THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  ***

  Levin thought, “I can’t believe my first night in-country and I’m lying in three inches of water with my head on a rice paddy dike. And my damn poncho leaks. If I shiver any harder, I’ll generate a tsunami…hell, my teeth are chattering so loud, I’ll give our position away.” He stared into the inky darkness. “At least the damn rain stopped.”

  Brian chuckled to himself while he remembered complaining about the operating theatre in Dallas being too cool and he asked the temperature be raised three degrees. He mumbled, “Wouldn’t mind trading this for that mild chill.”

  He’d wrapped his poncho and poncho-liner around himself thinking if he stayed still enough, the water trapped between his skin and the poncho combination would warm the water. It did but if he moved, the cold water entering sent a shock wave through his body.

  Brian turned to Arnie. The Brooklynite tried to smile but only one corner of his mouth lifted.

  The clouds separated around 0200, revealing glimpses of a star-filled sky with a prominent half-moon on display. The soldiers ignored the myriad of sparkling, diamond-like, points of light above them to concentrate on their surroundings. They watched for any sight or sound which indicated enemy activity.

  Fifty meters to the twelve-man squad’s front, a long line of bamboo stood at a right angle to them. A trail between the soldiers and the tall green plants was used by the enemy to infiltrate villages in the area. Their assignment was to ambush enemy soldiers using the trail.

  An hour before sunrise, the sky finally clear, any thought of Brian’s own comfort became irrelevant as automatic gunfire erupted from the line of bamboo. The whooshing sound of a rocket propelled grenade, called an RPG, was followed by an explosion twenty meters to his left. His heart pounding enough to cause seismic waves, Brian reached for his M16, emptied two magazines while firing three round bursts then sent single shots toward the winking lights.

  A man screamed. Someone next to the wounded man yelled, “Doc!”

  Martin Evans, the platoon’s medic, slithered through the mud and water like a salamander. Brian considered joining him but remembered why he volunteered for infantry and kept shooting. A good thing as they were obviously outnumbered.

  The former surgeon realized the M60 machine gun to his left was silent. He saw all four members of the gun team were injured by the RPG.

  SSgt. Touhy, the platoon sergeant, yelled at Brian and Arnie, “You two, get on the damn gun.”

  The twosome mirrored Doc Evans’ salamander-like movements as they belly-crawled through the mud while rounds went over and between them like angry bees. They moved two wounded soldiers then the Texan moved behind the gun and the Brooklynite guided the belts of ammunition.“Gotta get this right,” Brian thought, his mind racing, filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “They’re depending on me.” As if back home on his drums, Brian began firing a repeated rhythm of six, six, and fourteen rounds at the enemy’s winking lights. Arnie guided the belts with one hand, then linked the next belt from the next ammo box, allowing smooth feeding of the gun. Another swoosh of an

  RPG sounded then an explosion occurred behind them.

  An illumination round announced its presence with a loud pop over the bamboo. Supported by a parachute, its million-candle-power brightness, powered by a burning chemical reaction, bathed the line of bamboo and the enemy soldiers in it. Now second squad’s shots would be aimed at people, not just the area of winking lights. As one illumination round burned out, another arrived to achieve the same purpose.

  Fifteen enemy soldiers assaulted their position from the right end of the enemy’s line. Bent forward and firing from the hip, they advanced toward the Americans.

  “Levin, left. Left. Give ‘em hell!” SSgt. Touhy yelled over the sound of gunfire.

  Arnie saw him pointing, looked left then yelled, “We’re being flanked. Left side, left side.”

  Brian, moved to his knees, repositioned the machine gun, lay flat again then returned his right hand to the pistol grip. Pulling the gun into his shoulder, his left hand over the butt stock, his cheek welded to that hand. Arnie lined up the ammo belts in the new direction. Levin fired a short burst, watched to see where the tracers were hitting; adjusted his aim then opened-up on the attacking soldiers. Five were bunched together at the center of the line. They fell to Brian’s machine gun like a scythe going through wheat, the balance continuing toward them. Rifle fire took out a few more. The machine gun decapitated one, his head exploding into a red mist. The last five turned to head back to the bamboo stand but a round from a grenade launcher dispatched one to meet his maker while the two men at his side fell with severe wounds to their lower bodies. On the ground and using their hands and arms, they clawed their way in the direction of the bamboo stand.

