by Robert Roth
“Nobody ever told —”
“Well I’m telling you now. Take one of them off and put it in your pocket.” Wilcox slowly removed his dog tags and chain, then placed them in his pocket. “Listen asshole, what’s the difference if they’re jangling around your neck or in your pocket? Now take one of the fucking tags off and put it in your pocket. Then put the other tag around your neck.”
At first Hamilton watched as Wilcox slowly did this, but he soon lost patience and walked away. Before giving Childs the order to move out, Hamilton again warned those with ammo cans to keep them quiet. As if in answer to this warning, Fuller banged his rifle against his ammo can before he was ten yards outside of the company lines. Hamilton immediately ordered the column back to the perimeter. He walked up to Fuller, and without a word shoved him to the ground and took away the ammo can. Returning to his place in the column with the ammo can on his shoulder, Hamilton again ordered Childs to move out. From that moment until the time they reached the ambush site, not one word was spoken.
The ambush site was a small patch of barren high ground twenty yards distant from a large tree line. With a minimum of talking and movement, Hamilton set-in his men for an L-shaped ambush facing the tree line. At the base of the L, he placed the machine gun team.
They hadn’t been set-in for more than ten minutes when they were startled by a burst from Fuller’s rifle. As their eyes searched in the direction Fuller had aimed, Hamilton crawled over to him and whispered, “What did you see?”
Fuller pointed to the tree line. “Movement, over there.”
Payne was sitting next to Fuller, and he whispered, “I didn’t see anything.”
Hamilton doubted that Fuller had either, but he realized that this was no time to start an argument. Instead, he turned to Payne and told him to radio in that they were moving the ambush. He then told Childs to head to the last tree line they had passed on the way out. Within seconds, the men were on their feet and moving in the direction of the perimeter.
A half hour after they had reset the ambush, Fuller again opened fire across the rice paddies. No one else had seen anything, and Hamilton was barely able to control his anger as he gave orders to again move the ambush. The others also felt like cursing Fuller, but they knew the satisfaction their words would give them would be insignificant compared to the added dangers they would involve. They had been edgy before leaving the perimeter. Now that every Viet Cong within miles knew just about where they were, the men were even more nervous.
At the new ambush site, Hamilton placed himself next to Fuller, and instructed him not to fire unless ordered to. Despite this, Fuller again opened fire twenty minutes later. Neither Hamilton nor anyone else bothered to ask him what he was supposedly shooting at. Payne contacted the perimeter, and Hamilton took the receiver from his hand. Recognizing Kramer’s voice on the other end, he immediately asked for permission to bring in the ambush. Kramer gave it without hesitation.
Hotel Company’s lack of success during the operation was not singular. The other three rifle companies had suffered similar losses with the same absence of results to show for them. Colonel Nash and Major Lucas realized that a change in strategy was mandatory, and information from a chieu hoi helped to decide exactly what that change would be. According to this information, the continued American bombings had made it necessary for the Viet Cong to mass and regroup under the protection of the mountain range that formed the southern boundary of the Arizona. Only a few snipers and harassing squads remained in the lowlands. This explained the battalion’s failure to make substantial contact. The Viet Cong had decided to stay in the mountains until they received an expected resupply of weapons and ammunition. By doing so, they remained cut off from the lowlands which was their source of food. Much of the rice at the base of the mountains was now ready for harvest. It was Major Lucas’s guess that the Viet Cong would soon be sending patrols down to tax or buy the villagers’ rice. He decided to converge upon these, paddies from three sides. Fox and Golf Companies were to sweep towards each other along the base of the mountains. Hotel and Echo would accompany Headquarters and Supply Company in a sweep straight towards the mountains. In this manner, the battalion would at least be able to prevent much of the harvested rice from being carried away by the Viet Cong.
