Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  “Just one,” John said meekly, raising his hand.

  “What is it, soldier? Speak up,” he scowled.

  “When are we going out to the bush?”

  “In two days,” the First Sergeant responded without hesitation. He cleared his throat and continued. “I know many of you are anxious to get the rest of your supplies, and we’ll do that just as soon as I finish with this orientation. Whenever you are in the firebase, you will be on ready alert at all times.”

  “What do you mean by ready alert?” someone else asked.

  John hoped that a Cherry asked that question, otherwise, the First Sergeant would think they were all a bunch of assholes.

  Sergeant Trombley expected such a question, but glared at the man for a second anyway before answering. “Ready alert means just that. After you receive the rest of your supplies, go and check out the bunkers and foxholes around the perimeter. Some of them are six-man positions, others four-man. Find a vacancy and move in. Pack all your shit and be ready to move out on a moment’s notice. There is always a chance of a sister unit getting into trouble and needing help. The faster we get there, the better their chances of survival. Guard duty will be your only responsibility during these next two days. In the bunkers, at least two men must be awake and on guard at all times, and that means around the clock. Did that answer your question?”

  “Yes, sir, it did,” the unidentified soldier answered.

  Top did not like his response and blew it off. “Are there any more questions?” He looked them over and gave the impression that he would pounce on the next person to open his mouth. There were no further questions.

  “In that case, follow me to the supply bunker.”

  With new supplies in hand, Sixpack and John walked around the perimeter until they found a bunker that appeared to be empty. They walked in and found three people huddled in a corner - smoking weed. Their entrance did not surprise the men, and they did not attempt to hide what they were doing.

  “Wow, man, check this out,” one of the three managed to say. He pointed toward the opening and strained to see through the blue haze, as if thinking John and Sixpack had just materialized from thin air.

  “Yeah, far out. Peace, brother,” a second man said, making a feeble attempt to raise his arm and flash a peace sign.

  “What in the fuck are you guys doing?” Sixpack took a step closer to the three men.

  “Toking on some weed, man. You want a hit? There’s plenty to go around.”

  “Fuck no, I don’t want a hit.” Sixpack looked at John, “These fuckers are so far gone they don’t even know where they’re at.”

  “Man, who cares?”

  “I care. I’m not staying in a bunker full of potheads.”

  “We’re not potheads. We’re just peace-loving people.”

  “Fuck you all!” Sixpack backed up to the bunker entrance. “Come on, Polack!”

  “Polack? What the fuck is a Polack?” The three men laughed hard; one lost his balance and fell onto the other two. All three buckled to the ground together, still laughing.

  John stood and watched in disbelief. “These guys are supposed to be on guard duty protecting the camp. They’re so stoned that if a ground attack happened right now, they’d probably just laugh at the attacking soldiers.”

  “Ground attack? Where do you think we are, man - in Vietnam someplace?” More laughter erupted from the trio.

  John turned and walked to the doorway. “I’m coming, Sixpack!”

  “Shit, you guys, they got beer. Don’t go, man!” one of the three stoners implored from the heap on the ground.

  Sixpack stopped suddenly and then turned to flip off the hopeless youths. “We’ve got to find a bunker that’s far away from these shitheads. Come on, Polack.”

  They both exited and continued searching for new living quarters. They had walked clear around to the other side of the perimeter before finding another bunker that looked as if it might have some extra room inside.

  They poked their heads through the entrance to see who might be inside before making a move to enter. Four soldiers were inside; two played a game of checkers on a small crate, one was writing letters, and the fourth was cleaning his weapon and looking out at the highway to their front.

  “Is there any room in here for two more?” Sixpack asked.

  “Why, hell yes, Sarge, come on in. The more, the merrier.”

  They entered what would become their new home for the next two days and stowed their gear in a corner.

  “I’m Larry Holmes; they call me Sixpack. My friend here is John Kowalski, better known as ‘the Polack’.” They shook hands all around and the new bunker mates introduced themselves.

  The two checker players were Dan and Bill, Peter was writing letters and Albert was on guard duty. All four were short-timers, leaving for Phu Bai in three days to process out of the country and go home.

  They sat together shooting the shit for the next few hours. John and Sixpack exchanged stories with the foursome, hoping to learn as much as possible about the conditions out in the field and the type of operations they conducted. All the shit the two new arrivals had been through with the 25th surprised the foursome. It was nothing like that up here, the four men assured them, and it had been very quiet in the bush ever since leaving the A Shau Valley some four months ago. In fact, their weapons were spotless, but the foursome admitted they were not even sure if the rifles would fire; it had been that long. They informed the two newcomers that the hardest thing they would have to endure was the never ending humping up and down the mountains.

  During the sharing of information, John’s ears perked up when his new hosts talked about a soldier nicknamed ‘Professor’. He carried a radio in the Company CP and was going home in a week. His departure would create a vacancy, one that John very much coveted. He would check into it first thing in the morning.

  After breakfast, John walked over to the communications bunker and found the First Sergeant there.

  “Excuse me, Top, got a minute?”

