Guns Up!

by Johnnie Clark

  “I have to split you guys up. Chan, you’re taking over Sanchez’s gun.” He turned to walk away like he was too busy to talk about it. I couldn’t believe my ears.

  “Wait a minute, Lieutenant! Why can’t somebody else take that gun?” My insubordination surprised me as much as it did him. “We’ve been together since boot camp!”

  “Somebody has to take the other gun, and you two are the only ones left with a machine-gun MOS. I can’t put some dumb boot on that gun. Most of these guys can’t even take it apart, let alone clean it.”

  “Has the Marine Corps ever anticipated theoretical need for replacements in this war?” Chan shouted.

  “Get a gunner from the rear or another platoon!”

  Swift Eagle ambled up next to the lieutenant. He slurped at some strange Indian concoction out of his helmet with a plastic C-ration spoon. Between each bite he stirred in bits of brown plants.

  “We’ll put you two back together when we get a new gunner,” Swift Eagle mumbled with his mouth full.

  Lieutenant Campbell nodded his approval. It was settled. I felt like I was losing a brother. It wasn’t the kind of thing we talked about. After all, we were supposed to be hard-Corps. Crap, I’d be nineteen in October. It was more than an average friendship, but then, nothing is just average in war.

  Chan’s parting words came as close to “I’ll miss you” as Marine protocol would allow. “Take care of that contagious grin, jarhead. And don’t go getting gung-ho without me here to provide guidance. I promised your mother.”

  “You too, buddy.”

  Chan walked slowly toward the other side of the perimeter. As soon as I saw Rodgers coming over the crown of the rocky hilltop with his pack and rifle slung over his shoulders, I knew who my new partner was. I tried to hide my disappointment. Rodgers had become dangerously cautious. Red had once warned me about him, and since then I’d seen for myself.

  “I’m your new A-gunner.” His dejected tone told me he wasn’t jumping up and down over the idea either. “Let’s get something straight right away, John. I’ve got seventy-three days left in this armpit, and I don’t buy the idea of me being by this gun. I’m short, man. I mean, I’m the shortest salt in the platoon. Next to Jack Ellenwood, I’m the shortest man in Alpha Company. Seventy-three days and I’m getting on that freedom bird and going back to the world in one piece. And I’m not getting killed because of this gun!”

  “What makes you think you’re the only sucker who wants to go home?” I asked.

  “Look, just take it easy on the John Wayne crap, okay?”

  “What do you plan on doing when some fool screams ‘Guns up’? Should I say, ‘Sorry, looks a little dangerous out there for me’? I seem to remember you screaming ‘Guns up’ a couple of weeks back. Just what did you have planned if I didn’t open up?”

  He paused and dropped his pack. “You and Chan go overboard sometimes. Even the lieutenant said you guys were crazy. He thought you needed a Section 8.”

  That one stumped me. I knew the lieutenant thought we were gung-ho, but I didn’t think he thought we were nuts.

  “I’m still here, ain’t I? I’ve lasted longer than any gunner in the regiment. If I’d’ve been running around like a fag on ice I’d’ve been dead the first week in country!”

  “You’re dumb lucky, and you know it!”

  “Maybe, but let’s get one thing clear, Rodgers. When you hear ‘Guns up,’ you better be right on my butt!”

  Rodgers sat down, lit a cigarette, and leaned back on his pack. He looked nervous. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” He shot his words out in abrupt spurts. “I might be getting a little edgy. Things change when you’re short. Wait till your time is short. You know how many guys I’ve seen get blown away in the last couple of weeks of their tour?”

  “I just hope I get to be short,” I said. I leaned back on my own pack. My filthy jungle jacket felt scratchy and stiff with two months’ worth of dried body salt. I hated wearing the smelly thing, but unprotected flesh wouldn’t last a week in the bush.

  “Do you know what’s going on back in the world right now?” he asked. “Fags and hippies are becoming Canadians. Jane Fonda is telling the world we kill women and kids. Do you think for one second that rich witch mentioned the thousands of civilians the NVA butchered in Hue? Our own countrymen are sending money and medical supplies to the gooks! Were you on that patrol yesterday?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that reconned that arty strike.”

