THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  Pain was written on her face, her shoulders drooped as she stared at the ground. “I know.”

  “So, Andrea, who did you kill?”

  She stopped walking, jammed her eyes shut, tightened her grip on his hand. “This is so difficult…members of my own family…my sister-in-law and her infant son.”

  A pressure wave rocked them, immediately followed by the sound of an explosion.

  “What the fuck was that?” Brian asked. They heard screaming and yells for help.

  She replied in a trembling voice. “Came from the direction of the steam engine.”

  “I’m going for supplies from the aid station we saw near the entrance.” He took off at a dead run with Andrea close on his heels.

  Upon return to the area where the steam engine once stood, they found a man with a sucking chest wound. Brian showed Andrea where to place the proper bandage so the man could breathe. “Keep that in place until EMTs arrive,” Brian told her. “I’m going to check on others.”

  “I don’t see my father.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for him but lots of folks need help.”

  He bandaged two wounds then moved to an older woman with a one-inch wound in her right side, which bled profusely.

  “What are you doing?” said a slim young man wearing a white jacket with medical insignia.

  “Using my finger to plug this wound to prevent her bleeding out. Who are you?”

  “Dr. John Ronald.”

  “Experience?”

  He replied in an anxious tone. “One year out of medical school. Early this morning, the more experienced doctor from our clinic was rushed to hospital in Adelaide with chest pains.”

  Sounding like a Sergeant, Brian said, “This woman is going to need surgery to repair her wound. Find an ambulance crew and I need two hemostats to stem her bleeding before we move her.”

  “Yes, Doctor…ah…”

  “Levin. You need to perform triage and get patients sent to the clinic. We’ll need surgical staff.”

  “They’ve been notified.” He hesitated then said. “You sound like an American. You’re not authorized to perform medical duties.”

  “If anyone asks, we’ll tell them I’m assisting you.”

  EMTs approached providing the clamps Brian needed then consulted with him on a few other patients. He gave instructions to Dr. Ronald on a few more. Heavy rain began. Walnut sized drops. Brian grumbled, “Damn rain must have followed me from Phu Bai.”

  The EMTs secured the injured woman to a stretcher. Brian rechecked her condition then said to the EMT’s.

  “She needs immediate surgery.” He turned and shouted, “Andrea. I’m heading to the hospital with the EMT’s.”

  She nodded and waved.

  They raced to the town’s medical clinic. Rain and thunder accompanied them.

  * * *

  “I’m an anesthesiologist,” an out of breath middle-aged woman said, while Brian changed into scrubs. The old woman was wheeled in as a nurse helped him into a mask, gown and gloves. Brian found the rivet which had pierced the left side of her belly, removed it, and began repairing the damage it had caused.

  “Dr. Levin,” Dr. Ronald called out. “The next patient is in terrible shape.”

  “I need a couple more minutes.”

  “Can you finish closing?” Brian asked the surgical nurse. She nodded. He watched her for a bit then ripped off his gown and gloves, burst into the other surgical theatre. A nurse helped him into a clean gown and gloves.

  “Debris struck his face and sternum,” Dr. Ronald said. “May have injured his heart.”

  Brian checked the monitor for vital signs. As a nurse cleaned dirt and blood off the old man’s battered face, he noted the patient was Andrea’s father. “You need to treat these burns,” he said to Dr. Ronald who complied with the assistance of a nurse.

  “Charles, it’s me, Brian. Don’t try to talk.” He reached for the man’s hand. “Squeeze my hand if you can hear me…excellent. We’re going to put you to sleep and do some repair.” Charles gave Brian’s hand another squeeze. Dr. Levin nodded to the anesthesiologist.

  As they investigated the injuries, Dr. Ronald said in a nervous voice, “These injuries require a vascular specialist.”

  “Fortunately for the patient, a surgeon with that specialty is across the table from you. Secure this, please.”

  “Yes, Dr. Levin.”

  A nurse said, “The patient’s blood pressure is dropping.”

  Brian swore. “Where the hell is all this blood coming…? Shit. His spleen is torn to shreds. It needs to be removed.”

