Ethan Edwards
Supporter
Spring 1966, Base Camp Phu Loi, 1-4 CAV, 1st Infantry Division, LRP (Provisional)
The room was dimly illuminated by a single light.
The bulb hung from the ceiling on flimsy wires, and every few minutes, it would flicker and fade, keeping macabre time with screams coming from elsewhere within the compound – the wiring a sad testament to French building codes of the 1940’s and 50’s. In one corner of the room, a fan rattled, pushing around warm and humid air, doing nothing to cool its occupants. Wallpaper hung in strips -- where there was any at all -- and flies fattened on rotten jungle air buzzed lazily from spot to spot.
Within the small room, two men stood while a third was seated at a scuffed and scratched card table. The sitting man had his arms tied behind him, head drooping with pain and exhaustion -- the last few hours had not been kind. His face was swollen and bruised, his black cotton clothes torn and soaked with sweat. One of the others -- a young American soldier in olive fatigues just as damp, salt stains crisscrossing his broad back and radiating from beneath his arms -- grabbed the prisoner by his hair and twisted. The man gasped as his head was jerked back.
The big soldier leaned in, his face inches away. “How did your people find out when we were going to be in the area?” he asked in passable Vietnamese. The prisoner tried shaking his head, but the grip tightened. The soldier struck the helpless man across the face with his free hand. His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips closer to the prisoner’s ear. “You really should just tell me… I know ways to make you hurt deeper than a nightmare.”
The guerrilla’s eyes flashed for a moment, barely visible from within the swollen flesh of his face. He spat – or tried to. His mouth was too dry, too broken, even for that. “There is nothing … you can do… “he swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “… that has not already been promised to me if I talk.”
The soldier shrugged. He let go of the Viet Cong and walked to where a pile of web-gear rested in the corner. His steps were hollow against the warped wooden floor; the prisoner’s eyes followed him dully. Squatting, the big man rummaged about until he found what he was looking for, then he slowly stood and turned around. The scrape of steel against leather drowned out the rattling fan as he slid a heavy knife from its scabbard. It was a Ka-Bar combat knife, the pommel nicked and scratched, the blade itself cleanly honed and sharp. The young soldier wrapped a massive hand around its grip tightly, until the leather-wrapping creaked. He looked at the prisoner; for a moment, pity seemed to wash across his face – but the look was fleeting. The shutters dropped across the soldier’s ice-blue eyes and he shook his head. His lips were a straight line.
“Suit yourself, you dumb, Dragon fuck …”
The other American in the room leaned against one wall. Unlike the soldier, he was dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt. Only the last few buttons were fastened, and in the dim light, a golden chain winked from the forest of his hairy-chest, a pyramid-shaped medallion hanging from it. An eye was engraved in its center. He kept the frosted glass of a bottle of Coca-Cola pressed against his face while cool drops of water rolled down to his chin and fell to his collar. He smiled when Ethan Edwards walked back to the Viet Cong in two quick, resigned strides.
The agent took a sip of the cold soda while the soldier returned to questioning their prisoner...
The room was dimly illuminated by a single light.
The bulb hung from the ceiling on flimsy wires, and every few minutes, it would flicker and fade, keeping macabre time with screams coming from elsewhere within the compound – the wiring a sad testament to French building codes of the 1940’s and 50’s. In one corner of the room, a fan rattled, pushing around warm and humid air, doing nothing to cool its occupants. Wallpaper hung in strips -- where there was any at all -- and flies fattened on rotten jungle air buzzed lazily from spot to spot.
Within the small room, two men stood while a third was seated at a scuffed and scratched card table. The sitting man had his arms tied behind him, head drooping with pain and exhaustion -- the last few hours had not been kind. His face was swollen and bruised, his black cotton clothes torn and soaked with sweat. One of the others -- a young American soldier in olive fatigues just as damp, salt stains crisscrossing his broad back and radiating from beneath his arms -- grabbed the prisoner by his hair and twisted. The man gasped as his head was jerked back.
The big soldier leaned in, his face inches away. “How did your people find out when we were going to be in the area?” he asked in passable Vietnamese. The prisoner tried shaking his head, but the grip tightened. The soldier struck the helpless man across the face with his free hand. His eyes narrowed and he pressed his lips closer to the prisoner’s ear. “You really should just tell me… I know ways to make you hurt deeper than a nightmare.”
The guerrilla’s eyes flashed for a moment, barely visible from within the swollen flesh of his face. He spat – or tried to. His mouth was too dry, too broken, even for that. “There is nothing … you can do… “he swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “… that has not already been promised to me if I talk.”
The soldier shrugged. He let go of the Viet Cong and walked to where a pile of web-gear rested in the corner. His steps were hollow against the warped wooden floor; the prisoner’s eyes followed him dully. Squatting, the big man rummaged about until he found what he was looking for, then he slowly stood and turned around. The scrape of steel against leather drowned out the rattling fan as he slid a heavy knife from its scabbard. It was a Ka-Bar combat knife, the pommel nicked and scratched, the blade itself cleanly honed and sharp. The young soldier wrapped a massive hand around its grip tightly, until the leather-wrapping creaked. He looked at the prisoner; for a moment, pity seemed to wash across his face – but the look was fleeting. The shutters dropped across the soldier’s ice-blue eyes and he shook his head. His lips were a straight line.
“Suit yourself, you dumb, Dragon fuck …”
The other American in the room leaned against one wall. Unlike the soldier, he was dressed in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt. Only the last few buttons were fastened, and in the dim light, a golden chain winked from the forest of his hairy-chest, a pyramid-shaped medallion hanging from it. An eye was engraved in its center. He kept the frosted glass of a bottle of Coca-Cola pressed against his face while cool drops of water rolled down to his chin and fell to his collar. He smiled when Ethan Edwards walked back to the Viet Cong in two quick, resigned strides.
The agent took a sip of the cold soda while the soldier returned to questioning their prisoner...