The P.H.O.T.O. (VOL 2) The Saga Continues

by Larry Hunt

  He thought he was right; it probably was just a monsoonal thunderstorm brewing off in the distance again.

  About the time he had that discernment his dependable ears had obtained a bearing on the direction of the sound – it emanated from over the horizon toward the north or northwest. He remembered, the monsoon season in Cambodia; the thunderstorms come out of the southwest and traverse the country toward the northeast.

  This ‘storm’ was already in the northwest and appeared to be heading directly south toward their precarious location. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t thunder – his gut told him this was something more sinister and deadly. He had heard that rumbling sound before, he reasoned, but he just couldn’t quite put his finger on where he had previously heard it...

  Sarge, an ol’ strategic soldier who, like the saying in real estate - location, location, location, understood the plan of a battle was exactly the same. This was a poor location - the swamp at their back the river blocked the front. Sarge’s bones were telling him a battle was coming. With whom, he did not know. For what reason, he did not know either, but he knew they had to be ready.

  Sarge ran back up the slight upgrade from the powerhouse to Spook and Little ‘S’ who stood dazed and apparently mesmerized by the recently discovered bodies. Sarge quickly brought them back to their senses when he starting yelling, ‘Grab that Ma Deuce and a couple cans of ammo and set her up down by the river. We got some un-friendly guests comin’ down the river heading in our direction!”

  ‘Oh, shit!!... ‘TINKER!’… Sarge remembered, ‘she’s still upstairs!’ Hollering at the top of his lungs, “Tinker...! Tinker...!” He saw her sneak a peek from the side of one of the upper windows.

  “What!” She answered, showing as little of herself as possible.

  “Get you’re ass down here, on the double, (Army talk for fast) troubles comin’!” Within seconds she was standing at his side seeking instructions. “Grab a can of that .50 cal ammo and carry it to the guys setting up down by the powerhouse.

  Tinker grabbed a can, ‘whoa,’ she thought, ‘this is a lot heavier than it looks!’ Using both hands she managed to lift the can of ammunition out of the sandbagged bunker and struggling, managed to drag it somehow, to Spook and Little ‘S’.

  * * * * *

  Sarge, as dangerous as it was, had to made one last sweep around the berm where ‘Tex’ ‘got it’. If a battle was coming, he thought he might not get another chance. What in the hell was so important?

  Dog tags!!

  He wanted to find ‘Tex’s dog tags or the boot that might contain one. He realized that anti-personnel mines were everywhere, and he was hoping during their climb over the berm they had not missed one.

  It would have been real easy for Sarge to have said he couldn’t find the tags and get his ass out of the minefield, but a person couldn’t have known Sarge if they believed he had that in his nature.

  He was tough, calloused and could cut a enemy's head off and piss down his throat without any emotion but he was loyal to his men and placed devotion at the top of his list.

  He had already retrieved one of Jesse’s tags from ‘Sam’ the prisoner in the cave; he removed the one from Doc; had searched through the remains of the bobby trapped Ma Deuce and found one of Bonnie's tags; scratched through the scattered remains of Teach at the well and found his; now he needed only one of the dog tags that Tex had worn. This one last little piece of metal would account for all his team that had been killed.

  Sarge felt this was part of mission completion to personally pay homage to his dead warriors.

  He was about to believe it was hopeless in the search for Tex’s tags when a glint from a small piece of metal caught his eye. There they were lying undisturbed among the dirt, rocks and human remains scattered over the berm. He reached down and gently pulled the silver chain from the soil and picked the two tags up.

  He looked down at the chains that held the two metal discs just retrieved from the muddy, blood filled earth and gently rubbed the dirt and blood from their surfaces with his thumb.

  He handled them honorably and respectfully as a sad tear swelled up in his eye. He stood at attention and said out loud one of the few Bible verses that he knew,

  “A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one’s birth” (Ecclesiastes 7:1).

  Still speaking out loud, he solemnly read the words on the disc, as if reciting a prayer:

  DE LUCA, JAMES B.