  Young Dr. Ronald appeared panic stricken. “I’ve never…”

  “Not asking you to. You’ll assist.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, on a break but still wearing surgical scrubs and examining a man on a gurney, Doctors Ronald and Levin plus the surgical nurse sipped tea and discussed a surgical plan for the next patient.

  Andrea stormed into the hospital, looked around then made a bee-line for Brian.

  “My father?” she asked.

  “In recovery after a few hours of surgery,” Brian said. “We had to open his chest,” Dr. Ronald said. “Lucky for your father, a surgeon with vascular experience was available.”

  The surgical nurse laughed and said, “He’s a bit short in stature, but with amazing dexterity and, many years’ experience. Typical Yank. He barks at the staff.” She elbowed Brian and giggled. “Must think he’s Ben Casey.”

  “What?” Andrea asked. “Who?”

  A radiologist approached and handed two X-rays to Brian. “Are these the views you were expecting, Dr. Levin?”

  “Perfect,” Brian said while examining them. He turned to Dr. Ronald and the surgical nurse. “Let’s go.”

  Andrea’s voice incredulous, she asked, “Dr. Levin?”

  He winked at her and nodded then disappeared into the operating theatre.

  An hour later, a four-day old infant was brought in and placed on the operating table. Half of her left ear was torn off. She suffered torn ligaments in her ankle and a gash across the little one’s scalp. Brian worked at a rapid, consistent pace. He directed Dr. Ronald and the other staff members who carefully followed his directions. They alternated operating theatres for the next few hours.

  Brian found Andrea sitting in the waiting area, teary-eyed and trembling. She jumped as a flash of lightening was followed by a clap of thunder. The sound rattled the windows and was accompanied by an increase in the torrential rain. High winds whipped litter past the clinic’s windows.

  “Your father,” Brian said, giving her a brief hug, “is stable, but needs to be flown to Adelaide when the weather breaks. You can visit him now. This way.”

  She nodded and followed him.

  Brian reviewed his chart then observed the numbers on the equipment Charles was attached to.

  Andrea sat at her father’s bedside. Appearing tired and worn, Charles turned to Brian, pulled his oxygen mask aside then asked, “So, this is what you’re good at?”

  Brian smiled and shrugged, “Something like that.”

  The old man took a few deep breaths then said, “That there Dr. Ronald said I’d wouldn’t a made it if you wasn’t here. Said I’d have died before they could a moved me to a hospital with an experienced surgeon.” He closed his eyes, grimaced, twisted a few times then relaxed.

  “You in pain?” Brian asked.

  He turned to the doctor. “No. Just stiff. One of the nurses said lots of folks woulda’ died if Andrea hadn’t brought you out.”

  “The entire staff worked well together. It was a team effort. I couldn’t have done what I did without them. You’re headed to a fully equipped hospital.”

  “You and Andrea?”

  “Were an incredible couple for a week.”

  Charles took a few more deep breaths. “My Andrea, deserves someone she can talk with, understands her, at her level.”

  “We’ve discussed our future,” Andrea
said. “We decided we don’t have one.”

  “You need to rest,” Brian said to his patient as he replaced the oxygen mask.

  * * *

  Brian moved to a hallway, talked to an injured man waiting on a gurney. Andrea followed and stood at his side. The minute he turned to her she wrapped her arms around him. “So, Surgeon Levin, you’ve kept a secret from me.”

  “Nothing influencing our relationship.”

  “My father?”

  “Should be fine. You go with him to Adelaide. The docs there will tell you how to take care of him.”

  “You?”

  Brian sighed. “Heading back to the war tomorrow. I’ll fly to Sydney tonight.”

  “Then this is goodbye.”

  He nodded. “Sadly, yes it is.” Brian put his hands on her cheeks and kissed her. “But please know, for six days, I’ve had the honor of loving and being loved by an angel. Thank you, my caring and intelligent, Aussie lady.”

  “Thank you…” She tightened her arms around him for a number of minutes. Andrea cried quietly, her head against his chest, then abruptly pushed away from him. She wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, and, in a tone of disbelief asked, “Before you leave, explain why you’re in infantry when you could be a surgeon, saving lives…why would you do that? Why?”

