by Jan Miller
******
The Army had gone to war in Vietnam with what it thought was a good, solid rifle the M14; a hybrid based on the venerable WWII Garand rifle. But the heat of the jungle exposed a glaring flaw in the M14; it weighed too damn much and so did its 30.06 ammunition. (BB Boy could attest to that weight, having toted the fifteen and a half pound beast throughout basic training). Yet with that bulk, the M14 was not heavy enough to control the power ammunition it spewed when set to "full automatic", causing the weapon to rise up and away from its target.
What the M14 did have in its favor was its rugged construction and consistent reliability which endeared it to the soldiers who were hearty enough to put up with its weight. Even so, the U.S. military establishment had been thoroughly wined and dined into deciding that the recently field tested M16 was the answer to the troops' prayers. Weighing just over eight pounds and touting new ammunition so much lighter than the 30.06 bullets, the M16 could handle a magazine of twenty rounds and still fire accurately on full automatic setting. But it was one other special feature that cinched the deal for Colt Arms and the military… Colt Arms claimed the gun was so modern that it rarely needed cleaning.
With that sales job, in 1966 the Army wrote a check to Colt Arms for nearly ninety-two million dollars, and the newly purchased 840,000 M16s were rushed to the field…without cleaning kits (who needs a cleaning kit in the jungle for a weapon the rarely needs cleaning.). Soldiers in the fields of Viet Nam handed over their trust-worthy M14's for the new "Black Guns". The soldiers were taught how to use Black Guns, but not how to field-strip and clean them. After all, the Black Guns didn't need cleaning, so there was no reason to waste time teaching them.
By 1967, there was a rumble in the jungle. Some blamed the new ammunition; some blamed the lack of cleaning kits, while others blamed Colt Arms for not lining the gun barrels with chrome per the specifications. The fact had been established: the M16 jammed often and was downright unreliable. American soldiers were dying because of it and that made the weapon untrustworthy.
News reporters and parents of dead soldiers hounded Congressmen. Congressmen hounded generals. Generals hounded Colt Arms, which in the face of hearings and lawsuits rushed thousands of M16 cleaning kits to the soldiers in the field. The generals hounded their subordinates to develop and institute training programs and pamphlets on how to clean the M16. But the soldiers in the field just wouldn't buy into the program. They simply didn't trust the "Black Gun".
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"So the Army needs someone these kids know…someone they grew up with…to convince them that the M16 is a winner and its bad days are behind it" the major concluded. "And BB Boy, that someone is you!" With that, the TV types took over explaining their vision of an "updated BB Boy", with glitz and go-go girls, touring the country side of Viet Nam. There would be live shows featuring BB Boy's most memorable trick shots using his commemorative BB gun, but then he'd swing into the future performing with the newly improved M16 A1 rifle. BB Boy and his girls would demonstrate how easy it was to clean the gun. BB Boy would give a testimonial to the Black Gun's dependability."
Quietly, in a subdued voice, BB Boy answered "Ok".
******
The first show at the enormous U.S. base Da Nang went off without a hitch. Yes, there were a few shouts of "Bullshit" and "Fake", but BB Boy performed like the old pro he was. Sure there were hot looking dancers, a cooking rock band, and a concert light show behind him, but when BB Boy concluded with the old theme song, hundreds of GI's stood arm around one another singing along.
"…Cold blue steel in his hands,
He's the champion of the land,
It's a rifle-not a toy,
He's our hero, BB Boy"
The next show scheduled a few days later to take place just outside of Saigon was expected to draw even bigger attendance numbers. It was slated to occur on the Vietnamese New Year being called "Tet". With a truce called for the New Year holiday, Republic of Viet Nam soldiers would be attending the show along with American soldiers and civilian employees.
The ensemble was stuffed into Army helicopters and flown south towards the capital city. Most rode in the massive "Jolly Green" twin motor choppers but BB Boy and his ever present new side kick, the Major, brought up the rear in a smaller Huey chopper. Twenty minutes into the flight, a rocket propelled grenade emerged from the jungle bellow, striking the Huey in its tail rotor and causing it to spin wildly. The Major shrieked orders into his headset mic for the Jolly Greens to climb to a safer altitude, all the while the Huey spun like a maple seed towards the base of a hill.
