Chapter One

In early 1968, the huge Long Binh compound north of Saigon swarmed with activity. Helicopters rose and descended, raising clouds of red dust. Trucks and jeeps and boxy ambulances scurried here and there on various errands, adding more finely ground laterite particles to the air. Troops in from the field crowded exchanges and wandered the tangle of roads with thumbs out, seeking rides. Even this early, nearing noon, the NCO and Officer's clubs were busy dispensing food and liquor to off shift soldiers. Inside other buildings, nurses and doctors labored with the wounded and field laboratories were busy processing blood and body fluids. Generals and Colonels gave orders, Majors and Captains fleshed them out and Sergeants and Privates typed and distributed them. Logistic and Engineering units were working busily to keep the compound supplied and maintained. The war was approaching its high tide and all the activity reflected a surge of optimism that with just a little more effort, the war could be won. All of Long Binh seethed with activity. Almost all, that is.

North of the main compound, separated from it by several miles of jungle but connected to it by a laterite road like a baby amoebae pinching itself off from its parent lay a much smaller compound, fortressed by enough barbed wire to fence off half of Texas. Inside this isolated ring of wire lived an oil-tanker battalion that transported aircraft fuel all over southern Vietnam. Here also lived the medical dispensary, which saw to the illnesses of the oil tanker drivers and their supporting staff and headquarters.

The tankers had driven off before daylight and sick call had been over for an hour. The compound was at low ebb.

Inside the dispensary building, Sergeant First Class James Williard was taking his ease. He was leaning back in a battered office chair with his feet propped atop a rickety folding desk, a relic of WW II, or perhaps even the First World War. Williard didn't mind the uncomfortable furniture. He had his fatigue cap pulled down over his eyes to block out the light and was letting the monotonous drone of generators in the background lull him to sleep, where he hoped the last residues of his hangover would dissipate. He was just dropping off when the hesitant sound of the screen door swinging open brought him back to awareness.

"Doc?" Williard recognized the tone of voice. An after-hours supplicant who was certain he would die horribly if he had to wait another day for treatment.

"Sick call's over. Come back tomorrow."

"Doc, I can't wait." The voice was plaintive.

Williard used one finger to tilt the bill of his cap up enough to see whom he was talking to. It proved to be a skinny, pimpled private in wrinkled fatigues and jungle boots. He approached Williard hesitantly, hands poised protectively near his groin. He looked as if he was a lone deer at a hunter's convention, more worried than ill. Sgt. Williard's reputation was known and feared throughout the compound for deferring malingerers and inhibiting the imagined sickly, regardless of the hour of day or night. The tanker drivers worked long hours, and stood guard duty every third night besides. They constantly looked for any good excuse to get out of a tanker run and catch up on some sleep. Since this boy wasn't driving, Williard deduced that he was probably on KP or pulling some other extra duty; otherwise, he would have already been gone for the day.

"Well, what's your problem, soldier?" Williard glared his worst glare, letting the boy know exactly how he felt about him coming in so late in the morning.

The young hero fidgeted and turned pale, but stood his ground. "I got something wrong."

"Why weren't you here for sick call?"

"I didn't notice it til just now, Doc."

"Bullshit. You just didn't want to stand in line out in the rain. What's the matter? Did you think you might melt?"

"Honest, Doc, I really did just notice."

"Well, spit it out then. I ain't no fucking mind reader."

The young private was about to cry. "I think I got cancer."

"You think you got cancer, huh?" Williard sneered. "You don't look old enough to have graduated from medical school yet. You let me tell you what you got, understand?" He noted that the young soldier's lips were beginning to tremble and moderated his voice. "Awright, settle your young ass down. I ain't going to hurt you. Not yet anyway." Once Williard had his patient's attitude adjusted, he was always willing to listen. Gruff manner aside, he really did care about the health of the men. Besides, it had been a dull day. Maybe the kid did have something interesting wrong with him, though he doubted very seriously that it would turn out to be cancer.

"Where do you hurt?" He asked.

"I don't hurt, Doc. I just got like a growth."

"Damn it, soldier, I told you I ain't no fucking mind reader. Show it to me, for chrissake."

Reluctantly, the boy began unbuttoning his fatigue trousers. Williard's interest collapsed. Aw shit. Venereal warts. He had already seen enough of them to last a lifetime.

The boy pulled the foreskin back from the glans of his penis. The glans was no longer smooth. It was covered with pink cauliflower-like growths, mushrooming wetly over it in irregular clusters like a badly tended garden.

"Kid, you shoulda been in to see me a couple of weeks ago," Willard said, feeling sorry for the boy now.

"I didn't notice it until a while ago."

Williard wondered briefly what sort of hygiene they were teaching in basic training nowadays. Venereal warts were epidemic in uncircumcised males over here. They could be easily treated if caught early, but apparently, the young man had never been taught to pull his foreskin back and wash it every time he took a shower.

"Is it cancer?"

"Naw. Son, you just picked the wrong truck wash to dip your wick at. You've got an advanced case of Condyloma acuminata." Williard liked to use medical terms to impress his patients.

"Conda what?"

Copyright © 2006 Darrell Bain.