THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  Chapter 3

  Private Mark Acorn woke in the middle of the night and began shooting. Every one checked their surroundings but no one found signs of enemy activity. A few soldiers yelled at him to cease firing then asked what he saw.

  “Thought sure I saw lots of soldiers coming toward us,” Acorn said.

  The others turned to Brian who was on watch at the time. “I was checking the area with the Starlight scope. I didn’t see or hear anything until Acorn starting shooting.”

  “The lieutenant said to his radio man, “Call for a chopper at first light.”

  Brian volunteered to stay awake with Acorn the balance of the night. The following morning while waiting for a medivac helicopter to take him to the rear, Acorn talked to Brian about himself and a recent experience.

  “I’m from a small town in Northern Wisconsin,” Acorn said. “I’ve been hunting most of my life. Mostly deer and moose.” He chuckled. “Never people.” He pulled the magazine from his M16, checked to ensure there wasn’t a round in the chamber then slammed the bolt closed and stuffed the magazine into a carrier on his belt.

  He pulled out his canteen and took a long drink. “Fired up a Viet Cong a few weeks ago when we were on patrol. He came out of nowhere holding an AK rifle and suddenly opened up on us. Yelled some shit while firing. Little guy was really pissed.” Acorn stared at his boots, picked up a twig to pry dried mud off the sole then took another long drink from his canteen. “I can still see the fury in his eyes as he fired, then my bullets slammed into him. He slowly collapsed, but kept trying to bring the AK up to fire again but was too torn up. He gave me one last look. Poor guy. He might have been asking for help. But…those eyes…that expression. Still angry or scared or I don’t fucking know.” He shook his head, then stuffed his canteen in the side pocket of his ruck sack. “Still see that damn expression…”

  The chopper arrived and carried him to the medivac station.

  Later that day, SSgt. Touhy, with rolled-up papers in his shirt pocket, stopped by second squad to report what he knew about Acorn. “They’ll have Acorn talk to a shrink. If he’s okay, spend the rest of his time in supply.”

  “If not?”

  “Hospital ship or medical treatment at one of our bases in Japan, then home.”

  He eyed Brian then asked that he step away from the other soldiers.

  “Sgt. Wabash is heading back to the world this week. You’ve been in his squad for six months. Your squad mates, including him, came to me, and asked that you be their new squad leader.” The staff sergeant stared at him, shook his head. “Are you good enough to lead them in a way that accomplishes the squad’s mission, and gets them back to the world without stepping on their peckers?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” he said with a serious expression but was immediately joyous internally.

  “Arnie and you are good friends. Gonna be a problem giving him orders?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  “He didn’t think it would be a problem either. If it becomes one, you tell me, and I’ll move him to another squad.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant.”

  The Staff Sergeant’s face turned grim. “Damn it. Don’t thank me. They asked for you. I didn’t. Rather have you in charge of a squad you haven’t served with. I have my doubts, but know this, you let them down and you’ll know what a frog feels like that’s been flattened by an eighteen- wheeler. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Levin said, no longer joyous as he felt the weight of his new responsibility hit him like a punch in the gut.

  “Trout will be your radio man. You talk to Sgt. Wabash. Get his feel for team cohesiveness. You’ll also have three new men later this week. And you train the hell out of whoever you decide to put on the gun. We hit the shit and that damn gun better sound like you’re still behind it.” He removed the papers from his shirt pocket, handed them to Brian. “Congratulations, Sergeant Levin. You’ve been promoted.” SSgt. Touhy shook Brian’s hand.

  “An honor, Staff Sergeant.”

  Brian read the orders promoting him. To his amazement, he noted they were dated a week earlier.

  * * *

  Having endured a forty-five-minute chopper ride out to the A Shau Valley, Sgt. Levin took his seven-man recon patrol on a mission as directed by Tactical Operations Command. Their team also included an Air Force Forward Air Controller who humped his own radio. They plodded along a muddy trail which ran horizontal and half-way up a mountainside in a light mist. The jungle canopy letting scant light through.

