Guns Up!

by Johnnie Clark

  “Don’t!” It was Chan. “It’s not worth it!” He turned to the corporal. “What platoon are you in?”

  “First.”

  “I would suggest that you take your posterior back to First Platoon before I decide to let him put his foot up it.”

  “I gave that jerk an order to check the gook’s papers, and he better—” The corporal stopped in mid-sentence with the help of a pincer-like grip from a large reddish-brown hand now attached to the back of his neck. Swift Eagle turned the corporal’s head toward him like it was a hand puppet. The big Indian nodded his head in the direction of First Platoon, released the corporal’s neck, and stared down at him with his icy black eyes. The corporal slid away like a wounded dog with his tail between his legs. Not another word was spoken.

  Chan released me from the bear hug. I walked back over to the dead face. For a moment I felt sick, but it passed. I leaned down to search his pockets, holding my breath to keep from getting sick. I found a thin brown wallet wrapped in green plastic. I tossed it to Chan.

  “Check this out.”

  I took a deep breath and searched his shirt pockets. They were caked with quickly drying blood. From inside his left shirt pocket I pulled out a scratched-up Timex watch.

  “He was only fourteen,” mumbled Chan, still looking at a paper from the dead man’s wallet.

  “Fourteen?”

  “Yeah.”

  I didn’t have to turn to see who made the next remark. “Well, at least you know there’s someone in this war younger than you are, Baby-san.” The coarse laugh that followed identified Sam the Blooper Man.

  “Hey, Doc!” shouted the gunny. He was leaning over one of the NVA. “Get over here. This one’s still alive.”

  Doc jogged over to the gunny. I wandered over to see how bad he was. He was shot through the back and out through the chest and stomach. One ear was shot off and bleeding badly.

  “He might make it if we medevac him.” Doc peered down under his glasses at the bleeding NVA. He sounded disinterested. His Massachusetts arrogance showing itself again. He’d made no secret of the fact that he joined the Navy to stay as far away from Vietnam as possible and to avoid being drafted into the Army. He considered himself a genius and Marines cretins. In all his genius he neglected to discover that the Marines don’t have medics. The Navy provides corpsmen for that duty. It felt good to see the arrogant snob as dirty as the rest of us.

  Chan strolled over to the wounded NVA, bent down on one knee, and checked his wounds. “He can make it, Gunny. If we hurry. The wound’s not sucking.”

  “Thanks, Chan,” Gunny said. He turned and looked up at Doc. “You better watch it, Squid. You don’t want to get on my bad side. Sudsy! Let’s get a medevac in here ASAP!” He spit a shot of tobacco on Doc’s boot. “Sorry.”

  “Check this out!” Jackson appeared from the other side of the mound holding something in the palms of his hands. “I went down in that hole to see what was smokin’. These guys were smokin’ dope!”

  I’d never seen marijuana before except for a couple of goofy movies in high school. Sam forced out a hoarse laugh.

  “Now that’s a bad trip, man!” An odd smile spread across Sam’s pitted face.

  “Hurry up and get that medevac in here, Sudsy!” Gunny shouted.

  “He’s on his way, Gunny.”

  Jackson flipped the marijuana into the air and did a quick-step over to one of the dead men’s SKS Russian sniper rifle. He laid his M16 down and snatched up the bolt-action Russian rifle.

  “Who gets the rifles, Lieutenant?”

  “John gets one.”

  “Can I have one? There’s three of ’em here.”

  “I guess so. Make sure you tag it before that chopper gets here.”

  My eyes drifted back to the dead face. It looked even more yellow than before.

  “Hurry up, John. Tag the SKS you want. It’s single shot; you can bring that dude home when you rotate.” Jackson’s voice sounded far away.

  “He doesn’t feel well,” Chan said. “I’ll tag it for him.”

  “Fourteen. It’s a shame, isn’t it?” Someone put his hand on my shoulder. I managed to pull away from the dead face to see who was talking. His name was Jack Ellenwood, a corporal with the Third Platoon. He stood a good four inches taller than me. His face looked round but he wasn’t chubby. Just the slow soothing tone of his voice calmed me. He sounded honestly regretful, as if he knew exactly how I felt. “You probably shouldn’t stare at it any longer, John. As it is, I imagine you’re going to remember this scene the rest of your life.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “You took over Red’s gun, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard you’re going to be as good as he was.”

