Sally Boy

by P. Vincent DeMartino

  Wearing too much makeup in a feeble attempt to look older, the frightened little mouse squeaked out with a Vietnamese accent, “Sixteen.”

  “Hell no! How old are you really?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Tell that lady to send me another girl. I ain’t...I can’t...I’m sorry.” Sal hurriedly headed toward the door as if he were going to leave. Chasing after him, the girl took hold of Sal’s uniform and stopped him. “Please don’t go!”

  “Look, it ain’t personal. I think you’re very cute. It’s just...I can’t do this.”

  “Why not? I’m a woman and you’re a man.”

  Holding back a laugh, Sal kindly explained, “I know. But I’m too old for you.”

  “If you refuse me, they will beat me, and throw me out into the street.”

  Sal shook his head in disgust. “I don’t wanna see you get hurt. But I don’t know what else to do.” Sal sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched his head. Gazing down on his troubled face, the Asian beauty asked sheepishly, “You do not find me desirable?”

  Nodding, Sal stated enthusiastically, “I find you very desirable. It’s just that where I come from we don’t...you’re just too young for me.”

  “I’ve been with many American men much older than you.”

  “What the hell are you doing here, anyways?” Sal fired back, angered by her circumstances.

  “I do not have any place to go.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “I’ve been working all day. May I please sit down?”

  “Sure. Lay down. Relax.”

  Stretching out on the bed, the girl requested politely, “Please lie down next to me.”

  “Awright,” Sal replied kindly and slid into bed next to her.

  “My family fled to Laos after the Tet lunar New Year.”

  “Why didn’t you go with ’em?”

  “I was on my way to meet them. But something terrible happened to me.”

  “What happened?”

  “I stopped to buy some fruit for our journey, when a young boy who had a grenade hidden in his clothes blew himself up. He was trying to kill some American soldiers seated in a nearby cafe. I was sent to a hospital. My family didn’t know where I was. They were told by the American nurses at the hospital that I was killed in the explosion. My family had little time, so they left for Laos. The nurses at the hospital promised my mother they would see that I was given a proper burial.”

  “That’s terrible. Do you have any idea where your family is?”

  “Yes, I know exactly where they are. They live with my uncle in a small village just across the border.”

  “So why don’t you just head over there?”

  “It’s very dangerous. If I can save up enough money I can bribe the soldiers and pay a guide to take me safely across the border so I can be with my family.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “One hundred American dollars,” the girl said, sounding desperate.

  “How much do you got?”

  “They pay me one dollar per customer here. I have twenty dollars saved.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Why are you angry?”

  “It ain’t right that you gotta do this. I guess it ain’t right for me to be here either. But that’s a different story completely.”

  “You are a very nice man. I can see kindness and honor in your eyes,” the girl said as she reached out and gently stroked Sal’s cheeks.

  “You can see all that just from looking into my eyes, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll be out in the jungle hunting and killing your people. What do you think about me now?”

  Affectionately, she smiled. “I think you are a good man who is in a very, very bad place.”

  “You’re pretty smart for a little girl.” Reaching into his pocket Sal pulled out every dollar he had left. “Here, I got a hundred and twenty dollars. It’s all I got. It’s yours. Just promise me that you’ll use the money to find your family.”

  “I cannot take your money.”

  “Sure you can. If you don’t, I’ll just use it for something stupid, or lose it gambling. I’d rather see it go for something good. Please, take it. Find your family. My God, you’re just a baby. You deserve a better life than this.” Sal placed the money into the girl’s hand and closed her fingers tightly around the cash.

  “I will. I promise. Only a man of honor would do this for a stranger.”

  The sound of squeaking bedsprings could be heard from Angel’s room. Slowly, Sal’s eyes moved over the girl’s body. “Yeah, I’m a real prince.”

