CHAPTER 19
Outside Fire Support Base T—bone, on a dirt road, five clicks South of a high risk, Vietcong Village, a vast forest staring at him, Sergeant Bill Carter grumbled. With the palms of his hands, he washed his face from his chin to his eyes with disgust, mussing the fine blonde hairs on his eyebrows that looked like cat’s whiskers.
“You’re not seein’ what I’m seein’,” he groaned. “They’re supposed to be a crack outfit? What a rag-tag bunch. For Chris’ sakes, they’re like the little Munchkins from the Wizard of Oz.”
Corporal Briggs mused. “I’m Peter Pan, and they’re the Lost Boys in Never-Never Land.”
A squad of fourteen members from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam, the ARVN, jumped out of a deuce ‘n’ a half truck. They scrambled onto the dirt road, and in attempting to form a straight, double line, were knocking into one another.
“What in hell’re they doing?” Sergeant Carter cried.
With child-like expressions on their faces, the ARVN carried the M-16s upside down, holding the end of the barrel muzzle, with the stock end flying in the air above their rucksacks.
“Didn’t we just teach these guys how to load and fire an M-16?”
“Yeah, we did sarge,” Corporal Briggs said.
“And didn’t we show them how to carry a damn weapon at the ready position?
“We did that too, sarge.”
“This is not a good sign,” moaned the sergeant. “They can’t carry those weapons upside down. In a pinch, they’ve got to get their fingers on the trigger.” He swung around to the truck driver and said in a gravelly voice, “Come get us early tomorrow, will you Pete?”
The driver inside the cab of the deuce ‘n’ a half leaned out the window.
“See you bright and early, sarge,” and the big truck shifted into gear and rumbled off in a cloud of dust, the driver laughing and roaring like a seal.
Sergeant Carter’s eyes flamed like balls of red glass from a furnace. “It’s supposed to be our job to train these goofballs in recon and tactical stuff? What in devil’s hell will they do with Sir Charles, huh? Can you tell me, before I shove an M-16 up every one of their ass holes?”
“Come to think of it, sarge, they seem to do a lot of things wrong,” Corporal Briggs mused.
“Onetime in Hue, I rubbed my eyes after seeing them on a fire truck conducting a fire drill. These guys had their fire hats on backwards. They let the peak of the hat stick out in front over their eyes like a baseball cap. No matter what we did, they kept putting the hats on wrong. I guess they liked the style with the peak sticking out front. Maybe they’ll correct this when enough of their hats blow off in a race to a real fire.”
The sergeant’s flake white face, whiter than the moon’s, changed to cherry red. “We’ve gotta get our own hats on straight and keep pushing these guys to learn to fight and defend themselves. That’s Vietnamization, dammit!”
While he and the corporal exchanged viewpoints, Dawson approached. Without delay, he blended into the mix with the ARVN, pantomiming, gesturing with his M-16, and demonstrating the correct way to hold a weapon. The ARVN modeled the helpful medic, nodding to each other like children, and referring to him saying, “Boxy good. Boxy number one.”
He worked the disoriented men into two straight lines, and motioned with the palms of his hands for them to stay put.
The sergeant, arms folded, stared at the ARVN standing at attention, their chests puffed and teeth bearing in smiles. “You’re giving the United States Army hope, doc, though they’re acting like first graders after show-and-tell.”
“They’ll be okay, sarge. They’ll face a situation one day and come out heroes.”
Le Tien, a Kit Carson Scout, and built like a slender coil of wire, sat on top of his rucksack, one knee crossed over the other. A cigarette pursed between his lips, he captured the scene, unfazed.
Smiling, he said to Dawson, “Boxy know, when GI go, boo coo shit hit fan.”
The sergeant whirled. “Translate for me, will you Le? Tell them the line looks good, and now show them how to walk this jungle.”
Le Tien, in an amazing acrobatic twist, sprung in the air off his rucksack. He landed on tiptoes without a sound, like a ballerina wearing slippers, and then like a magician, he swallowed the flaming end of his cigarette, drawing it out of his mouth, fully extinguished. He shoved the cigarette in his pocket, and in a sharp voice, addressed the ARVN.
“Heel-toe,” he exclaimed, walking around the ARVN demonstrating, heel-toe, heel-toe. Each time he repeated the phrase, heel-toe, his voice lost sharpness and power, and becoming faint, with dead silence matching his every move and step.
