Guns Up! (5 page)

“Charlie will
de-de mow
before daybreak. It’d be suicide to go out there any sooner.”

“What’s
‘de-de mow’
mean?”

“He’ll run. Charlie has two chances against us in the daylight—slim and none.”

Suddenly a noise like a sick foghorn bellowed from the sky, accompanied by a magnificent golden streak that seemed to originate from the pitch-black sky.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Puff the Magic Dragon—a C-130 with mini-guns and a whole plane full of ammo. It’s supposed to cover every inch of a football field in ten seconds.”

“It sure doesn’t sound like a machine gun.”

“No. It’s like a giant Gatling gun, and each barrel is a machine gun.”

I watched and listened to Puff in amazement. The
enormous stream of orange and gold tracers looked two or three feet thick. It wavered slightly with each movement of the plane or the gun. It sounded more like an angry monster bellowing than a gun firing. But the enemy was too close to us for Puff to be effective. Ten minutes later the deadly golden stream disappeared.

During the next two hours sporadic exchanges of fire continued, but as daybreak neared, the shooting slackened to an occasional sniper round. The first shafts of sunlight brought a command from the Indian corporal.

“Listen up!”

I couldn’t see where the voice was coming from, but it was loud and clear.

“This is Swift Eagle! I’m going after him!”

The big Indian was on the bridge before I even spotted him. The wounded Marine had stopped calling for help an hour ago, but I still had hope. The Indian moved quickly and gracefully, like a cat. Then he jumped from the twisted bridge to the piling and out of sight. A few moments later he reappeared. I knew the man was dead.

I expected to see hundreds of dead NVA scattered about as the sun grew brighter, but this was my first lesson on just how good the enemy was at dragging away the dead and wounded.

Every inch of me itched. A layer of gritty sand mixed with sweat that felt more like glue had somehow covered my body. I wanted to see the dead men. I had to find Chan.

“Johnnie!” A voice that brought joy and relief to my heart resounded across the compound.

“Red! That’s Chan! Chan!” I screamed through the door of the arid bunker. I ran out of the bunker and into a bear hug that nearly crushed my ribs.

“Well, I’m sure glad you’re okay.” I escaped the bear hug to see who was talking. It was the big Indian.

“This guy bugged me all night worrying about you,” the chief said.

“We’ve been together since boot camp,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. “He’s like my brother.”

Chan removed the smile from his face and went back to looking too sophisticated for a show of emotion. “Well,” he said, as he took one step back and straightened his flak jacket. “I did promise your mother I’d keep you from doing anything foolish.”

“Let’s go,” Swift Eagle said.

“Where?” I asked.

“A body count.”

We followed the stone-faced Indian to the perimeter wire. There, and around the bridge and compound, we counted sixty-four dead NVA. We found one wounded in both legs by machine-gun fire. He was taken prisoner. Out of the fifteen Marines killed, twelve were from the Civil Action Patrol unit. I didn’t know any of them, and I was glad I didn’t. I never heard how many ARVNs died.

The official report says that the Truoi River Bridge was attacked and overrun by an estimated three hundred NVA regulars and one hundred sappers. The bridge was destroyed by suicide squads (sappers) carrying satchel charges. It says nothing about the ARVNs falling asleep on lines and then abandoning fortified positions.

Twenty-four hours after Truoi Bridge was destroyed the Seabees had constructed a pontoon bridge across the river and convoys continued as usual. Forty-eight hours later the Seabees had already started construction on another permanent bridge.

Our job was to protect them while they worked during the day. Before nightfall they trucked ten miles back to the safety of Phu Bai and we went into the bush with three-man killer teams and squad-size ambushes.

Even though the bridge had been overrun, it was still considered skate duty compared to being in the bush. I didn’t know the difference yet, but I had no reason not to believe it was true.

Two weeks later the VC came into Truoi Village for resupplies of rice. When the village chief refused, they cut off his head and stuck it on a bamboo stake in front of his hut. Three-man killer teams were the best way to defend against those kinds of attacks. They were quiet and mobile. I volunteered several times for a three-man team, but was never chosen because I was still too “boot.” I wasn’t all that sure I really wanted to do it, but the combination of boredom and curiosity was getting the best of me. It did look exciting, and I was completely out of things to write home about. So far, filling sandbags seemed like my most notable contribution to the war effort.