  “What’s on your mind, troop?”

  “I heard there’s a radio-carrier in the Company CP nicknamed Professor, who will be going home in a few days. What’s the chance of my taking his place when he comes out of the field?”

  “You know how to operate a radio?”

  “I do, and think I’m pretty good at it. I carried one in the 25th for two months.”

  Top thought about it for a few seconds. “I’ll tell you what, how about I give you a small test?”

  “Sure, that’s fine; what do you have in mind?”

  “Report back here at 1800 hours. I’ll let you work the radios tonight. If you can convince me that you’re as good as you say, then I’ll talk to the captain about it.”

  “It’s a deal. I’ll see you later.”

  He was excited and anxious to tell Sixpack the good news. His friend was happy for him, but seemed disappointed that they would not be together in the field.

  John stood outside of the communications bunker and smoked a couple of cigarettes during the next ten minutes. He wanted to walk into the bunker precisely at 1800 to show Top he was both dependable and punctual.

  Top told him that the various units would be calling in their NDP locations shortly; he would have to decipher the coordinates and plot them on the hanging wall map. The First Sergeant said that he expected him to handle anything that might come up during the night, emergency or not.

  During the night, John had to contact the various units in the field for situation reports every hour. This was going to be a breeze, as he had already done it hundreds of times.

  The First Sergeant relieved him at 0600. John’s eyes were bloodshot and burning from the twelve-hour shift. His relief noted all the unit locations plotted neatly on the wall map, and he was delighted when John handed him a log that he had maintained during the night. It listed every call made, the time of the call, the call sign, and reason for the call. John identified anything out of the or
dinary with an asterisk.

  Top also noticed that John policed the immediate area on that side of the bunker. All the gear was organized and the floor swept clean of mud and cigarette butts.

  Top was impressed with his organizational skills and performance. “You did good, son. You do know that nobody here wants to carry a radio because of the excess weight in the mountains. Are you sure you still want to do this?”

  “I am.”

  “Okay. I won’t promise you anything, but I’ll talk to the captain the first chance I get.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Top.”

  “That’s quite all right. Go and get some sleep. You look like the walking dead. I’ll come and find you when I’ve talked to the captain.”

  “Thank you, Top.” John left and walked to his bunker, which was not too far away. In retrospect, it was quite a battle to stay awake during the night with nothing else to do but listen to the radio. The opportunity to clean and organize helped pass the time, and it would be the only chance to show his mettle.

  John returned to his bunker and tried to get some sleep. He was overly tired and anxious to hear back from Top about the opportunity. He had a restless morning, tossing and turning; his mind was in overdrive, and he was unable to think about anything else except carrying the radio again. He was also worried, and wondered what he would do if the captain refused to grant his request.

  Before nightfall, the Alpha Company replacements received word from the company clerk that the company would be arriving in Phu Bai the following morning for three days of R&R. They were to catch a ride on the morning convoy and join up with the company there. This would be an ideal opportunity for everyone to get to know one another before heading back into the bush on their next mission.

  All the new recruits were excited. Phu Bai would be a welcome relief where they wouldn’t have to worry about staying up all night and filling sandbags during the day. They would all be able to relax and get a chance to fit in as the ‘new guys’ before leaving for the bush.

  The convoy arrived four hours before Alpha Company was due to land; Top greeted them at the R&R center. The new arrivals immediately went to work helping to erect tents, readying charcoal in the many barbecues, and filling trashcans with cans of soda and beer. The cooks added ice thirty minutes before their arrival. The men would also help to barbecue steaks and pass out ice-cold drinks to the arriving warriors. They worked non-stop to have everything ready for the arrivals.

  John got his first look at the captain when they stood face-to-face when John was helping in the chow line. The officer reached in with a paper plate and waited for John to transfer a barbecued steak from the grill. For some reason, John thought his appearance resembled that of a professor. He was much older than expected, his clothes oversized, large rimmed glasses with bifocals hung from a lanyard around his neck, and his green boony hat looked more like something someone might wear on a fishing trip. His tightly-clamped teeth held a Sherlock Holmes-style pipe in place, with puffs of cherry-enhanced smoke dissipating into the air. Standing at six-foot, six-inches tall, he towered over the rest of the troops. With a kind and understanding look upon his face, he appeared more like everyone’s father instead of an Army Airborne Captain.

  “Thank you, troop,” he responded after receiving his steak from John.

  “No problem, sir!” The captain moved ahead to the next serving station. More excited than ever at the prospect of carrying a radio again, John looked forward to hearing back from the First Sergeant.

  After dinner, the new replacements began intermingling with the rest of the company. Nobody told stories about seeing the enemy or recent firefights. Instead, they griped and bitched about the extremely steep slopes of the mountains they had to hump during this last mission. Some related their personal experiences of seeing a fellow soldier sliding or toppling down the mountainside, taking everybody in his path along for a ride. The story evoked laughter from those nearby. Others complained about the length of time it took to go up and down the high mountains – sometimes up to three days each way. This resulted in the men spending numerous nights on the steep slopes; nobody could sleep because they fought gravity all night long.

