“I’m sorry about that too, but there’s still VC around. So quit looking at him and help us. We’ve got to get the fuck out of here and get back to the others.”
“You’re a cold-hearted son of a bitch, Scout!” John said, taking hold of a corner of the poncho.
“No, I’m not,” Scout retorted. “When you’ve seen as many dead bodies as we have, it doesn’t affect you anymore.”
When Zeke’s body was lifted from his deathbed, Scout called to Sixpack, “We have a sick Polack, but we’re on our way.”
“Move slowly and stay low. We’ll cover for you!”
Some of the platoon fired into the jungle behind the men in order to protect the slow moving group during their retreat.
When the four reached the sergeant, he looked down at Zeke’s limp body deep within the poncho and bowed his head. “Sorry, Zeke,” he said quietly before acknowledging Scout. “The company medics have formed up just outside of the base camp we left earlier today. They are treating the wounded there and setting up a staging area; Medevac’s are already on the way. The rest of us will meet up with you in just a bit.”
The men started for the LZ. En route, they saw other members of the company carrying soldiers in various fashions. Some of the wounded had their arms draped over a fellow soldier for support and hopped along on one leg. Others walked on their own, unassisted, with gauze bandages tied or taped to different areas of their bodies. Several other four-man teams were struggling toward the aid station with their human cargo lying on ponchos. The parade of casualties continued to pour out of the jungle, moving toward the same location.
The earlier artillery barrages had devastated the original base camp and nearby surrounding area, thus creating an area large enough for the Medevac choppers to land.
The immediate area next to the LZ soon took on the appearance of an open-air aid station. Medics scurried about, using whatever supplies were available to treat the many wounded soldiers. Some of the casualties were still bleeding through their bandages as they rested, smoking cigarettes and talking to friends who offered moral support. Others babbled to themselves or lay in a semi-comatose state. The corpses lay unattended and covered with ponchos in an area out of everyone’s way.
The smell of sterile bandages, iodine, dried blood, and dismembered bodies now overrode the earlier stench of burnt wood and vegetation.
John bent over in a clump of bushes and vomited again.
“It gets easier as time goes on,” Sixpack assured him after noticing him there. The sergeant slapped John on the back a few times in an attempt to console him.
“Medevac’s will start landing in a minute or two. I want you to go and lend a hand in the loading of the wounded.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I just can’t, Sixpack. The sight of the wounded and the smell in the air is making me sick to my stomach.”
“This isn’t going to be the last time something like this happens. You should be thankful that you’re not one of the casualties. Go on now and help them, it’s for your own good,” Sixpack gave John an encouraging look and pushed him forward.
John resisted and looked up, tears running down his cheeks. “Sixpack, I’m hurting bad. I can’t believe Zeke is dead.”
“We’re all hurting and feel the same way.” The sergeant draped his arm over John’s shoulders and guided him toward the waiting casualties. “I know you’ll never forget him, but you’ll get over the hurt soon. Now go and give those people a hand. They need you right now.”
John used his shirtsleeves to wipe away the tears, but ended up smearing the saltwater all over his dirt-encrusted face. It would be impossible to disguise the fact that he had been crying. Moving toward the rest of the men, he saw others with the same telltale signs of grief; any embarrassment he felt at that point completely dissolved.
Four helicopters were en route to extract Alpha Company from the field and transport them to Cu Chi for three days of rest and relaxation. Each squad from the First Platoon was in position for pickup; the squad leaders waited to raise their weapons to guide in the birds.
Fourth Platoon remained in position between the bunker complex and LZ, providing security for the extracting platoons, flying out on the last sortie. Artillery guns in Kien were shooting rounds into the complex and surrounding area for the last thirty minutes, intending to inflict as much damage as possible before replacements arrived to sweep through that area.
“On a scale of one to ten, I have to rate this fire fight an eight,” Scout volunteered.
“It was indeed a bitch,” Wild Bill agreed. “I would have bet we were shooting at each other for over two hours, but I heard somebody say it lasted only thirty minutes.”
“How bad did we get hit, Doc?”
“From what I’ve heard, the company suffered nine killed and Medevac’d twenty wounded. Except for Zeke, First Platoon didn’t suffer any other casualties.”
“How many did we get?”
“Nobody knows yet. Bravo and Charlie Companies are on their way to relieve us. They’re going to sweep through the area and get a body count.”
“I hope they have better luck than we did.”
“Does anybody know just exactly what went down back there?”
“I don’t know for sure, Larry, but I did overhear the officers earlier. It appears that the first base camp we found and destroyed with artillery was only an extension of the main complex, which we found today. The VC were waiting for us, just as Zeke had said they would be. I heard most of the casualties came from the Second Platoon as they triggered the ambush; the rest were from Third and Fourth Platoon. Their efforts overwhelmed the enemy and allowed everybody to pull back. Those survivors in the Second were lucky to have made it out of there.”
“Luck? That’s what Zeke used to call survival,” Larry added matter-of-factly.
Nobody responded.
The artillery barrage stopped when the choppers approached the LZ.
When touching down, members of Bravo Company jumped off, running for the tree line.
