by Bob Mayer
We Sons of today, we salute you.
You Sons of an earlier day;
We follow, close order, behind you, where you have pointed the way;
The long gray line of us stretches, thro' the years of a century told
And the last man feels to his marrow, the grip of your far off hold.
The Corps
Written by West Point Chaplain, Bishop H.S. Shipman, 1902
Friday, 22 June 1967
HILL 1338, DAK TO, SOUTH VIETNAM
The first American casualty this day in the Central Highlands belongs to Charlie Company, 2/503rd Battalion of the 173rd Airborne Regiment.
Just after first light a fucking new guy, FNG, leaves the perimeter to take a piss and is shot by a nervous sentry as he blunders back. It’s going to be that kind of day. Everyone is jangled, the combat vets most of all. The previous night one of the CIDG, civilian irregular defense group, a Montagnard tribesman trained by Green Berets, had been killed at a listening post after a brief, uncertain contact with the NVA. His body lay in the center of the company’s position all night, a harbinger of nothing good to come.
It’s a hot and humid morning. Low clouds loom over Hill 1338 of the Dak To Mountains in the Central Highlands of the Republic of Vietnam. Thick fog saturates the triple canopy jungle which presses like a thick green, multi-layered almost impenetrable blanket on the steep terrain. Visibility averages less than ten feet.
The FNG’s body is brought into the perimeter, wrapped in a poncho and trussed so it can be carried by two men on a pole when they move out later in the morning. It is placed next to the dead CIDG.
The CIDG and the FNG are the first dead men William Kane has ever seen outside of a funeral home.
It is an initial chipping away of his mirage of war and John Wayne heroics. It is a reckoning of his mortality. Because he realizes a profound truth that seems obvious but not to the core until experienced firsthand: dead is dead.
The Captain reminds Kane and the other platoon leaders, who remind their NCO’s, who remind the soldiers, DO NOT BE FUCKING STUPID which summons echoes of Chargin’ Charlie Beckwith and Ranger School which Will Kane had graduated from just eight months earlier.
Kane is 22 years old and responsible for a platoon of men, 33 plus him, most of them younger, with an average age of 19. They range from FNG’s to a handful of experienced NCOs, a couple of whom were with the original Sky Soldiers on the first 173rd deployment to Vietnam in 1965, rotating back on a second tour.
There aren’t many of those.
Fifteen hundred meters, in military jargon a klick and a half, in civilian distance roughly a mile, from Charlie Company is Alpha Company to which Kane’s best friend, West Point roommate and Ranger School buddy, Ted Marcelle, is assigned. Given the difficulty of the near vertical terrain of Hill 1338 and the denseness of the jungle, they might as well be in separate countries. However, on a map in the safety of Battalion Headquarters someone might theorize that the two companies hold mutually supporting positions. Especially given that headquarters looking at maps have often held such theories regarding deployed units not directly in sight throughout millennia of warfare.
Nothing is impossible to the man who doesn’t have to do it.
The hill takes its designation from the elevation of its peak on the map. Surely the local mountain people, the Montagnards, have a name for it, but for this Army’s purposes 1338 works. The name possesses none of the punch of earlier American battlefields such as Saratoga, Shiloh, Gettysburg, Belleau Woods, D-Day or even Chosin, but Vietnam is that kind of war.
Charlie Company spent a nervous night near the top of 1338. Alpha is lower, near a landing zone they’d carved out of the jungle the previous day. The two companies are part of a larger stumbling movement by the 173rd code named Operation Greeley. Kane’s West Point training never taught the tactics of advancing through jungle with no specific goal other than making contact with the enemy and killing more of them than they kill of you. But Vietnam has devolved into that kind of war.
“Saddle up!” the Captain calls out.
