The Reunion (9 page)

R
edman went down, screaming, “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

Tex and Hammer dropped to the mud. A wide spray of bullets flew past, not ten inches overhead.

“Get down! Everyone down!” Lt. Mann shouted. No one needed to be told. “Return fire, return fire. But stay down.” The familiar sound of M-16s entered the space, as every Marine in the patrol fired wildly down the creek in the other direction.

Boom! A B-40 rocket shot past, exploding into a tree behind Tex, Hammer, and Redman. The top half of the tree sheared off and fell into the creek, cutting the three men off from the rest of the patrol. VC machine guns tore into the trunk of the tree.

“We’re trapped, Tex. We’re gonna die here,” Hammer said.

Tex looked behind them. The rest of the men had taken cover anywhere they could, except Sardelli. He froze for a moment, confused, then dashed toward the fallen tree. “Get down!” Cracker yelled. Too late. Three machine gun rounds raked across Sardelli’s chest. He dropped dead in the water.

Tex looked away. Redman was groaning up ahead. Tex wanted to look, see how he was doing, but the gunfire was relentless, now just a few inches above their heads. “Redman, you okay?”

“My leg. Hurts bad. Bleeding something fierce.”

“Hammer, can you tie it off?”

“I can’t move, Tex.”

“He’ll bleed out.” He wondered why Redman didn’t make his own tourniquet. Was he hurt too bad or just in a full-blown panic?

“Help me, Hammer,” Redman pleaded.

“I want to, Red. I can’t.”

The gunfire back and forth was deafening. This was no small band of VC, Tex thought. Might be an entire platoon. Over the noise, Tex heard the radioman request permission to call in a fire mission.

“They’re too close,” Lt. Mann shouted back.

He was right. Tex guessed the VC set the ambush no more than twenty yards down creek from this open area, then waited for them to walk right into it.

“I’m bleeding out,” Redman said. “Somebody do something!”

“Lieutenant,” Hammer shouted. “Get us out of here!”

“Fire the LAAW!” the lieutenant shouted. “Both sides of the bank. And M-79s. Pour it on.” The men obeyed. Rockets and grenades from the M-79 grenade launchers flew overhead, followed by explosions downstream. But there was no letup in the AK and machine-gun fire coming from the VC.

“We’re still pinned down, Lieutenant,” Tex said.

“Tex, can you help Redman?” he shouted back.

“Can’t move. I lift my head up, they’ll shoot it right off.”

“Let me down there, Lieutenant.” Tex recognized the medic’s voice.

“Stay put, Doc,” the lieutenant said.

“But he’ll die.”

“Stay put. Keep pouring on the fire, men.”

Thump-thump-thump. A familiar sound came from the VC end of the battle.

“Oh no,” Hammer said. “We’re dead.”

“Mortars!” someone shouted. “Get down.”

Tex buried his face in the mud and waited for death.

Explosions ripped through the air all around him. One, then another, then another. The ground shook, they were so close. But the VC had overshot; the mortar rounds landed on the far bank of the creek. Tex knew they must have preset this location, preparing for the ambush. More rounds would come. They had minutes to live before the VC got the math right. Hammer was saying Hail Marys over and over again.

“God, please make it quick,” Tex prayed quietly. “I haven’t been walking with you like I should. Forgive all my sins.”

“Cracker, get down!” It was the lieutenant’s voice.

Tex looked back. As the smoke from the mortars cleared, he saw Cracker running low through the water for the cover of the fallen tree. Tracers flew inches above his helmet. He carried two M-79 grenade launchers. They looked like sawed-off shotguns. “They don’t have any more time,” Cracker shouted.

A B-40 rocket boomed. Flashed over Tex’s head, right for the tree. He huddled in the mud. A roaring explosion sent water and wood splinters high in the air. He looked back. Cracker had to be dead. The biggest part of the tree was still there. In a little space between the tree and waterline, he saw Cracker lying in the water on his back. Cracker rolled over slowly, then got up. He repositioned himself against the thickest part of the tree, aimed the M-79 straight and level and fired, right where the VC rocket came from, maybe thirty yards down creek. Boom! Tex heard high-pitched screams. Marines cheered. Cracker had taken out the VC rocket man and maybe a few of his friends nearby.

