the Hill (1995)

by Scott, Leonard B

  “Clear, Sergeant Airborne!”

  Lieutenant Jason Johnson dropped to the ground and knocked out ten push-ups. For good measure, he did one more, yelling, “One for the big Airborne Ranger in the sky!” He jumped up and jogged to the cement bench and gave his parachute harness to the next man waiting to jump from the thirty-four-foot tower.

  Bob Miller scooted down the bench to make room and hit Jason’s shoulder as he sat down. “Damn it, Jay, they warned us the first day not for us Rangers to show our ass, and here you go yelling that ‘Airborne Ranger’ shit. You’re gonna get us in big trouble.”

  Jason smiled. “What they gonna do? Send us to Vietnam?”

  Miller frowned and shook his head. “I know this ain’t nothin’ after what we went through, but ease up with the gung-ho Ranger stuff. These Black Hats will smoke our ass if they think we’re screwin’ with them. Keep a low profile so we can breeze through this without having to do extra push …”

  “YOU, TALKIN’ ON THE BENCH! GET DOWN!”

  Miller immediately fell to the gravel and did his ten push-ups for the Black Hat instructor who had caught him talking. He was about to get up, when he looked at Jason with a grin and yelled out, “And one for the big Airborne Ranger in the sky!”

  Jason sat back on the couch with a beer and looked at the television screen. The TV wasn’t on, but it didn’t matter. It represented civilization. After Ranger School, small things like sitting down for several hours without anything to do was ecstasy. Airborne School ran from 6 A.M. to 5 P.M., with weekends off. After fifty-eight days of averaging only a couple of hours of sleep a night and having something to do for every minute of the day, Jason was lost in time. Time to sit in a bathtub and soak away endless days of grime and soreness. Time to sleep eight hours in a bed, with sheets, not on the ground or against a tree. Time, precious time, to eat when he wanted and how much he wanted. Time to … damn, he was going crazy trying to figure out what to do with all the time.

  He and Miller had reported to Airborne School after a week of recovery from Ranger training and found the course much easier than what they’d previously been through. The Black Hats were professionals and tried to make it tough, but with only a ten-hour day it wasn’t the same. Airborne School was mostly a mind game, and to win you had to overcome fear. Jumping out of airplanes just wasn’t natural.

  * * *

  Ty finished writing a letter to his mother and put the dirt-stained paper in his shirt pocket. He sat in a shallow foxhole and shifted his thoughts to deciding what he should eat. The C-ration chicken and noodles or the C-ration beef and spice sauces? The decision was a big one, and he wanted to weigh the options for at least another couple of minutes to kill time. He only carried enough food to eat two small meals a day, and it was important to make the meals count. Eating was an integral part of the routine. It was the only thing to look forward to besides sleep and mail.

  So far, Ty had found the war boring. The platoon moved all day on what were called “search and destroy” operations, but they had actually been search, and search, and search some more operations. The platoon had found nothing and no one to “destroy” in the week and a half he had been with the squad. On a typical day, they would get up at first light and move until four in the afternoon, then set up a platoon or company perimeter. They would dig in and send out a few patrols, while the rest of the men would rotate all night on security or radio watch. The platoon would move for four days and be resupplied on the fifth by chopper. That was the big day, the highlight. The chopper brought mail, ammo, change of clothes, an SP—sundry pack—and one box of C-rations per man. The box of C’s weighed twenty-five pounds and consisted of twelve meals. Nobody could carry that kind of weight or had the room in his rucksack, so only the meat and fruit were kept; the rest was thrown away. The mail lifted their spirits, and for those who didn’t receive letters, there was always the Stars and Stripes newspaper. The sundry pack was a box of goodies for a platoon-size unit. It contained razors, blades, shaving cream, writing paper, envelopes, pens, cigarettes, candy, and chewing tobacco. The goodies were divvied up among the squads and given out to each man according to his time in country. Ty, being the newest, received only the stuff nobody else wanted, such as small boxes of terrible-tasting candy, Black Cows.

