PHI - Part One

TUESDAY: 0851 HOURS.

     The day's first mortar round hit forty yards east of the slash latrine, sending a geyser of red dirt skyward.
    "Hot damn!" yelped Pee-Pee. He bolted for his slit trench, holding his pants up with one hand and trailing a streamer of toilet paper in the other. "That was freakin’ close!" he shouted to himself as he dove into cover, pressing his body flat against an earthen wall.
    The next incoming round exploded harmlessly a few yards inside the second line of concertina wire.
    Mad Dog glanced at his watch. "Bastards are a few minutes late, today, Mac."
    "Must have slept in," remarked Lt. McConley, shooing a fly that circled his head.
    "Think they’ll lob another one?"
    "Why spoil the routine?"
    Mad Dog and the lieutenant were passing time, drinking boilermakers and bullshitting about nothing in particular while awaiting McConley’s ride to an assignment on another Lima Site. Fraternization between the officer and enlisted man was no big thing, although it seemed to rankle Rear Echelon Officers no end—which suited Mac and Mad Dog just fine. They’d met and split many times since Lieutenant McConley selected Mad Dog in Boot Camp for an assignment to the Air Force Special Operations Group. They’d ended up buddies, ignoring military comportment. Mad Dog reached for the bottle of Crown Royal they were sharing.
    Mac swatted a mosquito and eyed the scorched sky. "You know, Bucko, you and me been down a lotta roads together. Most of ’em tight spots, and you never let me down—"
    "Jesus, don’t get all weepy," said Mad Dog, extending the bottle.
    Mac flipped him the bird. "Up yours, Bucko." He took a swig of the smooth whiskey, then lowered the half-empty bottle and fixed Mad Dog with a steely glint.
    "Lissen up, junior. Yeah, go ahead and roll your eyes, but lissen anyway. I’ve known you—What . . . two, three years? And sure as hell I’ve given you lotta advice in that time. Some you’ve taken, lots more you ignored. Probably to the better sometimes." He raised the bottle to his lips for another swallow and then chased it with half a can of warm beer. "I think maybe it’s time you got outta here. This is the only place we been where I got the willies for sure. Yeah, you heard right. So cut me some slack on what I’m about to say."
    "Is this where the drumroll comes in?"
    "Hey lissen, dammit. I never climbed on your back before about this shit cuz I racked it up to native superstition—"
    Mad Dog chuckled. "Don’t tell me you bought into that phi crap?"
    "Don’t insult me by insisting you don’t put stock in what the hell I’m talking about. You know Chuoa agrees with me. Says that shaman back at Long Tien talked about this hill. That there’s one of those bad spirits up here. Now I admit I passed it off like a bad fart, but lately some of the Hmong troopers have been talking it up, too."
    Mad Dog rolled his eyes. "Ghosts, huh?"
    "Sometimes you got your butt pulled so far over your head you need a Plexiglas window to see what’s up," said Mac. "But even if it’s true, what makes you think you’re invulnerable to whatever’s prowling around this shithole? You think that yarn bracelet on your wrist is gonna protect you?"
    "You seriously think there’s something scouting us out? I mean other than the Indians?"
    "Maybe. Yeah. Whatever it is, I think it’s mainly shadowing you. Chuoa spotted it when we were up in the Plain of Jars."
    "How come he didn’t say anything about it to me."
    Mac studied Mad Dog for a moment before answering. "Claims you’d learn soon enough. Said there was nothing he could do about it one way or the other."
    "Well, there you go, then. I’m not gonna get all spooked over it if I can’t control what’s coming down the road. Now hand me that bottle and let’s get fucked up."
