The bunker stands resolute, and ominous; festooned with fiery outbursts—a maelstrom vainglorious.
Spit. Sweat. Blood. Dust. Water. Wails. Full metal jacket.
Greased and dampened, the split-earth holds the boys tight beneath the babel and bedlam. The droop of sodden topsoil conceals their heads, and tangled roots keep them from the sidewalls of the creeping chasm.
The riot of artillery. The rupturing of flesh. The ravaging of earth.
A tree falls to span the gully. Fellow Americans run the gap to meet their maker, and death whistles through them, piercing skin in ruddy spritzes; popping bellies and splitting bone.
Agony and silence.
Then, the crossfire desists, and the new fusillade comes from the northeast: an ambush.
The slants overtake the right flank, cutting through the line and decimating the ranks. The tide turns. Candyman orders a rout. His son resists.
“Major Geller demanded we stay between the gooks and Saigon!” he shouts above the din.
“Major Geller isn't here!” Candyman barks. “Either we die in this hole or we take-back the treeline!”
“Our orders were to remain-”
“You don't live this long as a soldier without adapting to the circumstances! Now either we take the treeline or the whole thing is lost!”
A spurt of gunfire riddles the edge of the gully, spraying dirt into the captain’s face. He cusses and wipes his eyes clean. A grenade lands nearby and explodes, kicking-up more dirt.
Radiation Brother crawls across Zagorac to bend Candyman's ear; “Leo, I might have to agree with Michael on this one. We poke ourselves over the top and we'll bite it.”
Candyman scoffs, “You wouldn't; you'd be fine!”
“Sure,” Radiation Brother concedes, “but I'm not putting-up a one-man show while y'all others risk a mortarin’ in this trench!”
“Then what!”
“We oblige top brass. We pull-back to our line; we retain a position and call-in reinforcements; we don't risk a blitz that'll get twenty more guys killed.”
“That's horsecockery!” He turns to his platoon, hollering over the cannonade. “Whaddya say, men? Up and over, to glory?”
The soldiers stare back at him, wide-eyed and hollow-cheeked. The sounds of war persist. Candyman scowls.
“What're ya, a bunch of cowards?”
Michael's face flushes.
“There's only two things I hate more than cowards!”
Michael looks to Sgt. Greene, whose eyes are already upon him, with a steady, unwavering severity.
“I'll go,” Greene shouts, maintaining his gaze.
“Sergeant Greene! I knew you had it in you!”
“Me too,” shouts another.
“Private Miller! A fine shot and a better heart!”
Candyman looks to his son.
Michael stares back at him.
“Well,” he lingers, looking at his other men, “that's it, then? You followed me at Minh Thanh Road, but not here? At the bridge of Ap Tau O, and the Plain of Reeds, but not here?”
Rumbling overhead; crackling.
“Well so be it!” shouts the Candyman, stamping his foot into the muddy sidewall. “I'll see you hens back in the barnyard!” He turns to Greene and Miller: “Ready boys?”
Candyman boosts Sgt. Greene and Pvt. Miller up the embankment; prone, below the crossfire, they pull him out and sprint for the treeline. Gun barrels blazing and bleating as they run, crouched low. The Candyman’s scowl turns upright, straining against unfamiliar muscles to bare his teeth—such is the jingo in his element.
He drops off the backside of a wooded hillock. Below, where roots have kept the ground from eroding, hides a hatch of roped planks. Candyman lifts it to find, within, a chute descending into the earth.
“Rat tunnel,” he sneers. “Leftovers from Củ Chi and Cedar Falls.” He hands Sgt. Greene a small flashlight. “Here, take this. Stay on it.”
Greene slings his M16 and unholsters his pistol, a polished Colt M1911.
“Follow your instincts.”
Greene nods and crouches into the chute, gulleting the flashlight and propping it between his teeth.
Candyman unholsters his own revolver. “Never fire more than three shots in a row,” he says, flicking-open the swing-out cylinder; checking the ammo count and snapping it shut.
He hands Miller his revolver, prompting the private’s eyes to bulge.
“Fire six and the gooks will know you’re dry.”
He confiscates Miller’s shotgun and pats him on the back.
“Get in there, Miller!”
The private, wide-eyed, crouches down on the heels of Sgt. Greene and closes the hatch behind him. Candyman teeths his cigar and scowls. He pumps the slide on his newfound shotgun and eyeballs the periphery.
