The Ghosts of Southeast Asia - Bouncing Betty
Helmet Hair
Have you ever known someone whose entire personality seems built around getting a reaction out of everyone around them? Someone like that finds a lot of joy skirting the lines of good taste and civility with what passes for a sense of humor, often retreating behind the prodigious use of “Don’t be so sensitive” or “Just calling it as it is”.
In one of our native languages, someone like that is described as having iron teeth. Why? Because that’s what they must be made of if they haven’t been knocked out yet. Typically though, while behavior like that would merit some side-eye and less-than-flattering commentary out of earshot, these outbursts mostly go unpunished.
The Ghosts of Southeast Asia are not so forgiving.
--
“Molot-3, Molot Actual. We just lost comms with ground approach. Need you to go take a look at the junction box. Over.”
Fuck.
I hated the junction box. Sitting in the bowels of a subterranean armory, it was the central node through which most of the base’s communications were run. It was also an unholy, indecipherable mess of RF cables, live wires, and other bullshit. That comms worked at all was already a miracle - we barely knew how the damn thing worked, and our solutions generally consisted of a healthy mix of prayer, guesswork, and duct tape. It also didn’t help that the box was basically located in a creepy-ass basement.
Everyone dreaded armory duty for this very reason, and today that sucker was yours truly. The walkie talkie squawked again,
“Molot-3, how copy? Sanctuary’s waiting on an ETR for repairs. Over.”
Sanctuary was the codename for our operations room, a bunker filled to the brim with important old men who could make someone like me disappear if I pissed them off enough.
“Molot Actual, Molot-3. I’m on site. Estimated Time to Repair is five mikes. Out.”
Lieutenant Hafiz could give me shit later. Straining, I pulled open the two-ton blast doors to the armory, started inside, and froze.
Someone was here.
Twenty feet away, shrouded in darkness, a woman sat crossed legged on the concrete floor. Long black hair cascaded down her back. She was stock still. Without hesitation, I ducked back out of the armory and was turning to bolt when the threat of court martial stopped me dead in my tracks.
“You mind explaining, Corporal, why comms weren’t repaired during the op tonight?”
What could I say?
“I couldn’t, sir. There was a fucking ghost in the basement.”
Shit.
Shit shit shit, I thought, inching towards her and the junction box. And as I moved, the saccharine smell of flowery perfume settled around me in an oppressive miasma. I’d heard the rumors before - a distant childhood rhyme unfurling itself from the corners of my mind like a waking spider.
If the smell is stinky, sickly, sweet
She is far; you’ll never meet
But if it smells like fair flowers dear
Say your goodbyes, because she’s right here
My eyes picked up additional details as they adjusted to the darkness. She was tall, unusually so, and dressed in a white, tattered dress that hung off a skeletal frame. Her shoulders started to hitch. Was she sobbing? Her hands dangled by her sides, her pinky brushing the rifle on the ground.
Wait. Rifle? The owner’s name was stenciled on the stock: Wei 0451.
Oh this mother fucker.
I slammed the light switch with a closed fist.
“Real funny, dickhead.” I said, trying to mask both relief and anger, as the ghost jumped up and started howling with laughter. The flood lamps kicked in, and Wei tore off the wig, balled up the dress, and tossed both at me. His two acolytes emerged from behind weapon racks, cackling with glee. Laugh it up, assholes.
As for the man himself, Wei was your quintessential attention seeking class clown. This was a guy who always had to have the last fucking word, some smartass refrain, all while wearing a coy smirk on his face. He wasn’t a bad person, so to speak, but his need to be the center of attention pissed a lot of people off.
Wei clipped on his abomination of a helmet, still wheezing. With a cigarette tucked in one end and an Ace of Spades slipped into the other, the helmet was far from regulation standard, not to mention unoriginal. The fact that we were an active operational unit was the only thing keeping him from getting a swift ass kicking, as the brass usually had bigger fish to fry.
“Fine, you got me. Help me fix this before -”
“What the fuck do you assholes think you’re doing in here?.”
Staff Sergeant Gary stood at the threshold of the armory, his nasally voice echoing through the subterranean chamber.
“Corporal. Where the fuck are my comms?” Gary marched in, glaring daggers at me.
“Working on it Staff Se-”
“Shut the fuck up,” he scowled,
“At least lie better if you’re gonna fuck around. Do you idiots have any idea how important…”
The rest of the lecture was a blur. The four of us simply murmured half hearted “Yes Staff Sergeant”s and “No Staff Sergeant”s as we tried in vain to mollify him. When he was finally done, the Staff Sergeant gestured at Wei’s little getup, staring at the four of us in turn.
“…and if the five of you, any, of the five of you, ever fuck up again, your asses are mine. Now clean this shit up!” He turned to leave. Really? Letting us off? Out of character for Gary, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“‘Your asses are mine’,” mouthed Wei to his back, his shit eating grin staging a full comeback the second the Staff Sergeant’s back was turned.
