Sitting up quickly, Sal awoke from his hallucination drenched in sweat. He was breathing heavily and disoriented. With an unsteady hand he reached for the bottle of scotch resting on an ammo crate. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Sal whispered to himself.
Looking around, he could see Angel sprawled out unconscious on a chair fashioned out of sandbags. After taking a long sip from the bottle, Sal slowly laid back down.
* * * * *
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The thick leafy canopy of the jungle blocked out most of the sun; only shards of sunlight cut through. Dirt kicked up by the soldiers’ scuffling boots appeared to hang, suspended in the sparse shafts of light. Nearby, a brook lazed through green moss-covered rocks surrounding its banks. The clear water seemed to hum a sad song as it traveled carelessly to its final destination. Giant mosquitoes feasted on the exposed skin of every man. Snakes, scorpions, and ants lurked under every rock and fallen tree.
Leading the platoon through the dense foliage, with his M-16 securely in hand, Sal negotiated the unfamiliar territory with an experienced combat eye. Instinctively, he shifted his focus from the jungle floor to the next wall of green ahead of him, alert for ambushes, booby traps, mines, or an enemy bunker. Following close behind him, Angel tried to walk in Sal’s exact footsteps for fear of setting off some type of explosive device.
The rest of the platoon, approximately forty men, attempted to keep their intervals so as not to create a target-rich environment for a lone sniper or a concentrated enemy attack. One young muscular soldier carried his M-60 automatic machine gun across his straining shoulders. The metallic belt of rounds crisscrossed his body appearing like a suit of armor. Another man held an M-79 grenade launcher, poised to fire it down range at the first sign of a conflict.
In addition to their designated weapon, each man carried at a minimum: several grenades, two full ammo pouches, two colored smoke canisters, a bandage, poncho, shovel, flashlight, and a full canteen secured to their web gear.
A young soldier accidentally tripped over some tree roots and fell into the thick brush. As he struggled to right himself, his heavy pack rendered him as helpless as a turtle on its back. Eventually, several other men had to assist him in breaking free from the foliage’s suffocating grip. The men made every effort possible to avoid the tall, thick, elephant grass littering the jungle floor. If it rubbed up against your bare skin, it stung like a swarm of hornets.
Some of the more superstitious grunts had a variety of good luck charms and religious paraphernalia hanging around their necks and strapped to their steel pots. The men’s sweat-soaked rucksacks and helmets felt twice as heavy in the stifling heat. Perspiration streamed down their faces and no matter how much water they consumed, the heat and humidity sucked up their strength and stamina like a sponge. Dehydration left each man feeling weak and lightheaded. This constant battle with the elements, coupled with the anxiety of knowing an elusive enemy was waiting, only worsened an already stressful situation.
Without warning, the quiet of the jungle was violated by the whistle of a mortar round. It exploded near two men, who were blown up into the air. They fell to the ground bleeding and broken. Someone shouted, “Incoming!”
The men scrambled to cover. Dirt, rocks, sticks, and leaves pelted them as they crawled behind stumps and trees. Another mortar round exploded several feet from where Sal and Angel had just been standing before they dove beneath a dead tree trunk. The concussion from the blast ripped small trees and vegetation from the ground hurling them up into the air.
Soldiers fired their M-16s and threw grenades at what appeared to be enemy positions ahead in the brush. The M-60 gunner lit up the jungle with three-second bursts of suppressive fire, as bullets and tracer rounds ricocheted off rocks and trees. There was a great deal of shouting, smoke, and confusion. The ground shook from the continuous pounding of the mortar rounds. Fearful shouts of “Medic! Medic!” sounded out from every wounded G.I.
Enemy shells exploded all around the American forces. Bodies of young soldiers were ripped apart by direct hits. The lower portion of a human leg, boot still attached, landed several feet from Angel. He stared at the dismembered limb, its shinbone and calf bone protruding. “We gotta get the fuck outta here, man! I don’t wanna die! Not in this fucking place!” Angel shrieked.
