A War Too Far

by David Lee Corley

  “Then why do you carry two pistols?” asked the boy.

  “I could be wrong,” said the old man with a shrug.

  As they approached a knoll, the grandfather saw a line of footprints in the loose soil. He motioned for the boy to come closer. “What do you see?” said the old man.

  The boy took a few moments to examine the footprints and then said, “Wolf?”

  “Are you asking or telling?”

  “Wolf.”

  “Yes. Several. They’re close.”

  The boy looked worried. He knew his grandfather saw this as a moment of instruction rather than danger. “Keep low and stay downwind,” said the grandfather moving off.

  The boy followed.

  The boy and his grandfather belly crawled over a large boulder and looked down. Below, a pack of grey wolves mulled around their lair, their bellies full from a recent kill. Females tended their young. Males kept watch for danger. “They’re beautiful,” whispered the boy.

  “Yes,” said the grandfather. “Alone, they are dangerous. Together, they are invincible. They hunt as a pack and share their kills. If ever attacked, they will defend each other to the death. They desire no honor or even thanks. They are not selfish, like men. That’s what gives them great power.”

  The lesson was not lost on the boy.

  Granier snapped out of his daydream. He knew he needed to keep his focus. The forest was clear for the moment. He returned to the group. The other team members were gathered around Dewey in defensive positions.

  Herbert Green was the team’s automatic rifle specialist and the largest man in the unit at six-three, all muscle. He carried a BAR automatic rifle with a belt holding six of the 20-round box magazines and two bandoleers with three magazines each slung across his chest. His pack was loaded with far more spare ammunition than the others. It weighed almost a hundred pounds, but Green could handle the pack and the weapon because of his size. He spoke English, Chinese, and a bit of Spanish.

  Victor Santana was the team’s communications specialist and a rifleman. He carried the heavy field radio Dewey required to communicate with command headquarters in China. Santana knew the radio inside and out. He carried an M1 with a folding stock and spoke English, Spanish and Lao. He was short and stocky. His skin was dark, and his hair coal black. He loved to tell jokes about Mexicans and Central Americans walking into a bar. He was Puerto Rican and feisty as hell in a firefight.

  Willard Davis was the team’s grenadier and tunnel rat. He was lanky but surprisingly strong. He had started his career in the Army as an engineer before being selected as a commando. He knew explosives and could build just about anything from tree branches and 50-feet of rope. He carried a half dozen hand grenades plus two smoke grenades on bandoleers around his chest. In his pack were a dozen more grenades and TNT high-explosive blocks that could be used to breach a steel door or remove an obstacle. He looked like a pack mule when fully loaded with gear. His rifle was an M1 with a folding stock. He spoke English, Japanese, and a bit of Khmer.

  Paul Hoagland rounded out the group as the team medic and a rifleman. He was in his second year of medical school when the war broke out and immediately volunteered. He was forced to renounce his Hippocratic oath when he joined the commandos. All commandos, even the medics, were expected to fight. He carried an M1 and was an excellent shot. Good eyes and steady fingers. He spoke English, Vietnamese and a few of the highlands’ tribal dialects.

  Granier knew them as good soldiers. Reliable. Brave. A strong pack. The team members broke off pieces of foliage and stuck them in the netting on their helmets and in the buckles on their packs to create natural camouflage. The area around the drop zone was already littered with debris. The few additional broken twigs wouldn’t give the team’s position away to the enemy more than the broken tree branches and scattering of leaves. They would repeat this process each time they moved into new terrain with different foliage. Good camouflage could be the difference between life and death.

  Hoagland tended to a nasty cut on Dewey’s shin. A broken branch had caught him on the way down. It could have been worse. Much worse. “Buck, are we good?” said Dewey, wincing as Hoagland pulled a shard of wood from the wound.

  “Clear,” said Granier. There was nothing else to report. Granier rarely made eye contact with anyone even while talking, which was unnerving and annoying to those around him. He was always looking someplace else. Searching for threats. He kept his eyes on the surrounding trees; his weapon cradled in his arms. “I need to build my scope,” said Granier.

