Guns Up! (10 page)

“Stand by for cover fire!” Swift Eagle screamed across the top of the hill. Four men unloaded supplies, and the chopper lifted off without drawing fire.

I tried to keep my attention on the surrounding hills, but it wasn’t easy. I had a feeling that mail came with that chopper, and I wanted to hear from home so bad I was ready to ask the chief about smoke signals.

“Your manners are sadly deficient, as always,” said a voice from behind me. “Well, aren’t you going to invite me into your home?”

I turned, already recognizing the voice. “Chan!” I jumped to my feet and we traded bear hugs. “God, it’s good to see you!”

“I presumed it would be. I find I’m curiously pleased by your presence also, but I’d rather be back at China Beach.”

“China Beach! You mean there really is such a place?”

“Oh, it’s nice, too. It’s like being back in the world. White beach, beautiful blue water. You barely hear the artillery.” He looked around quizzically. “Hey, where’s Red?”

“He’s dead, Chan. I’m the gunner now.”

Chan removed his helmet. He slumped down as if I’d let the air out of him.

“I don’t know what to say.” He looked dazed. “What … How did he … I just can’t believe it!” He grimaced as if in pain.

“Yeah. I know.”

“When?”

“Right after you left. That first night. We set up an ambush, and Red opened up first. He got about a twenty-round burst off and that was it. Two AK rounds hit him right here.” I pointed to my cheek just under the eye. Chan’s eyes looked frosty. He lowered his head. I wasn’t sure if he was praying or just fighting back tears. Then I felt that familiar lump swelling up inside my throat. I wiped away the first tear and tried to talk.

“This is Doyle. He’s my A-gunner. He’s boot.”

Chan looked up, slightly teary-eyed, then stood and shook hands with Doyle.

“Heard a lot about you, Chan,” Doyle said with a friendly handshake.

“I’m taking over as A-gunner, Doyle,” Chan said. “The lieutenant informed me that you’re now assigned to the chief’s squad. Just temporarily until some replacements arrive; then you’re back with us.” I couldn’t tell if Doyle was glad or sad at the news.

Corporal Swift Eagle ended the awkward moment when he emerged abruptly with the mail.

He tossed us five letters. Three were mine. Doyle got the other two. We ripped them open and started reading.

“It’s funny, the conception people have of this war,” Doyle said with a chuckle. “My girl wants to know if I’m in a fort.” He laughed.

“Valerie’s mother”—Chan paused and looked at the ground, shaking his head as if in disbelief—”Valerie’s mother,” he began again, “told Valerie that I was over
here having the time of my life chasing little Vietnamese girls.”

“That figures,” I said. “Listen to this. ‘Dear Son: Your dad and I worry about you in that awful place. I think of you and Chan in your little pup tent camped under the stars each night and pray for your safety.’ “

“Chan, why didn’t you put up the tent?” Doyle asked sarcastically. Chan began to laugh. His laugh was contagious. I started laughing too; it was like old times again.

Jackson strolled over to us with his beacon-light smile already on.

“Man, you can sure tell the laughers are together again. I bet you two laugh through this whole war. I never saw two grown men laugh so much.”

Chan gained control long enough to stand up and slap Jackson on the back.

“It’s good to see you again, Smilin’.” Chan turned to Doyle as if he were introducing Jackson. “This is the happiest smile in Southeast Asia.”

“The gunny wants one of you guys to come get your C-rats,” Jackson said. “I think you better hurry; we’re movin’ out.” He turned away to a chorus of boos.

Twenty minutes later our packs were on our backs, heavy with new food. We got more ammo than we wanted to carry. I felt ten pounds heavier as the walk began. It started raining. An odd glow covered the mountains to our front, a yellowish tint like that given by cheap sunglasses. Then the yellowish tint disappeared as enormous black and gray clouds rolled sheets of rain across the mountain peaks. The rain lashed against our tiny column so powerfully that for an instant we stopped, shielding our faces. The rain changed from lukewarm to ice cold.

By nightfall the pounding storm had beaten against my helmet until all I could feel was a concussion-size headache. We crossed a swift, chest-deep river, carrying our weapons above our heads. Once on the other side
word filtered back to set up a perimeter. Chan and I sat down shivering in the mud.

“What are you stopping for?”

