The bartender leans against the wall, polishing glasses with his rag, watching two sullen men perched at opposite ends of his otherwise empty bar. On any average night—where the hum of conversation mixes with the swollen scent of liquor and hormones—the script is already written; a testament engraved in stone which the actors only need to play out for him. But this is no average night.
Slivers of early evening sunlight slip through the window shade, slicing hot yellow trails across the weathered floor. A small color TV sits on a shelf above rows of liquor bottles, with a dusty clock hanging on the wall next to it. The volume on the evening news is low, but there are no competing sounds, except the steady whoosh of cars heading upstate and the relentless beat of the old clock, always ticking forward.
“Wildfires continue to sweep the state, showing no signs of easing. Residents of Jackson County are preparing to evacuate tonight.”
The news director cuts to the eye-in-the sky, where a shaky panning shot reveals square-miles of dense woodland, reduced to blackened matchsticks. On the horizon, the fire’s front marches onwards, consuming all in its path, an unstoppable marauding army. It does not differentiate between fields and forests, or towns and plains, because there is no discrimination in the inferno’s beating heart, where oxygen is king, and all material is equal.
“Areas previously considered out of danger are under threat after the prevailing winds shifted to a westerly direction, with a strengthening of air currents from the ocean. Despite the strong winds, there’s no let-up in the latest heatwave which has the state at a near standstill. Over to Belinda with the latest weather report…”
The shot melts into a weather map, with ten-mile-wide arrows sweeping in wide arcs from the Pacific, signifying winds which appeared hours before the wildfire was destined to hit the coast and run out of fuel.
Beneath the television’s flickering glow, one of the customers watches while his glass rises and falls mechanically between the bar top and his wet lips. He wears his hair greased tightly off a widow’s peak so symmetrical it could have been sculpted by sentient hands, with two perfect inlets of shiny pinkish forehead, straddling a rocky outcrop of thinning strands. Tucked into the slim waist of his jeans, his red and black plaid shirt hangs loosely from his frame. Between sips of his drink, he flicks the flint of his silver Zippo lighter on and off, but his gaze never wavers from the news broadcast, even when he opens his mouth to speak.
“Hell of a bonfire, ain’t it?”
Before the bartender can respond, the symphonic roar of an aircraft passing low overhead renders conversation impossible. Whiskey tumblers and beer glasses rattle on their shelves.
At the din, the bar’s other customer slides his hands from sweat-slicked cheeks, cupping them over his ears. Lank, shoulder-length hair flops around his face. His shoulders slump further forward, and his elbows slide outwards, until his heavily stubbled chin almost touches the bar’s pockmarked surface.
A bar stool scrapes across scuffed wood. Widow’s Peak is light on his feet, and his steps are as soft and considerate as his words.
“You okay there, friend?”
Slowly, the long-haired man’s head lifts, as if a voice from God himself has summoned him from a stupor. He looks around the room like it is the first time he’s seen it, glancing at the bartender and the television before swinging his head around to meet the voice. He shakes his head and looks back to the empty beer bottle in front of him, never having met his inquisitor’s cool stare.
“Uh, what’s it to you?”
“Ain’t nothin’ to me. Just got a look that says you could use an ear.” His attention shifts to the bartender. “Scotch and soda for me, and another beer for this gentleman.”
The bartender springs into action and pulls an ice-cold bottle from the cooler. In one motion, he rips off the top with his blade and slides it down the bar, where it comes to rest against its empty cousin. He takes a fresh glass from the shelf and examines it for smudges. It is flawless, so he plants it upon a black cocktail napkin, scoops four ice cubes inside and pours a double measure by eye. The brown liquid streams into the glass in a perfect arc. He cuts off the flow with a shake, and spins the bottle by its neck, returning it to his speed-rail, then he opens a club soda and places it by the glass.
Widow’s Peak grunts and drops himself onto the empty stool beside the long-haired man. He picks up his tumbler and swirls the cubes around the glass. They clink and sing, cracking from the shift in temperature caused by the Scotch. He takes a sip and places the glass back over the damp circle left behind on the napkin.
