Sand in the Wind (24 page)

There was no path on the opposite bank, so the column moved along the top of a rice paddy dike. The crepe soles of their boots soon became clogged with mud, and the men were continuously falling off the dike. It finally led them to some high ground. They skirted its perimeter, then followed another dike on its opposite side. This one was somewhat wider than the first and much easier to walk on. It led them to another stream. There was no bridge this time so they had to wade through the cold, chest-high water.

By the time Chalice had mastered walking along the slippery dikes, the column abandoned them and moved straight through the rice paddies. About every thirty yards they would have to climb over the dikes running across their path. Some of the paddies were practically dry, while others were two to three feet deep. The pace increased. Chalice’s leg muscles became taut from the continuous struggle to lift his feet from the mud, which seemed to be trying to suck him under. He’d had this same sensation in the daytime, and was glad he knew what to expect. When he finally reached the high ground at the base of the foothills, he estimated to himself that the company had moved about four kilometers, looking at this distance as something accomplished and gotten out of the way.

The column moved along the base of the mountains until it came upon a crude path through the foothills. The pace quickened substantially. Chalice found himself running in spurts to keep up. He was constantly telling himself that every step was one more he’d gotten out of the way. Not realizing what lay ahead, he was surprised that the mountains weren’t as steep as he had expected. He soon found himself going downhill, and was relieved at first by the relative ease with which he moved. He then realized that any movement downhill would have to be made up for on the next slope. The grade leveled off for a short distance before starting up at a much steeper angle than before. As he climbed, sweat from his forehead poured down his face and began to sting his eyes. Instead of a path, they were now traveling on a stream bed that sometimes narrowed to a few inches. The loose rocks that lined the bed kept slipping out from beneath his feet, and his mind was completely occupied with keeping his balance. The path was often bordered by huge boulders that made it necessary for him to turn sideways in order to pass between them. He found himself running as fast as he could in long spurts, occasionally catching up with the man in front of him only to fall behind again almost immediately. Sometimes his rifle or ammo can would hit the rocks with a sharp crack, and a whisper would come out of the darkness saying, “Cool it.”

The column kept passing through small valleys followed by progressively steeper slopes. Chalice stumbled constantly over the loose rocks, often falling to the ground. At first the pain of the sharper rocks cutting into his knees was almost unbearable; but as his falls became more frequent, a numbness enveloped him and he hardly thought of anything except getting to his feet and catching up. After one such fall he sprang up only to bump into the man in front of him — ‘Thank God, must be taking a break.’ To his chagrin, the column started moving again almost immediately. After traveling less than fifty yards, he found out what the holdup had been. The stream bed had led them to a huge boulder surrounded by brush thick enough to make passage through it impossible. Each successive man had to be lifted across the face of the rock by two other men on top of it. The noise of banging ammo cans and rifles was ignored in the struggle to get each soldier over the rock. By the time Chalice had scaled it and helped two others do the same, he was so far behind that he couldn’t even hear the men in front of him.

For the first time that night a cloud moved in front of the moon cutting off all but a hint of its former light. He ran as fast as he could, judging direction only by the sharp, shifting rocks beneath his feet, which in a lost instant disappeared, leaving him running over an area of low brush. On the verge of panic, he stopped to listen for the sounds of the other men. He couldn’t even hear the sounds of those behind him, only his own forced, heavy breathing which seemed so loud that at first he couldn’t believe he was the source of it. Again he ran, not because of any rational thought, but from fear. His feet slipped out from under him, and his chest and legs crashed forcefully against some sharp rocks. Oblivious to the pain, a feeling of relief swept over him — ‘The stream bed!’ Before he could have made any conscious effort to get up, he was already on his feet running, the fall having only changed the position of his body and in no way having stopped him even for an instant. The bed followed what seemed to be level ground — ‘Maybe I’m going in the wrong direction.
Maybe it’s the wrong stream bed!
’ His own panic scared him. By a conscious act of will, he forced his mind clear of thoughts, at the same time deciding to run as fast as he could until he dropped. Not until his panic had waned to fear, did he realize how exhausted he was. The movement of his legs gradually slowed. His mind seemed to separate from his body, as if watching it slowly wind down from a distance. Panic again took hold. He burst forward, his own stamina surprising him. The thought, ‘I can’t keep this up,’ flashed through his mind, but he again realized how alone he was and with this realization came another thought, ‘Fuck if I can’t! I’ll catch them.’ An instant later, the mass of his body crashed into a similar mass, only larger. Both tumbled to the ground. He lay on his back, someone straddling his stomach and a rifle pressed hard against his neck.