I peered through the water pouring off my helmet to see Corporal Swift Eagle standing over me.

“They passed the word back to set up a perimeter.”

“How are we supposed to hear Charlie over that river?” The chief didn’t wait for my answer, possibly because the question wasn’t directed at me. He sloshed off in the direction of the lieutenant’s CP. In ten minutes we moved another fifty meters away from the river. I settled into a nice soft bed of mud, pulled myself inside my flak jacket like a turtle, and fell asleep while Chan took first watch.

At 2300 hours Chan shook me away from a blazing fireplace and a beautiful lady I was just getting to know.

“I thought you might want to know you’re drowning,” he whispered. I didn’t want to open my eyes, but I did.

He was right. The rain hadn’t stopped, and I was quickly going under. I felt cold and stiff. Before I maneuvered my head out of the mud Chan whispered again. “Somethin’s up!”

I sat up to see what Chan was looking at. I heard someone step in water. Then the muffled thud of a plastic M16 falling into the mud. The rain was still too heavy to see more than four or five feet on either side. White zigzagging lightning bolts streaked across the black sky. Jackson and Striker were standing with their packs on, ten feet to our left.

“Chan, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jackson,” I whispered.

“What?” came the reply from the darkness.

“What’s going on?”

“Saddle up.”

“That’s just outstanding,” Chan said. “They’re moving out without us!”

“I can’t stand all this concern over my life,” I added as we scrambled to get our gear on. I crawled around in the mud on my hands and knees to make sure we weren’t leaving anything, then sloshed over to Jackson.

“Why didn’t you tell us we were moving out?” I asked.

“I thought Sudsy told you.”

“What’s up?”

“Sudsy got word that a gook battalion, maybe more, is coming this way.”

“Did you say ‘more’?”

“Maybe more. Comin’ our way. Sudsy said we’re getting our butts out of here, ASAP.”

Chan adjusted his pack straps, then patted himself on his shoulders and chest.

“Oh, no!” he gasped. “I left the gun ammo!” He raced back to retrieve the belts of machine-gun ammo. The column started moving out.

“Chan! Hurry up! We’re moving out!”

“I found them!”

“Hurry up! They’re already gone!”

“Okay, okay!”

We caught up to the column as it moved back toward the river. A violent thunderclap followed closely behind each brilliant streak of lightning. We started back across the jungle river. This time the water reached my chin. The current swept Striker’s feet from under him. He went under. Jackson grabbed him by one arm and pulled him up. His helmet had been swept away, but he had managed to hold on to his rifle.

As we reached the river bank each man pulled the man behind him out by grasping his rifle. Jackson pulled Chan to solid ground, then Chan turned and held out the butt of his rifle. I grabbed it with a shaking left hand and staggered up the muddy bank, balancing the gun over
my right shoulder. I turned to help the man behind me. No one was there.

“Chan!”

Chan turned to see what I wanted.

“Are we the last ones in the column?” A brilliant rod of lightning showed the river empty of everything but raging whitecaps.

“I guess so.”

“The gun ain’t supposed to be on the end of the column!”

“Quit crying and hurry up. Or would you prefer being a column all by ourselves? I’ll get behind you.”

The incessant rain felt as though it was coming down harder than before. My skin was wrinkled and freezing. We followed a barely discernible trail running parallel to the river. Sagging and draping trees, bent from the storm, formed an eerie wet tunnel.

Just as I caught up to Jackson, Chan tapped me on the shoulder.

“Pssst!” I turned to look back, nearly clobbering Chan with the butt of the M60 resting on my shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure we’re the last ones in the column?”

I stopped and looked back into Chan’s face. “You know we’re the last ones in the column. What’s the matter with you?”

Chan gave me a little shove.

“Keep moving!”

I was beginning to think his normally witty mind was waterlogged. Five yards later he tapped me on the shoulder again.

“Pssst!”

“Chan, I don’t—”

“Pass the word up. We picked up an extra squad.” His voice was calm. Too calm. I peeked over my shoulder.

“What’d you say?”

“We picked up an extra squad.” I looked back.

