If I were NVA, Brooks thought, I’d set up ambush on both sides of the saddle on the crest of the ridge. They know where we’re going. They’re going to be there. The trail steepened. Almost straight down. Like descending uneven crooked steps blindfolded with no handrail and with a hundred pounds of equipment on his back and in his hands. The draw would be at the bottom of the stairs. Down. Slowly. Down. Quietly. Brooks could hear Egan behind him. Almost imperceptible but there. A mosquito buzzed at his ear, sniffed the repellent and departed. Egan was perhaps three feet back. El Paso an additional three feet and then the gun team from 3d Sqd of Beaford and Smith—a total of ten. Brooks paused. Listened. Looked up. Either the clouds were thinning and the moonlight increasing or first light was lightening the sky. It was still black below the canopy. In another step he would be in the draw.
Behind the gun team was Cherry. Beaford carried the 60, Smith was AG. Cherry kept his left hand in constant touch with Smith’s rucksack. He was like a newly blinded man being tortured. But he was trying. He tried harder than he had ever tried at anything in his life. Behind Cherry, Polanski was sporadically touching Cherry’s ruck for guidance and from there back the 1st Pit descended like one continuous chain, each soldier linked to the soldier before him, forced to place complete trust in touch and in the accuracy of the touch of the men before him. Smith turned to Cherry, found his outstretched hand and pressured it down, signaling him to sit. Cherry turned and pressured Polanski to sit and up the column the signal was passed and the column halted.
Brooks was absolutely still. Behind him Egan froze. They waited. Brooks sniffed the air, opened his mouth to taste the air. Imperceptibly he inched one pace forward into the draw. He knelt. He touched the ground with his left hand. It was smooth and packed. He duck-walked across the draw keeping his left hand on the ground. It was level and smooth and packed for six or seven feet. At the other side the narrow trail snaked up the next ridge. Brooks searched the sides. Packed. He could feel ridges in the earth from thin wheels. He returned to where Egan waited motionless at the base of the descent. “Red ball,” Brooks whispered. Egan nodded. The draw contained an intersecting high-speed trail which rose from the valley to the north and fell toward the valley to the south. Brooks motioned for the column to come forward.
As each man reached the red ball in the draw Brooks directed him into position. Beaford and Smith moved to the right flank along with the 2d Sqd, the M-60 machine gun team of Marko and Brunak to the left along with the 1st Sqd, Whiteboy and Hill straight ahead with the 3rd Sqd on line about them. With the twenty-seven men of the 1st Plt in place in line surrounding the base of the peak with the bunker complex Brooks ordered a pause. The pause gave 2d Plt time to move down and spread out behind 1st, and 3d Plt time to move down and spread out on the side of 848 thus being in position to cover a retreat if necessary.
The sweep up the peak west of Hill 848 was tactically perfect. It could have come straight out of an infantry manual. “Stay off the trail,” Brooks directed Whiteboy. “If they’re going to booby-trap us, it’ll be on the trail.” At first light 1st Plt moved out.
Step. Step. Climbing now. Climbing slowly. Climbing through the thick brush. The men in front waiting for the men with more difficult climbs. Staying in line. No sign of the enemy. Waiting for the first shot. Not even feeling their thighs twitching from the weight and the exertion of the climb. Not seeing, feeling the black before them. The sky became lighter, the floor remained dark. Not thinking. Like men with brains removed. No judgment. Just up. Step. Step. In line. Weapons on full automatic, aimed forward. Step. Not stopping. Step. Cherry could feel his biceps quivering. His back aching. Step. Step. Coming out of his rucksack and bending forward over his shoulder was his radio’s antenna looking like a thin bamboo shoot. It caught in the vegetation. His ruck was caught by a vine. He frantically worked to extricate himself as the line advanced without him. Step. Step. Light now penetrated through the jungle ceiling down to them. Up. Step. Step. Toward the hilltop the canopy became thinner. Step. Step. The slope became more gentle. They surrounded the eastern side of the peak. Up, onto, over the top. Nothing. No one.
“Search this motherfucken hill,” Thomaston cussed. “We gotta find something.”
