Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  Red wooden surveyor stakes stuck up from the ground at fifteen-foot intervals, forming a smaller circle within the huge clearing; this was the actual perimeter of the firebase.

  Captain Fowler called the Alpha Company Lieutenants together in a wet and muddy section of the clearing. He did not have any alternative, as most of the clearing was the same. Boots quickly sank into the mush; soldiers struggled to walk through the clearing. Deep sucking sounds accompanied every footstep.

  “This isn’t going to be a picnic out here. Many of you already know the Triangle has plenty of booby traps, caches, and enemy soldiers. Most supplies and reinforcements come from Cambodia and pass right through this area. Military intelligence calls this area the Ho Chi Minh Trail of the South.

  “The VC are already aware of our presence and know what we’re trying to accomplish. They have mortared the clearing twice in the last week and have caught some of Delta Company’s patrols in ambushes. The Engineers also believe the enemy is slipping into the clearing during the night, because they’re finding mines which weren’t there the days before.

  “If they decide to hit this firebase before it’s finished, it could be a bloodbath. Therefore, we need an all-out effort from each of you in preparing this location before nightfall. So, work hard for all our sakes.”

  Each platoon had the arduous task of building four-man bunkers along a portion of the perimeter. First and Second Squads of First Platoon busied themselves with the actual building, while the other two squads began working on the area to the front of where the bunker line would be. Barbed concertina wire was unrolled and staked in place. The men then placed trip flares, claymore mines, and other early-warning devices in strategic locations.

  Wild Bill and John painstakingly worked as a team in building one of the bunkers. Wild Bill dug while John filled sandbags and stacked them to the side. Both their backs were the color of a red, ripened apple, yet they had to continue to sweat and persevere in the backbreaking chore.

  “Goddamn clay!” Wild Bill yelled from the depths of a four-foot hole. “Why couldn’t they have chosen an area with sand?”

  “And make it easier for us? They probably set this up intentionally as a method of cleansing our bodies of all that cheap beer we drank in Cu Chi.”

  “I’d give anything to be out in the bush right now.”

  “That was quick. The captain said we wouldn’t feel that way for another couple of days.”

  “Fuck the captain, fuck the Army, and fuck Vietnam.” The chant came from deep in the ground, and started over again after a shovel full of dirt was tossed topside.

  At 1900, John and Wild Bill completed their fighting position and stepped away to admire their work from a distance.

  “Looks great, doesn’t it?”

  “Not bad. But you have to admit, it was the hardest eight hours we’ve ever put in.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m even too exhausted to eat.”

  “Just hope we’re not picked for an ambush patrol tonight.”

  “Ambush patrol? Why would they send any of us out on ambush teams? We’ve been working our asses off all day.”

  “Look around,” Wild Bill suggested. “There are too many people in this perimeter and not enough bunkers to protect them.”

  “I see your point. One mortar round in the right place would wipe out a whole bunch of men, that’s for sure.”

  Both men walked out to the barbed wire, turned around, and then looked over their portion of the perimeter. Scout and Larry were to their left, still working feverishly on their bunker. On the right, both Doc and Frenchie were also admiring their completed work. The two groups waved to one another.

  “Not bad for a bunch of rookies!” Frenchie threw a softball-sized rock at their bunker.

  “Hey, hey, don’t try to knock it down just yet. Let us get at least one night of sleep in it first.”

  The men laughed.

  “They may not be perfect, but at least they’ll be a better cover than bushes and trees.”

  “That’s very true, Doc. I can’t wait until tomorrow when we can use our new natural air conditioner. It’s at least twenty degrees cooler down in the hole right now.”

  “Wild Bill, next you’re going to tell us that room service is available.”

  The group shared another laugh.

  Sixpack returned from the Lieutenant’s bunker in the center of the firebase and called out to his squad when close enough, “Come on, guys, we have to talk.” Sixpack waved for the men to join him.

  “Oh shit,” Wild Bill mumbled, “looks like it’s time to fuck with the First Squad again.” He pulled at the barbwire, letting it snap like a slingshot. “Come on, Polack!”

  The two men left the barbed wire and merged with the other two-man teams, converging upon Sixpack’s position.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he announced after seeing the distressed looks on their faces. “Delta Company is going out on ambush tonight.”

  The men exhaled deeply and cheered with delight.

  “Personally, I would have preferred the ambush. Tonight, we have to fill in the gaps on the perimeter and fill in those bunkers left unattended when the ambush teams leave. Our squad will take over the bunkers that you’ve just finished, but only two men will be in each. I know you’re all tired, but the firebase will be on fifty percent alert tonight, so one of you will have to be awake at all times.”

  The men mumbled their disapproval.

  “The Mortar Platoon will be firing illumination flares into the sky at fifteen-minute intervals. So keep your heads down, and do not make yourself a target for a sniper. I do not want any unnecessary firing, unless you actually see movement to your front. If hit, watch the wire closely for sappers. If they get through, we can be in a world of hurt. The password for tonight will be ‘Champion’. Are there any questions? He paused.

  “Okay, let’s get ready for the night.”

