Run Between the Raindrops (19 page)

A rattle of gunfire sounds from somewhere behind the building and develops into a nasty firefight that we can’t see. Staff Sergeant tells the tank to fire cover for us and orders everyone up to sweep on line toward the building. He’s determined to catch the NVA in a pincer and it looks like it will work as advertised. Amazed that I’m able to see much less aim wearing the gas mask, I send a burst of M-16 rounds at two NVA crawling out a window as we sweep into the station courtyard. It’s about that time that Squatty Staff Sergeant’s plan hits a serious snag.

Beneath a thick line of hedges framing the compound, the gooks have dug a series of spider holes and shooters firing from those positions blow hard into the flank of Delta One Alpha. At least three Marines are down immediately and the rest of us are scrambling for any cover we can find. Blooper Man is on a knee next to me, hugging a wall of the building and pumping rounds directly at the line of spider holes. He’s reloading when I catch a flash of movement to our left where a gook pops up out of a hole about ten meters away and aims in with an AK-47. Blooper Man sees the threat just as I shoulder the rifle and eliminate it with three quick rounds. Gas mask or not, there’s no way to miss at that range.

The ambush in the power station parking lot boils down to a grenade fight with Chicoms and M-26 frags flying all across the area. Staff Sergeant is wounded with a round in the thigh that likely broke his leg but he’s still running the fight. He orders his cut-off squad to maneuver and see if they can take the gooks in the spider holes under fire from a flank. Out of grenades and down to one full magazine of just three I stupidly carried into this thing, I hug the blockhouse wall and head to the rear looking for extra ammo.

Eyepieces of the stifling gas mask are steaming up, making it hard to see, but I spot the gook running in a crouch on the roof of the blockhouse. He’s headed for the front of the building where he can fire down onto us or drop a few of the grenades he’s got sticking out of a pouch on his hip. In a few more steps he’ll disappear behind some sort of air conditioner or ventilating unit perched up on the roof. Ripping the gas mask off so I can get a better look at the sights, I burn through the last loaded magazine. The gook goes down hard. I’m choking and wheezing in a cloud of cloying CS gas, scrambling on my hands and knees to recover the gas mask.

The cut-off squad from the rear of the compound blows into the NVA from a flank and quickly dispatches those we didn’t get in the early stages of the firefight. The Vietnamese electricians amble into the area looking around cautiously as they head for the entrance to the blockhouse. Steve finds me weeping snot and phlegm and trying to find a place upwind of the lingering gas fumes. The CS is mostly dispersed but I got a good dose when I ripped off the mask and the effects are still hurting. “You’ll need this.” He hands me a big red farmer’s bandana. Everyone flinches and freezes as the electrical generators inside the blockhouse howl loudly back into life.

Steve silently watches me swab at my face for a while and then points at the courtyard where the platoon is policing up the wounded and dead. “Looks like the power is back on…” He walks over to one of the dead Marines and strips off a bandolier of loaded M-16 magazines. He heads back in my direction and nods toward a corner of the building where Blooper Man is helping Staff Sergeant radio in a report on the action to Delta Six. He jerks a thumb at the NCO having his wounded leg treated by a Corpsman. “He says you saved his ass.”

“I shot that gook.” Pointing at the dead NVA in the nearby spider hole I suppose a case could be made for some sort of heroics but nothing of the sort was on my mind at the time. “There it is and nothing more to it.”

“I saw you get the one on the roof.” Steve retrieves his soggy bandana and stuffs it in a pocket of his flak jacket. “I also saw you run out of ammo. You’re gonna need these.” He tosses me the full bandolier and heads for the courtyard. “Better go give them a hand with the wounded.” Like it or not—and just now I’m not sure how I feel about it—we are becoming semi-useful grunts.

We help load the first platoon casualties on the tank and it clanks loudly away from the power plant, moving in reverse to keep its weapons pointed at the walls. Stacked on the tank’s engine deck like a load of squirming, bleeding cattle, wounded men will be delivered to the Battalion Aid Station that has just gotten up and running near the ARVN Compound. Esquire Dude shows up and wants to interview some of the surgeons about the casualties they have been seeing. Pointing at the retreating tank, I motion for him to follow.