“Gonna be the mother of sunsets tonight.”
The long-haired man does not reply. He stares instead at the television, where the rolling news coverage continues moving inexorably forward, raking over the hot coals, examining every inch of information. He raises the fresh bottle to his lips and drinks, then pushes the cold glass to his forehead, where beads of sweat have formed in solidarity with the condensation on the neck of his beer. His white shirt has heavy dark patches under both arms.
“What unit did you serve in, friend?” Widow’s Peak asks.
Their eyes meet. The long-haired man sees him properly for the first time, recognizing the hollow stare of another veteran. “Uh, Air Force. I was a pilot.”
“A birdman, huh? What did you fly?”
“A Super Sabre, mostly.” He lifts his free hand and holds it flat for them both to examine, revealing a slight tremor. “Believe it or not, I used to be as steady as they come. You?”
“Regular army. Three tours, with the 101st Airborne and the 506th.” The long-haired man’s eyes narrow even further until they are almost closed. Widow’s Peak nods slowly. “You better believe it. I went back for more. Twice.”
“I believe it, don’t worry.” The long-haired man raises his bottle, and Widow’s Peak clinks it with the bottom of his glass.
“So, what’s eatin’ you up, friend? Them aircraft flyin’ low overhead, right? Every time I hear a chopper in the sky, the sound takes me straight back.” He points towards the ceiling fan above, with its slowly rotating blades engaged in a losing struggle to move the bar’s soupy air. “Hell, even that’s enough.”
“The fire…” The long-haired man’s gaze drops to the floor as his voice trails off.
“Guess you flyboy types saw a lot of shit burn, too, huh? Seen enough flames to last me a thousand years.” At the thought, Widow’s Peak reaches for his Zippo and fondles it before returning it to his breast pocket.
“Do you know what napalm does to people? It sticks to their skin, like white-hot jelly. You can’t get it off, it just burns right through. The brass said they used that evil stuff to clear the jungle, but everyone knows they kept dropping it because it terrified Charlie.”
“You’re not wrong, friend. Them suckers weren’t afraid of much, but when it rained fire from the sky, they was scared, alright. One time, this Viet Cong came running out the jungle, naked as the day he was born. Hands up in the air, screaming, “Tôi đầu hàng, tôi đầu hàng.” I surrender. You boys had been probing their bunker positions all night with Snake ‘n’ Nape. His legs were like jelly. Smelled terrible. He’d crapped himself, and I ain’t never seen a sorrier motherfucker. Swear that was the only time I ever saw Charlie hold up a white flag.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Yup. Look, man, I know it’s rough on the soul, but you don’t know how important it was for the grunts down on the ground. When the fighters roared past and lit up the fuckin’ jungle, it made us feel like God was watching over us, you know?”
The long-haired man laughs bitterly.
“What, you don’t believe that? I never met an infantryman who didn’t love you motherfuckers up in the sky.”
“How about our boys who we dropped bombs on, huh? Why don’t you ask them how much they love the pilots who smoked them? Or ask their parents.”
“Friendly fire?” says Widow’s Peak, and the other man nods. “Shit happens. One time, in ‘68, I think. Goddamn A Shau Valley. Hell on earth, I swear. We shoulda never been there. It was NVA territory every bit as much as downtown Hanoi. Anyway, we were supporting some units from the 327th division on some godforsaken operation. This greenhorn lieutenant fucked up the co-ordinates. Called an air strike on his own goddamn position. Wasted seven of his own men. Another fifty or so wounded.”
“Christ.” The long-haired man’s head lolls forward, and he claws at his reddened eyes.
“Did we blame the pilot? Fuck no. That’s like blaming God for this fuckin’ shit-storm outside.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the television. “We blamed the asshole who screwed up the fire mission. They shipped the bastard back to the world before someone fragged his ass. Of course, he didn’t suffer a scratch. He sure has a sick sense of humor, don’t he?”
“If you believe in God, yeah. Do you?”
“I don’t rightly know, but I’m certain of one thing. If there’s a heaven and hell, then I ain’t headed anywhere nice.” Widow’s Peak jabs his index finger towards the Earth’s molten core as if it lurks just below the surface.
