Under Fire

by Eric Meyer

  It was mercifully brief, and despite the terrible pain in his guts, the shooting stopped and there was just silence. Lying on the ground, he swiveled his head to look back at his men, hoping they’d managed to defend themselves, that maybe some had got away, but all hope died when he saw the American bodies lying on the ground. Most weren’t dead. They’d taken serious wounds, but surely the Communists didn’t intend to kill them. They’d take them prisoner, and it would be tough, but they could survive until they sent a unit in to rescue them. His hopes soared. It was bad, but with some medical treatment that they were certain to offer, as the rules of war demanded, he could survive.

  A shadow fell over him, and when he looked up, he understood things were going to be worse than he’d expected. He was short, like an ape, with long arms, and even his hands were hairy; everything but his head with receding black hair that made him look like a chimpanzee. His eyes were not ape-like. More like those of a wild beast, a predator. A wild beast that has brought down its prey and is contemplating lunch. He broke out in a fresh sweat, and the pain gushed over him in waves.

  “Your name and rank?” The English was surprisingly good, with just a trace of an accent, maybe French.

  “Uh, Second Lieutenant Sarandon. Look, Mister, I’m badly hurt, and I need medical attention fast. Does your unit have a medic?”

  The man didn’t acknowledge the question. “You Imperialists believe you can come to my country, drop bombs and napalm on my people, and get away with it. Things have changed, Second Lieutenant Sarandon. The National Liberation Front is pushing your forces back, and soon we will liberate the whole of our country. Your time in Vietnam is coming to an end.

  He stifled a groan, not wanting to give this man the pleasure of knowing how badly he was hurting. “Do what you want, but I need medical attention. Most of my men have been hit. You can’t leave us like this.” The agony surged through him again, doubled, trebled. He was being roasted with red-hot irons, yet he knew it wouldn’t last much longer. He suspected he wasn’t going to live, and all that mattered was stopping the terrible pain that was like a thousand knives tearing through his insides. He couldn’t help but scream out, “For Christ’s sake, whatever you’re planning to do, get on with it. If you want to kill me, kill me.”

  The man smiled. “For your information, I am Commissar Trinh Tac, and I command the National Liberation Front in this region. Yes, Second Lieutenant Sarandon, I will kill you, but not yet.”

  He was squirming, writhing with the pain that was like a living being inside him, a wild beast chewing at his guts. “For fuck’s sake, finish this.”

  The Viet nodded to two of his men, and they each took hold of one of his legs and began dragging him along the path toward the village. The pain was worse, and several times he passed out, only to be brought back to consciousness when they dragged him over a fallen log which brought him round with fresh agonies, and he had a vision of the fires of hell. This is what it would be like, and yet he was wrong. It could be worse.

  The VCs produced machetes and set to work on his platoon, leaving him writhing on the ground and watching in disbelief. They hacked at them while some were still alive, cutting off limbs, arms, legs, slashing their bellies, removing ears, sometimes individual fingers one by one. The screams continued into infinity, a terrible, long cry of agony, and when they’d finished, Trinh stood over him. He was grinning.

  “You are the last, and now you have witnessed the awesome power and strength of the people. Enjoy your last few minutes on earth, Second Lieutenant Sarandon.”

  The machetes hacked down over his body, and he passed out quickly. He was losing blood at a fast rate. The bullet in his belly had caused catastrophic damage, and he never saw what happened when they brought down the machete for the final blow. It was the only mercy that day.

  * * *

  “We travel fast, and we travel light. So, if you’re thinking of wearing that stupid flak jacket, you can forget it.”

  I stared at my new boss, Master Sergeant Bob Morgan, a tough, stringy veteran on his second tour. His weathered face was lined and wrinkled, and I guessed his first tour had done that to him. I’d no idea how old he was, although I afterward found out he was twenty-four years old when I first met him. He seemed much older, not just in appearance, but in a calm, confident wisdom he exuded over his squad.

  I looked down at my bulky armored vest. To be fair it was uncomfortable, and it was also very hot and very heavy. Then again, it was designed to keep you alive, or so I thought until they put me right.

  “Sarge, they said wearing a flak vest would stop enemy bullets.”

  The other men chuckled, all except Jesse Coles, whose expression seemed frozen, always staring at something far away.

