by J. M. Graham
“He’s not here, but I am,” Sergeant Blackwell said, stepping up to the helicopter with Bronsky in tow. “The only one who has no business being here is you.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But the first sergeant didn’t give me a choice.”
“Gantz sent someone with three days left in-country on a joyride into the Arizona?” Sergeant Blackwell said, shaking his head. “He must be crazy.”
“You won’t get any argument from me,” Strader said.
He knelt down so he could talk to Blackwell without so much volume. “Why is the Chief restrained?”
Before the sergeant could respond, Bronsky pushed his face into the opening. “Don’t let him loose, Reach,” he said, and pointed at the bodies in the shadows. “He did that.”
The Chief raised his knees and kicked his bound feet at Bronsky’s head but fell short.
“See?” Bronsky said.
The Chief lay back and closed his eyes as though the kick had taken more out of him than he had to give.
The copilot stuck his head out and whistled down at the Marines like a bird from a high perch. They all looked up. He tapped the face of his wristwatch with an anxious finger indicating it was too long to be on the ground in the Arizona. Sergeant Blackwell gave him a thumbs-up sign and pulled his people away from the chopper. They ducked from the rotor wash as the engine speed increased, and the bulky machine pulled up from the valley as though it was sucked into the air by a giant vacuum. It banked to port showing its underbelly and headed away from the Ong Thu.
Sau’s little band of NVA moved across the face of the mountain at a runner’s clip, following the new vanguard carrying his AK in one hand and the shovel in the other. His brown legs churned up the ground; the others, already worn out from transporting Binh’s body, felt they were in a footrace and losing badly, but they pushed until their lungs burned. They knew the only thing that was important was rejoining Nguyen, and they would run until their chests exploded to make that happen.
Far ahead, Nguyen knew that Sau would drive his little group to follow his path like wolves on the scent and could overtake his group within the hour—if they weren’t intercepted by the Americans. This prospect caused Nguyen some concern. Most of Sau’s group were unarmed, and clashing with even a small enemy unit would be fatal—and the Americans could be anywhere. They could leapfrog ahead or come from above; they could drop a blocking force in Nguyen’s path while a larger unit came up from behind; they could decimate the NVA with artillery or strafe them from the air. And the only thing that prevented any of this from happening was that the location of Nguyen’s unit was unknown and would remain that way as long as they kept moving.
If he could just get through this day and night and cross the Vu Gia before daylight, things would be better. They would be out of the Marine base’s region, and while the obligation to catch them would transfer to other units, Nguyen was confident he could fade into the countryside.
Yesterday he had warned his people that today would be long and difficult, but he saw now that his threats did not begin to approach the problems this day could bring. The topography of the Ong Thu was becoming so steep that it slowed their progress to a crawl, and Nguyen decided to angle their path in a gradual descent toward the valley floor where the terrain was more cooperative. His map indicated that the Ong Thu swung to the east well beyond the marshy lake, and his exhausted and overloaded unit would have difficulty climbing over the razorback that blocked their way. If they were to reach Minh Tan 1 by midnight, they would have to cross open ground north of the lake and skirt the geological roadblocks that gradually spent themselves at the village of Phu Phong 3. From there they could follow a tributary straight into Minh Tan.
Nguyen was stooped under the load of two RPGs with rockets, two rounds for the recoilless rifle, and an extra pack and roll. He looked like a vagabond merchant in dire need of a cart. Pham and Truong staggered up with the heavy machine gun crushing their shoulders. They were bareheaded, and streams of perspiration plastered their hair to their skulls. Nguyen stepped aside and let them pass. “Do you feel you are making an adequate contribution yet, Pham?”
Pham tilted his head in Nguyen’s direction. Words bubbled up to his lips and he imagined unloading them on their arrogant dai uy, but that would take breath, and the heavy gun had a prior claim on all of his air, now and in the foreseeable future. The two young men stumbled on, exchanging glances filled with both the pain they felt and the pain they wished.
