Movie Review: “Ghosts of War” (English, 2020)

First off, this very dark and graphic movie isn’t for everyone. Most critics hate it and won’t recommend it. And although it is a release of the Lockdown, not many got to see it then because of limited access. As subscription prices rise to rival the cost of cable, free streaming is a myth standing in front of the growing cost of internet service.

Assuming that you have internet access, then, I suppose you already subscribe to at least one streaming service. Through the magic of the web, once online you can see a load of free movies and TV shows with ads that aren’t unbearable in the commercial break length.

So what to watch, with horrible weather and too many reasons to just chill inside?

Take your pick. Search any film title and the results show where you can see it. Some are on specific subscription services like Disney Plus or Hulu. Not worth the cost, since you’re already paying for Wi-Fi.

I’ve been getting Fios emails warning me that my service will increase in cost in January. They ignore the fact that they’re not the only game in town and should stay competitive, but then again, when does a corporation ever care about its customers?

Tubi is my go-to app for free movies and TV, but I still love the Amazon Prime benefit of tons of movies for cheap, without censorship or ad breaks.

That being said, the heat of summer and the bouts of rain here keep me indoors a lot. Discovering Ghosts of War was one rare treasure that I found compelling and intense. On Tubi now, it’s worth seeing by anyone who likes science fiction, horror and war in one movie.

That’s not to say that it’s particularly frightening; my first viewing had me pausing to take considerable breaks for smokes. It’s ugly stuff, as any movie about war should be. I’m not pushing an anti-war conviction here; all wars have always been nothing but humanity at its very worst, full of carnage, disease, war crimes, and the always present deaths of civilians, crudely called “collateral damage”. I’m saying that in my view, war is terrifying, leaving damaged or dead people everywhere it goes, like a plague. It is stupid, but not merely so; it is the very height of the stupidity of the human race.

I have never been in a major theatre of combat, but I’ve had a brief taste and it can’t be described. The closest thing on screen was the Omaha Beach portion of Saving Private Ryan.

When grenades and mortar shells hit nearby, the loss of hearing except for ringing in the ears and general shock and disorientation Captain Miller experiences are real. You’re terrified by bullets zinging past you, but that state is, and must be, overcome by the adrenaline it produces. It is unforgettable. Years later, decades later, the haunting memory of it gets worse, not better.

Our movie begins in the French countryside in 1944. Five soldiers from the 82nd Airborne are camped at night. The squad leader awakes and sees someone in the trees lighting a cigarette and watching them. He clenches his eyes shut, as a child does when trying to banish something out of a nightmare. When he opens his eyes again, the mysterious man is gone.

The next morning, they continue toward their assigned destination, a chateau 30 miles away by foot. On hearing a German jeep coming, they mine the road and watch as the vehicle hits it. This is our real introduction to the squad: they shoot the survivors, all but one of which would die anyway. Butchie, the big guy, wants to fistfight a major who’s in remarkably good shape considering what just happened. It’s unlikely. Also, the jeep was completely blown apart, but is now lying upside down and basically in one piece. You think it’s a goof, a cheap plot device by the director.

But it’s not. This is how they’re experiencing it. Butchie starts out strong in the fistfight, but the Nazi major quickly begins to beat him. That’s until the squad leader shoots the major in the head with his pistol.

Here’s the cast of the squad:

Chris, the squad leader: Brenton Thwaits

Alan Richson as Butchie, the big, tough guy

Theo Rossi as Kirk

Skylar Astin as Eugene, the brains in the outfit

Kyle Gallner as Tappert, squad sniper, who chews up every scene he’s in. Without him, this movie wouldn’t be worth watching.

Not to be overlooked is the dynamic between the squad members. There’s mistrust, apprehension and a tension that is visible from the beginning, but which becomes palpable later.

On reaching the chateau to relieve the current squad on watch, they find that the relieved members are dodging questions, antsy and far too anxious to leave: our first clue that something isn’t right here.

Searching the house, they find clues of a disturbing nature, and experience doors slamming shut, noises from the fireplace that sound like voices and then Morse code, and a dead animal dropping from the chimney. Eventually, even the level-headed, dedicated Chris admits that the chateau is haunted. Butchie wants to leave, but Chris refuses, saying that abandoning their post is sure to end in their court-martial.

