13th Valley

by John M. Del Vecchio

  The clearing of fields of fire and the digging in continued. Lt. Hoyden, FO, called in DT and H & I coordinates. De Barti and Thomaston checked the NDP shape to insure overlapping fire then chose the men for LPs.

  “Tell me exactly what you saw,” Brooks said to Cherry. Moneski had already traced the red ball’s location on Brooks’ map. “Which way were they heading?”

  “He was coming straight up the trail,” Cherry said. Cherry’s eyes were like those of a deer run at night by dogs and frozen in the powerful beam of a poacher’s light.

  “He? I thought there were two. Now, try to remember,” Brooks interrogated.

  “There must a been two,” Cherry said. “I think I saw two but I don’t remember seeing the second one.”

  Egan and Thomaston had come to the CP and were now squatting behind Cherry. Thomaston kept touching his M-16 which he carried in his left hand. Egan massaged a frag on his belt. “I’m gettin too short for this shit,” Thomaston said.

  “How many days you got now?” Egan asked him.

  “Twenty-seven en a wake-up,” Thomaston said.

  “Twenty-four en a wake-up, you cherry,” Egan laughed.

  “There was at least three,” Roberts said.

  “Did you see them?” the L-T asked.

  “I didn’t see nothin but I heard two AKs open up and that first dink woant firin.”

  “God,” Cherry said. “I felt like a subject in a sensory deprivation experiment. I felt like I was hallucinating.”

  “Close your eyes and try to picture it,” Brooks said. “What did the second man look like? What was he carrying?”

  Cherry shut his eyes. “We were sitting there for about twenty minutes and I was very conscious of the sounds my, ah … my watch was like ticking real loud and I heard a twig snap.”

  “I heard it too,” Roberts said.

  “Try to see the second man,” Brooks encouraged.

  “I saw this guy. He had shorts on and he had a rifle with a wood stock. I lifted my 16. Then I brought it back down and switched the selector to automatic.”

  “Yeah. I watched him do that,” Roberts said. “So I did the same.”

  “He kept coming. He’s motioning like this with his left hand.” Cherry waved his left hand back and forth behind and below his hip.

  “Can you see his hand?” Brooks asked.

  “No,” Cherry said. “All I can see are his eyes.” Cherry opened his eyes and jerked around quickly and started to rise.

  “It’s okay,” Brooks stopped him. Cherry looked at Brooks, through Brooks, beyond Brooks. “It’s okay,” Brooks said more casually. “Look, jungle tactics are basically two-dimensional problems—time and coordinates. We’ve got to work things so we don’t run into the enemy when he’s set up. We want to come up behind him or we want him to walk into us when we’re set-up. If he second-guesses us we’re in a world of hurt. That’s why it’s important you remember every detail.”

  Cherry repeated the part about two enemy rifles opening up and the hand signal the first man had made but he froze up when he tried to remember anything beyond looking into the first man’s eyes.

  “What happened when you went down there?” Brooks asked Moneski.

  “I took half the squad down to check it out,” Moneski said, “and Smitty pumped another six or eight rounds inta him.”

  “Was he alive?” Brooks asked.

  “I don’t know but he wasn’t when Smitty finished. We stripped him and took his bag an weapon an skyed.”

  “He didn’t bleed much,” Roberts said. “Never saw nothin like it. First round musta stopped his heart cause he just had all these little holes in him but there wasn’t much blood. They coulda been made by leeches. Cept his head.”

  “He was one big gook,” Moneski said. “He musta stood five-ten, maybe even six foot. I bet he was Chinese. He was clean too. And he had a fresh haircut, I think. Least what was left of his head looked fresh cut. We didn’t stay there long. I think the dinks dee-deed too.”

  “He was carryin about twenty-five pounds of rice,” Egan said from outside the circle. “Rice, one lacquered gook rice bowl, two spoons, two extra uniforms, a can of AK rounds, six Chi-com frags, gas mask, sleeping blanket and a bunch of papers. That’s a lotta shit for a dink dude on patrol.”

  “They’re movin,” Thomaston said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Brooks said. “He may have been the rice bearer for his squad. They may have been a mortar squad and the men behind him might have had the tube and base plate.”

