By Jake
nejake@tds.net
Rating: R (Violence and Language)
Classification: V
Spoilers: Fill-In-the-Blank for "One Breath" and "Unrequited."
Summary: "I'm afraid to look any further beyond that
experience." -- Walter Skinner in "One Breath"
Disclaimer: Do these characters really belong to Chris Carter,
FOX and 1013 Productions? If so, no copyright infringement
intended. Fun, yes. Profit, no.
Author's notes: Every now and again I enjoy exploring the
motivations of the X-File's secondary characters, fleshing out
their lives and making their emotions more real. "Dinky Dau" is
for Skinner fans.
Note to Veterans: I did not serve in Vietnam, nor have I ever
visited. My sincerest apologies if I have misrepresented the
places or events of the Vietnam War. I mean no disrespect; on
the contrary, my goal is to honor all Veterans. I did
extensive research while writing this story, but if I
have erred, please, let me know where so that I may learn.
DINKY DAU
By Jake
There's no time. No time to shout, "Get down!" before the pop-
pop-pop of AKs batter our eardrums and Haskell takes a bullet
in the throat. Richardson's leg appears to unzip when thirty
rounds drill him from groin to knee. The jungle rattles and
leaves explode in green confetti. Everyone drops. Jesus.
Jesus. Eight guys, shot to shit in the time it takes to
exhale.
My hand stings like a bastard, and my head... Christ, blood
swamps my left eye. My helmet's gone. Lost my weapon when I
tried to stop a bullet with the palm of my hand. I keep my
head down. I hardly dare to breathe.
Then I hear them -- the VC -- yakking a mile a minute. Caca
dau, caca dau. They swarm us like goddamn blowflies. Four,
five, six of them slide out of the jungle, eager to take our
weapons, steal our uniforms, kill us.
We're fucked.
Richardson moans. No one else moves. I lay chilly, too, while
Charlie plucks my k-bar. "Xin loi, minoi," the VC says. Then
he stabs my own knife into my arm. I don't flinch; he'd kill
me for sure if he guessed I'm alive.
The bastard rolls me onto my back. Kicks me twice in the ribs
before unknotting my bootlaces and stealing the boots right
off my feet. He yammers at me; I don't understand a lot of
what he says -- a month in Da Nang didn't give me much time to
learn the lingo. He unbuckles my belt. Strips off my pants.
I try to stay alert, but...I'm fading in and out. Out of the
corner of my eye I see one of the VC fire a Kalashnikov point-
blank into my sergeant's face. Shit. I'm wishing... I'm
wishing...
I'm wishing I could begin again. Like a sandlot "do over" or a
"try one more time, Wally," from my fourth grade piano teacher
who smiles while I reposition my fingers over the keys to play
B-I-N-G-O, Red River Valley, God Bless America...land of my
birth...oh, Christ, oh, Christ...they shoot Richardson in the
face, too...find, fix and destroy, yes sir, General
Westmoreland, *sir*!
Charlie unbuttons my shirt, and my heart flies to my throat
the same exact way it did when I first rode the merry-go-round
at the Houston State Fair.
* * *
Sunrise. Blood drools from the private's mouth, painting a
ruby line from his lower lip to his chin. He's young, no more
than eighteen. Eyes closed, he doesn't move. The lashes of his
left eye harden into spikes beneath a lacquer of drying blood.
A wound at his temple seeps into the well of his eye where
buzzing flies drink their fill. One fly leaves the eye to
explore the young man's teeth. It pauses to clean its wings
before it disappears into his mouth.
The private is naked. He lies spread-eagled on the ground,
facing the sky. A silver-dollar-sized wound marks his left
palm. Leafy shadows ripple across his skin, which glistens
with cold sweat. His toes, his fingertips, his lips have
turned bluish-purple.
Seven bodies surround him -- pale ghosts in the dappled jungle
clearing. Naked, bloody, a leg split by gunfire, a neck gored
by a 7.62mm bullet, a face obliterated by the rapid-fire of a
Chinese-made assault rifle. I-Corps snuffies patrolling the
central Vietnam lowlands, caught with their pants down. Xin
loi, minoi. Xin loi.
