by Scott Ely
The officers were taking down their poncho lean-to.
“Time to start humping again,” Labouf said. “They got my ruck so full of spare batteries I can hardly walk.”
From Hale, Jackson learned the reason for the meeting. They were going into Laos. Hale had been worried that an ambush might be waiting for them when they crossed the border. Reynolds & Raymond had been sent out as scouts but had not returned.
“Where is it?” Jackson asked.
“Across the river,” Hale said.
Hale had squads go out as extra flank security. The underbrush grew thicker as they came down the side of the mountain, the bushes and trees covered with thorns, making it necessary to cut a trail. Jackson heard the chink of machetes and knew the dinks could hear them too.
The jungle opened up into grassy fields along the narrow river which was almost out of its banks. Leaves, branches, and occasionally whole trees floated past. A light rain fell.
“We’re going to drown in that fucking river,” Labouf said.
Jackson did not see how they were going to get across, especially if the dinks were waiting on the other side. The river crossing was the perfect spot for an ambush. Then the squad walking point reported they had found a fresh trail in the tall grass.
“Dink ambush,” Labouf said. “They’ll squeeze us between the mountains and the river. Without air cover we’re fucked.”
The point squad followed the trail, moving very slowly because they were afraid of booby traps. Then they reported music coming from the edge of the river.
Labouf laughed and said, “The dinks listening to Saigon radio. Or fucking R&R.”
Soon the squad called back and said they had found Reynolds & Raymond sitting by the side of the river listening to their tape recorder. The squad brought Reynolds & Raymond back to Hale.
“Where’s that tape recorder?” Hale asked.
“We threw it in the river, Sir,” the squad leader said.
Reynolds & Raymond looked like they had crashed and burned. Short-timer’s fur was wet, and he no longer twitched and danced. He sat shivering on Raymond’s shoulder with his arms around Raymond’s neck. Hale gave them some rations and questioned them while they ate. Reynolds finished his can of spaghetti in several large bites and licked out the can like a dog.
“You seen any gooks?” Hale asked.
“Jungle’s full of ’em,” Raymond said. “Major, you take the battalion across the river and we’re all gonna die.”
“You hallucinated those goddamn dinks,” Hale said in a loud voice. “If there were that many of then, they would’ve stayed and fought.”
Raymond’s hands trembled from fear or speed. Jackson wanted to ask them if they had seen Tom Light but decided to wait until later.
Reynolds was investigating Raymond’s cans to see if any food was left.
That night the battalion went on laager in the field by the river. Reynolds and Raymond slept near Jackson in the center of the circle the battalion had made. Hale’s orders were always the same. No digging. No talking or moving about.
When Jackson came off his watch, the rain had almost stopped, only a fine mist falling. There had been no probes of the perimeter or mortar attacks. Jackson heard Reynolds & Raymond whispering beneath a poncho. He crawled over to tell them to shut up.
“Not so loud. Keep your goddamn mouth shut. I hear you again, and I’ll kick your fucking worthless ass,” Jackson whispered, his face almost touching Raymond’s. Short-timer began to chatter but Raymond shut him up.
“Short-timer wants some more speed,” Raymond said. “But we got to conserve what we got.”
Reynolds began to finger imaginary strings again.
Jackson grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.
“I told you once to stop that, asshole,” Jackson said.
Raymond said, “Leave him alone. I’ll take care of him.”
“Keep him away from me,” Jackson said. “I don’t want him to fuck up and get me blown away.”
“You know what the money man did with his footlocker?” Raymond asked.
“Sent it to Saigon,” Jackson said.
“Money man’d keep his money close,” Raymond said.
“Shut the fuck up. What would you do with his money out here if you had it.”
“He wouldn’t have it then. We’d have it. Me and my buddy.”
“Did you see Light out there?”
“No, and don’t want to either. When you see Light, it means you’re dead.”
At the mention of Light’s name Reynolds began to play his M-16.