“Are you …?” A vivid streak of lightning danced across the pitch-black sky, revealing a paralyzing sight. Twenty meters back, the safari-helmeted heads of at least ten NVA bobbed along behind us. My heart stopped. My feet didn’t. I quick-stepped up to Jackson and tapped him on the shoulder. I suddenly felt near panic and couldn’t speak. I inhaled all the air I could shove down my lungs then blew it out. Why hadn’t they already blown us away? If we could see them with each lightning bolt, why couldn’t they see us? I tapped Jackson again.

“Pass the word up. We picked up an extra squad!” He looked over his shoulder.

“What?”

“No kiddin’ man! Pass it up! Hurry!”

A thousand questions raced through my mind, but none of the answers made any sense. Where was their point man? The only possible answer was that they believed they were behind their own men. I felt very cold. I started shivering uncontrollably. I bit my lip until it bled in an effort to snap out of it. These things didn’t happen in real life. I remembered the movie about D-day, the scene where Americans and Germans passed each other without noticing. That was a movie. This was real.

The next minute dwindled by painfully slowly. With each crack of lightning the fear that they would recognize the shape of our helmets increased. Jackson looked over his shoulder and covered his mouth.

“Prepare to fall off to the side of the trail. Hit ’em as they pass.”

My heart sank into my stomach. I passed the word to Chan. I tried to take the gun off my shoulder without being conspicuous. I only had a fifty-round belt linked up. Striker fell off to the left of the trail, then Jackson. I dropped to the side of the trail. Chan followed. Chan pulled the pin on a grenade and held the spoon in with his hand. I pointed the gun back down the trail and started praying all this mud and rain wouldn’t jam it.

Then the incredible happened. Fifteen meters back the NVA fell off to the side of the trail too. I didn’t understand it. A shot of lightning hit a tree nearby. Chan jumped, nearly dropping the grenade. We looked at each other in disbelief.

“Jackson! Pass the word up. They dropped off too.”

A few moments later word came back to move out. Panic gripped my stomach. I think I started to urinate; either that, or the rain was getting warmer. I felt ashamed and tightened my stomach to stop myself. We stood up, bowing our heads in an effort to look shorter and hide the shape of our helmets from the flashing thunder. I kept the gun on my hip this time.

“Pssst. They’re following!” Chan’s whisper sent visions of hot lead ripping through my back. What are we doing? If the lieutenant was back here, he’d come up with a better plan than move on. Suddenly some grim possibilities became graphically clear. We might be in the middle of that NVA battalion. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“They’re staying about twenty meters back.”

“Why don’t you walk backward and show off that Chinese face?” He didn’t laugh.

The column veered right, off the trail. We started moving faster. The terrain got steeper with each step. We were going up a hill covered with thick brush and thornbushes. Jackson’s voice came from the darkness ahead.

“Run for it!”

“Run Chan!”

The thorns tore through my trousers, ripping at my soggy skin. Rain smashed against leaves and brush, sounding like grease in a frying pan. I stumbled and crawled and clawed up the dripping hill in near panic, sliding back one step for every two forward. Near the top Jackson stuck out his big friendly hand and pulled me to him. Chan was right on my heels, still clutching his grenade. Swift Eagle appeared beside Jackson.

“Hurry up! Set up the gun!” I fell to the ground and
took aim back down the hill. The chief pulled the pin on a grenade and screamed, “Now!” On that command everyone threw grenades down the hill. I opened up with the gun, firing into the darkness, probably hitting nothing more than rain. Fifteen sharp explosions rattled the bottom of the hill. Then silence. Only the rain could be heard. The night ended in a nervous perimeter around the top of our newfound friend, an unknown hill in a land of unknown hills.

The hot sun was more welcome than usual. The morning body search brought negative results, except for Jackson, who found a nest of snakes. One particularly aggressive snake chased him uphill for fifteen meters. It was the fastest I’d ever seen a man run uphill, especially Jackson, who wasn’t usually in a hurry to go anywhere.

For no sane reason the day started by crossing the same river for the third time. We did it just in time, too—some of us had almost dried out from the night before. After three hours’ humping, we finally reached the first of the densely forested mountains that I had gazed at and curiously dreaded since my first day on the bridge.

The temperature dropped ten degrees as we entered the cover of the massive, sheltering trees. We climbed up a conspicuously well used trail for two thousand meters, when the column stopped. The point man found an American Schwinn bicycle lying on the side of the trail. I knew they used bikes to haul supplies down the Ho Chi Minh Trail but knowing they were using American bikes bothered me.