When the crises was over, the men began joking and laughing about the experience.
“Did you guys catch the face Polack was making back there? It was so twisted up, I didn’t even recognize him.”
“Hell, Frenchie, I didn’t see you laughing back there!”
“That’s the fastest I moved in a while. Kind of reminded me of what we went through in boot camp.”
“You’re full of shit, BJ. We expected it back then. Now tell me any of you knew this was going to happen.”
“That’s the first time I’ve experienced CS gas,” John added.
“How is that possible? Nobody gets excused from the gas chamber in Basic.”
“Yeah, you’re full of shit, Polack.”
“No, it’s true. See this long scar on my neck?” He pointed to the four-inch scar across the left side of his neck. “A few days before we were supposed to go to the chamber, four guys broke out of the stockade at Fort Knox and came through our company training area to hassle and rob us. Some of us started to fight them, but didn’t know they were hiding box cutter straight razors in their hands. Two of them cornered me between our barrack wall and the hand railing on the slab just outside of the door. One of them swung at my head and I jumped back, thinking that I cleared his reach. Both felons backed away quickly and then attacked another nearby recruit. I ran inside, grabbed my folding shovel from my web belt, and was on my way back outside when my bunkmate stopped me, pushing me down on the nearest bunk. I remember him telling me that I was bleeding profusely from a cut across my throat. This was news to me as I wasn’t feeling any pain and don’t remember being cut. But, when I looked down at my t-shirt and shorts, I saw they were soaked with blood.
“My buddy ran to get some gauze from the nearest web belt and quickly covered the wound and wrapped it tightly. Meanwhile, some of the other grunts in the barracks came over to see what all the commotion was about and saw all the blood. One of the squad leaders ran to the Orderly Room and told the sergeant on duty. He quickly arranged for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.
“They told me I was lucky, because the razor had just nicked my jugular vein; a millimeter more and I would have bled to death. I needed thirty stitches, both inside and out, to close the wound properly. Afterwards, a couple of MP's took me over to their headquarters where they interrogated me about the assault. That lasted most of the night, and I got back to the barracks about four in the morning. The DI and captain of the training company let me sleep for the rest of the day, excusing me from training for the next week. But I did spend some of the time doing KP.
“So, is that a good enough story for you to believe that I missed the gas chamber in Basic?”
“Damn, Polack. What happened to the motherfuckers that cut you?”
“I heard a couple of days later they were caught and would be prosecuted. I didn’t have to testify or do anything else because they had my story, witnesses, and pictures of my wound as evidence.”
“Did they put you in another training company?”
“No, we were almost at the end of the program anyway and I was allowed to take the PT tests - which I passed - and then graduated with everyone else.”
“Okay, good enough story, Polack. I stand corrected. You are the first of those I know in the Army who’s never experienced the gas chamber in Basic Training. But you guys have to admit that what just happened to us is still funnier than shit.”
They all agreed and started laughing once again, pointing to one another and making faces.
It was almost five in the afternoon when the First Platoon neared the base of Hill 200. The captain instructed them to pick an area nearby for their NDP and settle in for the night. He also cautioned them that other patrols were still out for another hour; mechanicals were not to be setup until the last possible moment.
The grunts located a spot where the banana trees provided shade from the low-setting sun. The ground had soft, shallow vegetation, which provided some cushion for their makeshift beds for the night. John and many others chose to lie down and rest for a short period, postponing dinner until later.
Nung climbed one of the banana trees and brought down a bunch of small bananas, passing out the pickle-sized treats to those nearby. Wild Bill walked toward John with a few of the yellow fruits to share.
“Holy shit, Polack, don’t move!” He dropped the bananas to the ground.
“Why? What’s wrong?” He asked, startled and concerned, but careful not to move.
“Man, you have got the biggest tarantula I’ve ever seen crawling up your leg.”
John lifted his head and saw a softball-sized, furry black creature moving up his leg.
