DINKY DAU 
By CindyET

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 Kalishnikov 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 his 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 sells him an all-day pass even though the day is already half over. 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