  Levin turned the gun back to the center of the bamboo, where most of the rounds were coming from.

  Since the firefight began, their squad leader was on the radio with artillery command.

  Dirt, ripped bamboo, and torn bodies flew skyward as the first high-explosive artillery shell slammed into the enemy position. Screams of the dead and dying pierced the air. The ground shook as six additional shells arrived in unison. In the light of the illumination rounds, they could see the handful of remaining enemy soldiers disappearing through the bamboo, back toward the mountains. Another six-round blast. Smoke and debris obscured the enemy’s retreat.

  “Cease fire,” SSgt. Touhy yelled a minute later after the last of the enemy soldiers had melted back into the jungle.

  Others repeated the order. All became quiet except for the hissing of a still burning illumination round; the smell of cordite hung in the unmoving, dense air. The first glimmer of daylight appeared in the eastern sky.

  “We got the range on ‘em,” SSgt. Touhy said. “They’s buggin’ out. Nice work, second squad. Be alert. They may come back. Reload your magazines with whatever you have left. He turned to Arnie and Brian. “You two, stay on the gun until sunup then bring it back to day position. Trout, radio for a medivac.”

  The two newbies exchanged nervous grins.

  “Nice Shootin’, Tex,” Arnie said, trying to imitate Brian’s southern drawl.

  The Texan engaged in nervous laughter. He held up his trembling hands. “Shaking all of a sudden,” he said.

  Arnie held up his. “Me too.”

  The Texan smiled and nodded then watched the platoon’s medic, Martin Evans, work on one of the men who’d initially manned the M60 machine gun. Referred to by the troops as Doc Evans, the medic held a bandage against an oozing wound. He said, “This is deep. Mo’s losing a lot of blood. Pressure doesn’t seem to stop it.”

  “Let me see,” Brian said.

  Lifting the bandage to examine the wound, Brian shook his head, pushed the bandage back down and said to Evans, “This has to be sutured. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it if you want. You should start an IV.”

  Doc Evans briefly stared at the new arrival, tossed him a package of suturing materials and latex gloves then inserted an IV in Mo’s arm.

  Brian asked for an injectable pain killer. He administered it, cleaned dirt from the wound then rapidly sutured and covered it.

  “Hey, Levin,” Doc Evans said. “Pretty fast with sutures.

  Where’d you learn?”

  “I completed a course in Mountaineering Medicine,” Levin said without looking at him. “For experience, I also volunteered to work with EMTs in an Emergency Room.”

  “Looks like you been practicing,” the medic muttered while holding up the bottle with the IV fluid, all the while appraising Brian with a questioning expression.

  “Nothing like practice,” Levin said. He examined Mo’s other wounds then took the IV bottle from Evans. “You put a row in here.” He pointed to a small laceration in the man’s thigh then guided the medic while he worked.

  “Nice work. Good hands. Stitches evenly spaced,” the former surgeon shouted to Evans over the raucous sound of the medivac chopper as it
approached. They turned away from the downwash until it touched down.

  With the chopper on its way with the wounded, Levin said to Doc Evans, “Is that a Texas accent I hear?”

  Evans nodded and said, “So I’m not the only Lone Star.

  I’m from Houston. You?”

  “Celina, north of Dallas.”

  “At the Red River?”

  Brian replied, “I live a short drive south of there.”

  With the wounded evacuated, second squad formed up and headed back to their day position. They plodded in silence for a distance, steam coming off their uniforms as they dried from the intense heat of the sun. By the time they arrived at the old church, the uniforms would be soaked again; this time by sweat.

  “We took out a number of them. Were you…?” Arnie asked Brian in a subdued voice.

  Nodding, Brian stated while shifting the machine gun from one shoulder to the other, “Scared as hell, adrenaline pumping, my heart pounding, but too damn busy shooting to think about it, also worried…”

  “About?”