  Still, he looked forward to resupply day, if only for the chance to change his uniform. After five days, his jungle fatigues were sweat soaked and stank to high heavens. Like the rest of the squad, Ty carried only necessities. His rucksack was his home. Inside the green pack were food, poncho, poncho liner, jungle sweater, shaving kit, block of C-4 plastic explosives, weapons-cleaning kit, extra socks, extra water, extra ammo, claymore mine, trip flare, and waterproofed bag, which held his letters, wallet, and writing paper. Attached to the outside of his rucksack was an entrenching tool. Around his neck was an olive-drab towel used as sweat rag and padding for his rucksack straps. On his fighting harness and across his body were three bandoliers of full M-16 magazines, two canteens, and a canteen cover with four fragmentation grenades, a smoke grenade, a first-aid pouch, and a compass. The idea was to travel light and be able to fight for an extended period of time.

  The first day, Sergeant Hammonds had gone through Ty’s pack and thrown away his extra uniforms, underwear, T-shirts, food, and paperbacks. He had explained that weight was a killer. To hump for long distances required light packs and good conditioning. After a few weeks of breaking-in he would be required to carry even more: extra M-60 machine-gun ammo and mortar rounds for the 81-millimeter mortar.

  Ty had wanted to keep at least his underwear, but the sergeant explained that cotton underwear held in moisture and took a long time to dry. Wet underwear caused chafing, which was horribly painful while humping.

  “Cherry, you gonna look at dem C’s, or is you gonna eat ’em?”

  Ty looked up into the black face of Silk Davis, who constantly hounded him. Silk was the blackest man Ty had ever met and the filthiest mouthed. The other squad members seemed to have accepted Ty into the “family,” but not Silk. He was from Chicago and had worked on the loading docks until he was drafted. At five feet ten, he was a heavily muscled, 175-pound pain in the ass.

  Ty selected the can of chicken and noodles and ignored him. Silk swept dirt, with his boot, onto Ty’s back. “Cherry, when I talks to yo’ ass, yo’ looks at me.”

  Ty stood up slowly and faced him. “Back off, Davis. I haven’t done a thing to piss ya off. Just leave me alone and mind your own business.”

  Silk’s lips curled back in a snarl, and he pointed at Ty’s face. “You IS my business, Cherry. You gots a attitude that pisses me off. I don’t trust your red ass humpin’ behind me. I think you is a Indian muthafuckin’ nigger-hater.”

  Ty shook his head and sat back in his hole. He didn’t care what Silk thought, and he didn’t want to cause any trouble. Half the squad was on a watering party, leaving only him, Silk, Caddy, and Teddy Bear to sit on the barren hill and watch time pass.

  Silk began to kick dirt again when Caddy barked from his foxhole, “Cool it, Silk. He ain’t buggin’ nobody. Leave him be.”

  “Shit, man, he’s a nigger-hatin’ muthafucker. Ya see the way he looks at me, man? I don’t like it worth a fuck, man.”

  “Get back to your position and cool it,” Caddy said coldly.

  Silk knew better than to argue with the buck sergeant and walked away mumbling. Caddy climbed out of his hole and walked over to the edge of Ty’s position. He sat down and watched Silk walk away. “Don’t mind him. He’s got a chip on his shoulder and rides all cherries hard.”

  Ty was opening his C-ration can with a p-38 opener and looked up casually. “He doesn’t bother me; he pisses me off.”

  Caddy smiled. “He pisses everybody off, but he’s a brother and I gotta watch out for him. Us colored boys gotta take care of each other.… You haven’t been around many Negroes, have you?”

  Ty set the opened can on top of a small stove fashioned from a C-ration can wi
th holes punched in its sides. “Naw, we didn’t have dark folks in my hometown. The first I ever talked to were the ones I met in basic.”

  Caddy kept his smile. “Where I’m from in L.A., I didn’t talk to whites until I was sixteen … melt a tin of cheese into those noodles and it’ll taste better.”

  Ty looked up into the eyes of Jerome Washington and felt as if he were reaching out for a friend. Caddy had smooth features and smiled a lot. He’d been in country for only two months, but he seemed to know his business. He told the squad he used to sell Cadillacs to pimps and had a prospering future until Uncle Sam sent him a letter of employment.

  Ty motioned to his food. “Come on, Sarge, join me and eat some of this. And thanks for bustin’ that up. I’m not prejudiced. It’s just I don’t like Silk messin’ with me. If you could talk to him and smooth it over, I’d appreciate it. I don’t want any trouble.”

  Caddy slid into the hole and squatted by the small stove. “It’s past that. You and Silk are gonna have to work it out yourselves. Sorry, man. Where’s your hot sauce and garlic powder?”