  “No way. Red was a Marine’s Marine. I could never be as hard-Corps as Red.”

  “I had a good friend who looked exactly like you when he got his first confirmed. Only difference was he puked. We came over together. I named my new baby after him. Want to see a picture?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. He took his helmet off and produced a thick black wallet. His face was already beaming with pride and he hadn’t even found the picture yet. “Here. Here it is.” He patted me on the back and gave up fighting back a giant grin. “Isn’t he something?” It was the usual: a fat little baby on a blanket looking up.

  “Yeah, he’s great. What’s his name?”

  “Red.”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. Finally I managed the only word that made any sense.

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” I said.

  “That’s good. Kamikazes shouldn’t get married; besides, you don’t look old enough.”

  “I’m not. Why ‘kamikaze’?”

  “That’s what I call gung-ho gunners. All you’re missing is the plane.” He laughed. A hearty laugh. The kind that makes you feel good just to hear it. Then I felt a solid slap on the back of my flak jacket.

  “Are you okay?” It was Chan.

  “Yeah, I guess so. Chan, do you know Jack Ellenwood?”

  “Third Platoon, right?”

  “That’s me.” Jack stuck out his hand and Chan shook it

  “Thanks for talking to Baby-san.”

  “Pay no attention to him, Jack. Chan is my A-gunner and built-in big brother since boot camp.”

  “His mother asked me to take care of him.” Chan’s smirk nearly made me laugh.

  “You know what’s really bothering me?” I asked.

  “What?” Jack said.

  “I’ve been wanting to get my first confirmed. I mean, I wanted it like it was a game or some sort of competition. I wanted to kill another human being, and now I have, and he was all of fourteen years old.”

  “John,” Chan said calmly.

  “No, Chan, I mean it. I wanted a confirmed like I always wanted a touchdown and never got it. But that’s not the worst of it. I just don’t feel as bad about killing a kid as I should.”

  “How bad do you think you’re supposed to feel? He’d have blown your brains out and bragged about it all the way to Hanoi,” Jack said, then spit as if the thought had angered him. Chan slapped me on the shoulder.

  “Why don’t you get over there by yourself and read your Bible? You have to pray about it.”

  “Right now I don’t feel like I have the right to open that book,” I said.

  Chan put his arm around my shoulder and walked me a couple of steps away.

  “In Philippians God tells us to ‘be anxious for nothing but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God which surpasses all comprehension, shall guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.’ ” Chan paused and looked me in the eye. “Look, buddy, I’m not trying to preach at you, but the word of God is the only thing that’s going to help you.”

  “I don’t want to hear that stuff right now!”

  I cou
ldn’t believe I was actually barking at Chan when deep down I totally agreed with every word he had spoken. He looked at me patiently.

  “Later,” he said with a pat on the shoulder.

  “Saddle up!” the old gunny bellowed like he meant it. “Let’s get a perimeter around this position. Choppers comin’ in!” Gunny turned toward me. “Johnnie-boy, go get your gun.”

  “Don’t call me Johnnie-boy!” I snapped. Immediately I was sorry. I liked the gunny, I wasn’t mad at him. I wasn’t sure what I was mad at, but I was angry enough to fight. The gunny looked shocked, then the leathery wrinkles tightened.

  “Move it, PFC!” He turned back to the wounded NVA. I wanted to say I was sorry but I couldn’t seem to force a friendly word out.

  By the time I returned with my M60, the whirring rotors of the medevac chopper were bending the knee-level saw grass. A moment later the three bodies were loaded and we moved in column back toward the road. Four deuce-and-a-halfs sat waiting for us with engines running. The tanks had split up, with two leading the convoy and two bringing up the rear. I had no idea where we were going, but the general hope was Phu Bai.

  The ride was bumpy and dusty. There wasn’t much conversation. Nearly everyone in my truck had closed his eyes. Sometimes the tired faces of my comrades frightened me. They all looked so much older than they were, harder than they should have been. I was glad I couldn’t see my own face. It no longer felt like the face of Baby-san.

