Guns Up!

by Johnnie Clark

“Let’s get out of here,” Chan said, breaking the tension.

  “Yeah. Come on,” Doyle said nervously.

  The chief turned away. “Move out.” We slid back down to the ravine.

  The walk back to the platoon felt like a frightening dream that didn’t want to end. Lieutenant Lampe’s face already showed the strain of command. He barely controlled a dangerously loud laugh at the sight of Sam. He quickly regained his composure and looked around for the gunny, who stood right behind him. They exchanged a couple of words I couldn’t hear, then turned and passed the word. “Saddle up!”

  We moved back down to the mouth of the winding ravine at a quick-time pace. The yellow sun was turning orange as it dropped. No more than fifteen minutes of daylight left, I thought. We climbed to the top of a small barren hill. Lieutenant Lampe relayed a message to Alpha one, then turned the show over to Corporal Elbon, the new forward observer.

  Soon the faint whistle of a big 1.55 spotter round could be heard overhead, pushing air out of its way. A moment later a white mushroom cloud peeked above the treetops in the distance.

  “Right on! Fire for effect! Repeat. Fire for effect!” Corporal Elbon’s voice carried across the tiny perimeter. Soon the whistles of 1.55s filled the air above us. Loud cracks followed by thunderous explosions lit up the darkening jungle at the other end of the ravine. A chorus of faraway screams sifted through the artillery explosions.

  “Fire for effect! Keep firing! Fire for effect!” Elbon shouted from the center of the perimeter.

  “Saddle up!” Gunny shouted.

  “Fire for effect!” Elbon repeated.

  An artillery round landed at the foot of our small hill. I jumped.

  “Short round,” Chan said calmly.

  A minute later the column moved down the mountain with 1.55s still whistling overhead. An hour later we set up a perimeter on the bank of a river and spent the night fighting off mosquitoes. By morning I felt like a victim of Dracula. The sight of green smoke made me forget my swollen, mosquito-bitten face.

  “Saddle up!” someone shouted from the CP. “Choppers!”

  “It would appear we’re going for a ride, Baby-san,” Chan said.

  The chopper ride back to An Hoa took no time at all. I wondered if the pilots could ever imagine just how miserable the same distance on foot was. We spent the night in a tent near the tubes. Our tent smelled like the inside of a urinal. I guess they didn’t want us to get too comfortable. The whole company had been brought in. A bad sign.

  The next morning started with a predawn company formation. Some jerk pogue camouflaged from head to toe passed out gas masks to everyone. Another bad sign. I couldn’t imagine fighting in the darn things. There was no peripheral vision and very little frontal. We tried the gas masks on while some skinny captain told us we’d be landing in a hot LZ that would be hit with tear gas first. We marched to a long row of waiting assault choppers and began filing on, one squad at a time. I still couldn’t believe it. Some of the men were getting openly hostile about the idea, screaming out loud that they wouldn’t fight in masks. Two black riflemen in Third Platoon threw their masks in the dirt and refused to enter the chopper next to the one Chan and I were filing into. Sergeant Mooney of Third Platoon ran toward the two with his M16 rifle ready. Just then the ramp hatch of our chopper closed. A few seconds later we were airborne.

  My heart pounded blood into my face until it felt flush. Chan helped me strap the gas mask on tightly, then I helped him. His eyes told me he couldn’t believe this either. The supposedly clear plastic I was to see through was yellowed, scratched, and battered. It would be a miracle to spot a charging battalion at five meters. After a twenty-minute ride we started circling. I could see two more choppers circling behind us, then three, then five. Finally we began circling down. Chan held out his hand. I shook it. We gave each other a thumbs up.

  The chopper hit the ground with a slight bounce. The hatch fell open. We ran out. We found ourselves in an open field. Pockets of smoke hid whole areas like a fog. I could taste the bitter tear gas through my mask. Other choppers were landing and taking off around the field, their rotors blowing the gas in all directions like giant fans. Marines ran toward a tree line to our left. I could barely see other figures running in another direction. AKs opened up on the left from the tree line. M16s opened up on our right. I couldn’t see what was going on. My scratchy yellow vision frustrated me. I started to rip it off, then wondered for an instant if it was really tear gas. AKs started firing from behind me. Gas or bullets, what’s the difference! I ripped the mask off, threw it to the ground, and cursed the Marine Corps as I ran toward the tree line. I could feel a strong wind hitting me in the face as I ran. My eyes burned. I began coughing. I spotted a smokeless area to my right. I ran for it, holding my breath until I reached it, then gasping for the clean air between biting coughs. Mucus poured from my nose and water from my eyes.

