“You really got a rap, Man,” Lamonte said to George. “No foolin, Man. But it sure took you a long time to say that.” The opium and marijuana slowed all their speech considerably and it shortened their attention span.
“Oh,” George groaned to the general laughter. “Open up a can of tamales, Man. We got a can of tamales.”
There was more laughter and Cherry laughed too although he was feeling strange from what he had read and from the dope. He did not feel a part of the group any more. Lamonte opened the can and dumped the contents onto an old, broken china plate on the bar. “Wow! We’re goina have ta cut these into threes,” he said.
“I do not like tamales,” Minh said.
“Good,” George said. “Then we can cut em up into two-an-a-halves.” They chuckled again. “I told you that thing about ‘you cut—I pick,’ didn’t I, Lamonte?”
“I don’t know but I was just cuttin on this thing for about five minutes with the back side of the knife.”
“You still are,” Egan laughed.
“There is a collusion set up against you, Lamonte,” Minh said.
“Is that your word for today?” George asked.
“No. That one I learned yesterday.”
“Doc. Here,” Lamonte said passing him a tamale slice. “No. Doc,” he said when George reached for it.
“I’ll pass em around,” George said.
“There you go,” Lamonte said as he passed out the remaining slices. “Augh … that’s no fair. I got a nub on mine.” Then he added in falsetto, “Devil made me do dat.”
“Hey,” Doc said seriously, stoned serious. “You all pretty educated. Maybe you can tell me. I’ve asked sergeant majors, majors, captains, lieutenants, EMs, buck sergeants, master sergeants. Why do the army do this shit? Huh? Huh?”
“What shit?” Cherry asked.
“It’s bad enough we gotta come in the army and then leave the army and depart our friends. But the war … Why? Give me one good logical goddamned reason, Mista. One.”
“The war come, ah, the war comes before the army, ya know?” George said. Lamonte glared at him and shook his head and George added, “Well, maybe not.”
“I mean, like all the people you know in the World,” Doc said simply going on, oblivious to George, “Blond who used ta be up there. Way down there. Great guy, blond hair. Use ta always be drunk all the time …”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know me en him been here since ’68 tagether. I was in the Cav, Airborne Infantry. In the Elephant Valley up north.”
“North of the A Shau?”
“Walkin,” Doc said. “Walkin. Walkin toward the A Shau Valley. And after we left the A Shau we were supposed ta go ta the Ruong-Ruong. Which we did. They all three is right there, right?”
“Yeah. North, middle and south,” Lamonte agreed.
“Do you know when Blond said good-bye ta me tanight, no Man, two nights ago, both of us cried, Mista. I’m not bullshittin. He was on the mothafucken LZ when I got those two SKS rounds in my legs. I was there on the chopper pad. I saw him. I met Blond before, on Firebase Geronimo when he was with Seventh a the Four-Oh-Deuce. Recon. Both a us cherry in-country: 1968. But he was here before me an … well, he was here bout three month before me. He got here round August a ’67. I got here November 17th, 1967. I left March … March 22d, 1968. I got wounded January, ah, January … ah … I fergot the date. I try ta keep it far from my mothafuckin mind. Like you nevah hear me talk bout it, right?”
“Right.”
“I see Blond on Geronimo the day I got wounded. When I was goan out in the chopper, one Power Sign, one Peace Sign.” Doc held up one clenched fist and one V-fingered hand. “I’ll see our brothers later. Right? I didn’t go ta Japan. I didn’t go ta the Philippines. I didn’t go ta Korea. Ya know, those big hospitals. I went to Cam Ranh Bay en came right back. Right back. Dig it?”
“Yeah.”
“I was Medic. I was medic humpin. Ya know what I mean? I was medic with the 1st Cav. Combined operation. Recon jus walk off Leech Island. Went ta Curahee. Dig?”
“Yeah.”
“They was comin off Curahee goan toward Berchesgadten. And they radio inta Berchesgadten an say they was comin in. Berchesgadten say, ‘Don’t even come here. We gettin hit.’ They had ta turn around and come back. They radios in and says they comin back. They say, ‘Don’t come back here, we’s gettin hit.’ I’m hearin all this conversation. Dig it? Blond was walkin slack. That time he was walkin slack. They had a brother … black guy like me … Black Brother, ya know what I mean? Man, listen. Him en Blond, he was walkin behind Blond an a RTO was walkin right behind him. I’m not bullshittin ya. We was walkin down the Hoi Sanh Trail. Okay. Blond, they was comin up the Hoi Sanh Trail. We was comin down the Hoi Sanh Trail. We dug a trail watcher. So instead of sayin the trail watcher saw us … most likely he know we saw him, that’s why he dee-deed, we didn’t go chasin him cause it was comin on night, the L-T says, ‘Let’s move up above bout maybe 250 meters.’ Good thing we did. Cause that night, that night, Mista, that night, that spot where we seen that mothafuckin trail watcher at, got fucked up.”