  “Don’t have any.”

  Caddy immediately stood and hopped out of the hole. He came back a minute later with a claymore bag filled with small bottles wrapped in tape. “Nance, the only way to enjoy this war is to become a connoisseur of C-ration cooking. Hot sauce kills the bland taste, and two shakes of garlic powder makes it like home cookin’. These dehydrated onions add flavor, but your farts will smell funny.”

  Caddy balled up some bits of C-4, which served as cooking fuel, and placed them inside the stove, then lit the white doughy explosive with a match. In fifteen seconds the noodles were boiling. Caddy opened a small can of C-ration cheese and spooned it on top of the noodles, then added the other ingredients. He stirred the concoction and lifted a spoonful to Ty. “It’s time for heaven.”

  Ty took a bite and moaned. “This is great! Thanks, Sarge.”

  Caddy took a bite and nodded his approval, “Write your folks and have them send you a care package of these goodies, and you’ll be set for the war. Till then, when you’re ready to eat, come and see me and we’ll make dishes made in heaven.”

  “I smell food!”

  Ty glanced up at Theodore Cummings and quickly covered the can of noodles with his hands. “Get away, Teddy. You can’t handle it.”

  Teddy Bear was a small twenty-two-year-old with an old man’s build. He was thin-legged and narrow-hipped and had a large, protruding stomach. He wore thick glasses and was already partially bald. He was a complainer and whined when he talked. “Awww, come on, Nance. Give me a small bite, pleeeease.”

  Caddy waved him away. “Go on and mooch off somebody else. You ate all your food. You’ll just have to wait until tomorrow for resupply.”

  Ty had been warned about Teddy by Cowboy and the others. Teddy couldn’t restrain himself and ate most of his food by the second day. Ty had felt sorry for Teddy the first time and had shared some C-rations with him, but he ended up not having enough food for himself.

  Teddy looked at Ty with basset-hound eyes. “Pleeease.”

  Ty threw Teddy a can of crackers and took another bite of noodles, avoiding Caddy’s disapproving eyes.

  The rest of the squad returned with the filled canteens and received orders to move to the north and search an area where a spotter plane had seen three VC crossing a canal. The first squad was to lead the rest of the platoon. Bugs Saben ran his tongue over his protruding teeth and led the way as point man, with Cowboy taking up the slackman position to cover him. Twenty-five yards behind were Hammonds and the rest of the squad.

  The small unit broke out of a thicket of bamboo into rice paddies and were crossing a narrow dike when a single shot rang out. Teddy Bear stood for a full second before he sank to the dike and slid off into the muddy water. The rest of the men didn’t know on which side of the dike to take cover. It was impossible to determine where the shot had come from. Ty threw himself into the water and mud and tried to become invisible. He raised up to take a breath, when three inches to his right the water kicked up in a miniature geyser followed a moment later by the report of the firing weapon.

  Ty jumped up and tried to run to the other side of the dike, but it was like running through a foot-deep field of partially melted marshmallows. He churned his legs and arms but seemed to be going nowhere as the men on the other side of the dike returned fire. Ty fell, got up, and fell again. He reached the dike and crawled over Teddy Bear’s body. Teddy’s eyes and mouth were open as if he were screaming in silence. A perfect hole had been made in his earlobe, and a small trickle of deep purple-red blood seeped from the wound into the stinking water.

  Ty threw himself to the other side of the dike and into the water. He took one look at his rifle and knew he couldn’t use it. The barrel was choked with mud. If he tried to shoot it, it would explode.

  The fire slackened, then stopped. There were no incoming rounds. Hammonds yelled from down the dike, “Anybody hit?”

  Ty was going to yell back, but Goldman hollered, “Teddy got it!”

  Hammonds put his helmet on the end of his M-16 barrel and slowly raised it above the dike. Nothing happened. He yelled out, “Nobody move till the gunships get here!”

  Ty felt the heat for the first time. He hadn’t noticed it when they were moving, but lying there in the mud made him feel as if he were in an oven. Half his body was in the cool mud, but his shoulders and head were exposed to the sun’s baking heat. He had lost his helmet and rucksack on the other side and had no protection. He crawled over to Silk and asked for his cleaning rod to clear the mud from the barrel, but Silk snarled, “Get da fuck away from me, fool.”

