anywhere or
nowhere. Their fear was nourished by the isolation, and the only remedy was
“martial arts.”
Dantzler
took to popping the pills without the excuse of combat. Moody cautioned him
against abusing the drugs, citing rumors of bad side effects and DT’s madness;
but even he was using them more and more often. During basic training,
Dantzler’s D.I. had told the boots that the drugs were available only to the
Special Forces, that their use was optional; but there had been too many
instances of lackluster battlefield performance in the last war, and this was
to prevent a reoccurrence.
“The
chickenshit infantry should take ‘em,” the D.I. had said. “You bastards are
brave already. You’re born killers, right?”
“Right,
sir!” they had shouted.
“What
are you?”
“Born
killers, sir!”
But
Dantzler was not a born killer; he was not even clear as to how he had been
drafted, less clear as to how he had been manipulated into the Special Forces,
and he had learned that nothing was optional in Salvador, with the possible
exception of life itself.
The
platoon’s mission was reconnaissance and mop-up. Along with other Special
Forces platoons, they were to secure Morazán prior to the invasion of
Nicaragua; specifically, they were to proceed to the village of Tecolutla,
where a Sandinista patrol had recently been spotted, and following that they
were to join up with the First Infantry and take part in the offensive against
Leon, a provincial capital just across the Nicaraguan border. As Dantzler and
Moody walked together, they frequently talked about the offensive, how it would
be good to get down into flat country; occasionally they talked about the
possibility of reporting DT, and once, after he had led them on a forced night
march, they toyed with the idea of killing him. But most often they discussed
the ways of the Indians and the land, since this was what had caused them to
become buddies.
Moody
was slightly built, freckled, and red-haired; his eyes had the “thousand-yard
stare” that came from too much war. Dantzler had seen winos with such vacant,
lusterless stares. Moody’s father had been in ‘Nam, and Moody said it had been
worse than Salvador because there had been no real commitment to win; but he
thought Nicaragua and Guatemala might be the worst of all, especially if the
Cubans sent in troops as they had threatened. He was adept at locating tunnels
and detecting booby traps, and it was for this reason Dantzler had cultivated
his friendship. Essentially a loner, Moody had resisted all advances until
learning of Dantzler’s father; thereafter he had buddied up, eager to hear
about the field notes, believing they might give him an edge.
“They
think the land has animal traits,” said Dantzler one day as they climbed along
a ridgetop. “Just like some kinds of fish look like plants or sea bottom, parts
of the land look like plain ground, jungle... whatever. But when you enter
them, you find you’ve entered the spirit world, the world of Sukias.”
“What’s Sukias?” asked Moody.
“Magicians.”
A twig snapped behind Dantzler, and he spun around, twitching off the safety of
his rifle. It was only Hodge—a lanky kid with the beginnings of a beer gut. He
stared hollow-eyed at Dantzler and popped an ampule.
Moody
made a noise of disbelief. “If they got magicians, why ain’t they winnin’? Why
ain’t they zappin’ us off the cliffs?”
“It’s
not their business,” said Dantzler. “They don’t believe in messing with worldly
affairs unless it concerns them directly. Anyway, these places—the ones that
look like normal land but aren’t—they’re called....” He drew a blank on the
name. “Aya-something. I can’t remember. But they have different laws.
They’re where your spirit goes to die after your body dies.”
“Don’t
they got no Heaven?”
“Nope.
It just takes longer for your spirit to
nowhere. Their fear was nourished by the isolation, and the only remedy was
“martial arts.”
Dantzler
took to popping the pills without the excuse of combat. Moody cautioned him
against abusing the drugs, citing rumors of bad side effects and DT’s madness;
but even he was using them more and more often. During basic training,
Dantzler’s D.I. had told the boots that the drugs were available only to the
Special Forces, that their use was optional; but there had been too many
instances of lackluster battlefield performance in the last war, and this was
to prevent a reoccurrence.
“The
chickenshit infantry should take ‘em,” the D.I. had said. “You bastards are
brave already. You’re born killers, right?”
“Right,
sir!” they had shouted.
“What
are you?”
“Born
killers, sir!”
But
Dantzler was not a born killer; he was not even clear as to how he had been
drafted, less clear as to how he had been manipulated into the Special Forces,
and he had learned that nothing was optional in Salvador, with the possible
exception of life itself.
The
platoon’s mission was reconnaissance and mop-up. Along with other Special
Forces platoons, they were to secure Morazán prior to the invasion of
Nicaragua; specifically, they were to proceed to the village of Tecolutla,
where a Sandinista patrol had recently been spotted, and following that they
were to join up with the First Infantry and take part in the offensive against
Leon, a provincial capital just across the Nicaraguan border. As Dantzler and
Moody walked together, they frequently talked about the offensive, how it would
be good to get down into flat country; occasionally they talked about the
possibility of reporting DT, and once, after he had led them on a forced night
march, they toyed with the idea of killing him. But most often they discussed
the ways of the Indians and the land, since this was what had caused them to
become buddies.
Moody
was slightly built, freckled, and red-haired; his eyes had the “thousand-yard
stare” that came from too much war. Dantzler had seen winos with such vacant,
lusterless stares. Moody’s father had been in ‘Nam, and Moody said it had been
worse than Salvador because there had been no real commitment to win; but he
thought Nicaragua and Guatemala might be the worst of all, especially if the
Cubans sent in troops as they had threatened. He was adept at locating tunnels
and detecting booby traps, and it was for this reason Dantzler had cultivated
his friendship. Essentially a loner, Moody had resisted all advances until
learning of Dantzler’s father; thereafter he had buddied up, eager to hear
about the field notes, believing they might give him an edge.
“They
think the land has animal traits,” said Dantzler one day as they climbed along
a ridgetop. “Just like some kinds of fish look like plants or sea bottom, parts
of the land look like plain ground, jungle... whatever. But when you enter
them, you find you’ve entered the spirit world, the world of Sukias.”
“What’s Sukias?” asked Moody.
“Magicians.”
A twig snapped behind Dantzler, and he spun around, twitching off the safety of
his rifle. It was only Hodge—a lanky kid with the beginnings of a beer gut. He
stared hollow-eyed at Dantzler and popped an ampule.
Moody
made a noise of disbelief. “If they got magicians, why ain’t they winnin’? Why
ain’t they zappin’ us off the cliffs?”
“It’s
not their business,” said Dantzler. “They don’t believe in messing with worldly
affairs unless it concerns them directly. Anyway, these places—the ones that
look like normal land but aren’t—they’re called....” He drew a blank on the
name. “Aya-something. I can’t remember. But they have different laws.
They’re where your spirit goes to die after your body dies.”
“Don’t
they got no Heaven?”
“Nope.
It just takes longer for your spirit to
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