Countenance of Man

by Matthew Nuth

  Unlike previous US wars, Vietnam was an unrelenting pressure cooker. In this war, the GI would see more combat in their first couple months than the WWII veteran would have experienced over the entire war. Here, battle was continuous, filled with almost daily skirmishes that could kill you. Cal quickly realized how many of his compatriots might never get the chance to see family again. He hoped he would not be among that unlucky population. Combining the pressure with youth, the average soldier was only 21, fully five years younger than had fought on previous wars; drugs and a lack of discipline was rampant. Cal was lucky to have avoided the lack of discipline by being accepted into the Rangers 75th infantry regiment. Unlucky for Cal was the fact that the 75th was one of the few regiments still engaged in heavy fighting as President Nixon was trying to find a way to personally save face while pulling troops out of the region. The war had become a huge cluster fuck and it was as if everyone in the world knew it except for the 75th. They continued to salute and fight. Today they were on another one of their long-range patrols into enemy territory.

  As his patrol marched quietly through the jungle he pondered how he would describe patrol to his family when he got home. In one sense, the term ironic came to mind in that the silence led to boredom and at the same time a heightened sense of attention. One would think the boredom of the hours long hike would numb one’s thought, and yet the stress in knowing that at any moment the peace could be shattered by staccato of guns firing and the all-too familiar thwip-thwip as the bullets cut the air was both exhilarating and fatiguing. The problem with the term irony was, as his English teacher had stressed, irony should be used typically to provide humor, and there was no humor in what they were doing today. No, perhaps sardonic was a better term. The quiet was a sardonic foreboding of what was to come.

  The beloved huey copters had landed for the briefest of moment, just long enough to drop their cargo of soldiers in the waist-high grass, leaving them stranded miles from any semblance of safety. This was just another day at the office, although this “office” was hot, humid, and filled with bugs and spiders as large as one’s hand. The hueys would magically show up again several hours later at an agreed rendezvous point and return them to camp; hopefully, with all GI’s intact. Sometimes this was true, but normally not.

  The smells of the jungle were odd, not something Cal could get used to. Although the vegetation was intense, no smell of chlorophyll filled the air. Instead, the nose was accosted by a putrid odor of mud combined with rotting plants, not unlike the compost pile his dad had maintained in their backyard back home. The stink combined with the heat and humidity made each step labored and they had another twenty thousand or so more to go before today’s patrol would be done. Their destination to the north was just an X on a folded map referencing a non-descript hill number. A number that would be forgotten tomorrow. The ground represented by the X would be littered with NVA, North Vietnamese Army, casualties.

  The goal today involved engaging Charlie on their turf, a well-established set of tunnels that served as a base to ambush South Vietnamese soldiers, GIs, civilians, pretty much anything that walked on two legs. The Americans’ job, meet vicious with vicious and kill anything that moved. It had been their mode of operation since he had arrived.

  Eradicating Charlie from the tunnels was Cal’s specialty. He had volunteered as a tunnel rat upon joining his platoon. He was made for the job; short of stature, but strong as a bull, great vision, adept with his hands, and capable of moving quickly from a squat position. Half a year ago, he had hoped his physical abilities would serve to make him rich, now they served to kill quickly and effectively. He hated killing, but at least in the dark of the tunnels he never had to see the faces of the men or women as he took their lives. For his buddies above ground, they would live with those faces forever.

  Their sergeant stopped and quietly knelt down, motioning for the rest of the platoon to do likewise. He could see the hill that represented their objective. Not really much of a hill, just a small rise that barely lifted the green canopy of low trees and grass. They assumed that they remained undetected, surprise would be on the side of the Americans.

  Thwip-thwip-phthit. The “phthit” a sound that signaled that one of the bullets had found its mark. The sergeant, collapsed forward into the grass; a body that had instantly lost its animation. Sarg was dead before he hit the ground. Cal poked his head just high enough to draw fire and to determine from where the shots were originating. He saw three quick flashes from a tuft of elephant grass followed by the loud, tell-tale snap-snap-snap of the AK-47. He fired a quick burst into the grass, not expecting to kill, but to drive the Charlie back under ground. Hell, the elephant grass was so tough, he wasn’t even sure the bullets would make it through. He made mental note of the grass location. He would return to this location in search of an entrance to the tunnels.