  “A long story. Briefly, research on the stress of combat.” A nurse approached and interrupted them.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Levin, two people injured in a car accident have arrived. Dr. Ronald is asking for you.”

  He briefly kissed Andrea’s lips. “Goodbye, wind chime lady.”

  Andrea stood there…disbelief and confusion written in her expression. “Thought I knew you…”

  He smiled, turned to leave, hesitated then said over his shoulder, “You know me better than anyone else.” Brian turned to the nurse, “Let’s go.”

  Late the same day, a police constable, hat in hand, met him in the hall way and said, “Want to shake your hand. Whatever future my neighbor’s four-day-old girl has, she owes to you. You gonna be around? A reporter would like to ask a few questions.”

  “No time. Need a ride to Campbell’s ranch for my gear then to the airport.”

  “Honor to drive you, Doctor Levin.”

  * * *

  Back in Sydney and the following morning, Brian met up with a couple platoon buddies who were lined up on rows of folding chairs, waiting to board the jet back to Vietnam.

  “Where have you been?” Paul Slidell asked. “Sheep station.”

  “No shit. Get laid?”

  “Nah,” Brian said. “Damn sheep run too fast.” The buddies laughed.

  “What else you do out there?”

  With a wistful expression, gazing into the distance, Brian replied, “Chopped wood, watched amazing sunsets…and filled my soul with the sound of a wind chime…a five-foot- tall, auburn-haired, wind chime.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Paul chuckled, glanced at the man on the side away from Brian and shrugged, “Oh, well. Back to the war.”

  III

  PART THREE: BACK TO THE WAR

  Chapter 7

  Most of Brian’s platoon worked shirtless on yet another, steamy, humid day. They’d arrived for two weeks security duty at a small mountain whose top had been leveled for artillery and supporting staff. The platoon was working in front of and below bunkers which ringed Fire Support Base Hatchet like a string of olive drab pearls. The ends of the barrels of the 105mm and 155mm cannon, not far above the sandbag covered roof of the bunkers they would live in. The muzzles’ closeness would keep them awake the first few nights but somehow their bodies adjusted and the soldiers managed to sleep through fire missions. The front of the bunker was protected by a wall of sandbags. Each bunker was cut into the side of the hill, had a waist high row of sandbags on either side where soldiers could observe down the hill. The bunker itself contained bunks for four soldiers and wood cases filled with fragmentation grenades and ammo. The area in front of and below the bunkers was clear of brush and trees to a distance of seventy-five meters down the hill but was interrupted by coils of razor wire.

  “Monsoon season in a week or so,” SSgt. Touhy said. “Been through that shit last time I was here. Rains for weeks. Heavy sometimes, light at others, but continuous fucking rain.” He looked at the gathering clouds and shook his head.

  Making those around him laugh, James Ware added, “Something to look forward to.”

  “Make sure the razor wire is tight, second squad,” the staff sergeant said. “Set the flares on a hair edge trigger so any enemy soldier moving the wire will trigger a flare.”

  Third squad was burying fifty-five gallons drums which were filled with napalm; a claymore mine set underneath it. An electrical wire ran from the claymore up to a bunker where the wire was connected to an igniter. When fired, the claymore would flame the napalm and force the burning, plasticized fuel up and out, raining down the hill in a fifty- yard semi-circle. Additional claymore mines were set near the front of the bunkers and their deadly shot aimed down the hill.

  “Why is the napalm called foo gas,” a newbie named Hadley asked.

  “Comes from the name Fougasse which was developed by the Brits in 1940. It consists of a mixture of flaming material with an explosive devicelike a Claymore,” Levin said. “Aside from the heat generated, which can sear lungs, it sticks to and burns anything it touches. Only thing worse is white-phosphorous which burns at a much higher temperature. Willy Pete can melt its way through an engine block and is almost impossible to extinguish.”

