To his deep dismay, Patch was followed into the ravine by the entourage of reporters and cameramen, who sniffed a story in this. Men who would not fight? It was good copy. And Patch could not prevent it. As they came up the low slope to the rock outcropping, Patch was in the lead, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, an indignant scowl on his face. In the distance the sounds of rifle fire from another company echoed down the ravine, but as he strode on, he observed with satisfaction that the correspondents were bent over at the waist protectively in a sort of Groucho Marx crouch.
When he reached the outcropping, Patch brushed by Kahn and addressed the men directly. Some of them looked a little embarrassed and stared at the ground. His expression softened.
“Come in here closer,” Patch said quietly, motioning them toward him. He remained standing, most of his body exposed above the rocks. The men slowly gathered in and sat back down. The news correspondents backed up against the rocks and squatted on their haunches and took out their notepads. The TV film cameras purred.
Patch looked around for a minute before selecting an antagonist. His choice was a dark-eyed Italian boy from Providence, Rhode Island, who had been glaring fiercely at Patch since he had walked up. Patch nodded toward him.
“Okay, soldier, suppose you tell me what’s the matter here,” he asked solicitously.
Kahn was surprised at Patch’s tone of voice. It was certainly not the outraged voice he had expected; the one he had heard so many times over the radio; the one that had condemned the men to their bunk rooms aboard the transport. It was a nice, sweet voice, a sympathetic voice, a soothing voice. Patch’s face had a look of deep concern.
“Well . . . ah . . . sir . . . ah . . .” the boy stammered. “It’s, ah . . . like, we been out here almost four weeks now, and, ah . . .” He stopped for a moment to collect his thoughts. The glare on his face melted to a look of awkwardness, as though he weren’t quite sure how to express himself.
“Yes? Go on,” Patch said nicely.
“Uh, see, sir . . . you said yesterday there wasn’t gonna be no NVA in that ravine, and then we got chopped up bad down there . . . and, ah . . .”
“Yes, I know you did, but I was very proud of you, all of you,” Patch said. “Go on.”
The TV cameras whirred and clicked, and the microphone man moved closer to the boy.
“They just murdered us—there wasn’t nothing to do but get down . . .”
Patch looked at the boy, reserved, waiting for him to continue.
“You just don’t know how bad it was up there, sir . . . It was . . . it was all over us . . .” He searched for words. “It was horrible,” he blurted out.
“Yes, I know it must have been,” Patch said sympathetically. “Go on.”
“We, ah . . . I don’t know, sir. We just don’t none of us want to go back up there again . . . I mean, there ain’t been enough artillery up there or something, ’cause the gooks are set up everyplace, and we go back up now, we just gonna get killed . . . sir . . .” the boy said, almost apologetically.
From above, the sniper’s rifle cracked again. Patch did not flinch. The news correspondents reflexively tucked their heads into their necks. A fatherly smile crossed Patch’s face. He knew he had them now—or was pretty close to it. He sensed they knew it too. This was a ploy he’d picked up from an old Army manual, and he’d once given a talk on it at Command and General Staff College.
“You want more artillery up there, do you?” Now he was speaking to them all. “Well, we can certainly get that for you. Tom,” he said to Captain Flynn, his aide, “raise Wicked Blast. Tell them I want fire on this knoll. Walk it up and down about fifty meters from the top.”
The aide summoned the radioman and began speaking into the handset.
“Now,” Patch said, drawing himself up. “We are going to put the Big Heat on. But let me say this. You all know we laid fire on these hills for nearly two days and you all saw the results this morning. Obviously they are well dug in up there, and it’s going to take infantrymen to dislodge them. It’s going to take men like yourselves . . .” He paused for a moment.
“Part of the problem,” he said, “has been that that is a very big ridgeline and until now we didn’t know exactly where their strongpoints were. Thanks to you, we do. Another problem is that it’s been hard to put accurate fire up there because a lot of the guns have been firing ever since this operation started and their bores are smooth as a woman’s tits . . .”
