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November 1995
Montreal, Canada

The envelope was addressed in bold print and looked quite official. It said:

Miss Elizabeth St. Jacques

9373 Maurice-Duplessis Boulevard #16

Montreal, QC, H1E 6P2

Lizzy glanced at the return address. It was from some lawyer in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania named Mr. Ben Foster. Lizzy had never heard of him. She was more interested in getting indoors, out of the cold, than in investigating the contents of the envelope. And so she did, dropping the letter and the rest of the mail on a table by the couch, then pouring herself a large glass of red wine.

She lit the gas log in her small but functional fireplace, guzzled almost all of the wine, and again reflected upon how much she loved Canada... from May to September. She refilled her glass, made herself comfortable on the couch, and opened the letter from Mr. Ben Foster. It identified Foster as an attorney with a Philadelphia law firm. It provided an address and phone number, and said:

Dear Ms. St. Jacques,

I assume that you are the surviving daughter of Major Charles A. St. Jacques formerly of the United States Army, declared missing in action in the Republic of Vietnam in 1972.

My father, Colonel Robert S. Foster (USA Ret) passed away two months ago. I am the Executor of his Estate. Among the things I was left to deal with was a box, approximately 20 inches long by 16 inches wide, taped securely shut and labeled “remaining effects of Maj. Chas. St. Jacques.” I have not opened this box.

My law firm has considerable resources at its disposal, thus I was able to locate you. If you would be willing to give me a call and confirm that you are the daughter of Maj. St. Jacques, I would be delighted to deliver this package to you. In fact, I will be in Montreal on business next week and would be pleased to deliver it to you on Friday, November 10 if that would be convenient for you. We can establish a place to meet when you call.

Sincerely,

Benjamin J. Foster, Esq.
 
Lizzy was fascinated. Mr. Foster certainly seemed well intentioned and professional. She knew very little about her father’s military career other than that he had been officially pronounced missing in action shortly after she was born. Of course she wanted the box!

Suddenly she started laughing. She recalled a film she had seen recently called Pulp Fiction. Part of the movie concerned a kid whose father died in Vietnam and an officer who, after having concealed it in his rectum for two years while a prisoner of war, delivers the kid’s father's watch to the kid. At least a box the size of the one her father left wouldn’t have spent two years stuffed up someone’s ass. Then again, she wouldn’t mind meeting Christopher Walken under any circumstances! She laughed some more and then drank some more wine.

* 
At about 6:30 in the evening on Friday the 10th, Lizzy stood outside the San Marzano Ristorante, a trendy little Italian trattoria just a few blocks from her apartment. Mr. Ben Foster had been quite charming on the phone and even offered to buy her dinner. Being hard pressed for cash at the time, or more accurately, all of the time, she accepted.

Lizzy wore a vivid red scarf for easy identification. She hopped from foot to foot, teeth chattering and nose running until Mr. Ben Foster arrived by cab. She was relieved when he arrived promptly. She was pleased to see that he was quite handsome. He also looked like he had money. Lizzie surreptitiously blew her runny nose and prepared to turn on the charm. She could be very charming with rich, attractive men.

* 
“So, Lizzy, how did you end up in Montreal?” Ben asked after their entrée was served.

“I suppose we drove, or maybe came on a plane,” she giggled.

Two glasses of wine on an empty stomach! Lizzy was admittedly a fan of the grape but realized she’d best make a good impression if she was going to snag this handsome gentleman. She had by now decided that she was going to snag him. The thought of his lips on hers made her nub tingle. And the thought of his lips on her nub... well…

“My mother was a Canadian. Once she decided that my Dad wasn’t coming back, we moved here. I was quite young, I don’t remember anything about it.”

“Speaking of your Dad,” Ben glanced at the box situated on the unoccupied chair to his right.

“Oh, let’s not deal with that just now, Mr. Ben Foster,” Lizzy sighed, flashing a dazzling smile. She delighted in calling him Mr. Ben Foster. She thought it made her seem cute, innocent and precocious rather than manipulative, which in fact she always was with men she fancied.

“Well, I suppose you can just take it home with you. It’s yours to do with as you please,” Ben replied.

“How about this,” Lizzy murmured, hoping she looked suitably alluring. “Why don’t you join me at my place for a nightcap after we dine, and we’ll open the box together?”

Ben smiled, “I’d love that!”

“I live about three blocks from here, so we can walk. I’m afraid all I have is a little wine... red, but not as good as what you’ve ordered for us here. There’s a shop along the way where we can stop if you’d like something stronger.” She left the hint artfully hanging in the air.

