Brian W. Aldiss - Barefoot in the Head

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Brian Aldiss - Barefoot in the Head
PANTHER GRANADA PUBLISHING
Published 1979 ISBN 0 586 04988 6
“Tell the Vietnamese they've got to draw in their horns and stop aggression or we're going to
bomb them back into the Stone Age.”
- General Curtis Lemay
CONTENTS
BOOK ONE - Northwards
JUST PASSING THROUGH
THE SERPENT OF KUNDALINI
DRAKE-MAN ROUTE
MULTI-VALUE MOTORWAY
BOOK TWO - Southwards
STILL TRAJECTORIES
AUTO-ANCESTRAL FRACTURE
BOOK THREE - Homewards
OUSPENSKI'S ASTRABAHN
JUST PASSING THROUGH
THE city was open to the nomad.
Colin Charteris climbed out of his Banshee into the north-ern square, to stand for a moment stretching.
Sinews and bones flexed and dainty. The machine beside him creaked and snapped like a landed fish,
metal cooling after its long haul across the turn-pikes of Europe. Behind them the old cathedral,
motion-less though not recumbent.
Around them, the square fell away. Low people moved in a lower alley.
Charteris grabbed an old stiff jacket from the back seat and flung it round his shoulders, thinking how
driver-bodies FTL towards disaster in a sparky modern way. He jacketed his eyes.
He was a hero at nineteen, had covered the twenty-two hundred kilometres from Catanzaro down on the
Ionian Sea to Metz, department of Moselle, France, in thirty hours, sus-taining on the way no more than
a metre-long scar along the front off-side wing. A duelling scratch, kiss of life and death.
The sun faded pale and low over St-Étienne into the fly-specks of even turn. He needed a bed,
company, speech. Maybe even revelation. He felt nothing. All his ani-ma-ting images were of the past,
yes-ter-day's bread.
Outside Milano, one of the great freak-out areas of all time where the triple autostrada made of the
Lombardy plain a geometrical diagram, his red car had flashed within inches of a multiple crash. They
were all multiple crashes these days.
The image continued to multiply itself over and over in his mind, contusing sense, confusing past with
future: a wheel still madly spinning, crushed barriers, gauged and gaudied metal, fanged things, snapped
head-bone, sunlight worn like thick make-up over the impossibly abandoned catagasms of death.
Stretching in the square, he saw it still happen, fantastic speeds suddenly swallowed by car and human
frame with that sneering sloth of the super-quick, where anything too fast for retina-register could spend
forever spreading through the laby-rinths of consciousness.
They still died and cavorted, those cavortees, in the bone-box in Metz cathedral square, infection
spreading, life stutter-ing. But by another now, they would, the bodies would, the bits would all be neatly
packaged in hospital mortuary, a mass embroidering the plain-burning candles in an overnight crypt, the
autostrada gleaming in perfect action again, the rescue squads lolling at their wheels in the Rastplatz
reading paper-backs. Charteris's primitive clicker-shutter mechanisms were busy still rerunning the
blossoming moment of impact.
Pretending, he forced his gaze over the cathedral. It was several centuries old but built of a coarse yellow
stone that made it - prematurely flood-lit in the early evening - look like a Victorian copy of an earlier
model. Europe was stuffed with these old edifices and more lay in the strata below, biding their time,
soundless, windowless.
The ground fell steeply at the other end of the square. Steps led down to a narrow street all wall on one
side and on the other all prim little drab narrow French worn facades of hutches closing all their shutters
against the general state-ment of the cathedral.
Across one of the houses a sign read, ‘Hôtel des Invalides’.
“ ‘Krankenhaus’,” Charteris said.
He dragged a grip out of the boot of the Banshee and made towards the shabby Hôtel, walking like a
warrior across desert, a pilot over a runway after mission ninety-nine, a cowboy down silent Main Street.
He played it up, grunting every other stride. He was nineteen.
The other cars in the square were a scratch bunch, all with French neutral numberplates. Removing his
gaze from his own landscapes, Charteris saw that this part of the square functioned as a used car lot.
Some of the cars had been in collisions. Prices in francs were painted on each windscreen. The cars
stood apart in their corral, nobody watching them, no longer itinerant.
This city seemed closed to the nomad. The Hôtel des Invalides had a brass handle to its door. Charteris
dragged it down and stepped into the hall beyond, in unmitigated shadow. A bell buzzed and burned
insatiably until he dosed the door behind him.