The wily soldier had defected to the American Army having read a “Surrender to Us” leaflet dropped out of a window of an airplane. The leaflet--a safe conduct pass, encouraged men in the North Vietnamese Army to desert, and he had taken advantage of this Open Arms Program, urging him to Chieu Hoi to the American side, and to help US troops.
A Kit Carson Scout on the side of the American cause, fire burned in his belly. He identified booby traps, located caves and tunnels, caches of enemy supplies and weapons, and conducted intense tactical interrogations of prisoners.
In this, he carried himself with an air of authority and knowledge like a college professor, with every action calculated to get the attention of his reluctant students, for the purpose of relating some salient point.
And with the Certificate of Achievement, Letter of Commendation, and the Hazardous Service Medal already stuffed in his back pocket of credits, he dared to want success in training the ARVN.
Now he gave a chopping motion with his hand, and the ARVN responded, demonstrating heel-toe, heel toe, and watching, he corrected, and waited for the ARVN to achieve to his level of satisfaction and excellence, the breathtaking art of walking in silence.
The men entered a primordial forest, a thick jungle of swarming insects and the smell of decaying plants and rotting fungi. They hiked a click-and-a-half over vine-covered hills and buttresses of above ground root systems of broad-leaf trees, and when they reached a trail hidden by the undergrowth of diverse tropical vegetation and herbaceous plants and trees, Le Tien scolded in hushed tones, making certain the ARVN walked comme il faut--as it should be, proper, fitting, while urging in a whisper, “heel-toe, heel-toe.”
Into a jumble of fallen trees and branches they picked their way to a clearing, marching, heel-toe, heel-toe, and smack in the middle, surrounded by a ring of fan palms and brush, they stopped to observe an unusual sight, a cemetery and a large gazebo, like a chapel with a stone altar and stone benches, and a grandiose temple with stone pillars rising to the heavens, with a pot-bellied, gold statue of Buddha, sitting and smiling at the world.
Sergeant Carter said to no one in particular, “Can anyone figure out why that statue’s grinning?”
Le Tien observed with a wary eye, the hundred steps running to the dome of the temple, and the half-life size statuettes serving as balusters under the long banisters.
At the entrance to the temple, on each banister, clawing down from the top, sat colossal, armor plated dragons, thirty-feet in length with fierce jaws agape.
At the bottom, a sculptured elephant and horse stood among free standing figures in three dimensions of heroic stone soldiers, larger than life, weapons in hand, and guarding the temple.
A burial ground, overgrown by the brush, with head stones like plaques, pressed in the center of a circle of stones set in on the ground, and a long cement wall--a flint gray curtain, stretched beyond one side of the cemetery.
It did not make sense to him, a temple housing a Buddha and stone soldiers to guard it. It conflicted with Buddhist belief, the doctrine of nonviolence, and the unwillingness to harm any living creature, including animals for food.
He dropped his rucksack at his feet and a prickling sensation ran up his spine. He stared saucer-eyed at the grotesque sculptures of imaginary and monstrous animals, and human figures scattered about and arranged in isocephaly, with heads at the same level in a motif of leaves and flowers.
In his mind, he pictured the designer with hammer and rasp, chipping away at stone and mortar, creating these bizarre figures to frighten away intruders and evil spirits.
The awestruck ARVN, in fascination, started to break, mesmerized by the strange and wonderful sight, itchy to explore every foot of the cemetery.
Le Tien clapped his hands. “We camp here,” he said, pointing to the ground.
The ARVN became deaf. They stepped forward, eyes beguiled, intrigued by the wonder of the cemetery.
The scout’s hands exploded together in sudden passion. “We camp here!”
The sergeant, unsettled, nodded. “This is a good spot, Le. We certainly don’t want to bivouac inside the temple or near any of those freakin’ statues.”
The squad laid gear, and conducting class at one end of the cemetery, the sergeant picked out an area between the palm trees. “The clearing in the distance seems like a safe area.”
He lifted a small bazooka the size of a baseball bat.
“Translate for me.”
Le Tien nodded.
“Nobody’s around, so we’re gonna demonstrate this baby.”
He laid the miniature bazooka in his arms and carried it like a loaf of French bread. “Tell them it’s made of fiber glass and lightweight. It’s called the LAW, a light assault anti-tank weapon.
You fire a single shot-66 millimeter rocket, and smash the launcher on a rock or a tree, so the enemy doesn’t get their hands on it.”
The sergeant hoisted the LAW onto his shoulder. “Tell ‘em never, ever to step behind a man firing this weapon. The back blast and concussion can blow his face off.”