“Okay. I’ll buy a few more bottles of this if they have it,” Ben said.

“Oh, they have it,” Lizzy replied. “I’ve walked past that wine countless times on my way to the bargain bin.”

“I’d be happy to buy a few bottles for us to share,” Ben offered. “And I’d love to spend more time with you tonight.”

Got him! Lizzy thought. Maybe I can get him to buy a case.

Ben bought four bottles of the delightful imported Barolo on the walk back to Lizzy’s apartment. Lizzy lit the fire and asked Ben to open the wine while she “slipped into something more comfortable.” She smiled coyly as she said this.

She took her time touching up her make-up and fluffing her jet black hair. She removed her bra and put on a sheer blood red blouse. Her nipples were just visible enough to be enticing, and her skin always looked translucent. Mr. Ben Foster might think about seducing her, but she would be the seductress, and he would be her prey.

Lizzy walked back into the living room with what she hoped was a seductive enough strut, making sure her breasts bounced just enough to harden her nipples. She wanted Mr. Ben Foster to notice them.

She took a big sip of the delightful wine, suppressing the urge to polish off the entire glass. Ben had cut all the tape on the box with a sharp paring knife he’d retrieved from the kitchen whilst opening the wine. Lizzy unceremoniously removed the top of the box and emptied it on her coffee table. The contents were less than exciting.

“Let’s see,” she intoned. “A bunch of ribbons with stars attached to them, and all these little tin things. How interesting. And a small jar.”

“And this.” Ben produced a wine bottle that appeared to be sealed with wax. It had rolled off the table and onto the floor.

“These medals are for valor. Four Bronze Stars and two Silver Stars, two Army Commendation Medals. No Purple Hearts. Your Dad was very brave... and very lucky!”

Lizzy opened the jar and emptied the contents.

“These ‘little tin things’ are dog tags, “ Ben said. “Thirteen of them; all with different names. Those things in the jar look like teeth.“

"Dad must have been quite the pack rat,” Lizzy said somewhat sarcastically. Then she held out her glass and smiled, “May I have another glass of wine? I don’t think there is any wine in that old bottle, but let’s open it anyway, and see what’s inside.”

“Sure,” Ben took Lizzy’s glass and made for the small kitchen area.

“Why not just bring the bottle in here, Mr. Ben Foster,” Lizzy suggested as she cut through the wax on the bottle.

As Ben walked back with the wine and her freshly filled glass, Lizzy removed the cork, closed one eye and trained its lapis blue colored mate into the bottle’s orifice. “There's a bunch of pages of paper in here,” Lizzie offered. “I won’t be able to get them out.”

Lizzy offered the bottle to Ben. “Would you be so kind as to take this into the kitchen and break it open, Mr. Ben Foster? There’s a small hammer in the junk drawer on the left side of the sink.”

“Only if you stop calling me Mr. Ben Foster,” he said smiling and taking the proffered vessel. “Just call me Ben.”

“Agreed,” Lizzy chirped as she took a long deep sip from her replenished glass. “And maybe you can open another bottle of that delicious wine. We can work on it while we read whatever is in there. Please, Ben.”

Ben took the bottle to the kitchen. Lizzy sipped her wine and casually unfastened another button on her blouse. Can't hurt to give him a better view of the girls, she thought. Lizzy heard the muffled thump of the hammer. Ben must have wrapped the bottle in a tea towel for safety.

“Several pages here, some sort of hand-written manuscript, it seems,” Ben opined when he returned. He also brought a freshly opened bottle of wine.

Lizzy situated herself comfortably on the couch, tucking her legs up on the couch, allowing her shirt to creep a good way up her thighs. Lizzy had good legs, and she knew it. She held out her hand, jiggling her breasts slightly, and looked into Ben’s eyes.

“Why don’t you pour us some more wine, and I’ll read this aloud,” she purred. “You’ve taken the trouble to bring it to me. You deserve to hear what’s in it, don’t you think?”

That’s quite considerate,” Ben said, “and I’ll get to spend some more time with you.”

Lizzy smiled demurely. Ben refilled their glasses and sat down across from Lizzy. He watched intently, and a bit lustfully, as Lizzy read the heading of the manuscript.

