It was a long walk from the Deployment Depot by Da Nang’s Naval Hospital to China Beach. Tabal and Cardenas stayed behind to gather and store the test materials. However, none of Cardenas’ soldiers knew how to reach the beach gate to the Tiki Bar. Most of the captain’s grunts had never seen a tropical beach, or at least been to one since childhood.  

Barely two weeks before, the men had transferred directly from Pleiku on a night flight by Chinook. They bivouacked at Chu Lai Air Base until assigned to permanent quarters on Hill 54. At Da Nang, Ulises Duquel volunteered to lead the troop to the Tiki watering hole. The initiative made Buck Sergeant Espino uncomfortable. He was the regular platoon leader during their jungle jaunts. Giving up leadership to a Cherry –a lowly, enlisted Private First Class– immensely mortified him. He showed it with disgruntled gestures towards Duquel, festering from the onslaught a bitter relationship that would never mend. 

Duquel did not say so but had never been to the Tiki Bar. He only eyed it occasionally from afar while meandering through the huge Da Nang compound while waiting for new orders. He took the road by the Han River docks. Enroute, he spotted a gleaming DC-8 sitting on the tarmac. Three shuttle buses were ferrying celebratory soldiers. Their tour of duty in Vietnam had ended. A few were drunk, cheering, dancing, and hollering farewells to the stay behind.  

Then, a pair of mortars exploded at the far side of the flight line near the fuel depots. The boarding soldiers threw themselves into runoff ditches and hid under the bus carriages, dressed in their khaki ravel uniforms. Heavily protected by sand-filled revetments, the fuel containers suffered slight damage. Two gunships showed up immediately at the scene for defensive action. After a while, the home-bound soldiers began loading the Tiger Airlines plane again in a nervous silence. The Tango squad watched it all from the coastal road.  

“Fucking VC harassment never ceases,” said Espino. He ordered the men to check their rifle clips in case of a sneak attack on the perimeter. All were unarmed at that moment after checking in their weapons at the armory earlier.

The troop noticed when the shuttle plane door shut. Saw it taxi and take off into a fast vertical climb, fleeing any last-minute snipping. Once on the horizon over the South China Sea, Duquel watched the aircraft graciously bank northeast, towards Japan as a first fueling stop. He guessed all the celebrations on board by now and the last peeks of Annam through a cabin window. He so terribly wished he were on that flight, not beginning a war tour in Vietnam.

On the other side of the field, on the jetty road to the 95th Evacuation Hospital, the Coffin Truck made its daily run. It carried the metal cans of the KIA to be loaded on a C-130 for burial in the hometowns.  Further down the road, the squad passed a combat engineers unit constructing a home base for the Republic of Korea Marines. A banner read that the unit would guard the porous perimeter around China Beach. Out at the bay, naval cargo launches navigated in a finely choreographed waltz out at sea. Vietnamese fishing junks joined in the carefully synchronized naval dance. Warplanes of every design flew overhead equally equidistant, just below the cloud cover.

A civilian contractor came up to greet them upon arriving at the hut. He was running the small surf shop, the canteen further down the shore, and the Tiki Bar. He seemed surprised that such a rag-tag troop showed up together. It was usually loose soldiers on relaxation leave or after-duty personnel in beachwear. 

“You guys just got in from the boonies? Or are you all AWOL? Tell me ‘cause if that’s the case, they’ll put me before a Marine firing squad at dawn if I serve any deserters.” 

“Both,” Papio said with a gruff voice. He put a stash of military currency on the counter as if he were in some Harlem bar. “We need cold beer.” 

“No currency here in China Beach. Show me tickets,” the guy instructed. 

Galan collected the beer tickets and placed an initial payment on the counter while studying the manager’s demeanor. A bit past military age, the scrawny fellow sported a reddish beard, a ponytail, and beachcomber tattoos on both arms.  

“We got some more of those,” said Papio, pointing to the tickets. 

 “Hmmm. You guys are on a full load.” The man identified himself as Bryce Conner, a California surfer from Laguna Beach. He was friendly and talkative.  

