Into No Man's Land

by Ellen Emerson White

  “Patrick,” someone said.

  It had been so long since I’d heard my first name that it seemed unfamiliar.

  “Patrick,” Bebop said again. “We have to move him, okay?”

  We had to move him. Okay. So I helped move him, helped put him in a body bag, and helped lift him into the medevac which flew up from Charlie Med a while later. No one said a word as we watched the chopper lift off.

  The skipper asked me if I needed some time, and I said, no, sir. So he put me and Bebop on a detail filling sandbags to build up the protective wall around one of the howitzers. It was probably a good idea, since neither of us felt like going back near our bunker yet. Doc told us we both needed stitches for some of the cuts we’d gotten from the concertina wire, but we kept filling sandbags. Didn’t talk. Didn’t look at each other. Just kept digging.

  I never saw anyone die before. I hope like hell I never do again.

  Hollywood was a great guy.

  January 11, 1968

  When resupply came in this morning, Doc — and the LT — ordered me and Bebop to get on and fly down to Charlie Med, which is what we call the battalion medical aid station on the main base. There didn’t seem to be much point in arguing, so we climbed aboard, along with a guy from the artillery battery who’d been running a really high fever and shaking all night.

  No one’s exactly sure what happened to Hollywood, but they think he must have hit an old mortar round left over from the Hill Fights. The blast hole had been so big that he couldn’t just have dropped a grenade or something by accident. The round had probably been a dud that landed in the mud and had gotten buried just deep enough for us not to know it was there. During monsoons and everything, it would have sunk in even farther. Then, when Hollywood hit it with his shovel, the freakin’ thing detonated.

  Can’t get too much more random than that. Makes the whole thing seem even worse. If that’s possible.

  We got to Charlie Med during base sick call. The guy with the fever was in pretty bad shape, so they took him first. Bebop and I didn’t much feel like talking to anyone — we haven’t been talking at all since yesterday — so, we sat off by ourselves. The other Marines were wearing helmets and flak jackets the same way we were, but they looked different. For one thing, they were a lot cleaner. I looked at Bebop, and realized we weren’t a black guy and a white guy — we were two red guys.

  After a while, a guy sat next to us who had hurt his ankle playing Frisbee. It actually looked like it might be broken, and probably hurt a lot, but Frisbee?

  “Y’all come down from the hills?” he asked, with this real heavy Southern accent.

  Made us sound like wild animals. I just shrugged, and Bebop said “unh-hunh,” in this flat, mean voice.

  The guy was a Marine, though, so he didn’t scare off quite that easy. “What’s it like out there?” he wanted to know.

  Bebop and I looked at each other. New guy. Definitely a new guy. And we were both too mad at the world right now to be nice to him.

  “We love it,” Bebop said.

  “Can’t get enough,” I said.

  The guy finally figured out that maybe he ought to leave us alone, and he limped off to sit somewhere else.

  I felt a little guilty — but not much.

  In the ER, they shot us up with a bunch of penicillin and we both ended up with about twenty-five stitches, each. The worst cut I had was this gash on my calf, although I had a pretty deep one on my left palm, too. Bebop had a bad slice on his arm, and they stitched up one on his cheekbone, too. The smaller cuts we had, they just cleaned up and taped or bandaged, depending on the size. They said we could probably take a couple of days back in the rear at Dong Ha, if we wanted, but we just shook our heads. They all seemed to think we were crazy to say no, but who cares? They didn’t watch their buddy go home in a bag yesterday.

  Then we couldn’t find a ride back to 881S. It was getting late in the day, and nobody seemed too interested in two grunts who wanted to get back to their lonely little unit in the hills. We waited around the airstrip for a while, then finally gave up and went back to the aid station.