“Tuesday 29 Feb 1972, Cu Chi, Republic of Vietnam,” she announced. Then she started to read:

Today I learned that the Koreans are pulling over 10,000 troops out of Vietnam. I have decided to write down the things that have happened to me here. For most soldiers, survival is a matter of luck, caution, or circumstances. But for me, survival was a gift. The way I received it explains why I had to come back here, time after time, eventually abandoning a lovely wife and our unborn child. We have lost this war. The fools in Washington may not understand that yet, but I certainly do. So do the Koreans. I will write and leave this record before I vanish. I have to find him again. Today is our 'anniversary' so to speak.

I first arrived in Vietnam in January of 1964. The moment I got off the airplane, I was enveloped in the stifling heat and suffocating humidity. Within hours of my arrival, I experienced excruciating stomach cramps, and I developed a motley assortment of rashes and weeping sores on my skin. And within days, people tried to kill me.

Many of us were in Vietnam by choice. I grew up in Mississippi, a town on the gulf coast called Bay Saint Louis. Almost everyone who lived there went into the service as soon as they finished high school and some even before they finished. It was considered the patriotic thing to do back then, and even if you didn’t enlist, you would be drafted sooner or later anyway.

My father was a career Army Officer and my mother was French. He married her in France, and I was born there. When he retired, he took us back to the coast to live. There were some old French families in Bay Saint Louis, and some of the people still spoke French, so my mother fit in nicely.

When I was young, my mother taught me how to read, write and speak French. My father taught me how to be a soldier. I decided when I was quite young that I would be a career officer. I majored in French Literature at Tulane, but the real reason I went to college was to enroll in ROTC and become an officer. After I was commissioned and spent a few months at Fort Benning, Georgia, I volunteered to go to Vietnam. I was there less than six weeks later, in an infantry company attached to an ARVN (Army of the Republic of Viet Nam) battalion.

Although we were supposed to be advisors, we usually operated as a separate outfit. Sometimes an officer or noncommissioned officer from our company would go on a patrol with them, and sometimes one of theirs would go with us. Whenever that happened, our guys would make jokes about how they hoped that the ARVN wouldn't change sides all of a sudden. Everyone would laugh, but the ARVN would always have to stay at the front of the patrol. We always called him Marvin (Marvin the ARVN), even though his name tag almost always said Nguyen and we referred to the Viet Cong (the VC) as Charlie. We were on a first name basis with both sides.

There were no Marvins on the patrol I led on 28 Feb. I had eight men with me when we left our fire base near Xuan Loc. We were in a dense, dark tropical forest within fifteen minutes and the rain started about fifteen minutes after that.

The VC hit us about four hours later. We never saw them and didn’t know how many there were. We knew they were VC because we were there to find and kill VC. They found and killed us first. Falkinstein and Neal were killed immediately, cut down by automatic weapon fire. I never found out what happened to Ryder. He had been on the point ahead of us at the time of the ambush, and I never saw him again.

Before we could be pinned down, I gave the order to withdraw to our right. We broke contact and ran, moving in the same direction for the rest of the day. I forgot all I’d learned at Fort Benning about compass reading and jungle fighting. We just got away from there as fast as we could. We were still in thick foliage when it got dark the first night.

We needed rest, so I put two men on sentry duty, and the rest of us slept. I got about an hour's worth, then went to relieve the guards. Davis was at one point on our perimeter. He had not heard or seen anything. I put Cisneros in his place and went to relieve Hatch. He wasn’t more than forty feet away, but I still didn’t see him until I stepped on him, He didn’t move or make a sound. It looked like his throat had been torn open, and all his blood was gone. You really couldn’t tell that, but the ground around him was soaked, and he wasn’t black anymore, but sort of gray.

We were out of there like a shot. We kept moving for the rest of that night and most of the next day. We didn’t stop to sleep and rested only a few times. I had no idea where we were.

Davis was next, he was out in front, but only about fifteen or twenty yards, so it must have happened fast. When we found him, he was sitting on the ground, propped against the trunk of a tree. His throat was gone and his chest and lap were covered with blood. He was as white as chalk, and there was no sign of the VC when we found him.

I remember thinking that they were playing with us; they intended to kill us off, quietly and quickly, one at a time. We were terrified, and Cisneros opened fire, shooting blindly all around us. Several rounds hit Davis 's body, and Carter was almost shot in the head. Edwards and I stopped him from shooting, and tried to calm him down, but we weren’t all that calm ourselves. We took off again.

It seemed like we were running for hours, but it was probably only forty or fifty minutes. We didn’t have the strength to run any longer when we broke into the clearing and found the house, we were scared, filthy and exhausted.

