Last Man Out

by James E. Parker, Jr.

  We got the men in Company B on their feet and moved them to a clearing a half mile away. After they secured the tree line, we stood in the field, with the monsoon rain falling, and shined flashlights at the sky to guide in the medevac helicopter. We put the three wounded men aboard and retraced our steps to the battalion perimeter. By then it was almost 0200.

  I fell on my mattress but had not slept for more than fifteen minutes when I was awakened for radio duty. I went over to the radios and made a note in the journal that I had taken over radio duty. There were sitreps every half hour from the various companies in the battalion. The mortars continued to fire H&I periodically. I labored to stay awake. At 0400 I went over to Dunn and told him he had duty.

  After fourteen days in the field, we were heli-lifted to Tay Ninh for a C-130 flight back to Phuoc Vinh.

  Dunn and I were the last to leave the LZ. We had to coordinate on the heli-lift out and make sure the men were lined up in the right numbers and that no one was left behind. The sergeant major had found several sets of tanker goggles to keep debris out of our eyes. They were perfect in the turbulence of the helicopters.

  As we trudged up the road from the airfield at Phuoc Vinh, our goggles pulled down to our necks, we looked like raccoons, with clean rings around our eyes. Our fatigues were dirty and sweaty from the two-week operation, plus from all the debris they had collected from the dozens of helicopters in the lift. Our hair was matted with dirt and grime. We were tired to the bone and we trudged along with our heads down.

  When we arrived at our tent we found devastation. A river from the monsoon rains had run through our section of the tent. Bob’s cot had been swept to my side. Our clothes, hanging on the mosquito netting of the tent, were mildewed. A package of cookies from home that had been ripped opened and destroyed by rats was lying on top of my cot. Mud was six inches deep across the floor to Moubry’s elevated section.

  Moubry had added an easy chair and a rug. The light over his desk was shining down on his open Bible.

  Still carrying our guns, we walked around our area of the tent in mud up to our ankles and tracked it across Moubry’s new rug, out into the company street, over to the supply tent, and behind the counter. Moubry saw us and went out the back. Going down the line of supplies, we pulled out new fatigues, new skivvies, new socks, new sheets, and new pillows. We went back to our tent and put our supplies on Moubry’s bed. On a revisit to the supply tent we picked up shipping pallets to put on the floor of our tent section.

  After showering, shaving, and dressing in our new fatigues, we went to the mess hall and persuaded Cookie to make us some sandwiches, even though he had long since closed the line for supper.

  Later at the officers club, Dunn and I were joined by 1st Lt. Frank Bradley, who had taken the recon platoon from Pete. We sat by ourselves and stacked beer cans five levels high until Dunn knocked them over. Then I went to my old tent in the Alpha Company area and retrieved the picture of the nude from behind the bar.

  Back at the battalion officers club, I put the painting of the nude in a position of honor behind the bar and proposed a welcoming toast to her. Bradley, drunk, stood up, staggered to get his balance, saluted the lady, and left. He stumbled down the battalion street as he tried to light a cigarette. He was so intent on lighting his cigarette that he lost his way and weaved off between two tents. Finally getting the cigarette lit, he found the tent that he shared with the communication officer, 1st Lt. Larry Lingel, who was in bed but not yet asleep. With the cigarette still in his mouth, Bradley stumbled to his cot and pulled up the mosquito netting. He turned around, sat down heavily, and reached forward to undo his shoes. He couldn’t. He came halfway back up and fell back on the cot, his legs still off the side.

  Lingel had seen the cigarette in Bradley’s mouth, but he didn’t know what happened to it, so he turned on a small bed light over his head.

  Bradley started to breathe deeply. A couple of seconds later the cigarette rolled off his chin and landed on his neck.

  A few more seconds went by.

  Suddenly he jerked forward and became entangled in the netting. He swung his arms around and became more ensnared—fighting, twisting, kicking. The cot turned over and he fell over backward with his upper body completely wrapped in the mosquito netting. He thrashed around on the floor for a few more seconds and then lay still.