  Wild Bill and John sat outside their bunker, leaning against the soft sandbags. John’s appetite had improved lately, but he was too tired to heat a meal. Instead, he opened a can of cold beans and franks and nibbled on his spoonful of nourishment. Wild Bill placed a heat tab into an empty C-Ration can and punched several holes into it. After igniting it, he placed a canteen cup full of water on the makeshift stove.

  Both were quietly admiring the sun as it set over the jungle.

  “You know, this country has its pretty moments. Just look at that orange sun behind the palm trees. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were in paradise.” John sighed.

  “It is like paradise. If you listen closely, you can even hear the birds and monkeys calling to us from the jungle. I don’t recall it ever being this quiet in Cu Chi.”

  “Maybe it’s the calm before the storm!” Wild Bill took a drink from his steaming cup of hot cocoa. “You’ll think of this place differently in a couple more hours.”

  The two men continued to eat and drink in silence for several minutes. Finally, John turned to face his partner for the night.

  “Why do the guys call you ‘Wild Bill’?”

  “You know how it is. Everyone in the Nam either arrived with a nickname or did something to earn it. In my case, the guys started calling me ‘Wild Bill’ after seeing this picture of me from back home.”

  He withdrew a wallet from the rubber pouch in his rucksack, extracted a photograph, and handed it to John.

  “See what I mean?”

  The picture showed a cowboy standing next to a brown and white Appaloosa horse. In the background was a snow-capped mountain range and wild sagebrush; both silhouetted in front of a royal blue, cloudless sky. Shoulder-length brown hair hung from under a black cowboy hat with a silver band. He sported a six-inch long but neatly trimmed dark brown beard that hung over the front of an unbuttoned tan buckskin jacket. A thick, black leather ammo belt encircled his waist; a holster rested on his right hip, its bottom tied to his right thigh with a thin leather strip. A chrome revolver with white pearl handl
es peeked out of the holster, reflecting the sparkling sunlight in all directions.

  “This is you?”

  “Yeah, but you wouldn’t think so.”

  “Shit, no. You look like an old west outlaw and twenty years older. Where was this picture taken?”

  “In El Paso, Texas. I worked on a ranch before I was drafted. Man, I can’t wait to get back.”

  “Me neither.” John thought about that for a few seconds. “What’s your real name?”

  “Bill Hickock.”

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “That’s why they call me ‘Wild Bill’.”

  He placed the picture back into his wallet and returned it to the protective rubber bag inside of his rucksack. Then he leaned back against the bunker and lit a cigarette. Wild Bill drew deeply from the unfiltered stick of tobacco, exhaling the smoke slowly through the wide gap between his two front teeth.

  “God, I sure do miss the circuit.”

  “What circuit?”

  “I used to travel on the rodeo circuit all through the western part of the country.”

  “What are rodeos like?”

  “Haven’t you ever been to one?”

  “Nope. Detroit isn’t the kind of place to have a rodeo.”

  “You don’t know what you’ve been missing. Shit, back home, everyone planned their weekends around the local rodeos.”

  “We didn’t have that luxury.”

  “I understand. They’re not popular where you come from. You know I made half my earnings every year from the circuit.”

  “What were you selling?”

  “I wasn’t selling anything; I was a participant.”

  “You mean roping horses and shit?”

  “Yeah. And bronco-busting, cattle-wrestling, and steer-roping.”

  “Were you good?”

  “I have trophies and newspaper articles that say I am.”

  “Damn! I’m sharing a bunker with a real celebrity.”

  “Aw, knock off that bullshit, Polack.”

  “No, seriously, I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  “I’d like to, but it’s getting dark. We’d better get ready for our watches.”

  “How do you want to work it?”

  “Let’s see,” Wild Bill looked at the luminous dial on his watch, “it’s almost seven-thirty. How about we each take a two-hour shift on the first watch and then follow with one three-hours long? This way we can both get some sleep.”

  “Sounds good to me, I’ll take the first watch.”

  “You got it.”

  First Squad’s turn on patrol came the following morning. They were to move toward a trail junction a kilometer to the west of the firebase and set up a day ambush site.

  After leaving the wire, they followed a large hard-packed road toward their destination. It was not twenty minutes before an APC patrol forced them from the road. The four Armored Personnel Carriers passed noisily, each carrying a squad of men on top.

  “G’day, Mates!” A few of the soldiers called from one of the steel monsters.

  All wore strange hats with brims folded up high on one side.

  “Who are those guys?”

  “They’re Aussies and have a base nearby.”

  “Australian? I didn’t know they were here,” Larry remarked.

  “Shit, yes,” Frenchie broke in. “We’re not the only people fighting the Communists in this country. I read about it once. The article said that fifteen countries were involved in this war, but I’ve only seen Koreans, Thais, and Aussies.”

  “You learn more about this place every day.”

  “Yeah, and just when you think you know it all, Larry, it’s time to go home,” Doc added.

  “Now that’s the way to go out on patrols.” John jerked his head in the direction of the departing dust-covered soldiers. “No more humping. Just put your shit inside and ride out your tour.”