  “First time in combat. Didn’t want to let anyone down,” the Texan said.

  “When the shooting started and when we got on the gun, my primary feeling was, don’t screw up, the squad depending on us, you depending on me,” Arnie said. “Shit I was scared. We were way out numbered. Good thing you can play an angry song on that gun.”

  “You did well,” Brian said, “and yes there were a lot of them. Lucky we could bring in the arty or that angry song might have become a tragic song.”

  The squad waded through a shallow, wide stream.

  Arnie sighed and said, “Played a tragic song for those we were shooting at.”

  Brian noticed Arnie had bowed his head and was mumbling. “Likely, a prayer,” he thought.

  Nearly back at the abandoned Catholic Church, Brian felt worn as the adrenaline which kept him alert was wearing off. As they walked, the Texan thought he heard a sound like the wind chimes he’d hung just before he left for Vietnam. He glanced around as if he expected to see them then asked Arnie if he heard the sound.

  The Brooklynite chuckled and said, “Don’t hear a thing, but we just did a hell of a lot of shooting so maybe your ears are ringing.”

  Doc Evans suggested Brian heard the distant gongs of a Buddhist Temple. “They’re all around here,” the medic said.

  Brian smiled while he remembered hanging the gleaming crystals on his front porch, now half a world away, seeing a sunrise refracted through them.

  Back at the church, although his hands still trembled, he made some notes on the firefight, Arnie’s reaction, then stuffed them in an envelope, and placed the envelope in a pocket of his rucksack to be mailed later.

  He silently recited a brief prayer of thanks that he survived his first firefight and asked that he’d make it home to hear the sonorous sounds of his wind chimes again; finally prayed that his secret be kept and his fellow soldiers not find out they were the unwitting subjects of his research project.

  Chapter 2

  The morning after the firefight, members of second squad were occupied with eating canned or freeze-dried breakfast, cleaning their rifles, and reloading magazines.

  “Where’s home?” Arnie asked a barrel-chested six-footer who arrived in the same deuce-and-a-half as he and Brian.

  “Butte, Montana,” James Ware said.

  “Mining country,” Brian stated.

  The tall man nodded. “Mr. Cunningham, he’s the mine owner, took my truck and stored it until I come home. Truck has two kinds of power,” James continued, pride in his voice. “Kind of like a locomotive. Big diesel, around nine-hundred horsepower, connected to a generator and electric motors that drive the wheels.”

  “Love machinery,” Brian said. “Own a John Deere tractor; all seventy horsepower of it.” The others laughed. He disassembled the machine gun then ran a series of patches down the barrel.

  James removed a picture from his pocket and showed it around. “That little man standing on the platform in front of the driver’s windshield? That’s me.”

  “Damn that thing’s big,” Arnie said.

  “’Bout twenty feet tall, almost that wide. Hell, one tire weighs nearly a ton.”

  “What’s it like, driving it?” Arnie asked.

  “Took a few months to get used to it. Takes lots of planning. Had a trainer with me full time until I got a feel for backing up.” He grinned and said, “With all that weight, if you’d hit something, you’d likely go through it before you knew what happened.”

  The others chuckled.

  “You get bored?” Brian asked while he oiled another patch and attached it to the cleaning rod, “I mean, driving the same thing every day?”

  “Hell no. Takes skill to get it from one place to another. I love the sounds it makes and the paycheck takes good care of the family.” He displayed another photo. “My high school sweet-heart and our two boys,”

  “Nice looking family.” Arnie said.

  “Truly, my pride and joy.”

  “You volunteer?” Brian asked.

  “Hell yes,” Ware said. “Gotta stop them damn Commies. Better doing it here than back in the States. My pa served in WWII so I thought I should do my duty as well.”

  “I joined for the education benefit,” Arnie said. “Started college but ran out of money.”

  They looked at Brian.

  “Quite a firefight last night,” he said.

  Doc Evans approached Brian. “I’m ordering medical supplies. I never know which squad I’ll go out with. You want anything…in case I’m not there?”

