A few shots later I was wheeled back to bed.
“I reconned the area in a wheelchair I confiscated,” Chan said as the two medics lifted me into bed. “You won’t believe who is occupying a bed in the ward at the end of the hall!”
“Who?”
“Staff Sergeant R. C. Jones!”
“Senior Drill Instructor R. C. Jones? I don’t believe it.”
“Hello, men.” I knew that baritone voice. That voice had given me nightmares. It was true. There he stood, big as life, hanging on to crutches for balance.
“Sergeant Jones? What are you doing here?” I hesitated ending the question without a “sir.” There was a time when I swore I’d nail this sucker if I ever met him off Parris Island.
“They can only refuse a transfer so many times. I had to get into this war. Been with the Ninth for about three months now. My gunner got killed and I had to jump on the M60. Got about fifty rounds off, and next thing I knew I was on a medevac. Thank God I made it over here before the mother was over!”
I knew he really meant what he was saying.
“If we don’t try winning, it may never be over,” Chan put in.
“That’s the bloody truth,” Jones replied. “Chan told me you two were put up for the Silver Star. That’s bleedin’ wonderful! You came out of PI Marines. Do you remember that fat-body that got the hernia in the squad bay?” His eyes got angry.
Chan and I exchanged glances. We remembered all too well chunky Private Peoples. Our three DIs made him do sit-ups, push-ups, and leg lifts in front of the platoon until he ruptured himself. Then they cursed him all the way to the ambulance, promising to drive his fat body out of the Marine Corps.
“Yeah, I remember him,” I said.
Jones let loose a chorus of curses before telling us why the uproar. “The little girl wrote his congressman and started another investigation.”
“Is that right?” Chan said, trying to act surprised.
“Do you remember that pantywaist that climbed up the water tower and threatened to jump? Maybe that wasn’t your platoon.”
“No, it was ours,” I said.
I remembered it like it was yesterday. One more character who should never have joined the Corps. He panicked when he climbed the tower. All the DIs in the battalion marched their platoons to the tower and made them stand in formation around it. Then each DI threatened him with various tortures if he didn’t jump. It was only about fifty feet, and he probably would have lived. He finally came down.
“That twerp got himself killed his third day in country, up at the rock pile. I tried to drum him out but he made it.” Sergeant Jones’s voice trailed off. In spite of his harsh language, he couldn’t hide his obvious regret over the boy’s death.
Before we ended our reunion I hit the sergeant up for a small loan. When he heard the reason, he acted happy to give it to me.
With loan in hand, nothing stood between me and the Red Cross girl. Chan confiscated another wheelchair, and I wheeled it to the head for a quick cleaning before the big date. Thirty minutes later Chan came after me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“How long has it been since you flushed a commode?”
“You mean you’ve been in here flushing that commode?”
“Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that apparatus.”
Chan started laughing. Then he laughed harder. He leaned back, clapping his hands and losing temporary control of his chair. It rolled right, banging Chan’s newly stitched leg into a hard porcelain sink. Dark red blood soaked through his blue pajamas.
Ten stitches and thirty minutes later Chan was back in bed beside me and groaning to the tune of taps vibrating through the hospital over a tinny-sounding intercom.
I requisitioned a pair of crutches from a patient who was not aware of his generosity. I was ready. Chan was asleep before taps finished. My palms started sweating like they did before hitting a hot LZ. I knew she wouldn’t show up; it was too good, too much to hope for.
The fluorescent lights weren’t even cool when she appeared in the doorway at the end of our row of beds. When she sauntered toward me, carefully placing one foot precisely in front of the other to give her hips a smooth, sensual sway, the sweat left my palms and went to my forehead. She still wore her short gray Red Cross dress and carried something under one arm.
I grabbed my crutches and slid out of bed as quietly as a cripple can. I started to giggle but managed to swallow it. She led me out of the one-story ward with no difficulty and across a small asphalt parking lot where I felt sure everyone in Cam Rahn Bay could hear me plodding across the asphalt. She guided me to a row of trucks with big red crosses on the hoods. We made our way to one that was conveniently open and unoccupied. Once inside the back of the truck, she lit a small candle and produced a six-pack of American beer from the brown paper bag she had tucked under her arm.
