Where Have You Gone Charming Billy?
By Tim O’Brien
The platoon
of twenty-six soldiers moved slowly in the dark, single file, not talking. One
by one, like sheep in a dream, they passed through the hedgerow, crossed
quietly over a meadow and came down to the rice paddy. There they stopped.
Their leader knelt down, motioning with his hand, and one by one the other
soldiers squatted in the shadows, vanishing in the primitive stealth of
warfare. For a long time they did not move. Except for the sounds of their
breathing, ...the twenty-six men were very quiet: some of them excited by the
adventure, some of them afraid, some of them exhausted from the long night
march, some of them looking forward to reaching the sea where they would be
safe. At the rear of the column, Private First Class Paul Berlin lay quietly
with his forehead resting on the black plastic stock of his rifle, his eyes
closed. He was pretending he was not in the war, pretending he had not watched
Billy Boy Watkins die of a heart attack that afternoon. He was pretending he
was a boy again, camping with his father in the midnight summer along the Des
Moines River. In the dark, with his eyes pinched shut, he pretended. He
pretended that when he opened his eyes, his father would be there by the campfire
and they would talk softly about whatever came to mind and then roll into their
sleeping bags, and that later they’d wake up and it would not be a war and that
Billy Boy Watkins had not died of a heart attack that afternoon. He pretended
he was not a soldier.
In
the morning, when they reached the sea, it would be better. The hot afternoon
would be over, he would bathe in the sea and he would forget how frightened he
had been on his first day at the war. The second day would not be so bad. He
would learn.
There was a
sound beside him, a movement and then a breathed: "Hey!"
He opened
his eyes, shivering as if emerging from a deep nightmare.
"Hey!"
a shadow whispered. "We're moving… Get up.”
"Okay."
"You
sleepin', or something?"
"No."
He could not make out the soldier's face. With clumsy, concrete hands he clawed
for his rifle, found it, found his helmet.
The
soldier-shadow grunted. "You got a lot to learn, buddy. I'd shoot you if I
thought you was sleepin'. Let's go."
Private
First Class Paul Berlin blinked.
Ahead of
him, silhouetted against the sky, he saw the string of soldiers wading into the
flat paddy, the black outline of their shoulders and packs and weapons. He was
comfortable. He did not want to move. But he was afraid, for it was his first
night at the war, so he hurried to catch up, stumbling once, scraping his knee,
groping as though blind; his boots sank into the thick paddy water and he
smelled it all around him. He would tell his mother how it smelled: mud and
algae and cattle manure and chlorophyll, decay, breeding mosquitoes and leeches
as big as mice, the fecund warmth of the paddy waters rising up to his cut
knee. But he would not tell how frightened he had been.
Once
they reached the sea, things would be better. They would have their rear
guarded by three thousand miles of ocean, and they would swim and dive into the
breakers and hunt crayfish and smell the salt, and they would be safe.
He followed the shadow of the man in front of him. It was a
clear night. Already the Southern Cross was out. And other stars he could not
yet name-soon, he thought, he would learn their names. And puffy night clouds.
There was not yet a moon. Wading through the paddy, his boots made sleepy,
sloshy sounds, like a lullaby, and he tried not to think. Though he was afraid,
he now knew that fear came in many degrees and types and peculiar categories,
and he knew that his fear now was not so bad as it had been in the hot
afternoon, when poor Billy Boy Watkins got killed by a heart attack. His fear
now was diffuse and unformed: ghosts in the tree line, nighttime fears of a
child, a boogieman in the
closet that his father would open to show empty, saying
"See? Nothing there, champ. Now you can sleep." In the afternoon it
had been worse: the fear had been bundled and tight and he'd been on his hands
and knees, crawling like an insect, an ant escaping a giant's footsteps and
thinking nothing, brain flopping like wet cement in a mixer, not thinking at
all, watching while Billy Boy Watkins died.
Now as he
stepped out of the paddy onto a narrow dirt path, now the fear was mostly the
fear of being so terribly afraid again.
He tried
not to think.
There were
tricks he'd learned to keep from thinking. Counting: He counted his steps,
concentrating on the numbers, pretending that the steps were dollar bills and
that each step through the night made him richer and richer, so that soon he
would become a wealthy man, and he kept counting and considered the ways he
might spend the money after the war and what he would do. He would look his
father in the eye and shrug and say, "It was pretty bad at first, but I
learned a lot and I got used to it." Then he would tell his father the
story of Billy Boy Watkins. But he would never let on how frightened he had
been. "Not so bad," he would say instead, making his father feel
proud.
Songs,
another trick to stop from thinking:
Where have you gone, Billy Boy, Billy Boy, Oh, where have
you gone charming Billy? I have gone to seek a wife, she's the joy of my life,
but she's a young thing and cannot leave her mother; and other songs
that he sang in his thoughts as he walked toward the sea. And when he reached
the sea he would dig a deep hole in the sand and he would sleep like the high
clouds, and he would not be afraid any more.
The moon came out. Pale and shrunken to the size of a dime.