  RA 38596768

  O POS

  CATHOLIC

  (The first line is the soldiers name: Last name first, first name, middle initial; Second line: Serial number - RA Regular Army; Third line: Blood type and the Fourth line: Religious Preference.)

  At the end of the scripture recital and the reading of the tags Sarge stood at perfect attention and extended his fallen comrade the courtesy of a hand salute. As his snappy salute dropped from his green beret resting above his right eyebrow to his right side Sarge could be heard softy saying:

  “Good-bye my friend, may God put you in charge of a Legion of Angels!”

  Everyone who has ever served in the military have, what some refer to as a pair, others a set of dog tags.

  These two metal objects are one of the few things soldiers have that individualizes them from other soldiers. These little pieces of metal – are their own two personal “Badges of Courage." They tell whom they are when living and identify to others who they were after death! These little pieces of flat worthless metal become invaluable ‘class rings’ of a military fraternity. No two soldier’s discs are identical; they are all different; each is unique to that individual.

  The originals cannot be purchased but must be earned and are awarded to the bearer freely by the United States of America. For this reason Master Sergeant Robert Edward Scarburg, Sr. would risk his own life to retrieve those seemingly ‘valueless’ pieces of metal.

  Worthless? Valueless? To whom, what price can be placed on a friend’s memory. Finding those metal tags fulfills an obligation that Sarge owed to his team – the same sense of duty he knew would be accorded him if the situations were reversed.

  He had, now in his hands, one of each of his friend’s two identification tags; one he left with the body, or what was left of the body, for someone later to identify and perform their proper burial rites. The other tag he hoped to able to return to Graves Registration.

  On the tags were the religious denomination of the deceased; thereby, allowing the proper ministers, rabbis, priests, or whomever to perform the appropriate type of burial services.

  Meanwhile, back at the river the approaching noise was getting closer and louder. Little ‘S’, Spook and Tinker were becoming very apprehensive. They had the M2HB .50 cal mounted on its tripod and a belt of ammo was loaded and ready to fire. But they wanted professional help, “POP! POP!” yelled Little ‘S’ as loud as he could. “Get back down here we’re going to need help, and pretty soon!!” They knew Sarge was as professional as it gets. He was the epitome of the sayings, ‘When the going gets tough the tough gets going!

  Sarge dropped the dog tag into one of his lower fatigue pocket, along with the others, and carefully watching for any little stick protruding out of the ground, managed to get off the berm without killing himself too.

  * * * * *

  Hearing their poignant call for help from the river, Sarge though, ‘what in the hell would they do without me?” He arrived at the .50 cal just as he saw two boats nosing their bows around the bend in the river about, maybe, a klick and a half (not quite a mile) out.

  “Yep, I knew I’d heard that sound before," he excitedly blurted out, “American Patrol Boat, River (PBR); those are dual 220 horsepower ‘Detroit Diesels’ we hear purring. The ‘brown water’ Navy (U.S. Navy craft that patrol rivers) has arrived!”

  Sarge further described the PBR’s: “those suckers have two M2HB .50 cals mounted on the bow, one also on the stern, a couple of 7.62mm M-60s Pigs (
.308 machine guns) on the sides and the ‘piece de resistance ‘ is a 40mm cannon on the forward portion of the bow.

  Spook added his two cents, ‘le morceau de resistance.’ huh Sarge?” Sarge just looked at him bewildered. Spook translated: “That is the most important part of the whole”

  I don’t know what in the hell your talking about Spook but if you mean that 40 mm is the baddest of the bad, I’ll agree!”

  Sarge smiling retorted, “Mark IIs, 32 footers. Now we’ll get out of here.”

  Turning to ‘Tinker” he asked, “Please look inside that generator house, just inside the sliding door to the left, I think I remember seeing a pair of binoculars.”

  Tinker without comment, hurried to the building, opened the large metal door and yelled back at Sarge, “Found’em, be there in a minute!”

