by J. M. Graham
Lieutenant Diehl studied the distant trees, imagining what shit was out there waiting for him to step in it.
“I suggested that he wait for you, but he was strainin’ at the bit,” Hewitt said. “I figured he had your orders. Was I wrong?”
Diehl turned to look at the dead helicopter with the row of draped bodies. He shook his head. “No. He’s doing what needs to be done.”
A corpsman stood by the bodies making notations on a pad of casualty cards.
“What was the pilot’s name?” Lieutenant Diehl said.
“You know the Highball crew?”
“No. I just spoke with him yesterday when he dropped our resupply.”
Lieutenant Hewitt flipped the pages of a notebook. “Fredrick Crowell. Second seat was Dan Woods. I didn’t know them either.” He looked at Diehl staring at the ponchos. “You want to take a look?”
Lieutenant Diehl turned away and looked at his watch. He wiped droplets of water from the big crystal with a swipe of a finger and looked to the tree line. “No. I’ve got other problems right now.” He started into the grass then turned back. “You keep yourself handy, Mark. I have a feeling that the Arizona isn’t finished with us yet, and I may need you before this miserable day is over.” Trailed by his radioman, Diehl headed for the tree line where his platoon squatted around improvised cook stoves.
“That’s what I get paid for, Tom,” Lieutenant Hewitt said to the receding officer’s back. “You watch your ass,” he added, though they were out of earshot.
Lieutenant Diehl spoke softly without looking back to see if anyone was near. He assumed that his earlier order to the radioman was being obeyed. “Clyde. Get me Blackwell.”
Looking ahead, he could easily pick out his Marines from the Sparrow Hawks. The Arizona had left its mark on them. Each day in the field wore away the veneer of civilization. It showed in their clothes, their skin, and their demeanor. By comparison, the Sparrow Hawks looked fresh and their faces were clean, lacking the sags and shadows of long days and sleepless nights. The rush of battle left behind a residue of fatigue that made his platoon’s steps look heavy and each movement labored. They needed sleep and chow hall food and the relative safety of An Hoa’s perimeter, but he knew that wasn’t in their immediate future. They still had a long way to go.
Burke looked up from his squat over a boiling tin of chocolate, a shard of cheese-coated cracker between his teeth and a question in his eyes. Lieutenant Diehl held up a hand, fingers spread: one minute per finger. Burke nodded and looked back to his brew, no indication of disappointment. Earn sixty, expect thirty, and get five; life in the Crotch.
Clyde held the radio handset close to his face, his voice bouncing off the waterproof wrapping. The response vibrated under the plastic like a trapped insect. “Yeah,” he said. “One Actual wants Four.” He held the receiver out and waited for the officer to take it from his hand.
From the time a young staff sergeant berated him mercilessly on pick-up day beginning Officers Candidate School at Quantico, Lieutenant Diehl had carried a grudging respect for the noncoms who would happily chew out candidates they might meet as officers later in their careers, hard-edged men who would bite down on an assignment even if it might eventually bite them back. He came to see many of them as men of abilities, especially at distasteful tasks. He placed Sergeant Blackwell in that group.
A distant, hesitant voice pushed through the static-filled airwaves. “Four here.”
“But you’re not here, Four,” the lieutenant said. He tried to make it sound like the confirmation of a simple fact without putting so sharp a point on his voice that it would wound.
The sergeant chose to block any rebuke by remaining formal. “That’s affirmative,” he said without explanation.
“What’s your position, Four?” The rubber-coated levers on each handset spit static at one another, and Diehl imagined he could hear the folds in the sergeant’s map unbending. Finally, the voice swept in to smother the interference. “Two clicks north of Studebaker.”
The lieutenant ran his finger past the automobile thrust point on his map near the crash site to climb along the face of the Ong Thu. It was a good distance, and the inhospitable terrain made it seem further. He chose a grid coordinate beyond the sergeant’s position and improved on it by upgrading the Studebaker to a Corvette. When he suggested that the squad hold there until the platoon could link up, the radios seemed to strangle on the lack of communication. “That’s a negative, One. Hostiles a threat, time is critical.”
