“Trout!” Levin yelled over the mounting small arms fire coming at them, “Foo gas.” They each squeezed a detonator. Brian’s heart was in his throat as the flames from one of the barrels arced up and nearly back on them. Their faces felt the heat generated by the napalm as it burned. Screams could be heard from below. They saw a number of men, covered in flame running then tumbling down the hill.
“Poor bastards,” Levin said under his breath as he emptied a magazine and slammed another into his rifle.
They heard a scream and calls for a medic after the bunker next to them triggered a Claymore which had been turned around; therefore emptied its deadly contents into a couple of the men in the bunker who tried to fire it and simultaneously watch its effect.
“Stay down when firing the Claymores,” Sgt. Levin yelled. “They may be reversed.”
Arnie and Trout yelled acknowledgement, detonated a few Claymores from a hunkered down position below the sand bags. One of the mines had indeed been reversed. It’s deadly steel going over their heads and harmlessly striking the hill behind them. They exchanged sheepish grins then continued throwing grenades and shooting down the hill.
They heard a whoosh, a boom, then a sound like popcorn but deeper and louder. The cluster bombs went to work on the enemy force. Screams from the injured and dying echoed up the hill. Additional cluster bombs were fired.
Every couple minutes a mortar round hit the American base along with an occasional RPG.
“Where are those fuckin’ mortar shells coming from?” Levin said.
“I’d use that deep saddle we saw a few weeks ago,” Trout yelled in a shaky voice. “About three-quarters of a mile from here, down that ridge over to the southeast.” He and Arnie emptied another case of grenades then ripped open a new one, continued throwing them down the hill. A mortar-fired illumination round from an Army mortar position popped open and began burning. The enemy soldiers began looking for cover as the illumination seemed like daylight over their position. Arnie used his M16 to fire down the hill while Trout dragged another two wood cases of frags out of the bunker and ripped the top off. David and Arnie continued tossing frags. Brian sat on the ground, back against sandbags, searched a map using a flashlight. Another enemy mortar round exploded among the motorized 155s. They could hear calls for a medic.
Levin rotated the map. “Where the fuck is that damn saddle…got it!” He called Artillery Command with the coordinates, requested High Explosive rounds. In less than two minutes, the mortar was silent.
Hadley stopped by their bunker, asked if they needed more ammo. They yelled yes. Staying low he headed toward the ammo bunker. He returned then ran to the next bunker to resupply them.
The combat continued for another hour then gradually died out. The only sounds now, the hissing of still burning illumination rounds.
Exhausted from the adrenaline coursing through their veins, rifles at the ready, the trio stared down the hill, watching for signs of a renewed attack. They looked at each other and, too emotionally and physically drained to smile, simply nodded.
SSgt. Touhy stopped by. “Anyone hurt?”
“Cut the side of my hand opening a case of grenades,” Trout said, holding up his bandaged hand. “Not a bad cut. Sgt. Levin put a couple sutures in and wrapped it.”
“Other casualties?” Arnie asked.
“Hadley,” SSgt. Touhy said. “Tailfin from a mortar launched illumination round buried itself in his head. Killed instantly. Also Ben Appleton in the bunker over there. Reversed Claymore. Poor guy. Damn device tore his head off. Wilson hurt but his bleeding is under control. Got him over to the helipad. Just waiting for the medivac now.”
“Anyone else?” Levin asked.
“Two arty guys killed, six arty guys wounded, all from mortar rounds. Their medic and our medic, Doc Evans, are taking care of them. Sgt. Levin, head to the other bunkers and check your men. Make sure they’re getting resupplied. Nobody sleeps until proper watches are re-established. This shit could start up again at any moment.”
Mercifully, it didn’t.
Next morning, relays of helicopters began arriving bringing fresh supplies. Everyone exhausted, there was little talking at breakfast. Following the meal, the squads were divided up. Some men assigned to perimeter repair and installing new Claymores and foo gas, others, the gruesome task of recovering enemy bodies.
