Cherries - A Vietnam War Novel - Revised Edition

by Podlaski, John

  “God, I hope so.”

  “Now tell me what that talk about beer was all about.”

  “When I first arrived in country, Sixpack told me that he brought a six-pack of beer over with him from the states as a good luck charm. In fact, that’s how he got his nickname. His duffle bag was stored with everybody else’s in the rear supply at Cu Chi and nobody bothered it. His plan was to drink the beer on his return to the world - celebrating on the freedom bird for surviving his second tour. On the first night we got up here to the 101st, somebody rifled his gear and stole the beer from his personal belongings. It broke his heart!”

  “I guess I understand now. That was really low! Will you be okay or do you want Fuzzy to take over the radio for a while?”

  “No, I’ll be okay. I just need a couple of minutes to get my head back together.”

  “Yeah, go ahead. Call me if you need me,” he said, and then left to rejoin Cotton Top at his radio.

  The rest of the perimeter soon returned to normal. After hearing John’s whole story, the men were sympathetic and now fully understood why he went berserk as he did. For some looking on, scenes like this had already played out countless times. They were well aware that nothing could ease the pain of their brother soldier; one could only offer condolences for their loss and move on. There was a catch phrase in Vietnam that was gaining popularity, and many soldiers had already added it to their vocabulary: “Fuck it - don’t mean nothin’”. It was the cure-all phrase for numbing emotions when hearing bad news or seeing a fellow soldier get hurt. Many of the men had it written in marker across their helmet covers. It was an excellent façade for hiding how they actually felt in front of others.

  John wondered how many more of his friends would get hurt in the war and how much more of this hell he could take. He could already see the evil in A Shau Valley. If the valley lived up to its reputation, then the bloodshed was only beginning, and surviving the mission would take a whole lot of luck.

  An hour later, the captain ordered platoons to begin their descent into the valley. They continued hacking and cutting a path down the side of the mountain until it was too dark to continue. It was only late afternoon, but the heavy jungle foliage and tremendous height of the trees made it appear closer to dusk. Cap ordered all movement to cease and the platoons to set up NDP’s in their current positions.

  From his experience as a radio operator, John knew that this part of the day would be his busiest. He dropped in his tracks and immediately began receiving the coded locations from the other three platoons. While decoding them and plotting the locations on a map, he was puzzled by the sight of the men digging foxholes into the side of the hill.

  “Hey, Cap?”

  “What do you need, Polack?”

  “Why is everyone digging foxholes?”

  “This is SOP and we do it every night. Matter of fact, you better get busy and start digging yours. The map-plotting can wait until after you’re done.”

  John waited a moment until this new bit of information sunk in. He was dumbfounded and never had to carry the fold-up shovel in the south. His large Bowie knife was always sufficient to clear away brush and dig small latrine holes. He had never questioned why it was necessary to carry it up in the mountains. Up until then, he could only recall using a shovel in Vietnam twice. The first time was when he helped to build Firebase Lynch, and the second was a few weeks ago when repairing the bunkers in FSB Vandergrift.

  The slope was quite steep; most of the men in the Third Platoon had already tied their rucks to nearby trees to keep them from rolling downhill during the night and hitting trip flares. At least the earth was soft in the spot where John started to dig. Without clay, digging his first foxhole in the brush was quick and easy. When he finished, he hung the radio on a low tree branch nearby and monitored from the depth of his foxhole.

  Awake, the soldiers sat on the steep sloping ground and propped their feet against the trees below them. It was, however, a different story at night. The foxholes were only two to three feet wide; some of the men sat inside and slept with their backs against one of the walls. Those preferring to lie flat and stretch out on the ground found it difficult to remain in that position. John and others caught themselves during the night and awakened just in time to stop their slide downhill. After having repeated the exercise in futility a few more times, John changed his strategy and moved his sleeping position behind the large tree where he had tied his ruck earlier. He was somewhat successful in not waking anymore during the night, and still found himself wrapped sideways around the same tree in the morning. Strangely enough, he was amused to find that he was not the only one to wake up in the morning in that position.

