No one got down or moved to the side of the trail. Every man remained motionless, carefully eyeing the ground around his feet. Then slowly, cautiously, they all stepped lightly to the side of the trail and studied every inch of soil, grass, rock, and trees to their front. They had learned their lesson that morning. The lieutenant had made everyone look at the body. The second squad had been leading, and their point man tripped a fishline attached to a grenade. He had heard the pop of the detonater and yelled as he ran for cover. The slack man also ran and flung his body to the side of the trail, empaling himself on hidden pungi sticks. The sharpened stakes stuck only ten inches out of the ground and, covered in grass, were almost impossible to see. His momentum had driven three of the stakes completely through his neck, shoulder, and right arm. The rest of the stakes had only partially stabbed him, suspending his entire body off the ground. He’d lived for several minutes, choking on his own blood. The point man had run into the stakes just off the trail in a desperate effort to get away from the grenade. The angled pungi stakes had caught him just above the boot tops and had ripped open his legs. He had fallen backwards just as the grenade went off. The shrapnel tore through his buttocks and back. His wounds had been nasty but not fatal.
Jenkins pushed the sidebar of the radio handset to find out the situation but heard the anguished cry from up ahead. “Medic up! Medic up, booby trap!”
He turned around to Doc Weaver, but the twenty-year-old platoon medic was already running past him. Jenkins followed as he spoke into the radio handset requesting a medevac.
Doc knelt over the blue-faced soldier and quickly opened his aid bag. He knew the explosive device must have been in a tree, for the airburst had caught the point man in the face and shoulders. His helmet had protected him from most of the shrapnel, but a big piece had hit him in the mouth and chin. He wasn’t breathing. Shattered teeth, shrapnel, and destroyed tissue were blocking the air passage.
He pulled out a scalpel and felt along the soldier’s throat for his Adam’s apple. Finding it, he punctured the skin and cartilage just above the protruding bump. Air immediately began filling the soldier’s lungs. Doc held the incision open with his fingers and nodded toward his chest. “Get the ink pen out of my shirt pocket and unscrew it. Use the scalpel and cut the small end of the casing off to make me an air tube.”
The squad leader compiled and quickly held up the makeshift breathing tube. Doc inserted the plastic device into the incision and taped it to the soldier’s neck before attending to the other wounds.
Lieutenant Jenkins watched the entire procedure while talking on the radio. He had a medevac coming in, but the closest area suitable for landing was on top of the hill, still another five hundred meters away. He turned around and yelled down the column, “Cat Man, up!”
Several minutes later, Sergeant Hammonds strode up the trail followed by his squad. Jenkins motioned the sergeant to the side of the trail and lowered his voice. “Before you start bitching, I know it isn’t your squad’s turn on point, but I need the Cat to get us to the hilltop.”
Hammonds eyed the officer coldly. “Damn it, sir, he was on point yesterday. What happened to the rotation system?”
“Fuck the system. I need the best, and he’s it. Get him up here and move out.”
Hammonds turned around in disgust. “Cat, up.”
Caddy heard the word being passed back and cussed under his breath. Ty walked up beside him and changed his magazine to all tracers. “They’re calling for us.”
Caddy shook his head despondently. “Being your slack man is bad news. My nerves can’t handle it much longer.”
Ty smiled and patted his friend’s back. “No sweat. We’re in the groove.”
Captain James Elliott was tired. He took off his helmet, sat down, and looked up at his new lieutenant. “Jesus H. Christ, L-tee, don’t stand at attention like that. We’re not at Benning. Sit down and relax.”
Feeling ridiculous, the second lieutenant quickly sat down.
