Storymania - The Name Game by Peter Rego

The Name Game
Peter Rego

The Name Game
by
Peter Rego

1
The song was fully entrenched in his consciousness and it played over and over in his mind as he made his way across the grassy plateau,
Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley
Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley!
Martini shook his head in exaggerated disgust as he glanced at the instigator of his newest affliction.
“Fuck you Tommy”, was all that Martini’s overwhelmed mind could muster in the face of the terrible onslaught.
“What did I do not partner?” inquired Tommy in mock innocence, his eagerness to play exposed by an evil grin.
“That song you keep singing man! It’s stuck in my head now!”
“You just don’t appreciate good music Jimmy my man.”
“Show me some and I might ass-hole.”
Second Platoon, Alpha Company, First Marine Battalion continued its movement down from the highlands and back towards the hamlet where they were bunkered at the railroad station by the Truoi River. Up ahead the plateau began an abrupt downward slope that ran right up to the edge of the forest that stood between the patrol and its base camp. The tightly entwined towers of bamboo that rose from the forest floor formed a dense wall that was impenetrable in some places. Reaching the edge of the wood the platoon turned southward and headed for the main trail a quarter mile away.
The primary objective of the First Marine Battalion was the defense of the main supply lines along Route One, also called the Old French Road. The second part of its mission was to protect the handful of hamlets that were in the immediate vicinity of the supply lines from Viet Cong infiltration, keeping guerilla operations in check. The specific task of the Second Platoon was to supplement the indigenous South Vietnamese forces in the defense of their villages. Each day the platoon headed out at dawn and performed a recon sweep in the outlying areas.
The lightheartedness that had accompanied the platoon on their march quickly faded as the squad entered the forest and the deepening shadows. A cool breeze seemed to flood over the ridge as if filling a vacuum left by the receding daylight. The rapidly setting sun seemed intent on leaving no reminder of its presence in the sky that day. In its place appeared a starving moon. Like a pale and twisted blade of grass, the moon hung weak and motionless, enduring the shadows that returned each month to feed on its borrowed glory.
A sound like a whispered prayer flowed down from above as the twilight breeze rustled through the dry delicate leaves above. The dancing treetops bade the day farewell as their roots welcomed the coolness of the invading shadows. Cautiously the platoon fanned out to begin the last leg of their journey. The trail was wide, well traveled, and diligently guarded by the Marines stationed near by. As the squad continued onward the forest rose like a silent wall on both sides of the trail. Blackness crashed around them like a wave as the sun made its last progression of the day. The closer the men got to base camp the more relaxed they became and quiet conversation began to compete with their watchfulness.
Tommy was several yards in front of Martini who was listening absentmindedly as Tommy shared another of his endless stories in a hushed but animated voice. Sometimes Martini called Tommy “Back Home” because most of his tall tales and anecdotes began with the familiar opening, “Ya know, back home...” The cultural gulf between Martini and Tommy appeared immense at the surface but it was those back home differences that fueled the comradely sarcasm they both enjoyed. Inside they were both the same, both from the wrong side of the tracks.
Jimmy Martini was from the tough streets of Philly while Tommy Carter hailed from the West Virginia coal country. Tommy had a peculiar sense of humor and more often than not his homespun tales went wasted on his attended audience.
“Pay attention now!” Tommy would say, “What I am about to tell you may save your life one day!”
The usual response though tired and expected was hilarious just the same.
“Hell, If you don’t shut up I’m gonna shoot myself. Lotta life saving that will do!”
“Shoot him and spare us all!” came the usual chorus.
Tommy was also an avid practical joker who could take it as well as dish it out which he demonstrated by his good-natured appreciation of a quick and speedy retaliation. One night back in basic training, Tommy had gotten wind of a surprise dawn inspection that was scheduled for the following morning. Sometime during the night, Tommy managed to slip over to Martini’s bunk, who was a notorious deep sleeper, and adorn his ears with the most ridiculous clip on earrings that have ever been made. When reveille arrived, so did Martini, standing at attention in his skivvies, still unaware of the newest addition to his wardrobe. The funniest part of all was the reaction of the drill instructor, who did a double take but said nothing, simply moving on with an even deeper scowl. Perhaps he assumed the joke or perhaps he didn’t want to consider the alternatives. Martini assured Tommy that he had better sleep with one eye open from then on out.
“Watch you back baby I’m coming for you!” Martini assured him time and time again.
