by J. M. Graham
Lieutenant Diehl put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be back in a couple of days. You’ll have plenty of time to buy everybody in An Hoa a beer before you go. You can even buy me one. So grab your gear. That’s an order.”
“Sir, I can’t go.”
“You can, and you will.” The lieutenant tried to soften his authoritarian voice; he’d grown to like Strader. “Look,” he said, “you should never have come on this operation. The Arizona has always been a nightmare, and the captain was sure we were going to step in it, like always, and you would be needed. But for some reason Charley is doing his best to avoid us—too busy doing something else, I guess—so you’re just here for the exercise. There’s no point.”
“I can stay and still have a day left to get squared away after we get back.”
Argument from subordinates wasn’t tolerated in the Corps, but the lieutenant’s fondness for Strader tempered his frustration. “You may not be familiar with military law concerning disobeying orders in the field. Chief! Get over here.”
The Chief stood and jogged the few steps to where they stood, feeling oddly self-conscious. “Sir,” he said.
“You ever shoot a white man, Chief?”
The Chief seemed stunned by the question. He wasn’t at all sure what the lieutenant expected him to answer. “No, sir,” he said, slowly and with caution.
Bronsky moved over beside Doc Garver. “Not that we know of,” he whispered.
“Would you like to?” Lieutenant Diehl asked.
A broad smile spread over the Chief’s face. He was trailing his M16 by the front stock and slowly raised it up with both hands. That Strader was his squad leader made the prospect even sweeter. “It would make my ancestors very happy,” he said.
“Your choice, Reach. You go out on the supply chopper or on a medevac.”
Strader could see that further resistance was not only futile but, judging from the twisted grin on the Chief’s face, probably dangerous. He was sure the lieutenant was being facetious, but the look in the Chief’s eyes left little doubt that if the order was given, he might enjoy pulling the trigger.
“Chief, please don’t shoot Reach,” Doc said. “I just got comfortable.”
A distant pounding interrupted the farce. Every Marine in 1st Platoon sensed it; the sound seemed to emanate from their core, subtle thuds that punched the chest in rapid succession like little concussion grenades. At the lieutenant’s command, Franklin pulled the pin on the smoke and tossed it into the tall grass a few yards away. It pinged, sending the spoon spinning into the air, and the canister spewed clouds of yellow smoke that billowed up from the clearing on columns of hot air like a drawing chimney. In seconds an H-34 helicopter streaked over the clearing at ninety miles per hour, just above treetop level. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at it would have to be quick on the draw. The huge radial piston engine staggered the trees and made the ground quiver as the helicopter banked to starboard and climbed.
The H-34, officially designated the UH-34 D, was the workhorse of the Marines in the northern provinces of I Corps. While the Army flooded the southern provinces with the UH-IE, which looked like a scorpion and became universally known as the “Huey,” in the north, the Marines’ mainstay was a flying truck that looked like a grasshopper. The H-34 was forgiving, it could outcarry the Huey, and it could absorb enough punishment to sink a battleship and still stay in the air.
Bronsky held the radio handset out to the lieutenant. He had to shout to be heard. “Highball wants a sit rep, sir.”
Lieutenant Diehl grabbed the handset. “Highball, this is Pounder One. The LZ is secure, over. Do you read? The LZ is secure.”
“That’s good, Pounder. I’ll just set down on top of one of those trees and you can climb up and get your supplies, over.”
As Lieutenant Diehl watched, Franklin pulled the rings on the igniters and started running back to the CP screaming “Fire in the hole” at the top of his lungs.
Lieutenant Diehl grabbed Bronsky by the shoulder strap and pulled him toward the embankment. “Bring it in now, Highball. We’re throwing out the welcome mat. Over and out.”
Marines scrambled over the edge of the embankment, ducked behind high ground, and crouched behind any tree with enough girth to provide cover.
As the escort 34 swept away and banked steeply to port, the door gunner looked straight down on the jungle’s canopy, a roiling green sea. The supply 34 started a straight descent toward the clearing.
