Sergeant Dickinson

by Jerome Gold

  I stepped outside. To the west the Air Force was bombing. You could feel the ground tremors in your feet. The horizon brightened and dimmed, pulsing like the aurora borealis when you’re not close enough to see the colors but can still see the lights like a white haze expanding and contracting at the edge of the world.

  I slipped a bullet into my breast pocket.

  In the morning it was another day.

  The fog came in before evening and stayed, hugging the ground as though the earth were its lawful possession. The column of Laotians did not show up.

  When the NVA finally came it was a relief. It was as though we had spent our lives waiting for them and now, at last, they were here. They came in a rush, there were so many that you could not see how you could keep from hitting them, even without aiming. There were the explosions as the sappers cleared assault paths through the wire, and then they were in the trenches with the Yards.

  “Tanks in the wire!” somebody yelled. You could see them coming out of the dust and fog on the road—three, four, probably a fifth—infantry moving up behind them.

  “Get on the horn!” I scream at Evans.

  “I am on the horn! Dagger, Dagger, this is Copper Jacket! We are under heavy ground attack from armor and infantry! I say again: We have tanks in the wire!”

  “This is Dagger. Say again. Over.”

  “We have tanks in the wire! Stand by for fire mission!”

  “Negative, negative, Copper jacket. There is no armor in your area. Over.”

  “You motherfuckers! We’re being overrun! We’re Americans! Help us!”

  There is the blast of a tank cannon, and the bunker door crashes in.

  “They’ve knocked down our antennas!” Evans shrieks.

  “Do you still have power?”

  “I’ve got power! It’s the antenna!”

  I rush outside. Everything that is combustible is already burning, everything is red and black, it is a Halloween nightmare, a night on Bald Mountain. A pair of legs in camouflage trousers, the feet in jungle boots as large as mine, is spread on the ground in front of me, the torso is somewhere else. I hope it is not somebody I know, and I laugh because of course it is somebody I know.

  Pappy, his terror-polished face reflecting the flicker of fire and shadow, comes running up. “Dickinson! Get on the radio! Get fire support!”

  “The antennas are down! I can’t find them!”

  “The leads go into the corner of the commo bunker! Look there!”

  “It’s been blown away!”

  “Cut new ones!”

  The tank guns open up again and we drop into a crouch. “Do it!” Pappy yells. There are smoke and dust everywhere, I am almost past the commo bunker before I realize where I am. Inside, Evans is lying on his side. The radios are useless, somebody has done as complete a job on them as on Evans.

  Outside again, running toward where I last saw Pappy, nothing looks familiar. I stumble into a mortar pit. Someone is leaning over me, I can feel him even before I roll over. “Hold it! He’s an American!” The man lowers his rifle.

  “Dickinson! Did you get hold of Division?” It’s Pappy.

  “Radios are shot up. Evans is dead.”

  Five of us are hunched up in the mortar pit. Nobody speaks.

  “Where’s Pierson?” I ask.

  “His legs are back there.” The answerer giggles. Somebody else giggles too.

  “Where’s Geyer?”

  “I’m here.”

  “Where’s Lieutenant Hendricks?” Pappy asks.

  “Dead.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Fuck yes, I’m sure.”

  “What about that new medic?”

  “Haven’t seen him.”

  “Anybody seen Ortiz?” Geyer asks.

  Nobody answers.

  “There goes the perimeter.”

  From the west and south tanks are coming in behind the sappers. You can see the faces of the tank commanders in the cupolas. The Yards break at last, they flood back toward the center of the camp. One is dragging himself by his hands. Another tumbles forward, lands on his face, his feet cartwheeling over his head; he must have been head-shot. Now the North Vietnamese infantry are coming through. They are wearing green uniforms. At Plei Me they wore khaki.

  “Let’s go,” Pappy says.

  Now we are out of the mortar pit and racing for the nearest tank. It is twenty-five meters away, it seems to take forever to get to it. Two of Wilson’s people, I never learned their names, are the first there. They are on the tank’s deck, trying to force open its hatch, as Pappy, Geyer, and I go for another one. It is already dead, one of its treads knocked off, a decapitated crew member lying beside it, the Yards do good work, ha ha. Ahead of us are the green uniforms, there are so many of them, Pappy stops suddenly and as I pass him he is fixing his bayonet, and Geyer screams at him, “Don’t stop!” and now Geyer and Pappy are behind me, and one of the small green uniforms appears in front of me and I fire a short burst, it is so pure and sweet and clear, like sudden knowledge, like certainty, and the small green man flies backward, it is as though he were flying, his arms lift, his back arches, his feet rise off the ground, it’s Superman! ha, ha. Now almost to the perimeter, there are Americans, and I fire off the rest of the magazine, ha ha, they fall, they are so surprised, and more of them, where have they come from? I rip off another magazine, ha ha ha, they can’t believe it, I fire right into them, ha ha ha ha, I am falling, ha ha, I am hit again, I can see the bones of my hand and then I cannot see the bones for the blood, and there is Roy, laughing, his features all laughing with the joy of it all, Roy is laughing, it is so funny, everything is, and I feel such love….

  GLOSSARY

  Arvin (Ar’ vin; slang): Pronunciation of the acronym ARVN.

  ARVN: Army of the Republic of Viet Nam: the South Vietnamese army.

  Bru: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam’s central highlands.

  CIB: Combat Infantryman Badge: awarded to American soldiers assigned to the infantry for having been in combat.

  Combat Medic Badge: awarded to Army medical personnel for having performed medical duties while under fire.

  E-eight: Enlisted soldiers have pay grades denoted by the letter ‘E’. E-eight is the pay grade for a master sergeant or first sergeant.

  E-five: Pay grade for a sergeant. See E-eight above.

  FULRO: French acronym for the Committee for the Autonomy of the People of the Western Plateau, also known as the Highland Autonomy Movement and the High Plateau National Autonomy Movement. It sought to establish a Montagnard autonomous zone in the Viet Nam highlands (source: Frank M. Lebar, Gerald C. Hickey, John K. Musgrave, Ethnic Groups of Mainland Southeast Asia, Human Relations Area Files Press, New Haven).

  Jarai: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam’s central highlands and Cambodia.

  Jeh: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam’s central highlands and southern Laos.

  KIA: Killed in action.

  MACV: Military Advisory Command Vietnam.

  MIA: Missing in action.

  Moi: Vietnamese word meaning savage; an uncivilized person.

  Montagnard: Generic term for the minority ethnic groups of Viet Nam’s central highlands.

  Nung: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam and southern China.

  NVA: North Vietnamese Army.

  Psyops: Psychological Operations.

  Rhadé: Minority ethnic group of Viet Nam’s central highlands and Cambodia.

  Straight leg (slang): Soldier not trained to parachute out of an airplane.

  Strike force: Irregular military unit trained, advised, and often led by U.S. Army Special Forces.

  Tac Air: Aircraft used in support of ground tactical operations.

  Tiger suits (slang): Style of camouflage uniform worn by U.S. Special Forces in Viet Nam and the units they trained and advised.

  VC: Viet Cong: South Vietnamese irregulars who fought on the Communist side during the American war in Viet Nam.

  VN
AF: South Vietnamese Air Force.

  WIA: Wounded in action.

  XO: Executive officer.

  JEROME GOLD is the author of ten books, including Sergeant Dickinson, which is based on his experience in the US Army Special Forces during the Vietnam War, and Paranoia and Heartbreak: Fifteen Years in a Juvenile Facility, taken from the journal he kept during his career as a rehabilitation counselor in a prison for children.