Cologne No. 10 for Men

Wilfred skipped through the next few days like a flat rock on still water. He had all the weapons he needed. Now all he needed was bodies. They will come, he thought. They will come.

He used Trinh day after day, offering him to Colonel Clary sunny side up and over easy. He began by dressing him in a fresh NVA uniform and then he caked it with mud and used it again. At night he retired to his hooch and patiently sewed rank insignias on it, changing them daily.

When he’d exhausted all permutations, he resorted to new civilian garb, once even borrowing a girl’s pajamas and padding them appropriately. The face he altered, too, though Wilfred was fairly certain the colonel wouldn’t risk being called a racial bigot again. He had Trinh make faces, selected an expression and told him to freeze. Borrowed glasses of varying styles and made Trinh wear them. Stuffed cotton in his mouth and under his lips. Drew scars and wrinkles on his face with charcoal.

Then he arranged Trinh’s limbs in a myriad of configurations, discovering ways of bending and twisting his arms and legs that he didn’t know were possible—grotesque ways that looked as though the members were horribly broken. Sometimes he had to use rope to hold them in position and hid the stay with clothing or gore. “My favorite mannequin,” he said to Trinh one day.

The wounds were no problem. He dribbled ketchup from Trinh’s mouth and ears, poured it liberally on portions of his body, and used animal innards for extra realism. Once he put a dog’s eyeball on top of Trinh’s own to simulate a hideous eye injury.

As word of Wilfred’s fetish for disemboweling animals spread through the countryside, he found the critters harder to find. In one village he saw a dog, an ox, and a water buffalo fleeing into the paddies at his approach. At another, he penetrated a booby-trapped tunnel complex only to find it full of ducks and pigs hiding in the darkness. At yet another he found a flock of chickens cowering in a barnyard and was certain he detected fear in their eyes.

Wilfred felt that his work was highly creative—artistic, even. Trinh had other opinions. But the interpreter impassively persevered, his fear of the madman growing with each new obscenity Wilfred perpetrated upon him.

Colonel Clary had his suspicions. “Why are there always two?” he asked Wilfred.

“Sir. Even VC were meant to go through life two by two. It’s part of God’s plan.”

“Oh, yeah,” Clary said, not completely convinced. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Well, tell me this,” he said. “Why are their rifles always so clean? They look like they’ve never been fired.”

They never have, Wilfred thought, but he reported gravely, “Discipline, sir. Discipline.”

Clary grumbled a grudging acceptance and not to be out-soldiered by primitive, heathen, commie natives, went back to LZ German and instituted daily rifle inspections throughout the battalion.

Eventually Wilfred’s ideas on how to use Trinh began to wear thin and he enlisted the aid of an Italian and a Latino from the company, but soon discovered that although the hair and complexion weren’t too bad, he just couldn’t get the eyes right.

“That one doesn’t look Oriental,” Clary said.

“Probably a French father,” Wilfred explained.

“Mother too, if you ask me.”

That was it. He couldn’t risk using the G.I.’s anymore and neither could he use Trinh. The skipping rock was sinking fast, and after three days with no kills, Wilfred grew desperate. “We’ve got to find some bodies,” he told Reckert.

Then came the break he’d awaited. The company was moving through a mountain forest near the edge of the plain when the word came down the line: “Fresh graves.” “Fresh graves.” “Fresh graves.”

“Fresh graves!” Wilfred screamed, and he galloped up to take a look. “Oooh! There must be fifty or sixty of them. Must be from that battle D Company had yesterday.” He was so happy he nearly cried. All his hard work was beginning to pay off. “O.K., lads. Unearth them.”

He sent Henry and Rodriguez on a special mission. “We need blood, boys. Lots and lots. Hurry back before it clots.” Everyone else in the company took part in the dig, and bodies began appearing everywhere. It was quite an undertaking. The corpses were coated with dirt but otherwise perfect—horribly mangled and wearing the most repulsive expressions.

Wilfred was only sorry that Louis King was not there to share in the fun. He would have gone crazy out here, Wilfred thought. He found Reckert. “It’s a breakthrough, Robbie. A giant leap forward in the art of non-war.”

“What?” Reckert asked.

“The recycling of bodies. Do you know what this means? Do you understand the implications?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

“Man won’t ever need to kill again.”