On the march to the mountains, H and S Company traveled between Hotel and Echo, these two rifle companies alternating the point. Two members of the Vietnamese National Police were sent in to assist the operation. It was their job to interrogate the peasants and weed out Viet Cong sympathizers. Since any Vietnamese who risked his life by staying in the Arizona was considered a probable Viet Cong sympathizer, the National Police had never been known to use much restraint with these peasants. Among the Marines who had seen them operate, their efficiency was sometimes questioned, but never their ruthlessness.
Hotel Company had the point on the second day of the march towards the mountains, and it was then they came upon the first inhabited ville. 318
A thorough search uncovered four large caches of rice buried in huge earthen jugs. This alone was enough to feed the villagers for a year. Because he knew that rice was harvested four times a year, Trippitt immediately assumed the surplus was destined for the Viet Cong. While the search continued, he called for the National Police to interrogate the villagers. Only two hours of daylight remained, so when Colonel Nash heard about the rice, he decided to set-in for the night around the ville rather than rush the search.
Headquarters and Supply Company dug in at the center of the village. Echo and Hotel arranged their foxholes in a circle around it. After the men had finished digging their holes and eating, many of them returned to the center of the ville. They found the National Police interrogating a young woman while the rest of the villagers sat huddled together a few yards away. So used to seeing nothing but old people and mothers, the Marines were surprised by the attractiveness of the young woman. Chalice stared at her intently, finding it impossible to associate her with the enemy that had been constantly harassing them.
Suddenly the policeman doing most of the interrogating began to shout. The young woman stared at the ground, refusing to look at him. When he again began to shout, she did look up, and with obvious hatred. The interrogator’s hand sliced across her face, knocking the woman to her knees. At first stunned, she finally raised her head and exhibited the same hate-filled stare. The interrogator grabbed her arm and began dragging her along the ground. Her long, black hair flailed wildly as she tried to get to her feet. The second interrogator grabbed her other arm, and they both dragged her towards a mud hole.
Chalice stood dumbfounded — wanting to help her and wondering why no one else attempted to do so. He was unable to take his eyes off her until he heard someone chuckle. Glancing at the face of the Marine standing next to him, he wondered what sort of person could see anything humorous in what was happening. Not until he noticed that most of the men around him were smiling did Chalice begin to question his own reaction. A quick glance back at the girl cut this questioning short. The interrogators were holding her head beneath the muddy water as she struggled to free herself. Each time they allowed her to raise her head and breathe, their questions would be met by the same obdurate stare.
“Professor, don’t take any pictures. They don’t like it.” Chalice didn’t recognize the face of the man who had said this. He quickly looked back towards the girl, his dazed mind surprised that someone from another platoon had known his nickname. The interrogator began holding the girl’s head under water for longer and longer intervals. Suddenly Chalice realized what the Marine had said to him. Ski had asked him to try and fix his camera, and Chalice hadn’t even been aware that he was holding it. An idea flashed through his mind, and the feeling of helplessness left him.
Chalice pushed his way to the front of the crowd and aimed the empty camera at the girl. No one seemed to notice him, so he took a few steps forward. One of the interrogators then waved him back. He ignored this gesture, and
immediately a few of the men behind him urged Chalice to put away the camera. He continued to aim it anyway. When the girl was finally allowed to raise her head from the water, she was coughing violently and the obdurate stare had left her face. The interrogators again waved Chalice away. He refused to put the camera down, so they jerked the girl to her feet.
As they shoved her towards the rest of the villagers, she noticed Chalice holding the camera. Her hostile expression numbed him. For a second he actually considered trying to explain his actions to her. A couple of the men made critical remarks to him, but the rest cared little and the crowd dispersed. The shock of the woman’s stare soon wore off, and a faint smile appeared on Chalice’s face as a feeling of potency took hold of him. He hadn’t moved and was still staring at the mud hole when he heard Pablo’s voice behind him. “Maybe you shouldn’t have done that, Professor. They might have found out something to save one of our lives.” These words were spoken softly and without recrimination. There had been no assuredness in Pablo’s tone, and even the sense that he wasn’t sorry Chalice had done it; but there was obviously the desire to make Chalice aware of exactly what he had done. For a second Chalice wondered how Pablo had known, but memories of dead and wounded Marines drove this question from his mind. No longer was Chalice sure he had done the right thing.
