Facing The Enemy

Darjeeling reached out with the ice tongs and grabbed hold of the three hundred pound block of ice as it slid toward him, sidestepped and spun the block around and pushed it, using its own momentum to propel it toward the end of the refrigerated semi trailer. He turned back around as the next block slid past him and another one nearly knocked him down. "Hey, man, what are you trying to do, kill me?" He took off in the direction of the young Vietnamese man who was responsible for the ice floe, raising his tongs threateningly in the air. The young man merely smiled as he sent yet another huge cake of ice Darjeeling's way. "Cut it out, man, you're breakin' foul on me with that ice."
"No need for Tong War," the fellow smiled, laying his tongs down and reaching into the pocket of his shirt that was hanging on a hook in the trailer. He tapped the pack of cigarettes on the wall and peeled off the cellophane rapper. "You got a light, uh, Dah-Jeel-eeng?" He held the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, palm up, European style and moved it toward his lips, waiting to see if Darjeeling would comply. He knew Darjeeling had a lighter, he had seen it when they had taken a break the day before, as Darjeeling and the other GI slipped to the end of the trailer and shared a Park Lane. Then they had resumed loading trailer after trailer with the huge ice blocks that were destined for fire support base mess halls around the area of operations or AO as it was called. Darjeeling had drawn the duty as part of the menial tasks that had been assigned him when he had pulled the deuce-and-a-half fiasco a couple of weeks before. Confined to the base camp, he was assigned odd jobs around the base until further notice. That suited Darjeeling just fine. He could report for work, finish up the task, and then sham the rest of the day, dodging the Sargeant of the Day and the First Sargeant, thus avoiding further work. It wasn't that he was lazy, it was a game he played against the system. He called it the Broken Glass Bead Game, after the title of the novel by Herman Hesse.
"No, I don't have a light, and how did you know my name?"
"It's on your shirt, Dah-jeel-eeng, same shirt that has the Zippo lighter with the 25th Infantray Division emblem. It's in the left pocket with the pack of Park Lanes." The Vietnamese's voice was steady and his black eyes watched Darjeeling intently, smiling as he saw him reach into his shirt pocket and fish around for the lighter. When he had it he flung it toward the man, giving it a spin. The Vietnamese reached up and caught it without taking his eyes off of Darjeeling. He deftly flipped open the lighter and lit his cigarette returning it in the same manner. Darjeeling caught it and put it back in his shirt. "Not having a smoke, Dah-jeel-eeng?" He glanced toward the shirt pocket and blew blue smoke into the cold air of the refrigerated trailer. "Or maybe you think I might be El Cid," he said, referring to the C.I.D. or Criminal Investigation Division that often lurked undercover to bust GI's for smoking pot.
"Not El Cid, but maybe El Viet Cong," Darjeeling jammed the point of the tongs into the wooden side of the trailer and began taking off his shirt. He stared at the Vietnamese man waiting to see any reaction. The man's eyes flashed and his nostrils flared as he raised his tongs point up toward Darjeeling. "Hey man, no need for Tong War," he told the man as he picked up his tongs and turned his back to him. "Let's get to work, I got things to do and people to see. By the way, what's your name, or is it on your shirt?" he turned and smiled at the muscular man who stood with feet braced and the tongs still raised. Finally, the man smiled back.
"Van," he said, "Like Van Morrison."
"You don't know shit about Van Morrison, more like Van Moron," Darjeeling regretted saying that the moment it came out but it was too late. The two of them didn't talk any more as they finished loading the last trailer. Darjeeling jumped out behind Van. "Hey, Van, see you tomorrow? I got the same duty."
"Same duty tomorrow," was all that Van said, not looking at Darjeeling as he walked toward the group of Vietnamese who were ready to leave Cu Chi base camp for the day.