Nguyen watched them go, feeling a sense of satisfaction in their discomfort. He enjoyed seeing the privileged bourgeoisie get a taste of the labors of war. But he also felt a nagging spark of pride in their efforts, and he couldn’t begrudge them the honor of having asked for the taste. He looked up as tiger shrikes flitted through the canopy trading chattering screeches with trogons vying for a swarm of beetles just in from the valley floor. The treetops were alive with the aerial jousting.
The NVA maneuvered their heavy weapons away from the steep slopes and across the undulating foothills until vertical shafts of light from open ground penetrated the tree line, illuminating the jungle floor. The marsh that led to the western rim of the lake was just visible from there. Clumps of razor grass sprouted from the soft, black soil, and barricades of bamboo shafts marked the contours of the shoreline.
Nguyen wobbled on unsteady legs to the head of the column and stayed there until the northern edge of the lake was past. He signaled a halt, and the men behind him sank as though their loads had driven them into the earth like tent stakes. They let the weapons roll off their shoulders, and each man lay gasping for air while his heart pounded against the inside of his ribcage. Nguyen slipped out of his shoulder harness and eased his pack board to the ground. While the others seemed to be drifting into a vegetative state, he scooped up his AK and moved to the edge of the tree line. He stuck his head out and looked north.
The huge expanse of the Ong Thu that defined the western boundary of the An Hoa Valley might have gone on indefinitely, but the Song Vu Gia forced it into an eastern dogleg, where it dissolved into the misty distance. From where he stood, Nguyen could see the direct line across the clear valley floor to where the razorback melted back into the earth. The terrain looked solid. They could wade through the low grass meeting little more obstruction than the occasional dry paddy dyke. But it was open ground—a lot of unprotected open ground. After nightfall, he would not have given it a second thought. Even in the fuller phases of the moon he would have set off across the valley with the full column, but in daylight they would have to move in groups. It was a calculated risk, but he didn’t like the other options. He could wait for nightfall and hope the pursuers didn’t track them down; a bet he knew he couldn’t win. Or he could continue fighting the foothills all the way around the Ong Thu’s dogleg with no chance of reaching the river crossing by midnight, forcing them to wait through the day tomorrow near Minh Tan 1 for night to fall again without being detected. Or he could run the diagonal in daylight. These were the calculations forcing him to choose the lesser of three evils, but the term “lesser” was problematic because the differences between the three were negligible in terms of risk. Each held a possibility, if not a likelihood, of disaster. He couldn’t wait, but it was dangerous to go on.
Nguyen carefully removed his binoculars from their case and scanned the open ground, being sure to stay far enough back in the tree line so no glare would reflect from the lenses. Everything looked quiet and inviting, but the Americans had the resources to change that with blinding speed; and if they did, he would have to provide assistance for anyone caught in the open. While he turned the possibilities over in his mind, Pham came up behind him and looked over his shoulder. Nguyen lowered the binoculars. “We’re going to cross here,” he said without turning to look at Pham. “We’ll go in four shifts and move quickly.”
“I volunteer to go first,” Pham said, rubbing his shoulders in a futile attempt to massage away the pain.
Ng
uyen turned slowly. “Why, because you are not afraid?”
Pham’s shoulders were stooped and his face was drawn and haggard. He’d had little sleep last night, and there would be no rest today and none expected tonight, at least not until they crossed the river. He stared at the open ground that seemed to go on forever, a sea of brown grasses undulating in the morning breeze like the surface of an ocean. “It’s a long way across. I think I am afraid.”
“Good,” Nguyen said, a little more harshly than he intended. “Anyone spotted out there could become target practice for the Americans. He would be helpless.”
Pham nodded and tried not to lick his lips so Nguyen wouldn’t know that fear had drawn the moisture from his mouth.
“Since I need someone to provide help for the helpless, you will not be going first. In fact, since I have use for the heavy machine gun you have been carrying, you will in all likelihood be one of the last to cross.” Nguyen waited for an objection, but none was forthcoming. “This is no favor, going last. The first to cross will have the advantage of surprise. All those after that will be following a known path. Being predictable here is not a good thing.” Nguyen could see that Pham felt he was being rebuked but was too tired to put up an argument. “Your group will use the Chinese gun to provide security for those in the open.” He wrapped the binoculars in a cloth and slipped them into the padded case. “At least by going last you will have more time to rest.”