As he walked forward, eyes adjusting, the hall took on existence - and another existence patterned with
patterned tiles where other people jurassickly thickened the air and a shadowed saint stood upstairs in
dim - and dusty detail. A pot plant languished here beside an enormous piece of furniture, a rectangular
and malignant growth of mahogany, or it could be an over-elaborate doorway into a separate part of the
establishment. On the walls, enormous pictures of blue-clad soldiers being blown up among scattering
sandbags.
A small dense coffin-shaped figure emerged at the end of the passage, black in the black evening light.
He drew near and saw it was a woman with permed hair, not old, not young, smiling at him.
“Haben Sie ein Zimmer? Bin Personn, eine Nacht?”
“Ja, monsieur. Mit eine Dusche oder ohne?”
“Ohne.”
“Zimmer Nummer Zwanzig, monsieur. Ist gut.”
German. The lingua franca of Europe.
The madame gestured, called for a girl who came hurrying, lithe and dark-haired, carrying the grand key
to Room Twenty. Madame gestured again, disappeared. The girl led Charteris up three flights of stairs,
first flight marble, second and third flights wooden the third being uncarpeted. Each landing was adorned
as the hall had been, with large pictures of Frenchmen dying or killing Germans; the period was the first
world war.
“So this is where it all began,” he said to the back of the girl, ascending.
She paused and looked down at him uninterested. “Je ne comprends pas, M'sieur.”
That's not a French accent, any more than Madame's was Kraut, he told himself.
No windows had been opened on these landings for a long while. The air was tarnished with all the
bottled lives that had suffered here, pale daughters, spluttering grandfathers with backache. Constriction,
miserliness, conservation, inhibition, northern Europe, due for any any change, good Christians all rejoice.
Red limbs leaped again as if for joy within the bucket-ting auto-strada cars. Leaping death always to be
preferred to desiccating life - if there were only those two alternatives.
His own quicksilver life proved there were decks full of alternatives.
But those only two - how he dreaded both, how his crimson-bound fantasy life shuttled between them,
seeking the releases. You must choose, Charteris, the grim man said tight-lipped: one more deadly
mission over the Mekong Delta, or else spend ten years in the Hôtel in Metz, full board!
He was breathing hard by the time they reached the threshold of Zimmer Twenty. By opening his mouth,
he could gasp in air without the girl hearing. She would be older than he - maybe twenty-two. Pretty
enough. Took the long hard climb well. Dark. Rather angular calves but good ankles. Stifling here, of
course.
Motioning her to stay, he marched past her into the room. As he crossed to one of the two tall windows,
he threw his grip onto the bed, noting the loose-cash jingle of springs. He worked at the window-bar until
it gave and the two halves of the window swung into the room. He breathed deep. Other poisons.
France!
A great drop on this side of the Hôtel. Small in the street below, two bambini pulling a white dog on a
lead. Looking up at him, they became merely two faces with fat arms and hands. Thalidomites. The
images of ruin and deformity everywhere. England must be better. Nothing could be worse than France.
Buildings on the other side of the alley. A woman moving in a room, discerned through curtains. Further,
a waste site, two cats stalking each other through Utter, dryly computing the kinetics of copulation. A
drained canal bed full of waste and old cans. Wasn't that also a crushed automobile? A notice scrawled
large on a ruined wall: NEUTRAL FRANCE THE ONLY FRANCE.
Certainly they had managed to preserve their neutrality to the bitter end; their experience in the two
previous world wars bad encouraged that sort of tenacity.
Beyond the ruined wall, a tree-lined street of unnecessary wideness, with the Prefecture at the end of it.
One policeman visible. A street light waking among bare winter branches. France!
Turning back into the room, Charteris surveyed its furnish-ings. He approved that they should be all
horrible. Madame was consistent. The wash basin was grotesque, the lighting arrange-ments of a frankish
hideousness, and tie bed expressly de-signed for early rising.
“Combien, M'amselle?”
The girl told him, watching for his reaction. Two thousand six hundred and fifty francs including free
lighting. He had to have the figure repeated. His French was poor and he was unused to the recent
devaluation.
“I'll take the room. Are you from Metz, M'amselle?”
“No, I'm Italian.”
Pleasure rose in him, a sudden feeling of gratitude that not all good things had been eroded. In this rotten
stuffy room, it was as if he breathed again the air of the mountains.
