Guns Up!

by Johnnie Clark

  “How’s he doing, Doc?” I asked.

  “He’ll make it.” Doc stood up and led us a few feet away. “He probably won’t walk again. I don’t know why he’s still alive. I counted eleven bullet holes from head to toe and some shrapnel holes besides.” Doc spoke with his usual boring Boston attitude, as if the wounded were keeping him from something more important.

  “That’s amazing!” I said.

  “What about Buford?” Chan asked.

  “All I could find was one tiny little shrapnel wound in his side, but it was so small it was like a pinprick. It couldn’t have been what killed him. He died from fright. He had a heart attack out there.”

  “Correct. I concur.”

  Doc’s face flushed, half with anger and half with embarrassment. He hated being put in his arrogant place. He removed his glasses for cleaning and turned away without a word.

  Twenty minutes later a medevac chopper settled down in the muddy paddy. The sun was fully up now, like a blazing ball in the copper sky. I watched as Barnes and Buford were loaded onto the chopper. I wanted Buford alive. I wanted him to go home and spit in his family’s face. He could have gone home, but he didn’t. I thought of the cowards in Canada.

  We started after the NVA, on a force march. The jungle looked dense and black. Their retreat was hurried, and our point man followed it easily. Thirty minutes on their trail led us into a snake-infested jungle swamp. The unmistakable sickening sweet odor of rotting corpses filled the damp, humid air. I found solace in the stench, knowing they were dead gooks. I wanted to shoot more. I wanted them to pay.

  We marched on and on. In and out of swamp after swamp. It was nearing evening when we finally climbed out of the swamps and onto solid ground. The terrain in front of us was rolling hills with scattered patches of trees and brush. Without my even realizing it, we had linked up with a huge column of Marines stretching past one hill and over another.

  The sun was dying on the horizon. We had to stop soon. I felt like I had to eat something. Cracking rifle fire broke the silence of the march. It was over as quickly as it started.

  “Corpsman up!”

  Swift Eagle ran by me shouting, “Get in a perimeter!”

  “Who’s hit?” Rodgers asked. The chief kept running toward the lieutenant. “Who’s that they’re helping?” Rodgers pointed to three Marines standing over another Marine twenty meters back. For a moment I thought it was Chan.

  “I’ll go see,” I said. I ran back. “Who is it?”

  “Ellenwood,” Doc answered.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “I think so. We need a medevac.”

  “Let me see my baby!” Jack sounded dazed, like he was in shock. “Let me see my baby!”

  “What’s he talking about?” Doc asked, his voice beginning to show the strain.

  “His baby. I know what he’s talking about.” Memories of Jack calming me down after my first confirmed kill by showing me pictures of his new baby boy came back to me. “Give me his wallet.” Another Marine handed me his helmet. I fumbled for the wallet. “Here it is.” I unwrapped the plastic around it, opened it up, and found the color picture of the laughing baby boy. “Here, Jack. Here’s your baby.” It was too dark to see the photograph clearly, but he calmed down just by holding on to it. I wondered why it had happened to Jack, out of five hundred Marines and with only two weeks left.

  Our night ended in a perimeter waiting for a medevac that didn’t come.

  The next morning started with the humming noise of thirty to fifty helicopters flying in formation in the eastern sky.

  “Good grief! What’s all that?” Rodgers asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Hey, Swift Eagle! What’s going on over there?”

  Swift Eagle looked up from his can of congealed lima beans and ham fat. He gazed stoically at the huge formation. “I think it’s the 101st Airborne. They get a noon meal. Hot, too!”

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “John.” I turned to see Doc. The arrogance replaced by a solemn face looking down at me. “Jack’s dead.”

  “Dead? How? He wasn’t hit that bad!”

  “He had a stomach wound we didn’t find till this morning. He could have made it, but we couldn’t get a medevac chopper.” Doc spoke as though he was pleading for understanding. “There just weren’t any choppers.”

  I followed the flight of the Army armada of helicopters until my vision blurred. Then I cried.

  MERCY KILLING?

  The lieutenant put Chan and me back together. I was thankful for that, almost as thankful as Rodgers was to get away from the gun.

