by Chris Lynch
And also with all due respect to our brave brothers of the United States Army, the Marines are not a defensive force like they are and we should not ever’ve been asked to hang around and defend any part of this country. We weren’t trained for that. We are an offensive force.
“Hold fire! Hold fire!” Lt. Jupp calls out as loud as he can and nobody, but nobody, holds fire right away, not even me. I think he’s been calling it out for a while before I even realize he’s doing it, to be honest, because my ears are filled with the awesomeness of cannon fire and with my pounding, heaving heart, and truth is if the lieutenant wanted to be heard when he shouted he maybe should be a little more selective about all the shouting he does all the time.
But that’s no excuse, really, and when I realize what’s what I stop firing well before the other guys do.
I love the 81-mm mortar every bit as much as the M-67 rocket launcher and I hope I never have to choose between the two of them.
It’s a little frightening, a little embarrassing to watch Jupp have to go up to one bloodthirsty Marine after another and insist that he stop pummeling whatever is left of the enemy stronghold down there. It’s even to the point where he comes scary close to Gillespie’s line of fire as he cranes in to shout at him. Gillespie is chuckling like a movie villain and Jupp is leaning harder and harder into him, screaming. I’m pretty sure Gillespie’s running out of ammo now is the only thing that saves the lieutenant’s life, though not his dignity.
I know how the guys feel. Those enemy guys, whoever they are down there in whatever setup they have going there, have hardly done enough to shake us up too badly. But still, every cell in my body wants to use up every bit of ordnance in our tank to blow them to pieces and blow their pieces to pieces, and those pieces to pieces. They can’t be dead enough.
But it’s no excuse for ignoring a direct order.
When the men are all finally convinced to stop shooting, we listen.
There is no return fire. No rifle shots, no rockets’ red glare. By far the most noticeable noise in this whole soggy, leafy, phospho-smelly patch of jungle is the heavy marathon breathing of Lt. Jupp.
It’s hard to tell for sure which is making him hyper-ventilate like he’s doing: the rush of the action or the effort of shouting every one of his men individually into the off position. At any rate, what is for sure is that this was not the walk-in-the-park assignment he was expecting it to be.
I have never been more excited in my life.
But I have also never seen Lt. Jupp so tense. His eyes are bugging and bloodshot.
“Is everybody okay?” he says, snarly and shaky both.
There is much gruntage, no words, everybody pretty clearly being okay.
“Once again, superb fighting, men. Job extremely well done. Might have expected you to be rusty from inaction, but you were — to a man — ready, willing, and able, and far too much a match for whoever and whatever was down there. Now, I don’t know about you all, but I am ready to get back and get some chow, huh?”
It starts with both corporals. I watch as they go all wide-eyed, their jaws tensing. Then the look makes its way down the chain of command, starting with the more disrespectful privates, Gillespie and Marquette, and passing to Hunter and Squid and, I realize, to me, too. There is genuine shock in these looks. Shock and fury.
“Lieutenant,” Cherry says, “we have to go down there.”
“We have to follow up,” McClean says. “We need to verify, visually, what we had down there. What was, what is, what we accomplished.”
“What might still need to be accomplished,” Cherry adds.
Jupp, to my disappointment, gives them an unmistakable are-you-stupid? look.
“We know what is left to be accomplished, corporal. Nothing. Put your stupid corporal ear to the breeze and listen. We wiped them out. We knocked them into Cambodia and beyond. We did what we were assigned to do, and now our job is to get back. We are lucky to be in one piece, coming home with everybody we brought out with us —”
Gillespie clears his throat loudly as our ally, Lt. Bien, silently turns and walks back to the M-113.
“— and who knows what we are going to engage on the way back? Now, our success today is all well and good, but the very clear directive from all the way up top at this point is we are not taking any more casualties. As commanding officer, my number-one priority right now is to get the men under my command back safe, and no matter how cocky you all feel about yourselves right now that is precisely what I intend to do. Now, soldiers, pack up your gear and get yourselves back to that vehicle directly. That is an order.”
Lt. Jupp himself starts making a line for the vehicle like he’s racing somebody, which isn’t the case at all because nobody’s moved. He’s gone about twenty paces when he senses this is the case. He stops short and, without turning toward us, barks his command again.
“I said, that’s an order, men.”
I don’t disobey orders. That’s a fact, and that fact isn’t going to change as long as I’m a member of the USMC.
But we’re supposed to go down and follow up. I know this. Everybody knows this.
We’re all looking at the corporals now.
The corporals look at each other.
Cherry shakes his head in disbelief. McClean shrugs. They start heading in the direction of the ride home.
“No!” Gillespie shouts.
“You are sailing very close to the wind, Gillespie,” Jupp calls, about to step into the vehicle.
“Just let it go,” Cherry says. “It’s not worth it.”
Despite two firefights, this might be the tensest moment of the day. So far.
We’re all headed to the M-113 now, when suddenly our ARVN man hops down and stands nose-to-nose with Lt. Jupp. Jupp freezes, but we all continue to move closer. It’s a cozy huddle when Lt. Bien speaks.
