Before Alpha reached its river crossing sites Bravo was hit again. The medical evacuation had just begun when the NVA opened up with rifles and machine guns, and the helicopters had not been able to extract the wounded. The noise was ferocious. Helicopter gunships were attempting to strafe enemy locations but targets were not visible and the only known locations were those in very close and mixing with Bravo. From a kilometer away the small arms cracked and disguised any noise Alpha might have made. Alpha proceeded to its river crossing sites undetected. The wind had blown the covering mist off the river. Three huge explosions flashed, boomed to the west. Now Charlie Company was getting hit.
For nearly two days the NVA command had restricted the movement of its troops. Their thoughts had been simple. The Americans have been ambushing us because we have lost contact with several of their elements. We do not know the exact locations of all the Americans. The enemy has a temporary advantage. However the Americans resupply by helicopter and thus must give away their positions. We can pick them up at their LZs, adjust while we follow them and then hit them whenever possible.
The NVA had adjusted. Charlie Company had two dead, two wounded. They too were calling for Dust-Off.
Beneath the aircluttering thwacks of the Dust-Off fleets Alpha prepared to cross the Khe Ta Laou. At the site beneath the knoll Cherry stripped. He sat in the rivermud, feet in the current, body concealed from the view of possible knoll observers with night scopes by the ragged foliage. The knoll loomed up like a tremendous monster before him. The summit seemed three hundred feet up, the sides appeared as vertical crevice-lined cliffs. At the top the tree looked like a horn on a monster’s nose, a horn with a massive hood spreading over the top. Cherry sneered at the knoll. Eat it, fucker, he thought at the knoll. You’ll get yours. Then he began a rhyme in his mind. He laughed as he chanted it silently.
Here we go, up and down,
over and out and over again.
Here we go.
I think that there shall never be,
anyone crazy, as crazy as me.
Ha, Cherry laughed loudly within his head. The sound could not have been louder for him had it existed for him and all the men about him. He screamchanted in his mind:
Men at war, once again,
Peace’s a bore,
Let’s have fun.
Men at war, you and me,
And I know,
I’m crazy.
Glorious, he thought. That is a glorious rhyme. He screamed it twice as loud in his head until he felt certain every boonierat, every enemy, the tree, the knoll, God, they all must have heard it. Cherry stared into the dark jungle about him. No one was visible. He smiled. Poor Eg, he thought. Poor guy DEROSes in two weeks. He’s goina miss all the fun. An Jax. Dude leaves in several months too. El Paso in a month. Even the L-T’s leavin. Poor dudes. They oughta extend. I’m already becomin an old-timer. What a great bunch a guys. If I could only keep em together, we could do anything. It’s sad. It’s almost over. They’re goina extract us and then these dudes’ll split. I can keep em together, he whispered to himself. I can keep em together, he said, he shouted, he swore it before God. His inner voice building to a crescendo. I can keep em together in my head. They only exist in my head.
Then the voice crashed. Jesus Christ, he said aside to himself. Jesus Christ! If Jesus Christ was a man and all men are brothers, does not that mean Christ was my brother. He is the Son of God. Then it follows that I too am the Son of God and thus a God myself. I am immortal. I am immune to destruction. I am a man-God. If I get blown away I will resurrect myself. My friends, Leon, Minh, Whiteboy, I hold the power to destroy you, yet I love you too much. This is a love the others do not yet understand. My friends, we have become one being. Your cells are my cells, my cells are yours. I have this love in me for you, in me, through me, with me, in the power and the spirit of this man-god you are resurrected and you shall live. I am the Mangod and ye shall not raise false gods before Me.
The plan of attack at Khe Ta Laou had evolved with each skirmish, with each POW and document captured, and with each new report from aerial reconnaissance. Each information bit fit like a piece into a jigsaw puzzle, and with each piece placed the puzzle became easier. The Old Fox, brigade commander, had been certain Bravo’s Comeback Ridge contained the NVA headquarters he so badly wanted. The GreenMan had disagreed and said the bunker complex would be at valley center. Each Intelligence Officer had his own idea. One by one the alternatives had either been proved wrong or simply, expediently, bypassed. Comeback Ridge had contained a hospital complex but no communications center or operation center were ever found. Areas of the north ridge went unexplored because of Delta Company’s bungling. All attention turned to the valley center with the discovery of the amphibious cart. It was the last alternative. Perhaps, as the GreenMan later asserted, it should have been the first, with an entire infantry company having been inserted atop the knoll on 13 August.