Stupidly, Angel tried to get up, prompting Sal to secure him in a choke hold. Gasping for breath, Angel desperately tugged at the forearm. Sal slightly eased his grip and yelled, “Just relax! This is war, motherfucker! If you can survive this, you can survive anything.”
Crouching behind a tree several meters away was Sergeant Beckman. Snatching the handset from the radio operator, Beckman hollered, “Get Six on the line!” Trying to talk over the raging battle, the sergeant urgently shouted into the handset. “Charlie Six, this is Charlie Three. We’re pinned down and are under an enemy mortar attack. We need a priority fire mission now, over.”
“Charlie Three this is Charlie Six. What are your fire mission coordinates, over?”
Scanning his map, Beckman relayed the enemy’s position. “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. Fire mission coordinates are 76359er. I say again, 76359er, over.”
“Roger that, Charlie Three, 76359er. First round is on its way. We’ll need you to adjust fire, over.”
“Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, roger that, over.”
The first artillery round fell farther behind the enemy’s position than expected. The sergeant shouted back into the handset, “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, adjust fire. Adjust fire. Down fifty, over.”
“Roger that Charlie Three, adjusting fire, down fifty, over.”
Elated to see the next round fall directly on the enemy’s position and inflict casualties, Beckman screamed, “You’re right on ’em! Fire for effect. I say again, fire for effect!”
“Roger that Charlie Three, fire for effect. Keep your head down, this is Six, out.”
Tossing the handset back to the radio operator, Beckman yelled to his men, “Get down! Here it comes!”
American artillery fire relentlessly pummeled the enemy’s position. The jungle ahead of First Platoon exploded into flames and fear. Trees were blown out of the ground; bushes and shrubs were propelled across the jungle like dust in a wind storm; rocks, small rooted plants, and dirt were shot up high into the air. Screams of wounded VC and NVA soldiers ascended above billowy clouds of black smoke.
After fifteen minutes of non-stop shelling and small arms fire on both sides, the raging battle slowed, then ceased. As usual, Beckman was the first to his feet, shouting, “All right assholes, the fun’s over. On your feet. Where’s Doc? We got men here that need medical attention.”
Platoon Sergeant Donald Beckman was one of those rare and unique individuals who were truly unforgettable. He stood six-feet-four and weighed three hundred pounds. A career soldier, Beckman had a crew-cut, a mischievous grin, dangerous eyes, and a long scar on the left side of his face. While on leave in Saigon one night, he got into a fight with a drunken Marine over one particular young Vietnamese girl in his favorite brothel. When Beckman turned his head, the angry jar-head broke a beer bottle across his face giving him the nasty reminder of their encounter. Ironically, Beckman didn’t seem to care about the scar because he told anyone who asked that he got it during maneuvers in the “bad bush.”
Warily emerging from the devastation, the Platoon gathered its equipment. Handing Beckman several body bags, the Medic muttered in a subdued tone, “Here you go, Sarge,” and he knelt down beside a severely injured soldier to treat his wounds. Beckman in turn gave the bags to another soldier and barked, “Geraci, bag ’em, and tag ’em! Baginsky, Kelly, grab three FNG’s and help Geraci carry the dead and wounded. Move assholes!”
As ordered, the men solemnly loaded the remains of their dead comrades into the thick black plastic bags and sealed them. Approaching from behind, Beckman slapped Sal on the back. “Scalise, get on point. Get us the fuck outta here and watch out for boob
y traps.” Turning to the other men, the sergeant yelled, “Let’s move, motherfuckers.”
The jungle was eerily quiet and the distinct odors of scorched earth, cut leaves, sweat, and gun oil lingered in the air. Like a jungle cat, Sal maneuvered through the thick brush until he came across a suspicious spot of green leaves atop a patch of burnt ground in a clearing.
Raising his clinched fist, the men immediately stopped and covered. Silently, Sal waved Angel up to his position. Pointing down to the fresh green leaves, Sal used only hand gestures to explain that he would lift the greenery and Angel was to cover him. Nodding he understood, Sal positioned himself. On the count of three, Sal quickly lifted the foliage. Jumping up and surprising everyone was a small boy. Startled, Angel fired off a shot at the boy’s head, but Sal managed to strike the muzzle of Angel’s M-16 and divert the round.