Elliott lit a Camel and inhaled deeply. “L-tee, I know you just got off the chopper, but I gotta put you to work. You’ll be taking the second platoon … my problem child. The last platoon leader was a dip shit and got himself blown away three weeks ago doing something stupid. He stood up to adjust close-in artillery. The platoon is now being run by Sergeant First Class Ramirez, who is about as bad. He’s a by-the-book noncom who doesn’t know how to read, a real dumb-ass. I want you to take charge of that bunch of prima donnas and get them back in the Army. They’re good men, but right now they’re livin’ in the past and totally undisciplined. Most of them made the parachute combat jump in February and think their shit don’t stink, but they’re worthless to me. They do what they want when they want and don’t respond to Ramirez, who has lost control. Before I’m through, Alpha Company of the 503d is going to be the best damn company in the Second Battalion and in the whole damn 173d Airborne Brigade. You look like you’re big enough to handle the job, and I want you to do it quickly … like yesterday was too late. I want you to take three days and work on whatever you want. I suggest the basics. The area is pretty quiet, so take the time to get to know your men and train them the way you want. On the fourth day, you will start search and destroy operations east of your platoon perimeter. Take charge, Lieutenant Johnson. Take charge of that second platoon, or I’ll fire your ass in a week.”
Lieutenant Jason Johnson nodded and stood up. After two and a half weeks in Vietnam of going through inprocessing, jungle school, and briefings, he was anxious to finally see the war. He had been thrilled while at Cam Ranh Bay when he received orders for the same unit as Ty, the 173d, and later at Ben Hoa when he learned he was going to be a platoon leader. He had reported that morning to the company headquarters on the firebase and been issued an M-16, fifteen magazines, four bandoliers of ammunition, a web belt, load-carrying suspenders, one bottle of insect repellent, a rucksack, a compass, a map, and a one-page history of the 503d Infantry. He was told he was ready for the war and escorted to the landing pad, where he had been flown out on the resupply chopper. Fifteen minutes before, he had been dropped off, and now he was already being challenged by his company commander.
Jason turned to leave but stopped. He had one slight problem. “Sir, where is the second platoon?”
Ty broke out of the trees onto the open, grass-covered hilltop. He held up his hand to halt Caddy and searched around the woodline for wind mines. He had circled halfway around the hilltop before he spotted what he was looking for. Thirty feet up, tied to a tree trunk, was an American claymore mine that pointed toward the hilltop. The VC had a mortar flare parachute dangling in the branches with a string tied to it. When the chopper winds caught the miniature chute, it would inflate and pull the string, releasing the pin and detonating the deadly mine. Ty continued his search, but finding no more, returned to Caddy and Sergeant Hammonds on the trail.
Lieutenant Jenkins strode up to find out what the delay was. “Let’s go. We gotta get the medevac in.”
Ty held out his rifle, blocking him from moving any closer, and nodded toward Caddy. The sergeant lifted his M-79 grenade launcher and fired. The shell exploded in the branches by the flare chute, ripping the silk in half and yanking the string. The top third of the tree toppled over with the thunderous explosion and was consumed by black smoke. The steel ball bearings of the mine tore into the side of the hill and kicked up a debris cloud of dirt and pieces of grass just fifty feet in front of the stunned officer.
Ty lowered his rifle. “Now you can bring in the bird.”
Thirty minutes later, Hammonds took off his fatigue shirt and tossed it over a small tree. “Get your shirts and boots off and let the sun dry up the jungle rot.”
Ty and the other squad members began unbuttoning their shirts as they moved closer to hear the sergeant’s briefing. The resupply bird had not brought out a change of clothes in several weeks, and their bodies and uniforms reeked with dried sweat and rice paddy muck. The Fourth Battalion had been c
hoppered out of War Zone C and had moved to Xuan Loc three weeks before to conduct search and destroy operations. They were to clear VC tax collectors from the area. There was no significant threat, so the company had been broken up and had worked in independent platoon sectors to cover more area. The platoon had only two minor contacts with the VC but had been mauled by their booby traps. Six men had been lost in the past three weeks.
Hammonds motioned Bugs to his feet and had him turn around. “You see these white spots on his back? It’s nothin’ to get worried about. It’s just a fungus that eats up the pigment of your skin. Sun is the only cure for it.” He took out his notepad.