******
The crash came suddenly…violently…rolling the Huey sideways towards the hill as rotors and cargo flew through the air. There was stillness for a moment, soon pierced by moans and cries of pain. The pilot was severely injured; no doubt his spine was shattered. The co-pilot was dead, as seemed to be the case of the door gunner/flight engineer who had been thrown from the wreckage. His limp body wrapped around a tree in the distance. The Major had a broken leg…probably internal injuries to boot. BB Boy sat on the floor of the mangled Huey, dazed and looking around, questioning his own survival in the midst of such destruction.
The Major called over to him "BB, you okay kid?" BB Boy replied in an uncertain tone of one in shock: "Well… it appears to be…oops!" When he tried to scoot over to the Major, he heard a gurgling sound coming for inside of his Army jump suit the Huey crew had provided him. Unzipping it, he saw a mass of his own insides exposed. Instantly, he zipped it back up. "I guess not, sir" he mumbled to the Major who saw the look in BB's eyes and quickly surmised the rest.
"Son, they'll be coming for us soon…ours and theirs. Your new gun is on board. Can you reach it?" BB Boy saw the special black rifle case with "BB BOY" stencilled on the side of it. It had been securely tied to the side of the cargo well and had survived the crash. "Yeah, I got it" BB Boy groaned as he reached over and released its tie-down straps. "Son, inside that case you're going to find a phosphorus grenade. I put it there …just in case this sort of thing happened." BB Boy felt the grenade inside a small compartment within the case. "Found it too, sir" he replied. The Major's voice grew softer…sadder…as he added "Now son, that M16 of yours has the new Starlight vision scope attachment in the case. Neither the gun nor the scope can be taken by the enemy. Do you understand what that means?" BB Boy felt a nausea sensation stronger than he had ever known. Leaning out the window beside him, he vomited. It was mostly blood. Wiping the mess from his lips, he replied "I understand sir...totally".
There was a crackle in the Major's headset. Then a voice called "King 151…King 151. Do you read me?" Above there was the faint sound of an aircraft engine…a propeller engine. The voice continued "This is Sandman 79. What is your status?" The Major relayed the situation to the pilot of a "Sandy", a propeller driven A-1 Skyraider attack plane. The A-1 was not glamorous compared to its jet counterparts flown by the Air Force, but it was a most reassuring sight to downed American pilots. Sandy's flew escort missions for rescue helicopters and were renowned for taking as much punishment as they dealt out.
The Major was both encouraged and disturbed by Sandman 79's arrival. "Charlie" also knew about the A-1's duty, and the Major knew that the enemy would be drawn to the wreckage site by Sandman 79's presence in the area. With the sun setting, the Major also knew it was "Charlie Time"…the darkness in which American planes were blind.
"Tow truck is on it's way…ten outbound, forty-five in" Sandman 79 advised, meaning that the rescue chopper had departed ten minutes ago and would arrive in forty five minutes. "Sit tight and I won't let the bed bugs bite" Sandman 79 laughed as he continued circling high above.
Then they bit. It sounded like hail hitting a tin roof as the Viet Cong riddled the wrecked Huey with Ak-47 fire. "Sir, I hope you realize that I've never shot a man. Hell, I've never even shot at one. I didn't even hunt as a kid…just targets…always targets." There was no reply. The Major was dead…struck by a bul
let that had pierced the hull of the wreckage separating him from the Viet Cong outside. "Captain? Captain? Are you still with us?" The pilot had either succumbed to his injuries or he too had been shot.
Sick beyond pain's threshold, terror now shot down his spine making his legs tremble. Sliding closer to the Major's limp body, BB Boy slid the headset off the lifeless head. "Sandman, this is The Package. I repeat…this is The Package. Major signed off for good". There was a pause, then a sympathetic "Understood, Package," A moment of silence passed, then the headset crackled again with a chuckle and "Package, you say? Is this the one and only BB Boy?" BB sighed, smiled and replied "That's affirmative, Sandman. In the flesh…what's left of it. Just me and the Indians".
