Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  “You guys know this is my first goody box from home, so I don’t even know what to expect inside.”

  “We’ll love whatever your mom sent.”

  After the box was unwrapped, and all the crushed paper removed, the treasure lay exposed.

  “I’m just going to empty everything on the ground and then we can divvy it up.”

  First, John lifted a large, round metal tin from the box, opening it to find aluminum foil surrounding dozens of homemade chocolate chip cookies. He took a couple and passed the tin to Scout who was the closest to him.

  Ecstatic, they began scarfing them down, like dogs when passed a scrap of meat from the dinner table.

  After the box was empty, the group surveyed the selection of gifts on the ground. There were several small cans of Vienna sausages and hot dogs, vacuum-packed cans of peanuts, candy, fruit cocktail, a one-pound jar of instant coffee, magazines, and a couple of copies of the Detroit News Sunday newspaper, complete with comics and inserts.

  There was also a five-pound canned ham. Although it could not compare to the lunch they had earlier, it would make for a wonderful squad dinner in a couple of days. The group salvaged all the unused cans of C-Ration pineapple bits from the resupply and then agreed to take turns carrying the ham until the big cook out.

  After splitting the bounty and packing the goodies inside their rucksacks, the men gathered all the leftover packaging for disposal, burning the packing paper, boxes, and various wrappings, and then spreading the ashes about. That was standard operating procedure when one had to leave behind anything in the bush with names, addresses, or other written personal information. Wild Bill took the empty metal tin, filled it with stones and dirt, then tossed it into the closest water-filled bomb crater; it sank easily to the bottom of the twenty-foot deep hole. The protocol was necessary to deter Charlie from salvaging anything to use against the Americans later - either as a booby trap or a psychological weapon.

  The anticipation of the upcoming ham dinner made the next two days go by rather quickly. The soldiers did not even mind taking turns carrying the extra five pounds of additional weight; the thought of the mouth-watering cookout offset any urge to complain. The perfect opportunity for the culinary feast presented itself on the third night. The squad gathered and laid out their supplies. They then converted several empty C-Ration cans into stoves, punching holes into the sides, thereby providing a flow of oxygen to keep the heat tabs burning. They had ten cans of pineapple bits to use when cooking the ham; Scout opened them and set them to the side. Meanwhile, Wild Bill took the seven stoves and arranged them into a circle large enough to support the can of ham, allowing it to cook evenly in its tin container. Next, he dropped a heat tab into each of the “stoves” and lit them with a match. Everything was now ready for the ham.

  John had the privilege of opening the can of ham, accepting it with ceremonial reverence from Wild Bill, who carried it through the last leg of the journey.

  He pried the small key from the lid, and then secured it to the metal tab on the seal of the can. Scout, Frenchie, and BJ crowded around him and watched intently as John turned the key like a wind-up music box. The seal broke with a hiss of air; some juice spilled onto his lap and ran down his pant leg.

  “Goddamn! What the fuck is that smell?” Wild Bill and the others quickly backed away, leaving John with a perplexed look upon his face. They fanned the air with their arms in an attempt to dissipate the foul odor.

  “It smells like a bunch of dead bodies!” Frenchie pinched his nose closed with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s the fucking ham! The damn thing’s spoiled!”

  John dropped the can onto the ground and quickly moved away from it with the rest of the men.

  “Shit, man, get away from us. You smell just like the ham.” Wild Bill gave John a playful shove away from him.

  John looked down to see that the juice from the container had spilled along the entire length of his trousers. He quickly ran to the nearest bomb crater, removed his pants, and jumped into the tepid water. There, he took a handful of mud to use as scrubbing material; he covered the length of one of the pant legs, and rubbed it vigorously against the other. He rinsed the pants thoroughly, took a whiff, and repeated the process once again. John repeated the process several more times until he was satisfied with the results. He climbed out of the hole, put the wet trousers back on, and returned to the group. Scout was in the process of scolding the rest of the squad.

  “All of us are a bunch of dumbasses. During the last three days, each of us has carried this can of ham, yet none of us took the time to read the label. Here, look at this,” he pointed to some large lettering on the side of the can. “Keep refrigerated.”

