Bill and John were among the first twenty to board the trucks and fortunate enough to get a seat on one of the two pull-down benches running the length of the truck bed on both sides of the vehicle. The other fifteen had to sit in discomfort on the hard sandbag-covered floor.
The convoy moved out precisely at 1000 hours. Once leaving the security of the 90th Replacement Battalion, a lone helicopter gunship joined the convoy and circled lazily overhead, providing additional security for the parade of five trucks.
They passed endless rice paddies where the Vietnamese people worked painstakingly to harvest their crops in knee-deep water. Young boys rode on top of huge water buffaloes whacking the big brown animals on their rump with a bamboo stick.
Whenever a convoy passed from the opposite direction, everyone raised their arms and flashed peace signs to one another. Every now and again, the passengers saw the front of an Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) poking out from a stand of bushes on the side of the road. Their gunners acknowledged the fellow Americans, waving enthusiastically to the convoy from behind 50-caliber machine guns.
Traveling at speeds in excess of 40 mph, it took no time at all for the convoy to reach Cu Chi – home of the 25th Infantry Division.
~~~~~
CHAPTER FOUR
The Rat Patrol jeeps concluded their mission after leading the convoy deep inside of Cu Chi Base Camp. All 126 Cherries stood in the trucks, trying in vain to rid themselves of the clinging red dust.
Bill laughed when John removed his sunglasses.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have white rings around your eyes.”
“And what, that’s supposed to be funny?”
“Yeah, with all that red shit on your face you look like a fucking raccoon.”
“At least you can see my eyes. Your whole head looks like it was dipped in shit.”
“Go ahead and have your fun,” Bill grumbled. He brushed himself feverishly in an attempt to get all the dust removed from his clothes. “Give me a hand wiping my back, and I’ll brush you off.”
“Okay, just don’t play with my ass when I turn around,” John replied.
“You’re all ass and I won’t be able to avoid it.”
“What - are you a comedian now?”
As they finished brushing each other’s back, loud voices on the side of the trucks were barking commands to the group.
“All right, Cherries, un-ass my trucks right now!”
“Come on, come on, move it!”
“I mean now! Let’s go, everyone!”
“I want four ranks starting right here,” bellowed an impatient Puerto Rican sergeant. He stood forty feet away and drew a long line across the ground with a large stick. “Let’s go! Get on the line, I don’t have all day!” He barked.
The Cherries leapt from the trucks and moved quickly to form four ranks, unsure if punishment was forthcoming for not being on line fast enough.
“What the fuck, are we in basic training again?” John mumbled to Bill.
“I hope not. We’re supposed to be all done with that. This is Vietnam, isn’t it?”
The sergeant paraded back and forth in front of the formation. He wore a black baseball cap with the word 'Cadre' stenciled on the front in large white letters. It was impossible to see the look in his eyes, as mirrored aviator sunglasses covered them. His beer belly looked unnatural for a man with a thirty-four inch waist and it bounced with every step he took.
“Listen up, Cherries!” He shouted in an attempt to get the ranks to settle down. “You are here for a mandatory week-long course of in-country training. During this time, we will review your past training and teach you all about your enemy. Our first class will begin in fifteen minutes. When I give the word, grab your gear and store it in the hooches behind me, then return to the exact spot you are standing in right now.
“You’ll all have plenty of time later to unpack and get squared away. You have ten minutes, starting now. Move out!”
The ranks collapsed as men rushed to find their duffel bags in the large pile. Once in hand they raced to the various hooches. Bill and John could not find two adjacent cots in either of the first two hooches, but were successful in the third one. They threw the gear on top and moved back outside.
“What do you ‘spose this is gonna be like?” Bill asked.
“Most likely a lot of classroom training, just like we did in Basic.”
“Hell, I thought there’s a war going on here. Why are we going to sit around in classrooms?” Bill complained.
“You heard the guy. He said that we were going to learn all about the enemy.”
“What more do we have to learn? A little guy out there has a gun and wants to kill me. I have to kill him first – it’s that simple. We don’t need to learn anything more.”
The Puerto Rican sergeant led the formation to a large shaded area not too far from the hooches. This was the first classroom of the day.
“Have a seat on the ground, gentlemen. If you have any smokes, feel free to light up.”
He stood in front of the group, next to a large six-foot wide green chalkboard mounted between two trees. "Sgt. Ramone,” printed in large, white chalky letters across the top, let everybody know who he was.
“Don’t be afraid to sit on the ground,” he stated after observing the reluctance of some to do so. “You’ll be mighty lucky if this is the dirtiest you get in this country. You ground pounders (infantry) will be living on the ground. So get used to it now while there’s no pressure on you.”
He waited for the entire group to take a seat before continuing, “This area is where you will come for most of the classes during this course. My name is Sergeant Ramone,” he enunciated both syllables and then used the stick to point out his name on the board.
