When they were gone, the unloading party picked up and began carrying boxes and sacks to different locations around the small clearing.
“Hey, guys follow me,” one of them said as he passed, carrying a case of C-Rations on each shoulder.
He led them through the brush to a spot where a group of ten men sat around, some conversing in a small circle.
“This is the Company Command Platoon (CP),” the stranger informed the Cherries. “Stay right here and somebody will help you in a minute.” He continued to move across the area to deliver the supplies he was carrying.
The captain was in a conference with his four lieutenants. They sat on the ground in a small circle, individual maps laid out in front of them. Two of the lieutenants were drawing symbols and sketching reference lines on their maps with grease pencils as the captain discussed his plan for the next three days - reviewing routes of travel, prospective ambush sites, and potential hot spots. The other soldiers outside of the circle, sat and lay casually on the ground in small groups. Their rucks and attached PRC-25 radios sat beside them; two of the radios had long, twenty-foot tall antennas attached. The radio operators continuously chatted on their handsets, coordinating with the firebase and Battalion HQ in Cu Chi.
When the staff meeting ended, the captain was the first to acknowledge the new group of Cherries.
“Gentlemen,” he said to his officers, “it appears our new replacements have arrived.”
The lieutenants turned and candidly glanced at the group. The captain, a short man appearing to be no older than the Cherries themselves, stepped out of the circle and moved toward them.
Waving to them with his shorter, modified M-16 rifle, he quipped, “Welcome to the war. I’m Captain Fowler.” He stopped, turning toward the four second lieutenants, who were rising slowly from the ground, folding their maps. He motioned to the four officers and turned his head to address the Cherries.
“These men are the officers of Alpha Company,” he began, “Lieutenant Ramsey is from the First Platoon.” A tall, blond-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses acknowledged the group with a smile. “Lieutenant Monroe is from the Second.” A light skinned, black man with the right brim of his boony hat folded up Aussie-style raised his arm in greeting.
“What’s happening, blood?” one of the black Cherries asked, raising a clenched fist in the air.
“At ease, troop!” Lt. Monroe replied, his stare hard and glaring.
The captain, glancing between the two men, wondered how far this would go. Satisfied, he continued, “This is Lieutenant Carlisle from the Third.” He motioned to a slightly overweight and shortest of the four men, who smiled broadly.
“Most of you are assigned to my platoon,” he volunteered cheerfully.
Captain Fowler smiled in acknowledgement. “And finally, we have Lieutenant Quincy from the Fourth Platoon.” The partially bald man and oldest of the four, removed a corncob pipe from his mouth and smiled, exposing a mouthful of crooked, yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.
“We work as a team in the bush,” the captain continued. “Every one of us wants to get out of this alive and return to our families in one piece. So listen to your squad leaders and follow their instructions.
“The company will be leaving in two hours. You men already know your platoon assignments, so join up with your respective officer and they will show you where the rest of your platoon is camped. So let’s get this resupply over with and get out of here.” Captain Fowler was all business and did not give any of them a chance to ask questions.
Seeing Lt. Ramsey gathering up his gear, John quickly left the group of Cherries and moved toward him.
“Excuse me, sir, my name is John Kowalski. It appears I’m the only one going to the First Platoon.”
The L-T picked up his rucksack with the left hand and swung it over his shoulder. He then offered John his right hand. “Glad to meet you, John,” he said, shaking the soldier’s hand warmly. “Did you join this man’s Army or were you drafted like many of us?”
“I was drafted, sir.”
“You can dispense with the formalities out here in the bush. There’s no need to call me “sir”; L-T will be fine.”
“Yes sir, I mean L-T,” John replied.
Lt. Ramsey chuckled.
“Come on and follow me. I’ll show you where our position is.”
John followed Lt. Ramsey as he led him around the outskirts of the clearing to the other side of the LZ. En route, they passed various groups of soldiers lying about in the underbrush. They were writing letters, eating, sleeping, playing cards, or packing their rucks with new supplies. A few of them looked up as the two passed, offering a nod of encouragement. Others made comments from the shadows.
“Welcome to Hell, Cherry.”
“Just look at this! Uncle Sam is robbing the cradle and sending them over right out of grade school.”
“Somebody throw this boy a towel, so he can wipe behind his ears.”
“Fuck him, he probably won’t last the night.”
There was laughter as the men congratulated each other for their ingenuity and quick wit.
“Don’t pay any attention to them,” the L-T offered, “it’s kind of an initiation, and we all go through it.”
The two-man parade continued.
When they reached their destination, only a handful of grunts were sitting in the shade around twice as many rucksacks.
“Just park it right here,” Lt. Ramsey instructed. “You’ll be in Sixpack’s Squad.”
“Where are they now, L-T?”
“They’re on Listening Post (LP) about two-hundred meters out, watching for Charlie in case he tries to surprise us during the resupply. I’ll introduce you to them when they get back in.” The L-T walked away.
John sat on the ground away from the others and waited, leaning against a thick trunk. He scanned the dense vegetation and thought about the woods on Belle Isle back home.