“The logistics of military conscription are strange, Southern California sends more foot soldiers to Vietnam than any other part of the continental United States,” he pronounced with pride. “Where you guys from?”

“New York City does its part, too, you know,” said Galan. 

“Right on,” interjected Rawlings. “Chicago, too. We’re a legion of scared, raging young men thrown into war. High schoolers transformed into bayonet killers.”  

Conner smirked and continued his tale. “Southern California is a throbbing heart of the US military-industrial complex. Ironically, just a few miles north, we have the hotbed of antiwar protest and counterculture. 

“I joined the Army to become a soldier of fortune,” Galan said, feigning sorrow. “Instead, became a warrior of misfortune.”   

Conner gazed curiously at the soldiers again. “I see most of you are Latino. Thanks for coming over to fight this war with us. I know you are mucho bravo soldiers,” he praised.  

“Ten thousand US Latinos bit the dust during the Pacific and Second World War campaigns,” said Duquel with bravado. “Another four thousand in the Korean War. Another smaller pile of dead during the First War. Now we fight and die in Vietnam.” 

“What are you? A Graves Registration accountant?” questioned Espino. 

“I’m an anthropologist,” said Duquel curtly.  

“Latinos spill blood for a Green Card, brother,” commented Jaramillo. “I wage my life for a visa. But you know how it is. Fighting with valor at the war front and for equality at the home front.”  

Cuban Ferdinan Castel grabbed a stool and sat at the bar. “Me? I said goodbye to my orishas in Miami and took an express ticket to citizenship through a US Army recruiting office.” 

It surprised Duquel that so many of Cardenas’ troopers were volunteers. 

“I’m a draftee. Where are those beers, man?” requested Papio impatiently. 

Conner laughed. “Getting nice and cold. I already messaged our Tiki maid via walkie-talkie to bring a big first round from the refrigerated hut. I see you’re all Army guys. Where is home now?”  

“In my case, ” said Ignacio Azulia with boredom, “was a third-year cultural exchange student at Columbia University. The draft grabbed me before graduation. Put me on a troop ship across the Pacific Ocean when I dropped a few classes. My parents migrated to New York to flee the Spanish Civil War, and now saw me off to war in Asia.” 

Galan pointed over to the water’s edge. “And that guy staring at the surf is Tico Dacosta, a Maryland High School graduate born in Costa Rica. He’s dead scared of ocean water. Never seen the China Sea until now.”  

The wind turned landward. The waves became rough, and the air infused with sea spray. Some soldiers on leave rough-played in the water like school kids. A gunship patrolled the area every so often. The pale, skinny, long-nosed, and wiry Dacosta stared hard at the surf, hypnotically dazed by the dancing waters. Tico spent most of his childhood in the Costa Rican cloud forests, deep in the Arenal Volcano Mountain range. He had never seen a seascape until adolescence. His parents went to work as Spanish teachers in Delaware with special work visas.

Thibo came up to the bar and put his tickets on the counter. “Uh, you all know I don’t drink, so ma tickets are up for grabs.” 

“That’s no Latino accent. Where are you from?” asked Conner. 

“I all was dragged into the Army from central Missouri. Left home a young, purty, wife with a toddler,” Thaddeus Thibodeaux said briefly.  

“Ah, we have here an Ozarks fiddler,” Conner cheered.  

“Actually, from the St. Francis Mountains, where many of Missouri’s French pioneers settled. God knows if any of my ancestors later ended up here in Nam as colonizers.” 

“Yeah, man. Maybe you got some karma to pay up in these backwoods,” said Galan.  

“Nah,” commented Rawlings. “This yokel scum and his clan are all sweet-natured country bumpkins. Simple-minded folk like Lil’ Abner at Dogpatch.”  He pulled out his wallet and showed an old Polaroid photo.

“Here’s a picture of cartoonist Al Capp when he visited some wounded medics at Pleiku’s 71^st Hospital early this year. Autographed by the man himself. While there, Thibo hit it off with Capp, throwing around plenty of hayseed jargon.”  

“Sure did,” chuckled Thibo. “We talked about how in Nam, rice is a hardy crop. Like sorghum and heirloom beans are in the Ozarks. Right in Lil’ Abner’s neigborhood.”

