13th Valley (36 page)

“Naw. No medevacs.”

“Oh,” Cherry said quizzically. “Maybe we should a had one come in as a decoy.”

“Yeah,” Egan agreed. “Then if he fires us up tonight maybe he'll drop em in on the same spot he missed us in this morning. Shit. Now the mothafuckers'll adjust to our location. This was a bad move stoppin here.”

High above the valley a small, single-engine prop-airplane appeared. It circled above Alpha's position, the sound of the small engine barely reaching the ground. The plane spiraled lower, increased the radius of its circle, descended again to an altitude perhaps only 200 meters above Company A. It made a pass over their heads from east to west and another from south to north then east to west again. Then it seemed to disappear. Several minutes later the tiny plane appeared again. It had regained much of its altitude. From the foxhole, with Egan pondering the problem of how to convince higher-higher to send in a decoy medevac, Cherry could see the small plane fire a rocket toward the opposing hillside. On the hill the rocket burst in a dense cloud of bright white-phosphorus marking smoke. Immediately the air split, a sound louder than artillery, than rockets, than bombs—a continuous roar ripping, splitting overhead and the tail of first one then immediately a second F-4 Phantom jet fighter-bomber shot past their position.

There was no warning. The fighter-bombers had come in low from the south then had dived down paralleling the descent from 848's peak, not fifty feet above the ground, not twenty feet above the treetops. Quiet, peaceful, no audible approach warning and then the entire earth shaking, rattling. In the split second it took for the F-4s to pass over the heat from their exhaust defoliated the upper tips of the trees. The heat could be felt on faces and in eyes, the sound shook men to the bone. All Cherry had seen was the second tail as it sped past, a tail looking like a three-spoke wheel with an immense hub spewing hot exhaust gases and noise and vibrating limbs out of the trees.

“Holy Fuck!” Egan yelled, smiled, crept closer to the foxhole. “Chas don't like them fast-movers. They bring in the damn-damn.”

The F-4s dove down the canyon toward the valley floor then pulled up hard left sweeping in a great arc out west beyond the valley, passing out of sight out of sound range someplace to the south.

Again the air ripped instantaneously. This pass was followed by an immense concussion pressing eyeballs and eardrums in toward the centers of skulls. Cherry was standing in the foxhole when the first 250-pound bomb burst. The explosion was directly across the saddle from him, at his same elevation. The shockwave rocked the entire ridgeline. Cherry flung himself to the bottom of the hole, Egan pounced head first in on top of him, scrambling to go deeper. A second blast thundered between the two peaks.

“Holy Christ Fuck,” Egan yelled. “Move them fuckers outa there.”

Again the two jets screamed over. They shriekroared down the valley flying faster than sound yet at treetop level, dropping napalm canisters and finned bombs on the suspected enemy location. The jets vanished before the bombs and canisters exploded. The flash flame sucked air from the side of 848. Black smoke mushroomed, spread, cloaked the next hill. Andrews screamed. Shrapnel from the bombs smashed into trees above and about the defensive point. Egan jumped from the foxhole, scrambled to Andrews who was lying facedown holding his side. Again the Phantoms dove from atop 848. Cherry heard Egan retch loudly, then vomit.

As night approached and the jungle went from green to gray artillery worked over the NVA bunker complex on the hill west of 848. Shells exploded at irregular intervals as much as fifteen minutes apart. Free soldiers clustered in groups. Half of Alpha remained on guard.

At 1st Plt CP, which was Egan and Cherry's foxhole, Cherry and Jackson sat sharing a cup of coffee and a cigarette. Thoughts popped up in Cherry's mind like pins on an electric bowling machine. Cherry looked at each thought briefly then knocked them all down with a mental disc and let another set pop up. In all that came up there were no pins he wished to share with Jackson. Yet he wanted to talk.

Jackson also wanted to speak. He knew that within an hour they would be completely silent, would enforce their own noise discipline, and he wanted to talk before the night actually began. But to Jax Cherry was such a white boy, a condescending college white boy and every syllable that got to Jax' throat was stopped by his jaw.

“Jax,” Cherry finally said, “can I, ah, ask you something?”

“Say it, Bro,” Jax said back quickly, happiness in his voice.

Cherry stumbled for a moment. Then he said mechanically, “How long have you been here? I mean, ah, that's not really what I meant to say.”

“Oh Man,” Jax laughed. “I been here longer en yo, Cherry. Boocoo longer en yo can even imagine. I was born here. Man,” Jax continued, “I can see what's happenin in yo mind. It's like written all over yo face. Yo gotta stop yo head from struttin like yo was back on the block, cause yo strut like that heah, yo aint never gettin back ta the block. Understand?”

