by James Dunn
We get to the river in the early afternoon. The squad fans out at the edge. I lay prone at a break in the trees and take my time studying the opposite shore for movement, traps, and possible crossing points.
Recent rains turned the river to muddy brown, but it’s moving at a pretty good clip. I’ve no idea how deep it is. But right here it’s only about thirty or forty feet across, which is a good thing.
So if I were a VC sniper, I’d be sitting in a tree and waiting till the lead guy was across, and he’d signaled the others into the river, then I’d blast the whole squad.
I know the drill, but so does my enemy, so I take extra time and care studying the trees on the opposite bank. Most of the nearby ones are what the guys called monkey trees, weird misshapen trees with sharp pointy branches that make climbing dangerous. The VC use monkey tree branches to make pit-traps on a trail that impale any unsuspecting bastard with the bad luck to fall in. To make it more fun they put some of their own shit on each pointed branch, figuring that a wounded and an infected soldier is better than a dead one.
Just because monkey trees are nasty trees doesn’t guarantee that Charlie won’t scramble up one anyway and set up an ambush. Hell, even the pilot might have managed to hide in one of them.
So I take my time. I watch and listen to the birds and ever-present monkeys until I am convinced that there’s absolutely no danger lurking on the opposite bank. That’s a sign the river’s safe to cross.
But the dense jungles of neighboring Laos, just across that small meadow are an entirely different animal. All of it has the potential to hide an ambush, a flyboy, or both or nothing.
The monkeys and the birds let me know that there’s nothing close enough to scare them, so I take a deep breath and step into the river. The water is warm and muddy, and the bottom is a little bit soft.
A couple of steps and I’m only up to my knees, and so I squat lower. My heart is playing a tattoo rhythm, and I have to consciously force myself to breathe.
The most dangerous part of any patrol is a river crossing because there’s no cover and no way to avoid presenting a first-class target. I hunker down lower, trying to make less of a profile, my shirt soaked up to the middle of my belly.
The heat plus the fear factor bring large drops of sweat to my forehead. Salt is pouring into my eyes and it burns like hell. Sweat drips down my nose and cheeks to drop into the river.
The plopping noise sounds loud enough to wake up even a snoring sniper.
The middle of the river isn’t all that deep, but the fast current worries me. So I shorten my steps and spread my stance to get me finally to the other side.
I glance back for the team, and note that my first visual sweep doesn’t find anyone. McDuff, my second in charge, is great at hide and peek. It takes two sweeps before I finally spot him, with that lieutenant sticking out next to him looking scared shitless. McDuff rolls his eyes and smiles his shit-eating grin, then squints and nearly disappears. Maybe he’s coaching the dumb lieutenant, who is suddenly harder to spot.
I lightly touch my chest, reassuring myself that my small Bible is there. The climb up a slippery muddy slope on the opposite shore takes some time but I manage to stay on my feet long enough to feel the hard ground and ease myself forward into a prone position. I calm my breath as I sweep the area in front.
Has the jungle suddenly gone quiet? I slither up behind a fallen tree branch and check the jungle, looking for anything out of the ordinary.
It’s hot enough that steam rises from my shirtsleeves right in front of my eyes, blurring my vision. The afternoon sun can suck up all moisture in less than a minute.
I force my mind to stay in the present. According to the map, there is one sharp turn in the river around here, so this has got to be the area where the pilot is down.
Can he spot me? Is he afraid to contact me for fear of giving away his position? Is he even around? Shit!
I belly-crawl through the tall grass towards the tree canopy, stopping every couple of feet to sweep the trees with my eyes and my weapon for any sign of company. Former First Sergeant Stevens used to tell me, “This is a war of patience. He who hurries goes home in a body bag.”
After convincing myself that there’s probably no sniper sighting down on me, I crawl ever so slowly the last fifteen feet to the deeper cover of the jungle. Out of breath from holding my breath I rest near a large gnarled tree.
