by Dale A. Dye
“I was gonna ask you to take a look at this…” I pull up my sleeve and point at what looks like a leaky boil. “But I think you got more pressing problems.”
The Corpsman struggles to his feet and takes a look at my arm. “There’s a chunk still in there. Sit down and I’ll probe a little. Won’t be comfortable, but we need to get that chunk of metal out of there so it can heal.”
“Fuck it, Doc. Don’t mean nothin’. You just take care of yourself.”
He shoves me down on a chunk of rubble and digs around in his Unit One medical pack. It hurts like hell but after a few minutes, he has a nasty little chunk of NVA mortar round gripped in the jaws of his forceps. “You want this fuckin’ thing?” He shows me a sliver of rusty metal about the size of my little fingernail.
“I didn’t want it when it hit me and I can do without it now.”
The Doc shrugs and tosses the shrapnel into the street. He is clearly in pain from the wound in his leg and I feel like a turd for bothering him with my minor wound. He is wrapping my arm with a battle dressing and gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg. “Doc, I’m fine, but you better have someone look at that leg of yours.”
“It ain’t gangrene yet.” He ties the battle dressing and begins filling out a wound report that will authorize me a Purple Heart sometime in the future when the clerks reach the bottom of their paper piles. “They need me up here, dude. We ain’t got enough Corpsmen to treat the wounded as it is. I’ll keep humping for a while yet.”
Steve has his notebook out and commences an interview to get the Corpsman’s name and hometown. The Doc wipes at the pus leaking from his leg wound and dabs on some sort of topical ointment. “Job’s pretty down and dirty for a line Corpsman. In Hue, we just set up the triage to the rear of the grunts and stand by for the wounded to come in from up forward. Next thing you know, the grunts come staggering in leaking blood or carrying a buddy who’s been butt-fucked by a B-40 or riddled with AK rounds. We screen ’em and work on the most seriously wounded first. We got enlisted Corpsmen doing major surgery, I can tell you that. And the shrapnel wounds? Jesus Christ, everything in this fucking Hue City produces shrapnel. Guys come in here looking like fucking Swiss cheese….”
It goes on for a while. Steve will clean it up and make up some acceptable quotes. I wander toward the CP where the company commander is briefing his platoon commanders. Most of them are surviving NCOs. The officers in the battalion have taken a beating.
“None of this is for publication.” The CO looks at me with bloodshot eyes and I tuck my notebook into a pocket. “We gotta re-clear that block of houses we swept this morning. That exercise cost us eight KIA and more than twenty wounded but they pulled us out too soon. Apparently, the goddamn NVA are back in there with heavy machineguns and taking pot-shots at the helicopters operating out of the Sports Stadium. I don’t know how the hell they are managing to bring in reinforcements but they are. Forget all the shit this morning, we gotta do it again this afternoon. Keep the bitching down to a low roar and get ’em ready to move. I’ll have more detailed orders shortly.”
Church Music
Marine commanders directing the fight in Hue are under increasing pressure from the South Vietnamese Government as well as the American Command in Saigon to press the issue. What is apparently most galling to everyone not directly involved in the dirty fight on the southside of the Perfume River is that ratty-ass NVA flag still flying defiantly over the Citadel on the northside.
Rear echelon commanders visiting the city choke on the sight of the enemy flag as much as they do on the fetid air full of the stench of rotting corpses. A steady stream of refugees flows south out of the city and blocks the roads. That’s making it difficult for REMF observers who want to collect a campaign ribbon and bother the Marine commander running the show.
Marines are perfectly willing if not overly anxious to attack but they are insisting on full use of air, artillery, or naval gunfire to crack the Citadel's thick stone walls. So far it’s been a stand-off. The Marines insist and everyone to the rear of the fight dithers. The people who won’t have to actually do it want that Citadel taken back from marauding NVA but they don’t want it turned into a pile of ancient rubble. Here on the mean streets of Hue all the officers we talk to are convinced the higher command will eventually give in and authorize strikes. Meanwhile, there’s a major logistical base being established at the Hue Sports Stadium to support the push when it finally comes.
