Who Shot the Water Buffalo?
Page 29
“And now, Marines, a song from when we were allies working together to defeat the Japanese.”
The Hammer noses over and the first division heads in. Pistol-packing mama lay that pistol down. Pappy is dropping fast and I autorotate like a rock to stay in position. She kicked out my windshield and hit me over the head. “Hot hot hot,” someone yells over the air. “Taking hits,” another calls. “Get in and out quick.” “Shit, that’s a machine gun.” Off to the side a T-28 noses in and cartwheels across the ground in a fireball. She cussed and cried and said I lied and wished that I was dead.
I pull up collective, squeeze on turns and flare for landing. “Stay with me, Mike,” I say over the intercom.
We touch down and I look out the window. The ARVNs pile out and hit the deck, one kneels, sets his rifle butt on the ground and points his rifle grenade in the air, “No, wait till we’re clear,” I yell, but he can’t hear me. He fires and the grenade shoots up into the rotor blades, there’s a clunk and explosion, metal bangs against the side of the chopper and we start vibrating like crazy, we’re a rooting tooting shooting trio, I pull collective to lift and the cockpit explodes, a round tears through my shoulder slamming me into the seat, I lose my grip on the controls, but Cochran, riding them with me, keeps us going, not lifting but driving straight ahead, wheels never leaving the ground, we’re a terror make no error, the chopper bucks and pitches, more hits coming, blood sprays over me, Cochran’s flight suit and flak vest are ripped to shreds, flesh torn and bone mangled, but he bores ahead into the machine gun emplacement, crushes the VC gunners and silences the machine gun as we crash to a stop, blades flapping crazily, explosions all around us, down Texas way they don’t like the way we play, the sound of choppers circling overhead, M-60s rake the tree line, someone appears at the cockpit window and yanks my shoulder straps loose, pistol-packing mama lay that pistol down.
“I’ve got you Lieutenant.”
Soonto pulls me out the door, a helicopter thunks down behind us, Soonto drags me to the waiting chopper and throws me in, the crew chief pulls me over to the bulkhead. I hear a voice, “Here’s your buddy.” Another form is lifted in and thrown down next to me.
“That’s it,” Soonto yells, and, with the engine screaming, we rise out of the zone.
“Hang in there, Lieutenant.”
Soonto jams a wad of cloth against my shoulder and wraps me round and round with a dressing like a trussed turkey its feathers due for a plucking and what about old Barney the Buffalo watering away in the zone is he stew for the pot or will rice pudding be on the menu no dogs anything but the dogs this whole fucking outfit has gone to the dogs the doggies have no sense and Daddy smacks me with a sack full of pennies to knock some sense in my head I’m sorry Daddy but it’s the Marines for me and four generations of Huckelbee Army alligators tear at my bootheels I’m running for all I’m worth with a full eagle ball and anchor pack heavy enough to make a man fall over with thirst ah, that’s good, slurp it to me “Come on, Lieutenant, don’t fade on me now, we’re almost there.” I’m running down paths where faces are faded photographs of Huckelbees in New Guinea jungle fatigues and World War One helmets and Rough Rider Sam Browne belts and gray rebel uniforms, pictures that I carry out of the muck free of the misery but never free of the pain owwwwwwlllll don’t do that … Soonto drags me off the metal deck of the chopper and onto a canvas stretcher.
“Slow down, we’re bouncing him around,” someone says.
I squint and make out shapes. “Soonto,” I whisper. He bends down. “Hold up my head.”