“Get this thing off of me,” he pleaded though clenched teeth.
“Just lay still and maybe he’ll crawl off you. If you move real sudden-like and scare him, he might bite you.”
John was praying that he would not need a Medevac pick-up because another jungle creature bit him. He lay absolutely still.
“Hey, guys! Come over and look at this!” Wild Bill called to the rest of the squad.
“Jesus Christ. That’s one big, motherfucking spider!” Frenchie said upon his arrival. He was holding a large Bowie knife in his right hand.
“Where did that come from?”
“BJ, you don’t know shit do you? We are in a banana plantation. Tarantulas are banana spiders. They thrive in this shit.”
John could feel the presence of the huge arachnid on his leg as it made its way up his body. It continued on its course until reaching his waist.
“Guys, I’m scared shitless here. Please do something to get this thing off me!”
“We can’t. If we try to pick it off with a branch or machete, it will really piss him off. They’re very delicate and can feel sensations easily. Let it go, eventually, it’ll walk right off.”
John felt his heart beating so hard and fast that he thought his chest was going to explode. He broke out in a cold sweat as the spider continued its upward trek. When reaching his chest, it paused once again. John was terrified, hoping that his heaving chest would not scare the creature into biting him.
It traveled upwards on his neck; John braced himself, clamping his lips together. When one of its legs reached up and brushed the bare skin of his chin, it sent a chill down his spine, causing him to shiver.
“Don’t move. He’ll be off in a minute,” Frenchie cautioned. He and Scout knelt down, each pinning John’s shoulders to the ground, restricting his movement.
He could feel each of its eight legs on his face now and closed his eyes tightly until it crossed over. It paused for a third time on his forehead. John dared not open his eyes in fear of what he might see. He felt the tarantula moving again, slowly maneuvering through the strands of his hair. It tickled, and he felt an uncontrollable urge to reach up and scratch his head. However, Frenchie and Scout saw him starting to move and quickly secured his arms as well.
Seconds later, when the spider finally crawled off of him, the men yanked John to his feet quickly. Hearing a sharp crack behind him, John turned to see that Wild Bill had smashed the spider with John’s steel helmet.
“Relax, Polack, it’s over,” Wild Bill took some banana leaves and wiped off the helmet before handing it to the quivering soldier.
“What a fucking relief! I’ll bet I aged twenty years during those last ten minutes.”
“You handled it well, Polack. I just hope there aren’t any more of them wandering around here tonight.”
“Fuck you, Scout. You just had to be a smartass and say something like that.” John looked the ground over and moved some long leaves from around the nearest banana tree. “I don’t ever want to be this close to another spider again for as long as I live.” They all laughed.
“Come on, let’s celebrate. I’ve got some extra fruit cocktail we can share,” Frenchie suggested.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Polack’s continued stretch of good luck!”
T
he following day, John led the way as the First Platoon moved toward their new NDP location, traveling at a good pace because of the thin vegetation in the area. The men humped for over an hour without a break and began complaining loudly. In order to keep the peace, Sixpack stopped the column when reaching the far edge of the valley. John moved as far away from the banana trees as possible; he did not want to relive another confrontation with a tarantula.
After the break, they continued at a relaxed pace until John came upon a trail heading in the same direction. There, First and Third Squads switched positions in the column. The new point man and three other squads passed John; he fell in behind the last man and First Squad was now bringing up the rear.
Two hours had passed and they found themselves still moving along the side of the same trail. Nung, who was the last man in the long column, passed up word for them to stop. Sixpack immediately broke away from his place in the column. Moving back to join up with Nung, the column of men took a break and broke out cigarettes, sharing with those who did not have any. A minute later, a single, light blue cloud of smoke formed, hovering above the smoking men on the trail.
“Sergeant! I think maybe VC follow,” he informed Sixpack.
“How many, Nung?”
“Not for sure, maybe only one man.”