  “Those are iron coffins,” Sixpack said matter-of-factly. “Every enemy soldier within a mile can hear you coming. All they have to do is mine the approach and wait for your APC to blow its track. Then he’ll finish you off with either a B-40 rocket or RPG. I’ve seen what they can do to those armored tracks. Everything inside is cut to ribbons. It might look appealing, but you can have them.”

  As the patrol continued westward, the jungle surrounding them became withered and sparse.

  “What happened to this part of the jungle?” John asked. “It looks like somebody sprayed weed killer all over it.”

  “It is a weed killer,” Sixpack replied. “Special planes used to fly all through this country to spray defoliant on the jungle.”

  “Why did they spray the countryside?”

  “To eliminate and uncover all the enemy hiding places. They had names for the operation and for the shit they sprayed, but I can’t remember either of them. Hell, during my last tour, I can even remember them spraying while we were patrolling through the jungle below. The shit came down like a monsoon rain and smelled terrible. We used to get skin rashes that itched like hell and breathing problems from inhaling the stuff.”

  “Was it dangerous?”

  “Other than the rashes and stuff, everybody told us the stuff isn’t dangerous and not to worry about it.”

  “This area smells like shit, too!” Scout added.

  “Must be the decomposition,” Doc reported.

  “Dead bodies have smelled better.”

  The squad arrived at the junction and moved into the decayed underbrush to set up an ambush on line with the trail.

  All the porous tree stumps were havens for red ants, spiders, horseflies, and other crawling insects, which feasted on the rotting vegetation. Most of the squad was preoccupied with taking defensive measures against the small insects instead of focusing on the trail. Red ants sting unmercifully; horseflies leave welts after biting their victims, and hundreds of spiders sent chills down the spines of the young men. Every insect spray bottle was empty within the first hour; the precious liquid was used more on the insects than on the men’s own bodies. It appeared that the insects were immune to the bug spray. Upon reaching the liquid line on the ground, they only hesitated briefly before moving through it and toward their human prey.

  At 1700 hours, the ambush set-up terminated. Everyone stood and wiped hundreds of dead insects from their fatigues before gathering their gear to leave.

  On the return to the firebase, the men gently caressed welts, rashes, bruises, and mosquito bites while keeping their eyes on the surrounding jungle for the enemy.

  When arriving at the firebase, the men noticed two new semi-luxuries that were not there when leaving that morning: a shower and a toilet. The shower stood in the middle of the compound. Two fifty-five gallon drums hung suspended six and a half feet above a platform that straddled a drainage ditch. Each barrel had a showerhead attached to the underside, helping to distribute the water uniformly. Using the “buddy” system, one would bathe while the other dumped pails full of water into the barrels. Unfortunately, the showerhead did not turn off so there was no way to collect water in the barrel. Whatever went in came right back out, but at a slower rate.

  A crowd was already gathered around the shower. Some waited for their turn under the cold, refreshing spray, while others stood only to watch and pass the time of day, like old men in a barbershop. No curtains or walls enclosed the structure - modesty was not an option.

  Two new “outhouses” joined the bunkers near the perimeter of the camp. Those too, however, were devoid of walls or curtains to provide privacy. Three fifty-five gallon drums, cut in half, sat under a twenty-inch deep by ten-foot long wooden plank. Three oblong holes were spaced evenly across the face of the plank - one size fit all.

  During the initial stages of building up the firebase, these outhouses caused many problems. The main concern was the location, which sat on the edge of the perimeter next to the barbed wire. When using the facilities, you faced the inside of the perimeter leaving your back exposed to the jung
le outside of the camp. This made it difficult to concentrate on the duties at hand, as the men continuously turned to keep an eye on the tree line.

  Embarrassment was the other concern when trying to take care of business in plain view of everyone in the firebase. Many of the young men developed painful hemorrhoids from not letting nature take its course. They would purposely try to hold their bowel movements until nightfall, when the cover of darkness allowed them to relax in a more private manner.

  A few weeks later, First Squad was taking a break during one of their patrols.

  “These daily patrols are getting to me,” Larry admitted.

  “Look at the bright side. At least we’re excused from all the bullshit details on the firebase.”

  “Yeah, like burning shit,” Scout chimed in.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the worst detail in this whole stinking country.”

  “You only have to watch somebody do it once to know it,” Doc added. The men snickered.

  “What do you have to do?” Larry asked.

  “When we return to the firebase every night, haven’t you ever seen those smoking barrels over by the shitters?”

  “That’s just trash burning, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, Larry, it’s trash, but its trash from your ass.” The others laughed again while Larry and John looked at them curiously.

  “That’s the shit detail. It starts early in the morning, right after breakfast. Sometimes, there’s two people assigned to the detail, but most of the time there’s only one. When I had to do it, I was alone.” Scout shuddered at the memory.

  “It is a motherfucker,” Wild Bill emphasized.

  “Yes, it is,” Doc agreed.

  “As I was saying, the first thing on the agenda is to get the barrels out from under the planks. Sometimes they’re almost filled to the top.” John and Larry looked at Scout in horror.

  “Especially if the mess hall served beans the day before,” Wild Bill smirked as he watched the two Cherries squirm and turn pale.