Slant-eyed scoundrels infiltrate the gully as the right flank falls. The chasm growls and glows with firebursts. Knives to throats and caught between ribs; howling from the dredges of lungs; stocks and barrels swung like clubs. Saliva foams around gnashing teeth. Drumbeats internal; heat coursing through veins; cloudy minds and narrow gaze. Chilled metal on hot flesh; sores weeping. Shoulder to shoulder; trapped and tangled.
The skirmish ebbs to the hillock. A retreat is ordered. Men clamber up the ridge and out of the trench, into the bloodshed of the riverbank. Daylight breaks and spotlights the ambling masses of men with their backs turned.
Radiation Brother throws Page and Zagorac behind him, advising they fall back to the treeline. The slant-eyed onslaught pours forth from the north. He puffs his chest and takes a pugilist’s stance.
His fists radiate a sickly green, illuminating the gully in technicolor contrast to the phosphorescent hues of discharged ammo and artillery. A slope encroaches, wielding a stout billhook with a crooked blade. Radiation Brother reels his arm back—a labored motion, easily telegraphed—and yet, with his delivery, there is no possible defense.
His first blow lands square in the gook's chest, rupturing his ribcage and sending him soaring over the heads of his pursuant brethren. The next in line nears and, now with his shoulders rolling-out a steady barrage, he punches through the gook with ease. His clout caves the skull of another, and another is launched by uppercut into the air. He crushes one between his hands, splatters another, and—as the airborne one descends—Radiation Brother reels and strikes center-mass, sending the frequent-flier hurtling down the gully, knocking the rest of the pursuant gooks off their feet.
He pivots and trudges up the ridge, to the hillock by the bend, where Privates Page and Zagorac lay suppressive fire from the fascines of the riverbank. The latter tells the ebony giant to ensure the others make it to the treeline, and Radiation Brother obliges.
Miller breaks-through the planken hatch of the tunnel's gape; the sergeant staggers in his wake, bleeding below the collarbone. He clutches his wound, wherefrom red flows between his fingers and trickles down his arm.
“Gook jumped me around the corner,” he says, sitting down. “I stuck him back.”
Candyman pulls the sergeant's lapel and wipes clean his wound; prodding. “In ‘n out,” he determines, “nothing gnarly.”
Sgt. Greene gestures for the shotgun. Candyman relinquishes it, pulls a roll of bandages from his belt, and—as he shoves gauze against the wound—Sgt. Greene hands the Candyman his Colt M1911.
Candyman's brow furrows and Greene looks wearily to Pvt. Miller, deflecting his gaze.
“Ready Captain?” Miller asks.
The Candyman curls his lip. “Ready for what?”
“You and I—we go back in, find our way to the bunker, and end this.”
Gunfire resounds; rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat.
“What do you mean, ‘end this’? We've lost a third of our unit!”
Greene looks between Miller and the captain.
“And while you two were in the underbelly, our relief retreated across the river!”
“Shit.”
“I hate to say it,” the w
arhawk grumbles, eyeing Greene’s red neck. “We have to draw the line back; regroup. Prolly call-in the bombers and shake this place up.”
Miller looks to Sgt. Greene, who sighs and reaches out for assistance. Candyman and the private help him to his feet, and they shuffle into a thicket of bamboo, headed south.
The waters of Ong Thanh Stream flow voluminous, unabated by trampling limbs. The invaders hold the eastern flank and rain havoc upon the last line of defense. Privates Page and Zagorac remain fixed at the riverbend: the only two forward actors on their side of the onslaught.
Zagorac suggests they pick-up and fall-back when the deluge next dies down. Page hesitates.
“Shouldn't we first arrange for covering fire?”
“Our guys will see us coming.”
“And so will the Viet Cong! It's an open range right now!”
“Listen, Page, there's no happy ending for us if we stay here. Everything's gone sideways.”
“What about the second offensive?”
“There is no goddamn second offensive! We're not retaking this ground, okay? The best chance we have of getting out of here alive is making a bolt for the treeline. Our guys will cover us.”
Private Page looks to the sky with flaring brow; he grimaces and resigns. “Fuck, alright—go! Go!”
