the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

  Willis backed up and spoke to the rest of the platoon.

  “Candidates, let’s show these aviators what an airmobile extraction is supposed to look like.”

  Forty minutes later the helicopters landed in a diamond formation, and in twenty seconds, every man was loaded. Jason sat in the floor of the reverberating bird and smiled, shooting his thumb up at Willis, who sat beside the crew chief. The birds whined and lifted off.

  “READY ON THE RIGHT?… READY ON THE LEFT?… THE RANGE IS NOW CLEAR. COMMENCE FIRING!”

  Ty pushed the safety forward on the M-14 and squinted to align the rear aperture sight with the blade foresight. He let out a half-breath and held the rest before gently squeezing the trigger. The weapon’s report kicked up a small dust cloud in front of his foxhole, but he didn’t notice as he concentrated on the firing lane to his front, where silhouette targets were popping up at various distances. He took the teeth-jarring recoil of the rifle without flinching and fired again at another target that had just swung up.

  “Hit,” said the sergeant standing behind Ty’s position, grading his shooting on the practice record fire.

  BLAAAM … “Hit.” BLAAAM … “Hit.” BLAAAM … “Hit.”

  The sergeant excitedly stepped forward, keeping his eye on the 300-meter berm where he knew the next target would be coming up. There.

  BLAAAM … “Damn! Hit!” He quickly marked the grade sheet on his clipboard and looked up just as the double targets began rising.

  BLAAAM … BLAAAM … “Hit, hit.”

  Staff Sergeant Cody let the clipboard fall to his side and watched in awe as Ty expertly dispatched the last thirteen targets with thirteen shots. It was a first for him in the six months and countless trainees he’d graded since being assigned to the range committee. Never before had a soldier made a perfect score on his lane.

  Cody jumped when the loudspeaker behind him blared, “CEASE FIRING … CEASE FIRING … CLEAR ALL WEAPONS AND PLACE THEM ON SAFE … SCORERS, MOVE FORWARD AND CHECK WEAPONS.”

  He looked into Ty’s scarred face with curiosity. “Where’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  Ty raised his weapon up to show it was clear and on safe. “Back home, I used to hunt a lot.”

  Drill Sergeant McCoy stood behind the range tower taking his platoon’s score cards as they filed off the range. He looked at the cards as each soldier passed and became more and more angry. His men were doing poorly, and their scores would be perceived as a reflection of his previous rifle marksmanship training. The company commander would have his ass as soon as he found out. The platoon would be firing tomorrow for the real record fire, and if today was any indicator, they would disgrace him and the company.

  Ty was the last man to leave the range. He handed the drill sergeant his card and continued walking. McCoy glanced at the card and blurted, “Freeze, Attitude Problem. Your card hasn’t been marked for the last ten shots. You miss the whole range?”

  Ty began to explain, when Sergeant Cody strolled up with several range committee sergeants. “That’s my fault. I just forgot to mark the last hits. He was too much fun to watch.”

  McCoy motioned Ty to continue on and faced Cody in disbelief. “You mean that shithead hit every target?”

  Cody arched an eyebrow. “That ‘shithead,’ as you call him, just set your company record. Nobody on this range has shot a perfect score in four months. I just checked. You got yourself the winner of the marksmanship trophy in that ‘shithead.’ But you set another record—despite what Nance shot, this platoon had the worst overall scores. You’re gonna win the bolo award, McCoy.”

  McCoy walked away from the laughter of the range sergeants angered and humiliated. This ruined his plans. He was going to ensure Nance failed the last three weeks of training and be recycled, which meant starting training all over again with another company. The Attitude Problem would never make it the second time and would go AWOL or be forced out with a general discharge for unsuitability. This changed things.

  Sergeant McCoy paced in front of his platoon shaking with rage. “You shitheads have done it this time! You all would fuck up a wet dream! You’re scum, worse than scum, you’re idiots! Well, scumbags, I got something for you. Unless you shoot better tomorrow, I’m gonna run your lazy asses into the ground and take away all your privileges. Never in my military career have I seen such a group of losers the likes of you. NEVER!”