The sound of the A-1 suddenly grew louder as it dove down to the tree top level, scaring the hell out of the Viet Cong and BB as well. "Well, now we get to answer the great mystery, BB. Is that stuff you do with the gun all fake or can you really shoot? Now might be a good time to find out…seeing that you have company coming." BB Boy pulled the M16 from its case and stuffed the phosphorus grenade into his overall pocket. He inserted a clip, and with his right hand thumb, flicked the mode selector to "burst". Sliding back over to the window, he eased the barrel of the M16 out the window and squeezed off a three second fusillade towards the trees and bushes. Immediately there was a response from enemy guns firing towards the window from where the mussel flash had appeared. The scene replayed two more times, then they withdrew to the tree line…to wait…for the imminent darkness to obscure them.
The grass was dripping with dew, and steam slowly wafted upwards from every leaf, branch, and petal creating a waist high cloud layer of fog. The late night tropical dampness soaked through every article of clothing where it blended with his sweat. His limbs ached as the adrenaline began to give way to the exhaustion, muscle cramps tugged at his legs from kneeling so long in such a constricted space.
The chatter---those damned monkey-like voices--their voices --continually filled the dark thick air, blended with the noise of the distant artillery to make dull, white noise that surrounded us in a tiny bubble of silence. He gasped for air, flexed his knees for circulation, shook off the cold dew, and waited for them.
"Forty-five minutes, my ass…Sandman. Where's that tow truck?" BB Boy's speech was now slurred between pain, delirium, and lack of water. The voice returned in his headset "Well you may not believe it, TV star…but it appears that Charlie isn't throwing this shin-dig just for you. VC's raising hell all over the place. Saigon, Da Nang, Hue and some shit hole called "Khe Sahn". It's just you and me, tonight BB. Is this the smallest audience you played?"
BB moaned, grimaced, and then laughed "My hamster…I used to practice my routine in front of my hamster, Hercules. He never complained." Laughter rang out from the headset. BB felt a twinge and then a tugging sensation. Glancing down, he could see that the overalls were now drenched in his blood. His guts were sticking to the gooey material.
He gathered himself, then solemnly added "Sandman, I'm afraid the show's closing down in a few minutes. I've got just a couple of tricks left in me…then I'd appreciate a big finale. Really light it up for me…okay?" Again there was a pause on the radio, and a subdued Sandman replied "Understood. You call it, BB."
Attaching the low light Twilight scope, BB began picking off the VC as they slithered towards the wreckage in the darkness. Each one cried out in surprise…amazed that they had been seen in the fog shrouded blackness of the jungle night. BB felt neither joy nor remorse as he shot one after another. He thought for a moment that he was back in his basement shooting gallery with Hercules looking on from his cage.
The sound of a vehicle braking squealed beyond the tree line. With a last ounce of hope left in him, BB clicked the headset and muttered "Sandman, you expecting company?" A quick reply shot into the headset "Not friendly, BB. You're in a bad spot". The tree line seemed to quiver as a dozen VC emerged from it in the darkness. They moved towards the wreckage like shadows…silently gliding through the mist.
"Oh, you think so?" BB mused. "The crew only gave me one clip. It's empty"
Then BB added: "So Sandman, do you know the words?"
Sandman asked "What words?"
BB chuckled "Oh bullshit, you know what words!"
"You start it" Sandman urged gently. BB sang the verse alone, then Sandman joined in on the chorus…the only part he ever knew:
"…Cold blue steel in his hands,
He's the champion of the land,
It's a rifle-not a toy,
He's our hero, BB Boy"
The pin from the phosphorus grenade dropped to the metal floor of the Huey. Sandman saw the flash, readied his bomb release, and flipped the switch. The jungle seemed to erupt in a river of fire that engulfed the chopper and streamed into the tree line where it swallowed the VC truck and all around it.
