365 Days (5 page)

With the slicks in line, hovering a few inches above the paddy water, the troops jumped off, moving away in a crouch to keep the prop wash from blowing them over. During the insertion, the gunships and cobras circled in protective lazy spirals in and out over the landing zone. Finally the slicks pulled out, and the gunships gave the area one last look, then pulled out after them and followed them back to the boats. Regrouped and moving out, the men, already soaked with sweat, began walking through the filthy water, some for the hundredth time. After the roaring of the choppers, the tinkling of the men’s gear sounded almost musical. A radio squawked and just as quickly was cut off.

“Otsun,” Mayfield said matter-of-factly. The RTO turned around. “Tell the men, that if I hear one more radio, I’ll shoot the son of a bitch myself. Understand?”

The platoons separated so that there were at least 200 meters between each of them, in staggered columns: tiger scouts up ahead, points, and then the main body of almost a hundred men pushing through the muggy heat of the Delta. By noon they were passing little villages, no more than a few wooden huts, built behind mud dikes. Some of the villagers came out to watch them go by. Everyone looked alike, friends and enemies. The little old woman standing next to her hut could have just that morning changed the batteries on the land mines, which might that evening be blowing them to shit. It was hard to like them anyway; it was hard to like anything in that heat.

The whole time Mayfield had been in the Delta he hadn’t gotten one piece of information out of these people. The only consolation was that they might be just as close-mouthed with the VC. Maybe, from what he’d been told, the VC they’d been helping, or at least not hindering, had really pushed them around at Tet and were still pushing them, killing chiefs and stealing kids. You couldn’t be sure; the truth probably lay somewhere between, like the mud bunkers the villagers had built near their huts. They were there for protection against gunships as well as Charlie—whoever was around at the time. The only thing Mayfield was sure of in all that suffocating heat was that the Army wasn’t winning these people for anything.

They had walked for almost five hours; the sun on an angle reflected blindingly off the shallow paddy water. Mayfield, halting on the edge of a hedgegrove—his troopers already moving out into the next paddy—stopped for a moment to put on his sunglasses.

The first mortar round hit fifty meters to his right. Even as he was diving off the hedgegrove, automatic fire was cracking into the mud around him. Mortars were going off all around; a string of bullets hit near the side of his face, slapping mud up into his eyes. Twisting, he began crawling as fast as he could away from the slapping sound of the bullets. He was crawling blindly, arms and legs digging frantically into the soft mud, when he felt a sharp blow against his upper arm, like a baseball bat hitting him across the shoulder. Changing direction, he quickly began rolling over and over, perpendicular to the way he’d been crawling. There was noise and confusion all around. Covered with mud, choking on it, he kept rolling to his left. A mortar round or rocket hit somewhere above his head, the concussion driving his helmet down onto the bridge of his nose. Stunned, he stopped his frantic rolling. When the pain cleared, he could hear the rattling of RPD’s somewhere up ahead, the firing of AK’s everywhere. They’d been caught out in the open. Rolling onto his stomach, he wiped the mud out of his eyes; NVA, he thought, pulling up his M-16 so he could fire it.

“Otsun!” he yelled.

An RPG sputtered across the paddy, exploding on a rise off the left.

“Over there, dammit, over there! There, goddammit!” he yelled, emptying his own weapon into the hedgegrove directly in front of them. It was about fifteen meters away. The fire from the boys in the paddy shifted into the grove. Suddenly the middle of the grove exploded, sending out streaks of burning frags and bushes in all directions. “Take it!” Mayfield yelled, and springing up, still screaming, he was charging toward the grove when a round hit his pack and spun him off his feet. But the platoon was moving, concentrating their fire even while he was struggling to get back to his feet. They were moving past him; they took the grove with less than twenty boys standing. They had some cover now, but the other sides of the contact were still pouring fire into the paddies.

