(from The White Elephant of Attapeu)
The fireball came high over the canopy, briefly illuminating the jungle like noon before leaving it aflame with an earth-jarring shudder that shook my bones and sent the elephants dashing madly into the trees. The white elephant didn’t flinch. The Vietnamese started screaming and gesturing; the uniformed soldiers running towards the burning glow of the explosion while the mahouts took off after the elephants. Only one mahout, the white elephant’s, remained behind. Soon, two elephants were brought in and tied and their mahouts went back into the jungle. In the distance we heard shouting—they were probably scouring the valley.
Sarge burst in on us, soaking wet and out of breath.
“We’ve got to move. There’s Charlie on this side of the river. What resistance we looking at?”
“One mahout,” I said, “and his only weapon is a metal hook.”
“Then let’s go. Cover me, Dopey.”
Sarge slipped past the boulder and into the river, a shadow in the firelight. When he was half way across, I motioned for the Agent to follow, and hearing the Vietnamese drawing near, I dove in myself. On the other bank, we dashed for the tree line and by the time I reached it, I saw a soldier standing on the boulder. A secondary explosion rocked the ground and the soldier fell, splitting his skull against the rock.
We moved through the trees until we saw the clearing. The lone mahout peered nervously into the darkness, brandishing his hook. The white elephant stared right at us.
Sarge pointed at me and motioned to the elephant. I nodded, switched my M16 to full-automatic, and rushed out of the woods with my rifle trained on the mahout’s chest. The mahout, probably no older than fourteen, dropped the hook, fell to his knees, pressed his palms together and screamed,
“Chieu hoi! Chieu hoi!”—Open arms!/I surrender!
I looked to see if anyone had heard, then hit him in the mouth with the butt of my rifle.
The Agent ran after me and spoke to the kid in Vietnamese, who just shook his head, eyes closed, now-bloody lips mouthing, “Chieu hoi. Chieu hoi…” Sarge bee-lined for the elephant, untied it and handed the thick rope to me. He then unsheathed his knife and plunged it in the boy’s right kidney. The mahout’s head tipped back, jaw dropped, and eyes rolled heavenwards as he made a silent blood-bubble scream and keeled over. As the mahout writhed mutely, the Agent grabbed his hand. Sarge pulled out the knife and wiped it on his thigh. I yanked on the rope and the elephant tripped me with its trunk. I swore and stared at the beast.
The elephant had the eyes of a man: black pupils and brown irises ringed with white, moist with what could be mistaken for tears. Its three black tusks were intricately carved in Pali—the language of the Buddha. I got up, grabbed the iron hook and was about to give it a wallop when its trunk swung at me again.
“Wait,” the Agent said as he dropped the boy’s hand. He took off his helmet, lowered himself to his knees and gazed into the elephant’s eyes. He then leaned close to its ear and whispered.
The elephant gave a low trumpet and lifted itself from the ground. When I pulled the rope again, it charged at me, swinging its long holy tusks. The Agent barked a command and it stopped.
“Give me the rope,” he said.
All this time, voices and footsteps were getting closer.
“We’re gonna head south in the river to throw them off our tracks,” Sarge said. “When we’re far enough, we’ll cut straight up the mountain and find Ozark.”
Sarge lifted the mahout onto his shoulders and we slipped into the jungle, Sarge walking point followed by the Agent, the elephant, and me. I glanced alternatively at the elephant’s pale ass—with its white-haired tail and huge bouncing pink testicles—and nervously over my shoulder, waiting for bullets to come into my back. We hid the still-breathing mahout in the trees and moved into the river. When we were neck-high, I heard the woosh of low-flying fighter jets. They shot past, three black arrows glowing at the engines, and climbed straight into the air at the head of the valley, then arced down towards earth, each one letting go two bombs that spun end over end before hitting home with a tremendous roar where the blaze from Sarge’s explosion still burned. The jets skirted the treetops south and I was knocked over by the delayed crack that chased them like a shadow. I gasped for air, cursing myself for getting my rifle wet.
We pulled ourselves to the opposite bank and began the ascent to Ozark’s position. The elephant kept kicking at me and defecating on my boots, but the planes made me feel good: Charlie would be too busy caring for his own to look for the elephant.
“Sarge,” I asked, when we paused half way to take in the burning camp, “Did you have Ozark call that airstrike?”
“No.”
“Jesus.”
With the Agent leading, the animal moved quickly and quietly, pulling branches with its trunk, leaving one hell of a track behind.
We reached the ridge in two hours and dashed over, the elephant’s pale skin glowing under the bright rising moon, the sky peppered with stars blotted to the south by patches of rain clouds, and Charlie camp now just distant embers. I ran ahead through thin brush, whistling low to warn Ozark, but there was no reply. The ridge grew steeper, and I kept whistling as I clambered over rocks—and then I saw the dark silhouette of a rifle. I whistled again. Nothing. I crouched low and heard the sound of laboured breathing.
“Ozark?”
I came upon him lying on his stomach, limbs twitching, the M60 on its tripod next to him. I shook him by the shoulder and he groaned. When I turned him over, boils had distorted his face; napalm had eaten his nose and eyes.
“Ozark!”
He choked a reply and reached for my hand. His grip was like a vice. I hit him and pulled away, my hand stinging from where he touched me. Sarge and the Agent were soon upon us. The Agent looked and said, “Ngu how pleuk.”
“What?”
“Spitting cobra.”
“Goddamnit.”
Sarge took out a little flashlight and illuminated the bubbling mess of blisters and peeling, bloody flesh that was Ozark’s face. Sarge swore again, then took the first aid kit out of the oilcloth compartment of his bag, prepared a needle, and jabbed it into Ozark’s arm.
“There’s a friendly village a dozen or so clicks to the north-north-west,” Sarge said, “If we can find it, they’ll know what to do for him. Let’s put him on the elephant.”
“No,” the Agent said. Sarge stared, cold and mute. “This is a holy animal,” the Agent continued, “He may carry no burden.”
“Oh no,” Sarge snarled, brandishing his rifle. “If this animal can carry artillery and ammo, it can carry a wounded man. And if you insist on the point, I won’t hesitate to burden you.” The Agent whispered in the animal’s ear and it eyed Ozark, mean-like. We tied Ozark’s body to the elephant’s shoulders and moved north, the land around us slowly rising to meet in a long plateau where a waterfall plunged three hundred feet into the river below. The jungle grew thicker, forcing us to move at a crawl, and as the canopy closed around us, the elephant maintained the same dim radiance it did in the moonlight.
Copyright © 2010 by Daniel Shawn Otis