  Arnie, walking point, claimed to see movement on the mountainside opposite them, roughly a half mile away, a deep valley, separating them.

  Sgt. Levin halted the squad, radioed Tactical Operations Command to see if there were friendly units at that location. None were. He used binoculars to view the canopy covered area opposite them. The Sergeant thought he might have seen movement but wasn’t sure.

  He radioed the artillery controller, reported the coordinates of their current position, and the position of the opposite mountainside. A marker smoke round was fired. It exploded above the opposite mountainside; a cloud of white smoke indicating its position. Two more soldiers said they saw movement. Vietnamese voices echoed across the valley.

  “Battery One,” Brian radioed to the Fire Direction Controller. Small arms fire could be heard.

  “Shot,” the FDC announced.

  “Splash,” the FDC said a few seconds later.

  “Splash,” Brian said. For the benefit of the newbies he reminded them, “That means impact in ten seconds.”

  A high-pitched whistling sound occurred briefly, followed by the gut shaking sound of six artillery shells exploding among the thick jungle canopy. Screams and yelling could be heard. Movement was occurring all over the opposite mountainside.

  “Up fifty. Repeat!” Brian yelled into the radio. Every cannon the artillery base possessed responded. On the opposite mountain side, small arms fire continued in random directions. The squad flattened themselves. The ground under them trembled as the shells exploded.

  The Air Force FAC lying next to Brian, on his own radio, directed three Phantom aircraft to their location. He nodded to James Ware who popped a purple smoke grenade indicating their position. The lead pilot reported, “I’ve got you Goofy Grape.” The FAC confirmed the color. The trio rolled in and dropped napalm bombs. Each shell tumbling to earth then creating a hundred-yard-long swath across the mountainside, consisting of yellow and orange flame topped with black smoke which billowed into the air. Screams echoed across the valley.

  The recon patrol was told to regroup to a location further up the mountain. When a company of South Vietnamese troops began arriving, the recon patrol was ordered to a Landing Zone where a helicopter would take them to their platoon’s new day position.

  In the middle of the chopper ride, one door gunner was wounded by a random bullet fired at their airborne conveyance. While in the air, the man bleeding profusely, Sgt. Levin removed the round and repaired the damage to the soldier’s intestine. Their chopper headed to the medivac station to drop off the wounded soldier. Brian and James assisted the wounded man off the chopper and lay him on a stretcher.

  Brian explained to the staff that ran out to meet the chopper, “Bullet to the abdomen. Not deep. The round was removed, his gut repaired and closed.”

  “Who did this?” one of the doctors yelled over the noise of the chopper.

  “Sorry, No time.” Brian yelled.

  He and James returned to the chopper and slid on. Leaning back on their rucks, the blades thrashing the air, small brush and grass leaned away from the rotors’ down- wash as it lifted off. Their lower legs dangling, Brian gave a brief wave to the medical personnel as the Huey banked away, its blades clawing for altitude.

  * * *

  Back at their day position near the old church, Lt. Moss said, “I was told you performed surgery on a door gunner during a chopper ride, Sergeant Levin.”

  “Minor repair. Important t
o stop the bleeding, Sir. He would have bled out or had a belly full of blood before we got to the medical facility if I hadn’t.”

  Lieutenant Moss put his hands on his hips. “Do I want to know how you are so familiar with surgical procedures?”

  “It’s better if you don’t ask, sir.”

  He regarded the second squad leader with a look of disdain for a moment, then said, “You do your job as squad leader, keep patching ‘em up if needed, and I won’t ask.”

  The platoon spent three weeks hiking up and down mountain trails, and just returned to the flat lowlands. A supply truck stopped at the abandoned church then dropped off food and ammo. The driver spoke to Lt. Moss. “Sgt. Levin around? Supposed to take him back to the rear to start his R&R.”

  Lt. Moss got on the radio to TOC, Tactical Operations Command, and confirmed then yelled at someone for not telling him sooner. He informed Brian then suggested he take his squad’s M79 grenade launcher to the rear to have an armorer inspect it as the weapon misfired a few times in the previous two weeks. Brian gathered his gear, the M79 and his M16, secured his ruck then climbed up to the passenger seat of the deuce-and-a-half.

