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  ACCLAIM FOR

  FIELDS OF FIRE

  “In swift, flexible prose that does everything he asks of it—including a whiff of hilarious farce just to show he can do it—Webb gives us an extraordinary range of acutely observed people, not one a stereotype, and as many different ways of looking at that miserable war … Fields of Fire is a stunner.”

  —Newsweek

  “James Webb has rehabilitated the idea of the Americanv hero—not John Wayne, to be sure, but every man, caught up in circumstances beyond his control, surviving the blood, dreck, and absurdity with dignity and even a certain elan. Fields of Fire is an antiwar book, yes, but not naively, dumbly anti-soldier or anti-American … Webb pulls off the scabs and looks directly, unflinchingly on the open wounds of the Sixties.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “Webb's book has the unmistakable sound of truth acquired the hard way. His men hate the war; it is a lethal fact cut adrift from personal sense. Yet they understand that its profound insanity, its blood and oblivion, have in some way made them fall in love with battle and with each other.”

  —Time

  ACCLAIM FOR THE

  EMPEROR’S GENERAL

  “A rich, sweeping epic of a novel … an absolute winner.”

  —Nelson DeMille

  “Powerfully compelling and moving … historical fiction of a high order … hypnotic storytelling … mesmerizing.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “This compelling, fascinating exercise of historical fiction proves, again, that Jim Webb is as fine a novelist as he was a Marine. Enough said.”

  —George F. Will

  “James Webb offers it all … a page-turning tour de force that examines our morality and makes us question what we ourselves would have done.”

  —Nicholas Sparks, author of The Notebook

  and Message in a Bottle

  “With The Emperor's General, Jim Webb cements his reputation as an extraordinarily gifted storyteller. He excels in mining the rich veins of history to invest his fiction with the drama of great events, and to set a grand stage on which his protagonist must reconcile the call of duty and the demands of his conscience. An engrossing, moving, and splendid book.”

  —Senator John McCain

  “A seamless tapestry of history and fiction … a truly enthralling work.”

  —The Hartford Courant

  “An insightful account of a part of history that … still lives with us today … An excellent addition to anyone's collection of World War II fiction.”

  —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  For the 100,000 Marines who became casualties in Vietnam. And for the others who became casualties upon their return.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to three old pros, Ted Purdy, Oliver Swan and Oscar Collier; to three patient ladies, Barb, Amy and Pat; and to one hell of a friend (and not a bad squad leader, either), Tom Martin. In addition, I would like to reaffirm my undying pride in having been a part of that anomalous insanity embodied in the word Marine. While no unit such as is pictured in this work ever existed, and while all the characters involved are wholly fictional, the fuel of this fiction was, of course, actual experience.

  Author's note: As many of the words and terms used by Americans fighting in Vietnam were unique to that place and time, I have appended a “glossary of unusual terms” at the end of this book.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  The Best We Have

  PART TWO

  The End of the Pipeline

  PART THREE

  Vestiges: Virtues Rewarded and Other Crimes

  GLOSSARY

  Map of the An Hoa Basin by Gary Lee Webb

  PROLOGUE

  “And who are the young men we are asking to go into action against such solid odds? You've met them. You know. They are the best we have. But they are not McNamara's sons, or Bundy's. I doubt they're yours. And they know they're at the end of the pipeline. That no one cares. They know.”

  —an anonymous general to correspondent Arthur Hadley

  Hodges sat against a wet, grassy paddy dike and lazily stirred a can of Beef and Potatoes with a dirty plastic spoon. Raindrops popped and sizzled as they pelted the tiny stove in front of him, which he had made by punching holes in another C-ration tin. His eyes were sunken, his face gaunt and bearded. He dragged mechanically on a muddy cigarette, mindless of the stream of water that was pouring off his helmet down the back of his neck. There was no way to avoid the rain. His body was crinkly from it and he didn't care anymore.

  Snake approached and sat on the dike, at Hodges’ shoulder. He took off his glasses and absently wiped mud off one lense, using his skivvy shirt. He put them back on without examining the wiped lense.