Then I stop my breath and listen again, allowing my eyes to refocus to help me pick up any tiny movements. But I’m worried. It’s not normal to go from normal jungle noises to total silence.
God, I wish I just could stand up and call out for the pilot. Is this sudden silence only because I’m here? Or because I’m not alone?
I crank my head around again back across the river, and spot Miller, McDuff and the guys. Miller raises his eye-brows, and I shrug ever so slightly.
Returning my gaze to the jungle canopy, I search again for any kind of movement, any sudden motion or a darkened shadow that doesn’t belong. I check for broken twigs or bent grass that might signal human presence.
Nothing.
But still I wait. What’s with the sudden silence? It can’t be me.
Something causes my attention to shift to the right, towards the thickest part of the jungle. Was it a sound? A movement? A premonition? Although my eyes dart quickly, my head turns ever so slowly in that direction.
Sergeant Stevens, who taught me all the finer points of patrol, taught that sometimes peripheral vision can see stuff that might be missed by looking directly. Stevens had been always preaching, always teaching, and I owe my life to his lessons.
But all that knowledge didn’t keep him from going home in a body bag.
To be fair, Stevens survived all the patrols just fine. He was in his bunk sleeping off a weekend of drinking when Charlie lobbed a mortar round into the base-camp. Stevens was the only casualty.
Funny, Stevens always bragged that he’d die in his sleep. I guess he just figured he’d be an older guy when it happened.
I sit still as a statue for a few more minutes, dead certain that something isn’t right. Then a distinct “snap” sounds, and I raise my left hand and turn slowly towards Miller.
He is all white eye-balls. Slowly, I make the fingers walking and pointed to my right. He nods and gets on the radio, so I concentrate on the problem of staying alive.
A louder snap right near me stops my breath. Way too close! I start to raise the CAR-15, but decide on less noise and pull my K-bar. This beautiful black knife is for times when the noise of a shot might not be so smart.
I can smell Charlie now! A potent mixture of garlic and sweat tells me that this isn’t a Navy pilot. I slowly release my breath, and still my mind.
From out of the deep shadows a small boy, probably not even yet fourteen appears. He is so close, I’m thinking he’ll step on me, but his eyes are focused on the distant bank of the river.
So I let him glide past me. Then I rise up right behind him. I grab his mouth with my left hand. At the same instant I jam that long black blade up underneath his ribs from the back, sawing viciously up and down, left and right. Blood gushes out of his back, soaking my knife, my hand, and most of my arm.
I feel him shudder.He’s trying like hell to scream, but my hand’s tight on his mouth so all that happens is a muffled grunt. I catch him as his legs turn to rubber and aim him off the trail and into deeper underbrush.
He shits his black pants just as his torso reaches the ground. It’s a good, clean kill…except for the huge pool of blood and the shit-stench. Can’t do it without the blood, and they always shit their pants. Still, it was way better than a gunshot.
Ah well, so much for avoiding contact with the enemy.
I jerk the K-bar from his back and wipe it on his pant leg. Hearing more sounds off to the right, I look; check the position of the body. Not good!
Grabbing his black pajamas, I lift and fling him deeper into the jungle. He‘s only maybe seven
ty pounds, and goes further than I thought, making a crashing noise that seems loud enough to get a whole regiment’s attention.
“Damn!” I whisper, as I slink back into the shadows of heavy greenery. I know I’m supposed to search the body. But not now! More sounds!
I freeze about two meters off the path and in the foliage just as an entire column of VC appears. It’s not the best cover ever, but it’s what I got.
I slow my breath and avert my eyes from looking directly at a column of grim soldiers marching single file. Each one has a weapon in the ready position. What’s odd is only one or two of them have backpacks. They walk right past me with their eyes glued to the far bank of the river. Silently I count them as they pad past.
I quit counting at thirty, knowing this is not going to be my best day. Luckily, the jungle smells so much of rotting life that nobody notices the shit smell from the point man.
