365 Days (12 page)

“Come on,” Cram whispered. “They might be coming back.... Hey! Leave it.”

“Huh?” Johnson slipped the bayonet back into its scabbard.

“Leave it. The rifle, man. Leave it.”

“Nothing doing,” Johnson shook his head. “This one I’m keeping.”

“Why the hell don’t you just cut off an ear? Anyway, don’t use it, or you’ll have the gooks and our whole goddamn division trying to light us up.”

Johnson slung the weapon across his back and, tightening the cinch to hold it firm, followed Cram. They crawled for almost a hundred meters before they stopped to rest again and wait for daylight—or more victims.

Toward morning a gunship circled over them. They could hear it crisscrossing above them.

“Think they’ve seen us?” Cram asked nervously. “I mean, maybe they’ll think we’re VC.”

“Could be,” Johnson said quietly, rubbing the wooden stock of the AK.

Cram grunted. “Must be how the gooks feel.”

There was nothing to do but wait out what was left of the night until the mists burned off. When it was light enough to see clearly, they started moving back to the base.

The perimeter guards were dismantling their night positions. They looked curiously at the two boys coming through the high grass. They reached the wire a little after five. The sun had only been up an hour, but already they were soaked with sweat. Nam is at best a nervous place; there’s no time for the foolishness of passwords or cricket clicks, so you wait until you can be seen. Following Cram, Johnson crawled in under the wire, the same way they had gone out the night before.

“Where’s your souvenir?” someone yelled.

“Left him out there,” Cram called back good-naturedly.

The base was already on the move. All around them troopers were getting ready for their morning sweeps. A few stood by their tents. Some were filling their canteens, others fixing their webb gear, hooking on grenades and smoke bombs or adjusting belts of machine-gun ammunition.

Cram put his fingers to his lips and let out a long piercing whistle. Everyone around them jumped.

“Crazy fuckers,” a trooper said disgustedly, slamming a clip into his grenade launcher. “All these ambushers are fucken crazy.”

Ahead of them, two troopers in tiger suits, one Negro and one black-faced, had turned around at the sound of the whistle. They waited for Cram and Johnson to catch up with them.

“Got one, huh?” the Negro said, looking at Johnson’s AK.

“One apiece,” Cram said.

“Come on, I’m hungry,” the white guy said. “Let’s go eat.”

The four walked together the rest of the way to the mess tent. It was almost in the center of the fire base, close to the C and C. Two other ambush teams were already there, waiting in line. One trooper had a steel-tipped blackjack hanging down from a lanyard tied to his wrist. Another, a big rawboned southern boy, was playing with a barber’s razor, mechanically opening and shutting the blade. They were all filthy.

“Hey, Thompson, where’s Zim?” Cram asked.

“The gooks got him,” the southerner said. “We’re going out after breakfast to get him. The Old Man said it would be OK.”

“And Cockrane?”

“He got back, but he took a round through his shoulder.”

Johnson put his AK down against one of the tent supports and got in line behind the Negro.

“How did it go, Williams?”

“A bit heavy.”

“Yeah,” Johnson said, “for us too.”

The first few guys in line began moving into the tent, and a trooper with a soiled blue bandana wrapped around his head got into line next to Johnson.

“How did you get it, man?” he said, nodding toward the AK.

“Bicycle chain.”

“Worked, huh?”

“I swear, Truex,” Johnson said, “he would have had me. I mean I couldn’t have got to him without it. You know, I mean he would have blasted me.”

“That you?” Truex asked, pointing down at Johnson’s bloody hand.

Johnson looked thoughtfully at his hand. He seemed suddenly subdued, almost awed. “No,” he said, “that’s him.”

“Yeah, I know. I got some of mine on me, too,” Truex said. “Took him down from behind. Must have got an artery right off. Jesus! I mean I even got some in my mouth.”

“Hey, Truex,” a passing soldier yelled. “There’s a letter for you in your tent.”

“From who?” the trooper yelled back.

“Miss America—who the fuck else do you think?”

“Wise ass,” Truex muttered to himself as he moved into the tent. Johnson followed him.

The tent sheltered them from the sun, but afforded little comfort. Hot, suffocating breezes blew unhindered straight through the open slats. Sweating, the men picked up their trays. Ahead of them, Cram stopped to pour himself some hot coffee.

