The Day it Snowed in 'Nam

A short story inspired by events from the conflict in Vietnam. I have used artistic license and all the characters are fictional. As a heads-up this story does not contain any sex, it is about a man falling in love with life again. This is a stand-alone story but fits into the same story arc asShifting Dynamics.

Glossary

DMZ: demilitarized zone

Binh: Vietnamese girl's name meaning peaceful.

Band Aid: medic

MEDCAP: medical civil assistance program

FOB: Forward Operating Base

Klicks: kilometers

Yards: military slang for Montagnards, the indigenous peoples of the Central Highlands of Vietnam. The term Montagnard means "people of the mountain" in French.

Pineapples: grenades

Mikes: miles

ARVN: Army of the Republic of Vietnam; the South Vietnamese Regular Army.

SOG: Military Assistance Command, Vietnam -- Studies and Observations Group was a highly classified, multi-service United States special operations unit which conducted covert unconventional warfare operations prior to and during the Vietnam War.

SRAO: Supplemental Recreation Activities Overseas.

MACV: Military Assistance Command, Vietnam-the joint services command for troops in Vietnam.

December, Phu Bai, Vietnam.

Trigger swirled the glass, letting the golden nectar catch the feeble light of the mismatched lamps scattered around the tin shack. The constant drone of the diesel generator choked and the lights flickered. With a loud splutter the generator kicked back in and the brief light show ended. He gazed at the subtle changes in color as the tepid light reflected through the liquid again.

His body was so weary he could have closed his eyes and gone to sleep sitting on the bar stool. The hypnotising effect of the amber hues drew his heavy eyelids down.

"Kid, you're dead on your feet."

Trigger dragged his protesting eyelids open and looked blandly at Smithy, who had appeared next to him.

"We've been in the field over ninety-six hours. Get some rack time," the older man said, resting a hand on Trigger's shoulder. "If you don't you'll crash here."

Wincing at the pain radiating from strained abdominal muscles, Trigger turned to listlessly scan the room. He took in the groups of soldiers at varying stages of inebriation in the joke of a hovel, called the officers' mess. Every table had men around it -- with one ominous exception.

By the door stood a deserted pallet-made table. It was Lt. Seadal's, but his team had not returned from the DMZ. Morbid tradition dictated the area would remain unoccupied for the rest of the week -- a transient memorial to the young men who would never be going home.

Trigger sighed. "If I try, I'll be asleep dreaming with my eyes wide open."

He didn't want to see the vivid images unconsciousness would bring. His defences weakened and forced to relive the horror. He wasn't ready to let the visions control him -- not yet.

Smithy released his firm grip and took a stool next to him. A nod and raised finger brought the bartender with another glass of whiskey.

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes.

"It was my anniversary a couple of weeks ago." Trigger lifted his glass. "One year in this hell hole." He went to chuckle, but stopped when his stomach muscles fought back.

"You've done your tour... and more. I can revoke your indefinite status, just say the word," Smithy said quietly and frowned. "You're ready to go home, kid."

Ignoring the pain, a breath of laughter escaped the young lieutenant. "What fucking home?"

Return to LA with no more than the clothes on his back. No family awaited him, no girl was missing him. No one could love a man with such a damaged and scarred soul. Trigger had resigned himself to this fact.

Outwardly he was charismatic, able to source anything his team needed. Smithy had once divulged it was his ability to charm the birds from the trees that had gotten him selected for the team. But inside he was a broken man who knew the real him would repulse most people.

He raised an eyebrow at his CO.

"Like it or not, this is my home." And he meant it.

Over the last year he'd found a place in life. Smithy's team was his family and he would walk through fire to remain with them. He sighed carefully. Hell, he already had many times over.

Seemingly accepting his veiled request to stay, Smithy raised his own glass and touched the side of Trigger's. "Here's to the next twelve months."

Trigger took a swig, relishing the burn of the liquor. Idly, he wondered if it would revive that cold dark place that had died inside of him. The part that had ceased to exist when the village had been destroyed.

He had known those people, he'd played with the children. Damn, he'd helped deliver one of them. A small smile graced his lips. Okay, 'helped' might be embellishing a little, more he ran about in a panic as Brenner and Smithy assisted in bringing a new life into the world. He bit the inside of his cheek to contain his anger. And what a fucked-up world it was.

