."

"You know what I miss most about home right now?"

"What?"

"A home-made Panini sandwich. Funny what you think about, when death has its bony fingers curled around your neck."

"You're okay, Colonel. Under all the academia and polish, you're just a man after all. I also think you just might be a soldier too."

"Lets go kill some bad men." Chitwood said with a smile.

Chapter 74:

Lehnen saw Rufgear move like a shadow into the camp. One by one, he silently killed the VC guards. Lehnen was about to cry out when he noticed a fifth guard emerge from a hole covered with leaves. Before an audible vocalization could escape his mouth the enemy soldier had his neck sliced open from behind. Rufgear had brought an extra man!

"Good to see you, General." Chitwood said.

Rufgear turned quickly to tell the Colonel not to speak, but it was too late. His body was riddled with bullets. His smile hung on his face like a mime ashamed. His muscles were simply not quick enough to signal a new facial emotion. He fell to the ground. It looked like a drunk puppeteer operating a top heavy clown doll.

Rufgear could smell the sniper immediately. He threw one blade into the trees and heard the satisfying death howl of victory. He ran to Chitwood's side.

"I told you to stay quiet," he said, holding the Colonel's head in his palms.

"I guess….I'm not quite…a soldier yet."

"Fuck you Colonel, you just saved my life out there."

"I did…didn't I… I…I…saved…Rufgear."

"You'll get the purple heart for this."

"It all means nothing….nothing…..it doesn't mean a damn thing."

"You just saved two men. If that means nothing, then I might as well cock this rifle and put a bullet through my skull. We can sit together and complain in the afterlife."

"So you believe?"

"I don't know, Colonel. But I promise, when I get home I'll go down to the Cathedral and light a candle for you."

"One last thing Rufgear…."

"What is it?"

"The….the….the dark path," he said as his eyes rolled back into his head. Lady death mounted his bloody, ragged body, and his soul flew to the heavens. Rufgear smiled as the man's body glowed with goodness. He pulled his hands out from under the Colonel's head.

"Is that Colonel Chitwood?" Lehnen asked.

"It was."

"But…"

"He became a soldier today."

Chapter 75:

Sergeant Bauman landed near his position and dug in. He prayed Rufgear was right about these areas of low activity. One man against this VC force was certain suicide. He focused on his watch. The three men were due to hit their rear flank positions at 0500, just before light would fall upon the jungle.

Bauman tapped a rhythm on his leg. He missed his drum set. His mind was filled with gently rolling tom solos and snare snaps. He missed the guys in "Travelin' Light", the Christian rock trio he played in. He missed Rau, the soldier who had shared his love of drumming. They had planned to drum together when they got back. But then the jungle had swallowed Rau up.

Before the war took him away, Travelin' Light were playing various Christian clubs and churches. It was such a high to sit behind that kit and feel the Lord spraying out of each thump. It was nothing like Vietnam. The worst was how Tom and Greg couldn't understand his choice to comply with the draft. Tom was such a powerful lead singer. It seemed like he and Greg had been separated at birth, they had such a tight rhythm section. The three of them grew together and became a powerful music-making machine. When they all received their draft cards Tom and Greg fled to Canada. Now they called Ben a "dirty killer" in their letters, and said they had a new guy named Barry playing the drums with them in Saskatchewan. It stung inside. Bauman tried to tell them that it was the right thing to do, a man should defend his country. Maybe they were right. Maybe he should have turned tail and ran to the north. He wasn't sure he was defending anything out in the warm terrible jungle.

Chapter 76:

Lehnen and Rufgear moved forward at 0500 hours. They hit the rear flank position at almost the same time as Sergeant Bauman. They dissected the VC platoon with surgical brilliance. The enemy soldiers were unprepared for a rear assault, even one by three men. Of course, Rufgear was more like a force of seventeen men within one human frame.

What Rufgear couldn't have predicted was the strength and available reinforcement that the VC army had access to. Every soldier they brutally killed was replaced by another. Rufgear began to suspect a second tunnel system.

