Guns Up!

by Johnnie Clark

  Doc moved back toward the path. Five minutes later I heard him again. “Pssst.”

  “Over here,” I said.

  He stumbled over the same thornbush, hitting the ground harder this time. I held back a laugh. He crawled over to us.

  “You ready?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Doyle said. He struggled to his feet with Doc’s help.

  “What happened up there?” I asked.

  “A gook crawled up to the top of the hill and opened up. Killed one guy. His buddy killed the gook. Better keep your eyes open. They might be probing for an all-outer.”

  “Tell ’em down at the CP I’m down to a one-man gun team.”

  “Right,” Doc answered as he helped Doyle hobble toward the path.

  “Hey, Doyle,” I whispered. They stopped and Doyle looked over his shoulder. “Have a good trip home.”

  “I got your address, John. I’m going to be looking you up.”

  “Send me a hot sauce when you get back,” I said. “And the little fishes—you know, sardines!”

  “Semper fi, buddy.” Doyle gave me a thumbs up. I returned it. They disappeared into the darkness. I sank into the lowest, loneliest, bluest funk I’d ever been in. I’d never make it home. No one will even remember that I died over here. Doyle’s boot to me, and even he’s going home. I should be happy for him. It’s not his fault he’s lucky. That turd. He’s really a good person. That turd.

  An hour later the war went silent again. Corporal James and Striker crawled in from the darkness and spent the night. Early the next morning the whirring blades of a medevac chopper greeted the sunrise. I walked over to the path to get a better look at Doyle’s departure.

  “Look out!” The stumbling feet of men carrying something heavy accompanied the shout. I turned in time to see two Marines carrying something wrapped in a drab green poncho. The poncho ripped in half. The stiff heavy body of a dead Marine with ash-blond hair rolled straight at me. I was too shocked to move. He rolled into my shins and stopped. He felt like a bag of cement. I didn’t move. I stared down at him until the other two Marines started asking me something.

  “Hey, you got a poncho we can use? We got to hurry and get him on that chopper!”

  “Yeah, sure. Here, hold him and I’ll get it.” I ran back to the gun and got my poncho out of my pack. My hands were shaking. It made me mad. I gave the men the poncho and watched as they struggled down the steep hill with the heavy weight. I watched until the chopper was out of sight.

  “Me and Striker are sitting with you until we get some replacements.”

  I turned to see Corporal James take a spoonful of beef and rocks then spit out a potato in disgust.

  “I haven’t had a decent bite of food since Bangkok!”

  “R&R!”

  “What?” he asked with a puzzled look on his face.

  “That’s what’s wrong with me. I haven’t had an R&R yet. Do you know that I’ve been here over nine months without an R&R?”

  “I thought you and Chan went to Australia?” James turned his head and spit out another potato.

  “That’s when we got hit. Do you think Bangkok is better than Australia?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Australia has round-eyed women. I loved Bangkok, though. I bought a Corvette through the PX in Bangkok.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “It’s waiting on me right now in California. Emerald green.” James drifted off just thinking about it.

  “Clark!” I looked down the path. A black boot Marine still wearing stateside utilities and stateside boots with a glaring shine on them made his way up the path with a handful of mail.

  “Up here!” I said. He looked up. Something was odd about him. No rifle! “Hey, boot! Where’s your rifle?”

  “I left it down there,” he said indignantly, as if it were none of my business.

  “Give me the mail.”

  He handed me four letters. “No. Give it all to me. I’ll hand it out. Now, you go get your rifle, and don’t make a move without it from now on.” He looked defiant and cocky.

  “And tie those dog tags into your boot laces and blacken ’em so they don’t shine. If you get blown away the boots usually stay in one piece so you’ll get identified.” He started to say something, but I didn’t give him time. “Don’t forget your salt tabs, not even once.” I could hear Red’s words coming out of my mouth. Then I heard the chief. “And don’t put the twenty-round maximum in your magazines. It weakens the spring and it’ll jam on you and get you KIA’d.” The cocky look on the black Marine’s face melted into one of apprehension. “Now go get that rifle and keep it clean and maybe you won’t make the trip home in a plastic bag.”

  He handed me the mail, turned, and went back down the hill without saying a word. I turned to Corporal James. He smiled.