  Quickly Tinker’ handed over the large pair of binoculars to Sarge. He just as quickly had them up to his eyes and was peering intently up the river at the oncoming two boats. "No, this is not right!" he said. The others turned their attention from the boats upriver and focused their gaze on Sarge and his binoculars.

  “What is it Pop?” Little ‘S’ inquired. “They are our boats, right?”

  “Yeah they are but…hummm, something’s not right,” Sarge said again. “I can see at least 5 men on the front boat but their uniforms don’t seem to be right, can’t quite make out the boat in back, and I don’t see an American flag flying from the sterns of either craft!”

  “What are you getting at Big ‘S’,” asked, Spook. “You think they are not American?”

  The boats were fast approaching, now only one klick upstream, “Damn...! Damn it to hell! I can see’em plain now, up on the bridge house, I can see…”

  “What Pop? What...? What do you see?” Little ‘S’ said excitedly.

  * * * * *

  “A Blue Beret!! I see a Blue Beret!! It’s your 'Thumper' Son! Hell he must have more lives that a cat”, Sarge muttered!

  “Pop, those ARE American PBRs aren’t they?” he asked.

  “Damn right! They must have captured them down in the tidewaters of the Big Muddy (Mekong River) and brought them back up river to use patrolling these backcountry areas. This river is just a tributary of the Big Muddy. Since those PBRs only pull a draft of a couple of feet with their jet drives they can go almost anywhere in these weed-choked mud holes they call rivers. The PBRs are perfect for that! Get Big Mama (the .50 cal) ready this ain’t going to be no sociable visit.”

  “Pop, how many do you estimate are on the two boats?” asked Little ‘S’.

  “Not including that ass hole Russki Special Forces Colonel, I’d say about ten. I’d put about five on each boat, making the odds 11 to 3. Close to even odds I would think!”

  Tinker listening to Sarge talk, thought to herself, ‘Even...! Even...! My life is in his hands and he can’t even count…! I’ll do the damn counting – it is 11 to 3. Even if you count me it is 11 to 4. I’ve got to speak up…! We can’t stay here and fight, I vote we run, and I mean run FAST in the opposite direction!’

  Sarge looking at “Tinker’ and probably realizing (the glazed over eyes gave her away) that she was terrified of the impending battle. He moved over close, put his arm around her shoulder, and trying to calm her by quietly saying, “Tinker’, I was in an exact situation like this a few years back. A force attacked me about as large as this one. I was alone but fought and fought hard until exhausted and finally ran out of ammo and being surrounded I, in desperation, threw my knife at them, and then I threw my empty pistol too!”

  “What happened?” ‘Tinker asked breathlessly.

  “Oh, they killed me!” Sarge said with a straight face.

  Tinker stood there for a second then she, Little ‘S’ and Spook started laughing. Exactly the result Sarge was trying to achieve – the tension was broken, now they could get on with the real stuff - the fightin'.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SWIM IN RIVER

  Now that Tinker could think straight again Sarge said to her, “Tinker do you believe you could run back up to the yard in front of the house and police up (pick up) any M-16 magazines that looks like this one (showing her one of his). Only in the yard, don’t go near the berm, it is too dangerous. I believe we're going to need them.”

  Tinker left scurrying up the slope toward the house as a flash was seen coming from the lead boat. The PBRs were no more than half a mile away and had fired the 40 mm bow cannon. A second or so later the report of the firing came screaming across the swift river waters. Their aim was high; the round flew over their heads and smashed explosively against some trees in the swamp to their rear. Flash…! Here comes another shell lower still, barely missing the powerhouse. Sarge yelled to Tinker, “Forget the magazines. Get your behind back down here now!”

  Sarge jumped down behind the Ma Deuce and hollered, “Lets let'em have it! They are well within range of this ol’ gal….” he pulled the trigger and let loose a few .50 caliber rounds until he began seeing the red tracers. Once he had a string of red tracers strung out like a ribbon of red he ‘walked’ the rounds into the bow of the first boat silencing that fearsome death breathing 40 mm hunk of steel - for the time being.

