the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

Minutes later, the patrol was in waist-deep water making its way through the swamp. The man who had been told to get out of the boat was beside himself with gratitude toward Miller, who just waved him off. Jason came up behind Miller and whispered, “That was a super thing to do, buddy.”

  Miller turned and whispered back, “I don’t know what the hell y’all are talkin’ about. I fell asleep and fell out of the damn boat. I thought the sergeant was going to throw me out of the course.”

  Jason contained a laugh by biting his lower lip.

  The ten-man patrol walked the first thirty minutes through the swamp in total fear. They were certain that at any time an alligator would attack one of them and have a late-night snack, or a snake would strike from a low cypress branch. Every step in the stinking water was torture. Their bodies tingled with the expectation of being bitten by huge unseen jaws or struck by fangs to die foaming at the mouth. The fear slowly dissolved, replaced by bone-weary fatigue. Some even wished a gator would take a bite out of one of the other men and cause the mission to be aborted.

  The eerie swamp forest of cypress and Spanish moss gave way to grassy marshland covered by two feet of water. The moon reflected off the tall head-high grass and the glistening water but also revealed they were still not out of danger. Beaten-down paths in the grass cut across the trail they were making. The paths were made by alligators, and the instructor had taken out his loaded .45 as a precaution.

  Again the patrol was filled with fear and stepped lightly, but only for a while, as their overwhelming fatigue set in. The men moved in a column for an hour and stopped for a short rest break. Jason and the others lay back on their rucksacks in the water, hoping the instructor would doze off and give them the opportunity for precious sleep. Five minutes later, the sergeant stood and motioned everyone up to continue. Nobody moved. Every man in the patrol was out like a light. He kicked the nearest man and whispered harshly, “Wake up and let’s go.”

  The Ranger got up groggily and turned to wake up the others. Soon the patrol was on its feet and moving. Ranger Boyd, ahead of Jason, took two sleepy steps and stepped on what looked like a submerged log. The log moved and jerked upward. “AAAAAAAAH!”

  Boyd was thrown backward but kept on his feet and ran screaming through the tall grass. Jason had never heard such a bloodcurdling scream before and had never felt so helplessly caught by his own fear. His heart pounded wildly as the entire patrol became hysterical and jumped up and down, trying to stay in the air for as long as possible and away from the deadly water where a monster lurked. The instructor ran back to the scene just as the “alligator” stood up and screamed hysterically, “IT CRAWLED OVER ME! IT …”

  The sergeant quickly glanced around with pistol ready to shoot, but Jason stepped forward realizing what had happened. “Sergeant, it wasn’t a gator! Watkins must not have gotten the word to move out and was lying in the water. Ranger Boyd must have stepped on him and thought it was …” “Shit! Where’s Boyd?”

  Jason pointed at the path in the grass. “He went that way.” Ten minutes later, Jason and the sergeant found Boyd in a small tree clinging on for dear life and whimpering like a scared child. The instructor shined his flashlight into the man’s wide eyes. Boyd was shaking so badly the whole tree was vibrating. “Get down from there, Ranger.”

  Boyd didn’t budge. “Did … did you see it? It … it was ten feet long!”

  “Welcome to the 173d Airborne Brigade. You replacements are now members of the best fighting unit in Nam. The 173d’s nickname is ‘Sky Soldiers,’ but it’s better known as ‘The Herd.’ The 173d is the first separate brigade in the Army and was the first major ground combat unit to deploy to Vietnam. We were the first unit to enter the Iron Triangle and War Zone C, and the first to use battalion-sized helicopter assaults. You can feel very proud to be in …”

  Ty listened for the first few minutes but dozed off to sleep. He and thirty other men had just arrived at Ben Hoa from the inprocessing center, where they had spent twelve days and had experienced the Army’s usual hurry up-and-wait routine. Ty and two hundred others had made the twenty-four-hour flight from California to Vietnam and been bused to a replacement depot, where nobody seemed to know or care about jet lag. The schedule was hurry to clothing issue and wait for hours in the sun. Hurry to inprocessing and wait for hours in a hot tin building before finally filling out a stack of paperwork. Hurry back to the barracks and wait for hours to be inspected and briefed. The powers that be had hurried them through the system because they had said that units needed replacements, but then they had pulled out the lower ranking enlisted men and put them on a sandbag-filling detail for eight boring days. Finally, on the twelfth day, they had called off names for unit assignments. Ty and thirty other paratroopers had been hurried to the airfield, where they waited all afternoon in the blazing sun for a C-130 to take them to Ben Hoa, home of the 173d.