“Looks like the second squad’s point man is gonna make it. They called from the rear and said he made it back to the evac hospital in time. Doc Weaver and Cat Man pulled the platoon out again. Okay, for your information, we are now in an operation called ‘Fort Wayne.’ I know it doesn’t make a shit to you what the hell the brass calls our humpin’, but that’s the official title. We’re assigned to check out the small hills to the north. Intelligence says local VC units are operating there that harass the government villages along the road and are responsible for the booby traps we’ve been hitting. The lieutenant wants us to send out a recon patrol this afternoon and an ambush patrol tonight. Cowboy, you take Cat, Goldie, and Paddy on the recon, and the rest of us will pull the bush tonight. Plan on going out in an hour, and be back before sixteen hundred hours. Remember, the hills are in a free fire zone, so grease anything that moves.”
Silk stood up with a scowl. “Fuck this shit, man. We doin’ everythang for the platoon. We pullin’ point out a turn, and having ta recon and bush is fuckin’ bullshit. The lieutenant is gonna get us all waxed.”
Hammonds sighed. He was used to Silk’s complaining. “All the squads are sending out recons and bushes, so cool it.”
Silk eyed Ty coldly. “What about point? The lieutenant thinks Cat is Superman and keeps puttin’ us up there to cover him. Man, the odds are runnin’ against us if we keep playin’ Indian scout. Even Cat ain’t that good. Sooner or later he’s gonna trip the big one that’ll blow us all ta hell.”
“Shut up, fool,” Caddy snapped angrily. “The Cat is savin’ your black ass. He’s in the groove, man.”
“Fuck the groove! The dude is crazy. He loves this shit, man. He digs it, and he’s gonna get us wasted.”
Hammonds looked at Ty for a reaction, but as usual, he didn’t seem to be listening. He pointed at Silk. “Second squad needs a new point man. I’ll be glad to give them you if you want to volunteer.”
Silk glared at the sergeant, knowing he was bluffing, but didn’t dare call him. “Fuck it, man. Fuck the whole fuckin’ thing.”
Hammonds snickered. “I didn’t think you would … shut the fuck up and sit down.” He looked at his watch and nodded toward Cowboy. “One hour.”
Lieutenant Jenkins had walked up behind the squad and had heard most of the argument. He waited until the men had gone back to their positions before approaching Hammonds, who was heating a cup of coffee. “You handled that pretty well.” He sat down and took off his helmet. “You think Nance is crazy?”
Hammonds raised an eyebrow. “Naw, but three weeks ago I would have probably said yes. Nance is just different. Like Silk said, he loves it. I’ve just seen one other guy like him. He feels good being the point man because out there he relies on this senses. He believes in his instincts and honestly thinks he can see, hear,smell, and feel the dinks first. The Cat is about as good as they come.”
Jenkins looked over his shoulder at Ty, who was sitting by himself and soaking up the sun. “I always see him alone. Doesn’t he have any friends, someone to talk to?”
Hammonds smiled. “Everybody is Cat’s friend. He’s family, but he doesn’t let anybody get real close. He likes being a loner, and we all respect that. None of us want to mess with success. I honestly don’t believe Cat needs or wants close friends … I think he knows.”
“Knows what?” asked Jenkins.
Hammonds sipped the hot coffee and stared at the officer. “He knows the odds. Point men don’t last long.”
Jason’s new uniform was drenched in sweat by the time he arrived at the edge of his platoon’s perimeter. He had made the two-klick movement across the open rice paddies with only a scared eighteen-year-old replacement for company. Jason had refused a guide and had decided to make the trek on foot instead of waiting all day for a copter ride.
He strode past three men sleeping under a palm tree to the middle of a small open area, where four others were playing cards. A transistor radio was blaring. One of the men looked up from his cards and tapped the player next to him. “The new L-tee is here, man.”
Sergeant Ramirez kept his hand and slowly stood up with a fake smile. “Good to see you, sir. We didn’t expect you till later.”
Jason took off his rucksack and looked around. “Yeah, I can tell. How about you tellin’ your cardplayers to turn off the radio and gettin’ me the squad leaders so we can make the introductions?”
Ramirez motioned to the three seated men who were looking at him indifferently. “These are the squad leaders.”
Jason contained his anger, remembering what the Fort Benning leadership department had taught. The instructor had stressed that, when arriving at a new unit, never make changes based on the assumption that things are messed up. Rather, go in nice and easy and ask questions and see first how the unit performs as a whole.