  “Yeager, if you swallow that bullshit you deserve everything you get. That vest won’t stop a bullet. It’s designed to protect against shrapnel, like artillery shells when they explode. I can give you my personal guarantee there won’t be any shells exploding where we’re going. There’ll just be a whole load of shit that Charlie throws at us. Bullets sure, and Punji traps, maybe a grenade hung in a tree fixed to a trip wire and set to explode when you walk past. You name it, they’ve thought of it, and there ain’t no flak jacket gonna protect you from that kind of crap. Take it off. If we hit trouble, we could need to get out fast, not carrying ten pounds of excess weight that’ll slow you down.”

  One man grinned. “On the other hand, it’d give us a chance to get away without the VC cutting us to ribbons. Let Yeager take the hit, and he’ll slow them down.”

  I shrugged out of the jacket, and he nodded his approval. “Okay, it’s time we got out of here before that bastard reporter turns up.”

  “You don’t like him?”

  Corporal Martin Byrd grimaced at my question. “He gives me the creeps, the Butcher of Boston. Always trying to dig the dirt on someone.”

  Byrd scowled, and if I was Mark Butcher, I’d have been careful about upsetting him. Byrd was tall, built like a light tank with bulging muscles, heavily tattooed, and even his face bore simple homilies, like, ‘I hate slopes’ and ‘the only good gook is a dead gook.’ His favorite weapon was the M-60. He carried it like it was a hunting rifle and lived for the time he could scythe down the enemy with sheets of 7.62mm bullets.

  “Make sure it isn’t you,” Morgan growled, “The trucks are due any minute, and they’ll take us to the edge of our patrol area. That’s where you come in, Yeager. We’re searching for tunnels. Then it’s all up to Jesse.”

  I wanted to tell him I’d yet to see a tunnel or a tunnel entrance. But this was Vietnam, General Westmorland was desperate for tunnel experts to cleanse the Triangle, and his steely gaze had fallen on me.

  I glanced around the huge air base, and there was still no sign of our transport. A C-130 roared along the runway and punched up into the sky at a steep angle, the pilot taking no chances. So far there’d been few accounts of surface-to-air missiles, and people assumed the VC didn't have access to them in any quantity. But who'd want to take a chance? The stench of gasoline was overpowering, and then a line of C-130s arrived and circled overhead, landing one by one, and trailing more burned gasoline in the air and leaving the stink of burned rubber as their huge tires braked on the runway. Each aircraft taxied to the stand and began disgorging troops.

  “Something big is going down,” Corporal Martin Byrd grunted, “As long as it’s them and not us.”

  “Operation Cedar Falls,” Morgan said, “It starts in a few days.”

  "Trucks are on the way,” Danny Goff, our radioman called over. Danny planned on a future in what he told everyone was the new wave. Computers. “I tell you guys if you get into computers, you’ll make yourselves a mint. I’ve applied to IBM, and when my tour is over, that’s where I’m gonna land a job.”

  He probably would, he looked like a nerd, short, weedy, pale-skinned, with uncared-for teeth and plastic framed glasses. His hair stuck out in tufts, and he constantly complained a
bout the problems he had getting a girl. “You wait, when I work for IBM, they’ll be all over me for a date.”

  He’s probably right. Women! Although some are special, like my Gracie.

  Morgan listened and grimaced. “The hell with Cedar Falls, we’re out of here.”

  I didn’t want to point out our assignment was to search for and destroy tunnels inside the Triangle. Wasn’t that the whole point of Cedar Falls? Or was it something else? General Westmoreland’s favorite mantra. Body count.

  Morgan glanced around and groaned. It wasn’t the Devil Incarnate. It wasn’t General Westmoreland come to chase our asses. "Shit, it’s that damn reporter."

  He was striding toward us on an intercept path. Mark Butcher, the so-called Butcher of Boston, the man who could destroy a career and a reputation with a few lines of newsprint. He was grinning, a big, fleshy man sporting a neat mustache, the red face of a boozer, and the beginnings of a beer belly. He was dressed in what I imagined his local men’s outfitter had assured him was just the thing for Vietnam. Earnest Hemingway style, pressed chinos, khaki shirt, and one of those khaki bush jackets with so many pockets a man would forget what he carried and where. His pants were tucked into high, soft leather jungle boots that would cost an enlisted man’s wages for three months. "Hi guys, how’re y’all doing?"