He pointed the LAW east of their position to a clearing, and out of the corner of his eye, a face appeared at the last second, and in firing the LAW, he jerked the weapon to the side. The rocket exploded in the distance, the launcher, striking the chin of an ARVN, the concussion sending him hurtling to the ground, yelping like a wounded dog.
“Goddamnit! You wanna get killed! You wanna kill us!” screamed the sergeant, smashing the LAW against a rock.
Dawson ran to the stricken ARVN, and the ARVN lay writhing, twisting on the ground in a guttural moan, shaking, hands pressed to his face, blood pouring from his chin, his cheek swollen to the size of an orange.
Bristling with contempt, shaken by ARVN carelessness and stupidity, the sergeant gave the scout a piercing look. “Didn’t you tell him and these other bastards not to walk behind me? Huh, Le? Did you? So what in God’s great heaven made him do it?”
The scout scratched the side of his head, his lips drawn, his teeth clenched.
The sergeant, his jowls stiff, stormed away and shouted, “The son-of-a-bitch is lucky his fucking eyes didn’t turn to ashes.”
The entire ARVN squad watched in shock, while the medic folded a poncho under the man’s neck and proceeded to grab a batch of materials out of his aid bag. With a bandage, he pressed and cleaned the wound, clearing the blood. He applied Betadine, and taking a syringe, injected lidocaine around the wound to deaden the area. He threaded a needle that looked like a fishhook, and then sewed a dozen stitches in the ARVN’s chin. After this, he cut open a metallic package and smeared petroleum on the swollen cheek, taping a swath of gauze.
He sat on the ground beside the stricken man, and the man, ashen faced, stared catatonically.
The medic gave a comforting smile and reassurance in a soothing voice, and the man folded his hands together, his eyes watering.
The small voices of the ARVN swept in a vacuum and rose in a chorus chanting, “GI number one, Boxy number one.”
The last light of day began to dim and flicker with the approaching dusk, and the sergeant, still bristling, ordered the scout to hammer home another phase of training. “We gotta teach these sons-uh-bitches how to protect the perimeter.”
The ARVN observed Le Tien take the anti-personnel—Claymore Mines, out of his bandolier. He laid out tripwires on the ground and set down the mines in the Uncontrolled Mode.
He unraveled and laid yards of wire at the perimeter of the squad’s position, showing the ARVN how to set a manual control on a different Claymore Mine, that fixed the wire to a hand held device and a lever--a clicker, and upon depression would detonate the explosive.
“Enemy walk in wire, detonate shrapnel,” he said, thrusting his arm out front, motioning in a wide arc. “Spray million pellets.”
At the same time, he cautioned, pointing to the raised letters carved on the olive colored casing of each mine, bearing the words: FRONT TOWARD ENEMY.
Corporal Briggs noted, “I don’t think they can miss, sarge. It’s plain as day, and says it right on the mine, face out.”
“I’m not sure these assholes can follow simple directions,” the sergeant steamed. “Let’s make sure the mines face away from us, dammit!”
The scout adjusted the two sets of legs on each mine. He placed the explosives on the ground with care, skill and experience. He fixed and adjusted his aim, looking through the round plastic sight so as not to leave the mine sitting too low and shorten the height of the blast radius.
He explained and reviewed this procedure several times, and wanted each ARVN to take a turn, but they backed away in fear, shaking their heads in rejection, and loitered, hovering around Dawson.
Sergeant Carter laughed. “See how the bastards are too scared to even touch the damn things? They gotta stand under doc’s wing. And doc, shit, he’s a giant, the Gulliver among the Lilliputians!”
Le Tien issued a tongue lashing, and two of the ARVN volunteered to help place the mines. He checked their aim, making tedious accuracy adjustments that would test the inner strength and patience, and fray the nerves of weaker men.
This he did with a brimming confidence, shaking the hands of the two ARVN, and he declared, “Claymore Mines set.”
Night came, with ponchos spread out in front of the long concrete wall. The men fell asleep, and Dawson, getting set to retire, stared into the darkness, his eyes transfixed, absorbing the shadows of the images in the cemetery.
All things quiet, silent and undisturbed eased his soul, made him feel at peace like the times he attended church service with Juliana, or walked hand in hand with her in a garden on a bright Sunday morning beside the sweeping banks of the Hudson River back home.
But here, peace and quiet dredged up fear, made him bust out in a cold sweat with ideas of ambush and his own death. Here, in this country, this cemetery, he was surrounded by the dead, and when he looked at the childlike faces of the ARVN, looked into their innocent eyes, he saw the soon to be dead.