  “Polack, I think you better let your mother know what happened here. There is no refrigeration in the bush. In fact, it had to take at least a couple of weeks for this to get here, and I’m certain it was never chilled again after your mom removed it from the refrigerator.”

  “I will. I’m sorry, guys. I was really looking forward to our open range cooking tonight, too.”

  “We all were, Polack, up until ten minutes ago. What a bummer!”

  “Yeah, man, thank your mom anyway. Tell her that we were all thrilled and thought that it was nice of her. Too bad this happened.”

  “We have to bury this shit so it doesn’t attract wild animals. Everyone grab a can of pineapple bits and we’ll have a toast to Polack’s mom.”

  They raised the cans together in the center of the small circle. Wild Bill made the toast, “To Polack’s mom, who is one hell of a fine woman and cookie maker.”

  “Here - here!”

  The next day, the platoon moved into a highly humid area, rich in vegetation, to set up their NDP for the night. They used machetes and Bowie knives to cut out individual sleep areas and rid the ground of roots.

  With the perimeter secured, everybody began cooking C-Ration dinners. Desmond Stumps wandered over and joined some of the members of the First Squad. Desi had been in country for several months and hailed from Alabama; he was the point man for the Second Squad.

  “Hey y’all, this here sure does look like the same place I saw the biggest varmint of mah life while ova here.”

  “What’s a varmint?” Scout asked.

  “It’s a big critter!”

  “Talk English!”

  “Okay. Listen up and let me tell the story ‘bout the critter then maybe y’all will understand.”

  Those nearby coaxed him on. “Yeah, Desi, tell us that story.”

  “Don’t interrup’ me then. We found us a place for o’er night jest like this here one. Ah found me a place betweenst some trees and used mah long metal cutting tool to clear out all the stuff growin’ there. Whenst I got to the ground, ah had to use mah big bear-skinning knife to cut up all those small roots and things that be stickin’ up from the ground. Once that were done, ah rolled out mah poncho and liner and had me a bed soft enough for mah granny to sleep in.

  “Bout the time ah finished it were time to make mah supper. Ah put mah sack to the side, fetched a can of pork, beans and weenies. Whoo lordy, mah mouth is fixin’ to start waterin’ jest at the thought of them vittles. Ya know, they the best vittles o’er here.” This drew moans from the others.

  “Ah notice a smooth green and brown log to the side of mah sleepin’ area, ‘bout as big as mah leg.” He wrapped his hands around the thigh of his right leg for emphasis. “Ah thought maybe some feller had skinned the bark off this here log and used it fer himself to sit on a while back. So I took mah little stove can and vittles o’er to that log and set down on it whilst mah vittles is heatin’ up. Ah wanna tell ya that sumpin’ just wan’t right wit that log, but ah couldn’t put mah finger on it. Ah thought ah felt it movin’ and shakin’ some, an’ thought maybe it were concussions from some bombs fallin’ someplace, so ah didn’t pay it no never mind.

  “Just bout that time, old Arnold come rushin’ up, ‘OOOWEEEE, Desmond – do ya know what yer sitt
in’ on?’ he asked me. His eyeballs looked like they were ‘bout to pop out from his head. ‘Ya better git up and move o’er here wit me,’ he said.

  “Well don’t ya know that ah was getting de heebie jeebies just a lookin’ at his eyeballs and figgering ah better jump up pronto like. Ah moved over by Arnold and looked down at that there log and ah can now see that it was vibratin’ some. Arnold pokes mah side and points at mah log and ah foller his finger fer bout ten foot away to a tree. Mercy sakes, it took mah breath away when ah noticed that mah log stretched clear cross that ground from where we was standin’ and up into that there tree. It was ‘bout then that ah noticed a big snakehead at the end of mah log up in that tree - that rascal’s head were bigger ‘a mine. It ‘peered to be sleepin’ whilst it was hangin’ onto the ground. Then we saw that it were all swollen up and maybe four times bigger than the rest of it fer bout three feet or so. Now this here swollen part is layin’ on the ground bout a foot away from that there tree. Old Arnold guessed that it must have swallered a wild pig since they all around us and is telling that everythin’ be alright ‘cuz that varmint be filled with vittles and probably would not be movin’ for some days. He tells me ah got nuthin’ to worry bout and that critter won’t bother any of us o’er night. Some of the otherin’ were telling that none of ‘em were sure but thought it were either a python, a boa constrictor or Ana-sometin’ type of a snake. It were too bad that nobody took pictures of that varmint. Ah would be awfully grateful to know what it were.” Everyone listened intently, mesmerized by his story and accent.