  A couple of men mumbled replies. Someone said, "Okay up ‘til now."

  He pretended not to hear. "They tell me there's something happening, a new operation. Any of you guys know anything about it?"

  We shook our heads.

  "I've heard the name Operation Cedar Falls mentioned, does that ring any bells?"

  Morgan grunted a one-word reply. "Nope."

  He gave him a hard look. "You must know something. There're aircraft taking off and landing every few minutes, and more Hueys than a cloud of locusts buzzing around the field. Men arriving, lots of troops, reinforcements, guns and equipment, everything to fight a war."

  A shrug. "Just routine stuff.”

  His smile evaporated and he glared at Morgan. “You don’t like me, do you, Sergeant?”

  Nobody spoke, and he exploded with anger. "Look, you guys, I can help you. Tell me what you know, and I'll write up a good story and mention your names. Who knows, there could be medals waiting for you."

  "We don't know a thing."

  At that moment the trucks arrived. Morgan smiled at him for the first time. "Sorry, but we have to go."

  “Where to and what for?"

  He gave him a savage grin. "Haven't you heard, we're fighting a war? War don't wait for nobody."

  “But where are you going?”

  “It’s classified.”

  We climbed into the back of the first truck and it started to move. Heading out toward the main gate, leaving the reporter staring after us. He didn’t look happy. The truck didn't make it to the main gate. A corporal raced out from the guardroom and flagged us down.

  "Hold it, hold it. I have a message from the Colonel. He said Mr. Mark Butcher has asked to see some action firsthand, and he agreed. He’s to go with you."

  Butcher arrived just then, panting and his face even more red, and the corporal looked at the reporter. "Good news, Sir, your request has been approved. Get on the truck and go with these men. They’ll take care of you.”

  His face split into a wide grin. "Now we're cooking."

  He climbed aboard and the vehicle lurched away. Nobody said a word, and they didn't have to. The expression on the men’s faces said it all. He’d got his way, and he was going to war, with the VC, and with men's reputations, and their lives.

  This is a guy who could well wind up with a frag grenade inside his tent. He’s a good candidate for it.

  We drove for over an hour until we reached a narrow footpath that intercepted the main track, and the truck stopped. Morgan gestured for us to climb down.

  "This is the start of our patrol area. We're heading for a village called Bong Trang, and this is enemy territory, so we need to stay sharp. A platoon went missing here a couple of days ago. They may have got lost and they’ll turn up late. Or they may have run into an enemy unit." He sounded grim; running into the enemy wasn’t a recipe for a long life.

  Butcher looked eager. “You think they could be dead?” As if a heap of dead American soldiers would fill a few column inches.

  “No, I don’t think so.” He paused and was about to carry on, but four fighter-bombers roared overhead, flying low over the jungle canopy. F-4 Phantoms, and I had little doubt they were loaded for bear. Somewhere, Charlie was about to receive a monster headache. Morgan went to speak again, but more aircraft passed overhead, and I counted around twenty Hueys, and that made me think of Mickey Ellis. He should have been piloting one of those helicopters, instead of lying in an aluminum coffin, waiting for the final journey to the United States. They disappeared heading west, and everything was quiet, except for the incessant sounds of the jungle. The chirp of insects, birds, and the occasional growl of an animal. I thought of that fateful flight, when I’d seen the devastation over the Triangle, and I wondered how anyone could survive down there, human or animal.

  Butcher’s eyes remained fixed on Morgan. “Listen, Sarge, there’s something big going down. I think it's time I knew more."

  Morgan sighed, knowing when he was cornered. "Okay, I've been ordered to pass it on to the men, and I guess that includes you. You're right. They're calling it Operation Cedar Falls. Those aircraft we just saw flying overhead are making for the west side of the Iron Triangle, and they’ll give the enemy a damn good pasting. When they’ve unloaded their bombs, we have troops from the 1st pushing the VC eastward. At the same time our artillery will begin shelling the area where they’re believed to be in hiding, and the Air Force will drop napalm and Agent Orange. Elements of the 25th and the 1st Infantry are right now taking up positions on the east side of the Triangle, and as the enemy is pushed east, they’ll encounter our prepared defenses and run into a shitstorm of American gunfire."