“Professor?”

He muttered a choked “yes,” as the rifle was removed.

“God! You scared the shit out of me. Are you crazy ? What the fuck are you doing?”

“Got lost,” he coughed, as loose phlegm clogged his throat. “Bolton?”

“Yeah, I’m the last man in the column. If I would of heard you sooner, I’d a shot.”

Chalice leapt to his feet. “We better catch up.”

Bolton grabbed his pants leg. “Hold on before you go crashing into someone else. The column’s stopped.”

“For what?”

“We’re there, I think.” Bolton pointed his rifle to a soft glow above the opposite chain of mountains. “Look, it’s dawn already.”

The company hadn’t gone quite as high as planned. The point of the column had reached an area containing a few caves and the beginning of a path across the ridge. Trippitt ordered the first two platoons to follow the stream bed up to the next ridge and then travel laterally along it, Third Platoon to move slowly along the path, and Second Platoon to check out the caves and then catch up with Third Platoon.

Kramer placed a machine gun above and below the caves for security before ordering his men to check them out. Only a few men were needed, so Chalice was able to sit down and rest. Exhausted and thirsty, he took a long drink from one of his canteens. The water loosened some phlegm in his throat. He spit it out and took a second drink. The warm water had a soothing effect, but he still hadn’t got used to the metallic taste it derived from the canteen.

Forsythe, who had been poking around in one of the caves, walked over to Kramer and showed him some things he’d found — empty cans of fish, propaganda leaflets, and a pouch full of AK-47 rounds. He took Kramer’s flashlight and headed back towards the cave, passing out a few of the rounds as souvenirs.

“Over here,” Chalice called.

Forsythe flipped him a round and said, “C’mon, let’s see what we can find.” Chalice put the AK round in his pocket and followed him.

The entrance was small and they had to crawl in. Once inside, they could stand in a stooped position. Chalice had never liked cramped places, but the excitement of being somewhere the Viet Cong had recently been took his mind off this. He stood breathing in the damp, musty air while his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Forsythe started scratching around on the dirt floor with a stick.

Chalice walked over to a crevice in the rocks. He couldn’t see in, and was about to put his hand inside when he thought better of the idea. Forsythe came over and pointed the flashlight into the crevice. They could see two aluminum cylinders about four feet high and ten inches in diameter. “What the hell are those?” Chalice asked.

“Illumination tubes. They’re from the big flares they drop by plane. Here, hold the light while I get them out.” Forsythe removed the first tube. It was full of rice. The second tube contained clothing, some documents, and three Chinese-type grenades. Forsythe handed one to Chalice while referring to it as a “chicom.” It was a C-ration can stuffed with explosives. A hollow wooden handle protruded from its bottom, and a piece of string with a bamboo ring on the end hung from within the handle. The other end of the string was attached to a friction-type detonating fuse within the grenade. Forsythe placed the ring over his forefinger and showed Chalice how the pin pulled out automatically as the grenade was thrown. He then said, “Don’t ever underestimate Charlie. He can kill you with your own garbage.”

They looked around for a few more minutes before dragging the tubes out of the cave. Kramer had Forsythe scatter the rice on the ground, and two of the men began pissing on it. They found some important looking documents and a diary in the second tube. Kramer looked them over and said, “Well, Forsythe, you found them so you get to carry them. Put them in a sandbag.”

A quick series of rifle shots echoed from the ridge above. Everyone dived to the ground, Forsythe and Chalice behind the same rock. Forsythe nonchalantly tossed the AK-47 round in his hand while mumbling, “These things look like they can go right through you.” He then glanced above the rock to see if he could spot anything. “Bet he got away.”

