“Nothing like a hot meal,” Arnie said as he and Brian placed the empty containers back in the jeep’s trailer.
Later that day, a helicopter came out with supplies for the platoon.
“Got the medical supplies you asked for,” Doc Evans said, handing a package to Brian. “They wanted to know who was going to use the stuff.”
“You replied?”
“Someone who knows what do to with ‘em.” They laughed.
Evans gave Brian a questioning expression then said, “They call me Doc but I’m just a medic. I’m guessing you know more than me about medical stuff. If there is a technique you can teach me…you’ll do that right?”
“Of course.”
Evans grinned and said, “Also sent these out.” He held up two small plastic bottles. “Looks like a clear liquid. Funny name…cyan…something.”
Brian’s face lit up. “Holy crap. This is fantastic. Read about this stuff but never saw it.”
“It is…”
“Skin adhesive. Used instead of sutures in appropriate circumstances.”
“You’ll teach me?”
“Shit yea.” Levin fitted the supplies into a medic’s pack he’d acquired from one of the medics who was headed home that week then asked Evans, “How long you been in- country?”
“Arrived here one week before you. Nice to know there’s another guy who knows about medical stuff.”
Levin asked, “After the Army, you thought of going into medicine?”
“Not sure what I’ll do. Maybe medicine, but really, no clue.”
“You’ve got the hands,” Levin said.
Evans shrugged. “Wouldn’t know about that.”
“Get some paper for notes. I’ll make some diagrams then show you how and when to use the new stuff.”
***
A week later, Brian, Arnie, James, David Trout, and Doc Evans and the company’s sniper, Eddie O’Connell, left their day position, each carrying their rifle and a couple magazines. It was mid-morning as they walked one-hundred yards along Highway One then crossed to the middle of a bridge over the wide, slow moving, Troi River. A half mile further downstream, the Troi emptied into the South China Sea. The sea’s blue-green surface appearing dark where fresh water from the muddy Troi emptied into it.
Three meters above the water and at the center of the bridge, a two-foot wide by four-foot long board stuck out from the side of the bridge. It was used by the locals and occasionally soldiers to dive into the river. A ladder extended down to the water’s surface.
“I was a competitive diver in high school,” Eddie said then handed his sniper rifle to Brian. He stripped down to his shorts, went over the wood railing and out to the end of the board.
“Swan Dive,” he announced with a grin. Hands at side and standing straight, he took a deep breath; his last. Eddie’s body went limp as he fell off the board. A fraction of a second later the crack and thump of a single shot reached their ears.
“Down,” Arnie yelled. They flattened themselves to the roadway. Clicks of rifles going off safe were heard, each man checking their surroundings to determine where the shot had come from. Arnie and Brian peaked over the edge of the roadway, saw Eddie face-down, his blood coloring the water around his body, the sniper began moving his arms.
“Eddie’s still alive,” Arnie yelled. James Ware leaped to his feet, jumped the railing and plunged into the river. A second shot rangout.
After radioing the Lieutenant, describing their location and situation, David Trout checked on James. “Ware is swimming Eddie to shore.”
Brian, trying to show as little of himself above a row of two-high sandbags, used the sniper rifle’s optic to study the wood line which bordered the southern side of the river.
“Where would I hide?” Brian thought. “Long time from crack to thump. At least a two, maybe three football-field shot.” He noticed a group of three trees with bushes around their base which he judged to be two-hundred-fifty yards distant. Brian imagined he’d hide in the right-hand tree which was slightly closer to the river and had thicker foliage than the others.
He adjusted the optic for distance then adjusted two mil- dots, allowing for the steady breeze coming off the South China Sea. He squeezed the trigger; his effort rewarded as he watched a man pinwheel out of the tree.
“You got that fucker,” Doc Evans said, rising to his knees.
Brian grabbed his shoulder, pushed him down, growling at the medic, “Fuckin’ stay down. He might not be alone.”
“Third squad is on the way,” radioman David Trout said.