Towering over the eight dead men, enormous jungle trees look a
little like the blackgums that grow in the east Texas
flatlands where Private First Class Walter Skinner once played
sandlot softball with his boyhood pals. Vines lace the trees'
upper branches, coil around the trunks. Long-tailed birds
preen and chatter in the tallest boughs where the morning sun
burns fiercely hot even at this early hour. The birds caw and
scatter when a Huey approaches from the south. Its rotors beat
the air and thrash leaves from the trees. The chopper swoops
into the clearing, low enough to hover a few feet above the
bodies. Four troops jump from its open doors and make a quick
check of the men on the ground before signaling for body bags.
The dead are sealed inside eight shiny green bags with bright
white nylon zippers.
In less than ten minutes, the bodies and the Huey have
vanished.
* * *
"Welcome back, Private," the nurse says. "We weren't sure
you'd make it."
The left side of Skinner's head throbs worse than the time his
friend Terry Babcock accidentally walloped him with a brand
new baseball bat. "Where am I?"
"Saigon," she says, checking his pulse. At least twenty
bandaged strangers fill the hospital ward on either side of
her. "Jolly Green Giant flew you out of Quang Tin. Saved your
ass."
"My squad?"
"Sorry, no one made it but you."
Haskell, Peters, Richardson, Pooley, Johnson, Mantenuto, that
new kid George something-or-other, Sergeant Williams...all
gone?
Skinner's left hand aches; he moves his fingers cautiously
beneath the bandages. "I was dead."
"I don't think so." The nurse fusses with his IV.
"But I saw..." What the hell had he seen? A corpsman zipped
him inside a body bag. A shiny green bag...with a white nylon
zipper. And he saw his body...from outside of it? Was that
possible? The question scares him; he focuses on the drip,
drip, drip of the IV.
"A bullet went through your hand, grazed your head. You were
lucky, Private Skinner."
* * *
The private is naked. He lies spread-eagled on the ground,
facing the sky. A silver-dollar-sized wound marks his left
palm. His toes, his fingertips, his lips are bluish-purple.
Seven bodies surround him --
A body bag zips shut.
"What do you see?" the doctor asks.
Skinner reclines in a chair. He faces the doctor who holds an
expensive mechanical pencil and a brand new pad of paper, but
writes nothing down. A tape recorder takes notes for him. The
room is dark, except for one desk lamp. The air smells like
cigars.
"It's been ten years."
"Close your eyes and try to remember. Tell me what you see."
The doctor is twenty pounds overweight, mid-fifties; he wears
an outlandishly long handlebar moustache. He clicks his
pencil, lengthening the lead.
Skinner's hands shake. Behind closed lids he sees Sergeant
Williams' face blown away by the rapid-fire of an AK-57.
"I'm in the jungle."
Haskell's neck...pierced by a 7.62mm round.
"I-I see my squad."
A corpsman zips the men into body bags. Shiny green
bags...with white nylon zippers.
"There's nothing else."
* * *
Skinner finds Mulder in his basement office, packing. A box
rests on his desk, filled with books and photos. He tries to
fit an antique microscope into the box.
"When I started out," Skinner says, stepping across the
threshold and looking around, "this is where they kept the
copier."
"At least back then, it wasn't just wasted space." Mulder is
bitter, ready to quit the Bureau.
Skinner walks toward him, unwilling to let his best agent give
up. He holds Mulder's letter of resignation in his hands.
Ripping the letter in half, he says, "It's unacceptable."
Mulder ignores the gesture and continues packing.
Skinner bristles at his subordinate's disregard. "Look, I know
you feel responsible for Agent Scully, but I will not accept
resignation and defeat as self-punishment."
"All the forensics, the field investigations, the eyewitness
accounts...to still know nothing. To lose myself...and Scully.
I hate what I've become." Mulder is resolute. He tucks several
more folders into his box.