Turning for his home base, Sandman made one more pass, dipped his wing, and sang it one more time.
"Mirror, Mirror"
"Thirty years past your prime" he remarked to the mirror. "Now just what are we going to do with you…huh?" Even though the task at hand was to take down the time-worn, massive bathroom mirror; he, like everyone paused occasionally to check his hair: not just the "good hair" on top of his head that seemed to be holding its own against the ravages of time, but also the "bad hair" that sprouted from the perimeter of his ears, his nose, and eyebrows.
He was a young man of thirty-two when he first beheld his image in that mirror. His home was brand new then, and he was at the top of his game in his career. His very successes that previous year had given him the down payment for this, his first house. With his young wife and two small children, they planted the grass, landscaped the yard, and finished the basement into a family room. It didn't seem so long ago, but indeed thirty years had gone by.
So many jobs at so many companies had gone away too for him as well. At each job, he had worked hard and studied his trade. But between poor management decisions, bad economic times, and sometimes his own temper; he had moved from company to company never staying long enough to build a retirement for himself. What little he was able to save was spent on surviving the times in between jobs. Life seemed to be a never ending cycle of one step forward--two steps back for him.
Such it was that on that particular day, he was again unemployed. In between searching the various job search websites and going to worthless interviews with worthless job recruiters or "headhunters" as he referred to him; he had been given a simple task by his wife: take down the old mirror.
With him being off work again, it was a good time to spruce up the home. The "honey-do list" was comprised of simple, inexpensive tasks that could be completed on the limited funds of the wife's salary and his unemployment checks. Hopefully the tasks would clear away the dark cloud of depression that had enveloped him after his most recent job loss. For of all of his past unemployment spells, this one pierced his spirit the most. Perhaps that was why he so eagerly chose replacement of the large mirror as his first task to complete.
The mirror had lied to him. Each day as he had prepared for work at his last job, the mirror told him that his smile still worked, and that he wasn't all that much older than his co-workers. Then he would arrive at his workplace, stride through the halls to his desk; but as he smiled and said "Good morning" to each person he passed, he was either ignored or avoided as if he were a leper.
Seeing recent photo of himself, he was stunned by the image staring back at him…it looked more like his dead grandfather than the smiling face from the mirror. "Who was that old man and how did he get in that photo?" he complained to himself. Realizing that the photo spoke the truth and that the mirror had been lying to him all those recent mornings, his heart sank…his smile diminished…and his proud stride slowed. The mirror had lied and now it must go, he concluded.
Struggling with the sheer weight of the mirror as he stretched his sixty-plus year old body over the bathroom counter top, he used every o
unce of his strength to rest it from its wall hanging brackets. Although its plain, unbeveled edges were chipped here and there, he was extremely careful not to crack or damage it any more than it was. He thought that it might still have value for some purpose.
The new mirror was thinner and lighter than the old one and had a stylish beveled edge nearly an inch wide. He installed it in no time; and then gingerly carried the old mirror out to the garage, leaning it against the wall. "I'll find something to do with it or else I'll give it away" he resolved. At first he planned to move on to the next task, but his age and lack of physical conditioning got the better of him. "Perhaps a little rest and then I'll tackle the next job" he reasoned, plopping down into his favorite recliner chair.
If the mirror had been deceitful to him, his sleep had been downright disparaging. Even his own conscious internal voice chastised and derided him at every pause in his mental routine. Self-debasing thoughts chastised him that he was too old, too slow, too forgetful, too hideous, and too obsolete to fit in at his job. That was why they had let him go…for no other reason. His very presence reminded every one of his young bosses and co-workers that someday they too would wind up like him, and they found it abhorrent. The ridiculing voices were the last thing he heard before finally falling asleep, and they were his internal morning alarm clock.
The voices demanded an end to his internal torture. His very being was an anachronistic affront to the youthful, self-worshipping society he found himself in. His primordial, moth-eaten carcass simply didn't belong. For that reason, coupled with his horrible batting average at keeping a long-term career with any company; the voices in his head rendered their guilty verdict on his lack of relevance to society.
