Guns Up! (33 page)

“Second Platoon! Over here!” A strong wind scattered the gas into thin gray pockets. I could see the voice now. It was good ol’ freckle-faced Sudsy. Most of the platoon huddled nearby. Not one man still wearing a mask.

By the time all the platoons were organized into units again the gooks could have played a couple of hands of poker and still had time to dig a tunnel out of our poorly planned trap. Somebody in Third Platoon killed a gook in a tree, and First Platoon got two prisoners who were too stoned to notice the gas or the assaulting Marines. Second Platoon blew up two tunnels. Total: one confirmed; two POWs.

The walk back to An Hoa was the usual pain in the butt. Then it got worse. Sixteen inches of rain worse. Not that I counted the inches, but that’s what they told us on Armed Forces Radio when we finally reached An Hoa. They called it the northeast monsoon. We called it everything else. We spent the night at An Hoa. Even the constant blast of the big 1.55s couldn’t keep me from feeling cozy in a back corner of the big tent. Hearing the pounding rain and not being in it felt wonderful. Sudsy and Doyle played cards by candlelight in one corner of the tent.

“Let us prepare coffee.” Chan tossed me a small piece of C-4 from the cot on my left.

“Yeah. Good idea, Chan,” I said. Suddenly the flap door of the tent blew open, spraying water over the row of cots. Sam jumped up and tied it shut again. Another series of 1.55s exploded toward their targets.

“In Florida we’d call this a hurricane,” I said.

“Man! They’re sure lettin’ loose tonight.”

The voice came from the cot on the other side of Chan. It was Corporal Elbon, the new FO.

“Want some coffee?” I asked.

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

He moved over and sat beside me on my cot, facing Chan. He was brisk and serious and overly handsome, like one of those unsmiling models for
Gentleman’s Quarterly
.

“What are you doing traveling with a grunt unit?” Chan asked.

“I’ve done it a few times. Usually for big operations. Sometimes they send us out just to keep us on our toes. Don’t they mind if you guys cook with C-4?” Joe looked slightly concerned as I put a match to the C-4 inside our C-ration can-stove.

“We don’t ask,” I said.

The flap of the tent jerked open again. This time a Marine carrying a thick-barreled sniper rifle in his left hand rushed in with water pouring off his camouflaged poncho. He seemed to be protecting something with his right hand.

“Is Joe Elbon in here?” a husky voice asked.

“Yeah,” Joe answered. “Back here.”

The dripping Marine moved toward us slowly, his boots squishing water with each step. He squinted to see us in the dimly lit tent.

“Joe?”

“Back here,” Joe repeated.

“It’s me. Harpo.” He pulled a tiny sad-faced black-and-white-spotted puppy from under his poncho.

“I got Killer with me.”

He held the tiny sad-faced puppy out with one hand. Joe jumped to his feet, his serious face gone and gushing with happiness. He took the puppy and started kissing his little black dot of a nose. The puppy seemed to cheer
up, too. He started licking Joe all over the face. He chirped what was supposed to be a bark.

“Thanks, Harpo,” Joe said between licks. “How’d you know I was here?”

Harpo pulled off his poncho, revealing a totally shaved head, and sat on the end of Chan’s cot with his sniper rifle between his legs. His rifle had the fattest barrel and biggest scope on it I’d ever seen.

“That was easy to find out. Everybody’s in.”

“Why?” Joe asked.

“Thuong Duc special forces camp is getting hit or overrun or something.”

“You mean we’re saving the Green Berets again?” I asked.

“That’s what it looks like,” Harpo said.

Chan looked up from stirring our coffee. “Wait till the chief hears about this,” he said.

“What are you doing in here, Joe?” Harpo asked. “Why aren’t you in the CP tent?”

Joe looked like he wanted to avoid the question. He glanced down and mumbled something none of us could hear.

“Speak up,” Harpo said.

“There’s a guy in the CP I hate. No big deal. How ’bout you, Harpo? Got any more confirmed with that cannon?”

“Who do you hate in the CP?” I asked.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” Joe said. His tone was serious. He flushed and gazed down at his hands, trying unsuccessfully to conceal a seething anger. I decided to be nosy another day.

“Chan, did you see that?” I pointed at Harpo’s rifle.

“Yes. I’ve never seen a barrel with that thick of a bore.”