  Lingel, propped up on one elbow, looked down without expression.

  The cigarette began to smolder inside the mosquito netting at Bradley’s back. He lashed out again, jerking and struggling, and rolled across the floor away from the overturned cot. Coming to rest in a ball in the middle of the tent, he lay silently.

  Finally, from inside the netting, came a faint voice. “Lingel, Lingel, save yourself, I’m done for. Can’t get away.”

  ELEVEN

  War Is War

  Within a couple of days we received orders for “Operation Adelaide,” a search and destroy mission in the VC-held Ong Dong jungle. The operation began with an overland move down the road south of Phuoc Vinh with armor from the 1st/4th Cavalry attached. 1st/4th, always referred to as the “Quarterhorse,” employed medium-size M-48 A3 tanks and armored cavalry assault vehicles (ACAV) outfitted with a .50-caliber machine gun in the commander’s cupola and two lighter 7.62mm machine guns at the top rear. Additionally, M-113 armored personnel carriers modified as flamethrowers, referred to affectionately as “Zippos,” were included in most cav formations. A Quarterhorse unit of tanks, ACAVs, and Zippos was an awesome fire and maneuver force, unlike anything ever deployed in war before.

  Because we were moving to a forward position on all-weather roads, the battalion would use the command van for the first time in Vietnam. Mounted on a standard deuce-and-a-half chassis, the van itself looked like a refrigerator container. The only door let out to the back. Inside on the right was a console for eight or nine radios, with two tables beneath the radios. A walkway on the left led to a large map board fastened against the front wall and an area large enough for a half dozen men to stand before the map.

  Burke drove the van. Dunn and I were in accompanying Jeeps behind the colonel. Halfway to our objective we drove by Alpha Company, which had moved south the previous afternoon to help secure a bridge. Bratcher was sitting on a berm with Castro. I gave them a thumbs-up as we passed. Bratcher smiled back and gave me the finger. Infantrymen did that to staff officers in Jeeps.

  We turned off the main road and traveled down a smaller dirt road past several clusters of huts where stone-faced villagers stared at us. Ten miles down the secondary road we arrived at a large field that had been secured by advance elements of the battalion. We drove across the field with Panton, who was responsible for locating and setting up the battalion CP (command post). Dunn and I were drawn to a large tree with low, sprawling branches inside the far tree line, and we convinced Panton to set up the command van nearby. We dropped our web gear and went back to the edge of the field. Dunn motioned with a big wave of his arm for Burke to drive the van over to the tree.

  Because Burke was not large, he was flung around behind the wheel of the van as it bounced across the field. He looked out of place, overmatched, and the van was traveling too fast. Dunn and I jumped out of the way as Burke passed us heading into the woods.

  “Hey!” we yelled. “Hey, slow down!”

  Burke stopped the van near the large tree, but not before it had rolled over our gear and mashed most of it into the ground. It almost seemed as if running over our stuff was the reason for his haste.

  “Sorry,” he said when we came up beside him, “couldn’t stop.”

  Other members of the command staff, seeing the van stopped inside the wood line, figured that’s where the CP would be set up. They began to unload nearby trucks parked in a semicircle in the field.

  Dunn told Burke that he almost killed us. Besides, he was in backward. We wanted him to back in so the entrance to the van would be under the tree.

  Burke said, “Okeydokey,” and
tried to find reverse. He finally popped the clutch, and the van jerked quickly backward. Dunn and I jumped out of the way as it ran over our gear again. Burke looked somewhat confused. He almost impaled himself on the steering wheel when the van hit a tree. We saw him grab his chest and shake his head. Suddenly the van lurched toward us again and ran over our gear for the third time.

  “Hey!” we yelled.

  Burke was crashing through the jungle when the colonel came up. Like a rampaging rhinoceros, the van rumbled through the trees and passed us as it went out into the field. It almost ran over some men getting out of their vehicles.

  “Why is Burke in that van?” the colonel asked. “He’s from New York City. I don’t think he can drive. He’s going to crash.”