Skinner removes his glasses, and allows a sigh to sift from
his lungs. "When I was eighteen, I, uh...I went to Vietnam. I
wasn't drafted, Mulder, I...I enlisted in the Marine Corps the
day of my eighteenth birthday. I did it on a blind faith. I
did it because I believed it was the right thing to do. I
don't know, maybe I still do. Three weeks into my tour, a ten-
year-old North Vietnamese boy walked into camp covered with
grenades and I, uh...I blew his head off from a distance of
ten yards."
Mulder stops packing, looks the AD in the eye. He's surprised
by Skinner's words.
Skinner takes a few uncomfortable steps closer. "I lost my
faith. Not in my country or in myself, but in everything.
There was just no point to anything anymore. One night on
patrol, we were, uh...caught...and everyone...everyone fell. I
mean, everyone. I looked down...at my body...from outside of
it. I didn't recognize it at first. I watched the VC strip my
uniform, take my weapon and I remained...in this thick
jungle...peaceful...unafraid...watching my...my dead friends.
Watching myself. In the morning, the corpsmen arrived and put
me in a body bag until...I guess they found a pulse. I woke in
a Saigon hospital two weeks later." Skinner steps closer to
Mulder until the two men stand less than an arm's-length away.
"I'm afraid to look any further beyond that experience," he
admits. "You? You are not. Your resignation is unacceptable."
Skinner turns toward the door.
"You." Mulder realizes he has underestimated this man. "You
gave me Cancer Man's location. You put your life in danger."
Skinner stops. "Agent Mulder, every life, everyday is in
danger. That's just life."
* * *
The private is naked. He lies spread-eagled on the ground,
facing the sky. A silver-dollar-sized wound marks his left
palm. His toes, his fingertips, his lips turn bluish-purple.
Seven bodies surround him --
A body bag zips shut.
"Do you have trouble sleeping, Mr. Skinner?" the doctor asks.
This doctor is a woman, gray-haired, trim, matter-of-fact.
Skinner folds his shaking hands into his lap. He wouldn't be
here if it weren't an annual requirement.
"Yes."
"Nightmares?"
"Mm."
"Daytime flashbacks?"
Yes, yes, yes, for the millionth time yes! "I had one
yesterday...no, Tuesday. I had one Tuesday."
"What happened?"
He had been at work, getting onto the elevator to go up to the
fourth floor. The doors closed and then, "I thought I was back
in Nam, on patrol with my squad."
The doctor checks her notes. "Your squad...seven men...they
all died?"
Yes, they all died. All but me. I lived. Don't ask me why.
Don't ask what happened.
"Everything okay at home, Mr. Skinner?"
"Yes...no. I'm not easy to live with."
"Why do you think that is?"
"I, uh...I get angry."
"Every day?"
"Usually."
"What makes you angry?"
He shakes his head. "Everything."
"Try to be specific."
He thinks of the Vietnamese troops, the blue-feathered birds,
the eight naked, bleeding young men, and he shrugs.
"Do you have children, Mr. Skinner?"
"Don't your notes--" He juts his chin toward her pad, squares
his shoulders, and then realizes he's angry right now. "No. No
kids. I'm not here about...about my home life."
"Why are you here?"
Jesus Christ. "Flashbacks. I have flashbacks."
"You're suffering from PTSD -- Post Traumatic Stress Dis--"
"I know what it is." It's life in a fucking body bag, for
Christ's sake.
She stays calm and he hates her because her hands don't shake
the way his do.
"Thirty percent of Vietnam vets developed PTSD after the war,"
she says. "Studies show--"
"The war's been over for more than twenty years. Isn't it
time...?"
The doctor's office is too damn tranquil. The walls are the
color of tropical seas; paintings of flowers hang over the
desk. The furniture is green with white stripes. He hates it.
"Can you cure me?"
"I can treat you."
"How?"
She pulls a slim brochure from her notebook and hands it to
him. Inside there are twenty steps to recovery -- eight more
than AA, he realizes.
Without looking at the pamphlet, the doctor recites Step
Seven: "When you're in a flashback, remind yourself that the
worst is over. The feelings and sensations you're experiencing
are memories of the past. The actual event took place a long
time ago and you survived it."
He reads step one: tell yourself you are having a flashback
when you're in one. Christ. Easier said than done. Folding the
pamphlet in half, he tucks it into a pocket.