  “Yeah, I was on it. Charlie got caught cold, too. We found at least fifteen cartridge belts or what was left of ’em. Blood everywhere. Flesh fried onto some of them.”

  “Any confirmed?”

  “No,” I said. “But I know where you’re heading, and it’s true.”

  “Sudsy told me you guys found a load of bandages stamped gifts from the Friends’ Service Committee.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “I rest my case. Not only are we not even trying to win this war, but our own people are helping the gooks.”

  “I don’t know what we’re arguing about. I agree with ya. But you joined the Crotch, man. You weren’t drafted. I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen enough to know this much: The NVA ain’t the good guys.”

  “They’re bloody butchers. I know that,” he said.

  “And Jane Fonda’s talkin’ out her rear end. She’s a traitor!”

  “I know that, too. I’ve been here longer than you, John. What I’m trying to say is, just who’s on our side if our own people aren’t? The South Vietnamese aren’t worth defending.”

  I hated to admit it, but he was right. I looked east toward the ominous gray mountains. I remembered Red calling the mountains outside Phu Bai a gook R&R center. I turned back to Rodgers.

  “Maybe I’m getting a little crazy. I don’t know anymore. But I want to shoot these scumbags. If I ain’t killing them for America or South Vietnam, I’ll just kill ’em for Red or Paunchy or Simmons, or just because they tick me off.”

  “What’s this place done to you, John? I knew you when you first got here, man. You never wanted to kill anybody. You were just a kid. You’re not even nineteen yet, are you?”

  “I will be on October 12th. Maybe I don’t really want to kill. I don’t want any of this. I want to go home in one piece, and I don’t think I’ll make it if I get cautious.”

  “Let’s change the subject,” Rodgers said. “We can’t change anything anyway.” He removed his helmet, then pulled out his wallet, wrapped in clear plastic, from inside the straps of the helmet liner. He removed a folded newspaper clipping from his wallet and handed it to me. I unfolded it. The headline read “Local Man Wounded in Battle of Hue City.” Beneath that, framed by the story, was his boot-camp dress-blues picture. I felt total envy. Then he made it worse.

  “I’ve had three different girls send me that clipping. The last one promises me anything I want when I get home.”

  “That’s great! Sometimes I hope I get a Purple Heart just so they’ll put it in the paper and remind some of my friends where I am.”

  I started feeling a little easier about Rodgers. The sun began baking away the morning dew. I grabbed a couple of sticks and threw my poncho over them. It wasn’t much of a lean-to, but it kept the sun off my face.

  Rodgers looked a little nervous. “Are we going to be here long enough for that?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Sudsy says we’re getting resupplied. Besides, we sure aren’t hiding from anyone out here in the open.”

  Once the poncho was up, I closed my eyes and tried to replace the filth and insects with dreams of strawberry shortcake and fast cars. The popping sound of a helicopter making a steep turn quickly dispatched any hope of catching some Zs.

  I opened my eyes. A CH-46 helicopter floated gracefully down to the center of the perimeter. The last mail drop was over two weeks ago. A word from home was becoming vital. The chopper bounced slightly, then settled down. Out of the hatchwa
y leaped a new replacement. He stumbled under the weight of a pack that was far too heavy. He resembled a newborn colt with his legs wobbling in and out. A grenade hung from every available space. He carried at least two canteens too many and enough bandoliers of M16 ammo to supply most of the platoon. But the small stack of mail he clutched in one hand quickly overwhelmed any interest we had in the new boot.

  “Is this the gun team?” he asked Rodgers. He held his pack and rifle in his arms and spoke around four letters he held clenched in his teeth.

  “This is it,” Rodgers said.

  The boot dropped his pack. He pulled the letters out of his mouth, revealing that cocky smile that every boot brings to the Nam. He made me feel like an old man. His first words didn’t surprise me a bit.

  “Are the gooks close? I want to see some combat. My name is Barnes. Orlando, Florida. The lieutenant told me to sit in with you guys for the night.” He looked at Rodgers, who was pressing the bridge of his nose and shaking his head. I tried not to laugh. He looked at me, puzzled, knowing he was on the outside of an inside joke. He looked so healthy. That bull neck, like a college football player, that young men coming out of Parris Island always have. Not tired or underweight. No dark rings under the eyes. No conception of fear or fatigue. He had that look that says, “I’m here now, let’s get this war over with.”