“Copy that, Four.” Prolonged static carried an air of relief from the other end. “I’ll find you,” he added.
A relieved voice came back immediately. “Roger that,” it said, then lapsed into silence.
“One out.” The lieutenant handed the receiver back to the waiting private. He scanned the remains of 1st Platoon hugging the face of the tree line and working the magic of C rations into their mouths. One of the gun teams was just off to his left. “Ask Lieutenant Hewitt for the belt ammo from the chopper, and be quick.” Faces looked up to witness the inevitable announcement. “First Platoon,” the lieutenant shouted. “Saddle up.”
Sergeant Blackwell nodded at the inert handset. He had an appreciation for the lieutenant. Platoon sergeants always had considerably more time in service than their platoon commanders. In fact, their job was to lend their experience to new lieutenants who were putting the theory of their recent officer training into practice. Sometimes sergeants complained to each other that they had drawn a bad lot as their young officers stumbled through the trials of combat, but Sergeant Blackwell had no such misgivings. Lieutenant Diehl was hard but fair, and most of all he was competent. Combat was an unforgiving OJT, but the lieutenant learned quickly and kept his mistakes to a minimum.
The squad was stopped, waiting for the radio message to slap them back into line and casting glances at Sergeant Blackwell, searching his posture for any sign that he was catching that slap. But instead the sergeant held the handset by its mouthpiece and shook it forward, up the mountain, pointing the way with punctuated arcs like a priest wielding his aspergillum of holy water blessing his little congregation. He returned the handset to Bronsky’s care and the squad resumed their climb.
The Cessna Bird Dog banked in from the valley and climbed the face of the Ong Thu, searching the sea of green concealing the ground, hoping for some breach in the trees large enough to give him a peek at the opposing players in this deadly game. Thousands of rounds from An Hoa’s artillery had punched holes in the canopy, leaving openings where a discerning eye might find something hidden, but what he really needed was a spot where an airburst of white phosphorus had shriveled the leaves with molten heat or a plummeting drum of fuel oil had burned away everything within its splash. He needed a window.
Staying above the contour of the mountain that seemed probable for foot traffic, the pilot stuck to a northern tack, following the slope toward the dogleg where the mountain bent to the east. Ahead, a long gash split the green like a gaping wound, revealing the dark flesh of the jungle floor. The Cessna’s airspeed slowed. The dip of a wing put the little aircraft into a slow circle above the scar where, looking over his left shoulder, the pilot could see bare earth and the dark line of a fresh path that bisected the cut. It looked wider than an animal trail or a villager’s footpath to a desirable stand of wood. He let the aircraft do another lazy turn. With his map on his knee, the pilot made some quick calculations on the surface of the windscreen with a grease pencil, figuring airspeed and marking distance in kilometers from the thrust points circled in black marker. He estimated foot speed and time elapsed, stabbing a spot on the map with the pencil; an educated guess, but a guess worth making. He turned back to the valley and radioed the fire direction center in An Hoa.
Metal tendrils rose in clusters above the sandbagged roof of the communications hut, sensitive aerials reaching out to touch all the rifle companies working from An Hoa in the surrounding TAOR, some tall enough to reach t
he darkest corners of Antenna Valley or all the way back to Division in Da Nang. Compared with the other structures on the base, the command, operations, and communication center was a fortress. The walls and ceiling were staggered layers of sandbags on beams and corrugated steel, designed, in theory, to take a direct hit from a mortar round or RPG, though no one inside wanted to see that theory tested.
The interior of the huge bunker was divided into areas of responsibility, each working under the requisite glare of a bare lightbulb. S-3 operations took the lion’s share of the space running the entire battalion. S-2 intelligence filled a corner, poring over their maps, analyzing information that filtered in from Division, Recon, and 2/5’s rifle platoons as well as friendly whispers from the ARVN. Information flowed in from the ever-present Popular Forces, too, who posed as guardians of the surrounding hamlets in their skin-tight uniforms with U.S. helmets sitting on their heads like huge colanders. Their M-1 Garand rifles from World War II drew even more attention to their modest stature. Their suspect local information might be ignored, investigated, or occasionally tickled with HE from the artillery battery.