The command is passed down. Rucksacks are shouldered, the foot soldier’s familiar burden. Each man carries more than the basic load of ammunition as proscribed by Infantry doctrine; hundreds of 5.56-millimeter (mm) rounds for their M-16s. While the magazines are designed to hold 20 rounds, no one loads them with more than eighteen or else there’s a likelihood over pressure on the spring will cause a misfeed. A Claymore antipersonnel mine adds to each soldier’s load. To feed the pig, the M-60 machinegun, each man carries a belt of one hundred rounds. Every man also has a round to feed the two mortars in the weapons platoon. An entrenching tool. C-Rations broken down from their cardboard boxes and loaded tightly in socks to keep the cans from making noise. When a soldier chooses between food and ammunition, the more experienced go with ammunition. Extra plastic spoons are tossed to save weight, since a man only needs one.
On their LBE, load bearing equipment, besides ammo pouches and a first aid kit, each man has fragmentation and smoke grenades and as many canteens as they can clip on the web belt and still carry the ruck. Water is life in the heat and humidity. Resupply uncertain.
A few unlucky souls, the RTOs, carry the PRC-25 radio adding 23 pounds, along with the weight of spare batteries. The antenna rising up over their shoulder is akin to a bullseye. The flex portion is pulled down, stuck through the front of the LBE pulling in one horn of the bull, but not by much.
The individual load averages between 75 and 100 pounds. Not including weapon, helmet and uniform. The rucksack settles on top of the LBE, an arrangement soldiers spend hours adjusting, tying, and taping, until it clings to their body. It will never be smooth or comfortable. The goal is functional.
“Move out,” the Captain orders.
The jungle is primordial. Some trees are so old their trunks are wider than a man is tall. Clumps of bamboo cluster impassably. Horribly lush undergrowth crowds the ground so thick, its questionable how far a bullet can go, never mind a man. Despite their training and knowing better, soldiers are forced to eventually use the trails, where death awaits.
Distant pops, muted by the jungle between, reach the men of Charlie. Downhill, Alpha Company is in contact.
It begins raining.
The lead elements of Charlie head toward Alpha but its fifteen hundred jungle meters. Alpha is enemy territory away, requiring the lead squad of Charlie to move with fear and trepidation of the inevitable ambush. The point man is a sacrifice to the God of body count. Rather than add alacrity, the increasing volume of fire from Alpha’s location slows Charlie Company.
There is enemy ahead. Many enemy. The pops are merging into a fearsome crescendo. Veterans initially recognize the distinction between M-16 and AK-47, but now they are as one. Machineguns, American and Communist made, add their own fast paced chatter. The crump of artillery.
A fearsome keening of lead and steel.
Kane holds his newly issued and zeroed M-16 in one hand, radio handset wrapped in plastic in the other. Initially he’d wanted to carry the ‘prick’ himself, but his platoon sergeant, months more experienced in war, talked his fresh-faced platoon leader out of committing suicide. The RTO is close behind Kane, the handset cord stretches between them.
Kane’s on the company net, so he can receive the Captain’s orders. But he has the RTO briefly switch to the second preset frequency every so often to catch glimpses of the Battalion net. On the airwaves, Alpha’s company’s commander is initially calm, transmitting with the rattle of battle lurking in the background. But as the cacophony of the firing increases and approaches, so does his urgency, calling for artillery and air support.
Nevertheless, Charlie advances slowly. The Captain is correctly afraid of ambush and keeps a tight rein on the movement.
Then, oddly, the Captain receives orders from Battalion to halt. No one is quite sure what’s going on. Battalion needs time, and less rain and fog, to sort it out, only able to make decisions second-hand via th
e radio and the map.
Kane kneels, rucksack on his back. More experienced men do the rucksack flop on their backs, knowing a halt can last seconds or hours. Hurry up and wait is the Infantryman’s mantra.
Charlie Company waits.
Kane worries about Ted, assigned to Alpha, yet a small part of him envies his best friend getting his combat cherry busted first. Both of them are only weeks in-country and days in the field.
The sound of battle in the distance is lessening. Contact broken? Enemy withdrawing?
As the morning wears on, silence settles.
Battalion orders Charlie to move to Alpha’s location. Link up is the order.
Kane takes that as a positive. They’ll join forces.
