by Dale A. Dye
He’d fired or thrown nearly every weapon he had in this mud and blood spattered hole atop the hill. There were just two magazines of rifle ammo left. He didn’t even have a bayonet he could fit to go down in a frenzy of Marine Corps glory. He felt for the cold steel tube of the little 60-mm mortar and decided that was his last shot at delaying the inevitable. Why didn’t they just rush on up here? Willy Pud remembered wondering about that just before he passed out leaning on the mortar tube.
When he woke again, the sky had lightened considerably. He could see shadows flitting around the berm below his hole. And between his hole and that berm he got a brief glimpse of the damage he’d done in repelling the NVA assault through most of the night. With the approach of dawn the pale green mist that had hidden so many of the NVA assault troops was clearing and rolling back down the hill. Bodies were stacked up in grotesque positions like spiky tree limbs in a disorderly wood pile. Could he have done all that killing? He couldn’t remember much beyond the fight down below at the berm and the swarms who had tried to push him out of the machine gun position. Why hadn’t they rushed? Why still be fucking around down there by the berm where he could see shadowy forms running in a crouch toward a stand of bamboo.
Willy Pud might never know why the NVA hadn’t pressed their advantage in the night but he felt sure they’d come now, what was left of them, before daylight when the Marines might come back in force. They’d want the high ground before something like that happened. He felt weak and exhausted. He had to struggle just to pull the fuse-arming pin from a mortar round, but he managed it and then reached into the pile of high-explosive projectiles to arm them all. He had maybe ten rounds of high-explosive…but who was counting at this point? He either had enough or he didn’t.
His vision kept going in and out of focus like he was looking through cheap binoculars, but he managed to estimate the range to the stand of bamboo and fumble with the elevating crank to adjust the angle of the mortar to what he hoped was correct. Then he dropped a round down the tube and felt the jolt as it soared into the lightening sky. The NVA below reacted immediately. Through the dark cloud of the first round detonation, he saw a bunch of them being herded by an officer into the assault.
Something as strange as it was familiar clicked in Willy Pud, and he felt a new rush of strength in his bloody limbs. It was as if some internal aviator had flipped his auto-pilot switch. Willy Pud grabbed for a second mortar round and fired it. Then he adjusted the elevation and fired three more in rapid succession. He never even looked for the effect of his fire. He just focused whatever he had left on loading and firing. He was fascinated and calmed by every round that flew out of his little hip-pocket artillery position. If the NVA charging uphill survived that…well, what the hell? Dawn was coming and it would be nice to see just one more of those spectacular jungle sunrises.
He was looking up at the sky, hoping to see that ruby disc rise like a blazing leviathan when a bullet punched through his bloody shirt and into his right chest.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“...despite his painful wounds, Staff Sergeant Pudarski refused to surrender his position and fought on single-handedly through the night, repulsing wave after wave of enemy soldiers. He was personally responsible for killing more than fifty of the enemy and was making a gallant last-ditch stand with the squad’s mortar before a final wound rendered him unconscious. His selfless concern for the safety of his men in covering their attempt to escape from the hill demonstrates the highest order of military leadership in the face of overwhelming odds. Sergeant Pudarski’s gallant action and courageous fighting spirit reflects great credit on himself and upholds the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.”
Willy Pud barely felt the President’s fingers at the back of his neck. He was numb and sweating inside the rigid embrace of his uniform. Something thudded into place at the base of his collar and he realized it was the Medal of Honor. He was alive and he was a hero. And Fowler didn’t live to get that laundry job in the rear or catch his Freedom Bird back home. Willy Pud understood then that The World was a truly fucked-up place.
The President stepped around and adjusted the Medal to hang squarely between the two Marine Corps emblems at Willy Pud’s throat. He had to reach down and snatch at a hand before Willy realized the ceremony was concluded.
“You have my personal congratulations and the gratitude of the entire nation, Sergeant Pudarski. We are all very proud of you.”
As the press swarmed forward and the President pumped his hand Willy Pud heard a whispered command. “After the photographers are through, I’d like to see you for a few minutes in my office.” He nodded, standing like a stone and trying to ignore the droning buzz in his head. It sounded like distant helicopters—or the big black flies that gorge themselves on leaky body bags.
THE OVAL OFFICE
“My Navy aide is a destroyer man. I had him take your dad down to his office for a nip. I suspect they’ll be a while telling sea stories...”
Willy Pud pulled his eyes away from the President of the United States and cut a glance around the Oval Office. It was tastefully and somberly decorated, reeking of power. The pastel walls seemed to dilute the hum and throb that vibrated everywhere else in the White House. Ghosts of great men and the lingering air of momentous events seemed to lurk in the shadow of shaded windows.
Despite the plush padding of his chair, Willy squirmed as he’d done as a boy sitting next to his mother on the hard pews of St. Stefan’s Catholic Church. He felt the same awe and reverence that held him slack-jawed as he watched the parish priest labor at mass under the looming, agonized presence of Jesus slumping on the crucifix over the altar. All that was missing was the fecund scent of burning incense. And even here, in the climate-controlled atmosphere of the Oval Office, there was some strangely mesmerizing smell.
