by J. M. Graham
When the word arrived, Burke felt the weight of “his people” like an extra load in his pack. The responsibility and delegated authority presented fresh concerns. It was up to him now to field the orders from above and pass them along. He was the squad leader, and it was too new to be anything but an ill fit.
The path rose and dipped, skirted trees, and cut through vegetation, marking the mountain as abused by many feet. And the mountain fought back. It made every step a struggle and told every offending boot that, as in all of Vietnam, it could not come here without effort. Every step, every breath, every day would be a struggle. They might mark its earth, but it would mark their hearts.
Burke pushed up ahead until he caught the point fire team. The column moved without sound, each man wrapped in his own mind, sweating his load, listening to the noise in the distance, trying to imagine the best possible outcome. The clusters of shots pushed against their progress as though they were at repellant poles of a magnet.
“Quit draggin’ ass, Deacon,” Burke said, irritated at his new accountability. “If you can’t hack it, get the hell out of the way.” Not being able to “hack it” was a common rebuke, especially to those who lacked the tenure to establish their worth. The acceptance of the platoon was a daily process that ebbed and flowed based on successes and failures that could dog a new man, marking him permanently as a substandard shitbird or elevating him into the ranks of the brotherhood. Every hour in the field was a test. You humped your load. You ate your pain. But most of all you hacked it.
Deacon cursed and increased his pace, stretching his strides until the fabric of his new jungle pants thrummed in protest. The smell of death and decay was becoming stronger with every step.
The others in the fire team watched Deacon pull away and swore under their breath. They felt no obligation to demonstrate anything but would have to keep pace with this insecure rookie trying to prove his mettle. He was far too eager for their taste, especially in the Arizona. “Slow the hell down, Deek,” one said, not wanting to break into a run.
“What’s wrong, can’t you hack it?” he hissed back over his shoulder, sniffing the air at the insistent odor of death. A spot on the path slick with ooze from an animal carcass caught his step, and he slipped and fell sideways, plunging his hand into the bloated body and releasing a burst of stink that clung to his fingers in a putrid gel alive with squirming maggots. The choking fumes rising from the carcass drove Deacon up with a guttural groan. He looked in horror at the slimy gore coating his hand. An unintelligible sound escaped his throat, a prelude to something more substantial. Before anyone could tell him to shut up, Deacon staggered backward, stepping off the path and sliding on the slick surface onto virgin ground.
In unison and without thought, the rest of the platoon threw themselves to the ground just as a detonation swept over them in a tidal wave of pure concussion. The blast hung in the air, masking all other sounds, turning the distant gunfire into something disconnected and irrelevant. The alien odor of burnt earth, burnt air, and burnt flesh supplanted the jungle smells. Everyone lay still, as though paralyzed by the concussion. They clung to the ground, waiting for this new assault to show its shape, as an end unto itself or the beginning of something worse.
Lieutenant Diehl raised his voice. “Burke.” He waited. The air seemed sucked free of life. It occurred to him that he might be calling for someone who no longer existed. “Burke, answer me, damn it.”
A voice came back hugging the ground like a low morning mist. “Yeah.”
“What happened?” The lieutenant felt a small relief that someone could answer.
“Ah, I’m not sure,” Burke replied.
“Well, now would be a good time to find out, squad leader.”
“Roger that,” came back with a hesitancy that would be the subject of the lieutenant’s next council with his noncoms.
Burke got to his knees slowly, as though movement was a violation of rules the explosion had just established. Moving in the Arizona was the offense. No transgression, no punishment. He could hear Lieutenant Diehl organizing the platoon, readying them for anything that might come next—a question on everyone’s mind that would be answered in the next few minutes. Was the lethal device passive, lying in wait, abandoned? Or was it the opening salvo of a snare that lacked only the stumbling participation of a victim? He got to his feet and moved forward without straightening, keeping that proximate connection to the ground that might be needed in an instant.