A half hour before dusk, Colonel Nash called together Trippitt, the commander of Echo Company, and all of their platoon commanders. Major Lucas then proceeded to reexplain the plan by the use of his maps. When he finished, Colonel Nash began to speak. “I don’t have to tell you that nearly all the villagers we’ll come in contact with will be hostile to us. Many of them have good reason to be, but that makes little difference now. As you know, the Arizona is a free-fire zone, and they’ve all been warned to leave. For reasons you and I may find hard to understand, they’ve chosen to stay. This may make them subject to random bombings and artillery fire, but remember, we’re a rifle battalion. We don’t have the same privileges. It’s our responsibility to distinguish between combatants and noncombatants. I don’t care how you feel about these people.
They will be considered noncombatants unless caught in a hostile act. When as today, we find a village giving support to the Viet Cong, we’ll call in a helicopter and evacuate them to the resettlement camp at Due Due.
“There’s no point in making these people hate us any more than they already do. That just makes things worse. I never expect you to risk the lives of your men unnecessarily, but I want to make it very clear that you are responsible for your own acts and also the acts of your men. I’m not appealing to your consciences. I’ve seen it here and I’ve seen it in Korea — when a man becomes worn down, the first thing to wear away is usually his conscience. You can take this as advice or a threat, but make sure you take it.
“One more thing. I hear a lot of talk about confirmed kills. High body counts may be what they want at headquarters, but I’m the only one that has to deal with headquarters. The rest of you have to deal with me. As far as I’m concerned, a talkative prisoner is worth a hell of a lot more than a corpse. This little operation may prove that. I’m not going to start issuing Boy Scout badges for prisoners. The two-day R and R we give is incentive enough. Unfortunately, not many men have gotten them. I want you to remind your men about them. Then maybe they won’t be so anxious to pull the trigger. That’s all.”
Nash looked over his officers, doubting that his warning had been anything more than a waste of time. Seventeen years in the Marine Corps had taught him to place a low value upon words. His main purpose was to state his own views, thus preventing the ignorance of these views from being used by the men under him as justification for acts he was helpless to prevent. As the group dispersed, he doubted that anyone there had related the warning to himself.
Kramer was walking back to his sector when he noticed the villagers quietly huddled together in a hootch under the watch of four armed Marines. He felt uneasy looking down at them, yet something prevented him from turning his head away. The old men and women sat with their heads bowed, enduring this act of degradation with the same stoicism with which they endured their advanced years. The young mothers stared blankly at the horizon. It was the faces of the children that left Kramer most uneasy. Their large eyes stared up at him with the same questioning look he had seen so many times before, but behind this there was a mixture of fear and suspicion that made it clear to Kramer that he was something far worse than a stranger. He would now have been able to turn his head away, but a different face caught his attention. It was that of a young woman. Despite her disheveled and mud-caked hair, she retained a hard pride as she stared coldly up at him. The girl’s face reminded him of an older and more beautiful face — one that he had tried to keep from his thoughts, knowing that he would never see it again.
A helicopter arrived to pick up the detainees shortly after dawn. Colonel Nash immediately ordered his men to move out towards the mountains. After a break for lunch, he switched Hotel Company back to the point. It was still early afternoon when they began sweeping towards a large patch of high ground. Before they got within a hundred yards of it, they came under a burst of sniper fire. All along the formation, men began firing their rifles and blookers as they moved swiftly forward. There was no return fire, but the Marines continued shooting until they reached the high ground. A quick sweep through it revealed a small ville and a dozen peasants. One of them, a little boy, had suffered a serious head wound from a blooker round. He was left behind as they continued the sweep.