“Ah, sir,” another voice came out of the crowd, “maybe if you put napalm up there it would help.”
Patch looked at the voice and spoke again to the whole group.
“Ah, yes, napalm—good thought. We haven’t used much of that yet for the same reasons—we weren’t sure exactly where they were. Tom, get Air Liaison on the horn. Tell him to put napalm up there after the artillery lifts.” The aide spoke again into the radio. The cameras continued to whirr.
The sniper had been silent for a while, and Kahn suddenly wondered if he or any of the other North Vietnamese above could see the weird little drama being played out down here. If so, he thought, it must be very puzzling to them—the television cameras, tape recorders and people writing in notebooks. Perhaps they were having a laugh out of it. In other circumstances it might have been quite funny.
“Now,” Patch said masterfully. “After we have smashed them with artillery and fried them with napalm, when you men get up there all you should find is bits and pieces and maybe a few half-witted gooks. But I want you up there. I don’t know what Lieutenant Kahn has said to you, but whatever it was, I am wiping the slate clean. I want you to go back to your positions and watch this little show. Then I want you to go back up that hill and mop up whatever is left. When you’ve done that, I am going to pull you out of here and you’ll all get some rest.”
As if to punctuate the colonel’s closing argument, two artillery rounds thundered overhead and exploded just below the crest of the hill. Everyone looked up. The Big Heat was on. The aide spoke into the handset again, making corrections.
“All right,” Patch said cheerfully. “Lieutenant Kahn will take over now and put you where he wants you. You men have done a fine job so far. Good luck on this one.” Patch nodded to Kahn. He stepped forward. “Platoon leaders, take your platoons back to their original positions and get ready to move out like I said before,” he said.
The TV cameras were still running. The reporters scribbled furiously in their notebooks. The men did not move.
Slowly out of Brill’s platoon a lanky figure uncoiled from the ground. He looked around and said in a Southern drawl, “You heard what the man said; let’s go,” and Brill’s men, following the lead of Pfc. Homer Crump, pulled to their feet and dragged themselves away, talking and muttering to each other and to themselves.
Thick, acrid smoke and dust wafted down from the crest of The Fake and engulfed them as they hauled themselves painfully upward. Small fires were burning everywhere, ignited by far-flung bits of napalm jelly. There was still no shooting as they reached the abutment where they had taken shelter during the first assault, and they plunged forward with mean, determined thoughts, watching almost hopefully for the first North Vietnamese to poke his head up. An electric sense of victory ran through Bravo Company now, spurred in part by the terrific bombardment of The Fake and also by Patch’s appearance on the scene.
Far to the right they heard the faint sounds of some other battle, but it did not concern them. Their own line was spread out perhaps a hundred yards, Brill on the far left, Inge inside him and First Platoon beginning to pinch in from the right.
Spudhead was laboring behind with the boxes of ammo for Muntz’s machine gun when the first firing began, ahead of them. It seemed almost halfhearted this time—an automatic rifle or two blapping out of the haze. They crouched lower, but since the bullets were apparently directed elsewhere, they pressed forward. They had reached just about the same spot where the earlier firing had started when Spudhead saw the two N
orth Vietnamese pop out of their hole and lob two black objects toward them.
He tried to scream “Grenade” but could not think of the word. All he could say was “Oh, hell,” and he buried his face in the dirt. Others took the cue and dropped briskly to the ground as though they had suddenly been put to sleep with an amazing nerve gas. There was an explosion, and dirt flew into the air. There was no second explosion. Bright flashes came from the spot where the two heads had popped up. Dirt kicked up behind them. The bunker was about thirty yards away, just below the crest, surrounded by blackened sandbags.
“You see it!” someone yelled.
“Yeah, I see it,” Muntz growled back. He was struggling to set up the M-60. Spudhead crawled beside him and took one of the ammunition boxes off his belt. It had been rubbing his backside raw for several days, and he was glad to be rid of the damned thing. The fire rained down on them again from ahead.
“See, there they are,” a voice yelled from behind.
