It quickly dawned on Polack, LG, and everyone else in the firebase that Rock’s team blew the ambush, most likely catching the roving NVA platoon in one of their Claymore booby traps out on the trail.
The two men in the LP sat mesmerized by the fireworks show before them. They would have remained that way had it not been for a couple of errant rounds that zipped past their position.
“Down!” barked Polack, grabbing LG and pushing his friend into a prone position. “Some of those rounds just missed us overhead!”
“I heard them, too.” LG stammered. “We both shoulda’ known better than to just sit here watching the firefight.” LG curled up into a fetal position, hoping to make his body less of a target.
“You got that right, bro!” Polack agreed.
The firing intensified; the telltale sound of a fully engaged automatic firefight carried across the darkness. Just then, the sound of a second tremendous blast drowned out the rifle fire and once again, lit up that portion of the dark jungle.
‘Another Claymore exploding,’ Polack thought to himself.
Soldiers in the firebase reacted differently to the melee. The stand-by reactionary force had secured their supplies and were already moving toward the main gate. They’d wait there, ready to move out in support of the ambush team if they called for help. Those in bunkers stood on top and watched the exploding fireworks display; others came out of their hooches to do the same. Everyone hoped for the best and silently prayed for their brothers-in-arms.
LG and Polack were more vigilant now, listening intently, trying to block out the sounds of battle so they could hear approaching movement in their direction. The jungle inhabitants had stopped their mating calls and chattering immediately after the initial explosion, thus helping the two LP soldiers to better concentrate on their sector.
“Listen up, Polack! Some of them motherfuckers may be coming our way!”
“I’m on it, brother!” Polack affirmed.
Whenever the enemy force walked into an ambush, they’d usually try to circle and counter-attack the Americans from their flanks. If that strategy failed, they’d disperse and soon disappear, often taking their dead and wounded comrades with them to psyche out the Americans. Without bodies, the Americans were unable to determine the enemy size and casualties from the resulting firefight. Not finding anything – especially when the return fire was unyielding – the average GI felt disappointment and began to doubt his efforts. If he lost a fellow soldier and friend in the fight, then his thoughts and feelings were magnified tenfold, the guilt began to manifest itself, and depression would set in.
After what seemed like fifteen minutes, but was actually no longer than four minutes, Rock’s agitated voice broke through the squelch on the radio channel, “Thunder 3, this is Alpha Romeo 6, over.” Sounds of gunshots and mayhem from the firefight were heard in the background.
“This is Thunder 3, go ahead!” The battalion CP radio operator coaxed, much more lively now. By this time, most of the camp officers had also crowded into the small command bunker, awaiting word about the gunfight to their east.
“Roger, Thunder 3. Be advised that we’ve engaged an enemy force of unknown size. Requesting a fire mission on preset location Alpha-Alpha-Niner, over.”
“Wilco, stand by,” the radio operator responded.
The rate of fire had slowly subsided. Rock’s group switched their weapons to semi-automatic to pick targets and shoot at flashes from the surrounding foliage. The pop-pop sounds of AK-47 fire continued, but were more sporadic now compared to their momentum earlier.
Thunder 3’s voice returned on the frequency, “Shot out!” A single cannon fired from the firebase; the 105 mm round screamed overhead en route to the preset coordinates determined earlier at the firebase. A loud “CARUMPT!” announced its arrival; the single detonation sounded even louder than the two larger explosions heard minutes before.
“On the mark,” Rock reported. “Fire for effect!”
“Roger, firing for effect,” Thunder 3 echoed after a two-second delay.
Almost immediately, the six cannons let loose once again with the first barrage into that area. The high-explosive rounds impacted on target, and lit up the jungle in an awe-inspiring display of firepower. Several small fires ignited as red-hot shrapnel found the dead rotting wood throughout the impact area.
Polack and LG covered their ears; the impact shook the jungle and bounced both soldiers a few inches off the ground. The sharp smell of cordite and smoke soon reached the LP; a by-product of the sustained firefight usually accompanied by the smoky fog of expended gunpowder. Even though the two LP’s couldn’t see through the darkness, both felt the thick fog entering their lungs.
Rock adjusted his fire after each barrage, moving the next rounds farther away and more in the presumed direction of the fleeing enemy. He called for a cease-fire after just three volleys.
Seconds later, multiple flares popped over the ambush area, basking the dark, eerie jungle below in a yellow flickering, smoke-filled aura.
The two men in the LP sat up straight, and nervously focused on their front. Instinct dictated that since the enemy platoon passed this way earlier, some of the survivors might return and stumble into their position.
While Lima Papa 1 pondered their future, members of Rock’s ambush team stepped out of their location and began reconnoitering and securing the immediate area. Two of his men were injured, suffering from gunshots and shrapnel wounds; a Medivac chopper was on its way to pick them up and transport both to a hospital.
A small perimeter soon formed around the ambush site. Each soldier faced outward and watched for movement under the canopy of flickering light. Within minutes, the Dustoff chopper arrived, its escort of two gunships circled overhead like protective angels. As landing was impossible, both soldiers had to be lifted up through the dense foliage on a jungle penetrator – a cable and seat contraption used to extract injured soldiers in situations just like this. Two minutes later, both wounded men were safely aboard the unarmed Huey. The helicopter dipped its nose and quickly left the area, flying east toward the coast.
