Fields of Fire

by James Webb

  The artillery battery on the Bridge compound reacted. It turned its guns north and lobbed dozens of projectiles across the river, seeking to silence the attack. New bright flashes, hazes of dust, grouped around the northern compound.

  Then a moment of anticipatory lull. Goodrich knew what was going to happen. He wished he could tell them in the Bridge compound. He wished he could dig a hole in the dirt and come back out in California. Watch out, he groaned inwardly, too afraid to cry. Oh, shit. Here it comes. Right now.

  An avalanche of mortar rounds, timed from a dozen tubes to land together on the southern compound. Then just above the stranded team the deep pops of a heavy machine gun. Goodrich listened to himself whimper. He could not stifle it. It seemed to him a scream that would give them all away. But finally he realized that it was no more than a scratchy, whispering whine.

  The Bridge compound's defenders were caught unaware, having begun to feel like spectators to the northern compound's furious defense. Bodies went flat inside bunkers, seeking cover from the mortar barrage. As they did, streams of sappers poured through the outer wire, sliding pipes of bangalore torpedoes to clear pathways through the concertina. For a moment, they were unnoticed, the explosions they created blending with the mortars. They broke through both sides of the J shaped hill, just at its hook, tossing satchel charges of explosives into the nearest bunkers. Half of the bunkers on the artillery side, unmanned as their defenders had helped with the firing missions on the northern compound, were quickly taken by the NVA. The rest of the perimeter swarmed with creeping, dashing sappers.

  Two bunkers were lost just down from third platoon's last position. The sappers manned the bunkers after killing the occupants with satchel charges, and provided a beachhead on the lines. A stream of shadows poured into the compound between the bunkers. The first cell of NVA that raced past the bunkers burned an entrance with a whooshing flamethrower. It ignited the corner of a nearby tent, and drew bright-red answers from a host of rifles fired from nearby bunkers. There was no second whoosh. Its trigger man and his mate lay dead beside low smoulders from the torchlit tent.

  Another sapper team crept quickly to the center of the compound and encountered two almost identical bunkers. In its haste it demolished the chapel, leaving the command center bunker unscathed. After the chapel exploded, in a detonation that raised a bright flash and leveled the bunker in a smoking heap, another fierce mortar barrage shook the hill. The North Vietnamese would attempt to take out more bunkers, consolidate, then retreat through the breaks they had made in the wire.

  SPEEDY’S team cringed in the streambed, unspeaking, wincing as the gun cut loose again. Its explosions seemed so close that one could reach a hand up and lose it to a bullet. Each man knew that if he made an untoward move, revealing himself in any way, the whole team would not last five minutes. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide.

  It's a twelve-seven, mused Goodrich. I've heard the stories. They can cut down trees. He hugged the ground closer, conscious of the mere inches of dirt that separated him from the cacophony above him. It seemed almost logical to him that he was going to die. The worst part was not knowing when. Maybe I should get it over with, he pondered. Stand up and let them shoot me. Maybe I should charge the gun and try to take it out. Snake would.

  He looked at the others. Nobody moved. He needed to scratch a mosquito bite. He tried to go to sleep.

  SAPPERS danced and dived, quick shadows under phosphorescent flares and smoldering tents. Anything that moved was suspect. Steady rifle fire poured into the two overrun bunkers, having suppressed the NVA riflemen there. Other sappers were in the wire and inside tents and in ditches. They hid and crept throughout the perimeter, creating chaos.

  Staff Sergeant Austin dashed across the perimeter. He zigzagged. He crawled. He finally made it to the bunkers, jumping into a sandbagged position near the NVA breakthrough. He knelt for a moment on the floor of the bunker, catching his breath. Jesus. He took his helmet off and wiped his forehead. He looked up then, and found Phony, Cat Man, Cannonball, and newly arrived Big Mac casually leaning against the bunker walls. Big Mac was watching tracers pour into the NVA-held bunkers as if it were on television. The others peered down at Austin.

  Phony grinned, nodding to him. “Whooee, Sarge.” He gestured toward where Austin had come from. “John Wayne woulda been proud of ya. No shit.”

  Austin stood. “How are you people holding up?”

  Phony shrugged. “A-OK, know what I mean? The gooks in them bunkers been waxed.” He pointed toward the command bunker, two hundred meters down the road. “Rest of 'em went thataway.” He smiled unconcernedly. “We get rounds every now and then. But we're skating.”

