Fallen Angels

by Walter Dean Myers

  They were supposed to send in a movie called Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, with Sidney Poi-tier. But when they opened the cans they found the movie with Julie Andrews that we had already seen.

  “That other movie don’t sound like much anyway,” Monaco said. “Some black dude coming to dinner.”

  “Maybe they were going to have fried chicken, and they were afraid he was going to eat too much,” Brunner said.

  “Maybe they thought your mama was going to eat too much, too,” Peewee said.

  That ended that conversation.

  Word came in that the marines were catching hell all over the place. Some old-timers said that a piss load of marines were trapped up in the hills of Khe Sanh. The fighting was picking up. Captain Stewart was still saying that the VC were trying to get into place in time for the Tet holiday.

  “The only trouble is” — Lieutenant Gearhart sat on an ammo box with his feet up on Brunner’s bed — “what they’re seeing most of is the NVA, not the VC.”

  “The NVA ain’t nothing but the VC with their pajamas off,” Peewee said.

  “Bullshit.” Gearhart turned and looked toward Peewee with his eyes half closed, as if he were asleep. “The NVA get up to a year of training before they even get to the south. The VC are guerrillas. The NVA is their regular army.”

  “Don’t mean shit to me,” Peewee said.

  “We’re talking about regiment-sized units,” Gearhart went on. “They’ve finally figured out they can’t whip us with this little guerrilla action.”

  “Hey, man,” Monaco sat up. “They can’t whip us with nothing they got!”

  I looked up to see if Monaco was kidding. He wasn’t. But he talked about it like it was a volleyball game or something.

  The sounds of fighting, the far-off booming of the artillery, the hollow, bass-drum sound of explosions echoing off the mountains became a constant thing. Before, it had been an occasional crackle of gunfire, the steady rhythms of. 50-caliber machine guns with the .60 s answering in short riffs. Sometimes, just after the gut-shaking boom of a jet, you could see the bombs arc down and, if the wind was just right, the sound would be somewhere in between thunder and a cymbal clash. Peewee said that it sounded like a South Side jazz club when the brothers were right. A death blues for Mr. Cong.

  The noises had always scared me. I had gone through basic training just fine until the end when we had to go under live fire. The noises shook you, made you want to stop and hide.

  Now it was different. Now the sound swelled in my consciousness like a dull headache. It kept coming and coming, day and night. Sometimes I felt as if the sounds were inside me somehow. And there were times, I never wanted to mention them to anyone else, that I heard the sounds at night when it was very quiet, and no one else heard them.

  I was ready for the truce.

  Stars and Stripes talked about peace feelers in Paris. Where I was, it was raining. It rained almost every day. The ruts filled with water. There wasn’t any place to dry out.

  We waited and listened to the stories coming in. They weren’t good. When the Tet started, we were put on alert. We kept hearing about truce violations. They kept talking about the body counts we picked up, but the ones they gave at the end of the reports, our own KIAs, Killed in Action, were climbing, too.

  All of First Corps went on alert as we found out that all the major cities were being hit. All the way from Saigon north to the DMZ.

  Interdiction patrol. That’s what they called it, but it sounded like a plain ambush to us. We were being separated from the rest of the outfit, which was supposed to be operating further north above Phuoc Ha. Meanwhile our squad was supposed to stop nighttime traffic between two hamlets.

  “Titi contact,” Gearhart said, using the Vietnamese phrase for little. “All light stuff.”

  Sergeant Simpson said that, because of Gearhart’s training, they were using our squad on long-range reconnaissance. We were packing up to go, when

  Jamal came by. He told us that Captain Stewart had volunteered us to replace a reconnaissance team that had been wiped out.

  Walowick came back just in time for the patrol. He looked okay. The rash was gone. When he found out that we were going on patrol he got really upset. He almost spooked the whole squad.

  “C’mon, man, this squad is the best,” Monaco said. “Everything within ten kilometers of Tam Ky belongs to us.”

  “Yeah.” Walowick was scared. He had always been kind of even, but being away for a little while must have got to him.

