Last Man Out (25 page)

Burke looked at me calmly and said, “Is this okay?”

“Crash Burke, you are a piece of work,” I replied.

The squadron of cavalry that had provided security for our move appeared across the field. Several tanks and accompanying ACAVs spread out and raced in our direction. The lead tank came to a stop near the wood line, and a short, square-jawed tank NCO jumped out. Pulling down his goggles and smiling, he said that he was “Slippery Clunker Six,” and his Slippery Clunker boys would be with us through the night. The name tag on his fatigue jacket read Bretschneider. Despite his friendly, cavalier manner, he looked rock solid. His diction was crisp and precise, and his eyes—prominent in the clean circles where his goggles had been—were bright and intelligent.

Panton pointed out where the cav commander could put his tracks and asked if he could dig a hole for our command vehicle. Slippery Clunker Six said, “Certainly, it would be our pleasure,” and ordered one of his tanks with a dozer blade on the front to dig a wide trench.

When the job was finished, I told “Crash” Burke—a name that seemed to fit him—that I had better back up the truck, to prevent more damage, plus we didn’t want the infantry to look bad in front of the Quarterhorse.

By dusk all of the battalion units were in place and the command van was in operation. A mess hall with lights powered by a small generator had been set up. Dunn and I built a small rain shelter under the large tree. Sitting on our air mattresses after supper, we looked around at our surroundings and decided that that was the way to go to war—you got your mess tent, your shade, your rain-proof, bug-free, air-conditioned office. It was almost civilized.

“But I don’t know,” I said. “Over there, that tank looks like a
big metal building, looks like it would draw fire. And it’s loud. You hear that thing today? How you going to sneak up on VC in a tank?” From our position on the ground the tank appeared monstrously large.

Dunn said, “Ah, the American man and his fighting machines. One good thing, though, Crash Burke wasn’t assigned to armor.”

Slippery Clunker Six walked purposefully over to us and asked if we’d like something to eat. He had a little cooler in his tank where he kept some very good sausage and pâté and wondered if we wanted any. I said we’d just taken supper in the local diner, but added quickly that, of course, we would like some sausage and pâté; we hadn’t been asked things like that nearly enough since we’d been in Nam.

“You got any wine?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said.

We walked over to his tank. He had a folding table set up, and we sat on boxes and ate exotic food out of several containers. Dunn compared it to what he thought it must be like going on a safari, certainly not what we were used to as grunts in Vietnam.

As we ate and drank, the cavalry NCO said that he and his men had it a little easier and were a little more distant from this jungle war than the infantry—maybe it was the noise or the tracks they left.

“You guys aren’t in harmony with the jungle,” I suggested.

“There you go,” he said. “But you know, the VC stay away in droves. ’Course there are those damn mines which take all the fun out of it. But it is not supposed to be fun, is it?” He paused a moment to give us a chance to respond. Dunn shrugged, and he continued, “Ours is a noble endeavor here. We are crusaders, the fortunate ones in our generation. ‘Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.’ That’s from the late great Teddy Roosevelt, who knew about war and noble causes.”

Eloquent quotes from former statesmen were seldom heard on the battlefields of Vietnam, but they did not seem out of place coming from Sergeant First Class (SFC) Hans Karl Bretschneider.
Maybe that was because he was so self-assured. Confidence writes its own rules.

“Ah,” he continued, “but I’m afraid Kipling also knew about fighting, especially war in this part of the world. He said:

“Something which we fools might be trying to do here in Vietnam, don’t you think? Aren’t we trying to hustle ’em? I think if we are, there is a tombstone out there with our names on it.”

Dunn laughed. “You think so?”

“Yeah, I think so,” the tank commander said, “but, you know, for us that shouldn’t matter. We’re soldiers. ‘Ours is not to question why, ours is to do and die.’ ”

“Now there you’ve almost got it,” Dunn said. “We fight, we die, but damned if we don’t kill a bunch of them son’bitches, too.”

Slippery Clunker Six smiled slowly and said, “There you go.”