  Undeterred by the loss of their sergeant, the team moved quickly to enact their attack plan that had been established back at camp. Everyone knew their duty and the mission progressed unabated. Eight of their team progressed to the west with the intent of setting up a horizontal firing line on a series of huts that was well behind the tunnels. Cal’s portion of the team would spread in a line to the south and slowly progress as far as the first tunnel entrance. The firing line would occur along an “L” shaped pattern; the intent was to overwhelm with machine-gun fire. Cal would move into the tunnels to drive Charlie above ground into the deadly fire. The objective: no prisoners.

  The entire action was expected to take no more than 30 minutes, after which the team would move quickly approximately two miles east to their pre-arranged evac site - a break in the jungle just large enough for the two hueys to land, one at a time, and rescue the platoon.

  The team moved quickly into their places and the action began with the launching of several grenades from the vertical portion of the “L.” All hell broke loose in an all-out fire-fight.

  Cal had already dropped his M16, useless in the tight quarters below ground, and holstered an additional 45 cal. pistol. He dropped a hand grenade through a small camouflaged trap door in the jungle floor just behind the elephant grass from which he had originally spotted the muzzle flashes. This was the access that had provided the Charlie sniper the shot that had turned Sarg into their first and, hopefully, only casualty. Immediately after the grenade explosion, Cal dove in through the small opening, not waiting for the dust to settle. Surprise and speed were everything in flushing the tunnel.

  In his left hand, Cal carried his K-bar, a vicious-looking, and equally effective knife; in his right a semi-automatic .45 pistol. A flashlight was clipped to his belt, but Cal had rarely used this tool. He felt that the risk of marking himself as a target was much higher than any benefit the short beam of light provided. Also, clipped to his belt, Cal carried two hand grenades. He hated using the grenades below ground due to the concussion, but they had saved his life more than once. In a small satchel strapped to his side, he carried a small timed detonator attached to a block of C4 explosive.

  Cal’s strong thighs of a catcher allowed him to move with a quickness and speed that belied his size in the narrow, low tunnels. The tunnels had been designed to accommodate a significantly smaller human than Cal even though he was only 5’8” tall. He moved with his legs spread wide to avoid the small traps that would have been dug into the floor of the tunnel to slow or stop intruders. The traps, though primitive, were extremely effective; typically, a set of punji stakes set into a hole with their barbed, razor sharp points poised no more than a foot below the tunnel floor. A misstep and the tunnel rat’s leg would be impaled by no fewer than a half dozen stakes, leaving him helpless until Charlie came to finish him off. For Cal, the hand grenades would at least guarantee that Charlie would at least have to sacrifice himself in the process.

  Cal waited briefly to orient himself in the darkness before moving off. His objective was twofold: to push Charlie above ground and
to find and destroy a store of ammunition that was critical to the North Vietnamese in their raids along the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

  The tunnels were a series of drops and curves. Each drop would take him a step closer to the munitions dump. He would set the C4 charge to take out the dump, knowing the blast would likely take out the entire tunnel and all of its occupants, both man and animal, through the actual blast, cave in, or sheer concussion. For Cal, once the charge was set, he would have two minutes to get out. The challenge would be kill as many occupants on the way down so he did not need to fight on the way out; there would be no time.

  He moved noiselessly and quickly through the dark, his left forearm serving as his guide as he followed the tunnel downward, mentally making note of each turn so as not to get confused in his rise from this hell. He stopped once, twice to listen for signs of Charlie. This second time he heard breathing directly in from of him. Hell, he had almost run right into his nemesis, invisible in the blackness. Cal, fired once high, once low; heard the cry and fall. He proceeded trampling over the victim on the ground, stopping only long enough to run the K-bar across the fallen soldier’s neck to ensure the kill was complete. There could be no surprises on the way out.