  Later that morning, the Third Platoon continued their descent to the valley floor. On two different occasions, they found their paths ending abruptly in a sheer drop off greater than fifty feet. This caused a further delay, forcing the men to retrace their steps and seek out a less dangerous route. Many of them incurred numerous scrapes and bruises on the difficult trek after losing their balance and sliding into a boulder or tree. It took the platoon until the late afternoon to complete their downward hump.

  Two platoons from Alpha Company had already reached the valley floor much earlier and sent out recon patrols to survey the immediate area. John was quite surprised with their findings when hearing their report over the radio.

  Fourth Platoon was furthest away and due west of the rest of the company. They had stumbled onto a large, well-used trail; deep ruts along its length implied that heavily laden carts used the trail to move heavy equipment and supplies. They were well-concealed from the air by fishing nets strung from trees overhead and covered with a layer of leaves and brush. This camouflage enabled the enemy supply trains to move openly any time during the light of day.

  Second Platoon found a stream with four man-made pedestrian crossings; each was comprised of tightly packed stones, rising up from the streambed to within a foot of the surface. The stream was three feet deep, the current was lazy and slow, and the milky, brown-colored water covered any sign of the ten-foot wide underwater stone bridges. Engineered perfectly, the current offered no hint of these crossings and continued to flow unobstructed without generating a ripple. The four crossings were evenly spaced along three-hundred feet of the stream, and each had trails leading into the jungle from both sides. All exhibited signs of heavy use, as evidenced by deep tire marks and footprints embedded in the mud.

  Neither of the remaining two platoons had an opportunity to send out recon patrols, as their steep descents from the mountains took them most of the day. Cap arranged for the platoons to all link up in the morning and further investigate the two areas of interest.

  Darkness closed in quickly on the Third Platoon, thwarting their efforts to find a decent location for an NDP. For the second night in a row, they began setting up a small perimeter; digging foxholes, putting out trip flares and claymore mines, eating, and determining guard rotation before total darkness fell upon them. The ground rose slightly, but the terrain was nothing as treacherous as the night before; it would be much easier to sleep tonight.

  At 0300 hours, explosions echoing loudly through the valley awakened the Third Platoon. Spaced ten seconds apart, they had difficulty pinpointing the origin.

  John jumped quickly from under his poncho liner and sprinted to where Fuzzy was monitoring the radios during his watch. They heard a faint whisper on the company frequency - too garbled to understand. They adjusted the volume and squelch of the radio, but the transmission remained broken and distorted. John keyed the handset several times, hoping to break contact so he could identify and help the caller. He picked up the radio by its strap and moved it around to different locations in hopes of picking up the weak signal. The entire CP had their large telescopic antennae installed on radios, which would have helped with signal strength if the antennae did not tangle easily in the overhead foliage. Finally, after a slight pause, John heard the word ‘Eagle’, loud and c
lear. It was the only word spoken, but the squelch and static had returned, which meant the net was clear and no one was transmitting any longer. John took this opportunity to call out and try to establish contact with the caller.

  “This is Eagle-one. Unit in trouble, please respond and identify, over.” He paused for ten seconds, and then repeated the call.

  After four attempts, the RTO in the First Platoon called, “Eagle-one, this is Eagle-niner. I thought I was able to make out Eagle-seven on that last transmission but it was too weak to be sure.”

  “Roger, Eagle-niner, thanks.”

  As the distant explosions continued, John attempted to reach Eagle-seven.

  “Cotton Top, call HQ and let them know we’ve got a unit in trouble and it’s not responding,” Cap whispered. John continued his attempts to establish contact with the Second Platoon.

  Suddenly, a cry for help interrupted the static on the radio. “Eagle-one, Eagle-one, we’re being mortared.”

  “Who is being mortared? Please identify yourself!”

  “My name is Ralph and I’m in the Second Platoon.”

  “Ralph, your call sign is Eagle-seven, what is your situation?”