The copilot signaled the crew chief that they were going in, and the chief and the door gunner tucked the butts of their M60 machine guns into their shoulders. In the jump seats by the door, two Marines in newly issued gear and jungle utilities, their new jungle boots without a scuff, looked at each other with thinly veiled apprehension as the chopper shook and vibrated. Clumps of dirt danced around the riveted floor like the little plastic players on an electric football game. As the crew chief had demanded before takeoff, their M16s held no magazines and the chambers were cleared.
The door gunner leaned over with a toothy grin not meant to be comforting and shouted over the noise, “Stay away from the rear of the chopper. You can’t see the tail rotor spinning, and it will cut you in half. I don’t give a shit about you, but after it cuts you in half, we won’t be able to take off. So stay the hell away from the tail.”
Three rapid explosions jolted the ground, and shards of tree trunks shredded the surrounding foliage. Three trees hopped spasmodically in unison and collapsed with a crash into the grass. Before the branches stopped twitching Sergeant Blackwell was into the clearing with a detail involving half the platoon. They snatched up the trees and dragged them into the jungle, pulling and twisting until even the uppermost branches were manhandled clear of the LZ.
Even before the trees were completely concealed in the jungle, the 34’s tires were bouncing on their struts beside three splintered stumps. The huge rotors whipped the grass into a brown frenzy and tossed bits of tree trunk around like shrapnel. The crew chief was already pushing cases of C rations to the door. “Last stop, everybody out,” he yelled, pushing a carton into the arms of one of the passengers. “And don’t go empty-handed.”
The pilot lowered the collective and adjusted the engine’s rpms as a small group of Marines rushed the starboard side, stooping at the waist to avoid the deadly rotors. The two new guys hit the ground disoriented, each holding a case of C-rats under one arm. One of the approaching Marines pointed back to the edge of the clearing, and the replacements ducked down and headed to where the lieutenant and Bronsky stood watching.
The escort flew a wide arc above the clearing as cases of food and equipment were dragged through the cargo door of the supply helicopter and hauled away.
Standing next to Diehl, Strader watched the two new Marines approach. Their pants were bloused at the boot tops, and they wore their jungle utility shirts under their flak jackets, the sleeves rolled to the elbow. One set the C ration case at his feet and started to raise his right hand to the rim of his helmet.
“Don’t paint a target on me, Marine,” the lieutenant said. The new guy dropped his arm to his side. The other stood there, clutching his C rations.
Strader looked at the lieutenant with disbelief. “Two more FNGs, sir? I should stay to make sure—”
The lieutenant cut him short. He nodded at the grenade pouches on Strader’s belt. “Reach, give these two hard chargers your frags and smoke. You won’t need them.”
Strader dug the grenades out and handed them to the new guy without the C ration case.
All the gear was offloaded from the helicopter now, and the pilot was increasing the engine’s power. Lieutenant Diehl grabbed the radio handset. “Hold on, Highball. I’ve got one to go.” The pilot’s voice hissed through the speaker, and Diehl turned away and covered his other ear.
“Let’s move, Pounder. I don’t like your neighborhood.”
Strader wanted one last appeal. “But, sir,” he said.
“Chief, m
ake sure the corporal gets on that chopper.”
The Chief took a menacing step forward.
“Okay, okay. I’m going. I don’t like it, but I’m going.”
The two Marines started across the clearing toward the helicopter as the rotors whipped the air impatiently.
Corporal Middleton ran in from the side and caught up. “Blackwell says you’re skying up, Reach. Is that true?”
“True enough, Carl. The lieutenant says I go or the Chief here will be wearing my hair on his belt. Right, Chief?”
“I’m not a chief, shitbird.”
Middleton slapped Strader on the shoulder. “I’ll see you in a couple days. Save me a beer.” He turned and jogged back toward his squad.
Strader tossed his pack through the helicopter door and started to climb on, then looked back. “You wouldn’t really shoot me would you, Chief?”
The Chief slung his rifle over his shoulder. “My name is Gonshayee, asshole.”
The door gunner extended a hand and dragged Strader in.
