Hanoi Hannah:: Curious Tales from Vietnam

[Faust]

As Vitusic stumbled forth from his nightly cave the midnight air of Southern Vietnam washed over him. The inky black sky rushed through his lungs as he took his first fresh breath in hours. With his now dulled SoG knife in hand he stood at attention to the night as he customarily did each evening. Call it his way of keeping sane, call it a way of practicing some old habits, call it whatever the hell you like, just remember that if you where around to see him go through this rutine, the ending to his tale may have been different.

As he went through the liquid motions of a knife kill an an unseen NVA, he had to quickly retract himself before he sashaded himselft over the cliff face that sat before him. Stuggling to catch his breath from the shock of catching himself, he gave a rough cough. His throught was beginning to dry in the cool mountain air and he needed to wet it with his stockpile of drinks he had located within his cavern.

While trudging over the refuse he had laid out for himself on the cave floor, he came across his personal crate of refreshments. Before the North Vietnamese Army had abandoned the area before the Tet offensive, they had left anything they didn't need, including the small crate of soda. While it origionated with seventeen, the multipule weeks spent on the cliffside, mixed with some rationing on his part, had left him with only nine left.

While dirt of a long monsoon season had covered the label of the bottle, the glass still felt cool to the touch as Vitusic downed the warm red concocton. The rich creamy, strawberry taste soothed his moaning stomach. While there was plenty of the soda, and the ocasional rainwater that gathered at the mouth of the cave, their had been nothing left for the Marine to feed on execpt small ration powtches and three pounds of beef from an oxen that had run rancid in the amount of time he had been saving it for something special. Unfortunatly, the occasion to feast had never come, and the meat spoiled within four days.

A wide plethra of weapons sat ready for the young sergeant to use for himself, but to no avail. No weapons could save him from this cliffside which he had stumbled upon. Half of the weapons didn't even seem to make sence. A cirular disk with some lever, which he assumed to be a land mine, a long tube the size of a breadbox, several metal AK-47s, however normal ammunition didn't seem to take. He shrugged it off as a weapons ring in South Vietnam that was shut down after the North invaded agenst permition from the Soviets, so they broke trade. There was one good thing in all of this useless stashed equipment; and unsused Soviet-made radio. Unfortunatly, it only seemed to pick up NVA propaganda.

"Allright Hannah," Vitusic gruffed as he switched on the radio, "Tell me what I already know."

And with that the NVA's main propaganda speeker unjarbled through the speakers and began to play.

"American GI. How are you GI? It has become apairent to me that you are not being told the truth about the war by those that lead you. They tell you that in Vietnam you will become a grand hero. What they do not tell you is that the NVA cannot be beat. They do not tell you about the snipers that lurk in the trees, killing your friends. And they do not tell you that we shall never surreneder. Yes American GI, you will get you metal... But only after you are dead. And now here's something we know you'll enjoy:

In this dirty old part of the city

Where the sun refused to shine

People tell me, there ain't no use in tryin'

We gotta get out of this place!

If it's the last thing we ever do ...

We gotta get out of this place,

'cause girl, there's a better life ... for me and you

Vitusic clenched his chest while he layed himself down on his HALO Jumper's silk parashut that he had been using as beding. With several coughs a knot of blood flew from his mouth. At one time the drinks had gone down smooth, even going as far as to empower him and make hime feel stronger. Now they mearly ate away at him from the inside, slowly killing him from the inside out. He only had nine left, but if frightend Vitusic to think of the man he might be when the crate reached zero. Would he even still be a man, or would he be a wiley, wide-eyed wildman driven mad from thirst and hunger? It pained him to think about it, so he stopped. He looked at the tally marks he had carved into the cliff face fifty-six. That was the number he had left etched in. Fifth-six. Sixteen was his last solid dump, twenty-four was when he ran out of things for a signel fire, and fourty-three was the last time a friendly Huey passed over him, unknowing that the man they where searching for was directly below them.

Had he just not screwed up on that entry, the winds wouldn't had dragged him into this damned cavern. But they'll find him. They have to find him. A small sheet of poster paper had come with the bottles of soda, maybe a little jingle that was use to marketing them. Vitusic unroled the parchment and red it aloud to himself for what must have been the hundreth time. Maybe it was so he could hear himself talk. Maybe it was to remind himself of his childhood trips to the penny stores. One thing was sure, we havent heard the last of

Sgt. Shawn Vitusic

When you need some help to get by,

Something to make you feel strong,

Reach for Jugger-nog to-night,

Suger suduction delight!

When you need to feel big and strong,

Reach for Jugger-nog to-night!

[Faust]

Part 2: Growing Pains

Vitusic fell to the ground with all his wieght. It was happening again. His body contorted, his skin crawled, and his blood boiled withen him. As he wreathed upon the floor, he knew that this next attack would be the last one. With all his strength, he propped himself up agains the cave wall as a knot of blood flew from his lips.

