CHAPTER ONE
Listen People To A Story Of
Long Ago
His pup
tent mate, Dan Purdy, was one of those guys who desperately needed that first
cup of coffee and that cigarette first off in the morning.
“Hey Rod
Man," came forth along with a playful punch to the shoulder as the man sat
up and began lacing his boots.
"Another
day another dollar man.”
He’d been half awake for half an hour anyway.
And he’d acquired the habit of resting in a semi-conscious state, like all the
other grunts in company C.
A
momentary thought as to all the names he’d answered to in his twenty—two
years... Son, “Hey "wimp" wanna play ball?" and “here
comes" Mr. Rich kid".
It had
been easy for him to accept “Rod Man.”
Every man had a “handle” of some sort in this hellish country.
He
listened...? No steady patter on the poncho hooch meant that at least they’d
start the day dry.
His mind
still toying with handles, he recalled asking his squad leader Corporal Holmes
why everyone had a special handle.
Plainly
the man had stated “Easier to put what’s left of “Root Hog Smith” into one of
them green bags than Smith, James L.”
And the
man was probably correct about that.
He slipped
on his boots and joined Purdy who had had his GI instant coffee heating over a
heating tab and with his free hand was holding that ever present cancer
stick... Glad he’d never acquired the habit, he moved forward and began to
prepare his o so delicious c rat can of Ham & Eggs.
Purdy
turned. “Hot damn! The man exclaimed, pointing, and his reacting overturning
his coffee!
“Hot damn
man!”
Purdy’ s
call and point to his cheek caused him to overturn his Ham & Eggs and
instantly shoot a hand to his cheek.
It
was drawn back covered with his own scarlet life fluid.
Another swat
sent the viperous creature to the ground Pappa’s boot ground it into
fertilizer.
Leech! He had one morning seen a hooch—mate awaken with one
of the ghastly, swollen black creatures on an eyelid...
During the day you could watch the bastards wiggling their
way toward any body heat.
When you stopped, they caught up and you were at their
mercy.
Just
another pleasantry of this God forsaken country, he thought. Heat that broils a
man’s brain, monsoon that kept you thoroughly soaked through and through,
mosquitoes the size of small planes, and a snake whose bite would stop your
heart before you could cry out. But truly the worst of the worst, the ungodly
carnage inflicted on man, by man.
Remembrance
of the BONG SON RIDGE flashed through his mind, with it a deep chill shooting
down his spine!
Twelve
killed from his own platoon.
All for
worthless hilltops they would abandon to the enemy some four days later when
they set out in search of another hill...
And just the day before the third platoon’s point man struck
down by an enemy sniper, never seen, never found.
He’d
helped to carry the guy to the Medivac and would never forget the sheer panic
in the guy's eyes as he felt his very being slipping away forever.
Why? Why?
For what?
Some domino theory, freeing a people who seemingly simply wished to be left
alone?
So many
questions, too few rational answers.
Things
still as vague as reading the newspaper accounts when he was back at Bentley
He broke
his train of thought and concentrated on what may be just to either side or
behind the foliage of those massive mahoganies up head, which form the triple
canopy under which life or death would be played out in a series of gray
shadows.
He chastised himself. Student deferment, a caring family, and
Shelby, dear Shelby. He hadn’t thought of her for days now, hadn’t thought of
beautiful, wonderful Shelby the woman he loved and if all went well, would return to and marry
in nine months.
He shook
that pleasant thought aside too and focused on what lay ahead.
The
radio crackled. It was Sparky Hammond, the Old Man’s rto “RODMAN”, "Sparky
over”, "Six wants your five on the
horn, SAP.”
He passed
word up the line for Corporal David C. (NO SWEAT Holmes, his squads squad
leader and watched the short, former farm boy make his way back to his
position.
Now Corporal David C. (NO SWEAT) Holmes was a real piece of
work: About his own age and like himself a volunteer, was from Iowa. Dubuque,
Des Moines, or someplace like that.
0l’ NO SWEAT was certainly no intellectual, but the guy was
a regular Daniel Boone out here in the boonies.
Guess that was why he’d risen to Corporal so quickly?
Uncle Sam had found himself what was known as a “lifer” in
NO SWEAT and the guy, often as not let the meager authority bestowed on him go
to his head and on occasion strutted about like a martinet. Always calm and
cool though, not matter how heavy the shit they were in, it was plain to see
how he had acquired the handle.
He couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather be stuck here with
except maybe First Sergeant Ferris.
“What’ s
up?”
CO is on
the horn for you.’
NO SWEAT
wiped the perspiration from his face with the regulation OD bandana, lit up a
Camel, took a deep drag, and then took the handset.
“Sparky”
“Lead Five over”
He turned away, but could not of course help but hear the
conversation:
“Lead Five”
“Six”
“What the hell is going on
up there?” “You remember the purpose of point men and flankers?”
Christ I
can see your flanker from my location.”
“I want
those troops out there a full thirty meters from the main body.” “You
understand?”
He peered
through the haze to the East and caught a grinning Billy Snyder not forty feet
out in the bush.
“Roger
Six” “Lead Five out” -
A quick
glance at NO SWEAT revealed a mixture of anxiousness and anger. The man dropped
the butt, which by now had burnt to nothing and snuffed it out with his thumb
and forefinger.
Then in
one motion retrieved a rock from the ground, tossed it a Snyder, and motioned
for him to move farther out.
The
Corporal mumbled something non-discernable, actually shook for a moment, then moved back
up the line.
Twenty minutes later, a glance to the East revealed Billy
Snyder’s helmet bobbing along no farther out than before...
He could understand though. Sometimes when you were out
there you came to feel so isolated and thirty meters came to seem like thirty
miles. Everyone had heard the horror stories of “Charlie” slipping in an
cutting a man’s throat within spitting distance of the main body and of his
common practice of cutting of a small unit from the main body and pinning the
larger down until they have dispensed the smaller.
Still
though, over here everyone depended on the other to do his job.
The parallel finger of the hill to the East was elevated
more than the one they were traversing.
He hadn’t
caught sight of Snyder’s bobbing helmet for a while.
Poor devil was
likely moving along the steep slope and having to do his best to keep from
sliding down the side. Getting hotter and hotter and the sun must be
approaching a near
overhead position. But few rays filter through a triple canopy.
The drudgery
of the march? March - march and the humidity were conducive to sending a
man’s thoughts to wandering.
Strangely, his mind was focusing on an old episode of The
Twilight Zone entitled “Faces” in which a Mafia hit man’s work finally caught
with him in the form of a nightmare in which the faceless souls of the people
he’d killed gathered to haunt him.
First
thing he knew his thoughts became an unfinished taunting ditty. “And he flew
half way across the world to kill a man he didn’t even know” And the first
thing he knew, he was actually walking to the beat of the melodious concept,
which soared in his very being.
He’d never before thought of being anything but the hero,
insuring an oppressed people ...The good guy in the white hat...
The new prospective churned in his stomach
Or perhaps it was merely those darned c rat ham & eggs.
Vines
pulled at his ankles as he trudged through the undergrowth covering the rocky
finger, which was becoming steeper and steeper.
"Br a
a t" “Br a a t”
The bark of a thirty-caliber machine gun sent him to the
ground with force enough as to take his breath from him.
Dirt and splinters flew as hot lead slammed into the massive
teak tree a few feet away!
The familiar “whump” of grenades, curses, and return fire.
His mind
flashed BONG SON RIDGE like the “Do not walk signal" at the pedestrian
walkway at the intersection.
He squirmed from the rucksack and crawled forward to a
position behind a piece of deadfall- and fired a full clip at the phantom enemy
until a voiced drifted to him from training range back at Fort Benning,
Georgia...
“Fire from
around your cover boy!” "Not from
over it!"
He inched
forward to the end of the log.
He wiped
the perspiration from his eye, slammed another magazine into his rifle, and
searched for any sign of the invisible enemy.
The
ANPRC-10 (Army/Navy Portable Radio Component) radio on his rucksack was
crackling.
A glance
to the rear caught sight of the headquarters group.
Captain
screaming, “Anybody spot that son a bitch?" Over the radio and Sparky down
on one knee, scrapping dirt with both hands in an attempt to make a covering
hole! First Sergeant Ferris is in a full upright position yelling and motioning
for the platoons to come on line.
Jez, did
the man think hot lead was going to bounce off him?
The fearless
NCO began firing tracer rounds towards a clump of bushes near the crest of the
hill.
The enemy
gunner’s rounds were tearing up the area.
Target
position defined now; return fire began concentrating on the bush.
Still on
his feet, I expected the man to be brought down at any moment, right before my
eyes.