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun hadn’t even made its presence felt by the time Delta Company loaded up onto the choppers. The Huey’s lifted-off from the base camp heliports and sliced through the moon-lit sky like birds of prey. The aircrafts were cramped, and each soldier struggled to find a comfortable position. Eventually, the blade slap fell into a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence, and the men’s minds began to drift. The flight was long and uneventful, giving the soldiers too much time to think about wives, girlfriends, and families: thoughts that might freeze up new recruits in a fire-fight and get themselves or someone else killed.

  As the sun climbed over the horizon it ignited another scorching hot, humid day in the jungle. Unbeknownst to the men of First Platoon, they were on a mission that would soon dramatically alter the course of many lives. Shattering the quiet on the lead Huey, Sergeant Beckman shouted, “Get ready, assholes. We’re going in.”

  The helicopter descended quickly. Promptly, that Huey was followed by the next chopper, and so on. Leveling off several feet above the ground, the experienced combat pilots slowed their forward progress, maintaining just enough speed to avoid being a stationary target. M-60 door gunners opened up, spraying the surrounding terrain with cover-fire. Leaping from the helicopters, the men sprinted from the LZ toward the concealment of the jungle. After the last man had jumped, the Huey’s quickly ascended with the M-60 gunners continuing to pepper the landscape.

  Instinctively, every veteran soldier knew by the uneasy feeling in his stomach that they were deep in enemy territory. The jungle held many dangers, but the knowledge that the crafty enemy had the ultimate home-field advantage caused them the greatest discomfort. Knowing that a VC ambush might be waiting behind the next, never ending wall of green was quite unnerving.

  These fears, whether real or imagined, made every man tighten up just a little more. Understanding that there were only two ways out of the bush, either on your feet or in a bag, each man carried on.

  Beckman raised his hand and shouted, “First Platoon over here!” The men fell into formation as the sergeant singled out his favorite target. “Scalise, I want you on point. Big fucking surprise, huh?”

  “You know Beck, just once I’d like you to forget my name.”

  “I’m gonna make you famous, Scalise. You’re gonna be the Guinea’s answer to Sergeant York and Audie Murphy.”

  “Fuck you,” Sal fired back in lighthearted tone.

  “Scalise, if you wasn’t my best point man, I’d kick your little wop ass all the way back to the Bronx,” the sergeant threatened in a jovial tone.

  “You mean you’d try, fat man.”

  “Come here, Sal. I wanna talk to you for a second.”

  “‘Sal?’ You never call me ‘Sal.’ This must be pretty fucking important.”

  Leading Sal away from the Platoon, the sergeant looked around to ensure that they were out of earshot.

  “What’s the matter, Beck? You’re acting like...like you’re fucking scared or something.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Scalise. Look, I know we’re gonna run into something pretty fucking hairy out there. Our Platoon is the bait to bring ’em out. The Intel on this is all screwed up and that asshole Lieutenant Symonds is dumber than shit. He volunteered our Platoon to lead out on this operation against my advisement not to. That bootlicke
r must be looking to make Captain with our blood.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “You’re the only one I can count on. Take us out slow and don’t let the men get too spread out. They’re fucking out there. If they catch us with our pants down there’s gonna be a fucking massacre. I ain’t gonna leave here with our tails between our legs like the fucking French. So don’t let our strength get cut in half. Roger that?”

  “Yeah, I roger that.”

  “Keep the radio operator close and your grid map handy if we need air support.”

  “No problem.” Sal started to move out.

  Taking hold of Sal’s arm, Beckman hesitantly confessed, “Yeah, I am. Scared, I mean. If you had any fucking sense in that thick guinea skull of yours, you’d be too.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Beck.” Feeling even more ill at ease, Sal made his way over to the radio operator. Bobby Thompson was a tall, thin, good-looking, nineteen-year-old kid from Philadelphia. “What’s up, Sal?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t fucking know, man. Nonea this shit feels right to me. Bobby, you better stick close. If things get shitty, we’re gonna need arty and air support to get the fuck outta here with our balls intact.”

  “Roger that. I’ll be right behind you,” Bobby assured.