  Ty stood in the formation, tuning out the sergeant, and concentrated on thinking about something else. McCoy had become nasty and mean after the pugil-stick incident and had been taking out his wrath on the entire platoon. He had lost his effectiveness as their trainer, riding them with threats and constant demeaning screaming. He had destroyed the men’s morale with his daily tirades. Not once had he said anything constructive or positive. Ty knew the platoon had good men, but none could meet the sergeant’s impossible standards. The men had given up weeks ago and were all just struggling to survive.

  McCoy finished his bitching and looked at the blank faces of the platoon, realizing he wasn’t getting through to them. He was about to drop them all for push-ups, when the company commander yelled for him from his tent a hundred yards distant. He felt his stomach tighten, knowing what the officer wanted, and barked for his platoon guide. “Take charge of this scum and move them to chow.”

  Captain Treet looked up from the report on his field desk and locked his eyes on McCoy, who was standing before him. “At ease, Sergeant,” he said. “I just read your platoon’s scores on the range today. You have managed to ruin this company’s chance of winning the battalion marksmanship streamer. In fact, your platoon’s performance was so low, you pulled the other platoons down, and we’re in last place. Even Bravo Company is beating us, for Christ sake!”

  McCoy shifted his eyes nervously. The other platoons must have shot well, leaving him no excuse.

  The captain shook his head and stood up, putting his hands on his hips. “Because of your inability to train your platoon properly, I’m going to ask the range committee to come over this evening and give your men remedial training.”

  McCoy’s mouth opened in shock. To have others train his men was the worst humiliation a drill sergeant could endure. He wouldn’t be able to go to the NCO club without his peers joking and making snide remarks about his teaching ability. The captain had gone too far!

  “Sir, I messed up by giving the men PT before going to the range. I wasn’t thinking. But tomorrow, we’ll do much better. If you noticed, several men did very well, and one man fired a perfect score. I gave that soldier more training than the others, and it paid off. I think my abilities are proven by his score.”

  Treet hadn’t known of the perfect score. He’d only received the platoon averages. His eyes lit up and he quickly thumbed through the individual score cards, knowing that if his company had the battalion’s best marksman, he would be spared embarrassment, even if his company shot average. He found the score card showing all hits and held it toward the lantern. “Private Nance, huh? Well, I’ll be damned. This is the first perfect score I’ve ever seen.” He looked back to the sergeant with a questioning stare. “And you trained him?”

  McCoy smiled shyly. “Yes, sir. I probably took too much time with him, and not enough with the others, but I’ll square away the rest of the platoon tonight. We’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

  The captain looked doubtful. McCoy’s platoon was doing poorly in all training subjects, and first sergeant had told him the sergeant was burned out and needed to be relieved. He lowered his eyes and sat back down at his desk. “I won’t embarrass you by having the range committee come over, but I am going to have first sergeant give your men a block of instruction after chow.”

  He looked back at the sergeant’s face and raised his voice. “McCoy, I’m going to watch your men fire tomorrow, and especially Private Nance. You’d just better hope you haven’t been blowing smoke up my ass, or I’ll burn you. I’m not impressed by your platoon’s performance, and it tells m
e you are failing as a drill sergeant. Things better change, and quick, or you’re gone, with your record annotated appropriately. Move out, Sergeant. You have lots of work to do.”

  Ty sat on the ground, eating a C-ration can of spaghetti, when a looming figure blocked the setting sun’s glare. Ty looked up into the smiling face of Drill Sergeant McCoy.

  “Private Nance, you shot good today. You must have been the only one who stayed awake during my classes.”

  Ty immediately stood, as was the protocol when a drill sergeant spoke to a trainee, but he was surprised when McCoy motioned him back down and sat in the sand beside him. Ty looked at his sergeant suspiciously.

  McCoy glanced around, making certain that none of the other men could hear, and set his eyes on Ty. “Nance, I showed you how to take up a good spot weld and how to breathe when shooting, didn’t I?”