“I’ve been living in Italy since the war, right down south in Catanzaro,” he told her in Italian.
She smiled. “I am from the south, from Calabria, from a little village in the mountains that you won't have
heard of.”
“Tell me. I might have heard it. I was doing NUNSACS work down there. I got about.”
She told him the name of the village and he had not heard of it. They laughed.
“But I have not heard of NUNSACS,” she said. “It is a Calabrian town? No?”
He laughed again, chiefly for the pleasure of doing it and seeing its effect on her. “NUNSACS is a New
United Nations organisation for settling and if possible rehabilitating war victims. We have several large
encampments down along the Ionian Sea.”
The girl was not listening to what he said. “You speak Italian well but you aren't Italian. Are you
German?”
“I'm Serbian - a Jugoslav. Haven't been home to Serbia since I was a boy. Now I'm driving northwards
to England.”
As he spoke, he heard Madame calling the girl impatiently. The girl moved towards the door, smiled at
him - a sweet and shadowy smile that seemed to explain her existence - and was gone.
Charteris took his grip to the bamboo table under the window. He stood staring for a long while at the
dry canal bed; the detritus in it made it look like an archaeological dig that had uncovered remains of an
earlier industrial civilisation. He finally unzipped the bag but unpacked nothing.
Madame was working in the bar when he went down. Several of the little tables in the room were
occupied by local people, jigsaw pieces. The room was large and dispiriting, the big dark wood bar on
one side was dwarfed and somehow set apart from the functions it was supposed to serve, a tabernacle
for pernod. In one corner of the chamber, a television set flickered, most of those present contriving to sit
and drink so that they kept an eye on it, as if it were an enemy or at best an uncertain friend. The only
exceptions to this rule were two men at a table set apart; they talked industriously to each other, resting
their wrists on the table but using their hands to empha-sise points in the conversation. Drab eyes,
imperious gestures. One of these men, who grew a puff of beard under his lower lip, soon revealed
himself as M'sieur.
Behind M'sieur's table, standing in one corner by a radiator, was a bigger table, a solemn table, spread
with various articles of secretarial and other use. This was Madame's table, and to this she retired to
work with some figures when she was not serving her customers behind the funereal bar. Tied to the
radiator was a large and mangy young dog, who whined at intervals and flopped continually into new
positions, as though the floor had been painted with anti-dog powder. Madame occasionally spoke
mildly to it, but her interests clearly lay elsewhere.
All this Charteris took in as he sat at a table against the wall, sipping a pernod, waiting for the serving girl
to appear. He saw these people as victims of an unworkable capitalistic system dying on its feet. They
were extinct in their clothes. The girl came after some while from an errand in the back regions, and he
motioned her over to his table.
“What's your name?”
“Angelina.”
“Mine's Charteris. That's what I call myself. It's an English name, a writer's name. I'd like to take you out
for a meal.”
“I don't leave here till late - ten o'clock.”
“Then you don't sleep here?”
Some of the softness went out of her face as caution, even craftiness, overcame her; momentarily, he
thought, she's just another lay, but there will be endless complications to it in this set-up, you can bet! She
said, “Can you buy some cigarettes or something? I know they're watching me. I'm not supposed to be
intimate with customers.”
He shrugged. She walked across to the bar. Charteris watched the movement of her legs, the action of
her buttocks, trying to estimate whether her knickers would be clean or not He was fastidious. Italian
girls generally washed more scrupu-lously than Serbian girls. Bright legs flashing behind torn windscreen.
Ange-lina fetched down a packet of cigarettes from a shelf, put them on a tray, and carried them across
to him. He took them and paid without a word. All the while, the M'sieur's eyes were on him, stains in the
old poilu face.
Charteris forced himself to smoke one of the cigarettes. They were vile. Despite her neutrality in the Acid
Head War, France had suffered from shortages like everyone else. Charteris had been pampered, with
illegal access to NUNSACS cigars, which he enjoyed.
He looked at the television. Faces swam in the green light, talking too fast for him to follow. There was
some excitement about a cycling champion, a protracted item about a military parade and inspection,
shots of international film stars dining in Paris, something about a murder hunt somewhere, famine in
Belgium, a teachers' strike, a beauty queen. Not a mention of the two continents full of nutcases who no
longer knew where reality began or ended. The French carried their neutrality into every facet of life, with
TV their eternal nightcap.