“Didn’t you ever learn that forgiveness is divine partner?” Tommy would plead with mock fear.
“Oh I’ll forgive you alright back Home,” Martini would always respond, “ As soon as I get even!”
“Fair enough”, Tommy would respond with a chuckle, “fair enough”.
Martini had never gotten his opportunity for revenge. The squad shipped out two weeks later and the memories of boot camp had become as hazy as those of childhood.
The real world was a million miles away from Vietnam and sometimes memories had a way of becoming insignificant on the battlefield. At other times, memories are all a guy had to hang on to. Childhood had taught these men to be sons, friends, brothers, and lovers. Childhood had trained them to be boys while circumstance now demanded that they be soldiers. There were plenty of memories to fill the time but these were memories that were bred of longing. Hot summer nights, the sounds of crickets singing and the play-by-play drone of a Philly’s game somehow made more real within the static of a tiny transistor radio. Kick the can. Hide and go seek. A perfect world was always just behind the scenes, hidden in the soft summer twilight. No decisions to be made. No clocks. The time they were spending was like pennies tossed into a wishing well. Life was new and it was passing oh... so... slow. Summer vacation seems to last forever in a child’s mind. Childhood is a ragged but favorite book that is read over and over and over again.
2
Nearing the end of the patrol, Martini trudged along, rifle slung over his back, absentmindedly listening to Tommy’s newest installment of the world according to Carter. Finally getting to the point of his story, Tommy turned around to face his friend and continued his march walking backwards. Tommy was gesturing with his hands as he spoke and Martini was watching those hands dancing in the falling darkness when suddenly Tommy’s chest exploded. The bullet ripped into Tommy’s back somewhere between the shoulder blades completing its mission long before the sound of its passing. Tommy fell to his knees, a confused look in his eyes as his last thoughts giving way to the mortal realization of a life’s sudden end.
All around the air erupted with the steady slapping of automatic weapons. The curtain of vegetation lining the trail was blasted to shreds showering the ambushed platoon as they bellied their way to cover. A split second before diving to the ground a searing heat invaded Martini’s awareness. A great force met his pelvis driving him back though the air and onto the soft cushion of growth that lined the floor of the forest. Flashes of light and the muffled claps of rifles surrounded him. Intense pain sent a shiver through his bones and commandeered his consciousness as he felt himself falling away. He thought he could hear Tommy singing as he was falling, repeating the same line over and over,
“Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley
Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley!”
3
The morning started like nearly every morning before. It was the same mission everyday since their arrival. The quiet of the past week had been a welcome respite but the enemy offensive was far from over. Intelligence reports had the enemy massing just north of their position and it was Alpha Company’s job to be ready to meet any enemy advance towards the Truoi River Bridge. Alpha Company had cut their teeth in battle over 30 times in the past year and was one of the first units in during the battle for Hue City just 3 months before.
Towards the end of 1967 the North Vietnamese Army, aided by Viet Cong units, was able to take and occupy the Citadel in Hue City, which was looked upon as a great psychological victory by the North. Alpha Company was ordered to take the Citadel without the benefit of air support. In the face of heavy casualties the Marines of this unit fought house-to-house and hand-to-hand in what was the first inner city battle involving United Sates Marines since the Korean War. The battle of Hue City was one of the bloodiest of the entire war with over 140 marines killed and 800 wounded over a 2-week period.
The platoons northward progress suggested a beginning rather than an end to martini’s tour of duty but today’s sweep was the beginning of the end. He was going home. Today would be his last patrol and tomorrow he would be on a transport heading south for the last time in Vietnam. Martini hadn’t given much thought to what he would do when he got back home. Dwelling on it could only jinx it. He had thought he might take advantage of the GI bill and go back to school. He had never really had what one would call a real job prior to the Marines. He mused to himself that the only real skill he had was an ability and willingness to kill.
Tommy was starting on his name game thing again, which had gotten stale over the course of the morning.
“Shirley, Shirley bo Birley!”
“Hey Tommy?”
“Yeah Sarge?”
“Why don’t you shut the fuck up?”
Tommy took the bait and ran with it.
“Sargie, Sargie Bo Bargie!”
“You want me to shoot him Sarge?”
“Nah, fix bayonets,” the sergeant replied jokingly.
