“Anyway, they don’t give you any gloves or breathing devices. So dragging those cans some forty feet away to an area where it is safe to burn can be a disaster. You can always hold your breath so you don’t have to smell the stuff. However, no matter how careful you are in moving them, there’s no way of stopping the semi-solid contents from splashing onto you. Once that happens, you just don’t give a fuck anymore.”
“It’s a real bitch too, if you aren’t able to come up with a clean set of fatigues,” Sixpack chimed in.
“I had to take a shower in mine, but the smell was still there,” Wild Bill said, enjoying the show.
Larry and John looked at each other, a repulsed expression on their faces.
Scout continued, “Once you’ve managed to pull and tug the cans away, you add a combination of diesel fuel and gasoline to them, providing there’s enough room. Sometimes, you have to transfer some of it out from one can to another with a bucket to make room. Once that’s done, you just throw in a lit match, and move back.”
“Is that all you have to do?” Larry asked.
“No, you have to stir it too,” John said jokingly.
“Give that man a cigar,” Scout announced.
John stopped laughing and flashed an incredulous look.
“That’s right, Polack, you have to sit and watch the shit burn all day long. You stir it up every half hour or the fire will go out.”
“How do you know when you’re done?”
“When there isn’t shit left in the can.” A chuckle erupted from the men.
“That was a good one, Scout!” Sixpack announced.
“It usually takes until seven in the evening to burn everything up.”
“That’s one detail I hope that I never get.”
“Don’t bet on that, Polack. Everyone does it at least once. And when our squad’s turn comes up, guess whose names will be on the list.”
“Aw, fuck!” The realization hit Larry.
The day ambush team positioned itself near the bend of a well-used trail. The weed killer had not been sprayed on this area yet, so the dense jungle offered good concealment and protection for the men in the First Squad.
Scout and Wild Bill stood on opposite sides of the single line ambush. Both men watched the trail intently while the rest of the squad in between relaxed and daydreamed. Larry wrote a letter to his folks, Sixpack spread a towel out in front of him and used it as a table to play a card game of Solitaire, Frenchie monitored the radio, John and Doc shared a tree trunk to catch a few minutes of sleep.
Suddenly, Scout bolted upright. “Movement, coming this way,” he whispered.
The men quietly picked up their weapons and readied themselves for what might be coming.
“No firing until I open up,” Sixpack instructed the team.
Five minutes later, a lone Vietnamese came into view walking on the trail. He wore black nylon pants, a blue denim shirt, Ho Chi Minh sandals, and a U.S. boony hat. He pointed his AK-47 up the trail as he proceeded cautiously.
The VC point man was almost in front of Nung’s position, when he heard some rustling in the bush and stopped suddenly. He raised an arm, looked behind him, and then moved toward the side of the trail, where the ambush team lay in wait.
The men froze in position as the VC teenager tried to find the source of the noise. Nervous beads of perspiration ran down the faces of each man; fingers tightened their grips on triggers, and all breathing stopped for a moment. He did not venture from the trail to make a visual reconnaissance. After a few sweeps of the jungle, he turned his right ear toward the ambush team and lowered his head, listening. Maybe he could hear what he was unable to see. Finally, having satisfied his curiosity, he returned to the center of the trail and waved for others to follow.
He waited a few minutes before three similarly clad youths came into view from around the bend. They wore conical hats, and carried rucksacks and weapons as well.
When the four men were within the killing zone, Sixpack fired his M-16, the signal for the rest of the squad to open fire. The sound of the ambush was loud enough to reach the firebase, making those soldiers stop working and look anxiously in that direction. The four Vietnamese dropped in their tracks. Larry swept the entire trail with the M-60, Scout and Wild Bill tossed grenades, and Doc, Sixpack, John, and Nung continued to fire on automatic in the direction of the enemy. When there was no return fire, Sixpack yelled, “Hold your fire, hold your fire!”
Scout and Nung jumped from their concealed positions and raced to the bend in the trail. They watched for any enemy reinforcements that might be on their way. Wild Bill and Doc did the same at the opposite end of the trail. Sixpack, Larry, and John rose from the smoky underbrush and moved out toward the corpses on the trail.
The VC were not able to return fire during the ambush; the execution was perfect and took away any chance of their escape. All four enemy soldiers died immediately, their bodies contorted into unthinkable positions. Blood continued to ooze from dozens of holes in their bodies, collecting in small puddles and seeping into the dry, red earth.
Sixpack moved quickly to check the bodies for any signs of life. He found the last enemy soldier in a depression on the far side of the trail.
“We have a live one!” Sixpack announced. “Frenchie, get me a Medevac, and notify the company that we have a POW.”
“Roger.” Frenchie returned to retrieve his radio.
“Polack, keep an eye on him while I go through their gear.”
John hovered over the wounded and unconscious soldier, making certain that his weapon stayed pointed at the man’s head.
“If he makes a move to hurt you, waste him,” Sixpack emphasized.
“I won’t give him the chance.”
Frenchie returned to the trail. “Hey Sixpack! The captain said we’re to remain here after the Medevac leaves because a team from Intelligence is coming out.”
