“This old bastard is Fuzzy.” At the other extreme, that soldier looked to be at least fifty years old. “He’s attached to the company CP, but is an artillery forward observer by trade. Fuzzy is our liaison in the field, coordinating the artillery fire missions and directing fast movers when they’re supporting us. He doesn’t carry a radio but helps out with the monitoring whenever he can.”
Fuzzy offered an informal salute and went back to reading his book.
“And last, but not least, we have Stud.”
A well-built and muscular soldier got up and heartily shook John’s hand.
“One word of caution before I leave,” Top looked at John with a smirk, “Don’t ask Stud why he’s called that unless you have a couple of hours to listen.”
“Well, since you brought it up…”
Top cut him off abruptly. “Never mind, I’ve heard this story before. I’ll leave you guys to get acquainted and see you later.” Top strutted out of the bunker leaving the five men to themselves.
The beer flowed nonstop, and with never-ending discussions, the party turned into an all-night event.
Before the night ended, John knew more about his radio partners than he had thought possible, especially Stud. Each of them had at one time carried a radio in one of the rifle platoons and volunteered for the CP when the openings came up. They were all short-timers, none having more than four months left in their tours.
The next day, a rumor surfaced in the R&R center, upsetting everyone in the company. They heard that they were going back into the A Shau Valley to run patrols. It had been four months since last humping through the valley, and Alpha Company had lost almost a third of their men during a month-long period. The valley was a notoriously vicious area; Bastogne overlooked it from the east and several other firebases - Birmingham, Currahee, and Blaze - bordered on the west. A sister battalion fought a major battle the previous year on a hill that was later nicknamed ‘Hamburger Hill’. Many men lost their lives during that siege; it too, was located in the Valley.
Later in the day, the rumor proved to be true. As the depressing news spread, the partying ended as if somebody suddenly flicked off a light switch. Instead, many of the soldiers began preparing for the upcoming mission, even though they had one more day remaining of their R&R.
When Alpha Company drew out supplies for the mission, each man requested additional field dressings for potential wounds, and plenty of extra ammunition. One by one, they visited the firing range and test-fired their weapons to ensure they were in proper working order.
The men readied themselves mentally and physically for the big fight that they knew was coming. John knew all too well how they felt; he felt the same way before heading into the Iron Triangle and the area where Zeke died. He did not have firsthand knowledge regarding the valley, but had a deep respect for the opinions of those who had been there.
~~~~~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A quiet hush fell over the grunts as they boarded the choppers for their ride into the A Shau Valley. Only a handful of soldiers were veterans of the last campaign; those troops were focused and ready to face the devil. The other soldiers were naïve as to its dangers, but felt extremely nervous because of all the stories they had heard in the last day and a half.
It had been two weeks since John and Sixpack last carried a rucksack. Neither of them expected the total weight to be any different from the load they carried down south. They anticipated an adjustment period of only a day or two before getting a feel for humping in the mountains. Both found their assessment to be way off-base, mentally cussing out the brass and everyone else they passed, while walking toward the helipad.
SOP (standard operating procedure) for the Airborne infantry specified that each trooper would carry four days of rations instead of three, and six canteens of water instead of two, due to a lack of water in the mountains. Thousands of bomb craters existed in the bush, but without rain, only a thin layer of muddy slime existed on the bottom. The monsoon season was still a few weeks away for the northern part of Vietnam. When it arrived, it would take at least two weeks of heavy rain to fill the craters, and another week afterwards for the sludge to filter to the bottom. Only then, would there be enough water available, and fewer canteens would be needed.
