365 Days (11 page)

That night, a starlight scope picked up movement near the village a few minutes before three rockets hit their lager. The next morning another patrol was sent out. Halfway to the village, one of the troopers stepped on a pressure-release land mine. They were still close enough to carry him back to the base camp. A little before noon, a squad found three of the village water buffalo out grazing. The machine gunner set up his M-60, carefully adjusted his sights, and while the rest of the patrol stood around him, calmly killed each buffalo in turn.

The following day a huge food cache was found buried in the area. The CO asked for a cordoning off and company-size sweep of the village and surrounding area. Brigade sent down a lieutenant colonel. He looked at the size of the food cache, the paths leading to it from the village, listened to the stories about booby traps and injuries, and OK’d a sweep for the next morning.

It was still dark when the men were shaken awake. “I want that fucken village locked in,” the CO told the platoon leaders. “I don’t want a mouse to get out, and I want every one of those huts searched. I want every floorboard pulled up, every wall knocked open. I want that village clean when we leave it. Is that understood? Clean.” They filed out of the lager and waited until it was just light enough to see each other and then closed in. No one was smoking; no one said a word. There wasn’t a sound except the soft footfalls of 112 troopers walking silently through the grass.

“Tet is still out there—coiling and

uncoiling in the dark...the one

truly frightening thought that can’t

quite be put away.”

Colonel

VIP suite

U.S. Army Hospital, Zama, Japan

A
T DAWN, THE AUSTRALIAN
and New Zealand soldiers fighting in Nam have a complete stand-to. They get up, all of them, while it is still dark and wait out at their perimeters, rounds chambered, until the mists burn off. The British had taught them what they learned in Malaysia and the Sudan, from Omdurman and Ismalia, that if you’re attacked the attack will probably come out of the darkness. So they get ready.

We don’t. Perhaps it is command laziness or just plain American pragmatism of not wanting to be bothered unless there is something to show for it. Whatever the reason, we stay asleep, and the dawn for us belongs to the few scattered perimeter guards, the razor wire, and the cooks. Most of the time it works.

“Wake up, come on, James, get your ass moving...come on!”

Turning over, James shook off the Sergeant’s hand.

“Come on.”

“OK, OK!” he said angrily, pulling the wet poncho liner up over his head.

“Come on! Let’s go!”

“OK, OK, OK!” James pulled the liner even tighter around his head. He lay there till he was sure the Sergeant had gone and then turning over again, pulled his arm out from under the poncho. Holding his hand close to his face, he could barely make out the luminescent dials of his watch.

“Shit!” Sighing, he let his hand drop wearily back to his side. He lay there a moment longer and then, shivering, sat up and kicked off his liner. He could hear the Sergeant moving around in the dark, waking the other cooks. At three-thirty in the morning the top of the jungle is just becoming visible. The skies are lightening, but the ground mists, heavy and sullen, snuff out what little light there is, making it almost impossible to see even a few meters. He began lacing up his boots. Suddenly there was a noise, a short distant sound, muffled by the heavy air. He froze. Now a second, closer this time, more metallic. The others the Sergeant had wakened stopped moving. Cautiously James reached across his flak vest for his rifle.

“It’s OK,” someone whispered. “Just the guards.”

Relaxing, he let go his rifle and finished lacing up his boots. Across the perimeter an icy blue flame flickered, hesitated a moment, and then catching, burnt cheerlessly against the firm grayness of the fire base. A second one caught near it and then a third. Figures like ghosts floated back and forth in front of the flames.

By the time James reached the mess area all the gas burners had been lit and the Sergeant was already stacking empty crates for the food line. A few strips of corrugated aluminum siding stretched over the open burners were being heated for a grill. Two troopers, barely visible in the dim light, were filling the 55-gallon cans with water for coffee.

“James,” the Sergeant said, “we’ve got three dozen fresh eggs over there by the ammunition. Mix ’em with the powder.”

“Where?”

“There, dammit,” the Sergeant said, pointing. “Over there near the 50’s. Kolstein!” he yelled, “get some more water into those cans.”

“Toast?” James asked.

“Toast what?”

“Are we going to have toast?”

