Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  “Are you sure it’s gone?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Somebody rifled through my shit and took it.”

  “So what’s the big deal? Just go to the PX and buy some more.”

  “Polack, it’s not the same. I brought it over with me from the states. It’s been my good luck charm since I’ve been here.”

  “Come on, Sarge, you’re not superstitious are you?”

  “No, I’m not superstitious, but look who’s asking? Why in the fuck do you have that fifty-caliber bullet hanging from your neck on that chain?”

  “For good luck, too, I guess. But, this is different. I wear it all the time, and I made it back in Kien before going out into the bush on my first mission. I haven’t taken it off my neck since. You never took your beer with you in the bush.”

  “It was a good luck charm for me, too, asshole, but I didn’t have to carry it with me. How would you feel if somebody stole your necklace or if you lost it out in the bush?”

  John pondered this last question for only a second. “I’d be really bummed out. I’m sorry, Sixpack, I didn’t realize...”

  Sixpack interrupted, “Fuck it. Don’t mean nothin’. Just forget about the whole thing.”

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I told you to just forget it! I want to be alone right now. Do you mind?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll go out and take a walk. I’ll catch up with you later.” John took his paperback with him and left the barracks.

  The next morning, forty soldiers left for Camp Vandergrift on a Chinook helicopter. John sat near the rear of the bird, watching the surrounding countryside through the opened boarding ramp. The sight was pathetic. The valleys lay scorched and the ground was pitted with bomb craters from hundreds of B-52 bombs. Huge mountains, covered with jungle growth, stretched to the north as far as one could see; they, too, showed the scars of war. To the east, the South China Sea glistened, the blue-green color extending to the horizon. Their destination, Camp Vandergrift, was located several miles south of the DMZ; the flight would take almost thirty minutes.

  John tensed as he suddenly had the thought that his upcoming experiences could be far worse than anything he had ever encountered while fighting in the south.

  He leaned toward Sixpack and yelled above the loud noise of the vibrating aircraft, “Why do you think they need so many replacements up here?”

  “Probably because they get their asses kicked all the time.”

  “That’s not what I was hoping to hear.”

  “Oh, well!”

  “Geeze, thanks.”

  John couldn’t understand why Sixpack was taking out his frustrations on him. It wasn’t his fault that somebody stole his beer, and he hoped Sixpack’s attitude changed soon.

  Vandergrift was a large base camp similar to Cu Chi, but the similarities ended there. Vehicles bounced along muddy, chuck-holed dirt roads throughout the camp. Long strips of metal planking, half buried in the mud, served as sidewalks. No beautiful buildings were lining the base; instead, everything was underground and surrounded by sandbags. There was no green grass and no ‘Keep Off’ signs posted - just craters filled with mud everywhere, reminders of the mortar barrages and 122mm rockets that routinely landed within the compound. Parts of once-filled sandbags and burnt timber littered the muddy ground near destroyed bunkers. Work crews were feverishly attending to them, filling sandbags and laying new timber, trying to make it functional by nightfall. There was no PX, service club, swimming pool, or radio phones to call home in this base camp.

  Every person walking around wore a bulletproof vest and carried a bandolier of ammo and a weapon with him. Looking around, John knew right away that in this basecamp nobody locked their weapons in the armory overnight. He was anxious to get his, and wondered how much longer he would have to wait.

  The environment could not have been more depressing. It was completely different from how they lived and what they were accustomed to during the past months in Cu Chi, and even in the fire support bases. The night and day difference between the two locations was jaw-dropping for the new arrivals.

  A clerk rushed the group over to the battalion area, drawing out flak jackets, weapons, and ammo from the supply bunker. The XO appeared to be overwhelmed with his current task, as if assigning replacements to a new company was something he didn’t have time to do right then. Knowing that bunkers were always in need of repair, therefore, he assigned the entire group to that detail until he found the time to continue distributing equipment. Because Sixpack was the highest-ranking NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) in the group, the XO placed him in charge of the work detail and then pointed out which bunkers required their attention.

  The day continued without any changes or updates, and the mundane task of filling sandbags seemed never-ending.

  Later that first night, the enemy fired several rockets into the perimeter within the span of an hour; they landed randomly and in no particular pattern. Everyone inside the bunkers awaited the next explosion, praying it did not land on top of them. Mortar flares were fired repeatedly into the air, ignited above the compound and then floated downward; they were suspended by small parachutes, which illuminated the terrain beyond the perimeter.

  Those manning the perimeter concentrated to their front, watching for enemy movement in the flickering light. Ground attacks were rare against larger bases, but as a precaution, the camp commander doubled the perimeter security for the rest of the night.

  At 0230 hours, Medevac helicopters landed within the perimeter, evacuating the dead and wounded. Two bunkers had received direct hits, imploding them; those inside never had a chance. Flying shrapnel also wounded several other soldiers, caught out in the open – two men caught shrapnel while standing in the entrance of their bunkers.

  Fires burned throughout the camp as timber and vehicles smoldered after direct hits. Small groups of soldiers were fighting the fires with pails of water and shovels full of dirt and mud.