Brian leaned over the edge of the bridge to view the bank of the river where James had pulled Eddie out of the water. They were behind a stacked-sandbag barrier so couldn’t be seen from the bridge.
“How’s Eddie?” Brian yelled.
“Gone,” yelled James.
“Shit,” Brian said, then continued to glass the southern bank for more enemy soldiers.
Third squad approached with Lt. Moss who was briefed on what happened. He told those not part of third squad to head back to day position, gather their gear and be ready to assist if needed.
“Levin, Slidell,” SSgt. Touhy called out. They hurried to his side. “Lost our sniper today.” He turned to Brian. “Heard you used his rifle to take out the shooter. Three- hundred-meter shot?”
“About that far, Staff Sargent.”
“Adjust for distance?”
“Two clicks.”
“Wind?”
“Two mil-dots.”
“You learned to shoot…”
“I’m from Texas. Had a rifle in my hands at a young age; scoped rifle used for hunting from age thirteen.”
“You hunted…”
“Deer, wild hogs, ducks and geese.”
“I thought Jews don’t hunt.”
“My Dad, a WWII vet believed, if Hitler’s National Socialists come again, we’d best be armed and practiced.”
The staff sergeant grinned and said. “Tom White is going to sniper school. Until he returns, you fill that slot. Slidell will be your spotter.”
***
As darkness approached, the sniper team made themselves appear like the fauna surrounding them by wearing camo skin-paint on their face and hands plus inserting branches and plants in their ghillie suits. They crawled into position, taking over an hour to move thirty yards so as not to be noticed. The duo, on a ridge overlooking a small valley which was crisscrossed with trails, alternately drank water and ate a freeze-dried dinner.
An hour later, the area illuminated by a full moon, Levin whispered, “Something moving across my legs.”
Slidell slowly turned his head then whispered a reply, “Don’t move. It’s a damn snake.”
“Poisonous?”
The Louisianan replied with a smirk. “Shit. I’d ask but I don’t speak snake.”
The snake slithered on its way and the duo settled in for the night. Every two hours, one stayed awake on watch while the other slept.
Near sunup, Slidell, using binoculars, sighted then pointed to an eight-man squad as it made its way from their right to left on one of the trails one-hundred yards distant. Based on his uniform, Levin recognized the fourth man was the leader. He adjusted his scope and squeezed off a round. The leader collapsed. The others made for a low berm. Having no clue where the round came from, they decided to shoot in random directions for a few seconds to see if there was return fire. Despite an occasional round landing near them, Levin and Slidell remained motionless. Having received no return fire, the enemy soldiers apparently decided to fire again and make a run in the direction they came from. The minute they did Levin dropped two more before they disappeared into the jungle.
Slidell moaned. “You hit?”
“Fuck. Feels like a bad bee sting in my hip. Right Side.
Shit that burns.”
“You’ll have a scar to show your folks.”
“No folks. I’m an orphan. Raised by a foster family, who I hated. You gu
ys in the platoon more family then they ever were.”
“That lady you write to…” Levin began examining his wound.
“Savanah. A pen pal…but writes real thoughtful letters. Hope to meet her when I get back to the world…so you gotta make sure I’m okay.”
Brian removed a bullet fragment then used the new adhesive to close the wound.
“I know it hurts but you’re lucky, the bullet hit something and fragmented before it hit you. Should be good in a few weeks.”
Brian repacked his medical supplies. They moved to a clearing where Slidell radioed for a chopper to pick them up. He got on the radio and was told to move to a location a few miles away where they would be picked up the following morning.
“Damn,” Brian whispered, “Have to wait twenty-four hours before they can get a chopper out here.”
Paul shook his head.
The duo waited until dusk before moving. Brian checked his map and compass. He used hand signals to indicate the path they would take.