The pilot worked the collective, and the huge open exhaust roared, the rotors spinning until they were a translucent blur. He adjusted the pitch of the main rotor, simultaneously increasing the engine speed, and the Chief ran for cover, disappearing in a swirling hail of debris. The machine rattled and shook until it seemed to test all the rivets that held its form together. With one more throttle increase, the pounding rotor beat the law of gravity into submission and the big green grasshopper lifted into the air, raised its tail, and climbed out of the clearing.
Corporal Strader stood in the door and watched his Marine family fall away. Unexpected sadness and overwhelming guilt swept over him as the helicopter moved above the jungle canopy and the arboreal wilderness swallowed up Golf’s 1st Platoon.
The H-34 swung north with the escort close behind. The gunner sat by the door, casually holding the pistol grip on his M60 as it hung down in its mount. He whistled loudly to get Strader’s attention and pointed to one of the jump seats. Strader didn’t want to break his mental connection with his platoon. The crew chief cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Sit down.” Finally, Strader dropped into the seat. The air seemed cooler in the chopper. The rotor wash and speed whipped air currents about the interior, drying the sweat on his face. He noticed the crew chief pointing at him. He raised a defiant chin as if to say, “What the hell do you want now?” The Marine pointed at Strader’s rifle. “Clear that weapon,” he yelled.
Strader lay the M14 across his knees, released the magazine, and ejected the chambered cartridge. The jacketed 7.62-mm round gleamed in the shadowy interior of the helicopter, and he pushed it into the pocket of his flak jacket. The crew chief gave him a thumbs-up and turned back to his window.
In the last year Strader had been ferried about the northern provinces of I Corps many times in choppers like this one. He had flown from the top of the mountain outpost at Nong Son. His squad had dropped into the Phu Loc compound at Liberty Bridge to stop VC sappers from destroying the engineers’ newly completed work. And he went with Sparrow Hawk to Tam Ky when a North Vietnamese Army push overwhelmed Marine defenses there. He might even have flown in this very 34 before, though he didn’t recognize the crew.
The crew chief was sitting in shadow against the bulkhead, but the door gunner sat in a square of bright morning light. The green paint on his flight helmet was so scratched and worn that his name, stenciled in black letters, was illegible. His face seemed marked with acne, but on closer inspection Strader could see that the problem was caused by enthusiasm, not hormones or hygiene. The black spots were specks of cartridge powder burned into the skin, blowback from an overheated M60 barrel known as a cook off. Strader was sure the spots would have faded to mere shadows by the time the gunner was old enough to drink.
Strader leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to enjoy the ride.
2
Nguyen Xian Tho and Pham Long moved ahead of their unit to an outcropping that afforded a view of the valley. The distant explosion and sounds of American helicopters had drawn their attention and sent the other men with them to ground. Pham climbed to a higher vantage point, Nguyen’s binoculars swinging precariously from his neck. Nguyen had threatened to make Pham’s life very difficult if he allowed any harm to come to them. Pham concentrated on his hand- and footholds, blocking out his leader’s voice. From the ledge he could see over the jungle canopy in the valley, and he trained the binoculars on the smoke rising in the distance. “May bay truc thang, hai,” he said, indicating that there were helicopters in the valley, two of them.
“Boa xa?” Nguyen asked. How far?
Pham watched one of the helicopters make lazy circles in the distance. “Hai kilometers,” he said, rocking his hand back and forth to indicate the distance was only a rough estimate. He watched until the second helicopter rose from the jungle and continued watching as the two flew east until their sound faded to nothing. “Thuy quan luc chien my,” he said, looking down into Nguyen’s upturned face. Nguyen shrugged and waved him down. So the American Marines were in the valley. It was no concern of his. He had his orders. He was to avoid contact with enemy units and deliver his cargo to cadres in the Quang Nams before the Lunar New Year for the Tet celebration.
Pham climbed down and returned the binoculars to Nguyen, who inspected them thoroughly before replacing them in the canvas case hanging around his neck. Hanoi had made it sound like his new assignment was a promotion to unit commander, but Nguyen felt like he’d been demoted to laborer. He was being sent down Uncle Ho’s trail again, but this time as a coolie.
