The Nam
This was my first-ever published work, appearing in The New Zealand Listener. The magazine had recently introduced a page for youth writers called The Amp. I wrote this story and sent it off via snail mail, and surprisingly, it was accepted. I was 16, and obsessed with the Vietnam War after reading an incredible series by Ellen Emerson White set during and after the war. I publish this here, with apologies to anyone offended by a young Kiwi writer who didn’t know what she was doing.
The thin plywood walls of the mess hall shook as the rumbling sound of artillery began all around the base. The loud ticka-ticka of helicopters thumped nearby. No-one noticed the quiet steps of a young medical-evacuation pilot who had stumbled into the mess hall.
The pilot was wearing bloodied fatigues and his muddy face was pale and drawn. He aimed his gaunt body towards the nearby coffee urn but his legs didn’t seem to want to co-operate. He banged into a nurse – a Captain no less – who frowned then grumbled, “Watch it!” at him. He appeared not to hear and continued towards the urn.
A voice rose over the outside noise. “Hey Sam!” A large black man with a huge grin was waving and pointing to an empty seat beside him.
The pilot looked up and waved back then took a cup and began filling it with coffee from the urn. He dumped some sugar in the cup then walked to the seat and sat down.
“Hey Woody,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. He held the coffee cup in both hands and rested his elbows on the table in front of him.
“Man,” Woody drawled. “You don’t look so hot. You lose someone?”
“Ah…well, no. I’ve kind of got used to that now.” He gave a nervous laugh, thinking how ludicrous it was that he was used to soldiers dying. “A chopper was shot down.”
“Oh…a friend of yours, maybe?” Woody asked cautiously.
“No, not really.”
“Well…,” Woody shrugged and raised his eyebrows at Sam.
Sam sighed quietly. He wasn’t too good at this life they called war. “See, I was flying along next to this other chopper. We’d just picked up thirty or so Alpha kids.” Sam paused to clear his throat. “I didn’t notice the other chopper had gone until I heard the explosion as they hit the ground. A metre to the left, that would’ve been me on the ground, blown to pieces.” He put a hand over his eyes. “Goddamn it, Woody! That would’ve been me. Me!” The coffee cup slid out of Sam’s hand and dark brown liquid spread over the table.
“That’s hard, man. That’s real hard,” Woody said, avoiding Sam’s eyes. Suddenly he slammed his fist into his other hand. “Those damn Congs don’t know who they messin’ with,” he said angrily.
Sam’s shoulders began to shake and tears dropped onto the table, mixing with the coffee. Woody stood and walked around the end of the table. He sat beside Sam and put his arms around his shoulders. Sam grasped one of Woody’s arms tightly.
“You’re alive, man,” Woody said quietly. “We gonna get outta the Nam.” He rocked Sam back and forth slowly.
They sat like that, rocking slowly and Sam crying softly, until the tears dried up and they both began to feel uncomfortable. Woody stood and went back to his side of the table then pulled out a pack of Army-issue cigarettes.
“Hey, you want?” he asked Sam, indicating the packet.
“No thanks, Woody. I don’t smoke.”
“Go on. It’ll make you feel better, calm you down,” Woody urged. Sam shrugged so Woody shook two cigarettes out of the pack, lit them, then handed one to Sam.
Sam took a long drag on the cigarette then exhaled slowly.
“Welcome to the Nam, man. Welcome to the Nam,” Woody said.
Sam nodded slowly and puffed on his cigarette.
AVERIL ROBERTSON 