  “Second Platoon!” someone shouted from the fog. “Second Platoon! Over here!” The voice sounded close.

  “First Platoon! Mount up! Over here!”

  “Hey!” Someone grabbed my shoulder. “This First Platoon?”

  I turned to see who was talking to me. It was a black Marine, his eyes swollen, watering, and red. He started coughing.

  “I’m Second Platoon. I think I heard First Platoon over there.” I pointed to our left. He headed that way.

  “Second Platoon! Over here!” A strong wind scattered the gas into thin gray pockets. I could see the voice now. It was good ol’ freckle-faced Sudsy. Most of the platoon huddled nearby. Not one man still wearing a mask.

  By the time all the platoons were organized into units again the gooks could have played a couple of hands of poker and still had time to dig a tunnel out of our poorly planned trap. Somebody in Third Platoon killed a gook in a tree, and First Platoon got two prisoners who were too stoned to notice the gas or the assaulting Marines. Second Platoon blew up two tunnels. Total: one confirmed; two POWs.

  The walk back to An Hoa was the usual pain in the butt. Then it got worse. Sixteen inches of rain worse. Not that I counted the inches, but that’s what they told us on Armed Forces Radio when we finally reached An Hoa. They called it the northeast monsoon. We called it everything else. We spent the night at An Hoa. Even the constant blast of the big 1.55s couldn’t keep me from feeling cozy in a back corner of the big tent. Hearing the pounding rain and not being in it felt wonderful. Sudsy and Doyle played cards by candlelight in one corner of the tent.

  “Let us prepare coffee.” Chan tossed me a small piece of C-4 from the cot on my left.

  “Yeah. Good idea, Chan,” I said. Suddenly the flap door of the tent blew open, spraying water over the row of cots. Sam jumped up and tied it shut again. Another series of 1.55s exploded toward their targets.

  “In Florida we’d call this a hurricane,” I said.

  “Man! They’re sure lettin’ loose tonight.”

  The voice came from the cot on the other side of Chan. It was Corporal Elbon, the new FO.

  “Want some coffee?” I asked.

  “Yeah. That sounds good.”

  He moved over and sat beside me on my cot, facing Chan. He was brisk and serious and overly handsome, like one of those unsmiling models for Gentleman’s Quarterly.

  “What are you doing traveling with a grunt unit?” Chan asked.

  “I’ve done it a few times. Usually for big operations. Sometimes they send us out just to keep us on our toes. Don’t they mind if you guys cook with C-4?” Joe looked slightly concerned as I put a match to the C-4 inside our C-ration can-stove.

  “We don’t ask,” I said.

  The flap of the tent jerked open again. This time a Marine carrying a thick-barreled sniper rifle in his left hand rushed in with water pouring off his camouflaged poncho. He seemed to be protecting something with his right hand.

  “Is Joe Elbon in here?” a husky voice asked.

  “Yeah,” Joe answered. “Back here.”

  The d
ripping Marine moved toward us slowly, his boots squishing water with each step. He squinted to see us in the dimly lit tent.

  “Joe?”

  “Back here,” Joe repeated.

  “It’s me. Harpo.” He pulled a tiny sad-faced black-and-white-spotted puppy from under his poncho.

  “I got Killer with me.”

  He held the tiny sad-faced puppy out with one hand. Joe jumped to his feet, his serious face gone and gushing with happiness. He took the puppy and started kissing his little black dot of a nose. The puppy seemed to cheer up, too. He started licking Joe all over the face. He chirped what was supposed to be a bark.

  “Thanks, Harpo,” Joe said between licks. “How’d you know I was here?”

  Harpo pulled off his poncho, revealing a totally shaved head, and sat on the end of Chan’s cot with his sniper rifle between his legs. His rifle had the fattest barrel and biggest scope on it I’d ever seen.

