by Robert Roth
Kramer watched as the last hint of light faded into the mountains. Two of his men, now no more than sepia patterns, rose up and moved across the horizon. He had no idea who they were, but he respected them. He thought about Childs — not about his curses towards the heavens, but about the way he had spotted the booby trap. Even though Kramer had been warned about the booby trap, he’d come within inches of stepping on it. How could he not respect Childs, knowing that more than one man would now be dead or wounded if he himself had been walking the point? He thought with confidence about all of his men, realizing how he had always fought against having any feeling for them. But they had somehow won much more than his respect. No longer did he look down on them, as he had done at first and would have continued to do under circumstances where the life of one man didn’t depend upon those around him. He respected the newer replacements as much as the men who had been with the platoon longer than he had, knowing that in time they too could be depended upon.
Chalice and Forsythe sat silently in the darkness, legs dangling into their foxhole. During the previous few days, Chalice had often been kidded about not being able to protect his squad from the Phantom Blooker. He’d taken these remarks more seriously than they had been intended. Ever since the Phantom Blooker had renewed his attacks, Chalice thought little about anything else. These thoughts had bothered him to the extent that he refrained as much as possible from asking questions about or even mentioning the Phantom Blooker. But now, as the sky darkened, he could no longer keep his silence. “Forsythe, why do you think the Phantom Blooker laid off us so long?”
“He was on his R and R.”
“No, seriously.”
“Maybe he was after one of the other companies.”
“No. I heard Kramer talking to Milton about it.”
“You’re the professor. You should have all the answers.”
“Maybe I do. . . . At first I thought he might have been out of ammunition, but he sure as hell used a lot of it the last couple of nights. It got me thinking. Everytime —”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Everytime a supply chopper gets shot down, the Gooks come out at night and strip it, right?”
“Right,” Forsythe answered in a bored tone.
“Well a lot of times they’re carrying blooker rounds, so the Gooks probably give him as much as he can use. The only thing is, he can’t carry them all around. He has to stash them somewhere. The choppers never see him anymore, so he must do all his traveling at night. The only way he can keep following us is if he’s got hiding places all over the Arizona where he sleeps and keeps his ammo.”
“So what?”
“I don’t know. . . . I mean it makes him seem more like a human being, doesn’t it?”
“What else would spend all its time trying to kill people. . . . I’ll tell you one thing though: I’d rather stay in the perimeter tonight than go on any ambush — the odds are better, and every patrol we sent out today made contact. There’s Gooks all over the place, and you can bet your ass they know we send out ambushes every night. They’ll be waiting for someone.”
Trippitt realized this also, but he was willing to take the risk. Again he assigned four ambushes, three of them long. Within Second Platoon, it was Charlie Squad’s turn. Ramirez had previously decided to sandbag if assigned a long one. To his relief he drew the short ambush. Of the three squads that were assigned long ones, two decided to sandbag. This made it necessary for their squad leaders to pick patches of high ground that were close to the perimeter and large enough to afford cover. The ambush party from First Platoon chose a spot twenty-five yards outside Second Platoon’s sector of the perimeter. To prevent themselves from being fired upon by their own company, their squad leader arranged for Tony 5 to caution his men. Chalice and Forsythe’s foxhole faced this patch of high ground, so First Platoon’s ambush party left the perimeter from their position.
As was now the custom, the men remaining within the perimeter sat quietly around the radios waiting for the ambushes to notify them that they had set-in. They heard three of the ambush parties do this, but a burst of AK-47 fire told them that the fourth never would. What they eventually heard was an excited voice telling them that three men had been wounded, two seriously. A medivac chopper was immediately called in, but sniper fire drove it away. Puff was then called in, and the men within the perimeter started worrying about their friends who had sandbagged and weren’t in their proper positions. The ambushed squad finally made it back to the perimeter, and in minutes the medivac chopper landed within it and picked up the wounded. Before many of the men who had guided it in had time to return to their foxholes, the Phantom Blooker began firing. Even over the roar of the ascending helicopter, anguished screams testified to his accuracy.