  Butcher looked nervous. "But, isn’t that where we’re going? You're saying we’re walking into the middle of a free fire zone?"

  Morgan looked happy for the first time since he’d learned they were to be saddled with the reporter. "Yeah that’s about the size of it."

  "But… we could be killed."

  "They call it warfare, Mr. Butcher. You wanted it, now you’ve got it." The Bostonian looked like he was about to be sick, and Morgan adopted a concerned expression, “Are you sure you’re okay, Sir? You wouldn’t like to go back?”

  He snarled a response. “Fuck you, Sergeant.”

  “It’s Master Sergeant. If you’re about to rub my nose into the shit, you may as well know my rank.” He looked away. “Okay, men, stay sharp. We don't know what happened to the platoon that got lost, and this place could be swarming with VC."

  We walked along the narrow path, alert for anything that looked out of place. Every time I heard the whistle of a bird, the rustle of an animal walking through the thick undergrowth, I jumped in alarm. Remembering the last time, when my platoon had come close to annihilation.

  We stayed silent, until inevitably Butcher fired a question. “Master Sergeant Morgan, I don’t get it. Why are they sending recon patrols like this one into an area that's likely to be bombed and shelled by our own side?"

  Morgan frowned. "There’s a simple answer to that question, Mr. Butcher. Tunnels. Ask Private Yeager; he has recent experience of going up against a VC unit we believe to be based in the local tunnels. That’s why we’re here, to look for them, and find any of these gooks who think they can hide from us in these tunnels. When we find them, Specialist Jesse Coles will do the rest."

  "The rest? What does that mean?" He looked at Coles, who didn't return the gaze, but they heard the faint murmur of a reply.

  “Kill them."

  “But, they’re prisoners. Surely you’d give them the chance to surrender?”

  He didn’t reply. We walked on through the thick jung
le, and we were increasingly nervous. Each man looking every which way, up front, behind, side to side, up in the trees, down on the ground, as if their gaze could pierce the soil and look into a tunnel that lay several meters below. Looking for the enemy. Yet they weren't there, and we walked on for another hour before we got first sight of the village of Bong Trang.

  "It’s too quiet," PFC Andy Murray murmured in a soft voice. In civilian life he’d been a delivery driver for UPS, black-skinned, mild-mannered, and with an easy, friendly nature. He could have been the guy next door. Problem was in Vietnam the guy who lived on the other side of the street was Charlie, "I can hear a few insects, but the birds have gone. It’s weird.”

  I gripped my rifle tighter and double-checked my finger was on the trigger, safety off. “Something spooked them. Something like…”

  Suddenly a bird chirruped up in the trees, and a moment later a flock of birds winged away into the sky. The jungle canopy was too dense to identify them, but a moment later another bird flew out, chasing them.

  “Falcon,” Murray murmured, “No wonder they’re spooked.”

  We walked closer to the village, and suddenly everything was quiet. I glanced at Morgan, and he was tense. He knew something I didn't. What? He saw my questioning look and explained. "When we got nearer the village the noise stopped. It could be Charlie's around."

  He slowed as we crept nearer, hardly daring to speak. Walking almost on tiptoe. Then he relaxed and smiled. “You hear that? Insects.” All I heard was the rustle of an animal walking through the foliage.

  “You think it’s safe?”

  He pondered for a few seconds. “No. There’s something not right, but I don’t think the enemy are waiting for us. It’s something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. It’s strange, a kind of feeling.” He stared at me, “Know what I mean?”

  His expression changed as the jungle noises became almost silent. I could still hear the chirrup of insects, but nothing else, no wildlife. Everything was quieter than it should be, and we unsafed our rifles and stopped talking. Walking in total silence, hardly daring to breathe, we entered the village and found it deserted. Nothing, nobody. No enemy waiting to cut us down with long bursts of automatic fire. It was like a graveyard, so silent, until I heard a growl, and a four-legged creature scuttled away into the thick foliage. It was then I noticed it. A smell, a rank, sweet stench of rotting flesh, and the insect noises were coming from the village well in the center of a beaten earth square ringed by primitive huts.