Martini often marveled how Tommy could remain the consummate clown in spite of all they had seen and been through in the past year. During the assault on Hue City he had watched Tommy moving from house to house with a shotgun yelling, “Avon calling!” in his Southern accent as he kicked door after door in. Fighting an urban battle in close quarters required an adjustment in weaponry and the shotgun was the best tool for the job. Normal security measures were also hampered by the enemy’s ability to escape by blending in with the civilian population. Considering the stress they were under Tommy was amazing. Nothing seemed to bother this big lovable Southerner and a pinch he had the heart of a lion.
Martini responded to the realities of battle a lot differently than Tommy did. Tommy would go into a battle like a gangbuster and his attitude generally dressed for the occasion. Chopping wood or chopping down people, Tommy saw both functions as just a job that had to be done and he took no pleasure in either activity. It just needed doing. None of this is to say that Tommy was a hard man or devoid of compassion. Tommy suffered for the children and he would spend hours horsing around with the children at the orphanage back at base. A man like Tommy never plays, he horses around. Tommy was a United States Marine and he was in the business of following orders, which suited him, just fine.
Martini was the type of man who saw ghosts. Imagined or real, it didn’t really matter. Back at Hue City, at the height of the battle, he and Tommy came across a small square where a whimpering puppy had been left tied in the middle of the fray. Martini had been all for rescuing the dog while Tommy was dead set against it. The Viet Cong knew perfectly well that some dumb ass American kid would make a play to rescue the dog. As the two marines argued the situation their attention was drawn to some movement in the square. A kid from another platoon was attempting to grab the terrified puppy. Ten feet from his destination the Marine caught one in the chest. While Martini looked on in shock, Tommy brought his weapon up and killed the dog.
“What are you doing?” Martini screamed.
“I’m keeping the next dumb ass who comes along from getting killed. You ever play poker James? Wait! Don’t talk! Listen! How can you tell when a man is bluffing? I’ll tell you how. He stops checking his cards. It doesn’t matter what he’s holding because it’s a lie. When a man is holding something good, he knows its good but he is never really sure just how good. Do you know why that is? It’s because he is depending on it. He just keeps on checking and checking his cards. The game ain’t on the table its in the minds of the players. The guy holding shit knows what he’s got so he gotta make the best of it. These people know they’re holding nothing. Look around you. You see anyone folding? I’ve been in this shit hole of a country for over a year now and if its one thing I’ve learned it’s nothing is what it seems to be. These people are playing for all or nothing. They are all in on every hand. They are banging heads with the United Fucking States of America and they don’t care. They start their day fucked. Things can only get better. They don’t have puppies over here and they don’t have white picket fences. You think these fuckers are going to throw their lives away to save a fucking dog? Nothing is as it seems partner. You better wake up because you are fucking dreaming.“
4
The pain, once acute had faded. The only sensation that remained was the imagined weightiness of his broken body. The sound of the surrounding firefight was mercifully muted by his stunned senses. He was hit badly. The ground reeled as mortar shells rolled in at regular intervals. Strobe like muzzle fire pierced the blackening night painting still picture of shadows, darkness, and the vague horrors of that which is sensed but unseen. Martini knew that if he thought real hard he could figure out who he was but he felt awfully tired at the moment and he decided he needed to rest a bit before he tried to think about things.
The sky above seemed brighter than usual; an illusion perhaps, not unlike a sleeping mans reaction to the abruptness of morning’s light. It had to be evening, Martini thought. He could see the stars shimmering through the sparse canopy of leaves above. Time was just a little messed up at the moment. His head was jammed uncomfortably against the tree where his body had fallen. Martini made a halfhearted attempt to get into a comfortable position but discovered that his left arm had chosen to follow his legs into never-never land. The effort of trying to shift his weight fanned the flames of the pain he had up until then forgotten. Using his good arm he fumbled through his belt and found the respite he needed. Thinking for some reason that the morphine would not register if administered to his deadened thigh, Martini punched the drug into his left breast. The pain took a step back almost immediately. What he now felt only resembled pain, a deep steady throbbing. He knew the fury would return. Martini used the last of his energy to punch another hit of painkiller into his broken body. Sleep would soon attend him. Death would have to claim him in his dreams. Martini slipped away, his mind empty.
The memories of the preceding moments flashed through his mind in a jumbled and groggy montage of recollection. Fatigue assaulted his senses and continued to deaden his soul. Muffled slapping filled his mind, an illusion of sound. Images in black and white came and went stirring dreams that were too long ago forgotten. Dreams; the depths of their banishment drained them of color. They are only memories. Swish, swish, swish. Faint sing songs then silence and a warm breeze. The fragrance of composting leaves. Deep breathes of autumn.