"We need to tell Band Aid," he said, not looking up from his glass.

Small mercies, Brenner 'Band Aid' hadn't had to experience the complete destruction. With his tour complete and fiancée waiting, he had gone home to finish his medical degree. He would be saving lives... not taking them.

In the futility of war, MEDCAP delivered more than medical aid to the Montagnards. It gave a soul and a face to the meaningless, bloody conflict. Now the people they had been fighting to liberate were dead.

Trigger wondered whether he should follow Brenner's lead and train as a doctor. He would have to survive, but before he met his maker he needed to atone for the things he had done in 'Nam.

He had never taken an innocent life, but he remembered every kill. Did God truly work on an eye for an eye policy? If he became a medic how many lives would he need to save for each one he had snuffed out? He grimaced at the debt he had accrued; his muscles protested at the sudden movement. The blood on his hands didn't compare to the sins of the bastards' who had torn through the village.

He vividly recalled the sickly, sweet smell of charred flesh. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes misted. He blinked rapidly to stop the tears from escaping.

It didn't help.

His mind replayed the hours spent digging graves. The team was too late to save the villagers; the least they could do was give them dignity in death. His strained and sore muscles would recover, but for as long as he walked this earth the image of those tiny graves would haunt him.

Smithy's order to find the gooks who had annihilated a whole village was leapt upon with enthusiasm. They wouldn't leave until revenge had been served. The team tracked and searched, hardly breaking to rest, but four days was not enough. Deuce offered to drop more supplies, but Smithy called it.

As much as Trigger wanted to continue he knew the team was on their knees and Deuce couldn't keep up the hours of recon flights. They had to stop before they made a mistake. A fatal mistake.

Finishing his whiskey, Smithy stood up.

"I wrote to Brenner before I came to find you." He gently pried Trigger's fingers from his empty glass, placing it on the bar. "C'mon, I'll walk you back to the hooch."

Trigger got to his feet stiffly. "I'll start checking hospitals and refugee camps for Binh first thing."

He needed to know for sure the baby -- who had become the Alpha team's unofficial mascot -- was really dead. The irony she carried the name 'peaceful' caused his gut to twist, adding to the discomfort of his aching body.

"Thanks, kid," Smithy said quietly, an unlit cigarette hanging limply from his calloused hand.

Trigger wasn't surprised to find Deuce in the hooch. Against all regulations he had moved in when Brenner went home. The pilot's footlocker sat at the end of the cot, demonstrating his wish it was a more permanent arrangement. Trigger knew his buddy preferred the company of his teammates over the designated Air Force quarters. He made a mental note to get the paperwork squared away so Deuce could stay in their hooch.

Deuce mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, still fully clothed. Only his boots had been removed.

AJ, a large mechanic, glanced up from reading a letter, sat on his cot. "The idiot don't even shut up in his sleep."

"The day he's quiet is the day I'm worried," Smithy replied, his head down as he unlaced his boots. Heavy sludge clung to the leather. The nearly constant rain had turned all the paths on the FOB into a treacherous sea of mud, which coated every soldier's boots.

Forgetting his own fear of sleep, Trigger was concerned about his buddy. "How is he?" he asked AJ.

The longer they were in-country, the more eccentric Deuce's personality had become. He couldn't remember the last time the pilot hadn't had deep purple coloring under his eyes; sleep evaded his sensitive friend more often than not.

Deuce had seen the devastation too.

Naively they had been in a jovial mood as he landed a couple of klicks away, the men looking forward to a day working with the Yards' families. Deuce had made a crude sock puppet, planning to distract the children receiving shots.

Trigger felt the painful lump in his throat again and swallowed uncomfortably.

Sockie, the hand puppet, had been annoying AJ. Then the morbid stench hit them. Sockie went silent as they carefully approached.

No training, no previous experience could have prepared them for what they found.

"Fool's been shouting out more than normal, but he's stayed calm," AJ replied honestly; the grimace he wore was one of defeat.

Trigger closed his eyes with a small sigh, his abdominals complained at the influx of air. If he didn't want to face his nightmares he couldn't imagine the pain of Deuce's dreams.