“I will be one of your instructors during this next week. Today, we will review military maneuvers, different attack and defensive formations, the military alphabet, coding, map reading, and the proper use of the PRC-25 field radio. Are there any questions before we begin?”
No hands went up.
“Good, let’s get started.”
Later that day, John and Bill unpacked their belongings in the single-story screened building.
“Those classes we just finished were not all that bad,” John admitted.
“Now I beg to differ with you. It was boring as hell to go over all that shit again. We’ve had enough of it shoved down our throats in the last six months.”
“It may be boring, but look at it this way. It’s one less day that we’ll have to spend in the field.”
Bill thought about that statement for a second, and then replied, “I guess you’re right.”
John looked at his watch, surprised. “Damn, it’s already 10:30. We better get some sleep. I have a feeling it’s going to be another long day tomorrow.”
Both flopped down on the hard, olive-colored canvas cots and quickly fell asleep.
The following morning, everyone drew out an M-16 rifle from the armory before heading out for the first class of the day.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” the instructor began, after everyone was seated in the outdoor classroom. “We will spend the morning taking these weapons apart, cleaning them, and then putting them back together again.”
Moans and objections echoed from the crowd.
“Aw, fuck!”
“We did all this shit hundreds of times already.”
“What a fucking waste!”
The instructor, having heard enough, got everyone’s undivided attention when he struck the chalkboard with a stick; it sounded like the sharp crack of a rifle.
“Knock off the bullshit!” He ordered. “This part of the class is so important that it may very well save your lives!” He pushed both hands into his pants pockets and walked among the group. “It’s true that you’ve done this a hundred times already, but how many of you can do it blindfolded? Do you know that most attacks and firefights occur in the dead of the night? It is p
itch black and you cannot see your hand in front of your face. Now just suppose your weapon fails during one of these firefights, and the VC are rushing over the wire to kill you. Are you able to take your M16 apart and fix it in the dark, so you can protect yourself?”
He hesitated for a few seconds and then continued, “Before this class is over today, each of you will learn to do just that. The circumstances will be different - it won’t be dark and enemy soldiers will not be trying to kill you, but you will successfully demonstrate this ability while blindfolded.”
Again, protests and moaning sounded from the group.
“This is bullshit!”
“Fuck this shit! I’m a cook and probably won’t handle a rifle the whole time I’m here.”
The infantry guys took the advice to heart and began to disassemble and assemble their weapons. Each time, they were more proficient and confident. There was no need for blindfolds; they were all able to demonstrate this task with their eyes closed.
After lunch, the group returned to the classroom with weapons in hand.
“I sure feel more confident being here with a rifle now,” Bill said.
“I know what you mean! We’ve been in-country almost a week and this is the first time I’ve actually held one in my hands.”
“Isn’t that odd, too, with everything we’ve heard about Vietnam during our training in the states?”
“You’re right, Bill. I was expecting to get shot at or at least mortared when we walked off that plane.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Now, if you think about the replacement center and now this place - aside from the convoys - I haven’t seen anyone carrying a weapon or heard shots fired since our arrival.”
“I don’t know what to think. Maybe all that shit in training was just a bunch of brainwashing.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Bill responded. “This is, supposedly, a secure rear area, and maybe they already killed all the enemy soldiers around here. I heard some of the guys talking earlier about firebases out in the boonies. That’s where the real shit hits the fan.”
“I wish we could just stay here,” John said sincerely.
“Me too, old buddy.”
The class spent the afternoon on the firing range, where each soldier could test-fire his weapon. They hit many of the targets; bits and pieces of cardboard sailed through the air and fell onto the already littered ground. Puffs of dirt rose into the air around each target, as the bullets burrowed deep into the dry, hard earth.
After each person had fired thirty rounds, they gathered and began walking back to the outdoor training classroom.
Sgt. Ramone was waiting there for everyone to complete the short walk back from the firing range. “Gentlemen, everybody enjoy target practice?”
“Yeah, it was great!”
“It’s about time!”
“Good, I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves. We're all done for the day, except for the cleaning of these weapons.” The men groaned one more time. “Nobody leaves for chow until each piece of equipment is spotless and returned to the armory. I will look them over later this evening and God help the poor slob who did not do a good enough job. After chow, you are on your own until the morning formation. Have a good evening!” Sergeant Ramone left the Cherries and headed toward the mess hall.
“Well, so much for our sense of security!” John spat.
“I know the feeling.”
The following morning, the class returned to the firing range, where they found various weapons displayed, both on a table and at different intervals across the range firing positions. Five additional Cadres were also present to help with this class.
Sgt. Ramone split the men into five groups so each person would have an opportunity to fire many of them. The arsenal consisted of M-79 grenade launchers, 50 caliber, and M-60 machine guns, one sniper rifle with attached scope, smoke grenades and a 60mm mortar tube and base plate. The Cadre put on a mortar demonstration and fired three rounds: white phosphorus, a night flare, and high explosive, for those soldiers seeing them for the first time. One lucky person in each group would also have an opportunity to fire the LAW, a two-piece plastic disposable rocket launcher. When opened fully, it measured thirty inches long and looked similar to a shortened World War II bazooka.