“What I mean, what I meant was,” Cherry paused, then blurted, “I feel like a robot.” Cherry was unable to stop himself. He now felt committed to those words and felt he had to explain. “I feel like a robot with things just wired into me and I don't understand why.”

“Yo is a robot. Yo a cherry. Yo s'pose ta be like that,” Jax said matterof-factly. “I remember my first time ta the field. Here' ol Jax on his first CA.” Jackson began acting out his words, bopping his body as he sat. “I got my helmet all buckled down and my 16 on rock'n'roll. I jumps off the bird and hunch over and quick like a bobcat runs inta a bush. Somebody say, ‘Why yo got yo steel pot all strapped down?' An I looks around. There're guys leanin back catchin the sun. The CO's standin up on the LZ scratchin his balls. An I's all hunched up in this bush. Shee-it. We was all cherry once. Man, yo jest been on yo first CA. Yo jest been mortared. There aint nothin yo ever done compares with CA. An, Cherry, that CA won't nothin. Wait'll yo hit a hot one. When yo catchin-all the shit Charlie can throw an yo still in yo bird an yo bird still comin in—THAT is the ultimate experience. Aint nothin like it. Better'n drug, better'n Colt-45.”

Jackson motioned down the trail to Daniel Egan who was approaching, “Even Egan was a cherry once hisself. Right, Eg?”

“Right, Jax. What's happenin?” Egan climbed up to them and sat across the foxhole from them.

“Yo are, Bro,” Jax said. “I was jest tellin yo cherry yo was a cherry once yoself.”

“Shee-it, yeah. Hell, I was DRO at the Last Supper. You tell'm that?” Egan laughed a sadistic laugh.

“Sho did.”

“We nearly got him his cherry busted today.”

“We gowin get his cherry busted soon nough.”

Egan smirked to Cherry, “That was just makin out this afternoon. Not even heavy petting.”

“I tol him that too,” Jax laughed. “Sho did.” It was a strained laugh bordering on the sadistic and it strangely matched Egan's laugh. “This one bad mofuckin AO. We gowin have us another 714. Dinks up the ass, Dudes.” Jax raised his left hand, countered on his fingers. “Dinks on the LZ, Recon hittin the shit, Barnett, dinks in bunkers. There dinks everyplace.”

“Fuck it. Don't mean nothin.” Egan laughed again, again that strange sickening chuckle laugh.

“It's really a pretty spot,” Cherry said seriously, somehow feeling guilty.

“Sho is pretty,” Jax said gazing into the jungle. “Lord,” Jax called in a quiet deep tone, “Lord, Yo sho done one nice job on this piece a creation but Yo sho fucked up puttin ol Jax out here. Look what these white folk done messin it up.”

“Don't start that shit,” Egan snarled. “I don't gotta hear that shit tonight.”

“Talkin bout shit,” Jax said slyly, “what stink?”

Cherry stifled a chuckle.

“Fuck it,” Egan said steamed. “I don't know any other way to do what we're doin. If you can think up somethin else …”

“How bout we jest call this whole thing off. It dumb, Man. Dumb.”

“If you can figure how,” Egan challenged, “I'm willin.”

“Ah, fuck it,” Jax snapped. He stood, picked up his rifle and circled down toward Whiteboy who was cleaning and checking his M-60 ammo belts.

“I'd like to see this place in twenty years,” Cherry said to Egan after Jackson left. “I bet there'll be a six-lane interstate coming out here.”

“Yeah, and every car'll have to have an armed escort cause this war aint never gointa stop.”

“I bet there'll be a small city out here in twenty years,” Cherry said. “There'll be a golf course and hotels, a whole resort.”

“A big tourist trap,” Egan spat. “Come and search for the legs and eyes of your father.”

“Ya know,” Cherry said staring at Egan, feeling in this instance stronger than Egan, “you are really morbid, Man. Yer the one said we're winning.”

“Cherry,” Egan said cynically, “I'm a lot sicker than you'll ever know.” He paused. His agreement disarmed Cherry's argument. Then he said, “But I'm a jot healthier than any mothafucker out here.”

