Free The Neon Rain by James Lee Burke

If a guy tried to turn around and crawl out, he’d either set off a Claymore right under his face or get chopped up in their crossfire. We lost ten guys in fifteen minutes, then the captain surrendered. They marched us through the rubber trees down to a coulee where ARVN artillery had killed a bunch of civilians from a VC village. There were dead children and women and old people in the water and all along the banks of the coulee. I figured they were going to line us up and blow us into the water with the rest of them. Instead, they stripped off our web gear and tied our hands around trees with piano wire they tore out of a smashed-up piano in the plantation house. Then they ate our rations and smoked our cigarettes and took turns urinating on us. We sat on the ground like kicked dogs while they did it to us. I blamed the captain for surrendering. I even felt pleasure when they urinated on him. But something else happened that really put some boards in my head later on.
    “A gunship spotted us, and about ten minutes later a bunch of rangers and pathfinders came through that same mined area to bail us out. We were the bait in the rat trap. I could hear the AKs and the Claymores going off, hear our guys screaming, even see blood and parts of people explode on the tree trunks, and I was glad that I was out of it, drenched in piss and safe from all that terror out there where those guys were dying, trying to save us.
    “I used to pretend to myself that I didn’t have the thoughts that I did, that what went through my head didn’t have anything to do with the outcome anyway, or other times I just wanted to kill every VC or North Vietnamese I could, but the real truth of that whole scene, before a couple of Hueys turned the place into a firestorm, was that I was glad somebody else was getting shredded into dog-food instead of me.
    “That’s what I mean about rolling over. You’re not that kind of girl. You’ve got a special kind of courage, and it can’t be compromised by some peckerwood dimwit who’s going to end up as Vienna sausage if I have anything to do with it.”
    “Your feelings were just human. You couldn’t help it,” she said.
    “That’s right, but you were a better soldier tonight than I was in Vietnam, except you don’t want to give yourself any credit.” Then I brushed back her blond curls from her forehead. “You’re a prettier soldier, too.”
    Her eyes looked back at me without blinking.
    “Pretty and brave. That’s a tough combo,” I said.
    The blueness of her eyes, the childlike quality in them, made something sink inside me.
    “Do you think you’d like to eat now?” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “My daddy was a wonderful cook. He taught me and my half-brother all his recipes.”
    “I think he taught you some other things, too. I think you’re a very good man.”
    Her eyes smiled at me. I squeezed her hand, which was still cold and formless, then went into the kitchen and heated a pan of milk and cooked an omelette with green onions and white cheese. We ate at the coffee table, and I saw the color come back into her face.
    I made her talk about her family, her home, her music, and her work, everything that defined who she was before Bobby Joe had touched her with his probing hands. She told me she had grown up on a wheat and milo farm north of Wichita, Kansas, that her mother was a Mennonite peace worker and her father a descendant of John Brown’s people. She described Kansas as a rolling green country traced with slow-moving rivers, dotted with clumps of oak and poplar and cottonwood, a wide, horizonless place under a hot blue sky that would fill with the drone of cicadas on a summer evening. But it was also a country peopled with religious fanatics, prohibitionists, and right-wing simpletons, and on the other side of the equation were the anti-nukers and dozens of vigilant peace groups. It sounded like an open-air mental asylum. Or at least it was to her, because she had gone to Tulane to