“Wild Bill, Frenchie, I need you both.” They stood up and walked over to where the sergeant squatted with Nung.
“Nung thinks we’re being followed by one or more VC. So when the platoon gets up to move out, I want the two of you and Nung to hide out here on the side of the trail and if our watcher comes by, grab his ass!”
“Right on, Sarge. We’ll get the little fucker.”
“I want him alive, so don’t get trigger-happy and waste him.”
Sixpack then called the captain on the radio to inform him of their current situation.
While rising to their feet after the break, everyone created more noise than usual, covering up the sounds of the three men sneaking into their hiding places. When the column moved forward, Sixpack and the men, bringing up the rear had to fight the urge to look backwards, thus, spooking the trail watcher.
After ten minutes, Sixpack heard Frenchie calling from a distance, “We got the little fucker!” The column halted once again.
The four men were moving up the trail towards the rest of the platoon at a fast pace. Nung had secured the young enemy soldier; one hand held the bound man’s arms tightly behind his back, and the other grasped a crop of the man’s hair, pulling on it so he faced upward when walking. Wild Bill carried Nung’s M-16 and the AK-47 as he led the way. Frenchie followed slightly to the side of the trio, keeping his rifle trained on the new prisoner’s head. When they reached Sixpack, Nung threw the prisoner to the ground at his feet.
“Mr. Victor Charles at your service, just as promised,” Wild Bill tossed the AK-47 to Sixpack.
The man’s nose was bleeding, and his upper lip and right eye were also red and beginning to swell, yet he exhibited a look of defiance that under different circumstances might have been intimidating.
“Nung, ask him what unit he’s from,” Sixpack ordered. Nung started jabbering at the man in rapid- fire Vietnamese but did not seem to be getting anywhere.
“He is very stubborn. No want talk.”
Without warning, Nung punched the prisoner in the side of his head. He staggered and fell to his back; Nung then jumped onto the man, straddling his chest. He yelled viciously at the VC and got in three more punches before Sixpack and John pulled him from the prisoner.
His lip and a gash over his eye were both bleeding now along with his nose. He looked up to Sixpack, said a few words in Vietnamese, and started to cry. Nung pulled out his towel, wiped at the blood on the man’s face, then pulled him to his feet.
“He say he ready to talk.”
“Good. Ask him again what unit he’s from.”
“He say 274 VC Regiment.”
“Where is he going?”
“He say he moving back to area where many men wait to fight. He want make sure that he watch us because we go same way.”
Handing Nung his map, Sixpack said, “Have him point out on the map where this staging area is.”
Nung unfolded the map, pointing out their current position to the prisoner. They mumbled back and forth, as Nung touched different spots on the map.
“Is here,” Nung, pointed out the location.
“Ask him how many men are there.”
“He say he not know. He just say beaucoup men.”
“Okay. Frisk him and make sure he’s clean.” Sixpack turned to his RTO and said, “Get the captain on the horn.”
Nung offered the prisoner some water from his canteen as they continued jabbering. Captain Fowler wanted to meet up with First Platoon, and asked Sixpack to move up the trail about five-hundred feet so they could meet halfway. After assuring him that he would not be hurt anymore, the prisoner spilled his guts to Nung.
The captain, his CP and Third Platoon met up at the rendezvous point with Sixpack's men. Many of the men from the Third Platoon were Cherries and crowded around for a look at the live prisoner. Sixpack’s men had to step in to keep them all at a safe distance.
“What happened to his face? It looks like he took a beating.” Captain Fowler asked when seeing the prisoner for the first time.
“The men had to run him down and when they tackled him, his face fell against a big rock.”
“These rocks have five fingers attached?”
“No, sir, it was just a simple round, big, gray rock.”
The captain noticed Nung’s bloody knuckles. “Did you fall against the same rock, Nung?”
“Yes, Dai Uy (Vietnamese for captain), both VC and Nung hit beaucoup rock same same time.”