“Stay quiet or we’ll all be dead,” Jackson said. “Keep him still.”
Jackson returned to his radio and pulled the poncho over his head. He shivered in his wet fatigues which had already begun to rot, the cloth feeling slimy against his skin. The white fungus had spread to his legs and arms. It itched, and he tried to keep from scratching. Every night giant centipedes, five or six inches long, crawled into the poncho with him. They had a painful sting, and Jackson feared them more than leeches.
The rain began again, sounding like buckets full of pebbles were being poured on his poncho. He lay in an inch of water but was happy that at least part of his body was going to stay dry. Jackson looked forward to lying down in that cold water to sleep.
Before he went to sleep, he set the radio on Light’s frequency. But after calling over and over and receiving no response he gave up. Light might be miles away, headed toward his abandoned city.
“Tom Light, Tom Light,” Jackson whispered into the handset but received no reply.
He turned the radio off to save the batteries.
Get your shit together, Jackson thought to himself. Maybe Tom Light will save your ass. But if he doesn’t you’ll have to take care of yourself. Watch out for booby traps. Don’t get wounded. Take deep breaths, slow now. Stay cool.
Jackson rested his head on his folded arms to keep out of the water and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER
21
HALE, JACKSON, AND A squad leader crouched in the grass by the river. The squad leader had a coil of white nylon rope slung over one shoulder. As they studied the river, the squad leader rubbed mud on the rope.
“Fucking rope,” the squad leader said. “Everything in the army is green: tents, socks, jeeps. Why not OD rope?”
“Ask for a volunteer,” Hale said.
The squad leader crawled off through the grass.
Jackson watched the river slide by, the surface littered with leaves and branches. He could barely make out the far bank through the rain and clouds.
The squad leader returned and said, “Nobody wants to go.”
“Pick one,” Hale said. “Do it quick.”
“I’ll go,” Jackson said.
Hale said, “The dinks may be waiting on the other side.”
“I want to do it,” Jackson said.
Tom Light trying to keep you from getting wasted, Jackson thought. Why are you making it hard on him? Why can’t you wait for the Holiday Inn? Plenty of chances then to risk your neck.
“Give him the rope,” Hale said.
Jackson took off his clothes. The rain felt cold on his skin, the drops stinging when they hit. They gave him a .38 in a shoulder holster. He tied the rope around his waist and waded into the river. The water felt good, warmer than the rain. The water reminded him of the sea at Vung Tau.
“Don’t try to fight the current,” the squad leader said. “Swim straight across. Least they won’t be able to see you in this shit. Not unless they’re waiting on the bank.”
As Jackson swam out of the bank eddy and into the current, he wondered what drowning in the river would feel like. If dinks were on the far bank, they would wait until he reached it before they killed him. His reward for carrying the rope across would be that Hale would expect him to swim the next river. Jackson was afraid but breathing easy as the current caught him.
Just like swimming the river at home, Jackson thoug
ht.
But as they paid out more of the rope, it bellied out, causing a powerful drag.
Stay cool. Keep swimming, he thought.
The current carried him fifty yards downstream before he reached the bank. Now the weight of the rope was dragging him back into the water. Jackson dug his feet into the mud and pulled to clear the rope which resisted for a few moments and came free. He tied it around a tree.
Then for the first time he was really scared. He gasped for breath as he took out the pistol and drained the water from the barrel and cylinder. While he lay face down in the grass, the point squad came over carrying just their rifles and ammunition. They went up the bank and established a perimeter so the rest of the battalion could cross safely.
Labouf joined him on the bank.
“You crazy fucker,” Labouf said. “Don’t you know not to volunteer.”
“This white shit growing on me was itching. I needed a bath,” Jackson said.
Labouf laughed and said, “You are a stupid dickhead.”
“I did it,” Jackson muttered to himself. “I really fucking did it.”
Once the battalion was formed up again, they moved out slowly through the grass, taller than their heads and with sharp edges on the leaves that gave Jackson cuts on his hands.