The helmet
was heavy on his head. In the morning he would adjust the leather binding. He
would clean his rifle, too. Even though he had been frightened to shoot it
during the hot afternoon, he would carefully clean the breech and the muzzle
and the ammunition so that next time he would be ready and not so afraid. In
the morning, when they reached the sea, he would begin to make friends with
some of the other soldiers. He would learn their names and laugh at their
jokes. Then when the war was over he would have war buddies, and he would write
to them once in a while and exchange memories.
Walking,
sleeping in his walking, he felt better. He watched the moon come higher.
Once they skirted
a sleeping village. The smells again -- straw, cattle, mildew. The men were
quiet. On the far side of the village, buried in the dark smells, a dog barked.
The column stopped until the barking died away; then they marched fast away
from the village, through a graveyard filled with conical-shaped burial mounds
and tiny altars made of clay and stone. The graveyard had a perfumy smell. A
nice place to spend the night, he thought. The mounds would make fine
battlements, and the smell was nice and the place was quiet. But they went on,
passing through a hedgerow and across another paddy and east toward the sea.
He walked
carefully. He remembered what he'd been taught: Stay off the center of the
path, for that was where the land mines and booby traps were planted, where
stupid and lazy soldiers like to walk. Stay alert, he'd been taught. Better
alert than inert. Ag-ile, mo-bile, hos-tile. He wished he'd paid better
attention to the training. He could not remember what they'd said about how to
stop being afraid; they hadn't given any lessons in courage-not that he could
remember-and they hadn't mentioned how Billy Boy Watkins would die of a heart
attack, his face turning pale and the veins popping out.
Private
First Class Paul Berlin walked carefully.
Stretching
ahead of him like dark beads on an invisible chain, the string of
shadow-soldiers whose names he did not yet know moved with the silence and slow
grace of smoke. Now and again moonlight was reflected off a machine gun or a
wrist watch. But mostly the soldiers were quiet and hidden and far-away-seeming
in a peaceful night, strangers on a long street, and he felt quite separate
from them, as if trailing behind like the caboose on a night train, pulled
along by inertia, sleepwalking, an afterthought to the war.
So he
walked carefully, counting his steps. When he had counted to three thousand,
four hundred and eighty-five, the column stopped.
One by one
the soldiers knelt or squatted down.
The grass
along the oath was wet. Private First Class Paul Berlin lay back and turned his
head so he could lick at the dew with his eyes closed, another trick to forget
the war. He might have slept. “I wasn’t afraid,
“he was screaming or dreaming, facing his father’s stern eyes. “I wasn’t
afraid,” he was saying. When he opened his eyes, a soldier was sitting beside
him, quietly chewing a stick of Doublemint gum.
"You
sleepin' again?" the soldier whispered.
"No,"
said Private First Class Paul Berlin. ...
The soldier
grunted, chewing his gum. Then he twisted the cap off his canteen, took a
swallow and handed it through the dark.
"Take
some," he whispered.
"Thanks."
“You’re the
new guy?”
“Yes.” He did not want to admit it, being new to the
war.
The soldier
grunted and handed him a stick of gum. “Chew it quiet – okay? Don’t blow no
bubbles or nothing.”
"Thanks.
I won't." He could not make out the man's face in the shadows.
They sat
still and Private First Class Paul Berlin chewed the gum until all the sugars
were gone; then the soldier said, "Bad day today, buddy."
Private
First Class Paul Berlin nodded wisely, but he did not speak.
"Don't
think it's always so bad," the soldier whispered. "1 don't wanna
scare you. You'll get used to it soon enough. ...They been fighting wars a long
time, and you get used to it."
"Yeah."
"You
will."
They were
quiet awhile. And the night was quiet, no crickets or birds, and it was hard to
imagine it was truly a war. He searched for the soldier's face but could not
find it. It did not matter much. Even if he saw the fellow's face, he would not
know the name; and even if he knew the name, it would not matter much.
“Haven’t
got the time?” the soldier whispered.
“No.”
"Rats.
...Don't matter, really. Goes faster if you don't know the time, anyhow."
"Sure."
"What's
your name, buddy?"
"Paul."
"Nice
to meet ya," he said, and in the dark beside the path they shook hands.
"Mine's Toby. Everybody calls me Buffalo, though." The soldier's hand
was strangely warm and soft. But it was a very big hand. "Sometimes they
just call me Buff," he said.
And again
they were quiet. They lay in the grass and waited. The moon was very high now
and very bright, and they were waiting for cloud cover.
The soldier
suddenly snorted.
"What
is it?"
"Nothin',"
he said, but then he snorted again.
"A
bloody heart attack!" the soldier said. "Can't get over it-old
Billy Boy croaking from a lousy heart attack. ...A heart attack-can you believe
it? "
The idea of
it made Private First Class Paul Berlin smile. He couldn't help it.
"Ever
hear of such a thing?"
"Not
till now," said Private First Class Paul Berlin, still smiling.
"Me
neither," said the soldier in the dark. ". ..Dying of a heart attack.