  “Suturing kits, gauze, latex gloves, and non-alcohol wipes,” the Texan replied.

  “That’s it?”

  “Scalpels, hemostats, anti-septic soap…just in case.”

  The medic eyed Brian for a bit then said, “I’ll ask. I don’t always get what I request.” He walked to a radio operator to call in his order.

  Brian disassembled and cleaned the machine gun.

  The second squad leader, Sgt. Jason Wabash, pulled Levin and Zalman aside.

  “Mo and Henry won’t be back for a while,” the sergeant said. “The other two on the gun team should be back in a couple weeks. You guys performed well last night. Mind being responsible for the gun?”

  “Fine with me,” Brian said, “but are the other guys ok with us new guys taking over?”

  “SSgt. Touhy saw your shooting last night. Something about accurate fire stopping a flanking movement. It was his recommendation.”

  Brian looked at Arnie who nodded. “Sounds good, Sergeant,” the Texan said.

  After lunch, Arnie and Brian sat on the floor and leaned back against their rucksacks. The Brooklynite remarked, “You, well really, we, mowed down a number of ‘em last night.”

  “True.” Brian turned to his new friend. “How do you feel about that?”

  Arnie shrugged then said, “That’s what we’re here to do, I guess.” He thought for a while staring out the door of the church. “Actually, I felt exhilarated for a moment then witnessed one man’s head…like exploded. What an awful sight.”

  “Bad alright but he died quickly,” Brian replied.

  The Brooklynite was quiet for a while, glanced at Brian a few times then said, “The fact that it was bloody as hell last night…that bloody wound you closed, doesn’t seem to bother you.”

  “Blood and guts haven’t bothered me since I was a kid.”

  Arnie closed his eyes for a while leaning back against his ruck, sat up straight and said, “But—”

  “Arnie,” Brian interrupted, “I feel sorry he died, sorry for all of them, but this is war, and this is what happens.”

  “Course it does,” a soldier said in a thick Southern Louisiana accent. Brian looked up and saw that it was Paul Slidell. Average height and chubby, the Baton Rouge native shuffled over and sat down. “The government sent us here to do just that. Stop them commies.”

  “So how do you feel when you kill
someone?” Brian asked his fellow Southerner.

  “Hell. Don’t feel anything. Besides, those gooks was trying to kill us. Why should I feel anything except glad we’re all alive and did what the country sent us here todo?”

  “No idea,” the new machine gunner said while shaking his head. “Just asking…”

  “Gooks,” Brian thought. “Likely a word invented by soldiers. Demeaning originally, but I notice most say it with respect…like you’d refer to a worthy adversary.” He put his head back on his ruck and thought, “Likely using the word in place of anything which would make the enemy soldiers seem human. Does calling them that make it easier to kill? Have to listen to its use; then I’ll have a better idea. I’ll bet soldiers from all wars made up names like that. Remember reading that Brits referred to the Germans as Huns. Should write a note about that.”

  Arnie mumbled, “His head…like exploded.” He turned pale, ran a few meters away from the church, retched a few times then, after wiping his mouth and catching his breath, grabbed his entrenching shovel and covered the mess.

  “He’ll get used to it,” Paul said, then heard poor Arnie retching a few more times. “Or not.”

  “You okay?” Brian asked Arnie as the Brooklynite drank from his canteen.

  “Yea. I’m okay.” He sat on the floor, leaning back against his rucksack. “I was raised an Orthodox Jew. What we did last night; I know the Talmud says we have a duty to defend ourselves. Even so, feel sad for those we killed, guilty really. Satisfied initially as those we killed wouldn’t be able to kill us, but then guilt…lots of guilt.”

  “But you volunteered for the Army,” Brian said.

  Arnie shook his head, cursed. “I desperately need the education benefit. Hell, I hope I live long enough to use it.”

  A jeep towing a trailer arrived mid-day. Arnie and Brian helped a few others remove insulated food containers from the trailer. They placed them in a row as their platoon mates took out their eating gear and formed a line. The newbies served the others.

  At the end of the line, a few Vietnamese children, who stayed around the troops during the day, lined up and were served whatever was left.