Jackson heard the incoming at the same time someone yelled, “Mortars!”
He dropped to the ground, the ruck sliding forward and hitting him in the back of the head. More explosions followed and dirt fell on him. He flattened himself out, holding his hands over his head.
“Run, goddamn you!” he heard Hale shouting. “They got us bracketed. Run!”
Jackson did not think he would be able to get up and run, but when a shell landed close by, the shrapnel whistling through the grass and cutting down sections of it on top of him, he jumped to his feet and ran with the rest of the battalion.
The battalion ended up scattered in the tree line at one end of the field. Some had run the wrong way and gotten caught in an ambush. Jackson heard the machine guns and the men screaming for help. Finally squads and platoons formed up again. Jackson found Labouf sitting with his back to a tree.
Labouf grinned and said, “Hale just keeps fucking up.”
Jackson located Hale who was talking with a medic. They stood over a wounded soldier, a member of the mortar squad.
We were lucky, Jackson thought. They could have killed us all.
“Call in a dust off,” the medic pleaded. “This man don’t have to die.”
“They’ll never be able to fly in this shit,” Hale said. “Nothing but clouds and rain.”
“We can talk him in,” the medic said. “Those pilots are good. They’ll do it.”
“No time. We have to move,” Hale said. “The dinks don’t know which way we ran. They can’t see in this shit either. They got lucky with the mortars. Heard us. I told that asshole lieutenant to keep his men quiet.”
The medic said, “I’ll stay with him. Leave me a radio. I’ll call in a dust off when the weather clears.”
Hale shook his head, “No, give him some water, morphine, rations, and a pistol. Tell him we’ll pick him up on the way back.”
“No, Sir, you tell him,” the medic said.
They went through the trees and found a man lying on a poncho. A plasma bag hung from a limb, the bag connected to a tube stuck in his arm. Leander was going through the man’s ruck. When Leander pulled out a lavender tie and tied it around the soldier’s neck, Jackson recognized Marcus, the owner of the ruined suits.
“Foot’s gone and shrapnel in the groin,” the medic said to Hale in a low voice. “He’s full of morphine. Right now he’s stable. If you’d just let me call a dust off.”
Hale went down on one knee beside the wounded soldier.
“Son, we’re going on ahead to kick the shit out of the dinks,” Hale said.
The soldier looked up at him with a vacant stare.
Hale continued, “We’ll pick you up on the way back. There’ll be a decoration for you.”
“I don’t hurt at all, Sir,” the soldier said.
“That’s good. Here’s water, rations, more morphine,” Hale said.
Hale took them from the medic and placed them by the soldier’s right arm.
“Doc here says you’re going to make it,” Hale went on. “You hang on. Holiday Inn’s not but a couple of klicks from here. Just over the mountain. We’ll be back.”
“You’ll write home for me?” the soldier asked.
“You’ll write them yourself when this is over,” Hale replied.
Hale put his own pistol in the soldier’s hand.
“Dinks come around you waste ’em. Add to our body count,” Hale said.
“I’ll get ’em, Sir,” the soldier said.
“I’m staying,” Leander said.
Hale walked a few yards to one side and Leander followed.
“Nobody’s staying,” Hale said.
Leander pointed to the wounded man and said, “We’re all gonna end up like Marcus.”
“Get back to your squad,” Hale said.
Leander had his rifle slung over his shoulder, but Hale had a CAR-15 carbine in his hands. Jackson could tell Leander wanted to unsling his rifle. Hale knew it too.
“Call a dust off,” Leander said. “You’re fucking crazy to work without choppers.”
“Soldier, you got yourself a court martial when we get back,” Hale said.
“Won’t be anybody coming back,” Leander said. “Nobody to court martial. Nobody to press charges.”
Leander kept running his fingers over the nylon rifle sling.
Trying to make up his mind, Jackson thought.
Hale said to a lieutenant, “Make sure that man gets back to his squad. You’re responsible for him.”