  Cal smelled water and felt the tunnel wall become slippery. He slowed. The wet meant he was likely approaching the water source for the entire system, a well that would be accessed by a vertical shaft. To fall into the shaft would mean a slow death by drowning. Cal pulled out his flashlight for a brief flash of light to spot what would be well shaft extending downward to water and upward to the surface. He jumped across and continued his journey. The musty dirt smell returned, and he left the mold odor behind.

  He heard noise and saw dim, indirect light ahead. A couple more steps and he could see a hole in the floor of the tunnel dropping to another level from which the excited voices were emanating. Although he understood nothing of what was being yelled, he suspected he had found the dump. It would only be moments before he would encounter Charlie, hand-to-hand, as they rallied to bring ammo to the surface to repel the Americans. The first came toward Cal carrying a light in one hand and using his other to balance a wooden crate full of loaded bullet clips to the surface. He had almost run into Cal before realizing that his enemy was there. Cal shot him and jumped into the munitions dump, just a squat room, no more than 10 by 12 feet filled with AK 47s, bullets, clips, hand grenades, RPGs, and two North Vietnamese. Cal dispatched them with two quick shots. In the close quarters shots were both effective and deafening. Cal knelt to set the charge.

  He pulled his flashlight and turned it on. There would be no time to be concerned about being a target on the way out. If he got caught up in a battle below ground after the charge was set, he was dead anyway. He started the timer and ran. He moved quickly, jumping the dead munitions carrier that lay at the entrance to the room, up to the next level and jumping the slimy well. Almost to his first kill, Cal made a mistake. He had not noticed the punji stake pit on the way down; his spread legs had straddled the trap without ever being aware of its presence. On the way up, moving quickly, he ran with his legs straight below him, using the glare of the flashlight to point out risks. Even with the flashlight he did not notice the small drop in the tunnel floor until it was too late. His foot broke through a thin grass matte that had been covered with dirt as camouflage. His leg did not stop until it hit the bottom of a two and half foot-deep hole lined with jagged, barbed sticks that easily punctured through pants, boots, and skin. The top row of stakes was embedded into the hole’s wall pointing downward to prevent the leg from being pulled out. Cal was as good as dead.

  Above ground the battle was dying as quickly as it had started. The machine gun fire of the well-trained Rangers had decimated the rag-tag Viet Cong soldiers. They were now mopping up; making sure the dying were dead. They now awaited Cal to come up from the darkness, having finished his task; expecting him to surface at any moment. They heard two sounds. First, a muffled blast from close to the surface, was accompanied by a cloud of dust evacuating from the hole that Cal had entered no more than ten minutes earlier. The second explosion, larger and deeper followed quickly by smaller blasts accompanied by a series of dust clouds coming from here-to-fore unknown places where tunnels punctured the surface either as firing posts or ventilation shafts. The tunnel was now dead. Cal had not made it out; casualty number two.

  Chapter 25

  I don’t think I ever got over losing my brother. At nine years old, I understood he was dead, but I could not understand why. At baseball games, I still catch myself concentrating on the catcher’s play conjuring up in my mind how Cal would have blocked that ball better, would have thrown that runner out, or would have hit that pitch over the wall. In my imagination, Cal lives on and probably always will.

  I think he does in Dad’ mind, too. Dad’s eyes opened and he saw the book in my hand. “So where are you in my little book, Randall?”

  I was taken back by Dad’s question. “Dad, you’re awake. Sorry I didn’t notice.”

  Dad tilted his head to look back to the book as if emphasizing his question.

  “Oh, um, just thinking about your note to Cal.”

  Dad Smiled. “He is okay, now. I was just talking with him. We even got the chance to play a little catch. My gawd, he throws so hard.” Then Dad drifted off.

  Mom tapped on the door and came into the room. I am not sure why she felt compelled to knock before entering, but I think she was beginning to think of this as my private time with Dad, a time that she was reluctant to encroach on.