  “Of course. We’ll keep watch,” said Dewey studying his compass and map as Hoagland finished dressing the wound.

  Granier knew that even if every team member kept watch, they would not see the things that he could see. He didn’t like that the team was all in the same place. They should have spread out more, but that wasn’t his call. It was Dewey’s. Granier kept his mouth shut and focused on the task at hand. He needed to check his gear and build his scope.

  He pulled the metal mount and the bundled scope from his pack. The scope was undamaged. He pulled out and opened a small tool kit with a flat blade screwdriver, a small wrench, and a nylon hammer. He laid the towel wrapped around the scope on the ground to keep the rifle’s parts from getting dirty and took a quick look around to ensure they were safe. His weapon would be useless while being assembled with the mount and scope. He needed to work quickly. He was ready.

  He opened the rifle’s bolt, removed the chambered round and the clip. The rifle was empty. Safe. First, he removed the rifle stock from the bolt and barrel and placed it on the towel. Then he attached the mount to the barrel and tightened the screws. He set the scope, closed the mount, and tightened the locking screw. After he’d reattached the stock to the bolt and barrel, he reloaded the weapon and chambered a round. The entire process took less than two minutes. He could have done it with his eyes closed if needed. He had done it before. He was operational.

  The Garand was a well-designed, reliable weapon. It did not jam easily, even in the harshest conditions. The rifle’s scope was side-mounted to keep the bolt opening clear for ejecting shells and inserting clips. This allowed the operator to use either the scope or the hard sights on the barrel. There were more high-powered scopes available, but he chose not to use them because they blocked the hard sight. His was a dual role in the squad – sniper and scout. When there was a firefight, options were important, especially in a thick forest or jungle. “Ready,” said Granier.

  “Let’s move out,” said Dewey pointing the direction.

  Granier took the lead and advanced through the forest. He felt more comfortable moving within the trees — lots of cover. His senses were focused – ears, eyes, and nose. None more important than the other. All were working together. He knew it was highly likely that he would hear or see the enemy before the enemy heard or saw him. That was good. That kept the pack safe.

  He kept a good distance in front of the others. They were loud, even though they thought they were quiet. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know what quiet was. Not like he knew quiet. They moved through the trees in a wedge formation, not a column, but stayed close together. Their weapons were always at the ready, never slung over their shoulders. Safety on, finger off the trigger, a round chambered. They would not take a path through the forest even if they found one. It was too dangerous. There were boobytraps and ambushes on trails. It was safer to stay off-trail even if it made traveling more difficult.

  If there were contact, Granier would move off to the side and let the enemy focus on the approaching team with their heavy footfalls. That would give him the advantage he needed. If they were few, he would kill the enemy before they fired on his team. That was the hope. If they were many, he would be in a good position to flank them. Either way, his opening shots would warn his team members and draw the enemy away. His team would have time to disperse into defensive positions. Attacking from two angles was far better than a
ttacking from one. Some might see his using his team as bait as cowardly, but he knew better. He didn’t care what others thought… as long as the pack was safe.

  The first day passed without incident. Even with Dewey’s wounded shin, the team made good time and traveled fifteen miles through the forest before night fell.

  There was no fire to warm their food or make coffee. They spoke only when necessary. Mostly they listened. Sound traveled slower in the cooler night air. There would be less warning if a Japanese patrol stumbled upon them. Two team members kept watch at all times. They slept in shifts. Sleep was important. They needed to stay sharp.

  Hoagland checked Dewey’s shin. It was swollen as he expected, but there were no signs of infection. The sulfanilamide powder he had poured on the wound had done the trick. It would hurt to walk, but Dewey was tough like all the team members. Even though it looked good, Hoagland would keep an eye on it. An infection in a tropical forest could kill a man just as sure as a bullet if left unattended. Once he redressed the wound, Hoagland moved to check on each of the team members. They were fit and healthy, but even a healthy man could become dehydrated easily in humid conditions. Hoagland checked each canteen to ensure the men were drinking enough and reminded them to eat their salt tablets. If Granier was their seldom seen protector, Hoagland was surely their doting mother. Both did their jobs well.