It wasn't exactly out of place there, we just didn’t expect to find a house. Actually, it was more of a mansion, large and an opaque white color with two floors and a big porch in front. Four round pillars went from the floor of the porch to the roof over it. In the misty twilight, it looked strange and foreboding, yet still safer than the places we’d been recently.

We'd all heard about the rubber plantations, and that the French had run them when they had Vietnam, but nobody had ever actually seen one This must have once been a plantation. The house probably belonged to the owner, and the jungle around us was the plantation, I realized I had no idea what a rubber tree looked like; they could have been everywhere. It looked like the kind of house a French plantation owner would have. There was even a Frenchman, standing on the porch staring at us. For a second, I thought Cisneros would shoot him,

He was about thirty yards away, and I didn’t know he was French then, only that he wasn’t Vietnamese. Very slowly, he held his arms away from his body, with his hands open. This probably saved his life. We were desperate to see an enemy, and to kill one.

He was tall and slender with very dark, tanned skin, and dressed all in white, which made him look all the darker. Again very slowly, he moved off the porch and down the stairs. He started walking toward us, and we moved forward to meet him.

I couldn't tell how old he was, maybe forty-five or fifty, and it was hard to tell because he was so tanned, and his hair was jet black. So were his eyes, not brown, but deep black with an intense, liquid quality. His eyes were powerful, and they looked directly into mine when he spoke for the first time,

"Bonsoir lieutenant. Je m'appelle Monsieur Garou. Je ne parle pas Anglais,” he stated slowly. I remember those words so clearly. He seemed almost apologetic. Of course, there was no problem because I speak French. I did so rapidly, not wanting to stay in the open for long. I told him who we were, and what had happened to us.

At this point, Lizzy paused and looked at Ben and asked, “Do you want me to continue?”

“Please do, Lizzy. I think it’s fascinating!”

“Okay. I’ll finish the whole story,” Lizzy said, smiling. “But pour me some more wine, and keep it coming. I’m so dry I’m spitting cotton!”

She continued:

The Frenchman looked concerned, but not afraid. He seemed surprised that I spoke French so well, but not as surprised as the men. They looked at me with what I decided to consider respect and confidence. Perhaps, they must have thought, I might be able to get them out of this mess. At the time, I thought maybe I could. At least this guy was civilized, and even if he couldn't speak English, he and I could communicate.

Monsieur Garou led us into the house. As we walked onto the porch I saw what looked like a woman’s face looking out at us from the window. It disappeared quickly.

The inside of the mansion was pretty shabby. There was some furniture, and although there were lamps on some of the tables, there was apparently no electricity. It was getting dark outside, and the room we entered was dim. Garou lit a candle, his only concession to the darkness. He sat in a large leather armchair and told me to sit in a smaller chair opposite him. The men sat on the floor. They didn’t mind. We all felt relieved, not because of anything the Frenchman had said or done, but because being in a house, even one this dark, damp and creepy, felt safer than where we’d been

Garou said that we looked terrible and that he would give us some food and a place to rest. He said that he lived in the house alone, except for a large black dog that roamed about at will. He told us the dog would not harm us, but it would be wise to give it a wide berth none the less. I assumed he did not mention the woman I’d seen moments before because he preferred to keep her out of the hands of his visitors. Admittedly, we looked rather wild and nasty. And we were.

While Garou talked, he looked directly at me, always with an intense and forceful gaze. When I translated anything he said, he would glance at the others briefly, then continue to stare at me. The effect was unsettling, but anyone who lived as he did, in an abandoned house in the middle of the jungle, had to be a bit strange. Anyway, Garou was several cuts above anyone else we had encountered during the past two days

He told me that he was aware of the war, but took little interest in it. He knew that there were Americans involved now, but didn’t understand why. The French had had much more at stake in Vietnam than the Americans, he said, and still had been unable to hold the country.

After I retold the events of the past two days in greater detail, Garou explained to me where we were, and how we could get back to our fire base. It seemed that we had covered several miles, but Garou said that there was a road about a half a mile from the house, and once we were on it, it would lead us back to Xuan Loc. From there we would have no trouble returning to our unit. He could not, however, guarantee anything approximating a safe journey, He said that the Viet Cong were very strong in the area, and known for their viciousness. Even along the road, travel would be hazardous. To me at least, it sounded much better than the route we had traveled to the house. I told him that we would leave in the morning and that I hoped that our staying there would not endanger him.

I made this sound sincere, but I had no intention of going back outside that night. Garou laughed and told me not to worry about him. He had nothing to fear from the VC or anyone else. He had been there long enough for everyone to accept him, and as he took no interest in them, they didn’t care what he did.