  “Randall, you have been in here for a couple hours. You want to take your dear old Mom out for a walk; or perhaps a brief car ride down to the shopping mall.”

  I’m not sure, Mom. I’d hate to miss it if Dad wakes up again.”

  To this, Bob, piped in “Randall, I don’t think you need to worry about your Dad waking up, at least for the next couple of hours. I just gave him a couple drops for his pain, so I think he’ll be out for a while. Go ahead with your Mom. Your uncle and I will be here and we will call you if there are any changes.”

  “Alright, Mom. Let’s go, and I’ll drive. You want to ride in the Mustang or your car?”

  “Let’s try out that fancy, fast rental of yours. I’m not so old, like your uncle, that I can’t bend myself into that car.” She smiled knowing full well she was only half the size of Uncle Bill.

  Our first direction was south toward the mall although I have no idea why Mom was thinking of shopping at a time like this. As we drove south, Mom tapped me on the arm and motioned me to take a turn fully two blocks early and we progressed through a section of older homes, then into the parking lot of a small, established set of professional buildings. It was a mall of a different type than I had expected. She motioned to a slot in front of a relatively non-descript, low brick building. It was a visit I was ill prepared for. The sign to the right of the front door, Wright’s Mortuary.

  “Mom, why are we here?”

  “Randall, I need to make a couple of decisions and I have been putting them off for weeks. Don’t you think it is about time I made them?”

  “Well, sure. I guess so, but haven’t you and Dad already figured out what you want to do when you die?”

  Mom laughed and then started to cry. I had no idea what to do, so I sat there, not offering consolation, understanding, or comfort. I was incapable of handling my own feelings. I was a cad; hopeless and helpless. Mom sniffled, collected herself as she always had and looked to me, “Let’s go in. They are waiting for us.” She opened the door and headed in without looking back.

  I sat there a moment longer than I should. I had never been in a mortuary before and entering now meant I had to acknowledge Dad was leaving soon. I was not prepared. Big tough Randall couldn’t handle it and yet, my little frail Mom approached the challenge with a bravery I did not possess. I was proud of her, ashamed of myself. I opened my car door and w
ent in.

  Inside was not what I had expected. Of course, I really did not have any expectations. It was the first time I had ever stepped into a mortuary. There were four small padded arm chairs situated around a small coffee table. On the table sat a Bible, a Koran, and Book of Mormon. Next to the books was a box of tissues and an ashtray. Apparently, the local ordinance that prohibited smoking in business establishments did not apply here; or at least Mister Wright was not going to enforce them. On one wall was mounted a large television. The set was turned off and as near as I could tell its likely use was limited to demonstrating the services of Wright Mortuary. Opposite the television was the entrance to a small, quaint funeral parlor, just large enough to accommodate groups of twenty or less, along with a casket. Behind a receptionist desk was a hallway and a door that appeared to be the entrance to a small conference area. I could see a portion of the conference table through the open door.

  As I entered, Mom was already in whispered conversation with the receptionist, almost as if it would be disrespectful to actually carry on a conversation at normal volume. I sat down in the closest of the four chairs. Everything was hushed, at least until Mister Wright entered through the hallway from some hidden office protected by the receptionist’s desk. He walked over to greet us.

  “Sam, why don’t you come on back so we might discuss Paul. Your son is welcome to join us, if you would like.” I stood up and followed them both into the small conference room.

  The room was plain, but yet showed an excellent taste. The art on the wall, although minimalist, was original. The wall color, a grayish tan, had had just the slightest degree of gloss. Opposite the entrance door, the windows ran from floor to ceiling. Opaque vertical blinds, the same shade as the wall, lined the windows and provided for complete darkness if desired. The carpet, a rich gray berber. The mood of the room was set; somber, but not hopeless. The table was a rich, dark mahogany, the chairs were matching wood with black leather seat pans. In the center of the table, a tray with both coffee, tea, and cookies had been set. Next to the tray, another box of tissues.