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.