A fifteen-pound flak jacket and steel helmet was part of the new wardrobe, adding to the total weight. The metallic-lined vest only covered a portion of the shoulders and did not provide a suitable cushion for the ruck straps, making it more difficult to carry. The grunts tried using what little cushion was available to support the straps, but when the ruck shifted, the straps fell off and dug into the edges of their shoulders. In the bush, the Wolfhounds always wore boony hats in place of the unpopular, heavy steel helmets, which caused headaches and stiff necks. In the Airborne, they wore helmets strapped snuggly under their chins at all times. In addition, John had to carry the radio and spare batteries; all combined to about an extra ninety pounds of weight. It was difficult enough to stay balanced on flat ground, let alone humping up the slope of a mountain. This would be a completely new experience for the former Wolfhounds.
Each of the four platoons were to land on different hilltops overlooking the valley. The plan was for the men to start working their way downhill, linking up on the valley floor on the following day. The Company CP attached itself to the Third Platoon for the first four days of the mission.
John had not been airborne for more than five minutes, but was already shivering and soaked with sweat. The cool, rushing air battered his sweaty body, causing his muscles to cramp and spasm. He tried hard to clear his mind and to think of something more pleasant to help control his fear and nervousness. He rubbed at his legs vigorously in an attempt to stop the spasms.
The first sortie of the Third Platoon had successfully inserted half their troops onto the LZ without incident. They secured the hilltop, and waited for the rest of the platoon and Company CP to land in the next flight. John listened to the radio, keeping the captain informed of the landings and their reported status. So far, all had been routine with no sign of the enemy.
Looking out of the chopper doorway, John saw the approaching landing zone on the top of a mountain. From this distance, it looked like the top of a friar or monk’s head, bald in the middle, with thick, bushy growth surrounding it. The clearing was only large enough to accommodate one chopper at a time, but each of the pilots had performed this type of insertion more times than they could remember. The four choppers flew in a vertical line, spaced evenly apart, and stacked at different altitudes. The execution and timing for each landing was perfect; each bird was on the ground for no more than ten seconds to allow the passengers to jump out and move away. Briefly touching down like hummingbirds to blossoms, the copters just cleared the LZ when the next one landed. With enough choppers in a flight, the choreographed landing process placed sixty soldiers on the ground in a little over a minute. It was a remarkable and efficient process.
Upon landing, the five members of the CP moved to a designated corner of the LZ. John started calling the other platoons, establishing contact with them, Cotton Top relayed information over the battalion net to the officers at Camp Vandergrift, and Stud and Fuzzy coordinated their pre-set targets with the firebase.
The plan was to send out five-man recon teams from each platoon to check the immediate area and locate a safe route down the mountainside. Once that route was established, each platoon began its long descent from the hilltop, continuing until it was necessary to stop for the night.
It was difficult to determine just how many times the army had used this LZ up until that day. Beyond the clear landing zone, paths led into the surrounding vegetation from every direction. Alongside these paths, past soldiers had created dozens of sleeping positions inside the thick clumps of foliage. The ground was clear of obstacles, the overhead jungle offering some protection from the elements. A four-foot wide foxhole, dug three feet into the earth, was located at the rear of each “
cave.”
These areas were filthy, looking like a public park after an all-night rock concert. Empty C-Ration cans, cardboard boxes, plastic utensils, and even a few crumpled letters from home littered the landscape. Much of the refuse lay inside the foxholes, but the surrounding bushes, too, took on the appearance of trash-covered Christmas trees with wind-blown debris trapped within the branches and foliage. It was an unsightly mess, but nobody dared to touch anything for fear of it being booby-trapped.
The sound of gunfire to the west of Third Platoon’s location suddenly shattered the sense of order. Green tracers ricocheted from the mountainside, rising high into the air. The intensity increased as red tracer-rounds joined the green ones in a macabre dance across the skies. A new, deep, base staccato sound also erupted from the same location, keeping pace with everyone's pounding heart. The soldiers shifted about nervously, faces registering worry.
“Eagle-one, this is Eagle-six, over,” John heard from his handset.
“This is Eagle-one, go ahead,” he responded.
“Roger. Any idea what is going on? That shooting is awfully close to us.”
“That’s a negative, Eagle-Six. Ram-four is checking on it now. I’ll let you know the minute I hear something.”