Zagorac packs-up and sprints down the hillock, breaking for the riverbank. He leaps and lands halfway across, tit-deep; knees thrashing; elbows out and high.
Page chases after him, dropping into the stream; raising his rifle above his head. The tumult reopens, and the bunker fuels the air with the crackles and whistles of swift lead.
Zagorac humps up the southern embankment and waddles—damp and clammy—across the plain as his comrades’ coverage erupts from the treeline. Candyman and Pvt. Miller drop Sgt. Greene off at an idling jeep and take-up arms in the suppression.
Page slogs through the waters as the enemy's enfilade washes over him. He reaches the riverbank and hoists himself up, coming to his feet. Bullets whiz past him, striking the dirt and uprooting the grass. He tucks his rifle under his arm and sprints.
Candyman’s brow crinkles and droops; his warface melts into worry, and impatience. “Michael!” he yells, “Come on!” but his words are lost among the thunder of the line.
Page pumps his arms and runs—breathing; panting; straining—until he's struck, and he tumbles forward; reeling from a shot upon his spine. He hits the dirt, face-down, digging-up the earth with his teeth.
Candyman emits an unusual yawp, deep and angry like a skewered beast. He sprints from the treeline and skids to a rest beside his son, ripping-open Michael's shirt to find two metal slugs embedded in the flesh below his shoulder blade. On instinct, Candyman wipes at the wound—as if to clean it—and the mangled bullets roll away.
Beneath are two bruises, and otherwise fair, smooth skin.
Candyman's brow unfurls.
Pvt. Page rolls over, dazed and bewildered; spitting-out sawgrass. He grimaces, winces.
“Well, shit,” Candyman mumbles, propping his arm on his knee. “My son's a super.”
( II | V )
It was dark when their tanks rolled-in.
Growling mechanical beasts crushed the earth underfoot, leaving fences torn and crippled; foliage flattened; bodies popped and chassis compressed into the mud. A flag bowed off the ass of every roving beast, depicting blood-red above the horizon, sky-blue below, and a gold star superseding.
Whispers, pamphlets, and megaphones throughout the country spoke of this day as an inauguration for “the greatest battle” in the history of Vietnam—a nation far younger than its fight for independence. “Phá vỡ bầu trời, làm rung chuyển trái đất,” they said; “Crack the Sky, Shake the Earth.”
It was dark when their tanks rolled-in.
We did not hear them coming under the thunder of the fireworks. The moon goddess Chị Hằng had declared the day the first of a new year—a cause for pause; for celebration. Red paper lanterns strung the streets with fire’s glow, and the people ate mung bean cakes with ginger jam; and rice cakes, wrapped and steamed in the fern leaves of their marshy farms.
Revellers leaned over balconies—intoxicated and gay—to watch the nation dance in the streets. The younger children opened gifts while their older brothers were asleep, preparing to pick-up the slack of tomorrow’s labor. But there would be no labor; no dancing; no lanterns—only fireworks.
It was dark when their tanks rolled-in.
They came wearing floppy hats and sandals; cloaked in a diffusive green; strapped with leather satchels and Russian assault rifles. They drifted-in on the heels of armor, rumbling down the earthen halls they call streets; crashing through the walls of the Citadel in Quảng Trị. The people fled—against the hopes of the enemy, who imagined an uprising—into the surrounding villages; guided south by helicopters and American warriors.
They came barefoot, wearing cones of woven reeds upon their heads; wrapped in black tunics with white ascots; holding the recycled armaments of old and tired wars. They drifted-in on flat-bottomed boats, as quiet as the wind blows. Their truck-mounted rocket launchers—sending forty missiles apiece—besieged the airbase at Da Nang, bombarding the Marines from over twelve miles away; killing seven and wounding twice as many; crippling our air support before launching their armored raids on Huế, Khe Sanh, and Quảng Trị.
It was dark when their tanks rolled-in.
The cities of the south awoke to a barrage of mortars, whistling through the air; singing a prelude for the mass-invasion of sixty-four provincial and industrial capitals. The local cadres had led Ho Chi Minh's forces from the curtained jungles to the gates, the plazas, and the markets of urbana—all now levelled and buried.
