13th Valley

by John M. Del Vecchio

  CHAPTER 17

  Three hours before Cherry got his cherry busted, everything was peaceful, businesslike, ordinary. Atop and about the peak, at noon, the soldiers were doing their jobs and they were bored. The sun was high, the sky untainted. In the high canopy leaves caught the sun and a slight breeze and reflected the sun like glossy mirrors. Across the valley a small FAC observation Piper Cub buzzed. Closer by, two LOHs hummed and darted. Mist still cloaked the river below and the rumbling of occasional artillery rounds bursting on the western end of the Khe Ta Laou echoed and reverberated and rolled up upon the peak unnoticed.

  1st Plt had regrouped after the morning patrols and most of the soldiers sat idly, some eating C-rat lunches, some writing letters, some cleaning weapons. No one was in a hurry. The mortar rounds and office machines and rice and other odds and ends of NVA equipment had grown to a three-foot high heap. They had had to move it twice. First it was decided to evacuate the goods and they had moved them from the top of the peak to the trailhead leading back to 848. As the dump grew it was decided to blow it and everything had been moved again, now to a depression off the north crest. Boonierats from the 2d Plt had sporadically added to the dump all morning.

  The company CP directed the general movement from the south crest. Brooks conferred with De Barti and Randalph, then with FO then Thomaston then El Paso. By radio he reported to the Old Fox and the GreenMan. He returned to study the topo maps and plan his moves. The radios were squealing with new finds and more information all the time.

  Brown was on the hook to the artillery on the firebase. “Ah, Armageddon Two, you had a secondary with that last dime-nickel,” he called describing an explosion in the valley seemingly caused by a 105mm howitzer round detonating an enemy cache.

  “Roger, Rover Four,” the radio rasped.

  2d Plt continued to hack at the bunker complex to the west. The slashhacking noise was considerably dampened by the vegetation but everyone in the valley knew where Alpha was. The soldiers of the 2d continued to explore and patrol deeper and lower and they continued to find additional fighting positions. “Frank,” Brooks said to De Barti as he unfolded his topo map, “I want you and Pop to take a squad of your men down this ridge. Take two.” Brooks traced a ridge on the map which descended to the west then looped and rose north for 600 meters to a third peak. “Be careful in the draw. Good ambush site. Don’t go off the trail til you’ve reached that peak.” He now pointed to the peak clearly visible through the thinner jungle vegetation of their own summit. “We’ve got a LOH coming on station to hover at your point. He’ll come up on your freq.” Brooks paused, turned to El Paso. “Thunder Two Six,” El Paso answered without being asked. “Thanks,” Brooks said and returned to De Barti. “Frank, you may hit the shit in that saddle. I think the LOH will make them dee-dee but … Come here and look.” The two lieutenants walked off to the northwest.

  Earlier in the morning 3d Plt had come down as far as the red ball in the draw just west of 848. They had set up ambush on the vertical rises on both sides of the draw and most of the men laid back, attempting to regain sleep lost on the last night of stand-down and by the 0430 wake-up. They were roused again by El Paso’s message directing them to return to and secure the LZ on 848. “For a scout dog team,” El Paso explained to Kinderly. No more needed be said. That was reason enough though everyone grumbled about having to retrace his steps. They had begun coming off the LZ when the mortars landed and had had to back up when the entire column pushed them up from below. They had descended into the jungle a second time when Whiteboy opened up and they had had to reclimb to the LZ. They came all the way to the draw this morning and now were going back up. And they would have to come back down again before nightfall. “What a fucked-up operation,” Ridgefield lamented to Nahele.

  As 3d Plt ascended east and 2d Plt descended west, a PsyOps Bird passed over, speakers blaring a chieu hoi message in Vietnamese. A LOH came on station, hovered at treetop level and led 2d Plt down their new trail. After a few minutes the LOH began spraying mini-gun fire all over the saddle west of the CP’s peak and immediately the M-60s of the patrol opened up. Cherry froze at the first cracking shots but no one near him seemed even to hear. He monitored his radio. When Egan approached he was able to report, “Recon by fire.” “Yeah,” Egan nodded. Cherry walked to the west edge. The LOH was far enough down the hillside to be below him. His radio crackled with static and a report of negative results followed. 2d Plt continued the recon.

  “How much water you got left?” Egan asked Cherry.

