A Night at the Well of PurityThere wasn’t much that surprised Basarte, but the girl did. Her appearance was like magic. There was noother explanation he accepted. He was still alive after three tours in Vietnam because he heard or saweverything coming his way. Until that moment, nothing had surprised him. He swore that no one had beenapproaching their position. He was sure of it. His first response after he saw her was to look and see if anyone was pulling strings.Basarte was exhausted from booze and whores and needed a week just to get his breath back after fivedays of R & R in Hong Kong. His platoon sergeant

had accommodated him by assigning him guard dutyat the ‘Well of Purity’ with a squad of strangers. Although he was twenty-four, he felt sixty. Donald Basartedidn’t know it yet, but he was about to learn how insidious the devil could be. When he could not corruptyou, he bruised your soul through the depravity of others.“I fix everyone for one dollar each,” the child said with a voice that sounded as if it had been scuffed withsandpaper.An armorer from Basarte’s battalion, a corporal like him, yelled at her with some Vietnamese tossed in,“

Di di,

go away! Jesus Fucking Christ, how can anyone call this place the ‘Well of Purity’ when filthybeggars show up looking for handouts?”“Go easy on her, Colby,” Basarte said. “She’s a kid.”She was barefoot, and her grimy toes curled and dug into the dirt. She had round eyes that were deeplike the paddy water Basarte had spent a night in on an ambush, but her bone structure was delicate likea Vietnamese. She was an Amerasian, and countries like Vietnam had an invisible code that half-breedswere not welcome.She looked down at the ground as if she didn’t know how to respond. She was about nine but could’vebeen older. Her black blouse and baggy trousers were worn thin, and through the filthy cloth you couldsee patches of dirt stained skin. “Look, kid,” Basarte said, “come over here and get a bite to eat. You’reskinny as a stick.” He patted a spot on the log telephone pole beside him.“She’s probably infested with lice and fleas,” Colby said. “Keep her away from me.”Basarte shook his head in disgust.“What’s with you?” Colby said.“What I’m thinking is none of your fucking business.” Basarte replied. He kept his eyes on the girl. “Comeon, honey. The food’s not that great, but it will take away the hunger.”She didn’t move.His hands kept working the sharp, inch long beak of the metal GI can opener as he cut through the tin lidof the ham and lima bean C-ration. The date on the box said 1945, and Basarte was sitting in December of 1967. The Marine Corps never wasted anything.He looked up, and the little girl still hadn’t moved. The lid came off, and he held the can over the flame of the Sterno.“You

dinky dow

, you crazy!” Colby said, sounding like a dog barking. “Get out! You number ten! You nogood!”

“I give you number one blowjob,” she said, and her empty eyes stared at him.Basarte stopped stirring his beans.“What did she say?” Colby asked.“She wants to suck your lizard,” Basarte said, surprised again. Colby burst out laughing and thecrudeness of it soured Basarte’s stomach.When Colby sputtered into silence, a dozen pairs of eyes were examining the shapeless child. The sunslipped away, and the sky went from pale blue to deep blue. When the sky turned black, it robbed them of the ability to see much beyond where they were sitting. The collective hum of the mosquito horde couldbe heard. They were on their way from the rice paddies to assault them. Further away there was therumble of artillery firing a mission toward the jungles of the Central Highlands. Closer, on the other side of the hills south of them, a flare shot up and lit the landscape with an eerie light that hissed and sputteredas it drifted back to earth.Basarte had shared a rice paddy with a cobra once. He felt as if he were in a similar situation now. Helooked into the dusky shadows around the position imagining Vietcong slithering in on their bellies, just ashe’d expected that snake to come and find him in that black rice paddy water. To offer a smaller target, heslid off the log to sit on the dirt. Picking up his M3A1 Grease Gun, he rested it across his lap.They sat in a flat depression with hills threatening them on three sides. Prickly brush surrounded their perimeter, and every bush could hide sudden death.“What did you say you charge?” Colby asked the little girl.“You can’t be serious,” Basarte said. “We have to secure our position before it gets dark. Besides, she’s akid.”Colby dismissed Basarte with the flap of a hand.“I give you number one blowjob for one American dollar.” She pulled back her shoulders, thrust her chestout and took a step closer. She had no shape and no breasts.Colby examined her as if he were at a rummage sale. “You ain’t worth no dollar. You are worth two bits.”Colby put aside his can of food and stood. He was a tall, lean man with freckles scattered across a facethat looked as if it had been squeezed into its thin, narrow shape by two slabs of rusty steel. Between thefreckles his skin was sallow colored, and there were baggy shadows under his eyes. He ran a big, bonyhand through his close-cropped red hair.He grinned showing off a silver frame around one of his cigarette-stained teeth. “You can get more thanone dollar, but you’re going to have to suck a lot of lizards. You will earn two bits each.”“Don’t be a fool,” Basarte said.“Who the hell are you to tell me what to do?” Colby said, and glared at him. Colby studied the nameprinted above Basarte’s left breast pocket. “I heard of you,” Colby said, and his eyes went to theautomatic weapon on Basarte’s lap. “You were decorated—a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart with an OakLeaf Cluster.”Basarte wasn’t his actual name. When he’d joined, he used his mother’s maiden name instead of Casanova, his father’s name.