  Things were pretty quiet at Charlie Med, since sick call was over, and one of the corpsmen managed to find us a couple of clean T-shirts to put on under our filthy jungle jackets, and some fatigue pants which weren’t exactly clean, but were in better shape than the ones we had on. We were also each given a bottle of antibiotics to take for the next week, so that the cuts will be less likely to get infected. Or, anyway, not as badly infected.

  There was a chaplain just coming out of the sick bay, and when the corpsman told him we were stuck here overnight, he found us a couple of empty racks in a tent near the airstrip. I think most of the guys who lived there worked in helicopter maintenance. The chaplain also made sure we had a couple of canteens and some C rations. Before he left, he asked us if there was anything we wanted to talk about. We said no, but we were polite about it, since he was a chaplain and all. He’d also been really nice to help us out.

  It was a lot more noisy on the main base than we were used to on the hill, because there were so many different kinds of outgoing artillery firing missions constantly. Just about everyone seemed to have a radio or a tape player, too. Some of the guys on 881S have radios, but the reception kind of comes in and out, and the batteries don’t last too long. Down here on the base, a lot of places even have electricity. Whole other world. Summer camp.

  Bebop asked around to see if anyone anywhere had a jazz tape he could listen to, but all people seemed to have was country and rock and roll. So, since we were really tired, we went back to the maintenance tent to get some sleep.

  I was just dozing off, when I heard some guys talking about the Super Bowl. Green Bay is going to be play-ing the Oakland Raiders. Oakland has a solid team, but Bart Starr and the Packers should roll right over them. In my opinion, anyway.

  When I remembered that I still had a bunch of football articles from my father in my shirt pocket, I got an idea. I asked if anyone was interested in some articles from the States about the end of the season and the play-offs. They all were, and I was able to swap the whole stack for an extra T-shirt to bring back to the Professor, a carton of cigarettes for the rest of the squad, and — best of all — two cans of Schlitz beer. So what if they were warm?

  “That was pretty good, Patrick,” Bebop said, sipping his beer. “First class scrounging.”

  I nodded, also sipping. I was going to take it slow, and make the beer last for an hour, if I could.

  Might be a long time before either of us gets another one.

  January 12, 1968

  In the morning, the whole base was fogged in, so there were no flights going in or out. The fog didn’t burn off until early afternoon. We finally ended up on a chopper with some cases of C rations, an overstuffed red mailbag, a resupply of M60 ammo and 81mm mortar rounds, and a guy from second platoon who was on his way back from R&R. I only knew him by sight, but that didn’t stop him from showing us some — well, pretty personal — pictures of the new lady friends he’d made in Taipei.

  Bebop and I didn’t mind at all.

  When we got back to the hill, there was some new guy sitting outside our bunker, eating a can of C rat turkey loaf.

  “Who’s the newby?” Bebop asked, when we gave the Professor his T-shirt.

  The Professor had already torn his old T-shirt off and was putting on the new one. “Name’s Perez. Doesn’t speak much English, but he seems okay.”

  The Mean Green Machine sure hadn’t waited too long to send a replacement. Out with the old, in with the new. Just makes you feel warm all over.

  Gunny Sampson was handing out our platoon’s mail, and when he pulled out a pink envelope, we all knew whose letter it was. He frowned and started to tuck the letter into one of his cargo pockets. Shadow asked if we could have them,
instead, since his family had probably already heard, but they might not know how many girls he was courting through the mail. This way, we — well, probably the Professor — could write nice letters back to each of them. Otherwise, they’d probably find out when their letters came back stamped “KIA.” Killed in action. Or, in this case, killed by a completely stupid fluke.

  So Gunny Sampson gave us all of the letters from girls, while Lieutenant Fanelli took the three from his family. He and the skipper were both going to have some tough condolence letters to write, too.

  Hollywood’s real name was Steve, and looking at the return address on one of the letters, I found out that he was from a little town in Oregon.

  And, like I said before, he was a great guy.