“We go down there,” he says to Jupp, gesturing in the direction of the bombardment.
We all wait. It’s very much like a school yard fight waiting to happen.
But there isn’t another word. It’s an amazingly tense minute.
We all mount up and move out without another word said.
It is extra bumpy as we hurtle down through the rugged terrain to the site. Bien could well be doing it on purpose, the way he’s hunched over the controls and growling lowly in Vietnamese. Lt. Jupp, no question, is a wounded soldier right now, not interacting or even making eye contact with anyone. We know who’s in charge for the time being and I would guess mostly everybody on board is pleased about that state of affairs.
When we reach our destination and the back opens up again, we all make our way down the ramp, moving slowly but with purpose. We’re traveling mostly light: M-16s, Claymore anti-personnel mines, and grenades all around.
Except for our commander. He’s assigned himself an M-60 machine gun, with two bandoliers of ammunition crisscrossing his torso. Almost like he’s expecting a different war from the rest of us.
We march in a careful formation into a village that looks just like a lot of villages we’ve seen in the past, only it’s even smaller than most. Six basic-looking huts, four of which are in some state of burned out. Smoke rises all around us, bits of flame not worth putting out.
And there are bodies. In similarly varied states of charred. I count sixteen, all men, either outside on the ground or straddling doors and windows. Sixteen torsos, that is, with limbs distributed randomly all over the place. Very much an Old West–style shootout aftermath scene, but here in the even older East. We hold our formation and proceed toward the two buildings that remain mostly intact, stepping right around or over bodies. When we come to the first building, Jupp gestures to Bien, who shouts into the place clearly demanding somebody show himself.
We have a whole lot of firepower trained on this one doorway with a canvas drape hanging in it.
Nothing.
Bien shouts some more.
I see my M-16 begin to shake a little as I wait. I am s
ure, suddenly and for no reason, that there is somebody armed and angry on the other side of that sheet.
We are giving off lots of smells now, our merry band of fighting men. Stronger even than the burning human flesh all around us.
Bien shouts again —
Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at!
Without warning, Lt. Jupp unloads on the hut with the M-60, pounding the life out of it, the machine gun sucking in its ammo belt and spitting out bullets at a rate sufficient to kill thirty guys if they were unlucky or stupid enough to be inside. I’m shocked enough to recoil from the impact, and I’m not the only one.
After several seconds and an insane number of rounds, he stops, and we listen while the smoke wafts over us.
“Free-fire, gentlemen!” he says, and despite how supercharged that was, I see his gun muzzle vibrating more than mine. “I think you will find the building is secure.”
There is no mistaking that the lieutenant is showing off now, trying to regain some of the top dogness that he lost so much of today.
“McClean, Hunter, Marquette, go in and check that out. The rest of you come with me.”
“You shot it all up,” Cherry says to him. “Maybe you want to go in and check it out yourself, lieutenant?”
Jupp’s small smile slips sideways and right off his face.
There is a game going on here. Even I have come to recognize what Lt. Jupp won’t be doing under any circumstances — such as going blindly into an enemy hut no matter how many bullets he’s pumped into it. And if I know it …
“Do as you’re told, soldiers,” Jupp says.
The rest of us follow along, including Cherry, as Jupp swaggers up to the last building. I look back behind me to see the three who were told to go into that hut are very much not going in. They stand there observing what we are up to.
What we are up to is:
Rat-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at-at!
The air is again filled with smoke and burn and Jupp’s once-again confident voice.
“In you go, Corporal Cherry,” he says.
Cherry stands there. “You coming with me?”
Jupp’s phony smile tells us all we need to know about what he thinks of this game.
“I gave you an order, Cherry.”
“Do you ever get your hands dirty, lieutenant?”
I never thought before that lieutenant was a dirty word. But the way Cherry says it now, it is filthy.
“Never mind,” Squid says, and he starts stomping toward the canvas door.
“Oh no you don’t,” I shout at my short-timer pal, grabbing him by the backpack and hauling him out of the way. “For crying out loud, I’ll do it.”
And I do. Before anybody can stop me — not that I can sense anybody thinking of stopping me — I march right up and right through that entrance.
And I scream.
I scream because I fall. It’s as if the floor isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Like I’ve stepped into a trapdoor that opens onto hell itself.
It is a trapdoor all right, but not quite to hell. Hell wouldn’t hurt this bad.
“Ah, ah, ah!” I scream, as the guys surround me. My leg has gone under the floor of the hut, disappearing all the way up to my thigh as the two-piece trapdoor fell away beneath me. All my weight, plus the extra weight of all my gear, has driven me down and right on top of a long metal shaft, like a pencil-thin spike, that has shot right through my boot, my foot, and my boot again. It feels like a lace of fire sizzling up through me.
Cherry and Squid run up and try and pull me out.
“Ahhhhh!” The pain is a hundred times worse when they tug on me. The trapdoors themselves are actually more torture, covered in similar long spikes that close in and clamp on to my leg when I am coming up out of the thing. Like a bear trap of knives. “No, no no, no, stop!”