Puff began spraying rounds closer to the perimeter as the men sat crouched within their foxholes, worried just as much about their friends sandbagging as they were about a blooker round finding them. Soon another medivac chopper was circling the perimeter for those men wounded on the last evacuation. The whir of its blades became deafening as it quickly descended. Just when it was a few feet above the ground and the wounded were being rushed towards it, a perfectly aimed blooker round sent sheets of flaming gasoline all over the perimeter. The chopper hung motionless for an instant before another explosion brought it crashing to the ground. Its blade tore lose and sliced through the radioman that had tried to bring it in. All over the perimeter men were shouting for help for themselves and for their friends. The burning chopper lit the entire perimeter with a hot orange light, and the only crewman able to escape rushed out of it, himself a squirming, twisting torch.
The panic diminished to a wary silence, broken only by the feeble, excruciating moans of the wounded. It took Puff’s machine guns to cut the tension of those protracted moments by drowning out the moans. It was soon joined by helicopter gun ships that swung low over the perimeter as they strafed the area around it. This continued for almost an hour before the perimeter was again silent.
The Phantom Blooker had long ceased his assault when the third medivac chopper picked up the wounded. Chalice and Forsythe sat stunned in their foxhole as the engines faded in the distance and the perimeter alternated back to silence. Chalice stared out at the patch of high ground where the party from First Platoon had chosen to sandbag. If they had been any farther from the perimeter they’d probably all be dead. Suddenly he heard a moaning sound behind him. He and Forsythe turned and were barely able to discern a human figure crawling towards them. Forsythe reached out and dragged the burned and bleeding NVA prisoner up to their hole. Even in the darkness, they could tell that a pathetic few minutes would be enough to trace out the death of something already less than human. He had managed to outlive his two comrades, but these last moments were filled merely with delirium and agony.
The perimeter was again silent as Gunny Martin moved around it to check each position. He was as much shaken by what had happened as anyone else in the company. “You all right, men?” he asked in an almost fatherly tone.
“Yeah.”
“We’re okay.”
Just as Martin turned to walk away, a metallic sound came from the opposite tree line. Forsythe and Chalice flinched in dread, hoping Martin hadn’t heard it. “What was that?” he asked in an excited whisper.
“What was what?” Forsythe replied.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Chalice added.
Martin had pulled out his pistol, but he now reholstered it. “Guess it’s my nerves.” Just before he’d finished speaking, a similar sound came from the tree line. Martin jumped into their hole and whispered, “There’s something out there.”
Forsythe heard the faint voice of someone in the ambush party warning someone else to keep quiet, and he tried to drown it out with his own words. “We’ve been —”
“Shut up!”
“ — watching all night.”
“Shut up!” Martin repeated. He noticed Chalice’s blooker and
whispered, “Lob a round into that tree line. Hurry up!”
Chalice had enough self-possession to start fumbling with the blooker as he said, “It’s jammed.”
Martin grabbed it out of his hands and fired before Chalice could stop him. There was a moan from the tree line, and somebody called out, “I’m hit.”
“They’re Marines,” Martin murmured in a dazed tone.
For the fourth time that night a medivac chopper had to be called in. Three men in the ambush party had been wounded, none critically. The chopper arrived just as dawn broke over the mountains. Only after it had taken off did Trippitt have time to expel his anger. Most of the men were gathered in the center of the perimeter when Trippitt called for the squad leader from First Platoon. The sight of him approaching enraged Trippitt. “What the fuck were you doing in that tree line?”
Those men closest backed away, and others approached until Trippitt and the squad leader were completely encircled. The squad leader was discernibly shaken, but he stared directly at Trippitt as he answered, “We were coming in from our ambush.”