Having walked roughly a half mile, they heard noise from their flank, a number of soldiers were approaching. They lay down in two-foot-high grass, Levin having to twist his body around a rock. The sniper team remained motionless. A patrol was searching for them. The enemy soldiers stopped to take a break, sat on the trail and chattered among themselves, a few lighting cigarettes. One stood, walked within two feet of Levin and Slidell, opened his fly and relieved himself. Brian held his breath initially but then decided it would be wiser to breathe slowly. The enemy soldier gave it a good shake and buttoned his fly. He spit once, his spittle landing near Brian’s face, then returned to his patrol. Ten minutes later the squad moved on. The sniper team waited another ten minutes then, with joint’s aching from remaining frozen in an awkward position for so long, slowly stood and continued moving. After another twenty minutes, they heard noises again. The duo lowered themselves to the earth a second time. Most nighttime insects became quiet; a sure sign of fellow humans moving nearby. Brian’s anxiety was increasing by the second. They remained motionless except for an occasional rotation of their head to survey their surroundings. It was so quiet, the former surgeon was worried the sound of his breathing might give away their position. They waited another half-hour without hearing additional movement. Even the insects began their usual cacophony of buzzes, clicks, and squeaks. Brian checked his map and compass by moonlight, pointed in the direction they needed to head. The duo resumed hiking. Slidell’s injury bothering him, evidenced by a slight limp, Brian whispered that the Louisianan should tell him when he needed to rest. His spotter used hand motions to signal they should continue.
Dawn found the duo at the edge of a clearing in the jungle. Slidell talked a helicopter toward them then popped a colored smoke grenade.
“I’ve got you Loud Mouth Lime,” the chopper pilot said, identifying the green smoke. To communicate the color of the smoke, he used the name of a popular children’s drink- flavoring product.
Slidell radioed confirmation then watched as the pilot lowered his machine to the earth a handful of yards away, the door gunners staring into the jungle looking for possible threats around the edges of the clearing their machine occupied. As the machine lifted out of the jungle, the sniper team high fived. Brian recited a brief prayer. He was thankful his first sniper mission was complete.
***
Four weeks went by with no additional combat, although the sniper team was sent out regularly but had little contact with enemy soldiers.
Mid-morning, a group of eight Americans decided to walk to the local market. A smelly place, butchered meat and fish on display in the open while those hawking the animal flesh tried to entice buyers while keeping the flies away. Other vendors sold produce and still others, dry goods.
“You buy, my grandmother,” a ten-year-old girl insisted. Her poor English indicated they should buy bread from her Grandmother’s small bakery stand; their home and bakery behind it.
Levin bought two, six-inch, loaves which he put in the map pocket of his shirt. “One for lunch and one for dinner,” he told the young girl.
“Yes, you like,” she said with a huge grin, handing his coins to her grandmother.
Brian pulled out a box of hard candy, gave her two raspberry flavored treats. She gave one to her Grandmother then unwrapped the other and popped it in her mouth. The young one smiled.
He asked what her Vietnamese name was. He couldn’t understand what she’d said. She had a quarter-inch dark red, circular birthmark on the left side of her jaw.
Brian said, “Dot. I’ll call you Dot.”
She turned to her Grandmother, said something in Vietnamese, and then said to him. “Linda.” It was common for Vietnamese girls to call themselves, Linda or Sally.
Shaking his head, he pointed to her and said, “Dot.”
The young girl laughed. Pronounced her new name, which came out with a long letter ‘o’ sound.
“You name?” Dot asked.
“Brian,” he replied.
She repeated what she believed he said but it came out, “Dying,” which his buddies thought was hysterical.
The Americans wandered the market, little Dot following close to Brian. She began singing. Ironically, it was the Animal’s, “We Gotta Get Outta This Place.” She’d likely heard it on Armed Forces Radio. Fortunately, Dot had no clue what the words meant.
The soldiers looked over the goods in the market, not noticing the three young men who, separately, slipped into the crowd after they arrived. They were the only young men, other than the Americans, in the market. The balance of males present were children or seniors.
