Drowning in Her Eyes (38 page)

Jack looked at the boy, a Second Lieutenant, barely nineteen. He had some bright red bubb
les at the corner of his mouth.
He opened his eyes.
“Momma,
” he said,
“Where
are
you?
”

They had a good defensive position. The old church
—
for that
was
what it was
—
had been constructed from large rocks and slabs of sandstone. Jack knew from his maps that there was a river somewhere near here. There were probably sandstone cliffs there. In any case, the ruined walls provided good cover. However, he looked at what was left of the gable roof and hoped the NVA had left their mortars at home.

Jack did his count again. Suddenly he realised he was missing a man. He scanned their faces. Jimbo Baker was not there. Christ, thought Jack, Why him? He remembered Jimbo had been the left gunner. Had he been killed when the Huey slid along on its left side? Was he even now smeared into the ground by the weight of the wreck? He looked out at the scene before him. The clearing where they had come down was roughly the size of a football field. Perhaps it
had
been one, when the long gone missionaries had built their church. There had probably been a village here too, the bamboo and palm frond huts long turned to dust. The other side of the church would be a defensive problem. The tree line curved towards the church, becoming closer as it neared the rear of their position. He called his men together.

“Corporal Minelli, take two men and reconnoitre the area behind us. See what is down to our right. There might be a creek there we can use for cover. Be careful.
”

Minelli looked around
and
said
“You and
…you
,
” and
they
set off.

Jack looked at his resources. He had nine fit men, one walking wounded, one stretcher case, one missing. He had rations for four days. He had two M60s, eight rifles, a M79 grenade launcher, a box of grenades and three pistols. There was plenty of ammunition. Water was going to be a problem if they had to stay here after tonight.

Minelli came back.
“You were right, sir. There is a stream there. It
's running fast and the water looks clear. There is no sign of enemy activity or any civilians. Maybe they keep well clear of this place, think its spooked or something. There
's an old graveyard up there near the trees.
”

Jack looked at his watch. The daylight was beginning to run out as the mist and cloud seemed to drop further. It began to rain lightly. Jack wondered about Jimbo. He would have to try to find him soon. Nevertheless, he was in command. Could he leave his post here? Was it fair to order somebody else to do it? He made his decision.
“Sergeant Bell, take command for a while.
I
'
m going on a short recce towards the helicopter. When it gets a bit darker, send a couple of men down to fill up all the water bottles. Don
't forget your purifying tablets.
” He looked at the other door gunner, a big blonde man with Slavic features.
“What
's your name, soldier?
”

“PFC Kyrynwski, sir.
”

Jack smiled
“Give me a first name, mate, I don
't speak Polish.
”

The man grinned.
“You can call me Will, sir.
”

“Good,
” said Jack,
“You can call me Boss. Get Lawson
's M16 and come with me. I need someone to cover my back.
”

Jack took a wide approach to the wreck, coming up on the left where he imagined the helicopter had made its first contact with the ground. He moved along the tree line, keeping in cover, moving slowly. He paused. He could see a loop of twisted metal, the torn off landing skid. Here, he thought, somewhere here. He scanned the area with his field glasses. Nothing. He elevated them a little and scanned the horizon. Nothing. He swept to his right. He could just make out the huddled bodies of the two scouts. In their NVA khaki, they were hard to spot. He looked again. There
…in that little hollow, was a trace of jungle green. It must be Jimbo, almost certainly thrown out as the helicopter swung on her last desperate lurch to level up. There was no movement. He called over to his escort.
“OK, Will, I
'm going out to get him. Take my field glasses. There, at seven o
'clock. See him?
” The big man nodded.

Jack broke cover. He ran directly to the body. There was no cover on the field, so why bother to try to hide. Straight in and out was the best way. He felt his skin tighten as he ran, expecting a bullet. There was no fire.

Jimbo was alive. He looked up at Jack.
“Leave me,
” he said,
“You can
't carry me. They
'll be here soon.
”

Jack looked at him. He had a bad head cut and blood had run down and soaked the shoulder of his shirt. It looked worse than it was. His left arm was at a crazy angle, broken or dislocated. There was a gunshot wound through his thigh, again not serious. He was almost unconscious with pain
.

“Leave me
,
”
h
e said again.