"Captain, should we do watches?"

Smithy glanced over from folding his fatigues. He remained quiet looking at the sleeping pilot, before turning to Trigger. "No, he's out for the count. I'm sure he'll wake us soon enough if that changes."

With no more excuses Trigger slowly undressed and crawled into his cot. He prayed tonight his mind would be as exhausted as his body. He needed rest and his aching muscles couldn't cope with thrashing around in his own terrors.

Betsy, he'd think of Betsy. The pretty nurse always had a smile for him, and she looked so cute blushing whenever he winked at her. She had only rotated to the base a few weeks ago and they had yet to become better acquainted. She was the ideal distraction.

With the soothing image of her smile he let sleep finally claim him.

"Deuce, you're not helping!" Trigger snatched the paperwork from the pilot's hand. Glancing at them, he returned the papers to the correct pile.

"C'mon, tell me what I can do." Deuce gazed at him with those damn kicked-puppy-dog eyes.

He understood why Deuce was desperate to keep busy. None of them wanted time to think. Thinking led to guilt. He had already beaten himself up knowing it was the team's involvement which had put the village on Charlie's radar. If they hadn't been 'helping,' the Yards and their families might not have died.

He could use Deuce's skills, though he was hesitant to ask. The pilot was fluent in Vietnamese; for him the telephone conversations, searching for Binh, would be easy. At best Trigger's linguistic skills were passable in the field, but he was coming up short trying to explain to administrators what he was doing. The useless, Army-issue translation manual sat, well thumbed, in front of him.

Trigger looked at the pain etched on Deuce's face and didn't know if his buddy would cope. He had prepared mentally to have Binh's death confirmed, but Deuce was ever the optimist. His crazy buddy saw beauty in the most mundane places. He could drag a chuckle from an exhausted soldier with a daft impersonation or have you smiling at a glorious sunset while ordnance exploded loudly in the jungle behind you.

Deuce had gotten Trigger through his early days in this godforsaken place. He had also given him the will to keep fighting, the will to live, when they were captured. He owed the tall, lanky man his life in more ways than one. Now all he wanted to do was protect him. Hell, he owed him that much.

Trigger's reverie was broken by a loud crash. He reacted on instinct, reaching for his sidearm and jumping to his feet. Seeing Deuce scrabbling around on the ground, he rolled his eyes and replaced the gun.

"Damn paper clips, they're real pretty, but the critters get everywhere," Deuce explained, presenting a handful of the described items while he knelt on the floor.

Trigger sighed and crouched to collect up the supplies Deuce had knocked off a shelf in the office he'd commandeered for the day.

"I don't have time for this." He winced as he stood up with a box of staples, his stomach muscles feeling more tender after his relative inactivity of the last few hours.

It was the first day in nearly a week he had not dug graves or careened through the jungle. Today the pain just added to his frustration.

"I'm less than halfway through the hospital list and this is a waste of space." He slammed the translation manual shut as he passed the desk while returning the staples to the shelf.

A thought struck him and he stopped and turned back to his buddy.

"How, on God's green earth, did you get everything to fall so far?" Trigger couldn't help laughing, realizing the debris was on the opposite side of the office from the shelf it had started on.

"It's a skill I didn't know I had." Deuce gave a lopsided grin, but his eyes betrayed the lack of humour. "Hey, when we find Charlie, do ya think Smithy'll let me throw the pineapples? I throw real far."

Trigger had seen that look before. A dark beast would creep in and wrap its hands around Deuce's soul. In that frame of mind the pilot was goddamn dangerous. Trigger needed to bring him back, and quickly. He feared one day the darkness would win and suffocate his best friend.

"Let's focus on tracking down survivors," he suggested smoothly.

"Okay," Deuce replied deceptively calmly.

Trigger knew him too well to be taken in by the facade. He needed to engage the pilot and get his focus on another task. Reluctantly he knew he had to let him help.

"Bud, I could really use some coffee." He chuckled. "And Advil. Can you get some, then be my translator? We'll get through the list faster if we work together."

He relaxed into a warm smile, watching Deuce visibly brighten.

"Sure thing, LT." Deuce snapped off a crooked salute and bounced out of the office.

