The radio operator in the command post threw his open can of C-rations against the bunker wall. All of the men at LZ Mary were a bundle of raw nerves, and it took very little to set them off. They had been under enemy attack for ten straight days. “If that motherfucker doesn’t stop keying his radio, I’m going to fucking scream!”
The captain looked up from the map where the forward observer from the artillery battery was plotting harassment and interdiction fires. He was selecting hilltops, ravines, and any heavy-growth areas that he could find on the map where the NVA could be hiding. “What did you say?” The captain went over to where the radio operator sat in front of the wall of radios. “What did you say?”
The man turned to look at his captain, knowing the pressure had forced the officer to go crazy. “Sir, some asshole is keying the radio and screwing up messages coming in from the companies.”
The captain was about to answer when the static was broken by a keyed handset, returned, and was broken again. The captain waited for a third break in the static, but it didn’t come. “That’s our recon team! They’re back!” He grabbed the handset and keyed it three times in rapid sequence. He waited a minute and repeated the process.
“Alert the perimeter that an American recon team is coming in!” The captain was excited; he had been sure that the team had been wiped out after not hearing from them in three days.
Arnason sighed when he heard the answering signal. “Let’s go!”
The team had to hold themselves back from just running down the hill into the landing zone. Arnason moved even slower toward the friendly perimeter than he had moved through the elephant grass. He wasn’t about to lose any of his team now that he was so close to safety. He tried staying close to the Ia Drang River and approaching the LZ from the water side of the base. The short three thousand meters took him almost five hours.
Their approach to the American perimeter surprised the guards, even though they had been alerted that a team was coming in. The base camp had expected them earlier. Arnason was the last one to enter through the barbed wire and meet the waiting captain.
“Who are these men?” The captain pointed at the three soldiers wearing tattered fatigues. One of the men wore a pair of jungle fatigue trousers that were little more than a rag wrapped around his waist.
“We found them.” Arnason flinched at the loud sound of his own voice in a normal tone. “They were POWs.”
“You rescued three POWs!” The captain’s eyes widened. No one had ever rescued any American soldiers who had been taken prisoner by the NVA. “What unit are you men from?”
“From the 2nd Platoon, B Company, 1st Battalion, 7th Cavalry, sir—” The soldier’s voice broke. “We were at LZ X-Ray and were taken prisoner when our platoon was overrun.”
Arnason and his recon team listened as the soldier spoke. There hadn’t been any conversation during the whole time they were on patrol, and they were hearing the man’s story for the first time.
The soldier turned and faced Arnason. Tears rolled down the man’s cheeks. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“There’s no need. You would have done the same for us.” Arnason looked over at Barnett, who stood resting his CAR-15 on his hip and wearing a blank expression.
The soldier wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and continued. “They took us back into Cambodia as fast as they could, and I think they were keeping us in a holding area until they could bring all of the POWs together.”
“There are more?” The captain was getting angry.
“We saw a group of five… maybe six,” one of the other soldiers said.
“I’ve got to get you men back to division headquarters… immediately! Maybe we can send in a rescue team before our POWs are moved too far up north!” The captain picked up the handset and placed a call back to the division headquarters.
Arnason nodded for his team to leave the bunker and assemble outside. He waited until all of his men were leaning against the shady side of the structure before speaking. “You did good work out there, and I’m proud of you.”
Sinclair nodded, Woods smiled, and Barnett looked back out over the perimeter. He had loved every minute of it.