    "Man, sometimes you scare me with that attitude. And I don’t fuckin’ scare easy." Mac rolled his ass to ease the stiffness and drained his beer. "I never had a reason to complain, but lately you’ve been real scary the way you carry on. There’s a— " He searched for the words. "Hell, I can’t really describe it, only to say it’s weird; and it downright makes me uneasy." Mac gazed at Mad Dog from beneath bushy brows. A gentle but skeptical expression crossed his face and a thousand-yard stare appeared in his eyes. "You’ve changed a helluva lot these past sixteen months, Bucko. Tough as you are, wouldn’t do for whatever it is to come calling while I’m gone. Then who’d keep your ass outta the sling?"
    Mad Dog listened uncomfortably, the words triggering an unpleasant memory. He considered telling Mac what his stepfather had said about him being devil spawn, but before he could speak they were hailed and informed the helicopter was inbound. Mac rose, and moved stiffly to the ammo boxes stacked a few yards down the slope. He gathered up his gear. Mad Dog offered to help, but Mac waved him off.
    They trudged shoulder to shoulder up the incline and paused to watch a few grunts unload supplies from the chopper. Finally it was time to depart, and Mac moved forward, head barely ducking the whistling blades. He tossed his ruck to the gunner perched in the door and swung around to face his friend.
    Mad Dog saluted with the bottle of booze and then tipped the neck to his lips. Followed with a sip from the can of beer. Grinning, he tossed the can and bottle simultaneously toward Mac, however, the rotor blade blast slammed the can to the ground and it tumbled helter-skelter. Not so the bottle, which Mac snatched out of the air with one hand. He raised it in a toast, then drained the contents. Belching loudly, he dropped the dead soldier, climbed aboard the helicopter, and plopped on his ass near the hatchway.
    Mac smiled and gave Mad Dog a double thumbs-up as the aircraft’s engine revved for lift-off. Mad Dog studied the man’s face, still unsure after all this time just what those enigmatic twisted lips were signaling. Clicking scuffed boot heels together in an exaggerated manner, he snapped to attention, proffering a salute with the middle finger of his right hand to brow, then turned it into a bow with a showy flourish.
    Mac suddenly reached into a breast pocket on his jungle fatigue shirt and withdrew a shiny object. He kissed it fondly, then flipped it in Mad Dog’s direction. It landed just in front of the toe of one boot. Three things were necessary in order to survive comfortably in the bush: plenty of toilet paper, extra clips of ammo, and the object beside his foot. Rare as hen’s teeth and welcome as a virgin after eight weeks of Boot Camp, the church key would be guarded with his life— a Ka-Bar would make do, but a beer can opener was so much more sophisticated.
    Mad Dog raised a closed fist and Mac nodded in return. The chopper leapt into the air.

1512 HOURS.

The sun was west of Crawl’s trench and low in the sky, which meant the bottom half of the dugout was only about three degrees cooler in the hole than sitting topside. Still, shade was shade. He lay on his back on the dirt floor and stared at the cloudless sky. This is bullshit, he thought. He was still pissed that the helicopter this morning hadn’t been a regular supply chopper, carrying in-bound replacements junior to him. But no such fucking luck. Just came in special-like to haul off some fly-boy’s ass.
    He’d been on The Turd for two weeks, with the lowest in-country time. He was sick and tired of being the Cherry, which meant having to endure constant ribbing and bullshit duties heaped on him. He longed to step up a rung and toss his own shit onto what flowed downhill to the lowliest grunt. Wanted to kick back and watch some other poor scab sweat his ass off digging shit-holes and burying trash in mortar craters. Every time he filled in a latrine and dug a new one he prayed hard for deliverance. And it seemed to be real damned slow in coming.
    That is until Motor Mouth screamed, "Suuuuuppppllllyyyy!"
    Crawl clawed his way upright and peered at the sky, shading his eyes with both hands. This was too good to be true! He heard a smoke canister pop and saw a green cloud form on the LP, a signal to the chopper pilot that the pad was clear and secure from enemy fire. The chopper came in fast, and then about twenty feet off the dirt the nose abruptly reared as the pilot maneuvered for a quick landing, with Crawl waiting in scowling desperation as the aircraft settled on the skids with a rocking motion.