1st Plt formed a perimeter about the north end of the peak, dropped their rucks, removed helmets or hats and passed canteens of water around. They now lit cigarettes and smoked without caution. Thomaston directed 1st Sqd to remain on perimeter defense and 2d and 3d to sweep the top and north and northwest slopes. 2d Plt came up in column, dropped their rucks, smoked and moved off to sweep the south and west faces. Everything was quiet except for the occasional whisper, “Mothafuck this shit.”
Cherry sat with 1st Sqd. Egan and Thomaston went to the company CP to discuss the situation with the group about Brooks. Silvers had his journal out and was writing. He looked up at Cherry and said, “This valley is more beautiful than I thought.”
Cherry looked out from the hill. He had not noticed that it was possible to see the valley. He had been looking at the ground so hard and was now so tired from the climb that he had not looked up and did not even realize day had fully arrived. “Wow!” Cherry said softly.
Silvers’ hazel eyes bulged over his protruding cheekbones. “It’s like a miniature A Shau,” he said.
“It looks like the upper end of the Connecticut River Valley,” Cherry said.
“Yeah.”
Brunak turned toward them. He also had been staring at the valley. “There’s good farmland there,” he said.
They all looked into the valley. The white clouds that had persisted all day yesterday and filled the valley to the mid-level of the surrounding ridges in late afternoon had diminished considerably. Below them, the mountain wall fell to a series of rounded foothills. Across the valley, below the far mountainous ridge, the land seemed smoother. The valley center and the river were still fogged in and the mist spread into the troughs between the foothills. In a few locations the fog seemed to split without reason. There they could see what appeared to be a flat valley floor covered with lush green grass. In the center of the valley, rising out of the cloud, was a small brush-covered knoll with the immense tree rising hundreds of feet.
“Ya know,” Silvers said, “I can’t help but think of a bunch of peaceful villages down there. Small little towns with Scandinavian architecture, except in bamboo. Little farms. Little stores.”
“Yeah,” Cherry said. “I was thinking the same kind a thing. I can see where I’d put the roads.”
“Yeah,” Silvers said enthusiastically, “and right down there, a 72-hole golf course.”
Silvers returned to his journal. Brunak and Jax were just beyond the squad leader. Cherry stared at Silvers, whose clothes were covered with dry orange clay. He already needed a shave. His hair was disheveled. He looked like a mad professor.
“What are you writing today?” Cherry asked quietly, keeping his voice only between the two of them.
“About boots,” Silvers said.
“About boots?”
“Yeah, here. See?” He handed Cherry his journal. Cherry read:
‘The laces on jungle boots are thick black cords which are easily tied and untied in square knots. The laces are seven or eight feet long and can be used to hold almost anything together or to make a tent with a poncho.’
Cherry looked up suspiciously. “Oh,” he said.
“That’s just an exercise,” Silvers said quickly, justifying himself. “I try to write at least two pages every day. So I don’t … get rusty.”
“I see,” Cherry said quizzically. He handed back the journal. “Rusty from what?”
“From not writing.” Silvers paused. The explanation was not enough. “Every time you write something you live a little bit longer,” he said. “When you’re dead you’re still alive. If it’s good, and it’s only good if you practice, but if it’s good you maybe live for six months more or maybe a year. Heck, if it’s great … well, like Shakespeare. He died a
couple a hundred years ago and he’s still alive. If you can write something great you can live for thousands of years. Look at Homer.”
“Maybe,” Jax called over laughing, “he jest had a good agent.”
“What are you going to write about next?” Cherry asked ignoring Jackson.
“Fatigues.”
“Fatigues?”
“Yeah. Did you ever take a good look at em?”
“Yeah.”
“What do you see?”
“Green.”
“No. I mean, what? You’ve got to describe it.”
“Like how?”
“You just put one word after the other. If you put one word after another long enough you’ve written a letter. Or a story. Look,” Silvers’ voice was rising, “let’s do a description of the cloth of your fatigues.”
“Ya know, Leon,” Jax called again, “I a’ways know yo was a man a the cloth. Aint that so Cherry? We kin call him Mista Preacherman. The Preacher Mista Silvers.”
“Hey Preacherman,” Cherry joined the joke, “tell us about the Cloth.”