“Thibo is our radio operator. He goes to battle wearing a coonskin cap,” Galan told Conner.  Thibo sneered and pointed at Galan.

“God don’t like ugly. Y’all wanna know what this city slicker’s done? He asked Mr. Capp what size bra Daisy Mae wears.” 

“I’m am a horny bastard. As a teenager –on Saturdays– I took the ferry to Staten Island just to stare at the 30-ton tits of Lady Liberty.” 

 “Nothing like an platoon joker,” laughed Conner, palming Galan. “Where do you call home?” 

“I’m from the South Bronx, man. But originally conceived at Camp Santiago, in Salinas. Not the California Salinas, but the Salinas in Puerto Rico. My old man was an Army lifer. He survived the North Africa campaign with the 65^th Infantry. Then he came home to make babies.” 

Some of the men took off their shirts and boots and hid them on the sand by a barb wire. Papio moved about restlessly as the others conversed. 

 “Is this is our last supper, or somethin’?” he complained. “Why’s the service so slow?”  

Conner chuckled some more. “This here is no fancy Broadway clip joint, amigo. Tiki Bar at China Beach is a Third World cantina. We must wait our turn for the generators to connect our coolers. Listen, guys, I need to do some errands. I’ll send my barmaid to take care of you for the afternoon. Just don’t hit on her because she’s double jeopardy.  A heartbroken woman and a pacifist bitch.” 

“My type of girl,” said Rawlings. 

Galan turned to Espino. “How come we don’t have a hippie sergeant like my man Conner? Hawaiian shirt, chino pants, sandals, trinkets, and a ponytail.” 

 Conner bent over in laughter again. Duquel saw how the Californian enjoyed the company of his new, exotic customers. But Espino became irritated by the comment. He walked away towards shore side to join Tico Dacosta. 

“I’m not military,” Conner explained. “Was military… Two tours in Nam with the Seabees as an engineer. Fell from a scaffold while building the Riverine Warfare Docks at Hoi An. Not even a Purple Heart to show for my pain.” 

“I got two,” said Papio. “Give you one. I’ll use the other is to negotiate my citizenship.” 

“Thanks, buddy. I later returned to Nam as a civilian advisor. I worked for the strategic villages and the Agroville program during the last days of the Diem regime. Good money. That didn’t work out well with the peasants, so the program was trashed. I morphed into this gig a year ago, setting up China Beach as a relaxation venue for weary soldiers and base camp warriors. A small paradise in the middle of hell.” 

“You’ve been around,” Rawlings said. “Any drunk Marines in the neighborhood we can pick a fight with?” 

“Not today. Lately, everybody’s been busy fighting off Viet Cong sappers in the wetlands. You guys behave. Have some warm cokes from the bucket at the counter. The barmaid will be here soon with the cold brew,” Conner advised. He pulled a small Minolta camera from his pocket and snapped a few crew pictures. “This a souvenir for you guys. I’ll get it to you as soon as I develop the Ektachromes at the Post Exchange.” 

As the afternoon progressed, it became less windy. Easy waves slapped against the sandy shore. Espino and Dacosta returned to the bar.  

“Hey guys,” said Galan. “That extra sensational test back at the Replacement Depot this morning was groovy. Weird as hell, though. What’s with the captain? He used to be a real badass dirty war officer. Kill any VC on sight. Cut ears off, torched suspected village huts with the Zippos. Now he’s shifting to black magic.” 

“Extrasensory,” corrected Duquel. “I think he’s evaluating to see which of us has special abilities.” 

“He’s lost it,” said Jaramillo. “The man needs a girlfriend.” 

“Yeah, Captain’s dreaming up ghost searches. But, I’m not complaining. He pulled us out from jungle patrol down at Cu Chi. Brung us to China Beach. I’m not scared of VC ghosts, only shit scared of ones still alive,” enunciated Galan. 

“For sure, the captain needs a dolly to entertain his wits. Seduce a Red Cross girl or something,” proposed Azulia. “They’re not comfort ladies but are so cute and loving.” 

“Captain’s like a balcony dog. Nowhere to bury his bone,” jibed Galan. 