"Were fucked. They're just going to keep pumping men at us," Rufgear said.

"We need to take a position and brainstorm," Lehenen said. "What is going to happen to your other man out there?"

"There will be a special place in soldier's heaven for Sergeant Bauman," Rufgear said gravely.

Lehnen nodded, and the two men dug in to the jungle to find cover. The leaves slapped Rufgear's face as he backpedaled. An unexpected clearing made them go back-to-back and survey their position with machine guns smoking, hot, and ready to kill.

"What the hell is this?" Lehnen asked. Two huts sat in the rear of the clearing. Hollow jaundiced faces peered out of the doors. Slowly, six men walked out of the huts.

"Lepers," Rufgear said, and spat.

"Good God, we need to get the hell out of here."

"No," Rufgear said, gripping Lehnen's shoulder, "this might be our ticket out."

"I think I'd rather take a bullet to the head than lose my fucking limbs."

"Wrap your hands up in your socks. We'll take turns peeing on our hands: that will sterilize and kill the leprosy. Just try not to touch them."

Lehnen nodded. He knew it was the only way. After they protected their sock-wrapped hands with urine, they walked over to the men. The lepers eyed them suspiciously. One man with no arms stepped forward.

"I am Le Ngo, and we are the lost leper colony of Hu Sai."

"How did you come to speak so eloquently?" Rufgear asked.

"Father Tomas at the missionary."

"I'm going to lay it on the line with you, Le. We are just about out of options here. There's a VC force coming our way within the hour. I need to know whose side you are on. If you're with the VC we will just move on, does that sound fair?"

"That sounds damn fair. We are not with the VC. Whatever you need from us, we will do."

Rufgear pumped his fist. His urine sopped hands dripped onto the jungle floor. Rufgear had had a feeling the men would help them. Their golden auras and baked cookie smell alerted him that they were good men.

"We've got little time. Can you separate your men out for me? I need to know what each man's abilities and afflictions are."

Le started on his left:

"This is Do Dang, we call him Black Mortimer. He has all his limbs, but the leprosy has attacked his soul. He will be dead within a day."

"Soul leprosy? Is that possible?" Lehnen asked.

"Anything is possible with a dream." Le answered. "This is Ku Lai, as you can see, he is missing his ears. I CAN YELL AS LOUD AS I WANT, AND KU HEARS NOTHING. To get his attention you simply have to wave your hand in front of his face." Le's waving hand got the man's attention. "And now he can read my lips."

"Useless," Lehnen muttered.

"Not so fast General. Think this through," Ruf said.

"This is Pun Fei. He wears this bandana around his eyes because the leprosy has taken them. We can hardly stand to look at it. That is why we gave him the bandana.

"This is Duan Mei. He has one leg and one arm. He was a skilled VC sniper before contracting the leprosy. I assure you, he will take any chance possible to seek revenge on his former superiors. The VC have no compassion when it comes to leprosy.

"Finally, this is Nils Bozzly. He's an Australian student who was helping out in the missionary and accidentally touched one of the lepers."

"No worries," Nils said.

"He is down to one leg. We fear the leprosy will take him soon."

"Aah, ya got no spunk in ya, Le. I'm lookin' at better days, mate."

"Right," Rufgear said, halting the chatter. "I'm going to go through my plan once. Any man doesn't understand or doesn't want to understand should get up and leave now."

Silence.

"Good, here is how we are going to save some lives, kill some bad men and make us into immortal soldiers in the annals of combat history."

Rufgear had Pun Fei and Ku Lai (the blind and deaf men) stand on each end of the clearing. Their acute sense of hearing and sight would provide invaluable immediate intelligence. He had them walk the perimeter of the clearing, constantly scanning the jungle for the impending arrival of a VC force.