The Captain once more warns they can expect to make contact. The point squad leads. The rest of the platoon follows. Kane’s platoon has the left corner of the diamond formation, stumbling on the side of the steep ridge. The other line platoon is to the right. Weapons brings up the rear with its two 60mm mortars and company headquarters. The FNG’s body and the Montagnard’s are carried in the middle by the dumb fucks the first sergeant has chosen, one of them the shooter of the man he carries. Theoretically the formation is a diamond. The jungle and ridgeline say otherwise, forcing the company tighter than the Captain likes and the center is inevitably pushed onto the trail running along the crest of the ridge. The same one Alpha is astride in the lower ground. They move slowly.
Kane isn’t certain how much of his soaked jungle fatigues comes from sweat, humidity or the lessening rain. Men slash at bamboo with machetes. Soldiers grasp at undergrowth and trees to keep from sliding down the side of the muddy ridgeline. Like warriors throughout history, they are dirty, wet, tired and scared.
It takes the afternoon to make the distance. They reach an open area, the helicopter pick up zone Alpha had hacked out of the jungle the previous evening. Unfortunately, to keep the enemy from using the clearing as a base for mortars, Alpha, once it finished getting resupplied via the PZ, had salted it with CS crystals.
Kane dons his gas mask, realizes the filters have been soaked and the mask is worthless. The soldiers push through, the lightest step producing a cloud of CS gas. By the time the company crosses the clearing, every man is coughing, eyes pouring tears and many are vomiting.
It is growing late. Darkness is only a few hours off.
They find the first element of Alpha—the weapons platoon which had salted the PZ, along with the company commander who’d been supervising. The line platoons, over 100 men, are further on. Somewhere. The company commander isn’t sure.
Taking advantage of a break in the clouds, the battalion commander hops off his helicopter. His orders to the Captain aren’t something Kane was taught at West Point: “I want you to try to probe down the hill, but break off if you have any contact. Don’t throw good money after bad.”
Try? Break off if you make contact? Good money after bad? Kane doesn’t drink in the aura of Grant, Pershing or Patton in those edicts.
The Captain orders his men to press on, to find the rest of Alpha. But the enemy is waiting. The lead elements are engaged.
Kane fires his first shots in combat as he gets his squads on line.
But he fires blindly, toward the uncertain location where the enemy fire is originating. A considerable amount of enemy fire.
They can’t push through. There are too many. The Captain decides to err on the side of ‘good money’.
The order is passed to form a perimeter. Expect an assault from a large NVA force some time during the night.
The longest night of Kane’s life to this point begins.
He crawls from man to man in his platoon, making sure they’ve done the best they can digging in, scratching out whatever cover possible. Reassuring what he doesn’t feel. Thoughts of Ted ahead, somewhere.
Some men sleep. Many wait for death to come sweeping over them.
As darkness falls, frayed nerves are scraped as men outside the perimeter scream for help. For a medic. For their mother. Some just scream, inarticulate pain, the jagged melody of the wounded that echoes with a man the remainder of his life.
It is what is left of Alpha Company.
Gunships blade by, spurting rockets and machine gun fire. Artillery sprinkles throughout the night, a protective curtain for Charlie Company.
Kane sits with his back against a tree, peering into the darkness, weapon across his knees. The handset clipped to his web gear. His RTO curls in the hole a few feet away, pretending to sleep, the radio between them within mutual arms reach. There is no contact on the battalion net with anyone in Alpha. Only Bn HQ talking to the artillery and gunships.
Not long after nightfall the melody of the unseen wounded intermingles with something worse. The cries of those about to die, begging for mercy. The pleas are always followed by the single crack of a shot. Another shot. And another.
A few stragglers from Alpha crawl into the perimeter over the course of the night. Most wounded. All in shock.
None are Ted.
Kane envisions Ted lying low, waiting for reinforcements.
As BMNT lightens the sky, the shooting dwindles. By dawn silence. No firing. No lament of the wounded. Even the jungle is quiet. No sign of the NVA. The men of Charlie company are hushed, relieved to be alive, fearing the day ahead.
The Captain’s order is subdued. “Move out.”
They find the remnants of Alpha Company. Clustered along the trail. Seventy-eight men.