  We got six new brothers in the platoon and two were assigned to our squad. One was from the South, a brother named Nate Turner, and the other one, Darren Lewis, was from the Bronx. I couldn’t remember exactly where, even though he told me twice.

  We went in a chopper with some First Cav guys who were going up to Quang Nam province. The choppers dropped us off first. We went east through a fairly dense stretch of forest and then swung back west until we hit our coordinates. Sergeant Simpson said that we would be picked up in a different zone. He acted worried. It was our first patrol with Gearhart. Simpson told me and Monaco to keep our eyes on Gearhart.

  “Just so he don’t get me killed,” he said. He had twenty-two days left.

  This ambush patrol was different than the first one we had been on near the cemetery. This was along a small road going just east of some pretty high hills. We were to take one stretch of the road, and some South Vietnamese regulars — ARVN — were to be up a little way from us.

  When we got to the ambush site, Sergeant Simpson didn’t like it. The road itself was small and ran along a rice paddy. There were dikes leading from the road, but they didn’t look too firm. The other side of the road was a lightly wooded area.

  “That sucker’s probably mined,” Sergeant Simpson said. “We got to go down to the end of the paddy and check that out.”

  “We’ll set up here, Sergeant.” Lieutenant Gearhart’s voice stiffened.

  “We ain’t got no cover here, sir.” Sergeant Simpson looked at Gearhart.

  “There’s cover there,” Gearhart said. He pointed to a small trench along the side of the paddy. There were thin bushes next to it. Nothing that would stop a bullet. “We’ll put sandbags behind the bushes.” “You gonna get some people killed over here!” “Sergeant, I know what I’m doing.” Gearhart took a step toward Simpson. “Now deploy the men.” For a moment the two men stood looking at each other, then Sergeant Simpson turned away. I didn’t like it. I knew Simpson, I didn’t know Gearhart yet. Simpson got Monaco and took him down the paddy and placed him. Then he came back and got me and Peewee.

  “Peewee, you and Perry be our rear security. Monaco got the other end. First noise you hear, light it up! We ain’t waiting for nothing to get into no damn killing zone ’cause I don’t want it to be my ass that gets killed out here tonight!”

  Gearhart came up with a diagram, a little picture of the place we were in. We were to set up an “L” just off the road. The short end of the “L” was the front. Monaco and Lobel had that. The rest of the squad, except me and Peewee, were on the long side of the “L” which paralleled the road. Me and Peewee were off to the rear of the squad line to watch in case the Congs came through the paddies behind the squad.

  “Set your claymores out near that paddy dike,” Gearhart said to me. The claymores sent fragments of steel in whatever direction you pointed them. They could be set off from a distance. “You see a patrol, you let them into the zone until their rear man gets on a line with that tree over there. You understand that?”

  “Suppose it’s more than a patrol,” Peewee said. “By the time their rear man gets lined up with that tree you could have a hundred of them out there.” “That’s okay,” Gearhart said. “If it’s that large a unit, we’ll just open up on their rear and get as many casualties as possible. That’ll make them back off until we can retreat. Charlie isn’t the only one that can play guerrilla games out here.”

  He clicked his tongue at Peewee and le
ft.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Peewee looked at me.

  “I guess he means we’ll hit and run, I guess.” “No, man, what he sucking his tongue at me fo ?” Peewee’s eyes narrowed. “That man definitely need his ass kicked.”

  “I hope we get back to base to kick it,” I said. “If somebody’s spotted us out here, we got a world of trouble, or if it rains — ”

  “Rain don’t bother me,” Peewee said.

  “If it starts raining again, how you going to see who’s lined up with what damn tree?”

  “I’m doing what Sarge said,” Peewee said. “If I see a damn dog out here, I’m blasting away.” Johnson was in the center of the squad with the sixty. Brunner had the radio, and the rest of the squad were to one side or the other.

  I had the claymores and three dozen grenades. The claymores were the baddest things going. They could be aimed to cover a target area and wasted anything within sixty meters in front of them. “Peewee, you got your switchblade?”