“How do you know
he
wasn’t the one doing the shooting?”

“Those were M-16’s. You can tell by the sound. A 16 goes bang. An SKS or an AK goes crack, like a whip. You’ll be able to tell after a while.” Milton, the platoon radio man, had taken cover a few yards away from Kramer. He called over to him, “They got a confirmed, no rifle or chicoms. They want us to move-out.”

“Looks like he didn’t,” Forsythe mumbled to Chalice.

Kramer ordered his men to catch up with Third Platoon. For twenty minutes he kept them at a rapid pace, but still they failed to make contact. Overgrown as the trail was, they might have easily missed a fork.

Kramer scanned the brush apprehensively, knowing that if they approached Third Platoon from any place but its rear, there might be some shooting.

Milton, who was walking behind him with the radio, tapped Kramer on the shoulder. “Alpha found something they want to check out.”

The column stopped and Kramer looked back at Milton. “Let’s see what they’ve got.”

As Kramer approached, Tony 5 walked back towards him. He pointed to some boulders fifteen yards off the trail. “There’s a wire hanging down from one of those rocks.”

Kramer had to squint his eyes for a few seconds before finally being able to see it. “We’ve got to catch up with Third Platoon. They probably checked it out anyway.
  
.
 
.
 
. Well, okay, but hurry up.” He turned to Milton. “Call the captain and tell him what we’re doing. Pass the word back to Valdez that I want Charlie Squad to stay where they are as rear security, and tell Sugar Bear to set Bravo up as security in front of us.”

Tony 5 and Hamilton made their way up to the caves. Tony carefully followed the wire into a crevice and called back down to Kramer, “I think we’ve got something here. This wire’s attached to some flashlight batteries, probably a booby trap.”

Milton received a reply from Trippitt. “The Skipper says okay, but to hurry up.”

Kramer called to Tony, “Check it out good, but don’t waste any time.” As Kramer approached, he heard Tony say, “Get a load of this baby.” Tony passed a large, green object out to Hamilton.

Hamilton handed it to Kramer. “It’s a B-40 rocket. They can really do a job on you. They’re Red Chinese, see the writing.”

Kramer gently ran his hands over it. Tony handed out three more rockets, two mortars, and a box of mortar fuses. Kramer looked over the find, thinking, ‘Good thing we found ’em. Wouldn’t want to dodge this shit.’ He didn’t want his men carrying it either, so he told Harmon to blow it up. Harmon piled the mortars and rockets on a stick of C-4. As soon as he lit the fuse, the platoon moved out at a dead run. The pace had gradually slowed to a fast walk by the time they heard the explosion.

An hour passed and they still hadn’t caught up with Third Platoon. The trail led them off the top of a ridge and into a small valley running parallel to it. Trippitt kept on calling up over the radio to see if they’d made contact, so Kramer constantly ordered the point to increase the pace. This had little effect in that they were already moving as fast as possible.

The brush closed in over their heads providing some shade, but also cutting off what little breeze there was. Chalice found it hard to believe he could be any hotter without the shade. His own rifle thwarted him, tried to prevent his movement, by continually tangling itself in the brush. He felt as if he were swallowing the heavy, humid air instead of breathing it, and his saliva seemed to have turned to paste. From the position of the sun as it burned through the brush, he estimated it was about nine o’clock.
But that was impossible!
Could there be that many hours left in this day?

Every mile or so the trail led into some steep-faced rocks, making it necessary for the column to halt while the men helped each other scale them. These pauses were short and didn’t give Chalice enough time to sit down, but he was still grateful to be able to take an unhurried drink. At ten o’clock he finished his fourth canteen and decided to go easy on the last one, hoping they would cross a stream soon so he could refill the others. Forty minutes later he drank the last of his water without knowing the point man had halted the column to fill his own canteens.

It was shortly after twelve o’clock when Kramer passed the word for the platoon to take a half hour to eat. A few of the men ate cans of fruit, but most of them were too hot and tired. Even if they had been hungry, the bother of opening the cans would have dissuaded them. Some sat up hoping for a breeze they knew had no chance of reaching them. The others lay back on the warm, slimy ground.