  All four letters were for me. Three from the folks and one from a girlfriend named Nancy. Nancy sent me a picture of her in a red bikini. The three of us took turns reading her letter and moaning. The day drifted by rather pleasantly after that. For some reason we didn’t move from the small hill all day. A rare treat. A chance to take my boots off and let the jungle rot dry out in the steaming sun. A chance to write a letter. I cleaned the gun oil and grit out of my toothbrush and tried to give my now yellow teeth a good toothpasteless going over. All of this in between a banter of questions from our new boot, Barnes.

  “Where’s the rest of your gun team?”

  “This is it,” I said.

  “I thought there was supposed to be five guys.”

  “Yeah, right. And a squad is supposed to be a bare minimum of twelve men, but our biggest squad is seven.”

  “Well, how many guys are in this platoon, anyway? They told us minimum strength was forty-four men.”

  “Yeah, I know. Just forget all that crap. This platoon’s never been over twenty-two men since I’ve been here. We have half-strength companies covering areas that need at least a battalion.”

  “Will we see any gooks today?”

  “Don’t say that, man!” Rodgers snapped. “You’re going to bring us bad luck with that talk.” He went back to writing a letter. A deep frown creased his face.

  “Don’t tell me being short makes you superstitious, too,” I prodded. Rodgers ignored me, but the frown remained. I wasn’t sure which was worse. A boot ready to shoot at anything or a salt who was scared of his shadow.

  Ten days and one hundred fifty zigzagged miles later we found ourselves greeted by an early morning drizzle in a lovely little area called Dodge City. I always wondered what colorful character came up with all these names on the grid map. The name was appropriate. The chief called it a meat grinder. The VC’s main effort was shifting to the central province of Quang Nam, with Da Nang as the ultimate target. The lieutenant said two major operations, “Allen Brook” and “Mameluke Thrust,” were screening the enemy’s avenues of approach to Da Nang. The gooks were calling it the Third Offensive, but it was all part of the Tet Offensive.

  A flight of three camouflaged Phantoms flew in formation overhead as we set up a perimeter for an early meal on a small wooded hump on the flat muddy terrain. Rodgers and Barnes started up a game of Back Alley, the Marine Corps’s favorite card game. The thunder of bombers sounded close. I pulled out my red bikini picture of Nancy and spent some time drooling and dreaming.

  “Wow! I never saw that one!” I looked up to see the freckled face of Sudsy looking over my shoulder and biting his tongue.

  “Florida girls, buddy,” I said. “Ain’t nothin’ like ’em. Got any news?”

  “Yeah.” He sat down and snatched the picture from me. “The whole place is crawling with gooks, man.” He spoke with his eyes glued to the picture of Nancy. “The 26th met an NVA battalion at My Loc.”

  “Where’s that? And don’t let my picture get wet.”

  “Three miles northeast of An Hoa,” he said.

  “That’s close.”

  “They followed ’em across the Thu Bon River into Dodge City. Did you see those Phantoms go over?”

  “Yeah. They aren’t far away either. Have you heard ’em? They’re blastin’ somebody.”

  “Then how come we’re just sitting here?” Barnes asked disappointedly.

  “Quit saying that, man!” Rodgers snapped. “It’s bad luck!”

  “What about us?” I asked.

  Sudsy handed me back the picture. “You wouldn’t believe the crap going on all around right now. The radio’s jammed with it.”

  “What about us?” I asked again.

  “Lieutenant Campbell told the gunny that HQ thinks the better part of the 308th NVA Division is roaming around here trying to get to Da Nang.”

  “Division!” Rodgers shouted.

  “What are we doing here with twenty-one men?” I asked.

  “Some genius decided that we should thrust through Dodge City.”

  “Us?” Rodgers shouted. He threw his cards into the mud.

  “Well, not by ourselves. We’re joining up with the First and Third Platoons. The whole regiment is out there somewhere. We’re part of Operation Mameluke Thrust.”