  Ty vowed to himself to deal with him later and crawled down the dike to Goldie, who gave him his cleaning rod without complaint. Ten minutes passed before Ty heard in the distance the sound of the approaching gunships. Twenty seconds later they streaked over his head and unleashed a flurry of rockets into the woodline one hundred meters distant.

  Ty lowered his head just as the rockets hit and exploded in a succession of thunderous cracks. The mud beneath him shook and the water rippled with the concussion.

  Lieutenant Jenkins waited until the guns made their third rocket and machine-gun pass before maneuvering his other squads into covering position and ordering Hammonds’s squad to advance. The first squad formed up and cautiously moved toward the woodline.

  Ty recovered his helmet and rucksack as he waded through the mud toward the trees. He felt like a walking target for anyone hiding in the thick vegetation and tensed his body for the impact of bullets. There was nothing else to do but hope and pray the sniper was gone.

  The squad labored through the paddies and finally made it to the island of thick vegetation where the sniper had fired. They swept through the bamboo, ferns, and banana trees only to find an empty firing position.

  Goldie found the sniper’s position and picked up two expended copper casings. Hammonds took one look at the casings and spoke with authority. “AK-47. The dude is long gone by now. Goldie, go get the L-tee and tell him what we found.”

  Ty finished his sweep and walked over to the position. He bent down and studied the flattened grass, then lay down on the ground. Hammonds looked at his new man as if he had lost his mind. “Get up, Nance. This is no time to be layin’ down.”

  Ty lifted his head only a few inches and motioned Hammonds out of his line of sight. The sergeant stepped out of the way but shook his head in disgust. “You’re wastin’ your time trying to spot his escape route. He fired a couple of times and took off.”

  Lieutenant Jenkins approached with his radioman and saw Ty lying on his stomach with his head lifted up as if he were trying to align a putting shot on a golf green. “What the hell is he doing?”

  Ty got up in total concentration and began walking toward a clump of bamboo. Hammonds shrugged his shoulders. “Sir, he’s trying to find the escape route of the dink.”

  Ty took a few steps and crouched
down again. He had that strange feeling Winter’s had called “in the groove,” and what he knew as “becoming the buffalo.” He could sense that the killer was close. The rest of the squad stayed behind him as he rose up and followed the path. When he had lain down he had noticed that the grass was bent toward the east. The sniper had run directly back and turned north at the clump of bamboo. Ty stopped and lay down again at the base of the bamboo thicket. The sniper had stopped running when he had made his turn. The distance between his strides was much shorter. The path was clearly evident for twenty yards and suddenly ended as if the man had picked up his feet and flown.

  Ty rose to a crouch and stepped forward lightly. The son of a bitch was there. He knew it.

  Jenkins watched in fascination as Ty crept forward toward nothing but banana trees. There wasn’t a thing suspicious that he could see. Ty stopped again, extended his rifle barrel toward the ground, and circled to his right, keeping the barrel pointed at a bare spot.

  Ty had seen the faint outline and wanted to get behind the trapdoor. He had his man. Sucking in a deep breath, he took out a grenade and lowered himself to the ground. There was no latch or handle. The cover was simply fitted to the spider hole. The sniper had gotten into his hiding hole and set the perfectly camouflaged cover into place to wait out the searchers. He’d made one mistake.

  Ty motioned the others to take cover and pulled the pin. He set the grenade on top of the cover and ran back to a nearby palm tree.

  The grenade exploded in a vehement blast, and Ty rushed the hole. The cover was only partially blown away, revealing a five-foot-deep, perfectly square hole with a figure covered in dust kneeling in the bottom trying to raise up. Ty fired a quick burst into the man’s back. The sniper jerked with the impact and slumped forward to his knees.

  Ty rolled to his right and waited for the other man to pop his head up as Jenkins walked toward the hole in disbelief. Ty heard the officer coming up behind him and threw his hand up to halt him. It was too late. A burst of fire cut the air just above Jenkins’s head. Ty saw the muzzle flash and crawled toward the position. The second hole was twenty yards away, beside a banana tree. The squad was down firing wildly in the general direction, but the fire was ineffective. Ty stopped and took aim. The spot in the earth lifted only a few inches and the barrel of a weapon protruded. Ty fired a single shot, and the rifle barrel beneath the matted trapdoor fell to the ground.