by Robert Roth
Even over the roar of their own fire, Kramer and the rest of his men were hearing rounds whizzing above and by them. For an instant he did become scared, but his fear was overshadowed by thoughts of his own responsibility — ‘Am I doing everything right, everything I can? . . . Too late for air support.’ Should he send a flank squad ahead — ‘Impossible. No time.’ He swung his head from side to side, watching his platoon hurl itself forward like a huge wave, he at the same time leading and being carried by it, swelled by its impetus into something of ascendant power, experiencing within himself a sense of destructive potency both bestial and godlike.
The broad wave of men climbed from the rice paddies to the high ground and began crashing through the brush. All the firing was now their own. Kramer almost shouted, “I see! Now I see!” Suddenly, twenty yards before him appeared a bomb crater with an abandoned rifle lying upon the lip. For the first time, Kramer fired his own rifle, spraying sand along the rim of the crater and emptying his magazine in a few seconds. Tony 5 lofted a grenade into the crater. A gray-clad human form exploded into the air, a chicom in one hand and its arm still cocked in an attempt to throw it. The Marines rushed past the crater, firing at the lifeless forms lining its sides.
The tree line was only forty yards across. The men quickly burst through to the rice paddies on its opposite side. Kramer ordered a return sweep, his exhilaration now replaced by numbness. But still he repeated to himself, “I see. I see.” When he reached the bomb crater and the bodies of the three NVA soldiers it contained, he looked down at them with some pity, as much for himself as for them, but with no sense of regret.
He had been just as reckless with his men’s safety as with his own, and now for the first time he became concerned about them. “Is everybody okay?” he shouted. News of three slightly wounded men came back to him. Kramer was amazed that in all the firing not one of his men had been seriously hurt. Remembering the dead bodies, he called out, “Any of ’em still alive?”
“No,” was the reply from both sides of him.
“How many bodies?” he shouted.
“Two.”
“Two.”
‘Seven . . . seven men dead.’ He remembered the NVA soldier who had, until the last second of his life, tried to throw a grenade — to kill. Struck by the courage in that act, and also by the fact that he could have been the target, Kramer again glanced at the bodies. A cigarette now in his shaking hand, he awkwardly lit it while thinking, ‘I see.’ For the first time it was apparent to him what the lifers lived for, those few seconds of reckless exhilaration that he had so often heard both glorified and denied. They existed. He knew that now; and he thought to himself, ‘So that’s what it’s all about. . . . At least I see.’
“Ski,” someone called out.
A moment’s silence.
“Where’s Ski?”
“He was right next to me.”
“When?"
“SKI!”
Sugar Bear splashed back through the rice paddies. All the men watched, some of them following him. Sugar Bear jerked his head from side to side as he scanned the first dike. He kept running. When he reached the fifth dike, Sugar Bear didn’t have to scan the paddies behind it. Ski lay at his feet, face down in the water with blood swirling around him in delicate marbleized patterns. Knowing there was no chance but refusing to believe it, Sugar Bear jerked Ski from the water as if he were a weightless rag doll. Now the others also saw him, head collapsed on one shoulder and a gaping wound on his neck.
Chalice sat alone in the darkness. He heard footsteps and saw Childs walking towards him. His stomach tightened. He glanced around, looking for a place to go, to hide. Childs saw him. Their eyes met for a second before Childs half turned and sat down. He didn’t want to talk either — ‘Thank God.’
But then Hamilton walked over. He saw Childs, not Chalice, and sat down near him. “We were lucky, man.” Childs remained silent. “Man, were we lucky.”
“Yeah,” Childs said grudgingly.
Tony 5 came over, checking positions. Hamilton repeated, “Man, were we lucky.”
Tony hesitated. “Yeah . . . except for Ski.”
“Yeah, except for Ski. . . . God that was close, worse than the last time.”
‘The last time!’ Chalice thought, only now realizing that what had happened could happen again.
Tony 5 started to leave; he didn’t want to talk either. But Hamilton called to him, “Wait. Wait just a minute. . . . Man, didn’t that scare the shit out of you.”