Before starting south, Nguyen’s men exchanged their North Vietnamese Army uniforms for the oa baba that U.S. troops described as black pajamas. Some wore sandals made from old tire treads, and soft, wide-brimmed hats took the place of their usual pith helmets.
Nguyen and Pham backtracked to where they had dropped their equipment. Pack boards strapped with RPGs and mortar rounds lay next to a recoilless rifle and a Chinese 24 machine gun. Stretched out along the mountainside, the members of the NVA unit were already getting to their feet and hauling the heavy weapons up onto their backs. Co Chien and Sau Thao lifted the bulky machine gun strapped to two long bamboo poles that flexed under its weight. Truong Nghi, another student volunteer like Pham, followed with the gun’s tripod balanced on his shoulders.
Pham helped Nguyen with his pack board of mortar rounds before swinging a mortar tube onto his own shoulder. “Couldn’t we move faster if we went down to level ground?” he asked.
Nguyen ran a belt through his shoulder straps and cinched it tight across his chest. “The valley is heavily mined. We could move faster, but at what cost? I will not take the chance without a local guide. Even this high we are not safe, so step with care. And as you saw, the Americans are inside the trees, and we must move away from them.” Nguyen leaned into his load and started off.
They had come more than forty kilometers from the Laotian border in the last five days, and their burdens were wearing them down. Their backs felt broken and their shoulders were rubbed raw. Each day they appreciated the time spent resting more than the day before. They originally pushed on through the rain, but their progress was so slow and the falls so frequent that it was decided that waiting out the downpours was wiser than losing a man to injury. Anyway, they had time.
“It’s good to know our leader is concerned for our safety,” Truong said, coming alongside Pham.
“Don’t be a fool, Truong. His concern is for the cargo.”
Truong moved close to Sau so he could speak unheard. “Is it true that the Americans call this area Arizona?”
Sau turned his head, trying to keep pace with Co so he wouldn’t push or be pulled. “I’ve heard Nguyen say so.”
“Why would they do that? I’ve read about their Arizona. How could this place remind them of it?”
Sau tried to shrug. “I don’t know, Truong. The Americans think they are cowboys, so maybe they also think there are I
ndians here.”
Truong dropped back a few paces, giving the concept some consideration. “I think they’re right about that,” he said. “There are Indians here. And we are the Indians.” As an avid reader of western novels published in America, he felt happy somehow to be saying that. He suddenly experienced a surge of pride. In all his readings, he had never identified with the cowboys in the stories he loved so much, even though they were the main characters and obviously the intended heroes. He always thought of himself as one of the Indians.
3
The H-34 lowered gently onto the interlocking metal panels that Seabees had sledge-hammered together to make the runway at An Hoa combat base. On a rise overlooking the runway, a Marine air controller in a tower watched from behind a ring of sandbags as Strader jumped from the cargo door, the panels banging under his boots. The door gunner sat in the door with his legs dangling. He handed Strader his backpack. “Where are you headed now?” he said.
Strader swung the pack over one shoulder. “Pennsylvania.”
The door gunner laughed. “That’s a little outside our range. I think you’ll have to find another means of transportation.”
“That sounds like good advice.” Strader waved and headed for the main road leading up to the 2nd Battalion command area.
The road continued on through the base and out the gate and in twenty-six hard-fought miles reached Da Nang. Heavy vehicles had ground the dirt into fine talc that rose in clouds with every footfall and turned into a muddy soup after a few minutes of rain. In the administration area the road was lined with plywood buildings raised up on blocks and topped with corrugated steel roofs. Each was screened all the way around and had a door at each end. A sidewalk of shipping pallets made a feeble attempt to keep boots out of the muck in the monsoon season, but during the rains the whole base was mud, the road was slop, and the bunkers on the perimeter filled with brown water. If you had the rank to travel by vehicle, you could step onto the sidewalk without tarnishing your shine. But if you walked, you waded through mud, and when you reached the sidewalk, every step you took left a lumpy boot print. Unfortunately, officers did not like a dirty sidewalk. In wet weather, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, and Hotel commanders kept the office personnel busy scraping the muddy footprints back into the road.