Nervous but tension relieving laughter was heard from those performing the grim task when Brian referred to the burned bodies as “Crispy Critters,” a popular breakfast cereal at the time. He was glad he’d made his fellow soldiers laugh, but immediately felt guilty as he reminded himself, each of the Crispy Critters was someone’s son or brother. In a respectful manner, each enemy soldier was placed on a poncho then carried to a common grave. Brian kept count. One hundred nine soldiers were laid to rest. He and Arnie, and a few others recited a prayer for them.
Once covered with earth, a Buddhist Monk placed and burned incense over the grave.
“That was some shit,” Arnie said. “Hope it doesn’t happen again tonight.”
Chapter 8
After completing their assignment at the fire support base, the platoon returned to the abandoned Catholic Church. Brian and Arnie read quietly in a corner of the old building, away from the others.
After a brief glance at Levin’s name tape, a tall journalist from Australia extended a hand. “I’m Cleburne. First name Malcolm. From Adelaide in Oz.”
“Howdy,” Brian said, stood then shook the big man’s hand.
“Your first name?”
“Brian.”
“Where from?”
“Texas.”
The Aussie stared at him for a good thirty seconds as if considering what to say. “Heard a story about this Texan named Levin, on leave from the war, at the scene of an explosion out near Lameroo, saved a crowd of folks. He performed First Aid at the scene then performed surgery on a mess of ‘em at a small medical facility. Disappeared before folks could give him a thanks. A proper hero that man.”
“Sorry,” Brian said, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t know about that.”
The journalist stared at him, put his hands on his hips. “Don’t think there’s many Texans named Levin out in sheep country.”
Brian turned to walk away but the big man grabbed his elbow.
“Got family out that way. This doc, he saved a four-day- old. If it was you, thanks.”
Brian gave him a brief smile, sat down and opened a paperback then read while leaning against his ruck.
Arnie, sitting near his friend, checked around to ensure no one else was within earshot. “So, it’s true. You’re a real doc. A damn surgeon. What the fuck you doing with us grunts?”
“I want to write a book about the war, stressing the impact of killing on soldier’s mental condition. Like…why some manage and other’s fall apart.”
“Big topic.”
“Believe me. We’re talking Texas big.”
“The frequent letters home?”
“Notes for the book. Going to be research that, God willing, is understood and utilized.”
“Lofty goal. Like to meet up with you when we’re back in the world.” He leaned closer. “Attend Shacharit…you know, morning prayers.”
“I know, and we’ll do that buddy.” Brian smiled then glanced around. “Ah…I don’t want the guys to know that I’m using their experiences as research for my book.”
“No sweat.” “Thanks, Man.”
***
Two weeks later, Sgt. Levin, with second squad, helicoptered into the mountains to perform reconnaissance duties. Arnie wiped sweat from his face, then cursed the blazing mid-day sun. The squad was following a well-used trail into the mountains. Arnie walked point. A small explosion then a baseball sized object popped out of the ground. He caught it in his left hand and froze.
Everyone else hit the ground.
“What the fuck was that?” James Ware asked.
“It’s a fucking Bouncing Bett
y,” Brian explained. “When triggered, a damn grenade comes up and explodes waist high…trying to blow you in half or at least tear up your manhood. A gift from the French when they were here back in the fifties.”
“But he caught it.”
“And he’s not moving, likely praying it doesn’t explode.”
“Fuck,” James said. “Somebody’s got to help him.”
“I’ll go,” Brian announced. “Second squad, stay here and keep your heads down. He stood, slowly walked up to Arnie who was covered in sweat, then said, “Don’t move. Don’t talk.”
Brian eyed the rusted object now resting in the palm of his buddy’s hand.
“With as little movement as possible and keeping your hand under it, lower your hand to the ground. I’ll take it from your hand, you pull your hand out and I’ll set it on the ground.”