He began to panic. He needed more Juggernog, any amount, just enough to stop this pain he was feeling, then he'd quit using the drink for good! As he reached across the room for his crate of soda, now shrunken down to three remaining bottles. As Vitusic reached out graviety got the better of him. Loosing balance, he feel head-first onto the floor. As he twisted upon the floor, he quickly pulled his shirt off from over his head and began to scratch. Itchy, itchy, he was so damn itchy! He reached out for a Joggernog, quaffed it down, then waited for him to calm down.

Once he regained control of his legs, he propped himself against the wall once more. He rolled the bottle cap from the drink in his hand. He looked down at it as he flipped it over, reveiling him to be the winner of some long held contest.

Congrats!

Use this cap for one free

Perk-a-Cola!

Perk-a-Cola? He laughed. What the hell did that make him, a perk-a-holic? It was grim humor that left him in woe. He looked up the wall at the talley marks. Too many to count. Dear Lord, how am I still alive?, he thought to himself. The panic attacks started long before. It was the withdrawls that were the real issue for him. He got over his addiction to his favorite cigars, but that was nowhere nere as hard as dropping his newfound... penchant... for this damned new beverage.

But he knew what he had just experienced was not a withdrawl... This stuff was killing him.

Well, that would be the end of it, he decided. His goose was cooked. No one was coming to save him. Not the Army, not the Marines, and sure as hell not Charlie. And God help him if he was going to die because of an issue he had with soda! He drew his colt m1911, checking to make sure a round was in the chamber and a clip was loaded. Pulling back the leaver, he would end his pain here and now.

...

...

...

"What was that?" he questioned himself. Three heavy steps sounded down the cave. Looking into the abyse, he saw a simple North Vietnamese soldier shuffling, no, shambling through the cave.

Killing the creature was near muscule reflex. Slowly an without sound, he moved his sight from under his own chin strait to the head of the enemy. Squeezing the trigger sent a shot out, echoing off the cave walls as the soldier fell dead. Ofcoarse, at the time Vitusic thought nothing of it.

"Well that tares it," he spoke out loud, "I'm so bat-shit I'm starting to see things!"

He grabbed a handful of empty Juggernog bottles and his radio. Yeah, he'd off himself today, but he was going to have fun first.

COWBOYS CAN'T SHOOT SLOW!

OR THEY'LL END UP BELOW!

WHEN THEY NEED SOME HELP

THEY REACH FOR THE ROOT BEER SHELF!

YA THIRSTY PARTNER?

*Edited for spelling

**Forgot the y in thirsty... FML

[Faust]

Part 3: Down and Dirty

I have in my career as an author attempted to personify an entire situation into one term as to hold a reader’s attention while keeping detail to a maximum. However, I am quite disappointed to inform you that I, with all my might, could not come up with a decent onomatopoeia to sum up the night that our dear friend Sgt. Shawn Vitusic was having.

Here was a man in his last hours instead of morning and lying in prier, opted to celebrate and lay waste to the last of his soul. His radio blasted behind him, projecting off the clip face he stood on and out into the jungles of Vietnam.

Oh, see the fire is sweepin'

Our very streets today!

Burns like a red coal carpet!

Mad Bull has lost his way!

A line of glass bottles sat in front of him and down the sights of his 1911'. There were seven shots left, six for target practice and one to go right between his eyes. Each time the radio blasted the chorus line "It's just a shot away!" he would fire a shot across the cave wall, shattering the one of the bottles into shards of glass. Every time one bottle would explode Shawn would udder a harsh "Fuck you Hannah." Rinse and repeat, this calamity continued five times. He would save the last two shots for later that night; in the meantime his midnight cravings were gnawing at the back of his head. Normal he would have ignored it, telling himself to save his resources, but why bother if he was going to end it all tonight?

Ripping the cap from one of his two Juggernog bottles, he took his first sip, letting the cool glass come to rest on his lips. By the time the last chores of the Rolling Stones "Gimme Shelter" began to wrap up, he felt that familiar knot of blood build in his throat. He let it pass onto his uniform with little resistance. His uniform was far too filthy to have it matter anyway.

There was a moment of silence on the radio, perhaps when that damned woman would change records or come it with another lie to tell over the airwaves to prey on some insecure GI. He took another swig of his drink and shut off the radio. All the songs they played started to sound the same to him anyway. The way Shawn saw it, he would go over in one of the darker corners of the cave and ponder about the world-- among other things-- for the next hour or two.

He staggered over into the corner and laid in silence for a moment. It was good. Nice, peaceful thoughts. He almost remembered what a woman looked like.

