by J. M. Graham
“So we need to get him to an LZ, ASAP,” the lieutenant said as Sergeant Blackwell handed him the damaged M16. He turned the weapon over in his hands, then squatted down beside Brede. “Do you think a smack on the head with this Mattie Mattel piece of plastic could cause all that damage?” he said with his voice lowered so the suspicion wouldn’t spread into the platoon.
“I don’t know. I suppose so,” Brede said. “I never saw anybody get hit with one. But like I told Blackwell, I don’t think the Chief did Tanner and the new guy. He’s a hard case, but he’s not a mental case.”
Bronsky stood just behind the lieutenant, waiting for the inevitable order to make the call for a medevac. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Look where we are, Doc. We’re all mental cases,” he said.
“Speak for yourself, Bronsky,” the sergeant said.
The doc gave Bronsky a sour look. “I don’t think geography can be held responsible for your unfortunate mental status,” he said.
Bronsky stifled the urge to defend himself. He knew the corpsmen were sometimes all that stood between a Marine and a trip to graves registration, and he liked to think that if the situation presented itself and he needed their help, they would be motivated to do their best work.
The lieutenant unfolded his map and searched the terrain east of their position. “Sergeant, get out your map,” he said.
Sergeant Blackwell pulled out his plastic-coated map and held it next to the lieutenant’s. Grease pencil notations spotted the face, and small crosses were marked in strategic spots in a seemingly random pattern.
The lieutenant jabbed his own map with a finger. “This is the closest spot with enough open ground for a chopper,” he said. “Take 2nd Squad and get the Chief and . . . the other two . . . down there.”
The sergeant compared the maps and made a quick mark in the area indicated. “That could take some time. It’s well over a mile.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the lieutenant said. “It’s mostly downhill. I’ll get the chopper in the air, and I have to let Five know what the situation is here.”
Blackwell scratched at the back of his neck. “Do we have to involve the exec? You know how he is. He just might fly out here.”
“I doubt it. But there’s got to be security for the Chief, and he’ll want to know why.”
A solid policy of covering your own ass was familiar to all sergeants, and Blackwell knew that the lieutenant could do no less. But once Diehl got the executive officer on the horn, the Chief would be plunged into the bureaucratic maze of the military justice system, and the full weight of command would land on him like a B-52 payload. His future looked grim. On the bright side, though, the Chief might get lucky and die in transit.
“Bronsky,” the lieutenant said, “go with the sergeant and keep me apprised of the Chief’s condition.”
“Shit,” Bronsky said, seeing the chance to rest his aching back fade away.
“What was that, Marine?”
“Yes, sir, Lieutenant. I said, ‘Yes, sir.’” Bronsky turned and followed Sergeant Blackwell in search of Middleton and 2nd Squad.
The team swept Binh’s limp body along at a jogger’s pace, easily following the path blazed by the main unit. Binh’s limbs dangled loosely, and the wound in his side, a dry, ugly gash, seemed to have discharged all the blood it was capable of losing. Sau sent the remaining sentry, the only one with a firearm, ahead of the group as security.
After a while the sentry stopped suddenly and raised his long-barreled machine gun to his shoulder. The men carrying Binh stopped and let him slump to the ground without ceremony. Ahead, one of the main unit’s weapon bearers stood with a short-handled shovel and waved them on. He had a white cloth draped over one shoulder and pointed with the shovel to a spot just off of the trail.
The sentry lowered his weapon and looked at Sau. “Binh is home,” he said, indicating the man ahead on the trail. The others raised their heads tentatively, their breaths coming in hoarse gasps.
Sau nodded without speaking, and they got Binh aloft again and followed the digger to a spot a few meters downgrade where a mound of fresh soil was piled beside a shallow grave. The grave walls were studded with roots that had been cleaved away to make room for the new resident. As they lay Binh beside the hole, Sau’s deep breaths took in the rich aroma of the newly turned soil. It was pungent and dank and filled with the fertile promise of growth. Sau looked around as though committing the spot to memory, but he knew that it would be anonymous in a few days and impossible to find in a week.