  “That was easy to find out. Everybody’s in.”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “Thuong Duc special forces camp is getting hit or overrun or something.”

  “You mean we’re saving the Green Berets again?” I asked.

  “That’s what it looks like,” Harpo said.

  Chan looked up from stirring our coffee. “Wait till the chief hears about this,” he said.

  “What are you doing in here, Joe?” Harpo asked. “Why aren’t you in the CP tent?”

  Joe looked like he wanted to avoid the question. He glanced down and mumbled something none of us could hear.

  “Speak up,” Harpo said.

  “There’s a guy in the CP I hate. No big deal. How ’bout you, Harpo? Got any more confirmed with that cannon?”

  “Who do you hate in the CP?” I asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Joe said. His tone was serious. He flushed and gazed down at his hands, trying unsuccessfully to conceal a seething anger. I decided to be nosy another day.

  “Chan, did you see that?” I pointed at Harpo’s rifle.

  “Yes. I’ve never seen a barrel with that thick of a bore.”

  “I just got a fourteen-hundred meter confirmed two days ago,” Harpo boasted proudly. He pointed to the last notch in a row of small cuts on the rifle butt.

  “Fourteen hundred meters?” Chan asked. “Really?”

  “Yeah! My partner found ’em with a small telescope. Then I found them in the rifle scope. Three gooks sitting around a small fire eating rice, with AKs lying next to ’em. It took three shots to get one.”

  “Three shots? Why didn’t they take off?” I asked.

  “I was so far away that either they didn’t hear the shot or they didn’t pay any attention to it. None of ’em even looked my way on the first two misses. I had to walk up to the one I was aiming at. The first two shots were short. They all stopped eating and pointed at the ground where my rounds kicked up dirt, but they didn’t know what it was. They just kept squatting there holding bowls. Then the third shot blew this one right off his haunches.” Harpo laughed. “The other two dropped their bowls and beat feet out of there.”

  “Mind if I look at your rifle?” Chan asked.

  “No, go ahead.” Harpo handed it to Chan, who handled it as if it were something precious.

  “This rifle probably cost two or three thousand dollars,” Chan said.

  “At least,” Harpo agreed.

  “Have you heard anything else about this operation?” I asked.

  “I know the Seventh Marines and some ARVN regiment are already there. Scuttlebutt says they found a whole division of NVA.”

  “That’s why they’ve kept me with you guys,” Joe said, as if the mystery was over.

  “I’m sure it is, Joe,” Harpo said. “They’ve been using Puff and B-52 strikes.”

  “That explains it,” Joe said. “I was wondering why I hadn’t been reassigned. I don’t usually stay with a grunt outfit this long.”

  “If you’re the one who calls in the Phantoms and Puff, ol’ buddy, you ain’t goin’ nowhere,” I said. I gave Joe a slap on the back.

  “It’s a double-edged sword, John.” Chan’s teeth gleamed in an ironic smile. “FOs don’t come along unless they know you’re going to need the big stuff.”

  “He’s right,” Joe agreed.

  “I wish you guys luck tomorrow,” Harpo said. “I got a feeling you’re in for a big time. You remember Jonsey?”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “Where did you see him?”

  “His recon team came through two days ago. They sat in on a hill above the Vu Gia River near Thuong Duc for eight days, barely moving a muscle the whole time. On the eighth day a whole company came strolling by in daylight. They called in air and artillery and got a bunch of ’em. Then, the very next day, another full company walked into the killing zone. They said they counted two hundred four dead and they didn’t lose a man. There must be a ton of gooks in that area!”

  “Think he was exaggerating?” Chan asked.

  “No. His buddies said the same thing.” Harpo stood up. “I have to get going. What are you going to do about your baby?” Harpo gave the droopy-eyed puppy one last pat.

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “Take care.” Joe stood up. They shook hands, then Harpo slapped Joe on the back and gave him a quick strong hug. He rushed out of the tent and into the dark storm. Joe stood for a few moments, then sat down with a faraway look.

  “How long have you guys known each other?” I asked.

  “Since I was born,” Joe said. “That’s my brother.”

  The flap door of the tent burst open just as a loud crack of lightning shot an eerie blue light across An Hoa. Sudsy stepped inside our tent. Water cascaded off his poncho as he pulled the hood back.