For a moment, the enemy fire halted. “Pour it on!” Lt. Mann shouted.

Cracker moved down to where the fallen tree lay buried in the water and hopped over it. He ran toward them along the far side of the creek, where the three mortar rounds had just exploded, then ducked behind a large rock. Tex realized he’d picked that spot because the VC wouldn’t fire there again.

The enemy gunfire began again, and once more, thump-thump-thump. “Mortars! Incoming!” someone shouted. Men scrambled for cover.

Tex buried his face for another mortar shower. This was it. No more chances.

“I’m cold,” Redman said.

Three quick explosions. The center of the creek erupted. The mortars had made a direct hit on the fallen tree, sending chunks and pieces flying through the air. Limbs and branches rained down all around; several hit Tex and his friends. But none were that big.

Somehow, they were still alive.

When the smoke cleared, he looked back to the rock that Cracker was hiding behind. He was still there. One side of his face was covered in blood, but he was standing, still holding the M-79s. Tex watched as he reloaded and aimed the first one, angled it slightly upward, then fired. He tossed it in the creek, aimed the second in the same direction, and fired again. The grenades arched into the air. Moments later, two explosions down creek. After the second one, high-pitched shouts and cries of pain came from the same direction.

He did it! He’d taken out the VC mortar.

Again, the enemy gunfire halted. Bending over, Cracker ran across the creek right at them, leaping over rocks and tree limbs, water splashing all around. “Get up!” he shouted.

Tex got up on his hands and knees. Then stood in a crouch.

“I can’t move,” Hammer yelled, his face still buried in his hands.

“You gotta move,” Cracker yelled. “I ain’t going back without you.” He quickly reloaded his grenade launcher, ran toward the enemy, and fired downstream. Then came back to the three men.

Tex helped Hammer to his feet. “We’re okay, but Redman is hit. It’s his leg.”

“You guys fall back, then, I’ll tie it off.” Cracker dropped to his knees beside Redman.

Tex and Hammer scrambled back to join the others. But the lieutenant and the rest of the patrol were rushing out from their positions, firing everything they had down creek. Tex and Hammer turned around and joined them.

It reminded Tex of some Civil War scene.

“Cracker’s got them on the run,” the lieutenant yelled. He turned to the radioman. “Call in a fire mission, 125 meters up creek.”

The whole patrol ran together, back toward Cracker and Redman, Doc leading the way. He split off when he reached the two men and dropped next to Cracker. Tex stopped a moment, to make sure Redman was okay.

“I think I got it stopped,” Cracker said. “But he doesn’t look good.”

“Scoot over,” Doc said. He looked at Cracker. “You don’t look so good, either. Your face, it’s covered in blood.”

“My right side hurts a little, but I’m all right.”

“Pull your flak jacket back,” Doc said. Cracker’s shirt was covered in blood. “You’re hit, Cracker. You got shrapnel wounds all over. Lie down.”

While the Marines continued down creek, pouring fire in the enemy’s direction, Lt. Mann walked back to take stock of the situation. “What do you need, Doc?”

“Redman needs to get back up to Cunningham ASAP. We need to medevac him out. Cracker too. Not sure how bad he’s hit, but he’s cut all over his right side.”

“Take as many men as you need to haul them up that hill.”

“I’ll help,” Tex said.

“Gonna need at least four men on each guy,” Doc said, “considering how steep that hill is.”

“Okay,” Lt. Mann said. “Tex, round them up and get going.” He bent down next to Cracker. “How are you making out, Aaron?”

“I’m okay, sir. My side hurts a good bit.”

The lieutenant stood back up. “That was an amazing thing you did back there.”

Cracker smiled through the pain, laid his head back on the muddy bank, and passed out.

W
hen John had finished, Dave could tell he had more to say, but he was exhausted.

He stood up, so Dave did too.