The night looked to be proceeding along quite nicely. The war was an old dream. Her name was Linda. She came from Dallas, was twenty-two years old, unmarried, and physically luscious. Her ambition centered around making enough money to buy a house.
“I only need about twenty-five more guys,” she said with a bright, perky smile that came closer to a cheerleader’s than a harlot’s.
“A house! Can you make that much?” I asked naively.
“Oh sure,” she said matter-of-factly, her sky-blue eyes springing open wide with information. “The girl I replaced made forty thousand bucks in eleven months.”
I stupidly tried to divide fifty into forty thousand on ten fingers. Not enough fingers. I felt a bit upset, realizing she hadn’t been swept away by my charm, or at least my good looks.
She stood to remove her gray Red Cross dress, stooping slightly to avoid bumping her head. I felt myself melting faster than the candle. Her dress fell lazily to the floor of the ambulance.
The flickering candle gave off just enough light to drive me crazy, revealing a tight, muscular body. Her beautiful shoulder-length red hair waved naturally around a face that could have been doing soap commercials. She had the complexion of one of those people who probably couldn’t even spell the word “pimple.” She pushed a long red twirl of hair away from her slightly upturned nose and smiled enticingly. I fell immediately in love—or in lust. Definitely in something. I tried unbuttoning my shirt, but I couldn’t get my eyes off her long enough to find the buttons. For no sane reason the thought that this might be the last beautiful girl I’d ever see drifted into my mind.
The clang of an emergency bell erased my trip down paranoia lane, replacing it with a brand-new fear, the fear of getting caught. Heavy boots hustled across the asphalt, getting louder and closer. Someone opened the cab door of our truck. The truck rocked with the weight of a large man jumping into the driver’s seat. I froze.
“Maybe he won’t open up the back,” I whispered.
The starter whined. The driver stomped the gas pedal and cursed.
My lovely and naked accomplice was perfectly calm. I was ready to panic. She leaned back comfortably, observing me the way a psychiatrist might study a patient.
The engine whined again. How could she be so cool? I thought, rather angry at the idea.
Voices outside the truck made me hold my breath. The engine whined again. I didn’t think the candle could be seen from outside, but out of nervousness I started to blow it out anyway.
“No,” she whispered with her hand covering the candle. “Just relax.” I didn’t. The engine whined once more. The driver cursed. She put her finger up to her thick red lips, reached into the bag that had held the beer, and pulled out a round black object.
In the flickering light the object didn’t look familiar. The engine whined. The driver cursed again. The truck rocked, then the door of the cab slammed shut. Boots stomped toward another truck. A door opened and closed. An engine started on the first try. I squinted to see the black object more clearly.
“Oh no!” I said. “It isn’t!” I said c
overing my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
“Yes, it is,” she said. “A slightly used U.S. Army distributor cap.” I tried to smother the noise, but it was no use. I laughed until I cried. “You’re a real redhead. I mean, everything matches. I mean I haven’t been with a girl in a long time. In the jungle, the war, ya know …”
“We’ll take care of that.…”
“Besides jungle rot, various worms, and what may be a touch of malaria, PFC”—the stern-faced doctor looked down at his chart with a slight hint of disgust—”you now also have gonorrhea.” I slumped against my pillow. I looked at Chan. His bed was cranked to a sitting position. He pretended to be reading a magazine, with his Snoopy grin plastered across his contented face. He said nothing.
Every morning during every humiliating, painful penicillin shot, he grinned and said nothing. Oh, one day he hummed and said nothing.
We spent over a month in the hospital. For over a month Chan held his tongue in check, not once succumbing to the temptation of “I told you so.” He drove me crazy.
SOMETHING IS SMOKING AT FIRE BASE ALPHA
Chan healed up first and was sent back to the bush. A week later the ax of health fell on me. The flight back to Da Nang gave me too much time to think. By the time we landed, my dread of going back to the bush was close to plain old fear. A few minutes after landing, a beer-bellied sergeant with a deep Southern accent pointed me toward a row of six big deuce-and-a-halfs with the engines already rumbling.