“Maybe you want some caviar,” the Sergeant said.

“It would be a nice morning for toast.... OK, forget it.”

It was getting lighter. He took a few steps out over the uneven ground, stopped, and turned around.

“Any bacon?”

“You getting wise again,” the Sergeant said angrily. “I’ve warned you.”

James shrugged and continued on his way. The eggs were piled behind the 50-caliber ammunition. He never found them. The first round hit in the middle of the ammunition.

It was the same all over Nam. During Tet and the following seven weeks 4114 Americans were killed, 19,285 were wounded, and 604 were lost. But on that morning, it was the cooks and the perimeter guards who died first. At the 101st base camp near Bien Hoa there is still hanging over the rifle range a great enameled screaming eagle and above it, in twelve-inch block letters, the motto: “WE AIM TO KILL.” Beneath it is this proud little commemoration:

THE ONLY U.S. RIFLE RANGE OCCUPIED BY ENEMY TROOPS DURING THE TET OFFENSIVE. FORTY-EIGHT KILLED DOWN RANGE—AIRBORNE.

“Don’t let the news media fool you. These

kids may be eighteen or nineteen,

but they’re beautiful killers—just beautiful.”

Major, 25th Division

Medical Ward

U.S. Army Hospital, Zama, Japan

T
HERE WERE NO MORE
heavily armed night patrols setting up outside the perimeter of the fire base and shooting up anything that came near. The gooks would fix their position, set up an ambush, and get them coming back in the morning. Then Brigade had tried roving patrols, but the troopers, untrained for night action, got themselves caught and murdered out in the open. There was talk about giving up the whole idea and leaving Charlie everything outside the NPD, but the Old Man wouldn’t have it. So they asked for volunteers—eighteen-and nineteen-year-olds—two-man ambush teams who would crawl out at night and bring down anything they could. No guns, no webb gear or helmet or even a canteen—nothing that could make any noise and give them away. The thing was to go out clean, with only a knife or a bayonet—and maybe a bicycle chain.

“Ready?” Cram asked.

Johnson held the mirror closer as he blackened the last exposed patch of his right cheek. It was almost dusk; the perimeter guards were already moving out toward the wire.

“Come on, come on,” Cram said, nervously tapping his hunting knife against his thigh, while Johnson tilted the mirror to take advantage of the fading light for a final check on his face.

“Jesus, man, come on, will you?”

“OK, OK,” Johnson said, dropping the mirror into his rucksack. Two of the guards, their M-60’s casually slung behind their shoulders, stared at them as they passed. Johnson waved to them.

“For Christ’s sake,” Cram said, “you can wave at the crowd when we get back.”

Johnson walked over to one of the scattered ammunition crates and, resting his foot on it, tightened the bayonet sheath strapped to his leg. Straightening up, he shook his foot and stamped on the ground to make sure the bayonet was securely clipped in its scabbard.

“The wire,” he said. “Whose idea was it?”

“How the hell should I know?” Cram said.

“It ain’t a good idea. It wouldn’t keep ’em out, and if they hit us, it’s gonna keep us in.”

“Well, Mr. Strategist, since we ain’t gonna be inside, we don’t have to worry about that now, do we?”

“It’s still a piss-poor idea.”

“Tell the Old Man tomorrow, will you?”

Johnson shrugged as he squinted into the last bit of the sun. “What we got?” he asked.

“Northwest, 180 to 270 degrees. The C and C chopper saw a few of ’em moving in late this afternoon. They lit up a couple. Figured the rest got away.”

“Want one?” Johnson pointed toward the ammunition crate. “Still some grenades in there.”

“Look, man, you know we’re not supposed to,” Cram said.

Johnson reached into the crate anyway. “Sure?”

“Listen, wise guy, just because this is your second time...”

“OK,” Johnson said, dropping the grenade back into the box.

“Got your chain?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go.”

As they walked across the uneven ground toward the perimeter, Cram scanned the tree line bordering the wire.

“Hold it,” he said, pulling up short.

“What the hell’s burning your ass now?” Johnson said.

“That.” Cram pointed to his companion’s shoulder patch.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. They can’t see it in the dark.”

“It’s yellow.”