The digger could see that the group was nearly spent, so he knelt and pressed a hand to the side of Binh’s neck and lowered his ear to the center of his chest. He looked at Sau and the others, then just looked away. It was not news. It was simply a confirmation of what they all had known since their last stop. It was clear that they were no longer hurrying to save Binh’s life, only to save his body.
The white cloth was spread on the ground, and Co and Duong lifted Binh into the center of it while the digger handed a small bag and a coin to Sau. Sau took the offerings, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of a forearm. As the others wrapped the cloth around Binh’s body, Sau knelt by his head. The digger handed Sau a saucer of water from his canteen, and Sau poured it over Binh’s face and wiped away some of the dirt-encrusted blood. The rest of the group stood silently while Sau opened Binh’s mouth. Death was beginning to claim the muscles, and Sau had to use some force. He took as much rice from the little bag as a pinch of his fingers could hold and let the bits fall through Binh’s teeth, then he dropped in the coin. He could leave this world now with proof that he wanted for nothing and had no hunger. Sau stood as Duong draped the folds of the cloth over Binh’s face.
“His old name will not do in his new place. He will now be known as Trung, the faithful and true, and a more fitting name could not be imagined,” Sau said.
The digger looked to the path, and Sau knew that their mourning period was over. They lowered Binh into the trench and with shovel and hands covered the shroud-wrapped body until only a slight bulge marked the grave. In time, joss would be burned and prayers offered, but for now, the need was to rejoin their unit. Sau placed a hand on the mound. He was sure Trung would understand.
12
Strader hit the chow line early and took a corner seat where he wouldn’t be jostled by traffic while he worked his way through a mound of scrambled eggs with sausage links and grits, refilling his coffee cup when it emptied. Marines moved through the morning mess at a steady clip, and Strader could easily tell those coming off night watches in desperate need of some rack time from those who were fresh from their barracks with hours of uninterrupted sleep behind them. A couple of sergeants were at their table nursing coffee in personalized mugs and savoring the first cigarettes of the day.
The space behind the steam tables was alive with activity, and the clang of empty stainless steel bins being shuttled away and generously filled replacements being dropped into their spots filled the room with a sound of industry that battled the din of voices for dominance. This was Strader’s favorite time of day. Everything had a new beginning. The sun hadn’t had time to bake the life out of the air, and the aroma of sausage and bacon and freshly ground coffee beans created an atmosphere he found relaxing, almost peaceful. And the morning brought another day to be scratched off his short-timer’s calendar.
The mimeographed checklist in his pocket set the itinerary for his remaining time at An Hoa. He planned to tick through the column of mandatory destinations, getting the appropriate signatures in the prescribed spaces, going from department to department until the page was exhausted, every line a signed testimony to his qualifications to go home. Supply would want back all the equipment he was issued, and in a condition that met the supply sergeant’s satisfaction. The armory sergeant would go over his weapon with the scrutiny of a diamond cutter. His pay records would be examined. His service record would be rifled in search of legal infractions. H
is seabag would be searched. He would be quizzed, questioned, warned, threatened, and ignored. But he would endure. And the day after tomorrow he would fly away, finally awakening from a bad dream.
At the bottom of the page was a space reserved for the captain’s signature. It was just a formality. He liked to speak with each of his Golf Company Marines who managed to complete a tour unscathed, as though he was curious about the secret of their success. At the end of the meeting, he would always shake hands and give the Marine’s shoulder a fatherly pat. It was vaguely odd and uncomfortable for most of the men, but they could see from the emotion in the captain’s eyes that he was genuinely pleased to be sending home a survivor.