Mayfield yelled for Otsun again. A corporal, covered with mud, a bandolier of filthy M-60 ammunition slung across his chest, pointed toward the front of the grove. Otsun was face down in the mud, the radio still strapped to his back. A mortar round hit behind the grove. A soldier broke for the radio. Slipping down the side of the grove he reached the RTO and was pulling off the radio when a round caught him in the head and pitched him backward. Another trooper rolled out of the tangle, reached Otsun, grabbed the radio, and yanking it free threw it into the grove. Mayfield crawled after it, checked it, and put it on its base. Hunched over, with rounds cracking through the grove, he switched the radio on to the command net. Nothing. He checked it quickly again to make sure it was working and twirled the dials. Suddenly he realized that all the RTO’s could have been killed outright or their radios destroyed. It could have happened; a waving antenna is an inviting target. They might have been the first to go. It was a good enough ambush for that.

Mayfield pressed the button. A tracer rough spun off the top of the grove. Someone behind him was screaming for a medic. Looking out through the bushes he checked the paddy. That early mortar round had saved them.

“River 6/River 18,” he said into the microphone. “River 18/River 6. 6/18, we’re taking heavy automatic fire; RPG’s and mortars; probably NVA. Grid 185/334 heavy automatic fire. 18/6 leaving freq to air support freq, leaving your push now.” Mayfield looked around; the gooks were in the groves in front of them, behind them, and to their flanks. “You!” he yelled, waving over one of the troopers. He sent the grenadiers to their flanks with orders to use shotgun rounds, and was giving orders for the placements of the M-60’s when the radio crackled.

“18/6, four phantoms up at 40 right near you, switch to air-support freq code named Thunderchief.”

Mayfield switched the dials. There was no SOP for the 4’s; you just talked to them.

He pressed the horn button. “Thunderchief, 18.”

“18, this is Thunderchief. Be over you in two minutes.”

A VC moved out of the grove on their right. Mayfield was reaching for his weapon when one of his troopers stood up and emptied his M-16. The bushes around the gook were torn apart and, spinning around with the torn leaves, he tumbled into the mud. Mayfield pulled his gun closer to him, but left it on the ground.

“18, this is Thunderchief,” the radio said. “Air currents too heavy. Diving...Now!”

Still holding the horn, Mayfield picked a smoke canister out of his webbs, pulled the pin, and threw it out in front of the grove. He took out another smoke grenade and threw it to the left. The thick smoke curled back over them.

“18,” the radio crackled, “where the fuck are you? OK, see you, green smoke.”

Mayfield picked up the microphone, “Roger, green, request first round W.P.”

“Roger, 18. Coming in from the west. Get your heads down.”

Mayfield dropped the horn. “Tac Air!” he yelled, “Tac Air!” The cry was carried up and down the grove. Taking off his helmet, he pushed himself flat on the ground and, burying his face in the dirt, covered his ears. Everyone was doing the same thing.

“18,” the radio squawked, “see the smoke.” A second later a phantom came roaring in over the grove, no more than fifty feet off the ground. The sound was deafening; even with his hands over his ears, the noise was painful. The earth vibrated, and then the air seemed to be sucked up from the ground. A moment later, the ground heaved up into his face, and with a dull shock the explosions, carrying dirt and rocks, passed over them. Without lifting his head, Mayfield picked up the horn.

“Thunder/18, Shell H and E; repeat, Shell H and E.”

“18/Thunderchief,” the voice answered. “Roger that.”

The second phantom came in even lower. Pressed into the ground, Mayfield saw the shadow pass by, heard the same deafening roar, and this time the incredible explosions of H and E.

“Once more,” the voice said lightly. “I still see something moving. Hang on, coming around again.”

A dirty haze from the explosions rose up in front of the grove, blocking out the sun. All the firing had stopped. They came in together this time—six yards apart, four feet off the ground. Mayfield dug in even deeper. The tangle of the hedgegrove was blown apart by the jet’s exhausts. Then, roaring over, shattering the air, the planes passed. A moment later the heat and concussions of the explosions seared past them, burning the tops of the grove. Mayfield looked up and, through the dirt, saw the two planes already a half mile away, still on the deck, beginning to bank to the right and left.

The hedgegroves in front and to the sides were flaming wrecks. To his left, he could hear the whooshing of incoming artillery. Mayfield switched to the command net. It was bursting now: Red Legs, Dust Offs, Tac Air—they were giving casualties out in the open. Mayfield couldn’t recognize one voice; the Old Man in the C and C chopper was overhead, taking care of the whole thing. Behind them the firing was picking up again.