Skate duty or not, it was boring slave labor as far as I
was concerned. Most of the bunkers had taken a beating during the battle for the bridge, and the order for the day was “fill sandbags and fortify bunkers.” That was also the order for the next day and the day after that. Chan said I kept getting volunteered because I looked strong. I still had some of that stateside meat on me, and I did win the battalion push-up contest on Parris Island, but at five-foot-nine and one-hundred-sixty pounds, I didn’t feel like Hercules. Still, his theory may have been partially true. The old salts looked thin and tired compared to many of the new replacements.

The only break I found in the boredom was watching traffic on Highway 1. Most of the Vietnamese traveled on foot, but sometimes a bike or a moped or even a banged-up old white school bus that leaned comically to the driver’s side would rumble by. Sometimes the truck drivers in the convoys going south toward Da Nang or north toward Phu Bai or Hue would throw us a case of C-rations. If we hit the jackpot they’d toss us a crate of milk that was heading for the chow halls in Phu Bai.

Striker was on sandbag duty about as often as I was. I didn’t know much about Striker. He wasn’t overly friendly. He was commonplace in complexion, feature, manners, and vocabulary. In fact, his most distinguishing characteristic was a huge black mole positioned right between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. At the end of the second week of sandbags I was staring at that mole almost hypnotically when Striker caught me off guard by initiating a conversation.

“How come you’re friends with that gook?” he asked without looking at me. He stuck his entrenching tool into the sand and sat on the ground with a tired groan.

“Do you mean Chan?”

“Yeah. The gook who talks like a professor.” For a moment I considered sticking his E-tool someplace other than the sand, but I decided to be generous and postpone that action.

“Did you go to Parris Island, or are you a Hollywood Marine?”

“Pendleton.”

“Hollywood Marine,” I said.

“I know, I know. P.I. is twice as bad as Pendleton. I’ve heard it all before. But Pendleton ain’t no picnic.”

I ignored his defense. “You know the couple of minutes they give you before sack time to read your mail or write a note home?”

“Yeah. I never got any mail.” He sounded almost angry at the remembrance.

“Chan would use that time to read his Bible. He was my bunkie, but I never paid any attention to his reading. We never had a chance to talk to each other. Well, one night the DI, Senior Drill Instructor Jones,”—I paused, remembering the terror inspired by that character—”caught Chan reading the Bible instead of his mail. He stood him at attention and punched him in the stomach so hard it knocked Chan down, but Chan got right back up. Then the DI started screaming at him about following orders and accusing him of trying to get out of ‘his’ Marine Corps by being a conscientious objector. Chan told him that was incorrect and that he had joined the Corps to stay. The DI told him the only Bible he was going to read was his Marine Corps bible, ‘The Guidebook for Marines.’ Chan told him that was incorrect. That was the beginning. The DI swore that he was going to run Chan out of the Marine Corps. They tried, but they couldn’t break him. Jones finally gave up and promoted Chan to squad leader.”

“They got down on a guy in my platoon once,” Striker said. “They finally ran him out. Unfit for duty. He was a wimp.”

“Chan’s nobody’s wimp. I made Chan go to Tijuana with me on our last forty-eight-hour leave before we left the States. We had a couple of other guys with us. All of us just got bombed except Chan. Some giant Mexican
tried to make us pay for twenty-four drinks when we only ordered three. Pretty soon more bouncers showed up, and I ended up hitting the big one with a chair. The other two Marines with us took off, but Chan stayed right there with me and fought it out until the Tijuana police saved us. Then the Shore Patrol took us out of the Tijuana brig and threw us in their own brig. They were going to let Chan go, ‘cause he wasn’t even drunk, and I managed to tell ’em it was all my fault and that he was an innocent bystander, but Chan wouldn’t leave me. So then the Corps took us from the Navy and threw us in the Red Line Brig at Pendleton.”

“You were
there
?” Striker’s face showed some interest for the first time.

“I was there.”

“How long?”

“We had orders for Nam the next day so we got out in a few hours.”