“Mortars?”
“Mortars, RPGs, frags, everythin. B-40s was comin in on that mothafuckin spot where we started ta stay. It’s a good thing that the L-T had sense. Dig it?”
“Right.”
“En the dude says, ‘Blond, Look Out! RPG!’ He hit Blond in the back a the head with his M-16. Blond fell ta the ground.”
“Blond, that guy in radar?” Lamonte asked.
“Yeah. Me en Blond was humpin tagether from ’68. Blond en me, we hugged each other, kissed each other. Ya know Man, like this, side-ta-side. We shook each other’s hand, Man. Man, shake my hand. Ya know? Shake my hand. Ya know, we shook each other’s hand. Ya know what I mean. I put his hand ta my heart, Mista PIO, like I got your hand ta my heart and I says, ‘Blond, do ya feel it.’ He say, ‘Brother Doc, I feel it.’ I says, ‘Guess what Blond?’ I says, ‘You got soul.’ He say, ‘Brother Doc, you been wantin ta tell me that fo a long time.’ I says, ‘Yeah Blond, I know it.’ En he say, ‘En I’m goan home now en I know you really mean it. If you had told me any other time before this, when even we was humpin back in ’68, fightin, ya know,’ he says, ‘I would a had some kind a doubt, some kind a thought. But I’m goan home now and I know that you really mean it.’ I put my hand to his heart. This way. En I say, ‘Blond, I really feel it.’ En Man, we cried. Right there in his mothafuckin hootch, jus a while ago, Man. We cried. We actually cried, Mista. I’m not bullshittin ya.
“Why do the army do that, Mista? Why? You all pretty educated. You tell me.”
“No, Man,’ Egan said. “Doc, nobody can tell you why. It’s just like that.”
“Hey, Mista PIO, you tell me.”
“No, Doc,” Lamonte said. “I can’t tell you neither.”
“You know, Man,” Doc said. “We got us a new cherry here, a new white cherry who gonna be oh-fuckin-kay. Lots a white dudes okay. Dig? Lots a Brothers okay too, Man. Dig?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“See, but when they get back ta the World we all turn inta mothafuckas. You know what I’m sayin? Man, you know what I’m sayin? Why? Tell me why, Mista?”
“Don’t mean nothin,” Egan said. He removed two OJs from his shirt and handed one to Doc and one to Lamonte and lit them both.
“I think it is time you all go,” Minh said from the far end of the bar.
“Yeah, I think so too,” George said. “It’s three-twenty. What the fuck you guys doin in my AO at three-twenty?”
“No,” Minh said. “I mean it is time you all leave my country and let us work out our separate peace.”
“Minh,” Egan said, “you know, if we were all to leave, even if we negotiate a separate peace, that won’t mean peace for your country.”
George mumbled, “That’s like oh three-hundred and twenty.”
“This is true,” Minh said. “But, my friend Egan, th
en the war will be a Vietnamese war and not an American war. Your money is too much and now I do not recognize my own home. Your president must have you leave.”
“Oh-three-two-zero,” George muttered. “Up at oh-four-three-zero.”
“Man, you really out of it,” Lamonte said to George. “You are really wasted.”
“Time to sky up,” Egan said lifting his body as though he were lifting a great bulk weight.
“One more hit,” Lamonte said. His eyes gleamed. “Get the shotgun.”
“Oh shee-it,” Doc laughed. “You gonna blow his mind away.”
The shotgun was a tube of seven Coca-Cola cans taped together end-to-end. Grass, bulk marijuana which could be purchased by the sandbag for ten dollars MPC, was burned in the second can. The shotgunner blew into a large opening in the first can and the smoke flowed and swirled up and down and cooled in the five following tins until it peed out a tiny puncture at the end of the tube, until it sniped put in a thin straight line where the shotgunnee could stand back eight or ten inches, mouth gaping, and swallow the smoke stream.
Lamonte loaded, lit and fired. The shotgun worked its way about the room, Lamonte shotgunning his honored guest, Doc. The Doc gunning Egan and Egan George and finally George gunning Cherry. Cherry couldn’t stand after the hit and Egan gunned Lamonte and Lamonte reloaded the tube for a second round.