FOUR
Raw Meat
Staff Sergeant Arnason sat cross-legged on top of his fighting bunker. He had taken a long shower and changed into a clean set of fatigues. The sun was just beginning to set to the west, and the sky was filled with bands of beautiful colors. Arnason stared at the sunset and thought of home. He had been in Vietnam since December 1961—December 11, to be exact. He and Fitzpatrick had arrived in Vietnam with the 8th Transportation Company (Light Helicopter) from Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Arnason lit a piece of C-4 explosive and watched the blue flame cover the putty-colored block. He set an open can of C-rations over the flame on his tiny homemade stove and waited for it to heat up. It had been over two years since he had eaten a meal cooked in a mess hall. The only prepared fresh food he would eat was French bread and cheese, which he would buy from the Vietnamese when the opportunity presented itself; he never went out of his way to find it. He picked up the wallet-sized picture of his two sons and daughter and looked at it in the soft light. He hadn’t seen any of them in almost four years; the oldest boy would be fourteen now. Arnason rubbed the edge of the only snapshot he had of his family and thought of the good times he had with the kids before the divorce. He had loved his family more than life itself and had lost all of them when he divorced his wife. The judge thought that he was crazy during the divorce hearings, but the only problem was that he was too proud to tell the judge what had been occurring in his marriage, and his outburst in the courtroom had ended up with him spending thirty days in jail with his wife winning sole custody of the children. He had shipped out for Vietnam right after being released from the civilian jail and hadn’t seen his family since.
“You’re going to wear that picture out.” The familiar voice of Fitzpatrick came from behind his right shoulder.
Arnason slipped the photograph back in the plastic protector and placed it in his right jacket pocket. He stirred his can of franks and beans and poured two teaspoons of Tabasco sauce over the steaming food.
“You want some company?” Fitzpatrick took a seat against the sandbag wall with his back to the perimeter. “I brought a bottle, just in case you might have changed your mind.” He held up the fifth of Jim Beam.
Arnason still didn’t answer. He tasted his beans and added another plastic spoon of red Tabasco.
“That shit will burn a hole through your guts!”
“What do you want, Fitz?” Arnason’s voice reflected that his patience was growing short and he wanted to be left alone.
“That was a good mission you were on; the captain is putting in your whole team for a citation… you and that new kid, Barnett, for valor awards.”
“I’m impressed, Fitz… and you should know by now, I don’t give a fuck about medals.” Arnason took a heaping spoonful of franks and beans in his mouth. He swallowed and then took a half dozen openmouthed breaths to cool down his burning tongue.
“Want a drink?”
Arnason shook his head. “This is just right!” He took another spoonful.
“What do you want in trade for Barnett?”
“I don’t want to trade him.”
“I’ll give you any man in the platoon for him, plus a thousand dollars cash.”
“I’ll keep him.”
“What’s your problem? You queer for the kid?”
Arnason looked up over the edge of the camouflaged can and shoveled the rest of the food in his mouth before answering the platoon sergeant. “I’m going to let you live… only because I’ve known you since Fort Bragg.”
“Get off that shit, Arnie! What’s your fucking problem? You don’t drink anymore… you live in this fucking bunker like a hermit! You don’t even fuck anymore!” Fitzpatrick staggered to his feet. “When was the last time you’ve been laid?”
&nbs
p; “I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business…friend!” Arnason looked up at his friend and then ran his hand over the blue flames of his cooking fire.
“You’re not the only guy to get a divorce!” Fitzpatrick sat back down again, but this time he sat on the sandbag wall that faced the perimeter with his back exposed.
“I thought we were talking about me selling one of my men.” Arnason spit out the word.
“I need a couple of good men. That guy James stays stoned all day and glares at me when I tell him to do anything.” Fitzpatrick drank from the neck of the bottle. “I got in two more replacements. One of them plays a guitar all night and sings Christian songs, and the other one is a college dropout who stays stoned with James all day.”
“You picked them.”
“Come on, Arnie! I need one good recon man!”
“I don’t sell my men. If Barnett wants to join your team on his own, I won’t stop him.” Arnason clipped short the end of his sentence, letting his platoon sergeant know that he was done talking about it.
“Good! I’ll talk with Barnett, then.” Fitzpatrick left the fighting bunker by walking down the slanted rear slope of stacked sandbags.