“I just got a fourteen-hundred meter confirmed two days ago,” Harpo boasted proudly. He pointed to the last notch in a row of small cuts on the rifle butt.

“Fourteen hundred meters?” Chan asked. “Really?”

“Yeah! My partner found ’em with a small telescope. Then I found them in the rifle scope. Three gooks sitting around a small fire eating rice, with AKs lying next to ’em. It took three shots to get one.”

“Three shots? Why didn’t they take off?” I asked.

“I was so far away that either they didn’t hear the shot or they didn’t pay any attention to it. None of ’em even looked my way on the first two misses. I had to walk up to the one I was aiming at. The first two shots were short. They all stopped eating and pointed at the ground where my rounds kicked up dirt, but they didn’t know what it was. They just kept squatting there holding bowls. Then the third shot blew this one right off his haunches.” Harpo laughed. “The other two dropped their bowls and beat feet out of there.”

“Mind if I look at your rifle?” Chan asked.

“No, go ahead.” Harpo handed it to Chan, who handled it as if it were something precious.

“This rifle probably cost two or three thousand dollars,” Chan said.

“At least,” Harpo agreed.

“Have you heard anything else about this operation?” I asked.

“I know the Seventh Marines and some ARVN regiment are already there. Scuttlebutt says they found a whole division of NVA.”

“That’s why they’ve kept me with you guys,” Joe said, as if the mystery was over.

“I’m sure it is, Joe,” Harpo said. “They’ve been using Puff and B-52 strikes.”

“That explains it,” Joe said. “I was wondering why I hadn’t been reassigned. I don’t usually stay with a grunt outfit this long.”

“If you’re the one who calls in the Phantoms and Puff, ol’ buddy, you ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I said. I gave Joe a slap on the back.

“It’s a double-edged sword, John.” Chan’s teeth gleamed in an ironic smile. “FOs don’t come along unless they know you’re going to need the big stuff.”

“He’s right,” Joe agreed.

“I wish you guys luck tomorrow,” Harpo said. “I got a feeling you’re in for a big time. You remember Jonsey?”

“Yeah,” Joe said. “Where did you see him?”

“His recon team came through two days ago. They sat in on a hill above the Vu Gia River near Thuong Duc for eight days, barely moving a muscle the whole time. On the eighth day a whole company came strolling by in daylight. They called in air and artillery and got a bunch of ’em. Then, the very next day, another full company walked into the killing zone. They said they counted two hundred four dead and they didn’t lose a man. There must be a ton of gooks in that area!”

“Think he was exaggerating?” Chan asked.

“No. His buddies said the same thing.” Harpo stood up. “I have to get going. What are you going to do about your baby?” Harpo gave the droopy-eyed puppy one last pat.

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “Take care.” Joe stood up. They shook hands, then Harpo slapped Joe on the back and gave him a quick strong hug. He rushed out of the tent and into the dark storm. Joe stood for a few moments, then sat down with a faraway look.

“How long have you guys known each other?” I asked.

“Since I was born,” Joe said. “That’s my brother.”

The flap door of the tent burst open just as a loud crack of lightning shot an eerie blue light across An Hoa. Sudsy stepped inside our tent. Water cascaded off his poncho as he pulled the hood back.

“Is Corporal Elbon in here?” Sudsy squinted to see faces in the dim light.

“Yeah, over here,” Joe said.

“They want you at the CP. We’re movin’ out.”

The tent erupted in shouting and cursing. Someone threw a helmet at Sudsy. He pulled his poncho hood over his head and ran out. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted more than anything to sleep out of the rain. I had my heart set on it. Joe put Killer in his pack, snatched up his gear, and stood up.

“Good luck.”

“You too, Joe,” I said.

“See you in the mud,” Chan said.

Joe gave us a thumbs up, then turned and maneuvered through the tent full of angry Marines.

Ten minutes later we stood in formation in the blinding storm. Corporal James went by each man in the platoon counting out loud. When he finished he ran back to the lieutenant.

“Left face!”

The shout could hardly be heard over the pounding rain. The hump was on again. I was already tired. A vicious sheet of driving rain staggered the column like a hurt boxer as we reached the barbed-wire gate to exit An Hoa. Three hours later the rain subsided. By the time the first streaks of sunlight outlined the steep mountains ahead, I was half dry and half asleep. The low roar of a flight of Phantoms opened my eyes a little wider. The sound of bombs hitting the earth like giant drums echoed from the mountains. We crossed at a shallow point on the wide Vu Gia River. We reached the other side, crawled up the river bank and onto a winding dirt road that paralleled the river. A streaking Phantom ripped overhead with black smoke trailing behind.