Lieutenant Brooks walked quietly from one end of the NDP to the other. He checked the perimeter and discussed likely routes of enemy approach, probe or attack with each platoon leader and each squad leader. They discussed fields of fire, interlocking fire and camouflage. The discussions were quick and laconic and often the words uttered had nothing to do with the situation. A squad leader would lead the company commander behind his positions. Both men could see the network of defense. It did not require words. Brooks asked every third or fourth man about his back or feet or how he felt or about what he was doing when the mortars began falling. He offered no sympathy. He expressed concern instead. He very sincerely questioned his men about their premonitions, about enemy signs they had seen, about their interpretation of the tactical situation. Brooks never stopped seeking information and feedback from his men and he gave as much information as he could to anyone sincerely interested. Tonight, though, he found he had to force himself to listen. When he discovered he was forcing himself to concentrate on the operation he thought, that bitch. That bitch. That bitch.

Brooks continued his rounds. At the forward defensive point he found Andrews nursing a bruised rib. “Hey, L-T, can I get a purple heart for this?” Andrews laughed.

“What do you have?” Brooks said, kneeling. He inspected the nasty bruise and laceration on Andrew's right side and questioned him about it. Whiteboy and Jackson broke into guffaws at hearing it again. Andrews had been defecating when the F-4s had screamed over and dropped their bombs. He had been hit by a piece of shrapnel from a bomb after the jagged piece of metal had cut in half the tree Andrews was holding to balance himself. Brooks giggled as Whiteboy re-enacted Egan's dash to help Andrews and his crawl through Andrews' shit. Brooks stopped laughing when Jackson held up a razor-sharp plate of steel eight inches across and an inch thick.

After the foxholes were dug and the weapons and ammunition were readied for the night, it was time to eat. The atmosphere at the various CPs was like that of a Boy Scout jamboree except that it was quiet.

“Hey, Man,” Dave McCarthy chided Lt. Thomaston, “aint you got someplace to go? This aint no place for officers.”

“Oh I thought I'd see how the war was going,” Thomaston chuckled back.

“We don't have no officer's club out here. Aint no band. No donut dollies to fuck. What're you checkin us out for? Cherry ain't going ta bend over for ya.”

“You got any smokes?” Thomaston said to Cherry.

To Cherry it seemed they were baiting each other strictly for his entertainment. He rummaged in his ruck for a pack but McCarthy beat him, pulling a box of Marlboros from a fatigue pocket. McCarthy passed the cigarettes around. He struck a match, lit his and Thomaston's then put the match out. He struck another match and lit Cherry's cigarette. It was darker now in the jungle, gray dark but not black dark and they did not yet worry about light discipline. The sky above the canopy had turned red and the sun was enveloped by the mountains beyond the valley.

“Didn't think I smoked,” Cherry said inhaling deeply, holding the fumes, feeling the nicotine rush.

Egan returned from his constant wandering and checking of the perimeter. He also was smoking. He was very quiet. Without saying a word he removed several cans of C-rations from his rucksack. He removed a blackened, smashed, dented tin can stove and two heat tabs.

“What's for dinner?” Thomaston asked.

“Vichyssoise. Beef Bearnaise. Mocha. And, ah, pound cake with peaches. How's that sound?”

“Sounds fine to me,” Thomaston said rummaging in his ruck for his can stove and canteen cup and food.

McCarthy also opened his ruck and removed various items. “Here,” he said handing Egan a can of Beef Slices and Potatoes with Gravy. Mc-Carthy also removed a one-pound stick of C-4 plastic explosive. The three clustered closer while Cherry watched. Cherry thought it was all a joke but he wasn't sure.

Egan turned back to his ruck and produced several spice bottles then turned to Cherry. “You eating?”

“Yes. I guess.”

“You need a fuckin invitation?”

“No.”

“I need your canteen cup. A B-2 unit. Two cans a beef slices if you got two. One beef and one ham or pork's good enough. And I need all the cream substitute you can spare.”

Egan worked in a very methodical manner. He collected the cans of meat and of meat with potatoes and opened them. In a canteen cup he separated the potatoes from the beef, pouring the gravy grease in with the meat. He washed the potato chunks with a few capfuls of water and added the water to the meat. Then with the tip of his bayonet he cut and mashed the potatoes, added three packets of dried cream substitute and filled the cup with water. This he stirred and set aside. McCarthy set up two stoves and filled two canteen cups almost to the brim with water. The stoves were small C-ration cans opened on one end and with holes punched in the sides all around. Beneath the tins he placed tiny chunks of plastic explosive he had broken from the pound stick. McCarthy placed the canteen cups on the stoves and lit the explosive which ignited slowly then flared quickly to a foot-high sizzling white-hot flame and went out. The water was boiling. To the water McCarthy added four packets of instant coffee, four packets of Cocoa Beverage Powder, three cream substitutes and three sugars. He mixed first in one cup then in the other, then he poured the mix into a third and poured the three back and forth.