When the Marines swept back through the ville, they found the National Police interrogating the villagers. Off to the side, the boy’s weeping mother hovered over him. She kept pleading with the National Police to help her son, but they ignored her. Chalice walked over as soon as he saw this. The sight of the still unbandaged wound and the knowledge that it might have resulted from one of his own rounds sickened him. Adrift in a feeling of guilt and helplessness, Chalice spotted Stoker lying on his back thirty yards away. He ran over and told him about the boy.
Sweat dripping from his face, Stoker gasped, “Wait . . . let me rest a minute.”
“But he’s hurt bad,” Chalice said frantically.
“Wait a minute. . . . I’m beat.”
Chalice scanned the area looking for another corpsman. Instead he saw Kramer standing a few yards away. Chalice ran up to him and said breathlessly, “There’s a kid hurt bad over there.”
“Where?”
Chalice pointed and began running back to the boy. Kramer and Milton followed. A few Marines were now gathered around. One of them had inexpertly placed a bandage on the boy’s head. Even without removing it, Kramer could see the seriousness of the wound. The mother’s anguished face was pleadingly staring up at him as he said, “Get a corpsman! Why didn’t you get a corpsman?”
“Stoker says he’s too tired.”
“Where is that cocksucker?” Chalice pointed to Stoker, and Kramer ran over to him. Stoker was still lying down. Kramer kicked off his helmet before saying, “Get up, slob.”
Stoker scrambled to his feet and ran over to the boy. After checking the wound, he said, “He’s hurt bad.”
“No shit,” someone mumbled.
As Kramer watched Stoker fumble with the wound, he couldn’t help but be glad it wasn’t he Stoker was trying to help. Kramer turned to Milton. “Call Trippitt. Tell him we’ve got a badly wounded noncombatant.”
In a few seconds Milton relayed Trippitt’s message, “He says what do you want him to do?”
“Tell him it’s a kid and he has to be medivacked.”
A few seconds later, Milton gave Trippitt’s reply. “He says he’s busy now. He’ll be over in a few minutes.”
Kramer mumbled audibly, “What did I expect?” He turned to Tony 5. “Get another corpsman over here in the meantime.”
Ten minutes later Trippitt walked calmly up to Kramer and said, “These brats are always getting in the way.” Kramer remained silent, and T
rippitt added, “He’s probably the one that was shooting at us.”
“Who the fuck are you kidding?”
Trippitt stood dumbfounded, his lips quivering in an attempt to reply. Before he could, Nash walked up and asked, “What’s going on here?”
It was left to Stoker to answer. “This kid’s hurt bad, sir.”
Nash gave Trippitt an incensed look as he asked harshly, “Why wasn’t I told about this?” Trippitt again found himself embarrassed and speechless. Nash turned to Milton. “Get a medivac in here right away. I don’t want that kid on my conscience.” Before leaving, he said to Stoker, “Do what you can till it gets here.”
As soon as the boy had been medivacked, Nash ordered his men to move out. They marched the rest of the afternoon without stopping, and set-in an hour before dusk. Hamilton’s fire team had one of the listening posts, and he was trying to figure out what to do with Fuller when Wilcox walked up to him. “I need a new pair of boots. These are too small.”
Still thinking about the listening post, Hamilton answered, “Tell the right guide.”
“Who’s the right guide?” Wilcox asked.
“Sugar Bear.”
“Who’s Sugar Bear?”
“Oh fuck . . . never mind. I’ll order them. What size do you wear?”
“Eleven.”
Hamilton also needed a pair of boots. Wilcox’s were new, and he figured he might be able to wear them. “What size are those you’ve got on?”
“Eleven.”
“I thought you said you wear elevens.”
“I do.”
“Oh, never mind. I’ll order you twelves. Just beat it.”
Hamilton found Sugar Bear rubbing insect repellent on his arms. “How’s our skating right guide?”