“But the gun . . . I have no experience—” Pham started to say.
“You will not be firing the machine gun,” Nguyen interrupted. “You will do what the gunner tells you to do, then help carry the weapon across. With any luck you will not be asked to make a heroic gesture.”
While they spoke, two of their men leapt up from their positions at the tail of the column and aimed their weapons back along the trail. Something was moving fast back there, and the whole exhausted unit scrambled from where they lay to find cover they could defend. Nguyen and Pham ran toward them as far as a fallen tree, then dropped behind the trunk, using it as a bench rest for their AKs. They pressed their cheeks against the rough wood of the butt stocks and followed their sights back into the foothills. Pham’s shoulders felt raw and bruised, and he knew the AK’s recoil was going to be painful. He hoped he would not wince and spoil his aim.
When the first visible target waved his shovel over his head, the tension rushed from everyone. Pham turned his face away and rested his head on his forearm. Nguyen was over the tree and running back to his unit as Sau and Co and the rest flooded out of the undergrowth. They were met with wide grins and much slapping of backs. Canteens were offered. Arms were thrown around shoulders. Cleared sitting spots were contributed. Nguyen felt his spirits rise as he watched his most trusted men mix back into the column, but he was startled at their appearance. Streaks of dried blood stained their arms and legs and sloughed from their bodies in grotesque slabs. Blood-drenched clothing had dried stiff and hard.
Sau smiled when he saw Nguyen coming.
“It went well?” Nguyen said, both wanting and not wanting to reach out and touch Sau.
Sau tilted his head and looked away. “Not for Binh,” he said.
“He honored his country and his family,” Nguyen said, knowing it sounded hollow.
An awkward silence followed while each man seemed to search for something meaningful to say, but found nothing.
Finally, Nguyen looked back along the broken path. “How much time do we have?” he asked.
“There was no sign of anyone pursuing us, but we moved very fast. Just because we didn’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t coming. I expected helicopters over us by now.”
Nguyen looked up. “That is a puzzle. It seems you have confused them somehow. I don’t know how or why, but I’m thankful anyway.”
Truong stood beside the Chinese machine gun adjusting the leafy branches lashed to the barrel. Co took another swallow from a canteen then passed it on. He held his hand out to Truong. “I have something for you,” he said, dropping the beaded leather bag into Truong’s hand.
The figure stitched into the face of the bag looked like a dancing kachina doll. Truong looked up at Co then back at the bag. “Indian?” he asked.
Co shrugged his crusty shoulders without answering.
Truong held the bag by the cord, letting it swing freely. “One of them was an Indian,” he said. Sadness clouded his face, and he looked at Co with genuine pain in his eyes.
“He was just another American in a uniform.” Co paused, clenching his jaws. “And he killed Binh.”
Co could see the battle of competing emotions on Truong’s face. Binh had been a comrade. They had shared hardships and meals and slept under each other’s protection, but in all of the western novels he loved, Truong’s sympathies were always with the Indians. Co began to turn away, and Truong grabbed his blood-streaked arm. He held the bag up and squeezed it tight. “Thank you,” he said.
Nguyen stepped past and pointed along the tree line. “Co, take the heavy gun north about one hundred meters and find some high ground where you can cover the valley. We’ll be crossing here in groups.”
Pham and Truong hoisted the heavy gun back onto their bruised shoulders as Co began gathering his personal equipment from the pile laid at his feet, strapping his pack on over the dried streaks of Binh’s blood.
15
The second Bronsky switched the Prick 25 to the platoon’s frequency, the handset came alive. “Yes, sir. I was on the air tac with Highball. No, sir. They just lifted off. Yes, sir. Here he is.” He turned the handset over to Sergeant Blackwell.