  Burke did a turn in the field and the van headed back toward us.

  “Holy shit,” I said, “he’s coming back.”

  The men trying to form the battalion perimeter looked up and scattered. Burke ran over some commo gear and finally stopped, well out in the field. I climbed up on the running board.

  Burke looked at me calmly and said, “Is this okay?”

  “Crash Burke, you are a piece of work,” I replied.

  The squadron of cavalry that had provided security for our move appeared across the field. Several tanks and accompanying ACAVs spread out and raced in our direction. The lead tank came to a stop near the wood line, and a short, square-jawed tank NCO jumped out. Pulling down his goggles and smiling, he said that he was “Slippery Clunker Six,” and his Slippery Clunker boys would be with us through the night. The name tag on his fatigue jacket read Bretschneider. Despite his friendly, cavalier manner, he looked rock solid. His diction was crisp and precise, and his eyes—prominent in the clean circles where his goggles had been—were bright and intelligent.

  Panton pointed out where the cav commander could put his tracks and asked if he could dig a hole for our command vehicle. Slippery Clunker Six said, “Certainly, it would be our pleasure,” and ordered one of his tanks with a dozer blade on the front to dig a wide trench.

  When the job was finished, I told “Crash” Burke—a name that seemed to fit him—that I had better back up the truck, to prevent more damage, plus we didn’t want the infantry to look bad in front of the Quarterhorse.

  By dusk all of the battalion units were in place and the command van was in operation. A mess hall with lights powered by a small generator had been set up. Dunn and I built a small rain shelter under the large tree. Sitting on our air mattresses after supper, we looked around at our surroundings and decided that that was the way to go to war—you got your mess tent, your shade, your rain-proof, bug-free, air-conditioned office. It was almost civilized.

  “But I don’t know,” I said. “Over there, that tank looks like a big metal building, looks like it would draw fire. And it’s loud. You hear that thing today? How you going to sneak up on VC in a tank?” From our position on the ground the tank appeared monstrously large.

  Dunn said, “Ah, the American man and his fighting machines. One good thing, though, Crash Burke wasn’t assigned to armor.”

  Slippery Clunker Six walked purposefully over to us and asked if we’d like something to eat. He had a little cooler in his tank where he kept some very good sausage and pâté and wondered if we wanted any. I said we’d just taken supper in the local diner, but added quickly that, of course, we would like some sausage and pâté; we hadn’t been asked things like that nearly enough since we’d been in Nam.

  “You got any wine?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  We walked over to his tank. He had a folding table set up, and we sat on boxes and ate exotic food out of several containers. Dunn compared it to what he thought it must be like going on a safari, certainly not what we were used to as grunts in Vietnam.

  As we ate and drank, the cavalry NCO said that he and his men had it a little easier and were a little more distant from this jungle war than the infantry—maybe it was the noise or the tracks they left.

  “You guys aren’t in harmony with the jungle,” I suggested.

  “There you go,” he said. “But you know, the VC stay away in droves. ’Course there are those damn mines which take all the fun out of it. But it is not supposed to be fun, is it?” He paused a moment to give us a chance to respond. Dunn shrugged, and he continued, “Ours is a noble endeavor here. We are crusaders, the fortunate ones in our generation. ‘Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.’ That’s from the late great Teddy Roosevelt, who knew about war and noble causes.”

  Eloquent quotes from former statesmen were seldom heard on the battlefields of Vietnam, but they did not seem out of place coming from Sergeant First Class (SFC) Hans Karl Bretschneider. Maybe that was because he was so self-assured. Confidence writes its own rules.

  “Ah,” he continued, “but I’m afraid Kipling also knew about fighting, especially war in this part of the world. He said:

  “ ‘At the end of the fight is a tombstone white

  With the name of the late deceased.

  And the epitaph drear:

  “A fool lies here

  Who tried to hustle the East.” ’

  “Something which we fools might be trying to do here in Vietnam, don’t you think? Aren’t we trying to hustle ’em? I think if we are, there is a tombstone out there with our names on it.”