Later the Old Fox would defend his initial planning by saying the 7th of the 402d had circled the valley on the first morning and no major enemy units broke out of the trap thus nothing was lost. The argument would be purely academic. The plan had evolved and by the 24th the final squeeze had begun. Bravo Company closed down from the east, Charlie Company from the west. At first light 25 August both companies were stalled in defensive positions with wounded. Delta Company descended the north ridge quickly under the direct leadership of the GreenMan. By first light Delta had closed off the enemy highway below the ridge and was advancing into Alpha’s old AO. During the night Recon had descended the southern cliffs. First light found them disoriented and attempting to regroup among the mounds. NVA booby traps and snipers would hamper all four elements all morning. Alpha, which had not resupplied, had not been pinpointed by the enemy. They crossed the river undetected.
The sky is no longer black yet the brightest stars are visible. The earth is dark. In the hour before sunrise everything, everyone—the foliage, the earth, the mountains—takes on a blue-black tint, almost transparent. The wind is steady. The last remnant of fog has dissolved. It is the 13th day of the operation.
Egan leads 1st Plt. He is ecstatic. He is higher than he has ever been and he is at peace within. He has forgotten he is alive. He moves spiritlike, stealing along softly. His mission is to clear and secure the high feature, to cut an LZ on the knoll and to establish a base from which to support and reinforce 2d and 3d Plts if necessary. Behind him twenty-three boonierats advance cautiously. They are on a well-used trail, beneath canopy cover. Everything they see appears permanent. Everything is vacant.
No, Thomaston cries inside. No, we aint really doing this. I’m down to sixteen and a wake-up. Sweat rolls from his forehead into his eyes. Sixteen and a wake-up, he repeats. I’m a lieutenant. I’m not supposed to be in the bush with sixteen and a wake-up.
One mo step, Jax says to himself. One mo little step. His right hand twitches toward his pocket wanting to grab his hair pick. He resists. The ol right in front a the lef, he tells himself. Yo jest keep yo fuckin eyes all over the mothafuckin jungle. Jackson studies the trail briefly. His eyes dart up to the canopy. He keeps his head as still as possible moving only his eyes. A tree there, he says. Bush there. Grass there. If they opens up from the lef I jumps to that bush an do em a damn-damn. If they opens from the right I get in that depression. Jax, yo gotta git a job in comp’ny supply. What yo dowin fightin a white man’s war? If they opens from the lef I can make that clump. If they opens from the right I goes back ta the depression.
1st Plt reaches a point approximately 100 meters in from the river at the knoll base. 3d Sqd breaks off and begins climbing. Cherry joins them, leads them. They form a three-man point with Cherry at center, Harley to the left and Hill to the right.
Centered behind them is Frye with the new XM-203, then in column, Andrews with the radio, Kirtly, Mullen and Lt. Thomaston at drag. They advance very slowly, letting the other squads continue across the base of the knoll. After 10 meters 2d Sq
d breaks off and heads uphill into the knoll. 1st Sqd continues, then turns. 1st and 2d form advancing arrows similar to 3d’s. These three-man points have the machine gunners at center, riflemen to each side, grenade launcher just behind ready to lob rounds over the point. Now all three squads advance, begin the sweep up the knoll.
Brooks thinks, this is the last time. This is the last time I will lead an infantry company. Three and a wake-up. He leads 2d and 3d Plts in an arc away from the river, behind the knoll, behind 1st Plt. Their mission is to find, enter and destroy the NVA headquarters. Brooks thinks now without speech. He hears, feels, sees inside his thoughts, without words, the bunkers are west, northwest, at the base of the knoll. He leads the boonierats through brush and grass and into a nearly impenetrable bamboo forest. Brooks works slowly, quietly, patiently. He slithers with the patience of a hunter, the natural patience of a cat stalking prey, waiting for the moment to strike.
Behind Brooks no thoughts enter Pop Randalph’s mind. He is part of the machine. He is a machine. He is an acute sensor with the responsibility of protecting the point, taking the shock when it comes.
At the middle of the column Doc Johnson’s mind is full of thoughts, full of words. He is angry. They got no right, he thinks. No right. The oppressor got no rights the oppressed got to respect. Jax right. Cleaver right. They got no business sendin us down here ta be butchered. This aint a mission; this is suicide. Doc hears a twig snap. His heart freezes then beats one immense pulse which he feels throb down through his abdomen and up to his shoulders and on, building, surging, splashing up behind his eyes. He winces. He does not locate the origin of the sound.