  “I think they’re movin back in here,” Thomaston said.

  “Maybe they were goina mortar us,” Egan said.

  “Yeah. Maybe. Damn, I wish I knew what that second man was carrying. Cherry,” Brooks said, “I want you to think about it. If you remember anything let me know immediately.”

  “Yes Sir,” Cherry said meekly. He stood.

  Egan rose and put his hand on Cherry’s arm. “Go down to our spot,” he said. “I set up behind Jax, over there. You’ll see it.” Cherry lit another cigarette.

  The two squads from 3d Plt did not reach the NDP until 1830 hours. It was cooling and clouding up as they trudged in. The valley was thick with fog, the white mass rising steadily up the escarpments. Above, the sky was clear. The breeze rising from the valley carried wisps of the fog which tumbled about the peaks like ghosts and vanished into the drier air.

  The helicopter that was to have picked up the civilian photographer from 848 had been hit by small arms fire while leaving Bravo Company and it had flown directly back to Camp Evans to have the damage assessed. The squads had no choice but to wait until the GreenMan’s C & C bird landed and picked up the photographer and his escort. By then it was 1700 and the squads had had to hump to the new NDP and with double and triple ammunition loads. The trail had become more slippery with use and they struggled hard to be silent, moving at double time, trying to be off the trail before dark. When they marched in and dropped their rucks and the extra ammo they were drenched with jungle slimesweat head to foot. The green canvas of their boots was black with wet and white-ringed with salt stains. Armpits and backs and crotches were soggy. They collapsed silently about the CP.

  With them were the dog handler and the dog. If the men of 3d Plt were sweat-drenched and breathing hard from the hump, the dog handler was doubly soaked and winded. He had not known which unit he would be sent to when he had packed his rucksack and, as was scout dog team procedure, he carried four days’ rations for himself plus four days’ for the dog. He carried extra ammo, not trusting some units to resupply him, knowing he would be at point behind the dog on most moves, on the worst moves. He also carried twenty quarts of water, another forty pounds. He sat, said not a single word, not even to report in to the company commander. The dog lay by his side, alert, relaxed, silent. The lightest ruck was carried by the civilian correspondent, Caribski, who had spent the past two days with 3d Plt but now wished to travel with the company CP. He looked weary and wet and spoke little though he listened to everything happening in and about the CP. His escort, the PIO officer from 3d Brigade, looked scared and let it be known he did not like being in the bush. The military correspondents, Lamonte and George, set up a separate sleeping position just beyond the CP. Lamonte removed the camera from his neck and went about photographing every detail of field life. George sat alone trying to overhear the CP talk and finally fell asleep.

  The weird lonely music again seeped up from the valley. “What the hell is that?” Snell uttered irritably as he and Ridgefield and Nahele came to socialize at the CP.

  “That is traditional Vietnamese funeral music,” Minh answered. He was studying and translating the letters and documents from Cherry’s KIA.

  Snell looked at Ridgefield then Nahele and all three whispered in unison, “Funeral music!”

  “Oh yes,” Minh smiled. “It comes from 3d Brigade Psychological Operations helicopter. They try to warn the enemy that we are coming to get them.”

  “Well sh
ee-it,” Doc said. “Here all aftanoon I thinkin some dude got a radio. You know what I mean? Shee-it. I couldn’t believe a dude be humpin a radio out here.”

  “Minh,” Brooks called over, “just what have they been saying all afternoon?”

  “They are saying SKYHAWKS is a mean battalion,” Minh smiled. “They are saying Screaming Eagle soldiers are coming down from the hills to clean up the valley and that NVA soldiers should surrender.”

  Jackson dug a two-man foxhole and arranged a sleeping area while Silvers pulled guard ten meters below in an old NVA fighting position. When Jax finished digging he went down and relieved Silvers. It was unusual to separate the two positions by that great a distance but the slope on the perimeter forced them to move up for sleeping. Jax slipped his legs into the tiny NVA hole. He laid his M-16 across his thighs and laid out two bandoleers of magazines and four frags. Silvers had left him two claymores which they agreed should not be deployed until it became darker. Jax removed his helmet and from it took the unopened letter from his brother-in-law. The envelope was soiled and perspiration from Jackson’s head had caused part of the return address to run blue-black. Jax removed his bayonet from its sheath at his left calf. He slid the blade gently below the envelope flap and split the paper.