“What,
” said Jack,
“and live the re
st of my life without a brother-
in-
law?
”

He picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and raced for the trees. Then the fire came, from his right, spattering around him, snatching at his webbing, pinging off something metallic. He felt a blow to his ribs, stumbled, fell to his knees, and then he was up in a lurching run almost into cover. Will was firing steadily at the muzzle flashes. Then the men in the church spotted what was happening and a torrent of fire poured onto the NVA position. Jack reached the trees, collapsing at Will
's feet. Will took Jimbo from him and began to track back through the jungle. The watching troops had ceased firing once Jack made it to cover. Now they gave a delighted cheer as all three men entered the church.
“Look to your front,
” croaked Jack,
“The bastards won
't be long.
”

However, the enemy did not attack their position.
Were they really spooked? What were they waiting for?
Jack wondered.

The medic was a small bow
-
legged cowboy called Clarke from Billings, Montana. He checked them over. Jimbo
's wounds were stitched and bandaged. His left shoulder was badly dislocated. Clarke shifted a plug of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other, squirted a stream of juice, and said,
“I reckon I can get that back in
,
if
'n I try hard enough.
” Jack was feeling beat up. He had a bullet gouge along his side that felt as though it had cracked two ribs. His webbing and equipment had taken at least three hits causing small flesh wounds. Another had smacked into his helmet causing a blinding headache. He was bruised and grazed from his fall, and his wounds needed stitching He refused the morphine o
ffered. He needed a clear head.

“Are you sure
you can do it
?
”
Jack
asked
the medic
.

“Shit, yeah.
I
'
ve done a few afore. If
'n ya goes rodeoin
' ya see these all the time.
” He squirted another stream of juice.
“Gimme me a coupla cow hands to hold him down and I
'll do it. He
'll be f
ine
and dandy.
”

The medic
gave Jimbo a shot of morphine, waited for it to take effect, then got to work, manipulating the joint. Despite the drug, Jack saw Jimbo grimace in pain. Clarke gave him a piece of wood to bite on.

“Not long now, Jimbo.
” He gave a final wrench. Jimbo screamed as his joint came back into place.
“There ya go,
pard
, good as a store bought
‘un.
” He gave a final squirt of juice,
“One more shot of the dream maker and you
'll be
fine
.
”

“No,
” said Jimbo,
“No
more
morphine
;
we
're going to need every man on deck tonight.
”

As the dark came down, Jack called them to stand to. The night was quiet. They could hear constant small arms fire away to their front, and occasionally, flares rose up to the sky. They could have been looking at a faraway New Year
's Eve
fireworks show.

“Sergeant Bell, organise sentries. The rest of you break out a ration pack, and then try to sleep a little. Tomorrow, we will get out of here,
”
Jack
told them.

Worcester, MA, USA
—1967

The winter had returned to Worcester. The first snow floated down outside their window. Susan and Jacqui sat together having breakfast. Marci and Sarah were visiting Aunt Sophie.

Suddenly, Jacqui stopped eating and froze. Her eyes widened and her face became grave.
“Daddy?
” she said. Susan began to quiver, she felt faint, her stomach churned. Then her daughter grimaced and said,
“Daddy! Daddy! She paused, a quizzical look on her little face, then smiled and, picking up her spoon, resumed her meal.
The spell passed.

What was that? Something has happened to Jack
, thought Susan
, but no, Jacqui is happy. Jack must be okay!

Bien Long Valley, South Vietnam
—1967

They came in the witching hour. Corporal Minelli heard the faint rustle of bodies sliding through the grass. He prodded his neighbour. The signal went from soldier to soldier. Soon they were all alert. Jack crawled up to Minelli.
“Where,
” he mouthed. Minelli pointed.
“Flare
,
” whispered. Jack. There was a bang as the flare pistol fired. In seconds, the flare began to descend on its small parachute. Up went another flare and another. They saw a line of NVA running
straight for them
.
“Open fire!
”
screamed Jack.

The machine guns began to play along the line of running figures, cutting them down in swathes. Still they came. As the survivors got near the old church, they fell to the riflemen; some threw grenades. None reached its target. They fell short and exploded. Shrapnel whizzed around their heads. Jack heard one of his men c
ry out. Then there was silence, and
the darkness descended.

One of the riflemen had a chunk of flesh torn out of his upper arm by a grenade fragment. The pain was yet to come
;
the red-
hot fragment had partly cauterised the wound. He sat with a stunned look on his face.
“The fuckers,
” he kept muttering
.
“T
he fuckers.
”