“Wilco, Eagle-six, out.”
Cotton Top was Ram-Four; his ear was glued to the battalion radio handset since the firefight began. He took notes on a pad and collected whatever information he could from the discussions going back and forth between the unit in contact and Battalion HQ. Intermittently, Cotton Top broke away, providing an update to the others before quickly returning the receiver to his ear.
“Charlie Company ran into a fortified position with a heavy 51-caliber machine gun. The NVA have them pinned down and they are requesting air support. Don’t know how many casualties yet but they’re calling for Medevacs too.”
“Polack, get on the horn and notify all the platoons to bring their recon patrols back to base and sit tight,” Cap ordered, then moved closer to Cotton Top, listening in on the net with him.
As John relayed the information across the company net, those nearby stopped their chatter and quieted down so as not to miss any details.
The noise of Charlie Company’s firefight continued in the distance, when suddenly there was an explosion on the next hill, where the First Platoon had landed earlier.
“Polack, call the First Platoon and find out what that was,” Cap said, alarmed and looking anxiously between the two radio operators.
“Eagle-niner, this is Eagle-one, over.”
“Uh, this is Eagle-niner, go ahead,” a nervous voice responded.
“Roger, Eagle-niner, what was that explosion near your position, over?”
“Don’t know yet, Eagle-one. I think our recon patrol hit something on the way back in. We’re checking it out now. Let you know when we know something, over.”
“Roger. Eagle-one, standing by.”
There was a lot of fidgeting around on the hilltop. The soldiers had already felt edgy about the nearby firefight, and when the explosions began getting closer, they were naturally impatient to learn any news. When the recon squad returned to Third Platoon’s hilltop, the men updated the squad members with what they knew up to that point. Their faces betrayed them; all were deeply affected.
“Eagle-one, this is Eagle-niner, over.”
“Finally!” John grabbed the headset and depressed the squelch button, “Go ahead, Eagle-niner.”
“Roger, Eagle-one. Recon patrol hit a booby trap just before they got the word to stop and turn back. We need a Medevac for the wounded, over.”
“Wilco, Eagle-niner. How do you classify the wounded?”
“We’ve got two KIA, one urgent, and one priority.”
“Roger. Stand by.”
John updated the CP and requested the Medevac. Cotton Top immediately informed battalion of the situation while Stud and Fuzzy dialed up the Medevac frequency to make a call for help, quickly relaying the coordinates and priorities over the net.
“Inform the First Platoon that birds will be there in about five minutes,” Stud called out.
“Eagle-niner, ETA of Medevac is zero-five. Do you copy?”
“Roger. ETA zero-five. Eagle-niner, standing by.”
Several explosions and intermittent burring sounds, lasting several seconds each, suddenly drowned out Charlie Company’s gunfire.
Cobra gunships joined Charlie Company’s fight, firing rockets and mini-guns into the enemy’s fortified positions. They were visible in the distance, circling slowly above the pinned down Americans, and then suddenly diving into the fracas like mad hornets. Green tracers rose from the ground, trying to follow the diving aircraft during its attack. White puffs of smoke, appearing every couple of seconds, were evidence of the Cobra firing pairs of rockets at the enemy. A solid red line raced to the ground from the mini-gun housed in the nose of the helicopter, remaining intact for several seconds before stopping suddenly at the end of its dive. The Cobra climbed back into the sky and joined other circling gunships, awaiting their turn for another run at the NVA. From this distance, it looked like the gunships were diving directly into the enemy fire, but none appeared to be hit. Either the NVA were firing with their heads down or the pilots were doing one hell of a job in avoiding the hot lead.
The effective gunships allowed Charlie Company to evacuate their dead and wounded to an area where a Medevac could land and pull the injured from the fight.
As John monitored the radio and watched the distant battle, First Platoon’s Medevac came onto the company net, requesting smoke to identify the platoon’s location. Several seconds later, a thread of green smoke snaked out of the jungle to the side of the hilltop, rising into the air not more than five-hundred meters away. The evacuation was soon over, with the wounded en route to the hospital within minutes.