  August 4, 1970

  Dear Brother Billie,

  Our people have suffered too greatly for too long a time. They suffer more greatly now as a result of families being disrupted by that filthy Vietnam War. Your own lovely wife is with child as you foolishly, pathetically play soldier-slave to white men in a white man’s racist imperialist war. It is impossible for you to support your family on a soldier’s pay. Your wife suffers. All our women suffer. Your sweet sister suffers but not like your wife. Your sister’s man is home, your wife’s man is gone. Black women suffer from discrimination in jobs and education. Without their men they cannot, they are not allowed in this society, to support themselves.

  Billie, the situation is critical. Your Black Brothers and Sisters in the United States are opposed to the war in Vietnam. We want our troops to return home. Nixon escalates the war. Out of one side of his foul mouth he talks peace and with a forked-tongue he orders our troops into Cambodia. American Blacks know the president does not care what we think, what we want or what we need. He’s playing games with us. The military, big business, the government, they are all controlled by white racists. From us they want only our votes and our money. Nay, Brother Billie, they want one thing more—they want our beautiful Black children to fight their racist unjust war. Our Black Brothers carry a share of the Vietnam burden disproportionate to our percentage in America or our percentage in the army. Blacks sustain casualties out of all relation to their numbers. Doesn’t that tell you something?

  We’ve had it. We are tired of being used. We pay taxes so white pigs can murder our yellow Asian brothers or force them to defend themselves by slaughtering Black Americans. Fuck Nixon’s War. Fuck the bombing and killing of our oppressed Asian brothers. Say No.

  My brother, we are veterans, we are soldiers, we are civilians. We believe the time has come for all Blacks and Yellows and Browns to unite in our common struggle against repression. The white government of the United States orders Asians murdered, calls out troops against its own people, shoots its own students. Systematically the pig machine oppresses Black people, forces them into economic abasement and injects propaganda and prejudice into every corner of the white majority community. This pig machine has propagated a vengeful myth of its own altruism and with that myth it justifies the destruction of Vietnamese hamlets.

  Nixon has played a game on the people. Congress and the courts have become unfunctional. People are fed officialese, federalese double-talk from the highest levels. And the press. What is its function? What’s being reported has nothing to do with what’s really happening.

  Vietnam is all lies. The motherfuckers in this administration want us to believe the war can’t be stopped, that the world situation is so complex if we pull out it will be like pulling the plug in a bathtub and America is the water. They say they’re trying to negotiate. They say the North Vietnamese are liars. That’s lies. The war can be ended now, today. You could be back here with your wife in a week. If that low-down dirty motherfucker Nixon wanted to stop the war all he has to do is call the pigs in the Pentagon and say, ‘Pigs, bring the troops home.’ Let the Vietnamese people rebuild their own country the way they want it, not the way we want it. That’s all the fucker’s got to say. And if he don’t say it, Billie, then he’s going to burn. He’s going to burn with all them white racist pigs that keep him up there.

  Think about it. Rap about it. Soon we will strike. Brother Billie, I am calling on you to join Black America. Join me, my Brother. Don’t take orders. Strike! Rap with your fellow soldiers. Get them all to boycott the war from where it will hurt the white racist machine most. State-side GIs are protesting. Blacks are leading the underground. The revolution is coming. It is at hand.

  Marcus X

  P.S. Billie, my brother-in-law and in-blood, I want you to know we all here are concerned for your safety. Also your father is ill. I think he would rest easier if his son was home. I know your sister and I would feel better with you here. And your wife is concerned for you and your child. Pap’s body has been broken and worn out by slaving for white pigs all his life. All his life he has carried the guilt of his Blackness, ashamed and humbled wherever he went. Do you remember crossing through the swamps to watch he and my uncle the year they were shackled in a road gang. They were puny and unfighting in their loathsome Blackness, guilty and doing penance with shovels and rock hammers for their Blackness. Billie, be proud. They will kill you if they can. They will kill you either outright or within your living body IF YOU ALLOW IT. If you wish to be a soldier, be a soldier with us. Come home. Your wife and father and your people need you.