Brian, SSgt. Touhy, and radioman David Trout, were discussing a combat mission which occurred before Levin arrived in-country. The balance of the eight men were on the other side of the marketplace.
Touhy said, “Six enemy surrendered when the fighting ended. Not one of them over fifteen. One couldn’t have been more than twelve. All firing AKs.” The Staff Sergeant shook his head. “Kids. A bunch of damn kids.”
Levin stopped to make a note. Pulling paper out of a pocket, he secured his rifle between his knees, and began writing. From across the market, a voice shouted, “Grenade!”
An explosion occurred at the edge of the crowd. Screams were heard.
At the same time as the shout about the grenade, Brian noticed the, short in stature, young man next to him had pulled a grenade out of his pocket, and was reaching to pull the pin. His reflex reaction was to jam his pen into and through the man’s eye and into his brain. The man collapsed; one-third of the pen sticking out of his eye socket. His body quaked a few times then quit moving. The grenade rolled out of his hand.
“Pin still in place,” SSgt. Touhy said, retrieving the grenade.
A second grenade exploded at the corner of the market. Civilians, took cover or ran, except a few who began helping the injured.
Brian retrieved his pen, wiped it on his pant leg. SSgt. Touhy eyed him with disdain.
“My last pen,” Brian said with a shrug. He remembered Dot, turned to her. “You okay?”
She didn’t reply. Breathing rapidly, she stared at the body then the pen. Brian moved, blocking her view of the dead soldier. He kneeled on one knee, she leaned her head against his shoulder, sniffling. He put his hand behind her head briefly, said, “It’s over.” She stood straight, her gaze moving from his face to the pen. Her eyes widened. She slowly backed up, yelled something in Vietnamese. Brian reached for her hand. Dot screamed, turned, then while crying hysterically, ran to the bread stand and disappeared into the house behind it.
Brian glanced at his kill. “Little shit. Couldn’t be more than fourteen.”
“If you knew that beforehand, would you have done anything different?” SSgt. Touhy said.
He shook his head. “Guess not.” South Vietnamese soldiers arrived.
David Trout began yelling, “Lt. radioed. We need to return to day position. Going on a mission.”
SSgt. Touhy ye
lled to the others. They formed up and returned to their day position. “Sad we had to leave the civilian casualties,” Trout said. He and the others ate a quick meal then assembled their gear for the move to a new location.
“The two grenades that exploded in the marketplace?” Arnie said as he finished a can of meatballs and spaghetti. “Remember?”
Brian nodded.
“One came flying at us. I batted it away with my rifle. The frag exploded near the edge of the market.”
“The other?” Brian asked.
Arnie said, “Blew up the instant the pin was pulled. Split in half the guy who held it, wounded a bunch of locals.”
“I heard their screams,” David Trout said.
“If I didn’t bat the frag, we’d been the ones torn up.” Arnie said. He shook his head. “Should have hit it harder.”
“Them or us,” Trout said. “Glad it was them.”
“Still, those poor civilians,” Arnie said. “The guy whose frag blew up in his hand turned into a bloody mess. Just torn in half.”
Trout nodded toward Brian. “He took one of ‘em out or another frag would have gone off.”
“Nice,” Arnie said.
“Wasn’t nice,” Trout said, shaking his head while he eyed Brian with contempt. He turned to Arnie. “Should have seen the kid’s body quaking from the pen. Levin jammed it through his eye and into his brain. Disgusting sight, especially with that damn pen still sticking out of his eye.”
Arnie appeared as if he was in shock. He sputtered, “A kid. P-Pen. Sticking out of…”
“Ask your buddy,” Trout said. He gave Brian a look of contempt. “Hell, he’s still got the damn pen.”
The Brooklynite turned pale, walked outside, and began vomiting.
Brian ignored them, hoisted his rucksack, and buckled the straps together. As Tom White had returned from sniper school, Levin was again responsible for the M60. He lifted the machine gun onto his shoulder, and followed his squad members out to the area where the helicopters would land and take them deep into the jungle.
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 3