S-2, monitoring the incoming call to Fire Direction Control, scrambled for their maps. “Fire mission” rang through the compound, and gun breeches clanged as the battery fired a single shot, jolting the ground within An Hoa’s compound, rattling the plywood hooches, and shaking the C-rat cans laced to the razor wire on the perimeter.
The Bird Dog’s radio hissed, “Shot over,” and the Cessna sprinted for the valley, away from the incoming round. The pilot watched and made an adjustment. “Add five hundred and fire for effect.”
The first projectile split the air over the valley far ahead of the sound of the muzzle blast, pushing through the cloud cover with the pulsating whoosh of the atmosphere’s resistance. The Sparrow Hawk platoon looked to the gray ceiling as the round passed invisibly, evaluating the sound to ensure that it was in fact passing, until the distant thunderclap from An Hoa caught up. Back at their work, each kept an ear tuned to the ever-present possibility of a “short round.”
More shots passed over 1st Platoon like distant steam locomotives high above the canopy, and in a mere second flew beyond Sergeant Blackwell and Middleton’s squad.
Strader’s practiced ear could tell the round was passing over but was on a downward trajectory. He hoped the Chief wasn’t too far ahead.
From where he stood, the Chief could see a large swath of the jungle floor illuminated by a massive break in the trees, the gray sky pushing in to reveal bare ground where the wash of relentless monsoons had scoured away anything green with aspirations of a foothold. He doubted the reliability of his hearing, but the sound of the incoming round was palpable and he went to ground as quickly as his head would allow, hugging the base of the nearest tree. The shot struck the ground just beyond the northern boundary of the opening. The explosion was sharp and deep, and the concussion filled the space below the canopy like a shotgun blast in a rain barrel. His ears rang and he worked his jaw up and down as though he were flying high in an unpressurized aircraft and needed relief from the pain. The ground spasm traveled through the tree’s root system into his arms. When he looked up, spinning chunks of the jungle were raining back to earth.
Self-preservation schooled the ears of the NVA, and the column knew from its earliest whispers that an artillery round was coming in their direction. With the exception of Pham and Truong, each man’s interest turned to the air above the trees. Nguyen called a halt. They all stood perfectly still, fighting their gasps and pounding hearts to hear the growing friction as the projectile pushed through what sounded like heavy air in their proximity. Some eyes searched the canopy; others scanned the terrain for a spot that might offer some protection. Nguyen barked an order, and everyone dropped their loads and dived for cover. He stood alone on the path, watching his people disappear leaving behind precious weaponry to fend for itself in the mud. When he was sure all were down and concealed, he stooped and ran uphill, dropping to the ground between two trees, letting the heavy pack board drive him downward until the rising earth conspired with the pack to punch the air from his lungs.
The round hit the mountain far back on the trail with a tremendous crack. As soon as it hit, Nguyen knew that it was too far away to be any danger to them. He pushed himself up onto his knees and looked around. Heads were popping up all about him. Pham’s sweaty face was so near that Nguyen could see trickles of perspiration making tracks past eyes wide with concern. Their gazes met and Pham blinked, maybe to clear the burning sting of salt from his eyes, or perhaps to gain some control over eyes that were betraying his panic.
The rest of the unit made tentative moves to stand before Nguyen spoke. He knew the single shot from the muzzles on the American base would not be an orphan, and he pushed himself erect. Expectant faces turned to him like sunflowers to light, not because they didn’t know what needed to be done but because they needed it to be said. Nguyen looked back at them with frustration. “Cu-dong,” he yelled, triggering instant movement. His people fell on their abandoned loads, jerking the weight onto their backs with renewed energy.
As Pham passed, Nguyen grabbed his arm, redirecting him away from the heavy machine gun at the end of the column. Many in the unit were carrying double loads, and Nguyen pressed a heavy pack board strapped with rounds for the recoilless rifle into Pham’s arms. Pham looked back to the heavy gun. An objection was forming on his lips when Nguyen cut him short. He pointed in the direction he wanted Pham to move. “Cu-dong,” he said through clenched teeth, pushing him forward.