  “Saddle up!” The gruff voice sounded far away. I felt numb over Jack’s death. Not sad. I was too tired of it all to be sad. I felt anger, too. Anger at our incompetent corpsman who didn’t find a stomach wound. Anger at the Army for darkening the sky with helicopters bringing hot meals to Army units that were already too soft while my friend bled to death for lack of a single medevac chopper. But most of all, anger at the gooks.

  “Here’s your pack,” Chan said. I watched the medevac chopper fade into the hot morning sun. “You knew him better than I did, but that was one decent man.” Chan nudged me with my pack. “You all right?”

  I felt myself sighing. “I wonder if I’ll be sane when I get home.” Chan didn’t answer. I put my pack on. The straps dug into my sore shoulders. It felt heavier than usual, or maybe I was just weaker. I threw the M60 over my shoulder and nestled the hot metal into the little saddle of callus and muscle between my neck and shoulder bone. The never-ending hump started again. I kept hearing Jack ask for his baby. Push it out. Think clear. I wonder how far I’ll walk before it’s over? Fifteen miles a day times thirteen months equals three-ninety-five times fifteen equals…“Chan?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s three-ninety-five times fifteen?”

  “Five thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-five.”

  “What? How could you figure that so fast?”

  “You’re trying to figure how many miles we’ll hump at fifteen klicks a day for thirteen months, right?”

  “Wise-turd.”

  “How you feel?” Chan asked quietly so no one else in the column would hear. I knew he really cared. I was lucky to have such a friend. Mom always said I made friends easily. I used to think that was good. I wasn’t sure anymore. Maybe I shouldn’t make any more friends.

  “I’m okay,” I said, though I wasn’t. Nothing felt right. I liked Jack. I liked his wife and I liked his fat baby. I wanted to see that fat baby. I wanted him to know his dad died like a hero. He should have. He didn’t. He died walking along in a war, a war that our leaders didn’t care about winning but that I still did, and I still didn’t know why I felt alone.

  “What happened to the rest of the battalion?” I asked.

  “They kept going when Jack got hit. Alpha stayed put.”

  By noon the treeless, rolling hills turned into a thick jungle. First Platoon dove into the dense bush while Second and Third continued on, just skirting around it. The captain pointed at a narrow path leading into the jungle. Lieutenant Campbell motioned Second Platoon toward the path. Striker took the point and Second Platoon filed down, leaving Third Platoon alone.

  The jungle felt so vibrant, so noisy compared to the rocky, rolling terrain we’d just left. Screeching birds filled the tops of each tree. The temperature dropped twenty degrees almost immediately. Bright sun rays danced off thousands of plants in a million shades of green. Strangling vines spiraled up a million branches tangled together forever in a struggle to see the sun.

  The column stopped. No one spoke as each man dropped instinctively to one knee. A whisper started at the front of the column. Each helmet turned, repeating the call.

  “Guns up!”

  “Guns up!”

  “Guns up!”

  I stood and struggled past the first two men in front of me. Then the others moved away, a
nd I ran forward. Adrenaline started pumping. I kept hearing Jack’s voice. “Let me see my baby!” I could feel Chan behind me. The path veered right around a huge red thornbush.

  “Get down!” The whisper was enough. I dropped quickly to the left side of the path, landing next to Lieutenant Campbell. He pointed to a hootch of bamboo and dried brown leaves twenty meters up the path. Fifteen feet to the left of the hootch was a large mound of dirt ten feet long and four feet high. Striker lay to the right of the path ten meters closer, flat on his stomach and aiming at the hootch. The hootch sat in a tiny clearing, engulfed by a bright circle of shimmering sunlight that shone through the thick canopy of overhanging branches.

  Lieutenant Campbell rose to a crouch, ran forward to Striker, dropped to one knee just behind him, and motioned Chan and me forward. I started to stand. Chan grabbed my pack and pulled me back down. Then I saw why. Two helmetless, khaki-clad NVA soldiers, each carrying a small bowl of rice, came out of the hootch with AKs slung over their shoulders. One stuffed rice into his mouth with his hands as he spoke. The other started laughing. They walked toward the dirt mound. The laughing NVA reached it first. He lifted a bamboo trapdoor and propped it open with a stick. They both crouched over, then stepped down and in. Lieutenant Campbell looked back and motioned us forward with his right hand as he silently mouthed the words “Guns up.”