But things get worse. Eugene finds the journal of a Nazi soldier, which describes what the Germans did to the Helwig family, the owners before the Reich moved in and made the beautiful chateau a headquarters. It’s ugly, merciless stuff, enough to horrify anyone. Having discovered that the Helwigs had sheltered Jews, the family’s executions are appropriately gross and barbaric; Nazis executed almost everyone suspected of harboring Jews.

This theme could trigger Holocaust survivors or their descendants, or anyone with a soul. But that’s not the end.

Through the course of the movie, I spotted what I thought were major mistakes. One was the 90 degree angled flashlight. But I looked it up and found that different models were in fact issued, but not widely, to G.I.s in WW2. The earliest had black caps at either end, but later the entire thing was OD green. No problem there.

The use of Thompson machine guns by everyone but the sniper is as incorrect as you can get. Squad leaders (like Captain Miller in Saving Private Ryan) would bear a Tommy, while the others would have carried the M-1 Garand, a rifle so superior to everything the Axis had that General George Patton called it the best weapon of the war and credited it with the Allies’ victory. All of these men carry Tommies, and sidearm, a mistake.

But, I do not consider this or any other inconsistencies to be mistakes.

For one, the squad wears the patches of both airborne and infantry. This is accounted for in the end.

Tappert overhears the others talking about him and later tells Eugene the story behind the cat’s cradle. This makes him both sympathetic and the worst mental casualty of them all. His face is worn by extreme fatigue and yet he tells the story of how he didn’t sleep for 5 days after Strasbourg.

“What I did to those Hitler youth was a fucking nightmare,” he says, but describes the scene as seeing it as an out-of-body experience. “I wanted to kill the eggs before they hatched,” he says. He describes decapitation of one boy who then sits up and makes a cat’s cradle with string. Eugene had told the others, “it wasn’t the first move”, which is inexplicable. Tappert gives that wan smile, tears coming from his eyes, and says in a southern accent, “…and what am I gonna do? I mean, I just cut his head off, am I gonna be rude? So I played cat’s cradle with him and then he just layed back down. It was like a fever dream. I forgot that happened until you reminded me.”

He already told Eugene that his mother liked scary movies. He names two: Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy and I was a Teenage Werewolf, both of which were not released until a decade after the end of the war. Some are quick to jump on this, calling it a glaring mistake. I believe it’s not a mistake at all but is explained in the end.

The chateau ends up getting attacked by Nazis, but the squad fends them off, but Butchie jumps on a grenade and won’t live much longer.

He comes awake through the morphine shots and screams, “This isn’t real” several times, then saying, “it was us!”. Then he tells them to “Remember”, and dies.

I’ve checked everything I saw and questioned in the movie and came away with very little that couldn’t be explained by the end.

In closing, I’ve met many war veterans in my life. Almost to a man they displayed behavior that can only be explained by trauma and tremendous guilt. And which is worse? Or are they always together and come in a bundle like insurance? I’ve known men who bore guilt but never admitted it. I learned how to spot it and adjust my discussions accordingly. The more I learned about my own condition, the less I understood it. PTSD costs millions in lost time at work and accidents from dissociation. War and abuse have more power to wreck lives than modern medicine has to fix the damage.

Here, we see a shocking end that makes a wild payoff, but leaves questions. I found no evidence of the curse used, and the men could not have “all said it at one time or another,” as a doctor claims. Chris had a tube for ventilation or feeding, Tappert has no lower jaw, and Butchie died. The questions linger. But that’s effective, as are the jump scares, phantom images and floors creaking. Critics call this a movie full of clichés. I don’t. I recommend it and score it 9 out of ten.

The Last Soldier of Bravo Four Part Two

Warning: violence, war, adult language, smoking, fear

Chapter Two

Investigation

I had to hear this thing for myself. I camped on Frank Johnson’s couch starting that night. I was awake until sunrise and didn’t hear anything. He soundly slept, so exhausted was he. But my hourly patrols, with a flashlight and .357 Smith and Wesson neither revealed nor provoked anything. All was quiet. Only the October noises of crickets and distant traffic could be heard.

