The staked Goat

Club, and I could barely walk for two days afterward. Al promised he would stay in touch. And he had.
    I closed the last file. I tossed down the last of the ice water and reviewed my list.
    Twenty-three names. Most Americans, some French and Vietnamese. Maybe one of them lives in Boston, maybe not. Maybe he’s still using his real name, maybe not. Maybe he killed Al, maybe not. Maybe something to show for the afternoon, maybe not.
    I stood up, folded the list like a business letter and slid it into my jacket pocket. I wedged all the files back into the drawers of the cabinet. I stiffly donned my jacket, thinking I could call J.T. tomorrow and ask him to put the names through the computer to see if there was anything current on them.
    I opened the door. Ricker stood up. I didn’t see his L’Amour novel. The clock said 19:15, 7:15 P.M. real time.
    ”Yessir?”
    ”I’m all finished, Sergeant. Colonel Kivens said I’d need you to lead me out of here.”
    Ricker grinned broadly. ”Yessir. It’s a real maze out there. Me, I was lost for weeks when I first drew duty here.”
    He went to a coat rack and got a regulation, olive-drab trench.
    ”Sir, you got transportation here?”
    ”No. Thought I’d just grab a cab.”
    Ricker chuckled. ”These cabs, sir, they’re tough to get out here sometimes. Where’re you headin’?”
    ”Marriott, Key Bridge.”
    ”Aw, hell, sir,” said Ricker as he turned out the lights and closed the door. ”That’s right on my way. Let me give you a lift.”
    ”Thanks, Sergeant, but I’ve already held you—”
    ”Please, sir, my pleasure, I insist.”
    I yielded gratefiilly. We threaded our way out down corridors dark and deep.
    Ricker’s vehicle was a spotless customized Ford pick-up, shiny even in the dark. We maneuvered through the vestiges of rush-hour traffic.
    ”Have you spent much time in Washington, sir?”
    ”No, not much. Weekend here or there.”
    ”Fine city. Proud and powerful. But I’m a country boy myself. Four more years and out.”
    ”That’ll make twenty?”
    ”No, sir, thirty.” He turned and smiled. ”Thirty years with the Big Green Machine. Then a nice spread in Looziana, northeast corner.”
    He really looked familiar when he smiled. ”You ever stationed in Saigon, Sergeant?”
    The smile died, then rekindled. ”Yessir. I had two tours in-country. First one in Saigon.”
    ”When were you there?”
    ”Let’s see,” he said, rubbing his chin, ”December ‘66 to October ‘67.”
    ”Just before my time,” I said.
    ”You were there with the Colonel, sir?”
    I nodded. ”For a time.”
    ”Colonel’s a good commander and a fair man.”
    ”Then he hasn’t changed.”
    Ricker smiled again. So familiar.
    ”Sergeant, are you sure we didn’t serve somewhere together?”
    ”Well, sir, no I’m... uh-uh, what’s this?”
    I looked ahead and saw nothing. Ricker decelerated and began edging onto the shoulder.
    ”What’s the matter?” I asked.
    ”Felt a shimmy from that left front wheel again.”
    ”I didn’t notice anything.”
    ”Ach,” said Ricker as we pulled to a stop, ”truck ain’t got four thousand miles on ‘er and this is the second time she’s done this.” He looked at me. ”Mind reachin’ into the glove box there and gettin’ me the flashlight?”
    ”Sure,” I said, leaning forward and pushing the box button.
    ”Sorry about this, sir, but I don’t want to press my luck.”
    ”I don’t see any—” I glanced up and over at Ricker, who squirted a cloud of something from a tiny spray can into my face.
    I remember the sound of my forehead bouncing off the dashboard.
     
    We were slogging through a rice paddy. The men were bunched up, though, in formation like on a parade field. I yelled for them to maintain their interval, maintain interval. They couldn’t hear me because they were singing a Jody call. You know, ”Jody, Jody, don’t be blue, ten more minutes and we’ll be through” and so on. They were marching through this paddy and singing to keep in step. Stupid thing to do, mines, mortars...
    There was a flash of light and a tremendous explosion. The platoon was thrown up into the air and just burst. Rifles and arms and legs and heads flying outward and landing with a sploosh all around me. The little goat-girl, too.
    I was kneeling behind an overturned jeep. It was on fire. A sergeant in full dress greens rushed up with a hose. But he had only the nozzle of the hose, there was nothing connected to it.