Guns Up! (31 page)

The Phantoms banked back around and napalmed the opposite side. I could hear the sucking explosions, but I didn’t turn. Black smoke fogged over the perimeter. A penetrating odor like burning gasoline filled my lungs until I coughed.

The firing stopped. Only the crackling sound of dried leaves and trees burning remained. A horrible scream came from the CP, the kind of scream you can feel in your spine. Still, no one looked back.

Ten minutes later a voice from the CP called out, “Medevac coming in!”

An old H-34D drifted high over the burning treetops until it hovered directly above the blazing wreckage in the center of the perimeter. It dropped quickly, landing twenty meters from the CH-46. I clutched the M60, waiting for the cracks of AK fire. It drew no enemy fire. I knew it was over. Three Huey gunships circled the perimeter, ready to give cover to the medevac. Two minutes later the medevac lifted off. Still no enemy fire. I felt as though I’d stepped out of a drunken nightmare. I puked again. My mouth tasted dry with whiskey.

“Welcome home, John!”

I turned to see Sam standing behind me. His pitted face and rotten teeth looked as ugly as ever, but I was glad to see him, glad he wasn’t dead.

“How you been, Sam?” A thick cloud of black smoke covered us just as I spoke. It smelled like burning plastic. I tried to spit it out, but the taste of carbon stuck to my taste buds.

“Chan told us you guys had a great time in the hospital.” Sam spit a shot of tobacco to his left and knelt down on one knee, leaning slightly on his M79. “Did you hear about Swift Eagle?”

“No.”

“I think his old man died. He can go home to take care
of his mom if he wants, or at least go back for the funeral or whatever it is that Indians do.”

My stomach tightened. Swift Eagle! I couldn’t imagine being out here without him. “When’s he going?” I suddenly wished more than ever that my wound had sent me home.

“He ain’t! That crazy Indian loves it out here, I guess.”

“You’re kidding!” I said, selfishly pleased. If anyone deserved to go home, he sure did.

“Saddle up! Second Platoon! Saddle Up!” Gunny shouted from CP. A minute later another CH-46 floated through the smoke to the center of the perimeter, dropped off supplies, and took off without wasting a second. As Second Platoon filed by, Corporal James, Swift Eagle, Gunny, and Lieutenant Campbell tossed each man his share of food and ammo. Twenty minutes later we found ourselves marching north through the still-smoldering trees and brush. Everything looked black and charred, even the dirt. I couldn’t believe I was humping in the bush again. I felt depressed. We marched by the body of a dead NVA. He didn’t look burned at all. His eyes and mouth were wide open, like he’d been hit by an electric shock.

“Napalm,” Chan mumbled behind me.

“Sucked the air right out of him, didn’t it?” I said. “I wonder why we aren’t getting a body count?”

“Third Platoon is staying for that.” Chan nudged me with his rifle. “Look at that.” I turned to see what he was looking at. Twenty meters to our right a large, charred, four-legged animal leaned stiffly against a smoking tree trunk. “It isn’t a water buffalo.”

“Is it a tiger?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

Fifty yards farther we left the burnt area. The point man hacked a trail through the thick brush with a machete. I could feel the salt, grit, and sand on the back of my neck. I yearned for the cleanliness of the hospital.
Soon I’d smell like everybody else again. Just as well, I thought. The gnats seemed to like me a little more than usual. Probably not used to anything clean. Clean, what a laugh. I hadn’t had a bath in three days. Back in the world, I used to take a couple of showers a day.

We broke through the thick brush and into a long valley of tall elephant grass.

“Sure miss ol’ Smilin’ Jackson,” I said with a quick glance back at Chan.

“Yes. Me too.”

“I was thinking about him the other day. You know he never led us into one single ambush,” I said.

“He’s probably back home now. That character was supposed to write us.”

“It’s funny how nobody ever writes back once they get back to the world.”

“Paunchy wrote us.”

“Really!” I said. I looked back at Chan. “He’s alive?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you about it when we set in.”

I felt like I’d just gotten my second wind. I had prayed for Sanchez to make it, but I never thought he would. He just looked too pale when we put him on that medevac. I wasn’t sure he’d even want to live without his legs. I knew I wouldn’t.

Three hours later dusk crept over the landscape.