He spoke softly. “You all wait right here and don’t move.” He walked to the first position he had passed and looked at the sleeping men. None had shaved in days. He picked up an M-16 laying on the ground beside one of the soldiers and quickly made an inspection. The rifle was filthy and the barrel was red with rust. He kept the weapon and walked around the small perimeter checking each position. In every case he found the same things: dirty, sleeping men and neglected weapons and equipment. He walked back to the center, where the sergeants had resumed playing cards.
Jason took a deep breath and set his shoulders. He had seen enough. He wasn’t assuming the platoon was screwed up; he knew it was. He kicked the blaring radio across the perimeter. The stunned squad leaders looked up as he threw the rusted rifle on top of the stack of cards. “Since none of you squad leaders stood up and introduced yourselves. I’ll just do it this way. You, you, and you will get your asses up and assemble your squads. Since nobody was pulling security and I heard that radio three hundred meters away, security must not be a problem. You will have two minutes to tell your men that I, Lieutenant Jason Johnson, am now the platoon leader. You will then instruct half your men to shave while the other half clean weapons. They will switch at the appropriate time. You will then inspect all weapons and equipment and provide Sergeant Ramirez with a list of discrepancies. I will make my inspection in one hour. I don’t think any of you have questions, do you? Good, move out!”
“We don’t have formations in the field,” Ramirez protested. “It’s dangerous and …”
Jason cut him off by picking up the rusted rifle and shoving it into his arms. “No, this is dangerous. Sleeping men are dangerous and goddamn radios are dangerous. And as far as I’m concerned, you are dangerous. Get me the platoon RTO and medic, then give me a status of your men and how this platoon is organized. Don’t say another word until you are ready to brief me. Move.”
He sat down on his rucksack and looked up at the replacement, who was staring at him. “Well, Sawyer, did I get their attention?”
Sawyer smiled weakly. “Yes, sir, I’d say you most definitely did that.”
Paddy McGuire sat down beside Ty. “Cat, Mickey hit his five hundredth.”
Preoccupied with cleaning his rifle, Ty set the oily rag on his lap. “Huh?”
“Mickey Mantle hit his five-hundredth home run against the Orioles. He’s from Oklahoma, isn’t he?”
Ty began to put the weapon’s receiver group back together. “Yeah, he’s from Spavinaw, up in the northwest part of th
e state. It’s just a podunk town, but they sure play some mean baseball. Better check your magazine and see if your ammo is cruddy.”
Ty was worried about the apple-cheeked soldier. He knew Paddy had gotten his information from Stars and Stripes. Paddy always read the paper cover to cover eight to ten times out of desperation for contact with the outside world. He was in Nam in body only. His mind was always back home.
Paddy took off his helmet and took out the folded paper from inside his helmet liner. “Things aren’t going so good at home. In New York City they had a peace rally protesting the war. One-hundred-thousand people walked from Central Park to the United Nations building.”
“Is that a long hump?” Ty said. He inserted a magazine and stood up.
“It isn’t very far, but that’s not the point, Cat. Those people think this war is wrong.”
Ty let the rifle bolt slam forward. “Wonder what Deets and Teddy Bear would think about that. Come on, we have our own little protest march to make.”
A minute later, Ty and Paddy joined Cowboy in the center of the platoon perimeter. Sergeant Hammonds approached with Goldie, who was carrying the radio. “The dinks haven’t had any GI’s around lately, so you might catch them half-steppin’. If you see something, give me a call and we’ll come like the cavalry. Don’t take any chances, and take it slow and easy.”
Cowboy smiled confidently. “If they’re there, we’ll be findin’ ’em.”
They moved to the north for thirty minutes, with Ty leading and the Texan covering. Goldie was third, followed by Paddy, who was rear security.
Ty stopped at a small creek at the base of a hill covered with scrub trees and motioned Cowboy up to him. “This trail we’re on hasn’t been used in a while. If there are any dinks around here they’ll be close to the water. I think we should follow the creek.”
Cowboy looked at his map. “Yep, you’re right. This is the only creek for several klicks. Take it to the west ’cause it flows through a small valley between the hills.”
the Hill (1995) Page 22