“Well, you’re not alone, buddy.” The long-haired man runs a hand through his greasy locks, scooping the hair out of his eyes. “I dropped a stack of nape a few klicks outside some firebase, close to Da Nang. It was during Tet. Killed six Marines, burned up a load more. Never knew squat until we got back to base. We couldn’t tell from up there who was who, yet I see them every time I close my eyes, running around in circles, their skin on fire like human Jack-o’-lanterns. Then they just drop to the floor, lying still as glass, the flames dancing in the breeze. Is that how men looked when they burned?”
“Pretty much, friend. That’s one stink you never forget. First time you catch a whiff of bodies burnin’. Gasoline and human cracklin’. The sound, too. Like pork skin on a hot grill.”
Loosened by the alcohol and wisps of smoke which hang in the air, tears flow from the long-haired man’s eyes, etching hot streams down the deep creases etched into his cheeks.
“I just want to go back and undo it all. Question the coordinates, abort the mission, anything. I wouldn’t care if they court-martial my ass, kick me out.” He raps his temple with the palm of his hand. “I’d do anything not to have to relive it every day up here.”
Widow’s Peak places his hand gently on the fellow veteran’s shoulder. His voice drops to a soft whisper. “It ain’t your fault. How could you know, huh?”
The long-haired man wipes away the tears with the back of his hand and drains his beer. He smiles and says, “Another round, bartender, please.”
Widow’s Peak heaves a deep sigh and whistles the breath back out through his nose. He taps the bar top with his fingers and asks, “You want a story? I can tell you a story.”
“Sure, why not? Let’s release all the fucking ghosts.”
“Okay, brother. Not that I think it matters, but I reckon you’re a man who can keep a secret, and I’m sure as hell this guy is solid.” The remaining shards of ice clink as he jerks his empty glass towards the bartender, who can’t do anything but listen while he fixes two more drinks. Still, he knows he is an intruder in their conversation and keeps his gaze lowered away from the two men, except to acknowledge their requests with a respectful nod.
“Look, I ain’t never told nobody this, not even my wife. You know the last thing she said to me?”
“What did she say?”
“The last thing she said when she walked out the door. I’ll never forget. She didn’t even look back over her shoulder; it was her sweet little tush speaking. It said, “Johnny, get yourself a goddamn shrink.” Reckoned I should get a real good one, too, because if anyone needed help, it was me. She didn’t know the half of it, friend. You married?”
“Uh-uh. Doubt I ever will. I’m Chris, by the way.”
“Well, howdy, Chris. How long we been talkin’ and I ain’t even introduced myself? She always said I had the manners of a pig.” Johnny extends his rough paw, and the two men shake. “Anyway, it was on my third tour. We’d been patrolling the edges of the A Shau valley on and off for weeks. Seemed like I never could escape that damned place. Search and destroy, they called it. We did a lot of seeking, I know that much. And eventually we did some of the latter too, but it wasn’t no NVA.”
Now, Chris is listening with all his attention. Two fresh drinks sit on the bar, untouched and warming slowly. The news anchor drones on, unheard. Perhaps there are other voices, whispering and insistent, which have joined in, uninvited.
“We’d lost three or four men to booby traps, and a few officers to a sapper attack the previous night. Damn, it was hot. You think it’s bad today, but it’s nothing like the heat out there. Several more of our boys got medevacked out with heatstroke or what-have-you. Or malaria from drinkin’ water straight from the river. One canteen didn’t last long in that humidity. All this without seeing a single fuckin’ live enemy soldier. They was like ghosts, I swear. We’d find their campfires smoking out in the bush, fish-heads and even a blackened corpse or two from air strikes. But anytime we made contact, they vanished. Probably had miles of tunnels right under our damn feet.”
On the street outside, an amplified voice shrieks through the quiet. “Prepare to evacuate. All remaining residents must leave within the hour. Prepare to evacuate—”
Johnny waves away the intrusion and continues his story. It must be heard. Nothing less than a 15,000-pound bomb could stop it now. “So, the brass ordered us to check out this village down in the heart of the valley. Look for enemy supplies and whatnot. Said we’d better come back with something. Our body count had been lousy for weeks, and the division commander was gettin’ heat from way up on high. Shit rolls downhill, don’t it?”