Strader slung his rifle over his shoulder and carried his utensils and tray outside. While dunking his tray in the first rinse barrel, filled with steaming brownish water that floated clumps of uneaten food, he decided his first stop would be the battalion aid station. All Marines feared the possibility of a medical hold stopping them from catching the freedom bird, so he meant to get the poking and prodding out of the way first. If he had a communicable disease that couldn’t be shared with the rest of the world, he would rather know it now before he wasted his time slogging through the rest of the list. An intentional and strategic rumor circulated about a strain of venereal disease called the “black clap” that would get you a permanent hold. The rumor even went so far as to create an island where you would be sent. You could never go home. The rumor was designed to curb the sexual appetites of lonely troops with nuclear hormones approaching critical mass, but had about as much effect as the neutered movies and comically graphic VD lectures.
By the time Strader reached the main road through the company area, morning traffic had begun to grind the earth into reddish talc. Each step raised little explosions of dust that coated his Corcorans. Heat waves rose from the corrugated steel roofs as the rising sun turned them into sizzling hotplates. Just beyond the company hooches the battalion laundry had the canvas drapes pulled down and the cardboard sign on the door that marked it closed for business. He knew that the Vietnamese women who ran the laundry would be waiting at the wire for entry, anxious to begin the day of washing and folding and starching and earning their fat little bundles of military payment certificates that they tucked quietly away in their pockets.
Supply and the armory were quiet, too, and before he turned off the road toward the amtrac area and the battalion aid station he could see the local entrepreneurs beyond the wire readying their stands for the day’s commerce. Out there, the mama-sans sold anything you might want or need. You could get boonie hats and Ho Chi Minh sandals, cigarettes and Tiger Piss beer, and with the right amount of MPCs, or even greenbacks, you could buy a Coke, a cold and frosty Coke chilled with ice donated by the German medical clinic out by the road.
The battalion aid station was in an actual brick-and-mortar building with real walls and doors and a floor that didn’t flex under your weight. The base side showed a face of stucco with high windows. Around back, a helicopter pad led directly to a triage unit with lines of hard-topped gurneys that had to be hosed down regularly. If Strader timed it right, he would be in before the crush of sick call monopolized the docs’ attention, but not so early that the morning workload wouldn’t be an incentive to get him out of their hair as quickly as possible. He let the spring slap the screen door closed behind him.
The room had a concrete floor with benches against the walls; on the far side an enlisted man sat behind a counter, one hand around a mug of coffee, the other thumbing a copy of Stars and Stripes. He glanced up casually then returned to the paper. The collar pin on his utilities identified him as a Navy chief petty officer. The Navy chiefs ran the Navy the way the higher-ranking sergeants ran the Marines, and like the sergeants, they had little tolerance for the lower ranks.
“You’re too early for sick call,” he said without looking up again.
Strader crossed the room, leaving faint dusty footprints to mark his passage. He slid the mimeographed checklist onto the counter beside the newspaper. “I’m not sick,” he said, pointing to a line on the list. “I just need a doctor’s John Hancock so I can check out of this resort.”
The CPO pushed the checklist away with the side of his hand, never taking his eyes away from his newspaper. The one thing a chief liked less than a lower rank was a lower rank with attitude interrupting his morning quiet time.
“You’ll have to be examined,” he said. “Have a seat.”
Strader grabbed his checklist and went to one of the benches. On the way he looked through a door marked DENTAL. The walls were lined with metal cabinets with glass doors. A portable dentist’s chair was pushed back, and a pair of scuffed jungle boots stuck out awkwardly from the footrest, toes pointed tensely to the ceiling. Strader hung his soft cover over the barrel of his rifle and leaned back against the wall.
Behind the counter a bank of file cabinets flanked a metal cupboard, the kind that made sounds like a tympani when the doors were slammed. On top sat a helmet with the camo cover removed. Puckered bullet holes decorated the metal surface on one side and jagged edges marked the exits on the other. “What’s with the helmet?” Strader said.
The CPO glanced over his shoulder at the helmet as though he needed a visual refresher, then back to his Stars and Stripes. “It’s just to remind our field corpsmen not to be heroes.”
