by J. M. Graham
Marines looked up, surprised at the vehemence in his voice. Lieutenant Diehl was renowned for his composure. Regardless of how dire the situation, they could always count on hearing his voice issuing orders calmly and steadily, untainted by emotion. But a single, short conversation with the platoon sergeant had drawn his temper to the surface like hot magma, and they all waited anxiously for the eruption to come.
“Saddle up,” the lieutenant said and then shoved the handset up under his helmet. “Four. Disregard my last order. Head back toward Pontiac and the LZ and follow the flats to Green Bay Packers. Highball is down near there. We’re on the way. And Four . . . be quick, huh?”
The radio hissed and the lieutenant tossed the handset to the operator. “Burke, your squad has point. Move fast and stay sharp. And don’t lose the bastards’ trail.”
Lieutenant Diehl moved into the center of the column, and the remnants of 1st Platoon moved north, marching away from the wafting stink of the dead body no one could find.
17
Corporal Pusic sat behind his desk in the company office sipping a Coke fresh from the cooler and updating a file labeled Indigenous Base Personnel. It was a daily tally that more or less documented the Vietnamese labor that kept everyone at An Hoa in clean uniforms. It was a short list, but command insisted that it be kept current. They were confident that being on a list discouraged an enemy sympathizer from making secret maps of the base infrastructure like nothing else. The fan on the file cabinet across the room lifted the edges of the papers, and the corporal held them down with a forearm.
The landline bell rang and Pusic had the receiver to his ear in one ring. “Golf Company. Corporal Pusic speaking,” he said with all the professional formality of a telephone operator. His back straightened and he subconsciously tried to sit at attention. “Yes, sir,” he said. He looked at the partition that separated the front of the building from the back. “Yes, sir. He’s here, sir. I’ll get him.” He cupped a hand over the mouthpiece with enough force to create an airtight seal. “Sergeant. Sergeant Gantz,” he said, keeping his voice at a moderate level because the partition did not reach the ceiling and, more important, Gantz did not appreciate being hollered at by subordinates.
The sergeant’s voice drifted over the top of the wall. “What is it, Pusic?”
The corporal tried to make his voice as contrite as possible. He wanted to sound as though any intrusion that bothered the sergeant wasn’t coming from him. “It’s the captain. He’s calling from the com shack and he wants to speak to you.”
The sergeant stepped through the door wiping his hands on a towel with his face full of questions.
Corporal Pusic shrugged. “I don’t know. He sounds pissed.”
The sergeant took the receiver. “Yes, sir,” he said with a practiced subservience reserved for officers.
The captain’s booming baritone squeezed through the wire, and Pusic could hear the overflow of sound, but not the words.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” the sergeant repeated. It was the usual sound of a one-sided military conversation that confirmed that shit flowed downhill. “Yes, sir. I did, sir, but . . .” The sergeant fixed Pusic with a stare that skewered him like the point of a bayonet.
That look told Pusic that he was about to experience the Corps’ theory of fecal flow firsthand.
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” the sergeant said into the receiver, then handed it back to Pusic distastefully. “The VC shot that 34 down. Get the reactionary platoon to the runway.”
Pusic raised the receiver and rang the company area. “Second Platoon. Sparrow Hawk, Sparrow Hawk.” He slowly lowered the receiver. “Done,” he said. Immediately, hurried voices in the distance could be heard echoing the corporal’s alert.
The sergeant didn’t answer. He just tapped the corner of Pusic’s desk with a fingernail, picking away at the surface of the comfort zone that separated the two. “That Marine we commandeered earlier for security . . . you know him?”
“He’s one of the squad leaders in 1st Platoon,” the corporal answered.
“Were you aware that he has only a couple days left in-country?”
Suddenly, the chair was becoming extremely uncomfortable and Corporal Pusic squirmed. “Well . . . I don’t know . . .”
The sergeant slapped a hand down on a stack of manila folders next to the company Out Box. “If I look through this pile, am I going to find his damn name?”
Pusic’s eyes were drawn to the pile and the protruding tab, just three from the top, with “Strader, Raymond L.” glowering in black marker. “He . . . could be there.”