  Ty honestly didn’t remember anything but the push-ups during the sergeant’s marksmanship training and shook his head. “I don’t remember, Drill Sergeant.”

  McCoy’s facial muscles tightened, but he forced a smile. “Sure you do. Remember when just three days ago I showed you how to place your cheek tightly against your thumb as you gripped the stock and always to keep the same sight picture?”

  Ty could see that the sergeant was desperate for the right answer from him and nodded—anything to get the man off his back. “Yes, Drill Sergeant, I remember now. You did show us that.” And a hundred push-ups for not doing it right, you bastard, he thought to himself, remembering all too clearly his ranting and raving.

  McCoy was satisfied and stood up, brushing the sand off his fatigues. “Good. Well, I was just checking, and I’m glad you learned something. Tomorrow you’ll be watched by the company commander when you’re shooting, so remember all I taught you.”

  Ty stood up and spoke blandly. “Yes, Drill Sergeant.” He waited until McCoy left and sighed in relief. What in the hell was all that about?

  Ty Nance lowered his smoking M-14 as the loudspeakers behind him blurted, “CEASE FIRING … CEASE FIRING … CLEAR ALL WEAPONS AND PLACE THEM ON SAFE. SCORERS, MOVE FORWARD AND CHECK WEAPONS.”

  The range sergeant, Drill Sergeant McCoy, and Captain Treet walked to Ty’s foxhole with broad grins. Treet put his hand out. “Congratulations, young man. That was some shooting.”

  Ty climbed out of his hole and shook hands with the captain. “Thank you, sir.”

  Treet patted his back. “You only have one more phase left, and that ought to sew up the trophy for you. Sergeant McCoy has taught you well.”

  Ty looked strangely at his commander. McCoy stepped back and gave Ty a warning glare.

  Treet also noticed Ty’s expression and quit smiling. “Private Nance, will you show me what Sergeant McCoy taught you? He said he spent a lot of time with you.”

  Ty slowly got down and into the front leaning rest position, and began doing push-ups.

  Treet thought the young soldier had misunderstood and quickly ordered him up. “No, Private, show me the techniques he used for teaching you.”

  Ty got down and into the front leaning rest position again. “Sir, this is all I remember from the drill sergeant’s instruction.”

  “Get up,” commanded Treet. He turned and glared at McCoy, who was sweating profusely. “Sergeant McCoy, you will report to my office at zero nine hundred tomorrow morning. We are going to discuss your future in this company.”

  Treet spun around and walked down the berm, ignoring McCoy’s salute. The sergeant lowered his hand and stepped in front of Ty. “Attitude Problem, you fucked up messin’ with me. You’re going to pay.”

  “McCoy, get off the range,” said the range sergeant and motioned toward Ty. “Get in your hole. Phase two begins in one minute. Lock and load one magazine.”

  * * *

  Ty awoke to a gentle nudge. “Nance, it’s your turn to pull fire watch. It’s almost midnight.” Ty sat up in the small tent. “Same route as last night?”

  Private Dodge crawled into the tent and pulled his poncho over him. “Yeah, same route for one hour, then wake up Smitty in the next tent over. He’s got the next shift.”

  Ty put on his boots, stood up under the cloudless night sky, and looked down the quiet row of tents. They’d been bivouacked in the two-man tents for the past four days while range firing. Fire watch included an hour’s tour of the perimeter of the company campsite, ensuring nothing was stolen, and time in the range tower to look out for range fires.

  He made one round of the perimeter and crossed the road to check the tower. He had to climb sixty-two metal steps to a suspended tin hut that held communications equipment.

  Ty stopped at the base of the tower and looked up at the countless stars. It was a beautiful night, with a trace of cactus flower in the light wind. He couldn’t help but think of the many nights he and his grandfather had sat on the hill looking at the stars.

  Reaching the top of the catwalk, he was about to check the door when he saw a dark blur out of the corner of one eye. He only had time to throw his arm up for protection before being knocked backward. He lost his balance and tumbled headfirst down the steps in a shuddering series of blows before jolting to a gut-wrenching stop, his foot catching one of the railing poles. He was dazed and was trying to get up when he heard the distinct sound of leather boots creaking as someone walked down the metal steps. Then his foot was freed and he felt his legs being lifted. Ty began to yell, when his legs were violently tossed toward his head and he tumbled down the steps.