I’m being carried across steel matting, behind me there’s another stretcher, a big body sprawled on top. Behind him walk men swathed in bandages and off to the side, watching us go past, the crew chiefs, and then, closer, faces looking down at me. The Hammer, “Good work, Huckelbee.” Pappy, “You got as much sense as a sow that won’t nurse her young but you did good this time, son.” Captain Beamus, “All squared away now, Lieutenant.” Emmett, “Filled an inside straight, amigo.” Wee Willie, “Next round’s on me, jarhead.” Baptist John, “Hell from beneath is moved, a lion is in the streets.” Dum-Dum, “Yah gave ’em dah Bronx cheer, spiking dat rat-a-tat-tat gun.” Each face in focus, then a red haze covers my eyes and I drop my head, oh madre mía I wouldn’t wish this on anybody, rich or poor, Private or General, President or slave. I’m carried into a black cave where it’s too dark to see anything. I hear the sound of voices, coming from a long distance.
“You’re in the C-123 … we’ll be at the hospital in Nha Trang before you know it … destruction of the machine gun allowed the squadron to haul in more troops … ARVNs cleared the zone and set up positions … waited for the VC who never showed up … mission a victim of bad intell … on the plus side no civilian casualties … no one knows who shot the water buffalo” … no one’s saying anything about Cochran, Doc … where’s Cochran? … is that him on the other stretcher … fill me in, I’m going under … did he make it or not … “He’s fading, they both need blood, can’t the pilot squeeze any more speed out of this crate?” … like trying to talk to a rock … what’s a poor man to do but lie here like an old brokedown horse that wandered out in the sagebrush and fell down and can’t get up again all’s he can do is lie on his side and stare unblinking through one encrusted eye into the sky as far back into the workings of time as he can manage and wonder at the wonder and, if he can, wonder what the fuck happened …
AFTERWORD
After a thirteen month tour in Vietnam, with everyone back in the states, HMM-188 was broken up and reformed with new personnel. The pilots and men from the old squadron were scattered across the Marine Corps and civilian world.
COMMANDING OFFICER: COLONEL ARTHUR “THE HAMMER” RAPPLER
His next assignment was the Planning and Development School at Quantico, Virginia, where he passed on the helicopter tactical knowledge he picked up in Vietnam. After that he retired.
EXECUTIVE OFFICER: MAJOR BERT “PAPPY” LURNT
Pappy retired after his Vietnam tour to his ramshackle home in the Arkansas Ozarks where he sat on the porch in his hickory rocker, smoking his corncob pipe, sipping white lightning and regaling his numerous kin and friends with tall tales gleaned from his travels in exotic lands.
ADMINISTRATION OFFICER: CAPTAIN MILES “STANDISH” BRIGGS
Captain Briggs put his admin skills to good use in the civilian world as head of the personnel department of a large nuts and bolts factory.
OPERATIONS OFFICER: CAPTAIN RALPH “RAJAH” BEAMUS
The Rajah made it all the way to Lieutenant Colonel before his age and 30 years of service caught up with him and, after his last stint as the ops officer of the Third Marine Air Wing, he retired and opened a military-style camp for boys in the Catskills.
SUPPLY OFFICER: CAPTAIN SAMUEL “SQUINTS” BIGELOW
Captain Bigelow, after leaving the Marine Corps, went to work for Sikorsky Aircraft, a honcho in their procurement department.
SAFETY OFFICER: CAPTAIN ED “RAMSHACKLE” POMFREY
Captain Pomfrey put in his twenty in the Corps and retired to his hometown in Pennsylvania, where he raises Beagle hounds.
LIEUTENANT WILLIAM “WEE WILLIE” WEEMS
After Vietnam, Wee Willie was assigned to the Training Command in Pensacola, Florida, where he was a T-28 instructor. Afterwards he resigned his commission and became a crop duster.
LIEUTENANT TED “TOO TALL” TOLLIVER
Too Tall Tolliver got out of the Marine Corps, went back to teaching high school, but later rejoined the Marine Corps and lasted the full twenty before retiring, then became a marriage counselor and mediator.
WARRANT OFFICER CHUCK “COOL BEANS” HASTINGS
Warrant Officer Hastings retired from the Corps after the Vietnam deployment and lived in Cherry Hill, North Carolina, close to old friends from his service days.