Arnie slowly bent his knees. His entire body trembled. When near the ground, Brian gripped the sides of the device. Arnie pulled his hand out, rapidly backed away. Levin slowly lowered it to the earth then walked a few steps then ran to cover. After fifteen minutes, James Ware placed a Claymore mine, aimed it at the device then backed off and detonated the Claymore.
Arnie looked at Brian and said, “Bless the Lord, we’re still in one piece.” He closed his eyes. They recited a brief prayer, the Shehechianu, which thanked the Lord for allowing them to remain alive.
“Amen,” they said.
A few others mumbled Amen as well.
“Likely more mines around here,” Sgt. Levin said.
Arnie, still trembling, turned pale then walked to the side of the trail. He dropped to his knees and vomited. Sgt. Levin decided to avoid trails so they hacked their way through the jungle.
***
A few days later, still in the jungle covered mountains, the platoon walked down a ten-foot-wide, six-inch-deep stream which coursed its way out of the mountains following a series of valleys. Brian felt heat sickness coming on. He cursed, his head throbbing, feeling like it was trapped in a vice, the damn vice compressing with each heartbeat.
“Accompanied by a fucking migraine, of course,” he mumbled.
This was the fourth time since basic training that it happened. He tried to drink more water. When the column stopped to rest, he sat in the stream to try to cool off, poured water over his head, and rubbed his temples. Walking down the stream for another thirty minutes, the heat sickness caused him to drop to his knees, his stomach muscles tightened, and he suffered from a couple minutes of dry heaves. Arnie and James helped him out of the water, got his ruck off his back. Brian mouthed a thanks to them. The lieutenant ordered pickets out. Came back to check on Brian.
“I’ll be okay,” Brian said, forcing a smile.
“Our night position is fifty meters up this hill,” the Lieutenant said.
“I’ll take his gear,” James said.
Arnie helped Brian set up a place to sleep. They ate a bit then Brian slept until dawn. His squad mates didn’t bother asking him to take a shift pulling guard duty during the night. The following morning, he felt guilty as hell for letting them down, having someone else carry his gear and not performing his share of guard duty.
***
“Hey, Sgt. Levin,” Doc Evans shouted, early one evening. “Check this out.”
Brian walked over. Grimacing and moaning, Tom White, lying flat on his back, tried to smile then lifted his shirt.
A quick examination and Brian said, “Call for a medivac. His appendix is inflamed.”
Twenty minutes later, and sundown occurring in another thirty minutes, they heard a chopper following the Troi River to their position. They watched in disbelief as it wobbled for a bit then slowly slid sideways and into the ground. An explosion, followed by billowing orange flames topped by roiling black smoke indicated where it came to rest; three-hundred yards from the old church.
“Did anyone see or hear hostile fire?” the Lt. yelled. No one did. “Can’t be sure,” he said. “Third squad, set up a perimeter around the chopper. First squad, search for survivors. Find any, bring ‘em back here. Second squad, take over security around the church. Trout, call for another chopper.”
Brian gave out assignments to his squad.
David Trout spoke into the radio for a while then said, “They won’t send another chopper until we determine if the first chopper went down because of hostile action.”
“Shit,” the Lt. said. He looked at Brian. “Won’t know enough to get another chopper out here until morning.”
“He needs surgery in the next hour or his appendix could burst…which could be fatal.”
“Can you do it?”
Brian cursed. “Need flashlights, sir.”
Levin cleaned his hands with anti-septic soap while Doc Evans cleaned White’s belly. David Trout held the flashlights and tried mightily to keep insects away.
Brian, tense because of the unsanitary conditions, worked as quickly as possible to remove the diseased tissue, closed, then bandaged the incision. “That will do but he still needs to be flown to a medivac station for antibiotics.”
Chapter 9
“Good work, Sgt. Levin,” the Lt. said the next day after radioing the medivac station. “Tom White is in great condition.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Brian replied.
He motioned Brian away from the others then said in a quiet voice, “Do me a favor. Keep an eye on Ware. Some of the guys think he’s talking to some kids who were killed last week. Whatever you hear, let me know.”