When Charteris had finished his pernod, he went over and paid Madame at her table and walked out into
the square.
It was night, night in its early stages when the clouds still carried hints of daylight through the upper air.
The flood-lighting was gaining on the cathedral, chopping it into alternate vertical sections of void and
glitter; it was a cage for some gigantic prehistoric bird. Beyond the cage, the traffic on the motor-way
could be heard, snarling untiringly.
He went and sat in his car and smoked a cigar to remove the taste of the caporal, although sitting in the
Banshee when it was motionless made him uneasy. He thought about Angelina and whether he wanted
her, decided on the whole he did not. He wanted English girls. He had never even known one but, since
his earliest days, he had longed for all things English, as another man he knew yearned for anything
Chinese. He had dropped his Serbian name to christen himself with the surname of his favourite English
writer.
About the present state of England, he imagined he had no illusions. When the Acid Head War broke
out, undeclared, Kuwait had struck at all the prosperous countries. Britain had been the first nation to
suffer the PCA Bomb - the Psycho-Chemical Aerosols that propagated psychotomimetic states, twilight
rup-tured its dark cities. As a NUNSACS official, he could guess the disorder he would find there.
Before England, there was this evening to be got through. ... He had said such things so often to himself.
Life was so short, and also so full of desolating boredom and the flip volup-tuous-ness of speed-death.
Acid Head victims all over the world had no problems of tedium; their madnesses pre-cluded it; they
were always well occupied with terror or joy, which ever their inner promptings led them to; that was
why one envied the victims one tried to ‘save’. The victims never grew tired of themselves.
The cigar tasted good, extending its mildness all round him like a mist. Now he put it out and climbed
from the car. He knew of two alternative ways to pass the evening before it was time to sleep; he could
eat or he could find sexual companion-ship. Sex, he thought, the mysticism of materialism. It was true. He
sometimes needed desperately the sense of a female life impinging on his with its unexplored avenues and
possi-bilities, so stale, so explored, were his own few reactions. Back to his mind again came the riotous
movements of the autostrada victims, fornicating with death.
On his way towards a lighted restaurant on the far side of the square, he saw another method by which to
structure the congealing time of a French evening. A down-at-heel cinema was showing a film called SEX
ET BANG BANG. He glanced up at the ill-painted poster, showing a near-naked blonde with an ugly
shadow like a moustache across her face, as he passed. Lies he could take, not disfigurements.
As he ate in the restaurant, he thought about Angelina and madness and war and neutrality; it seemed to
him they were all products of different time-senses. Perhaps there were no human emotions, only a series
of different synchronicity micro-structures, so that one ‘had time for’ one thing or another. He suddenly
stopped eating.
He saw the world - Europe, that is, precious, hated Europe that was his stage - purely as a fabrication of
time, no matter involved. Matter was an hallucinatory experience: merely a slow-motion perceptual
experience of certain time / emotion nodes passing through the brain. No, that the brain seized on in turn
as it moved round the perceptual web it had spun, would spin, from childhood on. Metz, that he
apparently perceived so clearly through all his senses, was there only because all his senses had reached
a certain dynamic synchro-nicity in their obscure journey about the biochemical web. Tomorrow,
res-ponding to inner circadian rhythms, they would achieve another relationship, and he would appear to
‘move on’ to England. Matter was an abstraction of the time syndrome, much as the television had
enabled Charteris to deduce bicycle races and military parades which held, for him, even less sub-stance
than the flickering screen. Matter was hallucination.
He recalled he had had a pre-vision of this illumination upon entering the Hôtel des Invalides, although he
could not pre-cisely recall its nature.
Charteris sat unmoving. If it were so, if all were hallucination, then clearly he was not at this restaurant
table. Clearly there was no plate of cooling veal before him. Clearly Metz did not exist. The autostrada
was a projection of temporal confluences within him, perhaps a riverine duologue of his entire life.
France? Earth? Where was he? What was he?
Terrible though the answer was, it seemed unassailable. The man he called Charteris was merely another
manifestation of a time / emotion node with no more reality than the restaurant or the autostrada. Only the
preceptual web itself was ‘real’. ‘He’ was the web in which Charteris, Metz, tortured Europe, the
stricken continents of Asia and America, could have their being, their doubtful being. He was God. ...