We crossed an overgrown rice paddy field, then followed a well-used trail that led past a sparsely wooded area. Our tiny column turned left into the woods for about twenty meters. We circled into a perimeter. A large, strong hand grabbed me by the arm. I turned to see Swift Eagle leading me back toward the trail.

“This edge of the perimeter will cover the trail,” he whispered. He pointed Chan and me to a spot behind a thicket five meters away. Then he patted me on the helmet. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Thanks, Chief,” I said. He turned, walked to the CP
in the center of the perimeter, and bent down on one knee beside Lieutenant Campbell.

“Darn!” Chan whispered.

“What?”

“Watch it. This bush is full of thorns.”

I moved two rocks out of the way, leaned back, and tried to make myself comfortable. “I’d almost forgotten just how miserable it is to sleep in the dirt.”

“The hospital bed is but a faded memory,” Chan said.

“What about Sanchez’s letter?”

“It was truly inspiring. He’s in the Philadelphia Naval Hospital.”

“How’s he getting along? Did he say anything about his legs?” I asked.

“He’s taking it like a Marine. I almost cried when I read that letter to the chief’s squad. He said he can do just about everything except swim with his new legs.”

“God, that’s great—” Chan slapped his hand over my mouth as he ducked lower behind the thicket. He stared toward the trail. I peeked around the bush. There, five meters away, a pith helmet silhouetted against a light gray sky moved cautiously along the trail. I strained to see the shadowy figure more clearly. The scent of fish filled the air as he plodded by. I wanted to fire, but I knew that would be stupid. Sixty seconds passed. Total silence.

Another pith helmet. This one moving fast. Not quite running, but walking fast. Another helmet. Then another silhouetted against the darkening sky, along with the sound of many sandals and the rustle of canvas web gear. The clank of a canteen. Men breathing hard from a long, fast march. They filed by rapidly. My mouth felt too dry to swallow. I aimed the gun at the trail through the thinnest part of the thicket. They continued filing by. I tried counting. Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine, seventy. They kept rushing by. Thank God I didn’t open up! This might be a whole battalion.

“Don’t fire,” Chan whispered, squeezing the blood out of my arm with his grip. I wanted to tell him I had no intention of firing, but my mouth felt too dry to whisper. Salty sweat began dripping into my eyes. They burned.

Then the last pair of Ho Chi Minh sandals hustled away. Quiet. I looked at Chan. “Maybe we should have opened up.”

“No way!”

“Alpha one. Alpha one.…This is Alpha two.…Over.” Sudsy’s voice was low but clearly heard around the perimeter.

“Alpha one, we need a fire mission at YC 8485NINER4. Reinforced company of NVA regulars. Do you copy?”

“YC 8,4,8,5, NINER, 4. We copy Alpha two.”

“Alpha two, Alpha two … this is Fire Base Alpha preparing to fire white-peter round.”

“Fire Base Alpha … Alpha two. We copy. Fire when ready.”

“Firing smoke.”

“Here comes a spotter round,” I mumbled. “Chan.”

“Yeah,” he whispered.

“You wouldn’t believe these guys at Fire Base Alpha. They just sit around and get loaded.”

The faint whistle of a faraway artillery round getting closer brought us up to our knees, straining to see where it would land. The white-phosphorus round would send up a mushroom cloud of white smoke. From there the explosive rounds would be zeroed in on the target. The whistle grew louder. Louder. “That’s too close!” Chan said. The whistle got shrill.

“Get down!” a voice from the CP shouted. A low, muffled explosion erupted from the CP. I looked back as a huge mushroom cloud of thick white smoke billowed high into the night air directly over the perimeter. Agonizing screams from the CP filled the air. Three small fires lit up the CP. Men scrambled around. I could see someone rolling in the dirt, his back afire, screaming. The
sulphurous-smelling smoke spread over the area like a white fog.

“Alpha one, Alpha one, this is Alpha two, over!” Sudsy’s words ran together in his excitement.

“Alpha two, this is Alpha one, over.”

“Alpha one, that spotter round hit the center of our perimeter! Lieutenant’s been hit, he’s burned, we need a medevac! Tell those idiots, cease fire! Repeat! Cease fire! Tell Fire Base Alpha they are hitting Marines! Repeat, Marines!”

The chopper lifted off grudgingly, coming back to earth once, then twice, before finally lumbering into the hot blue sky. Chan strolled back to our position. His face looked tired.

“How is he?” I asked, gulping down a mouth full of Halazone water.