  We stood to a crouch and ran forward. My gear felt clumsy. Chan’s rifle butt collided with his bandolier of magazines. We made too much noise. How could they not hear us? I dropped to my stomach beside Lieutenant Campbell to the right of the path. Chan knelt on one knee just beside me. He broke a belt of ammo from around his shoulder and linked it to the fifty-round strip belt already in the gun.

  “Okay, that’s three,” Lieutenant Campbell whispered. “Right?” Striker turned his head to answer. His big face flushed red around the huge black mole between his bushy eyebrows.

  “Yeah, I count three, Lieutenant,” he said, his eyes darting as he spoke. He turned back to the bunker with a jerk of his neck.

  Lieutenant Campbell looked back at Chan. “Swift Eagle up!”

  Chan turned and whispered the word back to Sudsy. “Swift Eagle up!”

  Sudsy turned and repeated the order. A few seconds later Swift Eagle peeked around the giant red thornbush where the path veered right. He ran forward without a sound, like a cat on soft paws. He knelt down beside the lieutenant.

  “Take your squad and flank that hootch on the left,” Lieutenant Campbell said quickly. “Tell Murphy’s squad to flank the right. Hurry. There’s at least three in the bunker. Send Corporal James’s squad up. We’ll assault the bunker in five minutes, along with the gun team. Striker will go in with us.”

  Swift Eagle didn’t say a word. He turned and ran back down the path. Ten seconds later Corporal James’s squad of six men moved up behind Chan and me. To the right and left of the hootch thin shafts of the hot noon sun broke through the overhanging canopy like a thousand brilliant golden threads. The damp jungle was drying out. The faint odor of fish broke through the musty air.

  The five-minute wait stretched into a dream about a trip home and lying on the beach in Saint Petersburg then building a tri-level tree house in Charleston. Jack’s baby. A sudden chill shook me. I wiped away the stinging drops of salt from my eyes. A drink of grape Kool-Aid, that’s what I needed. Absentmindedly I reached for my canteen.

  “Let’s leapfrog up!” Lieutenant Campbell said. I stared into his wide-open dark brown eyes. He stared at my hand as I fidgeted with the snap on my canvas canteen pouch. What am I doing? I thought. I put both hands on the gun.

  “Let’s go, Chan,” I heard myself saying. My heart started pounding.

  My feet moved forward as I crouched with the gun on my right hip. I heard Chan’s boots behind me. I jogged past Striker, who was prone and aiming at the bunker. The screeching birds stopped. I flattened out to the right side of the path just before it entered the circle of sunlight, twenty yards from the hootch. I tried to bury myself in a thick bush. I crawled under and partially through it until the barrel of the M60 protruded through. The flash suppressor touched the circle of sunlight.

  Suddenly something clammy dropped heavily around my neck. I froze. One of the NVA came out of the bunker. I could see his face, wrinkled around the eyes, not the usual kid in uniform. I aimed. Something cool touched my right ear, followed by a soft, paralyzing hiss.

  Snake! God! It slithered slowly around my shoulder until one tiny eye stared into mine. Then it stretched itself away from my face as if to get an overall view, his tongue shooting out almost rhythmically. I stopped breathing. Through the leaves of the bush a blurred image of the NVA soldier moved toward the hootch just behind the scaly, gray, flat head waving back and forth hypnotically five inches from my nose. The NVA entered the bamboo hootch. The snake began to entwine itself around my neck. Huge drops of sweat rolled from under my helmet and down my face. The snake’s eye seemed to follow the drops to my chin. Suddenly the weight of another snake fell on my back. It started squirming down my left leg to the back of my knee. It stopped. It began hissing.

  A second NVA came out of the bunker. At the same moment the snake in front of my chin followed the drops of sweat from my chin to the ground as they splashed into the beginnings of a tiny puddle. I felt my eyes darting back and forth from the slow-walking NVA soldier to the flat hissing head of the gray snake. The NVA stopped. He turned his head, slightly cocking his right ear, in search of the sound. He looked my way. Oh God! He hears the hissing, I thought. He took a step, then leaned toward me, his slanted eyes squinting to see what the hissing sounds were. I tightened my grip on the gun, slipped my finger around the trigger, and tried aiming without moving. The snake tightened its grip on my neck. The NVA unshouldered his AK47.