  “Feeling salty today?”

  “I don’t know. I just miss a lot of friends. I need an R&R.” I looked at the mail and found a letter for James and two for Striker. I handed them to him and went up the hill. I found the position where the ash-blond guy got killed. His buddy sat alone against a tree with one hand over his eyes and the other on his M16. I didn’t speak. A dead gook with no shirt and bullet holes scattered from his face to his navel lay spread-eagled in the weeds a few feet away. Flies by the thousands buzzed around the bloody body. I walked over to it and started to give it a shove with my boot to roll it down the hill toward the tributary.

  “What are you doing?” The young, dirty, thin-faced Marine stared at me blankly.

  “I was going to push this stiff down the hill so you wouldn’t have to smell him.”

  “No.” He spoke quickly, barely moving his lips, with no change of expression in his blank stare. “I want ’em to come after his body so I can kill some more of ’em.” His voice was a monotone, like a talking robot’s.

  I walked away, then looked back. His stare hadn’t changed, even though I wasn’t there to stare at. I handed out the remaining mail, then went back to my position and opened mine. The first one was a birthday card from Polly.

  “Hey! Today’s my birthday!” I shouted.

  “Happy birthday, Baby-san!” Corporal James surprised me with his friendliness. “How old?”

  “Nineteen!”

  “Columbus Day’s your birthday?” Striker asked without looking up from oiling his rifle.

  “Yep,” I said.

  “Nineteen! Were you seventeen when you joined the Crotch?”

  “Yeah.” A photo fell out of the birthday card.

  “Hey, she sent a picture!”

  Striker and James dropped what they were doing. A picture from home was like a quick trip back to civilization, proof that it still existed. It was a color photo of Polly at a party in her college dormitory in Missouri. “She says her girlfriends and her had a birthday party for me!” Polly stood with her arms around two girls who held a bottle of beer in each hand. They all wore mini-skirts eight inches above the knees.

  “Boy, looks like they’re having a good time!” Striker said as he hung over my right shoulder.

  “Look at that fag in the background! He’s got hair longer than the chicks,” Corporal James said angrily.

  “You know …” Striker paused to consider the rest of his statement. “When I get home”—he paused again—”I’m gonna deck the first hippie I see, just for the guys in the Nam.” I looked at Striker. He sounded like he meant it. Striker was big and strong and not particularly handsome with that big black mole between his eyes. I started to feel sorry for the first hippie he was going to meet. Then I reconsidered.

  “I like that idea. I might do that too,” I said. “If I ever get home.”

  “Six more weeks, bro.” Striker fell back with his hands behind his head. “I’m so short the gooks probably can’t see me.”

  “You ain’t as short as me, brother,” James said. “I could walk under doors!”

  “How short are you?” I asked.

  “Four weeks! November 12. I’ll be on
the freedom bird heading for my Vette.”

  “I don’t know if I even remember how to drive,” I said.

  “Are you Corporal James?” a hesitant high-pitched voice asked from behind us. We all turned back to the path. Four boot Marines stood together. They all had stateside utilities on and stateside boots. They were clean-shaven and healthy-faced, with white-sidewall haircuts.

  “Yeah, I’m James,” he said gruffly.

  “Lieutenant says we’re in your squad for now.” The high-pitched voice came from a boot with snow-white skin.

  “Man,” Striker said. “The sun is sure going to tear him up!”

  Corporal James led the boots up the hill to position them. The rest of the day passed noisily by. We didn’t move. We just watched as Phantoms and Cobras and Huey gunships strafed and bombed and bombed and strafed all around us. The lush green jungle on the other side of the river geysered up wildly until it was marred with ugly brown patches. The green hills on our side of the wide Vu Gia River became potted and cratered like a picture of the moon. Then came the napalm and fiery death. The night brought Puff the Magic Dragon and the massive roar of its quavering mini-guns. Sporadic green single tracers spit into the dark sky in defiance of the enormous wavering golden rod.

  “The boots are getting their money’s worth tonight,” Striker mumbled.

  “It’s kind of nice having that FO with us,” James mused.

  “Is that who’s calling in all the stuff?” Striker asked.