The medics had carried the wounded into a clear space toward the back of the grove. Mayfield, watching them stack the dead, was just getting up when a rocket hit right in the middle of the area, and the concussion knocked him over again. Numbed, he struggled back to his feet. Around the aid station the bodies were sprawled all over the place. He could hear the gunships whooping in off to his left. Still dazed, he pressed the button. He had been holding onto the horn the whole time.

“Priority one, this is River 18.” He repeated it without waiting for an acknowledgment. “Need Dust Off, urgent.”

The Old Man cut in, “River 18/6, switch to air-evac net.”

Mayfield had trouble moving his arm. “Dust Off, this is River 18, urgent.” While he was talking he stared at the shambles that had been the aid station. Some of the men had already left the perimeter to help; there were cries all around for medics. They must have all been hit, he thought. The VC were dropping rounds everywhere. He was counting slowly to himself, totaling up the casualties, trying to be accurate. He pressed the button: “Fifteen wounded; repeat, fifteen wounded—eight, ten, critical.”

The radio crackled, “River 18, this is Dust Off 4. Is the area secure?”

“Negative.” An M-60 opened up again on his flank.

“Roger, River 18, coming in. River 18, can you give me smoke?”

“Negative,” Mayfield said. “I have you visual, will direct you in.” He couldn’t afford to give the gooks a better target than they already had. The mortar might have been luck; but it also might not have been. He stayed on the horn, directing them in. The first Dust Off came in, heard the 51 open up. The pilot ignored the bullets and took his chopper right through the stream of tracers. At the last moment, just as he was settling it in, the machine wavered and then, stricken, twisted over on its side and rotating slowly about its center cartwheeled gracefully out over the paddy. The tip of its main rotor hit the mud. A second later it exploded, burning up in a bright flash of igniting magnesium. Two gunships on the perimeter moved in and hit the area of the 51 with machine-gun fire, racking it apart. Another Dust Off bore in, this time at a steeper angle. Mayfield worked the horn, keeping the gunships close so that the Dust Off could get in. He could see more slicks crossing the horizon. The fighting seemed to be moving off to the east.

The second med evac made it in, and they loaded on the bodies. A loach circled protectively overhead and, higher up, a cobra circled in the opposite direction. While they were loading, Mayfield plotted out artillery targets—just in case—and sent in the coordinates. He didn’t have enough men standing to stop anything. If anything happened, he would have to plaster the area with artillery and he wouldn’t have time to call in the coordinates while he was doing it. He ordered the batteries to stand ready to fire on his command. Meanwhile, the company was sorting itself out. The air strikes had settled things down, and now only an occasional sniper round came through.

“Hey, Sarge.”

“Yeah.”

“Better take care of that arm.”

Mayfield looked down at his shoulder. His fatigues were ripped, and his skin was caked black with dirt and blood. Testing his arm, he found he could still move it a bit. He waited by the horn until he was sure they’d be OK—they’d pull out. Getting up, he walked through the mud to what had been the aid station. The dead, partially covered with muddy ponchos, were again stacked in piles. The wounded, filthy and dirty, were laid out next to them, with blank, empty looks on their faces.

A trooper kneeling next to one of the wounded was trying to start an IV. The medic, the only corpsman alive, flack vest open, moved from patient to patient. Two soldiers, their weapons cradled exhaustedly in their arms, were just sitting near the wounded. Mayfield, dragging himself, plodded up through the mud that was strewn with broken bits of albumin cans.

“Sarge!”

A trooper, walking up to him, slipped and barely kept his balance, splattering mud all over him. “Sorry,” he said apologetically. “The RTO from 3rd Platoon says the choppers are coming.”

“I know,” Mayfield said. He looked around him. As dirty as it was and as hot, he didn’t want to go. Sweating and exhausted, he didn’t want to leave—not right away, anyway. They’d fought for this mud, his men had died for it; he wanted something to show for it all. He didn’t want to have to keep bringing them back to it again and again. He wanted to stay; they’d won it.

“Sarge.”

“Yeah.”

“The Old Man says to get ready; as soon as the wounded and dead are out, we’re moving back to the boats.”

“When I get there I’m gonna ask to fly

med evacs. I mean, I know they need

pilots to fly guns, but I’d just rather not.”