Vietnam+Story

VIETNAM WAR STORY I never write serious stories. I can never really work up the effort. //Well I suppose it’s time you wrote one, then. C’mon, you can do it. The other guys churn this shit out all the time.// But I lack the patience to develop my characters. //The reader won’t know that. Just kill a bunch of guys off. This’ll be easy. Just do like, you know, a war story or some shit.// What, like a Vietnam story? //Sure, I guess//. Listen: once upon a time there was a Vietnam regiment or platoon or whatever it is they’re called. //Okay, this is good so far.// Mostly American guys—college kids, you know. //Would there have been Vietnamese guys in the regiment?// Yeah, there were most likely some Vietnamese guys in there, too. Whatever floats your boat. They lived in a campor a base or what have you. //Describe their camp.// It was green and full of standard issue…army buildings. Dude, I’m really not feeling this story. //Add a distinctive character. A drill sergeant with a weird quirk. This is basic stuff, man.// Their drill sergeant was named Billy O’Donnell. A stout, redheaded Irishman with bushy sideburns and a face like a ball of wax, O’Donnell was never seen without a potato in each hand, furiously munching on two or three at a time with his strong, Irish teeth as he drilled the men. //Oh. Three paragraphs in and you’re already exploited a national stereotype. Great going, Walter.// Look, writing a serious war story is hard, okay? Just let me do my thing, here. I’m about to introduce the protagonist. The sergeant was just comic relief, okay? //I don’t believe you.// Huh. Private Biff Hardcheese arrived by boat one humid September afternoon. //You’re going to have to work pretty hard to come back from that name, man.// Shut up, okay, I’m trying to cultivate a weighty atmosphere of seriousness, here. You talking only disrupts the reader’s immersion. ANYWAY. Hardcheese was greeted unceremoniously by O’Donnell, who thrust a rifle and pack into his arms and told him to go out with five other guys and do some war stuff. At least, that’s what Biff thought that O’Donnell wanted him to do. The Irishman’s brogue and the fact that his mouth was full of potatoes made him incomprehensible. //Are you even trying at this point?// Much like base camp, the jungle was also green, except that there were a bunch of trees instead of buildings, and it was generally shittier. //You are just a master of description here, aren’t you?// Let’s see. In Biff’s company was a grizzled schoolteacher turned soldier named Edgar. Edgar fights out of a paternalistic desire to keep the younger soldiers safe, and he’s good with grenades. //You see, that’s not bad.// //I think I like Edgar.// There’s also Bartz Klauser, seventeen years old—the naïve innocent archetype. We’ve got a stoic loner sniper who goes by the name of Winter, he’s a crack shot and he’s just cool in general, I guess. He smokes Lucky Strikes. //Okay, all of these guys are pretty good.// And finally, there’s a young man named Dusty who wears a cowboy hat and shades and also has cybernetic legs. //Suspension of disbelief has been ruined, man. You can’t have guys with cybernetic legs in a Vietnam story. //Okay, fine. Dusty has no legs, and the other guys have to carry him around on a special throne carved out of ivory and inscribed with the regimental number. It’s very heavy and it’s covered in nude pictures of women because these are hardy fighting men. //You’re making shit up again, Walter.// Relax, it’s not like the reader knows that I’m bullshitting, here. I’m just adding flavor. You know. Like a flavor guy. //I can see that it’s up to me to salvage this train wreck of a war story. There is a rustling in the underbrush, and as Biff looks through the foliage, he can see the glint of metal. It’s one of the Vietcong militias. He knows these guys don’t mess around and they don’t take any prisoners. Before he can get a warning out—the shots erupt from the bushes. Bullets tear through Dusty’s torso in a spray of blood and viscera, and Biff watches as the young soldier’s middle section is shredded into pulp. The bullets shatter the ivory throne; its pieces lie on the jungle ground in a puddle of red. // Not cool, man, I didn’t want Dusty to die. //Walter, a war story needs character deaths, and also, Dusty was terrible.// Not to mention that you just destroyed the sacred regimental throne. The men will be severely demoralized. //Those Vietcong are going to kill the men in a minute if you don’t save their asses.// Oh, those guys? No, Biff kills them all. He uses his gun. //Fine.// //Do what you want. I tried to save this story. I tried.// For all you know, this is going to be the best portrayal of Vietnam that anyone has ever done. So just let me work my magic, here. Upon seeing the remains of the sacred regimental ivory throne, Edgar gravely reaches for the katana in his belt and wordless, thrusts it into his stomach. The others watch silently as he twists the hilt and crumples like a wet bag. They understand. Throughout U.S. military history, the penalty for disgrace to the regiment has always been exacted. Shogun Nixon would expect no less, and they all know it. The trek through the jungle continues. //I come back from the bathroom and you’ve had my favorite character commit ritual suicide? Really, man? // Austin, people die in war stories. It’s just how it goes. //Christ, you’re still mad about Dusty, aren’t you?// Of course I am. Dusty had character potential. He was going to overcome his lack of legs and start a children’s baseball team. But you just went and killed him like a—//Oh, hey look, there’s some more Vietcong. They’ve caught your men unawares, and your guys are being held at gunpoint.// So you’re saying I can’t kill them? That’s what you’re saying? //Yeah. It’s spots like this where the true ingenuity of the writer is put to the test.// Okay. Biff tries to defuse the situation with the limited Vietnamese that he can speak while Bartz and Winter look onward. He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out the one object that he knows will save them all, the deadliest weapon in mankind’s arsenal. //What is it?// I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it. It’s a miniature atomic bomb. //No, no, no. You can’t do that. They don’t even have those.// Fine. Oh my God I just got like, the best idea. //Walter... this is a war story. Please try to remember that this is a war story.// No, no it isn’t. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 16px;">Biff turns to the Vietcong, spinning his basketball on his index finger. He strips off his flak jacket to reveal his U.S. Army basketball jersey in camo print, the name HARDCHEESE written in bold white across the back. //I knew you couldn’t do it, man.// Austin, this story isn’t about Vietnam anymore. This story is about America bringing the heat to the North Vietnamese on the court. Do you understand? //Walter…// Winter and Bartz also stand up and reveal their jerseys. The North Vietnamese instantly understand that a game of basketball is about to be played to decide the fate of their captives. They shed their clothes and go rooting around until they find their jerseys—emblazoned bright red and blue with a yellow star. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 16px;">The Vietcong, you see, worshipped basketball as one of their many rain deities, and communist respect for the sport’s communalism matched America’s own by the 1980s. //Bullshit.// Chairman Mao himself was said to play wicked offense. //Utter bullshit.// North Vietnamese basketball plays were combinations of various styles of martial arts and absurd air. Like, crazy dunks. //<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 16px;">Okay, fuck this. See you tomorrow, jackass. //<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 16px;">Hey! Wait! Where are you going, man? I haven’t even gotten to eat all of your lunch yet. Man, he had Hostess brownies in there. With the colored sprinkles. Good shit, man. Good shit. Goddamnit. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 16px;">FIN