“Always has.”
“We lost another kid on the way out. Can’t have been a day over eighteen, probably never gotten laid in his lousy life. Bastards used one of our own Claymores. Shredded his legs like they was made of paper, took both off above the knees. Couldn’t do nothin’ to stop the bleeding. Every time his heart would beat, it sprayed jets of it all over the place. Not blood like when you cut yourself. This was thick, and so dark it was almost black. Kept gushing onto the dirt until the trail was covered and there was more out than in. Must’ve been one hundred degrees in the shade, but the poor kid was shiverin’ and cold. Went so pale, like wax paper. He had these eyes, so blue and honest. Even as the life drained out, couldn’t lie to ‘em. He asked if he was gonna die and I told him yeah, he was gonna die. Doc tried to give him morphine for the pain, and he waved him away, said he didn’t wanna die feelin’ zip. I held his hand, watched him slip away. I’ll always remember the look on his face. Wasn’t no peaceful death like in the movies. He looked so scared. Before he went, he pressed somethin’ into my palm.”
Johnny pulls out his Zippo and holds it up for the other man to examine. There is a faint inscription etched into the smooth silver. “Always kept it close, ever since. Then they bagged him up and the Sarge, real mean bastard he was, he said to take a good look at this dead boy, because that’s what happens when you lose concentration for one second out in the bush. Motherfucker was right. Still, I wanted to frag his ass right there.”
Johnny takes a moment to gulp down half his fresh drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before continuing. “When we hit this village, we was all feelin’ pretty mean, too. And of course, we found piles of AK-47s and RPGs, and enough rice to feed half of China. It was Charlie’s country, man. Them villagers were probably just as scared of him as they was of us. What choice did they have? The NVA wasted their own sometimes, to send out a message.”
The saloon door swings open. All three men shield their eyes from the intruding sun, which hangs low in the sky, silhouetting a lone firefighter within the door frame’s peeling wood. A charred smell wafts inside—the mother of all campfires—along with his raspy warning. “Time to leave, people. Wind’s changed direction. Fire’s coming this way.”
Chris holds up his hand. “Yeah, we’re leaving. Don’t worry about us.”
But the men do not move, and the firefighter shakes his head. “Your funeral.”
“Fuckin’ A it is,” Johnny says under his breath. From somewhere beyond this room, other voices whisper in agreement.
Another chopper roars overhead and banks back towards the ocean after dropping its futile load of seawater into the seething mass of flames. The room shakes from the downdraft. The firefighter stares up at the sky before jogging away. Behind him, the door swings shut, returning the room to its darkened state and allowing the story to continue.
“Our LT got wasted in that sapper attack I told you about, so Sarge was platoon leader. We tried to interrogate ‘em for some intelligence to please the brass, but we didn’t have no interpreter anymore. Sarge started slappin’ people around, and a few villagers tried to di-di. Some kid, fuckin’ new guy with an itchy trigger finger, he fired first. Maybe it was an accident, maybe not, but then half the platoon started to rock ‘n roll. The air was filled with cordite, then it just went eerily quiet for a few seconds, with four or five bodies flappin’ in the wind. Then the wailin’ started. Little kids and old Momma Sans. It was fuckin’ bedlam, man. Sarge had this huge, booming voice, louder than every other noise, even though he wasn’t hardly hollerin’. “Waste the lot,” he said. “Waste every last one.” So that’s exactly what we did. We lit ’em up…”
The weight of his tale released, Johnny slumps forward, his wiry back bowed, the bones of his spine rippling through his shirt. Tears flow from his red-ringed eyes, which are irritated by the gathering smoke, and he wipes them away with an oil-stained hand. Even the bartender has stopped his close-down routine. Instead, he leans against the varnished wood of his bar. The heaviness of Johnny’s words has weighed down his shoulders, too.