“Get some payback for us, Bravo.”
“Good luck, guys!”
Some of the Alpha Company grunts just stared at the helicopters and did not even acknowledge their friends from the sister company when they passed. Their eyes held a faraway look – a combination of disbelief, sorrow, exhaustion and relief.
A three-day stand down in Cu Chi did not seem like a big deal anymore. After all, who could party after an experience like this? There might not be a party, but there would be plenty of alcohol, which was the perfect prescription to help one forget.
~~~~~
CHAPTER TEN
Enthusiastic cooks, clerks, and supply personnel filled the battalion area in Cu Chi, preparing to host those companies returning from the field. Some busied themselves by erecting tents and cots; others separated clean fatigues and miscellaneous equipment onto long eight-foot tables. The cooks, adorned in white aprons and chef hats, were barbecuing hundreds of rib eye steaks on open grills throughout the area. Blue smoke from each rose into the orange-red evening sky, and the scent of barbecue sauce temporarily camouflaged the real stench of Vietnam.
Tents were set up across from the company orderly room. There were no walls, but the large canvas roofs provided sufficient protection from both the rain and sun.
Under each of the five shelters, a center aisle separated twenty-four cots – twelve to a side. Three fifty-five gallon barrels, completely filled with cans of soda, beer and ice sat just inside the entrance. Sweating profusely in the heat, each bead of moisture raced down the side, collecting in a puddle of tepid and muddy water. A fourth empty barrel stood ready to collect the empty cans and garbage.
Several wooden tables were set in a row adjacent to the shower building; the two closest tables held a hundred or more bars of green soap and clean towels. The remaining held piles of clean fatigues and dozens of small Army-issue cans of foot powder.
Choppers began landing in an open field a quarter-mile away. The First Platoon disembarked, following the road toward the battalion area. Their appearance was ‘unmilitary’ by stateside standards. Their fatigues were looking vile - all covered with mud, sweat, and dried blood. Most trousers were ripped and torn; some severely, exposing the genitals. One could use hair length to distinguish between lifers, Cherries, and those who had been in the field the longest. The commonality was their heavily matted hair and faces coated with layers of mud, salt, and red dirt.
The sight and smell of the infantry soldiers overwhelmed the rear echelon personnel, who tried to distance themselves from these new arrivals.
Frenchie raised his head and sniffed the air like an animal in the wilderness.
“Steaks are on!” He pointed out the blue barbecue smoke rising into the air.
“It looks like they’re planning to throw a party for us!”
Scout, Frenchie, and Wild Bill gave a war hoop, and then joined the others in a race for the showers. While running, soldiers dropped their rucksacks in mid-stride and peeled tattered fatigues from their filthy bodies. Naked men - backs and buttocks covered by an assortment of mud, blisters, rashes, and jungle rot - quickly converged on the small building.
“What the hell is going on?” John asked Larry.
“It looks like everyone wants to shower. Shit, you’d think somebody was giving away a million dollars.”
“I smell food cooking, so why don’t they eat first?”
“Those guys have been in the bush for two months without bathing. Wouldn’t you like to clean up before eating something that smells this good?”
“Yeah, right on, Larry. Good point.”
“Well, what are we waiting for?”
“We’re going to wait for the showers.” John pointed to the long line, already forming outside of the building.
In the morning, several pocket transistor radios tuned in to the American channel, sounds of rock and roll vibrated and echoed throughout the area as the Rolling Stones poured it on.
The loud stereophonic music woke Scout first. He sat up on his cot, rubbing both eyes, and then buried his head in the palms of both hands.
Wild Bill and Frenchie, who had been sleeping on the hard ground during the night, were the next to awaken - rising to their feet and stretching.
“That was the best I’ve slept in the last two months,” Wild Bill said triumphantly. “No bugs, guard duty, or going to sleep at seven. Shit, I feel great!”
“Me too!”
“Why do you guys do that?” Doc asked. He sat on the edge of his cot, lacing a boot. “Every time we’re in the rear, you both sleep on the ground. What’s wrong with these cots?”
“The ground is better,” Wild Bill stated. Frenchie nodded in agreement.
“The first time I tried to sleep on one of those, I was awake all night. Those fucking wood frames come alive at night and poke the shit out of you. Every bone and muscle in my body hurt the next morning. No thanks, Doc, you can keep them.”
“Would you guys please try to keep it down?” Scout pleaded from the side of his cot.
“What’s the matter? Poor baby drink too much last night?”
“I don’t think so,” Scout replied. “It must be cheap beer.”
“What’s wrong with cheap beer that’s free?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I haven’t had any for a while and it sort of hit me suddenly.”
“Guys,” Doc interrupted, “it was cheap beer, but we didn’t let that stop us. In fact, I think we outdid ourselves last night!” He kicked an empty beer can across the ground.
The four men surveyed the area. Paper plates with half-eaten steaks sat in a pile on Frenchie's cot, and at least a hundred empty beer cans littered the floor around them.
“It sure was a good time though,” Scout managed to utter.