They make almost no sound as they move past me, going fast like they have a lot of ground to cover. There’s no talk, no heavy breathing either. They don’t even pause at the water, but slog across exactly toward the place where Miller and the others are or were. I sure hope the guys have vacated their positions, but I’ve got too much on my plate to even dare a look.
I inch the barrel of my CAR-15 upwards and train it on the column. If it’s my day to die, I’m not going there alone.
I’m almost ready to pull the trigger when a coughing noise makes my head snap back in the direction of the enemy.
About 30 feet down the trail a really tall guy in light brown khakis and a pith helmet who is standing and having a smoke. The guy next to him must be a non-smoker because he’s hacking into his hand. And at least fifteen guys in black pajamas have stopped beside him. All the rest are lighting up.
I swallow loudly. This is starting to look like a lot more than a company. Maybe it’s the beginnings of a whole battalion coming through. That ignorant CO said there might be a couple of squads looking for the pilot.
The tall guy in khakis has his weapon resting in the crook of his arm. He looks more Chinese than Vietnamese, maybe one of the “advisors” we’re always hearing about. I hope Miller’s called in his artillery strike, even though it’ll be ARVN and not American guns these days.
Now the khaki guy’s nostrils are starting to flair in and out like maybe he’s smelling the shit. His eyes narrow now and he starts searching the close terrain. If he sees me, I’ve got to swing the barrel around back at him, and all he has to do is raise his weapon. I’m thinking I’m going to lose this one.
And if he sounds an alarm, all hell’s going to break loose! Better to just get the hell out of here! I edge backwards, trying to disappear.
A millisecond of a high-pitched scream is all the warning that comes before a monstrous explosion hits right in front of the khaki guy. Shit, any closer and I’d be dead.
So I pull the trigger and the bullets sweep the column in the water from the opposite bank. I’m dragging the barrel to my right to get the ones in the river, and then there is only one remaining on this side. The bam-bam of the weapon lasts just a few seconds, but time seems to slow down to almost nothing as I watch my rounds hitting chests and necks and backs and legs. Each shell pops out blood, and each enemy drops in the water. The river turns from clear to red in front of me. For some strange reason I’m deciding I’ll get a drink, up-stream later on.
The last VC has not yet entered the river, and turns back in my direction. I see clearly the smaller size, long hair, and face of a girl, and watch as bullets from my weapon strike her ankle and spin her around. Yet another shell hits her right thigh and still one more, still higher slams into her right shoulder.
A huge, blinding, brilliant-flash of light, a powerful percussive slam, and I’m going airborne. I fly high towards the river like a kite in a windstorm, directly into one of those damned monkey trees.
I watch in a detached slo-mo way as the tree gets closer and closer. I hear a prolonged scream, and I know my mouth is open. But that better not be me!
By the grace of God, the branches soften my flight and slam me into the trunk of the tree.
I have willed myself to turn away, thinking that if I don’t see that damn tree it won’t hurt as much. My weapon slips from my grip. I lurch to grab for it but miss, and watch as it cartwheels away in graceful slow motion.
I slam into the tree back first, knocking the wind out of me. I gasp, and gasp, and bite the air until finally I’m able to pull gulps of air into my lungs. I must be seven or eight feet up in the damned tree.
I look down to my mid-section and see a tree branch sticking through my lower left belly. I try to wriggle free, but stop instead to stare at the piece of clean white wood sticking out of the left side about six inches. If it went through my belly, why isn’t it all covered in blood? No sooner is that thought finished and I see that little droplets of blood are starting to ooze around the branch. My eyes follow the blood as first it stains my shirt, then my pants, and finally falls to the floor of the jungle, making an occasional plopping noise in the sudden silence.
I open my mouth and watch a bloody bubble form. Still focused on the branch sticking out of my belly, the bubble pops as I whisper, “I could be in really big trouble.”