“You crazy!” Williams said.

Cram looked over his shoulder at the Negro trooper. “You’re supposed to drink hot things in hot weather.”

“Who the fuck told you that?”

“Our family doctor, and he’s a lot smarter than you are.”

The Negro turned his head to watch a squad of troopers walking past the tent.

“Hey, Thompson,” Truex said, “why don’t they ever let us capture some prisoners?”

The southerner ignored him.

“No man, I mean it.”

“What the fuck you gonna do with ’em?” Thompson asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What, I said. What the hell are you gonna do with ’em? Watch ’em all night?”

“You don’t have to kill ’em to keep ’em quiet. I mean, you can tie ’em up, or keep hitting ’em on the head.”

“You keep hitting them on the head,” Thompson said disgustedly.

Truex shrugged. “I gotta take a piss,” he announced, and left the line.

Thompson watched him duck under the tent beam and walk out into the sunlight. “That fucker’s gonna kill me,” he said angrily.

“How you figure that?” Williams said.

“He’s gonna kill himself and me with him. We went out last night really far; I mean it was really far. He killed one going out—some kid—no weapons, nothing. Probably just from one of the villages. Anyway, the crum got pissed. He wanted an NVA. Stupid fucker.”

“Why?”

“Motherfucker wants enough NVA belt buckles for a chain. Ever since he killed that NVA three days ago he’s been goofy about it. That’s all he talks about, getting that fucken chain. Anyway, that kid he lit up must have been something special to somebody. They were out looking for him all night. Must have been a goddamn company out hunting for him. We laid low. About midnight they were moving back past us. Every fucken one of them had gone by when I swear to god that son of a bitch Truex coughed. I swear to god, that son of a bitch coughed to get some of ’em to come back.”

“Did they?” Johnson asked.

“Fucken A they did, right at us. At least they started. I had some grenades and I just threw ’em as far as I could and got the hell out in a hurry.”

“And Truex?”

“He sat there like he had a string of claymores. I just cut out on him.”

“Maybe you ought to tell the Old Man,” Williams said.

“I’m just gonna tell Truex,” Thompson said grimly.

“What time we going out for Zim?” Johnson asked as they moved onto the food line.

“I’d thought we’d go out a bit early tonight and get him,” Williams said.

“Yeah, and they’ll be waiting for us,” Johnson said. “Why not now? It shouldn’t take long to find him, and with the choppers flying around, the gooks’ll be keeping their heads down.”

“Oh, shit!” Cram yelled so loudly, so suddenly, that everyone stopped talking. “They’re out of corn flakes. Hey, you!” he called to the cook at the back of the tent. “You’re out of fucken corn flakes. Yeah, you, goddammit! Where the hell are the corn flakes?”

The cook didn’t bother to answer. He just turned his thumbs down.

“Fuck it!” Cram yelled, slamming his hand down on the counter. “We work all night; you’d think they’d keep some fucken corn flakes for us. Motherfuckers! Fucken greedy motherfuckers!”

“Tracks make so much noise everyone

knows you’re coming.”

Trooper, 25th Division

Surgical Ward

U.S. Army Hospital, Zama, Japan

D
ENNEN WAS GEARED FOR
war. After taking all the infantry and airborne training the Army could give him, he was assigned to a mechanized battalion of the 25th Division. Two days after he got to Nam he was choppered to his unit.

Dennen sat next to the crew chief the whole way out, looking over the M-60 machine gun at the checkerboard landscape rushing beneath them. He was checking the bolt on his M-16 when the crew chief tapped him on the shoulder and pointed out the open doorway. For a moment, Dennen couldn’t see anything. Then against the dark green of a tree line, he saw something flash. A moment later there was another flash, followed by a puff of white smoke.

“Phantoms,” the crew chief said, yelling over the rumbling of the chopper’s engines. Dennen, watching the smoke clear, slid home the bolt. Against all that green the puff of smoke looked insignificant.

The headquarters for the 25th Division lay forty miles northwest of Saigon, in the foothills of the central highlands. The Army had placed it astride one of the major infiltration routes from Cambodia; part of the protective arc offered up to Saigon by the 9th Division in the Delta, the 25th, based on Cu Chi, and the Americal and the 1st Division farther north. During the dry season, the land the 25th worked reached from impenetrable jungle, triple canopied, in the west to rice paddies in the south and north. During the monsoons, the jungle became wet and the paddies impassable, but it was dry now; the jungle was burning off and the paddies were rock-hard.