The way he laughed was sort of strange, as though he was gasping for air, and he spoke French with no apparent accent When I asked him some questions about himself, he said that he and I could talk later. His tone was slightly reproachful. He indicated that I should attend to the men, and he was right.

They were exhausted and had said very little throughout all of this. Carter was sleeping already, and Cisneros and Edwards were close to doing the same, Garou took us to a small kitchen at the back of the house. He told me that I would eat later, and showed the men where they could clean up.

They sat on the floor, on thin cushions around a small table. It wasn't exactly a feast, but no one complained. We'd had nothing but C rations recently and we had eaten on the run. Garou gave them cheese, some fruit and about two-thirds of a cold chicken.

There was a small gas oven in the room, and Garou took a long loaf of French bread from a shelf, wrapped it in a damp towel, and put it in the oven. He turned on the burner for a few minutes, then removed the loaf. He cut it open with a large bread knife and tore out the white part of the bread from within. He distributed only the crust and tossed away the white bread. It was crawling with weevils.

Garou explained to me that it was impossible to obtain good French bread without the insect life because the weevils laid eggs in the flour. By subjecting the bread to heat, however, the weevils were encouraged to make their way to the center of the loaf. Thus’ the crust was entirely palatable. Garou was quick to add, the crust was the most enjoyable part of the bread anyway.

By the time I started to translate all of this, the bread, chicken, and everything else was gone. They could have eaten the weevils too.

Garou got a bottle of brandy from the shelf and gave each man about a half a glass full. I communicated their appreciation, but he waved away my comments and took us to their room.

It was across and down the hall from the kitchen, a small, hot and dingy room with four or five dirty mattresses on the floor. There was no window, and Garou’s candle provided the only light. He indicated that they must sleep on the floor. Garou walked to a shelf which ran the length of one wall and removed a large tin. He opened it, and extracted three worn smoking pipes, one for each man. He then extracted a pouch, and handed it to Cisneros, motioning that he should take some of the substance from it, then pass the pouch to the next man.

I thought it was marijuana or hashish, but Garou told me it was the finest opium for smoking. He said they deserved it after all they had been through, and it would help them to relax. When each man had filled his pipe, Garou took back the pouch, carefully closed it, and tucked it away in his pocket. No seconds.

I was uncomfortable about this development as I preferred that they be alert. But I let it pass. Garou was probably right, and we were safe for the night anyway. I told the men what they would be enjoying and stated that we would leave at dawn, and walked out of the room. The men regaled Garou with effusive thanks. Garou nodded, smiled, gave the candle to Carter and followed me out, closing the door behind him.

We returned to the kitchen, where it was my turn to dine. Garou lit another candle and put it on the table. He fed me an entire loaf of bread, prepared as before, some cold sausages, and the rest of the cheese. When I'd finished these, and it didn’t take long, he placed the brandy and a glass before me and told me to take all I wanted. Garou neither ate nor drank.

He sat across the table from me, and we began to talk, general conversation about how I had learned to speak French, what my parents were like, and where I had lived. He seemed delighted to learn that I had been born in France. He was a genial host, always directing our discussion to questions about me, the army and the war. I began to feel relaxed and comfortable. Garou's voice, and his eyes, had an almost hypnotic effect upon me, and I probably drank far too much brandy.

It was an eerie sensation. I was in a strange situation, but I was still in control of myself, and, I believe, the circumstances. Then suddenly I seemed to lose, or perhaps more accurately, release control. Everything that happened after that was impossible to stop. Whether or not I was drunk may have had no bearing on what happened afterward, but it was at this point that I seemed to lose control of everything and Garou took over.

He gave me a hint, but I didn’t realize it until much later. It happened as we talked, and I sipped my third or fourth, glass of brandy. I started asking him questions about himself. How long had he been there? How long would he stay? How could he stand living under such miserable circumstances? Garou said he had always been there, and he would always remain .

I thought he meant until he died, but I was wrong. He said forever, "Toujours. Sans cesse. Je vais vivre. Je ne mourrai pas!”

An oddly expressed sentiment, I thought at the time. It’s not unusual for someone to say he will live somewhere forever, but Garou implied that he would always live, that he was immortal. I tried to probe further, but again he waved away my questions, saying, quite accurately, that I would understand later.