    Three soldiers jumped out and he brightened, but just as quickly his stomach sunk to his asshole when he noticed the fluid motion as they dispersed down the hill in swift, precise movements, right away knowing they weren’t likely candidates for the shit details. He was cursing his foul luck when a tubby kid toppled out of the chopper under the weight of an overloaded rucksack and landed hard on all fours in the red dirt.
    Creepy, thought Crawl, realizing that must’ve been exactly what he looked like when he arrived on The Turd. He hauled ass out of the trench and headed for the helicopter to unload supplies, however, the gunner waved him off and he backtracked quickly as the engine revved and the blades gathered momentum. The chopper took a little hop, which panicked the new kid and he darted away from the swirling blades rather than squatting down. Obviously blinded by the whirling dust kicked up in the rotor wash, the rookie stumbled, then tripped over his own feet and ended up in a belly-whomp on the ground, losing his weapon in the process.
    "Eee-hhaa, a Cherry!" yelled Crawl gleefully. "Thank you, Lawd. I owe you one."
    The Cherry crabbed around in the dust storm, clawing for his M-16, and when he finally found it, he hugged it tightly to his chest like a protective mother. It was obvious this newcomer was freshly pooped from the womb. Face scrunched, eyes closed tightly against the powdered earth scouring his face, the Cherry staggered across the landing pad like a blind man in a sandstorm.
    A mischievous grin sprouted on Crawl’s face. Initiation on The Turd was often cruel, but that was no reason to pass up an opportunity to be the first to break the new kid’s hymen. He moved left and shouted at the newcomer. The kid veered toward the sound, flagging his weapon at unseen obstacles. Crawl backed up, giving instructions, the kid adjusting direction. He enticed the Cherry to the edge of the latrine, figuring maybe at the last moment that he would utter a warning, but he shrugged it off as a lost cause and continued his encouragement. "Almost there!" he shouted.
    The Cherry took the last step, teetered at the edge of the shit trench, and then plummeted like a kitten dropped down a well. The Turd erupted in raucous hoo-hahs. The newcomer rose from the stench, gasping and cursing a blue streak. He wiped the filth off his face and stared angrily at Crawl, whose crooked, toothy grin welcomed him.
    "Hey, shit-for-brains, welcome to The Turd. Consider that icin’ on the cake, cuz you is one lucky sombitch you didn’t lose yore head the way you messed round that chopper. Man, didn’t they teach you nuthin’ at Boot? You gotta get outta the chopper and stay low and far away from the rear rotor in case the chopper swings the tail."
    Being as he was covered with shit, the Cherry didn’t rightly take kindly to this sage advice. "I’m gonna kill you, you motherhumpin’ asshole!"
    Crawl waved a no-no finger. "Keep yore cool ‘n stay put, man."
    "What if I don’t? Whaddaya gonna do ’bout it?"
    "Look, you wanna climb outta there and get yore sorry ass whipped, then c’mon. But I’m tellin’ you there wasn’t no harm meant. You oughtta know you was gonna get it sooner or later. It juss happened sooner then later."
    The newcomer saw the wisdom in what the grunt said. Cherries always got fucked with. That’s how it was. "Don’t think I’m not sore ’bout this—what’s your name?"
    "Crawl." He hooked a get-a-gander thumb at his surroundings. "Round here on The Turd we all got monikers. Mine’s from the way I crawled in the dust when I got here. Same’s you did. Juss not goofy as you." He guffawed and jabbed a finger at the offal-encrusted soldier "Hey! Goofy’d be one to fit you. But tell you what, seein’ how you’re new, I won’t tag you right away. But you gotta get a moniker before somebody else hangs a bad one on you. Otherwise you’re up shit creek no matter what, cuz the name sticks like shit and you got it forever."
    "Ha-Ha. Real fuckin’ funny, man."
    Crawl chuckled. "C’mon, climb outta there."
    "How ’bout a hand?"
    "Yeah, right, get serious."