The gunships remained on-station and provided cover while those below completed the gruesome task of uncovering and searching dead enemy bodies, collecting weapons, and confiscating anything else of importance. Time was of the essence, especially if those who got away had any thought of returning with a larger force for some payback. Rock knew that he’d have to move his team to a new location once they completed their task and the overhead lights turned off.
The radio frequency remained unabated and free of traffic to accommodate Alpha Romeo 6.
“Thunder 3, this is Alpha Romeo 6, over.”
“Roger, this is Thunder 3. Stand by for Bulldog 1, over.”
“Wilco, standing by.” There was a fifteen-second lull before someone spoke again.
LG held the radio handset between them so both he and Polack could listen to the conversation between Rock and the colonel.
“Alpha Romeo 6, this is Bulldog 1, can you give me an update, over?”
Rock was aware that Bulldog 1 was the battalion commander and knew from experience that he’d been waiting on pins and needles for his report. “Roger, Bulldog 1, we have nine NVA bodies, one an officer, collected seven AK-47 rifles, two Chicom pistols, a dozen or so full magazines and a few hundred loose rounds for both. All carried backpacks filled with personal items, food and a few grenades; the officer had a map and several other important-looking documents. This group also carried a base plate and tripod for an 82 mm mortar, several mortar rounds, but no tube, over.”
“Excellent, Romeo 6, are you able to return with the equipment?”
“No sweat, Bulldog 1, we’ll stuff anything looking important into a couple of the backpacks and divide everything else between us. We’re leaving the bodies where they fell and burning the remainder of their supplies before leaving for the next location, over.”
“Romeo 6, any idea where they might have come
from?”
“We’ve got a pretty good idea, Bulldog 1. I’d guess they were part of the group that was responsible for the earlier mortar attack on the firebase. At least, I assume so, because of the base plate and rounds. It also looks like their approach was from that direction. I thought it was odd that they cut their way through the bush instead of following one of the trails, because they walked right into a mechanical that we set up in the jungle, but entered the kill zone from the opposite direction. We expected them to use the trail and placed one there in hopes of catching any soldiers who might try to escape in that direction after springing the ambush. Sometime during the firefight, some of them broke away and tripped one of the mechanicals we had placed on the trail east of our location. And I believe the rest of them escaped in that direction. There is a possibility that some may also be moving back toward the LP, over.”
Polack and LG’s eyes widened upon hearing that last point.
“Thank you, Romeo 6. I’m sorry about your wounded men and will see you all in the morning. Bulldog 1, out.”
LG and Polack were surprised that only nine enemy soldiers perished during the ambush. ‘Could it be that some perished during the earlier barrage to silence the tubes after they fired on the firebase?’
They continued their silent vigil, even more anxious now, knowing that enemy soldiers might be heading their way. Neither of them could see a thing, but continuously turned their heads in half-circles like personal radar, in an attempt to hear the slightest of sounds around them. The jungle was quiet; none of the creatures were making a sound. A chill ran down Polack’s spine, causing his shoulders to hunch up, and he quickly shook his head when the shivers arrived. Nevertheless, he and LG were now wide awake and extremely vigilant.
The radio was devoid of conversation, only the rush of static remained until Rock later contacted the CP upon arrival at the alternate ambush site.
Try as he might, Polack was unable to prevent the tedium from taking its toll. Once again, he found his thoughts drifting back to other frightful experiences in his past.
ELEVEN – THE SISTER WITCHES
Passing my drivers exam and gaining access to the family car gave my pals and me an opportunity to travel outside of our neighborhood; we were anxious to investigate some of those stories told by our classmates who lived miles away and had to ride the bus to and from school.
One such opportunity presented itself just a couple of weeks after getting my license. It was a Friday night in mid-July, 1967. Four of us decided to visit an old home on the northeast border of Detroit, where it was said that two sisters – alleged witches – lived together. Many of those kids living nearby had confirmed that they were indeed evil, casting spells and doing other weird stuff. We’d been waiting a long time for this opportunity.
I was driving my dad’s 1960 Ford Galaxy, en route to State Fair Rd. and Gratiot Rd., the intersection only one-half mile south of the suburbs. I parked the car a block away and our small group walked to the next corner.
The three-story old brick house stood tall on the next block. It looked to be over a hundred years old, and nothing else on the block came close in either age or size. The other homes were small ranches and bungalows built after the second World War.
Our destination looked like a replica of the Addams Family mansion, sitting on the second parcel from the corner. The corner and third lot were both empty fields of overgrown, head-high weeds and dozens of sunflowers. The plants poked up through the clumps of vegetation; their yellow and black heads swaying in the slight breeze, almost as if they were beckoning us to join them. Several extremely ancient weeping willow trees filled the property; long, drooping whips of leaves cascaded almost to the ground, hiding much of the house in shadows. A six-foot high black wrought iron fence surrounded the property; each vertical spoke as thick as a broomstick and sharpened on top like giant pencils. Needless to say, it would be a challenge for us to snoop around this spooky place.
