The Last Road Home (23 page)

C
HAPTER
48

I
n the predawn dark the next morning, we sat eating canned peaches and drinking c-rat coffee. I pulled out a pack of smokes.

“Don't light that.”

“Why?”

Snake reached over and clipped it from my mouth. “Charlie will sniff an American cigarette from half a mile, same with aftershave or smelly soap. You need to smell like the ground, the mud, and the shit water in the paddies. These boys are at home in the jungle, know what's supposed to be here and what ain't, and if you want to live you got to learn the same way.”

We spent most of that day practice shooting until my shoulder was sore. I started to feel like the rifle was an extension of my arm. In the afternoon Snake took me on a walk across the valley and along a small creek that threaded between the hills. He taught me the telltale signs of booby traps. We went over hand signs for when we would be “creeping” as he called it, things like cupping a hand to your ear if you heard voices or making a circle over your eye if you could see a trip wire, the silent language of a sniper.

This world suited me, my mind recognizing it as a true place I could be invisible and watch the world. I remembered the feeling from my time in Grandma's woods. This was where I was supposed to be.

We lay back at camp and watched the stars light up like a million little lamps coming on at once. Snake took off his boonie hat and rubbed his head. I'd noticed he had a good amount of gray in his “high and tight” cut. “How long you been in the corps?”

“This is my twentieth year. Went in right after the big war and learned the trade in Korea.”

“How was that? Compared to this, I mean.”

“Cold.” Fighter jets screamed to the east of us, followed by several giant fireballs of napalm. We watched until it died down. “The ground froze so hard you couldn't dig a hole to hide in; so cold you couldn't feel your fingers to adjust your sights. We killed all we could, but the Chinks kept coming.” He stretched his head back and rubbed his neck. “They'd start screaming, and charge at you like a pack of rabid dogs. At times it got down to hand-to-hand, using rifle butts and shovels. I was about your age then. Never thought I'd live to be this age. I saw boys do stuff no man should be capable of.” Snake's voice struggled some on that last part. He looked at me. “That's all war is, Junebug: survival. It ain't about flag and country. Hell, fifty years from now, nobody will give a shit you were even here.” He got quiet. “We didn't win that one and we ain't going to win this one.” He pulled his boonie hat over his eyes and lay down; the talking was over.

* * *

Snake shook me out of my sleep. The moon had journeyed beyond the mountains, but the sun wasn't up yet. “Let's go put some meat on the ground.”

Without conversation, we moved back across the valley and onto the hill we worked yesterday. This morning, Snake walked with a purpose, heading due north. By the time daylight began to peep over the horizon, we had crossed the top and were looking down on scrub brush and more craters. Across the way was another small village. We circled toward it, but stayed high enough to move among the heavy foliage. We pushed through five-foot-high, brownish yellow elephant grass that had blades sharp enough to cut skin. Snake came across a worn foot track, and pointed it out. We backed ourselves higher up the side of the hill to have a better view.

“What are we doing?” I whispered.

“Gooks are like fish, you have a better chance of catching them early or late. Let's see what might be stirring out of that ville. You see that big area of flat ground out there about two miles?”

I could just make it out. “Yeah.”

“That's North Vietnam.” Snake swept his 7x30 binoculars from the village northward. “Maybe we can find you something to do.”

The top rim of a red sun edged into the sky to our right, and the warm light made my eyes want to close. Snake tapped my shoulder and handed me the glasses. “He's headed from the last hootch, the one closest to us.”

I located the round straw hat bobbing up and down. He was dressed in a black shirt, and pants rolled up to his knees.

“Picture football fields in your mind, and tell me how far you think he is.”

I began to flip goalposts. I got to four and the man kept coming toward us. “Figure he's around four hundred yards and closing.”

“Keep watching. When you think he's about two fifty, he's yours.”