  Repairing bunker damage was a top priority, addressed immediately by those inside and by neighbors nearby. Other damage not affecting security or safety could wait until morning.

  At 0500 hours, the NVA started firing mortars into the perimeter, walking them around indiscriminately. Once again, there was a mad dash for the bunkers as everyone dropped what they were doing. Sadly, the men had no other recourse but to just sit there and wait for the barrage to end.

  The mortar and artillery pits suddenly came alive; flares lit up the sky again and the big guns shot 105mm explosive rounds at the mortar flashes in the distance. These gunners were the only ones fortunate enough to be able to return fire - everyone else inside the perimeter had to wait until acquiring a visible target of their own.

  The barrage lasted over thirty minutes and stopped shortly before daybreak. It was a long, nerve-fraying night for everyone within the camp.

  The next day, the entire camp busied itself repairing the damage from the night before. Some were lucky enough to catch up on missed sleep; others, who were not so lucky, felt totally spent and walked around as if they were on ‘automatic pilot’.

  After breakfast the following morning, John ran into the XO.

  “Excuse me, sir, but have you got a minute?”

  “What can I do for you, Specialist?”

  “My nerves have had it, sir. The 25th Division was nothing like this. I have almost nine months in country. Is there any way of getting a rear job in this division?”

  “What’s your MOS (Military Occupation Specialty), soldier?”

  “11B40, sir.”

  “That’s infantry, troop. Take it from me, you’ll be better off in the field.”

  “If this is some kind of sign of what it’s like out there, then I really don’t think so, sir.”

  “I do. Some companies in the boonies have not seen action in months. That’s the safest place to be right now. If it were possible for me to be there, I’d leave on the next chopper.”

  “You’re seriou
s?”

  “Take my word for it. I have no reason to lie to you. Matter of fact, I envy you because you’re going to the field.”

  “I believe you, sir. Do you have any idea when we will ship to our outfits? My mother doesn’t have my new address yet.”

  “I think most of you transferred guys will be leaving in a couple of days.”

  “Okay, thanks, sir.”

  “Anytime, soldier.”

  John still had his reservations about whether to believe the XO or not and decided to seek out the reenlistment bunker. After asking half-dozen guys - who thought him to be crazy - he eventually found it.

  He stepped down into the bunker to find a First Sergeant going over some paperwork at a desk.

  “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said without looking up.

  John sat on a wooden folding chair and waited for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside. A large crash in the corner caused him to jump up and fumble with his rifle.

  “Easy, son. I didn’t mean to startle you,” the First Sergeant said. “I wasn’t thinking when I threw my helmet at the rat.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “The rat. You know what a rat is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he answered, still unsure as to what to do next.

  “Well, these fucking rats have a tunnel complex under this place. You don’t know where they will turn up next. When you’re lucky enough to spot one, you just throw the first thing you can lay your hands on. It’s not bad during the day, but it’s a real terror at night. They climb in bed with you, looking for food.”

  John shuddered inwardly.

  “That’s odd. I’ve been here two days and haven’t seen one yet.”

  “You’re lucky. You must be in one of the newer bunkers.”

  “Yeah, I am.”

  “Well, you’ll see them soon enough. Just prepare yourself. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like some information about reenlisting.”

  “Okay. What information can I give you?”

  “Can I pick any job in the Army when I reenlist?”

  “It all depends on if you’re qualified or not.”

  “I feel that I’m qualified for a clerk typist position. In high school, I had two years of typing and finished the course at fifty-six words a minute.”

  “That sure makes you qualified enough, but why in the hell would you want to reenlist as a clerk typist?”

  “Top, I was stationed with the 25th Division down south and got transferred here just this week. I’ve been in Nam for eight and a half months, but didn’t have enough time in country to go home with the division. Since being in country, we’ve always heard that the 101st was losing many men during the battles taking place up here. To be honest, I’m scared and don’t want to be killed after all I’ve been through already. I’ll do anything to get out of the field.”

  “I can’t say that your reason isn’t justified, but I don’t think reenlistment is the answer. Have you really thought things through?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “First, let me ask you something. Did you originally enlist in the Army, or were you drafted?”

  “I was drafted, sir.”

  “Are you looking forward to getting out of the service when your two years are up?”

  “I was.”

  “You do know that if you reenlist, you’ll have to give up another four years of your life to Uncle Sam.”

  “I know, but I guess it’ll be worth it, just so I don’t have to go out in the bush again.”

  “Now that’s the wrong answer, troop. I wouldn’t recommend reenlistment to anyone unless he planned to make a career out of the Army.”

  “You mean you won’t let me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said that I would not recommend it. In your case, I think if you reenlist, you’ll come to regret it. I know there’s been a lot of fighting up here and many good men have lost their lives, but it’s no different here than it was down south. I think I can help solve your problem. Let me ask you another question. When you first came to Vietnam, were you as frightened as you are now?”

  “I don’t know. Yeah, I guess so. But it was only because of not knowing what to expect.”