Next to him at the bar, Thadeus Thibodeaux’s rural mind pondered the day’s events. Speculated about Cardenas’s sanity. Duquel later found out that the astute country boy felt unbridled admiration for the captain’s leadership, his cunning and bravura.  

“He’s kept us all alive,” Thibo underlined with drawl and simplistic wisdom.“No grass grows under the captain’s feet. He can be as secretive as the heart of a haystack, yet shoot craps with the devil to win a battle.”  

“Yeah, Tabasco sauce runs through his veins,” said Galan.

“The cap’s probably married,” Castel pointed out. “An extended R&R in Hawaii will do the trick. Clear his chest and mind.” 

“Let this be confidential between us, men,” Espino interjected. “The captain divorced his lady ten years ago. Had a sultry Korean wife who ran off with a military police officer at Camp McClellan, Alabama. This, while Cardenas was on assignment in Germany.” 

“Ouch, that hurts,” said Dacosta, a young, blondish guy with premature wrinkles all over his face and receding hairline. Duquel figured he was about 22. Meanwhile, Papio ruffled around some more and kicked the sand. Duquel saw he was of a short temper.  

“I’m going to fetch my M-60 and let out a burst. See if we can get some service around here,” Papio yelped. 

“Pipe down, prieto,” ordered Espino. “Ain’t no cold beer for you in the stockade either. Maybe the captain played a dirty joke on us. No suds in this place. Let’s walk back to the Depot and hitch a ride back to Chu Lai. Better yet, let me go to the beach gate and talk to the MPs about a shuttle.” 

Espino walked away quickly. Duquel began to assess the Tiki Bar. It did seem like a place of dark humor. He took notice of the adornments. The typical tourist pole with arrows to different directions pointed to battlefields in Vietnam. On the countertop sat a discarded malaria pill flask filled with live bullets. The label read: Birth Control Pills – Vietnam.  

“Fuck this shit,” said Galan. He pulled a hidden grenade from one of the deep fatigue’s pockets. “I’m going on a search and capture mission for that refrigerator shack our hippie friend mentioned.” 

“I’ll go with you,” volunteered Papio. 

“Hold it, guys. I see someone coming over,” alerted Duquel. “Over there, in the direction of the guard tower and small pier.” 

“Yeah,” said Castel excitedly. “That’s our promised bottle girl.” 

A lithe, young, round-faced girl approached the hut. She wore a black miniskirt barely below the buttocks and a bubblegum pink, cropped halter top. Carried a plastic bucket filled with ice and Rheingold beer. Duquel rushed over to help with the load. She wore no shoes. Her long, dark hair sat in a tight bun over a flashy red bandana. Duquel saw she was Asian but not Vietnamese.  

“Talking about Lil’ Abner. That ain’t Daisy Mae, but sure is a reasonable facsimile,” mumbled Galan. “A good pair of gazungas. And tight butt.” 

“Shut up, you low-down dirty grunt,” scolded Thibo.

Galan gave Thibodeaux a Bronx Cheer. To Duquel, Galan acted like a New York City street kid even in battle. A mindset of goofing off, playing stickball, or dodging fire hydrant blasts on a scorching summer day. Sniping at everyone with trick words.

“Looks more like a Lolita to me,” said Jaramillo, his small, Amerindian eyes squinting in the sun.  Well, let’s say more of a Suzie Wong.

Papio stared intently at the newcomer as if seeing ghosts dancing around her. Without a hello, she introduced herself bluntly. “My name is Susana Xuxu. Call me Sue.”

Jaramillo scowled. “See, I’m a psychic. Hello Susy.”

Xuxu stared at him confounded, but went on. “It’s Susana. I’ll be your flight attendant today. Any shenanigans on board, and I’ll throw you off mid-air.” Her English sounded Southwestern.  

Everyone remained silent. Duquel smiled gallantly. Xuxu noticed and kissed him lightly on the cheek. 

“Take note,” she declared. “I just gave you guys a tiny peek into how a woman’s heart works. This man’s gentlemanly gesture won my immediate urge to need him.” 

“Hurrah to our guy Duquel,” yelled Galan. “Our new seduction master!”  