  “Damn straight,” came the quick answer.

  “Why do you always carry that thing?”

  “Case this war get serious,” Peewee said.

  “Perry, you put out the claymores?” Walowick’s voice.

  “Damn!” I forgot them. “Cover me!”

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t put out the claymores. I started off as quickly as I could, keeping a low profile. The moon seemed to float in a curtain of fog over the field. I was praying for rain. I went out and started putting in the first claymore.

  There was nothing to attach a tripwire to that looked like it would cover anything. Maybe I could have figured out something if I had stayed out a little longer, but I heard a double click coming from Peewee’s direction. I set the mine for remote detonation and got back to Peewee as soon as I could. “What’s up?” I whispered.

  “I just heard two clicks from somebody, so I passed them on,” Peewee said.

  Two clicks were our signal on the first go around. Then it would be one click, and then one and two. I made sure the grenade launcher was ready.

  “Psst!”

  Lobel was crawling toward us.

  “What’s up?”

  “Gearhart wants to know if you set the claymores for remote?”

  “Yeah. He saw me on the Scope?”

  You could see almost as well with the Starlight Scope at night as you could see in the daylight.

  “Yeah,” Peewee said. “He got Brunner on the remote.”

  It got dark quickly. I was glad for the darkness and afraid of it. Whatever was terrible I thought about. Suppose I was hit, and they didn’t notice it in the darkness? No, Peewee would notice it. I just knew he would. Peewee or Monaco. Brew came down the line and checked everybody.

  The wet ground soon had my fatigues soaked. I was getting cold. I wondered if they had actually started sending outfits home. I thought about Hawaii.

  The war was a thousand miles away. We could hear its rumbling, but all we were doing was waiting for the word to get back to the base. It wasn’t our war, I told myself. Not tonight.

  There was a faint odor that I recognized. Rotting bamboo. They used it along the paddy dikes for footing.

  I tried to think of something to think about. I didn’t want to think about Mama. If I thought about her I would get too involved. Same thing with Kenny. Same thing with Lieutenant Carroll. What to think about?

  Faye Jackson. Light-skinned, sweet-voiced girl from the Virgin Islands. I think I could have had sex with her before I left. You couldn’t tell about the girls from the Virgin Islands. I knew three, Faye and her sister and another girl named Darlene. They all swung their hips when they walked and filled my head with fantasies. I decided to have a fantasy about Faye.

  Phloop! Somebody in the squad set off a flare. We were all exposed.

  For a moment we all watched it in fascination. Then Monaco started yelling.

  “Right side! Right side! Blow the mines!”

  “No! No!” Sergeant Simpson jumped up and started waving his hands. I looked at where I had put the claymore and saw a figure moving away from it. “He turned it!”

  The claymore went off, and we all hit the dirt. I could hear bullets whining by me. I stuck my head up and saw a tracer come at me. I ducked down again. Peewee was firing. I could hear the sixty. I stuck my head up again, and the tracers kept coming at me. I ducked down again. I couldn’t believe I wasn’t hit.

  Peewee took the launcher from me and was firing it, snatching grenades from my rucksack and off my suspenders. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I put my head up again, and the tracers were headed toward the center of the squad. But they were high.

  They had looked like they were coming toward me, but they were high. There were dozens of muzzle blasts. More than I had ever seen before. It looked like a whole company. We were outnumbered! My stomach cramped and my mouth went dry.

  I got Peewee’s sixteen and started firing. Peewee had his pistol out. He let off a shot near my head that burned my ear and made my whole head ring.

  We fired and fired. I couldn’t see a thing except an occasional muzzle blast, and they seemed to be moving away.

  “Move it out! Move it out!” Sergeant Simpson was crawling along the ground. We started crawling after him.

  “Go through the paddy!” Lieutenant Gearhart said, hoarsely.

  “Hell, no!” Sergeant Simpson answered.

  We followed Sergeant Simpson until we hit the wood line. He took the Starlight from Gearhart and looked back toward the paddies. Then he signaled us to follow him.