“That’s a convoy of Seventh Marines.” He clenched the remains of what looked like a week-old cigar between his teeth. “They’re goin’ to An Hoa. Tell ’em you’re hitchin’ a ride.”
“What about a weapon? I don’t have a weapon.” Two Phantom fighters roared down the airstrip and shot into the sky.
“What?” he shouted.
“I don’t have a weapon!” I shouted back.
“Pick one up at An Hoa.” He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s only twenty-five miles.”
“I know how far it is. There’s a war going on out there, Sergeant.”
“You got a whole company in those trucks. I’m sure they’ll take real good care of you.”
For the smallest part of a moment I tried to assess my chances of not going to the brig if I decked this fat jerk. No chance. The trucks honked their horns, then began moving. I gave up trying to reason with the idiot and ran for the trucks. As the first two started picking up speed, clouds of dust and dirt rolled from under the big wheels. By the time I reached the tailgate of the third truck in line, I was no longer hospital clean. Two Marines held out the butt of their M16s. I grabbed hold and put a right boot on the edge of the tailgate. They hoisted me in. I spit out a mouthful of dirt. “Thanks.”
“Are you a boot?” a voice asked. I turned and saw a big black Marine with corporal stripes drawn on the front of his camouflaged helmet cover. A toothpick hung out of one side of his mouth, and a scrungy-looking beard covered his face. For an instant I felt insulted. Then I realized I had on new boots and new utilities.
“Where did you get that NVA pack?” he asked.
“I’m not a boot. I’m just coming back from Cam Rahn Bay.”
“You get hit?”
“Yeah.”
“Scoot over and give the man a seat.” He nudged the man beside him. His voice sounded friendlier.
I fell forward as the truck hit a small canyon in the road, landing where I was supposed to sit. A whiff of body odor from the men around me nearly brought tears to my eyes. These guys were grunts all right. I had never noticed how bad we smelled. Funny how bad odors don’t affect you when you’re part of the problem.
“Where’s your weapon?” the corporal asked.
“They didn’t issue me one. They told me to wait till I get to An Hoa.”
“Boy, you’re somebody’s fool!” he said, then laughed.
“Are we going through Dogpatch?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
The already insufferable odor was getting worse. I stood up to get a look at Dogpatch. Actually I just wanted some fresh dusty air. Dogpatch was a group of plywood shacks and bamboo hootches along the side of the potted dirt road between Da Nang and Hill 327. There was nothing special about it except the name. It made a good reference point, since most Marines had been through it at one time or another.
Tall bamboo fence poles with three strands of rusty wire lined both sides of the road most of the way to keep the water buffalo away. Strangely enough, all the people were missing. Normally the kids would be shouting for handouts as we drove by. We rumbled by a shack on the left with a tin roof and sun-faded red cloth hanging where a door should have been. Between the house and the dusty road stood a piece of sturdy American chain-link fence stretched between two solid cement poles. A boyish face peeked from behind the red cloth. Fears of an ambush flashed through my mind. I looked ahead to the lead truck, instinctively feeling for my weapon, then fighting off a surge of panic.
Suddenly the cab of the lead truck lifted into the air, bringing the truck onto its back wheels like a horse rearing for a fight. One Marine flew from the truck and landed on the road. Two more fell over the tailgate and into the road and were almost run over by the second truck in the convoy. A deadening explosion followed. The convoy stopped. An orange and red ball of fire shot past the cab of the wounded truck and billowed into the blue air, then quickly evaporated into dark black clouds. The cab of the wounded truck crashed back to earth with a flat thud. Men scrambled out of the idling trucks. Everyone was shouting and pointing and running for the edge of the road to look for cover. I found mine beside the black corporal and regretted not punching the fat sergeant.
The corporal looked at me and laughed. “Somebody’s fool.”