“Damn Angel! You almost shot the little guy.”
“Good! What the fuck is he doing here, anyway?” Angel shouted, shaken.
Having learned to speak Vietnamese fluently from a Montagnard soldier Sal befriended during his first tour of duty, he questioned the frightened little boy in his native language. “Are you all right?”
“My foot hurts,” the boy answered softly.
Peering down at the foot, Sal could see a large gash. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it for you.” Kneeling down, Sal cleaned the boy’s foot using water from his canteen and an antibacterial agent. Sal then drew a bandage from its pouch and efficiently dressed the wound.
“What are you doing out here,” Sal asked curiously.
“I was looking for my dog. I must find him!” the boy answered, sounding sincere.
“Why were you hiding under the leaves?”
“I was afraid that you might be Vietcong soldiers.”
“Where do you live?”
The boy pointed east. “I live in the WatooVillage by the river.”
Sal removed a map from his pack and examined it. Angered by the delay, Sergeant Beckman moved in on the situation. “What the fuck’s going on here, Scalise? We need to be at Check Point Victor Tango in thirty mikes for extraction. What’s the fucking hold up?”
Trying to impress the sergeant, Angel sounded out, “We found this little kid. He’s hurt.”
“Nobody’s fucking talking to you, cherry. I’m talking to him. Scalise, this ain’t no fucking children’s hospital. Leave the little dink for the rats. Move out.”
“C’mon Beck, he’s all banged up. He lives in a village about two clicks down river. We’re going right by it. I can carry him the whole way.”
“Scalise, I always thought you was a badass from New York. Turns out you’re sweet, like a little flower,” Beckman mocked, sounding like a little girl. Then his voice became gruff and amplified, “Carry the little fucker if you wanna. We need to didi now.” Turning to Angel, Beckman snapped, “Hernandez, you’re on point. Move your sorry fucking ass troop.”
Scurrying out front of the Platoon, Angel assumed point. Slinging his M-16 to his pack, Sal scooped up the boy and carried him in his arms like a bride across the threshold. After humping several hundred meters, Angel spotted something. Raising his fist, everyone stopped and covered. Angel waved Sal up to his position. Laying the boy down on the ground along with his pack and weapon, Sal drew his .45 from its holster, and quickly moved up to Angel.
“What do you see?” Sal whispered.
Angel shook his head. “Nothing, forget it. I thought it was a fucking bunker.”
Suddenly, a burst of automatic gunfire rang out, followed by a single shot. Racing back to the boy, Sal was horrified to find three of his fellow soldiers lying dead on the ground and the boy shot through the head still clutching Sal’s M-16. “What the fuck happened?”
Rifling through the dead boy’s clothes, Beckman still held his .45-cal pistol in his hand as smoke rose from the barrel. The sergeant quickly found enemy documents, papers, and other intelligence carefully hidden in the boy’s clothing. “Scalise, I gotta fucking hand it to you. You sure can pick ’em. This little fucker was a sapper. He must’ve got caught up in our artillery fire and couldn’t make it back to his tunnel.”
Dropping down to his knees, Sal frantically checked the fallen men’s vital signs. The sergeant angrily shoved Sal away from the bodies of the dead soldiers. “Forget ’em asshole. They’re fucking gone. Scalise, get back on point. And don’t pick up anymore fucking strays. Doc take care of these poor bastards. I need people to carry these bodies. Let’s move!”
Sal snatched up his rifle and pack, and staggered away from the bullet-riddled bodies of his fellow soldiers, wrongly blaming himself for their deaths.
* * * * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sal sat on his bunk gulping scotch from a bottle while Angel slumped in a chair puffing on a joint. “Hermano, it’s been two fucking days and you’re still thinking about that fucking gook kid? The little dink deserved what he got. I only wish it was me who greased that little cocksucker insteada Beck.”
“Fuck him!” Sal took a long hit from the joint. “I’m thinking about the poor bastards that got wasted ’cause I was fucking stupid enough to try and help that little fucker.”