Childs cut in irritably, “Jesus Christ, we were all scared shitless. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” Tony repeated.
“Man, I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing.”
“But you did the right thing.”
“Yeah . . . it—”
“Jesus Christ, let’s drop it,” Childs said.
Tony was ready to, but not Hamilton. “It all happened so fast, but everyone did the right thing. It was like fast and slow motion at the same time. . . . How can it be like that?” Tony remained silent. “I don’t—”
“It is like that!” Childs still didn’t want to talk, had never before talked about it; but he had to shut up Hamilton. “It’s always like that —”
‘Always?’ thought Chalice.
“— It happens faster, but you see it faster. You see it all, like in slow motion. . . . Let’s drop it.”
“But you can’t do anything about it.”
“But you did,” Tony said.
“But it seems like you’re not doing things fast enough.”
“But you are — you’re alive.”
“Something makes you,” Childs cut in. “It always does.”
“Fast and slow motion at the same time,” Hamilton mumbled. “Yeah.”
“Yeah . . . yeah, that’s it.”
‘Yeah,’ Chalice thought, knowing that at least for him, “that” hadn’t been all of it. He recalled the sensations that had swept through him during the advance, a fear so intense as to be exhilarating, the sense of freedom as the yoke of individuality dissolved and he merged with the men alongside him to share the primeval instincts of the pack, the satisfaction he felt while watching the rounds from his blooker land exactly where he had wanted, as if he had not aimed, but willed them to their targets.
On the sweep through the tree line he had passed by the lip of the crater, but refused to look into it. Only on the return sweep did he actually glance inside, seeing the bodies of three NVA soldiers, one of them obviously killed by a blooker round. His head turned away quickly, at the same time remembering his first reaction to the shot. It was then that he forced himself to admit it, to mumble audibly and in disbelief, “I enjoyed it. God, I enjoyed it.”
4. The Arizona
The men waited anxiously as the supply chopper descended. It had been almost two weeks since they’d received any mail, and the hope for it was all that was on their minds. This was not because of any concern or curiosity about what was happening at home, but because the very act of reading about a place other than the Arizona was a needed form of escape to that place. As the chopper hovered above the ground, the men struggled under the turbulence of its blades to unhook the cargo net. Their eyes vainly searched the load of supplies for the bright orange mailbags. Instead of ascending when the net was detached, the helicopter flew forward and landed. A Marine carrying a huge mailbag staggered down the loading ramp. A large peace medallion and a dozen strings of love beads hung from his neck. As other Marines approached to help him, he waved them into the chopper to get the rest of the mail. Chalice and Hamilton immediately recognized the Marine struggling under the weight of the bag as Forsythe, and they rushed forward to welcome him back. Soon he was surrounded by members of his platoon questioning him about his R and R or kidding him about running out on them.
While some of the men divided the supplies and sorted the mail, Childs, Hamilton, Chalice, and Forsythe sat talking in Alpha’s sector of the perimeter. It
was Forsythe who began asking the questions, avoiding the one that bothered him most. He had learned of Ski’s death in the rear, but he now hesitated asking about it. Each man began telling some part of what had happened while Forsythe was away, starting first with generalities and only after a while giving details. It wasn’t until almost all conversation was exhausted that Hamilton told him exactly what had happened to Ski.
Forsythe also had something to tell them, and only now did he begin. “Do you guys know why you haven’t been getting mail?” They shook their heads. “Charlie got the last batch. We’ll never see it.”
“How’d that happen?” Hamilton asked.
“Remember the Brother from Third Platoon that got the job riding the jeep?” Forsythe knew the name of this Brother, but he felt uneasy about using it.
“Sure, Delaney. What about him?” Childs asked.
“He got blown away.”
Childs’s stomach tightened and he remained silent while Hamilton asked with surprise, “How’d it happen?”
“Who’s Delaney?” Chalice asked.
“You don’t know him,” Forsythe answered before continuing. “You guys know Fowler and Combs, don’t you?”