Didn't know him, did you."
"No."
"Tough
as nails."
"Yeah."
"And
what happens? A heart attack. Can you imagine it?"
"Yes,"
said Private First Class Paul Berlin.
He wanted to laugh. "I can imagine it." And he imagined it clearly.
He giggled-he couldn't help it. He imagined Billy's father opening the telegram:
SORRY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON BILLY BOY WAS YESTERDAY
SCARED TO DEATH IN ACTION IN THE REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM, VALIANTLY SUCCUMBING TO A
HEART ATTACK SUFFERED
WHILE UNDER : ENORMOUS STRESS, AND IT IS WITH GREATEST SYMPATHY THAT. ..He
giggled again. He rolled onto his belly and pressed his face into his arms. His
body was shaking with giggles.
The big
soldier hissed at him to shut up, but he could not stop giggling and
remembering the hot afternoon,
and poor Billy Boy, and how they'd been drinking Coca-Cola from bright-red
aluminum cans, and how they'd started on the day's march, and how a little
while later poor Billy Boy stepped on the mine, and how it made a tiny little sound-poof-and
how Billy Boy stood there with his mouth wide-open, looking down at where
his foot had been blown off, and how finally Billy Boy sat down very casually,
not saying a word, with his foot lying behind him, most of it still in the
boot.
He giggled
louder-he could not stop. He bit his arm, trying to stifle it but remembering:
"War's over, Billy," the men had said in consolation, but Billy Boy
got scared and started crying and said he was about to die.
"Nonsense," the medic said, Doc Peret, but Billy Boy kept bawling,
tightening up, his face going pale and transparent and his veins popping out.
Scared stiff. Even when Doc Peret stuck him with morphine, Billy Boy kept
crying.
"Shut
up!" the big soldier hissed, but Private First Class Paul Berlin could not
stop. Giggling and remembering, he covered his mouth. His eyes stung,
remembering how it was when Billy Boy died of fright.
"Shut
up!"
But he
could not stop giggling, the same way Billy Boy could not stop bawling that
afternoon.
Afterward
Doc Peret had explained: "You see, Billy Boy really died of a heart
attack. He was scared he was gonna die -- so scared, he had himself a heart
attack -- and that's what really killed him. I seen it before."
So they
wrapped Billy in a plastic poncho, his eyes still wide-open and scared stiff,
and they carried him over the meadow to a rice paddy, and then when the Medevac
helicopter arrived they carried him through the paddy and put him aboard, and
the mortar rounds were falling everywhere, and the helicopter pulled up and
Billy Boy came tumbling out, falling slowly and then faster, and the paddy water
sprayed up as if Billy Boy had just executed a long and dangerous dive, as if
trying to escape Graves Registration, where he would be tagged and sent home
under a flag, dead of a heart attack.
"Shut
up, ...!" the soldier hissed, but Paul Berlin could not stop giggling,
remembering: scared to death.
Later they waded in after him, probing for Billy Boy with
their rifle butts, elegantly and delicately probing for Billy Boy in the
stinking paddy, singing -- some of them -- Where have you gone, Billy Boy, Billy
Boy, Oh, where have you gone, charming Billy? Then they found him. Green
and covered with algae, his eyes still wide-open and scared stiff, dead of a
heart attack suffered while-
" Shut
up, ...! " the soldier said loudly, shaking him.
But Private
First Class Paul Berlin could not stop. The giggles were caught in his throat,
drowning him in his own laughter: scared to death like Billy Boy.
Giggling,
lying on his back, he saw the moon move, or the clouds moving across the moon.
Wounded in action, dead of fright. A fine war story. He would tell it to his
father, how Billy Boy had been scared to death, never letting on .. . He could
not stop.
The soldier
smothered him. He tried to fight back, but he was weak from the giggles.
The moon was under the clouds and the column was moving. The
soldier helped him up. "You okay now, buddy?"
“Sure."
"What
was so bloody funny?"
"Nothing."
"You
can get killed, laughing that way."
"I
know. I know that."
"You
got to stay calm, buddy." The soldier handed him his rifle. "Half the
battle, just staying calm. You'll get better at it," he said. "Come
on, now."
He turned
away and Private First Class Paul Berlin hurried after him. He was still
shivering.
He would do
better once he reached the sea, he thought, still smiling a little. A funny war
story that he would tell to his father, how Billy Boy Watkins was scared to
death. A good joke. But even when he smelled salt and heard the sea, he could
not stop being afraid.
1. What are two examples of metaphors in “Where Have You Gone, Charming Billy?” Identify them and explain what two things are being compared.
2. What are at least five examples of similes in this story? Identify them and explain what two things are being compared.
3. What is the setting of this story?
4. (Skip number 4!)
5. What are two external conflicts in this story? What are two internal conflicts in this story?
6. Who is the protagonist of this story?
7. Who or what is the antagonist?
8. Is the narrator in this story dynamic or static? Explain.
9. From what point of view is this story told? How do you know?
Bonus: What is an example of situational irony in this story? Explain.
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