Cherry sat on Lamonte’s cot and stared into the room and beyond. What am I doing here, he thought. I’m just a kid, just a dumb kid. These are just kids, he said the words inside. The thought was a jumble of words and phrases, of pictures whirling and of names as ideograms. Kids from the suburbs, he thought. Rich kids. We’re kids who’ve dreamed of far lands and exotic places, of the lands and wars of Hemingway and Mailer. Kids dreaming of seeing hobo jungles and shanties and of jumping a Steinbeck freight and of seeing America and the world. I’ve seen Daytona and Ft. Lauderdale at Easter and Cheyenne during the Round-Up but I never saw a dust bowl or mass poverty like the descriptions of the Depression by my folks or by the television. How the hell does an American middle-class white kid see what life is like if they get rid of all the rough edges? Shit. The L-T is as middle class as I am. And Doc. That’s not poverty he comes from. Or El Paso, a low class peasant? With a college degree? A year of law school? That’s not poverty. Jackson? Maybe. But he’s makin the almighty greenback right now more en me. Spec 4. That’s about four-hundred a month with combat and overseas pay and he’s gotta be gettin an allotment for his wife and he’ll get another hundred for his kid. Maybe six bills a month. Then poverty’s gone. So come to Asia and see the poverty. See the poor fuckin gooks with their Hondas.
The music in the hootch was turned up. It blared in through his ears. Now he could not feel his body. Everybody was laughing at him. Everything was sprinting in his head. Everything was clear, so clear. He squinted and the candle flames starred and shot rays in every direction. A flat star first, lines, a halo, glowing growing into a sphere halo and the lines glowing exploding fuzzy clear beams shooting speeding toward him, fire reaching penetrating his eyes. Cherry closed his eyes. He could see the future. The light revolved, rotated, the light stood still and he revolved and rotated. He tried to duck the light then the colors. All colors. They were all giggling at him now.
“Oh, the colors,” he moaned.
They all laughed harder.
“Oh, the colors,” he bellowed. “The colors. They’re … they’re speeding right through me. The fire is speeding through you.”
“Jesus, Egan,” Lamonte chuckled, “you got a super cherry. He’s really funny.”
“Come on, Cherry,” Doc picked him up. “You gettin silly.”
Cherry put his arm around Doc’s shoulder. “Colors, wonderful colors. Colors with jelly. Covered with jelly.” He began chuckling then laughing hysterically.
“He’s cool,” Lamonte laughed. “He’s really all right.”
In five hours they would be high again, this time in the air, CAing to the Khe Ta Laou River valley.
AUGUST 1970
SIGNIFICANT ACTIVITIES TO DATE*
THE FOLLOWING CUMULATIVE RESULTS FOR OPERATIONS IN THE O’REILLY/BARNETT/JEROME AREA WERE REPORTED FOR THE TEN-DAY PERIOD ENDING 2359 12 AUGUST 70:
97 ENEMY KILLED, 15 BY US—82 BY ARVN; 18 INDIVIDUAL WEAPONS CAPTURED BY ARVN; 14 CREW SERVED WEAPONS CAPTURED, EIGHT BY US—SIX BY ARVN. FIVE ARVN SOLDIERS WERE KILLED IN ACTION AND 33 WERE WOUNDED IN ACTION. US CASUALTIES WERE TWO SOLDIERS WITH MINOR WOUNDS.
ON 11 AND 12 AUGUST A TOTAL OF 112 ENEMY WERE KILLED AND 17 CAPTURED IN THE VICINITY OF FS/OB O’REILLY. SMALL ARMS CONTACT BY ELEMENTS OF THE 1ST AND 4TH BATTALIONS, 1ST REGIMENT (ARVN) ACCOUNTED FOR 19 ENEMY KILLED. THE 2D SQUADRON (AMBL), 17TH CAVALRY (101ST) KILLED 23 AND TACTICAL AIR STRIKES (USAF) AND AERIAL ROCKET ARTILLERY (101ST) KILLED 70. ONE ARVN SOLDIER WAS KILLED AND 11 WOUNDED DURING THE TWO DAYS OF CONTACT.
* Throughout the book, “Significant Activities …” have been adapted from Defense Documentation Center document AD 515195:101st Airborne Division, Operations Report—Lessons Learned for the period ending 31 October 1970; declassified 11 November 1977.