“I’ll say,” Wild Bill added. “Look at Polack and Larry,” he chuckled, pointing to their cots. “Aren’t they a pitiful sight? They were the first to pass out and they’re still unconscious.” They laughed.
“Let’s wake them up,” Frenchie suggested.
“No, let them sleep it off. I don’t think either of them has ever drank that much beer before.”
“Look around. Are you blind?” Scout asked. “I don’t think any of us has ever put away this much brew.”
“Speak for yourself. Last night wasn’t any different than a normal Saturday night back in the world,” Wild Bill broke in.
“That’s because cowboys can’t drink and drive during the week,” Frenchie mused.
“Wrong!” Wild Bill shot back. “We ride! Besides, if we get stinking drunk, our horses always know the way home. All we have to do is hang on. I bet you can’t say that about your cars in the big cities.” Wild Bill was always boasting about his ability to use horses as an alternative means of transportation out west - a constant source of amusement among the men.
“I can,” Frenchie blurted. “There were times when I was so drunk; I couldn’t have made it home without my car knowing the way.”
“Wild Bill does have a point. I don’t ever recall reading about a four-horse pile up involving a drunken rider,” Doc announced.
“You guys are all full of shit!” Wild Bill exclaimed, embarrassed by the laughter.
“Come on, guys, let’s get this place cleaned up,” Frenchie suggested.
“Why? Are we having company?” Scout continued to rub at his forehead in an attempt to increase the blood circulation.
“We might,” Frenchie surmised. “You know those public relations people always come looking for the Cherries whenever we’re in the rear after a firefight.”
“So what? Our Cherries won’t be going anywhere,” Wild Bill replied.
“That’s true. And even if they could, Polack and Larry wouldn’t feel like answering questions,” Doc added.
“Fuck the Cherries, and fuck the visitors,” Frenchie declared. “This place looks like shit and I can’t stand looking at it anymore. Are you going to help me or not?” He began to gather empty beer cans and throw them into the large trashcan.
“Yes, Mother Frenchie!”
Later that Sunday morning, the company assembled for a multi-denominational religious service near a portable stage where a traveling Filipino band had performed the night before.
Chaplain Dunkirk waited patiently behind a lectern in the middle of the stage while soldiers filtered into the benches and bleachers. He paged through a Bible, inserting pieces of paper, marking certain passages he intended to read during the service.
In front of the stage stood nine inverted M-16 rifles, their attached bayonets driven into the ground up to the hilt. A helmet perched atop the stock of each weapon and a pair of jungle boots, facing forward, sat poised to the front of every rifle - each representing a fallen comrade from Alpha Company.
Some soldiers shed tears as they remembered fond memories of those friendships, now lost forever. Others stole solemn glances at the symbols and offered silent testimonials to those killed, whether they knew the fallen personally or not.
When everybody was in place, Chaplain Dunkirk, an older and balding major, cleared his throat and spoke to the congregation.
“Good morning! I have stood before you as a representative of God on many occasions. Together, we not only prayed for His protection and guidance, but we also celebrated with Him on those joyous and festive occasions. Today, we are all here to pray for our deceased friends and fellow soldiers, who have entered into the kingdom of Heaven to join God by His side.
“The death of a close friend is God’s way of testing us. It is very difficult to accept that our God is good and all giving when he takes away someone close to us. It is on occasions like this that we must re-affirm our belief and faith in Him.
“We are all part of God’s master plan, and each of us has a role during this lifetime. Once that role is complete, God recalls us to his side for all eternity.
“I
’m sure we’d all like to live until we’re a hundred years old. However, none of us knows what our true role is or how to play it. Therefore, you see, it is impossible to determine when our time will come. It could be today, tomorrow, ten years from now, or even on our ninetieth birthday. Only God knows for sure. We must continue to have faith, not only in our God, but also in ourselves, in one another, and in our country. Without this faith, we are nothing.
“I’ll talk more on faith later in the service. Right now, let’s bow our heads and pray for our deceased friends.” He read the name and rank of each of the nine dead soldiers. Most of the men only knew each other by their first names or nickname, so when they heard the real names of the fallen soldiers spoken aloud for the first time, they seemed strange and unfamiliar.
Fifty minutes later, the chaplain offered a final blessing. “The service has concluded. However, Captain Fowler would like to say a few words before you all leave.” He waved a farewell to the men, retrieved his Bible from the lectern, and walked over to the right side of the stage, taking a seat on a nearby chair.
After climbing the six steps to the stage, Alpha Company’s commanding officer moved toward the lectern. He placed a few notes onto the surface and then stepped behind it. This resulted in snickers from the congregation.
The officer stood five feet, six inches tall and only the top of his head was visible to those men sitting on the low benches to his front. The microphone on the flexible holder did not bend low enough for him to speak on the public address system. He continued his struggle to manipulate the silver mechanism, which only invited more chuckles from the crowd.
Embarrassed, he finally removed the microphone from its base and stepped out to the front of the lectern.
“I’ve decided to stand out in front of this speaker’s box to address you men, but only as a courtesy to those of you who want to read my lips.”
He succeeded with this icebreaker, and the men laughed loudly with relief.
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 17