Brooks breaks out of the bamboo thicket and leads them across a red ball. Bamboo frames an arch over the road concealing it from above. The platoons move into a mix of brush and bamboo and grass. 3d Plt begins spreading right, 2d left, the CP remains at middle. Nahele moves to the far right flank. He moves easily, cautiously. His M-60 machine gun seems to pull at his finger as if the weapon wants to be fired, wants to fire. He fights the gun’s desire. He pulls his squad, now his squad without Ridgefield or Snell, right. Then he turns and advances and begins the sweep northeast toward the river at the west base of the knoll.
On the knoll 1st Plt reaches the mid-point of their ascent. Every step has been quiet yet they feel a presence, are oppressed with apprehension. They slow further. Cherry smells the air. He smells them. Egan smells them. Cherry looks left right. He drops to one knee and across the sweep they all drop into the brush vegetation. 1st Plt’s three prongs have closed from a thirty meter width to a twenty. Cherry smells again. He looks up. The massive tree is 250 meters ahead, 50 meters up. Its colossal spreading limbs seem to stretch over him. He searches the boughs and leafage. He becomes aware of warmth on the back of his arms and neck. The sun is up, has crested the eastern ridge. The noise of helicopters comes from the east and west. Medevacs, he thinks. And the C & C. Suddenly pure white flashes cut across his world. He whirls squeezing his 16, firing at the sight before the sound registers, before he knows he is firing. Bursts of AK-47 fire flashing from the right, then the sound erupts in his ears. There is firing to the left, explosions, the crackcrackcrack M-16s returning fire, his 16 barking.
“I’m hit,” he hears Hill yell. Cherry and Harley leap, hit the ground firing. They do not pause for Hill. Frye fires from both barrels. He pays no attention to outgoing. Enemy rounds rip up the dirt at his side. Cherry snaps a second magazine into his 16. He is charging, firing. Great whooshing noises tear the air at his ears. RPGs. Rocket Propelled Grenades. Booming. The concussion rocks his eyes. His concentration does not break. He continues firing. Andrews is screaming, “Bravo! Bravo!” Alpha’s code for medic.
To the left Egan is screaming, charging into the fire coming down from above. He fires and charges quick, agile. He is everywhere at once firing rounds like walls of lead. He whirls. He kills. He does not linger on the sight of enemy death. He swings firing right left. “For Minh,” he screams. He does not know he has yelled it. Marko and Jackson advance with him. Sachel charges explode before them. The concussion dissipates. Their ears ring. They do not know it. “Let um know they fuckin with the Oh-Deuce,” Egan screams. Marko shouts his battle cry. No sound leaves his throat. They dive for concealment, reload.
Moneski from 2d Sqd dives in behind Egan. Beaford and Smith dive in behind Cherry and Harley. 2d Sqd has split up, five reinforce 3d Sqd, three 1st Sqd. The NVA do not capitalize on the split by driving up the center.
Cherry crashes forward, smashes forward, firing firing. He leaps a meter at a time and crashes down into the brush, the bamboo. Stalks stab him. Sticks rip his fatigues, his skin. Grass and vines trip him. He falls forward. Thorns rip his face. He does not know it, does not feel it.
“My toes! My foot! It’s shot away.” Hill is screaming. There is enemy fire coming from above and right. 1st Sqd is battling left. They are diverging. Cherry reloads. It is his fifth magazine. Hill crawls inward, toward the center, away from the firing. He slips under a bush for cover. His right leg drags. Blood is spurting from his ankle. “Medic,” Andrews screams. “Medic!” Fuck codes. Doc McCarthy is with 1st Sqd. He and Numbnuts are pinned down. They do not fire. They do not move. Andrews lays his rifle down carefully. He strips the pants from Hill’s left leg below the knee. Blood is everywhere. It shines brightly on Hill’s white skin. It saturates Andrews’ pants where it spurts. Andrews rips Hill’s battle dressing from the wounded man’s web belt. “My leg,” Hill screams. “My foot. It’s blown off.” “Shut up,” Andrews snarls. “Bite your tongue. You want a gook zeroin in here.” Andrews slaps the dressing over the now flowing wound and wraps it over the holes. The ankle is shattered. Tendons are broken. The foot flops lifeless. “Aaaaahh,” Hill cries, pain firing up his leg as Andrews clamps his hand on the wound. Direct pressure, Andrews thinks. Hill is thrashing, moaning, under the brush.