It had been the sergeant’s opinion, the long concrete wall stretching across the cemetery offered protection to the men, and there would be no need to set any Claymore Mines on that side of the perimeter.
It took a second for him to think otherwise, and with fear coursing through his veins, he believed the enemy would come sneaking around the corner.
Surely, the ARVN counted on him, Sergeant Carter and Corporal Briggs to help in their defense in case of a firefight. Yet they remained unaware of the fact, even though he carried an M-16, he never intended to use it.
Furthermore, he was not convinced theARVN, if pushed to the brink, would ever take a standand fight.
In seeing no compromise, worrying the enemy might charge around the wall, and they’d become sitting ducks, his eyes reviewed the three ARVAN stationed at each point in a triangle, in three separate areas of the camp. He said to himself without conviction, sarge says, we’re the trainers. We’re the ones to sleep. We’re the ones to catch some shuteye. Let the ARVN learn to pull guard duty.
He motioned to one of the ARVN assigned to keep watch at the wall. And in so doing, he breathed a sigh of relief. The ARVN, with a mousy smile on his face, marched stiff-legged, the butt end of his M-16 in one hand and the barrel at the ready, pointing in the right direction.
The ARVN sat beside him and relaxed, laying the M-16 on the poncho, his face etched in a permanent grin.
“You take the corner,” he indicated, pointing two fingers at the eyes of the ARVN, and two fingers at the end of the long concrete wall. And in this manner of mime and comedy, in sign language, like two humble cave men, the ARVN understood the message, and he pointed two fingers to his own eyes, and motioned to the wall.
The medic nodded, and the ARVN, his chest swelling, widened his smile and heel-toed over to the corner of the wall.
Grinning, he waved for the ARVN to come back. The ARVN heel-toed over and the amused medic pointed to the M-16 still lying on the poncho. The ARVN’s mouth opened, his neck shrinking between his shoulders, and pointing to his head, he whirled his finger in the crazy sign, and said, “Me, dinky dau.” Then he snatched his M-16 and heel-toed to his position once again at the corner of the wall.
Shaking his head at the ARVN’s absentmindedness, and feeling insecure, with a huge hunk of mistrust lurking in his heart, he backed himself against the concrete wall, keeping a steady eye on the ARVN, while the ARVN smiled from the corner, waving at him.
Time passed. He drowsed, his eyelids fluttering, dancing to stay awake, and overcome by darkness, and the hush of night, he slumped on the quilted poncho liner and drifted off to sleep.
Several minutes passed and the moon shed light in the blackness, flooding the cemetery, tracing the headstones, the statues and dragons, and it surged onto the stairs of the temple to the top, illuminating the golden Buddha in a ghostly white.
He stirred, fully awake, and with his heart palpitating, he checked out the naked corner of the concrete wall. The ARVN, sitting with his M-16 on his lap, poised at the ready, smiled and waved.
He observed the shadows surrounding the immediate area to see if there might be any movement, and except for one instance, when he swore he saw deer antlers grazing across the wall, all appeared to be still.
Repeatedly in the night, he leaped from his poncho in a trembling sweat, and every time, his fear-filled eyes reassured, he nodded at the ARVN, who sat at the end of the long concrete wall waving at him with a never-ending smile.
If there were only a way to sleep with one eye open, it would settle his nerves. He shifted over on his side, his face resting on his hands, and unhampered with worry over ambush and death, Juliana surfaced in his dreams, and he breathed in the rhythm of sleep.
In his dream, in the early hours before dawn, he imagined rolling over on his back, floating in a semi-conscious state between sleep and wakefulness, visualizing her wondrous face, and feeling her head resting on his chest. And after she slipped down onto his stomach, his mouth contorted, and in seeing her ethereal face once more, he fell into the depths of a bottomless cavern.
This dream state fused into a nightmare of conflicts, and he groaned in misery, trying to chase her, and in the next breath, breaking free of her strangle hold, he escaped, and riding the elevator of exhilaration to the top of the cave, he sprung forward onto the jungle brush, and hearing the echo of her voice crying out to him in agony, he retreated, rushing off into the wood, and then he collapsed, unable to move, the whisper of her voice drawing nearer, the breath of death shackling his racing heart.
In his sleep, she came once more to him, a shimmering light, her weight persisting, suffocating him, pushing him further into the abyss, and struggling, he pushed back at her, his hand going limp, slumping over her hair and shoulder, and the burden of the load, the heaviness, like a millstone, gave him misery the night long...