“That ought’a do it,” Strader said.
The screen door swung open and a young Navy officer entered at a pace that said time was money. The tails of his long white coat flapped in his wake like a luffing sail, and the black stencil on his breast pocket was a caduceus with a big D over the serpents. Strader got to his feet quickly, but the CPO barely took his attention away from his reading.
“That emergency here yet?” the officer asked.
“Yes, sir,” said the CPO, turning a page. “He’s waiting for you in the chair.”
The officer disappeared through the door marked DENTAL in a flurry of white linen.
Strader sank back onto the bench. In a few minutes he could hear the officer asking questions and getting muffled and garbled responses, as though the speaker had a mouth full of fingers. The mumbles were soon followed by groans.
Strader looked at the CPO. “My teeth are fine,” he said.
Another page was flipped. “Good for you.”
The duty officer from the com shack made his way across the road and scaled the pallet walkway and steps into the company office in three strides.
Corporal Pusic had just finished drawing a fresh coffee from the stainless steel urn the mess hall provided every morning. He looked up as the young officer barged in. “Good morning, sir,” Pusic said, holding his cup in the air. “Can I get you a coffee?”
The lieutenant shook his head and waved the notepad he carried. “First Platoon needs an evac.”
“That’s Lieutenant Diehl,” Pusic said, slipping behind the safety of his desk. He always felt more comfortable behind the desk. It was a symbol of the authority delegated to him by the captain and served as a little DMZ, three feet of gray metal insulation from the angry, the needy, and the demanding. “Shouldn’t we radio the squadron at Marble Mountain?”
“A chopper came in this morning with a sick crew member. It’s sitting idle by the air control tower now. It could be at 1st Platoon’s coordinates before one of the Evil Eyes from the 163rd would be halfway here.”
Pusic started to sink into his chair, then thought better of sitting in the presence of a standing officer. “I could call the tower and tell them to get the chopper in the air,” he said.
“I can do that, Corporal,” the lieutenant said testily. “But Lieutenant Diehl requested security. What I want from you is a body to go along.”
“They’re sending back a VC prisoner?” Pusic asked, hoping the officer wasn’t considering him for the job of chaperone.
“Not VC. The security is for one of ours.”
As Strader climbed the grade from the B
AS, an M-274 mechanical mule bounced by in a shower of dust, a pair of jerry cans staggering across the flat bed behind the driver and passenger. Strader stepped aside so he wouldn’t be enveloped in the red cloud that chased the mule up the road. A first sergeant clung to the low rails that surrounded the bed and cursed the inventor of the little machine that seemed dedicated to putting a permanent dent in his ass. The lance corporal at the wheel, his legs angled at the pedals hanging over the front of the machine, noticed the sergeant’s discomfort and downshifted, leaping the mule forward, spinning the tires, and lifting the front wheels off the ground. Before the sergeant could unleash a stream of invective, the driver swung over to the walkway and stopped in front of the company office.
The first sergeant hopped out, rubbing the crease the bed rail had pressed into the seat of his starched trousers. “You should get the suspension checked on that thing,” he growled, trying to get some circulation back into his feet by stomping on the walkway planks.
The driver revved the little engine like it was a hot rod lawnmower. “It ain’t got no suspension, Sergeant. They built this little beauty to haul ass and rattle bones.”
“Well, it better haul your ass out of here before I think of some creative way to rattle your bones.”
With that, the driver popped the clutch and the little mobile platform lurched forward and disappeared over the rise leading to the runway.
Farther back on the road, Strader trudged along, his rifle slung on one shoulder and his cartridge belt draped over the other. He had timed his visit to the BAS with perfect precision. By the time the Navy MDs had dragged themselves away from the officers’ mess a line had begun to form at the counter and the CPO had retreated into a back office with his paper, leaving a third-class corpsman to deal with the medical complaints.