Johnny sniffs and runs his rolled-up shirtsleeve across his nose, before draining the remnants of his drink. He turns to face the bartender, holding out two fingers.
“Couple of neat scotches, and one for yourself. Make ’em as large as you can. Where was I… So, when it was over, nothing moved except the ripple of the breeze comin’ over the mountains. Then this baby started cryin’ from among the piles of corpses. There was this one kid who kept his rifle slung over his shoulder the whole time. He wouldn’t look. When somethin’ bad goes down, it’s one and all, man. Everybody’s culpable, no such thing as innocence. At least he coulda been smart enough to fire over their heads or into the goddamn ground. Must’ve been plenty who did, and maybe their souls were saved. Or maybe not, because just being present that day was probably enough.”
He reaches for the glass with three thick fingers of neat scotch inside, and drinks half in one greedy gulp, then slams the glass down again.
“The sarge grabbed this kid round the neck and pulled him over to the pile of bodies, where this baby was crawlin’ around, not a scratch on the poor bastard. He gave the kid his Colt-45 and said he’s gotta finish it. The kid just stood there, starin’ at the baby, same as I woulda. Hopin’ to wake the fuck up. But this weren’t no nightmare, man, and it weren’t goin’ away. The sarge cocks his M-16 and levels it at the kid’s head and…well, you can guess the rest, ’cause he didn’t have no choice.”
In one more swallow, he finishes his scotch and spins the empty glass across the bar towards the waiting bartender.
“We dug a trench and rolled the bodies in, then covered ’em in gasoline and burned the lot. So, when I talk about the stink of bodies, I know what I’m talkin’ about. Sarge reported thirty-seven NVA killed to the division commander. No wounded, no captured, and no questions. Body count is king. One American KIA, and that was the boy with the blue eyes. To think I pitied that kid, a few long hours before. After what went down, I’d a swapped places with him in a heartbeat.”
Johnny has no more tears to cry. Chris doesn’t ask what happened to the Sarge, or any of the men, least of all the kid who wouldn’t fire his rifle. Any answer would be meaningless. Instead, he sips his scotch. Between long pulls he asks, “Can I ask you something? It’s going to sound like I’ve lost it.”
“Shoot. No secrets now, friend.”
“Have you heard the voices calling? Today, I mean.”
“All day long,” Johnny says, nodding slowly, like he’d been expecting this question. “Growin’ louder as that fire draws nearer. I can’t bear it, man. Makes me want to rip my ears out, if I thought it’d stop the sound. But it won’t.”
“I’m so damn tired. I just want it all to stop,” says Chris.
Johnny stares long and hard at his new friend, then stands, sending his stool skittering backwards and clattering to the floor. The sound makes the bartender jump, but the two veterans do not seem to notice.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“I’ve got no place to be,” says Chris.
“I think maybe you do.” Johnny sways from the booze, but his words are clear. “Maybe we both got somewhere to be.”
Their eyes meet, and they share a look which the bartender can only try to understand. The bartender makes it his business to know people. He reads them the way an expert mechanic reads the hum and throttle of an idling engine. Alcohol is like pumping the accelerator—that high-revved whine which reveals all flaws. He knows young men with hard stares and empty heads, besotted by the violence smoldering around them. He recognizes proud older men who never seek confrontation yet refuse to shy from it. But, as much as he knows men, he cannot know all.
“I think I’m ready.” The deep lines on Chris’s face have lessened somehow, as if a great wrong has been reversed. He looks younger than when he first walked in the bar. When he raises the glass to his lips to finish his drink, his hands no longer shake.
“Alright, then. Guess we better let this fine man close his bar.” Johnny says, pulling out a thick roll of notes from his back pocket. He drops the wad onto the bar top, nods to the bartender and says, “Thanks, friend. See you around.”
The bartender nods in return and watches the two veterans leave, blinking and stumbling into the fading light, which is obscured by a hazy sheet of gray. The sky behind it is bruised and glowing. Dusk has come early tonight.
Outside, the well-tuned engine of a pickup truck roars into life, idles for a moment, then hums away in the opposite direction to the remaining dribbles of traffic.
