Last Man Out (22 page)

The smell in the midday Vietnam sun was putrid: excrement, alcohol, and another atrocious odor akin to rotten oranges. Trudging along behind my escort and stepping through water, blood, and slime, I felt the stark image of the room etch itself into my brain. Dark blood dripped from the cold marble tables. Some of the men had lost limbs; the mouths of some were open, as if gasping for breath. Some stared wide-eyed, vacantly at the ceiling. The black men so colorless, the white men so chalky. All quietly, patiently waiting to be processed.

The scene assaulted my senses. Time stood still as my mind involuntarily examined every detail. It was too ghoulish, too sudden, too unexpected, too macabre—the most horrible sight I had ever encountered.

When we arrived in the supply room, the receptionist asked whose effects I had come for, but I could not speak. Patrick’s name was finally mentioned, and some personal items were put on a table in front of me. I went through them as though I were hypnotized—taking this, discarding that, not sure why. When I finished, I looked at the supply sergeant and said, “That’s it.”

He put the items in a plastic bag. I signed for them and walked out without a word, away from the working bay, around the building, and out to the road in front. I jogged to get away from the place. Finally, a quarter of a mile away, I stopped and looked back, still afraid. What a godless, deadly place. The gateway to hell.

We heard that General Seaman was being replaced by Maj. Gen. William E. DePuy, called “Peppy” by some of the men who had served under him. He did not like sedentary troops and immediately began launching extended field operations: “Rolling Stone,” “Lavender Hill,” “Quick Kick II,” and “Silver City” came one right after the other.

I went on the first operation, but because of my healing wound Woolley was easy on my platoon and we were held in reserve. Just a casual “walk in the woods,” said Spencer. He suggested that I get wounded more often.

Between operations we received replacements. The base camp had a rough-hewn battalion officers club, and when we came back for refitting between operations Dunn used it as his private venue to instruct new officer replacements on the history of the 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry Regiment, 1st Infantry Division, United States Army. The history was his lead-in to a welcoming toast that had a typical Dunn ending.

He’d get to the end of the bar and say something like this: “Okay there, you clean-smelling, unscratched, undented newcomers, come over here. Come here, come on.”

I used to marvel at how he took command like that, how those replacements responded to him.

“You have been assigned to the 1st Battalion 28th Infantry Regiment in III Corps, Vietnam,” he continued, “though by the looks of you, you’re hardly deserving, because this unit, youngsters, is one of the finest fighting units in the world—we have fought and died for our great country since 1813. Our colors have flown wherever America has needed strong, courageous men, willing to die. That’s what we do; we fight, we die. We are called the Lions of Cantigny ’cause in World War I, after we took the town of Cantigny, we held off five German counterattacks. This unit, this one you’re assigned, took more ’an five thousand casualties in World War I. In World War II this regiment landed at Utah Beach in Normandy and fought its way across Europe. We never, never, never backed up. We don’t do dat. We fight, we die. We are, you are, the Lions of Cantigny. You are the newest in a proud tradition of officers in a storied battalion. Gentlemen, you need to buy some drinks here. Champagne. We’re going to make some toasts.”

With glasses charged, he’d say, “Here’s to the President of the United States—the Commander in Chief.” He downed his drink and insisted that the replacements do the same. When the glasses were refilled, Dunn said, “Gentlemen, here’s to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” and everyone downed their drinks. He went all the way down the chain of command until he got to the battalion commander, Haldane. The bartender, who had one champagne bottle filled with gin, poured gin into the replacements’ glasses.

Bob then said, “And here’s to the best damn battalion commander
of the best damn battalion in the whole history of the United States Army,” and he downed his champagne. The replacements downed their drinks, not knowing that it was gin.

The reaction was always the same—the replacements’ eyes bulged, they opened their mouths, slammed their glasses down on the bar, and gurgled,
“Aaaaaaauuuuuuuggggggg!”

“Replacements are so dumb,” Dunn always said as he walked away from the bar, leaving the replacements gasping for air.

Because we had been wounded and returned to duty, Dunn and I were among the first two officers in the battalion to be selected for a week of out-of-country rest and recreation (R&R). Bob arranged to meet his bride Linda in Hawaii, and I picked Hong Kong.

The day I left I was surprised to see Moubry, the supply officer, dressed in his best, also on the way out for R&R. “Extra billet,” he said, “came in at the last moment.”

Yeah, right, Moubry, was all that came to mind. A celebrated incident had occurred several weeks before when Moubry had flown into the battalion forward base on a resupply helicopter that took enemy small-arms fire when it made its landing approach. An enemy round came up through the fuselage and hit Moubry in his seat; the spent bullet lodged in his wallet. On the ground he rushed up to Colonel Haldane, dropped his pants to show how he was bruised from the round, and asked about getting a Purple Heart. Haldane eventually said no, but everyone remembered Moubry running after the battalion commander with his pants down to his knees as he pleaded for a medal. He was hard to like, and I had to share my R&R with him. Didn’t seem fair.

On my first night in Hong Kong, I took the Star Ferry from Kowloon to Hong Kong island. I paid something like ten cents for the ride in passenger class. It was a superb voyage—Chinese junks sailing by, a huge freighter sitting at anchor, barges being moved around, and the lights of Hong Kong going up the side of the mountains on both sides—how majestic and grand. Getting on and off were thousands of people, young and old, stooped and tall, beautiful and ugly, exotic and dour, richly dressed and in rags.