  The Deer Team had only been walking an hour when Granier came to a stop, raise his fist to signal the others, and crouched down to make himself less visible. Dewey, his nose in his map, didn’t notice. Hoagland, right behind Dewey, saw Granier and tapped Dewey on the shoulder to get his attention. Hoagland pointed in Granier’s direction. Dewey, seeing Granier crouching, signaled the rest of the team to take up defensive positions. The team members spread out, crouched down and kept watch in their assigned direction.

  Granier had seen nothing. It was a new smell that had got his attention. New was not good. It was faint. A hint of fish sauce. He scanned the horizon and the surrounding trees. Nothing. That didn’t mean that nothing was out there. It just meant he couldn’t see it. But he could smell it, and that was enough to make the hairs on his neck stand tall. He waited. Silent. Listened. Watched. Nothing. He still didn’t trust the smell. It could have been a farmer passing nearby. But if it was, he was sure he would have heard his footsteps. Farmers were not trained to be quiet. In fact, they liked to be noisy in the forest to frighten away jungle creatures like tigers, panthers, and snakes that might be on the path ahead. Granier still heard and saw nothing. But there was that smell – fish sauce. He was sure of it. He waited a full three minutes before motioning the team to continue. Their senses were heightened like Granier’s and kept a close watch for any motion as they advanced… cautiously, slowing their pace.

  The team moved out of the trees and into a narrow meadow covered with large ferns with more trees on the far side. Granier moved forward fifty yards into the meadow and stopped again. Same sign to the team – fist in the air. They stopped and again took up defensive positions. “What now?” whispered Hoagland.

  Dewey, not knowing, shook his head. He trusted Granier’s instincts and would wait to proceed until Granier gave him the go-ahead. Dewey had carefully picked his team, but Granier was a prize. Granier’s commanding officer was pissed when Dewey chose Granier and spirited him away from his Marine battalion. Granier didn’t like going either. Change was difficult for him, especially if it involved getting to know new people. Granier was not a fan of humans. He preferred the company of dogs who were very loyal and didn’t whine unless it was important.

  Granier smelled something new – charcoal mixed with freshly cooked rice and shit. Human shit. Cooked rice and human shit meant there was a village or camp up ahead. He looked around for signs of a footpath. There was none. A village would have footpaths leading from it. It was a military camp. The big question was who was in it. It didn’t take long to find the answer…

  One hundred yards ahead, Granier saw movement. It was just a glimpse through the trees, but something or someone was moving toward him. He gave the hand signal for contact to Dewey.

  Dewey relayed the signal to the other team members. Everyone moved deeper into the surrounding foliage in hopes of not being seen. Dewey worried about the footprints the team might have left behind them. If it were the enemy, footprints would lead them right to the team. It wasn’t that Dewey or the others were afraid to fight. They were OSS commandos. They loved to fight. The adrenaline. The contest. But it was not their mission. Not yet.

  Granier watched as a Japanese soldier carrying a rifle appeared through the trees. The way he held himself, his head turning from side to side, his weapon at the ready, Granier could tell he was a scout like himself. There would be more following him. How many? he thought.

  Thirty feet behind the scout, more soldiers emerged. Fifty in all – a Japanese-sized platoon. They were spread out in a vee formation as if they were hunting for something. A lieutenant led them near the base of the vee. Next to the lieutenant was his radioman. Granier would keep a close eye on the radioman and kill him first if a firefight broke out. Hopefully, his shots would damage the radio so they could not call for reinforcements. The American team was already outnumbered more than eight to one. They didn’t need more soldiers to shoot at or chase them if things went to shit – the most likely scenario. The officer would be his second target. Take out the head of the snake.