CHAPTER 10
13 AUGUST 1970 STAGING
The moon was yellow, low on the horizon, just above the blackness of the mountains. Straight up was blue-black. Eighty-four men sat, leaned against their rucksacks, lay on the ground with the chill of the earth passing into their muscles and bones, eighty-four men trying to catch a few moments sleep, trying to have time pass without tiring them more than they were already tired. They lay quietly in the deep monsoon-carved gullies surrounding the landing strip, trying not to think, trying to sleep on the gravel and stone and hard clay of the ravines of the staging area. Twenty soldiers in this ravine; thirty in the next; twenty-four in the one across the landing strip. A few sat back-against-back on the tiny hard ridge dividing the ravines, sat smoking, the faint glow of cigarettes swinging in the darkness.
To Chelini the strip looked like an eighth-mile mini-dragway; to Jackson like an oasis above the ground mist cloaking the surrounding rice swamps; to Minh like an immense multi-legged dragon with eighty-four sucklings squeezing and squirming in the gullies of its legs. The monsoons of last winter had eroded the sides of the strip and gullies had cut deep into it and had grown to sharp V-shaped ravines. The dry season sun had baked the ocher clay and red stone gravel into one solid narrow mesa. The strip had been grated and rolled flat but the lesions had been allowed to remain for they served as trenches.
In the darkness of the pre-dawn a second wave of CH-47 Chinook helicopters approached the staging area. Nothing at first, only a feeling of their nearness. Then powerful headlight beams visible high over the South China Sea, then a slight vibration in the air, then the harsh slapping of rotor blades spanking the sky. Men unable to shut their eyes, to keep them shut, to keep from watching the approaching helicopters, to keep from feeling time’s slow forward pacing.
On the strip a strobe light flashed, an RTO spoke directions into the handset of his radio, moving in the flashes like a character in an ancient film flickering. The dark silhouettes of the birds grew in the sky, the noise became larger enveloping the strip in quick pulsations, shattering the air. Chelini watched fascinated, as pathfinders guided the birds in with long red-dipped flashlights. The strobe went out, the helicopters descended, hovered, descended. In the blackness of the trenches men hid behind their rucksacks and pulled their shirts up tight around their necks. Some men covered their heads with olive drab towels. Cherry watched naively. The rotor wash from the big birds sent dust then sand and stones hurling from the landing strip into the trenches. The birds set down, tails opened releasing more infantry troops, more boonierats scurried to the protection of the trenches. The helicopters lifted and blasting sand lashed the ravines again.
“Okay, People,” someone yelled. “Down here. Charlie ‘Company down here. Don’t go mixin up with Alpha.”
Again it was quiet. The men in the first ravine rolled ba
ck, shook the sand from their hair, dug the sand from their scalps and from under their shirts, rolled back onto the hard gravel, exhaled the smell of jet exhaust, lay and attempted to rest. Cherry spat dirt from his mouth and tried to clear his eyes and ears of the sand. Now one hundred fifty-two infantrymen waited, rested, waited restless.
The sky grayed. At the helicopter pad on the ridge above the battalion base at Camp Eagle a Huey helicopter arrived and touched down. Supply personnel, hunching beneath the rotors, carried armloads of OD green equipment to the bird and stacked it on the steel floor. An operations officer and a supply NCO boarded and the Huey lifted. Two companies of the 7th Battalion, 402d Infantry had already rucked up, boarded the large CH-47s and had flown to LZ Sally. At 0605 hours, first light, the third wave of Chinooks departed Camp Eagle for the twenty-eight kilometer flight to the combat assault staging area.
The staging area for the combat assault was on the western edge of LZ Sally, a tiny outpost situated between the sprawling headquarters and base camp of the 101st at Eagle and the division’s 3d Brigade base at Camp Evans. From the staging area the third flight of CH-47s looked like a line of awkward sea gulls. They approached from a point over the Tonkin Gulf where land, water and sky merged to a long thin green-blue-gray line. Again the Chinooks became larger, distinct in the graying sky. Again the air broke with the deep slapping noise from the blades.
“Oh God,” Cherry muttered to himself. “Here they come again.” He rolled on his side, his rucksack between him and the landing helicopters and he watched the monstrous OD bellies drop slowly, watched the sixty foot rotors blur until the wind and dust became so violent he had to close his eyes tight and wrap his arms about his head and bring his knees to his chest to keep the wind from penetrating.
Three companies ordered themselves in the ravines. Two more companies, three scout dog teams and three sniper teams were scheduled to arrive by 0800. At 0817 the combat assault to the Khe Ta Laou River valley would begin.
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