He had Do Dang (Black Mortimer) take Duan Mei (the man with one arm and leg) into the jungle. He instructed Do Dang to dig randomly for tunnel systems. When they encountered a tunnel, Do Dang was to push Duan Mei into it. He could quickly slide down the holes with his missing appendages. Do Dang was to report back when Duan entered a tunnel system. Duan would be packed with grenades: his was a suicide mission.

Finally, Rufgear had Nils and Le Ngo walk in separate directions out of the clearing. They would be bait to scatter the roaming VC patrols. Le Ngo was given a rifle and told to kill as much as he could.

"Thank you, American," he said, and wandered off, never to be seen again. Some say the "Leper Assassin" book series by Hotch Lefontaine was loosely based on Le Ngo.

Chapter 77:

I like to complain before I forgive – Dave Lehnen

Sergeant Bauman was tearing apart the enemy. Too bad he was one man against an avalanche of armed bodies. The force of the VC began to overtake him. One bullet zipped through his shoulder. A spear tore through his quadriceps. He was a lame duck now. He drummed the soil with his fingers, silently playing Taps as a grenade blew his body into oblivion.

Bauman retained consciousness for a few minutes after being blown apart. He slowly rose above the jungle. He saw bits of his body flying through the air and landing on the ground below him. He didn't know if he was ascending to an after-life, or if this was the last grand function of his scientific being.

The world grew ever dim as he rose higher. He saw the huge VC force that was surrounding him, and he felt proud that he had lasted as long as he did. He saw Willem Dafoe kneeling in the grass with his hands stretched out above him. He was probably dying also.

Chapter 78:

Jose, didn't we open for Martin Zellar once? – Shannon Roberts

"Now what?" Lehnen asked, not the least bit upset with Rufgear for usurping his power.

"We will stand back-to-back and blow apart every bad soldier that crosses that tree line!" Rufgear said.

The two men grabbed fists and slapped backs. This would be their end-song. Both felt it would be a fitting conclusion to their stories. They would die on their own terms.

"Rufgear, there's something I should have told you about a long time ago," Lehnen started.

"I know you're struggling with your Faith, General. I am too."

"No, that's not it," Lehnen said, turning red. "It's not my faith that I want to talk about. It's your Coach."

Rufgear's grasp on his rifle loosened. "Coach?" he whimpered.

"Yes, there's something I've been keeping from you."

"But how do you know about Coach? I've barely spoken of him to you."

"Coach wrote me."

Rufgear's stomach tightened. He began to feel sick.

"Coach….wrote…you?"

"Yes, he wanted to send you letters. He left it up to me to decide if you should have them. He didn't want you to be distracted out here. He didn't want to do anything that might get you killed."

"You told him not to write me?" Rufgear asked, feeling his anger starting to boil.

"No, but I've been keeping his letters. They're in my office in Saigon."

Rufgear stood motionless.

"I did it for you. There's no way you would've survived out here. I needed your total devotion for these missions. You're God-damned Field day almost got the platoon killed. Imagine what might have happened if Coach's anti-war rhetoric was filling your head every week."

"He's been writing me," Rufgear whispered.

"I'm sorry, Rufgear. If by some miracle you make it out of here….those letters are in my safebox. It's behind my daguerreotypes. The code is 1-7-3-4."

"I think you meant to say if WE make it out of here alive," Rufgear added.

Their conversation was interrupted by the lepers signal that the VC were on the way. In the forest, the other lepers began wreaking havoc.

Lehnen smiled. Moments later, the first evil VC soldier crept across the tree line. Rufgear and the General stood with their backs touching. They circled feverishly as bullets spoke their impassioned song of death to the incoming horde. What seemed like a miracle soon became reality. The VC soldiers had been whittled down into a retreating pack. Rufgear wiped sweat from his brow and smiled.

"I guess we've got some letters to go look at."

Lehnen slapped Rufgear on the back and laughed. They silently began their journey back to the marooned platoon.

"I wonder how Bauman made out?" Lehnen wondered.

"He knew it was a suicide mission," Rufgear answered.

"And those leper guys? It's a shame no one will ever know about all these people. All this bravery will be lost."