I finally told him on the second morning that it was possible that my presence could be in some way interfering with it. My reasoning for this was that it had no lease to harm me, since I had not been initially involved. That led me to believe that the creature had some kind of motive, such as revenge. Which I had originally thought, but to me, was now proven.

But Frank rejected that theory. “We never gave it any reason for that,” he said.

“Didn’t you?” I asked. “You encroached on its territory. On a mission of violence. You killed on its land. You fired back at it and possibly wounded it. Or its mate. Animals have been known to defend their territory. This may be the same thing. Just…worse.”

“But at least I think I know what we’re really dealing with now, and it is not any fox, nor other canid, not so much as a raccoon.”

He looked up from his coffee, a forgotten Marlboro burning in a large amber glass ashtray. His expression was one of dread.

“They’ve plagued humans ever since we evolved,” I said. “The Celts would call it fey, or along the lines of a leprechaun, but that’s not what it–they–are. In Europe they appeared as werewolves and vampires and in England as large black dogs; in North America as a Sasquatch. Mariners climbed ratlines and swore they looked down and saw mermaids. In short, a creature that can appear in any form it wishes, so long as it’s fun. It plays with regional, cultural beliefs and legends. Your platoon probably landed right on a sacred or territorial area, Frank. And these things aren’t stupid, they can think, reason, they have emotions…almost human, but definitely always predatory.”

“So it really followed us back from the Nam?”

“Cambodia. But it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to tell how many there are or how widespread or even if this is the same one. It could have just made a telepathic phone call. No way to tell.”

There was a long silence. All over his table were half empty packs of cigarettes; Marlboros, Kools, Pall Malls. Poor Frank was a mess. “Well,” he said, “I asked you for help, and you’ve given it. At least I know what it is. But you interfered with it, and it’s gone, like you said. I’ll be okay tonight. You go on home, okay?”

“Frank. If I’m gone, it could come back.”

“No, time I had my privacy back, and you, yours. I’ll be fine.”

That, I confess, was a shock. I immediately thought it suicidal on his part.

That night, I had a terrible nightmare. I saw three men, two seniors and one of about 30 years, struggling in a physical fight against a bald man with a lupine face and glowing yellow eyes and a horrid child with rotten teeth, dressed in rags. They were in an empty movie theater and Night of the Living Dead was showing. One of the older men had the boy down and was cutting him up with a steak knife. The man sobbed hysterically, “Filth,” and then the theater was gone. Outside, in an impossible snowstorm, a bird escaped and the 30-year-old saw it. At the last second, it had changed from a woman to a bird. My glimpse of the woman, though brief, was a terror. She was beautiful but I sensed cold evil in her; a pure, unbridled evil that I would have imagined only the devil in Hell could possess. And before she escaped she looked right at me and said, I’ll see you in 21, inside my head.

The name, not spoken but just there: Milburn. That’s where they were. I’d never heard of it. Certainly a place name, but where, and was it a result of premonition from her threat?

Evidently, the men managed to kill it, or her. I never found anything on record, never saw her in a dream again, and yet…there is something.

Journal

October, 2021

In the winter of 1979, New York State was hit hard with multiple snowstorms, and between those, snow showers never truly stopped. The hamlet of Milburn was to emerge a shadow of its former existence. So many people died under mysterious circumstances that the National Guard had to clean up the mess.

The centuries-old town could not accommodate larger snowplow trucks or bucket loaders. Milburn was crippled and its survivors traumatized. They told the most lurid, grotesque tales. Tales which, had I written about for a paper, would have me blacklisted a second time.

There were reports of residents seeing dead relatives. A farmer had sheep mutilated and claimed Martians did it. He eventually went nuts and I’d rather say no more about Elmer Scales. Then a troublemaker named Jim Hardie vanished. His mutilated body was found in the basement of an abandoned house. An insurance salesman was found at a secluded and abandoned railroad station, completely disembowled. Horse breeder Rea Dedham and her sister passed. One suspected of being a homicide, the other by stroke.

Even the sheriff, Walter Hardesty, was murdered.