  Granier stayed low and out of sight as the scout approached. He could feel his heart rate increasing. The scout was close. Very close. For a moment, he thought the unknowing soldier would step right on him. Granier didn’t move, not even his eyes. Nothing to draw attention. The scout passed. Granier shifted his gaze to locate the radioman and the lieutenant. They were less than thirty-five feet from his position. An easy distance. He wouldn’t miss. Two shots each, he thought. That still leaves me four in the magazine before I need to reload. That’s a good number. I can live with that. Two shots each was overkill for a marksman like Granier, but the targets were important, and he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

  Granier always knew exactly which pouches on his ammo belt had clips and which were empty. He never wasted any movement while reloading. Additional ammunition was stored in the exterior pockets on his pack. Pack ammo would take more time to retrieve, but he knew exactly where each clip was stored. He didn’t need to take his eyes off the enemy or take off his pack to find the right pocket. It was a discipline. Practiced. As the scout, he would be separated from the team in a firefight and forced to fight alone. Ammo kept him alive.

  His fire plan was simple – fire four rounds then duck for three seconds so the enemy would lose track of him, fire another four rounds, duck and reload. With that plan and a little luck, he could kill ten to twelve enemy per minute. Granier didn’t like depending on luck, but he knew it was a factor in a brawl – an up close and personal firefight. He kept a gold 20-franc coin that his grandfather had given him in his front pants pocket. It was his luck.

  He could not see Dewey from his hidden position and was unable to receive orders on when to open fire. But he knew what Dewey would want – to avoid contact if possible. Mission was first – to make contact with the Viet Minh and help them to fight the Japanese army that had invaded their country. Granier would wait until his team or the Japanese platoon opened fire before revealing his position and engaging the enemy.

  Sweat beaded on Granier’s greasepaint-covered brow as the Japanese formation approached. The Japanese soldiers walked past Granier, then past the team. The camouflage had worked. Granier breathed a quiet sign of relief. Then all hell broke loose…

  Fifty yards past the American team was the close group of trees the American team had walked through. As the Japanese scout was about to enter the grove, he was blasted backward by a single rifle shot and landed on his back on the ground. A small Asian-looking man wearing a conical hat covered with camouflage sprang from the ground and plunged the bay
onet on the end of his rifle into the scout, killing him. A light machinegun hidden in the grove opened fire, killing several more Japanese soldiers. Dozens of gun flares among the trees revealed a line of hidden riflemen firing their weapons. On the orders of their commander, the Japanese lieutenant, the platoon pulled back, moving toward the unseen Americans.

  For a moment, Granier was confused and angry. It seemed two Japanese forces were killing each other. What bothered him was that he hadn’t seen them when he walked by their positions. Damn fish sauce, he thought remembering the smell. It don’t matter. Japanese are dying. That’s good. He popped up from his hidden position and fired – two rounds into the radioman and two into the lieutenant, who had their backs to him. Both went down. He was pretty sure at least one of his rounds had hit the radio. Granier ducked, waited three seconds, popped up and shot four more Japanese soldiers, one bullet for each. His aim was deadly this close to the enemy. It was like shooting fish in a barrel – except that the fish fired back.

  Dewey and the rest of the American team also opened fire on the Japanese as they moved back past their position. The Americans were hesitant to fire on the grove of trees even though the bullets aimed at the Japanese soldiers were flying past them. The hidden machinegunner and riflemen were killing the enemy. A Japanese rifleman pulled out a grenade, pulled the pin and tossed it. It landed next to Santana and Davis. “Oh, shit!”, said Davis grabbing Santana’s radio and placing it between them and the grenade like a shield. “No,” said Santana, knowing what would happen. It worked. The grenade exploded, sending shrapnel into the radio set, destroying it, but protecting them.

  Granier reloaded, popped up, four more shots, ducked down, three seconds, popped up again, fired four more shots emptying his rifle. The empty clip sprang from the magazine and tumbled through the air. It was a dead giveaway that his weapon was empty. The Japanese platoon had been decimated. Most of the survivors were running for their lives. He was running out of targets. Granier didn’t notice the lone Japanese soldier, a bayonet on the end of his rifle, closing on his position from behind.