  January 16, 1968

  Things are heating up. Every day, we’re seeing more of our planes doing bombing missions out in the moun-tains. Sometimes they fly so low they’re actually below the top of our hill. Hope they’re actually aiming at something, and not just firing at random. Fly-Boys with Really Big Toys. We’ve also had a bunch of recon guys chopper up from the main base every couple of days, and then run intelligence-gathering patrols from here. A couple of reporters have even shown up, to take pictures and everything.

  We went on patrol again today. If nothing else, all this humping with 75–80 pounds on your back is a serious workout. Sometimes my back and shoulders ache so much afterward that I feel about sixty years old. The salts say we do a lot more climbing out here, but at least it’s not as hot as it is near the coast. I still think it’s pretty hot, especially on the valley floors, underneath all that jungle growth. One of the other platoons found a bunch of footprints and fighting holes yesterday, but we struck out again. Just another walk in the woods.

  Fox was able to rig up an antenna to a transistor radio, so we could pick up some of the Super Bowl. There was a special broadcast on AFVN Radio for “the American fighting man.” Green Bay won big over the Raiders. Listening to football made me really homesick.

  I wish I’d gotten a scholarship to Notre Dame. If I had, I would have gone there, instead of joining up. But I guess being one of the best players in the Boston public high schools doesn’t quite cut it there. I could have applied, and maybe tried to make the team as a walk-on, but — I don’t know. Figured my odds weren’t too good. I probably should have gone ahead to Boston College. Practically in my backyard, lots of people I know go there, a great football team. And with me being a local guy, they knew about me and were definitely interested. Syracuse would have been okay. Penn State, too. Even if I had to start off being second-string. And at places like Holy Cross and Trinity and Assumption, I would have been a star player. But, for some reason, I had my fool heart set on Notre Dame.

  What an idiot.

  Smedley wanted to go to Texas or Texas A&M, but when the coaches worked him out, they said he was too slow to play at that level. So, he decided to be a Marine, instead.

  We’re both idiots.

  January 18, 1968

  Today, we went out on another patrol near 881N, and one of the recon teams tagged along with us. They peeled off when we got about two-thirds of the way out there, to do whatever it is recon guys do. In the meantime, we finished our sweep of the area and headed back to the hill.

  Didn’t see anything. Didn’t hear anything. Didn’t run into anyone. Which was all just fine with me.

  But then, the recon team radioed the CP to say that they were in trouble. I guess they hit an ambush, because most of them were wounded, and two guys got killed. None of us were surprised when Lieutenant Fanelli volunteered our platoon to go back out and get them. We were going to have to move fast, so orders were to leave everything but our weapons and ammunition behind. No packs, no food, no flak jackets. LT told us to bring a couple of canteens each, but any other extra weight was just going to slow us down. Most of the platoon wore boonie hats, instead of helmets, too. I don’t have a boonie hat, so I stuck on my Red Sox cap. Gunny Sampson gave me a look, but he didn’t say anything about it.

  Then, we headed out, fast. In fact, we flat out ran. That steady, even pace I remember from boot camp. We’ve been patrolling so often during the last few weeks, that we’re all in really good shape. We’ve also spent enough time around 881N to know where we’re going out there. The jungle slowed us down more than once, but we made pretty good time. Whenever we could, we ran through streams or down trails — it was much faster that way.

  Fox was monitoring the company and platoon radio frequencies, and I was close enough to be able to hear a lot of the conversation. The recon guys sounded like they were really having a tough time.

  We expected to run into the middle of a battle, but the NVA had already withdrawn by the time we found the patrol. Lieutenant Fanelli checked his map to find a decent-sized landing zone, so he could call in a medevac. Most of them were too badly hurt to walk, and the bigger guys in the platoon teamed up to carry them.

  Rotgut and I went over to a huge guy who was all shot-up and lifted him in a sort of fireman’s carry.

  “You done this before?” Rotgut asked suspiciously.