“Anyway, I wanted to spend a few minutes with you alone...sort of get your impressions about Vietnam.”
Willy Pud glanced at the President, sprawled on a low, overstuffed couch across a polished coffee table from his seat. The Chief Executive had stripped off his right shoe and was vigorously massaging a big toe emblazoned with a bunion that threatened to burst through his thin nylon sock. It appeared that the President of the United States had vile-smelling feet. There was an odor in the air wafting across the coffee table that reminded Willy Pud of being inside a hooch at that putrid moment when a weary squad of bush-beasts peel off the remnants of their socks to acquaint jungle-rotted feet with fresh air for the first time in weeks. He passed a nicotine-stained finger under his nose and tried to think coherently about the war.
“Tough nut to crack, sir...that’s really all I know how to say about it. I mean, it was different back in ’67. Seemed like we all knew which direction to march then, you know? All that rice-paddy-daddy stuff with the straw hat and black pajamas was a Saigon problem. Out in the bush, it was a clearer picture. We never had no problem telling a gook—an enemy—in a green uniform with an AK and steel helmet from an innocent villager. Seemed like we was kicking their butts and taking names back then.”
The President was digging around the inside of his shoe, searching for the errant piece of leather that was bothering his bunion. When he spoke, the voice seemed to filter through a bushy ridge of brow that hid his downcast eyes.
“And then came Tet of 1968, the incident that cost President Johnson his seat behind that desk.” Willy Putt glanced over his shoulder in the direction indicated by the President’s shoe. Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson and now this man all sat behind that aircraft carrier of a desk. Willy had hidden from incoming rounds in smaller spaces than that desk occupied. And he was probably in better shape for it, current domestic problems considered. Each of the presidents had sat right there and wrestled in his own way with the crisis in Southeast Asia. And each of them in turn had failed to get a grip on the situation.
Willy Pud had a sudden vision of a beleaguered Chief Executi
ve crouched behind that desk, ducking incoming rounds and screaming at Congress over a Prick-25 radio for fire support. Combat could erupt anywhere in a war like the one being fought in Vietnam…even in the White House. Unless the newspapers and TV programs he’d absorbed since arriving stateside had it all wrong, the whole fucking country was one big free fire zone. And all a guy had to do to get his ass shot off was talk about Vietnam. So far, he’d been watching his language and holding back a lot of the sentiments he was feeling. But he was a certified hero now, and he had maybe one shot at telling this man the truth. It should be unvarnished, he decided, and in the words of a grunt who had been there on the ground.
“He didn’t get no Purple Heart for it, but you gotta figure President Johnson was KIA, sir, just like a lot of other guys during Tet ’68.”
The President replaced his shoe, put both feet on the plush carpet, and leaned across the coffee table to fix Willy Pud with onyx eyes. “Where were you during the Tet fighting?”
“Hue City, sir. Fifth Marines.”
“And were you upset when the Vietnamese government refused to let us bomb and shell the Citadel?”
Willy Pud cocked his head and returned the President’s questioning stare with one of his own. At least the guy had done his homework. He knew about the Marines who died trying to penetrate the ancient fortress surrounding the seat of the Imperial Emperors without fire support. Willy Pud took a deep breath and fired for effect.
“Look, Mr. President...you should understand something about grunts. We don’t think about political stuff when the shit’s hitting the fan, sir. You know, I mean you got more pressing problems, like too many of them and not enough of us and not enough ammo and like that. What’s happening here in Washington, or in Hanoi, or on some college-campus—hell, we don’t even hear about it most of the time. When we do...”
Willy Pud squinted and strained, searching for some words to make the most powerful man in the world understand the feelings of powerless men living out on the edge of human endurance. “Even when we do hear something...it just don’t mean nothing. You ain’t got time for it when you’re trying to slam your way out of an ambush and the goddamn rain is keeping all the tac-air support grounded—or you got a dose of clap that won’t clear up—or the Gunny puts you to work filling sandbags and burning shitters—or you get the last meal in a box of C-rations and it’s ham and motherfuckers again or…”
“Ham and what?” The President’s cackling laugh cut Willy off in mid-thought. He suddenly felt a flush rising from his high uniform collar onto his cheeks. “Sorry about the language, sir. It’s what we call one of the C-ration meals...ham and lima beans...everybody hates it.”
Flustered by his inarticulate explanations in such a rarified atmosphere, Willy Pud unconsciously pulled up his trouser leg and reached for the pack of cigarettes stashed in his sock. The President nodded his permission to smoke and moved a huge marble ashtray closer to Willy’s elbow.
“You’re saying most of the men in Vietnam are apolitical. I’m glad to hear that. Clearly, most of the people here at home are not, particularly over the war in Vietnam.”
Willy Pud blew smoke at the ceiling of the Oval Office and decided to go for broke. “What I’m saying, Mr. President is that the military professionals in Vietnam ain’t concerned with the politics of the war. Never were and never will be. But the war ain’t being fought by strictly professionals like it was back in ’65 when we first went in. These days it’s being fought by whoever gets caught in the draft. And a lot of them guys are coming over to the Nam with political baggage they picked up before they got drafted. I mean, we got guys stepping off the airplane—they ain’t seen shit yet—and they start running off at the mouth about how they shouldn’t be there, how nobody should be there, how the war is all wrong and stuff like that.”
