Thirty Days Has September

by James Strauss

  The Gunny hadn’t bothered to take in all that was going on. He lay with his back against a fallen tree branch with his eyes closed. I knew I was not the only exhausted Marine on the ridge. I hunkered down next to him with my map.

  “We’re exactly here,” I said, waiting for him to open is eyes.

  “More of your artillery map reading magic,” he said, barely opening one eye.

  “We need to be here,” I went on, pointing at a spot just back of the saddle area and almost directly north down the slope. I knew the company, after being part of the recent move, would be able to get into place in less than twenty minutes if it left right away. There must have been more urgency in my voice than I intended because the Gunny groaned.

  “I’m twice your age, if not more,” he said, closing the one eye again. “I’m twice the age of everyone else in this company.”

  “And that counts for exactly what?” I responded.

  “Jeez, give the man a little bit of power…” the Gunny replied but opened his eyes and leaned forward to study the map. His eyes went all over the thing. I knew he wasn’t good with maps merely by the way he viewed them. I put my finger back on the target area, and then ran it back and forth from where our location was to the target point.

  “The sooner the better.” I knew if we stayed where we were for any length of time the enemy would know, and it wouldn’t take a tactical genius on the other side to figure out we were pulling a potential deadly flanking maneuver.

  “We’ve got to be in before dark and we’re running out of light,” I said, looking up and around.

  “We get there, set in behind where they think they might be, which is iffy,” the Gunny said, pointing at the target area with his own index finger. “And then what? Call Kilo and have them do a frontal attack so the NVA is driven right into us?”

  I hadn’t been looking up and around because of the waning light. I’d heard the very distant but distinctive drone of the Skyraider. Cowboy and Jacko were coming back, as promised. We had to get down in the valley and set in before the plane had to go home, wherever home was for it. We were seriously running out of light for the air crew to see the battlefield by.

  “Nope,” I replied to the Gunny. “Kilo’s on the far side of the saddle. They know Kilo’s there because they’ve been shooting at them. We pressure the back of the near side. The NVA is caught in the middle. They can only go north or south to escape and they can only do that quickly, the same way we did back when we had the other open area. They’ll have to expose themselves on the open ground of the saddle.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that there’s something more?” the Gunny said, taking another drink of water from his canteen. He got to his feet and stretched his arms and shoulders before he spoke. “Di di mao,” he said, raising his voice to everyone around.

  I looked at Fessman in question.

  “Means ‘let’s go’…sort of…” he replied, with his usual smile.

  The mix of Vietnamese and French was befuddling, but the expressions I was beginning to learn were also indelible. Once heard, the strange words would lay there unused and unknown until someone said the expression again, and at that point understanding what it meant was instant.

  The company moved after a very brief discussion, wherein the Gunny related that he’d let the platoon commanders know that the company was to flow down the slope in size, break into platoons and then squads. From there it would form itself into a single thick line of automatic weapons and machine guns, set to absorb the NVA troops when they were forced to back down from their likely ambush at the saddle.

  When the company was on the move again, this time even faster than before, I wondered about the circumstantial evidence I’d used to come up with the plan. If we succeeded in hitting the NVA hard, not getting hit hard ourselves, the Gunny would no doubt get the credit. If the operation was a complete failure and we took any casualties at all, then the whole thing would drop on me.

  “Cowboy,” I transmitted, using the 323 handset, my heavy breathing making my words hard to understand. The pace of our approach down the mountainside resembled a loping run. Although the growth had increased, the natural trails around the trees and bamboo stands became more pronounced and easier to negotiate. Darkness was fast descending. I could no longer see the illuminated numbers through my melted watch face.

  “Jacko back at you,” came over the radio. “Cowboy’s indisposed using these infernal instrument things.”

  I told Jacko my plan. I could hear the Skyraider orbiting overhead, but I could also hear the growing roll and then staccato fire of automatic and semi-automatic weapons in the distance. The dark, the Skyraider, the NVA and the saddle were all about to collide and I realized there was no predicting what might happen. What if the enemy troops were set in too far back? That would put them behind the company. What if there was nobody there at all, although the chances of that were pretty slim given that live fire could be heard coming up the slope while we talked.

  “We’re gonna lay down some CBUs for you, so don’t go walking around or sunbathing out there in that open area when we’re gone. Some of that shit blows up later on. We’ll orbit up here for now. We can see the saddle area and some of the dispute going on over that resort property right now. When you want us to come zooming down just use the code words ‘Dale Arden.’”

  “CBUs?” I whispered to Fessman, handing the handset back to him.

  “Cluster bomb somethings,” Fessman replied.

  My scout team had dropped all the way to the rear of the company by the time we stopped. I laid down on the flat cushioning surfaces of a fallen bamboo stand with Fessman on my left and Stevens, Zippo, and Nguyen lining up along my right. The Gunny appeared, barely visible, in the low light. I slapped at mosquitoes before turning and squatting down with him.

  “Fire one round of white phosphorus like before and Kilo will open up,” the Gunny said. “That will drive the NVA in front of us back. Then we’ll open up and they’ll run out into the open.”

  I sat listening to the battle plan. It made no sense. Professor Henor, my ROTC instructor, had once taught a class on combat tactics. “Never shoot at your own men, unless you are all dead anyway,” he’d said. I wasn’t about to be behind the NVA taking Kilo’s fire if I could help it.

  “No,” I said, as forcefully as I could.

  “We open up. Kilo doesn’t fire at all. The NVA react by moving back onto the edge of the open area. Cowboy comes zooming down and drops cluster shit all over them. Let Kilo pick off the survivors. The survivors will head down slope but we don’t have time to set up anything for them as a reception party.”

  “We could use the combined fire,” the Gunny said grudgingly after a few seconds.

  “Our fire will be plunging down and almost none of it will get over where Kilo’s at,” I argued. “If Kilo opens up they’ll be shooting straight through this brush and we’re going to take plenty of hits. Screw the NVA. Let’s take care of our own.”

  “You’re the company commander, Junior,” the Gunny said, a subliminal anger laying there deep between the words. “We’re out of time. Call the damned fire. I’ll tell the guys to open up.”

  Fessman held the arty handset out. I called for the round to be put down on the same target as before. I then used the 323 to call Cowboy. Jacko indicated that they would be on target in five minutes and make a single run, releasing sixteen five hundred pounders and plenty of 20 millimeter cannon fire. The Willie Peter came in less than a minute later and the company opened up with so much tracer fire it looked like there was a moving bridge of fire extended out between the strung out company position and the thicket lining the back of the saddle’s open area. The cluster bombs sounded like huge popcorn kernels exploding, sometimes one or two and sometimes ten or twenty of them. I had my Colt out and I tried to see into the Stygian blackness in front of me. What if the NVA plunged backward
instead of forward? They would run right over or through us, killing us as they went. My terror returned.

  The sounds of combat deafened my ears and the brilliant bursts of light overloaded the rods and cones in my eyes. I realized I was blind, and then I could not hear. But I did feel the roar of the amazing night-flying Skyraider going by. It must have only been a few feet off the earth to transmit its deep propeller drone right into the ground. I felt the explosions and then the second roar of the plane’s 20 millimeter cannons swept by. I tried to talk to Fessman but nothing would come out of my throat. Fessman’s lips moved but there was no sound. I’d forgotten to make field earplugs. Minutes passed and everything began to die down. The plane was gone, there were no more tracers and my hearing came back, although the ringing in both ears would be a long time in passing.

  The Gunny was back. My night vision had not returned enough to see him. He grabbed my upper arm and squeezed to let me know he was there.

  “Is it over?” I asked. “What happened? Did they run? Was there anybody there? Did we hit anybody?” My questions flew out, one after another, my adrenalin running so high that I felt the hairs sticking out on the back of my neck and on my forearms.

  “Don’t know. There was a whole lot of movement. Get the damned Starlight scope online just in case, not to mention it’d be a great time to get rid of the asshole lieutenant causing all this trouble. Nobody’s moving until first light. At least we’ll have the saddle to get medevac and supply.”

  Medevac, I wondered, but had no time to ask, as the Gunny was gone as suddenly as he’d appeared. I, my team and the company would have to lay in among the fronds and mud all night, waiting for dawn, before we could start hiking back to get our packs. I was more worried about how the Marines in my company would feel if they’d done all that work for nothing than I was of anyone coming in the night to kill me. If medevac was coming, then we’d taken casualties.

  My scattered mind tried to reassemble itself into some sort of rational condition. Was that it? A whole battle? Just horrid loud sounds and flashes in the night? My left hand reached down to massage the single tiger letter that wasn’t written and not there yet. I didn’t have to massage the right pocket. I knew the morphine was there.

  thirty-eight

  The Eighth Night : Second Part

  Relief flooded through me. It was over. I’d survived another of what my team called “fire fights.” There was no way to adjust to the change from combat to whatever this was. It was still dark. My ears still rang. But with my night vision returning, I could vaguely see a moon above the ever-present clouds. There was no rain or mist. Just the quiet after the raging sounds of screaming combat with tracers, bullets and explosions blasting the air everywhere. I hadn’t lain in the muck watching for movement, or looking for an enemy who might be attacking at any second. I’d lain face-down like that very first night, my eyes squeezed shut and my face buried in jungle debris and mud. But it was over. I got to my feet and unkinked my shoulders, hips, and knees.

  The scout unit formed around me, Fessman standing at my side and Zippo moving around absently trying to clear his ears by sticking his fingers in them and shaking his head. I looked up, wondering how to spend a night in the bush with nothing. I’d left all of my stuff back up on the ridge. I wasn’t at all ready, physically or mentally, to be struck by a fast-moving freight train of a Marine Gunnery Sergeant. I flew through the air, the Gunny’s shoulder buried in my right side as he dug his boots into the cloying muck. The weight of his body drove me down hard onto a bed of fern fronds and rough-edged branches. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe even when he sat back and stared down at me, his anger all but paralyzing. Holding my sides I waited, panicked that I would never get my breath back.

  “You dumb fucking new guy asshole,” the Gunny hissed at me, his face coming down to only inches above my own. “This is the same goddamned move you pulled when I saw you get off that chopper. I knew you were bad news then and you’re bad news now. You think this is over? Nine or eighteen holes and we all turn in our clubs and get showered up for the drive home?”

  My chest heaved and I got in one sucking breath. It was enough to stay conscious to hear the Gunny go on.

  “We’re not fighting gooks, VC, or the wooden soldiers in some toy movie. We’re engaged with the North Vietnamese Army and there’s no quit in these assholes. I wish they were Marines of mine, for fuck’s sake.”

  The Gunny jerked back and up, bouncing to his feet. I noted that the whole scout team was back to being buried as deep as they could get in the mud, more to avoid the wrath of the Gunny than in fear of the enemy.

  “That battery might not be able to do much for us, but they can sure as hell give us some illumination for what’s coming,” the Gunny said. “Get us some light and get the mud cleaned out of your weapon. This fucking night is a long way from over.”

  “Sorry, Gunny,” I whispered hoarsely, finally getting my breath back but still trembling slightly at the likelihood that the enemy was nearby.

  “They got hit hard,” the Gunny said. “When they get hit hard they counter attack, so get ready and get the god-damned place lit up.”

  I rolled over and reached out for where I thought Fessman had to be close by. He was there. The handset was in my muddy fingers. I still held my .45 in the other but it was a black mass I couldn’t really see. I clicked it on safety and jammed the muddy thing into my holster.

  “Fire mission, over,” I called, hoping Fessman had the frequency right and that the Army battery would recognize who was calling and not require all the registration crap again. I knew Illumination rounds were the most restricted fire missions because of where the uncontrollable canisters might fall.

  I oriented myself. I didn’t want to take out my map because the little pencil of light might give away our position. I took a few seconds to think and try to approximate our position. We’d come pall mall down the slope, heading directly north about two thousand meters, maybe a bit more. We were not on the gun target line anymore so it didn’t matter where the canisters holding the little burning parachute loads might land.

  I asked for an adjustment to the last round I’d called in. I moved the round two hundred meters right, which would be correct from where we were the last time I’d called in. Two hundred meters should be close to the edge of the clearing but it was anybody’s guess in the dark. The Starlight scope was useless amid the dense foliage and nobody was going to head into the open area in the dark.

  The round came bursting above the jungle, completely visible in all of its amazing Technicolor splendor. The explosion went off, and then the white phosphorus draped down like the tines of a giant umbrella. The night sparkled with the sound of the round going off, booming seconds after it exploded.

  I called for illumination up and down the edge of the clearing, figuring it was about a thousand meters from one end of the saddle to the other. One round every minute every hundred meters. The shells started coming in and Kilo company opened up from far in the distance. I hugged the mud, pressing myself into it, the sounds of distant small arms different than it had been. I realized that Kilo was firing directly at us, but the rounds were impacting the thick jungle between the company and the clearing. Most of them. The sounds were sharp cracks instead of what I had become used to. The few rounds that got through were enough. They sounded like fast moving slivers in the night. No ricochets from the movies. Just hyper-fast flying and invisible snakes going by above my head. I realized then that the illumination rounds had not been for our company. They were to illuminate the open area so Kilo could see the working, withdrawing, or reforming enemy before they could get under proper cover and concealment again. I hoped fervently that Kilo was killing them all.

  And then I remembered my Colt. I pulled it out and checked it as carefully as I could. The muzzle was jammed with mud. How the hell was I supposed to clear that? My little finger would barely fit
into the very end of the barrel. I could not field strip the weapon in the dark. There was only one thing to do. I removed the magazine and stuck it into my pocket to keep it clean, and then ejected the round from the chamber. The slide stayed back, held by the detent snapping up for just that purpose. I took out my pen and began pushing it through the barrel from the tip. A minute later I thought the thing was probably clear enough. I put the extra round in my mouth and swirled it around. It tasted awful. I pulled it out, spit deeply, and took out the magazine. I pushed the wet round into the top of the magazine, reinserted it into the butt, chambered the round, and clicked the safety on.

  A running shape appeared before me. I didn’t recognize what or who it was although I saw the faint light gleaming off a pair of shiny rimmed glasses. I drew the gun smoothly and aimed the Colt .45 at his center of mass, and pulled the trigger. Nothing. I tried pulling harder but the shape disappeared. I heard shots nearby but concentrated my attention on the gun. I realized that the gun was on safe. I clicked the safety off and thought glumly about the apparition that had appeared before me. If it had been the enemy, and who else could it have been, then I was more than lucky to be alive. If I’d been killed, I wondered if anyone would have taken a few seconds to figure out that I’d been killed because I was too dumb to click my own safety off.

  I waited. My scout team, nearby, waited with me. The illumination rounds continued until ten had been delivered, the whirring of the canisters eerie in the night. There would be a sudden pop, and then the whirring would start and run for a few seconds until a thud indicated that the forty-pound metal container had hit the mud. I yearned for daylight or a Starlight scope I could wear like a pair of glasses. Waiting in the dark for the enemy to come was painstakingly awful — second by second, minute by minute, with only the mild wind sweeping the tops of the trees to pass the time or make any sound.