NO TRUST

Four months into my tour, I got my first real sign that not everyone wanted us there.

I was riding past some rice paddies when I saw her — a young girl, maybe nine, tending a water buffalo. Her right ankle was swollen. Disfigured. Infected. Fair skin, like she had some French blood in her, somewhere back.

I stopped the jeep. I wanted to help. She wouldn’t let me near her.

I sent my interpreter into the paddies to find her parents. He asked permission to get her medical aid. Her father refused. The two of them started shouting. Within minutes, workers from the neighboring fields were walking toward us. Twelve men. Machetes.

I offered the father a way out — leave her with us, or let us bring the medic to her instead. He wouldn’t take either. He blamed her injuries on the Americans. Then he raised the machete and started waving it.

I reached down and switched my M-16 to full auto.

We backed toward the jeep, slow, and drove off.

I’d wanted to help a child. I’d nearly gotten someone killed.

The next day I came back with a medic. The girl and her parents were gone. I drove that road twice more in the weeks after, looking. I never saw her again