  After negotiating several hundred meters of unforgiving terrain, Sal looked back over his shoulder. Making every effort possible to keep the men moving at their proper intervals, Sal noted, through no fault of his own, that the platoon had thinned out far too much. Most of the men were falling farther behind than advisable. Faintly, Sal could hear Beckman’s steady flow of obscenities and insults directed at the slower men. Sal watched as the sergeant fell back, disappearing into the dense brush behind him.

  Stalling for time to give the other men a chance to re-establish their intervals, Sal removed his canteen from his web gear. Swallowing a few mouthfuls of the precious liquid, he turned to Bobby. “You want a sip?”

  “No thanks, Sal.”

  A terrible, sharp whizzing sliced the air. Tracer rounds whistled by their heads and men dropped all around, screaming, “I’m hit! I’m hit!” Knowing that First Platoon had wandered into the trap, Sal screamed as loud as he could to alert the men further back, “Take cover! Take cover!”

  Enemy mortar rounds fell like a sudden downpour from the sky. Agonizing shrieks of “Medic!” rose over the distinctive rat-a-tat-tat of the enemy’s AK-47 automatic gunfire. Streaking toward cover, Sal and Bobby took up a position in the high ground near a cluster of trees. They laid down three-second bursts of suppressive fire while Sal attempted to assess the Platoon’s situation. Gut instinct told him that he and First Platoon were in deep shit. Pulling his map from his pocket, Sal intently studied it. “We need air support right now! Call it in, Bobby, coordinates 09er326.”

  Excitedly, Bobby repeated the coordinates back to Sal, “09er326, you got it!” Urgently, he yelled into the handset, “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, over.” He waited for a response. “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, over...Charlie Six this is Charlie Three, over.” Bobby turned to Sal. “They’re not responding!”

  “Keep fucking trying. This is it, man!” Firing several more bursts of gunfire, Sal pulled the pin on one of his grenades and hurled it down range toward an enemy muzzle flash.

  “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. If you can hear me we need air support at coordinates 09er326. We have encountered a large enemy force and are in danger of being over-run, over.”

  “Bobby, where the fuck is Beck? He should be up here by now.”

  “I don’t know, Sal.” Bobby looked around. “Maybe he’s dead!”

  As he surveyed the surrounding terrain, Sal recognized that First Platoon was vulnerable on their left. Worried the enemy would maneuver into a position that would give them the advantage, Sal ordered, “Bobby Get Six on the horn. We need air support right now! We gotta protect our left flank. If they get us in a crossfire, we are truly fucked. I ain’t fucking going out like that!”

  Finally, Six responded: “Charlie Three this is Charlie Six, over.”

  “Thank God!” Bobby shouted back. “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. We need air support ASAP. We’re getting the shit blown out of us, over.”

  “Charlie Three this is Charlie Six. We were experiencing technical problems. We did receive your initial transmissions and have birds on the way. They should be there shortly but you’re gonna have to talk them in and drop smoke, over.”

  “Roger that, Charlie Six.” Looking up, Bobby saw a squadron of F-100 Supersabre’s rapidly approaching. “Charlie Six this is Charlie Three. We got the birds in sight and are dropping smoke, over.”

  “Hang in there, Charlie Three. If you need us we’ll be here. This is Six, out.”

  Ripping a canister of colored smoke off his web gear, Sal popped it and tossed it as far ahead of his position as he could. Speedily, he popped another and another, tossing them down range. The green mist slowly rose up into the air, marking the furthest forward progress of First Platoon, and giving the pilots an accurate indicator of the enemy’s position.

  The veteran combat pilots descended quickly. The aircraft came in fast and low, firing deadly salvos of rockets, and spraying the enemy ground troops with their 50-caliber guns. Other planes dropped their payloads directly onto the NVA soldiers who had dug-in positions.

  Sal scanned the sky and noticed that several fixed-wing aircraft were coming in at too much of a direct angle to First Platoon’s position. Fearing that the pilots would drop their ordinates too early, and that they might strike the American troops, Sal hollered, “Hey Bobby, those guys, they’re bringing it in pretty damn close. Call’em off to our whiskey right now!”