"Bravery is never lost. It's like a second country that hovers over us. Every time you breath air, you're breathing bravery." Rufgear stopped. "Hold on a second here, General. There is something I need to do," he said. Rufgear pricked his finger with his blade, and let a drop of blood fall into the soil. The red droplet disappeared, without any magic.

"Our work here is done," Rufgear announced. He had driven the wizards and demons out of at least one sector of Vietnam.

Chapter 79:

Sailer never calls me – Shannon Roberts

The men cheered wildly when Lehnen and Rufgear emerged from the jungle.

"Radio a Huey to pick us up at Delta 7-37-XP!" Rufgear yelled.

That night the platoon ran sprints and threw coconuts like shot-puts. Rufgear almost felt like he was home. He almost felt like Rod Addams again. The men sat around and shared stories about their improbable fight out of the jungle. Almost every other story told had some sort of mystic sniper helping the soldiers out.

"Those fucking lepers did it." Rufgear whispered to the General.

"Top notch Rufgear. I've still got a question….did you ever find the rat in the peasant army?"

"Didn't have to General. The rat wasn't really a person at all. The rat…..was racism."

"What?"

"There was no mysterious peasant soldier just stealing cognac. If anyone had done some research they would've seen that the Vietnamese take great pride in the commercial activity that surrounds the sale of cognac. My investigation was a waterfall covering several bits of information."

"Such as?"

"Greyeagle was bad for the men. He definitely was bringing shame to the cognac trade. Both sides wanted him out. The second thing is that there is a tendency for our men to look only at the color of a man. I say you need to judge the color and the smell, if you have my new abilities anyway……"

On the chopper ride out of their position, Rufgear talked to Lehnen about the peasant army. "What will happen to those guys?"

"Sergeant Gregory, the harmonica guy from Nashville, will be taking over the platoon. I've explained to brass that these peasants aren't really fit for duty. They got the press they wanted. They'll give those men medals and stick 'em in desk jobs."

In one minute, Rufgear was listening to Lehnen speak, and in the next, lady death was dry humping the General's fatigues. He watched the General's insides spill out as a bullet skewered him from underneath.

"Rufgear," he pleaded, and fell over. His body continued to spasm on the chopper's floor for several minutes. Nobody spoke when Rufgear propped the General back up into a sitting position.

"He wanted to make this ride, and he's going to make it with honor," Rufgear explained. He gently held the General's body up with his arm.

When the platoon arrived in Saigon, Rufgear took the General's body to his favorite flower garden outside the city. There the Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan met for one last time.

Many of the men would stay in touch after the war. The Brotherhood ended with the Vietnam conflict, but the love of these men endured. When you see a VFW, a Vietnamese restaurant, or the smile of a veteran's child, you are seeing the faith of the Brotherhood passed on to a new generation.

Rufgear dug a hole on the edge of the garden. He laid the General's body face up in the grave. He placed Lehnen's guitar on top of his stomach, and began filling the hole with dirt. The soldiers around the grave sang "Chapel of Love" by the Dixie Cups. It was the General's favorite song.

One of the garden's caretakers began screaming at Rufgear when he saw what was going on.

"Anderson!" Rufgear yelled at the translator, "tell this man that the General was…..tell him that he was a hero."

"Co can di cau khong," Anderson said, pointing at the General's body. The caretaker stopped yelling and fell to his knees. He could see just from looking that Lehnen was obviously a hero.

The military drummer finished Taps, and the Brotherhood fired a round of bullets into the sky. Cooper and Tomlinson released a crate full of doves into the air. From the other end of the garden, the men heard singing. They turned to find a Vietnamese choir and horn section singing "All You Need is Love." If General Lehnen's soul had lived past its mortal constraint, it would have been happy.

Rufgear noticed a well-groomed journalist standing to the side of the garden, jotting notes on a pad of paper.

"Jose?"

"Captain," the barely recognizable soldier replied.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"I guess I learned some things out in that jungle. The whole hippy-peace-love thing just seems kind of silly now. I'm ready to give back to this world, or at least take what needs to be taken."