We are loitering around the stadium, policing up stories and photos among survivors of the Southside fighting. The second battalion of the 5th Marines is being strengthened by replacements and sending platoons out to police up remaining enemy strong points throughout the southside. Bored with listening to young Marines try to top each other’s war stories, we attach ourselves to one of these patrols that’s been ordered to sweep a block of houses east of the stadium. A platoon sergeant says it will be a fairly easy hump, mostly designed to train replacements and give them a feel for combat in a built-up area.
Grunts are slowly probing through a row of houses, mostly looking for loot and not expecting to run into any gooks. It’s tedious despite the firefights we can hear blazing away a couple of blocks away to the east. After all the rain in Hue, the sunshine turns the air into a muggy miasma. We are covered with greasy sweat and shedding filthy clothing when I spot a little Buddhist temple in the center of the street. It looks cool inside and we need a pause to readjust our gear. The interior is cool and dark with a pleasant scent of sandalwood incense in the air. I slump against a wall, shrug out of my pack, and let the dry concrete soak up the sweat on my back.
My eyes adjust to the dark and I spot a smiling, pot-bellied Buddha sitting cross-legged on some kind of altar at the back of the temple space. Buddha’s got a gold filigreed hand raised in serene benediction. All the bullshit, blood, and gore in Hue is not bothering Buddha and I decide to get more closely acquainted. Carrying the Thompson like a carefree squirrel hunter, I walk through the gloom and smile back at Buddha. About ten feet from his perch, I raise my hand to return his greeting and hear a slight scraping sound like metal against plaster or concrete. There’s someone or something behind Buddha and that makes me very nervous.
Shadow flickers through a beam of light shining through a high window and survival instinct takes over. There are about 20 rounds in the magazine and I trigger them all blowing a huge hole in Buddha’s fat golden belly. The noise in the confined space is deafening but I can distinctly hear a clatter back behind the altar. I’ve hit something that I sincerely hope is a rat or a cat. Steve sprints forward to get a look from another angle. He advances slowly while I kneel and watch the smoke boil off the barrel of the Thompson.
“You got one…” Steve waves me forward and kicks at some of the Buddha parts scattered on the floor. At the back of the altar is a single NVA trooper. He’s dead and leaking blood from three .45 ACP rounds that shattered his chest. He’s got a little knapsack slung across his shoulder and it’s filled with little statues and delicate pottery. Apparently, the Americans are not the only ones looting in Hue. He’s wearing one of the web belts with a silver buckle bearing an etched star and I strip it from his body. These things are premium war trophies and I’ve wanted one for a long time. The prize is my focus. I don’t give a thought to the fact that I’ve just killed a man. Killing is common. NVA officer belts are not.
Steve roots around in the knapsack and finds some letters from the dead gook’s relatives or friends in the north. The stamps show resolute workers plowing a rice paddy with one hand and brandishing an AK-47 with the other. Grunts arrive to investigate the shooting, take a quick look at the dead gook, and shuffle outside to continue the patrol. Platoon Sergeant winks and points at the Thompson. “Those forty-five slugs tore the shit out of him. I got to get me one of those.” Then he shoves curious replacements back out onto the street. Just another dead gook and you’ll see plenty of those around here. Continue the march.<
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We are heading back out into the muggy heat when I spot something interesting in a niche off to the right of the altar. It’s a TEAC reel-to-reel tape player. It looks big and heavy but a quick measurement convinces me I can fit it in my big NVA pack if I stuff everything else in my pockets or hang it on my web gear. A thing like that TEAC will be a cool addition to our Combat Correspondent’s hooch in the rear. The guys will love it.
Steve watches me maneuver the tape player into my pack, plopping the bundles of purloined piasters on top of it before I strap it shut and try it on my shoulders. “You may have failed to notice, but this not the goddamn PX—and that load is gonna kick your ass.”
The pack has got to weigh 30 or 40 pounds and I’m staggering under the added weight as we emerge back onto the street and try to catch up with the patrol. It’s quiet for a block or two and I’m just getting adjusted to the elephant on my back when a firefight breaks out and grunts are scrambling for cover along the sides of the street. We scramble to avoid a burst of incoming rounds ripping up the macadam. The bulky pack is pulling me around and slowing me down but we make it to cover.