  John stood alone, looking for somebody he might know from his earlier days in training. With what he had heard so far, it seemed that everything the First Sergeant said about reenlisting was true. Suddenly, he felt a hand grip his shoulder.

  “This is the young man I was telling you about.” John turned to see Top and the captain standing behind him.

  “Top tells me you’re campaigning to be my new RTO. Is this true?”

  “Yes sir.” John had to look up six inches to see into the man’s eyes.

  “You know this is not an easy job.”

  “I know that, sir, but I can guarantee you’ll be pleased.”

  “You’ve got your mind made up then?”

  “Yes, sir, if you’ll have me.”

  The First Sergeant and the captain looked at one another and smiled. “Alright, you got the job. What’s your name, son?”

  He smiled proudly, “Specialist Fourth Class John Kowalski, sir.”

  “Have you got a nickname?”

  “Everybody’s been calling me ‘Polack’ since Basic Training.”

  “That’s kind of degrading, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t mind it, sir. It sure sounds better than ‘Ski’.”

  “Okay, ‘Polack’ it is. Glad to have you aboard.” He extended his arm and the two men shook hands. “I’m Captain Robertson. I might have some nicknames floating around the company, but you can just call me ‘Cap’.”

  “Thank you for the opportunity, Cap.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do very well. Top will get you squared away later with a new radio and gear. Then you can meet the rest of the members in the CP. Right now, try to enjoy yourself. I don’t know when we’ll ever make it back here again. See you soon!”

  “Okay, Cap.”

  He was so excited about the decision, he felt like doing a cartwheel. He scanned the area looking for Sixpack to tell him the good news. Unable to find him in the large open field, he walked back to the tent area and found the sergeant deeply involved in a conversation with members of his new squad. He stopped momentarily, stepping away from the group when seeing John approach.

  “Sixpack, the captain accepted me into the CP!”

  “That’s really great, Polack. I’m happy for you!”

  “You going to the CP?” One of squad members asked.

  “Yep,” he replied proudly.

  “Man, they’re just a bunch of lazy motherfuckers. Why would you want to get in with them?”

  “I carried a radio for the platoon L-T when humping the bush with Sixpack. It was great knowing what was going on around me. Now stepping up into the CP is like being promoted.”

  “Yeah, we understand. It’s a way for you to sit on your ass and not have to go out on patrols with the rest of us.”

  “Stow it, Joe,” Sixpack cautioned. “Polack has seen his share of shit and probably more than any of you sitting here. He has walked point for months, carried the M-60 machine gun and a radio before our division left for home. There’s nobody up here that I would rather have at my side. He knows his shit and he’ll take good care of us while in the CP. So lay off!”

  “Thanks, Sixpack,” John said, relieved and grateful that his friend was so supportive. He snuck a glance at the nearby soldiers; the lecture seemed to appease them and they watched him with some interest.

  “That’s okay kid, keep in touch!”

  “Sorry, man,” Joe put out his hand. “Welcome to the Screaming Eagles!”

  “Yeah, good luck!”

  “Keep an eye on them guys and don’t let them get over on you. They’re a sneaky bunch!”

  “Thanks guys! Good luck to you, too!” John said and then walked away and out of the tent.

  It was no different here than it was down south as each segment of the company, from squad size
and up, kept to themselves. To locate the CP, John peered into each tent as he passed, hoping to spot a group of radios and their handlers. Instead, he bumped into Top, who led him to a bunker near the orderly room.

  Once inside, it was clear the group had special privileges in Phu Bai. Each man had a cot - complete with a pillow and mattress - positioned along two of the sandbagged walls. A thirty-gallon can half filled with ice-cold pop and beer stood sweating just inside the doorway. An oscillating fan in the far corner circulated the musty air through the bunker, making it feel somewhat comfortable inside. A worktable and bench were against the right wall; four radios sat atop, and a spotlight overhead provided enough illumination to light the entire living area. Compared to the rest of the company accommodations, this was a five-star establishment. Four soldiers sat around, each busy with his own agenda. Top got their attention as soon as the two men walked through the doorway.

  “Gentlemen, let me introduce you to the Professor’s replacement. This is John - uh, what’s your last name?”

  “Kowalski.”

  “Aw, shit. Just call him ‘Polack’,” Top said with a smile.

  “This here is the Professor.” A tall, gangly guy with thick glasses and jet-black hair lay on his cot, deeply involved in a book. He dropped it quickly and reached up to shake hands.

  “Sorry I won’t be able to go out with you and show you the ropes,” Professor said sarcastically. “But I will share everything I know with you during the next couple of days here.”

  “What more can I ask for? Thanks, Professor. Good to meet you.”

  “Next, we have Cotton Top.” The First Sergeant pointed to a soldier who looked like he couldn’t be more than fifteen years old. He sat on one of the cots writing letters. His short, nubby haircut and light blond hair must have accounted for his nickname.

  “Glad to meet you,” he replied in a boyish voice, waving in acknowledgement.

  John nodded his head and returned the wave.