Into the Treeline

by John F. Mullins

  It was a measure of how resigned he was to the status quo that he did not bother to object. Of course the Cav company would get priority support. They were Americans. His company of indigenous troops would have to take the leavings.

  He got up, almost fell back down. The leg had stiffened badly. As he stumbled up the hill it loosened up but started bleeding again. It soaked through the bandage, trickled down into his boot. With each step it oozed out the vent-holes in the instep.

  When he reached the troops he saw that Lally’s people had spent the time well. They were digging in, clearing fields of fire, siting weapons to ensure interlocking fire.

  He found the command group, such as it was. Lally was busy giving commands, looked at him as if to ask the lieutenant if he would like to take over. Jim wearily signaled him to go on, found a shellhole, and hunkered down in it. Time to try to do something more for his leg. He wondered about the bombardment he had been promised, was ready to call about it, then heard the shells rushing in. Not nearly as many as before. Perhaps only one battery firing. There were long pauses between volleys and the pattern was skimpy. Not nearly enough.

  Then through the trees he saw them coming. Many times during his two tours in Vietnam he had been frustrated because he had not been able to see the enemy. Mostly you fired at muzzle flashes, at scarcely seen movements. It now seemed ironic, because at this one moment he could see more enemy soldiers than he had seen in almost two years of combat. When going through basic training he had been fascinated by the tales of the human wave attacks in Korea. He had never expected to see one. Now he was. And wished he wasn’t.

  He’d been wrong in his estimate. There was much more than a reinforced company. Much more.

  The Montagnards, he was glad to see, were maintaining fire discipline. They waited until the front rank was less than fifty meters away, then opened very effective and accurate fire. The shooting from the enemy ranks was intense and, though wild and inaccurate, began to take its toll. To add to the problem, an RPG gunner located somewhere to the front started firing grenades into the hastily prepared company positions.

  Ignoring the bullets striking around him, knowing that they were random rather than the deadly accurate fire of before, he crawled to the CP. It was behind a felled teak tree, and had been spared the worst of the fire.

  “You see that fuckin’ gunner?” he asked Lally.

  “Thought I saw a backblast about a hundred meters up.” Lally chanced a glimpse above the tree. “There the cocksucker is. I got the runner looking for an M-79. I’m gonna put a grenade right up his ass.” A diminutive Montagnard made a sliding stop into the hole, triumphantly clutching the grenade launcher and a bandoleer of forty-millimeter high-explosive rounds. Lally broke it open, inserted the massive round. “Now watch this, Boss,” he said.

  You could almost watch the low-velocity round in flight. It was deadly accurate up to seventy-five meters; required only a slight elevation at one hundred. The round impacted just at the feet of the enemy gunner, reducing his feet and calves to hamburger and sending hundreds of tiny serrated wire fragments up into his groin, where they spun through intestines, liver, and heart, killing him before he had a chance to realize he was dead.

  Lally turned to Jim, opening his mouth to say something. His face dissolved in a spray of blood. A stunned look fogged his eyes. He dropped to the bottom of the hole, writhing in pain.

  Carmichael grabbed him, held his head in his lap. The wound, he saw, was not fatal. The bullet had passed through the side of his face, narrowly missed his tongue, and exited just under the chin. It appeared that the force of the impact had broken his jaw, since it wobbled when Jim tested it, but other than being extremely bloody, the wound was not that bad. He searched his mind for dimly remembered medical training, finally settled upon packing Lally’s mouth with gauze from the company first aid kit and placing a pressure bandage on the outside wound, the tails of which he tied over his head. Lally now looked like a child with a very bad toothache. He was in obvious pain, but Jim hesitated to give him morphine. There was too much chance that he would pass out, and unconscious he might aspirate seeping blood, drowning himself.

  He turned his attention back to the battlefield. The enemy soldiers were still coming over the bodies of their comrades. He had to admire their courage. The surviving Montagnards were still pouring fire into their ranks, especially the little Browning Automatic Rifle gunner, who was firing precise three-round bursts. Each time he fired people dropped, most shot through the head. But it couldn’t last. The firing from his side was growing more and more sporadic as the troops fell victim to enemy bullets or ran out of ammunition.