  The bus ride from the airfield and through several small villages had given the men their first real look at the country. The beauty of the countless geometric rice paddies, with their hues of green, was breathtaking, and was matched only by the soft blues of the distant mountains. The rusted tin and rice-straw huts of the villages harmonized strangely with the land, but not so the gawdy signs, sandbagged bunkers, and stink of trying to Americanize overnight. Black diesel smoke hung in the air from the convoys and combined with the stench of open sewers. Children played in filth wearing discarded GI clothing, while old women sold Cokes and cigarettes. Nothing seemed permanent except the land.

  The sergeant completed his briefing and began calling off names for specific battalion assignments. Ty was wakened by an elbow jab and heard his name called. He was going to the Fourth Battalion, 503d Infantry.

  He fell into a small formation that was hurried to a bus, which sat for an hour without a driver. Finally, a sergeant climbed on and woke everybody up. “People, I’ll be taking you to the jungle school. The orientation school is a little indoctrination course that will familiarize you with the country and the way the ‘Herd’ does business … which is to kill people and destroy things. On behalf of the Fourth Batt and the 173d Airborne Brigade, welcome to da Nam.”

  Jason stood at attention as a colonel pinned a black and gold Ranger tab to the left shoulder of his fatigues. He and fifty-seven other emaciated men were receiving the coveted tab on a small deserted airfield known as Field 7. It was over.

  He felt both pride and sadness. Too many good men had quit, and the ones who had survived looked as if they had walked out of a Nazi death camp. Their bodies were shrunken and shriveled to bone and gristle. Fat Man Miller weighed 190 pounds and looked twenty years older. He was so thin that his uniform swallowed him. Jason was no better off. He was down to 160 pounds, and his facial skin was drawn tight across his cheekbones.

  None of the men would have been recognized by a close relative at first glance. Their eyes were sunken and lifeless. Their fingers were split from cold weather and oozed yellow liquid. Their feet were wrinkled and peeling from immersion in swamp water. No one could take a normal step or pick up a piece of paper without pain. They were the survivors of fifty-eight days of hell and had paid the price for the twelve-cent Ranger tab. Jason knew more about himself than he wanted to know. The lessons he’d learned would stay with him forever.

  It was just luck that he still stood in the ranks, Jason thought, blind, uncaring luck. Ranger School was the worst experience of his life and yet one of the best. He felt confident in his ability to lead men through the worst of situations, but he would never, never do it again, for any reason.

  Childs waited until the colonel and reviewing party left before positioning himself in front of the formation. “At ease, ragbags. Today you join the ranks of the United States Army Rangers. You have a tradition to uphold. The men you lead will expect you to be better than other leaders. You are! You know misery, hunger, and fatigue. You know that you are capable of moving another five miles when you don’t think you can move another five feet.
You know you can lead, think, and plan, even though you haven’t slept or eaten in days. But, ragbags, the most important things you’ve learned are your weaknesses. Not many men really know their weaknesses. They’ve never been forced or pushed hard enough to find out. You have. Leaders must know their own limitations and those of their men. You have found that the only limitations are the ones the mind sets. You’ve proven to yourselves you can drive on through anything and accomplish the mission. Be proud, but be humble. I wish the very best to all of you in the future. You’ve made me proud today.… Company commander, take charge of these ragba … no, RANGERS, and move ’em out!”

  The survivors yelled and screamed their joy at finally being called “Rangers” as Childs strode to the camp without looking back.

  The cloud of yellow smoke swirled and dissipated under the rotating chopper blades as the resupply bird settled to the ground. PFCs Ty Nance and Jim Deets scooted out the door and stood beside the shaking machine as four bare-chested men ran out of the woodline directly toward them. The tanned soldiers ignored the two new replacements and began throwing off boxes of C-rations and ammunition. One of the men held up his thumb, and the helicopter lifted off.

  Ty exchanged glances with Deets and wondered if they were in the wrong place. The four men had disappeared into the jungle, leaving them all alone.