    The Cherry climbed out of the latrine and inspected himself. "Man, this is bogus. I gotta get cleaned up, " he whined. "Ennymore shit gonna happen to me?"
    "Nah," Crawl reassured him. "I got you first, so now the other guys’ll leave you be far as tricks go. But you now bein’ the Cherry and all, you’ll get the shit details."
    "I get it you was the Cherry ‘til I got here. So I s’pose now you move up. That it?"
    "Right on," chirped Crawl. "Hey, don’t forget yore pisspot."
    "Aw shit, man." The Cherry turned and dropped to his knees at the lip of the trench, and started to prod with his M-16.
    "Don’t let Sarge see you treatin’ the weapon that way. He’ll have yore ass for sure."
    The Cherry glanced up at Crawl, eyes questioning.
    "No kiddin’, man. I wouldn’t shit you."
    The Cherry wasn’t sure if he was being played the chump again, but disrespecting a weapon was out of line. He sighed and slid back into the trench, then kicked around until he located the combat helmet with the toe of his boot. Using the chip strap, he flung it out of the pit.
    Crawl pointed to a group of barrels ten yards away. "Use the water from the red barrel to warsh yore clothes and other stuff off. Water in the red barrel’s not for drinkin’. But that don’t mean you can dunk enny a that shit in it."
    "Enny chance after I’m done I can get sumthin’ to eat?"
    "Ennythin’ you want, so long’s it’s cold field rations. No fires allowed on The Turd cuz the smoke draws too much attention. After you get done with the warsh—Hey, before you do that, you should go report in to Sarge. See that trench over there by that rock? The one with the poncho over it? Take yore orders over there and then come find me after you warsh and I’ll give you the skinny."
    The Cherry grumped off, heading for Sarge’s dugout.

One hour later, the Cherry tracked down Crawl. "Thought you said there wouldn’t be no more tricks," he said humorlessly. "Sergeant Carrillo didn’t like me being round him smellin’ like that."
    Crawl giggled almost girlishly. "I said the other guys won’t do it. Nuthin’ ’bout me."
    "So, how long this gonna happen before I hafta open up a can a whup-ass?"
    "That was my last shot." Crawl crossed his heart. "I swear, man."
    The Cherry bobbed his head. "Cool. So it okay I share with you tonight?"
    "Hop in," Crawl said, moving back.
    They sat facing each other—Crawl on a crate, the Cherry on the narrow, packed dirt floor. Crawl tossed the newcomer a package of field rations and opened a bullshit session as the Cherry ate dinner. He ran down how he got tagged with his nickname: his inglorious exit from a supply helicopter when he tripped and fell. How just like the Cherry, he, too, had wobbled to his feet like a newborn fawn, all wide-eyed and searching his surroundings with a terrified look, and how he eventually ended up on all fours crawling for cover. There had been a few suggestions for a nickname, but Crawl had stuck.
    "Most guys don’t wanna know yore real name, cuz you might not be ‘round long," Crawl continued, stone-faced. "Get my drift?" The Cherry nodded hesitantly and he knew the kid didn’t have the slightest idea what he meant. "Never mind. No fuckin’ big deal," he said with resignation. It was apparent the Cherry would need baby-sitting to keep him from straying too far and falling off The Turd.
    The Cherry offered up a possible moniker for himself: Cheyenne.
    "Cheyenne?" said Crawl. "You a Injun?"
    "Nah. All my friends call me Cheyenne."
    Crawl reached into the crate and brought out a cribbage board and a deck of cards. He began shuffling the cards. "You play?"
    "Heck yes. Deal’em."
    "So what’s yore real name?"
    Cheyenne fumbled with his dealt hand, embarrassment tugging his chubby cheeks. I . . . ah
    . . . mah name is—" A pained look entered his eyes. "Ah, hell, if you really gotta know, my Christian name’s Norman." He cocked his head to one side. "Named after my Pa’s Dad. My Grandpa. But all my friends call me Cheyenne, cuz I’m from Cheyenne."