  “Is Corporal Elbon in here?” Sudsy squinted to see faces in the dim light.

  “Yeah, over here,” Joe said.

  “They want you at the CP. We’re movin’ out.”

  The tent erupted in shouting and cursing. Someone threw a helmet at Sudsy. He pulled his poncho hood over his head and ran out. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted more than anything to sleep out of the rain. I had my heart set on it. Joe put Killer in his pack, snatched up his gear, and stood up.

  “Good luck.”

  “You too, Joe,” I said.

  “See you in the mud,” Chan said.

  Joe gave us a thumbs up, then turned and maneuvered through the tent full of angry Marines.

  Ten minutes later we stood in formation in the blinding storm. Corporal James went by each man in the platoon counting out loud. When he finished he ran back to the lieutenant.

  “Left face!”

  The shout could hardly be heard over the pounding rain. The hump was on again. I was already tired. A vicious sheet of driving rain staggered the column like a hurt boxer as we reached the barbed-wire gate to exit An Hoa. Three hours later the rain subsided. By the time the first streaks of sunlight outlined the steep mountains ahead, I was half dry and half asleep. The low roar of a flight of Phantoms opened my eyes a little wider. The sound of bombs hitting the earth like giant drums echoed from the mountains. We crossed at a shallow point on the wide Vu Gia River. We reached the other side, crawled up the river bank and onto a winding dirt road that paralleled the river. A streaking Phantom ripped overhead with black smoke trailing behind.

  “Hey! That Phantom’s hit!” Doyle exclaimed, but no one paid any attention. I could hear small-arms fire. It sounded about a mile away.

  “Take five!”

  “Take five!”

  “Take five!”

  “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.”

  Swift Eagle sent three men into the bush on the right flank of the road as the rest of the column collapsed on both sides of the road. Some men quickly dug for C-rations while others just fell back and closed their eyes. I threw oil on the M60 with my toothbrush and watched Sam, Doyle, and Corporal James start up a tired-looking game of Back Alley. Sam claimed the men of Alpha had bought him a Corvette playing
cards. I wondered if it was true. I knew a lot of money changed hands. No one seemed to treat MPC like real money. It looked like Vietnamese Monopoly money. It was colorful and about the same size. No one cared. They couldn’t spend it any other way. Chubby Doyle pushed his Coke-bottle-lensed glasses farther up on his pug nose and looked up from his cards.

  “Hey, what’s the date? It’s October, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I said. “Is it?”

  “Yes,” Chan said. “It is October 9, 1968,” he said in a businesslike, matter-of-fact tone.

  “Really!” I said. “October 12 is my birthday. I almost missed it. I thought it was September.”

  “Do you hear that?” Sam asked. The rumbling engine of something big suddenly sounded very close.

  “That’s a tank,” Corporal James said tentatively, as if he wasn’t sure. He stood up and looked down the road.

  “That does sound like a tank,” Chan said.

  “Sounds like more than one,” Doyle mumbled. He and James looked toward the rear of our resting column. I wanted to look too, but I felt too tired to stand.

  “Here they come,” Doyle said.

  “This looks big,” James said.

  Sam stood up and lit a cigarette. “I don’t know,” he said dryly. “Tanks are useless crap in this war. I don’t know why they even bother bringing them out.”

  Chan stood up, then put out a hand to lift me up too. I let him. Sam was right. So far tanks had proved useless, but there was still something inspiring about seeing these giant steel monsters churning toward combat. I felt a chill. Death felt close.

  “Saddle up!”

  We split into two columns, one on each side of the road. Three huge tanks rumbled by us. Their width dwarfed the narrow dirt road. The ground vibrated with their power. A tanker with goggles sat exposed in the turret of each tank. Each man gave us the thumbs up as they passed. The rumbling monsters rounded a bend up ahead and disappeared from sight. Small-arms fire sounded closer as we marched. Our pace quickened. Every tired eye looked up as a Huey gunship dove from the clean blue sky, firing rockets and M60s at a target about a thousand meters ahead. We rounded a slight bend in the road and found a company’s worth of Marines resting against an embankment on the right side of the road. They were ragged and dirty, and some of them were bloody. I could hear shouting at the head of the column, then we started running forward and past the company of weary Marines. The column stopped.