Someone was speaking to him. Dimly, distantly, he became aware of a waiter asking if he might take his
plate away. So the waiter must be the Dark One, trying to disrupt his Kingdom. He waved the man off,
saying something vaguely - much later, he realised he had spoken in Serbian, his native tongue which he
never used.
The restaurant was closing. Flinging some francs down on the table, he staggered out into the night, and
slowly came to himself in the open air.
He was shaking from the strength and terror of his vision. For what passed as an instant, he had been
God. As he rested against a rotting stone wall, its texture patterning his fingers, he heard the cathedral
clock begin to chime and counted auto-matically. It was ten o'clock by whatever time-level they used
here. He had passed two hours in some sort of trance.
In the camp outside Catanzaro, NUNSACS housed ten thousand men and women. Most of them were
Russian, most had been brought from the Caucasus. Charteris had got his job on the re-habilita-tion staff
by virtue of his fluent Russian, in many res-pects almost identical with his native tongue.
The ten thousand caused little trouble. Most of them were confined within the tiny republics of their own
psyches. The PGA Bombs had been ideal weapons. The psychedelic drugs concocted by the Arab state
were tasteless, odourless, colour-less, and hence virtually undetectable. They were cheaply made, easily
delivered. They were equally effective whether inhaled, drunk, or filtered through the pores of the skin.
They were enor-mously potent. The after-effects, dependent on size of dose, could last a lifetime.
So the ten thousand wandered about the camp, smiling, laugh-ing, scowling, whispering, still as bemused
as they had been directly after the bombing. Some recovered. Others over the months revealed
depressing character changes. Their guards were not immune.
The drugs passed through the human system unimpaired in strength. Human wastes had to be rigorously
collected - in itself a considerable undertaking among people no longer responsible for their actions - and
subjected to rigorous pro-cessing before the complex psychochemical molecules could be broken down.
Inevitably, some of the NUNSACS staff picked up the contagion.
And I, thought Charteris, I with that sad and lovely Natrina...
I am going psychedelic. That godlike vision must have come from the drug. At least rainbows will flutter
in those dark valleys where I shall tread.
He had moved some way towards the Hôtel des Invalides, dragging his fingers across the rough angles of
the buildings as if to convince himself that matter was still matter. When Angelina came up to him, he
scarcely recognised her.
“You were waiting for me,” she said accusingly. “You are deli-be-rately way-laying me. You'd better go
to your room before Madame locks up.”
“I - I may be ill! You must help me!”
“Speak Italian. I told you, I don't understand German.”
“Help me, Angelina. I must be ill”
“You were well enough before.”
She had sensed his strong angular body.
“I swear ... I had a vision. I can't face my room. I don't want to be alone. Let me come back to your
room!”
“Oh no! You must think I am a fool, Signor!”
He pulled himself together, recalling the way of thought.
“Look, I'm ill, I think. Come and sit in my car with me for ten minutes. I need to get my strength back. If
you don't trust me, I'll smoke a cigar all the time. You never knew a man kiss a pretty girl with a cigar in
his mouth, did you?”
They sat in the car, she beside him looking at him warily. Charteris could see her eyes gleam in the thick
orange light -the very hue of time congealed! - slicing off the walls of the cathe-dral. He sucked the rich
sharp smoke down into his being, trying to fumigate it against the terrible visions of his psyche.
“I'm going back to Italy soon,” she said. “Now the war's over and it is certain that the Arabs will not
invade. I may work in Milano. My uncle writes that it's booming there again now. Is that so?”
“Booming.” A very curious word. Not blooming, not booing. Booming.
“Really, I'm not Italian. Not by ancestry. Everyone in our little village is descended from Albanians.
When the Turks invaded Albania five centuries ago, many Albanians fled in ships across to the South of
Italy to start life anew. The old customs were preserved from generation to generation. Did you hear of
such a thing in Catanzaro?”
“No.” In Catanzaro he had heard the legends and phobias of the Caucasus, chopped and distorted by
hallucination. It was a Slav, not an Illyrian, purgatory of alienation.
“As a little girl, I was bi-lingual. We spoke Tosk in the home and Italian everywhere else. Now I can
hardly remember one word of Tosk! My uncles have all forgotten too. Only my old aunt, who is also
called Angelina, remembers. She sings the old Tosk songs to the children. It's sad, isn't it, not to recall the
language of your childhood? Like an exile?”
“Oh, shut up! I've never heard of Tosk. To hell with it!”