  It was a good twenty minutes to the pickup zone if we were fast. We were fast.

  Brunner called in the pickup chopper, and we waited and prayed. We didn’t hear anything. Then we heard small arms fire to our left.

  “They hearing noises in the dark,” Sergeant Simpson said.

  We waited; it started to rain. I thanked God for the rain. The moon drifted in and out of the clouds. I thought that maybe the Congs wouldn’t look for us. The rain dripped down from the branches above us. I was cold, my knee ached, I was scared.

  A half hour passed and no chopper.

  We heard mortar rounds going off. They seemed close. We all held our breaths, but they landed off from us. The Congs didn’t know where we were. They were throwing mortars into the field behind us.

  Voices. Vietnamese. I couldn’t tell how many, or where they came from. I had taped some of the grenades to my belt. Now I pulled some of the tape off and put it over my tags, sticking them to my chest.

  “Where’s the fucking chopper?” Monaco whispered.

  “Maybe the rain’s too hard,’’ Lobel said.

  I cursed the rain. Why the hell did it have to rain?

  The voices were closer. We were bunched, too scared to move, to spread out.

  A noise to the right.

  We tried pressing against the trees, keeping our heads down. The moon came out partially. It was one Cong. He had his piece by his side. He looked around then put it down near a tree. He couldn’t have been more than the distance from home plate to the pitcher’s mound. Then he took his pants down, and squatted.

  Lieutenant Gearhart stood and started toward the Cong. Monaco raised his rifle to cover Gearhart. For a few seconds I couldn’t see Gearhart at all. Then I saw him just as the Cong saw him, but it was too late. Gearhart was on him. Monaco went toward them. By the time he got there, it was all over. Gearhart had wasted the Cong.

  The chopper. We heard it, but we couldn’t see it.

  “Sweet Mother … Density One,” Brunner spoke into the phone. “Can you spot yellow?”

  Brunner got an affirmative answer, and Brew threw a yellow signal flare toward the clearing in front of us. It flared up briefly and died, but the chopper had seen it. It came down quickly and we started for it.

  “Come on!”

  Peewee was on first with Monaco on his back. There was firing from behind us. They hadn’t spotted us yet. I got on the chopper
and twisted to help the next guy on. It was Walowick. Walowick’s piece went off and ricocheted around the inside of the chopper and got one of the crew.

  “Asshole!” The pilot kicked Walowick as Brew and Johnson got on.

  There was a scream. Not just a scream, but a sound that was like something awful and almost inhuman.

  “Man down!”

  The chopper machine guns raked the wood line.

  “Lights!”

  Simpson and Gearhart were going back. Monaco was out the door and I followed him. The chopper’s guns were sweeping everything and I ran in a crouched position. The lights went on, and I saw Gearhart and Simpson helping one of the new guys. Simpson waved at the chopper and the lights went off. We got back into the chopper, and everybody grabbed something and held on tight as it pulled away.

  “Who set the first flare off?” Monaco asked. “We got somebody here working for charlie?”

  “It just … I made a mistake,” Gearhart said.

  “Don’t be making no more mistakes, man, because I’ll frag your ass in a hot damn minute!” Monaco spat on the ground.

  “Where the medic? Where the medic?” Sergeant Simpson’s voice was high and frantic. “Who the medic?”

  “You just shot the fucking medic,” the door gunner said.

  “I’m okay.” The medic was a long shadow in the dark interior of the chopper. I could just see flashes of his face as he started examining the wounded man. A moment later a red light came on. The medic looked deathly white with dark shadows under his eyes.

  The wounded man screamed for a while, then begged for a while, then went back to screaming. We turned away from him, tried to shut him out of our minds.

  The medic fumbled briefly with the wounded man’s fatigues, then cut them away from his chest. It was Turner, the new guy from the South. His eyes were wild and his chest heaving. He started to vomit and clutch at the arms of the medic. The medic pushed his hands away. He sprinkled some powder on the wound and taped a square bandage to his chest. He patted him on the shoulder and gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  “Anybody else hit?” He closed the fatigues.