  Austin nodded importantly, almost melodramatically, his swarthy face flushed. “Keep your eyes open. They're everywhere.”

  Phony bounced his head, nodding. “Sure, Sarge.”

  An explosion echoed on the road, just behind the bunker. Austin crouched, then jerked his thumb toward it. “See?”

  “That was a mortar round, Sarge.”

  Austin's jowls split in a wincing frown. No respect. He looked both ways, watching creeping, distant shadows. Finally he jumped out of the bunker, toward the next position. He took five steps and dove to the earth, searching his front again.

  Phony held a grenade in his hand. He pulled the pin, then casually let the spoon fly, never losing his bland grin. He tossed it expertly, five meters on the other side of Austin. Austin started to rise. Boom. He fell on his face, motionless.

  Phony yelled loudly. “Corpsman up!”

  Big Mac stared unbelievingly. “Jesus Christ! What did you do?”

  Phony shrugged absently, watching Austin writhe. “Nothing.” He allowed himself another innocent, bland smile. “What you mean, man? That was a mortar.”

  THE officers inside the command bunker had assumed control of all tactical nets, directing the defense of the compound from their underground haven. Kersey, washed in the bunker's fluorescent brightness, worked from a large composite map of the compound and its surroundings. He communicated to the listening posts, and to radios positioned in various bunkers along the perimeter, attempting to determine enemy gatherings and strong points through such reports. With that information, he would advise the battalion commander as to possible artillery missions and air strikes.

  Hodges, out on the perimeter, was reduced, in effect, to a radioman. He relayed reports to the command bunker concerning the status of his platoon's sector of the huge perimeter. At other times, he worked his way from bunker to bunker, as Austin had been doing, to check on casualties and ammunition consumption. Behind him dawdled a murmuring, cursing Flaky, with the platoon radio.

  When Austin went down, Hodges was in the next bunker, thirty meters away. With him in the bunker were Snake, Waterbull, Wild Man, and Bagger. Austin fell between the two bunkers and immediately began to groan madly. Hodges, having been unaware of Phony's designs on Austin, did not read the knowing looks that passed among the bunker's occupants.

  Snake glanced quickly to Hodges, catching his reaction, then smiled sardonically. “Ain't anybody gonna help Austin?”

  Austin had tightened into a ball. A burst of AK-47 fire passed just over the bunker. Behind him the twelve-seven tore angry rents in the still night air. Thirty meters up the road three more mortar rounds impacted. Wild Man snorted. “Let him bleed a little first.”

  Hodges crawled alone to Austin. The grenade had gone off to the Sergeant's front and left, peppering him along his whole left side, except where his flak jacket blocked the shrapnel. He bled from his forehead. Several pieces had entered his chest and stomach where his flak jacket hung open. He clutched his stomach, still curled into a tight ball.

  Austin cursed to himself as Hodges approached, seeming almost to revel in his bleeding. “Goddamn, Lieutenant. I never heard a fucking thing. Oh, Jesus.” Austin's tight mouth experimented with its own versions of wonderment and disbelief. He managed a small smile, and stroked a slippery wet u
ndershirt. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Looks like you're gonna have to get yourself a new Papa Sierra. I won't be back.”

  Hodges dragged Austin by the belt toward Phony's bunker. Austin screamed in painful protest to the tugs. “Hold on, Sarge. I'll get you a doc, man. And you know we're all gonna miss you.”

  SICKENING crunches behind them, walking toward them, unstoppable, like a flash flood. TwirlBoom TwirlBoom TwirlBoom. Eighty-one-millimeter mortars, walking toward the treeline. TwirlBoom just behind them TwirlBoom just in front of them TwirlBoom inside the trees.

  Speedy grabbed the radio handset and whispered urgently. “Cease fire! Cease fire, goddamn it!” Pause. “The mortars. Three Charlie. Charlie! You're blowing us away with your mortars! We're too close!” Pause. “I don't give a fuck about the gun, man! Start giving a fuck about us!”

  Another pause. Speedy turned wryly to Ottenburger. “It's Kersey. Cabron. He says it's for our own good.” Burgie grimaced tightly. “Lucky us.”