LIEUTENANT BASIL “HERBEE” JENKINS
Herbee Jenkins did three tours flying helicopters in Vietnam, lat
er transitioning into the CH-47 Chinook, the large twin-rotored workhorse, then flew fire-retardant bombers for the Forest Service when he got out.
LIEUTENANT STEPHEN “BAPTIST JOHN” MERKLE
Baptist John couldn’t resist the call and left the Marine Corps to become a fire-and-brimstone revivalist preacher, traveling all over the southeastern United States, mangling the scriptures so badly he got a huge reputation as a speaker in tongues.
LIEUTENANT DARYL “DUM DUM” DUMBERT
Dum Dum did two tours in Vietnam, got out and became a policeman in Queens, working his way up to detective.
LIEUTENANT CARL “GRITS” EMMETT
Emmett left the Marines, flew for TWA, then went back to Milwaukee and bought a riverboat gambling casino that rakes in beaucoup dough which he uses to finance a halfway house for recovering gambling addicts.
LIEUTENANT BEN “BEN-SAN” BENSON
Ben-San recovered from his burns, which left him badly scarred, and was engaged to marry a law clerk in San Francisco when Yoshika showed up. She quickly figured out what was going on, “Goodbye you,” and hooked up with others in the Japanese community where she found work in a beauty parlor. Ben-San, meanwhile, continued studying law and became a member of the bar.
LIEUTENANT ROB “PANDA BEAR” JACOBS
Rob Jacobs is one of the earliest names on the Wall. An empty casket was buried in the family plot in Iowa.
LIEUTENANT TOM “TOMAS” HUCKELBEE
Lieutenant Huckelbee, his shoulder scarred, barely functioning, left the Marines after Vietnam and became an English instructor at the University of Texas in Austin, spending summer vacations prowling the family ranch on the banks of the Rio Grande while working forty years, on and off, writing a novel.
LIEUTENANT MIKE “GORILLA” COCHRAN
It was touch and go. His upper body was a torn-up mess. They lost him a couple of times in the operating room but he fought back. One morning, after his recovery was assured, he pulled a fade and left his hospital bed empty. He has no address or phone number. He never applied for a credit card. He never returned to his hometown. He never touched his social security. Rumors abound. He’s living on the streets, he’s running an orphanage in Laos, he’s following the crops, he’s a diamond trader in Beirut, a smuggler in Marseilles, yak breeder in Mongolia, Bhuddist monk in Nepal, a practitioner of Lapsong Chung …
SERGEANT SOONTO
Soonto put in his twenty, got out, still a buck sergeant, and returned to Samoa, a hero.
SOONTO’S CUR
When the Hammering Eights left Vietnam, the cur stayed behind and was adopted by other Marine Corps chopper squadrons. He ruled the hangar area and the living compound and sired many litters from Dogpatch bitches snuck through the fence. When he died of old age he went out as he came in: lean, aloof, wary of strangers, still aware of the perils of the Vietnamese cooking pot.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to squadron mate Gordon Gunter, without whose help this book wouldn’t exist. I first wrote the novel in 19062 but lost the manuscript and Gordon send me a copy I’d given him Jack Whipple send me a scanner and software that allowed me to scan the book into my computer, save me have to retype the whole book. Another squadron mate, Bob Fritzler, filled in my memory gaps with helicopter workings and flight maneuvers.
Old friend David Stnford tuned me up the first time through the book. My agent, Sterling Lord, pointed me in the right direction when I digressed. Editor Aaron Schlechter was a guiding light with his suggestions and corrections. Thanks also to copy editor Ben Farmer and assistant editor Stephanie Gorton for their assistance.
Many thanks to my wife, Eileen, for her careful readings and for spotting inconsistencies in the manuscript, and for her constant encouragement and support.
Finally, thanks to our daughter, Liz, for her proof reading skills and fluency in Spanish.