The chopper stayed at 1500 feet, out of the range of small arms fire, until it was over the base camp. Dennen braced himself as the pilot auto-rotated the copter down, and the huge base swung up at him. From 1500 feet it had looked like a great open dump, but as they plunged down, it became thousands of khaki-colored vehicles, fuel tanks and bunkers, and finally, as they came in, drab green Quonset huts. At the last moment the pilot eased up and, lowering the chopper down past a building, set it to rest on the pad.

The crew chief slid the machine gun along its mounting so that Dennen could get out the door. Bent over, carrying his duffel bag, he walked out from under the blades. The pilot, his head out the window, waited for him to clear the rotors, then gunning the engine, he nudged the chopper off the ground and, swinging it far out to the left, pulled it off the pad. In the three minutes it took Dennen to walk to the personnel center he was completely soaked with sweat.

Headquarters was sandbagged up to the windows. MP’s guarded all the entrances; it was all very proper and very military. Dennen was taken to Major Cohen, the personnel officer. The Major welcomed him to the unit, looked over his record, and going over to the map, showed him where they were and where he’d be. Dennen was about to leave when Cohen stopped him.

“Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir,” Dennen said stiffly, coming to attention as he turned around.

“I see you’re a Ranger.” Yes, sir.

“Tracks are different than what you’re used to; they’re noisy. You can hear ’em coming. I want at least one gook for every track we lose.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good luck, Lieutenant.”

That evening Dennen rode out to his unit on a supply chopper carrying new machine gun barrels. The company had been fighting all day and had burned out almost all their 50’s. Still taking sporadic fire, they’d pulled into a night perimeter and needed the barrels in case they got hit again that night.

“They’re kicking some ass out there, sir,” the chopper pilot said. “It might be hot. We could get you out in the morning.”

“Will it be any better in the morning?” Dennen asked.

“No, probably not.”

“I’ll go, now.”

“OK,” the pilot said, “then would you mind...”

Dennen helped them load up. They took rolls of razor wire, crates of ammunition, medical supplies, and cans of water, loading the chopper until it was full. It was almost dark before Dennen, with his weapon resting between his feet, settled in beside the door gunner.

“Could be bad news,” the gunner said, handing him a radio helmet. “Night ain’t the best time to go in hot.”

The pilot revved the engine and, pulling a little pitch, lifted the craft. It moved forward a few yards, only to settle down again. The pilot gave it more rpm’s, and the chopper lifted straining, lifted again, and settled back onto the pad.

“Overloaded,” the crew chief yelled.

Adding power, the pilot gunned the engine, bouncing the chopper down the runway to substitute forward speed for lift. He continued to push the engine, making the chopper vibrate so violently that Dennen could hardly keep his feet in one spot. As the helicopter gained height, the jolts became harder and harder and farther apart until finally halfway down the runway it stayed airborne. The door gunner, puffing out his cheeks in relief, sat down on one of the ammunition crates.

The pilot quickly took the chopper up to 1500 feet and turned northwest. The gunner plugged Dennen’s head set into the overhead radio jack. Outside the chopper, it was dark. Dennen could barely make out the edge of the horizon. A few stars were just becoming visible. Suddenly, ten minutes out, sharp cracking sounds began snapping past the open doorway. The pilot suddenly dropped the chopper and slid it off to the left. As they fell, Dennen could see a thin bluish-green line arching up at them out of the blackness.

“Watch that son of a bitch,” the pilot said over the intercom. Wrenching the chopper around, he took it back to the right.

“Four o’clock,” the gunner said, looking out the open doorway.

“Going down!” the pilot’s voice crackled through the head set.

Another burst of greenish-blue light hurtled past the open side of the chopper.

“Watch out, Ralph.”

“Roger that.”

Dennen moved back to give the gunner room to swing his M-60. Diving, the tracers followed them down to almost 500 feet and then stopped. The pilot leveled off.

Holding onto the door struts, Dennen looked at the gunner, who was grinning as he held up his thumb. The pilot’s voice cut into the radio set. “36, this is 33 Spider. Approximately 05 out from location. Please mark the LZ.”