Arnason sat and listened to the sounds of the jungle coming from over the defensive barbed wire. He sat quietly for over an hour and watched the night fall over the ground.
“I ain’t going no fucking where.” The voice came from behind the sandbags in front of the fighting bunker. Barnett had been sitting there the whole time listening.
Arnason smiled.
The Brigade Recon Company commander was proud of the record his teams had set during the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley. The information the division had received from the teams had changed the course of the battle, and the North Vietnamese Army had ended up losing two of the three regiments they had committed to the fight. Staff Sergeant Arnason’s team had brought back extremely important information concerning how the NVA was maneuvering in the valley that had changed artillery tactics and H&I fires. The three ex-POWs supplied information about the enemy supply routes in Cambodia that gave the Air Force a number of targets for special arc-light missions along the border.
“Where’s Arnason?” the captain asked Sergeant Fitzpatrick.
“He’s sick… got dysentery.”
“Did he go to the hospital?”
“I don’t know, but it’s real bad.”
“Well, I hate to have him miss his award ceremony.” The recon commander looked back over his shoulder, hoping the sergeant would join the formation at the last minute.
The commanding general was personally presenting the recon-team awards. Barnett was receiving the Silver Star and a promotion, and Arnason was getting a Silver Star and a Purple Heart for the bayonet wound. The Purple Heart was the reason Arnason was faking being sick. He wasn’t going to accept an award for a bayonet scratch!
Woods and Sinclair stood in formation and received their Bronze Star Medals with V devices for valor. The heat coming up from the hot PSP on the helipad that was being used as a parade field was beginning to make Woods sick. He could feel the soles of his boots heating up, making his feet burn. The awards formation consisted of almost a hundred men, four long ranks of twenty-five soldiers each. Woods couldn’t figure out why most of the first two ranks were all officers. He hadn’t seen that many of them in the field, and most of them were assigned to fire support bases.
“Corporal Spencer Barnett!” The division commander’s voice calling out his friend’s name brought Woods out of his daydreaming. “Front and center!”
Barnett hesitated, leaving the security of the mass formation and stepping out in front of the group of men. Woods nudged him and grinned that it was all right. The young seventeen-year-old left the formation and took up a position of attention directly in front of the major general. Barnett looked very small standing alone. He had just gotten a haircut, and during peak periods of hormone output he only needed to shave once a week. He looked like a high-school kid ready to receive an award from his school principal.
“I am proud to announce that Corporal Barnett’s impact award has been approved for upgrading by the MACV Commander.” The general smiled, but the grin didn’t look right on him. Barnett continued staring at a spot in space directly in front of him. The tall major general took the Distinguished Service Cross from his aide-de-camp and pinned it next to the Silver Star that was already on Barnett’s left breast pocket. The general paused and then shook the teenager’s hand. “I’d like for you to join me and my senior staff at mess tonight. Would you join us, Corporal?”
Barnett maintained his blank stare. “If my sergeant doesn’t need me for duty, sir.”
The aide almost started laughing at the young soldier’s comment. The general had never invited an enlisted man to his table before, with the exception of the division sergeant major, who ate with him during the holidays.
“I think we can work something out, but please… check with your sergeant first!” The general returned Barnett’s salute, and the recon man did an about-face and returned to his place in rank next to Woods. He noticed everyone staring at him, and then suddenly a group of grunts that had been watching the awards ceremony from the tops of the sandbag bunkers circling the helipad, began clapping and whistling their approval of Barnett’s award.
One of the Air Cav troops started chanting, “Barnett… Barnett,” and within seconds the whole area around the helipad echoed with his name. The general looked over at his aide and then at the first two ranks of officers who had just received awards for the Ia Drang fight; some of them justly deserved their decorations, but there was a large number who had exaggerated their “acts of valor.” He saw the sheepish looks on the faces of those who were guilty. The general shook his head slightly; he tolerated the horribly one-sided awards system in Vietnam because it did raise the morale of the troops, especially when a young soldier like Barnett was recognized for outstanding action.