Belle Isle was a small island in the middle of the one-half-mile wide Detroit River, located between the shores of downtown Detroit and Windsor, Ontario, Canada. The island was notorious for many reasons, and was used as a loading point for bootleggers, ferrying alcohol from Canada during Prohibition. One obtained access to the island by crossing over a quarter-mile long bridge from the east shore of Detroit, unless, of course, he had a boat - there were several marinas with docks in which to moor any size watercraft. In 1926, it was from this very same bridge that the famed magician, Harry Houdini, attempted a dangerous water-escape trick. It ultimately resulted in his death – he drowned in the murky waters below.
The residents of Detroit came to the island for relaxation and to escape the heat and stresses of big city living. During a summer weekend, the beaches, picnic areas, athletic fields, zoo, aquarium, and flower gardens overflowed.
As an alternative to visiting the crowded public areas, many people simply cruised the loop around the island, driving slowly to enjoy the cool island air. The panorama of freshly manicured lawns, ornamental flower beds lining the road, and lovers paddling canoes through the many internal canals was enough to tranquilize the senses.
It was common to see families either sitting on blankets at the shoreline or parked in cars on the side of the road. Everyone watched in awe as the large lake freighters and pleasure boats passed in both directions.
For families of modest means - such as John’s – Belle Isle offered the closest thing to a vacation they’d experience, and for many, it was their only frame of reference for the great outdoors.
At night, however, the island took on an entirely different aura. The woods on the island were always dark and mysterious. Sometimes, while driving through the shadowy forest, deer and other forms of wild life suddenly made their presence known to the people venturing into their domain. Vines and bushes surrounded the tall trees, growing wild, reaching up from the ground to choke them. The brush was so thick it was near impossible to enter beyond twenty feet of the road. Insects thrived both in
the island air and on the ground.
Sometimes at night, teenagers would dare each other to make their way through the woods on foot. Tales of murderers, thieves, bums, and the ghost of The Great Houdini lurking around in the eerie shadows, compelled the jittery youths to bolt through the dark abyss.
The foreign sounds of jungle wildlife interrupted John’s reverie. The sight of a weasel-like monkey swinging through the branches above further catapulting the young soldier back to reality. It was difficult to see the bright sun through the thick foliage; the jungle was filled with creeping shadows, making it appear late in the afternoon. John glanced at his watch and was stunned to find it was not yet noon.
The damp ground and musty smell made him feel uncomfortable. When he looked into the clearing of the LZ, the bright sunlight affected his eyes as it did when exiting a dark movie theater in the middle of the day.
The radio operator nearby could be heard calling out, “L-T, both LP squads are coming in.”
“Thanks Bob. Notify the rest of the perimeter,” the L-T ordered, “No reason at all for an accident.”
As his eyes gradually adjusted to the change in light, John made out the forms of approaching men.
Even from a distance of fifty feet, he could make out the noticeable and jagged scar on Sgt. Holmes’ face; it started just above his top lip - a thick black mustache concealed most of it - and then continued across the left side of his face, ending abruptly below the ear. John would find out later that it was the result of a car accident twelve years earlier, that claimed the life of his older brother. Holmes’ shaggy and curly black hair appeared longer than most, a green bandanna tied securely around his head kept the hair out of his eyes. At six feet, six inches tall, he towered above the rest of the soldiers.
Larry carried an M-60 Machine Gun across his shoulder. An unbroken belt of ammunition wrapped around his body from his waist up to his chest. His build was similar to Sgt. Holmes, but stood almost a foot shorter. Somehow, he had managed to find a black beret, which covered the blond hair on his head. Larry wore a pair of oversized plastic-rimmed glasses, which, at first glance, appeared to be goggles. He was the first to spot John.
He pushed Sgt. Holmes to get his attention. “Hey, Sixpack, look, it’s the Polack,” he hollered out in surprise.
“I’ll be damned!” Sgt. Holmes said, surprised to see John sitting there.
Both raced over to where John now stood, wrapping their sweaty arms around him.
“Polack, what a surprise,” Larry exclaimed.
“Am I ever glad to see you guys!”
“So am I,” Sgt. Holmes added, “it’s always good to see a friendly face.”
“What squad are you in?” Larry asked after releasing John from a bear hug.
“The L-T said I was going to Sixpack’s Squad. I’m waiting for him to show up.”
“Look no more,” Sgt. Holmes said, “you’re looking at him.”
“No shit?”
“No shit, Polack.”
“Why do they call you that?”
“I’ll tell you later when there’s more time.”
“Hey, Sixpack,” Larry interrupted, “we better get our supplies before they’re all gone.”
“You’re right. Polack, stay right here, we’ll be back in a short.” Grabbing their rucksacks, both headed over to the stash of First Platoon supplies. A red nylon bag with ‘U.S. MAIL’ stenciled in bright white letters lay off to the side. Larry dropped two letters into the bag and picked out a pair of washed fatigues from a pile of delivered clothes. Both he and Sixpack were in dire need of new fatigues, as theirs were torn and heavily soiled with sweat. While changing, John noted neither of them were wearing underwear or a belt.
“Junior wasn’t bullshitting me,” John said to nobody in particular.