“Why? We can strip the bodies,” Sixpack protested.
“I told him that, but he said they would take care of it, so we wouldn’t have to carry the stuff back to the firebase.”
“Now that’s the best idea that man has had since I’ve been in this company.”
“I’m crazy about it too. Gimme five.”
It took another month and a half to complete Firebase Lynch. By that time, squad-sized bunkers had replaced the small emplacements and new permanent structures enclosed the showers and outhouses. The officers also managed to build special facilities for “officers only”. Two batteries of 105mm Howitzers now called the new firebase home and were set-up next to the two mortar pits.
Reinforcements were arriving periodically to beef up Alpha Company’s strength. Billie Joe Johnson, from Alabama, replaced Zeke in the First Squad. The men quickly nicknamed him ‘BJ’ and assigned him to Larry as an ammo bearer for the machine gun.
The new Cherry sat restlessly near one of the bunkers. His expression was one of awe and his head jerked every which way so as not to miss anything around the firebase.
“What’s it like in the field?” He finally asked.
“You’ll love it,” Larry replied. “All we do is go out on daily ambushes and wait for Charlie to come by.”
“Yeah, and we’ve been lucky too,” John added. “We must have killed at least thirty VC since coming here, and haven’t lost any of our own people.”
The young, backwoods newbie’s eyes widened when hearing this report.
“Just be glad that you weren’t sent to Delta Company,” Scout announced.
“Why?” The tall, wiry kid asked, looking at the outspoken Native American.
“Because they’re not as lucky or as good as we are.”
The Cherry appeared confused and cast an imploring look to Larry.
“What Scout is saying, BJ, is that Delta Company has only killed a couple VC soldiers while losing a bunch of their own to ambushes and booby traps.”
“Wow!” The youngest soldier commented. “You guys must be good.”
<
br /> “We do have our moments,” Scout replied.
“How much longer will we be here?”
“Only a couple of more days, we’re leaving on Thursday for the Michelin Rubber Plantation.”
“To do what?” He asked in a strong southern accent.
“We’re going to kill gooks! Jesus, man, you think we’re going there to make tires? Don’t be such an ignorant motherfucker!”
Doc interrupted, “Don’t be so hard on the man, Scout. He just arrived and doesn’t know what the Nam is about yet.”
“It sure won’t take him long,” Larry pointed out.
“Who will take over the firebase when we leave?”
“See what I mean? All Cherries ever do is ask questions.”
“Don’t worry about it, Scout.” Doc directed his attention to the newest man in the squad. “Son, the higher brass has determined that this area is too difficult to patrol on foot. Shit, most of the jungle is rotting away around this firebase, so they are replacing us with the Fifth Mechanized Battalion. Their APC’s will patrol through this area without a problem. Besides, in the last seven weeks, I haven’t felt as comfortable here as I do at Firebase Kien. It’ll be a pleasure to go back.”
“Why is the jungle rotting?”
“That’s a long story for another day!”
“How far away is Firebase Kien?”
Doc shook his head then smiled broadly. “Damn, BJ, I don’t know myself. All I can tell you is that it’s near the Black Virgin Mountain and in between Tay Ninh and the Parrot’s Beak.”
“Where’s that?”
“I give up!” Doc threw his hands into the air and walked away.
John leaned back against the bunker and smiled, recalling his first few days in the country. Watching and listening to Billie Joe was like a mirrored image of himself just two and a half months earlier.
“Don’t worry about the bush, you’ll do just fine.”
“I have a few more questions; will you answer them for me?”
John thought back to a remark Junior had made on Firebase Kien the night before he left for his first day in the bush: “Someday you’ll be able to help out a Cherry and he’ll be grateful and thank you for your help and understanding.”
John sat upright then called to the new Cherry, “Come over here and sit down. I’ll try to answer your questions and help you get organized.”
~~~~~
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Michelin Rubber Plantation was not too far from the Black Virgin Mountain, which the Vietnamese called Nui Ba Dinh. From a distance of several miles, the mountain appeared to be black and laced with white crevices and tears, taking on a marble-like appearance. No other hills or mountains stood between the plantation and Nui Ba Dinh; it towered, tall and alone in the distance, and could be seen for miles.
Stories circulated about that mountain. The Americans had a base at the top of it accessible only by helicopter; a radio relay station boosted communication signals between the military officials in Saigon and the rest of the country. The Army of the Republic of Vietnam (ARVN) had a large compound at the base of the same mountain. They were allies to the Americans, but content staying within their bases instead of patrolling through the jungle. In between these two compounds, the enemy supposedly had an intricate tunnel system, encompassing the entire mountain, top to bottom. It was said that the mountain is so porous that a couple of well-placed thousand-pound bombs could dissolve the mountain into a pile of dirt and stones.
The First Platoon operated on the outskirts of the plantation where several small villages lined the length of the dirt road. The area was sparsely populated and not considered a “Free Fire Zone.” A daily curfew existed between dusk and dawn, however. A person caught outside of their village during those hours could be shot and killed.