“Say, Dave, you and I both know everything I just told you . . . that’s the cleaned-up version. We weren’t so careful with our language in those days. Fact is, the only adjectives any of us used back then were four-letter words. But that’s not who I am now, so I—”

“I understand, John. No need to explain. I’ve talked with a lot of vets and read a lot of books on Vietnam.”

“Well, I figured you’d understand,” John said. He stretched then started walking toward the doorway leading back to the kitchen.

Dave thought this might be a good time to remind him of something. “You mentioned something about wanting to offer me some kind of deal I’d find impossible to refuse?”

“That’s right, I did. How about I tell you that over some pulled pork sandwiches?”

Over the next ten minutes, John heated up some tasty pulled pork he’d taken from the refrigerator. He and Dave piled it high between slices of thick Texas toast, grabbed a bag of potato chips, refreshed their iced tea, and sat at a glass-topped dinette table in a little nook just off the kitchen. It had a great view of John’s patio. From this angle, Dave could also see a swimming pool, a guest cottage, and an elaborate garden beyond that.

The break seemed to do John some good. After a few bites of his sandwich, the intense emotions that came out as he told the war story had subsided. “So, what’d you think?” he said.

“An amazing story, but I’ve got to know what happens next. I’m guessing Hammer and Redman are the two war buddies you’ve talked about.”

John nodded as he chewed. When he swallowed, he said, “We stopped calling each other by our nicknames years ago, but we’ve stayed in touch pretty much ever since.”

“How’d things turn out for them after the war?”

“They’ve both done very well. Paul, the one we called Redman, is a retired high school principal. Lives over in Louisiana. Allan, or Hammer, is still working some, but he’s semiretired. He made a good deal of money in Dallas in the construction business.”

“So Redman’s leg, I mean Paul’s leg, did it heal up okay?” Dave took a quick bite of his pork sandwich.

John looked down at his. “I’ll tell you what, we’re not going to get very far with this lunch here if I have to keep talking and using my manners at the same time. I’ve had enough lunch meetings over the years to know, the one asking the questions gets to eat his food while it’s hot. You mind if I eat while I talk? I’m starving.”

“You go right ahead,” Dave said with his mouth half full.

“Paul’s leg healed up fine, no permanent damage. He bled a good bit that day, but the bullet didn’t hit any major arteries. He’d have eventually bled out if something wasn’t done, but he wasn’t hurt as bad as we’d thought. We were all just scared. Hard to think straight with mortars coming at you.” He swallowed and looked right at Dave. “We were all going to die that day. We’ve talked about it a number of times. One more mortar round and we’d have been blown to bits. And it was coming, there’s no doubt in our minds. That bullet in Paul’s leg would have been the least of his problems. Aaron saved our lives. I wouldn’t be here today if he hadn’t done what he did. None of us would.”

“Seems like he earned that medal for sure.”

“But there’s more.” He took a large bite, chewed a few moments. “See, we didn’t know it then, but Aaron was way worse off than Paul. His shrapnel wounds alone were far more serious than Paul’s leg. He had over a dozen pieces of metal stuck all up and down his right side and back. He’d tucked himself behind that big rock as best he could, but he was way too close when those mortars landed.” John sat back, looked off to the side, like he was seeing it right now. “But it was like . . . he just ignored the pain. Fought right through it. Here we were, cowering in the mud like scared little kids, and he just decided he wasn’t going to let those gooks get us.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called them gooks. That’s just a name someone came up with. Made it easier to shoot at ’em if you didn’t have to think of them as real people.”

“I know guys do that in every war,” Dave said. “Come up with nicknames for the enemy.”

He sighed. “We did. But I don’t want to be calling those people names anymore. They didn’t want to fight that war any more than we did.”

A few moments passed in silence. Dave figured John had a right to them. When it seemed he had pulled himself together, Dave said, “You were talking about how Aaron came to your rescue when you guys were pinned down, about his injuries, I think.”