  “Where you going on your R&R?” the driver asked. “Sydney, Australia. I know it’s winter down there but I

  hope it’ll be more like home than Hong Kong or Thailand.”

  As they roared and bounced up Highway 1 to Camp Eagle, every small bump in the road seemed to jar the truck. Brian commented, “Miserable ride in this thing.”

  The driver snorted. “Beats walking.” Brian shrugged then managed to sleep.

  An hour later, he was dropped off inside Camp Eagle, one mile from his company HQ. He shouted a hurried thanks to the driver, hoisted his rucksack onto his shoulders, pulled the straps tight and began walking.

  A hot, humid day, “Likely 110 or warmer,” Brian thought as he plodded along the edge of a wide dirt road. His temples began to throb. “Fucking migraine coming on. Feel nauseous.” His sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his back and chest and his joints felt achy, the sweat running down his forehead stung his eyes. He stopped, slid his seventy-pound ruck off his shoulders and removed his eleven-pound helmet, dropping it to the ground. Brian straightened, arched backward then rotated his shoulders a few times. The wind in his hair felt as good as getting the heavy ruck off his shoulders. He placed his rifle against his ruck, the M79, breach open, in the bend of his right arm. The soldier pulled his canteen off the side of his ruck. Brian took a long swig, head back, not paying attention to anything else. A jeep drove past, locked its wheels, and slid to a stop on the dusty road just past him.

  A short, pudgy Captain, wearing supply insignia, a pressed uniform and spit-shined boots, jumped out the passenger side then stormed over to Brian.

  In a winy, feminine, high pitched voice, he screamed, “Don’t you salute officers?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry sir, didn’t see you.” He waved a, too casual, salute.

  “You’re supposed to be wearing your helmet at all times.” “Yes, sir.” He bent over to pick up his helmet, in so doing, the breach on the M79 snapped closed, the grenade

  launcher pointing directly at the Captain.

  “Open that thing. Open that thing,” the now hysterical captain screeched, He performed a little sideways dance on his tiptoes to avoid where the grenade launcher pointed. The Captain kept his hands in front of him as if a shell from the M79 could be warded off by bone and flesh.

  “Only needs a tutu to complete the ballerina image,” Brian thought. In full voice he said, “Opening the breach, sir.” He would have laughed at the Captain’s little minuet but was too damn hot and sore plus his head felt like it was clamped in a vice. He flipped the lever which opened the breach, the M79 still in the bend of his right arm.

  The captain began a tirade about grunts having no respect for discipline, and that he looked like hell, his uniform was missing a button, it had a tear in the sleeve, and numerous other items Brian couldn’t have cared less about.

  “My God,” the Captain yelled. “Your shoelaces are loose on your right boot.”

  His sore back and leg muscles aching in protest, Brian kneeled to tighten the laces, the motion causing the barrel on the M79 to close so again was pointing at the captain, who once more daintily hopped to the side.

  “Open that breach. Open that thing,” the hysterical captain’s dainty, high-pitched voice pleaded.

  Brian opened the breach then strained to stand.

  The captain approached, “Stand at God-damned attention when I’m talking to you! And don’t wobble like that.”

  A rumble from deep in Brian’s belly, like a water buffalo lowing, should have been a warning. His partially digested meatball and spaghetti last meal formed a projectile hurl; the Captain’s next hop not quick enough, the stinky mass landed on the Captain’s boots.

  He raved, “You damn grunts are fucking lunatics. When the Army’s done with you, every one of you assholes should be locked up.” He stormed back to his jeep, alternating stamping and shaking his boots.

  “Yes, sir,” Brian replied, waving another sloppy salute as the jeep sped away. With a groan, he hoisted his ruck onto sore shoulders, tightened the straps, took a deep breath, and continued walking to his company HQ.

  “When I get to Sydney,” Brian thought, “all I’m going to do is fucking sleep.” He smiled. “What a treat, sleeping on clean sheets.” The grunt wiped his runny nose on his shoulder, detected a foul odor then chuckled. “Best I shower first.”