The cavalry left the next morning to provide security for elements of the 1st Engineer Battalion, which was improving the road to Phuoc Vinh, but we saw Slippery Clunker Six occasionally throughout the operation. For several days, small elements patrolled around the battalion CP and then company-size forces moved out to protect engineer work parties that were cutting pioneer roads through the jungle. There were occasional firefights, but the VC avoided contact. Then, on 2 June, Alpha company stumbled on a VC base camp and a fierce firefight ensued. Trost and the 3d Platoon handled themselves very well, and I noted with pride the competent way RTO Spencer handled Trost’s tactical communications—calling for supporting artillery fire and bringing in reinforcements—and the way he handled the medevacs. Trost was in command, there was no question, but Spencer made things work and made Trost look good. In the heat of the
battle, Spencer’s thick urban brogue had a soothing effect. The tone said, everything’s going to be okay.

We had been in the position with the command van under that beautiful tree for five days. Dunn and Crash had the 0700-to-1500 shift in the van. I had the 1500-to-2300 shift that day with another NCO. Colonel Haldane left by Jeep for an early briefing at brigade headquarters. At noon, I was sitting on the step of the van. Inside, Dunn and Crash were taking down radio messages on a clipboard. When the messages were about firefights, enemy sightings, or movements of friendly units, they plotted the positions on the map board. With the colonel out of the area, Dunn was singing as he worked the map board.

I left for lunch and a short nap and returned around 1430. Dunn was sitting on the top step of the van. Crash, on the ground in front of the van, was talking about all the great Fred Astaire movies he had seen. Settling on the step below Bob, I asked him what was happening, referring to the battalion patrols, and he said everything was quiet.

Crash was absolutely grand entertainment. He had energy, enthusiasm, and the ability to tell a good story. Skinny in his big combat boots and T-shirt, he reminded me of Bugs Bunny as he danced around, held an imaginary Ginger Rogers, did a soft-shoe, handled an invisible top hat and cane, and swayed back and forth. He talked about one scene where Fred Astaire did a soft-shoe number with two other men. He said he knew the whole routine—it was marvelous and simple. He invited us down to the ground and said he’d show us.

“Not on your life, my friend,” I said.

“In the van,” Dunn said.

Crash climbed up the steps around me. I looked both ways. There was nobody around, and I followed them inside. Crash had his arm over Dunn’s shoulder near the map board.

“Okay,” he said, “we got on spats, straw hats, and black canes with solid gold caps on the top. The music is ‘Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do.’ Got it? It’s that simple, Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do,’ over and over again. Two steps and then three steps. We go left—come on, Lieutenant,” he said to me, “join us, we go left two steps. ‘Dun de dun,’ then we shuffle three times, ‘de doddle
de doddle do,’ then go back to the right. Okay, now bounce your canes in step. Here we go. ‘Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do.’ ”

We practiced until we had it down—Crash on one end, Dunn in the middle, and I on the other end. We were working on the finish, in which the two of them would spin me off to the right. I would do a pirouette and land on one knee as I raised my hand, holding an imaginary hat, into the air and say “Ta-daa!” Mine was the showcase move, the grand finale. At first, I had trouble facing in the same direction as the others when I came out of the spin onto one knee, but we practiced the whole set several times and I was getting it down. I came out of one spin—the whole routine had been perfect, our best performance—and I put gusto into my “Ta-daa.”

Colonel Haldane was standing in the door of the van, looking at me.

Dunn and Crash were standing at attention.

“Who’s on duty?” he asked quietly and slowly.

I got to my feet and turned toward the clock on the wall. It was 1520. Theoretically, I had been on duty for twenty minutes.

Dunn and Crash both said, “He is,” and pointed at me.

The colonel took a step in and put his map case on one of the tables below the radios. He continued to look at me very seriously.

Dunn and Crash said, “Excuse us,” and walked out. Standing behind the colonel, Dunn had an exaggerated smile on his face, his eyes wide and twinkling, as he closed the door to the van.

Inside, the air conditioner and the lights came on. I stood at attention. There were only two people in the whole world—me and the colonel.