  The letter ended there. Jax quickly scanned the jungle before him then reread the postscript. That was new. Marcus always talked about burning the government but never before had he mentioned Pap. Jax tore the postscript from the letter and stuck the paper in his helmet. A barely perceptible welling choked him. He folded the letter in half and placed it on the ground so it stood like a tent. He took a book of matches from his pocket and burned the letter. He scattered the ashes and reburned the few leaves of paper that had not been consumed in the original fire. He rescattered the ashes in standard boonierat procedure for destroying written material which might prove somehow useful to the enemy.

  Cherry sat on the ground by his rucksack, sat with his knees’ drawn up to his chest, his hands tightly around his boots. He was in the midst of shattered palm fans and branches. His rifle lay in the brush out of reach. Egan had already dug their foxhole. Cherry sat. A shiver ran up his spine. He closed his eyes and put his face into the crook of his arm. He moved his face to his knees and put his hands over his ears trying to close out the activity around him. He let his body slump back beneath the clutter of vegetation.

  Around him men were eating or smoking. Only a few were still digging. He closed his eyes more tightly. He could still see that face. The man stepped forward slowly, cautiously. He moved silently, a good jungle soldier. Cherry could see the man’s eyes, his straight black hair, his alert yet relaxed unsuspecting face. The soldier stepped forward eliminating much of his jungle cover. He continued to approach, up the red ball. Cherry could see him clearly, his dark eyes clearly. Cherry could see the soldier’s face above the sight of his own weapon. “Our Father, Who art in heaven,” Cherry began mumbling, “hallowed be Thy Name, Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven …”

  “Hey, Cherry,” Numbnuts called approaching him from the perimeter.

  “You can’t call him Cherry no more,” Silvers called up.

  “Right on,” Numbnuts said now standing just outside Cherry’s clump of brush. “What’s your name?”

  “We could call him Dago,” Silvers said.

  “That’s o
kay,” Cherry replied sitting up, “I’m kinda useta Cherry.”

  “Well shee-it,” Numbnuts said sticking out his hand. “Congratulations, Cherry.” He was exuberant. “Hey, how was it down there? I heard you blew his head clean off.” Numbnuts spoke quickly, with a big smile. “Jesus, I wish I’d been there. Maybe we coulda got another gook. Ya know, I coulda dropped a coupla thumper rounds behind em. Bet that woulda sent those bastards scatterin.”

  Cherry looked at him while he spoke. Numbnuts’ hand was still outstretched. Cherry looked into Numbnuts’ eyes then he turned away.

  “I gotta dig in yet,” Numbnuts shrugged. He stood waiting for Cherry to say something, stood there nervously for half a minute then mumbled as he left, “Jesus. If I’d only been there with my thumper.”

  Numbnuts walked down to Silvers and said to the squad leader, “What the fuck’s the matter with him? What’s he think they sent him over here for, ta kiss gook ass? Man, we’re s’pose ta kill people.”

  Cherry lay back again. He closed his eyes again. Again he could see the NVA soldier behind the thick vegetation. Again he prayed.

  Silvers put his hand on Cherry’s leg. Cherry startled, stared up savagely. “Take it easy, Breeze,” Silvers said soothingly. Cherry slumped back. “Take it easy, Man,” Silvers repeated. “If it’ll make you feel better you probably saved a lot of our lives. You probably busted up their party for us tonight.”

  Cherry took a pack of cigarettes Egan had given him from his fatigue shirt pocket. He pulled two cigarettes from the pack, stuck one behind his right ear and lit the other. Then he shook his head.

  “It’s okay,” Silvers reassured him again.

  “I could a just shot him in the leg,” Cherry said. “I didn’t have to kill him.”

  “I don’t know,” Silvers said. “I’ve never been in that position. The whole time I been over here I never’ve seen a live gook. That’s no shit. I been in the boonies seven months and I never’ve seen a live one.” Silvers spoke slowly, soothingly. “I’ve seen maybe a hundred dead ones. I don’t know if I ever shot any. There’s a good chance I may have but I never had any in my sights. Ya know how it is during a firefight. You just fire into the brush with everybody else. When it’s all over, maybe there’d be a body.”