  A voice rang out like a shot. “Get over here, cherries!”

  Sergeant Jim Hammonds stepped out of the ferns and motioned them toward him. He eyed them. They had fat faces, and the fatter one was as white as C-ration toilet paper. Their clean uniforms were dark green and still smelled of mothballs. Their jungle boots were black and unscuffed, and their helmet covers were new and unmarked. Their new M-16s had no magazines and not a single scratch or mark on the plastic stocks. Their expressions revealed how they felt at the moment: lost and bewildered. They were most definitely cherries.

  Ty halted in front of the lanky sergeant and was about to speak when Hammonds turned around and began walking back into the treeline. Ty shrugged his shoulders at Deets and hurried to catch up.

  Hammonds strode down a muddy path through a bamboo thicket and broke into a small open area where the platoon was resting. He threw his thumb over his shoulder as he approached a tired, baby-faced lieutenant. “Look what I found, L-tee.”

  Lieutenant Brent Jenkins stood up with a smile. “Hot damn, I don’t believe it. They finally sent us some meat.”

  Hammonds pointed at Ty. “I found ’em and want this one with the scar. He looks meaner than the pale one.”

  The lieutenant cocked an eyebrow as he scanned the faces of his new men. “We’ll see. Get on back to your squad and we’ll divvy them up later.” He motioned for the two to sit down and took a seat on top of his rucksack. “Welcome to War Zone C and the first platoon of Bravo Company. I’m Lieutenant Jenkins, your platoon leader. Under the poncho over there is SFC Pop Berdenski, your platoon sergeant. We were on patrol last night, and he’s catchin’ a few z’s. He’ll meet you later.

  “As you probably already know, the whole battalion air-assaulted in five days ago. We’re the force blocking the VC from slipping into Cambodia. The operation is called Junction City, but we call it ‘Junction Empty.’ We ain’t seen nothin’. The Second Battalion parachuted in and got all the glory and headlines in Stars and Stripes, but we’ll show ’em something if the dinks ever stand and fight. Right now we’re taking it easy because it’s resupply day. I know you’re wonderin’ if this is really the war. Well, it ain’t much, but it’s all we got. Tomorrow we’ll be movin’, so maybe things will pick up.”

  He yawned and pointed at Ty. “You’ll be going to Sergeant Hammond’s first squad, the NCO that brought you here, and …” Deets puffed out his chest so the lieutenant could read his name tape. “Yeah, Deets, you’ll be going to the third squad. Now, how about you cherries telling me where you’re from and a little about yourselves.”

  Hammonds lifted his spoon and sucked the peach juice with a loud slurp. He looked at Ty from the corner of one eye and lowered the spoon into the can. “Don’t worry, Nance. I know you can’t remember all the men’s names, but you will. Cowboy Williams is the first dude ya met. He’s the skinny one from Texas. He’s kinda slow in the head, but he can deal big time with the M-79 grenade launcher. Caddy was the light-skinned colored buck sergeant, and Silk was the big-mouthed nigger. Silk is aw’right if you don’t let him get to ya. Goldie is the Jew with all the black hair, and Teddy Bear is the fat Yankee wearin’ glasses. Paddy is the apple-cheeked kid, and Bugs is the bucktoothed guy you met last. I know we don’t look like much, but we’re the first squad.”

  Ty leaned back on his rucksack and studied the young sergeant’s tanned face. Despite the man’s professional air, Ty knew Hammonds couldn’t be more than a few years older than himself. He was a raw-boned six-footer and looked as hard as a ten-penny nail. He had short brown hair and pale blue eyes that seemed too sensitive for a soldier. “And how ’bout you, Sarge, where you from?”

  Hammonds scooped out a peach half. “Colorado.” He swallowed the piece of C-ration fruit and raised the small can as if in a toast. “The first ain’t pretty, but we sure is e-fective. Welcome to the family.”

  PFC Jim Deets was dead. He accidentally killed himself. He’d hooked two grenades to his harness, and a vine had caught one of the pins when he walked through a streambed. He’d heard the detonater pop and knew he had only five seconds, but he couldn’t free the grenade in time. He died screaming.