  Across the paddy to their front, in the mist of a rain-drenched treeline, a group of dark-clothed figures hastened into a stone pagoda. The tank's turret followed the shadowed apparitions, its long 90-millimeter gun tube pointing toward the trees like an ominous finger. The turret halted and the tube exploded and in one quick moment a White Phosphorus shell erupted inside the pagoda, having been shot expertly through the door. Thick white smoke rushed from every opening of the pagoda, and mixed with the low rain-mist.

  Snake nodded, lighting a cigarette. “Get some, tank. Half a dozen crispy critters in there, now.”

  Hodges grunted. “Fucking tank.”

  “Ahhh, Lieutenant.” Snake continued to stare absently at the shrouded treeline. “More gooners than I ever seen. We could really be in the hurt locker tonight.”

  “That's what I mean. Fucking tank.”

  Snake shifted his gaze to the treadless tank that had anchored them in such an indefensible position. It sat like a wounded mastodon in the middle of the exposed paddy. The company was digging a perimeter around it, to protect it. “Senator's pissed off again.”

  “Is that all?” Hodges tested the juice from the Beef and Potatoes. “The man needs a baby-sitter. Do they have baby-sitters in the dorm at Harvard?”

  “Kersey came down and told me to put a team in the treeline. The one on the other side. I sent Senator. You shoulda heard him bitch and moan.”

  “I hope you tied a string to his arm, so he won't get lost.”

  “Kersey told me to move my holes farther out, too.”

  “Out where?”

  Snake grimaced. “In the middle of that paddy. He's a hopeless case, Kersey. I ain't gonna do it, Lieutenant. Enough is enough.”

  Hodges grunted again, with a sort of apathetic irony. “Old Kersey would like that. Then when you get blown away out there he can get another Silver Star.”

  “You want me to do it?”

  “Nah. Go back and dig in behind the dike and eat your chow. If scumbag comes back, tell him to deal with me.”

  Snake allowed himself a small, appreciative smile. “I already told him that. Thanks, Lieutenant.” The turret moved slowly again, and the gun exploded. To the north, out of their vision, there were other sounds of another unit fighting furiously. Hodges began eating his Beef and Potatoes, holding the can by the half-opened lid. He ate slowly, impervious to the other fighting.

  Snake measured Hodges from his perch atop the dike. “Senator been talking to you, Lieutenant?”

  “Senator?” The 90-millimeter gun exploded again. Hodges grinned wryly. “No. I don't speak Harvard.”

  “He ain't said anything about when you were mede-vacked and we lost Baby Cakes out on Go Noi?”

  “Nope. Why? Was it his fault again?”

  “No. No, sir. It wasn't his fault. But it wasn't our fault, either. You know how it is in the bush, Lieutenant. Sometimes things go dinky dau. You know that. But that Senator. He's got some weird ideas
. He's been sulking ever since the Bridge, but he's been worse lately. Five months you and him been with the platoon. You'd think the man would get some bush sense in five months.” Hodges continued to eat, apparently uninterested. “Miss your woman, huh?”

  Hodges grinned, suddenly awake. “Yeah, I do. Gonna marry me a Jap. Figure that one out, will you? I think we've all gone dinky dau, Snake. Senator's flipped out, you extended your goddamn tour, and I'm marrying me a Jap.”

  Snake stood up. The tank fired again. Far to the north an artillery mission dug into wet earth. “Well, I better go dig me a deep hole. We're gonna be sucking wind tonight. I never seen so many gooks.” Snake turned to walk away, then called to Hodges. “Don't let that tank sneak off, Lieutenant.”

  Hodges shook his head. “Goddamn tank. Goddamn Kersey. Goddamn Senator. You better dig a neck-deep hole.”