  * * *

  As was Army typical, Levin had hurried to the rear to begin his R&R only to find he’d have to wait two days. He found Paul Slidell who was also waiting two days. At lunch they were introduced to three young women who worked for the Red Cross, one from Shreveport, La.

  “I live in a small-town west of Baton Rouge,” Slidell said with shy smile.

  “A pleasure to hear a Louisiana accent,” a girl named Candice said.

  Slidell nodded. A shy man, he could barely look in the lovely lady’s eyes. He said, “Y’all sound like home.”

  For the next hour, Brian and the two Louisianan’s talked about their life back in the States, church, and southern cooking.

  “Nothing reminds me of home,” Brian said, “like the taste of my father’s sixteen-hour smoked brisket.”

  “My momma’s gumbo,” Candice said, “fills the house with such a rich, savory scent, my mouth waters just thinking about her cooking.”

  “Sorry, Sgt. Levin,” Paul said. “But I’d have to agree with Candice. A bowl of gumbo and the sound Zydeco music fill my soul with memories of dinner and dances on the bayou. That’s the feeling of home for me.”

  Following dinner, the men and women were assigned separate sleeping quarters in the 2/327 Battalion’s section of Camp Eagle. The small ten-by-eighteen-foot buildings were protected on their sides by shoulder high stacks of sand bags. The soldiers called it a hooch. The floor of the little building was three feet above the ground and just big enough for sleeping quarters for six people and their gear.

  Around midnight, Brian heard the swishing sound of an approaching rocket. “Incoming!” he yelled, rolling off his cot and onto the floor of the hooch. The Texan folded his arms around his head, and crossed his legs.

  A nearby explosion rattled the tin-roofed, wood structure he and five others slept in.

  Brian grabbed his medic’s pack and ran outside. The end of a similar building, had collapsed and was burning. Two Red Cross girls ran up to them screaming that their friend was still in the building. Slidell took off toward the fire at a dead run. Levin began treating one of the girls who had metal and wood fragments in her arm and back.

  Slidell disappeared into the burning building. Mere moments later, he returned, coughing and hacking, his uniform singed and smoking in places but with the girl in his arms.

  “She was trapped under debris,” he said while placing the young lady on the ground. She coughed violently, her face was contorted and bruised,
one eye swollen shut, the other a tiny slit.

  “Trouble seeing,” she said, her body trembling.

  “You have swelling and bruises around your eyes,” Levin said as he finished working on the first girl. “I’m going to bandage them, so you won’t be able to see for a while.”

  “Don’t you worry, Candice,” Slidell said. “Sgt. Levin knows all kinds of medical stuff. He done patched up lots of the guys in our platoon. And he’s a southern boy from Texas, so’s you’re gonna be fine.”

  “I’m sorry to cause you more pain,” Sgt. Levin said as he assessed her wounds, “but I have to work on your legs which are going to hurt like hell.”

  “Hold my hands, Candice,” Slidell said.

  She did and jammed her jaw shut. Candice moaned and grimaced.

  Brian saw her knuckles turning white as she squeezed Paul’s hands with a vice-like grip. The pain, likely worse than she had ever experienced, seemed to punish her body with each of the Sergeant’s movements.

  “Hold this clamp,” Levin said to Slidell.

  Slidell tried to pull his hands from Candice’s grip. She only released one hand, said, “Don’t leave me, please.”

  He moved her hand to his shirt. “Candice, you hold on to my shirt ‘cuz I need to help Sgt. Levin. Don’t you worry none, I’m right here.”

  The two men continually tried to reassure her. Slidell continued to assist Levin who worked at a rapid pace. A soldier gave him a poncho liner, a type of thin blanket, which he tucked around the young lady, but left her arm free so the slim lady could keep herself attached to Slidell’s shirt.

  A deuce-and-a-half pulled up. The duo put her on a stretcher and moved her into the truck.

  “Slidell,” Levin said. “Accompany her to the medivac station and have someone treat your burns.”