  From the cannon on the bow, Sarge moved his tracers up to the bridge where he had last seen the Colonel. He raked the bridge a couple of times with .50 caliber FMJ (full metal jacket) rounds causing the lead PBR to run aground on the far bank of the river. Once the lead PBR was out of action the trailing PBR came along side and began rescuing survivors from boat number one.

  * * * * *

  Simultaneously the bow cannon began belching out fire again but this time it came from the second boat. Another flash was seen before Sarge could swing his weapon around – he was obsessed with the Colonel on the bridge – this latest cannon shot missed high also. High and to their left striking the ‘house’ just to the right of one of the second floor windows.

  Sarge, as if he were reliving their recent firefight in the swamp yelled, not “Down” this time but “River!!!" He had not finished saying the word ‘River’ before he had physically grabbed Tinker, and threw her boldly into the water.

  Tinker yelled, “What the...”, as her head dropped below the swift river water.

  Little ‘S’ and Spook long ago knew when Sarge yelled with that tone, you don’t question why - you move, and you move fast – they followed Tinker into the drink – Sarge knew what was coming!

  What was coming was the end of the world! Armageddon!!

  Sarge did not know how many 1-1/4 lb sticks of C4 Little ‘S’ placed around the inside of the lab, but he knew it was enough to obliterate the ‘house’ and all its equipment. When you are within 50 meters of something that’s going to resemble a small nuclear blast Sarge knew a hole would probably be the only place that you could be in to survive – there was no hole close by – only the river.

  That’s where they all were hiding, standing waist deep in water, hunkered down behind the river bank when the Apocalypse occurred. The first preview of the coming attraction was the flash – the trees, the steel metal building even the overcast sky turned white…next came the screaming wind, well above hurricane speed… Sarge had already placed both hands over his ears, fortunately the others saw him and had followed suit - just as the deafening noise roared over their heads…it was unbelievable how loud the explosion was.

  Sarge had seen and heard larger explosions but not from such a close distance – it was incredible! The shock wave literally bent the trees over in a direction away from the blast. But if they thought the worst was over – wrong...it was just starting.

  After the humongous blast the debris began flying from the explosion toward the river; they had the feeling of being caught in a maelstrom of a tornado. The metal powerhouse was instantly demolished and the sheet iron siding and roofing were blown into the swollen river. Even the huge generator took a swim; fortunately the four of them were a little up stream and not in the direct path
of this steel giant’s watery grave.

  Next came the wood, shards of glass and bits of metal from the Edisons and other devices, and oh...! The nails – thousands of nails were falling into the river churning up the water so fiercely it gave the appearance of a monster of a hailstorm.

  Little ‘S’, Spook and Tinker had their heads pressed hard against the cool wet mud of the Cambodian river bank each praying in their own way and thanking God for Sarge.

  Speaking of Sarge, he was standing – yes standing, watching the maelstrom taking place all around and rather than hide he was standing literally admiring the violent but mesmerizing Hiroshima type event that was occurring.

  “Hell!” He said, “You don’t get to witness something like this everyday!”

  “Damn right!! Anybody in their right mind wouldn't want too either... get your head the hell down Pop! Do you want to get killed?” But Sarge could not have heard Little ‘S’ even if he had wanted to.

  The tremendous noise of the explosion along with the tearing, ripping and shredding of everything within two hundred meters of the ‘house’ was causing such a roar that no utterance by anyone but God Almighty could have been heard.

  In a minute or two (what seemed like an hour) the debris stopped raining down from the sky, the noise abated and Sarge got out of the river and back upon the soil and green grass of the river bank.

  The three others would not bulge – their faces were glued to the side of that muddy bank. No sirree sir! They’re still alive, and if keeping their faces pushed against that stinky, slimy riverbank means safety, then that’s where they wanted to be.

  “Come on guys, get the hell out of that pond. We’ve got things to do and places to go!” Sarge yelled over the edge of the riverbank. Sheepishly, one by one they emerged with shit eating grins on their faces. Ashamed now that they cowered underneath the edge of the riverbank they were wet, shivering and shaking like rats on a sinking ship.