Two of the point fire team lay on the path ahead, propped up on their elbows and pointing their weapons at a gray fog rising through the branches, a sinister cloud marking a destination. “You hurt?” Burke asked.
“No,” they answered in unison, and with a hint of surprise.
“Where’s Deacon?”
They pointed at the mist.
Burke stepped over them, making sure each pace stayed on the path. “Get my back,” he said as he passed. They rose and followed.
The call for “corpsman up” ran back through the ranks, and they made room for Garver to pass. When he reached the lieutenant, Diehl touched his arm. “I’m right behind you, Doc,” he said, and they moved forward with Clyde struggling to keep the radio the requisite distance from the lieutenant’s needs.
When Doc Garver reached the point fire team, he could smell the change in the air—the fried chemical smell of cordite mixed with the rich aroma of disgorged earth and something else, the fragrance of burnt meat and a foul stench of decay. He closed his nose with a pinch of a thumb and forefinger. Ahead, a chunk of the path was missing next to where Burke stood pointing into the bush. “Over here, Doc,” he said without looking at the spot his finger was indicating.
Deacon lay on his back just off the path. He was reaching out for something that only he could see, and pieces of his left hand and forearm were missing. His eyes were wide and beyond seeing, and his lips were moving with a silent, airless question. Garver knelt by his side. The young Marine’s new jungle pants were a shredded drape hanging from his belt over red meat and pink flesh folded back to reveal bits of pelvis. The explosion had been powerful, probably made from a dud round from heavy mortars or part of a 155. Whatever Deacon was missing was gone for good; there would be little left to see, and nothing to save.
The smell of ruptured bowel combined with the stench of decaying meat coming from nearby nearly made the corpsman gag. He ripped open the snap on one of his bags and unwrapped a canvas instrument case. There were severed arteries and veins to clamp, massive tissue damage to cover, and fluids to run, if it would do any good, although he knew it wouldn’t. He pulled morphine syrettes from the case and squeezed their contents into Deacon’s shoulder. The Marine didn’t feel the needles penetrate his flesh. His pain was beyond that. The shock of what had just happened to him was all-consuming, blinding him to all but whatever he was seeing just beyond his reach. Doc Garver took hold of the Marine’s damaged right hand and held on. There was nothing else he could do.
Rounds continued striking the downed tree, but with less volume. There seemed to be a rotation of firing coming from one angle and then another, some closer, some farther away. Strader knew the enemy was moving in, one covering the advance of the next, firing only enough to fulfill their purpose until they were in position. He raised his weapon over the dead trunk and fired blindly, sweeping the barrel back and forth.
As Strader replaced the empty magazine, slamming the bolt on a fresh round, he wondered what day it was. In the morass of days in which he was mired, which was this? His mind couldn’t find it. He wasn’t surprised. A Sunday was a Friday as much as it was a Tuesday. He knew that few in his platoon could even name the month, let alone the day of the week. At home he might know by the smell in the air, the color of the leaves or the clarity of the sky, but not in this place. Time blurred here. His need for specifics now bothered him.
Rounds struck the dirt-encrusted roots, exploding clumps of dirt into an earthy spray that settled on the two Marines in
a brown mist. As Strader turned away, he noticed that bullet strikes were kicking up dirt behind the tree trunk close to their outstretched feet. Someone was flanking the tree on the high side. The cycle of intermittent firing was positioning someone for a clear shot. They would be easy targets. He crawled across the Chief’s legs unceremoniously, staying close to the trunk, clutching his rifle and moving like a three-legged dog. Shots flew over his head from another angle, ending harmlessly somewhere in the jungle behind him.