The sergeant shook his head in exaggerated disbelief. His voice rising with each word, he continued, “I’ve got a captain chewing me a new asshole and a lieutenant in the field who can’t wait to see my head on a stick, and I don’t like it when the brass is headhunting, especially when it’s my head. And you say ‘could be’ and ‘might be.’ Is that what you’re telling me, Corporal?”
Pusic slumped back in his chair and turned his hands up toward the ceiling, knowing he was a supplicant praying at the wrong altar. “It was just for an hour.”
“Just an hour? I’m sure his parents will be relieved to hear that. I’ll bet their congressman will take that into consideration when he shows up here to crawl up every dark orifice looking for someone to take the heat for this screw-up.”
The corporal’s mind raced for an out, a quick fix, anything that would stop the inevitable brown flow from burying him. He was coming up empty.
“You know what I need?” the sergeant said.
Pusic suspected the question was rhetorical, but he answered anyway. “No.”
“I need eyes.” The first sergeant stepped into the back and returned with a flak jacket, web gear, and a helmet, which he dumped unceremoniously in the center of Pusic’s desk. He grabbed an M16 from its spot next to the file cabinet and pushed it into his clerk’s hands.
“I need to know what’s going on, and you’re gonna find out for me . . . firsthand.”
The jumbled thumping of multiple helicopters coming in from the north infused the air with a subtle vibration that was growing stronger by the second.
“Get down to the airstrip and go with the 2nd, and when I radio their platoon sergeant and ask for you, you’ll only have one excuse for not being there. And if that’s the case, I’ll write a glowing letter to your bereaved family.”
Strader watched the NVA multiply near the helicopter and counted at least a half dozen. The curious one was marginally closer than the others. Strader eyed the man over the barrel of his M14 and watched him signal the three new arrivals to move right. He pointed in Strader’s direction then held up two fingers. He seemed to have the rank to throw orders around, and he already knew that there were two in the trees, so he could read the signs and he would track them.
Strader looked back over his shoulder, checking on the Chief’s progress. He wasn’t encouraged. Moving on heavy legs, the Chief was less than half the distance to the big tree, making periodic stops, grabbing at anything that could provide some support. Strader watched him go tree-to-tree, finding help for a balance he lacked. When he leaned a shoulder heavily into one small trunk, a shiver of vibration moved all the way up the tree to the leaves, which quivered audibly. When the Chief pushed away from the tree, it moved again. Strader hoped against hope that the movement wasn’t visible from the valley, but a sudden burst of fire from the NVA with the long-barreled machine gun sent a swarm of bullets over his head that sent shards of bark flying from tree trunks. The recoil kicked the barrel upward, and though the first few shots were dangerously close, the remainder climbed up the trees, spending their lethal energies in the branches. Strader could see that the man was firing blindly, probing the area below the movement, using a hope of his own for aim.
Strader leaned into his rifle and timed his breaths as though guided by the sweep of a metronome. He made a silent plea that his shot go straight and true, and then regretted the thoug
ht. A prayer to guide his bullet to a kill seemed somehow antithetical to the will of a benevolent God, and he hoped that the request wouldn’t be held against him. It was never a good thing in combat to antagonize the omnipotent.
He inhaled and then let half of it out and held his breath. A second burst from the machine gunner swept over his head, threatening his calm, hastening his finger to the trigger. A choice would have to be made. He would get one shot with a modicum of precision while the NVA gunner was throwing lead wildly into the foothills. He focused and squeezed the trigger. The discharge punched the butt plate into his shoulder, and his ears rang with the pealing of a high-pitched bell.
A slight puff of dust erupted from the center of the magazine pouches that wrapped the curious tracker’s chest, and he pitched onto his back as though struck by lightning. Strader flicked the select fire switch to automatic and emptied half the remainder of his magazine into the area where the other five NVA had dropped, trying to keep the rounds in the grass, fighting the rifle’s inclination to climb. The shots assaulted his ears in a symphony of chimes and squeals.