By that, she was reassured. Perhaps she believed that a man who took so little care to please could not
want to rape her. Perhaps she was right.
They stared out at the tangerine stripes of the square. People passed slowly. The used cars slumped on
their haunches listening to the distant noise of traffic, like new animals await-ing battle.
He asked. “Did you have a mystical experience ever?”
“I suppose so. Isn't that what religion is?”
“I don't mean that stuff!” With his cigar, he indicated the illu-minated stone outside. “A genuine
self-achieved insight, such as Ouspenski achieved.”
“I never heard of him.”
“He was a Russian philosopher.”
“I never heard of him.”
Already he was forgetting what he had seen and learned.
As he nursed his head and tried to understand what was inside it, she began to chatter, tongue delicate
against teeth and lips redeeming the nonsense.
“I'll go back to Milano in the autumn, in September when it’s not so hot. They're not good Catholics here
in Metz. Are you a good Catholic? The French priests - ugh, I don't like them, the way they look at you!
Sometimes I hardly seem to believe any more. ... Do you believe in God any more, Signor?”
He turned and looked painfully at her orange eyes, trying to see what she was really saying. She was very
boring, this girl, and without alternative.
“If you are really interested, I believe we each have gods with-in us, and we must follow those.” His
father had said the same.
“That's stupid! Those gods would just be reflections of our-selves and we should be indulging in egotism
to worship them.”
He was surprised by her answer. Neither his Italian nor his theology was good enough for him to reply as
he would have liked. He said briefly, “And your god - he is just an externalisa-tion of egotism. Better to
keep it inside!”
“What terrible, wicked blasphemy for a Catholic to utter!”
“You little idiot, I'm no Catholic! I'm a Communist! I've never seen any sign of your God marching about
the world. He's a capitalist invention!”
“Then you are indeed sick!”
Angrily laughing, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to-wards him. As she struggled, he shouted, “Let's
make a little investi-gation!”
She brought her skull forward and struck him on the nose. His head turned cathedral-size on the instant,
flooded with pain. He hardly realised she had broken from his grip and was running across the square,
leaving the Banshee's passenger door swinging open.
After a minute or two, Charteris locked the car door, climbed out, and made his way across to the Hôtel.
The door was barred; Madame would be in bed, dreaming dreams of locked chests. Looking through
the window into the bar, he saw that M'sieur still sat at his special table, drinking wine with his crony.
Madame's dog sprawled by the radiator, still restlessly changing its position. The eternal recurrence of
this evening, a morgue of life.
The enchanter Charteris tapped on the window to break their spell of sleeping wake.
After a minute or two, M'sieur unlocked the door from inside and appeared in his shirtsleeves. He
stroked his tiny puff of beard and nodded to himself, as if something significant had been confirmed.
“You were fortunate I was still up, M'sieur! Madame my wife does not like to be disturbed when once
she has locked and barred the premises. My friend and I were just fighting some of our old campaigns
before bed.”
“Perhaps I have been doing the same thing.”
“You're too young! Not the pesky Arabs, the Bosche, boy, the Bosche. This very town was once under
Bosche rule, you know.”
He went up to his room. It was filled with noise. As he walked over to the window and looked out, he
saw that a lock gate on the dry canal had been opened. The bed of it was full of rushing water, coursing
over the car body and other rubbish, slowly moving them downstream. All the long night, Charteris slept
uneasily to the noise of the purging water.
In the morning, he rose early, drank Madame's first in-different coffee of the day, and paid his bill.
Angelina did not appear. His head was clear, but the world seemed less sub-stantial than it had been.
Something was awakening and uncoiling within him, making the very ground he trod seem treacherous, as
if invisible snakes lay there. He could not decide whether he stood on the edge of truth or illusion, or a
yet unglimpsed alternative to either. All he knew was his anxiety to escape from old battle pictures and
stale caporal smells.
摘要：

BrianAldiss-BarefootintheHeadPANTHERGRANADAPUBLISHINGPublished1979ISBN0586049886“TelltheVietnamesethey'vegottodrawintheirhornsandstopaggressionorwe'regoingtobombthembackintotheStoneAge.”-GeneralCurtisLemayCONTENTSBOOKONE-NorthwardsJUSTPASSINGTHROUGHTHESERPENTOFKUNDALINIDRAKE-MANROUTEMULTI-VALUEMOTOR...

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