“Eagle-one, this is Eagle-niner, over.”
“Go ahead, Eagle-niner.”
“Dust-off complete. Eagle-niner actual is requesting permission to move to a different location.”
“Eagle-one, wait one.”
John passed on the request to Cap, who quickly pulled out his map and began studying it. “Tell them I’ll get back to them within a few minutes. Meanwhile, ask them for the nicknames of their casualties and how bad they were hurt.”
“Eagle-niner, Eagle-one actual wants the nicknames of your casualties and the extent of their injuries.”
“Roger Eagle-one, wait one.” John had his pad and pencil ready to record the information. “Eagle-one, this is Eagle-niner, are you ready to copy?
“Affirmative, Eagle-niner, go ahead.”
“The two KIA are Baker and Mr. Flowers. Beanpole had upper body wounds with a sucking chest wound, and Sixpack suffered a traumatic amputation of both legs, just below his knees.”
John’s heart skipped a beat. He hoped there was another Sixpack in the First Platoon.
“Eagle-niner, is this ‘Sixpack’ the same hard striper who just arrived?”
“That’s affirmative.”
John was stunned and momentarily rendered speechless at the news of his friend. The handset fell to the ground, and he buried his face into his hands. He began to sob and mumbled under his breath, “Fucking assholes, why did they have to take his beer?”
He dropped to his knees and started punching at his rucksack, slowly alternating his fists as tears ran down his cheeks.
“Goddamn it! Goddamn it!” He repeated, with each hit on the rucksack. He continued for several more seconds before he stopped, too emotionally drained to continue.
Those nearby were caught by surprise at John’s rage, and watched in disbelief. He appeared to be undergoing a total mental breakdown. He sat on his heels, hands with palms resting on top of each thigh, rocking slowly back and forth. “Fucking assholes,” he mumbled once more. His eyes were glazed and distant.
Before anyone else could react, Cap was behind him, holding him tightly in a bear hug.
“Easy, Polack, easy now! Come on, son, talk to me. What just happened?”
John suddenly stopped, turned his head, and looked directly into the eyes of those soldiers staring back at him. When he noticed the captain had him in a bear hug, he slowly returned to reality, aware of his responsibility to the young soldiers who watched him. “I’ll be okay, Cap, he said quietly. Sorry for the meltdown.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
Cap released him, and stepped back. John used his shirtsleeve to wipe the moisture from his face.
“Polack, you just scared the shit out of us. What the hell happened?”
“Sixpack lost his legs.” John took a deep breath. The others, still stupefied, continued to watch and listen closely.
“Who’s Sixpack?”
“He’s my close buddy.” He took a few deeper breaths, trying to regain his composure.
“Polack, tell me what happened to First Platoon,” Cap requested, compassion filling his eyes.
“They had a five-man recon patrol down a ways from the hilltop and were about ready to return when they hit a booby trap.” He stopped, taking a couple deeper breaths before continuing, “Baker and Mr. Flowers are KIA, Beanpole caught some shrapnel in his upper body and his lung is punctured, and my friend, Sixpack, lost both his legs below the knees.” John’s voice broke.
The expression on Cap’s face showed that he, too, was deeply affected, but was struggling to maintain his composure.
Cap cursed under his breath, lowering his head and shaking it from side to side. “What a waste. Did you know Mr. Flowers’ wife just gave birth to a baby girl last week? It was their first. Now she’ll never know her daddy. Thank God that your buddy will most likely survive.”
“He didn’t have much of a life outside of the Army and was planning to make this a career. Now without legs…”
“I’m sorry, Polack. That’s the price of this fucking war.”
“What will happen to my friend now, Cap?”
“They’ll most likely send him to Japan to get patched up, and then back to the states for rehabilitation in one of the VA hospitals near his hometown. He’ll pull through this okay, you’ll see.”
Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition Page 38