  Accompanied by, new platoon leader Lt. Senna, a group of three Red Cross girls walked by the bunker, introduced themselves to the guys. They made small talk with the men, who adored the ladies’ attention.

  “Are your Claymores set up?” Lt. Senna asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Sgt. Levin said. He held up one of the shoe- box-lid sized directional explosives. “Have a few left if another bunker needs more.”

  “What’s inside a Claymore mine?” one of girls asked.

  “C4 plastic explosive with rows of ball bearings across the front so the direction it fires is controllable,” Levin said.

  “Wonder where they got the name Claymore,” Lt. Senna asked.

  “The inventor,” Levin said, “a guy named Zimmerman, named it after a Scottish medieval sword.”

  “Regular encyclopedia aren’t ya?” SSgt. Touhy teased.

  The girls laughed.

  “Read a lot,” embarrassed Levin mumbled.

  The Red Cross girls and the Lt. moved to the next bunker.

  Hadley, the new arrival, was asked to steady a fifty-five-gallon drum, filled with foo gas, as his squad mates set a Claymore into the pit dug for the drum. Deciding he needed a cigarette, he let go of the drum and used two hands to light the tobacco, turned out of the light breeze and away from the drum which then proceeded to roll down the hill, only stopping when it ran into a small growth of bamboo, thirty meters distant.

  Red faced, SSgt. Touhy ran over, put his face an inch from the FNG’s face and bellowed, “Hadley, you stupid shit. If these guys think you’re a fuck up, one of them gonna flatten you.” He shook his head and cursed. “Hell, another dumb stunt like this and I’ll do it myself.”

  Embarrassed Hadley, said, “Sorry Sergeant.”

  “Sgt. Greenleaf,” SSgt. Touhy said to the third squad leader, “Get up to the Arty guys and request a tracked vehicle with a winch to retrieve that drum.”

  The staff sergeant turned back to Hadley, eyed him with disgust. “Shit burning detail until we leave this damn hill.”

  A thoroughly chastised Hadley, staring at his boots and blushing, replied. “Yes, Staff Sergeant.”

  ***

  Just after dinner that day, in the lookout position of their bunker, Arnie, David and Brian scanned the mountains around them. Glassing to the east as the sky dimmed, Sgt. Levin thought he saw a reflection at the same level on a distant mountain side.

  “Probably wood cutters,”
David Trout said.

  “Wood cutters would be out of the mountains by now.

  More like a reflection from binoculars,” Brian said.

  Trout said, “According to SSgt. Touhy, locals are reporting North Vietnamese Army soldiers in the villages below us. Could be prepping to hit this hill.”

  “How many nights in a row have you heard that?” Arnie said dismissively.

  Brian shrugged, “A number. We should be aware anyway.”

  “Arnie take first watch. Then me, then David.”

  Two hours after dark, Arnie was on guard duty next to the bunker. David and Brian were inside reading paperbacks when they all heard the hissing of a burning flare. Arnie’s head spun in the direction of the sound. The flare’s red flame illuminated an enemy soldier who was in the wire watching him not more than ten feet away. He fired at the man with his M16. More flares went off.

  Arnie yelled, “We’re being hit! We’re being hit.”

  The enemy soldiers began yelling and advancing up the hill. An explosive device ripped into the razor wire, attempting to open a path to the bunkers and artillery beyond.

  Brian and David ran out of the bunker and commenced throwing fragmentation grenades down the hill. An RPG slammed into their bunker causing a loud noise, briefly knocking them off their feet, but causing no damage. Sgt. Levin called the command post, “Bunker Seven. Gooks in the wire. Gooks in the wire!”

  “Where?” the command post asked.

  More flares were tripped. Arnie fired an illumination round.

  Levin yelled into the radio handset, “Every fuckin’ where. Looks like the hill below is covered with ants in black pajamas firing AKs. Where’s the fucking arty? I want to hear some of those fucking cluster bombs they brag about.”

  In the background, he could hear the company commander yelling, “Give ‘em hell, God damn it! Give ‘em hell!” Another voice was yelling at Artillery Command. The bunkers on either side of them came alive with gunfire and men throwing grenades down the hill.