    "No shit, Sherlock," Crawl said. "You already tole me that. And I tole you I was from Pine Bluff. So that makes us homies." He dropped a few cards in the kitty, looked at his hand, and then picked up cards from the kitty but not the same ones he’d laid down. "Fill me in on other stuff, man."
    Cheyenne paid little attention to the cards—still, Crawl was cheating like hell. They ping-ponged "Do you know . . .?" and "Have you been to . . .?" until both were satisfied they knew enough about each other to be pals for life. Crawl skunked Cheyenne twice and they finally gave up on the card came, opting to ease back and have a smoke. They made small talk until Cheyenne switched subjects and asked about the other thirty-nine soldiers on The Turd.
    Crawl lurched to his feet and leaned against one side of the trench. He jabbed a pinched cigarette in the direction of a freckled teenager with blond hair. "That guy over there’s gotta funny way a sayin’ latrine. Says ‘La Train,’ like it’s French, so that’s why he’s called Frenchy, cuz a the way he says it. See that gray barrel, those niggers standin’ there? They’s from Georgia. Only ones here. Niggers, I mean. I think some other white guy’s from Georgia; name’s Cracker, but he’s not with our squad, so I really don’t know much ’bout him. The big nigger’s Nubbie. Somebody said it was short for Nubian—whatever that means; other’s Iron Head. Iron Head was gonna be called Link onna count a his head is shaped like the Missing Link, but a sniper shot him on the forehead and the round bounced off."
    Cheyenne nodded wisely. "Guess it’s true what they say ’bout nigger heads."
    "Fuckin’-A-Right," Crawl agreed wholeheartedly. "You can drive railroad spikes with ’em."
    "How ’bout that whiney dude?"
    "That’s Henny. For henpeck. He’s pussy-whipped. See how he acts. All wimpy-like." He rotated his head further right, then twisted his body in that direction to get a better look at a shirtless soldier who was busy cleaning his weapon. "Over there’s Beaner, the Mex from Chicago."
    Cheyenne shifted position for a better view. Beaner had black hair and skin the color of sole leather. "Who’s the string bean?"
    "That’s Beaner’s pal, Slink. See how he walks—like a cartoon weasel."
    "See what you mean," agreed Cheyenne. "Hey, is that a beach ball over there?"
    "Yore eyes ain’t playing tricks on you, man. We use it for volleyball. We was always askin’ somebody on the supply choppers to bring us a volleyball, but that’s what we got."
    "Cool," said Cheyenne. Another oddity caught his eye. "How come that TP’s spread out like that?"
    "That’s Pee-Pee’s hole."
    Cheyenne rested his chin on a forearm. He started giggling. "Pee-Pee’s hole. You gotta be shitin’ me. Right?"
    "Nah, I tole you straight, man."
    "Why not TP instead a Pee-Pee if he’s got all that toilet paper?"
    "He thinks it’s cuz a the first letters in his name. Paul Powell. But the real reason he got tagged with it was he’s pissin’ and crappin’ more times’n ennybody else up here. Seems like ’bout every twenty minutes he’s headin’ for the shitter." Crawl leaned back against the scraped reddish soil. "Heard tell he once ups and headed for the shitter whilst a mortar attack was goin’ on rather than leave go in his hole. Major dumb-fuck, you ask me."
    Cheyenne took a drag off his cigarette. "Whaddabout Sergeant Carrillo? He cool?"
    "Everybody calls him Sarge. He’s a hard-ass and don’t take no shit, but you mind yore business and the brass don’t mess with you, less you really fuck sumthin’ up. You’d be wise to stay on Sarge’s good side."
    Cheyenne pointed to three men wearing dark blue berets and tiger camouflage who were seated on ammo crates, playing cards. "Who’s them guys?"
    "Got nuthin’ much to say cuz I ain’t been here long ’nuff to get acquainted. Besides, sometimes they ain’t too friendly." Crawl edged down in the trench.
    Cheyenne followed suit. "How come they call this place ‘The Turd’?"