An NVA gunner has spotted our slow movement and adjusted his fire to chase us. When we flop down out of his sight, Steve is holding his cheekbone and there are trickles of blood showing through his fingers. “Caught a ricochet or something...” He pulls his hand away for me to take a look. It’s not much more than a long deep scratch. I pour water on a towel and dab at the wound. “No big deal. Chicks dig a scar.”
Grunts are leap-frogging up the street and it looks like the NVA are pulling back. We need to move. Up ahead, Platoon Sergeant is on the radio calling for mortar fire to block the enemy escape route. He’s got everyone under cover while he adjusts the rounds and I spot a vacant house where we can get some cover and I can get this goddamn anvil off my back for a few minutes.
The place is a shambles with broken glass and concrete dust scattered over everything in what must have been some wealthy gook’s living room. As we wait for word to move, I open my pack and play around with the tape player. It looks like a really good one—even has a radio built in so I figure I can tape music off the AFVN signal once I get this beauty to the rear. The plug at the end of the power cord looks a little weird but there’s probably some technician I can get to fix that. Outside, mortars are cracking into the area. Platoon Sergeant sticks his head through a window and looks around the room where we’re sheltered. “Six wants us to hold here. I’m gonna move some people in with you guys. Don’t get too comfortable. We’ll be moving before dark.” A fireteam stumbles in through the door and begins to poke around the house. One of them finds a bottle of what smells like sake, takes a belt and passes the bottle.
We’re inside the house for a couple of hours before word comes for the platoon to pull back toward the stadium. Steve has to help me on with the pack that is now festooned on the outside with everything that was on the inside before I found the TEAC. I stumble out into the street just before dusk, trying to figure a safe place I can stash this tape player without someone getting either indignant or greedy and confiscating what is clearly looted property.
Staggering down the street behind Platoon Sergeant as tracers suddenly cut through the gloom making looping green arcs. Platoon Sergeant and his radioman are quick and agile, changing direction and bounding into a structure on the left side of the street. My effort to follow is hampered by the weight of the pack. As I spin left, the pack pulls right and I end up on my ass in the middle of the street while those fucking tracers search for me like fluorescent fingers. Struggling up to hands and knees, I feel an impact like someone has suckered slugged me with a baseball bat. Whatever it is spins me around drives me back prone, but I don’t feel any immediate pain. Could be they missed me or it could be I’m too scared to know I’ve been hit.
Tempted to drop the pack but can’t bring myself to do it. Steve sprints from cover on the other side of the street, snatches me up by an arm and hauls me toward cover. He’s panting from the exertion by the time we get out of the line of fire but he’s got enough breath left to let me know I’m an idiot. “I told you to get rid of that fucking thing, didn’t I? You’re gonna fuck around and get yourself killed over a goddamn tape recorder? What’s the matter with you?”
It’s a good question and I don’t have a reasonable answer. Platoon Sergeant squatting nearby is calling for more mortars and I decide to get rid of the tape player. Survival instinct triumphs over greed. “Look around and make sure we can find this place again.” I shrug out of the pack and search for a spot where I can hide my treasure until circumstances allow me to retrieve it and haul it aboard a chopper or truck headed for the rear.
“That won’t be necessary.” Steve has a huge grin on his bloody face. “Take a look at this.” He points to a huge rent in one side of my pack. There are copper coils and wires showing through the hole. As I dig around to assess the damage, one of the reels comes away in my hand dangling wires and broken plastic. The player is trashed, the case cracked and the guts crushed by at least three slugs that hit my pack out on the street.
“I can’t believe this shit.”
“Looks like you pissed Buddha off by ripping off his tunes.”
“Fuck Buddha…”
“Careful, my man, he probably did you a favor. It was the tape deck or your dumb ass, one or the other was gonna get blown away.”
Code of the Grunt: Do not fuck with Buddha. He may be just another gook but he knows all about payback. When you catch a break in a firefight consider it a wakeup call. Buddha is reminding you that close counts with horseshoes and hand grenades.