"I'm...going crazy."
"You're not crazy." Her head wags from side to side; her lips
stretch into a thin blood-red line. "Something triggers these
flashbacks of yours. A sound. A smell, perhaps. Your
experience was significant. You need to honor that."
Honor it? He massages his palm, rubbing his thumb over the
silver-white scar that interrupts his lifeline. Devoid of
nerves, the knot of skin has no feeling at all.
"Dinky dau," he says.
"Pardon?"
"Dinky dau -- it's Vietnamese. It means 'crazy.'"
* * *
The private is naked.
The private is naked. He lies spread-eagled on the ground,
facing the sky.
A body bag zips shut.
* * *
Skinner stares at the glossy surface of the Vietnam War
Memorial, spots his own reflection in the stone, and is
shocked. Balding, middle-aged, rocking nervously from foot to
foot, eyes over-bright with anger. He glances away and focuses
on the plastic flowers and photographs dotting the snow at the
base of the monument. Dog tags wrap a stack of personal
letters, protected inside a zip-lock bag. A pair of army boots
pays empty tribute to their dead owner. Although his office is
within walking distance of the memorial, Skinner seldom
visits.
**I'm afraid to look any further beyond that experience.**
He searches the engraved names. Haskell, Peters, Richardson,
Williams... They're all there. His entire squad.
Agent Mulder approaches from behind and joins Skinner. He
barely glances at the monument. He's indignant, as usual. "The
Pentagon is claiming that the man who was killed was a Thomas
Lynch. He's a vet who's been in and out of VA psychiatric
hospitals for the last fifteen years."
"And a sometime member of The Right Hand. His name was on
Denny Markham's mailing list. Markham made a positive ID."
"They must have gotten to him."
"Army forensics claims to have multiple confirmation."
Mulder isn't satisfied. "You heard him!" he challenges. "We
both did! It's happening all over again. They're covering the
lies with more lies, trying to make him invisible. We've got
to subpoena Markham and General Bloch, and we've got to
petition the State Department to release Teager's body--"
"I can't do that, Agent Mulder." Skinner interrupts, although
he knows Mulder won't abide a cover-up. Nothing rankles this
agent like a lie. Driven by the truth, he dodges nothing.
Skinner admires this about him, but can't emulate his ability
to peel back the layers until the heart of the matter is fully
exposed.
Like a demanding child, Mulder asks, "Why not?"
"This investigation has been turned over to C.I.D. It's no
longer our jurisdiction."
"Don't let them do this."
"Let it go, Agent Mulder. You did your job."
Mulder wants to force the issue, make Skinner look at the
truth. "So did Nathaniel Teager."
"You found the man you were looking for, but now he's dead.
It's over."
"Is that what you believe? Is that what you really believe?
They're not just denying this man's life, they're denying his
death." Mulder moves closer. "And with all due respect,
Sir...he could be you."
* * *
The private is naked.
The private is naked and he lies spread-eagled on the ground,
facing the sky. A silver-dollar-sized wound marks his left
palm. His toes, his fingertips, his lips turn bluish-purple.
Seven bodies surround him --
A body bag zips shut.
A body bag zips shut.
A body bag --
The elevator door glides open.
"Sir?"
Skinner finds himself sitting on the floor in the back corner
of the elevator, his secretary blinking at him from the outer
hall.
Kim hurries to help him, offering him her hand. "Shall I call
911?"
"No." He stands, hoping to hide the tremors that vibrate his
legs. "I-I just need some fresh air."
He shoulders past her, ignoring her concern, and takes the
stairs, jogging to the front exit. Out on the street, he sucks
in a lung-full of car exhaust and summer heat. He hails a cab.
"Where to?" the cabby asks, once Skinner settles into the back
seat.
"The zoo," he says because he wants to escape for an hour or
two -- get away from the Bureau and the elevator and his damn
memories.
The cabdriver dodges noon-hour traffic and, too soon, deposits
Skinner at the National Zoo's main gate. "Enjoy the pandas,"
the cabby says, tucking the fare into his pocket. Skinner
heads for the ticket booth where a cheerful clerk gives him an
all-day pass. She snaps her gum and tells him the Bird House was
recently renovated.
