(from The White Elephant of Attapeu)
We were squeezed into a foxhole overlooking a wide path beat out of the jungle. We sat there sweating in the soggy heat as a regiment of NVA marched south, followed by scores of shabby farm boys with flip-flop sandals and old carbines—some on rusty bicycles, rifles slung behind their backs—while Chinese motorbikes and jeeps zipped up and down the ranks. Amidst the human convoy, a lumbering single file of elephants trudged under the heavy weight of ammunition crates and wheeled artillery. I watched, scared. Hard to believe we were all fighting the same war. Our war machine was completely mechanized—shock and awe, fire and iron—imposing our will and ideologies over the timeless jungle. But it was always their war. The gooks were organic: they were the jungle.
Sarge gave me the nod, and I was about to set off the claymores when the Agent put his hand over mine and said,
“No. That’s it.”
“What’s it?” I asked.
“Hit the mines, Dopey.” Sarge ordered.
“Don’t fire.”
“You Charlie?” Ozark growled at the Agent. “Hit the goddamn switch.”
“No,” the Agent said, “That’s it.”
I could hear Ozark unclasp the big lucky Civil War revolver he kept strapped to his thigh. He smiled that god-smile of his: the mute and self-satisfied smile some soldiers wear when they’re deluded enough to consider themselves judges of life and death.
I followed the Agent’s pointed finger
“What’s it?” I whispered again.
“The elephant.”
“The elephant?” Sarge said.
“The White Elephant of Attapeu.”
Within the slow moving bustle, I could just make it out. It was slightly smaller than the rest and very pale where its head and flanks showed. Its tusks were longer than those of the other animals, and they were strange because they crossed each other and curved downwards. More strange because they were black and a third tusk sprouted upwards from the elephant’s left cheek. The animal plodded slowly under its heavy burden, its head low, tusks dragging in the dirt. A length of chain around its neck led to a ragged boy with an iron hook straddling the beast’s shoulders. When it reached the centre of the clearing, the white elephant froze, stared directly where we hid, raised its trunk, and trumpeted a long mournful wail that echoed a chorus of misery up and down the chain of low jungle mountains, sending parrots flying and monkeys raving mad hysterics high in the treetops. With the animal blocking the convoy, the mahout began beating its eyes, and the trumpet was replaced with an eardrum piercing squeal. Under the pain of the blows, the elephant lurched, spilling ammunition crates and lodging a wheel of its artillery piece into the mud. The boy kept going at its eyes and the squeal softened to a low bellowing moan; a lung-rattling deep bass that shook the rocks we were crouched behind for cover. We watched the convoy in silence as foot soldiers tied other elephants, bigger dark grey things, to the heavy gun to pull it free. The crates were loaded back onto the white elephant and it soon disappeared past our window into the jungle. The whole time I kept my finger on the claymore fuse in case anyone looked our way.
When the convoy had passed, the Agent took three envelopes from his sack and gave one to each of us.
Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Shawn Otis