  “His name’s Elbon,” I said. “Do you know that crazy guy’s got a little tiny dog with him.”

  “You’re kidding?” James said.

  “No. He really does.”

  “Does Lieutenant Lampe know that?” James asked.

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

  “He will tomorrow!” James threatened. All at once I got this aggravating urge to hit James in the mouth. The Marine Corps wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for punk corporals. I was spared a court martial by a sudden burst of M16 fire at the bottom of the hill. A scary silence followed.

  Twenty minutes later a voice came from the dark path behind us. “Comin’ in!” A moment later the half-moon broke through a cloud long enough to light up Mike Flanagan’s freckled Irish face. I had begun to feel that all my friends were gone. It filled me with joy to see good ol’ Mike.

  “Mike?”

  “Johnnie?” he asked, straining to see me in the darkness.

  “What in the world are you doing here? Daggone it’s good to see you!” I said.

  “I think they’re trying to make me a grunt.” He moved in closer beside me and handed me an M16. “Here’s a bandolier.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Lieutenant Lampe wants me to take the gun out on an ambush.”

  “My gun?”

  “Just for tonight.”

  “Got an A-gunner?”

  “Allen,” he said.

  “The professor?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well …” I hesitated. I didn’t like parting with the gun. “Take care of her now.” I gave the gun a friendly pat. “And, Mike, no more than twenty-round bursts, man. It makes a good target.”

  “I’ll treat her like a baby,” Mike said. He picked up the gun and four hundred rounds of ammo and headed back to the path. Then he stopped and turned back. “Did you hear that shooting?”

  “What was it?” Striker asked.

  “Some boot panicked, heard a noise in the bushes near him and opened up. They killed that FO that came out with us.”

  “Oh no! Joe?” I asked. I felt as though the wind had been kicked out of me.

  “Did you know him?” Mike asked in a slow whisper.

  Visions of Joe and his brother Harpo and the little dog forced me close to tears. I felt tired, sick, and angry. “Who shot him?” I blurted angrily and louder than I meant to.

  “Keep it down!” James whispered quickly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think they were sure yet. I’m sorry, John. I’ll let you know what I can find out.”

  “How ’bout his little dog?” I asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything about a dog. I’ll let you know tomorrow.” Mike disappeared into the darkness.

  “Shake it off, John.”

  James’s voice broke me out of a numb, prolonged stare toward the dark path. I turned around. James and Striker were both sitting up and looking at another arc-light raid of 1,000-pound bombs crashing into the mountains of Thuong Duc. Darting spurts of abrupt orange spread through the mountains, then reached into the sky, turning it crimson. It looked like the end of the world. A small pop followed by a bright light lifted my eyes up. Puff was dropping flares. The hills around us lit up from the reddish glare of twenty tiny suns swinging down under their midget parachutes. Now it was bright, as if daylight had shocked away the night. I looked down at my M16. Something hit the ground beside Striker. I ducked, covering my head. A violent explosion rolled me toward the path. Striker screamed piteously. I looked up. Ten meters ahead and slightly above on the slope of the hill an NVA sprang out of the bush firing full automatic from the hip. Corporal James screeched and fell backward on my right. I raised to my knees and fired full automatic. Suddenly I was lying on my face. My mouth was full of dirt. My thigh burned like no burn I’d ever felt. It ached like someone had knocked it off with a sledgehammer in one mighty blow. I raised my eyes with my chin still in the dirt and stared straight into the wide-open, dead black pupils of an Oriental lying stomach down ten inches away. Blood gushed from two small round holes in his forehead, one above each eye. Five or six straight black hairs stuck out from his upper lip in what looked like a futile attempt at a mustache. I could hear Striker screaming. Everything went gray, then black.

  “Snap out of it!” Sam’s pitted face was in front of me. “Don’t go into shock, you moron!” He slapped me hard across the face. It stung. I felt anger and started to swing, but someone held my arm. “Are you ready? I’m taking you off the hill! You’re all right! Don’t panic!” he shouted into my face. His breath smelled like week-old cat food.

  “My leg!” I heard myself shouting. “Is it on?”

  “It’s there! It’s there! How many times do I have to tell you!”