Trippitt and everyone else knew this was a lie. Being lied to would have easily been enough to anger Trippitt, but having this happen in front of the whole company enraged him. “Bullshit! What do you take me for?” he screamed, his face within inches of the squad leader’s. “Since when do you start back from an ambush without radioing in?” The squad leader remained silent, but he continued glaring back at Trippitt. “You were sandbagging, weren’t you?” Again the squad leader remained silent. “You chickenshit motherfucker, you were sandbagging, weren’t you?”
The squad leader moved his head in short, nervous jerks as he glanced warily around him. Tears of rage came to his eyes. He started backing away from Trippitt, at the same time screaming in anger and fear, “You’re damn right we sandbagged, and it was my fucking idea!” He continued to back up as Trippitt advanced on him. “How many of us do you want to kill with your fucking ambushes? When the colonel’s around you don’t send us all over the Arizona.”
“Shut up!” Trippitt hissed through gritted teeth.
The circle around them enlarged as Trippitt continued advancing on the squad leader, who wouldn’t shut up, but screamed back instead, “How many more of my friends wouldn’t be dead if they’d sandbagged? You killed them! You killed them just as sure as if you’d used a gun. You and the rest of the CP lying around while we kill ourselves. Go on your own fucking ambushes. They’re my men. I’m protecting ’em from you, you cocksucking lifer!”
The squad leader stopped back-stepping and gained control of himself. Trippitt continued to advance on him until they were chest to chest and Trippitt screamed, saliva spurting from his mouth, “You chickenshit motherfucker, you call yourself a Marine?" The squad leader shoved Trippitt back. Within seconds they were both on the ground with Trippitt’s hands around the squad leader’s neck. Sugar Bear reached them first, and with Tony 5’s help he pulled Trippitt off and flung him back. The squad leader scrambled to his feet, but now Sugar Bear, Tony 5, and a few other men stood between them, glaring at Trippitt. This stunned him for a second, but he quickly turned to the company radioman and shouted, “Get me a chopper! Tell them we’ve got a prisoner.” Trippitt turned back towards the squad leader who was still blocked from his view. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna see you in the brig. You’re under arrest for cowardice under fire and assaulting an officer. . . . Somebody bring me his rifle.”
No one moved. Trippitt quickly turned and walked away, knowing by the silence that all eyes were glaring at his back. The squad leader, his head hanging down, started to walk away. The men moved with him, some of them placing their hands on his shoulders, their voices saying, “Don’t sweat it, man. They can’t do shit to you.”
“That took guts.”
“I’m a squad leader and I sandbag. They’ll have to court-martial all of us.”
“Hey man, take it easy. You’re the closest thing to a hero we’ve got in this company.”
It was over an hour before the helicopter arrived. Almost every man in the company gathered around it and stood watching as the squad leader from First Platoon went aboard. Trippitt immediately gave the order to form up. Within minutes they were marching to their new camp. The pace was unusually slow, and the condition of the men’s feet wasn’t the only reason. Each slow step frustrated Trippitt. Only by clenching his teeth was he able to keep from yelling the order to speed up. His memory assaulted him with all the absurd orders he’d ever had to follow, all the bastards that had owned him because they’d had one more stripe on their arms. But that was the idea — the reason the Marine Corps was something different — larger than anyone in it and all of them put together — being able to take it — keeping your mouth shut and doing what you were told. Ten years he had taken all the shit without ever regretting it; but these brats had to be different, thinking they’re gonna change the system, turn the Marine Corps into the Cub Scouts. In his frustrated rage, Trippitt bumped into the man in front of him and immediately yelled, “Speed it up!” Teeth clenched, he waited for his order to be followed, finally yelling again, and one more time. But the pace remained the same. It was happening. He was losing control of his men. Rage and disbelief confused his thoughts as he pondered what to do, realizing his career, possibly his life was now at stake.