  Time to die, he supposed. The thought didn’t frighten him nearly as much as he had thought it would. There was regret that he had not lived as much as he would have wanted, would never go to the places he wanted to visit, would never love as many women as he would have wished. Mostly there was resignation. He loaded another magazine into the rifle, took careful aim at an oncoming soldier, dropped him, took aim at another and missed, cursed himself and got a third. He kept on firing, hitting more than missing, but it seemed to make no difference. He loaded another magazine, took the .45 from the holster at his hip and jacked a round into the chamber. He could not, would not, be taken alive, and it was much easier to blow your brains out with the pistol than with the M-16. He laid it to one side and continued to fire into their ranks. They were within grenade range now and he could see the stick grenades arcing overhead, smoke trailing as they flipped end over end. Had their grenades not been notoriously unreliable it would have been all over. Only a small percentage went off, but the damage they did further reduced his effectives. Not too long now. He moved the .45 closer.

  Suddenly from the flank came a great burst of fire. It scythed the enemy ranks, cutting them down like so many stalks of wheat. Within seconds the lead rank had been annihilated, throwing the second into confusion. As they milled uncertainly the fire was shifted, as if some precise machine were controlling it. Most of them did not survive the first few seconds. Those who did were cut down by the suddenly revitalized survivors on their former objective. The third wave wisely decided to retreat in haste.

  His mind uncomprehending, he did not at first realize from whence his deliverance had come. He stared, dazed, at the masses of khaki-clad bodies before him. Some, he saw, had come within just a few feet of the defensive line. Some still moved, but not many. Those who did were being picked off by the surviving Montagnards. He wondered if he should stop them; after all, the rear-echelon commandos always wanted prisoners. Decided that it would do little good to try. And he was just too tired.

  He heard a familiar voice calling his name, felt Lally tugging at his pants leg to get his attention. Turned and saw Zack Osborne coming through the smoke and fog. Opened his mouth to tell him to get down, didn’t the damned fool realize they were under fire? And felt himself slipping from consciousness. Fought, couldn’t surrender, not now, too much to do. They’d be coming back.

  He came to with the sharp smell of ammonia in his nose. Brushed the evil-smelling thing away and saw Zack smiling down at him.

  “Glad you’re back with us, Trung Ui. Don’t move your arm! Got some serum albumin going in you. You lost a lot of blood. Lie back down! We got everything under control right now and you need the rest. We ain’t out of this yet, I’m afraid.”

  Jim tried to talk, found his mouth so dry he could barely croak. Zack gave him a sip from his canteen.

  Finally he asked, “Any help coming?”

  “ ’Fraid not. I called Sharkfin just a couple of minutes ago with a sitrep. Cav’s got themselves in a real shitstorm up on Monkey. Looks like we’re it right now. Don’t look too bad at the moment. Charlie’s up there lickin’ his wounds. Gave a real quick count; looks like we dropped close to a hundred out front. It’ll take them a little while to come at us again. Meantime, I’ve got the ’Yards taking the most seriously wounded back down the hill to the edge of the
treeline. Cocksuckers did at least promise us some Medevac choppers. You want to get out on one? Don’t know how long the dressing on your leg is gonna keep the bleeding stopped, and you’re leakin’ from a bunch more small places.”

  Jim shook his head. “How about you, George?” Zack asked. Lally was sitting there looking at them, his lower face horribly swollen. The bruising had already crept up to his eyes, almost closing them. He signaled his intentions by switching his M-16 from safe to rock-n-roll.

  Zack shrugged his shoulders. “Didn’t think so.”

  “Not that I’m not grateful for you showing up when you did,” said Jim, who was feeling somewhat better from the blood expander flowing into his veins, “but where in the fuck were you all this time?”

  Zack looked offended. “You should have seen the shit you sent us through, Trung Ui,” he said. “Goddamnedest thicket I ever saw. We were about halfway through when we heard the firing cut loose. Tried to get to you, but there was just no way. We finally got through and were getting ready to join you when we saw the guys uphill massing and coming down. Figured we could do you more good on the flank than down here.”