  A wounded sapper dangled in the wire, wrapped up in the concertina where the NVA had first broken into the compound. He was clearly visible under the illumination flares, thirty meters out, dressed in shorts and banded with strings of ropes on his arms and legs that isolated his blood in eight-inch instant tourniquets.

  Snake studied him. His left leg was off above the knee and his midsection had been pierced. Snake wondered absently what had hit him. They were inside the compound before anybody had a chance, he mused. Stupid shit prob'ly got in the way of his own bangalore torpedo.

  The sapper appeared comfortable, not attempting to disengage himself from the jags of metal, occasionally wiggling an arm to ponder its movement, now and again lifting his head to examine the bunkers full of Marines who peered back at him.

  And every now and then he implored the shadows, almost comically, “Chieu hoi,” uttering those magic words of surrender as if he had ventured all the way to that barbed stopping point in order to defect. As if he had been wrongly demolished while crossing the wired threshold over to the Other Side.

  “Chieu hoi!”

  Snake shook his head, laughing at Chieu Hoi on the wire. On the far side of the perimeter Chieu Hoi's comrades fought fiercely, still controlling several artillery bunkers. There were booms, scattered bursts of weapons in the tent section; 106s and artillery boomed at clumps outside the wire; the 12.7 tore angry, ragged holes in the air.

  “Chieu-u-u-u-u hoi. Chieu-u-u-u-u-u hoi.” Illumination flares dangled over him and he hung delicately from his bed of wire, the banded stump of leg quivering. Chieu Hoi managed a smile. To his right another fierce eruption as a reaction squad attempted to root his comrades from their bunkers.

  “Chieu hoi,” he said, with urgent logic.

  Finally Snake could endure it no longer. He screamed over to Cat Man's bunker. “Cannonball, shut that fucker up.” Thunk boom. Blooper. The explosion sprinkled the sapper with new holes. He rocked slightly on his bed of concertina.

  He moaned now. It was worse. He began a mumbling argument with himself, perhaps cursing the lying pamphleteer who taught him the magic phrase that did not work. He decided to try again. He looked toward the bunkers, smiling hopefully, and instructed them once again. “Chieu hoi.” Then, very quickly: “Chieuhoi.”

  “Shut u-u-u-u-p!” It was unclear who yelled it. Someone shot Chieu Hoi. Another rifle joined. Another. Finally they stopped. Down the perimeter the reaction squad still fought fiercely.

  “MOVE?” Speedy was incredulous. “Where the fuck are we supposed to move to?” He listened for another moment. “Wait a minute.” Pause. “Fuck the Colonel, wait a minute.” He turned to the team. “Kersey says we gotta move. Says they're calling in eight-inchers from An Hoa to knock the twelve-seven out, and we're on gun-target line.”

  Smitty glowered in the dark. He had been in Vietnam a week. “I say stay, man. I ain't moving.”

  Ottenburger shook his head. “Ever seen an eight-incher land? We gotta move.” He appeared drained, beaten. “We are truly fucked, man.”

  The gun opened up again, ragged rounds above their heads, as if to rankle them. Goodrich looked over to Speedy, trying to remain cool but visibly trembling. “Where?”

  “I don't know. Two hundred meters left or right, he says. Two hundred fucking meters.” Speedy lay flat, hugging his poncho liner in his misery. “Got any ideas?”

  Ottenburger glanced over the narrow dip of streambed. He shuddered. “It ain't gonna work.”

  Speedy pondered it darkly, his wide face pushed into his poncho liner. Finally, he decided. “We'll crawl down the streambed. Stay low, find a good spot, lay chilly.”

  He grabbed the handset and keyed it. “This is Three Charlie. We're going to the left, down the streambed.” Pause. “I don't know where it goes.” He eyed Burgie ironically. “Probly to the gook CP.” Pause. “Well, give us fifteen minutes. We're gonna be crawling.”

  Speedy tucked the handset into his helmet band and turned to Goodrich. “Get going, Senator. Stay low.”

  Goodrich did not want to leave. He began to fold his poncho liner. Maybe it'll be over by the time I fold it, he mused, comfortable with his irrationality.

  Speedy crawled up and pushed him. “C'mon, stupid. Get going.”

  Smitty was still defiant. “Screw it. I still say stay, man.”

  Speedy was becoming excited. “Cool it, boot! We gotta go!”