  “Canteen and a half.”

  “You fucken cherry ass,” Egan snarled. Egan was irritated. He had been thinking on and off all morning of his dream last night. He was angry about the spider incident and about having shrieked at Denhardt. That’s what R&R does to ya, he kept telling himself. It freaks ya out. You can leave this shit but you can’t come back. Egan set his eyes upon Cherry. “When was the last time you fired that weapon?” he asked indicating Cherry’s M-16.

  “I never fired this one,” Cherry said. “I fired one at SERTS but we turned ours in up there. Top just gave me this one.”

  “Get up on the line.” Egan pointed to the northeast edge of the peak where half a dozen soldiers were gathered. “Bring yer ammo. Mad minute.”

  “Where’s that correspondent?” Numbnuts giggled when Cherry joined the group. “He oughta get a picture of me firin.”

  “Is he the guy,” Cookie Frye asked cautiously, “ah, you know, the guy who wrote all them letters about My Lai?”

  “That’s the fucker,” Numbnuts giggled.

  “Shee-it,” Happy Lairds chuckled nastily, “we oughta have him here with us. Bet he’d like some target practice. Bet I could shoot the camera from off his neck.”

  “You don’t never see correspondents with the front troops,” Numbnuts said. “He’s sittin back ghostin with 3d Plt.”

  “Okay, fuckers,” Egan snarled at them, eight all together. Egan set his eyes on them all. He asked himself whether he should explain to this lame/lazy bunch that Caribski’s letters were worth more to them than their words were worth to him but he resisted. Egan yelled at the top of his lungs, “Fire-in-the-hole … Fire-in-the-hole … Fire-in-the-hollll …”

  All eight opened up. Beaford’s M-60 led the loud bangchatter and Numbnuts’ M-79 punctuated the noise. Cherry fired an entire clip on full automatic. He had never done that before. It was exciting. He ejected the magazine and reloaded and fired as fast as possible, feeling like a hero, spraying wildly at nothing. Egan grabbed his firing arm. “Put it on semi and try to hit somethin. This aint a carnival. It’s practice.” Cherry settled down, feeling good. Egan was right. Cherry picked out a tree 20 meters down the hill. He squeezed off a round. It missed. The others had settled down also. “About a foot to the left,” Egan said from behind Cherry. Cherry tried again. “Yer way to the left,” Egan said again. Cherry adjusted the rear sight and fired again. “Yer left about five inches,” Egan said. Cherry adjusted the sight two more clicks. He fired and nicked the left edge. He adjusted one click, fired and hit dead center but higher than he had aimed. He lowered the front sight post a click. Right on. He picked out a twig at 25 meters and cut it in half. He turned and looked up at Egan. Egan smiled very slightly and moved off to Numbnuts, who was pumping out rounds from the hip. Egan got him to sit with the M-79, use the strap as a ranging device and pump his rounds out like a mini-mortar. Egan cut the mad minute off like turning off a tap. “Water run,” he ordered.

  Twelve men went on the water run, in lights, without rucksacks, nine from the 1st Plt and three from the 2d. They had collected all the empty canteens of both platoons which amounted to 137 one-and two-quart canteens. They humped down the trail between the new peak and 848. They passed through the rising pungent odor of the dead NVA soldier in his shallow mulch grave and moved down to the red ball. Up to that point it had been a piece of cake. They were loose, easy, happy, on familiar ground. Beaford and Smith were at point/slack. The
n Moneski, Hall and Michaels. Cherry had gone to give the detail an RTO. Behind him was Greer, a black soldier from 2d Plt Cherry had never seen before, then Roberts and Sklar, Greer’s buddies. At drag were Happy Lairds, Bo Denhardt and Polanski.

  At the red ball the water run detail took a right, slowed, tensed up, quieted and proceeded down with caution. They were in an unpatrolled area. Beaford, Smith and the Monk were veterans. They moved noiselessly and in slow smooth motions. The trees about them were slashed with shrapnel from yesterday’s air strikes and from the artillery of last night and very early this morning. All the smaller trees were splintered, many were cut in half. At one point on the hill rising to their right there was a large bare orange cliff where a bomb had avalanched a steep section.