“Very well, you better go and have that looked at.”
“Yes, Dai Uy!” Nung bowed and left the officer, walking along the column of men to find Doc.
Upon hearing what the young VC soldier had divulged to the men, the captain excitedly relayed the information to the Battalion Commander, who immediately dispatched a team from Cu Chi to retrieve the prisoner.
Meanwhile, the artillery liaison in the CP passed on the coordinates of the suspected camp and prepared Firebase Kien for an artillery fire mission.
Captain Fowler asked Sixpack to take the First Platoon and head for that area to sniff around and see what they could find. The Third Platoon would follow on their heels as soon as the prisoner was on his way to the rear.
It was almost four clicks to the suspected enemy camp and the trail they had been following would get them to within two-hundred meters of their target. Captain Fowler suggested they follow it and estimated that they could reach their objective in just over an hour.
As the First Platoon prepared to leave, they heard the sound of artillery rounds landing in the distance as the bombardment began.
Delta Company was patrolling in an area just north of the suspected enemy staging area, and had volunteered to assist as needed. They agreed to block the northern escape route and maneuvered their people quickly to setup on line. Delta Company was in place within twenty minutes; the blocking line of men was just five-hundred meters away from where the artillery shells were exploding.
First Platoon had made good time toward their objective; artillery rounds continued whistling overhead and erupting in ground-shaking explosions. The noise was louder and more bone-jarring the closer they got. When reaching the spot where the platoon had to step off the trail for the final leg of the journey, Sixpack informed the captain, who called an end to the fire mission. The short wait allowed the men an opportunity to catch their breath before entering the jungle.
Suddenly, they heard gunfire to the north - predominately M-16’s with an occasional pop of an AK-47, mimicking a mad minute, and then stopping.
Sixpack was not going to move his men until he knew exactly what happened during that last confrontation. They sat tight, keeping their eyes open for any move
ment heading their way.
Captain Fowler called to inform Sixpack that the artillery had flushed a group of VC from the area and straight into the gun sights of Delta Company. They were running full tilt and were taken by surprise by the ambush; many died immediately. Some of the VC returned a few rounds before falling themselves, yet others fled to the west. Delta just started their sweep of the area and counted twelve bodies so far.
First Platoon was in a precarious position, as the prisoner’s information had proven to be somewhat correct. It was no longer simply a mission to check out a rumor. Now, with the probability of finding enemy soldiers in the complex, the men had to rethink their approach and do so at a high level of alert. Third Platoon was still some thirty minutes away; First could not wait that long to begin the sweep.
Sixpack split the platoon into two columns, twenty feet apart, and sent four flankers to the sides. The men sweated profusely as they inched forward, expecting the enemy to open fire on them at any second. They were uncertain if any of those staying behind even survived the shelling; the grunts were pessimistic and prepared for a worst-case scenario.
John was on point, leading the left column. Scout, Frenchie, Nung, Wild Bill, BJ and his assistant gunner, Doc, Sixpack, and the radio operator were following close behind. Half of the Second Squad fell in behind them, those remaining moved out as flankers to the left of the column. A mirror-image formation, comprised of the remaining two squads, kept pace with John’s column, twenty feet to their right.
The men waited patiently for the gunships to arrive before entering the complex. Artillery stood by to support when called upon. Delta Company also remained in a position to reinforce the sweeping platoon if needed. John was the first to step out of the jungle and into the staging area. The captured VC soldier had not lied; the complex was definitely there. He passed the first of many destroyed bunkers and used hand signals to those behind him, pointing to bunkers that needed checking. Some were still intact; the logs, dirt, and leaf-covered roofs rose up and were only two feet above the ground. Some of the passing grunts tossed in grenades, which exploded seconds after shouting out a warning: “Fire in the hole!” After each explosion, three soldiers shot rounds into the bunkers and then crept down the earthen steps and through the narrow entrances, expecting bodies inside.
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 30