Sharpshooter (6 page)

I tuck the letter under my pillow. I will finish it later. Or not, maybe. Sometimes you feel like you have done a letter just by writing it, maybe, and sending it's not so important. Sending it is kind of weak, even.

And anyway it's not time for yakking, it's time for work.

We are stationed at a port called Vung Tau, which is on a peninsula in the South China Sea. It is the point at which all the fun of this war just begins to open up. But there is an undeniable crossroads feel to the place that tells me this is a transitional area, a Navy area, and that we, the Ninth Infantry, are intended for bigger and better things farther in-country.

So the initial days and duties have the feel of one last bit of on-the-job training before we get into the deep heat somewhere else.

I am assigned to a patrol. We have two express objectives, which are commonly referred to as H&I. That stands for Harassment and Interdiction. One of the greatest problems the American forces have been encountering, especially in these two most southern zones, 3 and 4, has been the consistent, successful, relentless supplying of insurgent cells down deep within the territory of South Vietnam. These fighters exist unseen within the dense jungles and riverbanks of the region and seem to be equipped with an endless supply of munitions to assault our forces with. We know the general supply lines that exist from the North on down, but the system is so sophisticated and cunning that the only effective way for us to deal with it is a constant infusion of men and weapons of our own right into the very arteries of the country: the big river ways and the small ones. The foliage, the hills and mountains and swamps.

So my home, my office, Region 4, is where we patrol, at the bottom end of South Vietnam. It contains sixteen different provinces, the whole of the mean Mekong Delta, and over fifty percent of the country's entire population. In the midst of all this life, we sneak in, look for secret supply deposits, and sit in ambush for the guys responsible for this whole big, bloody mess.

If a guy can't get motivated for that last part, then he's got no blood running through him.

“I do hope you are ready for everything and anything,” Lieutenant Systrom says as our boat is lowered into the river. There are twenty-five of these fiberglass assault boats attached to the
Benewah
for the use of the Army exclusively.

“If we get anything less than everything and anything, lieutenant, I will be very disappointed,” I say, to his apparent pleasure.

He shakes his head and smiles. “I see. I've got one of
them
on my hands,” he says.

“You do, indeed,” I say. “Whatever
them
are, I am one of them.”

“That's great. I always say, if I had more fighters like that … I'd have less fighters like that. You boys are all great. Until you get yourselves shot to pieces.”

“I won't be getting shot, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know,” I say.

Shakes his head again. Smiles again.

“Listen. I love the gung ho, I really do. But I need to know now if you're a listener. A lot of guys here, they're ready to fight but not ready to listen. Really, it works best if you're both ready to fight and ready to listen, because I could have some things to tell you that will help you to fight longer.”

“I am a military man, lieutenant. As is my father, as was his father. I was bred to listen.”

“That is what I wanted to hear,” he says, and as our boat motors away, he leads me over to the rest of our small team. We sit and get better acquainted as we ease along the brown Mekong River.

Our gang of six includes the lieutenant; two corporals, Parrish and Lightfoot; and two more privates like me, Arguello and Kuns.

“Welcome aboard the
Ship o' Fools
,” Lt. Systrom says, and the guys all laugh. “By the way, that title is ironic. My guys are famously smart, cool under pressure, brave but not stupid. Does that describe you, Private Bucyk?”

“It does,” I answer.

“Does that describe you, Private Kuns?”

“It does,” says Kuns.

“Good, glad to hear it. Now that we have established that the two new guys are not idiots, let's get down to it.”

Lt. Systrom shoves an M-79 grenade launcher in my direction. I did receive some instruction with the M-79 but not a great deal. I am in fact a little surprised it's still in use, as I had heard it was phasing out. At any rate, this is not the weapon of a sharpshooter.

“Oh, lieutenant,” I say helpfully, “I should tell you, I am a graduate of the Army Marksman Unit.”

The
Ship o' Fools
erupts with laughter, and it is clear who the fool is.

“And I should tell you, Private Bucyk, that every butt in this boat is a graduate of that same fine institution. I don't work with anything but. Now, every soldier in my group does time with every weapon in our box. I like versatility. Any problem with that?”

“No, sir, lieutenant.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says.

“
Ship o' Sharpshooters
is more like it,” Arguello says. “Maybe we get a prize at the end for wasting the fewest bullets and the mostest VC.”

The jolliest tub in the Army laughs a little more. Me, I can't help hearing my dad's words saying almost the same thing with no humor at all:
Bring the maximum of death to the minimum of people.

I take the heavy, stumpy weapon and hand over my standard Army-issue M-16. The 40-mm grenade launcher is in its own way a pretty impressive thing, and it is immediately clear why it's known as The Thumper. It looks and feels like a single-barrel, large-bore, sawed-off shotgun. With this, and my pistol and my knife, I may not be a sharpshooter, but I don't feel defenseless, either.

My eyes go wide as Lt. Systrom makes another trade. The other new guy, Kuns, hands over his M-16 and in return gets the beast that has mostly replaced the launcher I am holding. The M-203 is a leaner, meaner version of the M-79 grenade launcher
combined
with the M-16A1 automatic rifle. When I was a kid lying in bed, thinking about wars and seeing myself in them — which I did a lot — this is the very type of beautiful piece of kit I saw myself marching into battle with. An involuntary small, hungry grunt comes out of me as it passes by.

“You'll get your shot,” Lt. Systrom says.

Corporal Lightfoot gets an M-60 machine gun, while the other guys remain with their faithful M-16s.

But the boss has something special.