Back at the battalion CP we find out the assault on the Northside is set for tomorrow. There’s nothing to do until dawn but decide which first battalion outfit to cover. There are plenty of choppers bouncing in and out of Hue by now, but there’s never a question of getting aboard one of them. We’re going across that stinking River of Perfumes with the grunts. That’s what Combat Correspondents do and neither of us can imagine not doing it at this point in the great big fight for Hue City.
Busted
The Navy is into the fight big-time now. There are carrier aircraft and naval guns pounding away at the Citadel, trying to make holes in those walls. Brown-water sailors are bringing black-hulled, heavily armed Swift Boats up the Perfume River. Landing craft and amtracs are being mustered all along the south banks of the river waiting for the assault troops from 1/5 to get aboard for the crossing. The regimental planners are crowing about a multi-prong shore-to-shore amphibious assault. After a grizzled old Korea vet tells us how it all reminds him of crossing the Han River with the old 5th Marines after the landings at Inchon in 1950 we walk away to say goodbye to the Horrible Hogs of Hotel Company.
Surviving grunts from 2/5 are feeling like they're well out of it now. They’ve been told the final phases of the fight for Hue City will be carried by 1/5 and the ARVN. Walking among clumps of guys we know from the southside is an experience. Some look like survivors of a near fatal car wreck; numb and disbelieving, rubbing grubby hands over arms and legs that easily could have disappeared in pink mists during any number of brutal firefights. Others are crowing just short of crying, nearly hysterical on a survivor’s high. We wander around with our notebooks in hand looking for familiar faces, checking spellings and hometowns. Sometimes we discover that the story sketched out in our notes will never be written. The subject of the little combat vignette that caught our eye is dead. There are lots of those.
Over by a school where Hotel Company is resting, we see a cluster of high-ranking REMFs in conference with the CO and the Company Gunny. The spit-shined jungle boots and starched uniforms are in glaring contrast to the raggedy-ass condition of the grunts. The confrontation is clearly heated and our curiosity overcomes a natural aversion to brass-hats in high dudgeon. We find space near a shattered swing-set in the schoolyard and watch.
The Company Commander and his Gunny are s
tanding slumped and bleary-eyed as one of the visitors shakes a finger under their noses. He’s backed by a gaggle of ARVN officers with badges and pins all over their starched uniforms. When the harangue ends, the Company Gunny nods at his boss and walks toward a platoon of grunts sprawled in the dusty playground.
“Those assholes…” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “…are up here from Saigon, Westmoreland’s staff. The ARVN are National Police. They say somebody ripped off a bunch of cash from the Treasury Building. We cleared the area, so they’re claiming it was us took the dough. Any of you hogs know anything about that?”
“Shit, Gunny…” A Staff Sergeant lifts off his helmet and wipes at the sweatband. “You searched all of us before we left the area. Maybe it was one of our KIAs…” The Gunny chews on that for a minute. “Nah. I’ve already been through all the medevac gear.” He sweeps the survivors with suspicious eyes, then nods and walks back toward the cluster of officers.
Steve looks at me with arched eyebrows and nods toward my tattered pack. The TEAC is gone but there are still three bundles of stolen cash in it. “Better cough it up.”
“Shut up, man! What do you want me to do? Walk over there and just hand it over? I’ll wind up in Portsmouth making little rocks out of big rocks for the rest of my life!”
The Gunny returns shaking his head and worrying a cigar butt. “They got a real case of the ass over this thing. Skipper says they’re threatening to put the whole company under arrest. So, here’s the deal. You got fifteen minutes. Anybody knows anything about the missing money, you come see me. I’ll see if I can keep your dumb ass out of jail.”
Grunts begin to get to their feet, talking and cursing among themselves about REMFs fucking with line dogs over a little stolen cash. Steve and I wander away until we’re out of sight and then squat to confer with my pack and the cash between us. “We gotta hand it over, my man. We been on the line with these dudes and they’ve never done us wrong. Hotel Company has been through too much to get fucked around by this thing. It just ain’t right.”