“There’s one moving in above, Moon,” he said, tucking the butt plate into his shoulder and slipping his left forearm through the strap. He would try to find this target, but he would have to expose himself above the tree to do it. When the turn came for the man above to fire, he would be waiting. Shots slapped the ground, and the Chief curled his legs up out of the line of fire. Strader popped up, braced the rifle against the tree, and pulled the trigger. The M14 bucked and he held the muzzle climb down by force. The expanding gasses from the AK above shook some leafy branches, and Strader hit the spot and moved rounds through the trees behind them. The AK went silent. Chunks of the tree trunk leapt up as his head drew attention from the distance. He crawled back to the Chief.
“You do any good?” the Chief asked, still holding his legs out of harm’s way.
“Some, I think, but not enough,” Strader said, looking down at his rifle’s bolt, locked back over the empty last magazine. When he looked up it was to meet the glare of the Chief’s good eye.
“Maybe its time for you to go, Raymond.”
“Go where? My flight doesn’t leave until the day after tomorrow. I’ve got one whole day and a wake-up.”
“Get the hell out of here, man,” the Chief said, feeling the guilt rise in him again.
“The trouble with you, Moon, is you don’t like to be called ‘Chief’ but you think you are one. You give orders like you’re in charge and you got a say in things, but you don’t.”
“And who has the say now, you?”
A new flurry of shots streaked the air and beat at the tree. Strader hooked a thumb. “No. They do.” He laid the empty rifle across his legs and tried not to imagine his future. “And the worst we can do is spit.”
The Chief held up his knife and turned the darkened blade side to side, letting the light touch the edge and shadow the blood groove. “Speak for yourself, white man.”
Strader shrugged out of his pack and dumped the contents on the ground. He quickly unwrapped the jungle shirt and held up the hidden KA-BAR, testing the edge with his thumb. It would have to do. He looked from the blade of the Marine-issue fighting knife to the Chief’s weapon and knew the result of the comparison was evident.
The Chief followed his gaze and managed half a grin. “I guess size really does matter,” he said.
Nguyen crawled to a tree and squirmed up behind its protective trunk. An AK fired just ahead, then another from above. He waited for a response from the jungle, but none came. Another tree a short distance away promised cover, but Nguyen knew that Hoang Li was right; this enemy was a marksman. He could choose his targets from the slightest movement, and reaching the next tree would require a move. It wasn’t far, but a single step could be too far with this shooter. An AK fired close, and up above a dark figure dashed forward under its cover.
Nguyen watched the crouching shadow move. “Stop, Hoang Li. Stop now.”
The figure knelt and looked back, his angry expression twisting into surprise at the sound of Nguyen’s unexpected voice. “They are just ahead, Dai uy. They are within reach.”
Nguyen looked into the deceptively empty jungle filled with ugly potential. He raised his weapon and pointed it in Hoang Li’s direction. “And you are within mine,” he said with an edge to his voice that could not be misinterpreted. As leader you didn’t request obedience, you demanded it. And if they didn’t respect your commands, they must fear your reactions and the deadly consequences.
High on the mountain, the cadre split the R-20th Doc Lap unit in two and spread their descent above the firing. The sounds of the exchange were not far below them. The artillery could begin again at any moment, and the safest place to be was near the point of contact. The enemy would not shell their own troops, and it had been agreed that the VC unit would get in close and stay there until their comrades could pull free. They would drop down and fulfill their commitment before vanishing back into the jungle.
31
The firing gradually slackened to an eerie silence, and Strader cocked an ear and looked up as though he could see the quiet.
“Do you think they’re leaving?” the Chief said. There was no hint of concern in his voice, and no hint of hope. It was just a simple question searching for an honest opinion.
“Not a chance in hell, Moon.”
The Chief wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “My mouth is dry, Raymond. You got any pogey bait? I’d kill for a stick of gum.”