“He’ll be okay.” Chan fingered the fifteen straight black hairs that he fancied made a mustache. “He has some pretty bad burns though. He might go home.” He slumped down beside me, leaned back, and pulled his helmet over his eyes.

I handed him the canteen with a nudge. “How come that chopper had so much trouble getting off?”

“It had six stiffs on board.”

“From Alpha?”

“No. Delta Company really hit it last night. The door gunner said they made contact with a battalion.”

“Battalion! What are we doing out here running around in six-man squads while the gooks send in fresh battalions?”

“Interesting question.” Chan sat up and pushed his helmet back. “It’s obvious, actually. They don’t want public opinion down on them for sending any more troops over. They’re trying to fight divisions of NVA with regiments of Marines.” He leaned back, looking pleased, as if he’d just won a debate.

“They got to be running out of people soon. We’re killin’ these suckers at ten to one.”

“They’ll send in the women and children first.”

“Heard any more about the peace talks?” I asked.

“Yes. They can’t decide what shape the table should be.”

Just then Striker jogged over to us. He dropped to one knee beside Chan.

“We got a new lieutenant,” he said.

“I hope he’s not some gung-ho moron,” I said. “What’s his name?”

“Lampe,” Striker answered. He looked at Chan. “He’s got a cross on, painted black.”

“Is that right?”

“Yeah. Does that mean he’s a Christian?”

Chan looked up, then looked at me. His eyebrows went up, as if Striker had struck a chord.

“No. Not necessarily.” He pulled a can of beef and rocks out of his pack, grimaced, and shoved it back in.

“What’s he got it on for?” Striker asked.

Chan stopped searching his pack and gave Striker a fixed stare. “Are you really interested, or are you feeding me a line of bull?”

Striker looked around nonchalantly, tilted his head back, then shrugged his shoulders, “Yeah. Sorta.” He picked a blade of grass and chewed on it nervously. “How do you do it? I mean, what do you do if you want to be one? Put it in writing or something?”

Chan pulled a piece of writing paper out of his pack. He looked at me. “Let me have our pen.” I pulled our battered Bic out of a side pocket in my NVA pack and handed it to him. “You got the Gideon they gave you?”

“No. I threw it away,” Striker mumbled.

“Here.” Chan handed him his tiny Gideon. “Look up these verses.” Chan spoke as he wrote. “Look those up and we’ll talk about it.” Chan handed him the paper. Striker snatched it and shoved it into his breast pocket as if he didn’t want anyone to see.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head as if he were nervous. “Okay.”

“Striker,” I said. He turned back. “Who’s the dude who rates camouflage?”

“He’s a forward observer. Joe Elbon. An old buddy of mine from ITR. Calls in the big stuff.” He turned and walked back to his position. For the first time since I’d met him, Striker didn’t seem like such a jerk.

The hump started again, through jungle, fields, hills, and ravines.

I wondered about our new lieutenant. It felt as if he had decided to take a tour of the countryside with no specific direction in mind. I pitied the poor suckers with Columbus, sailing and sailing for the end of the earth.

We climbed up an embankment so steep that huge ancient oak trees lay about, fallen because their roots could no longer take the angle. We reached the top and worked our way down the other side, which slid into a wide rocky ravine. Now I could see the point man. It was Striker. I missed Jackson. The winding ravine looked like a dried up riverbed, but during the monsoon anything can be a river. Striker disappeared around a bend up ahead, then he darted back again and flattened against a rock wall. He waved his hand to get down. The small column dropped like dominoes to one knee. Heads began to turn and whisper. I already knew.

“Guns up!”

“Guns up!”

We were up and moving forward before the word reached us. I unwrapped the fifty-round rip belt from the stock as I ran forward.

Lieutenant Lampe knelt beside Striker and Sudsy. I dropped to one knee in front of them. Chan came in beside me. I removed my helmet and peeked around the bend. A network of dirt bunkers stretched out for twenty-five yards at the mouth of the ravine. Brush was scattered about to camouflage the bunker system from
the air. Three grass huts sat huddled together in a group of tall trees just beyond the bunkers. At least twenty NVA soldiers milled about near the grass hootches. I could see many more moving deeper in the trees and bush behind the hootches. To the right, down a grassy slope was a small, fast-moving river. A long line of small wooden sampans were tied to the water’s edge. They banged against one another as the swift current rushed toward us. I pulled my head back and took a long worried breath.