  “No problem, Sal. This is Charlie Three to Squadron Leader. Charlie Three to Squadron Leader, over”

  “Charlie Three this is Squadron Leader, ‘Silk Daddy,’ over.”

  “Silk Daddy, this is Charlie Three. We need your two approaching aircraft from the North to pull off about a hundred yards to our whiskey. They’re bringing it in a little too tight, over.”

  “Charlie Three, that’s me and my wing-man you’re referring to. We see your smoke and we have those little people in sight. We are adjusting to target, over.”

  Skillfully, the pilots performed a left banking maneuver allowing the streaking fighter-bombers to drop their napalm and white-phosphorous directly onto the NVA forces. The jungle burst into flames and all that could be heard were the blood-curdling screams of burning enemy soldiers. Eventually the giant blaze receded into small scattered brush fires and the distressing shrieks of anguish faded to a smoldering silence.

  “Damn, that was some good flying! Tell that son-of-a-bitch drinks are on us,” Sal yelled, excitedly.

  “Silk Daddy, beers are on us! Thanks, over.”

  “Charlie Three, glad to be of service. Oh, by the way, I was just wondering if you guys know where you are.”

  Bobby shrugged, “Vietnam?”

  “That’s a negative, Charlie Three. You’re in Cambodia, over.”

  “What the fuck are we doing in Cambodia?” Sal asked, confused.

  “I got no fucking idea. But with that asshole Symonds in charge, we’re lucky we’re not in China.” Talking back into his handset Bobby continued, “Silk Daddy, this is Charlie Three. We are aware of our position. Have a safe trip home, over.”

  Before disengaging, the two aircraft circled First Platoon’s position one last time. “Charlie Three, this is Silk Daddy, just an FYI. Last intelligence I saw showed the enemy had a heavy troop build-up on the border. You boys might wanna think about making a hasty departure at your earliest convenience, over.”

  “Silk Daddy, this is Charlie Three, roger that. Thanks for the help, out.”

  Spotting Angel on a hill near his position, Sal tapped Bobby on his shoulder. “Follow me!”

  Amidst a hail of bullets, the two men sprinted over to Angel’s position. Firing back as he ran, Sal peppere
d the surrounding jungle. Cowering behind a large dirt mound, Angel lay motionless. Dropping down right next to him, Sal hollered angrily, “Why ain’t you firing, asshole?”

  “Sal, are you fucking crazy! What the fuck are you doing?”

  “I’m saving your ass again, you stupid bastard. Fire your fucking weapon!”

  Angel held his weapon away from his body and fired it indiscriminately down range, blindly spraying whatever was in front of him.

  Sal laughed. “You’d think by the way they’re shooting at you, Charlie must know you’re Puerto Rican.”

  “Yeah, well, if I’m gonna die, I’m glad it’s gonna be with your crazy ass.”

  “Oh yeah, why is that?”

  “’Cause if we’re going to hell, I bet you’ll know where to get the best pizza.”

  Sal smiled. “You got that right.”

  Foolishly, Angel rose up to fire his weapon and took an enemy round in his left upper chest. The force of the round knocked him to the ground. Clutching his wound, Angel yelled, “I’m hit, Sal!”

  Reacting quickly, Sal tore open a bandage and pressed it down on the bullet hole. “Medic! Medic!” he screamed loudly.

  Angel coughed and some blood came out of his mouth and trickled down his chin. “Sal, am I gonna be awright?”

  Forcing a smile, Sal responded, “You’re gonna be fine. Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen plenty of guys worse off than you make it. You’re good to go.”

  The Medic arrived, sweating profusely and covered in the blood of other wounded soldiers. Dropping down to his knees, he removed Sal’s bandage and inspected the severity of the wound. “Holy fuck!”

  “Is it that bad?” Angel asked meekly.

  “No, it’s not bad at all.” Firing a disapproving look at the Medic, Sal instructed his friend, “Just lie there and be quiet so he can fix you.”

  The Medic removed a small plastic bag containing a needle and tore it open. Discarding the cap, he jabbed Angel’s leg, administering morphine for the pain, and then covered the wound with a large bandage.