Was that his baby sister? Jump rope yes, that the sound! Swish! He could hear the clicks of her heels and the scuffing steps of her shoes. He could hear the rope slapping the ground and the sound as it cut through the air on its purposeful journey. Suzy was great at jumping rope. She never quit either. The game is not over unless you quit. This means something. Sounds and images began to fade, as pain demanded his attention for a moment or two. Martini stumbled back to the waking world. In his first real conscious effort Martini reached his hand around to examine his lower back. Bringing his trembling hand into his line of sight he was able to confirm what he already knew; he was bleeding to death. The shock, or the drugs, or the combination of the two lured him back to sleep.
5
They found him as the battle still raged. Obviously dead they snapped his dog tags and placed the takeoffs into his mouth. The corporal placed the necklace into his breast pocket along with the others he had collected during the night. The keeper of the dead. Dog tags are designed with a perforation so that duplicate identifiers can be made with ease. The takeoffs are always left with the body to allow identification the standard practice being to leave the takeoffs in the dead mans mouth. The necklace was brought in to document the casualty. The metallic taste stirred Martini’s consciousness ever so slightly. His heart still beat ever so faintly in his chest, gentle like the wings of a moth. Soft as a whisper.
6
Martini felt the warm breeze washing over him as he made his way across the plateau. Several hundred yards away he could see the back of a figure standing alone gazing off into the horizon. Martini slowly began to realize that something was very different. The grassy fields seemed to stretch on forever without a sign of mountain or jungle. The man in the distance slowly turned as if suddenly realizing he wasn’t alone. The man waved and Martini instantly knew the man was expecting him. Suddenly Martini stopped dead in his tracks. The man he saw was Tommy, who was now walking towards him through the field of dancing grass.
“I’m dead,” Martini, said aloud to himself, “I’m dead.”
Tommy continued walking towards him, a smile on his face and a long reed of grass protruding from his teeth.
“What’s with the Little Abner routine?” Martini asked Tommy as he motioned to the blade of grass with his left hand as he firmly grasped his friends hand with his right.”
“What else would you expect from a country boy like me partner?” Tommy asked with a smile.
“How did we get here Tommy? What the hell is going on?”
“We got ambushed James but we made it through all right.” Tommy replied with a truthfulness that defied Martini’s perception.
“I saw you buy one Tommy. I bought one too. That’s it isn’t it? I’m hallucinating aren’t I? Or else I’m dead.”
“We made it through alright partner and now we can go home but there’s one thing we need to do before we can go on.”
“What do we need to do Tommy, click our heel’s and repeat there’s no place like home three times?”
“Sorry partner, I got no ruby slippers for you. What I need you to do is sing.”
“Sing? Sing what?”
Martini couldn’t believe his ears as Tommy raised his voice and belted out a portion of the hated chorus.
“Shirley, Shirley bo Birley Bonana fanna fo Firley
Fee fy mo Mirley, Shirley!”
“Shit Tommy! Not that fucking song!”
“Pay attention now!” Tommy said with a sad smile.
“This song is gonna save your live today.”
7
A hazy morning sky greeted the recovery team as they set about their morbid task. The sound of the firefight now echoed in the distance as the combat moved to the west. Here and there a long shiny green plastic bag could be seen scattered about like misplaced cribbage pegs. The morgue detail gathered America’s expendables, packaging them up in an opaque sameness. Before the day began they were sons, husbands, and fathers. Today they are KIA’s.
A sudden and sharp sonic boom pierced the stillness of the morning as a pair of fighter-jets screamed overhead. Moments later the ground rumbled as the jets unleashed their deadly payload on the enemy below.
Sergeant James Moody, his rifle slung over his back, continued his patrol up the left side of the trail. Stopping a moment to cup his hands against a steady humid breeze, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Just as he was about to set out again he suddenly stopped, quickly turning his head towards a sound coming from the back and to the left of where he was standing. Moody froze in his tracks and listened. Wait!. He did hear it!
Moving cautiously into the brush the sergeant moved towards the spot he thought the sound had come from. Peering into the dark green undergrowth he could barely make out the pair of boots he now saw jutting from a low dense group of ferns. Bringing his rifle to the ready, Moody moved slowly towards the faint sound. Peering over the undergrowth he found Martini, barely alive and using his last bit of strength to whisper the words of a song that may just save his live some day.
The End