“Goddamn it,” Muntz screamed back, “don’t tell me—I know!”
Another grenade sailed out of the bunker toward them. Muntz’s machine gun barked and caught the pitcher in mid-throw. He disappeared behind the sandbags as though he had been poleaxed. The grenade exploded harmlessly far ahead of them.
“We can’t stay here,” Hixon, the other ammo bearer, whispered; “there ain’t no cover.”
“Shut up,” Muntz said.
Farther on, Dreyfuss was signaling with his arms from the prone position, motioning several men forward and to the side of the bunker. Two men jumped to their feet and made a dash in the direction Dreyfuss had indicated.
The enemy guns spat nastily again, and Muntz fired off a burst from his M-60. The men Dreyfuss had sent forward rose to their knees and hurled grenades at the bunker. One of them landed inside. Instantly, the grenade flew out again, exploding in midair and sending fragments rattling overhead. The two men threw two more grenades, but before they went off, three ragged men scurried out of the bunker and began clawing up toward the crest. The grenades exploded, and two of the three slid back down. Muntz cut the other one nearly in half with his machine gun, and he slid back with his friends.
There was other firing on both sides, but it wasn’t very intense. Then through the smoke, several men appeared at the very top of the hill to their right. Muntz swung the machine gun around and dropped his cheek down.
“No, no!” Spudhead cried. “That’s us—that’s Americans!”
Dimly, they could see more men steadily walking forward, occasionally shooting down the back slope of The Fake. A cheer slowly began to rise from the men still lying on the forward side, and they got to their feet and dusted themselves and began trudging to the top. As they got closer they could see dozens of strange dark lumps on the ground, some covered with dirt. Closer inspection revealed these to be bodies of North Vietnamese, some incinerated black by the napalm. “Crispy critters,” someone called them.
Almost gaily, Bravo Company began picking over the corpses for souvenirs. Anything of possible keeping or trading value was removed. A few pistols were found, and an occasional whistle or knife. These were keepable, as were watches, and wallets, some with photographs in them, if they were still intact. Diaries and official documents had to be turned over to the Intelligence people. They pocketed what they could and then sat down amid the carnage and lit cigarettes or opened C rations. Confidence was as high as it had ever been. They had encountered an enemy as mean as could be imagined and conquered him. In the process, they had worked their will on their Battalion Commander. That Patch had agreed to blast the hill with jets and artillery was a sign to everyone that they had somehow gained a measure of control over their own destiny. However small it was, they did not intend to lose this. They were still cattle, and they knew it, and would never be anything more as long as they remained in the Army. But they were now at least a fierce and organized herd of cattle, and that counted for something.
Later in the afternoon, when the sun again hung like a great shimmering ball in the western sky, they waited quietly for the helicopters that would take them back as they had been promised. No one said much, partly because they were tired and shaken by what they had done today, and partly because of the realization that they actually were going home, and for a while it would be over. During the last hour, the jubilation of victory had faded into a welcomed numbness that blotted out the terror of the past weeks. It was a good, light-headed feeling, combined with a sense of satisfaction that at last they had become experts at their grim task.
Somewhere far down the valley the steady whop-whop-whop of helicopters broke the mountain silence. All looked in the direction of the sound.
Just above the farthest peaks they could see them, first one flight, then another and another, flying in diamond-shaped formation, little black puffs of smoke spurting rhythmically from their engines. The sun glinted off their windows like dancing spangles, erasing any lingering doubts that Patch might not be true to his word. As they drew closer, the sight of these machines raised a marvelous feeling of joy and relief—much as the sight of land must have raised in seamen who had lived through weeks of storms. They were sailors whose ship had just come in.
Kahn pulled the pin on a green-smoke grenade and tossed it into a clearing where the helicopters could land. People began standing and collecting their gear, but there was still little talk or laughter.
From somewhere in the mob, a voice rose in song. It was a deep, rich Southern voice, belonging to the large Negro, Carruthers.
