Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  Top gave them an hour to get everything squared away. Each of them loaded their ten magazines with ammo - placing five into pouches on the web gear belt and the rest back into the green cotton bandolier which hung from the shoulder. After packing and inspecting their weapons, the Cherries moved to the portable water tank (water buffalo) to fill canteens. The water was still cool from the lower night temperatures, but would soon be warm and difficult to drink. Top wished them well and sent them on their way.

  The company clerk escorted the group to the landing pad near Battalion HQ, where three Huey Helicopters waited. Each helicopter had the insignia of the 25th Infantry painted on its nose. Two were completely full of clothing, mail, ammunition, and cases of C-Rations, beer, and ice. The clerk instructed the eight Cherries to load up on the remaining chopper.

  John and Bill teamed up and headed toward their transportation.

  “These are some bad-ass looking guys,” John observed, looking over the crews.

  The two door gunners wore flak jackets and sat on each side of the helicopter. Both were busy checking their M-60 Machine Guns mounted on a swivel to their front, the barrels pointing down and outward from each side. Opening a can and extracting a belt of ammunition, the gunners placed one end into the loading mechanism and then closed the cover to lock the belt of ammo in place. The belt of three-hundred rounds would allow the gunner to fire controlled bursts for up to three minutes if fired upon by the enemy.

  The entire crew was dressed in olive drab flight suits with dozens of zippered pockets, and olive green flight helmets with black sun shields. The helmets had internal speakers - a small microphone on a flexible metallic arm attached to the side of the helmet for communication. A cord extended from the helmet to a jack in the wall. When plugged in, the crew could communicate with each other through the internal intercom, as well as broadcast over the radio on many available frequencies. Both pilots wore shoulder holsters with 9mm pistols.

  “They look cool as hell,” John commented, taking a seat on the floor just behind the pilot. His legs stuck out of the helicopter and dangled toward the landing skids. Bill took a position in the doorway between John and the door gunner.

  “Yep, sure do!” Bill agreed, looking for a way to hold on tight.

  When the grunts were all aboard, both door gunners leaned out to check the area around the aircraft. Announcing over the intercom that the rotor was clear, a loud whining noise alerted everyone that the turbine engines were starting. The overhead rotor blades began turning slowly, gaining momentum with each rotation. The helicopter started to vibrate and shake wildly as if trying to break away from invisible bonds securing it to the ground.

  It lifted from the ground a few feet, slowly at first, throwing dirt and stones in every direction. When at a height of six feet, the chopper turned 180 degrees, dipped its nose slightly, and then raced forward. The three-helicopter formation climbed into the sky, heading west and away from Cu Chi.

  As the airships gained speed and altitude, the wind rushed in through the open side bay doors, catching the unsuspecting Cherries in a mini-tornado or vortex inside.

  “Hey, Polack, hold on to me!” Bill hollered in a panic above the noise of the engines and wind.

  “Shit, you hold me! My ass is sliding toward the door and I don’t know if I’m being sucked out or blown out.” John yelled, hoping his voice carried over the loud noise level.

  “Come on, Polack, I’m not kidding!” Bill screamed, “I can’t stop myself from sliding out the door.”

  “Use your right hand to hold onto the door gunner seat and then loop your other arm in mine. I’ll use my left arm to push away on the wall next to the door.”

  That seemed to work, stopping their sliding sensation. However, their faces paled and their eyes were wide with terror.

  “Keep doing this; it seems to be working.” John shouted, “Neither of us is leaving this ship until it lands.”

  Once the flight left the populated areas around Cu Chi, the sights below were mostly thick jungle and small villages with surrounding rice paddies. Dirt trails snaked everywhere, extending in many different directions. Suddenly, a large clearing came into view. Bunkers, and barbed wire surrounded an area the size of a football field; artillery guns and mortar pits were visible near the center of the compound. There was movement below, and many individuals were walking about shirtless and gathering near the main gate.

  The sliding sensation finally subsided as the helicopter slowed and dropped altitude. Bill and John puffed their cheeks out and breathed slowly from pursed lips in an effort to catch their breath.