  “Don’t you think you’re in that same position now?”

  “I’m not sure,” John answered after some hesitation.

  “Okay. Now just think for a minute. If you would have reenlisted when you first came into the country, would you have regretted it today?”

  “I probably would have. It wasn’t very bad down there. Our base camps were the most secure in the country. Entire companies returned regularly for R&R; genuine relaxation without having to worry about anything. We never had our bases rocketed and mortared like up here.”

  “Then why do you want to reenlist to get a job in a base camp up here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, son. Let me give you some statistics. Almost seventy-five percent of all the casualties up here occur in the rear areas because of the rockets and mortars. Some ground pounders in the bush have not fired a weapon in three months. Would you believe it if I told you that some of the rear echelon troops want to re-up just to get into the infantry and to get away from these base camps? They are just as afraid of dying as you are and will do anything to find a more secure job in this war. So you see - you’re better off to stay right where you are.”

  “You aren’t trying to bullshit me are you, Top?”

  “I’ve got no reason to bullshit you. There’s nothing in it for me by trying to keep you in the infantry. Now that we’ve had a chance to talk, I’d like you to think about our discussion before you consider reenlisting. Take all the time you need because it will be a very important decision that could affect your future. Go out into the field, spend some time there, and see just what it’s really like. Then if you still want to reenlist, I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you.”

  “Okay, Top that seems fair. You’ve changed my mind for now. Thanks for your time.”

  “That’s quite all right. Good luck and take care, soldier.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  John turned to leave the bunker when Top called out, “Next time you come in here, be sure it’s what you really want. I won’t try to change your mind then.”

  “Fair enough, Top, thanks for the break.”

  “Airborne!” He called out enthusiastically.

  “All the way,” John said smartly, replying with the correct formal response. He smiled, and finally walked out of the bunker.

  Outside, he noticed that many of the soldiers moving about wore jump wing patches on their camouflage fatigue jackets, identifying them as jump-qualified, a gung-ho bunch that loved parachuting from airplanes. He wondered if they actually jumped from planes here in Vietnam. After his talk with the First Sergeant, he looked forward to seeing what the conditions were like out in the field, and hoped he could still use his hammock during the night.

  The recent arrivals finally received orders to their new companies, and, as if by fate, John and Sixpack stayed together; both assigned to Alpha Company, First Platoon.

  After lunch, John, Sixpack, and a dozen other soldiers – two being former Wolfhounds – boarded a Deuce and a Half, and prepared to leave Camp Vandergrift on a rough ride to the battalion Fire Support Base Carroll. There, they would pull bunker guard until called to leave for the bush.

  FSB Carroll was roughly five miles northeast of their current location but the ride out of Vandergrift to the main highway alone was enough to scramble brains. The truck hit every possible pothole on the dirt road; some of the passengers thought the driver was doing this intentionally. They were moving less than five miles per hour, yet the occupants bounced around the troop-transport from one side to the other, bruising their bodies on the side rails and floors. Before leaving, they had strapped their steel helmets securely onto their heads, which actually saved the men from bashing their heads. Any b
ystander watching these soldiers pass might have thought it was somewhat comical, but truth be told, if anyone had actually fallen from the vehicle, he would have been seriously hurt, even at that slow speed. Knowing what they did by then, if given a choice, they would have all opted to walk to the main road instead.

  Once the big truck reached the paved two-lane highway, the ride was slightly bumpy but bearable; however, it was only a few minutes before they stopped altogether. Up ahead, a mine-sweeping team was checking the road for mines buried during the night. With all of the delays, it took two and a half hours to reach the firebase.

  Fire Support Base Carroll was a small, well-fortified position on the top of a knoll overlooking the paved highway. There were seventeen bunkers on the perimeter and twice as many small fighting positions in between each of them.

  The firebase housed a battery of 105mm artillery guns, two 81mm mortar pits, and a small helipad to accommodate a Loach helicopter. One-hundred defenders already protected this firebase, and adding to the total might overcrowd the positions. The truck driver pointed out the commo bunker and directed the new arrivals to check in there. This bunker also doubled as the battalion orderly room. A First Sergeant was expecting them, already standing outside patiently waiting for them to arrive. A large and muscular man with a square jaw and an intimidating look, some men joked that he looked very much like ‘Sgt. Rock’ in the DC Comics Universe.

  “Gentlemen, welcome to Alpha Company!” He greeted the small group. “I am First Sergeant Trombley. As you men are all in-country transfers, I do not really have to tell you what it is like in this country. I do have a small speech to make, however, so bear with me,” a partial smile crept across his face. “You are now part of the 101st Airborne Division, the most highly decorated and the fiercest fighting unit in this country. I can see that none of you is Airborne-qualified and you may not know how we operate in the bush, so forget everything you did in your former units. Our methods might seem strange at first, but you will catch onto them in due time. When in the bush, I expect you to perform your duties without hesitation and to conduct yourselves in a manner befitting this unit. We will not tolerate cowards or malingers here. You are now in an airborne unit and expected to play by our rules. Are there any questions?”