  “Well, you know old Desmond wanted to shoot that varmint in is head, but the otherin’ wouldn’t let me. They say that it would give our position away to them Viet Cong fellers and it would be more dangerous than sleepin’ wit’ that big rascal. That were easy for them to say cause none of ’em are layin’ anywhere close to that there tree septin’ me.” Some of the men squirmed as they imagined themselves in that situation.

  “Now ah gotta tell ya that this here night were the worstest of mah whole life. Ah built mahself a small fence twenst that critter and me and jest set there on the ground and kept an eyeball open all the nightlong. It were pitch black and them there shadows played wit’ mah head all night. And I know to this day that if that fence made any noise at all during that night, ah would be up and putting some distance betweenst me an that critter.

  “But ya know what? In the morning, ah was surprised to find that varmint in the exact same position as it were when it started to git dark the night before. Ah will never ever forget that there night and swear to all y’all that nuthin’ in this here bush, even them Viet Cong fellers, has ever scared me more than that there snake. I hopes there ain’t any ‘round here tonight.”

  The men laughed and thought it was a funny story, but they could not resist scrutinizing their surroundings and taking a closer look around after Desmond had left to return to his squad.

  The monsoon season was beginning in the southern half of Vietnam. It was hot and sunny most of the day, started raining by seven every evening, and continued nonstop until eight the next morning. You could set a watch by this pattern.

  “At least the VC won’t be out in this kind of weather.”

  Quick to correct BJ, Nung said, “This VC weather. Rain will cover all noise of moving and wash out all signs on trails. VC stay one place during day and move nighttime. He know American soldiers not like be wet. They all covered with ponchos at night and no hear or see him. GI also complain loud about wetness and VC hear this. This beaucoup danger time for GI’s.”

  What he had said made the others think hard about the possibilities. Could it really be true? Was it possible for them to know where the GI’s were bushing and setting up ambushes every night? If so, the monsoon season would be the toughest months of the yearlong tour.

  They tried keeping the noise and complaints down to a minimum for as long as possible, but it only lasted a week. The bitching and complaining became progressively louder during the night and increased with the intensity of the hard rain. Rightfully so, there was no protection from the weather in the bush and no way of keeping dry during the night, sleeping soaked to the bone every night soon became a way of life for the troops.

  Every morning, the platoon moved to a new NDP, and because their equipment was wet, the added weight made it much more difficult to hump. Even their clothes were heavier. During the moves, the afternoon temperatures and high humidity were unbearable, drying everything in the hot sun. The grunts sweated profusely. Always too hot or too cold, there was never a happy medium during the rainy season.

  The constant rain was also rough on the machine gunners. Their lives and those around them depended upon the weapons in a time of need. A jam or misfire during a firefight could be devastating. Therefore, everyone pitched in to help the gunners with their daily ritual of cleaning and oiling the guns, thus, keeping the weapons in dependable working order. Any belts of ammo exposed to the environment had to be cleaned with a toothbrush and oiled thoroughly at least twice a day. Dirt particles, sand, and rust on the linkage would cause the weapon to jam. The platoon was easily going through a gallon of oil each week.

  New replacements started arriving - at least one or two on every resupply. During a normal rotation, each squad expected to go out on recon patrols every other day, but because of the eight people lost on the LZ, every squad was now required to go out on daily patrols. At that rate, First Platoon would be back up to full strength within the next two weeks, providing they did not lose anyone before then. Everyone counted the days.