Garou said it was time to retire, and stood up. He did that sort of thing often. When he didn't want to answer a question, he would shrug or wave his hand. If I pressed the point, he would physically move away from it. He was the host, so I felt that I had no choice but to accept this.

On the way upstairs, we passed the room the men were in, and I heard hushed voices and muffled laughter. They were obviously well on their way to dreamland, or maybe they were already there.

My room was much nicer than theirs. There was a real bed, clean linen, and a pillow, something I didn’t have even at our base camp. There was a basin full of water, soap, and a towel so I could clean up a bit. A large open window provided a view from the front of the house. There was a full moon, and moonlight and a cool breeze poured into the room.

Garou told me good night at the doorway and closed the door. He kept the candle, and there were no candles in the room, but I could see fine. My .45 and a hunting knife were attached to the gun belt which I removed and placed on a chair near my bed. I took off my boots,trousers, and shirt, scrubbed my face, neck, and hands and sponged off the rest of my body. I collapsed on the bed, clean, naked and exhausted.

Then I saw her. The woman I had seen at the window earlier. She entered not from the door, but from a closet in the corner of the room. She was gorgeous! Long straight black hair, dark almond shaped eyes and exquisite features. Nude and desirable with small, delicate breasts, a firm belly, slim hips and shapely legs.

I jumped up from the bed and rushed towards her, apprehensive, yet enthralled. I stopped in front of her, and I could see that the closet door from which she had emerged contained only a staircase leading down to the floor below.

She placed her hands on my shoulders gently and whispered, “Monsieur Garou sent me to satisfy you.” Her English was perfect with only a hint of a Vietnamese accent.

“Satisfy me?” I asked.

“He said I should make love to you. Would you like that?”

I felt her small, hard nipples caressing my chest. She took one hand off my shoulder and grasped my cock. She tugged gently. I hadn’t been with a woman in months, the last being a rather drunk, slutty married woman who I’d nailed in a parking lot in Columbus, Georgia.

“Yes, I would like that if you would,” I answered.

She smiled, “Then we will.”

She pushed me back onto the bed and joined me. She straddled my face and as she lowered her wet, jasmine scented pussy to my mouth, I felt my cock enter hers. She bit, tongued and sucked my cock while I bit, tongued and sucked her pussy. I pulled a delightfully swollen portion of her labia into my mouth and savored it as she moaned ecstatically, and we climaxed simultaneously.

I was gasping for air and expecting a respite, but she continued to suck me with such intensity and agility that within minutes I was hard again. She broke contact, mounted me and guided me into her wet, warm chamber. Then she rode me with urgency like I was a horse galloping through a storm. She was moaning and perhaps swearing, her head tilted back, eyes rolling. Copious amounts of saliva fell from her mouth and splattered on my chest. Her vagina was squeezing and mauling my cock while her fingers flayed at her clitoris. Then she climaxed, as did I, filling her with abundant amounts of cum. Moments later, she leaned forward and kissed me deeply. Without a word, she left through the same door through which she had arrived. I was completely dissipated and asleep in seconds.

I don't know how much time passed before I awoke. I was sleeping on my stomach, still naked, with my head buried in the pillow. I knew I wasn't dreaming. I sensed that something was happening, and came awake without moving. My left eye opened, and I could see Garou in the full moonlight, standing in the doorway, looking at me.

I had only opened my eye a crack, and I continued to lie perfectly still. I didn’t know what he was doing there. Then I realized that the chair holding my .45 and knife had been moved from beside my bed to the other side of the room. I was frightened but still felt powerless.

Garou moved from the doorway to the bed, swiftly, but very quietly. He stood there for a few seconds looking down at me. He was naked, and had an erection. I immediately thought he must be queer, and I was having none of that!

But he was also fast and incredibly strong. He was on top of me in a split second and had me pinned to the bed, his knees between my legs. I struggled, but it was pointless. I couldn't move, and I felt his cock slowly enter me. Nothing in my life had prepared me for that moment; nothing in my life compared with it. His cock seemed enormous, but he moved inside me gently and slowly. And despite my feeling of helplessness and terror, I realized I was aroused and erect myself, and I did not want him to stop! He continued to thrust, with slowly increasing vigor, until he gasped, and I felt him ejaculate. I felt myself throbbing, and then I too released, and felt my hot semen spurting between the bed and my belly. I was breathless and spent when I felt Garou’s hands and burning lips on my neck. As he choked me, he kissed me just below my left ear, and whispered, “ Maintenant tu appartenez à moi.” Now you belong to me, he said, just as I lost consciousness.