Childs nodded and Hamilton said, “Yeah, One’s the big red headed guy, and the other’s the dude from Wyoming.”
“Delaney drove them into Da Nang for some reason. He went there to pick up the mail. They were supposed to meet him before the convoy pulled out, but they got there a few minutes late. Fowler didn’t have a pass, and he wanted to get back to An Hoa before anyone missed him. So Delaney took off after the convoy. . . . Never made it. The Gooks ambushed ’em a few miles outside Da Nang. . . . Delaney and Combs got killed. The Gooks stole the mail and cleaned their pockets — leaving Fowler for dead. But he’s all right now.”
Hamilton remembered what he had said to Delaney in Da Nang. “I knew that was no skating job. . . . He was a good dude.”
Neither Childs nor Hamilton cared to continue talking. They hadn’t seen Delaney killed, so they both found it hard to believe he was dead. All they could picture in their minds was the way he had looked in Da Nang. They remembered envying the fact that he got to ride in a jeep all day. Many times before they’d had friends killed, and their reaction was now the same as always — sorrow over the loss of a friend, relief that it hadn’t been themselves, and guilt that they felt this relief. As Forsythe watched their faces, he knew that they would have wanted him to tell them, yet he was sorry he had. Suddenly he remembered something. A big smile on his face, he rummaged through his pack, finally pulling out a large, orange disk.
It was a Frisbee, and they were soon tossing it around the perimeter. Forsythe and Chalice were the only ones who already knew how to throw it, but Hamilton learned quickly. Childs was hopeless. Everytime he tried, the Frisbee wobbled a few feet in front of him and fell to the ground. As they were able to throw it longer distances, they began to spread out. Other members of the platoon saw them, and soon twenty men were chasing and fighting over it. They forgot how tiring the day’s march had been. Even some men from the other platoons came over and joined them. Each time the Frisbee approached the ground, a group of men would be waiting for it, shoving each other out of the way and cursing among themselves. As soon as someone caught it, a few of the others would try to tackle him and grab it away. They quickly tired and became content to let the man it came to throw it. All eyes would fasten on the bright orange disk as it floated effortlessly through the air, seemingly ignoring some law they were all subject to.
Suddenly Gunny Martin’s whiskey tenor rang out among them. “Put that fucking thing away. This ain’t no playground.” A hatred rose up within them, as if Martin’s words had taunted them into remembering something that for an instant they had been able to forget. Many of them smiled when these words were ignored and the Frisbee again floated above them. Martin repeated his order in an even gruffer tone. This time someone handed the Frisbee to Forsythe, and the men dispersed while cursing Martin under their breaths.
Their anger was soon forgotten as the mail was passed out. Forsythe received a large, brown envelope, and he sat down near Pablo, Chalice, Hamilton, Childs, and Ramirez. As soon as Forsythe opened it, he jumped to his feet and shouted, “It’s here! I finally got it!” He held out a white piece of paper. “It’s my ordination. I’m an ordained minister now.” These words were met by skeptical remarks until Forsythe passed around the paper. “I’m now an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church.”
“What kind of bullshit is this?” Childs asked as he handed the paper to Hamilton.
“It’s true,” Hamilton said with surprise. “It says so right here.”
“You’re damn right it’s true.”
“What the hell’s the Universal Life Church?” Chalice asked.
“It’s a registered religious organization, just like the Catholic Church.”
“Oh some more of that bullshit,” Childs commented.
Ramirez immediately jumped to his feet. “Whata you mean by that?” Pablo reached up and grabbed Ramirez by the tail of his shirt. “Don’t get excited. He didn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah. You oughta be used to Childs by now,” Hamilton added.
Ramirez reluctantly sat down as Forsythe began speaking. “No bullshit. It’s a real religious organization, incorporated and everything. I can turn my house into a church and not pay taxes on it. I can get all kinds of discounts on plane tickets and garbage like that. I can —”
Childs cut him off by asking in a sarcastic tone, “Can you get out of the bush? Can you get rid of that asshole chaplain we’ve got now?”