  My stomach tightened up. I knew better than to think negative. Sometimes negativity sneaks up on a person. Maybe I was just being romantic, but those colorful names popping into my life gave me an eerie sense of impending doom. I’d already heard too much about Dodge City. I let myself slip into the stupidest mental trap of all: I decided this would be the place I’d probably finally get it. I wanted to boot myself in the butt.

  It’s not my style to think about dyin’, I thought. Then why am I sure I’m going to die?

  “What’s buggin’ you?” Sudsy asked. I ignored him and tried to remember what Chan had told me about praying for grace to endure pain or fear. I still didn’t know what grace was, but I knew I needed it. God, please give me your grace to endure this chicken attitude I got right now. Amen.

  I looked up. Sudsy, Barnes, and Rodgers were looking at me with puzzled expressions.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You just looked like you saw a ghost,” Rodgers said.

  “I think I need a cup of coffee,” I said, feeling a little better.

  “Yeah, me too,” Rodgers said. He reached into his pack and tossed me a chunk of C-4 plastique explosive. I pulled an empty C-ration can out of my pack and punched a few holes in it with my K-bar, put the C-4 in, and put a lit match to it. Barnes yelped and dove for cover, landing square in the middle of an old mortar crater filled with mud and rain. It was perfect. We laughed so hard even Barnes had to laugh.

  “Barnes, what are you doing sitting in a mud puddle?” We stopped laughing and looked up to see the lieutenant standing over us, rain cascading off his helmet, arms folded, and not smiling.

  “They lit that C-4 and I thought it was going to blow up!”

  The lieutenant knelt down on one knee beside me. “Think you could give me some help with one of the men, John?” he said, ignoring Barnes and our illegal use of C-4.

  It stunned me. The lieutenant needing my help. I was a mere PFC. I felt flattered. So flattered that I committed the ultimate Marine Corps sin. I volunteered.

  “Sure, Lieutenant. What do you need?”

  “Do you know Private Unerstute?”

  “I know who he is, but I don’t really know him. The blond guy, right? Kinda goofy-looking?” I remembered Jackson sticking that rubber snake to his rear end.

  “Yeah. He’s really having a tough time adjus
ting. He’s scared real bad. He cries incessantly. Sam said he wets his pants on every patrol. I’ve tried calming him down, but I can’t get through.”

  “Why don’t you send him home as unfit for combat?”

  “That’s the next step, but he’s begged me not to do that.”

  “Why?” Rodgers asked. “I’d take it in a second.”

  Lieutenant Campbell paused. He looked irritated for a moment with Rodgers butting into our conversation.

  “He’s an Iowa farm boy, a good kid. He says he has to stick it out. From what I’ve been able to gather, he’s worried more about what his parents think of him than he is about going nuts over here. You couldn’t meet a nicer guy, but I’m going to have to dump him before he gets himself or somebody else killed. It’s up to you if you want to try to help him. You don’t have to.”

  “Why me? What can I do?”

  “He needs to be around someone who can still laugh. I’m hoping your attitude might rub off on him. Talk to him, see if you can get him to relax.” Lieutenant Campbell’s eyes looked tired. He looked so healthy, so Middle American when I first met him five months ago in Hue City. Day by day he’d grown harder, thinner, and more serious. He didn’t look the least bit like a full-faced college kid now.

  “Sure, I’ll do what I can,” I said. He gave me a nod and started to walk away. “Lieutenant?” He turned back around. “Somebody told me you thought Chan and me were Section 8s. Do you really?”

  He started chuckling. “Anybody who can laugh through this has to be a little crazy.” His look became more serious. “No. The gunny and I were just joking about how you guys are always cracking up. See what you can do about getting that kind of laugh out of Private Unerstute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A few minutes later PFC Buford Unerstute plodded up to our muddy position on the side of our small hill. He was thin. He moved slowly, like an old plow horse. A strip of blond hair dipped to his eyebrows from under a helmet that looked too big. His crimson nose was too large for his sunken cheeks. His eyebrows seemed permanently squinched, as if he were straining to see something more clearly. His boots looked at least two sizes too big; in fact, everything he had on looked too big, including his ears.