With synchronicity and secrecy, the red-eyed denizens of the north assailed Nha Trang, the headquarters of the US command, and the cities of Ban Mê Thuột, Kon Tum, Hội An, and Pleiku. They infiltrated the strongholds of Saigon, Cholon, and Gia Định. They crawled down from the trees in Cần Thơ and Vĩnh Long; arose from the shadows in Biên Hòa and Bình Dương; and slithered out from the earth in Kiên Giang, Bến Tre, and Bạc Liêu.
With unrelenting haste, the People's Army of Vietnam converged on Phan Thiết, Tuy Hòa, Huế, Quảng Tín, Tam Kỳ, Quảng Ngãi, and the American bases at Phú Bài airport, Chu Lai seaport, Bong Son, An Khê, and Tan Son Nhut. The villages and thoroughfares between were overrun by the NVA and reformed to serve as their waypoints and junctions. In one night, it seemed, a prolonged (albeit commonplace) civil unrest had evolved into an absolute and boundless total war.
The wastelands are thick with rubble and bones.
A toppled trolley lays outside a cement tenement, whose facade is shorn of its southern exposure. A two-story hotel has been relieved of its shingles, bearing its hatchwork of timber. The adjacent building seems to have taken the brunt of the blast, reducing a half-dozen rooms to their base components—poured stone and corrugated metal. Two women stand in the doorway with their hands around their faces. Beside a firebombed car is another with only its windows blown-out.
White phosphorus erupts in the jungle like a carton of powdered milk dropped on the kitchen floor, except combustive and paved by flares. A short silver plane flees the scene. General Westmoreland looks at an outdated map; his lesser draws a connection from the Gulf of Siam to Dak To, but the general shakes his head. He refuses to believe it’s more than a mass-diversionary effort to distract America from Khe Sahn—the heart of the DMZ—and it is here he pours his resources.
He believes this despite the eighty-four-thousand troops participating in one-hundred and fifty-five coordinated attacks along the coast and central highlands, including the siege of the democratic crown jewel, Saigon. And so, across the country, the municipalities of Vietnam fall, crumble, and burn.
The wastelands are thick with rubble and bones.
Black smoke hangs thick in the air, rising from every corner of the city of Huế. The streetlights op
erate without care for the besiegement. A seven-story tenement seems taller with its roof obscured in smog. Its eaves are barred; bricks hang loose on its streetside facade. The fishmonger across the way is smoked-out of his shop. He flags a passing firetruck that refuses to stop; avoiding eye contact. The neighborhood watches their last hope drive away. Hand-painted shop signs transform into charcoal briquets.
A blackened tank rumbles down the street, passing boarded-up doors and blown-out oriental windows. Painted on its turret is the word “MISANTHROPE” and a popular cartoon dog wielding a top-fed Stoner LMG. The turret turns, puts a salvo through a building, and the tank continues down the road, followed by “BABY BADGER,” “IRON FIST,” “BOTTOM FEEDER,” “HOOD SAMARITAN,” and “LAUGHING JOE.”
Night falls on this city encased in fire. A balcony has been cleaved from its portico, and—across the street—all that remains of a factory is its cement support columns. The infrastructure of the building lies within, like a mountain of stone and steel displaced upon the knee-high walls of a labyrinth. Soot rains from a black sky glowing orange. Bell UH-1 “Huey” helicopters patrol overhead, casting spotlights below. LAUGHING JOE plows through an impeding wall, casting two-hundred bricks into obscurity.
The wastelands are thick with rubble and bones.
Infantrymen surmount the ridge of crumbled stone and iron mesh. A pockmarked hotel of poured cement shelters a machine gun nest on its top floor, wherefrom swings the copper scythe. The steepled garrison is lased by a pointman, and a saw-toothed Huey descends with an enfilade from its miniguns—a roaring, mechanical hailstorm. The airborne cavalry relents and glides off to another lodestar.
The helo comes to hover above a burning office complex, adjacent to a repurposed garden whose cannons send forth repellent bursts of flak. A rope drops from the starboard door and Pharos repels down, followed closely by Raze and Watchdog, settling on the rooftop. Raze tempers the fires, pushing them aside; carving a swath through to the stairwell. Above, another Huey arrives, shuttling Miss Bliss.
Upon her palm is an active portal, from which pours a steady rain, dousing the tempered flames. Miles away, Boy Cumulus lingers on a cloud above the ancient Imperial City, evaporating great volumes of water from the Perfume River into a small shimmering disc.
Supers Box Set Page 12