Know what I got out of that shit?

Yeah. I was in trouble. I tried to contact the youngest men involved in the theater fight. Donald Wanderly was still around. He was helpful on the phone, but I think his brand of PTSD was too disabling. After tracking down a San Francisco resident named Florence de Peyser, whom he was found guilty of murdering, he had served a fifteen year stint in San Quentin, then returned to writing horror stories and prospered. His conversation was uneven and not much help. I next checked for Peter Barnes, found him still in New York, practicing law and residing in Syracuse.

“Mr Barnes, thank you for taking my call,” I began. “Have you ever heard of a 9-tail fox?”

“It’s not a fox, and please, call me Pete. What you’re asking about is a unique creature with human intelligence that can appear in any form it chooses. It preys on humans that way. It can feed on the energy from fear, or on the flesh of humans or animals. Why do you ask? Do you think you are facing such a creature?”

“I went to visit Milburn, I just got back. I wanted to see where it all happened.”

What I had found was that nothing of the town remained, not even a sign for a historic landmark. An Interstate highway passed through it and state routes crossed it with cloverleaf exit ramps connecting them all together. Stands of elm, pine and ash trees hid the land around these interchanges.

On a rural road that dead-ended at a section of jersey wall and a 12-foot chain link fence, I stopped my car and got out. At first I felt nothing, but walking along the fence I heard faint sounds that were just wrong. According to the grid coordinates and the only map I had ever found of Milburn, and which I stole from the stacks at a library in Pennsylvania, I was standing near the town square, on a street named Wheat Row. My .357 was in a holster, hidden by a denim jacket. It gave me a false sense of security because, by now, my research had concluded for me that anything remaining in the area could not be killed by mere bullets. I had concluded that Bravo Four, in Cambodia, had probably shot it up with M-60 fire, killing whatever it was that they couldn’t see. Probably really a fox after all, since in the bush those animals can be devilishly hard to see. But when that physical form died, the actual thing in it had assumed some other form and escaped.

So there I was, illegally carrying a handgun in a desolate spot two states away from home. I discovered that Milburn was not unlike Dudleytown in Connecticut: a place of tragedy, abandoned and forbidden to enter. Not even Mysteries of the Abandoned would ever film here. The state wanted it forgotten.

Ordinarily I strictly obey the law, except for speed limits. Having a classic like a Shelby Mustang can make even an old relic like myself put the foot to the floor.

The No Trespassing signs were fixed to the fence at five foot intervals. I’d never seen that before, not even on a military base. What the hell was this place? A Superfund site gone awry?

No; what happened in Milburn was worse than any toxic waste disaster or story from Connecticut folklore. It was so much worse than those things.

I climbed the fence. Barbed wire I simply took without regard for pain. Bleeding from minor punctures, I landed on the other side and pulled a bandana from my jacket and blotted the wounds, then consulted the map. I was in the town square but nothing of it remained. No block foundation stuck out of the grass and undergrowth. No concrete curbs to indicate a sidewalk. Not even so much as a rotten four-by-four which would once have indicated a sign could be seen. The trees gave me the creeps. Some were just too old for the smaller ones between them. I realized that those were the only remnants of Milburn: they’d been allowed to live while literally everything else was bulldozed under a layer of earth trucked in by the ton. It was effective. One had the sense of old forest, some of which would appear to be primary growth. Which simply wasn’t possible. But, the effect was definitely there.

After a half hour, I returned to the fence. The climb this time was arduous, my old body aching and already sore. The drive back to Maryland was too long and I had to stop twice for coffee, once for antiseptic and thick bandages. I also got a hambuger to go, passing ten glorious minutes chasing it with coffee. I wiped my fingers on my jeans and crossed the state line toward home. I had the feeling of having escaped from some danger I couldn’t identify. It was with a flood of relief that I parked in my driveway.