And then the artillery comes again. One slams right into the middle of the river, causing a huge plume of muddy, bloody water and flying body parts. The second, third and fourth rounds land on the opposite shore, receding backwards from the riverbank and away from me.
Below me it’s mayhem on cue, with men on the other side of the river yelling, weapons firing, and smoke, fire, and debris. And then as quick as it started, it’s all over.
Darkness comes fast in the jungle. Jungles don’t give a damn about loud explosions or noisy weapons or even dying soldiers. They just carry on being jungles.
And so I watch as the birds come back, and then a few monkeys show up. Soon enough huge black rats scurry out of somewhere and study the scene. They’re curious at first, but grow bold and ravenous. Human flesh must be their version of a top sirloin steak.
Big plumes of black smoke, huge craters and two small fires are all that’s left to mark a spot on some insignificant plot of land in Southeast Asia where opposing warriors have played out their deadly little game.
I smile at the irony of it all and feel my consciousness slipping away. My memory flips back to a day in my senior year of high-school. I remember my favorite high-school teacher asking the class; “If a tree falls in the forest, and nobody hears it, did it really happen?”
Chapter 2
I went still closer to see if it was the pilot, I must have been very sleepy, because I couldn't keep my eyes open. I remember thinking that the idea that we see our life pass before us before we die was either wrong, or I wasn't yet to that point. So I drew in a deep breath, and relaxed as much as a guy can when he's got a tree branch sticking out his middle. Interesting enough, it didn't really hurt that much. But as a soldier, I had long learned that a chance to sleep is not to be ignored. I decided that being pinned in a tree afforded some safety, and besides I couldn't move, so I might as well relax. I was asleep in an instant.
A soft breeze woke me up in the middle of the night. The dark sky was filled with stars, and a big white moon was playing peek-a-boo with the horizon of trees. I watched it rise so slowly until it cleared the canopy and bathed the river in an eerie bluish light, enough light so that I could make out the shapes of the bodies in the scene below my tree.
After every patrol, a squad leader has to make a report to the company commander. With the moon full like it is, and plenty of light, it would actually be safer to do the body count now.
I wondered if any of the squad had survived. I hoped they had the sense to make a hasty retreat before the artillery hit, but knew Miller would have been reluctant to leave me on the other side of the river. He knew the procedures, and the rules called for him to save any part of the squad he could, even if it meant leaving me.
I glanced again at the tree branch sticking out of my middle and tried to move. I could move my hands and neck and head, but my feet just hung there. My body didn't seem to have any feeling. Too bad, I thought. I really wanted to get the body count out of the way while I still had the light of the moon.
Almost as soon as that thought had completely formed, I felt myself floating across the river. I was approaching the lifeless forms along the river, and floated closer to see if any of them were my squad.
The body of a young VC man caught my attention. He was flat on his back, his eyes looking towards the stars, his mouth wide open. There were five wounds in a well-spaced pattern across his chest and shoulder. I moved past him to the other shore. More VC, and more death. Black rats were busy stripping chunks of flesh from them. I jerked my hand as if to hit one of the rats, but he didn't notice me or scurry away.
I floated away, drawn to the left by a huge crater and a charred tree stump that still smoldered. Moving closer, I found the lifeless body of Miller, and next to him the Lieutenant. Both looked like they had tried to move around in the crater to get more comfortable. About ten feet farther along was the top half of McDuff, also with an open mouth and eyes staring off into the night.
I reached out to close his eyes and was startled to see my hand pass right through him. I tried again, but again my hand and his face couldn’t make contact. I held my breath and eased closer, feeling the distance closing. But still there was no contact, no feeling at all as my finger seemed to go right inside his skull. What the hell? I jerked my hand away and tried to mentally process this. Nothing came to mind.
I had to get an accurate count of the dead and wounded. My Company Commander was adamant about these things. So I recounted the dead for our side and theirs. Nothing had changed.
But it would be a heavy-duty report. Five confirmed Americans and thirteen enemy KIA’s.