    Crawl shook his head. "Dunno. Nobody seems to know, either. Get ten dif’rent reasons if you ask ten dif’rent guys. My guess’s good as ennybody’s." He sniffed knowingly. "One reason could be cuz this place is nuthin’ more than a pile a shit."
    "Or maybe it ain’t worth a shit," suggested Cheyenne, giggling.
    A sudden ruckus broke out among the men playing cards. One aggressive, baiting voice drowned out the others: "Hey! Asshole! I catch you bottom dealing again and I’ll cut your cocksucking fingers off. How’d you like to go home wiping your ass with your elbow?"
    Crawl and Cheyenne pushed up to a standing position and cast a glance in the direction of the commotion, just in time to see a burly soldier spring to his feet.
    The soldier tossed his cards in the face of a swarthy man who remained seated. "Nigger, don’t never cheat me again unless you wanna get fucked over."
    The swarthy soldier rose slowly, resting his hand on a sheathed knife. "How many times I gotta tell you I’m Puerto Rican, you dumb ape?"
    The third man remained seated, a smirk plastered on his face. "Sic’em, Leo."
    The two standing men continued to argue loudly, yet neither soldier made a menacing move toward the other. The smirking soldier whistled a tune off-key Cheyenne didn’t recognize.
    "They gonna fight?" Cheyenne asked excitedly.
    "Nah," replied Crawl. "Fly-boys’re looney, but I ain’t never seen’em mix it up with one ta’nuther.
    "Why they wearing dif’rent camo than us?"
    Crawl squashed a bug with the heel of his palm. "Dunno. Guess maybe it has sumthin’ to do with all the sneakin’ out at night and dis’peerin’ for a day or two. Sometimes they come back lookin’ like a tomcat what’s been fence-fightin’."
    Cheyenne peered at the squirming bug. "Whaddaya think they’s doin’ when they dis’peer?"
    Crawl shrugged. "S’posed to be secret stuff maybe havin’ to do with hidin’ some kind a gizmo to keep track a enemy troops comin’ down the Hochie Men Trail. But I don’t rightly know and I could give a shit less, cuz they’s weird fucks and don’t help out round here." He spat and tossed a handful of dirt over it. "Us army types gotta do all the shit jobs." He glanced around, a disgruntled expression on his face. "We’s s’posed to protect this shit pile so them assholes can wander off and do whatever the fuck they do. Which none a us fuckin’ know." He held his palms up in submissive frustration.
    "You pissed off, aincha?" Cheyenne inquired, grinning.
    "Damn straights," snarled Crawl.
    Cheyenne turned his attention back to the men, their backs now to him. "Who’s the Hochie Men? I hearda Charlie but nuthin’ ’bout no Hochie Men."
    Crawl spotted a soldier heading toward the arguing men. "Hey! See that guy there?"
    Cheyenne craned his neck to catch a glimpse of where Crawl was pointing. This soldier also wore a blue beret and faded tiger stripe jungle utilities. Cheyenne pegged him to be in his early twenties, about six-foot, close to two hundred pounds, powerfully built. Slung over a shoulder was an automatic weapon with its barrel pointed downward, and it looked as though he had a folded map in one hand.
    As the soldier neared the squabbling men, they broke off the argument and squatted down once more. It appeared the soldier carrying the map was looking towards the fence line below their location. Something about the way he moved disturbed Cheyenne and it was irritating that he couldn’t put his finger on why. He watched for a few more seconds before it dawned on him. "Looks like a goddamned rabid dog on the prowl," he muttered, suddenly uneasy.
    Crawl picked up on the reference. "Hell, yes! Man, you got it right on the head. Rumor is he’s super fuckin’ crazy. If he did everthin’ people say he did, he’s gotta be from outer space. They call him Mad Dog, and you can guess how he got it."