“You found Milburn? You went there? Jerry, you should never have done that. I spearheaded the movement to erase that blemish from existence. I hope the gravity of what you’ve done is not lost on you. I never learned whether any of those…creatures remained in the area. They were strong in Milburn. One posed as a Jehovah’s Witness, the ones we killed were Gregory and Fenny Bate. The leader I later learned was killed in Panama City by Don Wanderly. He was the most courageous man I’ve ever known. He tracked down another ‘boss’ in San Francisco, killed it. Someone saw it and the witness was convinced it was murder even though the body vanished. It turned into a moth and he caught it and cut it up with a Bowie knife. He rarely talks to me anymore. He did tell me about killing the de Peyser woman. Had a hard time with prison. It ruined him as much as the monsters had. Even a monster slayer gets no respect in prison; once I passed the bar I had his back. He got a new trial, I hooked him up with a Hollywood attorney and he was released and his record expunged. But the damage was done. If you’re up against one of these, you must know, especially if you tracked me down, that you are in a fight for your life.”

I told him about Bravo Four and Frank Johnson. Frank had vanished on Halloween night, 1975, just days after I left him to his “privacy”. I was devastated; I knew he was dead. Ever since, the words I’ll see you in 21 have haunted me. And when I told Barnes that, he said, “Uh-oh. 2021. She’s playing with you. But that one’s dead. I know however, they are telepathic. This one knows Anna Mostyn’s story.”

Then he asked me if I had been having nightmares. Anything out of the ordinary kind. As if anything about nightmares is ordinary.

Yes. I’ve had nightmares. Always the same or similar. I’m a 70-year-old man who stays in shape. I work with both machines and free weights and I run every day. He was the same age; transferred from Yale to Harvard Law School and had his own practice since 1990. Prosperous but brilliant and highly respected. Yes, I’d done my research. Old habits, you know? But there was more to Peter Barnes than I could ever find on the internet or paper. What he said next would change my life and open my eyes.

“I own a side business, if you will. I’ve recruited the best mercenaries I could find, from around the world. I started their training for a different kind of mission. They’ve gone out on successful ops and been well compensated. They’re dedicated to one mission only. Can you guess what that is?”

“You’ve been hunting them down and exterminating the creatures,” I said, amazed. He confirmed this and said, “My bodyguard detail and a scouting unit will fly into BWI Marshall. As we’ve been talking, I’ve clicked the mouse on my computer and filled in your information. No need for questions, I have my ways. The guards will arrive first. About three hours from now. A word of warning: they take charge immediately and you won’t be able to take a dump without being monitored. You don’t have a choice, okay? The nature of your situation and my prime mission in life means you’ve contracted my services. We will not let you die. You will be having a kitchen and household staff, too. You’ll do nothing by or for yourself. We take it from here.”

Far from angry, I was relieved. I couldn’t thank him enough. We hung up and I felt the weight of shock. This was really happening! I could only hope that it would be enough. Frank Johnson’s death haunted my conscience, but I didn’t want to end up like him.

As I waited, smoking and drinking coffee, I found more information on Peter Barnes. He never even appeared in court anymore. He had an army of lawyers and legal aides and they were good. They had made him the third richest man in New York. As such, he wielded political clout and he used it. He helped fund homeless shelters and placement programs. He regularly appeared at the capital to defend the poor against whatever he found unfair.

I had a knight on my side.

I was still spooked though. I was still vulnerable until they showed up. Who was to say that whatever they called this thing would wait until Halloween night to get me? And what if they knew somehow that I had help on the way and decided to get me now?

One hour had passed when I saw darkness closing in. What time was it? I wasn’t focused at all. The sun was setting and I’d still be alone!

That’s when I heard it: outside in the backyard, a baby was crying.

*****

Keep watching for the conclusion of The Last Soldier of Bravo Four

The Last Soldier of Bravo Four

Warnings: violence, fear, adult language, smoking

A Halloween Story

For my awesome readers

Chapter One

“Cambodia”

Glen Burnie, MD, 1975

As a former reporter, I was considered disgraced. My short career ended when the Baltimore News American published a story I wrote about the war in Vietnam and how some soldiers and marines were coming back with really weird stories.

The backlash was so severe that the phones never stopped ringing. The editor called me into his office the day after a special edition was printed with a front page disclaimer. He fired me on the spot. I immediately retorted that he had read the article before it was printed, and he let it go. He said something like, “Sorry, Jerry. Sometimes sacrifices must be made, and today, you are that sacrifice. Now get out.”