It
appeared as if he was now motioning emphatically to NO SWEAT, then through a
series of swift drop and runs, the plowboy made it to the senior non-com and
the two exchanged words. The Corporal
repeated his drop run maneuver back to the squad.
"Move
out," he bellowed followed by a “Follow Me” before dashing helter-skelter
for the Western ravine.
After two
short bursts from baby, AT charged after him followed by a wild-eyed Paticsi.
The
enemy’s fire intensified!
His
muscles tensing, he readied himself.
Purdy gave
him a wink then began to rise.
A burst of
fire ripped into him!
Husband and father from
Somerset Kentucky, Pappa Purdy was going home in a plastic bag.
He
paused...
The others
had reached the ravine and the cover it afforded.
He scraped
bits of Poppa from his arm, drew in a deep breath, and then scurried crab like
on all fours to cover the distance to the others. At a dead run now, he could sense that S.O.B. on the gun getting
ready to unload again.
A super
effort would put him into the ravine and out of the danger zone.
That final
surge — hooking his toe on that damn root!
He began
gathering himself, insuring that all parts were in working order while spitting
pieces of red clay!
A weird thought.
"Way to go klutz, break your neck an save Ol’ “Charlie” the expense of a
bullet...
From a few
feet away the kid watched— still wild eyed but the makings of a grin making
it's way across his face.
No doubt
he had looked ridiculous.
Farther up ahead, the Big
Guy had made his way up to the rim and short bursts from baby in the general
direction of the enemy. (“Baby” would
most likely be the squad’s M-60 machine gun, capable of firing 550 rounds of
7.62 ammunition per minute.)
He wanted
to shout out "Don't do that” “You’ll show the bastard where we are”, but
remained mute and in fact inched his way up to get his own little peek: The
third platoon was moving cautiously forward now... The Captain and the
artillery forward observer, Lieutenant McCurdy, had the 105 howitzers cranked
up now and the heavy "whumps" were systematically being worked along
the crest.
“Move it
now”
N0 SWEAT
was motioning them deeper into the bowels of he ravine. The lemmings followed
into the dense vegetation.
AT glanced
back, a quizzical look on the shiny black face.
The kid
started to mumble ‘Whaa” and was cut short by a terse glance from the Corporal.
Were they
moving to come around the enemy? Or perhaps to set up an ambush to catch him
when he broke contact?
They sure
seemed to he moving away from the action?
And moving
farther and farther from the rest of the Company.
Thoughts
of the being cut off horror stories began to flitter about in his mind...
A 105
howitzer round whistled overhead. . Once he hoped the
Outfit was
kinda keeping track where they were.
The radio
was alive again: The two platoons were steadily moving to the crest and to the
East from the sound of things. Only sporadic firing now.
They
trudged slowly, steadily, on. Then another thirty to forty minutes and the plowboy
Corporal halted, listened, and looked carefully about, then motioned for AT to
climb to the Western rim. He followed, hesitated a moment, then urged himself
and the kid to move on up.
A confused
Paticsi moved up, nearly fell back, and managed to send a small avalanche of
dirt squarely on him.
Coughing
and spitting, a few feet from the top a massive black forearm appeared and
pulled him on up.
“Lord!” a
volley scream overhead, impacting in a lush valley to the Northwest...
More
questions, more concerns, but not an explanatory word from their gallant
leader.
The
fight seemed far from over and they were moving away from it.
Across
another ridge and below, a sea of green stretched for as far as he could see...
a memory of how he would often drive over to The Cape on weekends. How he would
find a different type of sea, so cool and soothing. Just what he needed to
soothe his troubled soul?
"Get up here AT" "I want a single file path on a compass
heading of two hundred —forty three degrees.”
He could
not but help but look at his friend in a long ago manner as the gentle giant
responded without question, retrieving his machete and swinging it in a swath
such as the boss had directed. Unquestioning, "Just pick that cotton like
the boss man says.
And he was
struck with guilt at the very thought.
Now he was
used to humping with a twelve-pound radio on his back, but the pace Corporal
corn-shucker was setting was pushing him to his limit.
The little marionette pushed
them relentlessly over yet another ridge and through yet another valley.
This way,
that, all sense of perspective was being lost.
Surely it
must be well past mid-day...?
There were
no longer any sounds of battle...?
Finally, a
short reprieve as the man motioned a take five.
He fumbled
about in his ruck and came up with a can of peaches, but put it back, deciding
he was too exhausted to eat.