  The trail was moist, smooth and clear. As it descended it became muddier and in the mud there were fresh tracks. The farther down they stepped the less apparent was the damage from the shellings and the thicker the canopy. Beaford crouched down to examine the tracks. He wasn’t sure if they were yesterday’s or today’s but he damn well wasn’t going to stay on the red ball. Smith and Moneski concurred. The detail paused. Moneski consulted his map. He backed up to Cherry, radioed El Paso then led the detail right, off the trail, headed ten meters across a steep vine-tangled face and descended until they came to the edge of a tiny steep gorge. Water was trickling off the moss and algae-green rock sides into a pool fifteen feet below. The pool, puddle, was two feet long, a foot wide and perhaps eighteen inches deep. It was filled with leaves and bugs and two tiny translucent lizards.

  Moneski signaled the detail into a loose perimeter ten to twelve meters in diameter about the gorgehead then he and Hall dropped down the slippery walls sliding on the moist stone and falling to the bottom. Smith dropped halfway down and braced himself on a small ledge. Michaels acted as runner. He collected the empty canteens from the guards, brought them to the edge and dropped them to Smitty who dropped them to the men in the hole. The water men filled the canteens as quickly as possible and tossed them back up to Smitty who tossed them to Michaels. It was a slow process. It seemed to be taking forever. In the gorge Monk became more and more nervous because there was no exit. And Hall became nauseous from the air. It was like being in the bottom of a well. Cherry sat alone by the gorgehead, staring uphill, monitoring his radio.

  3d Plt was back on 848 before the detail had filled half their canteens. It had taken 3d less than an hour to reclimb the familiar trail and circle the LZ. The bird with the dog team had not arrived. The afternoon had become warm.

  On the peak west of 848 a skeleton crew had been securing the perimeter. Now they all moved off below the south crest as Egan, Jackson and Silvers prepared the demolition to destroy the NVA equipment heaped on the far side.

  “Hey Doc,” Hill called to Doc Johnson, “you hear that music?”

  “Yeah,” Doc answered surprised. He looked around. Very faintly a melancholy melody seeped over the peak and down to them. “Hey,” Doc called. “Hey, El Paso. Hey, tell them dumb shits ta shut off the radio.”

  “What radio?” El Paso called back. He had been on the hook with Calhoun of the 2d Plt monitoring 2d Plt’s progress toward the next peak.

  The music, Doc, Hill and El Paso were interrupted by Egan and Jackson yelling in unison at their lungs’ best, “Fire-in-the-hole. Fire-in-the-hole. Fire-in-the-HOLLLlll …” and a tremendous concussion explosion sending dirt and fire and shrapnel and pieces of typewriter and mimeograph machine in a huge expanding cone out and up from the north face like an erupting volcano, followed immediately by at least one secondary explosion and smoke and dirt gravel rain falling noisily through the trees. Then silence. Then the forlorn crying music.

  At the gorgehead Cherry had heard the music too. It was strange wailing music. Then the explosion. It shook the earth under him and he jumped up then squatted and reconcealed himself in the vegetation. Moneski rose up out of the well and grabbed him by the foot. “What the fuck was that?”

  Cherry shook his head.

  Moneski grabbed the radio handset grumbling he’d near shit his pants. He called El Paso. “Fire-in-the-hole,” Moneski repeated handing the hook back to Cherry. “Why the fuck didn’t you warn us?” Moneski mumbled and disappeared. Only half the canteens were filled.

  A Huey slick approached, descended and landed on the LZ on 848. A dog handler, a tracker and a German shepherd named Cherokee leaped from one side and hurried into the brush below the cleared peak. Four boonierats met the bird and with the doorgunner assisting, quickly unloaded eight cases of ammunition, explosives and supplies, a bag of mail, and a new radio and rucksack for Fernandez. A civilian photographer and his PIO escort, a cherry second lieutenant from 3d Brigade, ambled off the other side of the bird. The bird departed. It was to make several other drops about the valley then return in one hour for the photographer. This was becoming quite an operation. Not just a military correspondent, not just one civilian correspondent, but a civilian photographer with escort, two military correspondents, and Craig Caribski with escort. That was almost unheard of. The men of Company A had never seen correspondents in the boonies like this. On firebases, sure. Even forward firebases. But in the mountains? They loved it. The boonierats loved the attention.

  3d Plt began breaking down the new supplies with a great show of panache. “Two cases of frags,” Ridgefield called out.