  Lieutenant Jenkins handed the handset back to his radio operator and angrily pointed at the third squad leader. “Goddamn it! I give you a cherry and you don’t brief him on the basics, and he blows himself away. Shit. The ol’ man is pissed off.”

  The squad leader nodded toward the body. “Sir, I told him. He didn’t listen to a word I said. I just checked his weapon, and he had it on automatic. We were lucky he didn’t shoot one of us in the back.”

  Jenkins waved the excuse away. “Don’t give me that bullshit. You should have inspected him before we left this morning and checked him out a couple of times while we were moving. So now you can suffer. You’re not getting the next cherry. You’ll just go short until I fill the other squads to full strength. And maybe not then.”

  “Aw, hell, sir, I’m already two men short.”

  “No! Forget it! You blew yours away. Get back to your squad.” Jenkins’s angry eyes shifted to Sergeant Hammonds. “You better have YOUR cherry squared away.”

  “He knows the basics,” Hammonds said softly.

  Jenkins sighed and lowered his head. “Get him up here and bag Deets. Might as well break him in now.”

  Hammonds knew the procedure: new men place the KIAs in body bags. He motioned over his shoulder. “He’s doing it now.”

  Jenkins only glanced in the general direction and slapped his weapon in frustration. “Deets had only one damn day in the field and … shit!”

  Ty spread the body bag out and rolled the blood-splattered corpse onto it. He’d seen death before. It was nothing new, nothing to get upset about. Deets had been Chosen.

  Hammonds watched for a reaction from his new man. After all, Deets’s body didn’t even look human anymore. But Nance didn’t show the slightest hint of revulsion. Ty felt the sergeant’s eyes on him and turned around. Hammonds studied the cherry’s eyes. “You’re supposed to be learning a lesson from this. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  Ty zipped up the bag and wiped his bloody hands on his fatigue pants. “Yeah.”

  Hammonds felt a chill go up his spine. He could tell the cherry was lying.

  Cowboy Williams wiped sweat from his forehead with an olive-drab towel and sat down beside Ty. “Stay close ta me for a while and do what I do. It ain’t gonna take long ta figure out the ropes. The main thang is don’t be thinkin’ ’bout nothin’ but Charlie. Keep yo’ eyes and ears open, and don’t be half-sleepin’ and thinkin’ ’bout home. This is yo’ home now.”

  Ty leaned back on his
rucksack and looked at Williams. The thin soldier looked more like a clean-cut basketball player than a paratrooper. “Thanks for the advice. Why is it they call ya ‘Cowboy’?”

  Williams looked up at the blazing sun and shut his eyes. “ ’Cause I used ta do a little rodeoin’ and made the mistake of tellin’ Goldie. He kinda hangs a handle on everybody. I reckon he don’t want us callin’ him Harold and done come up with nicknames for everybody. Goldie is the first Jew I ever knew. He ain’t as tight as I heard about them people.”

  Ty looked down the trail toward Goldman. He looked like an average GI—thick black hair, tan. average height. Ty shifted his gaze to Bugs Saben. Bugs was the point man. He looked a bit mongoloid, with his huge head and heavy brow, and his front teeth protruded badly. Bugs was from Iowa and was a constant talker when he wasn’t on point. He liked most to talk about himself. He bored everybody to tears.

  Sitting across from Bugs was Paddy McGuire, who was quiet and strikingly handsome. His rosy cheeks made him a target for Silk Davis, a foulmouthed troublemaker who always made sexual innuendos about Paddy’s boyish face and self-proclaimed virginity.

  Sergeant Hammonds strode down the trail, interrupting Ty’s thoughts. “Saddle up, first squad, we’re movin’ out. Second squad is leading, and we’ll be in the saddle with the L-tee. Nance, you stick to Cowboy like stink on shit. Keep your finger off the trigger and keep your weapon on safe. Bugs, take point and keep the second in sight. Nice and easy now. Let’s do it, First.”

  Ty stood up under the watchful eye of Hammonds and ignored his searching stare. He could tell that the sergeant wasn’t comfortable with him, but it didn’t matter. Despite the first-day friendly introductions of the “family,” Hammonds seemed distant toward everybody.

  23

  Sergeant, alpha zero eight reports!”

  “Alpha zero eight, that was a satisfactory exit from the tower, but you owe me ten for being a Ranger. Report to the bench and change your harness with the next man.”