Everyone cheered and patted Duquel. He seemed to have been readily accepted by his new war buddies. Xuxu bowed to Duquel.

“Thanks for helping me with the load. At least one man remains civilized in the brutality of this war.” 

Her voice was a bit shrill and tense. She began collecting the tickets and handed out the beers, opening each with the swift move of a large metal church-key hanging from a twine on her neck. To kill his thirst, Papio chugged the entire bottle in one swallow. 

Castel, oblivious to her warning, approached Xuxu up close, almost pressing her against the counter. “Nice China Beach you have here,” he praised, his retinas on her bust line. She pulled away, instinctively moving towards the corner where Duquel stood.  

“For centuries, the Vietnamese called this place My Khe. Their traditional fishing place,” said Xuxu with a change of tone “Like Disneyland, now China Beach is a fantasy spot. A playground encased in barbed wire for war-tired GIs and fortunate base camp warriors.”  

“Nice story, tell us more,” said Anzulia, wide-eyed, standing in front of Xuxu with a matador stance. Castel pulled out a small notebook with some colored pencils from his shirt pocket and began to sketch the bar girl.  Charcoal drawing was his hobby and he also was a draftsman in civilian life.

She stared around and examined each soldier. “Some of you guys look Korean to me. Monolid eyes and all. Brown skin. Except for him and him,” she said, pointing at Papio and Thibodeaux. She then gazed directly at Rawlings. “You’re a Black but with puffy eyes like Zola Taylor, the singing lady for The Platters.” 

“Most of us are Latino,” said Duquel. “Descendants of Aboriginal, Iberian, Moor, and African stock. We carry every type of skin tint, eye shape, and bone structure you can imagine.”  

“You’re a smart guy,” Xuxu said. 

“I’m an anthropologist. A musical anthropologist,” Duquel reiterated. 

“I can play some harmonica but don’t know shit about musical scores,” she described. 

“And I’m thirsty,” said Papio. He was all sweated up. His dark skin shone bright in the afternoon sun. Arm muscles tight and strained. He asked for another beer and stared hard at the barmaid. “You dance with a ghost.” 

“What?” said Xuxu.  

“Ah, don’t mind him,” advised Thibo. “He sees odd things around people.” 

“You mean like auras and balls of lights?” asked Xuxu. 

“Espiritus,” said Anzulia in Spanish.  

“In school, because of my slant eyes, they called me El Chino,” said Jaramillo, interrupting the sudden metaphysical colloquy.  

Galan, in turn, interrupted Jaramillo. “Any hard booze around here?” 

“Sure,” said Xuxu. She went behind the bar and with a hidden key, she unlocked a pantry under the counter. “What is it?” 

 “I’ll have a shot of vodka.” 

Xuxu served him a generous swig in a paper cup. “Ten in military currency, please.” She extended an open hand. Galan put the cup back on the counter. 

“What! I have to pay?” 

“The tickets are for beer. The hard liquor you pay cash,” Xuxu explained. “Tiki Bar is a nonprofit concession, but we buy the bottles through the Post Exchange, not in the black market like you guys.” 

“I’ll buy for him,” offered Duquel in another diplomatic overture towards his new comrades. Galan grabbed his drink, extracted a small bag from his pocket, and sprinkled some powder into the cup.  

“What the…?” queried Castel. “Corpse dust?” 

“Nutmeg. Bought it at the Da Nang marketplace when we got here. It’s a trick I learned from Brazilian neighbors in the Bronx. Works me up like a stallion.” 

“Hmm,” snorted Papio. “But no mares here for you today.” 

Galan blitzed the shot in one gulp and crumpled his face while staring at Xuxu’s rump. She now gave him the Bronx Cheer.

“Fuck!” complained Galan. “Another night with my dear Handela. This China Bitch girl is like a wombat. Always saved by the butt. ” 

“Don’t go behind a hooch tonight to spank the monkey, Galan,” warned Castel. That’ll get you a court-martial.” As Specialist Five, he was now the highest-ranking person in the troop after Buck, who remained away at the MP checkpoint. 

