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. Since none of Cardenas’ soldiers knew how to reach the beach gate to the Tiki Bar, Duquel guided them on. Most of the captain’s grunts had not seen a tropical beach since childhood. They seemed anxious but yearned for a break from the grind of war.

Barely two weeks earlier, the men had transferred from Pleiku on a night flight in a Chinook. They bivouacked at Chu Lai Air Base until assigned to permanent quarters on Hill 54. Because Duquel volunteered to steer the troops to the Tiki watering hole, his initiative made Sergeant Espino uncomfortable. He was the troops’ regular leader during the jungle jaunts. Giving up leadership to a Cherry, a lowly, newly arrived Private First Class immensely mortified him. He showed it with disgruntled gestures towards Duquel. It was the beginning of 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 out for new orders. He took the road by the Han River docks. En route, 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 depot. The boarding soldiers threw themselves into runoff ditches and hid under the bus carriages and drainage ditches in their starched khaki travel uniforms. Heavily protected by sand-filled revetments, the fuel containers suffered little damage. Two gunships showed up immediately at the scene for defensive action. Minutes later, 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 Buck Espino. He ordered the men to check their rifle clips and magazine bandanas in case of a sneak attack on the perimeter. It must have been just out of habit, thought Duquel, because all were unarmed after checking in their weapons at the armory earlier, a prerequisite to visiting China Beach.

The troop noticed when the shuttle plane’s door shut. Saw it taxi and take off into a fast vertical climb, fleeing any last-minute sniper fire. Once on the horizon over the South China Sea, Duquel watched the aircraft graciously bank northeast, towards Japan, for 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. His throat choked with distress.

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 transfer cases of the KIA to be loaded on a C-130 for eventual burial in their hometowns. Further down the road, the squad passed a combat engineers unit constructing a home base for 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 amid Vietnamese fishing junks that joined in the carefully synchronized naval dance. Warplanes of every design and lethality flew overhead, equally equidistant, just below the cloud cover.

Upon arriving at the Tiki hut, a civilian contractor came up to greet them He was running the small surf shop, a canteen further down the shore, and the beach 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 affable 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. 

“You guys are on a full load.” The man identified himself as Bryce Conner, a surfer from Laguna Beach. Duquel found him indeed friendly and talkative.  

“The logistics of military conscription are strange,” Conner said. “Southern California sends the most foot soldiers to Vietnam. But you don’t seem to be Californios. Where are you guys from?”

“Hey man, New York City does its part, too,” said Galan. “Half my Bronx neighborhood is fighting here in Nam.”

“Right on,” interjected Rawlings. “Chicago, too. A legion of scared, young men thrown into war. High schoolers transformed into bayonet killers.”  

“Our man Rawlings is the troop’s angry bull,” said Galan smiling.

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

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

“”Hell, we’ve been dying in U.S. wars since before my grandfather was born.” said Duquel. “Thousands of Latinos bit the dust during the Pacific and Second World War campaigns. Much more during the Korean campiagn. Another pile of wasted hispanos in First War. Now it’s Vietnam.” 

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

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

“Latinos spill blood for a Green Card, brother,” commented Jaramillo. “I wager 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?”  

“Me? ” said Ignacio Azulia with boredom and a Basque accent, “My parents migrated to New York to flee the Spanish Civil War, and now they saw me off to war in Asia. 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.

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

The wind turned landward. The waves roughed up, and the air filled with sea spray. Some soldiers on leave roughhoused in the water like school kids. A gunship patrolled the area every so often. The skinny, long-nosed, and pale Dacosta stared hard at the surf, hypnotically dazed by the dancing waters.He lived most of his childhood in the Costa Rican cloud forests, deep in the Arenal Volcano Mountain range. Never neart a seascape until adolescence. His parents were hired a 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 one-year-old 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 off 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 here 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. Lil’ Abner’s neighborhood.”

“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.” 

“True. I’m a horny bastard. On Saturdays, as a teenager, I took the ferry to Staten Island just to stare at the 30-ton tits of Lady Liberty.” 

 “Nothing like a 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 perimeter. 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,” snorted Rawlings. 

Galan turned to Espino. “How come we don’t have a hippie platoon 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 the shore 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. The other I need to negotiate my citizenship.” 

“Thanks, buddy . Both are sacredly yours. 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 combat soldiers. Of course, the base camp warriors here also take full avantage of the amenities. 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,” advised Conner. 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 extrasensational test back at the Replacement Depot this morning was spooky. 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 ippos. Now he’s shifting to black magic.” 

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

“Para… what?” said Jaramillo. “He’s lost it. The man needs a girlfriend.” 

“Maybe the top brass wants to see if we all are mental defectives. Including Cardenas. Maybe they think we are autistic kids that see and hear things, Want to lock us all up in some pyscho ward to study our brains to see what war does to a man’s noodles,” volunteered Rawlings.

“Yeah, the man wants us now to search and destroy VC spirits. But, I’m not complaining,” enunciated Galan.  “He pulled us out from jungle patrol at Cu Chi and brung us to this China Beach neighborhood. OK with me. It’s not Cong ghosts I’m scared of. Only of those still alive.”

“The cap needs a dolly to entertain his wits. Maybe seduce a Red Cross girl or something,” proposed Azulia. “They’re not comfort ladies but are cute and loving.” 

“Captain’s a balcony dog. Has 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, 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 will 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. There 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 fatigues’ 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 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. “What a 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. The goof off mindset, 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 bar girl 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 am 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 midair.” Her English sounded U.S. 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 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 beer 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-weary GIs and fortunate base camp regulars.”  

“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 Blac; 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 light?” asked Xuxu. 

“Espiritos,” said Anzulia in Spanish.  

“In school, because of my slanty 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, unlocked a pantry under the counter. “What is it?” 

“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 for,” Xuxu explained. “Tiki Bar is a nonprofit concession. 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. “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. and hid behind the counter.

“Fuck, man!” complained Galan. “Another night with Handela. This China Bitch girl is like a wombat. Saved by the butt.” 

“Don’t go spanking the monkey behiund a bush, Galan. That’s an order,” 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 was still away at the MP checkpoint.

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

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

“Good advice. Stay off the stallion juice,” suggested Duquel. “Blood always 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 tell Xuxu. Duquel noticed how the troop maintained a strict discipline, followed orders quickly. Complied with the new situation. The levelheadness probably kept the troop alive during the many months of guerrillas ambushes 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 sudden lividity showed 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 had 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 obtaining 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 hear 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. 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 now fast fleeting. 

♠ 

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

DAMN!

Victor Charlie set booby traps in the jungle paths that lead to Chapter 26 – Bones… And to Chapter 27—Gongs… and Chapter 29 – Pancho Pistolas… and so on… The adversary knows the last chapters of Saigon Song are very revealing and harrowing.

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