The President sighed mournfully and laced his hands behind his neck. “And so it spreads like a disease. Enough talk about how lousy the war is, and suddenly it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.”
“Yessir. There it is. You get enough people saying one thing and it takes too damn much courage to say any different. Grunts tend to save their courage so they’ll have it to spend on something important.”
“Well, after nearly five years of inconclusive war, we can’t expect starry-eyed idealists. All we can ask is that the American soldier does his duty.”
“They’re doing that, Mr. President...with a couple of major exceptions.”
The President arched his eyebrows and showed a note of specific interest in Willy’s comment. “Are you referring to the recent incident when an Army platoon refused orders to advance? That gave the anti-war types more fuel than they deserve, believe me.”
Willy Pud smashed out his smoke and pondered the last orders from the MACV colonel. Surely the prohibition didn’t include the Commander in Chief. Surely the President knew all about Salt and Pepper.
“Sir, you got to understand. Shit like that happens all the time. It ain’t mutiny. It’s just experienced grunts sticking to what they learned the hard way about surviving in the bush. They don’t mean to be disobeying direct orders because they think the guy giving the orders is a prick or anything like that. They just ain’t gonna do something stupid and get blown away. Most of the time a good CO or platoon commander listens to his vets and they get the job done the right way. When a guy gets hardheaded or the press is around, it gets blown out of proportion.”
“I got that much from the official investigation into the incident, Sergeant Pudarski. You’d never know it from what you read in the papers, but l feel confident every American sent to Vietnam will do his duty until I can arrange some sort of honorable peace settlement.”
“Like I said, sir...with a couple of major exceptions.”
“And what would those exceptions be?”
Willy Pud drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. His orders were clear, but there would never be a better opportunity to make sure Salt and Pepper didn’t get off the hook because they were lost in some political fast-shuffle.
“Mr. President, you probably know all about this already, but there are at least two American soldiers who have gone over to the enemy side…black guy and a white guy. I know for a fact that those two are actively fighting with a North Vietnamese Army unit.” He stared at the President’s basset-hound features for some hint of surprise or outrage. There was none. The Chief Executive forced his lower lip into a wet pout and stared at the ceiling. He seemed to be processing information somewhere deep in the recesses of his brain. Finally, he nodded and brought the interview to a close.
“I have a report somewhere on my desk concerning that situation, Sergeant Pudarski. It’s of grave concern to me.”
Willy Pud stood when the President did and accepted a proffered hand. The man’s triangular face remained blank but there was something furtive in his eyes. Lots on his mind, Willy Pud decided. On the other hand, maybe he just didn’t catch what I said. The fucking President of the United States can’t ignore a clear case of treason. Can he?
“Sir…about them two traitors…we call ’em Salt and Pepper…”
The President eyed the Marine escort officer who appeared at the door of the inner sanctum as if in response to some silent summons. A congenial smile slanted across the officer’s chiseled face. It seemed to send the President a signal. Something that reassured the Chief Executive that nothing could be too wrong with an American military made up of such stalwart men like those that surrounded him in the White House.
“And what would you have us to with people like that, Sergeant Pudarski?”
“I guess...well, I guess just make sure they don’t get away with it, sir. If they do, ain’t no grunt in God’s world ever gonna forgive or forget.”
The President craned his head and neck forward until he looked slightly hunchbacked. There was a fervent glint in his eyes and his words came across in a throaty, conspiratorial growl.
“I assure you,
Sergeant Pudarski, there will be peace in Vietnam, and peace in this country too—a peace with honor. No one who dishonors America will escape just punishment.”
Willy Pud felt the Marine escort officer’s hand on his elbow. As he walked out the door of the Oval Office he felt uneasy, unsure, unfulfilled, un…un…what? Un-fucked came to mind as he joined his father and a couple of White House Navy officers who had recently become old shipmates.
When something is fucked up in the Marine Corps, immediate action is to get it un-fucked. That must be what the President meant, in other words. He would get those two traitors un-fucked in a hurry, Willy decided. American President’s don’t go around lying to people.
j
They were four blocks and two drinks away from the White House before Willy Pud spoke to his father. The old man, slightly shell-shocked from the close encounter with power brokers so alien to his world, had simply slumped in the limo returning them to their posh Washington hotel, poured whiskey, and waited respectfully for his certified hero son to break a meditative silence. Wearing that Medal and fresh from a personal interview with the President of the United States, there was an aura of power and eminence that clung to Wilhelm Johannes Pudarski. His father had been canned from enough jobs in his life, been arrested enough times, and paid enough taxes to have a certain reverence for power.
“Pop, when’s the last time we slammed ’em down together?”
“Been a long time, son. The night before you went off to Vietnam the last time, I think.”
“Did we have a good time?”
Stosh Pudarski chuckled deep in his throat. He didn’t remember exactly—except for what his cronies had told him the next day at work.