“This is Four,” Blackwell said. “Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” He gave Bronsky a puzzled look then turned away. “Most ricky-tick, sir. Roger, out.” He returned the handset to Bronsky without looking at him. “Franklin, get your team on point. We gotta get back fast. The platoon is on the scent of something and they don’t wanna wait.” He grabbed Bronsky by the radio’s shoulder strap and pulled him close. “You get on the horn to Highball and tell them to cut the Chief loose. The gooks hit the LP and the lieutenant thinks the Chief got a piece of one of them.”
Shock and confusion worked in tandem to create a dumbfounded look on Bronsky’s face. “You’re shittin’ me,” he said.
“I wouldn’t shit a first-class turd like you, Bronsky. Now get your ass in gear and do it on the run.”
The evac detail moved off at a fast pace, retracing their path from the Ong Thu.
The helicopter gained some altitude heading east when the pilot banked steeply to port, running north along the face of the mountain. It was wise to avoid the anxious trigger fingers around Phu Loi 3 and give the village a wide berth by sticking to the contours of the mountain. The pitch sent Strader staggering over the bodies to his gun position, and he leaned forward against the bulkhead and looked through the gun port directly down onto the valley floor. He glanced back. The gunner was sitting with one hand on the M60 and gazing casually at the expanse of sky that filled the opening in front of him. Strader knew that he could never respond to these radical aerial maneuvers with that kind of nonchalance, and if he was ever lucky enough to set his feet back on the ground in the world, he would never go any higher than a stepladder. When the deck leveled out, Strader could see the copilot looking down on them, adjusting the mouthpiece on his radio. He was nodding when he drew his head back, and when his face returned, the gunner raised his right arm and stuck his thumb in the air for the copilot to see.
The helicopter increased speed, climbing all the while, with the big engine pounding the air in the compartment. Strader looked down on the bodies at his feet. The air currents whipped the fabric of the poncho liner wildly, and a covering flap folded back revealing a face he couldn’t identify. He knew that faces in death sometimes had only the weakest resemblance to the owner’s living countenance—the pallor, the complete lack of muscle tone—but until now he had always been able to see through the mask and find the living face in his memory.
But he couldn’t place this one. Then he noticed the boots and the tucked roll of the cuffs and knew this was one of the FNGs. The eyes were partially closed and the lower pigmented orbs of the irises stared blankly at the overhead. This was a face Strader had seen only once with a name he never knew. The teeth inside the slack mouth showed dark stains, and Strader winced at the ghastly wound hiding below the chin. The short tour, he thought. Going in and coming out on the same helicopter. If people ever thought that if you were going to die, it was better to get it done early in the tour, they hadn’t thought it through.
The massive torque of the rotors shook the bodies, and he recognized Tanner’s face as vibration made the back of his lifeless head beat a rapid tattoo on the deck. The casualty tag tied to his shoelace flapped in the turbulence like a pennant. Looking at both bodies, he somehow couldn’t reconcile the deaths with the Chief. In his experience, no Marine had ever killed another Marine on purpose. There had been accidents during contact at night, but despite blustering threats and promises, no one had ever actually followed through and committed a murder. He knew the Chief’s reputation for being a hard-ass was well deserved, but he didn’t think he would kill fellow Marines. He saw that the Chief was staring at him as though he was reading his thoughts. Their eyes locked and the Chief shook his head slowly.
A peripheral movement caught his eye as the gunner waved to get his attention. The helicopter was climbing under load and the noise filled the compartment, drowning the door gunner’s voice, and he was forced to watch as the young Marine pantomimed twisting something and pulling it apart. When Strader’s face lacked any sign of comprehension, the young Marine pointed at his own belt and then to the Chief. Whatever message the sign language was meant to communicate, it wasn’t getting through. All that registered was the door gunner’s frustration; the rest was pure puzzle.
Just as the gunner was about to launch another hand puppet show, the helicopter pitched forward and began to lose altitude. Strader felt his body weight vanish and began to lose his physical connection with the deck. The gunner pressed a hand to the side of his helmet and listened, then grabbed the M60, pulling it to his shoulder. Strader had been at a loss to understand the gunner’s miming, but the reaction he saw now was perfectly clear, and he grabbed the grip of his own M60 at the portal.