The silence was broken when a loud banging noise shook him to his core. It sounded like fists beating upon wood! But there were no doors here. Vitusic skewered the entire cave for the source until he found the cause; a wooden cabinet place tightly against the cave wall. Taking a sip of his Juggernog, he pondered why the inanimate object was... clattering. He came to the discussion that there was probably something-- or someone-- hidden behind it. With yet another sip of Juggernog and a tightening of his belt, he pushed it over just a fraction of an inch. Sure enough, a slight draft flew from it, kissing his face with this calm breeze. A split second after this moment of bliss, he was almost thrown backwards with the stench of rotting flesh. With a newfound urgency, Vitusic pushed the cabinet another six inches out. He paused for a moment and attempted to see what lay within. Starring into the darkness, he found only a dark void. He continued to stare inward, hopping his eyes would adjust to the light. As he did, an odd hissing sound seemed to come from this hidden room. Expecting to be a gas leak, Shawn covered his mouth. He should have been covering his ears. At that moment, a horrifying shriek pierced his eardrums, causing him to recoil. As he did, a rotten fist shot from behind the cabinet, landing dead center on Shawn's face. He fell backwards on the ground in a complete sensory overload. He couldn't breathe, his ears were bleeding, and his vision was blurred. Drawing his pistol, he fired his last two rounds into the void. He knew whatever attacked him was dead, because immediately after firing his shots, he felt a heavy thud as the unseen mass hit the floor.

He didn't know what had hit him, and he did not want to find out unless he was properly armed. He ran over to the weapons cache the Russians had left. He ripped open one crate to find it filled to the brim with AK-47s, each stored with its own mag pre-loaded. He grabbed one and ripped off the top to another. A cylindrical tube sat on top a bed of packing supplies. Clearly, if this was ever a weapon it was not finished. It looked more like a speaker with a bunch of dangling wires then anything, tossing the hunk of scrap to the side, he ripped open another. In it sat the round mine-like object he had seen earlier. He lifted it, finding it surprisingly heavy for what he assumed was an explosive. The side of the object was covered in glowing buttons and switches. Franticly searching the box for an instruction manual, all he found was a record in a blank sleeve. It would have to do.

He darted over to the wooden cupboard, pulling even more until he created an opening large enough for him to fit into. Using his old Zippo as a light in this cavern, he shined it at his feet, coming face to face with the creature that had attacked him. It was a Vietcong! He poked it with the end of his rifle to make sure it was real and not just his imagination. It was real alright, a real corpse that pressed down into the floor under the weight of his rifle’s mussel. He looked out of the cave to where he had shot a man like this before. Sure enough, the body had not disappeared. It laid there in its own blood, just as this one before him. He flipped this second corpse over, wishing to see the face of his attacker. Immediately he recoiled in terror.

The ghastly expression locked into the creature face was that of an eternal torture. His mouth hung open, his eyes sat wide open and glazed over, and horrible viscous, brown blood flowed from its throat. It was more than that. This dead expression… IT was looking back at Vitusic. The body’s head shifted on Vitusic’s hands. Shawn leaned in closer, hearing something coming from the ghoul’s lips. It was moaning. Within seconds the body’s head hands came to life, seizing Shawn and pulling his face closer into its macabre maw. Shawn pulled away, picked up his AK-47, and fired five rounds into the creature’s face, where it (once again) fell dead.

Shawn fled that cave as fast as he could, assuming that the tunnel led someplace out. He didn’t care where it went or who was at the other end, he just needed to leave. Leave the cave, leave the jungle, leave Vietnam and never come back! He could feel it in his gut; salvation was at the end of this dark tunnel! He could not have been more wrong.

Eventually, he reached a threshold, causing him to trip in the darkness and fall hard. The first thing Shawn notice was that he had come to lie on metal flooring. The cool steel felt good on his scrapped cheek. He stood up, digging savagely for his Zippo to bring light to this dark place. He struck the lighter.

He couldn’t vomit, he did not have enough in his system to even do that. He couldn’t scream, as he was far too paralyzed with fear. His skin turned cold, his legs shacked, and his mind took a horrifying mental image that would stay with him the rest of his life. He was standing in the heart of a Soviet prison. In the middle of a nightmare. Hundreds of inmates, all chained together in what must have been no more than five cages. All of them reached out for him, banging upon the iron cages with their steel shackles. They all carried the same look upon their faces as the man he had killed within the cave. They were no men. They were the living dead, writhing over each other, feeding on each other, bashing upon the cages with all of their might, hooting and hollering for their next meal. In the last cage at the end of the room sat a hole torn in the iron bars… And while dozens of the damned attempted to force themselves through it, somehow Shawn knew that one had already achieved it. He dropped his Zippo, and the room returned to darkness.

Shawn clamored for his weapons and fled once again back to the cave that he had attempted to escape.

[The-Legend-of-C]

Excellent story! I loved it. [brains] for you dude.

You totally deserved it ;)