“Nah. When I drink this stuff,” said Galan, “I visit the village bunny hooch. Mamma San take care of me.”

“Let me chime in on your cavemen talk,” said Xuxu. “At the village, you can get yourself a court-martial, or the clap plus a castration from the pimp, which is VC. Pipe down on your animal instincts. This isn’t the Broadway district.”

“Stay off the stallion juice,” suggested Duquel.”Blood flows better to the brain than to the dick.”

“Hey, newbie! Great advice for us horny grunts. I like you, man!” yelled Galan cheerfully. 

“Me too,” said Papio. “Our new guy has good vibes.” 

Galan put more beer tickets on the counter. Xuxu picked up the bucket and walked to the refrigerated hut for another load. Duquel noted that Espino had returned from his errand but strangely stayed far away from the Tiki Bar. His jaw had dropped, and he seemed restless. He summoned Castel through the troop’s walkie-talkie.  

“Aw, shit com’n, sarge,” argued Castel. “we just got here.”

“We only have ten minutes to catch the ride back,” Espino answered with a squelchy voice. “Get everyone over to the beach gate in five minutes. Private Duquel stays at Da Nang for now. The captain informs me that his transfer has not been approved.” 

The grunts exchanged annoyed glances. Thibo, Azulia and Dacosta began to pick up their fatigues and put on their boots. Papio and Jaramillo followed. Rawlings and Galan ran to the canteen to fetch Xuxo.  

Duquel noticed that the troop maintained its discipline and followed orders quickly. Silently complied with the new situation. The discipline probably kept the troop alive during the last six months of fighting guerrillas at the Iron Triangle. 

Xuxu returned with the beers, now in a small sack, per instructions by Galan and Rawlings. They quietly geared up again, then left the Tiki Bar with the bag to meet up with Espino. Then, Xuxu caught sight of the buck sergeant from a distance and went pale. The livid showing through her suntanned, creamy Asian skin.

Duquel noticed she retreated to the rear of the bar, slightly trembling. She suddenly seemed like a little girl hiding from an abusive father. Her hands shook. Duquel called Rawlings over. “Doc, check her out. She may have a drop in sugar level.” 

Xuxu composed herself quickly. “No. I’ll be Okay. I need to sit somewhere quiet for a while. Sometimes I too see weird things around me.” 

“We’ll be back soon. We’re in love with you,” shouted Galan. 

“Tell that motherfucker to shut up,” Espino yelled from the gate. “Let’s get outta here, men.”  

In minutes, the troop assembled around Espino. Duquel turned to Xuxu who was now standing behind the counter. 

“Wait for me here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  Confused, he walked towards Espino and noticed that Conner also arrived in a Jeep at the China Beach gate.  

“Go back to your bunk at the Deployment Station,” Espino insisted to Duquel. Tabal will pick you up once your orders have cleared.”  

Duquel again attempted more guidance from Espino but the buck quickly moved towards Conner as he dismounted from the Jeep.  

“Why this chink girl working at China Beach? I here she curses and bad-mouths American strategy in Vietnam?” Espino demanded.  

“She volunteered,” Conner said calmly. “No salary or life insurance required for her. No responsibility for her survival in a hazardous duty zone. She even paid for her plane ticket to Nam. And the soldiers like her. She’s sexy and they don’t mind her salty language.” 

Espino received a signal from the tower guard that the shuttle to Chu Lai was waiting by the outer gate. He marched the Tango troopers to the entrance road, swung back, and gave Duquel a final command.  

“Stay put in your barrack here. Stay away from the bar.” Duquel felt compelled to run over and board the bus, but the team was out of the compound in minutes.  

Without polishing off his beer or saying thanks to the barmaid, Duquel followed his new field sergeant’s orders and walked hastily back to the Deployment Station tents. He wished to avoid any new frictions. The buck’s authoritative tone made him realize how bonded he already was to his new assignment. He sensed that whatever little leeway remained in his life as a US Army soldier was fast fleeting. 

♠ 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

DAMN!

Victor Charlie set a trap in the jungle path that leads to Chapter 26 – Bones… to Chapter 27 – Gongs… to Chapter 29 – Pancho Pistolas… and more…

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