Strader leaned forward and stirred the debris of Tanner’s belongings with the point of the KA-BAR. Tight little rolls of toilet paper mixed with packs of instant coffee and narrow boxes of cigarettes tumbled about with tinfoil envelopes of heat tabs packaged like condoms. He stuck the blade into the ground and released the handle. “I don’t think so, Moon.” He squeezed his cargo pockets against his thighs; nothing there. The side pockets of his jungle shirt produced only the coveted sign-out sheet with its lone signature—the single testimony that he was qualified to go home, the young doctor’s okay for him to survive. He pushed it back out of sight. “All we have is a few swallows of grape water.” Reaching for the canteen, he absently patted the angled breast pockets on the front of his jungle shirt. “Damn,” he said, feeling the shape hidden inside the right pocket.
“The Chief looked up. “Gum?”
“Better.” Strader struggled with the buttons until the flap was free. He dug deep inside and drew out a closed fist. When he’d climbed on board the helicopter in An Hoa, the young powder-burned door gunner had reminded him, as he did every grunt passenger, to clear his weapon. It was the price of admission, the cost of flying his friendly skies. And now it was a gift. He unfolded his hand and the bright brass of a single 7.62-mm round stood out on his filthy palm like a jewel.
The Chief looked down at the little jacketed gift and grinned, nodding at the menace beyond the dead tree. “Oh, they’re in trouble now.”
“This is our last punch. Use it now or save it for later?”
The Chief pointed at the pristine cartridge with the tip of his knife. “You’re probably crazy enough to think you can end the war with that one shot.”
Strader thumbed the round into the open chamber of his M14 and sent the bolt home with a metallic clack. “I can end it for someone.”
The Chief took the canteen and filled his mouth with the flavored water, swishing the liquid over his teeth before taking a gulp. He spit purple onto the ground between his legs. The attached cap fought him as he tried matching the threads, but he managed. He gave Strader a satisfied look.
“You don’t seem too concerned,” Strader said, turning toward the tree and getting to his knees so he could position the rifle for a final shot. “Ain’t Indians ever afraid?”
“You keep calling me an Indian. My people were never anywhere near India, shithead. We always knew where we were. It’s your people who couldn’t find their asses with both hands.”
“That’s no answer.”
The Chief wiped his mouth with a hand that betrayed a slight tremor. “When my grandfather’s spirit passed, I told my father I was afraid and asked what it was like to die. He told me I was too young to worry about such things and that he didn’t know much about dying anyway, but he imagined it was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel. The rush of life ending pulled you over the edge. You couldn’t resist it. You couldn’t refuse it. You just went with a force greater than your own and were swept away.”
Rounds slammed the tree trunk, sending chunks flying, chipping away at what Strader imagined
were the remaining moments before they both faced the pull of that watery precipice. “And what did you take from that little bit of Apache wisdom?” he said, resting the sight end of the rifle on the upper curve of the tree.
“I was just a kid, so I figured he meant if you’re so afraid to die, don’t get in the damned barrel.”
Strader gave the Chief a knowing grin. “But you got in anyway.”
“That’s right quien más sabe,” the Chief said, holding his arms wide, revealing himself as an unrepentant example. “And the barrel is mean and green.”
Hoang Li froze where he was. The murderous look in Nguyen’s eyes reminded him of the leader’s capabilities. “I owe that one,” Hoang said, absently touching the center of his chest.
Nguyen’s weapon didn’t waver. “You owe the dau tranh, and you owe me. Beyond that, all you owe is your life.”
Hoang Li felt the anger rise in his throat. He wanted his day. “But this one will follow us. He came all the way from the valley, and we will not be free of him unless we act now. We can stop him here.”
This seemed to strike a note with Nguyen, but then a voice came from behind them.
Truong stood shakily, his leg wrapped in a battle dressing and blood pushing through the hole in his cheek with his words. “He won’t follow,” he said. “He has what he came for.”
Nguyen growled at seeing another of his people gone astray. “Do my orders mean nothing?”
Truong limped forward. “Co gave me a leather pouch he took from the enemy last night because he knew it was something I would want. That enemy came and took it back. I think that is all the American wanted.”