“Right.” He reached over, took the last bite of his sandwich, cleaned up with a few napkins, then continued. “We found out later that Aaron not only had shrapnel wounds but that somewhere in there he’d taken a bullet right through the midsection. Went clean through, somehow missed his vital organs. But word got back to us a few days after the medevac choppers got him out. He and Paul. They went back to a field hospital in Vandergrift, a bigger base not too far from Fire Base Cunningham. Lieutenant Mann pulled us all together and filled us in. He couldn’t stop talking about what Aaron had done. All the guys were going on about it. Hammer said—I mean, Allan—‘You need to put him in for the big one, Lieutenant.’ He was talking about the Medal of Honor. The lieutenant said he’d already started the paperwork headed in that direction.”

“What did the after-action reports say about the firefight?” Dave said.

“Well, turned out our guys had chased the VC out of the immediate area. They left in a hurry after what Aaron started. We searched the jungle, counted eleven enemy dead. We’d only lost poor Sardelli, and two wounded. Paul and Aaron. But Dave, that’s not what was
supposed
to happen that day. Except for what Aaron did. Which he didn’t have to do. I mean, it’s not like we were good friends. If anything, we treated him pretty badly most of the time, or else ignored him altogether.” A look of disbelief came over his face. “He came after us anyway. Paul, Allan, and I should have died that day in a nasty firefight, along with a dozen more of our guys. Of course, the three of us didn’t need to read that in an after-action report. We knew we were dead men.”

John looked back at Dave. “That’s why we’ve got to find him. If he’s still alive. We’ve got to find him, to thank him properly for saving our lives.”

“You didn’t get to see him again after that?”

“Only once. I’ve got a picture of the three of us at his bedside, Paul still on crutches.”

“You do? Can I get a copy of that?”

“Sure. All three of us have a copy. The picture was taken in a bigger hospital about two months later in Quang Tri. A few years after the war, Paul saw a picture of Aaron getting the Medal of Honor at the White House. It happened a year after that hospital picture, in 1970.”

“Were any of you there?”

“No, but we heard about it.”

“Could I get a copy of that picture too?”

“I’ll see that you do.”

“You said things didn’t go well for Aaron after that.”

“From everything we heard, he had to stay in the hospital several more months. They shipped him back to the States. One of the guys heard he’d gotten addicted to painkillers. Like a lot of guys, he really struggled with all the head stuff. The guilt, the nightmares, the depression. He couldn’t pull out of it. He became an alcoholic. Lost his family and eventually started living on the streets.” John looked up and said, “That’s where you come in, Dave.”

“Is this the part where you make me that offer?”

“It is.” He took a swig of his iced tea. “The guys and I talked about this, and we’re all in agreement. We want to see Aaron again, if he’s alive. And we want him at our next reunion to thank him properly for saving our lives. None of what I have here . . . my wife and kids, grandkids, my business, this big house. I wouldn’t have any of it if it weren’t for Aaron Miller and what he did for us that day in February of ’69. The guys feel the same way. We’ve got to find him, if we can. After you called a little while ago, I got to thinking. You’re researching this book, and you’re a journalist. If anyone can find Aaron Miller, Dave, we think it’s you.”

“Me? But I’m not—”

“Hear me out. Here’s the deal. I know you’re trying to write this book here, and we think that’s an honorable thing. And I want to help fund your research. Call it a research grant. We came up with an amount. Twenty thousand dollars. Use the money however you need.”

“What?” Dave couldn’t believe it.

“I’m not finished. Twenty thousand dollars to research your book and another twenty thousand to find Aaron Miller.”

“You’re going to pay me twenty thousand dollars just to find Aaron Miller?”

“The thing is,” John said, “we want you to make finding Aaron job one.”

That is not a problem
, Dave thought. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it. I’m ready to start whenever you are.”

“I’ll do it.”

“That’s great, Dave. If you can find Aaron Miller for us, give Paul, Allan, and me a chance to see him again, thank him in person . . . well, you can’t put a price tag on something like that.”

“But what if . . .” Dave almost didn’t want to say it.

“What if what?”

“What if I can’t find him? What if he can’t be found?”

“You mean . . . what if he’s dead?”

Dave nodded.

“We’ve thought about that. So how about this . . . do the best you can, and if that’s where the trail leads? Well, that’s where it leads. We’ll still give you the research grant, either way. So what do you say?”

Dave did his best to look professional and mature, but inside he was jumping up and down. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”