  Sam picked me up with a fireman’s carry over one shoulder and around his neck. The path was steep and treacherous. My leg ached and burned. I wondered if I was crippled.

  “James and Striker!” I shouted as we reached the bottom.

  “James is shot in the calf!” Sam gasped for air before finishing. “Striker looks bad.” He gasped again. “But he’s alive.”

  “How is he?” Doc yelled. “Bring him over here!” Sam carried me over to the Doc and Lieutenant Lampe. He laid me down gently onto my back.

  “Here’s a souvenir for ya.” Sam laid an AK banana clip magazine on my chest. “Weak spring. It jammed. He put in too many rounds. That’s why you’re alive. Tell your kids.” He turned and ran back toward the path. Puff hummed overhead. Another batch of flares popped open, renewing the dissipating light.

  “Thanks, Sam!” I yelled too late for him to hear. The pain in my thigh felt worse. Doc tore the top off a small plastic container. He pulled out a tiny needle and stabbed it into my throbbing thigh.

  “Morphine,” Doc said. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”

  “What’s it look like, Doc?” Lieutenant Lampe asked. He held a field phone in his hand. I’d never seen him look so confused. His eyes darted up the hill, back to me, then back up the hill.

  Doc cut my pants leg away with his K-bar and looked close at the inside of my thigh. “Can you roll over?” I rolled. “Went clean through. Made a big hole, Lieutenant. He’s lost a lot of blood. We got to get him to Da Nang.”

  “Can it wait till morning?”

  “No way!”

  Memories of Jack Ellenwood crept through the pain. I lifted my head to look at my leg. A flickering flare cast a pulsating light into the gaping hole on the inside of my
thigh. Dark red blood shot out of the hole between two pieces of torn muscle in steady spurts. I felt faint. I lay back down. Doc began wrapping the leg tightly. An M60 opened up somewhere. I closed my eyes. The war went silent.

  “You got him?” a voice shouted. I tried to open my eyes. The steady cracking of AK fire resounded from every direction. A hard wind hit me in the face. A chopper! “Give ’em cover! Get out of here, quick!” Someone dragged me along a metal floor. I could hear the engine get louder. We were airborne. A bullet smacked through the thin walls of the chopper just above my head. Then another. The old helicopter shuddered and dropped. I felt my life ending. Just as suddenly as the drop, we pulled up. The door gunner blazed at flashes in the blackness below. I prayed. The door gunner stopped firing.

  “Did they make it?” the door gunner shouted at the pilot.

  “They went down!”

  “Who?” I asked, but my voice trailed off. A stuffy, overpowering drowsiness grayed-out my mind. The choppy engine faded. I wondered if I was dying. Jesus save me … Jesus save me … Jesus … Black silence.

  I felt cool. I moved my head. Soft? There was something soft under me. My leg ached all the way into my stomach. I groaned. My eyes felt heavy, almost sealed shut with old tears and dirt. “Guns up! Guns up!” I forced my eyes open. A bright white glow stung them shut again. I jerked my head to the side. Someone was laughing. A deep hearty laugh that made me wish I could laugh with him. Now I could hear others laughing. Their laughter echoed. I’m in a building, I thought. Pillow! I opened my eyes again. The room was white. Too white. “Guns up! Guns up!” a familiar voice called again. I lifted my head and felt for the gun like a blind man. My blurry vision began to clear. It was a small, round-looking ceiling. A Quonset hut. I grew up in a West Virginia Quonset hut, and I know a Quonset hut when I see one, I thought. Men were laughing. “I knew that would get your butt up!” the familiar voice shouted from my left. I raised onto my left elbow and looked down a row of metal hospital beds. Men in blue pajamas filled each bed. They all laughed. I tried to focus in on the nearest one. Then I saw him.

  “Chief!”

  The room erupted into laughter. Now all the faces were clear. Staff Sergeant Morey lay in the bed next to him. In the bed after that was a Marine who looked familiar, but no one I knew well. He was laughing too. In the bed next to him was Corporal James, and next to him, at the end of the row, was Striker. I looked to my right to see more beds and blue pajamas but no familiar faces. Then one of the men on my right shouted, as if admitting the obvious, “Yeah, we’re Fifth Marines too!” Everyone started laughing.