My palms were damp as I pulled the Remington to my shoulder. When the man crossed the goalposts at three hundred, I no longer needed the binoculars. I sighted him in the scope, checked the grass tops for wind, and adjusted. He looked down as he walked, making it hard to see the face below the hat. Gently, I put pressure on the trigger, let my breath out, and waited for the next heartbeat to end. At that moment, he lifted his head and looked right at me. I could see his black eyes staring, like he knew what was coming but couldn't turn away. I squeezed. His face exploded. He pitched backward. I couldn't move the scope off him, fascinated by the sight. The spit in my mouth got a strange sweet taste.

Snake slapped the back of my head. “Good job. Let's go. Now!”

We headed back almost in a trot. Snake didn't take the trail to the valley, instead moving south by west. I was giddy. This was not at all like killing Twin; this was doing my duty, no need for remorse.

It took all day to get back to the firebase. We humped through the guard post with enough light left so they could identify us. Our house had a new hole in the ground beside the top, and a bunch of our sandbags were busted open. “Guess we missed the fun last night,” said Snake. The inside wasn't damaged, just a little extra pile of dirt at the bottom of the ladder. We dropped our packs and stretched out on the bunks.

“I was thinking about something, Snake.”

“Not a good idea, but I'll bite. What?”

I put my feet on the floor and sat up. “I didn't see that gook carrying a weapon.”

He looked over at me with a grin on his face. “Yeah, I noticed that. Must have been a collaborator. Still felt good, didn't it?”

I turned my face to the ceiling. It hadn't been like killing Twin or Lightning; they had been trying to hurt me. Maybe I'd just killed some poor farmer who happened to be in the wrong place. I couldn't get those eyes out of my head.

* * *

I'd been on the hill two months when a resupply chopper came in loaded down with food, ammo, and mail. There was a letter from Fancy. I put it to my nose and inhaled, then slid my fingernail under the flap to slowly ease it open. It was like a piece of candy not meant to be chewed, but rolled on your tongue to make the sweetness last. I pulled out the white paper.

I pictured Fancy's smile. It made me happy she might get to visit places she'd always dreamed of. I sat in the bunker and wrote a three-page letter, telling her Vietnam was a very strange place. I didn't tell her what I was doing, just that it was hot, smelled awful, and the story about having shit detail. When I licked the seal on the envelope, sadness settled over me. It felt like Fancy and me were on two different planets. Life pulled the plug on us, and I had no idea if we could ever reconnect it. I encouraged her to go with the lady to France, and if she moved on somewhere else, to go there too.

C
HAPTER
49

S
nake and I started to work missions regularly, in the bush for a few days and back to recoup for a couple. We would set up in places Snake knew should have traffic crossing from the north. He taught me how to read grids on a map and how to call in artillery. It wasn't unusual to come across big groups of NVA troops, too big for the two of us to take on, so we'd plot the position and call in the heavy guns. After passing on the coordinates, we'd ask them to “fire for effect,” then adjust and watch the results. When the soldiers scattered, we'd usually manage to catch a couple away from the main force and pop them. Other times we worked with the long-range reconnaissance boys, getting out ahead of them and scouting, which is where the “scout sniper” name came from. Generally we had six or seven days in the bush on those missions.

Snake and I were drinking coffee at the firebase one morning after working along the border three days. He looked over his canteen cup. “Son, you're about as natural at this job as I've ever seen.”

That was rare praise coming from him. “Why you say that?”

“You got that ability to adapt to circumstances without getting rattled. That's a good trait for a shooter, and not a bad way to live your life. Most cherries out here in the jungle in the dark are pissing-in-their-pants scared. You like this shit.”

I poured the rest of the bitter, strong coffee over the dirt and lit a smoke. The memory of standing outside Mr. Wilson's window with my finger on the trigger came to mind. “Shit, Snake, I think I've been training for this all my life.”

* * *

Monsoon season started in late October, and rain came daily, cold rain that made “creeping” miserable. It was almost impossible to see much with clouds and no moon. We started using a small starlight scope, what snipers called the “green eye,” for seeing in the dark.