“Will do, Lieutenant,” Sgt. Levin replied.
Brian mentioned the Lt.’s concern to Arnie, who said, “Mumbles sometimes but not sure about what. I’ll sit with him. See if there’s a problem.”
A week later, no one with medical knowledge beyond first aid, accompanied third squad when on overnight ambush duty. When they returned to day position the following morning, Paul Slidell was carrying Dave McDonald on his back. David’s left pant leg raised to the knee, a tourniquet tied at mid-calf. Paul looked around, yelled for Sgt. Levin and medic Martin Evans.
Paul’s face and arms covered in sweat, his uniform shirt dark with moisture, his expression twisted in worry and concern, he forced his words through his panting. “Some crazy gook ran at us. We shot him. Thought he was dead, laying on the ground but that bastard grabbed a metal pipe then swung it into Trout’s leg. Swelled up like a golf ball a few inches above his ankle. It burst when I tried to bandage it and bled like hell so I wrapped it tight like a tourniquet…that’s what it took to stop the bleeding.”
Brian examined McDonald who let out an occasional moan. He uncovered the wound. Blood spurted across his face and chest. Levin swore a few times then said, “Likely a fucking arterial aneurism. Evans, you’re going to assist. This needs surgery.”
“Do something, man,” Paul said to Brian. “McDonald and me, good buddies, come in-country together. We got plans.”
Brian took stock of the injured man. His foot was a dark shade of blue, almost black. “When did you apply the tourniquet?”
“About forty minutes ago. C’mon, Man. Everyone knows you ain’t just a grunt,” Slidell continued to plead. “Do that medical shit or he’s fucked.”
Lt. Senna requested a medivac chopper.
Brian shook his head. “No pulse in his ankle. Can’t wait.
Have to repair this now.”
“Can’t it wait for the medivac chopper?” Doc Evans asked.
Brian shook his head. “Wait for a chopper and he loses that foot.” He turned to Slidell, “I’ll get my gear, but you and Doc Evans are going to help.”
Paul, visibly shaking, said, “Anything man. You just tell me.”
“Hold his leg so it doesn’t move…absolutely doesn’t move. Doc, start an IV then move across from me.”
With minimal conversation, assisted by medic Evans while Lt. Senna held the IV bag, Brian clamped a severed artery, used another artery to provide temporary blood flow to the man’s lower leg and foot.
&n
bsp; “You gonna puke?” Brian asked Paul, as he pulled up an artery and clamped it, nodding to Doc Evans to hold the clamp.
Slidell was turning pale but said, “Can hold it until you’re done.”
“You’re doing great, Dave,” Brian said to the trembling soldier. “Paul, just keep his leg steady and I’ll be finished in a couple more minutes. Close your eyes if you need to.”
A few minutes’ additional feverish work and Levin covered the injury.
“His foot is getting its color back,” Doc Evans said.
Brian nodded. “Good sign. Can feel a pulse in his foot as well. I hear the chopper. Let’s get him moved. I’ll radio his condition to the medivac station so they know what to expect.”
* * *
That night, they were kept awake by combat five kilometers away, in the village where the market grenade incident took place.
In the morning, second squad was sent to go through the village and make sure no further enemy soldiers were hiding there. The village had suffered napalm and artillery shelling in addition to a hail storm of small arms fire.
“Not much left,” radioman Arnie said in a sympathetic voice to squad leader Levin.
Most of the soot covered buildings were partially or completely flattened. Many small fires burned; charred remains of wooden structures smoldered in a number of locations. A quick recon showed only a handful villagers left. Doc Evans yelled to gain Sgt. Levin’s attention then pointed. Squatting in a doorframe with no building attached, an old woman motioned to the Americans, pointed to a young girl lying at her side.
Sgt. Levin had his men post security.
Brian found Dot, her face dirty and tear streaked, her body trembling. He examined her. She had numerous burns and likely a broken hip.
THE SOLDIER: A Vietnam War Era Novel Page 10