25
The Chief struggled to his feet, holding the tree, using its stability to find some of his own. The smell from the detonation wafted across the gash in the jungle, a burnt chemical odor mixed with vapors of plants obliterated in the blast, the only thing left of their existence. Though the Chief was not unfamiliar with the smell, he always found the recipe of sudden destruction mixed with earth’s green life offensive to his senses. But it occurred to him that this particular blast could be of benefit. If his quarry sought cover from this shot and the promise of more, he could make up lost time. All he had to do was run onto ground of interest to a fire mission. Though the logic was questionable, he crossed the gap and skirted the smoking crater left by his TNT benefactor.
The sound of the explosion spent itself fighting through the curtain of foliage, reaching Strader as a deep growl without sharp edges. He didn’t think the shot was random and figured there were eyes on the heavily armed enemy column somewhere up ahead, eyes determined to turn the NVA into bloody pulp, and the crazy Chief was leading him straight into the slaughter. The commandeered pack beat against his unprotected spine, reminding him of how naked he felt without his flak jacket. In his entire thirteen months in-country, with the exception of a couple of night ambushes, he had never been on the move outside a perimeter without his flak gear. Now he had no helmet, no vest, nothing between vital organs and nasty projectiles but the green weave of his jungle utilities. He pictured the jacket, pack, and helmet lying on the borrowed rack in the corner of 3rd Platoon’s hut, enjoying the view of the runway.
The reasonable portion of his brain screamed at him to turn around and go in the other direction. The Marine portion pushed him forward. He trailed his M14 in one hand, saving the other to slap away plants that might slow him down with a snag or a trip. He stayed to the center of the well-worn path, trying to make sure his feet didn’t strike ground that didn’t already have a footprint on it. The Chief’s jungle boot pattern was plainly visible, and Strader tried to match his stride step for step, hoping to run right onto his heels soon and . . . what? He needed time to think. What would he do? How would he do it? All he was sure of was that he would need help, and any help that was coming was still far behind following the shallow imprints of his stateside Corcorans on the soggy floor of a jungle where they were never designed to be.
Franklin sent word back through the point squad that the faint paths the
y were following merged with a larger, well-used trail that pointed north along the face of the mountain. He could see the overlapping footprints, each imposing its signature over the ones that preceded it. The mélange was as busy as a Jackson Pollock, and the point man hesitated to speculate on the number that had passed, simply leaving his estimate at “a shit load” without elaborating. He moved onto the new path, superimposing his boot prints over the existing ones, making a connection between himself and the enemy somewhere ahead, a connection that sent a chill up his legs that raised goose bumps. The trail was fresh and obviously made by a superior force. It seemed they were chasing a tiger with a fly swatter. When he looked back, Franklin could see Sergeant Blackwell pumping his arm up and down to increase the squad’s speed. He knew the sergeant was more interested in what the tiger was chasing than what they would do when they caught up to the tiger.
Silence reigned after the initial artillery round struck the mountain far ahead, broken only by the distant boom from An Hoa. The target was obviously so far off that no one felt they were near the coming impact area, and they pushed forward without concern—until Franklin called a halt. He stood a few yards from where the trail passed a large, moss-clad stone and waited, scanning the surroundings. Something was out of place. Aside from the intrusion of the muddy path through the tangle of nature, something odd and geometric, an anomaly in straight lines, was perched on top of the stone, standing out as something designed, manmade, and therefore wrong. Bringing his M16 up, he swept the trees as though the muzzle had the power to detect an enemy in hiding.
His alert had safeties clicking through the squad. Pusic, still behind Bronsky’s radio, looked down at his own weapon in his hands. He had often imagined a personal need for the M16 when the lines at An Hoa were probed in the middle of the night and flares and tracer rounds lit the darkness, but his imaginings were never so perverse as to set him on a jungle-covered mountain in the Arizona looking to a flawed plastic rifle for his salvation. The faces near enough for him to see didn’t seem to register an inordinate amount of concern, so he left his selector on safety, waiting for the reactions of the squad to confirm that a nightmare was actually in progress and he truly was in Hell.