  1

  SNAKE

  February 1968

  There he went again. Smack-man came unfocused in the middle of a word, the unformed syllable a dribble of bubbly spit along his chin, and leaned forward, that sudden rush of ecstasy so slow and deep it put him out. His knees bent just a little and he stood there motionless, styled out in a violet suit and turquoise, high-heeled shoes. He had the Wave and his hair was so perfectly frozen into place that he seemed a mimic sculpture of himself, standing there all still with skag.

  Snake peeped into the doorway one more time, still saw no one, and took a deep breath: I owe it to myself. He grabbed a sink with one hand and unloaded with a furious kick, perfectly aimed. Smack-man's head bounced up like a football on a short string, stopping abruptly when his neck ended. Then he slumped onto the floor, out cold, breathing raggedly through a mashed, gushing nose.

  Nothing to it. Never knew what hit him.

  Snake quickly sorted through Smack-man, careful to replace each item as he found it. Two ten's were stuffed inside one pocket. Whatta you know. Smack-man must be a bag man. Smack-man should be ashamed. Snake pocketed the money, laughing to himself: for the good of society, and little kids on dope.

  He stood, pushing his glasses back up his nose, and scratched his head, studying his kill. Well, I gotta go tell Mister Baum. What a bummer.

  And in twenty minutes he was on the street again, walking briskly toward nowhere under winter's lingering chill. His shoulders were raised underneath the gray sweatshirt, guarding hopelessly against the wind. His head was tilted to the side and back. A sneer sat tightly on his face.

  What the hell. You gotta believe in yourself. It was the right thing to do.

  A gust of wind swooped down from the amber mist of sky and chased him, rattling trash. Next to him the door of an abandoned rowhouse swung open and banged. The boards over its windows clapped against the building. His eyes scanned the building quickly and his narrow shoulders raised against the biting wind again, but otherwise there was no reaction from him.

  Gotta be cool, man. Can't let no empty building spook you.

  An old car clanked past him, spewing clouds of oil, and he eyed it also, not breaking his sauntering stride. Driving too slow. Looking for something. Hope it ain't me.

  He was small, with a mop of brittle hair. The hair flopped along his neck, bending with any hint of wind. His face was narrow and anonymous but for the crooked memory of a broken nose and the clear eyes. The eyes were active and intense.

  He left the sidewalk, turning inside a rusted fence, and walked up to a rowhouse stairway. He climbed the outside steps, pondering each one as if searching for an excuse not to ascend it, and did a mull-dance on the landing, finally being chased inside by another gust of wind.

  Hell with it. Need a beer anyway.

  The black stench of air clung to him as he climbed the inside stairs. Sadie stuck her head out on the second landing and he jammed a ten-dollar bill inside her stained cotton robe. The bill never stopped moving. Sadie extracted it with a lightning stroke and ogled it as if it were an emerald. Her wild gray hair came full into the hallway and she called to Snake. He was three steps up from her landing now.

  “What you been up to, bad old Snake?”

  “Trouble. You know that.” He stopped on the stairs for one moment and gave her his ten-dollar sermon. “Now, go buy that dog of yours some diapers. Or a box of kitty litter. I'm tired of seeing his shit inside the door down there.”

  She slammed the door on him. He laughed, continuing up the stairs. Old bitch.

  Inside his own door, a vision on the bed. He blinked once at the greater light and focused. It was his mother, in her bathrobe. She dangled imaginatively on the bed's edge, her chubby legs crossed, neither of them quite touching the floor. Her arms were up behind her head, pushing her hair over the top so that it fell down around her face. She looked as if she were carefully attempting to re-create a picture from some long-forgotten men's magazine. She watched the door with expectant eyes and dropped her hands in disappointment when she saw Snake. He shook his head slightly, then pulled out a cigarette and leaned against the doorway.

  “Uh huh. What are you doing? Paying bills?”

  She smoothed a wrinkle on the bed, studying it for a moment, not looking at him. Then she gave her hair a flip. She had bleached it artificial gold again, and she smiled her sugar smile and her sad, remembering voice came across the room on a puffy little cloud, floating lazily to his ears.

  “You're home early, Ronnie.”

  “You noticed that.”