  “You hadn’t done that I guess I wouldn’t be here asking you where the fuck you had been. You sweet motherfucker, we get out of this alive, I’m gonna buy you the best blowjob in Qui Nhon.”

  “Yeah, well, we got to get out of this one first. Now the bad news. Second and third platoons weren’t hit bad, we got about thirty people there. But the rest of the company is chewed up.”

  “How many?”

  “Near as I can figure, there’s nobody that’s not wounded. Probably twenty of ’em can still fight.”

  “How many for Medevac?”

  “Another eighteen.”

  Which meant that he had lost thirty-two KIA. Counting the seriously wounded, exactly half the company was out of action. Zack had been guilty of a gross understatement when he had called it bad news.

  He looked at his watch, tapped it to see if it was still running. It was hard to believe that scarcely an hour had passed since the first engagement. He felt immeasurably older. “Think they’ll hit us again before dark?”

  Zack nodded. “They don’t know we’re not gonna get help. They’ll want to knock us off here as soon as they can, then get set up to kick ass on the Cav as soon as they chopper in down below. They get back down to the treeline, they’ll eat those boys’ asses up while they’re trying to land.”

  “You got everybody getting ready, I guess?”

  “They’re setting up what Claymores we’ve got right now. Everybody else is digging in. Actually, as positions go this one isn’t too bad. Trees are too thick to let ’em use mortars. They’re on higher ground than here, but too far away for it to do them any good. So they’ve got to come down the slope, into the saddle, and back up again to get at us. There just weren’t so many of them, we might have a chance.”

  Jim got on the radio. “Sharkfin, this is Skipjack, over.”

  “This is Sharkfin. Skipjack two says that you have been hit. Get yourself on the first Medevac, over.”

  “Negative, negative. We need everybody we can get down here. Listen, can we get any support at all, over?”

  “We’ve got some fast-movers that got weathered out over the Trail and are looking to expend ordnance. They will be on station in approximately one zero. Can you use them?”

  “What are they carrying, over?”

  “Five hundred pounders and twenty mike-mike. Over.”

  The hill where the enemy was forming up was dangerously close for the bombs. Still, it was better than nothing. “Roger. When they come in have them drop the five hundreds up toward the crest of the hill. I figure that’s where the CP must be. Then have them come in and strafe with the twenties. I’ll mark our front line with a flare. They’re going to have to get in close.”

  “Roger, understand. Am having the Dustoffs bring in some ammo to you. Understand you are low. Goddamn, Skipjack, I want you to know you’re doing a hell of a job down there. I’m asking for a Silver Star for you.”

  And what about the thirty-two dead ’Yards? What are they going to get? A death gratuity for the dependents, he knew. A few thousand piastres that the Vietnamese would cheat them out of.

  “Get everybody dug in deeper,” he instructed Osborne. “We’re gonna get a lot of shrapnel down here when the jets drop their stuff.” He turned to survey the front. “Ah, fuck, here they come again.”

  The North Vietnamese, having seen how ineffective the mass attacks had been, started using fire-and-maneuver. It looked like a company-sized unit was moving up on them. They were maneuvering by squad, one unit setting down a base of fire from covered positions while another made a short zigzag rush forward. Again the bullets snapped by his head. Again people jerked, lay forever still. It seemed it would never stop. He wondered if he was already dead and this was hell and he was forever condemned to fight this battle. He fired until the barrel grew so hot the smoke from the lubricating oil obscured his vision, grabbed a carbine from the dead man beside him and continued to shoot. The enemy was so close that a person didn’t have to aim, just point and shoot. One he hadn’t seen ran in from the flank, firing wildly down into his hole. Bullets jerked the dead man beside him, tore gouts of earth, sent spumes of dirt into the air. He swung his weapon, shot the man in the chest once, twice, three times. The underpowered carbine bullets seemed to have no effect on him, hopped up as he was on combat euphoria and drugs and God knows what else. He pulled the trigger again and again, watching in horror as the bullets tore holes in the khaki, blood spurting, smoke rising from smoldering fabric. What nightmare was this? The enemy soldier, young, probably no more than eighteen, had his lips drawn back so far the teeth looked like tombstones. His eyes were blank and staring. He moved toward Jim, the triangular bayonet affixed to the end of his AK-47 in the thrust position.