They shared the road with shuffling villagers who made their way to and from the rubber plantation. Large water buffalo pulled carts filled with pails of dark, sticky liquid collected from the trees within the plantation. Adults moved about in a very quick step balancing long, bent bamboo poles across their shoulders with a full pail attached to each. All but the children wore straw-colored conical hats with traditional black nylon pants and working shirts in various colors.
In the passing villages, children ran about chasing small pigs, chickens and barking dogs. They laughed and had fun, too caught up in what they were doing to notice the line of American soldiers passing by.
“This is just too weird! I would never have imagined that I would be walking on a trail in Vietnam alongside villagers on their way to work.” Larry transferred his machine gun to the opposite shoulder so one of the buffalos could not snatch it from him.
“Last time we worked in this plantation, we were on the western side of it and there were very few people around.”
“Scout, how do we know which of these people are VC or not?”
“If we had that answer, the war would have been over long ago, my friend.”
“I don’t understand.”
“One way, Polack, is to ask them for their ID. Everyone must carry them to show that they’re honest citizens. However, that’s the easiest piece of ID to buy on the black market. The VC also carried them – that’s why it’s so confusing during the day. Everybody’s a farmer and villager during the day; some join up with the VC at night.”
“I agree with you, Scout, but carrying cards after curfew doesn’t mean squat. If we spot anybody moving around after dark, the probability of his or her being VC is very high. So we can shoot them first and not worry about checking ID because he looks suspicious.”
”You got that right, Sarge. That’s why I prefer the free-fire zones, where we don’t have to deal with this bullshit.”
“You know these villagers are mostly honest, hardworking people, trying to make a living. Most “imposters” are usually found in those villages outside of major base camps; many even have a job on the base. During my last tour, a Sapper Squad hit our base camp during the night. They created all kinds of havoc, but the next morning, we found one of the base barbers dead in the wire with others from his VC squad.”
“Shit, it’s like you can’t trust anyone,” BJ stated after hearing Sixpack tell the story.
“No, you can’t, so don’t let your guard down, even in areas like this. It only takes guts for one of them to reach down into a bush and come out firing an AK-47 on full automatic. How many of us do you think he can take out?”
“Say no more, Sixpack. We get the message!” The squad members adjusted their rifles, carrying them in a more defensive posture. Some had their weapons hanging from their shoulder by a sling; others held them by the handle, swinging the rifle at arm’s length along their sides with each step.
The parade continued with the Americans showing more curiosity in the villagers than the villagers in them.
Sixpack led the column into one of the villages, looking for things that might be suspicious.
“This is the first time I’ve been in one of these villages. It’s a lot different walking through than just glimpsing them from a bus or truck window when I first arrived in country.”
Once again they saw old people squatting in front of their straw huts, chewing betel nuts, and occasionally smiling as the Americans passed. Others sneered at them for the interruption and spit on the ground at their feet.
Dogs barked incessantly and chickens scurried about, pecking at the dirt with every other step.
“These are the sorriest excuses for chickens that I’ve ever seen in my life. Just look at them! They’re nothing but skin and bones.”
“BJ, they probably eat more than the villagers but are only good for flavoring a pot of water.”
“They’re mean little fuckers though. This one almost bit my finger off when I reached for it.”
Some of the nearby villagers covered their mouths with a hand and chuckled after seeing Larry jump into the air and back away from the small, snapping three-pound bird.
&nbs
p; Young boys led the huge water buffalos around, prodding and beating at them with long, thin bamboo sticks. They showed no fear of these massive animals; nonetheless, the Americans gave them a wide berth.
Small children began tagging along and followed the soldiers through the village as if they were Pied Pipers. The little kids ranged in age from about five years old to eight or so, and looked cute wearing pajama bottoms that were too big, continuously tugging and pulling at their waists while struggling to keep up.
“GI souvenir me chop-chop? Cigarettes?” The kids begged for handouts.
BJ handed one of them some of the red licorice he carried. All at once, the kids converged on him.
“Hold on now, I don’t have any more to share.” BJ held the licorice high into the air; the kids tried climbing up his body to reach the prize.
“You’re fucked now. Give them the whole package before they knock your ass over and take it from you anyway.” The sight reminded Scout of what life was like on the reservation, as many of the Native Americans lived in poverty and the children there would have done the same thing.
BJ quickly tossed the package off to the side and watched the pack of youths dive toward it in a free for all. This kept them busy for the next five minutes.
Most children under two years old or so were naked and were either sitting on the ground in front of their huts or were carried in the arms of an older sister.
A few boys, who looked to be about twelve, wheeled up on their bikes next to the column of soldiers. They had Styrofoam coolers filled with ice-cold Cokes strapped to back of each bike.
“GI want buy cold Coke? Only one dollar?” They parked their vehicles and set up shop right on the side of the trail.
Some of the soldiers stepped out of line and approached the young hawkers with dollar bills in hand. The bottles were temptingly cold and condensation dripped from them.
“What do you think, Larry? Should we get one? I remember them telling us in training when we got here that we shouldn’t because they may be poisoned or have ground glass in them.”
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 20