Esquire Dude doesn’t notice the change in atmospherics as we near the BAS but I do. Even through the cloud of the tank’s diesel exhaust, there’s a coppery tang to the air that you can actually taste more than smell. It’s fresh blood. The source is obvious as we kick our way through a pile of bloody battle-dressings outside the ramshackle house where the battalion surgeons and corpsmen have set up their medical station. The BAS is next to what looks like a playground or school yard. There’s enough room to land medevac helicopters but apparently they are hard to come by with other commitments for the Corps’ limited amount of aviation assets. A corpsman tells me they’ve been calling for helos all day but most of the casualties have been hauled by mechanical mules back to the LCU ramp where the Navy is running Mike Boat shuttles across the Perfume River.

Wounded Marines covered in bloody bandages are sprawled in clumps outside the building waiting for treatment or evacuation. Those hardest hit are whacked out of their misery by morphine and sprawled on bloody stretchers that have seen hard use. Others less seriously hit, mostly freckled by bloody shrapnel rents in arms and legs, are trying to hide the grins that reveal how happy they are to be out of it. While Esquire Dude moves inside to interview some of the surgeons, I watch four wounded grunts in an intense parlay. Two of them are arguing with another two about something I can’t quite discern.

“Fuck it. Just fuck it.” One of the grunts stands, walks toward a pile of weapons and gear that the corpsmen have tossed outside the BAS. He picks up a weapon and a couple of bandoliers, and then angrily jerks the medevac tag off his flak jacket. Without looking back at his buddies, the grunt starts walking up the street, away from his salvation and toward the rattle of gunfire we can hear in the distance. His buddies watch for a long moment and then they remove their own tags and head for the pile of equipment. In just a few minutes, all four of them are rearmed and shuffling up the street away from the BAS. One of the wounded pauses so his buddy, limping badly on a leg that’s been riddled with shrapnel, can tighten the bandage on a bicep which is weeping blood in long cascades down his arm. Returning the favor, Wounded Arm helps Wounded Leg limp back toward the fight.

Confused and slightly embarrassed by all that, I amble toward an outbuilding where Senior Corpsman is scurrying among the wounded brought in on the tank from the fight at the power station. He’s a tough old bird, the kind of cynical FMF Corpsman that has treated everything from clap to sucking chest wounds during his time with the Marines. It’s odd and a little disconcerting to see tears streaming down his dirty, unshaven cheeks. He’s checking the seriousness of wounds, skipping the dead, and assessing treatment given by corpsmen up on the line where the wounds were incurred. When he finds a wounded man that needs immediate treatment, he silently signals for two younger medics who scramble to carry the casualty inside the BAS. As he works, Senior Corpsman is spouting what sounds like gibberish, describing wounds and required treatment like a med school professor. The younger corpsmen just nod and continue with their fetch and carry. They look nearly as shocked as the casualties they are treating.

It’s called triage, the screening and separating of those who might live and those who will surely die. Senior Corpsman is making literal life and death decisions here in this blood-spattered courtyard. He knows it, the younger corpsmen know it, and the wounded know it. So do the straphangers like me who just stand around smoking and trying not to pay attention.

Esquire Dude shows up with a camera hanging around his neck and moves to get a better shot of the wounded awaiting treatment. “Put that fucking camera away!” I cover the lens with a filthy hand and make sure to smudge the glass. “You can write whatever you want to, but these guys don’t need their picture in a magazine. They’re gonna have all the visuals they need in nightmares.” Esquire starts to bitch and then takes another look. He gets the ghoulish aspect and puts the camera back in his knapsack.

He’s standing there like he’s in shock, clearly not understanding the gravity of what he’s seeing as we watch Senior Corpsman work. There’s a need to say something, an urge to make sure he understands. “It’s called triage. There's only one doctor and not enough corpsmen to treat a shit-load of wounded like this. That Senior Corpsman has to play God. If a guy can’t be saved, if he’s too far gone, he’ll never get inside the BAS. He decides the ones who might make it and sends them in to the docs. How’d you like that shit laid on you?” Esquire Dude agrees it’s a heavy trip and wants to know if he can interview Senior Corpsman.

When Senior Corpsman takes a break to light a soggy cigarette, we approach and introduce ourselves. He’s still streaming tears and snot which he idly brushes at with a bloody hand. Esquire Dude’s first question about the responsibilities of triage blows a hole in his emotional fabric. Senior Corpsman grabs Esquire Dude by the elbow and leads him over to a stretcher that’s been placed under a shade tree, isolated in a remote corner of the area away from the rest of the wounded. A beardless grunt that looks to be about two weeks out of high school is sprawled on the stretcher covered by a muddy poncho. His mouth is open to reveal a brace of crooked teeth and he’s breathing in little short gasps. His skin is very pale and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. Senior Corpsman kneels beside the stretcher and dabs at the man’s face with an OD kerchief that he slides from around his neck.