  Even a crisis, the guy never let down. I told him my father was a captain in the Boston Fire Department. He actually seemed to like that answer, and we carried the guy without any more conversation. The recon guy was half-unconscious, so he wasn’t talking, either.

  Once we got to the LZ, we let the corpsmen handle the casualties. The rest of us formed a defensive perimeter to try and secure the area. My adrenaline was really pumping, because I expected half the NVA to walk up on us any second. Shadow came darting by to remind everyone in the squad to drink some water, so we wouldn’t pass out. I sucked down a whole canteen in about thirty seconds.

  I felt as though it took hours for the medevacs to show up, but it was probably more like twenty minutes. We sent out the most seriously injured recon members first, and then another chopper came in for the two KIAs. The recon guys who were “walking wounded” were going to come back to the hill with us to report in to the CO.

  It was another super-fast hump through the jungle to get back to 881S before dark. I noticed that both Pugsley and Perez were keeping up with the rest of us, so from now on, they probably aren’t going to be considered new guys.

  The last twenty-four hundred feet — the climb up the hill — were the worst I ever remember. We were all breathing hard and perspiring so much that it looked as though we’d been out in the pouring rain. Man, after a day like today, I’ll never complain about two-a-day summer football practices again.

  Once we got through the main gate, a few guys dropped right in their tracks and some of the others bent over and started throwing up. The rest of us kept putting one foot after the other until we made it to our bunkers. Then, we fell down. Or threw up.

  “That was . . . a day,” Bebop said, panting.

  “That was a day and a half,” I said.

  The skipper came by later and thanked each of us in the platoon individually, which I thought was cool. Said we were damn fine Marines, and he was proud to be our commander.

  Didn’t make us any less tired — but it was still cool.

  January 19, 1968

  Word is, the recon guys left a radio out there yesterday — and a bunch of code sheets. Since recon usually acts like they’re much better Marines than us poor old grunts, there was a lot of bitching about having to go out and clean up after them. At least one of the other platoons got the assignment this time. It doesn’t bother me that they dropped the radio — hey, people were shooting at them — but how hard is it to jam a few code sheets into your pocket?

  While they were out there looking, 1st Platoon ran into an ambush. We were all ready to saddle up and go after them, but I think 2nd Platoon would have gotten the call, instead. 1st Platoon was able to make it back on their own, though. Our arty (artillery) and mortars guys were firing
like crazy the whole time — artillery rounds from our 105mm howitzer guns, and 60mm and 81mm mortar rounds — sending supporting fire out there for them.

  When it was all over, there were a few WIAs, and one guy — a machine gunner — got killed. I guess he was laying down cover fire, so the rest of the platoon could pull out safely. I didn’t really know him, but I still feel terrible about it. He was definitely a hero to do that.

  This war is getting scary.

  January 20, 1968

  It’s 0430, and we’re pulling out soon. The skipper is sending the whole company out, including the 60mm mortar guys, to find — and eliminate — the NVA who have been around 881N for the last couple of days. Since we can’t leave the hill undefended, two platoons from Hotel Company were choppered up here. They’ll cover our positions, while we’re out in the field.

  We’re going to move out while it’s still dark, try to get a jump on them. Everybody’s packing as much ammo as they can carry. Most of us even have LAWs — light anti-tank assault weapons. The terrain’s too rough for tanks, but we can use the LAWs to take out bunkers. If we need them. Grenades, bandoliers filled with magazines for our M16s (except for the guys who are still carrying M14s), extra belts of M60 ammo for the machine guns, bayonets, KA-BAR knives, even a shotgun or two. But, it doesn’t feel like Boys with Toys this time — it feels like Men with Weapons. Nervous men, but men. If they want to take us on, we’ll be ready. I hope.

  Last night, I wrote letters to everyone in my family, just in case.

  I have a bad feeling about this one.

  January 22, 1968

  For the first time, I think I really understand that I’m in a war. A bad war.

  I don’t know where to start, so I guess I’ll just try to go in order: