“The captain wants to see you, sir,” he said, almost apologetically.
“I can see him over there from right here,” I replied, knowing I was being adolescent and irritating.
Pilson looked down at me, and waited.
“Jesus Christ,” I whispered, more to myself than Pilson, wondering if I wasn’t bringing the wrath of God down to join the wrath of Vietnam that had landed on my shoulders. I got up and put on my wet utility blouse I was trying to dry a bit. I’d washed as much mud off it as possible without more water and real detergent. I buttoned up and walked the ten-yard distance. The captain was sitting cross-legged on his poncho liner. I wanted to tell him to layer his poncho cover under it to avoid the liner getting wet for the night ahead but I didn’t.
“Forward observer, reporting in, sir,” I said, standing in front of him, and trying not to look like what I really was. In Basic School they had a phrase for what I had to look like. It was called a “soup sandwich.”
“That’s right, lieutenant,” Captain Casey said, his tone flat and commanding. “You’re not the company commander anymore. Certainly not when it comes to planning to respond to an impending enemy attack. What’s this Kamehameha crap I’m hearing about?” He pulled the section of map I’d drawn the outline of the plan upon. I’d given it to the Gunny so he could inform the platoon leaders. “I’ve been to Kaneohe Marine Base on Oahu. I know about Kamehameha. What is this crap?” he finished, tapping his right index finger on the map laying over his thigh.
I looked up into the trees over my right shoulder. The sun had already set over the ridge so the light was beginning to die. I understood why the two lieutenants were back with Casey. They’d been sent packing by the existing platoon leaders and none of the three of them knew what to do about that, although they’d exercised good judgment in leaving.
“They’re going to hit us tonight and they’ll probably bring their own artillery fire onto that open area near the edge of the cliff,” I said, as plain and simple as I could sound. “The Kamehameha plan is to draw them into the kill zone on the map there, and then slam the door behind them shut with our artillery.”
“I don’t want you calling in that Army artillery shit,” the captain said. “It looks bad in the reports. Use our own artillery.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering whether the captain had any knowledge of the codes used by the Marine and Army batteries to direct fire. My answer was given betting he didn’t. It was useless trying to explain that at the end of the An Hoa battery’s maximum range the rounds could land anywhere within a thousand-meter diameter circle, or worse, of where they were targeted. We were in a situation where each Marine perimeter was only two hundred meters from the middle of the kill zone. There would not be any play available for inaccurate rounds.
“This will be the command post for our time here,” Casey said, looking around him, “and I want you in the CP unless I tell you otherwise.” He aimed his last sentence directly at me.
“If you want my advice, sir…” I began, wondering if he’d cut me off, but he didn’t, so I went on, “…you’ll stay inside your hole here from now until the sun comes up in the morning. The Marines will shoot anything that moves in the night, the artillery will be impossible to judge where it is, and the enemy is going to be a bit bloodthirsty too. I have to adjust the artillery so I can’t go underground like I’d love to.”
Casey turned and began talking to the two lieutenants that huddled right behind him. Pilson looked at me, and slowly shook his head without showing any expression on his face.
“This is all bullshit,” Captain Casey said, pointing at me instead of the map. You expect the ‘kill zone,’ as you call, it to be perfectly rectangular?”
My mouth dropped open in amazement. The rectangle I’d drawn was a representation of an approximate area. Such representations had been used in every military text I’d ever read or studied. I realized that there was very little to say.
“Yes, sir,” I replied, wondering if the captain would see that as saying as dumb as what he’d said.
“Whatever, carry on,” Casey said, waving one hand at me, and then tossing the piece of map down on the poncho liner next to him.
I noted then that all three officers had removed their boots, placing each pair neatly next to him.
“Ah, you took off your boots?” I asked, in more wonder. We never took our boots off in combat unless it was to change socks, and then we put them back on as fast as we could. There was no way to move along the jungle floor without boots. The bracken would cut regular skin to shreds in seconds.
“The Gunny said to air them out and dry them every chance we get,” Keating said, from his position off to the left of Captain Casey’s.
Once again, I was speechless. The Gunny had told them that? I struggled, attempting to understand. Why would the Gunny say that when every one of us out in the bush knew that night or day we might have to move fast and far in an instant’s notice?
I wanted to ask for the map plan back but realized I didn’t really need it. The combat company was amazing in that no five paragraph orders were needed to let everyone know what they were supposed to do, and when. They just somehow got the word and knew. Since we’d been engaged with the NVA, I also noted that our casualties had gone down.
“Anything else, sir,” I said, wanting to salute but knowing that might be over the top in expressing my disdain.
“Carry on,” the captain said, not looking at me while waving one had as if to dismiss some sort of menial servant. The Marines digging the holes for the officers looked up at the same time but I looked away, not wanting to reveal anything of my feelings. I walked away into the bush and headed up the slope, hoping to run into the Gunny without having to ask around to see where he was.
Fessman, Nguyen, Stevens, and Zippo trailed along with me, like no new officers had ever been sent in to command the company. The Gunny was not far from the more open area of trees and sporadic brush that comprised the top of the slope the company was divided down on each side of.
The Gunny looked back at our approach, then turned to await our arrival.
“I hear you’ve got a command post now,” he said, without a trace of a smile.
“Rittenhouse,” I replied, getting right to the point.
“Wondered when you’d get around to him,” the Gunny said, waving at someone I couldn’t see near the top of the ridge. “We don’t have a replacement, you know, if you’re thinking about…well, you know…” his voice trailed away into silence.
I squatted down to wait. Fessman handed the binoculars to me with a clean sock he’d scrounged from somewhere.
“Thought you’d want to clean these yourself,” he said, with a smile.
The Gunny joined us, going to work brewing a canteen holder of coffee.
I began wetting the sock from some of the moist leaves flapping around us in the light breeze. I noted the lack of mosquitoes that would return with a vengeance once the waning sun was gone and the breeze died out. I slowly massaged all the little pockets of mud out of the lenses, finally rubbing the outside of the worn outer coating clean.
Rittenhouse came through the jungle alone, carrying his clipboard, with a pencil stuck behind one ear on his bare head. He looked like a young clerk working at some stateside factory.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked.
“Do you have a daily form you use or do you just write something out in freehand?” I asked back, noting his complete lack of anything but a ‘can-do’ attitude.
“Of course we have a form,” he replied, slipping a sheet of paper out from some others on his clipboard.
I took the sheet and examined it. It was a piece of paper to be filled in, accounting for supplies, with KIA and WIA blank blocks for Marine and enemy casualties. There was one blank space, near the bottom of the form that was titled “Miscellaneous.”
/> I frowned at the blank document, before handing it back. “And so how did the new crew discover that I was the evil genius behind all the company’s problems?”
“I don’t know,” Rittenhouse replied, looking a little perplexed. “I just fill in the blanks and use the miscellaneous box to let battalion know what’s going on as best I can.”
“So, how did my name come up?” I asked, beginning to wonder about the whole reporting process and who was being told what by whom.
“I never used your name,” Rittenhouse said. “The company commander is responsible for everything. You were the company commander, or so the Gunny said. Before that it was him.”
I looked over at the Gunny. He shrugged, his face a puzzled mix of frowning wrinkles and a smile.
“The miscellaneous box,” I said. “Do you have to put anything in it?”
“I suppose not,” Rittenhouse replied.
“Then leave it blank and make sure the Gunny or I see it every damned day before it goes on a chopper. And if those guys want to see it then make sure we see it after them,” I followed, pointing back to where the command post was being erected.
I sat checking out my binoculars after the boy-clerk was gone. It wasn’t Rittenhouse I realized. It was the war, Vietnam, the situation, and a whole load of bad communication and piss poor leadership at all levels. I had no doubt that the name “Junior” had come to Casey and his lieutenants from the daily report, but Rittenhouse also had a point. Just who in hell’s fault was anything? Was I at fault if the whole Kamehameha Plan went into the toilet and we suffered heavy casualties? If it all came off as planned, then we’d simply move down into the A Shau in the morning. There would be no reward. If it went wrong, many of us would die and it would all be my fault. I stared at a bug sitting on a leaf through the right lens of my “Jappo” binoculars. The bug didn’t know what was coming in the night and enjoyed a state of being at fault for nothing, no matter what happened in that night. I would not have that luxury.
Brother John came through with his last radio broadcast of the day. No homilies, no preaching, and no smarmy talk about going home. Just Jay and the Americans singing about this magic moment…forever till the end of time…
addendum
Thirty Days Has September: The First Ten Days was written over a period of three months, with the chapters published online day by day until it was done. Comments were accepted from the thousands of readers who read the regular episodes of the novel being offered. You can read those comments at www.JamesStrauss.com.
A selection of those comments are detailed here in this addendum because of the heartfelt nature in which they were offered. The author could not help but respond to each and every of the thousands of comments because of the poignant manner in which they were written and freely offered.
Ron Johnson
The comment section is almost like a reception party, with you as the host — and a very good one. Much is shared in common at the gathering here with those among you, and even with those of us that stayed behind, but with you now. The camaraderie is excellent. Then I realize the sobering fact of just how personal this all really is to many with you here, but especially to yourself. It is reflected in your explanations of Gunny, Sugar Daddy, Jurgens, and the Captain etc. and how each touched you personally by their actions. The making of this epic tale involved the blood, sweat and tears of your whole company, and then the historical approach to your documentation in writing it to share with us. I can’t thank you enough, but by the prayer that when the reception is through, and we all return to our own thoughts, that a great warmth of comfort may be appreciated by you from the fires ignited here in our breasts. Thank you, James. S/F.
Comments from John Conway
12-23-2016
I invariably attempt to compose my comment immediately after reading the segment for the first time. I invariably fail. My emotions are raw. My thoughts totally jumbled. I try to write, and it’s gibberish. I can’t even recognize it as my own writing. I feel within me the panic set in that would accompany your head-long rush down that hill. Soldiers throughout history cause their own stampede as their backwards motion turns into a flight that undoes all thought but escape. Whatever is back there can’t be as bad as what’s coming. Yet you stop. “My terror was back. I realized I was blind, and then I could not hear. The sounds of combat deafened my ears.” Not only required to curb your own doubts, but to argue your not-even-confident plan to the Gunny, and accepting the “damned if I do and fucked if I don’t” reality. The bald fact that you can, and do, recall these events with such clarity is testimony to the ferocity of the flame that burned them into your brain. You should never have to explain or apologize why that brain is imprinted with the scars of war.
12-28-16
I have come to look forward to reading the comments almost as much as reading your narrative. To say you’ve struck a collective nerve would be bordering on the trite, but it’s a fact nonetheless. I see no “fools or simple vicarious adventure-seeking creatures” in this line up of commenters. (And your well thought-out replies reflect that.) You’ve given voice to a genre of reluctant remembers, all of similar vintage, who applaud your efforts and your accomplishments. It’s an analogy only the farm bred will get, but when you’re digging manure and the pitchfork finally hits the concrete under the compacted shit, you know you’re making headway. Write on, Strauss, we’ve got your six.
01-19-17
“I celebrated at being alive, unaware of any responsibilities I might have or communications I should consider.” And that encapsulates the entirety of the previous 24 hours of self-doubt, fear, uncertainty, and second-guessing of the “new leadership” of the company. The “what ifs” evaporated. The NVA did what you guessed they would. The Army arty did what you expected them to do. Your own Marines did more than you dared to hope they would. And you, Strauss, self-deprecating, sleep deprived, exhausted Lieutenant of Marines, made it happen. Deal with it.
Comments from SFC. Robert Ecklund, Army (Ret.)
02-22-2017
Afternoon, Jim. Yes, love it. Let the story be told raw and deep, There is deep truth in what you are reveling as you write it raw….Like the unhealed wounds that still fester from then till today, Yes reality deep raw and ugly Yes, From one magnificent bastard of the dark to another, Keep the story coming raw…… I am waiting on your book, I will buy it, But two things, Yes, The response’s as they come in now, and the raw story before editing, should be added, especially the responses from those who saw it in the reality of then.
I find it funny, The discussions of time travel, and I have come to the conclusion that it would be impossible, For like a Map those points in time are fixed and in flow of time and space they are fixed to the past to be learned from, I do believe that God made that so, Yes so we could never go back to wreak justifiable vengeance on those who would abuse our youth so venially, The Dwyer’s Stewart’s Casey’s, Jergen’s….. Yes if time travel was possible we would have a time world of blood feud that would make the worst of any historical feud look like a dance after the Friday night football game.
Yes, I sit and read, and My now screams with suggestions and knowledge that cannot be transmitted back to a person, That My military career taught me to mentor, conserve, and protect, Yes, I have put together a good map with the information in the story, Yes flying slicks gives me a highpoint overview of the world of shit the A Shau Valley is in the coordinate in time and space is for a young Second LT. I can see two other FSB that could bring fire, one to your direct east, FSB Bradley a Army FSB, and one to the WSW of Cunningham, LZ Erskine, Yet due to what ever it appears that you were not informed of their existence for what ever reason…… Yes the stupidity of inter service rivalry, and the Fog of War, Yes, I want to badly to have a way of getting that information to the Fighting Bastard Junior because I am suppose to take care of my men first, last, and only when Murphy queers the p
lay, say good by, rest, you have done your time min hell…. Yes, My Crew Chief …. My CWO II … My Platoon Sargent …. selves and Now my Old Bastard are screaming all of our hope and knowledge and prayers for a LT. Named Junior, a Magnificent Bastard of the Dark…… Lost ion time …. Thankfully still alive to tell the story, Yes, That is why I believe in God, Because this is his plan for you, to tell Your story and Help other Heal, and Heal Yourself Junior, SIR! LT. Strauss.
01-16-2017
Man, you bring back so many memories, Yes Flying every day unless the bird was down for maintenance, Dealing with dickheads who didn’t realize how far up their fourth point of contact their heads were, and that it could get them killed, Yes that captain who they dumped on you so he could check His next career box for advancement, He reminds me of one we received into my flight platoon for career development, I was lucky, I survived the my day fly with Him, My sister bird 298 didn’t, He wouldn’t listen about flying the same route, You didn’t ever go to the same LZ the same flight route twice, If a single bird flight, It was either low level as you could get, balls to the wall, or 1000 feet or above, in and out, to do log and resupply to the grunts, He was hogging all the stick time he could, well His HU4PC, cost him, the problem is it took 4 other men with him.
Comments from Walter McKinley
01-09-2017
The use of ” fresh” 2nd Lts. as scapegoats in the Army existed in Korea also. By no means as deadly as the Nam but the same career killer. The RTT Platoon, Co. B, 304th Sig. Bat. 8th Army Support Command was a rather rowdy bunch that needed a bit of a kick in the discipline area. No “good” Lts. were available because no one cared. A new CO brought a plan. First was the ROTC 2nd. Lt. that we chewed up and spit out. We didn’t know that that action allowed the CO to get his man in, a 1st. Lt. with a love for the Orient grown in the Nam. He survived an extended tour there, came to our little paradise and chewed us up and spit us out like pistachio hulls. That you’ve survived so far in this must be like you said, Artillery, that your Gunny was in survival mode only must be testament to previous command. I’ve not heard of a Gunny taking any kind of shit from anyone, you were well, and truly screwed before you started
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