The lieutenant looks off in the distance, toward where we are headed, as he absently stands his gun up in front of him.

I know this gun. I have studied this gun. I have had many impure thoughts about this gun.

It is the M-21 Sniper Weapon System, and it is as beautiful as an Army weapon gets. It is long and sleek, with a high polish and a starlight scope perched on top for day and night hunting.

It's a hunting rifle. 'Cause that's just what it's for.

“Are you ogling my M-21?” Lt. Systrom says with a sly side glance.

I pull back, like I've been caught at something forbidden. I do tell the truth, though.

“Absolutely, sir.”

Again I provoke laughter, but it is a more familiar thing now. This population agrees with me completely on this.

“Get in line, boy,” Corporal Parrish says to me. “There ain't a man here who wouldn't shoot everybody else for a day with that beauty.”

“Guess I should be worried, huh?” says the lieutenant.

“Sir,” I say tentatively, “could I just handle the weapon for a minute?”

“Private Bucyk, you most certainly may —”

Pop! Pop-pop-popopopopopopopop!

The early morning air is cut up with rifle shots coming at us from maybe two hundred yards inland. Every man hits the deck. Cpl. Lightfoot fairly lights up the entire jungle with machine-gun fire. The other guys pepper the area blindly with rifle shots. It is a bright and sunny morning and there isn't much hope of seeing where the shots are coming from. Muzzle flashes are faint, and these guys are good with the foliage, because there doesn't seem to be any movement out there anywhere.

“Private Bucyk!” Parrish screams at me. “Do you know what you are supposed to be doing with that thing, or does somebody need to help you?”

“Oh,” I say like a simpleton. “Oh, yes, sir.” I had made the cardinal error, already, of letting myself get overwhelmed and watching the action. My father would slap me stupid right now.

“Private Kuns!” Parrish yells, louder. “Grenades! We have enough shooters. Grenades!”

And, as if it has all been perfectly coordinated for Kuns and me to be arriving in-country and making our mark on it at the same exact time, we both let off our big mother grenades simultaneously, listen to them whistle across the sky, and watch them land in the same spot.

Bu-boo-oom!

There is an instant decrease in incoming fire, but not enough to feel safe. A round tears right through the side of the fiberglass boat, goes right between me and Kuns, and exits the other side. I can feel the rush as it passes.

I can feel that rush, and every other rush. I am pumping enough adrenaline to power the whole
Benewah
all by myself.

“More! Again!” Parrish screams, and I begin to wonder if he is actually the man in charge here. Then I look over to where Lt. Systrom is knuckled down, set up like a sniper as best he can over the lip of the boat. He is coiled, frozen, not firing — not breathing as far as I can tell.

The Navy boy piloting the boat begins a wide sweep away from the shore, which tears the lieutenant right out of his trance.

“What are you doing?” he shouts.

“Avoiding fire, what does it look like?”

“No, no, no!” Systrom screams. He points to the shore. “Your job is to get us in there so that we can do
our
jobs. We are Army, mister, not Navy, so you just get us onto land to do our jobs — then you can run wherever you like.”

The Nav begins a swing back, and Lt. Systrom keeps pointing.

“
Into
the fire?” our pilot calls dubiously.

“
Straight
into it,” our commander commands.

We go in, as all-guns-a-blazin' as it is possible to get, straight into the enemy fire, which is now clearly coming at us from two nests up the hillside. I aim a grenade at one nest. Kuns follows up, and the explosions sound to me like the “1812 Overture” the Boston Pops plays outside on the Charles River every July Fourth. We are all crouching, squatting, ducking as we try to fight the invisible when, finally, Systrom joins in.

Craaack.

His gun sounds nothing like anybody else's. It is subtle, crisp, sure. It is the gunshot equivalent of an Olympic diver hitting the water without a ripple.

The return fire is now reduced to almost nothing.

Looks like our head shot off their head.

We hit the bank going a little bit too hard, and everybody tumbles around for a few seconds. Then we compose, focus, and hop out of the boat one at a time and all out.

The Navy guy scoots off quick and says he will come back when we radio him and not before.

Lt. Systrom squats down under a short palm tree. He coolly goes over his map with Cpls. Parrish and Lightfoot while the rest of us continue to pound the remaining nest that only now is lights-out.

“Here is what we know,” Systrom says. “Last night's recon indicates action here and here and here along this trail. That means you're probably gonna find drums.”

The “drums” are the fifty-five-gallon metal oil drums that the enemy fills with arms and ammunition for the insurgents, then seals and buries in the bush. They are a big problem for us.

Systrom continues. “I'll take Kuns with me and find a perch right around here, high enough to oversee your whole area. Stay within these parameters and try to cover the whole length of the trail by dusk. Right?”

“Right,” I say, all chirpy even though nobody asked me directly. I have never been as buzzy as I feel right now. This trail ahead of us is the very definition of the scary unknown. It is a mad, insane, helter-skelter thrill, and I feel at this moment like I want to run up that trail and personally flush out every sneaky Vietcong murderer, pull him out of his hole like a rabbit. I feel like these guys are holding me back.

At this moment it occurs to me that it is
easy
to be brave.

“Are you listening?” Cpl. Lightfoot says, nose to nose with me right now.

“Sorry, corporal,” I say.

“You just calm those red eyes of yours right down now,
brave.
Understand me? It would be a shame to waste all of this on your first and last day out, right?”

“Right, corporal.”

What I had, in fact, missed there was that we were going up the trail in twos, and I was to be paired with Lightfoot, while Parrish and Arguello would head up about ninety seconds in front of us.