  “Nguyen,” a voice from the hootch called. “Nguyen!” The NVA soldier turned. He shouldered his weapon, gave one last look, and walked into the hootch. I heard movement behind me. Something pushed my leg. The weight of the snake on the back of my knee disappeared, followed by the clump of something landing in the brush to my right. Chan! Thank God! Took him long enough! The snake around my neck loosened its grip. It slithered slowly away from my face. Finally I felt the tail end drop from my neck and I breathed. A hand touched my calf.

  “You okay?” Chan whispered. I gave him a thumbs up. The rustle of men moving forward sounded too loud. Suddenly two NVA ran from the hootch firing. M16s erupted all around me. The khaki-clad North Vietnamese dove for cover behind the bunker. I opened up with a twenty-round burst. No return fire. Chan threw a grenade.

  “Frag!” he shouted. “Outgoing!” The apple-shaped grenade bounced off the bunker, landing between the hootch and the bunker. I closed my eyes. Two seconds … three. Four. Five! Dud! A dud!

  “Guns up!”

  I crawled back out of the bush, stood to a crouch, and walked forward, firing from the hip, first at the bunker, then sweeping tracers through the bamboo hootch. The hootch caught fire. Flames spread quickly. A moment later the entire hootch burned out of control. I moved into the small clearing of sunlight, running to the right until I had a straight shot into the bunker door. A muzzle flash spit from the darkness inside the bunker. I hit the ground. Chan opened up semi-automatic. I shot a long stream of tracers through the door. The flash ceased. Suddenly a ChiCom grenade flew from the bunker, landing ten feet to my right.

  “Frag! Incoming!” I screamed as I shot another twenty-round burst into the bunker. I covered my helmet with my arms and nosed my face into the damp earth. No explosion. I started firing again.

  “Cease fire!” Lieutenant Campbell shouted. A jungle breeze shifted smoke pouring from the flaming hootch into my face.

  Chan grabbed my arm. “Let’s move!”

  We stood, ran right, and flattened to the ground again. Short, stocky Corporal James ran up to the dirt bunker, being careful to stay out of the line of fire. He leaned against a wall, put his rifle between his legs, and pulled t
he pin on a grenade. He let the spoon fly, held for a count of two, stepped out, tossed the frag through the door, then jumped back. I opened fire on the bunker door to keep anyone from throwing the grenade back out. Out of the bunker the grenade flew anyway. James hit the dirt just as the frag exploded, sending shrapnel slapping through the leafy jungle.

  “James!” Lieutenant Campbell shouted. “Catch!”

  James looked up from the dirt. Lieutenant Campbell threw him another grenade. James pulled the pin, let the spoon fly, and held for another count of two. He threw the frag in. Harder this time, like an angry pitcher. He dove back against the bunker. I opened up again. Orange tracers streamed into the dark hole. An explosion shook dirt from the outside of the bunker. A cloud of smoke poured from the open door. The bamboo door fell shut as the stick holding it collapsed from the explosion. James moved forward. He cautiously lifted the bamboo hatch and started to prop it up with a stick. A ChiCom grenade flew out the open door, glancing off Corporal James’s shoulder and bouncing to eight feet in front of Chan and me. James dove back, letting the bunker door slam. We buried our faces in the dirt. I tried to crawl under my helmet with my hands and waited. Nothing.

  “James!” Lieutenant Campbell called again. “Catch!” He tossed him another grenade.

  James caught it, then dropped it. He picked it up, pulled the pin, moved back to the bamboo door, grabbed it with his left hand, let the spoon fly, counted two, lifted the door, and threw in the frag. He jumped back away from the door. An explosion rocked the bunker again. The door blew open in a cloud of smoke, then slammed shut.

  Lieutenant Campbell moved forward, with Sudsy right behind him. Sudsy reached over his shoulder and pulled the antenna higher as he ran. The squad circled the bunker. I still couldn’t see the chief’s squad or Murphy’s squad. I stood up. Chan got to his feet and quickly linked up another belt of ammo. We moved forward cautiously.

  Lieutenant Campbell looked around at the squad, then shouted, “Fire in the hole!” He pulled the pin on another frag. James lifted the hatch out and up. Lieutenant Campbell threw in the frag. James let the door fall shut as they both stepped to the side. The bunker shook from the muffled explosion. The door flew open again in a cloud of smoke, then fell shut.