  Dunn laughed. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” the tank commander said, “but, you know, for us that shouldn’t matter. We’re soldiers. ‘Ours is not to question why, ours is to do and die.’ ”

  “Now there you’ve almost got it,” Dunn said. “We fight, we die, but damned if we don’t kill a bunch of them son’bitches, too.”

  Slippery Clunker Six smiled slowly and said, “There you go.”

  The cavalry left the next morning to provide security for elements of the 1st Engineer Battalion, which was improving the road to Phuoc Vinh, but we saw Slippery Clunker Six occasionally throughout the operation. For several days, small elements patrolled around the battalion CP and then company-size forces moved out to protect engineer work parties that were cutting pioneer roads through the jungle. There were occasional firefights, but the VC avoided contact. Then, on 2 June, Alpha company stumbled on a VC base camp and a fierce firefight ensued. Trost and the 3d Platoon handled themselves very well, and I noted with pride the competent way RTO Spencer handled Trost’s tactical communications—calling for supporting artillery fire and bringing in reinforcements—and the way he handled the medevacs. Trost was in command, there was no question, but Spencer made things work and made Trost look good. In the heat of the battle, Spencer’s thick urban brogue had a soothing effect. The tone said, everything’s going to be okay.

  We had been in the position with the command van under that beautiful tree for five days. Dunn and Crash had the 0700-to-1500 shift in the van. I had the 1500-to-2300 shift that day with another NCO. Colonel Haldane left by Jeep for an early briefing at brigade headquarters. At noon, I was sitting on the step of the van. Inside, Dunn and Crash were taking down radio messages on a clipboard. When the messages were about firefights, enemy sightings, or movements of friendly units, they plotted the positions on the map board. With the colonel out of the area, Dunn was singing as he worked the map board.

  I left for lunch and a short nap and returned around 1430. Dunn was sitting on the top step of the van. Crash, on the ground in front of the van, was talking about all the great Fred Astaire movies he had seen. Settling on the step below Bob, I asked him what was happening, referring to the battalion patrols, and he said everything was quiet.

  Crash was absolutely grand entertainment. He had energy, enthusiasm, and the ability to tell a good story. Skinny in his big combat boots and T-shirt, he reminded me of Bugs Bunny as h
e danced around, held an imaginary Ginger Rogers, did a soft-shoe, handled an invisible top hat and cane, and swayed back and forth. He talked about one scene where Fred Astaire did a soft-shoe number with two other men. He said he knew the whole routine—it was marvelous and simple. He invited us down to the ground and said he’d show us.

  “Not on your life, my friend,” I said.

  “In the van,” Dunn said.

  Crash climbed up the steps around me. I looked both ways. There was nobody around, and I followed them inside. Crash had his arm over Dunn’s shoulder near the map board.

  “Okay,” he said, “we got on spats, straw hats, and black canes with solid gold caps on the top. The music is ‘Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do.’ Got it? It’s that simple, Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do,’ over and over again. Two steps and then three steps. We go left—come on, Lieutenant,” he said to me, “join us, we go left two steps. ‘Dun de dun,’ then we shuffle three times, ‘de doddle de doddle do,’ then go back to the right. Okay, now bounce your canes in step. Here we go. ‘Dun de dun, de doddle de doddle do.’ ”

  We practiced until we had it down—Crash on one end, Dunn in the middle, and I on the other end. We were working on the finish, in which the two of them would spin me off to the right. I would do a pirouette and land on one knee as I raised my hand, holding an imaginary hat, into the air and say “Ta-daa!” Mine was the showcase move, the grand finale. At first, I had trouble facing in the same direction as the others when I came out of the spin onto one knee, but we practiced the whole set several times and I was getting it down. I came out of one spin—the whole routine had been perfect, our best performance—and I put gusto into my “Ta-daa.”

  Colonel Haldane was standing in the door of the van, looking at me.

  Dunn and Crash were standing at attention.