The company finally reached the irregularly shaped patch of high ground that was to be its camp. As Martin walked around to survey the area, he was startled by the sight of a small puppy’s head sticking out of the pouch on a soldier’s pack. “Hey, you!” he called out in anger and disbelief. A number of soldiers turned towards him, but Roads wasn’t one of them. Martin’s voice became louder and angrier. “Hey you with the dog—” Again Roads failed to turn around. Martin circled in front of Roads and stood face to face with him only to be met by an impassive yet belligerent stare. “Are you deaf?”
Roads answered with calm insolence, “ ‘Hey you’ isn’t my name. It’s Roads, Lance Corporal Roads.”
Martin couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, is that right? Well let me tell you something, Lance Corporal Roads: This is a rifle company, not a pet show. See that you get rid of that dog or I’ll do it for you.” Before Martin could walk away, Roads turned his back on him and Martin again found himself exchanging stares with the puppy.
As soon as Martin had arranged the positions, he began looking for Trippitt, all the while mumbling incoherently. He couldn’t believe what was happening — this was nothing like Korea. He’d noticed the difference immediately after arriving in Vietnam, and had become increasingly perplexed by it. These weren’t Marines. They were a bunch of wise-ass punks. They had no pride in the Marine Corps, acted as if they’d been tricked into joining — no respect for the finest, proudest organization there was, his Marine Corps, the only meaningful thing in a world full of bullshit; and they were trying to destroy it. Someday they’d be sorry — when they got back to the States and found themselves walking around in civilian clothes — feeling like nobodies. Then they’d remember what it was like to be a Marine. He didn’t demand that they love the Marine Corps. That was too much to ask of the punks. But they didn’t even respect it, take pride in it. They tried to make a joke of it — right in front of him. They wanted to destroy the only meaningful thing in his life.
Martin was even more unnerved by the time he reached Trippitt, ‘sitting on his ass, doing nothing.’ It took all his self-control not to shout with outraged and indiscriminate anger the agitated warning that he finally issued from between clenched teeth. “We’ve got to do something fast.”
Trippitt knew exactly what Martin meant. “Yeah, but what?”
“Something, we gotta do something before this gets out of hand.” Trippitt was more puzzled by what was happening than by what he should do about it. “I don’t understand it. You try and go by the book — I was an enlisted man just like them, nine years. I’m not one of those college jerks just out of OCS. It does
n’t make sense.”
“Sure it does. That’s just it. We can’t run this company by ourselves. How we gonna control the men when all we’ve got for platoon commanders is a bunch of college clowns? The only decent one is Forest, and he’s as dumb as any of ’em. . . . There’s no discipline!”
Martin hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. “Yeah, but what am I supposed to do about it? I tried to treat them like men.”
“That’s just it. You can’t do that anymore. They don’t even act like Marines!”
“It ain’t their guts. I’ve seen them in action.”
“Sure it isn’t. But they don’t know how to take orders. There’s no discipline! Just look at them. Some of them haven’t shaved in a week. Look at their hair.”
“It isn’t what they look like.”
“I know that,” Martin insisted. “They think they’re too smart. Their heads are so full of ideas, they can’t even hear orders.”
“Maybe it’s this war. They don’t realize how many people’d give their left nut to be in a war.”
“That’s not it! There’s no more discipline. . . . Maybe if they looked like Marines, they’d act like them too.”
Trippitt realized it was more than this, but he wasn’t sure what. “I don’t know. It’s for their own good. How we gonna get through to them?”
“Not through their platoon commanders. That’s for sure.”
“Maybe if I talked to them,” Trippitt said without conviction. He’d always felt at a disadvantage when he had to rely on words, and speaking directly to his men seemed something he shouldn’t have to do. ‘What’s the chain of command for?’ he asked himself.
Martin found the idea of Trippitt talking to the men ridiculous, but refrained from telling him so. “Yeah, maybe; but we’ve got to do more. You can’t instill discipline with words. Let’s get them to look like Marines first — have an inspection!”