“Don’t sweat it, homey. Those motherfuckers was gonna get it sooner or later. This place is a fucking trip, man. You can’t trust nobody up in this motherfucker. Death’s right around the corner for all of us, hermano.”
“I heard that.”
Sitting up, Angel took the joint back. “Hermano, I been thinking about some serious shit lately.”
“Like what?”
“I been thinking about what we should do when we didi outta this motherfucker. I thought maybe we could go into business for ourselves. Kinda like the way you and that Jew was gonna do.”
“Angel, don’t be thinking too much. Awright?”
“Hold up! You’ve been telling me since I met you that the smart guys always got a plan. Well, I got a fucking plan. I know dudes back in Harlem, some real fucking heavy hitters. And I know that you know your way around the Bronx. I figure we could set up shop, and go into business for ourselves. We could make a fucking killing dealing horse back home.”
“All I’m thinking about right now is getting over to the Lucky Dragon to get me some pussy. We’ve been shooting up so much lately I ain’t had a woman in months. I’m fucking backed up.”
“Ain’t you even gonna talk to me about it?”
“There ain’t nothing to talk about. If we’re lucky enough to get outta here, I figure you’ll go your way and I’ll go mine. All that friends-for-life bullshit sounds good in the movies, but the truth is, it’s a dog-eat-dog motherfucking world. You ain’t figured that out yet?”
“I see how things is, hermano. I guess after all the good times we done had, and after all the shit we been through, I’ll always just be a dumb fucking spic to you.”
Sal laughed. “Angel, what the fuck crawled up your ass? Chances are, neither one of us is gonna make it outta this fucking meat grinder in one piece. And I’m telling you just like a virgin on prom night, we’re gonna end up getting fucked, one way or another. So stop fucking talking about going home. You’re gonna fucking jinx us.” Standing, Sal finished off the scotch and tossed the empty bottle onto his bunk. “I really need to get some man. So let’s do it to it.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. The funny thing about pussy is we spend the first nine-months of our lives trying to get outta it, and the resta our lives trying to get back into it.”
“Ain’t that the motherfucking truth?”
Stepping out of the tent, Sal and Angel fleetly covered the distance between their base camp and one of the most popular brothels in their sector: the Lucky Dragon. Formerly known as the PierreHotel, the Pierre was once a beautiful, haughty French hotel. It catered to esteemed French dignitaries, government leaders, and VIP’s from all over the world. When France pulled out of Southeast Asia after suffering a humiliating defeat at Dienbienphu in May of 1954, the propriet
or closed its doors for good. Consequently, he fled Indochina for the safety of Paris, leaving the hotel to be taken over by the local Vietminh crime bosses. The elegant locale soon became a place of prostitution, gambling, and narcotics trafficking.
Entering through the stylish front doors, Sal and Angel were greeted by an old Vietnamese woman seated behind what was once the front desk. A crudely stated sign on the wall above her head read in English: “Over One Million G.I’s Served.” After collecting their twenty-dollar “entertainment fee,” the woman directed them to sit in a waiting room.
Several minutes later, a very young, attractive Vietnamese girl of about sixteen motioned them to follow her. Leading them down a hall, she stopped in front of two individual rooms. In broken English, the girl instructed them to enter their rooms, close the door, and wait.
Swaggering into his room, Angel flashed Sal an adolescent smile and a thumbs up. Strolling into his, Sal closed the door, and got comfortable on the bed. Minutes later the door slowly creaked open and an even younger girl, looking more Polynesian than Vietnamese, tiptoed into the room dressed in a seductive teddy. Pin-straight, shoulder-length, shiny black hair outlined her stunning face. Her exotic dark eyes were accompanied by an innocent smile, well-developed breasts, and a hard, sexy body.
Sal rose quickly from the bed and went to her. Romantically, he embraced the adolescent beauty and asked sweetly, “How you doing?”
The girl trembled as if unaccustomed to kindness or possibly frightened by the impending acts of perversion. Light from a full moon shown through the window onto the girl’s face making it easier to gage her age and prompting Sal to inquire, “Hey, how old are you?”
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