The bartender doesn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but he’s been hearing a noise growing in his ears, too. Insistent, perhaps, but possible to ignore, with some willpower. Still, he knows he must get away from this place. Despite his certainty, he digs in a drawer for the packet of smokes he once stashed there. He hasn’t smoked in two years, but right now he needs a little help, and it seems a fair trade. With the book of matches he left inside the carton, he lights his cigarette and takes a lingering look around the saloon while the first deep drag fills his lungs, and the nicotine caresses his tired skull with nimble fingers. Evidence of the approaching wildfire is creeping all around him now, and his long exhalation becomes one with the smoke.
When he steps outside into the brutal evening warmth and stares up at the blood-red sky, another powerful voice, this one rising from deep in his stomach, tells him he won’t ever see his bar, or the two veterans, again.
***
On the short drive, neither man exchanges a word. The thrumming engine of Johnny’s Dodge pickup provides the background music, while they trundle up the incline. Ahead, clouds of tar drift across a sheer wall of violent red.
The truck at last passes the hill’s brow, and both men gasp in awe. Spread across the valley, the fire’s full majesty fills the windscreen; a glowing mountain which dominates the horizon. In its doomed foothills, silhouetted swathes of forest canopy vanish beneath rolling orange waves.
The truck doors slam in unison. Johnny points towards the inferno. “Do you see ’em?”
“I see them.”
After a moment of hesitation, the two men set off down the track, towards the blaze’s beating heart.
“Are you scared?” Johnny shouts over the ferocious roar, which is like cupped seashells in his ears. The voices are there too, and they no longer whisper. Now they are a chorus of cries, beckoning the two men closer, towards a place where they can have their sins cleansed, their innocence returned.
When Chris shakes his head, heavy tears spill from his cheeks and hiss onto the scorched earth below. “I’m not scared. This is where we are meant to be.”
Johnny takes a last look over his shoulder. The creeping fire has cut off any escape. A jet of flame crashes over his Dodge, while a newsie chopper buzzes low overhead, perhaps trying to steal intimate moments belonging to nobody else. He can’t see it through the thick carpet of smoke, but he knows it is there. The thrash of rotor blades slicing through oxygen-starved air is forever etched into his mind.
With synchronized strides, they keep walking, deeper into the pyre. A fifty-foot wall of flame barrels towards them in slow-motion, like the ocean swell of Satan’s own break. A bubbling sea of fire which rolls forward, always forward, consuming all it touches.
Both men lapse into racking coughs as oily smoke engulfs them. Their hands reach out to grip one another so they can be sure they are not alone. Fingers of heat reach down their throats, and their lungs crumple at the touch. Still, they walk on.
If Chris could speak, he would describe the six scorched Marines standing rigid and proud, once fine specimens of youth, wearing stiff salutes to mark his arrival into this theater of the everlasting. Arcs of flame puff and whirl around them like the corona of a dying star. Behind, the charred corpses of those slain by his ordinance are stacked so high they block out the setting sun, feeble and pale, almost insignificant against a seething backdrop of nuclear yellow. With each step, the rubber soles of his boots bubble and hiss. Yet still he walks on.
If Johnny could talk, he would tell you about the rows of Vietnamese—old men and children; women and little girls, but no soldiers—standing on either side, a grim guard of honor, their charcoal cadavers riddled with bullet holes, their pristine souls briefly returned from eternal sleep to guide him into hell. The Zippo lighter he has been clutching melts into his palm, becoming part of him forever. With each step, his skin crisps and smokes, falling away to reveal layers of muscle and sinew. Yet still he walks on.
The flames and the voices scream even louder, and their eardrums burst, but the two men do not notice. They stare at the apparitions which surround them until the heat boils the liquid in their eyeballs, and blackness descends. Yet, even sightless, deaf, and dumb, still they walk onwards: two soldiers’ last march into oblivion.
The wave’s peak breaks. It crashes over the men. Ravenous flames devour the two dwindling, skeletal figures, reducing them to ash and steam. For the briefest of moments, the beating heart of the inferno flares whiter than virgin snow.