  We finally reached Truoi Bridge. I started getting my gear together, but the tiny convoy didn’t stop. Streams of Vietnamese carrying everything from chickens to bicycles scurried off the road and out of the way. They were all headed south toward Da Nang. Probably refugees from Hue, I thought. It had to be over 110 degrees, yet some of the Vietnamese wore coats and shirts on top of shirts.

  Soon Phu Bai was visible up ahead. If we didn’t pull in to Phu Bai our other choices looked grim. Hue was a few miles farther up Highway 1, then Quang Tri, Khe Sanh, and a couple of other meat grinders I least wanted to visit. The convoy turned. A couple of the men sighed out loud. Then the excitement of civilization brought on some serious thoughts.

  “Beer!”

  “Women and beer!”

  “Women?”

  “Yeah, I heard there’s a USO show at Phu Bai.”

  “Yeah, I heard that too from a corporal in Third Platoon. Australians!”

  A few minutes later we piled out of the trucks in front of the same tent in which Chan and I had first met Big Red. Seemed like years ago, I thought. A group of ten boots, still dressed in stateside utilities, stood in formation nearby. They gawked at us like we’d just stepped off a spaceship. I remembered being on the other side of that look. It was frightening, yet thoroughly exciting.

  I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t rather impressed with myself. I looked hard—so hard, in fact, that my baby face was barely noticeable. A grenade hung off every available space. Four hundred rounds of machine-gun ammo crisscrossed my flak jacket, which was no longer green but beige from the sun and dust. My NVA pack stood out among the tiny Marine Corps packs. A .45-caliber pistol hung low on my right hip. It was balanced by my K-bar on my left hip. Last, but anything but least, was the gun. It added that final homicidal ingredient.

  “I look pretty bad, don’t I?” I asked Chan.

  “No worse than usual,” he said with a smirk.

  “No. I mean I look pretty hard-Corps, don’t I?” I said chuckling.

  “Surprisingly hard-Corps for someone who couldn’t kill a cow.” He started laughing.

  “It wasn’t a cow. It was a water buffalo!” I said.

  “Hard-Corps.” He smirked again.

  We stood gabbing in formation for a solid two minutes before Sam the Blooper Man spotted the boots who couldn’t take their eyes off us. He couldn’t resist the old ear routine. I knew it was coming when his eyes lit up like a vampire in a blood bank. I gave Chan a nudge and nodded toward Sam. Chan’s Snoopy-like grin stretched into place as we waited for the reaction.

  Sam strolled casually over to them, put his M79 under his left arm, and asked for a cigarette. The boots seemed to back up a step or two like they didn’t want to be too close. I realized why. It was the smell. We stunk. One of the young boots handed Sam a cigarette. Sam got a light from another, took one big puff, then removed his helmet. He unpinned the sun-baked human ear from his helmet cover and held it out to the boots, asking anyone if they wanted a lick. The young Marines all took another step back. They frowned as if they were about to get sick, then looked at Sam in wonder when he shook off the flies and put the ear in his mouth and sucked on it.

  “Listen up!” Lieutenant Campbell shouted. “That means you, too, mister!” he shouted at Sam. Sam put on his helmet and walked back to our formation. He pinned his ear back on his helmet. “I don’t want anyone getting lost. Stay in the area. You’re allowed to hit the enlisted men’s bar and chow hall, or sick bay, of course. There is a possibility that we might have to saddle up quickly, and if you ain’t in one of those places then you’re AWOL. Leave all frags with Sudsy. Dismissed.”

  “Chan, have you got any money?” I asked.

  “I’ve got one American dollar, but we’re not allowed to spend American money.”

  “I don’t believe it!” A strong slap on my back followed the strangely familiar voice with the Boston baritone. “You two are still together?” I turned to see who I wasn’t having a conversation with. Chan recognized the freckle-faced back-slapper first.

  “Mike Flanagan?” Chan asked in disbelief.

  “One and the same,” he replied with a hearty laugh. Flanagan was a good-natured Irishman we’d known in boot camp.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “Weapons Platoon.”