The ambush never came. It was just a land mine. Every morning sweepers cleared the road of mines and every night the VC laid more. This one had been laid after the sweep, and the villagers in Dogpatch knew about it. Twenty minutes later a bulldozer from Da Nang pushed the smoking truck off the road and we started for An Hoa again. The only casualty was the driver. He had lost both legs. I couldn’t help wanting to do things the Korean way. If they got ambushed or caught sniper rounds from a village in Vietnam, they leveled the village. But then, they were fighting a war, and we were fighting a police action.
The rest of the trip went by uneventfully. In forty minutes we reached An Hoa. I bid farewell to the Seventh Marines and started walking toward the Fifth Marines HQ. Nothing had changed. It was hot, and artillery kept it noisy. A layer of dust an inch thick covered everything, and it smelled like the inside of the New York sewer system. The tubes were the worst offender. They were open urinals, and at 115 degrees, they were always upwind. But compared to the bush, An Hoa was still a slice of heaven. For a minute or two I debated the pros and cons of reporting in, but I was too cowardly to go AWOL, so I finally forced myself into the Fifth Marines headquarters, a big dusty tent surrounded by sandbags.
I pulled open a screen flap and peeked in. A regimental clerk pounded away on a big IBM typewriter.
“Excuse me, Corporal.”
He stopped typing and looked at me like I was bothering him. “What do you want?” he barked.
I don’t like this guy, I thought. What is this pogue doing sitting here camouflaged from head to foot behind a typewriter? “Real cute camouflage, Corporal. Know where a grunt might find some?”
“You better have a reason for being here, PFC.”
I stepped up and inside the tent. It had a wood floor that was raised a foot off the ground. Half of the tent looked like the colonel’s sleeping quarters, separated by a camouflaged screen. To the right of the typewriter was a long table covered with maps. A large posterboard that looked like a graph hung on the wall behind the table. On top of the graph in large red letters someone had neatly printed SCOREBOARD. I handed the corporal my release from the hospital and orders to return to duty.
“Alpha Company, First Battalion, Fifth Marines,” I s
aid.
“You picked a bad time to come back, wise guy,” he snickered. For an instant I thought about punching him. Then I remembered Tijuana and the brig. I decided to be forgiving.
“It’s always bad out there, Corporal. What’s up?”
“We just sent out three gunships for the Second Platoon. They hit something big over in the Arizona Territory.”
“Any medevacs?”
“Not yet.” He dragged the words out as though he were bored. “We got resupplies going out in a couple of minutes.” He stood up from the typewriter and walked to the other side of the tent. He sat down in front of a large radio and called the airstrip. “Charlie-Tango this is Fi-yiv-Romeo H.Q.… Over.… Hold Chop-Wun for Alpha Two. We got a rider.… Over.”
While he talked to the airstrip I couldn’t resist the pull of an unfinished letter beside his typewriter. It practically reached up and begged me to read it, so I did.
Dearest Susan,
Each day and night the war takes its toll upon me. I’ve lain in this muddy trench for two days now, waiting for the enemy to attack…
“Get away from that typewriter!” the corporal shouted from his radio. His face was as red as a sunburned drunk. I started laughing at his face as much as at the letter.
“I bet this is why you pogues need the camouflage.”
“You better watch your mouth, PFC. Your next meal might be in the brig. Your chopper is waiting. Dispersing is next door. Tell them I said to issue you a weapon, and beat feet over to the chopper pad. And for your information, I’m writing a book about the war!” He looked nervous. He turned back to his radio and picked up a pen. He started to write with the wrong end.
“Be careful, Corporal. You’ll get ink on your camouflage.” I walked out of the tent utterly pleased with my last comment and unable to restrain my laughter.
I picked up an M16 at dispersing and headed for the airstrip. The smile didn’t leave my face until the chopper left the ground. Five minutes later the safety of An Hoa was a brown dot on a green horizon. The sun was starting to drop. I could see the pilot and copilot leaning toward each other, shouting back and forth over the noise of the engine, then looking back at me. The copilot unbuckled himself from his cockpit seat and came my way. He bent down on one knee in front of me, removed his dark sunglasses, and shouted, “Your unit is under fire! We’ve been called off! We’re dropping you off at Fire Base Alpha!”
Guns Up! Page 22