  The flight took twenty minutes. The copter was now preparing to land in an area by the front gate, just outside of Fire Support Base Kien.

  ~~~~~

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As the choppers hovered above the landing zone (LZ), the tremendous back-blast of wind from the horizontal blades sent those items not secured sailing through the air.

  Several soldiers were waiting nearby; each faced in the opposite direction, covering his eyes for protection against the flying debris.

  When the three choppers finally touched down, the rotors continued turning at a high RPM. One of the nearby soldiers ran toward the lead helicopter with the new arrivals, the rest converging upon the other two supply-filled helicopters.

  “Okay, Cherries, it’s safe to get off,” yelled the lone soldier. “Put your shit over there by the first hooch inside of the gate,” he instructed, pointing to a dilapidated square block of boxes and sandbags. “Then give us a hand unloading those two resupply ships,” he added before rushing back to the next bird in line.

  A single long line of soldiers led away from each of the two helicopters; crates and bags moved quickly along the human conveyor belt, passing from one pair of hands to another. After placing their gear near the hooch, the Cherries split up and joined their hosts at the end of each line, which by then extended through the gate twenty feet. In five minutes, both birds were unloaded and the contents stacked into piles almost two-hundred feet away.

  When the two lines of soldiers dissolved and moved away, the RPM on the choppers increased significantly. In turn, each of them lifted a couple of feet from the ground and then launched into the cloudless blue sky. In less than a minute, the windstorm and loud whooping noises were gone.

  Bill and John bumped into one another en route to retrieve their equipment. “Bill, that was tough as hell, I tried everything humanly possible to keep up and not drop anything.”

  “In my line, somebody did drop a box, but the line never stopped and stuff continued coming as if nothing happened. The guy wiped himself off and jumped back in without missing a beat.”

  “I never did anything like that before,” John admitted. “Things were moving so fast that when I turned back around, the guy in front of me was already dropping his package; I caught a lot of them in midair.”

  The other six Cherries rejoined Bill and John near their stored equipment, “I think those other guys are trying to size us up,” one in their group stated.

  They all glanced at the group from the firebase and found them to be watching the Cherries, commenting among themselves. There was pointing, snickering, and some giving each other a high-five.

  There was a distinct difference between the two groups. The Cherries, dressed in brand new fatigues with creases, looked particularly out of place. Their shirt sleeves were neatly rolled up above the elbow; all but the upper most button secured, tops of T-shirts peeking through from underneath. Hair was short, faces cleanly shaven, and the green canvas sides and black leather boots sparkled in the glaring sun.

  The other group, however, was just the opposite and offered the Cherries a preview of how they would soon look. Shaggy-haired and browned from the sun, many were shirtless. Their uniforms were severely wrinkled, bleached by the sun and a thousand laundry washes. Some sleeves were cut off, and all fatigues appeared two sizes larger than needed. None wore belts, their boots were muddy brow
n and yellow, some not even laced.

  Three black soldiers stood out from the firebase crowd; each adorned with jewelry fashioned from black shoelaces. Braided necklaces hung from their necks, with four-inch wide bracelets covering their wrists. One of the soldiers had a braided cross hanging from his necklace. This form of ‘braiding’ was the same taught in arts and crafts at summer youth camps. The square and round versions were always popular when making lanyards or whips with the thin, flat, different colored lengths of vinyl strips. In this case, shoelaces offered a much thicker and larger version. This “jewelry” made a statement, signifying the Black Power movement, and many of the black enlisted men in country wore them.

  Suddenly, two black Cherry soldiers left their group and rushed over to greet the other three. They began a ritual handshake referred to as ‘DAP’; hands moved up and down each other’s arms, shoulders touched, fingers snapped, chests beaten, palms slapped, fists bounced, finally ending in a traditional handshake. The last step in this process was for them to take their free hand and encapsulate the clenched hands. The greeting alone between the five of them lasted two full minutes.

  One Cherry remarked to the others, “Ain’t this a bitch? I bet after all that, they still don’t know each other’s names.”

  The group chuckled and some began to give each other high fives.

  A black soldier, the shortest and possibly the youngest, left his group and approached the Cherries. He was lighter skinned than the rest, and he flashed deep dimples when he smiled – a distraction from his curiously missing earlobes. He walked with a slight limp, trying to support his weight on the stronger left leg.

  “Are any of you Cherries from Detroit?” He asked, looking over the group.

  John said excitedly, “Yeah, I am,” and raised his right hand in acknowledgement.

  “Where in Detroit are you from, Chuck?” He asked.

  John stopped in his tracks, scrunching his face in disgust. He shook his head from side to side and replied, “First of all, my name’s not Chuck. You can call me either ‘John’ or by my nickname, ‘Polack.’ It’s your choice. And yes, I’m from Detroit and live in the Harper-Van Dyke area.”

  The short black man began to laugh, briefly grabbed his crotch, and then turned to smirk at his friends. “Don’t you know that over here in the Nam all you pretty white boys are called ‘Chuck’?” he asked in a singsong manner. “You’ve been born again and should start getting used to your new name.”

  “Aw, fuck off!” John responded. “I don’t believe in all that extreme Black Power shit. Some of you people think you own the fucking world. I’ve got lots of black friends back home and none give me any shit like you’re trying to do.”

  John backed up a few paces, so he could see both the smaller soldier and the four other black soldiers nearby. He did not want any trouble, but if something were to start, he would be ready. Looking the short soldier straight in the eye, John said, “Why don’t you just go back to your ‘bloods’ and practice up on your DAP? You may be good at it someday! Or better yet, maybe I could teach you.”