  The gun opened up again. Smitty lay flat. “I'm staying.”

  “Good-bye.” Speedy nodded urgently to Goodrich. “Get going.”

  Goodrich began to crawl, staying very low, pushing the grass flat with one hand and dragging his rifle with the other. Every five or ten feet he stopped, listening to the front. Behind him Smitty rushed to catch up with the team. “Goddamn it, wait up!”

  The gun opened up again, blasting the perimeter. Goodrich listened. It sounded far away, no longer threatening. He sensed that the team had at last evaded it, and came to his hands and knees, crawling faster. He wanted to reach the new position and stop moving.

  Pop. An illumination flare burst above the team. Pop. Another. Pop. Another. Speedy called angrily in a hoarse whisper, “Get down, man! Freeze!”

  They all lay flat. The flares burned brightly, swinging lazily on their parachutes, day-brightening the field. Speedy talked excitedly into the handset. “Tell 'em to cut the illum, man! We're sitting ducks out here! Charlie!

  Three Charlie!” Finally the last flare went dead. Goodrich lay flat for another moment, listening for movement. Speedy urged him again. “Get moving, Senator! Hurry up!” Goodrich moved to his knees and crawled quickly down the streambed.

  ON the point bunker of the compound a man sat beside a large, ominous weapon, staring determinedly into an L-shaped site, carefully cranking two wheels. He caught the movement, saw the shadows when the flare popped. He sighted in under the illumination, then waited for it to burn out so the backs would raise above the ditch again. His assistant gunner had been shot by the twelve-seven two hours before. Now comes payback, he thought grimly.

  “Fire the one-oh-six!” There was a terrific boom, a white-hot flash of back blast. He grinned meanly. Take that, you gook motherfuckers.

  And then a figure running along the ditch that connected the bunkers, hands in the air, screaming to the gunner:

  “Don't fire! Oh, no no no! Didn't you get the word? That's the LP!”

  White flash distant, heavy rush just after him, like a mini-second of violent hailstorm. Then an angry, rolling boom. Gunner was one inch of handcrank off. The fleshette round erupted just up the hill, its centerpoint in back of Smitty. Nine thousand dart-shaped nails saturated that portion of the field, filled the ditch, and drove Smitty and Speedy lifeless against the streambank.

  Goodrich turned when the boom rolled down and gasped. They were both caught in the middle of a crawl, reaching down the streambed for the haven from the eight-inchers. He stared, feeling isolated and abandoned, and then remarked absently to himself, through stark terror, about
the surrealism of it. They aren't even bloodied, he noted. It's as if a referee stepped in and blew a whistle, removing them from a game. Tweeeet. You're dead. You, too. You moved when a flare was up and you got it. Now in a real war …

  But they were really dead. The darts had saturated them so quickly that they did not bleed, as if they both died in the middle of a heartbeat that never finished, never pushed the blood out of the myriad of holes.

  Goodrich was in a frozen panic. That was our own gun. They're all trying to kill us. They want us dead. Everybody wants us dead. Speedy hated me and now he's dead. I'm not going to make it but Speedy's dead.

  “Senator.” Ottenburger spoke calmly, almost sleepily. “Hey, Senator. Give me a hand, huh?”

  Burgie. Oh, God. How could I forget about Burgie?

  Ottenburger lay, half-hidden by sawgrass, only three feet behind Goodrich. Goodrich turned slowly in the streambed, careful not to raise his body off the ground, and crawled the inches to Burgie's face. Burgie smiled winsomely under the thin moustache, his eyes pleading with Goodrich.

  Say it isn't so, Senator.

  “I can't feel either leg.” Ottenburger continued to smile, the eyes begging Goodrich to perform some miracle. “It's all cold, man. Everything's just cold.”

  Goodrich stared back uncertainly, wishing for some word that would make the past two minutes go away. Burgie's arms and face were unscratched. Maybe, thought Goodrich … He parted the sawgrass where the blast had spun Burgie's lower parts. The grass was wet. Burgie was a dripping ooze from the middle of his waist to his ankles.

  Goodrich inhaled the heavy rich blood odor, felt his fingers slide along the oil-slick fabric over Burgie's legs, and gagged. He caught himself, and lifted Burgie's shirt to try to examine the middle parts. Then he could not hold back. He vomited into the grass, inches from Ottenburger's blood pool.