The lieutenant took Leander aside and talked quietly with him.
Leander started to walk off, but he stopped and pointed at the wounded man. “You’ll pay for that, Major.”
“Get him out of here, Lieutenant,” Hale said.
Leander turned and walked off. Then they all went away, leaving the soldier lying on the poncho.
At noon when they took a break on the shoulder of the mountain, Jackson dropped his ruck and sat with his back against a tree. Labouf found him.
“Don’t get wounded,” Labouf said. “I listened for that pistol shot all morning. Heard it a dozen times.”
“He’ll do it when he runs out of morphine,” Jackson said.
“Goddamn, shitty war,” Labouf said.
Jackson wished Labouf would make a joke.
“I’ve been saving some pound cake,” Jackson said. “You want some.”
“Thanks,” Labouf said. “There’ll be no resupply now. It’s going to rain like this forever.”
Jackson opened the C-ration tin, and they ate the pound cake slowly.
“Army’s got dehydrated rations. Got chili and chicken and rice. Good shit,” Labouf said, his mouth full of pound cake. “Light. Could carry two weeks of food easy. But we don’t get the good shit. The motherfuckers in Saigon are probably eating them. All we get are these fucking C-rations.”
Reynolds & Raymond walked up. Short-timer looked like he was asleep, clinging to Raymond’s neck.
“Gave him a couple of downers,” Raymond said. “He needed the rest. Losing his fucking bones. Need to repaint them. Dinks think he’s a fucking ghost. Scared shitless of him.”
“Goddamn, fucking speed freaks,” Labouf whispered to Jackson.
Reynolds & Raymond sat down beside them.
“I told you to keep him away from me,” Jackson said, pointing to Reynolds.
“He’s cool today,” Raymond said.
Reynolds sat perfectly still, as if in a trance, staring off into the jungle. Jackson noticed the man’s eyes rapidly moving back and forth.
“You the money man?” Raymond asked Labouf.
Labouf continued chewing the last of his pound cake and said nothing.
Reyn
olds began to play his M-16 and sing softly, “There must be some kind of way out of here/Said the joker to the thief.”
Raymond touched the top of Labouf’s ruck which was leaning against a tree.
“Get your fucking hand off,” Labouf said.
Reynolds stepped back. Labouf swung the muzzle of his rifle on Reynolds’s belly.
“You touch this ruck again and I’ll kill you,” Labouf said.
“Whatcha got in there?” Raymond asked.
Labouf said, “Same as you got in yours.”
“You know what he’s got in there?” Raymond asked Jackson.
“Batteries for the radio,” Jackson said. “Hale’s making him hump extra batteries.”
“We’d carry some of them for him,” Raymond said and laughed.
Reynolds sang, “There are many here among us/Who feel that life is but a joke.”
“I’ll carry my own shit,” Labouf said.
“We going to help you watch it,” Raymond said.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” Labouf said. “You’re supposed to be out on recon.”
All afternoon Reynolds & Raymond were never far from Labouf. They pretended they were walking flank security but always stayed only a few yards away, screened by the trees. Labouf threatened them, but they ignored him.
He’s got the money in there, Jackson thought. They’re going to get it.
The battalion went on laager that night on the side of the mountain. All night they were probed, and there was one mortar attack. More men died. No one got any sleep. Jackson tried to estimate how many men they had lost and decided they must have taken at least 150 casualties. But Jackson was almost too tired to count. He wanted to lie down somewhere and sleep for days.
In the morning, Jackson stood beside Hale as they got ready to move out. Reynolds & Raymond were there keeping track of Labouf. Short-timer was speeding again. He kept running up to the top of a tree and then back down again. His painted bones had faded further from the rain. Jackson wondered why none of the men were around. Hale noticed too.
“Where are the men?” Hale asked a lieutenant.
“Don’t know, Sir,” the lieutenant said.
“They walked on up the mountain,” a sergeant said.
Jackson felt like Hale and his officers were all alone on the mountain.