That was 1971, July. Since then, no newspaper or magazine would talk to me. Not even Playboy, and that’s humiliating. They had never backed down from a controversial subject. I was black-balled.

I was working on my second novel and cashing unemployment checks when I was first contacted by Frank Johnson. How he got my phone number, I’ll never know, and he wouldn’t say. It was a private unlisted number, and even my former employer, a retail chain, didn’t have it. I couldn’t even sell men’s suits right.

So when I got the call, I was a bit shaken, since before cellphones, a private number couldn’t be found without a warrant. He said my name, asked if we could talk. “I have a story I think you’ll be interested in,” he added. Then he really scared me: “I have a copy from microfilm I got from the library, your Vietnam article. It’s all I could find on the subject, and you nailed it. Can we meet?”

The arrangement was made, the Howard Johnson’s on Ritchie Highway, 9 am on October 14th. A Monday. I arrived early, had coffee, smoked a Winston. I had a small tape recorder ready along with a note pad.

He knew me on sight, motioned to me for the hostess. He sat down, a grim, grizzled, hulk of a man with a bearing that said, Don’t fuck with me.

This man had been worked over by life. He was the picture of suffering, hard labor and intense trauma. When the waitress brought him a menu and poured coffee, his hands shook. He set the menu aside and drank coffee black, not sipping, but as if it were a cold beverage.

He too lit a cigarette, and then got down to business.

“I’m the last one. Here it is, 1975, I never thought I’d see it. But livin’ ain’t no gift. I came back to nothing. My wife was already in the process of divorcin me, and I couldn’t go nowheres near my own house. I had to sleep in the park until I got wise and went back for another tour. That was after Tet 68. I requested back to my old unit. Bravo Company, 4th platoon. They let me have it. We kicked ass, took casualties, all the shit that goes with a war. Then one day we went out on Hueys to some valley. They called it the “Second Valley” but it didn’t show on any map. Just a red dot, no name. I saw just enough to know it was fuckin Cambodia. We were goin after some strategic part of the Ho Chi Minh Trail where men and supplies were coming in, makin life mis’rble around Saigon. Didn’t much matter to me since I knew we were already into Laos thanks to Nixon.

“So we get dropped off by the Hueys, tall grass, tall hills all around us. I didn’t like it. Never did like high ground around us because no matter how dense the trees were, they always had someone up there could spot for field artillery. They tore the shit outta Khe San that way. Them jarheads never shoulda been through that. Bugged me that later they just left the place like it never even mattered.”

He ordered a big breakfast and I just got eggs up and bacon. I said, “I get why you went back. I’ve heard a lot of stories like yours. Serve your country, go home, lose everything. But now I’d like to know why you referred to my article when I was laughed out of the city for it. I got blacklisted, Frank. Even my manager at Hamburgers found out and fired me, and I was just selling suits.”

He looked up. “Yeah, I know. I tracked you everywhere you went. I had to know I could trust you. That was easier than finding the microfilm. That took a year. But you did a good thing. Those soldiers and marines, they went through…well, you gave them a way to vent. It wasn’t your fault the World hates us.”

“Hates who,” I asked, “Vietnam veterans?” I knew what he meant. I wanted it on tape, on the record. I had thought the flak those guys took had died down, since Saigon had fallen and the protesters had what they wanted.

He took half a stack of pancakes in one bite and said, mouth full, “Yup. Never stopped.”

He swallowed gulps of coffee and then said, “We engaged VC right where the red dot was. Them bastards was dirty as shit. Our first casualty came in the way of a pit with pungy sticks. Fucker was dead on the drop. But we were dirty, too. I taught the cherries some tricks. We located their hamlet and surrounded it. Set claymore mines low, to blow their legs off. I liked it when they screamed before they bled out. I showed everyone how to wire frags. We waited until 03:00, shot up a flare and hosed the place with two M-60s. They came running outta tunnels and huts and I was laughin my ass off. When we opened up with sixteens and fell back, they came after us and got blown to shit by the frags and claymores. I tell ya, it was fuckin hilarious, and maybe more so cuz Charles was never easy to catch off guard. We went in, took some AKs and ammo, couple rockets. Any rice we could carry. Then we went back to the trail and fucked it up and cut down trees across it with the rockets and charges. We knew it wouldn’t last, never did. They always found a way around. And they was hardcore, too. If a truck couldn’t go no further, they unloaded them and carried shit on foot. Didn’t matter, monsoons, mudslides, nothing stopped those fuckers.