Trailing a group of young mothers with strollers, Skinner
enters the brand new aviary where the air smells like a hot
house -- damp and earthy, without a trace of DC's summer
ozone. Inside, birds screech and children shout. A tour guide
gathers twenty or so grade-schoolers around a tethered parrot;
the children try to make the bird talk. "Polly want a cracker?
Polly want an M&M? Polly want a punch in the beak?" Giant
banana palms stretch from the floor to the skylights, and
dozens of colorful birds perch in the uppermost branches.
Skinner walks past half a dozen glass enclosures, putting some
distance between him and the noisy kids. He reads the signs at
the bottoms of the cages. Keeled-bill toucans, blue-winged
kookaburras, cockatoos, lorikeets, rosellas. He stops when he
comes to an exhibit of malkohas. The blue-feathered birds
preen their long tail feathers. Their masked faces remind him
of the Lone Ranger. He recognizes the birds from Vietnam.
Several children break into a run, charging through the
exhibit, arms extended like guns. They point their fingers at
the birds, "Pow-pow!" One boys pauses long enough to pound his
fists on the wall of glass that separates Skinner from the
malkohas. "POW!" the boy shouts. The startled birds abandon
their perches, and panic slides up the back of Skinner's
throat as he watches the birds' beating wings.
* * *
High in the tree, the malkohas squawk and hop from branch to
branch. I'm there with them, surrounded by glossy leaves and
sunshine, looking down...down at eight naked young men, pale
as ghosts, spread-eagled on the ground. Haskell, Peters,
Richardson, Pooley, Johnson, Mantenuto, George...uh...Tibbets,
his last name was Tibbets, Sergeant Williams,
and...me...Private First Class Walter S. Skinner, eighteen-
year-old enlisted Marine, a silver-dollar-sized hole punched
through my left palm.
Is the worst over?
A feather drops from one of the birds' long tails, and I feel
myself drift with it to the forest floor. I come to rest
beside my own outstretched hand. My fingertips are bluish-
purple. Blood encrusts my arm, my temple, my lips where a fly
cleans its wings. I listen for my breath and hear nothing but
the thump-thump of an approaching helicopter.
What is happening?
With its rotors beating the air, thrashing the leaves from the
trees, the chopper swoops low, hovers above me. Four troops
jump from the open doors, make a quick check of my squad. They
signal for body bags. I watch them seal us into the shiny
green bags, one at a time. I am the last. A corpsman tucks my
legs, my arms into the bag. He draws the zipper toward my
chin.
Am I dead?
Pushing my way past the corpsman, I sift between the white,
plastic teeth of the zipper into the bag. I flow into the
dying Private's mouth, gush down his throat and feel myself
expand into his lungs. I grow to fill the cavity of his chest,
the chambers of his heart, the tips of his bluish-purple
fingers. Pulsing along his arteries and his nerves, I want to
shriek from the god-awful pain of the knife wound and the
bullet holes and nearly thirty lost years.
I am alive.
The corpsman shouts, "This one's got a pulse!"
"Mister, are you dead?"
Christ, I'm lying on the floor of the Bird House, a dozen kids
staring down at me. Their tour guide kneels beside my hip and
asks, "Are you all right?" She's a pretty woman, with dark
hair and gray eyes. Concern creases her brow.
"Yeah." I nod. "I'm okay." She helps me stand.
"Is he gonna live?" asks one little girl.
"Of course." The guide corrals the girl with the sweep of her
arm and steers her away. "You sure you're okay?" the woman
asks over her shoulder.
I clap dust from my pants and, for the first time since
Vietnam, I feel like I've finally been given my sandlot do-
over. I try smiling. "Yeah, thanks. I...uh...I think I'll be
fine."
I decide to walk back to the Hoover Building. It's a decent
day and the walk will do me good.
THE END
Author's notes: It's been years since I visited the National
Zoo and I have no idea if the bird exhibition has been
renovated or resembles my depiction here. I took liberties for
the sake of the story.
Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on this or any of my
stories. Send comments to nejake@tds.net.