Squid drops me like I am made of hornets, backs away flapping his hands helplessly. Cherry and Marquette take over, working first to try and wedge the two doors apart.
The pain is making me insane. I try and look at my leg but my vision keeps getting all watery, and my hollering is so intense that it looks like the whole world is quaking instead of just me.
“Lieutenant?” somebody shouts. Then another somebody, then all of them. The guys from the other hut are here now, too, and I see everybody, pretty much, except Jupp.
I finally see Jupp’s face, peering over the top of the crowd, looking about a million miles away. Then, I see him yanked right out of the picture as Lt. Bien shoves his way to the front, crouches down over me, and puts both arms down into the trap up to his elbows — just before I pass out, still screaming.
There are two letters waiting for me when I come around in the hospital. One is from Ivan, which I save for later like you do with the best part of your supper, and the other is from Morris. Not that Morris is like broccoli or anything, it’s just, well, there’s only one Ivan.
Hey Rudi Man,
I guess this is overdue, huh? I had two letters from you before I even got one back to you. Sorry about that but, jeez, who’d have ever thought you would turn out to be the big writer of the group, right? Anyway, the good part is, I got my wish and I’m a radioman now, so I’m going to be calling you once I get the hang of tracking you guys down. One of the perks of my job, you see, is being able to make phone calls just like we were back home and I needed to ask you a math question or something. (That’s a joke, Rudi, pay attention.)
The war has been ok for me so far. As much as wars can be ok. I’m not dead, which is a plus. At least I don’t think I am. When I was on the USS Boston, we got hit — by our own guys! And I think I survived that, although I may be dead and just don’t recognize dead yet.
I am in the Brown Water Navy now, pal. Which might very well be what death looks and feels and smells like. We are in the thick of things all the time, shooting it out with the VC all up and down the Mekong. I am on a Zippo. You know, like the cigarette lighters? We’ve got napalm flamethrowers mounted on this thing. It’s crazy what all different kinds of killing gear we have on this one boat. And for defense? It’s mostly caging and sandbags. We get shot at all the time.
I had a pal, pal. He was on both the Boston and the Zippo with me. Not a pal like you guys, nobody will ever be that. But a pal, still. He got killed. My God, Rudi, when a pal gets killed …
We don’t ever want that to happen. That’s the big thing. Never.
But enough about me, let’s talk about me.
Just kidding. How about you? I have to say there was quite a leap between the first letter you sent me and the second. Really, really great that you fit so well in the Marines. I was happy — and shocked — to hear how well that was going. Because, to be honest … ah, well you know. We all secretly peed ourselves, on your behalf, when you got drafted. It’s good that you’re so good at following orders. It’s good that you found an organization that can appreciate your particular talents.
That second letter, Rudi man, I have to say was an eye opener. Confirmed killer now. Wow. I mean it. Wow. Me, I don’t know. I mean, sure, I shoot, they insist I do more than sit on the phone all day since that’s not likely to advance the cause much, so I do shoot at people on a pretty regular basis. But I don’t know for sure if I ever hit anybody or not. And to be honest with you, I don’t want to know. I would like to return home as much like I was before as possible. Who’d have ever thought, huh man? That this young, we would be handling this kind of firepower? That we would be controlling people’s whole lives with our decisions every day?
But you. You KNOW, don’t you? There is no maybe in your close-combat world. You have killed, Rudi. I just got a chill when I wrote that down, you know that kind of thing that zings up your spine and back down again?
There is certain stuff a guy just has to do. I am really impressed that you have found yourself able to do whatever it takes. So do whatever it takes to get yourself home in one piece. We want you home.
You. We wan
t you home. Our old Rudi. Remember, doofus, you don’t have to like it. Just because you have to do it doesn’t mean you have to like it.
I will try to get a call through to you soon. Meanwhile, watch yourself and keep safe.
Your pal,
Morris
Here’s the thing you have to love about Morris. He’s a really smart guy, but he doesn’t act like it. Beck, for example, is a great guy. But he’s a really smart guy who acts like a really smart guy. That’s not as good.
Here’s what you don’t have to love about Morris, or at least I don’t. He’s not in charge of me. He’s not my mother or my teacher or my priest or my commanding officer. I don’t have to do what he says to do because I don’t have to want what he wants. I’m no kid anymore, which maybe he can’t understand because he can’t see me.
And maybe he wants to see the same old Rudi come home, and maybe that’s nice of him. But I don’t want to bring that idiot home. I don’t ever want to see him again, to tell you the truth, and that’s up to me no matter what Morris says.
I was smart to save my Ivan letter for dessert. Because while all three of my best buddies are still my best buddies, the guy who is most likely to understand what I’m doing and where I’m going is always going to be Ivan. He’s not going to come up all brainy like Beck would or all parental like Morris. He’s just built different.
Hi,
You gotta stop it, Rudi.
Ok, that maybe wasn’t the best way to start this but you know I ain’t much of a writer and you ain’t much of a reader so it’s best for everybody if I just get right in and right out here.