“Then you never had to cross the red line?”

“No,” I said. “They did make us stand at attention with our faces against a wall while they hit us in the back of the head until one MP almost broke my nose.”

“I crossed the red line,” Striker mumbled. “If you had to take a leak, you had to cross the red line. If you wanted a drink, you had to cross the red line. If you had to throw up or wanted something to eat, you had to cross the red line.”

“I heard they really put it to ya when you crossed that red line,” I said.

“Yeah,” Striker mused. “With clubs and boots. How’d your little Bible reader handle the Red Line Brig?” Striker asked as if he knew the answer.

“Just like everyone else. Who’ve you got something against, Chan or God?”

“I don’t know either one. I ain’t sure I trust people who sit around reading Bibles.”

“I don’t trust people who don’t.” My tone wasn’t friendly, nor was the look that went with it.

“Don’t tell me you believe that crap too?” He laughed.

I felt my face getting flushed. I looked at Striker’s tanned arms and chest. He was lean and mean, just like most Marines. It’s going to be a good fight, I thought. I stood up slowly. Striker looked a little nervous as I reached my feet, still not taking my eyes off him.

“Johnnie.” I turned away from Striker to see Red standing behind me holding a deadly little green claymore mine in one hand and a small roll of wire in the other. “Come over here a minute.” He walked me a few feet away from Striker and began speaking quietly. “I saw what you were thinking. Don’t do it.” I started to explain. “And don’t bother explaining. I overheard some of it, and it doesn’t matter what a jerk Striker is. You don’t make enemies in the bush. You’ve heard of fragging. If somebody wants to blow you away out there, all they have to do is drop a frag on you or shoot you in the back and say it was an accident in the heat of battle. You hear what I’m saying?” I nodded, and we walked back over to Striker. I filed Red’s warning permanently in my memory bank. I knew he was right.

“You two are going out on a killer team tonight with Jackson,” Red said. “If you guys set up a claymore, I want you to know how it works.”

“John, do you know how that thing works?” Striker asked, motioning to the claymore in Red’s hand. His tone was friendly enough.

“Not really,” I said, feeling relieved the angry moment had passed.

The claymore was about the size of a 5-by-7 picture frame. It sat on four tiny legs and was slightly curved.

“Okay,” Red said, giving me a friendly dislocating slap on the shoulder. He knelt down on one knee and placed the claymore face down beside the detonator.

“Connect these two wires here to the back of the claymore first. Then string it back to your position and connect it to these two screws on the detonator. Got it?”

“Yeah.”

“Now don’t get too close. This sucker has a pound and a half of C-4 in it. Set it up after it’s dark. Charlie has a nasty habit of turning ’em around if he sees you set ’em up.” He paused. “How many frags you got?”

“Four.”

“Here’s a couple more.” He pulled two grenades off his cartridge belt and tossed them to me. “Leave your pack here. And don’t take your poncho, either. The gooks can hear the rain bouncing off it. Leave your helmet here too. Wear your soft cover.”

“Okay, Red.” My stomach started to tighten up. This was beginning to look more serious than I was prepared for.

“If you guys see the trip flares go off and the bridge is getting hit, don’t come back in. Stay where you are until daybreak.” Now I really was nervous.

A thousand years later the sun finally began its leisurely drop behind the faraway mountains of the A Shau Valley. My stomach churned like an abdominal alarm clock. I met Jackson and Striker at the gun bunker on the south end of the bridge. Jackson had taped two clips together end to end for quick loading. I immediately wished someone had told me to do that. It seemed like there was always one more thing I wish I’d thought of. I knew it would be one little item on the list that I forgot that could get me killed.

As we started down the path through the village, two Marines dragged rolls of concertina wire across the road, sealing the bridge for the night. Seeing that gave me an uneasy sensation of being completely alone. Filling sandbags suddenly seemed like a nice way to spend your time.

We walked through the village unnoticed—we hoped.
The villagers were in their caves for the night. Except for the occasional coughing of one of the hole dwellers, the only other sounds came from the river. The splash of a fish made me bite my tongue.

At the end of the village the path split in three directions. Jackson held up his hand for us to halt. We knelt on one knee.