“Oh, and quick question, Corporal Wei. Are you about to rappel in guns blazing into the beautiful fields of Hanoi?”
God damn it.
“No Staff Sergeant.”
“How about a journey up the Mekong river to look for Colonel Kurtz? Light up some Viet Cong along the way?”
“No Staff Sergeant.”
“Then there’s no reason to have all that bullshit in your helmet, is there? You know the punishment for uniform infractions, right?”
--
“‘Your ass is mine’, man, fuck that guy. You think he’s into dudes?” piped Wei, as he hefted his olive green rucksack. 6 missed weekends later, we were 16 klicks into a 30 klick march to a deployment site, and none of us were in a particularly cheery mood. Except Wei, of course.
“What, no. Shut up.” I said.
“I mean, the whole ‘your ass is mine’ thing. Maybe it’s psychological. You know, like Free-dian?” Wei stopped and crouched to re-lace his boots.
“Freudian. And don’t get your hopes up, I’m pretty sure he has a girlfriend. Motherfucker’s on his phone all the time.” I grunted as my weapon’s bipod jabbed me in the gut.
“I should send him a postcard. ‘Dear Sarge! Kicking ass out in the field. Wish you were here!’ ” Having fixed his boots, Wei now opted to pick up the pace by ignoring the curves of the trail and charging right through waist high grass. It didn’t take long for his gear to get caught on the undergrowth, forcing him to stop again and pull at the weeds.
“I heard that, jackass!” yelled Lt. Hafiz from the rear. “Staff Sergeant Gary’s on medical leave, but keep yapping, I’ll be sure to let him know whose ass to kick when he gets back.”
“Yeah? Must be nice chilling in the a/c at St. O’s while we’re sweating balls in the GOD-DAMN-BOONIES!” Wei snapped back, punctuating the last six syllables with frustrated kicks at whatever he’d ensnared himself in. He trailed off as his boot impacted something with a thunk, sending it flying out onto the trail.
It was an old wayside shrine.
Much like the many flower-adorned crosses sometimes found dotting the sides of freeways, these memorialize an untimely death in the area. They are absolutely not to be fucked with.
This one in particular was old. The long since faded red paint was peeling off in long streaks, the wet, rotted wood underneath oozing black tar. There was a small black and white photo recessed under its mock rooftop. A young woman, from the looks of it.
“Shit. Corporal. You better apologize.” The normally cheery Lieutenant was uncharacteristically somber.
“To what, the air?” Scoffed Wei, as he bent over to survey the damage. He picked up the shrine and peered at the woman in the picture.
“Holy shit, dude, just say you’re sorry. Don’t fuck with things like this.” I panted, blinded by sweat and at capacity for Wei’s bullshit.
“Welllllll…I wouldn’t say that,” he grinned, holding the ancient picture out to me. “Kinda hot, don’t you think? 7/10? I’d definitely fuck with things like this.”
Hafiz, lips drawn into a tight line, pushed past us quickly. I followed.
“Jesus christ, it’s a joke. You fuckers really have no personality.” Wei took one last look at the picture, blew a kiss, and hurled the object like a frisbee into the field.
--
That night, we all filed into the barracks in one conga line of sweaty misery. Packs were dropped, bulletproof vests were unbuckled, and lead-lined helmets were unstrapped. Not wanting a surprise inspection to ruin what little sleep we were going to have, we propped the bags upright at the foot of our beds, ‘wore’ the vest over the front of the packs, and laid the helmet on top of the arrangement. It was a standardized setup, drilled into our heads since boot camp. If a certain Staff Sergeant decided to walk by, that would be one less reason for him to drag us all out of bed. Wei’s bunk was next to mine, and even he seemed fresh out of one-liners and jokes. Wordlessly, I fell into bed and was out like a light.
I was awakened, much to my irritation, by the sound of Wei’s helmet rolling off his backpack and clattering to the floor. Someone else said what was on my mind.
“What the fuck, Wei, come on!”
“Sorry! Shit.” Wei hissed. He sat up, leaned down past his feet, and reached blindly in the darkness. Eventually his fingers found the camouflage webbing lining the top of the helmet, and he pulled it back onto his pack, making doubly sure that it sat flat and snug. He collapsed backward with a sigh.
Not ten seconds later, the same crack of Kevlar on concrete forced my eyes open.
“- fucking kidding me?” Someone cursed.
Wei scrambled, but my vision was already tunneling as sheer exhaustion overrode any feelings of anger and swallowed my consciousness whole.
Until I was jolted awake by the slam of the helmet impacting full force against the cabinet across from Wei. He’d thrown it. He’d thrown it with enough force to leave a crater in the metal and scare the shit out of the poor serviceman assigned to it. Someone shouted in alarm, and I was just about ready to lay into him when something made me pause. The man was pressed against the wall, hugging his knees and staring intently at the headgear rocking on the opposite side of the room, slowly losing its spin.
And there was blood on the floor.
