13th Valley Read Free Page B

river.
    The Khe Ta Laou river valley is difficult to enter, hard to traverse. For a very long time it had remained isolated. Life in the valley is highly organized and each plant and animal form aids and is dependent upon the entire system. The equilibrium is sharply structured—a state, perhaps, which invited disruption.

C HAPTER 1
    C HELINI

    From that day on they called him Cherry and from the night of that day and on he thought of himself as Cherry. It confused him yet it felt right. He was in a new world, a strange world. Cherry, he thought. It fits. It made little difference to him that they called every new man Cherry and that with the continual rotation of personnel there would soon be a soldier newer than he and he would call the new man Cherry. Cherry. He would repeat it to himself a hundred times before the day ended.
    For James Vincent Chelini the transition began early on the morning of 12 August 1970. He was at the 101st Airborne Replacement Station at Phu Bai for the second time; there now to receive his final unit assignment for his year in Vietnam. The air in the building was already stifling. Chelini sweated as he waited anxiously for the clerk to dig through a stack of personnel files.
    â€œNo way, Man,” Chelini shook his head as he read the order.
    â€œI don’t cut em, Breeze,” the clerk said. “I just pass em out.”
    â€œListen, Man,” Chelini protested. “I’m not an infantry type. I’m a wireman. That’s my MOS * . Somebody screwed up.”
    â€œBreeze,” the clerk shrugged, “when you get this far up-country aint nobody here ee-ven kin figure what them numbers mean. We’s all Eleven Bravos. You know, you get that from Basic.”
    Chelini cringed. It was one more snafu in a series of snafus that were propelling him faster and deeper into the war than he had ever anticipated. “Man,” he said, restrained, “I can’t be sent to an infantry company.”
    â€œNext,” the clerk said lethargically.
    â€œHey. Dude.” A harsh voice erupted behind Chelini. “Just say fuck it, Dude. Don’t mean nothin.” A red-haired man in civilian clothes had entered the office without being noticed. He addressed the clerk. “Hey REMF,” he said in a voice of complete authority, “you seen Murphy?”
    â€œMurphy’s gettin ice cream,” the clerk answered.
    â€œYou REMF fuckin candyasses sure got it dicked,” the red-haired man laughed harshly. The man gestured at Chelini, who flinched, then ordered the clerk, “Square that cherry away, Man. Ya don’t gotta fuck with everybody all the fuckin time.” The man glided out the door and was gone.
    â€œWho’s that?” Chelini asked the clerk.
    â€œHim? He’s a crazy fuckin grunt from the Oh-deuce. Fuckin asshole. He en Murphy use ta be in the same company till Murphy extended ta get out a the field en they put him here.”
    â€œOh-deuce?”
    â€œYeah, Man. Oh-deuce. Four-oh-deuce. That’s where you goin, cherry. That’s where you goin.”
    Chelini had allowed himself to be drafted and he had allowed himself to be sent to Vietnam. He had had the means to resist but not the conviction or the will. Indeed, inside, he heard opposing voices. His father was a veteran of World War II. All the Chelini men—and the Chelinis were a large Italian-American family—had served in the armed forces. James observed that having served somehow set them apart from those who had not gone. On the other side were the people of his own generation, the protestors and students, who included his older brother Victor.
    In 1968, in order to avoid the draft, Victor had skipped to Canada via the New Haven underground. James told himself that that had sealed his destiny. Victor was a disgrace to the family. Outwardly, Mr. Chelini defended his older son’s right to make his own decision, but inwardly, James felt sure, it