The sudden exchange lit a fire under the Chief, forcing him to keep putting one clumsy foot in front of the other until his hands felt the deep, wet creases of the target tree. He leaned his head against the bark and held on while the ground rocked under his feet. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he clung to the tree, gulping back his impulse to vomit, as a stream of drool from his lower lip mixed with the moisture clinging to the tree. Flashbulbs fired behind his eyelids. The rifle reports stretched from their succinct crack to an elongated echo that did nothing to restrain his involuntary need to retch. He peeked around the tree. The tableau before him was a patchwork of ominous shadows identifiable neither as friend nor as foe. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them slowly, hoping for a fresher, clearer view.
One dark shadow moved away from the light at the tree line and ran a jagged course in his direction. The Chief blocked one eye again and picked out Strader covering ground like an Olympic sprinter, a pack swinging wildly from one hand and his rifle in the other. As he watched, Strader stopped and shouldered his rifle, using a tree for support, and emptied the rest of his magazine in the direction of the downed helicopter. The lowland beginnings of the jungle blocked any sight of the valley floor, but the shots were meant only to delay pursuers. Anything beyond that would be pure luck.
The Chief wrapped his arms around the tree, trying to absorb some of its stability. The ground beneath his feet settled, and he squeezed the trunk with all his might, willing his spirit to join with the tree’s as he had once done on the edge of the mesa. He had always felt an affinity for trees; they were of a tribe he admired and respected. They were the gods of the plant world. In his mind, touching one was akin to touching all, and he wondered if they were interconnected with Mother Earth as a conduit. He hoped so. He wanted to touch the strength of the great tree in the high desert and ask its spirit for help. As he gripped the trunk, he could feel his father and grandfather as they linked hands around the great tree. A wave of comfort swept over him. His father’s hand pulled on his wrist. He could almost hear his name being called. But the wrong name.
“Chief, Chief,” Strader said, trying to pull the Chief’s hand from its grip on the tree. “We can’t stay here,” he said.
The Chief opened his one functioning eye and watched Strader pull the empty magazine from his rifle and push a fresh one in with a click, all the while snapping worried glances back at the valley.
“They’ll be coming,” Strader said.
The Chief reluctantly relinquished his grip on the tree. “And I guess they’re pissed?”
“Well, all but one.”
Strader ducked under the Chief’s arm and grabbed a handful of his belt in the back, taking as much of the Chief’s weight as he could. “Let’s didi mau, Chief.”
The Chief clung to Strader’s shoulder and the two Marines beat a clumsy retreat into the foliage that blanketed the foothills.
Hoang Li felt empowered when the three men from the initial crossing joined his group at the helicopter. With the new infusion of numbers they spread across the face of the crash site, and he signaled that two Americans had made the flattened swath of grass leading to the tree line. The signs showed that the two had been side-by-side and very close together, and he was sure one was injured. When the sudden burst of fire from the RPD shattered the silence, he searched the face of the jungle for the target he failed to see. There was nothing. He looked across at the others with a puzzled expression, wanting to know if the firing had purpose, and a sledgehammer slammed his chest, knocking him onto his back. The air for his next breath was gone, and he gasped, arching his back, trying without success to fill his lungs. The echo of the shot cracked across the face of the mountain, and a rapid burst of cracks followed. The tall grass that towered over his face seemed to be blocking the air and he felt he was drowning in it. His magazine vest wouldn’t let his lungs expand. He was suffocating, as though he was buried alive, and panic surged through his veins.
He could hear grass stalks breaking as his closest comrade crawled through the grass in his direction. He could hear the protests of the creatures in the way. He could hear the clouds moving through the sky above him. He could hear everything in the world that made a sound, but he couldn’t hear his own breathing. Just shallow, strangled gasps that he was sure would be the last sounds he would ever make.