These questions somewhat deflated Forsythe, but he refused to let them stop him. “I can perform marriages just like any other sky pilot. I can perform funerals.”
As soon as he said this, Forsythe realized that he had made a mistake; Childs immediately pointed it out to him. “Funerals, I ain’t interested in. Marriage neither, as a matter of fact.”
While carefully studying Forsythe’s paper, Ramirez asked, “Hey man, what’d you do to get this?”
“Sent in my name and some postage stamps.”
“Is that all.” Ramirez again looked at the paper. “Hey man, this sounds phony to me.”
“Read it yourself.”
Ramirez did so before finally asking, “You mean all I have to do is send them my name and I’m a priest.”
“Hell no, a minister.”
“Well what good’s it gonna do me to be a minister? I’m Catholic.”
“It’ll get you all kinds of discounts.”
“Can I still be Catholic?”
“It’s all right with me.”
While sitting with a big grin on his face and thinking about the difference it made to have Forsythe around, Chalice asked, “What’s this Universal Life Church supposed to believe in?”
“That’s simple: What you believe, is right.”
Chalice nodded his head as he replied, “That is simple.”
“Tolerant bunch of motherfuckers,” Childs added.
“Sure are,” Forsythe agreed. “For the price of an envelope and a stamp, they’d even tolerate you.”
“This still sounds phony to me,” Ramirez commented.
As usual, Pablo was doing more listening than talking. Amused by Ramirez’s puzzled look, Pablo placed his hand on Ramirez’s shoulder and said, “Don’t sweat it. I think you and me just better stay Catholics.”
Ramirez looked up at him questioningly, knowing that he could trust Pablo not to kid him. “They fucking with me, man?”
“No. I think somebody’s fucking with Forsythe.”
As Pablo said this, Appleton walked over and picked up the Frisbee. He tossed it from hand to hand for a few seconds before saying, “Let’s try this thingamajig out again.”
“Naw,” Forsythe answered. “The Gunny’s got a hair up his ass.”
“What the hell’s he gonna do, send us to the Arizona?”
This was a
ll Appleton needed to say. Within seconds they were again on their feet throwing the Frisbee. Other members of the platoon came over and joined them, but this time there was much less of the rough horseplay and they were content to let the disk float slowly between them. Soon each man was calling out the name of someone across from him and trying to throw it to that person.
Gunny Martin noticed them and stared on in rage, taking their actions as a personal insult. The temptation to shout for them to stop was strong, but he got a better idea. Martin picked up a nearby rifle. As the men watched the Frisbee float above them, they were startled by a burst of rifle fire. The Frisbee tumbled awkwardly higher before another burst from the M-16 knocked it to the ground. All of the men were staring at Martin by the time he lowered the rifle from his shoulder, the smile on his face indicating satisfaction with his marksmanship. When Martin saw the glares of the men, he was at first pleased that he had so effectively made his point; but as they continued to stare insolently at him, he grew uneasy and finally shouted, “Get back to your positions and act like Marines. . . . Do you want Charlie to walk right up here and blow us all to hell?” Forsythe alone remained staring at him. Martin refused to be the one to turn his back. “Hey you, when was the last time you had a haircut?” Forsythe remained silent. “Get over here, Marine.” Hoping that Martin would try to manhandle him, Forsythe approached slowly and with the insolent stare still on his face. “Follow me. You need a haircut,” Martin said in a calmer but still harsh tone.
“I’ll cut it myself.”
“Oh you will!” Forsythe remained silent. “Are you refusing an order?”
“I don’t have to let you cut my hair.”
Martin knew that Forsythe was right, but this was the first time anyone had stood up to him. His only choice was to use physical force or to try and bluff his way out. “Oh you don’t, do you? I’m writing you up, Marine. You can expect to hear from Legal. . . . And don’t let me see you wearing that fucking jewelry again. You look like a fag.” Martin then turned his back and walked away. Even though Forsythe realized that this was a bluff and he had come off the better of the two, his rage was not spent, nor would it be for a long time.