Kane stumbles among the bodies. Many are naked. Mutilated. Eviscerated from navel to sternum. Eyes dug out. Intestines strewn about. Fingers cut off for the rings. Some had their hands tied, indicating they’d surrendered before being executed.
A soldier is found alive among the carnage. He’d been shot in the back several times, but played dead. Even when his finger was amputated and his wedding band stolen. Medics tend to him.
Kane is searching. Forcing himself to stare at death in an array of ugly, horrific guises.
This is Little Big Horn, he thinks. This is what it was really like. Nothing gallant or noble in a massacre. No one had told him about the smell. Of urine, shit, viscera, blood, fear and desperation.
He finds Ted. His gear, his weapon, his boots, his clothes, gone. His pale chest is still. His dog tags remain, stained with blood. His eyes are cloudy, lips curled back in a frozen grimace. His hands are lashed behind his back with a strand of barbed wire. Surprisingly, missed in the darkness, his watch is still on his wrist, hidden by the green Velcro band.
Kane stares at the barbed wire for several long moments, then unwraps it, not noticing he’s ripping his own flesh. He frees Ted’s hands and places them on his chest. Takes the watch off and puts it in the cargo pocket of his jungle fatigues. Like the others, Ted’s finger is cut off. His West Point ring gone. A trophy of war.
A small dark hole in his forehead; the back of the head a crater. Most of the brain with it. An empty enclosure where Ted had once existed: his laughter, his loves, his memories and his future are all gone.
Kane removes one of the dog tags. He puts it on the chain around his own neck. The other he leaves for the casualty officer. He cradles Ted in his arms, surprised how heavy a dead man weighs, and carries his friend to the body bags.
Monday Evening, 11 July 1977
GREENWICH VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
Kane dropped off the ammunition, grenades, demo, backup .45 and Swedish K at his apartment before returning the car to the Washington Square Hotel. He tipped the concierge forty. In exchange he got a name and another point of contact added to his notebook.
Night settled uneasily over the city, the specter of Son of Sam purging the streets. The bright lights fought against the darkness, putting a glow into the sky, a false halo over a city teeming with sin and fear.
Kane packed the map case. High Standard. Night vision goggles. Camera. The .45 was on his belt, two extra magazines in a holder behind the holster.
He opened the fron
t door, stepped out, locked the door and put the matchstick in place, the piece of tape at the top. When he turned around, Detective Strong’s wide bulk was silhouetted at the top of the stairs against the dull light from the closest street lamp.
“Paranoid?” Strong asked.
“You’re on my case,” Kane said. “Shouldn’t I be paranoid?”
“Not if you’re innocent.”
“Do you have a warrant?” Kane asked, taking a step toward his door.
“I’m not here about that,” Strong said. “Someone is asking for you. At another crime scene. Seems you’re very popular where bodies are involved.”
“Whose body?”
Unlike Uncle Nathan, Strong didn’t need to keep the victim a secret. “Malcolm Dixon. Elevator operator at 7 Gramercy. Disabled vet with no legs in a wheelchair.” The disgust in Strong’s voice over the crime was obvious.
Kane stepped up to the gate. “What happened?”
Strong crooked a finger. “Come.”
“Is his father all right? James?”
“His father is grieving which is what family members tend to do. He’s not the one asking for you. Some high-class hooker named Farrah. She’s refusing to leave the crime scene until she talks to you and I’d prefer not to drag her out. Are you coming?”
Kane followed Strong to the unmarked. He got in the passenger side while Strong took the wheel. Unlike Conner’s, and like Nathan’s, the interior was spotless. Strong put a red bubble on top, the light rotating. Pulled out and drove east across the island toward Gramercy.
“You’re wearing a gun,” Strong noted. “Which is odd because I took your gun.”
Kane stared straight ahead.
“I also took your permit. I could arrest you now. Save myself some trouble.”
Kane didn’t respond.
“I checked on you,” Strong said. “Ran you through the Feds. You’ve got no criminal record. Talked to your Uncle Nathan for more background. I remember that Green Beret fiasco in Vietnam. The trial. Made all the papers.”