  Lally, successful at last in freeing himself from the soldier who had fallen on him, fired a burst from his M-16 up into the man’s armpit. The powerful little bullets exploded from his face and head, effectively terminating him from the neck up. He fell forward, blood from carotid arteries spraying across Jim’s legs.

  Jim threw down the carbine and retrieved his M-16. He’d thank Lally later, if either of them survived. More were coming. At least two points on the line had been breached, the NVA occupying the holes and shooting into the flanks of his troops. Only a matter of time now. Take as many of them as you can with you, then stick the .45 into your mouth and pull the trigger. Can’t get taken alive; there are things worse than dying. He rose to a crouch, barely aware he was screaming. Gun on full auto now, no need to worry about conserving ammo. Shrapnel from a bullet impacted the tree beside him, slashing his cheek. Blood ran warm and smooth down his neck. Claymores were going off all down the line, mowing down flesh in a hail of explosive-driven ball bearings. Grenades were tossed so close that friendly and enemy alike suffered from their effect.

  All semblance of control was gone, the battle crazily joined. People ran by him, he didn’t know if they were friend or foe anymore. Butt-stoke one, shoot another, grab another and throw him to the ground with fingers wrapped around his throat. Feel the trachea collapse beneath his thumbs as the man claws ineffectually at his eyes. Legs drum the ground, pelvis thrusting up in obscene travesty.

  The shock wave of a massive explosion struck him, heat like an oven. Heavy pieces of metal set up a low-pitched hum through the trees, shearing off heavy branches as if they were twigs. With what conscious mind he had left he realized that the bombs were much closer than he had planned.

  “Get down!” he screams, knowing as he does so it is useless. Nobody can hear over the jets rushing in, the rattle of gunfire, the heavy explosions. He huddles, covering his head with his hands. Fetal position, return to the womb of mother earth. Only she can protect him now. As if she hears, dirt from a nearby hit covers him, the rich smell filling his lungs. Can hardly breathe, feels the shock of the heavy bombs trans
mitted directly to him. Wonders if his lungs will collapse from overpressure; eardrums are already gone.

  He waits for the shocks to end. Gives it a count of one minute when they do, then cautiously raises his head.

  The very face of the earth has changed. Trees are gone, uprooted, sheared off at the ground. Great craters pock-mark the once-smooth slope. The attack has been broken. Anyone who was not under cover when the bombardment started has disappeared. Here and there are pieces of clothed flesh, the only sign anyone had ever been here.

  The jets came in again, the roaring of their twenty-millimeter cannon filling the air. The enemy hill was obscured by the smoke of the shells’ impact.

  Intense calm settled over him. He shook the dirt from his rifle and worked the action to make sure it was clear, then checked ammo pouches, finding that he still had four full magazines. He felt no real emotion, only that there was a job to be done. They all had to die, every one. No mercy. Mercy was for the civilized world, the world that had sent him here, and that world didn’t exist anymore. Nothing existed outside of now. Only this existed, only this was truth, and truth was that you killed them before they had the chance to kill you.

  He got up and hobbled down the line, methodically pumping a round into the head of any enemy soldier who still moved. The blast blew their heads apart, spattering him with blood and brains. He ignored the pleading looks, the hands thrown up in futile attempts to ward off the bullet. When none were left living he shot the dead. After a while he ran out of ammunition, kept futilely squeezing the trigger, hands working convulsively, killing them over and over again in his mind in the hope that they would never again rise, never come at him with fire and flame and thunder.

  Zack Osborne pulled an ampoule of morphine from his pack, caught the lieutenant in a bear hug and injected it into his hip. He held him close, felt the trembling of his body, the great shuddering breaths, the anguish that came from him like a palpable force. It took a long time for the drug to take effect.