  “Two frags,” Kinderly checked off on a fictitious list.

  “Two cases Charlie-four plastic explosive,” Ridgefield yelled.

  “Two Charlie fours,” Kinderly checked.

  Snell and Nahele and McQueen got in the act, breaking the cases apart with great gusto. The photographer snapped photos like crazy or at least pretended to. They always had to spend half their time pretending to shoot the take-my-picture shots, until the men became bored and went back about their business as good soldiers must and allowed good photographers to get natural photos.

  Don White, the platoon sergeant, broke down the small bag of mail, removed and distributed the letters for 3d Plt then told his 2d Sqd to hump back to the company position with the rest of the mail and as much extra ammo, frags and M-60 belts especially, as they could carry for the 1st and 2d Plts. Two squads would secure 848 until the bird returned.

  Cherry had been set off by Moneski’s admonition. “If the fuckers would just let you know what your job is beforehand,” he cussed, “I’d be able to do it right. Do they expect me ta be a fucken mind reader?” He was pissed. He was dirty. He was hot. What am I doing here, anyway? he asked himself. I didn’t even have to be in the army. I could have beaten the draft. Why didn’t I? Cherry pondered that. Was it an act of rebellion against his parents? An assertion of independence? An opportunity for freedom from the city rut get-a-job life? Was he seeking the approval he knew parents and relatives secretly held for soldiers even if they no longer expressed it in 1970 America?

  Smitty came up from the gorge. Michaels had already loaded Cherry down with ten quarts of water. Moneski and Hall came up. They looked filthy. Their fatigues were soaked with sweat. It must have been 100% humidity in the well. They saddled up, hefted their equipment and water, and moved out in almost the same order except now Cherry was behind Greer instead of Michaels. Moneski led them, directed them from behind the gun team, horizontally east from the waterhole, across a tiny crest, circling the hillside east then northeast. They stepped deliberately, placing their feet just before or just beyond twigs or leaves. Branches that crossed the narrow path were pushed aside by hand so as not to brush against one’s fatigues and make noise. It was completely quiet. Branches were returned to their original position slowly, by hand, so the limbs would not snap back. Where broad brown and dry palm fans overhung the path to the height of only several feet the men gently squatted, then, on hands and knees, slid beneath the vegetation.

  Cherry watched Greer closely. He tried to place his feet in Greer’s footsteps. Cherry began noticing details about Greer. The man had a list of months writt
en on the back of his helmet cover. In various shades of ink, all faded, even July, Cherry could see the first six months lined through. There was something about that that excited Cherry. Here was this soldier opening up his personal history to Cherry without being asked. Cherry decided he liked the man.

  The patrol proceeded horizontally, perhaps registering a slight elevation gain, through thicker and thicker jungle. It was impossible to see five feet to either side. Tree trunks and boughs were choked by solid mats of vines. Some of the vines were as thick as human legs. Some vines had barbs that hooked onto shirts and the soldiers were continuously backing up to untangle themselves. They came through an even denser section then stopped. As Moneski had figured they had intersected the red ball. Again there were fresh signs of enemy activity. The red ball fell to the right gently and was visible for perhaps five meters. It rose to the left very steeply and was visible for perhaps three meters. The patrol froze. Moneski moved quietly to the front. He stepped out, crouched, looked up and down the leafy tunnel and stepped up. Beaford then Smith followed, maintaining an interval of six to eight feet. Between motions the riflemen sat very still on the path. “One at a time,” Smitty signaled Hall. Hall paused for a minute then stepped out. Moneski was moving very slowly, staying in the brush on the left of the red ball. Michaels stepped out, signaled to Greer, “Wait. One at a time.” There was no noise. Greer paused two minutes, stepped out, returned and told Cherry, “Wait one.” On the red ball the detail inched forward.

  Cherry sat down again. Through the vegetation he could see the red ball ascending from the right, crossing before him and disappearing up left. He waited for Greer’s signal to advance. Nothing came. Greer disappeared. Cherry waited. A twig with two leaves on it was brushing Cherry’s left arm. He waited. He turned slowly to the left and with the fingernails of his right hand he pinched the leaves off the twig. Things were so quiet he could hear his joints squeak as he returned his right hand to the trigger assembly of his M-16. His mind wandered. He felt impatient.