"I knew you were a good man under all that dirt and hair. You look like a real soldier, Ferreira."

"Ferreira? You never call me by my last name."

"You've earned it," Rufgear said, and hugged the man tightly. Jose joined the Brotherhood in piling earth upon the General's body.

A wild dog later tried to dig up the General, and it actually chewed off one of his fingers. Rufgear had considered that this might happen. That is why he laced the General's body with a highly toxic and contagious mix of poison. He had combined Sarin, Tabun, VX and sausage scent. The poison infected the dog and spread to its brood. That is why there are no dogs in present day Vietnam.

Chapter 80:

Whale Prison – J.S.

Rufgear was boxing up the General's effects when he came to the daguerreotypes. Behind them lay the safe-box with Coach's letters. He started to enter the numerical code, but stopped himself. He realized that he no longer needed Coach. The General had taken away the one thing he truly needed. Now he was complete. He had become the perfect soldier. He put the safe-box down and walked out of the building.

Privates Gado and Mullins were standing outside and happened to notice Rufgear walking out.

"Where ya headed, Cap?" Gado asked.

"I'm going back into that fucking jungle and ending this war on my own."

The men laughed, but quickly realized he was dead serious. They ran to get as many men from the Brotherhood as they could.

Rufgear stood in front of the jungle wall. There would be no turning back from this mission. Some of the men from the Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan stood behind him. They beckoned him to stay. Rufgear ignored their pleas. To Rufgear, there was no Brotherhood, there was no Vietnam war, there was no Army, there was no Beatles, there was no Coach. There was only Rufgear and the eternal battle of every man's soul. The future would bring no peace. Rufgear would travel the continents battling evil. Evil came in many forms. Sometimes it dressed as war, sometimes as a wizard. Only his eyes and nose could tell him where it truly lay.

He ran into the jungle faster than any human before him. The warm slippery leaves welcomed him. His fatigues disappeared in a whirl of athletic ability and masculine confidence. His body was gone, but the rustle of the warrior could still be heard. If you listen closely, you can still hear that rustle in your heart.

To simulate the rustle, turn the pages of the book back and forth quickly.

Epilogue

The Brotherhood of the Hoa Lan sacrificed much in their pursuit of victory. Many men gave the ultimate sacrifice, and many others died. The following is a non-aphabetical list of some of the soldiers who made up the Brotherhood, and what we know of their lives.

Private Jones – Shot down in Carson City over a gambling dispute, 1981.

Private Hinckly – MIA near Hsun River. Rescued by Slyvester Stallone in early eighties. Returned a broken man.

Private Drummond – Returned with 7 fingers. Invented the joy stick (not the one commonly associated with computers and video games.)

Private George – Grenade casualty

Private Cassidy – Grenade casualty

Private Pelham – combination spear and bullet puncturing.

Private Smith – MIA

Private Traer – Left behind with leg wound, MIA.

Private Traer Sr. – Fell into a really deep hole in the Lai Cheu forest. No one heard him hit bottom, but he didn't yell back after repeated attempts to make contact.

Private Collins – Operates the Collins Center for Mammalian Technology in Aimesville, MI.

Private Tuey – Died of natural causes.

Private Quinn – A love of the drink took him from us too soon.

Private Rodriguez – Accidentally took a bullet and saved Private Tuey. His posthumous medal did not make his afterlife any more peaceful.

Private Manley – L.A.P.D. dog attack unit.

Private Taylor – Grenade casualty.

Private Cooper – Last seen on a yacht near Fiji.

Private Simms – Fathered nine children, even though he lost a hand in combat.

Private Youngblood – Fathered a hockey prodigy before crashing his van. He was drunk.

Private Ledson – Disappointing, his line of deluxe of fishing lures were clearly a Jeff Brantley knock-off.

Sergeant Thomas – Worked as an extra in the movie "White Noise" with Michael Keaton.

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