“You don’t know shit,” Basarte replied. His right hand sought the comfort of his submachine gun andstroked the barrel as if it were a woman’s leg. He’d been wounded twice. During his first tour, shrapnelfrom a mortar round had ripped into his right shoulder. The scar looked like a snowflake. The man next tohim suffered a serious head wound, and Basarte carried what was left of him to the medic through heavysniper fire. Compared to that Marine, Basarte’s wound was nothing. It took a dozen stitches to sewBasarte up after the jagged bit of metal was removed. The other Marine was a vegetable. His next woundarrived during his second tour. Sniper rounds were zipping by his ears when the right rear wheel of hisradio jeep ran over a landmine. The jeep was blown off the road and rolled over. He was tossed from thevehicle and gained a concussion and a huge bruise on the left side of his forehead. That wound sent himto the division hospital for more than a week.Colby’s eyes retreated from Basarte, and he looked at the girl.She held out a hand for the money. Six of the men, including Colby, dropped coins into it. She slippedthem into a palm-sized, cloth purse that looked like the color of old dried blood. She then moved towardthe corporal and knelt in front of him.“Not here,” Colby said. He turned to those who hadn’t paid. “Come on, Marines, chip in.” His eyes wereon Basarte as if he were issuing a challenge.“Leave me out of it,” Basarte said.“Maybe you ain’t the man they think you are,” Colby said.“Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment,“ Basarte said, and winked at him. Colby led the girl outbeyond the telephone poles into the brush until only the top of his head was visible. He ducked out of sight. The others looked back and forth at one another. No one spoke.One by one, those who had paid stood and walked into the gathering darkness. That left six sitting on theprone telephone poles.A lance corporal from the Ontos battalion cleared his throat, and after he spit, said, “Shit, I’m growingcalluses on my right hand. I’m going to watch and join in if it looks like fun.” Three more stood andfollowed him into the night.Basarte remained with a typist from the tank battalion’s headquarters platoon. Acne scars cratered thisman’s face, and his hair was the color of dead straw. His blue eyes darted in a panic toward the bushes.His hand went to a compact black book jammed into his left breast pocket as if he were seeking answersfrom it.They should’ve had razor wire and a few Claymores. But out here in this parasite-infested crotch nestledbetween hills, there wasn’t much of anything that offered protection except one sloppily built bunker with arusty tin roof. They were here to protect the fresh water well that three battalions depended on.“What are we going to do?” The typist’s eyes were busy trying to see through the darkness. The book wasin his hands now, and Basarte could see the gold lettering of the title. It was a Bible.Basarte’s mother had more than twenty Bibles. She’d been a Holy Roller before he was born and aCatholic while he was in a parochial elementary school. Before he graduated from high school, she’dconverted to become a Jehovah Witness. To her religions were like lottery tickets—you had to have morethan one for a chance to win. When Basarte joined the Marines right after two years of college, she criedbecause she feared that if he were killed, she’d never see him in the next life.