“So’s the fucken leaves.”

“Leaves don’t move.”

“You win,” Johnson said, tearing the patch off his tiger stripes. “Just wanted ’em to know who the hell we were.”

“They know, man,” Cram said. “Just cool it a while, huh?”

They walked on past the last of the tents, toward where the guards were digging in behind the wire. About fifty meters from the perimeter they stopped and in the dim light carefully checked each other’s clothing to make sure nothing could catch or was loose enough to jingle.

“Got it taped?” Cram said.

“Sure.”

“Let’s see it.”

“I told you, it’s taped.”

“Let’s just see it, huh?”

Johnson took out his bicycle chain and held it up for Cram to see. Each steel link was covered with strips of black heavy-duty mechanic’s tape.

“Satisfied? It’s tough, man, don’t worry.”

It was almost dark by the time they reached the wire. The weapons were already set up, and the guards were trying to make themselves comfortable.

Cram got down on his belly and crawled under the wire. Johnson followed. The ground was still soft from the rains. With the last bit of daylight fading, they crawled single file through the claymores, out past the trip flares and the phosphorous grenades, and into the high grass. About 150 meters beyond the last claymore, Cram paused to wait for Johnson, then rolled over on his side, took a ball of twine from his pocket, and looped one end of the twine around his wrist and the other around Johnson’s. Tying the last knot, he tapped Johnson playfully on his bush hat, rolled back on his stomach, and began crawling again. Fifteen minutes later they came to a burned-over second growth of low bushes and grass.

“Here?” Johnson whispered.

“OK.”

They sat up back to back, each taking the 180 degrees in front of him. Resting quietly against each other, their legs drawn up in front of them, they sat listening as they scanned the tips of the barely visible grass and bushes that hid them, adjusting their breathing to the night sounds around them, quieting with every sudden noise, and holding their breath with each unexpected silence. A mortar thudded in the distance; a bird screeched; a mosquito hummed close by. Far away they could hear the sound of automatic fire.

Cram turned his head. Johnson tensed; he had heard it at the same time, off to the right and a little in front of them. It was followed by a second noise, a sharp snapping, then another.

“Buffalo?” Johnson whispered nervously.

Cram was straining to hear. “No. Let’s go.”

Crawling on their stomachs again, they moved off the rise, parallel to the direction of the noise. Side by side, they snaked their way back into the tangle on their hands and knees, stopping every three or four meters to listen. The sounds were getting louder, the crunching, soft, measured beat of men pushing through the jungle. Cram tugged on the twine and Johnson moved off with him, perpendicular to the way they’d been going, until suddenly it was ominously quiet.

The two boys froze. To their right they heard the sharp metallic click of a round being chambered. Johnson, his heart pounding through his head, closed his eyes, straining to hear beyond his own breathing.

The first gook broke out a little to Cram’s left—a dark shape silhouetted against the darker night—and as abruptly faded from view. Only the shadowy, swaying bushes showed someone had been there. Then silence again, and the night closing in on them again.

Suddenly another form appeared. The figure seemed to hesitate and was about to turn back when Cram leaped up and got him. For a moment, as Cram worked in his knife, it looked as if they were embracing, then quietly Cram lowered the body to the ground.

Johnson was still crouched when the grass next to him parted. He saw a foot, and twisting up, swung his bicycle chain in a long vicious arc. The gook was just bringing up his AK when the chain caught him across the face. Even as he fell backwards Johnson was on him, his fingers digging into what was left of the man’s face. As they thudded to the ground, Johnson reached frantically for his bayonet and plunged it into the man’s neck, knifing again and again until he could feel the head coming loose in his other hand—until, exhausted, he collapsed beside his victim, gasping for air with his mouth wide open to smother the sound of his labored breathing.

Terrified, he looked around. No one was coming. He sat up and felt along the ground for his chain. His hand brushed against a rifle. Picking up the AK he held it in one hand while he searched for the chain with the other, then went back to the body. He pulled his bayonet from the dead man’s neck and a gush of blood flowed out with it. Johnson stared at his stained fingers; in the dim moonlight the blood looked like quicksilver. The tug at his wrist brought him back, and in another moment Cram was beside him.