Another rapid stream of cracks flew from the trees as a hand grabbed at his sleeve. He didn’t want to be distracted from the task of finding oxygen somewhere in the universe, and he clawed at the invading hand, pushing it away. In seconds, the hands untied the magazine vest and pushed the heavy, cartridge-laden pouches away from Hoang Li’s chest. But relief from the weight didn’t bring air. Fingers fumbled with obstinate buttons and threw aside his shirt, exposing bare skin with a trace of blood that pooled at the sternum. A filthy hand smeared the blood away to reveal a shallow break in the skin ringed with a red halo that spread from the center like a tender wheel around its axis. The vest of magazines lay with the inside up, a jagged hole with the sharp edge of a split magazine pushing through the canvas.
Hoang Li wished he could be left alone to die with as much dignity as he could muster while smothering. His gasps were painful wheezes that did nothing to fill his lungs, and he could only wait patiently until his body no longer needed the air that it desperately wanted now.
A face moved close and he looked into eyes that seemed to be smiling. “I think fate has smiled on you, Hoang.” The vest dangled before his face, the round hole in the front, the jagged one in the rear. “You’ll have your wind back in a moment.”
He wanted to believe. The reassurance calmed him and the panic began to ebb. Short gulps seemed to be working, and his mouth worked like that of a fish in a garden pool.
Another man crawled to his side and alternated looks at Hoang with glances at the tree line. “How bad?” he said.
The other got to his knees and held up the vest. “It saved him,” he said.
The man examined the canvas on both sides and smiled. “I’m going to stay close. You have luck with you, Hoang.”
Together they lifted Hoang Li to his feet, holding him up until the weakness passed. Even shallow breaths sent bolts of misery through his ribs, but the torment was a blessing, and he inhaled as deeply as his pain tolerance would allow.
When Hoang Li bent to grab his AK from the grass, the resulting pain was so intense that he wasn’t sure he could stand upright again. One of the others helped him straighten. His vest was pushed into his hands, and he opened the center pouch. The enemy bullet had nearly passed through two full magazines. The heavily ribbed walls of the magazines and the fat cartridges inside absorbed the bullet’s energy, leaving it flattened and spent as it tried to push through the inner side. He extracted the bullet and held it up for the others to see. It worried him that the shot had struck the center of his vest directly over his heart.
It was neatly placed under fire, and he had the feeling that wasn’t by chance. “Let’s go,” he said, and the line of NVA moved at a cautious trot toward the tree line.
18
Corporal Middleton’s squad moved rapidly along the valley floor just beyond the tree line. Franklin led the point fire team and kept everyone going at a quick pace, at least as quickly as he could go while scanning the ground for anything that looked even remotely like disturbed earth. He was having difficulty weighing the need to reach the downed chopper against the reputation of the Arizona for disconnecting Marines from their lower extremities.
The sudden exchange of gunfire to the north quickened the pace. Everyone in the squad could distinguish between the signature sounds of the weapons being fired, and it definitely wasn’t one-sided. U.S. and Chinese rifles were trading lead, and the urgency to be there went through the squad like a virus.
Sergeant Blackwell moved just ahead of Bronsky, and the radioman jogged a few steps to catch up. “One Actual wants you, Sergeant,” he said, holding out the handset.
The sergeant took the handset without slowing his pace. “Four,” he said. “That’s affirmative. There are friendlies on the ground in contact.” He listened for a bit. “I roger that, but we have a way to go yet.” He listened again then returned the handset to Bronsky. He spoke up to the man ahead. “Pass word to Franklin to double-time.”
The squad increased their speed to a tortured run. Equipment bounced and slapped, and hands flew up to stabilize loose helmets. Running in full field gear was always difficult. It was heavy, and most of it hung loosely from the waist and shoulders, working at cross-purposes to a running body. Heavy canteens, magazine holders, and grenade packs floated at the apex of the stride and slammed against hips and legs when the stride bottomed out. Unless you carried something heavy across a shoulder, like an M60 machine gun or a mortar tube, the flak jacket and pack banged against your spine like a jackhammer. The helmet would lift off and try to fly unless you clamped it down with your free hand. The contents of pockets flapped against your thighs, bruising with the force of knuckles. But if you were feeling abused by your plight, you could always take comfort in knowing that you weren’t carrying one of the radios—unless, of course, you were unfortunate enough to be a radioman. Bronsky ran like an overloaded pack mule.