“Look at this guy.” Senior Corpsman lifts the poncho just enough for us to see the gore it hides. “I got him shot full of morphine. He’s not suffering—but it won’t be long now.” From under the poncho a sickening, fetid odor drifts up toward us. Senior Corpsman doesn’t seem to notice but Esquire Dude gags, trying hard not to puke. The medical analysis tells us why this man never got to see the docs inside the BAS. “This is all AK damage…close range…a round entered the chest area under one arm and exited here.” He points at a jagged gash that tore off most of the grunt’s pectoral muscle. “It nicked the heart and collapsed both lungs. Second round caught him in the gut and spilled most of his intestines into the dirt.” Senior Corpsman drops the poncho and shakes his head.

“No help for him—at least not anything that would do any good. He’s about gone.” Senior Corpsman uncovers the dying man’s arm to check for a pulse. Livid and lurid against the pale, limp skin is a tattoo, a skull pierced by a bayonet. Beneath the grinning ghoul is a banner that reads
Death Before Dishonor
.

Senior Corpsman absently provides his name, rank and hometown, never taking his eyes off the dying Marine. Like so many Navy lifers, he’s from San Diego, but that was long ago and far away from Hue City where he is forced to play God for wounded grunts. As we turn to leave, he kneels back down beside the dying grunt and speaks in a quiet soothing tone to a man who likely can’t hear him.

“Go easy, my man. It’s gonna be OK. You got a ticket home. Just lay back and let go.”

As Senior Corpsman rises on shaky pins to handle another clutch of incoming wounded, the grunt on the stretcher does as he’s been told. He lays back, lets it go and dies in Hue City.

Recollections and Recriminations

Tough time today but they’ve been telling me since boot camp that the only easy day is yesterday. The only good thing to come out of what seemed like a wasted day is that a detail I’m helping to evacuate a couple of dead guys has the great good fortune to run across the abandoned shop of a neighborhood beer merchant. By nightfall, I’m settled with the grunts of Charlie Company swilling
Ba Muoi Ba
and wondering if maybe it isn’t time to see about getting out of Hue—at least for a while and just to turn in a few stories. The day was a tactical wash and I’m just sitting there, reviewing events, chasing spooks with bad beer.

Lost two faceless buddies before noon today—make that one buddy and an acquaintance, or make it one faceless acquaintance and one headless buddy. The acquaintance took an AK round right on the bridge of his nose. The buddy was headless when he went. The same gook sniper got both of them as they peeked around looking for a break in the incoming so they could pull back out of a shitstorm. The headless guy had been sticking by my side as we advanced that morning. We were old pals by Hue City standards. He was Gene Autry, the chatty grunt from Amarillo who once shared a watery trench with me on the southside.

He got his dumb ass transferred when the first battalion policed up able bodies as reinforcements for the move on the northside. Amarillo was now minus one of its favorite sons and I was brooding because of all the men I’d seen killed in Hue, I happened to know this one’s name and a good bit of his life story. When our push on the walls was stopped cold in mid-morning, he got nailed and I helped drag him to the rear. It was pointless, but at least it got me out of the line of fire for a while.

Before he got his head shot off his shoulders, Gene Autry had been pissing and moaning about the shitty weather in Hue. We were blanketed by a cloying layer of clouds that pissed rain and ushered in cold winds that blew over the walls surrounding our combat zone. There has been an increase in air strikes and heavy-duty rounds from the ships offshore, reluctantly authorized by the rear-echelon map mavens who cringe at the thought of damaging anything important to Vietnamese cultural identity. That’s not as helpful as it could be on shitty weather days, which seem to be most of the days in Hue.

So that morning, Charlie Company advanced without any support bigger or harder hitting than our own mortars. We were supposed to pull some kind of restricted flanking maneuver that would get us up on the walls and give us a better angle on the gooks scurrying through the area like cockroaches. NVA troops, operating in high-speed squads, crawled around everywhere inside the Citadel like phantoms, reoccupying buildings previously cleared, and sniping at us from the rear and flanks. The walls were pivotal to continued advances. They were also shot through with gooks dug in like maggots in a rotting tree stump.