After lunch, work details picked up spent brass shell casings from the ground, rebuilt the destroyed practice bunker, and cleaned the arsenal of fired weapons.
It was late in the evening when the last detail returned to the barracks.
On the fourth morning, John and Bill walked to the range with the rest of the class.
“What do you think they have in store for us today?” Bill asked.
“I don’t have a clue, but it does seem odd that we’re going without weapons.”
“It sure does,” Bill agreed.
Upon their arrival, the Cherries took a seat on the ground; this was now an automatic reflex and nobody hesitated or complained.
A large, black staff sergeant, who could pass for a professional football player, was their instructor for the day. He was holding a short rifle in one hand; wood covered most of the barrel and stock. A half circle, twelve-inch long black magazine protruded from the housing, an inch in front of the trigger guard. Perhaps it was possible for the shooter to hold on to the magazine and fire it like the Tommy Guns of old. Under the barrel, a pointed, two-foot long, finger-thick piece of silver metal lies horizontally, secured to the weapon by a hinge.
“What kind of gun do you suppose that is?” Bill asked and motioned toward the instructor with his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like it before. Maybe it’s a VC gun or something new we have to learn how to fire.”
Bill simply shrugged, “Makes sense to me.”
The 6 foot, 8 inch, and 260 pound instructor removed his black cap with his free hand, using the sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Moisture on his freshly shaven head glistened in the sunlight. After returning his cap, he smiled brightly to the class, exposing a gold cap on one front tooth.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I am Staff Sergeant Jones, and now let me introduce you to the Russian-made AK-47 Assault Rifle. This little beauty is the primary weapon of your enemy.”
He held the rifle high in the air for all to see.
“At times, it is more accurate, deadly, and dependable than your M-16. This banana clip holds thirty rounds instead of the twenty in our magazines,” he said, ejecting the magazine and holding it high in the air.
“You should also note that the enemy’s bullets are larger.” The instructor set the rifle on a table and then pushed out one of the rounds from the magazine. After placing the magazine on the table next to the weapon, he reached into a pants pocket and withdrew an M-16 bullet. With a bullet in each hand, he lifted them both high into the air so the audience could see the difference.
“This 7.62mm round is identical to those we use in our M-60 machine gun. It is larger and has a lot of power, definitely doing some damage when hit. As you can see, the M-16 rounds are smaller, but their design allows them to tumble when hitting something. So a hit to the stomach may exit from the hip or upper back, tearing up everything in between.”
He placed the two rounds in a pocket and picked up the rifle from the table. “And this is the bayonet,” he continued, grabbing the silver steel appendage and unfolding it until it clicked and locked in a fully extended position.
“It is permanently fixed to the rifle and folds down when not in use. If Charlie sticks you with this, you’ll be in a world of hurt.”
He replaced the weapon on the table, then looked up to scan the many faces in the class; most showed concern.
“During the last six months of training, each of you has become accustomed to the sound of your own rifles. Today, I will fire this rifle and some other enemy weapons to demonstrate the distinct sound each one makes. It is very important that you recognize these different sounds because not all rifles are the same. The war in Vietnam is a guerri
lla war, where you will hear the enemy more than see him. When ambushed in the dense jungle, with a weapon firing next to you, the sound of the weapon will determine immediately if it is a friend or foe. Your very lives - and the lives of your fellow soldiers - depend on you knowing the difference.
“I’m quite certain all of you were always on the sending end of a bullet since joining the military. How many of you know that every weapon makes a different sound when the bullet is flying toward you or overhead?”
The class shifted about nervously, nobody daring to raise their hand in acknowledgement to his question.
“Is this fucker going to shoot at us?” Bill whispered.
“Would it surprise you?”
The sergeant continued, “Before this day is over, I will guarantee that each of you will be able to distinguish between the pop of this AK-47 and the sharp crack of your own M-16. So, let’s get started.” He reinserted the magazine and chambered a round in the Russian weapon. “Listen closely!” He fired ten single shots downrange, spaced about three seconds apart, and then switched to automatic, emptying the magazine in two short bursts. “Gentlemen, what you just heard were the sounds of your enemy’s weapon when firing away from you. Now you get an opportunity to hear the same weapon when the firing is directed toward you.”
He moved the class up range, half way to the targets, and then returned to the firing line. The Cherries were sitting on the ground, facing the targets. Some panicked after the sergeant fired a short burst over their heads. They jumped to their feet and bolted toward the firing line, like fullbacks running all out to score a touchdown. Yet others crawled toward a nearby dried stream bed and lay prone in the depression.
Upon seeing this, the staff sergeant roared with laughter.
“Damn, you Cherries never cease to amaze me! Listen up!”
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 5