As my vision continued to focus in that gloomy, moonlight-soaked room, two details stood out to me. First, the camouflage webbing on the helmet was ripped to shreds- filaments of green dusting the ground.
Second, three of Wei’s finger’s lay scattered across the floor like so many quarters.
Something about the way he stared, unblinking, wide-eyed, pale faced, oblivious to the pain as red bloomed on his bedsheets, froze me in place. Seconds later I noticed a low wail coming from his throat, gradually but steadily rising in volume and pitch. It started soft, almost like he was humming to himself, but got louder and louder, reaching an ear-splitting crescendo as Wei began to scream and scream and scream. Someone rushed for the switch, and only when the fluorescent lights swept the room did Wei’s screaming get reduced to a low whimper.
Silence reigned for a few pregnant seconds. What just happened?
“Bad dream, bud?” joked Alistair cautiously. In a gesture of helpfulness the platoon leader walked across the room, scooped up Wei’s helmet, and started towards the afflicted soldier. Upon noticing this Wei started screaming again, so loud and so incomprehensibly I only made out the words:
“Keep her away from me.”
Then a thump turned heads once again, this time towards the far end of the room. Another helmet had fallen off, the one belonging to the soldier sleeping in the corner. Then the helmet next to his, and the helmet next to that, in a series of evenly paced thump-thump-thumps as everyone watched in paralyzed silence. The procession of falling helmets carried on until it was at Wei’s bed - then Alistair dropped the helmet in Wei’s lap, an inscrutable expression on his face. This act appeared to shut the man down entirely. Wei numbly looked at the helmet, looked up at Alistair, then turned towards the bed frame.
And slammed his head with all his strength against the metal bar. We all jumped. Then he did it again, his skull ringing the hollow metal like a bell. It would have been funny if not for the blood gushing from his nose. It took a few seconds for the section’s burliest men to jump on him and restrain him, and for someone to run screaming for the lieutenant.
Thank god they caught onto what he tried to do next.
Grabbing a pen, he jabbed the forearm of one of his comrades, causing him to flinch and curse. Then, using the momentary freedom to brace the pen against the bed frame, he reared his head back. An elbow to the temple mercifully knocked him out cold before he could finish the job.
And the smell. God the smell. The floral stench of a rotting corpse soaked in perfume - same as the one in the armory. I felt horror pit in my stomach at the memory. For all his talents, where was Wei going to get perfume on a military base?
And what the hell did he see?
--
When all was said and done, with Wei sedated and helivaced to St Ogilvie, Lieutenant Hafiz came in, pulled up a chair, and started talking:
During the Second World War, the Japanese cut a bloody swathe through Southeast Asia. The full scope of the atrocities that followed in their wake demands a level of academic sensitivity not present in this story. It is worth saying, however, that it was no different than the barbarism committed by the Nazis as they ravaged Ukraine, or the reciprocal horrors visited upon East Prussia as the Soviets retook their land. You can look those up yourself, if you have the stomach for it. Large groups of disenfranchised young men, radicalized to violence, are capable of a lot. Especially against young women.
In our country, the invaders were quick to make a sport of their violence, and beheadings were exceptionally popular. Dissidents, rebels, and anyone unfortunate enough to get caught were lined up on their knees along football-field length ditches. The occupiers loved drawing out the process, forcing locals to watch as compatriots, lovers, family, children were beheaded down the line. As the heads of those they recognized, knew, loved- fell unceremoniously into the ditch, their bodies kicked in moments after. Thump. Thump. Thump. The next after the next after the next, until it was their turn.
Many of these victims were women who were only moments ago subjected to unspeakable indignities.
“What kind of anger,” asked Lieutenant Hafiz,
“Do you think these women felt?” He paused to stare at the helmets lying on the ground, then walked over to pick one up, turning it over in his hands.
“The kind of anger that persists long after their bodies have turned to dust.”
Some survivors of the war later returned to set up shrines and offerings in an attempt at appeasement, but it was never enough. The wayside shrine we found must’ve been dedicated to one of them.
And Wei ticked all the boxes. A young soldier making a pass at a woman who never asked for the attention. Of course she came after him.
--
Wei never completed his tour. He wasn’t quite the same again, either. Right before he was permanently reassigned to full time mental care, there were reports of him sprinting up and down the corridors at night, helmet clutched to his chest. Or he’d pull up a chair and stare at sleeping servicemen, his face mere inches from theirs. I’m just glad I was long gone by then.
But not everything quite added up that night.
See, I keep thinking about the ripped webbing on Wei’s helmet. What had he seen that night, scrambling for his headgear in the darkness? He had a habit of picking it up by the camouflage netting, letting it dangle from his fingertips. He must have held it right up to his face to see why it kept rolling off. What did he see? What was matted and tangled and knotted and wrapped around his fingers? What could cause him to rip his hand away with such ferocity he tore off three of his fingers without feeling a thing? Another one of the guys recalled him screaming something about hair.
What was staring back at him?