“When we cleared the area, monsoon season began right on schedule. Fuck, it rained hard, you couldn’t see nothing, and everything glass or crystal, watches and compasses, got water inside. That’s when I really got scared. If you can’t stay in a area because enemy reinforcements are bound to come, but ya can’t tell what way to go, then you’re fucked. You gotta move, but where? I chose a game trail and followed it. The NVA regulars thought they were tough. But they had the load out, the weapons, tools, rations. Charlie didn’t. They’d never use a game trail because they were scared. I’d been in Da Nang once on R&R for a twisted ankle. I heard guys on the outpatient ward say that the VC was smart enough, they knew what animals hunted on them trails. They’d rather become POWs than get caught out there.”

“I have the feeling we’re getting to the heart of your story,” I said. “You’re shaking. You need a Valium? I know this is gonna be hard for you.”

He looked at me gratefully and said, “Please.”

He chased it with ice water and was quiet for a few minutes. For the first time I noticed that people at two nearby tables were unashamedly watching him. They were listening to something they knew was different and yet they believed. I could tell they were expecting the worst. Well, I thought I knew what to expect. They had no idea. They should have cleared out.

“In them jungles and forests, you don’t fuck around. Specially not on no game trail. But I knew we would leave a scent trail when we veered off, no matter how far we went. Now, I considered myself a capable soldier. I loved the fuckin battles, I loved the screamin, and the guts never bothered me. But soon’s we left the game trail, a tiger charged us. Grant hit it with two shots between the eyes. I knew it was a kill but the tiger had momentum and it hit him head first in his chest. We all heard his ribs and breastbone crack. He was dead on the spot. But we couldn’t carry him or stop to bury him. If a tiger’s in the area, there’s another. We lit out. We ran for about two klicks, stopped and listened. We were out of the hills on a flat. That’s even worse. I looked through my starlight scope but I couldn’t see anything. That’s when we heard a baby crying.”

“Oh, shit,” I said. I knew this part. The crying of an unseen baby was followed by things that I’d had nightmares about for years, ever since hearing about it for the first time in ’71.

“Yeah,” Frank said quietly. “I’d heard the story but thought it was bullshit. Something the guys in the bunkers said to make the VC seem mild. Some myth.

“But by dawn it stopped. We saddled up and beat it out of there until I saw a shrine. This wasn’t the average Buddha, either. It was huge, but missing its head and we were in a field of craters. I knew this place. Recon photos I wasn’t supposed to see taken by a Sopwith Camel. I said ‘Fuck, guys, we’re in the middle of Cambodia!’ The best way to go was due west. We had no way of surviving the walk back to the Ho Chi Minh and slipping back into the Nam, so I kept adjusting our course as soon as the sun passed midday. The jungle got dense again so that night we risked a small fire to keep the mosquitos off us. Of the 41 men who started out with us, less than half were left. That day we took arty that tore us up. No medics left, no supplies for treating wounded, rations running low, even the rice. I didn’t think we were gonna survive. Several guys just vanished in the dark. I figured they doubled back and took their chances.

“Two weeks in, I was able to recon ahead a klick at a time. We were in a place we had no business being, but it was my fault so I’d recon. We went slow. One or two klicks some days. They trusted me and it was my job to bring em home and I knew I’d fail. Got to where I couldn’t look my own guys in the face no more. I was countin on getting to Thailand but it was impossible. Then, every night when we dug in under the brush in the jungle, that fuckin baby cried. Cried all night and nobody really slept. One night it was really close, too loud to be very far.

“I finally told the boys, I said, ‘From here out I want two on point, everyone sharp. Look for a woman. She’s been following us the whole time. In the rear, you rotate. My signal will be a whistle but not loud so keep on your toes. I think our MIA been gettin picked off in the rear. Now listen: any woman you see, you open fire. Kill it, you read me? She won’t look like a mama-san, but young and beautiful. But it ain’t no woman, you got that?’