I stayed on board when we reached the island and sailed back to Kowloon, then to the island and back again for a total of five
round-trips. No one could have been more enthralled, more captivated, with Hong Kong, and I vowed to come back.

In a small bar, I spent hours talking with a bar girl who had a Dutch-boy haircut. She did her job well and kept me entertained. Her English was perfect. How strange, I thought, for an Oriental to speak the Queen’s English.

I had suits, sport coats, and silk shirts made to order. After living in holes and eating out of cans for six months, I had never been so fit and trim. The clothes looked smashing.

On the third day of my R&R, Moubry ambushed me in the lobby of my hotel. He said he was running short of money and wondered if he could stay in my room with me. He’d share the cost of the single.

I could have said, “No, Moubry, I don’t like you,” but I didn’t. I said okay and went out and rode the Star Ferry.

Over breakfast the next morning, Moubry wondered aloud what was happening back at the battalion. He said he had a feeling in his bones that something tragic had occurred. We were having a grand time, and those poor slobs back there were facing danger every minute. He hoped he was wrong and said he was going to pray for the men in the battalion.

Two days later, Moubry and I walked into the battalion perimeter. I had the tailor-made clothes in bags under my arms. R&R had been altogether too short, but it was good to get back to the unit.

The battalion was in camp, getting ready for an operation scheduled to kick off in the next couple of days.

I waved to Woolley, who was down the company street, as I ducked into my tent to drop off my new clothes. I was on the way out to tell Woolley about my R&R when he came in.

“Jimmy,” he said, “I’ve got some bad news.” He paused. “McCoy was killed by a mine two days ago.”

I stood perfectly still. “No, he wasn’t.”

“George was here at the base camp. He went out to do some maintenance in his minefield and something happened and a mine went off. He was dead before he hit the ground. There was nothing the medics could do.”

I was stunned. McCoy. Dead. Gone. I stood absolutely still—
only my eyes blinked—sinking into shock, thinking about nothing at all.

Woolley left, and Dunn soon arrived. He sat down at the chessboard where George and I had played so many games. He didn’t say anything.

I lit a cigarette and sat down in a chair by him.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice breaking.

“Well, one of those things. The trip lines to the mines around the perimeter have got tangled in undergrowth and a couple of days ago one of the mines went off in front of George’s positions. Someone said a dog had gotten into the minefield, someone else said they saw some villagers near the concertina. George went out to check. He was walking down the safe lane and he took a little half-step off to one side and a mine went off. He never knew what hit him. No reason. There is no great combat story here. Our friend was just walking along and he took a misstep and he died. No moral. Nothing gained. Just one of those things.”

George’s death was on my mind for days. I could not shake the sense of loss. The only consolation was George’s contention that if we die in combat, we’re at peace. If others get upset, it’s their problem. Even so, my attitudes changed. I did not make friends with the replacements but kept to myself, relaxing only with Dunn, Woolley, and the men in the platoon.

  TEN  

The operations around Phuoc Vinh continued. Dunn was wounded again when a bullet grazed one of his legs. He was not medevacked and was out of action for only a few days.

During “Operation Lavender Hill” we were searching for VC supply caches in an area near the Song Be (Be River). On point in my platoon was a young soldier who had recently arrived as a replacement. He came to a clearing, took a couple of steps out, and dropped to one knee. Beck, coming up behind him but staying inside the wood line, said, “Get your ass back here. You goin’ to get shot.”

I was walking forward up the platoon file as the new man stood up to move back. Suddenly a VC automatic weapon opened up from across the clearing. The point man yelled out, grabbed his stomach, and lunged forward and to his right behind an anthill out in the clearing. Other VC began firing at us from around the field. The point man was hit again in the leg and screamed. He pulled his legs up as far as he could behind the anthill and continued to yell.

I called Manuel to come up with the M-60 machine gun and told the rest of the platoon to get on line and put some fire on the enemy positions. As our counterfire increased, the VC sought cover and their fire died down. The point man was still yelling, and I went to the edge of the clearing and looked out at him. He appeared lightly wounded in a couple of places but seemed to be in fair shape otherwise.

“Hey, shut up,” I said over the din of the firing. “You’re all right. Just keep your head down. You’ll be okay.”

He continued to yell, and I dived out beside him.

That encouraged the VC, and they began firing again—at me.

There wasn’t enough room behind the anthill for both of us, so I rolled to my left behind another anthill. I brought my knees up to my chest as rounds began to hit the ground on either side. Then fire from an automatic rifle began to saw down the anthill gradually. As chunks of the rocklike structure were shot off, pieces fell on my helmet. When I looked up I saw the top of the anthill coming down.

“Shoot that son of a bitch with the machine gun! Shoot him!” I yelled to my men.

More VC rounds came in and hit the ground on either side of me. The top of the anthill was getting lower and lower. Trying to roll myself into a smaller ball, I looked back at the wood line where my men were firing past me.

I had a clear thought: if I were to get out of that alive, I’d never worry about the small stuff of life again. Then I had another clear thought: I hope no one in my platoon shoots me.