“This,” Silvers said holding up his sleeve, “is miracle fabric. These fatigues are made and designed …”
Suddenly outside the perimeter there was commotion. Polanski of 2d Sqd burst from the brush and rushed by shouting, “There’s beaucoup shit down there.” In his hands he had two mortar rounds. Smith emerged a second later with an entire arm load of 82mm mortar rounds stacked like firewood. All around men began finding things. Silvers, Cherry, Jax, all the guards clustered to examine the find then immediately spread back out on guard again. 2d Sqd brought up a total of twenty-seven mortar rounds they had found in a foxhole. Lairds from 1st Sqd found a letter written in Vietnamese in a plastic bag. He brought it to Minh for translation. Unfinished foxholes and bunkers were found on the north and west sides of the peak. A festive air of discovery erupted amongst the boonierats. Trenches were discovered connecting the bunkers into a complex. Fresh footprints were all over the soft mud in the trenches. Buried in the brush, concealed until fallen into, the North Vietnamese had constructed lean-tos of palm fronds.
Cherry went up to the CP. Minh was studying the letter Lairds had found. On the far side 2d Plt discovered a completed bunker complex. “This,” Minh smiled, “is a letter from an NVA honcho. It is very beautifully written, like poetry. He writes to his mother about his coming death.”
“Rufus,” Lt. De Barti called immediately upon arriving at the CP. He was winded. He had run back up the hill. “Rufus, there’re fifty bunkers down there. You gotta come down and see this. There’s one bunker down there five feet from where they bombed yesterday, an I swear that fucker didn’t cave in.”
“Spread out,” Thomaston yelled at the men on the peak. “Squad leaders, spread your men out. 2d Sqd, back down there. 1st, back off on the east. Now spread out. I don’t want everybody clumping back up here. 3d, down that side.”
“We got another eighty-two mike-mike over here,” Hill called up to the peak.
“Hey! We got us another gook,” Numbnuts yelled.
“Gawd A’might Sweet Jesus,” Whiteboy clucked from next to Numbnuts. He bent over and grabbed the corpse. Egan and Thomaston trotted down and joined the cluster forming about the body. Cherry followed them down. “Okay,” Thomaston snarled happily, “break it up. One round’d get ya all.”
There were clusters of activity all over the hill. Back up on top, Moneski, squad leader 2d Sqd, brought in a badly shattered typewriter, and Murphy and Hall carried in a mimeograph machine. The soldiers still on top gathered close to inspect the strange type with the tonal marks above and below the various letters. The serial tag on the mimeograph machine was written in French. “Hey,” Doc chuckled, “looks like we got their PIO. Where’s Lamonte?”
“Aint that what you call an underground press?” El Paso laughed.
Letters and papers and stacks of office equipment were brought up. Minh translated a second letter. “This is a good letter to find,” he told Brooks. “This one is from a private. He is writing to a friend. He complains his fellow soldiers steal his chocolate. He says they have run out of chocolate.”
From the far side where 2d Plt had found the bunker complex came the sounds of chopping and slashing as boonierats set to work destroying the bunkers with machetes and entrenching tools. Half the bunkers were rooms dug deeply into the earth. The typical overhead cover consisted of two layers of logs and four layers of sandbags then a layer of dirt and finally brush for camouflage. Tunnels ran between the largest bunkers and trenches camouflaged with brush led from the bunkers up and down hill to gun positions.
“Am I glad we din’t run inta gooks heah,” Pop Randalph chuckled. “Dang! Ten gooks coulda held off an entire company. Ya couldn’t force em out less ya was right atop em.”
At 1st Plt the body of the dead NVA soldier was being stripped. Whiteboy had pulled the body from its upside-down position in the midst of broken trees. The soldier had been wearing short pants and a light shirtjacket. He had been without shoes. Apparently he had been destroyed the previous day by mini-gun fire. Rounds had struck the soldier’s head and shoulders and legs. The bones of his legs had been shattered and one arm was missing. The skin of his body appeared mashed and every blood vessel broken. Much of the body was covered by dried black blood. Where blood had not splattered to blot out the skin, the ruptured innards caused the skin to look like clear cellophane stretched over bruised meat. Splintered bones projecting through the skin mixed with surrounding splintered branches and the branches too were doused in blood. Flies swarmed above the soft marrow-filled cavities. The mangled meat was rapidly turning green-black. The man’s one intact eye had fogged. Whiteboy and Bo Denhardt pulled the clothes from the body. Numbnuts pilfered the dead man’s equipment and personal effects.