  “Sir? Sir, wake up, there’s been an accident.”

  Captain Treet awoke and looked up into the face of his first sergeant. He sat up on his cot and shook his head. “What happened, Top?”

  “Sir, one of the fire guards fell down the steps of the range tower and messed himself up pretty good. I don’t think it’s anything too serious, but he’ll have to go to the hospital and get examined and get his foot checked. He’s bruised all over, and he twisted his ankle pretty bad.”

  Treet stood up and walked toward the field phone. “Shit, the battalion commander won’t like this. What’s the soldier’s name?”

  “Private Nance, sir.”

  “NANCE! Shit, he’s our shooter! It’s not bad enough for him to be recycled is it?”

  The first sergeant lowered his head. “I’m afraid it is, sir. He won’t be able to train for at least a week with that ankle.”

  Treet’s shoulders sagged, and he flopped down into his chair. “Damn! Of all the men in this company, it had to be my best shooter … there goes the trophy.”

  18

  Private Bui Ngoc Duong wearily cleaned his hands in the creek and stood up. He shook off the water, wiping his hands on his shirt, then turned around. He took one step and froze in awe. Never had he seen such a wondrous sight. The sun was striking the jungle canopy in just the right way to bathe the base camp in green and gold radiance. The sight was breathtaking, like a landscape in a dream.

  Bui Ngoc was afraid that if he moved he would break the magical spell. Two months before, when he had first arrived, he had been near death. Only in the past week had he begun gaining weight and recovering his strength from the arduous journey. During the trek, twelve men had died from sickness and another four from Yankee bombs.

  The base camp was a sanctuary. Hidden in a small valley, it lay beneath towering teak and sayo trees. The forty huts and barracks had been built by the Montagnards and constructed on stilts with bamboo, sayo, and thatch. Their workmanship was better than anything he had seen in his own village.

  The camp’s buildings were lined in four perfect rows, with a path leading down the center of each row. Not a leaf, twig, or blade of grass was visible on the ground, which the mountain people constantly swept. Even the water buffalo sheds at the edge of camp were kept clean. The animals’ waste, as well as that of the camp’s inhabitants, was collected and used for fertilizer on small fields at the end of the valley.

  Duong took in a deep breath of fresh mountain air. It
was a good life. He was happy again. The job he had started was like being home. He was building a dam on the creek to divert water for a washing area.

  Duong felt another presence behind him. It was Sergeant Ninh, who was admiring the shafts of golden light. “I have often thought I could live in such a place forever,” Ninh said. “But tomorrow it will be different. The Sixty-sixth Regiment returns, and they are bringing many wounded. The battle was very costly.”

  Bui Duong thanked his ancestors every night that he had not been assigned to the famous Sixty-sixth. Instead he had been assigned to the 174th and had remained in the base camp. He knew that tomorrow every available man would assist the doctors and medics in helping the wounded.

  Ninh glanced at the dam and placed his hand on the thin private’s shoulder. “You are doing good work. You are blessed with skills that will be useful after the war. Perhaps we should …” The sergeant stopped speaking as a tall, silver-haired officer emerged from the nearest hut. It was the division commander. He wore a faded khaki uniform without rank. Men in the camp immediately stopped all work as he passed by.

  Duong shook his head. “Look at the others. They look upon him as if he were a god.”

  Sergeant Ninh tightened. “You know nothing! He is a god to us. No man has given more victories to the fatherland.” His voice suddenly softened. “And no man has shed more tears. He has seen more war than all of us.”

  Duong felt sorry for displeasing the sergeant. “I apologize, Sergeant, but I heard that the general is ruthless in battle, and we are the ones who pay for his career.”

  Ninh’s eyes turned cold. “You are a fool! Go back to work. One day, if you live long enough, you might be able to talk to the Tall One, and then you will understand how much he cares for us. Go to work!”