  “In Alpha Company?” Chan asked.

  “Yep. I just got assigned to Second Platoon.”

  “That’s us!” I said.

  “Far out!”

  “Yours, I presume?” asked Chan, pointing to a 3.5 rocket launcher Mike held under one arm.

  “Yep, she’s mine. Well, I should say ours.” Mike stepped aside to introduce his A-gunner. He looked a lot like Doc. Round glasses made him look like a professor. His face was pale, his mouth small and tightly closed like it was hard for him to speak. “This is my A-gunner, Lance Corporal Benjamin Allen.” Benjamin said nothing. I nodded hello. “And these two are buddies from boot camp.”

  “And Camp Lejeune,” I said.

  “It’s great to have you on board, Mike. But tell me something. Why would they send you out with that primitive tube?” Chan asked, pointing at the bazooka. Mike looked insulted.

  “Yeah, why don’t you stay with mortars and avoid this crap?” I asked.

  His freckled face lit up as his voice lowered. He looked around to make sure no one else heard. “Scuttlebutt says they might send you guys tank hunting!”

  “What?” said Chan in total disbelief.

  “No, I’m serious. They knocked out a couple of Russian T-34s just this week south of Da Nang.”

  “Are you serious?” I asked.

  “It’s true,” said the nonspeaking A-gunner with the professor face. He caught me off guard. I was beginning to think he couldn’t speak at all.

  “Well if we suddenly move toward Da Nang, I hope you guys are accurate with that tube,” Chan said.

  “I’ve got to have a drink at the Animal Pit before some fool says, ‘Saddle up!’ ” I said and gave Chan a pat on his helmet.

  “Okay, Baby-san. I’ll go with you to make sure you find your way back.”

  “Let’s go, 3.5 rocket team. But you’re a pro runner, aren’t ya, Mike? Are you still trying to stay in shape?” I asked.

  “Sort of, but this is a special occasion, and my next Boston Marathon is a long way off.”

  “Chan doesn’t drink much either, but he’s drinking with me this time.”

  The bar sat about one hundred yards from our tent. I’d never seen it before, but all we
had to do was follow the dust of most of the platoon. The building had sandbags up to a tin roof. A sign out front read “101st Airborne.” It didn’t surprise me. Any small luxury I’d seen so far always belonged to the Army. The Marine Corps prided itself on giving back to the Pentagon half its allotted funds. That’s why we still used Korean War–era helicopters, World War II packs, and bazookas.

  An MP stood out front to guard a row of weapons.

  “No weapons allowed inside.” The Army MP made sure we knew the rules.

  We set our weapons down and walked in. Three Marines from our platoon sat at the bar. Army men sat at tables. It could have looked like any bar back in the world if the grungy-looking Marines weren’t part of the scene. Jimmy Hendrix blared from a red and blue Wurlitzer in one corner. A pinball machine with an assortment of bells lit up another. A large brown, white, and blue Schlitz sign on the back wall provided most of the light for the dimly lit bar. Two black and white blowups of President Johnson shaking hands with Army generals hung behind the bar. Swift Eagle sat at one end of the bar by himself, separated by five chairs from the other Marines. We positioned ourselves there.

  “I hate going to bars with this little turd,” Chan said to Mike, referring to me.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said indignantly.

  “Why’s that, Chan?” Mike said with his Boston accent showing.

  “The last time I made this mistake I was thrown in jail in Tijuana.”

  Mike bellowed out a laugh and choked out the words, “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, I’m serious,” Chan said.

  “Now wait a minute, you guys,” I said. “There’s a reasonable explanation for these accusations.”

  “Yes. And the reasonable explanation is that he struck a giant Mexican bouncer with a chair,” Chan said. Mike started laughing harder.

  “Now wait a minute. You’re only hearing one side of the story.”

  “That’s right. After that, he managed to involve the entire bar in his brawl, got us arrested by the Tijuana police, the Navy Shore Patrol took us from them, then Marine Corps MPs took us from them, and we’d still be in the Red Line Brig in Camp Pendleton if we hadn’t had orders for Vietnam.”