  “I don’t know. I was asleep when the mortars started to hit. I kept my head down and continued calling out but nobody was answering me. All I can hear around the perimeter are screams for help. I finally got up enough nerve to crawl over to the L-T’s foxhole, and found him and the RTO in bad shape. I’m on his radio now but I don’t know what to do next. The mortars are still dropping on us. Can you help me?”

  “Hold on, Eagle-seven.”

  The entire CP gathered around John, anxious to hear his report. When he finished telling them about the Second Platoon, Fuzzy asked for the handset so he could talk to Eagle-seven.

  “Eagle-seven, this is Tac-one. Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here!”

  “Okay, Eagle-seven, can you hear the tubes firing?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “This is Tac-one. Which direction are they coming from?”

  “Tac-one, I don’t have a compass.”

  “Roger, Eagle-seven. I know where you are, but I just need to know if the firing you hear is coming from the mountain you came down or from a different direction. Listen closely.”

  “Tac-one, my back is to the mountain and they’re shooting from my front.”

  “Roger, Eagle-seven. I am going to call in some artillery near your position. The first one is going to be a flare. After it pops, use it as a marker to guide me to the tubes. You are going to have to tell me whether to go right, left, or whatever, and how far. Have you got that?”

  “Okay, Tac-one.”

  “Eagle-seven, I know you’re scared, but you’re going to have to raise your head up out of that foxhole for just a second for me to be able to help you. Are you okay with that?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “Okay, Eagle-seven, hang in there; it’ll only be a couple of minutes.”

  Fuzzy turned on his red lens flashlight and looked over the map. He gave the information to Stud, who quickly passed it along on the artillery frequency.

  Only one minute expired when Stud whispered, “Shot out!”

  “Eagle-seven, this is Tac-one. The flare is on the way. Watch for it and try to estimate where the tube is compared to where it pops.”

  “Tac-one, the flare is out to my front, but not far enough. I would say to add about two-hundred feet and then maybe go left about the same amount.”

  “Eagle-seven, the next one is going to be a high explosive round. You will hear where it hits. So, the plan is the same as before. Give me an adjustment afterwards.”

  “Shot out,” Stud informed Fuzzy.

  “Eagle-seven, heads up, it’s on the way.”

  “Tac-one, they’re close. Maybe add fifty feet and come back to the right a little.”

  After the next explosion, Eagle-seven called back in alarm, “Tac-one, when that round landed, there was a second explosion. Did you shoot twice?”

  “Negative, Eagle-seven. It sounds like a secondary explosion. Perhaps you heard ammo explode. Keep your head down and I’m going to shoot a bunch of rounds in that same area. They’ll move around a little, but don’t get excited. They won’t land near you.”

  “Thanks, Tac-one. The mortar has already stopped.”

  “That’s okay, Eagle-seven. We’re just going to make sure it stays out of commission. Hold tight. Rounds are on the way.”

  The twelve-round barrage began and sounded like a ferocious thunderstorm had just begun. The exceptionally loud claps of thunder sounded only microseconds before bright splashes of light interrupted the total darkness.

  A new voice called over the company radio. “Eagle-one, this is Eagle-seven-six, over.”

  “This is Eagle-one, go ahead.”

  “Roger. We’ve got casualties here and need Medevacs ASAP.”

  “Eagle-seven-six, how many wounded do you have?”

  “I don’t know. We are still checking foxholes. So far, it looks like six KIA and about the same amount wounded. All of them urgent.”

  “Roger. Will contact dust-offs and get back to you with an ETA. Let me know when you have a final tally.”

  “Wilco, out.”

  The survivors in the Second Platoon knew it would be too risky for the Medevac helicopters to pull each wounded man up by cable through the thick valley foliage. It would take extra time that none of them could afford.

  The surviving sergeant in charge got the men to begin dismantling their claymore mines and using the C-4 plastic explosive to blow away some of the trees. The birds needed a clear area of at least ninety feet to maneuver and land safely. It only took the group twenty minutes to create a suitable landing zone; the remaining tree stumps did not pose a hazard to a ship, which could drop vertically into the LZ.