I woke up at dawn. The mansion was completely quiet. I was in pain where Garou had violated me and my neck hurt too. I got out of the bed and shuffled over to the basin of water I had used to wash the night before. I studied myself in the small, chipped mirror which was affixed to the wall there. I had a blister on my neck precisely where Garou had kissed me. There was also a small bruise on my neck where Garou had pressed my carotid artery to make me lose consciousness.

Then several things happened very quickly. Faint voices floated in through the window. I got up and looked out. I didn’t see anyone, but could hear them talking. They spoke Vietnamese, so it seemed that the VC had caught up with us. They were in the jungle, and would soon reach us.

I strapped on my gun belt as I ran down the stairs. In only a few seconds I reached the room where my men were, but I found that I would get no help from them. They were dead, all three had their throats ripped open. I was shocked, but somehow I wasn’t surprised. At exactly that point I realized that since I was still alive, I wasn't going to die.

I moved fast, like a cat. No thought, no emotion, as if something outside of my body was controlling my actions. I picked up one of the rifles leaning against the wall, took off the safety, and checked the clip carefully, there were eight rounds in the clip. I grabbed another two full clips and calmly walked down the hall, pausing just inside of the front door.

There were three Viet Cong soldiers armed with assault rifles, walking out of the jungle toward the mansion. Each of them could have touched the other, they were so close together. You couldn’t ask for a better target.

I was out of the door and down on one knee in a flash. I gave them the whole clip, reducing them to a small heap of twisted bodies. I put down the rifle, took out my .45, and walked over to inspect my work. Two of them were stone dead, and the third one wouldn't last much longer. I felt good.

I could sense Garou's presence, feel his eyes on me, and hear his faint laugh. I turned and saw him standing at the window of my room, looking gleefully down on this gruesome scene. His black eyes were shining, and there was a broad smile on his face. He looked proud, as though he approved of me and what I had done. He raised his hand, the index finger extended from his fist, and passed it slowly across his throat.

I really didn’t need any prompting, I knew what I would do even before shot them, I was actually rather meticulous. I first arranged the living Cong so he could see what I was doing. He would be last. I cut the first two throats very slowly—a real production and neat work too.

Alas, this made for very messy work on the third one. I guess even though he realized that he was going to die, he didn't want any part of this. I held his head up by the hair, and despite his struggling and crying, sliced right through his neck.

Blood spurted from the incision. It hit my face and chest with an unbelievable force, but I didn't mind, I tasted some of it as it ran down my face into my mouth, I even licked some off of my hand. It was exquisite!

I heard Garou clapping his hands and yelling "Bravo" with real enthusiasm. He was still standing at the window and he looked ecstatic, I decided to finish him off too.

I trained my .45 on him, ready to blow his head off. It didn’t seem a difficult shot. We weren’t that far apart. He was smiling down at me when I pulled the trigger. Then he was gone instantly, but not because I hit him.

My shot was about two feet wide and knocked a hole in the wall. Actually, the .45 is accurate only at a very close range. But then again, it’s convincing at any distance. I went into the house, still intending to kill him.

I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. As I walked down the hall toward the stairs, the dog Garou had mentioned the night before blocked my pathway. It was massive, entirely black, and totally unafraid. It didn’t bark or growl, it just stared at me. It was close enough to kill, but my gun arm was at my side, and I knew that the dog would be on me before I could raise my weapon.

But that wasn’t all of it. I realized that I didn’t want to kill the dog, and I stepped back. The dog trotted past me and out of the house, confident and unconcerned. I searched the entire house for Garou, but couldn’t find either him or the girl from the night before.

Before I left, I collected my men’s dog tags, kept one of each and inserted the other into their mouths. Then I torched the place, partly because I hated the place and partly because I didn’t want to leave the bodies of my men alone. I decided they would be better off this way.

When I walked out of the front door, the dog was standing over the three bodies, licking their necks Its muzzle was covered with blood, and it looked up at me briefly with wet, black, penetrating eyes. Garou’s eyes.

I made for the road I'd been told about and found it before too long. When I last looked at the house, there was a lot of smoke. I didn’t stay long enough to see if it really burned.

Near nightfall, encountered an ARVN patrol. The leader spoke some English. I learned that he and about a dozen other Marvins had left their base about an hour before. They were from the battalion my unit was attached to, and they insisted on escorting me back. They were really pleased to have an excuse to abandon the patrol, which says something about why the war lasted so long, and why it was lost.