  She was naked underneath the robe. She leaned forward on the bed, finding the floor with her dangling feet, and the robe fell loosely away, revealing her. Snake shrugged resignedly. Something's going on. Again. He walked to the refrigerator and searched for a beer but they were gone. There had been two six-packs that morning.

  “Old Bones out on a job?” She nodded, watching him from beside the bed.

  “You sure he's working?” She laughed a little. He did, too. The old man's antics were legendary and unpredictable.

  “Man came for him in a truck this morning and he left with his painting clothes on, carrying a sackload of beer.” She shrugged, then looked at Snake with an insightful stare. “From the beer I'd say he's working. If it was hard stuff…” She made a funny face and shrugged again. “I think he's working.”

  There was nothing else to drink in the refrigerator. “Any coffee?”

  “Instant.”

  He put some water on. She eyed him closely, walking from the bed into the kitchen. “Why are you home so early? Did you get fired again?”

  He spooned the instant into the cup. “Yup.”

  She grinned, half-amused and half-curious, her eyes lingering on his wiry body. “Was it another fight? How can you stand to fight so much? You're so blind without your glasses! Was it another fight?”

  He checked the water. Hot enough. He poured it into the cup. “Yup. Sort of.”

  She sat down and leaned over the table, admiring him. “How can a man be fired for ‘sort of being in a fight?”

  He joined her at the table and sipped his coffee. Perfect. Then he lit another cigarette. “Well. It all started when I had to clean the women's room.” She nodded eagerly, already knowing that he would make it into a great story. She had always told him that he shouldn't fight but she cloyed him with attention when he did. She had always admonished him to be civil but at times like this he was John Wayne, straight out of Dodge City. He casually sipped his coffee.

  “I put the sign out in front of the door, you know, so nobody will walk into the room when I'm cleaning it. Then I wait until all the girls are out of there, asking each one when she leaves if there's anybody else still in there. I don't want to get into that kind of trouble, moral turpitude is a bust, you know that. Finally I go in and clean the toilets and the sinks, and I'm starting to mop the floor when this nigger dude stumbles in. Got a Jones on, I can tell the minute he walks into the room. He's just shot up, too. Don't know where the hell he got off, maybe right there in the movie room. Don't know if he could cook up without being caught but I
guess it's as good as any other place. Nobody ever gave a damn when a match was lit that I ever saw. Maybe he was snorting. Who knows. He looked too out of it to be snorting. He was out on his goddamn feet. You know he's out of it if he walks into the wrong bathroom. Moral turpitude and all.”

  She reached over and took one of his cigarettes, ogling him as if he were telling a bedtime story. Really grooving on it. “Yeah. O.K. So what did you do?”

  “Take it easy. Don't steal my lines, all right? The dude walks into the bathroom, taking a couple steps and then stopping, nodding out right on his feet, leaning all the way forward at the waist, all the way out. Then he wakes up real quick and goes ‘whoooeeee, whooooooeee,’ like that, and then falls asleep again, there on his feet. I don't know how the hell he made it to the bathroom. Well. I watch him do that a couple times. He smiles when he wakes up like everything's O.K. I try to check his fingers to see if he's got the poison but I can't tell, and he's pretty strong when he wakes up. Figure he's just got a strong shot in him.

  “He's dressed pretty good. That don't always mean anything, I mean, why the hell would he be in a movie in the afternoon if he's worth a shit, it's a lousy movie anyway. But you never can tell.”

  He flipped his cigarette into the cluttered sink and slowly lit another, enjoying her eagerness. “Didn't know what to think, to tell you the truth. Coulda been anybody.

  But I watched him dropping off like that, and checked those clothes out, and I figured it was worth a shot.” She nodded quickly to him, smiling, enraptured by his logic. Snake laughed ironically. “It was like the Lord his-self delivered him to me. Here we are in the girls’ room, with a sign out front that says ‘CLOSED,’ ain't nobody coming in, ain't nobody there to say what happened, this dude is so far gone he could take a picture of me and still not remember me. Well. Just had to make me a play.”