“Hey! That Phantom’s hit!” Doyle exclaimed, but no one paid any attention. I could hear small-arms fire. It sounded about a mile away.

“Take five!”

“Take five!”

“Take five!”

“Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

Swift Eagle sent three men into the bush on the right flank of the road as the rest of the column collapsed on both sides of the road. Some men quickly dug for C-rations while others just fell back and closed their eyes. I threw oil on the M60 with my toothbrush and watched Sam, Doyle, and Corporal James start up a tired-looking game of Back Alley. Sam claimed the men of Alpha had bought him a Corvette playing cards. I wondered if it was true. I knew a lot of money changed hands. No one seemed to treat MPC like real money. It looked like Vietnamese Monopoly money. It was colorful and about the same size. No one cared. They couldn’t spend it any other way. Chubby Doyle pushed his Coke-bottle-lensed glasses farther up on his pug nose and looked up from his cards.

“Hey, what’s the date? It’s October, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said. “Is it?”

“Yes,” Chan said. “It is October 9, 1968,” he said in a businesslike, matter-of-fact tone.

“Really!” I said. “October 12 is my birthday. I almost missed it. I thought it was September.”

“Do you hear that?” Sam asked. The rumbling engine of something big suddenly sounded very close.

“That’s a tank,” Corporal James said tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure. He stood up and looked down the road.

“That does sound like a tank,” Chan said.

“Sounds like more than one,” Doyle mumbled. He and James looked toward the rear of our resting column. I wanted to look too, but I felt too tired to stand.

“Here they come,” Doyle said.

“This looks big,” James said.

Sam stood up and lit a cigarette. “I don’t know,” he said dryly. “Tanks are useless crap in this war. I don’t know why they even bother bringing them out.”

Chan stood up, then put out a hand to lift me up too. I let him. Sam was right. So far tanks had proved useless, but there was still something inspiring about seeing these
giant steel monsters churning toward combat. I felt a chill. Death felt close.

“Saddle up!”

We split into two columns, one on each side of the road. Three huge tanks rumbled by us. Their width dwarfed the narrow dirt road. The ground vibrated with their power. A tanker with goggles sat exposed in the turret of each tank. Each man gave us the thumbs up as they passed. The rumbling monsters rounded a bend up ahead and disappeared from sight. Small-arms fire sounded closer as we marched. Our pace quickened. Every tired eye looked up as a Huey gunship dove from the clean blue sky, firing rockets and M60s at a target about a thousand meters ahead. We rounded a slight bend in the road and found a company’s worth of Marines resting against an embankment on the right side of the road. They were ragged and dirty, and some of them were bloody. I could hear shouting at the head of the column, then we started running forward and past the company of weary Marines. The column stopped.

“Get to the side of the road!” someone shouted from the front of the column. We moved to the right side of the road, leaned against the embankment, and stared at the wide river in front of us. A giant engine cranked up then revved up its power. The tanks were getting ready up ahead.

“Second Platoon up!”

We ran forward. I could see the captain standing in the shade of a huge oak tree, motioning us to him with frantic waves. He stood behind one of the tanks. As we ran forward we passed three corpsmen working on five wounded Marines lying on the side of the road.

“All right! Listen up!” The captain’s red mustache seemed to flair out with excitement as he shouted over the rumbling diesels. “See that hill on the other side of that stream?”

I took a couple of steps to look around the tanks. Just
past them and out of the shade of the huge oak was a clearing two hundred meters square. The dirt road went through it. On the other side a tributary feeding into the wide river cut the road in half. The remains of a blown-up wooden bridge protruded from the center of the tributary. Across the tributary and to the right of the road was a steep, bald hill.

“We hit a semicircle of fortified positions on the hills around that clearing. Second Battalion sent E Company up that hill. They had to pull back. We’re going to take that hill. We have tanks now, and they will provide cover fire.”

A sleek new Cobra helicopter gunship swept overhead with mini-guns blazing. It strafed the bald hill then banked straight up, made a roll like a World War II fighter plane, and nose-dived straight down at the top of the hill. He fired six rockets, then leveled off, just missing the rocks and debris from the flashing explosions.