Sergeant Arnason could hear the troops cheering “Barnett… Barnett” from his fighting bunker. He stood in the shady doorway and looked in the direction of the helipad. It was obvious that Barnett’s peers had approved of the high awards, and it was very rare that they would show it in such a manner. Arnason shook his head but kept the smile on his face; he was going to end up with a division hero on his hands.
The Battle of the Ia Drang had taken its toll of casualties, and the MACV Commander in Saigon gave the 1st Cavalry Division a month stand-down to reorganize and train their replacements. The recon company was full for the first time since it had been established, due mostly to the exceptional record they had earned during the battle.
Arnason had taken advantage of the break from combat to hone his team into a perfect fighting force. Fitzpatrick had stayed drunk most of the month, and James had spent his time preaching Black Panther doctrine to the new replacements and forming secret chapters of the militant organization in the division.
Sergeant First Class Shaw was happy with the constant flow of detail men to help him in the supply room. He had restocked his shelves from the division warehouses in Qui Nhon and had established a number of excellent black market contacts that were making him a very rich man. He had almost forgiven Arnason for standing up for the new replacements, but every time he saw Barnett or Woods with their CAR-15s, he got mad all over again. He had gone to the captain and had complained about the unauthorized weapons in the company, but after the Ia Drang, no one would dare trying to take Barnett’s CAR-15 away from him. It was common knowledge that Barnett had eaten dinner with the division commander.
Woods picked the wrong time to enter the supply hootch. Shaw looked up from his desk and saw him standing there. “What in the fuck do you want?”
“Our platoon sergeant sent us over here for the Qui Nhon detail.” Woods ignored the crusty sergeant’s belligerence and rolled his CAR-15 off his back so that the supply sergeant could see it and get even more pissed off.
“How many men
did Fitzpatrick send?”
“Masters, Sinclair, Simpson, and myself.” Woods nodded back outside where the rest of the platoon detail waited.
Shaw was happy. Simpson was the main drug dealer for the brigade, and he always paid a percentage when he used the supply detail as a cover for his drug pickup in Qui Nhon. “Get loaded up on the supply truck… and I don’t want any dope smoking!”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Sergeant!” Woods left the tent and boarded the deuce and a half without any canvas on the cab or the bed. A modified rack for an M-60 machine gun had been built over the shotgun rider’s seat. Woods let Sinclair take the automatic weapon; he was reliable.
The 1st Cavalry had opened Highway 19 from An Khe to Qui Nhon for truck traffic during the daylight hours. A brave driver with an armored personnel carrier escort might risk the trip at night, but normally the traffic was restricted to daylight. The detail had planned on spending the night at the division supply area in the large complex at Qui Nhon, and Woods was looking forward to another steam bath. The week before, Spencer Barnett had actually spent an hour in one of the large resort-area steam baths and had returned to the base camp smiling.
There were a couple of areas along the road that were excellent ambush sites, but the main threat came from mines in the sections of the highway that were gravel. Navy Seabees were paving the highway all the way to Du-Co, but the Vietcong were experts at deception and would even go so far as to cut out a section of the asphalt and place a mine under it. A fast-moving vehicle would never see the telltale lines in the road until it was too late. Twice the supply truck caught up to the engineer mine-sweeping detail and had to wait. Right before they reached the junction of Highways 19 and 68, they passed a three-quarter-ton truck on its side with the back wheels still spinning from the impact of hitting the antitank mine. The front half of the vehicle was gone. The small truck tried passing a column of M-48 tanks and had driven on the soft shoulder of the road. Sinclair turned on his seat and stared at the bloody windshield of the truck. A couple of tankers had gone over to help the injured occupants. Shaw waved his driver on; he wasn’t going to waste any time on the road. The tankers could handle it.
Baptism Page 9