Christmas Eve

Every step was treacherous as Trigger carefully made his way across camp. He slid as much as walked on the mud, his fatigues soaked through under the persistent onslaught of rain. The air was filled with the unpleasant, yet familiar stench of rotting foliage and diesel.

Inside a trash bag, he clutched the last few items he had to deliver. It was important they stayed dry -- they were Christmas supplies. For a modest commission, he had acquired extra booze and cigarettes plus a box of homemade cookies. Once he had handed them over he would stop for much needed downtime.

He glanced at his watch; seventeen hundred. Trigger could drop off the goods, collect his profit and still meet Smithy in time.

The FOB was bursting at the seams. Men merrily shouted at each other as he made his way through the base. The ceasefire called for Christmas meant anyone who could come in from the field had. Tonight's poker game would be lucrative, which of course is why Smithy had arranged it.

"Trigger! Trigger! I've found 'em." Deuce's Texan drawl stopped him in his tracks.

He turned to see Deuce skidding and stumbling towards him, the pilot's long legs a hindrance more than a help on the slick path. He had left him making the last few follow-up calls. After five days of false leads and dead ends Trigger, had given up. Deuce hadn't and now the wet pilot radiated infectious joy, his wild non-regulation hair plastered to his forehead.

Trigger couldn't help grinning as a seed of hope took root.

"Where? Are you sure?" he fired back, reaching out a hand to brace himself as Deuce slid into him.

"It's a small hospital about twenty mikes southeast of the village." Deuce regained his balance. He was flushed despite the rain, which brought little relief from the oppressive heat. "An ARVN recon unit picked up a woman and baby matching their description."

Quickly processing the information, or lack thereof, Trigger asked hesitantly, "Is Laken too badly hurt to tell them it's her?"

He knew Binh's mother would've done anything to keep her baby safe -- even if it cost her her own life.

"The nurse said the mom isn't injured." Deuce swiped the rain and sweat away from his face and frowned. "She hasn't spoken since the soldiers got her to the hospital."

"Oh." Trigger couldn't hide the doubt in his voice. Too many women and babies turned up, displaced by this cruel war. The odds that it was them... slim to none.

"We gotta check." Deuce's cheeks puffed out with determination. "I gotta check."

"Okay, I'll see who's on the ground and get them to get a photo or at least a good description," he replied.

"No, I need to see with my own eyes. Can you get me a bird?"

"Not this close to nightfall. Anyways, they'll all be out picking up teams," he explained soothingly, seeing the demon flash in his buddy's eyes. "Tomorrow's out, so the next day?"

"I can fly at first light. I'm gonna go tomorrow," Deuce said forcefully. "It's not just you who can scam stuff. I'll get a bird and go by myself."

Trigger rolled his eyes, realizing his plan to get blind drunk on Christmas Day was fast disappearing. His friend might be crazy but he was only pushing for what they both wanted to know.

"Let's go speak to the captain," he said with a small smile.

He'd scam a chopper and Smithy would come up with a plan. Hell, if it was true it might be the best Christmas present the team could have.

Deuce threw an arm over Trigger's shoulders, nearly causing them both to topple over on the oil slick-like ground. "Sure thing, amigo."

Trigger noticed the unnatural silence when he entered the officers' mess. All eyes were focused on the card game in the center of the room.

Smithy sat at a large table surrounded by soldiers, with a few young nurses standing around the edge. His cards were face down and only a small pile of money was left in front of him.

One other player remained in the game. Ginger, sitting opposite, pushed some bills forward, calling it. The red-haired door gunner had a look of pure delight as he flipped his hand over, displaying a flush.

Theatrically, Smithy sighed and showed his losing hand.

"Too easy, Captain, you're making this too easy," Ginger crowed, dragging the pot towards him.

Trigger tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his fatigues. He was witnessing a well-rehearsed plan. Smithy softened up the players, letting them win while awaiting his arrival, at that point they would work as a tag team to fleece the other guys. The silent communication system they had developed in the field to warn of danger would be seamlessly adapted to significantly improve their odds. He had run the scam with Smithy many times. A series of hidden signals divulged the quality of their respective hands and bets were placed accordingly.