  Lt. Ramsey developed pneumonia and was trying to hide it. He was stubborn and insisted on staying with his men, but his constant hacking and coughing jeopardized the platoon. Sixpack had to intercede and asked the captain to give the L-T an order to leave. A Medevac helicopter finally pulled the L-T from the jungle and flew him to the hospital.

  With the L-T gone, Sixpack, as the highest-ranking sergeant, assumed command of the First Platoon and quickly promoted Frenchie to replace him as the First Squad team leader. They wondered how long it would remain that way, as Second Lieutenants were at a premium in Vietnam. Usually, their combat tours in the bush averaged eight months, before rotating to a rear job for the last few months. It seemed highly unfair to the enlisted men who sometimes were unable to get out of the bush until a day or two before going home.

  During the first night without an officer, a typhoon hit the southern part of Vietnam. The grunts in the field soon found it to be one of the most terrifying experiences they ever encountered. The wind blew so hard through the jungle, that it carried pieces of trees, rocks, and anything else that could become airborne. Some larger trees fell and crashed to the jungle floor, and rain blowing horizontally made it difficult for anyone to see or hear. There was no safe haven or shelter; the men had to ride out the storm.

  Sixpack had the men break up into three and four-man teams, ordering them to connect web belts together and secure themselves to the larger trees. The wind pulled the plastic knives from both mechanical ambushes and caused the trip flares to disengage, thus causing unexpected detonations and illuminations around the perimeter. Mother Nature was at her worst, with the panic-stricken men at her mercy.

  For once, no one complained about being wet; they were too busy wondering if survival was an option at that point. Each team did everything in their power to stay connected and secured to the trees; the heavy wind buffeted them around like ocean buoys in a hurricane. Some of the soldiers who did not bother changing clothes during the last resupply watched their frayed clothing shred and tear apart. Tabs of material caught in the wind vortex and ripped from their bodies like bandage strips.

  Nine hours later, the typhoon wound down and the remaining wind and rain were bearable. It also helped that it was now early morning; the light of day was starting to break through the jungle. Relieved, the teams untied themselves and salvaged what was left of their Night Defensive Position and gear. Doc was already making h
is rounds and attending to those injured by flying debris during the night. None of the injuries were serious; Doc could treat everyone without having to call in a Medevac.

  “Thank you, Jesus!” Frenchie made the sign of the cross and surveyed the area. “I have never experienced anything so terrifying in my entire life.”

  “You and me both. It was so damn scary, I prayed all night long. Now when I get home there won’t be a pot for me to piss in. I told the man upstairs that I’d give everything I own to the church if he got me through this storm in one piece.”

  “Shit, Wild Bill, there isn’t much to give, is there? After all, don’t you just own a bunch of flat land and wild sagebrush in Texas?”

  “I did up until now, Frenchie. Wild Bill smiled at the ribbing. But you got to admit last night might have been the first night in a long time that many of the guys in this platoon actually prayed.”

  “I guess you’re right. It’s been a while for me, but at least it worked and we all made it through that nightmare.”

  “Amen!”

  “I’ll take a firefight anytime next to that storm.”

  John happened to notice that most of Scout’s trousers were missing. “Where the fuck is the rest of your pants, Scout? Your fucking balls are hanging out!”

  “This is a new fashion statement.”

  Sixpack strolled over while they were still laughing at the absurdity.

  “Hey, Frenchie, get your squad squared away, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Okay Sarge. Come on, troop, let’s get things cleaned up. We can talk later.”

  Several days had passed since the dreadful typhoon. First Platoon was back into the routine of moving every day and pulling ambushes at night.

  Alpha Company had been lucky and had no contact with the enemy in quite some time; most of the grunts were thankful. The colonel, on the other hand, wanted to see more results, and increased their visibility by having the companies continuously hump long distances during the day, hoping to find the elusive enemy. Noise discipline was deteriorating, complaints continued about the humps and having to carry sixty to eighty pound rucksacks on tired backs. Some men fell out during the humps, unable to keep up with the pace during the heat and humidity. Some heat stroke victims required a Medevac to transport them to the nearest hospital. Thankfully, waiting for the chopper to arrive gave everyone else a much-needed break.