I got back to my outfit safely. I’d had all day to prepare the story I gave to my commander. I told it pretty much the way it had happened, but I left out everything about Garou. I said the house was abandoned, and the VC trapped us there. I killed them, but not until after they had killed the rest of us and tried to burn me out. My superiors bought it, not that they had any cause to doubt me.

I learned afterward that another patrol found what was left of the mansion about a week later. It had burned to the ground, and the bodies of the three VC had, apparently, been ravaged by animals. I got a Bronze Star. I became something of a hero in the outfit. None of the other officers had been in such intense action yet, nor had they had any confirmed enemy kills like mine.

I kept to myself, despite my new found notoriety, as I considered all that had happened. I had a scar on my neck, as though Garou’s lips had burned their imprint on my flesh. It wasn't that noticeable, or at least no one ever mentioned it. I also concluded that I wasn’t going to die. I had a tremendous hunger for combat, and I would have gone on every patrol if they had let me. As it was, I went on quite a few.

My patrols were always successful. Knowing you are going to survive makes you a brilliant tactician. You will try anything, and everything I tried worked. Sometimes we would take a few casualties, but we always gave much worse than we received. I always brought back the bodies of my dead and saved for myself the dog tag that would otherwise have been left in their mouths. It was a way for me to remember them, and to honor their bravery and loyalty to me.

During the next nine months, I picked up an oak leaf cluster for my Bronze Star. I received a Silver Star after one particularly vicious engagement in which I engineered an ambush of a large VC unit. We killed all twenty—three of them that day. I never took prisoners.

My favorite part of every patrol came after the fight. When we had won, I would have my men lay out the bodies in a nice neat row. We would take a body count for our report, then I’d order my men out of the area. I would pull out my knife, and remain alone with the VC corpses for fifteen or twenty minutes. I suppose you can guess what I did with them.

Lizzy set the manuscript on the coffee table. She moved the knife and the wine glasses from the coffee table to the small table next to the couch and then she stretched her arms high above her head so that another button on her blouse popped open. She looked at Ben meaningfully then patted a spot on the couch next to her.

“Wasn’t that an interesting tale!” she said as Ben sat beside her.

“It was, indeed,” Ben replied. “And weird. What did you think of it?”

“Well, it was quite entertaining," Lizzy offered. “And brutal, I guess. I thought the part with the girl was arousing. It got me sort of excited.”

Lizzy touched Ben’s face with a soft caress and ran her fingers through his hair. Then she pulled him to her and kissed him, gently at first, then with more intensity, then feverishly. He responded enthusiastically.

Lizzy stood up quickly and tore off her blouse and skirt. She stood in front of Ben in only her frilly red panties. She made no effort to conceal the wet patch covering her mound. She stepped close to him so he could smell her excitement and feel her heat. Then she pulled his face hard against her crotch.

“Sink or swim, Ben,” Lizzy whispered.

Ben decided quickly. He grasped the wet fabric with his teeth, and pulled her panties down, exposing her swollen pussy. He kissed it.

Lizzy purred, “Let’s do what they did!”

Ben was barely out of his trousers before Lizzy pushed him back on the couch, straddled his face and then lowered her mouth onto his erect cock. She reveled at the intense friction of her sopping pussy against his lips, tongue and teeth.

Lizzy bit the head of Ben’s cock and smiled when she heard Ben’s muffled yelp. Then she sucked him furiously whilst stroking him and squeezing his testicles.

It didn’t take long. Ben erupted in her mouth, and she swallowed every bit before allowing herself to orgasm and soak Ben’s face.

She continued to suck and nibble Ben’s cock and caress his balls. She raked his thighs with her fingernails. He was gasping for air, but Lizzy felt him getting hard again.

Lizzy quickly stood and twirled and threw her leg over Ben’s body. She grabbed his cock and lowered herself on him. When she was fully penetrated, she began to ride him, fast and hard. It felt so good!

Ben shouted when he ejaculated, and Lizzy let herself finish. She came in waves and enjoyed every moment of it, every twitch.

Ben slowly caught his breath and looked into Lizzy’s eyes with genuine admiration. She contracted her vagina several times, milking Ben’s cock as it softened then simply fell out of her, limp and shriveled.

“Jesus, Lizzy! That was amazing. I’ve never known… had... fucked... a woman like you,” he babbled. “Who the Hell are you?”

“Who the Hell am I?” Lizzy breathed seductively, as she reached for and grasped the knife on the end table.

“Well, right now I’m pretty sure I’m my father’s daughter,” she whispered, as she slit Ben’s throat.