The following short story has been selected for the Kildare Arts Project, ‘Stories for the Ear’, the launch of which takes place in the Riverbank Theatre, on Saturday 14th May.
“If I could just make a suggestion?” she says, trying to remain enthusiastic. It has been a long day and these clearance meetings were never any fun, especially not in the heat of the airless boardroom. But the other members of the audit team argue on, and not for the first time, she looks through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of their office in the International Financial Services Centre and wishes she could take a flying leap out into the sparkling waters of Dublin Bay that lie temptingly beyond.
She remembers with longing the cool airy offices of their Wall Street branch and groans inwardly at the thought of another day wasted on this assignment. Ironically, as she tentatively opens her mouth again, this time to suggest moving the meeting to a cooler office, she is interrupted by a soft knock at the door. A man in blue overalls enters carrying a large portable fan. To an audible sigh of relief from the assembled group, he ambles to the corner of the room and plugs it in. Looking around she decides to take advantage of the temporary lull in the discussion.
“Ok guys, back to what I was saying, if I might run through my figures one more time,” she continues, “I think James is right, I think if we just reverse ……” her accent a strange mix of New York and something else, she launches into a clear explanation of what needs to be done, before anyone gets a chance to interrupt her again.
Putt-putt putt-putt, the fan stutters to life in the corner. For a moment she pauses. Almost at once she continues, her moment of hesitation and uncertainty barely noticed.
I hear it in the distance, as I wake, the putt- putt put- putt sound. The American Marines are on the move again.
Putt-putt putt-putt
She can feel a bead of sweat on her hairline and cannot believe that this is happening again.
All eyes are on her as she tries to work her way through the report in front of her. She thinks about gesturing to James to turn off the fan but she knows from old that it is too late. The damage has been done and once the beast has been woken, there is nowhere to hide.
It is early and dawn has only started to creep over the long grasses that mark the eastern boundary of the village. It is market day but we were told yesterday that the market has been cancelled this week because of the recent trouble with the troops. I do not care. Now I can spend my birthday playing in the hamlet with my brother Mi-minh instead of minding chickens at the busy stall. The early sunlight dances through the woven roof and I look over to where Mi-minh sleeps peacefully, his spidery black lashes flickering against his soft skin. He is only four, but I decide I will still play with him — even though I am now seven.
I look around the hut, Mama is gone already to bring the oxen to the water and, of course, Papa is not here. There are no men like Papa in the village any more, just us children, our mothers and grandparents.
After reaching to wake Mi-minh, I crawl out of my bed and look out towards the horizon. Against the crimson sky, like a giant black insect, a helicopter crawls overhead. A black silken head appears beside me, Mi-minh rubs his eyes. He is mesmerized by the helicopter, but then he is only four. They are nothing new when you are seven.
She takes another deep breath and continues to speak, her pitch a shade higher than usual, her usual measured tones racing slightly as she deftly sets out the solution to their problem.
Then I hear a different noise, a sharper tac tac tac followed by screams of “No VC! No VC!” The noises are coming from the northern end of the village. I pull Mi-minh close but he just looks up, his dark eyes not yet afraid. Tac tac tac tac tac. More screams, but closer. I see a plume of smoke rise up to the sky. They are burning the houses.
I run to wake Grandma and Grandpa but they are awake. Grandpa runs from our hut to see what is wrong. I see Mama run from the far end of the village pulling the lazy white oxen behind her, but as I watch, shots ring out and the oxen fall clumsily to the ground. Mama screams and starts to run. There is a sharp crack, then she falls too. I go to run to her but Grandma holds me back, her bony fingers stronger than I could have imagined
They start to round us up. Grandma, Mi-minh and I are hustled into a group on the green in the centre of the village. There is no sign of Grandpa. All around us the air is thick with smoke, as the thatched huts are lit one by one by the American soldiers. Gunfire crackles through the air and I put my hands over my brother’s ears and shield his eyes with my dress.
She knows now that they have noticed. Their looks have changed from admiration to puzzlement. She can feel the rivulets of sweat course down her forehead and fall from her chin down onto the manila folder in front of her. Panicking now, she looks at James, but even he, her closest colleague is now looking at her in bewildered concern, half standing in his chair, unsure of what to do. Stumbling from the table she runs for the door but realizes it’s too late, she can no longer see where it is. With a stifled cry she falls to the floor. Gripping her head tightly between her hands, she starts to moan and rock with grief as it plays, unstoppable, in her head.
The Americans are shouting at us now. Grandma says they must be looking for Viet Cong, but they will not find any, we hide none in our village. But they do not understand us any more than we understand them. We are under the guard of two of their soldiers while they search, but when they find nothing they become angrier. The one in charge starts to shout at the others and then turns to us. I can see the whites of his eyes, wild and enraged and he raises his gun. Starting at one end of our group he starts to shoot and we start to fall like the oxen. Mi-minh screams and breaks from my arms. He starts to run back towards our hut. The soldier turns and puts two bullets in his back. I scream and scream but I do not hear any sound, Grandma grabs me and puts me behind her and when the soldier turns to finish off our group, she falls on top of me, her lifeless body pinning me down.
She moans again and mutters and protests in a tongue that she has not used for many years now. No longer a middle-aged accountant, but that little girl of many moons ago and she tears and scratches at her head willing the images to go away.
Putt putt putt. How long I lie here I don’t know. I can only hear what happens next: the helicopters return with more soldiers, but now the gunfire stopping. The new soldiers are angry too, but with each other. I can hear them getting closer and I cannot take it any more. The scream that I have held inside me for so long reaches my lips and I cannot stop. I wail and scream and cry. I feel them move the body of my Grandmother from over me and I prepare for death.
But the soldier that looks at me is crying too and he lifts me gently from the tangle of corpses. He carries me to the helicopter where a handful of injured villagers crouch in terror. The noise of the machine is thunderous, so much more than the gentle putt-putt we have heard many times in the distance. The force of its giant blades whips my hair up into my eyes.
We start to rise into the sky and the last thing I can see are the two white oxen, crumpled and blood-spattered through the smoke and flames of the burning village of MyLai
Now it is over. She is once more aware of her surroundings, of a strong pair of hands that clasp her tightly, binding her arms to her sides to stop their thrashing. She looks up, but for a moment, all she can see is the face of that American soldier, tears streaming from his blue eyes as he helps her to her feet.
Post traumatic stress disorder, they called it. It used to happen much more often but even now, despite the therapy, anything could set it off — a loud noise, the sight of a child’s coat strewn on the grass, a SKY News headline. Its sequence was the same every time. Every single time. And it would never change, the minute-by-minute rerun of that day.
Back in New York Dublin
She straightens her shoulders and as slowly the soldier’s face fades, she sees that it is James that supports her, guiding her gently towards the door. But as she takes each shaky step across the floor, the smell of death still lingers in her nose and she can still taste the acrid smoke of gunfire on her tongue.
She should have been celebrating her seventh birthday, on March 16th 1968. Instead, she would always remember it as the last day of her life.
Background Note:
The My Lai massacre was committed by US soldiers against hundreds of unarmed Vietnamese civilians, mostly women and children on March 16th, 1968, during the Vietnam War. Photographs provoked a world outcry and the incident became an international scandal. As one of the worst US war crimes, it prompted widespread outrage and reduced public support for the war in the United States
The platoon was led by Lt William Calley who was later court martialled for murder. A US