“Hey, Cherry,” Denhardt called, “come here. I want ta show you something.” Cherry went over to Denhardt who was standing by the corpse. Cherry tried not to look at the body yet he had difficulty keeping his eyes from it. “You ever see anything like this?” Denhardt asked. Denhardt lifted the corpse, sat it up and leaned the torso against a bush. Cherry was aghast. He could not conceive touching such a raunchy thing. Flies buzzed nastily at Denhardt’s motions. Cherry watched Bo light a cigarette and put it in the dead man’s mouth. The upper left quarter of the head was blown off. Bo lifted the one good arm and placed the man’s hand on his penis. “Look at this guy,” Denhardt laughed. “He’s jerkin off, He’s jerkin off,” Denhardt laughed louder. “I hope I go that way.”
Cherry turned and left. His stomach churned but there was nothing in it to heave. He retched dry again and then retched bile. He walked farther off swallowing the terrible taste in his mouth. He did not want anyone to know he was getting sick. They all seemed to be having a good time. Thomaston was standing in the midst of five men. He had the wallet and some papers the dead man had carried. Cherry turned and looked at the body. Egan and Denhardt were in the line of vision between him and the body but Cherry could see that the corpse had now lost its right ear also. He stepped forward. “He doesn’t have any ears,” Cherry whispered to Egan. Egan looked at him then walked toward the corpse.
“Oooooo-ooo! Look at this,” Thomaston laughed. He had pulled a stack of eight small photographs from the wallet. They were about one inch square and apparently of the man himself and of his family. One photo of a young woman was cut in the shape of a heart. “Well, if she aint sweet.” Thomaston passed the photos around. The soldiers pocketed them as souvenirs.
“Uh-hunh,” someone said. “A little honey keepin the home front warm.” They all laughed.
“I bet old Jody gettin a piece of that action,” another voice chimed. Again they laughed.
“I wouldn’t mind pokin her myself,” Thomaston said.
Thomaston removed a South Vietnamese one hundred piaster bill and eleven North Vietnamese hoa then four North Vietnamese military postage stamps.
“He got it in the laigs, the ch
est an the haid,” a voice explained to a latecomer. “He’s all blowed ta shit.”
Thomaston pulled a plastic envelope from the rear pocket of the NVA’s pants. He opened it. There were four photographs in it. They were of an American family in front of a ranch-style suburban tract home with a Ford station wagon in the driveway. He gulped, whispered “Intelligence,” and replaced the photos in the plastic.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” a small voice squealed, “what you …”
“All right,” Egan boomed from over beside the dead soldier, “who’s got the mothafucker’s ear? You fucken pig.” Egan charged toward Denhardt. “You mothafucker. You low life cunt fuck. Put that ear back on the man’s head.” Denhardt tried to protest. Egan raged more furiously. “BULLSHIT!” He yelled. “Either you put that fucken ear back on that fucken dink’s head or I’m goina cut yers off en nail em on him. You fucken savage.” Egan spit. He grabbed Denhardt by the shoulders of his shirt, yanked him forward and threw him toward the body. “Bury that fucker before the stench makes me vomit in your mouth.”
“Okay, let’s … let’s … let’s, ah, break it up,” Thomaston stuttered to the men standing around him.
Denhardt alone went back to the body. He scraped a trough of leaves and mulch from the ground and kicked the body into it. From one of the large pockets on the legs of his fatigue trousers he withdrew a deck of playing cards. He shuffled through the deck and removed the Ace of Spades. He had been waiting for this opportunity for a long time. Across the card, which Americans were told the Vietnamese held to be an evil omen, Denhardt scribbled ‘SKYHAWKS.’ Then he pushed an M-16 cartridge through the card and shoved the sign and post into a bullet hole in the dead man’s forehead. He cursed the body and Egan. He covered the body with a thin layer of leaves.
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