  Immediately, the black soldiers in the other group started to howl and laugh. They gave each other high-fives and began swaying, leaning into each other, as if they were all going to fall over. Then their catcalls began.

  “Hoowee, I know I heard that.”

  “Damn, blood, I guess he told you.”

  “Look here, we have us a white brother in the group.”

  The smaller soldier frowned and lowered his shaking head, not even sure that he heard John correctly; nevertheless, he had been embarrassed in front of his peers.

  “Hey, brother man, all white boys from Detroit like you?” One of the black soldiers with a small pick sticking out from his Afro hairstyle asked.

  “I don’t exactly know what you mean, but in my neighborhood in Detroit, we all try to get along with each other. Besides, aren’t all of us here on the same side?”

  “Yeah, man, don’t sweat it. It don’t mean nothin' . . . we jus’ fuckin’ with ya.”

  The short soldier raised his head and looked to John. “That was a good one, man; I didn’t expect a comeback from you. What platoon are you in?”

  “I’m in the First Platoon.”

  “Cool. Good for you!” He said and walked over to rejoin his group.

  After a few minutes, the veteran group merged with the Cherries, questioning them about news updates, hometowns, platoon assignments, football teams, and that ‘free love’ they heard so much about from back home. The chatter gained momentum and became more intense as the one large group split into several smaller discussion groups.

  The soldier who earlier challenged John, approached him slowly. He stood about four inches shorter and leaned into his ear. “Hey man, relax,” he whispered. “My name is Junior Brown. My folks live near Six Mile and Van Dyke, which isn’t too far from where you live, right?”

  Caught off guard, John did not answer him immediately. Instead, he continued to stare at the young man, unsure of what may come next. Suddenly, Junior took him by the arm and gently led him away from the groups to an area behind one of the mobile water tanks (water buffalos).

  “Look here, John, I’m sorry about that ‘Chuck’ shit earlier. I’m really not like the rest of the brothers, but it’s an image thing and something I have to do when not in the bush.”

  “What image?” John asked suspiciously.

  “Well, you know, the brothers have been preaching that we are the minority over here, and we need to stand together to protect ourselves. Ever since the riots in Detroit and Newark a couple of years ago, they say it looks bad for a black man to be friendly with a white guy.” Junior shuffled his feet and shoved his hands into his pants pockets. Both glanced over to the mixed groups to see everyone talking to each other and being very cordial.

  “That’s a bunch of shit, Junior! If that were true, then why are you here talking to me, and why are the other brothers now acting friendly with everyone else over there?”

  “It’s a family thing.” Junior began. “See, as it turns out, all of us are in Alpha Company. This firebase supports the entire battalion; guys are here from every company, and families got to stay together.”

  “Aren’t we all one big happy family here?”

  “Yeah, in a way we really are. Consider your fellow platoon members as brothers, and then those from other platoons are your cousins. As a company, we’re one happy family. The other companies are like neighbors; you’ll help them out and all, but you don’t really want to get into their business. We watch over our own, regardless of color, both in the bush and here on the firebase. We have to depend on one another and watch each other’s back. We can’t let an issue like race fuck that up. By the way, I‘m also from the First Platoon.”

  “So you’re telling me that we’re brothers now?”

  “Yeah, isn’t it a bitch? But I will tell you, my brother, that you blew me away when you mentioned where you lived. In my four months in the Nam, every time I met someone who said they were from Detroit, they actually lived in Battle Creek, Port Huron, or Flint. When I heard you say that you were from Detroit, I thought, oh no, here we go again. Then when it finally hit me that we really were almost neighbors, it shook me up.”

  “We’re actually three miles apart from each other, but even so, I’ve never met anyone in the service that lived so close to me.”

  “Why don’t you go and get your gear and I’ll show you around and help you to get squared away? Then we can rap a little about home.”

  “Okay, but give me a few minutes first. I want to talk to my friend and let him know what’s going on. He’s in the Third Platoon, so I guess he’s our cousin.”

  Both laughed.

  John walked over to where Bill and the others were listening to one of the “brothers” speak. When he was within earshot, Bill turned and acknowledged him.

  “Damn, Polack, I thought you and that colored guy were going to mix it up.” Bill drawled, “I d
id keep my eye on you just in case something developed.”

  “Thanks, Bill! For a while, I thought it was gonna come to that, too. As it turns out, he’s not a bad guy, and I learned that he’s almost a neighbor of mine back home. He’s also in the First Platoon and is going to help me get squared away.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Bill said, somewhat surprised. “You do know that you’re the only one out of this bunch not assigned to the Third Platoon? You see this guy here.” Bill nodded his head toward the person talking to the group, “he’s from the Third Platoon too, and told us that half of their men were lost last week.”

  “How did they lose half a platoon?”

  “Morris - that’s the guy’s name - said ten of them finished their tours and went home. Four others were hurt by a booby trap.”

  “Did they get hurt bad?”

  “He said nobody died, but assured us they won’t be back any time soon.”

  “Shit! Booby traps . . . Oh, my god . . .” Both thought back to the final class of in-county training a few days ago.

  “Bill,” John said after regaining his composure, “I better get going. I’ll look you up later if I get the chance.”

  “Take care of yourself, buddy,” Bill said. They clenched hands - not in a conventional handshake, but in the gesture of youthful brotherhood - chest high with palms together and thumbs intertwined. They pulled themselves together and warmly slapped each other on the back.

  John gathered his gear and returned to where Junior waited. Together, they headed for one of the hooches.

  “Hey, you and that other guy seem to be really tight,” Junior said. “Have you known each other very long?”

  “We met on our first day in the service. We went through Basic and AIT together and then met up again in Oakland. His name‘s Bill.”