  It took close to an hour to evacuate the wounded and corpses. The final tally was seven killed, eleven wounded, and three missing - totaling almost half the platoon.

  After looking at all the variables, the consensus was that the recon patrol had been spotted earlier in the day by the stream and then followed back to their NDP. The shooting had been too accurate to be the result of guesswork. Of the twenty-some rounds that hit, just two landed outside of their small perimeter.

  Only twenty-three men survived the barrage, but not all escaped injury. Almost every one of them had minor wounds that required cleaning and bandaging, but none of them were serious enough to require evacuation from the field. As a result, they were stuck with picking up the pieces and carrying on after the assault.

  Cap became concerned about their drastically weakened condition, but it was too risky for the Third Platoon to hump over a mile to link up with them. Too many things could go wrong in attempting such a rescue. Instead, he asked them to carry whatever they could and return to the mountain the same way they came earlier to get to their NDP. He wanted them to put as much distance as was feasible between themselves and the area where the mortars fired – and as quickly as possible. At first light, each platoon would move in that direction and link up with them at the base of their mountain.

  Third Platoon was the last to arrive at the company gathering. Cap did not even stop to drop his equipment; instead, he sought out Ralph, the young man who directed the artillery fire the night before, saving the lives of twenty-three men. He found a very frightened eighteen year-old who had only been in Vietnam for three weeks. Ralph was still shaking when Cap reached him. Only then, did the older man remove his equipment and take a knee in front of Ralph. When he noticed the captain, Ralph was embarrassed and quickly jumped to his feet.

  “At ease, troop, you don’t have to stand up!”

  “Sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.”

  “Ralph, you don’t have to apologize for anything. I am so grateful for what you did last night and had to find you so I could thank you face-to-face. What you did was an unselfish act of bravery. Your c
ourage saved the rest of the platoon, and certainly saved those already wounded; some would not have survived if the choppers didn’t arrive when they did. That was also some good shooting as it seems you knocked out that mortar team after only a couple of fire adjustments.”

  Ralph was still shaky and seemed to be uncomfortable as the center of attention.

  “When we return to the firebase, I’m going to submit your name for a Silver Star for Valor. Had you stayed in your foxhole and cowered in fear, we would most likely not be here having this chat. I want to thank you once again, and if you don’t mind, it would give me great pleasure to shake your hand.”

  Cap extended his hand and the two men shook heartily. The officer then turned, retrieving his gear, and with John in tow, returned to the CP. Surprised by Cap’s announcement, others began congratulating Ralph, previously unaware of his act of bravery. Humbled, Ralph brushed off the praise insisting that he had just done his job and nothing more.

  Captain Robertson was more determined than ever to check out the stream and crossings. He was angered by the NVA watching his men and then targeting them for mortar attacks during the night. The captain organized the company into four separate columns and had them follow a route perpendicular to the stream. Their movement would allow the company to clear a three-hundred foot wide area through the jungle to the stream. En route, they expected to cross through the area where the mortars had fired from the night before. If all went according to plan, the columns would all reach the stream at the same time.

  When passing through the area where the artillery barrage had hit, the damage was widespread and devastating. It looked like a hurricane passed through this area; shredded parts of the former jungle were piled high in spots, making it difficult for the men to traverse the area. The men came upon a single crater larger than the rest, looking as if a much more powerful explosion had created it. The ground and surrounding area was blackened and bare of vegetation for thirty feet around. Upon closer investigation, they also found pieces of human flesh clinging to foliage and littering the ground at the far end of the western diameter. They surmised this to be where the secondary explosion occurred, annihilating the mortar crew. There was no sign of the tube itself or its base plate - both perhaps blown across the valley by the explosion. It was impossible to determine the number of enemy soldiers destroyed by the blast; nevertheless, the sight did bring a smile to the faces of the Second Platoon survivors.