Rather, he
lay back against his rucksack and rested his weary bones.
The other
two appeared to be on their last legs also, Water pouring off A.T.’s head like
summer rain off a Georgia black topped road.
The radio
emitted a squawk.
NO SWEAT
who had been kneeling nearby, busy with compass, map, and a yellow piece of
paper, rose and moved to a point directly over him and listened attentively.
“Pathfinder
five’ “Charlie Six over” “Any
sign of them over”
“Negative
Six”
As was the
usual procedure after a firefight, the first order of business was an accurate
head count. Undoubtedly the “them” being referred to was the squad, he thought.
Pappa’s
body but no sign of the others could only lead to one of two conclusions? Either they had been captured, or, they had
deserted?
“Pathfinder
five” “"Make one last sweep out from where you found the KU, then bring it
in." "Over."
"Roger
Six”
Without a
word of explanation, the Corporal reached down and switched off the radio, then
returned to his calculations.
Folding
the map and carefully inserting the yellow paper inside it, he placed it back
inside the plastic bag, and then returned it to his fatigue pocket.
Who was
this two striper anyway, he thought as a growing bitterness towards the
plowboy began welling inside him.
“Up and at
it!”
A moan
from the kid.
AT
unsheathed his machete and led the way as directed.
They moved
down the slope in mute resentment.
In the distance
a mountain range interrupted by a dark, imposing peak.
It must be
that Dragon Mountain he’d heard the guys speak of? Or as some had referred to
it “01’ Turnaround”.
So named
because if you’re moving in it’s direction, you’d damn sure turn your ass around
because you’re heading into Cambodia.
The
plowboy was leading them into Cambodia?
Later, the
kid once again tried to get his attention with an under his breath “where’s he
leadin us?”
Paticsi’s
young face bore the same etched on look of terror that it had since he’d jumped
off that chopper back on the BONG SON.
It was
almost spooky; the way the guy carried himself. Kinda reminded him of a childhood toy of long ago...
BOBO had
been a plastic clown who’s head turned three hundred and sixty degrees while
bobbing up and down when you pulled the string attached to his little car.
Yep, that
was Jimmie Paticsi all right... Bobbing—Weaving— those
Wide eyes
searching all about for what he hoped to God he’d never find!
He gave
the kid a blank look, shrugged his shoulders, and deemed it best not to mention
Dragon Mountain.
Holmes’
hand signal brought the small band to a halt.
Again with
the compass, map, and yellow piece of paper.
The man
knelt there reflectively surveying the valley.
Creases
washed across his face as one who had suddenly had the weight of the world
thrust upon him.
A strange
momentary portrait of a man who’s every conscious action seemed preconceived to
instill confidence?
Then, the
NO SWEAT he knew was up and active, pointing to a small clearing just ahead.
A momentary reflection? Perhaps a sensing
that he was about to lose the full confidence of his charges?
"Baby
breath front and center.” The kid responded at once and stood nervously at
attention.
“You see
this big rock here?”
“I want
you to position yourself behind it so you have a good view of this trail we
just came up.” “An you damn sure better stay alert!" "Understand?"
RODMAN
will relieve you at 24:00."
With that, the little
Napoleon went on up into the clearing where he directed AT and himself to take up positions as
directed.
“AT I want you an baby down
that way about so you
can have a full sweep of the area.’
“RODMAN
you position yourself over by that Banyan tree an I’ll dig in between ya.”
I dropped
my ruck and leaned back against the banyan and watched AT improving his and
Baby’s position.
I did make
the effort to drag a piece of deadfall over and figured that would have to do.
I was beat and if O’ Charley came tonight; he’d have to shoot me where I was!
I watched
Holmes dig a meager foxhole from which he could observe all, then set beside
it doing just that as he wolfed down a can of fruit cocktail.
It looked
pretty enticing and at my stomach’s deep rumble, my hand fumbled through my own
ruck coming out with not only the can of diced fruit, but with the letter I’d
received at the re-supply the evening before last, and as of yet hadn’t found
the time to read.
I devoured
the bits of assorted fruit,, drank
the juice, then leaned back to see what Sissy had to say. She no doubt excited
about the homecoming dance she’d mentioned in her last letter.
She was a great kid and we’d
always been close. Dear D, (she had
called me that from the time she had first learned to talk.)
Big News! I joined the local
chapter of SAW students against the