After the change, they quickly picked out their supplies and began packing them into the deflated rucksacks. In ten minutes, both returned to the area with bulging rucksacks.
“Polack, come with me,” Larry said upon reaching John, pulling him up by the arm. “I’ll introduce you to the rest of the squad.”
They walked over to the only remaining people who were busy packing their own rucksacks.
“Hey, guys, we have a new member in the squad. I want you all to meet Polack. We go all the way back to Basic Training,” Larry informed them, placing his arm across John’s shoulders.
John smiled to each of them as Larry said their names and pointed them out. “This is Zeke, Wild Bill, Doc, Frenchie, Scout, and the Vietnamese is Nung.”
They all acknowledged John, either nodding or giving him a faint wave when Larry introduced him.
“I can see you’re all busy, so we’ll talk to you guys later.” Larry turned to leave with John in tow.
“Why is there a Vietnamese with the squad?” John asked.
“Nung is our Kit Carson scout. He used to be an enemy soldier, but changed sides after some renegade Communists killed his family. He once fought against us in this very same area, so after retraining in Saigon, he is now our scout. Nung usually knows when something is not right. The other guys have said that his intuition had saved this platoon many times already; they have a lot of respect for him.”
“Can he really be trusted?” John asked.
“Hell yes, man, he’s like one of the family.”
After returning, they found Sixpack sitting on the ground, leaning against his rucksack and smoking a large cigar. Both sat down on the ground close to him.
“Hey Sergeant, how about telling me why they call you Sixpack now,” John asked.
“I guess now is as good of a time as any,” he replied after exhaling a puff of cigar smoke in John’s direction. “I brought a six-pack of beer to Nam with me from Oakland. It’s stored back in the rear with my belongings, and I plan to open the cans and suck them dry in a celebration during the flight home after my tour. The guys in Cu Chi were pretty amused by this and began calling me Sixpack, so the name stuck.”
“Did anybody else we know make it to the 25th with you?” Larry pushed his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.
“Only one I know for certain is Bill Sayers. He went to the Third Platoon.”
“No shit. Do you remember him, Sixpack?” Larry asked.
“Not really.”
“Bill Sayers is that red-headed hillbilly who looked like Howdy Doody. We met up with him in Oakland?”
“Oh yeah, I remember him now. Everything fascinated him.”
“That’s the guy!”
The three of them collected their gear and then joined up with the rest of their squad.
Before they had a chance to start any conversations, the L-T walked over. “I can see you found the right squad,” he said, looking directly at John. “The three of you act like old buddies. Do you know each other from back in the world?”
Sixpack responded, “Polack and Larry were both in my AIT Platoon back in Fort Polk.”
“Polack - is that his new nickname?” L-T Ramsey asked.
“No, he got it in Basic. We’ve been calling him that since,” Larry volunteered.
“That’s great – Polack it is! I do hate to break up this reunion,” he said, turning to address the squad as a whole. “The bird is on its way to pick up the mail and extra supplies. We will be moving out as soon as it is airborne. Third Platoon will be on point, and we will follow with the Company CP. Get your people ready, Sixpack.” The L-T turned and walked back to join his RTO, Bob.
“Oh, just fucking great!” Zeke protested. “Those motherfuckers make one loud noise while they’re with us, I’ll shove those radios right up their asses.”
“What’s wrong with the CP?” Sixpack asked.
“Those guys don’t know what it’s like to be quiet. They’re forever yakking on their radios, cussing and complaining during the humps, breaking branches, and always slowing things down.”
“That’s not fair, Zeke,” Sixpack interrupted, “we need those guys and their radios in the bu
sh.”
“I know we need the radios, but I just don’t care for the fuckers that carry them. They make me too nervous.”
“Relax, Zeke, let’s see how it plays out. Maybe there’s been a change since you moved with them last.”
“Okay, but if they . . .” Zeke stopped abruptly at the sound of a smoke grenade popping out on the LZ. The familiar whipping and chopping sound of an impending Huey helicopter echoed through the jungle, getting louder as it approached. It soon landed, picked up the unused supplies, and was airborne again within fifteen seconds.
After the sound of the chopper faded, the RTO called out, “Third Platoon is coming through, and we’re starting to move out.”
Within a minute, two soldiers approached and headed toward the hole in the jungle, where the two squads had come through earlier. The lead person (point man) held a machete in his right hand and carried his M-16 by the handle in his left. The person directly behind him carried a shotgun and followed the point man closely. There was a twenty-foot gap, and then a line of soldiers began to pass.
As they went by, those knowing each other exchanged words of encouragement.
Every one of them was bending forward at a thirty-degree angle, trying desperately to manage the heavy loads they carried. They would be lighter the next day, when some of the food and water were gone.
“Okay, saddle up! We’re moving out right behind these guys,” the L-T ordered.
As the First Platoon members struggled to stand and help one another to their feet, the last person in the passing column, Bill Sayers, approached. His eyes were wide and a smile lit his face when he saw John, Larry, and Sixpack standing together.
“Hey there!” He called, “can I get a transfer to your platoon?”
“Not right now, but hang in there, and I’ll see if I can pull some strings.”
“I’ll be counting on it, Sergeant Holmes.”
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 10