“They asked questions but not in panic. A braver bunch of troops I never worked with. Pros, every blessed one. Stinson, he was a cut-up and he took the job of keeping morale up with stupid jokes. He asked what it was if it weren’t no woman. I told him the fuckin truth. They all got real quiet. Finally Wagespack, who was Native American and full of all kind a field craft, he said, ‘Sarge, I got an idea. You tell us the rest of the story and we can set traps. But I gotta know what it is first. A shape-shifter could mean lotsa things.’

“Just as he said it the crying began again, closer than ever. ‘Lock n load, any frags left, have em ready,’ I said. We formed a tight circle and I said, ‘I heard this bullshit both at the hospital and from a guy at the PX in Da Nang. It migrated outta China and picked the French apart. By Dien Bien Phu they had no idea what was goin on. The name is the Fox with Nine Tails, and it is both a omen and a shape-shifting monster. It appears as a young woman and tries to seduce guys. The guy at the PX said he saw one. He was buyin cigarettes and marshmallows for chrissakes! I thought he was all fucked-up. Fuck does a boonie rat want with marshmallows? I asked the crazy fuck. ‘Private,’ I says, ‘What the hell are you doin with two bags a marshmallows?” And he repeated the story and said “Marshmallows can throw the fox off your trail because it’s allergic. Sneezes all the way outta the area.’

“Then he said the Nine Tail Fox cried just like a baby, tryin to lure sympathetic men. If that don’t work, it gets bold and walks right up to a patrol. Looks beautiful, sometimes says ‘boom boom?’ Like she wants sex.’

“‘What then?’ McClung asked. I said, ‘She eats them.’

“‘Thing is, nobody ever saw any remains. So nobody can prove it. It eats everything. Nothing’s ever wasted.'”

“Well,” I said, “you obviously survived. What happened?”

“She–it–kept picking us off, one at a time. Over 40 men started out in 4th platoon. Five of us survived. We made it into Thailand. Exhausted, rations gone, no ammo left. Hopkins was sure he’d sprayed her with the M-60 enough to wound her, and we seemed to lose it for two days. When I knew we were near the border because B-52s were flying low and they were based in Thailand, it chased us. We were well clear of trees in the open. The border had been cleared by Agent Orange so no attacking enemy could hide. ‘Who’s got ammo?’ I screamed. Nobody. Not even a frag left. ‘Sarge, I got a smoke left! It’s Goofy Grape, the tower’s gotta see that!’

“I told him to toss it. I loved Goofy Grape; purple smokes were beautiful. Five minutes later a Spooky comes and provides cover fire while a Huey came in to get us.”

It dawned on me finally that I had read a report in the Library of Congress just like this. It had to be the same platoon. “You got Article Fifteens, didn’t you? General discharge and warned never to talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Frank said. “A thank you card from Uncle Sam.”

“Tell me, Frank, why are you doing this? What is it you want?”

He allowed the waitress to pour coffee, and when she walked away, he said softly, “I want justice for my guys. There weren’t no deserters, just scared guys who tried to serve their country. Every man we lost was never found. The VC never captured any and they were never found.”

“That’s not all you want, Frank. Why so nervous? Tell me the truth. You worked hard finding me. Why?”

He lit another smoke and said, “We kept in touch. The other four guys and me. None of us knew what to do. But since we been back, every October one would call the rest of us. They would hear a baby crying at night every night until Halloween. That man vanished without a trace. Four are gone. I’m the last one.”

I didn’t need to let that soak in. I said, “Now you’re hearing a baby crying every night outside your window.”

Frank Johnson looked at me and his eyes were wide. He said, “That’s right.”

He passed me a Pall Mall and lit it with a battered Zippo. “You gotta help me,” he moaned.

The tables where two parties had been eavesdropping were suddenly available.

I wished I could leave, too.

“Well,” I said with false resolution, “At least we know what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.”

******

Be sure to stay close for Part Two of The Last Soldier of Bravo Four coming up.