The week before Thanksgiving, the recon captain sent Snake and me to work around Con Thien, a place that nudged the DMZ. Marines called it “The Hill of Angels” because so many were getting killed in the place. We walked four days to get there and scout the situation.

The open ground around Con Thien looked like a red, muddy mess. The North Vietnamese desperately wanted to take out that base and the one at Gio Linh so they'd have a free run south. Marine camps at Con Thien, Gio Linh, Dong Ha, and Cam Lo made up Leatherneck Square, and their job was to block the movement. There was a lot of killing going on in that square. The NVA were getting a lesson on what a crowd of mean-ass marines were capable of.

Due to the lousy weather and heavy clouds, dark came early. We eased down closer and north of the marine outpost. I was nose to ass with Snake because it was black as gunpowder moving along a footpath through the middle of the elephant grass. Suddenly Snake's right hand shot out behind and hit me in the face. I stopped. He reached until I gave him my hand, then inched me forward. He squeezed me to stop. I didn't move my feet but lifted up to get my head next to his. He whispered into my ear. “Something's caught on my boot.” He moved my hand down his right leg. “Use your fingertips and see if you can touch it, but whatever you do, don't pull.”

I did as he said. I didn't feel anything at first, but as I came back up the laces, very gently easing along, I felt the wire. “Got it.”

“I want you to lift it gently with your finger, just enough so I can back my foot out. Can you do that, Junebug?”

I let out my breath to keep my hands from shaking. “I'll try.”

Snake had the balls to snicker. “If it doesn't work, I'll see you in hell.”

I held the wire steady as he slowly inched his boot backward. “Doing good, son. Just a bit more.” He whispered. “Relax and you'll be fine.” The pressure on the wire eased when his boot came clear. He moved away and lay back in the grass. “God almighty. If you smell anything, don't worry, it's just the shit in my britches.”

I held the wire with my finger, not knowing if I could let go. “What now?”

“Stay right here while I get about a hundred yards. When I yell, you run like a jackass in a rodeo.”

I started to panic. “You son of a bitch, you're going to leave me here!”

Snake bent over on his knees, holding his stomach with one hand and stifling his mouth with the other.

“Goddammit, Snake, this ain't funny.”

He finally was able to quit laughing. “Just ease your finger down until you feel it stop. And hurry up, we got stuff to do.”

I relaxed the wire little by little until I felt space between my finger and the wire. As Snake rose to his feet, I kicked him right in the ass.

We moved off the path and worked farther toward the base. At daylight, we could see the NVA dug in beyond Con Thien. They had trenches full of soldiers facing the marines. “Damn,” said Snake, “got to be battalion strength. They want this place bad.”

We continued to circle, trying to find a place closer to the NVA but not in a crossfire spot between them and the marines. Finally, we decided on a giant deserted ant mound; it offered us cover before the cleared open space around the fire zone. Snake moved the glasses slowly along where the NVA were grouped.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “They're setting up a recoilless. Damn thing must be an antique, but it'll blow some serious holes in shit.” He handed me the glasses to look.

“What can we do?”

“I want you to plot that grid and call anybody you can raise on the radio who can throw some heavy stuff in there.”

I got a call out, and we waited for the white phosphorus target shell to arrive. It landed long and I adjusted with the artillery boys. The next one landed right in the middle of them.

“That did it. They're scrambling, trying to move the recoilless,” said Snake. “How far you guess that thing is?”

I looked again. “I'm guessing about seven hundred yards.”

“About what I think too. You keep watching that bastard on the saddle. Let's see if I can discourage them a little.” Snake focused his scope. I watched through the binoculars. The NVA soldier directing the towing of the big gun never heard the shot before it tore into his jaw and his head snapped sideways.

“You got him. Hell of a shot, Snake, hell of a shot.”

“Thanks, Junebug. Tell them boys on the radio to blow their asses to hell. Let's see how many we can get before we got to go.” We chambered round after round, taking our time as the artillery poured in, and NVA scattered away from the big gun. By the time they turned their attention our way, seven lay on the ground. It was time for us to get out of Dodge.