“What’s happening?” he asked, seeking a briefing on the movement of the various units in the battalion. His battalion.

The clipboard was beside him on the table. Sweating, I figured if I could get to the clipboard and read the messages maybe I could get through this.

I got the clipboard, walked to the map, and read the last entry on the clipboard about an enemy sighting. It wasn’t plotted on the map. I read the next entry. It wasn’t plotted either. Nothing on the clipboard had been plotted since 1400. And it was past 1520.

The colonel cleared his throat, and there was a pause—like
those last few seconds before an incoming rocket explodes. Then he began talking to me in a low, even voice, his eyes hard.

When he finished, I wanted just to be by myself, to walk alone down a quiet country road.

He said he would be back in fifteen minutes and he wanted a complete briefing. He opened the door and left.

Dunn and Fred Astaire Crash Burke were standing in the distance. They waved and did a soft-shoe to the right. It wasn’t funny.

The colonel had received orders from General DePuy, the division commander, to bring in the battalion and prepare the men for a heliborne move to the Michelin rubber plantation, near the Cambodian border. We would support the brigade’s attack on a suspected VC command center. Thankfully, for the rest of the afternoon and evening I was busy calling in the companies and coordinating how they would tie in around the battalion CP.

A lone helicopter brought in replacements the next morning. Jumping off the helicopter in their new uniforms, some held their rifles by the handles and bent over more than necessary to get away from the blades. When the chopper lifted off, I noticed a black man who had gotten off on the other side. Standing erect, taller than the rest, he started walking toward us behind the other replacements who were jogging our way.

Duckett.

Smiling, I stood up and met him halfway. We hugged. I asked how he was doing and pointed at his bad ear. He said, “Say what?”

“How’s the ear?” I asked. “How you doing?”

“Say what?” he said again, then he smiled. “It’s okay.”

I told him that it was good having him back, and we went to find the colonel. Although I was still in trouble from the previous day and the colonel ignored me, he smiled broadly at Duckett and welcomed him back. Haldane told Joe that he would like to put him in a staff job, but we were low on platoon leaders. We were losing one a month. Only two officers, Woolley and Trost, were left in Alpha Company. Arthur had been wounded and evacuated to the States. Duckett said he wanted to work with Woolley again, wanted his own platoon back.

As we walked away I told Duckett not to be surprised if he didn’t see too many of the old guys around.

The next day the entire battalion was heli-lifted in one flight of helicopters. Dunn and I were on the last chopper. All of our trucks, including the van, had already moved out for the battalion rear camp. I looked down at that very good hole under the old tree as we gained altitude and headed west, leaving the Fred Astaire stage behind.

Our battalion landed at an old airstrip near the Michelin plantation. We established a battalion CP just inside a forest of rubber trees near the airstrip. The four companies in the battalion, Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta, were deployed to secure individual TAORs.

Alpha Company broke down into small units. My old platoon, on a patrol the third night of the operation, walked into a North Vietnamese position and Ayers and Castro were killed.

Bratcher led the party that brought their bodies back to the battalion CP. Covered by ponchos, they lay at the edge of the CP in the shade by the runway for a long time. Sticking out from the ponchos, tags on their boots identified them and their unit.

I tried to go about my work that morning, but, from deep inside, thoughts of the two soldiers kept interrupting. A picture of Ayers would come to mind, and I would remember that he was an eighteen-year-old boy from the midwest. Strong as an ox, he stayed on point until he dropped. Never complained. Bad teeth. No one wrote to him much. Quiet most of the time. No rough edges. Responded to praise. Did everything asked of him. Dead now—over there under the trees.

I would shake my head and try to focus on the staff work. Then I would see Castro, laughing, getting to the train at the last moment and once aboard, stomping his feet in a circle like he was doing a Mexican hat dance. He was in his late thirties, twice the age of some of the other men. He made good hot stew out of C rations. Friendly, humble. A sergeant E-5 from the old Army. Over there under a poncho, with his boots sticking out, tagged with his name and his unit. Dead.