Fire from bunkers or fighting positions above slices through the brush, shattering it, smashing it. Marko sprays back into the noise, into the streaming lead, his machine gun ripping smashing ferociously. “Keep em down,” Egan yells. He throws a frag at the bunker thirty feet away. He runs, dives, advances six feet, crawls. Marko keeps firing. Jax fires. Denhardt fires. “Move yer fuckin ass,” Egan screams firing. The grenade explodes harmlessly below the bunker. Jax advances. Marko keeps firing, mixing fire with enemy fire. Jax throws a frag, his last. He fires. Egan rushes up left. Jax’ grenade explodes. Trying to throw a one-pound grenade into a two foot wide slit from thirty feet while taking fire is impossible. Numbnuts with his XM-203 firing grenade rounds would not have been more effective, was he trying, but he had buried his head in a bush with the first volley. He is crying, weeping. “Let me go home. Let me go home.” Doc McCarthy raises his eyes. He hears Andrews call. He can’t move. He is trembling. An RPG round explodes above him. His stomach twists, he vomits. He tries to move away from his vomit. Machine gun fire cracks over his head. He drops flat, face-down in his own retchedness. He curses Numbnuts for infecting him with fear. “Medic!” he hears Andrews scream. I can, he says. I can. I got to. Doc McCarthy crawls. “Where ya goin?” Numbnuts cries. “No,” his teeth chatter. “No, Doc.” He hears, feels a sachel charge erupting up, up there, between Egan and Marko. He flattens, cries. He is sure he is pinned down forever. Mc-Carthy’s gone.
“Rover Two,” Brooks’ voice comes urgently over the radio. “Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four. Over … Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four. Over.” Marko’s firing steady. The barrel of his 60 is burning. Lairds and Denhardt firing bursts alternately. Reloading alternately. Most of 1st Sqd firing, Egan charging. At the bunker. Egan dives into the bunker with his 16 flashing. He sprays downward left right. It is not a bunker. He sees it immediately. Knows it immediately. It is a trench running horizontal, arcing about the knoll. There is no one in this segment. They can be anywhere. Move anywhere. Fighting is raging to the right.
“Rover Two, Quiet Rover Four,” Brooks whispers frantic.
“Sit-rep? Over,” Brooks asks urgently.
“We got em running. Over.”
“How large an element? Over.”
“Fifteen. Maybe eighteen. We can kill em. Over.”
“What’s your position from basket? Over.”
“200 … maybe 150 mikes. They’re running to the sidelines. Can we get ARA on them? Over.”
“Affirmative. Will try. Cut to the basket. Direct your niner, cut to the basket. Set up number five. Over.”
“Medic,” Hoover hears Thomaston scream from the center. Thomaston is with Hill. Hill is still moaning. His dressing is slick with blood. Thomaston grabs him, unfastens his belt, makes a tourniquet about Hill’s thigh groin-high. “Keep it tight,” Thomaston directs Andrews. He grabs Andrews’ radio. He hears Brooks and Hoover.
“Affirmative,” Hoover says.
“Negative,” Thomaston cuts in. “Right forward engaged. Double whiskey india alphas. One priority. Over.”
“Shoot for the hoop,” Brooks comes on the net. “Set-up five. Over. Out.”
1st Sqd sprints for the trench, leaps, jumps dives in. Denhardt leaps from the trench uphill, Lairds follows. They rush foot-by-foot, run crouched, meter-by-meter, toward the center. Egan stays in the trench, runs, fires semi-automatic, rounds splatting in the trenchwalls before him. Jax and Marko cover the left flank, one above one below the trench. There is no fire from above. There is an explosion in the trench. Egan’s legs burn whitehot, his equilibrium lapses, he cascades forward still running. He has triggered a booby trap, a sachel charge, stone shrapnel burns in his legs. He drops his rifle. The sound of the explosion reaches his brain. He feels instant nausea. It is not a big explosion, he thinks. RPDs, AKs, RPG fire explode from the trench before him, beyond his sight, around the curve. He hears Harley scream, “Medic.” Egan grabs his 16. Carefully now, he checks it. He ejects the magazine and inserts a fresh one. He chambers a fresh round then tries to crawl. His legs burn, his back feels hot, wet, sticky. Egan pulls his knees up under him, rocks back and stands. He charges down the trench.
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