A single street light illuminated the intersection, leaving the corner lot and beyond shrouded in shadow.
Wayne was the tallest in the group – a few inches over six feet – and the only one able to see above the tops of the vegetation, so he led the way. Paul and Ron followed nervously behind him, and I brought up the rear. Each of us was antsy; muscles felt poised and hardened, ready for action when needed. We moved ever so slowly through the jungle of weeds, keeping one hand on the shoulder of the person in front – the blind leading the blind toward the fence.
Once arriving, we stood next to the fence, holding onto the vertical bars while trying to get a good look at the side of the house and yard. There were several windows, but only two on the lower level glowed yellow from the light within. Spider webs covered the glass pane of the window on the left; small black orbs dotted the web in dozens of places.
“Looks like spiders living all over that web!” I moaned.
“I bet the witches are breeding those spiders and catching flies for their secret potions and shit,” Wayne declared and moved to the other side of us and away from the window. “I hate spiders!”
“So this is how inmates feel in a jail cell,” Ron said in a facetious manner. He stood on the bottom cross bar and shook the fence to test its strength. “This thing is solid and might be a problem getting over.”
“No, it won’t,” Paul interjected. “John and I scaled the fence at the cemetery, and it was much higher than this one. Right John?” Paul looked directly at me waiting for my concurrence.
“Yeah, we did, but that was different. We don’t have a blanket now and can’t see the ground on the other side. It’ll be easy to get hurt jumping into that mess.”
“Oh shit,” Paul suddenly exclaimed and backed up a step or two, pointing to the right past Wayne. “Check out the tree in the back!”
We strained to see in the darkness, making out what looked like a big alley cat hanging by the neck from a rope. “That shit ain’t real,” Ron laughed, “it’s got to be a prop or something.”
“How do you know?” Paul asked.
“You smell anything?” Ron answered with a question of his own.
Paul raised his nose and took a few exaggerated sniffs of air. “No, not really,” he admitted, shaking his head.
“Well, dead things rot and stink. That looks like a stuffed animal.” Ron threw a stone at the suspended carcass, hitting it solidly in the side; none of them saw the stone fall. “See, it probably got trapped in the fake fur!” Ron boasted.
“I’m still not convinced.”
“I’ll show you.” Ron scooted up the fence and perched there. He was about to jump over when he looked into the other lighted side window. Through the slight gap between the bottom of the drawn shade and the window, he could see shadows moving about inside. “Hey guys, check this out, there’s somebody by the window. Maybe it’s one of the witches!” he whispered.
We all looked up, nervous about what we might see. Ron, still sitting atop of the fence, slid to the right past a couple of the spears to get a better view. We couldn’t see inside and awaited Ron’s report.
Suddenly, we heard a loud flapping noise as the window shade shot upward and continued turning and clattering on the roller at the top of the window frame, exposing white lace curtains covered with embroidered flowers. Then all at once, a head popped up like a Jack in the Box and shrieked violently. It was the face of a witch – pointed nose, chin, warts and wispy gray hair covered by a black, wide brimmed pointed hat. She was missing most of her teeth, and her tongue lashed out at us.
Ron screamed first and launched himself from the fence, landing hard and then tumbling through the jungle of weeds. The rest of us were momentarily paralyzed and unable to react. Wayne was the first to come to his senses, pulling Paul and me with him as he began to run back toward the side street. We had almost made it when a police cruiser stopped at the intersection, then U-turned and pulled over to the curb on our side of the street. Wayne saw the car and pushed us to the ground just b
efore two giant beams of light skimmed across the top of the bushes. Two officers stepped out of the car. “Anybody out there?” one called in a stern, authoritative voice. The two beams of light continued to crisscross over the field like spotlights at a Hollywood movie premier.
“Oh shit! What are we gonna do now?” Paul whispered anxiously, positioning his body flatter on the ground and holding his breath.
“Shh,” I cautioned, “they don’t know we’re here.” The ground was wet from an earlier rain, muddy in spots, and now that I was kneeling, my pant legs soaked up the moisture like a sponge. I wondered if the police officers could hear our hearts beating through the darkness. Mine was pounding in my ears.
Wayne was also on his hands and knees, his head swiveling left to right a few times before sitting back on his heels. He turned and looked to our left toward the alley. “Ron skipped out!” he whispered.
I looked to my left and was surprised to see him gone. “He was just here a minute ago,” I gulped.
“Who’s watching out for the witch?” Paul asked.
“I can’t see shit from down here!” Wayne whispered.
Paul started to panic and tried to stand. “I’m giving up man. This hiding in the wet weeds shit ain’t for me!”
Wayne and I both grabbed him by the arms and yanked him back down. “Stay the fuck down and be cool!” Wayne hissed.
“I’m scared, man,” Paul implored, “I don’t want to get into trouble over this. My folks will kill me!”
“We didn’t do anything to get in trouble for,” Wayne admonished. “Let’s just wait and see what the man is gonna do next.”
When Can I Stop Running? Page 8