    Mad Dog joined the three men and apparently said something important, because each man slung a small backpack over his shoulders and armed himself with an automatic weapon. The quartet then moved diagonally down the hillside. Cheyenne stood on tiptoes to get a better view. He watched as they joined up with four more men, and the eight formed a circle, each dropping to one knee in a huddle.
    "Who’s them other guys—the short ones that just joined up?"
    "They’s called Mungs. Some kinda special troops helpin’ the fly-boys."
    Cheyenne was intrigued. "Whaddaya think they’s talkin’ ’bout?"
    Crawl was back on the crate, leaning against the earthen wall. Dirt dribbled down his collar, but he seemed oblivious to it. "Who you talkin’ ’bout?"
    "Mad Dog and those Munk guys," Cheyenne replied, still watching the group of men.
    "Shit, who the hell knows?"
    "Maybe they’s gonna go after the Hochie Men!" Cheyenne exclaimed. "You think so?"
    "Doubt it. But maybe. Hochie Men sneak down from the North into Louse and head for South Vietnam. Bad sumbitches, I hear. But Sarge says not to worry ’bout’em. He says most fightin’ here’bouts is by local gooks. He says Mad Dog warned him Hochie Men was headin’ this way, but Sarge don’t believe him. He says enny trouble comes our way is from the local dinks playing sniper. He says those mortar rounds lobbed at us are juss trainin’ for the rice-eaters. Sarge says even if Hochie Men know we’s here, they don’t give a shit. He says ain’t nobody give a good goddamn ’bout this friggin’ place."
    Cheyenne scrunched down in the trench and began clawing the dirt floor. He swallowed hard and his face turned pallid. "Sarge tole me some guys got killed here, huh?"
    Crawl laughed nervously. "Yeah. Don’t worry ’bout it, though, cuz it ain’t no big sweat. When I got here Sarge tole me the last guy got it more’n a month ago." He attempted bravado. "He says this duty was a breeze till the fly-boys started their shit. I dunno how true that is. I been here ’bout two weeks come yesterday and me’n some of the other grunts think things are gettin’ dicey." He titled his head back and peered skyward, a worried tone in his voice as he spoke. "Sumthin’s up. I juss hope it ain’t the Hochie Men."
    Cheyenne’s hand trembled as he lit a cigarette. He leaned closer to his buddy. "Lissen, don’t burn me if I tell you sumthin’. Okay?" Crawl nodded his agreement. Cheyenne hesitated, trying to make up his mind to tell all. He decided his friend was trustworthy. "Look, man, I lied ’bout bein’ from Cheyenne. I made it up cuz I really come from Jackson Hole. I juss fancied bein’ called Cheyenne." He explained he’d learned the hard way that grunts pick on each other and became merciless when they discover the least little thing to draw emotional blood. The fact that he was chubby, coupled with coming from a town with ‘Hole’ in the name, inevitably brought on uncomplimentary remarks.
    "Lotsa times in Boot some smart-ass D.I.’d make fun a me and call me ‘Say-Anne’." He shook his head sadly and fingered a clod between his outstretched legs. "Really pisses me off, ya know. But there ain’t nuthin’ I could do ’bout it." He sucked a short breath, then continued in a rush. "Ever see Joel McCrea in the cowboy movies?" He didn’t wait for a reply. "He’s from over near Cheyenne. I liked the sound a that name, so I took it for myself." He searched Crawl’s face for understanding. Unsure, he asked a favor. "Lissen, I don’t really know you all that well, but I think I can trust you. We’s homies, ain’t we? We gotta stick together, so do me a favor, okay? Call me Cheyenne? Please?" He inhaled again, then let it out slowly, speaking softly, almost pleading: "And . . . ah . . . please don’t let on to my real name."
    Crawl stuck out his hand and vowed to never reveal his pal’s Christian name, even though it was stamped on the kid’s own dog tags, not to mention typed on his transfer orders. From here on out, he promised, Norman would be called Cheyenne while on The Turd. His advice to newcomer Cheyenne: "Remember, you is the Cherry. But ennybody give you shit, then turn cowboy on ’em."

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