Glo-ree, glo-ree, hal-al-luuul-ya,
Glo-ree, glo-ree, hal-al-luuul-ya,
Glo-ree, glo-ree, hal-al-luuul-ya,
His truth is a marchin’ on . . .
It took everyone by surprise, this clear, wonderful voice echoing out across the blistered mountainside like a clarion call. Carruthers began another chorus.
Glo-ree, glo-ree, hal-al-luuul-ya . . .
Others joined in, struck by a wave of elation despite the numbness and exhaustion. By the end of the chorus the entire company was singing, even Kahn—loudly, joyously, reverently, their sweat-stained faces turned upward toward the dying sun. On a few faces, tears streamed down, making little rivulets that washed away the grime and filth of their shabby existence. They did not stop singing even when the first helicopter dropped down and drowned them out completely. Each squad continued to sing as it boarded, much to the astonishment of the pilots, who were convinced all infantrymen were crazy to begin with. The singing ceased only when the last helicopter descended into the lengthening shadows and the last man scrambled aboard. Moments later it jerked skyward in a fat wash of dust and wind, leaving the mountaintop in the peace of approaching night.
Part Three
THE
DISMAL
DEEPS
25
Everyone knew about the inspection before it was announced. It was just one of those things that got around.
They also knew the reason, or thought they did, and it had given them cause for apprehension. They had worked feverishly since midmorning, individually or in small knots, polishing and cleaning, shining and rearranging, and when the word came down that Colonel Patch and the Brigade Sergeant Major were on their way to the Company area, the work slowed but did not stop and was performed in a more orderly manner.
“What is that activity over there?” Patch asked curiously, pointing to a group of men working in the sandy soil by a row of tents.
The Sergeant Major squinted from the glare and rubbed his chin. “It’s uncertain, sir,” he said.
“It looks like they’re raking the sand,” Patch said.
“Yessir, it does,” the Sergeant Major said thoughtfully.
“What in hell are they raking sand for?” Patch demanded.
“I’d have to ask the First Sergeant about that, sir,” the Sergeant Major replied.
“Why don’t you ask the men?”
“Doubt it would do any good, Colonel—they probabl
y don’t know.”
“Well, ask them anyway,” Patch said.
The Sergeant Major stepped forward. “Hey, you—come over here!” he said. The men looked up. The Sergeant Major pointed to one of them, who happened to be Spudhead Miter, and motioned him over. Spudhead looked nervously around at the others.
“Yes, you!” the Sergeant Major bawled. “Over here.” Spudhead’s heart sank. He always seemed to get singled out for something.
They had been back nearly two weeks. For the first few days they had been visitors in a strange new city.
The old row of billets was now surrounded by dozens of other tents, and the dirt paths between them had been graded and some of them paved with asphalt. Signs identified various units, directed traffic one way or the other and issued assorted standing instructions. A sign at the head of Four/Seven’s row of tents proclaimed DO NOT PISS IN THE COMPANY STREET, and when Bravo Company saw this they knew they were back in the Real Army.
Tin-roofed cinder-block buildings dotted the Operations area where before only tents had stood. The lone exception was the TOC, which remained as it was, isolated atop the little rise. All of the tents and new buildings had been sandbagged, and most were equipped with generator-driven electric lights. To accommodate the influx of new troops and equipment, the perimeter of the encampment had been widely extended on all sides, and beyond its outermost barrier, a second city of native shanties had sprung up, much resembling the Seething Reptile City they had passed the day they got off the transport. In the dim remaining light of their first night back in camp, Bravo Company studied the occupants of this second city through the rolls of barbed wire, uncertain whether they should regard them as friend or foe.
Filthy, hungry and shaken from the fighting, they were herded into a line outside the Supply building and told to strip naked and throw their rags into a row of garbage containers. New fatigues were handed out, along with a towel and a bar of soap, and they were directed to a water tanker with shower nozzles. It was by the numbers again—always by the numbers—but each man did his utmost to scrub himself as fresh and clean as the inside of a new car.
Better Times Than These Page 26